(this is mostly for myself, i do not write just reblogs)
writers/blogs
@pucksandpower
@scuderiahoney
@lewisvinga
@astonmartinii
@maplesyrupsainz
@fangirl-dot-com
@norris55s (especially the chaotic text series)
@norrisainz33
@cheftsunoda
@checkeredflagggs
@cressidagrey (listen i read everything of theirs on ao3 and like im not okay, i fucking adore the mysterious mrs piastri series, and i read white hose in like 2 days (its 355k words) it’s legit insane and i love everything)
fics
I ❤️ MILFS (MV1) by @sinofwriting (grid shares one brain cell when it comes to sargeant!reader and oscar has it)
Steps to you (LN4) by @oofthwoods (soulmates au)
smaus
single dilf (MV1 x OP81) by @cheftsunoda (yes chef is already on this list but you don’t understand this is on of my favorite things ever) (smau and written)
pick of the crop (LS2) by @astonmartinii (i adore this your honor)
beached (OP81) by @povlnfour
crash landing (LN4) by @povlnfour (you can pry these from my cold dead hands)
the father who stepped up (CL16) by @astonmartinii (gasly!reader, this is chaos and i love it)
light as a feather / you got me thinking nonsense / we caught that holiday glee (CL16, ex!LN4) by @love-belle (i adore nonsense smaus like no one’s business you don’t understand)
series
Little Big Fan (MV1) by @thef1diary (complete, single mom!reader)
In Motion (OP81) by @scuderiahoney (complete, hockey/college au)
Max & The Three Musketeers (MV1) by @verstarppen (complete, smau series, merc!admin, chaos)
more than a driver
reblogged tags
smau | fic | blurb | series | mixed
fluff | smut | angst | crack/humor
max | charles | lewis | lando | oscar | logan | alex | george | 25 rookies | retired | toto
poly | driver x driver poly | driver x wag poly
driver!family | driver!reader | team member | platonic | single mom
others fic recs | requested
(i adore you all so much no matter where you are on here you don’t understand)
this is a f1 reblog side blog, main blog is @casperlikej, which links to other side blogs
summary: as erling haaland rises to international fame during the world cup, fans start to realize that his sister has had a very public crush on a certain f1 driver for years
pairing: haaland!sister!model!reader x george russell
fc & warnings: none & very poorly translated norwegian (feel free to correct me if you know the language!) and slightly suggestive. you are responsible for the content you consume.
masterlist
ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ
-2024-
ynhaaland has made a post
liked by erling, yourbff, isabellaa, philfoden, niamhcharles17, ilonamaher, kevindebruyne, and 35,944 other
ynhaaland: thanks to my stinky brother for sponsoring this trip so i could see my pookie bear win and see a race for the first time in person instead of from my sitting room 💕
view all comments
yourbff: was HE in the garage when you were there?
ynhaaland: N O !!!!!!
user1: prettttyyyyy girl!
yourfriend1: hope someone warned that bloke to be anywhere but the merc garage when you were there......
ynhaaland: ok RUDE 😭
yourfriend1: kidding bb 😘
user2: footy and f1 crossover! just what i like to see
erling: make your obsession more obvious
ynhaaland: hi georgerussell63 🥰
erling: maybe one day he'll notice ya
judebellingham: and yet no photos of the brother who sponsored?
ynhaaland: you know what he looks like no?
user3: definitely the prettiest haaland
erling: hey...... thats clearly me
-2025-
ynhaaland has made a post
liked by judebellingham, yourbff, dior, mancity, isabellaa, johnstones5, jackgrealish, kevindebruyne, erling, and 85,453
ynhaaland: from the monaco gp with love (dw i did visit the mercedes garage again) 💕
view all comments
yourbff: last slide is a jump scare 😭
ynhaaland: sorry should have put a trigger warning
user1: your commitment to having a celebrity crush despite also being a celebrity is my fav thing
isabellaa: så pen [so pretty]
ynhaaland: jeg elsker deg [i love you]
user2: you two are maybe the coolest brother sister duo
erling: and before you ask! NO! she had NO LUCK getting a certain someone to notice her.
ynhaaland: can you not?
odegaard.98: i mean im still available if hes not y/n/n 😌
erling: we've talked about this martin
user3: fr the only nepo baby wag i want to see in f1 🙏🏻
kevindebruyne: you know i love you y/n/n but this is getting embarrassing. do you want me to just dm him? he follows me!
ynhaaland: KEVIN NO
erling: kevin yes!
user3: kdb really said ,,, and what if we just called taylor up? 🤔
user4: that blue dress is everything on you wtf
-2026-
ynhaaland has made a post
liked by erling, yourbff, dior, mercedesamgf1, herrelandslaget, brfootball, mancity, isabellaa, and 876,142 others
ynhaaland: how do i make the world cup about me? btw good luck i guess erling ... i guess its cool that you've made it this far or something idk....
view all comments
yourbff: people liking your brother is beyond me why he suddenly got 8 billion followers
ynhaaland: beats me.....
erling: yourbff dont make me pull out the embarrassing photos i have of you from when you were 12 for those 8 billion peope
user1: i'm an og fan pls don't forget me now that you have 3.5 million new followers
isabellaa: it should be about you for real
ynhaaland: and this is why i love you more than him!
erling: really?
user4: hey ynhaaland not alarm you but the mercedes admin is in your likes
ynhaaland: girl i cant talk here .... jude bellingham app me rn
user15: wait why are the haaland siblings both so funny im crying
odegaard.98: wear my jersey next?
ynhaaland: i would if you would give it to me !
erling: martin bro we talked about this
user12: whoa who knew haalands sister was so gorgeous 😍
erling: girl bye
ynhaaland: bye bye big man!
user13: we've unlocked another haaland
ynhaaland has posted to their private story
view all replies
yourbff: i can't stop laughing
ynhaaland: ok well stop ...... bc what if he sees
yourbff: you know darn well thats exactly what you want
ynhaaland: CLOCKED my tea immediately
youfriend1: not the f1 gossip accounts finding you hahaahah
ynhaaland: and bc of this,,, these tweets are blowing up now
isabellaa: it was only a matter of time
ynhaaland: i am cringe and i am free
erling: so can kdb message george now or what
ynhaaland: no old man kevin can NOT message my fake internet bf
erling: wait lemme screenshot and put this on my story and tag both of them
ynhaaland: ERLING NO!! SVAR PÅ TELEFONEN!!!! [answer the phone]
judebellingham: L O L
ynhaaland: dont laugh at me judy
yourfriend2: incredible
ynhaaland: im here all week!
britishvogue has made a post
liked by yourbff, ynhaaland, erling, isabellaa, ilonamaher, odegaard.98, mercedesamgf1, lando, iamrebecca and 823,235 others
britishvogue: we had the opportunity to sit down with one of fashion's most in-demand models and the internet's newest obsession, y/n haaland. fresh off norway's historic world cup run, she reflects on watching her brother, erling, chase one of football's biggest trophies, navigating life as part of one of sport's most recognisable families and carving out a career entirely her own.
from growing up in a household where sport was a second language to her surprising obsession with formula 1, y/n opens up about the athletes she admires, the competitions she never misses and why race sundays have become a non-negotiable in her calendar.
read the full conversation at the link in our bio.
photographed by photographer and styled by stylist.
view all comments
yourbff: my girl is in vogue!!!!
ynhaaland: MWAH 💋
user1: beautiful, gorgeous, perfect, amazing
ynhaaland: dream come true! thank you for having me 💕
britishvogue: it was our pleasure!
user2: NOT HER TALKING ABOUT GEORGE RUSSELL IN VOGUE HAHAHAH
erling: who is this?
ynhaaland: this is patrick
user4: check your jude bellingham app dms ynhaaland
mercedesamgf1: should we check ours too?
user4: Y/N HELLO
ynhaaland: oh! hi user4 & mercedesamgf1! fancy seeing you here! i'm available in a couple weeks for the hungarian grand prix by the way :)
odegaard.98: congrats ynhaaland! a shame you didn't mention your brothers amazing teammates like myself but i will forgive you 😌
ynhaaland: awww marttyyyy!! i didnt have enough time to talk about you but know ily 💕
odegaard.98: i know you're lying vennen [darling]
user12: you guys forgot to mention how she might be one of the funniest people on the internet
user14: i love that the article also talks about how she had a pretty successful football career too but decided to try her own thing
ynhaaland has posted a private story
view all replies
yourbff: RED ALERT RED ALERT RED ALERT
ynhaaland: did you hear me scream at the top of my lungs
yourbff: omg that was you?
erling: block me first
ynhaaland: done
odegaard.98: just know i voted no because id rather you post it for me
ynhaaland: i know marty
kevindebruyne: its about time......
ynhaaland: heheeh i know! ill keep you and michele updated
kevindebruyne: oh thats ok.... just keep michele updated not me too.. matter of fact take me off this story
ynhaaland: kevin please... now is not the time! i need my favorite big brother to see all of this!
isabellaa: YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS I KNOW JUST THE PIC TOO
ynhaaland: WHICH ONE?!?! I WAS GOING TO TTEXT YOU FOR HELP
isabellaa: the one i took of you at the pool few days ago. hold on lemme text
yourfriend1: omg not only him but mercedes AND LANDO NORRIS!!! get me lando's number im BEGGINGGGGGGG
ynhaaland: im on it baby dont worry
judebellingham: can i be in the wedding?
ynhaaland: yeah! can you be my maid of honor?
judebellingham: as long as i get to kiss your brother at the end of the night
ynhaaland: DEAL!
ynhaaland has posted to their story
view all replies
user1: i just know this is because george followed
yourbff: god damn you are one gorgeous lady 😍
ynhaaland: thanks baby girl 😘
user4: queen you are glowing and gorgeous
georgerussell63: hey! heard you might be free the weekend of the hungarian grand prix?
ynhaaland: hi george! i am free that weekend and was thinking about visiting hungary. will i see you there?
georgerussell63: you will for sure see me. hungary is perfect this time of year!
georgerussell63: i'll leave some passes for you and a friend. care to get drinks with me on that thursday night?
ynhaaland: i'd love to
georgerussell63: i booked you a suite at the four seasons in budapest. i'll pick you up at 7 on that thursday 😊
user19: body tea, hair tea, bathing suit tea
lando: if he fumbles lmk
ynhaaland: hahaahahah hi lando
lando: hey y/n
user10: are you sure you need an f1 man? i can stand in if needed
isabellaa: im about to start drooling 🤤
ynhaaland: ISABELLLLLLLLLALLALLLALALAALLAL IT WORKED IT WORKED IT WORKDE. HE BOOKED ME A HOTEL AND IS GIVING ME PASSES TO THE RACE
isabellaa: OMGMFGKJN FACE TIME ME RN CAN I PLS COME W YOU
erling.priv: why didnt you also block my private 😔
ynhaaland: i hate you
user22: good lord
ynhaaland has posted to their story
view all replies
user1: omg its happening
erling: you stole my girlfriend and my plane and for what
ynhaaland: for a girls trip duh
erling: right....
user4: go get your man bestie. btw...im hungarian and going to be at the gp.... idk but would love to meet you... ya know if possible
ynhaaland: say less babe! i'll see you at the track on friday 💕
georgerussell63: i'm quite excited to see you later
ynhaaland: and im excited to see you later! i brought a nice dress like you told me to
georgerussell63: good girl , see soon 😊
f1gossip: well ya don't say.....
yourbff: i want a play by play from both you and isa
ynhaaland: he called me a good girl via dm..... this mannnnnnnnnnnnnnnn 😭😭😭🥰🥰🥰🥰😍😍😍😫😫😫😫
yourbff: get out of here
user12: i cant wait to see your outfits for the weekend
ynhaaland has posted to their private story
view all replies
yourbff: OMG SPILLLLLL (also you look so gorgeous im screaming)
ynhaaland: WELL first of all... HE SHOWED UP WITH FLOWERS??? like actual flowers 😭😭 then he took me to the prettiest restaurant i've ever been to and he's been such a gentleman all night. opened every door for me, helped me with my coat, pulled my chair out, made sure i was warm, ordered for me after asking what i liked because i was too busy trying not to stare at him 😭 and don't even get me started on how easy it is to talk to him?? it genuinely feels like we've known each other forever. we haven't had a single awkward silence, we've been laughing the entire night, and he's SO funny. like i knew he had a dry sense of humour from interviews but in person?? he's hilarious. AND HE'S SOMEHOW EVEN MORE HANDSOME UP CLOSE????? that man should not be allowed to look like that. but then... he got all shy for a second and started telling me how beautiful he thinks i am 🥹 he literally kept saying he couldn't believe he'd never noticed me before and that he was sorry it had taken him so long bc in his words, "i would've asked you out much sooner." I'M SORRY?????? EXCUSE ME?????? i actually think i'm having the best first date of my entire life.
yourbff: OH MY GOD
ynhaaland: and he asked me to go home with him and ofc i said yes 😏
yourbff: NO WAYAYAYY
ynhaaland: YES WAY
yourbff: i am screaming at the top of my lungs
ynhaaland: ok i have to go he's probably suspicious of how long i've been in the bathroom
isabellaa: you’re the hottest woman alive
ynhaaland: literally wouldnt look like this if not for your help
may 2025 : the mclaren social media team manage to convince you and lando to do a hot lap video for the miami gp promotions. they also have a few things up their sleeves to make it even better.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.6k ୨୧ warnings : language ୨୧ note : this idea has been in my head for MONTHS so i'm glad the urge to write it finally hit me 🧡 if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
part of the lando's heart series.
you honestly don't know how you ended up here.
here specifically being on the actual miami track surrounded by a bunch of mclaren staff – some with big cameras and others with... other things. yeah, sounds about right.
not too far from you was the cause for all of this, talking with mclaren's pr head as she explained the whole breakdown of what would be happening. and yes, you're entirely blaming him for easily convincing you to do this with him. and who was "him" you may ask – well you're stupidly, handsome boyfriend of course.
lando.
when you notice a sudden shadow over you, you turn to see one of the social media people, adam, beaming while holding a camera pointed at you.
"are you already filming?" you ask with a laugh.
"yeah, gotta get content for the before. so~ how are you feeling? excited? nervous?"
"like i'm gonna throw up, but i haven't decided if it's from nerves or excitement yet," you explain with a laugh. you were actually quite nervous, and sure you trust lando with your life, but that doesn't mean you still can't be nervous.
"do you think lando is going to do well?"
you pause for a moment, playing it up a little bit as you dramatically tap your chin while fake thinking, "well, considering he drives for a living i would hope he does well. but i don't know," you add doing a hair flip, "having a beautiful lady next to him might make him nervous."
"hey, hey, don't be bad mouthing me before we even get in the car," a familiar british voice says from next to you. you feel lando's fingers gently graze your lower back – subtly enough that hopefully the camera doesn't catch – as he stands close to you. sun beaming down brightly which causes him to shield his eyes in order to look at you.
"i wasn't bad mouthing you, lan, i was just saying that i hope i don't make you nervous," you explain in a matter-of-fact tone. you're trying your best to cover your nerves with some light banter.
and what could possibly have you acting nervous, you may ask, well... your eyes move to the papaya colored mclaren p1 that sits not from where you're standing. the bright orange reflecting and shining nicely thanks to the flordia sun that it almost makes it hard to look at for too long. usually, you could care less about these sports cars, your lover himself having about sixteen at this point that he often drives you around in.
and you should think about it like that. just lando and you driving around in the mclaren. but no. its not just a casual drive through monaco. it was a hot lap.
lando would be taking you for a hot lap in the mclaren p1 for a youtube video for the miami gp. you were honestly surprised when lando brought it up to you a few weeks ago, saying that the pr team suggested it and thought it would be a great video for fans to enjoy. at first you weren't sure because you had seen the videos of other non-drivers being taken for a hot lap around the tracks and they always made you nervous.
and you trusted lando, he assured you that if you didn't want to do it then he would tell them you said no. but instead you agreed to it. it clearly didn't take much convincing, lando just casually looking at you with those damn gorgeous eyes as his large hands massaged your thighs. damn you're easy.
"oh, we also have a surprise for you, y/n!" emily, one of the other social media people, said completely ripping you away from your thoughts. probably for the better honestly. you look at the young woman who is holding a box in her hands before she's passing it off to you.
you look from her to the camera adam is holding to another camera before finally up at lando, who is already looking at you.
"do you know what this is?" you ask before finally looking back down at the box.
"nope," he says, gently taking the box from your hands so you can easily open it, "why don't you open it and we find out."
you feel a sense of dread wash over you, not really knowing what to fully expect. "okay... but if something jumps out at me, i'm leaving," you say, which makes the staff around you – lando included – laugh.
thankfully, nothing jumps out at you and the dread suddenly turns into curiosity as you carefully set the lid on the ground before starting to remove this tissue paper. "no way," you gasp out loud as a vibrant papaya color is revealed. and when the tissue paper is moved, that's when you fully take in what's in the box.
a papaya colored juicy couture tracksuit.
your jaw drops, like literally as you look up at lando who is equally surprised. "no fucking way," you say again as you pick the jacket up out of the box and fully show it off to lando and the camera. "this is not real," you're in disbelief, "how did you all get this? they don't even make a papaya colored one!"
emily laughs at your reaction, "juicy couture custom-made this set for you. we wanted to make sure you looked... very mclaren-ready and stylish for this video."
you were speechless. completely and utterly speechless as you held the jacket tightly between your fingers.
"it's very you, y/n," lando says with a soft chuckle. you can't help but note how odd it almost sounds to hear your lover call you by your name instead of one of the usual nicknames he defaults too. you figure he's trying to remain somewhat professional in front of his co-workers and the cameras. damn media training. "you should go put it on."
"oh! before you do that, you should definitely look at the pants!" emily says, speaking quickly as if to try and stop of you from running off to change. you furrow your brows before shifting your attention to the pants now, picking them up and turning the over so you could see the backside.
"oh. my. god. that's pretty funny," you say, not able to help the laugh escaping past your glossed lips. you then turn the pants around to show lando and the camera. a wide grin spreading across his lips as a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"that's pretty on brand, honestly, i didn't think juicy did something like this," lando says.
"custom-made means custom-made, lando, even down to the last jewel," emily said. you turn the pants back around to look at the lettering that is usually spotted on the back of the iconic track pants. except instead of these pants saying the infamous 'juicy' along the back, these papaya-colored pants instead said 'mclaren' on them.
you think it would have been even better if it said 'lando' but you know mclaren would never do something like that. no matter how iconic it would have been.
"wow, thank you guys so much. i-i don't even know what to say," you tell the mclaren staff who are all beaming warmly at you. you've known all of them for a good while now, some longer than other thanks to lando. so this gift – even if for the hot lap video – meant a lot to you. "i'm gonna go put it on right now!" you say without a second thought, snatching the box from lando's hands and running into the his side of the mclaren garage and disappearing entirely.
"well," emily says with a laugh, "glad to see the gift was well received! come on, lando, let's film some extra stuff while we wait."
when you rejoined lando and the others, you couldn't help but pose as you did a little walk to fully show off the papaya juicy couture. you made eye contact with your boyfriend as he watched you, eyes watching you fondly as you came to stand next to him in front of the mclaren p1.
"you match with the car," he points out gesturing between you and the car and you can't help but nod in agreement.
"okay! we're gonna go ahead and film the intro, the car is already hooked up with cameras for when you're both ready," emily says in her professional voice.
you feel lando's hand gently brush against yours, you looking at him with a soft gaze. "you ready? not too late to back out."
"i think it is a little too late to back out, lan. i have the tracksuit and everything. but i'm ready."
lando nods before turning to the camera, his own pr-persona taking over as he smiles and talks to the camera.
"alright, everyone," he says, clapping his hands together, "today we are doing something special today here at the miami circuit. as you can see i have a lovely guest with me here," you can feel a heat flush over your face as his words as you smile at him. "and i'm going to be taking y/n on a hot lap around the circuit in this mclaren p1."
the two of you are then handed helmets – safety first, you think – but when you're handed your helmet you can't help but laugh at how the mclaren team once again gave you something that just screams… you.
it was a matching blob helmet, except instead of the familiar fluro color that lando wears it was a nice pink color.
"it's pink, lan! look!" you say showing it off to him with a bright smile as he puts his own helmet on.
"very cute, baby," he says before he's helping you put it on your head and adjusting the strap so it stays on.
once inside the car, the mclaren staff make sure you are strapped in, but its lando double checking that makes your heart flutter. he gives your hand a firm squeeze, bringing it up to his lips and kissing the back of your hand before he's letting go.
"are you ready? cause i'm not holding back," he says with a cheeky smirk as he looks at you. eyebrows wiggling which makes you laugh.
you take a deep breath, before nodding, "yeah, yeah i'm ready." you won't lie, when you got in the car, you couldn't help the nerves start to take over again. but seeing lando next to you behind the wheel made you realize something – that you wouldn't do this with anyone else. that's how much you blindly trust lando.
and then the engine roared to live, vibrating all through you and deep into your bones. your hands suddenly feeling clammy as you rubbed them against your pants. your eyes darting from the windshield, to the mounted go-pro camera, and then to lando who looked completely in his element.
probably because he was y/n, you think before your thoughts are suddenly cut off by the way lando hits the gas. the force from the sudden speed of the super car throwing your head back against the seat.
"holy shit!" you couldn't help but let out, your whole body getting tossed around from the g-force and speed. a bright smile on your face as you couldn't help but let out a laugh. "this is fast, lan!"
"glad you think so, baby!" he shouts back with an equally matching smile. he easily takes the first corner before speeding up again, the whole thing sending chills through your body. "see – i told you it wasn't so bad!" he adds, and you swear he speeds up a little more which makes you let out an excited yell as you grip the leather seats firmly.
you only hope your nails don't damage the seat from how hard your grip is. "this! is! so! insaneeeeeee!! landooooo!!!" your lover can only laugh in response to you as he easily glides the super car through the turns in sector one.
once he got to sector two, you definitely felt like he was trying to show off – for you or the camera you aren't sure. you can literally feel your whole body vibrating and you manage just enough willpower to turn and look at lando. the bastard wasn't even phased by the speed he was taking you both at. you can't believe how easy he makes this look. he really is unbelievable.
"you okay, princess?" you think he's completely forgotten about the cameras in this moment. the nickname making the butterflies vibrate in your stomach as you smile and laugh.
"this is so c-ool, lan! i can't believe you do this all the time!" you tell him as you look back of the road. the straight-shot of sector three letting you know that unfortunately your joyride was almost over. but lando makes sure to speed up one last time. the force throws you back into the seat as you let out an excited yell one last time.
by the end of it, you can barely stop your heart from pounding in your chest. the beating shooting up from your chest to your throat and ears. hands shaking, but you literally couldn't stop yourself from smiling. lando's large hand comes to firmly hold yours, making you look at him with a dazed look.
"that..." you try to say but trail off in order to catch your breath, "that was so fucking awesome."
"yeah? you feel okay, you're shaking."
"i'm great! can we go again? please~" you look at him with a slight pout, knowing he can't resist your puppy eyes.
the british driver lets out a deep chuckle as his free hand comes to gently cup your face. "sadly no, i don't think the team would like that, plus you look like literally jello right now."
"but jello is good though," you say sadly as he starts to unbuckle you first and then himself. you watch as he gets out, rounding the car before opening your door and slowly helping you out. oh yeah, you can definitely feel the jello kicking in now. your legs trembling slightly as you casually lean against lando as he wraps the video up.
"did you have fun, y/n?" he asks, looking down at you.
"absolutely! thank you so much mclaren for letting lando and i do this! this will forever be a core memory!" you say with a laugh.
"that's great! thank you both so much," emily says once they finish filming. "lando, why don't you take y/n back to hospitality and rest for a little bit before your next schedule."
lando doesn't need to be told twice, easily guiding you – his arm securely around your waist as he holds you close.
"i'm glad you agreed to do this with me," he tells you softly, lips kissing the crown of your head once you both were seated on the small couch of his driver's room. your head resting on his chest as you hugged him. the adrenaline from the hot lap finally starting to disappear.
"i couldn't imagine doing a hot lap with anyone else but you, baby," you tell him truthfully. his hand that rests on your waist gives you firm squeeze before its giving your butt a firm pat.
"i still can't believe the team got you this tracksuit," he says with a laugh, "but you honestly look so hot in this. wearing my team color. the word 'mclaren' written on your ass. fucking sexy. but you know what would have made it better?"
"what?"
"if it had my name instead of mclaren."
you sat up immediately with a wide smile, "oh my god, i thought the exact same thing!" you tell him before you're suddenly leaning in and the two of you share a quick kiss.
"i wonder how much it would cost to get juicy to make a custom fluro tracksuit with my name on it?"
ᯓᡣ𐭩 a three-part series
ᯓᡣ𐭩 max verstappen x ex!reader
ᯓᡣ𐭩 second-chance romance, secret baby/pregnancy, dad!max x mom!reader
ᯓᡣ𐭩 based on a request made by my best friend @freddiefromthefandoms (surprise, freds!)
ᝰ.ᐟ After having to walk away from the love of her life, she reluctantly returns to the paddock with her Formula One-obsessed toddler, whose biggest dream is to meet Max Verstappen, the hero he's adored his entire life and the father he's never known, with the very same impossible angel eyes.
daniel ricciardo x fem!writer!reader - social media au.
synopsis: in search of authenticity for her latest novel, a successful writer turns to Reddit to ask questions about F1—and finds herself forming a quiet, meaningful connection with an anonymous stranger who knows the sport a little too well.
admin's note: helloooo!!!! I hope you really like this idea, I loved it from the moment it hit my brain 🙂↕️🙂↕️ It doesn't follow the real timeline; some events happen differently! P.S. If you have any ideas for FCs I could use for future smaus, I'd appreciate it xx
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reddit - r/f1talk
OP (u/PlotTwistWriter): Hi! I’m writing a romance novel set in F1 and I want it to be realistic. Do drivers actually have time for relationships or is it just… chaos?
u/SmilingThroughTheGForces: Chaos, yes. But not the kind that makes relationships impossible. Just the kind that forces you to choose what matters.
OP: hat sounds… sad?
u/SmilingThroughTheGForces: Sometimes. Sometimes it just makes the quiet moments better.
later that night
OP: Okay second question: would a driver ever date someone who’s not part of the paddock?
u/SmilingThroughTheGForces: Honestly? That might be the dream.
OP: Why?
u/SmilingThroughTheGForces: Because they’d like you not the helmet, the car, or the headlines.
-
-
reddit - weeks later
OP: Can I ask something not research-related?
u/SmilingThroughTheGForces: You already are.
OP: Do you ever get lonely?
(three minutes pass)
u/SmilingThroughTheGForces: Yeah. Mostly in hotel rooms after races. When everything’s loud all day and then suddenly… nothing.
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( max verstappen x gymnast! fiance! reader ) ( 4k wc )
⤷ when an old childhood photo resurfaces during a race weekend, you suddenly find yourself trying to convince Max to regain the flexibility he left behind years ago. In true Max fashion, he counters with a deal of his own—he’ll let you bend him into shape if he gets to teach you how to drive.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff, cheesy, max is not flexible, reader cannot drive
( my m. list | more of MV3 ) ( requests )
Max already knew the fan-zone stage was gonna be chaos, but he didn’t expect this.
He was sitting on the high stools beside Yuki, Nico, and Gabriel, shoulders hunched just enough to look casual but not enough to look uncomfortable — the Verstappen balance he’d perfected over the years. The crowd was loud, the energy feral in that fun, happy way, phones up like a shimmering sea.
“And of course,” the host said, grinning like he’d been waiting all day, “congratulations to Max on his engagement!”
The cheer shot up so loud Max immediately ducked his head, laughing through his nose. Yuki clapped his shoulder, Nico let out one of those dad-congrats chuckles, and Gabriel actually whooped.
“Thank you,” Max said, simple, soft. He kept it tidy — you always did that for him, let him hold onto the things that mattered. “We’re happy. Keeping it private, you know, but . . . yeah, it’s been really nice.”
“Awe,” the crowd chorused, and Max visibly fought a smile.
“But we do have a photo to share,” the host teased.
Max blinked. “Wait— what phot—?”
Then it appeared on the massive screen behind him.
You and Max. Seven or eight years old. Tiny little kids. Both of you in a perfect bridge on the grass, heads tipped back just enough to grin at the camera upside down. Innocent. Squishy. Ridiculously adorable.
The guys lost it.
Yuki slapped his knee. “MAX WHAT— you looked so cute!!”
Gabriel leaned back, wheezing. “The form is better than mine now!”
Max buried his face in his hands. “No, man, no . . .”
“And speaking of flexibility . . .” the host said, wicked, “your fiancée is an Olympic gold medalist gymnast — very flexible. Are you flexible, Max?”
The audience went wild with that one.
Max peeked out from behind his fingers and just shook his head. “No. No. Not anymore. I— no.”
“But you used to be!” Nico laughed. “Look at this! That’s an actual bridge!”
“Used to be,” Max repeated firmly. “Long time ago. Like . . . many years. Many, many years. 20 years!”
“And how does the future Mrs. Verstappen feel about that?” the host teased.
Max just smiled in that way he got when he was thinking about you — all soft edges. “I think she finds it funny.”
Oh, if only he knew what was waiting for him when he got home.
You hear the apartment door unlock before you even see him, and you’re already padding across the living room like an excited cat. Max steps inside with that tired post-flight slump, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped—looking every bit like a man who’d just survived a grand prix weekend and a fan stage ambush.
You practically bounce toward him.
“Baby!” You throw your arms around his neck
“Mijn schat,” Max drops his suitcase and back pack, wrapping his arms around you. He returns the kiss you press against his lips with a hum like a starved man.
He pulls away after a moment, cupping your cheek with his palm and pecking your lips with a small muah before picking up his belongings and moving into the apartment.
“So . . .” you begin, eyes bright, smile definitely giving you away. “I saw the videos.”
Max stops mid-step. His whole face drops into an exhausted, knowing grimace. “Oh god. No. No, no—don’t start. I just got home.”
You pout immediately, stepping close and dragging your fingers along the sleeves of his hoodie. “Max . . .”
He groans, long and dramatic, head tipping back. “I knew it. I knew you were going to try and make me stretch.” He points at you accusingly. “You waited for me like some kind of—of flexibility assassin.”
You poke his chest lightly. “You were adorable. And stiff. Like, you could’ve snapped in half onstage.”
He blinks. “Wow. Thank you.”
“I’m just saying,” you hum, leaning in, “maybe we should work on it a little?”
His eyes narrow. “Absolutely not.”
You kiss him—soft, slow, sweet, the kind that knocks the air right out of his lungs.
He exhales in defeat. “. . . Okay, maybe a little.”
You grin triumphantly.
Two minutes later, he’s sitting on the yoga mat with the expression of a man questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.
You lower into a gentle fold, palms flat against the floor, spine loose and warm. Max attempts the same—and immediately groans.
“Oh my god, babe,” you say, eyebrows lifting, “you suck.”
Max whips his head toward you. “I don’t need to be flexible! I just need to sit in a car and take g-forces!”
“It has benefits,” you sing-song. “Keeps you healthy. And young.”
He scoffs. “I am young.”
“Mhm. Not with that lower back.”
He glares, offended. “I hate this.”
“Yes,” you say sweetly, “I noticed.”
He sits back, arms crossed, stubborn as anything. You crawl over, settle onto your knees beside him, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Then he sighs like he’s about to negotiate a peace treaty.
“Fine. Deal time.”
You perk up instantly.
He holds up a finger. “If I get flexible—actually flexible—you get your driver’s license.”
You freeze. “But I don’t know how to drive.”
He gives you a look, all smug and matter-of-fact. “Well, aren’t you lucky you’re married to the best driver in the world?”
You roll your eyes so hard they nearly leave orbit. “Can’t the best driver in the world just drive me around?”
“No,” Max says flatly.
You pout—actually pout—and he bites back a smile.
“Or,” he continues, lifting that same finger again, “he could teach you how to drive.”
“But I’m a passenger princess,” you whine, leaning on him dramatically.
“You will always be a passenger princess,” he assures, cupping your jaw and kissing your cheek. “But you can’t keep spending so much on Uber when I’m gone.”
You stare at him. “I hate driving.”
“And I hate stretching,” he counters, shrugging like this is cosmic balance being restored.
He sticks his hand out between you. Solid. Final. A challenge.
You groan. Whine again for good measure.
Then take his hand and shake it.
“Deal,” you mumble.
He kisses your forehead, smiling into your skin. “Good. Now stretch me, princess.”
It becomes a routine so natural you can count the days by it.
Every night, sometime after brushing teeth and turning off the main lights, Max ends up on the bedroom rug while you sit cross-legged on the bed, hair tied up, watching him with that soft little grin that always gets him flustered.
He pretends not to like stretching.
He completely likes stretching now.
Not the pain part—no, he still grumbles and complains like a man twice his age—but the part where you sit behind him, hands guiding his arms forward, your breath warm on his neck. The part where you kiss his cheek every time he manages an extra centimeter. The part where the two of you laugh through half the poses and he groans through the rest, calling you cruel while secretly loving every minute of it.
You reach out, pressing your palm between his shoulder blades. “Okay, fold just a little more. You’ve got it.”
Max inhales sharply and wheezes, “I don’t got it.”
You laugh, leaning in to kiss the edge of his jaw. “You’re doing amazing, baby.”
He whispers, “bribery kisses are not fair,” even though he leans into every single one.
Sometimes the pain makes his eyes sting—just a little—and you wipe the corner of his lashes with your thumb before kissing the crown of his head. Max melts instantly, because affection is a performance-enhancing drug for him, and he’ll stretch himself into a pretzel if he gets to hear your soft “good job, love” afterward.
It’s become your best kind of nightly ritual.
Just you and him.
Your giggles. His groans.
A quiet, warm tenderness at the end of every day.
The next morning at the Red Bull gym, Rupert is setting up Max’s usual routine when Max clears his throat like he’s about to confess to a crime.
“Uh,” Max starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “so—maybe we can add… flexibility stuff?”
Rupert freezes mid-way through rearranging resistance bands. Slowly turns. Raises an eyebrow.
“. . . Flexibility?”
Max nods casually, trying too hard to look normal. “Yeah.”
There is a full, silent three-second pause where Rupert just stares at him.
Then: “Since when do you want to stretch voluntarily?”
Max shrugs, staring at the treadmill like it might rescue him. “My back hurts all the time now. Getting older. You know how it is.”
“You’re twenty-seven,” Rupert deadpans.
“Yeah. Ancient.”
Rupert narrows his eyes. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your wife, would it?”
Max’s jaw tightens. “No.”
“Mhm.”
“No,” he repeats, looking away.
“Max.”
He sighs deeply, defeated. “Maybe.”
Rupert laughs—actually laughs—and claps him on the shoulder. “Alright then. Flexibility it is.”
Max tries to stay cool, tries to stay tough. But when Rupert pulls out the mats, Max mutters, “Please don’t tell her,” like he’s trading state secrets.
Rupert grins. “Your secret’s safe.”
And so, behind your back, Max trains twice as hard.
Evenings with you—soft, warm, kiss-rewarded stretching full of laughter and barely-there tears from the pain.
Mornings with Rupert—focused stretches, mobility drills, hamstring torture disguised as “hip openers.”
He never says a word about the extra work.
He just comes home every night, drops onto the rug in front of you, and stretches like a man on a mission.
And every time you say, “Wow, baby, you’re getting so good!” Max just smiles—shy and proud and a little smug.
The sun is warm over the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, the asphalt shimmering just slightly in the late afternoon light. The garages are quiet, most of the paddock already gone for the day, leaving only the echoes of your footsteps and the faint hum of distant generators.
Your first driving lesson.
Max insisted on making it special.
You insisted on not dying.
The two of you walk toward the car parked at the end of the pit lane, and your nerves are already chewing at your spine. Max, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to have the best day of his life.
He opens your door first—gentle, sweet—and helps you in before rounding the car to take the driver’s seat.
You buckle up with trembling hands. “Okay,” you exhale, “don’t go fast.”
Max turns to you with the flattest, most unimpressed stare he has ever delivered. “I’m literally a Formula One driver.”
“Yeah, exactly,” you say, gripping the seatbelt, “that’s why I don’t trust you.”
He revs the engine.
“Max—”
He speeds off.
The acceleration slams you into your seat, and the scream you let out is so loud it mightvas well have echoed through the pit lane.
“MAXIMILIAN—!”
He’s giggling. Actually giggling. Proud, smug, delighted with himself.
By the time he slows at the end of the straight, you punch his arm—lightly, but dramatic.
“You’re insane!”
He grins, “Good start to your first lesson, no?”
You whack him again. He kisses your cheek in apology. “Okay, princess. Your turn.”
Switching seats feels like a death sentence.
You sit behind the wheel, shaky, your foot hovering carefully over the pedal like it might explode.
Max sits sideways in his seat, elbow on the headrest, looking at you with this soft, supportive, annoyingly handsome smile. “Just breathe. You’ll be fine.”
You start the car.
It stalls immediately.
You wince. “Oh god—sorry—”
Max cupps your cheek and kisses you gently. “That’s one.”
“One what?”
“One stall, one kiss.”
You groan. “Is this bribery to fail? So you never get flexible?”
“This is motivation,” he corrects, tapping your knee lightly. “Try again.”
You inhale, exhale, start the car again—and stall again.
He leans over, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Two.”
By the third stall, he’s laughing quietly, kissing you soft and slow before resting his forehead against yours. “You’re doing perfect. Keep going.”
Eventually, you roll forward—slowly.
Very slowly.
Max beams like you’ve just won pole. “There you go! Look at you.”
You mutter under your breath, “I hate this,” gripping the wheel like a lifeline, but you keep going.
Lap after lap, turn after turn, at a snail’s pace—but still going.
He doesn’t care how slow you are. He cares that you’re trying.
Over the next few weekends, every track becomes your classroom as you follow Max and his circus.
Austria.
Spa.
Zandvoort.
Monza.
Whenever you’re able to join him, the two of you sneak onto the circuit (with permission) after hours—Max driving first, you yelling at him for going too fast, then switching seats for your slow, cautious laps while he cheers you on like you’re a rookie in F4.
At one track—Silverstone—you misjudge a corner and hit a sausage curb a little too hard. The car bounces, jolting violently.
Your breath stops. Your chest tightens. Your eyes sting immediately. AwèYou freeze, hands glued to the wheel.
Before you can even exhale, Max is already unbuckled, leaning across the console, cupping your face with both hands.
“Hey, hey, schatje—look at me. You’re okay.”
You swallow a sob. “I—I hit it—”
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing your cheeks, voice soft and steady. “It happens. You didn’t crash. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m right here.”
Your eyes blur. He pulls you into his chest, letting you shake into him, warm hand stroking your back until your breathing steadies.
“You’re safe,” he whispers into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
It takes a few minutes before you can sit back again, wiping at your face.
Max kisses your forehead. “We stop here for today. You did good.”
“Good?” you squeak. "I'm the shitiest driver in all of history."
He shakes his head. “You kept going. That’s good.”
You sniff, leaning into his hand. “I hate driving.”
“And I hate stretching,” he smirks softly. “But we’re getting there.”
Max had insisted on choosing the quietest stretch of road he could find — a sleepy residential area on the outskirts of town, sun dipping low behind the trees, casting that soft honey-colored glow he always said made you look “dangerously pretty.” The car idled at the curb, your hands hovering above the wheel like it might bite you.
He watched you with this gentleness he didn’t even bother hiding anymore. One hand rested casually on the center console, fingers tapping softly — he always tapped when he was nervous, but today? Today, you were the one who kept swallowing like your throat was too tight.
“You ready?” he asked, and his voice had that warm rasp it got whenever he was trying to be patient.
“No,” you said immediately.
Max breathed out a laugh, exactly the kind that softened him around the edges. “Well, you’re gonna do it anyway.”
You glared at him, though it held no heat. “I swear, Max . . . if I die—”
“You’re not gonna die,” he said, leaning a little closer. “You’ll be fine. I’m right here.”
That part made your stomach flip, and he knew it, because the corner of his mouth pushed up just slightly.
"I'm the one who's going to die," he finished, joking and trying to hold in his smile.
You whacked him, smacking his chest and pushing him, not finding his joke funny.
He chuckled softly, leaning over the console and kissing your cheek, his lips lingering for a momeny. He pointed to the ignition. “Come on. Start it.”
You sighed dramatically — because if you didn’t, your heart might explode — and turned the key. The engine hummed to life, vibrating under your palms. You tensed immediately.
Max noticed. Of course he did. “Hey,” he murmured, covering your hands with his for a second. “Relax. You’re good.”
You inhaled slowly, let it out even slower, then nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Foot on the brake.”
You did.
“Shift into drive.”
The car lurched a little. You flinched. Max chuckled under his breath.
“That’s normal,” he promised. “You’re doing great.”
“Max,” you muttered. “I hate this.”
He gave you a look — that fond, amused, I told you so look he reserved specifically for you. “You promised you'd try,” he reminded.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re bossing me around.”
His eyebrows lifted, offended-but-not-really. “You boss me around during stretching.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” he challenged, leaning back, crossing his arms.
“Because I’m cute,” you said flatly. "And your future wife," you continued.
Max froze.
Then he blinked. Slowly.
Then he huffed out a small, breathless laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “You are,” he admitted, and his voice dipped lower, softer. “But that’s not— alright, no, we’re not doing this. Hands on the wheel.”
You smirked but obeyed, making sure he saw the victory in your eyes before you faced the road.
“Okay,” he said, settling into teacher mode again. “Let’s start moving. Gently ease off the brake.”
You eased. Too fast.
“Brake,” Max said calmly.
You tapped it. The car jerked violently.
Max braced a hand on the dash. “Brake— okay, not that hard,” he said through a breathy little laugh.
“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face with one hand.
“No hiding,” he said, pulling your hand away. “You’re fine. Try again.”
You inhaled. Eased off the brake slower this time. The car rolled forward, steady, and your shoulders lifted like the weight of the entire Dutch population was sitting on them.
Max noticed. Again.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re breathing like a tractor.”
You whipped your head toward him, scandalized. “Take that back.”
Max grinned. “Eyes on the road.”
You snapped forward. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” he said, smug but warm. “Okay. A little more speed. You’re going… two kilometers an hour.”
“That’s enough!”
“Baby, children on scooters go faster than this.”
You gasped quietly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” he admitted. “Okay, keep going. You’re doing great.”
You actually were. The car rolled along nicely, and once the initial wave of terror faded, you relaxed by degrees — shoulders slowly easing down, breath coming steadier, grip on the wheel loosening just slightly.
Max watched all of it like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
At the next intersection, he pointed ahead. “You’re gonna turn left.”
“Max—”
“You’ve got it,” he promised. “Trust yourself.”
“I trust you.”
That did something to him — it softened him entirely, melted every sharp edge he had. His expression went warm in a way that made your chest tighten.
“Then trust me when I say you can do this,” he murmured.
You swallowed. Nodded.
“Okay,” you whispered.
He guided you through it — talking quietly, calmly, his voice steady enough to make the whole car feel safer. And when you made the turn, not perfect but smooth enough that you didn’t scream, he lit up like you’d just won a championship.
“There you go,” he said proudly. “Look at you.”
The praise made your ears burn. “Stop,” you muttered. “You’re making it weird.”
“I’m literally being nice,” he said, laughing. “You want me to be mean instead?”
“Yes,” you shot back instantly. “That would be less embarrassing.”
Max laughed so hard he had to rub his face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And cute,” you reminded him.
He groaned, leaning back in his seat like he was surrendering. “Yes. And cute. Now keep going.”
It’s late—late enough that Monaco has gone quiet, the windows glowing faintly with that silver winter softness that makes the whole apartment feel like it’s breathing slow. You’re curled up in bed, blanket bunched around your legs, phone slipping in and out of your hands while Max stretches on the rug like he’s gearing up for battle.
He’s been laser-focused for a good ten minutes now. Barefoot, hair a mess, jaw tight in that stubborn little way he gets when he decides something is happening whether his spine likes it or not.
You peek over your screen.
“You okay down there, soldier?”
He exhales through his nose, sharp and determined.
“I’m gonna try and fold and touch past my toes.”
Your phone is gone from your brain instantly. You sit up straight, scooting to the edge of the mattress like you’ve just been summoned.
“Wait—seriously?”
“Seriously.” He shakes out his legs like a sprinter on the starting grid, completely committed and completely dramatic in the way only he can get away with.
He sits down, separates his legs wide, then he lowers himself—slow, slow, slower—face twisting, breath catching. A groan slips out of him, then another, and—
He reaches all the way forward till his chest touches the floor.
Full fold—well, almost full fold, his stomach is not touching the ground, but it's the best to his abilities and an amazing personal achievement for him.
Your gasp could win awards. “Max! Baby—that’s insane!”
He looks up at you, flushed and glowing, like your pride might actually power him. “Reward,” he murmurs. “Please.”
You slide off the bed, kneeling beside him, palms cupping his face. The second your lips meet his, he melts—arms slack, body softening like he’s been waiting weeks just for this one moment. And he doesn’t even close his eyes; he watches you, soaking in your reaction like it’s the point of the whole exercise.
When you pull back, he groans again—this time because his legs are protesting as he tries to stand. “Yeah, okay, ow. Your turn to suffer later.” He shakes himself out, then nods toward the rug. “Bridge?”
You smile. “Bridge.”
He drops down first, planting his hands, pushing up. His arms tremble a little, but he gets there—chest open, back curving clean and strong. His face is red as anything, but he’s grinning at you like he’s seven again, showing off at some tiny, echoing Dutch gym.
You fall into your own bridge from standing, letting your spine ripple into position. Upside down, he looks even cuter—hair dangling, smile crooked, eyes bright.
You reach out, fingertips brushing his.
And like a genius, he tries to shift his hand to hold yours.
Instant regret.
“Woah—!”
His arm wobbles, he collapses sideways, crashing right into you. Both of you hit the floor in one messy, laughing pile that echoes off every wall.
You crawl over him, palms braced on either side of his ribs. He cups your cheek with one steady, warm hand and you meet him halfway, kissing him slow and soft, like you’re both trying to memorize the moment. His thumb strokes your skin, tender and sure, and he kisses you back with that quiet intensity he only ever shows when he’s genuinely happy.
When you pull back, he murmurs it against your mouth:
“Worth it.”
Every wobble, every groan, every stupid fall.
Worth it because it’s with you.
He shifts under you slightly, looking up with that soft little smile.
“Can we . . . take a picture of us doing it together?”
“Duh. Of course. I need to show your mom.”
You set up the camera. Max cracks his back with unnecessary drama. You smooth his hair even though he keeps insisting it doesn’t matter. Then you both lower into a bridge again — steadier this time, almost graceful — hands planted, feet firm.
Just like when you were seven.
His fingertips find yours again. Light. Familiar.
You brush back.
Later that night, the photo goes up on your shared post — two bridges, side by side with the childhood one from years ago.
Caption:
“Some things don’t change.”
Max comments,
“Except now I get to marry her ❤️”
And on that same yoga mat, Max tackles you over with a dramatic groan.
“Actually — that stretch counted too. I deserve another kiss.”
The sun’s starting to dip over Monaco, that kind of honey-gold light that makes everything feel warmer than it is. You pull up beside the paddle courts, window rolled down, one hand draped over the wheel while you wait.
Max spots you first.
He jogs over, hair damp, cheeks flushed from running around with Lando and the others — and the second he reaches the window, he leans in without hesitation, kissing you like it’s the most natural greeting in the world.
“Hi, Mrs. Verstappen,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and stupidly proud.
You giggle, giving him another soft kiss.
“Hi, baby.”
Behind him, Lando slows to a stop. He blinks at the scene. Blinks again.
“Wait. Why are you in the driver’s seat?”
You grin, already reaching for the little plastic card tucked into the center console.
“Because I can drive now, genius.”
You hold up your license between two fingers.
YN VERSTAPPEN
right there in clean black letters.
Lando stares at it like you just revealed a secret government document.
“No way. No actual way. You — you passed? You have a license? They gave you one? And they let you keep it?”
Max snorts under his breath.
“Don’t ever drive me anywhere,” Lando jokes, hands raised like he’s warding off fate, giving you a side eye.
“Yeah, I will,” Max cuts in immediately, smug as anything as he moves around your car to the passenger side.
“Yikes. No thank you,” Lando mutters, waving by as he walks to his fiat jolly.
Max opens the door, leans in, and steals one more quick kiss before sitting down beside you. The ring on his finger glints when he buckles in. Yours glints right back.
Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.
“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, “That’s really sweet.”
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.
He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”
“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”
Max’s chest tightened.
That wasn’t what he had asked.
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
“Max…”
“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”
“I know you did.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.
“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”
“You are not a thing on the list.”
“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.
Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”
There was a pause.
Max’s body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”
His throat tightened.
“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”
Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
Max’s chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.
“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
He hadn’t known.
He really hadn’t known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didn’t expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
“I listened,” he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.
“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“Max…”
“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.
Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”
Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”
“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”
“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.
“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”
“Oh, God.”
“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”
“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.
you thought you were happy with your boyfriend but when things start falling apart, lando and oscar give you a soft place to land.
note: this one is a monster, i hope you guys enjoy it! i had to restart it like three times before getting it right. obligatory i don't speak spanish disclaimer lol
warnings : established relationship landoscar, lando and reader are lowkey exes, reader's bf is an asshole, gaslighting, swearing, implied/referenced sex
fc: begoña vargas
･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
yn.sainz just posted
liked by lando, carlossainz55, and others
yn.sainz: go williams 💙🏁
view all comments:
lando: What about mclaren?
⤷yn.sainz: eh, orange isn’t really my color
⤷lando: Its papaya!!
carlossainz55: Why do I look so scared
⤷lando: Mate thats just your face
victorreyes: ❤️
yn.sainz just posted
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yn.sainz: monaco baby 🇲🇨 thank you @.oscarpiastri for showing me around
view all comments:
carlossainz55: You come to the country I live in and do not even visit me. Do you not love your big brother?
⤷yn.sainz: you’re so annoying 😭
oscarpiastri: Happy to be your tour guide
liked by author
victorreyes: Seriously?
comment deleted by author
yn.sainz just posted
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yn.sainz: feliz cumpleaños a mí 🥳
view all comments:
lando: Happy birthday pretty girl
oscarpiastri: Happy birthday Yn ❤️
user: not oscar and lando being invited to her family birthday dinner but her actual bf is nowhere to be found lmao
user: MY CARLANDOOOO
user: hbd!!!
victorreyes: You didn’t tell me he was going to be there 🙄
comment deleted by author
yn.sainz just posted
liked by oscarpiastri, lando, and others
yn.sainz: 🍜🍤🍚
view all comments:
oscarpiastri: I didn’t know Lando could open his mouth that wide 🤣
⤷user: you know damn well…
lando: ❤️❤️
user: shes been spending so much time with lando and oscar lately 🤔
⤷user: with her bf mia 😒😒
⤷user: She better not be trying to steal lando from oscar, she already had her chance!!
⤷user: bro relax they’re probably just friends. none of our business anyway!
view story replies:
user: posting your boyfriend and your girlfriend LOL i see you lando
user: CUTE i love this friendship
user: ugh can she go away??
view story replies:
victorreyes: Why didnt you tell me Lando would be coming
↳yn.sainz: why does it matter victor? my parents invited him
↳victorreyes: You know I dont like how much time you two spend together!
↳yn.sainz: i’m not doing this right now, i’m going to enjoy my family vacation.
↳victorreyes: We’ll talk about this later.
yn.sainz just posted
liked by carlossainz55, rebeccadonaldson, and others
yn.sainz: thank god i had someone else who hates golf with me on this trip 😭
view all comments:
user: Now landoscar are being invited to sainz family vacations? what is going on??
⤷user: idk but i’m obsessed with it
user: imagine getting to be the filling in a landoscar sandwich
⤷user: dude why do you have to say it like that 😭😭 like you’re not wrong but…
⤷user: let me speak my truth!
view story replies:
yn.sainz: it’s so pretty here!
oscarpiastri: Yeah I was definitely talking about the scenery
yn.sainz: ?
oscarpiastri: Don’t worry about it lol
view story replies:
lando: No one is stopping you from joining in 😏
yn.sainz: you’re ridiculous
yn.sainz: i’m sure both of our boyfriends wouldn’t be happy lol
lando: You never know 🤷♂️
view story replies:
↳lando: Wtf where was my invite?
↳yn.sainz: aren't you busy golfing?
↳carlossainzofficial: Cuídate, hija.
↳yn.sainz: yes papá ❤️
yn.sainz just posted
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yn.sainz: getting away from it all 🐟
view all comments:
rebeccadonaldson: lovely little weekend with you 🤍
yn.sainz: thank you for keeping me distracted <3
user: anyone else notice yn hasn’t posted or mentioned her boyfriend in a while?
⤷user: i noticed she unfollowed him a few weeks ago, i’m guessing they broke up 🤷♀️
lando: Pretty
liked by author
oscarpiastri: Beautiful
liked by author
user: was gonna ask if lando and oscar are looking for a third but i think they’ve found one 😂😂
view story replies:
yn.sainz: i’m not going to take him from you lando, don’t worry
lando: Im okay with sharing if its with you
yn.sainz: funny.
lando: You dont think im serious?
lando: Because i am
yn.sainz: sure you are
yn.sainz just posted
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yn.sainz: happy happy happy
view all comments:
user: is this a relationship confirmation???
liked by author
lando: What happens in Vegas…
⤷yn.sainz: stays between US 🙄
oscarpiastri: 💕
⤷yn.sainz: 🥰
carlossainz55: I am always right
⤷yn.sainz: shut up old man
⤷carlossainz55: Blocked.
hi! can i request for a singlemom! reader who doesn't know a thing for F1? with either LN1 or OP81? thankiess
The Anchor and the Aero - OP81
served with: oscar piastri x fem!singlemom!reader
chef's note: their worlds collide over a broken toy ambulance and a shared latte, Oscar doesn't see a "complicated" life or a "distraction." He sees a sanctuary.
portion size: 4.2k
The grass at the park was slightly damp from the morning dew, but your toddler didn't care. To him, the world was a giant obstacle course, and you were the exhausted referee trying to keep him from tackling a pigeon.
Your life was measured in three-hour increments: snack time, nap time, and "please don't put that in your mouth" time. You were currently rummaging through a diaper bag that felt like a black hole, searching for a stray wet wipe, when you realized the constant chatter of your four-year-old had drifted too far away.
"Leo! Stay where I can see—"
You looked up just in time to see your child skidding to a halt in front of a park bench. Sitting there was a young man in a plain black hoodie, looking intently at a laptop. Before you could intervene, Leo had already climbed onto the edge of the bench, thrusting a very sticky, very plastic Triceratops toward the stranger's face.
"He has three horns," Leo announced loudly. "And he eats bushes. Do you eat bushes?"
Your heart sank. You dropped the diaper bag and jogged over, already preparing your 'tired mom' apology. "Leo, honey, come here. Don't bug the man, he’s working."
The man didn't flinch. He didn't look up with that "please get this child away from me" expression you were so used to seeing from people in their early twenties. Instead, he slowly closed his laptop and tilted his head, looking at the dinosaur with genuine, quiet focus.
He didn't tower over the kid. He shifted his weight, dropping down from the bench to crouch on the grass so he was exactly at Leo’s height.
"I don't eat bushes," the man said, his voice surprisingly steady and calm. He had a slight Australian accent that smoothed out the edges of his words. "But he looks like he’s a very efficient eater. Does he have a name?"
Leo beamed. "His name is Carrot."
You finally reached them, breathless and slightly flushed. "I am so sorry," you sighed, reaching for Leo’s hand. "Sorry, he bothers everyone."
The man looked up at you then. He had clear, observant eyes and a demeanor that felt like the human equivalent of a still lake. There was no rush in his movements, no forced politeness.
"He’s not bothering me," he said simply.
He turned back to Leo, who was now explaining that Carrot also liked to hide in the sandbox. The man stayed in that crouch, nodding along, giving your child his undivided attention as if a plastic dinosaur was the most important thing he’d seen all day.
"I'm Oscar," he added, looking back at you with a small, unassuming nod.
"Y/N," you managed, finally catching your breath. "And that’s Leo. We’re usually a bit less... invasive."
"It’s alright," Oscar said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It’s a nice change of pace."
He didn't try to strike up a long conversation or ask for your number. He just stayed there for a few more minutes, treating your child like a person rather than a nuisance, before quietly picking up his laptop and heading toward the exit with a polite wave.
You watched him go, noting the way he walked—unhurried, grounded. In your world of constant noise and chaotic schedules, his calm felt like a foreign language you suddenly wanted to learn.
-
Tuesday mornings were always the worst. It was the "forgotten library book and a missing shoe" kind of morning. By the time you made it to the local coffee shop after dropping Leo off at daycare, you felt like you’d already run a marathon.
You were juggling a heavy work bag and a lukewarm latte when you saw a familiar pair of sneakers under a corner table.
Oscar.
He was dressed in a plain grey sweatshirt today, his eyes fixed on a notebook. When he looked up and saw you, he didn't look annoyed by your disheveled appearance. He just gave that same, steady nod.
"Tough morning?" he asked. His voice was a low, grounding hum against the hiss of the espresso machine.
"I think I’ve aged three years since 7:00 AM," you sighed, sliding into the chair opposite him. "I'm Y/N, by the way. I realized I never properly introduced myself between the dinosaur crisis and the daycare run."
"Oscar," he repeated, though you already knew. "And don't worry about the aging. I think it suits the 'chaos manager' aesthetic you’ve got going on."
You laughed, a genuine one that cut through your stress. Over the next few weeks, these "accidental" meetings became a rhythm. You talked about the weather, the best places to get sourdough, and the ridiculous plotlines of the cartoons Leo watched.
You had no idea who he was. To you, Oscar was just a guy who traveled a lot for a "corporate job" and seemed to appreciate the silence of the suburbs. He never corrected you. In a world where everyone wanted something from him, he seemed to find a strange sanctuary in the fact that you just wanted to know if he’d tried the blueberry muffins yet.
One Saturday, you ran into him at the park again. Leo was having a full-blown meltdown because a wheel had snapped off his favorite plastic ambulance.
"It's broken forever!" Leo wailed, his face turning a bright shade of red.
"Let me see," Oscar said. He didn't hover; he just held out a hand.
Leo handed over the toy, sniffling. You watched Oscar’s hands—they were steady, his fingers moving with a precision that seemed almost clinical. He took a small multi-tool from his pocket, adjusted a tiny plastic pin, and clicked the wheel back into place with a satisfying snap.
He didn't just hand it back. He spent a moment spinning the wheel to make sure it was perfectly aligned.
"There," Oscar said, handing it to Leo. "Aerodynamically sound. Ready for the next emergency."
Leo’s eyes went wide. "You fixed it!"
Oscar didn't offer a flashy grin. He just gave Leo a small, high-five. "Good as new."
As you watched them, a warm, quiet realization settled in your chest. "He’s... good with them," you thought. He didn't treat Leo like a child to be managed, but like a person to be helped.
It was more than just being "nice." It was a patient, quiet kind of care that you weren't used to seeing.
It happened on a Thursday, the kind of day where the sun was finally peaking through the clouds and the local café was humming with the sound of laptop keys and milk steamers.
You were sitting across from Oscar, nursing a cold brew while Leo was busy "driving" his repaired ambulance across the wooden table, making loud siren noises that Oscar didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, Oscar was occasionally moving his sugar packet out of the way so the ambulance could "pass through the intersection."
"You have a lot of patience for someone who travels for 'consulting,'" you remarked, leaning back. "Most people would have moved to the quiet zone by now."
Oscar shrugged, his gaze steady. "I’m used to loud noises. This is actually quite peaceful."
That’s when the bell above the door chimed, and a group of teenagers walked in. One of them, wearing a bright orange cap, froze mid-step. He nudged his friend, whispering loudly, "No way. Is that... is that actually him?"
They approached the table tentatively. You assumed they were lost or looking for a spare chair.
"Excuse me," the kid in the orange hat stammered, his face turning a shade of red that matched his shirt. "Are you... are you Oscar Piastri? From McLaren?"
Oscar went still for a fraction of a second—a tiny hitch in his calm—before he looked up and gave a polite, slightly awkward nod. "Yeah. Hi."
"Oh my god! We’re huge fans! That overtake in the last sector was insane, man! Can we get a photo? Please?"
Oscar stood up, his height more apparent now, and spent a few minutes posing for photos and signing the back of a receipt. He was incredibly gracious, but you noticed he kept glancing back at you, almost like he was checking if the bubble had burst.
Once the teenagers scrambled away, buzzing with excitement, you stared at him. Leo was still making siren noises, blissfully unaware, but you were stuck on the name.
"Piastri?" you repeated, the syllables feeling foreign. "And what’s a... Mc-Laren? Is that a law firm?"
Oscar sat back down, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked more flustered by your question than he had by the fans.
"It’s a team," he said softly.
"A team for what?" you asked, genuinely confused. "Wait, what do you actually do?"
He looked down at his coffee, then back at you, his expression unreadable but slightly sheepish. “I drive.”
You blinked. You thought about his constant travel, the precision with the toy ambulance, and the "consulting" you’d imagined.
“Like… Uber?” you asked, dead serious.
A beat of silence followed. Then, the corners of Oscar’s mouth twitching, he let out a short, dry laugh—the most emotion you’d seen from him yet.
“Not exactly,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's a bit faster than an Uber. And the car is a lot more expensive."
"Oh," you said, feeling the weight of the realization. "So you're... famous?"
Oscar looked at Leo, who had now transitioned to crashed-car noises. "Only to people who like cars. To everyone else, I'm just the guy who fixes ambulances."
The "reveal" didn't change as much as you thought it would. You did a quick Google search that night—eyes widening at the speed of the cars and the sheer number of zeroes in his contract—but when you saw him the next day, he was still just Oscar. He was still wearing a plain hoodie, and he still looked slightly concerned that he’d forgotten to tell you he drove for a living.
Dates became intentional. They weren't glamorous red-carpet events; they were walks in the park while Leo napped in the stroller, or quiet dinners at your place after the "chaos-monster" had finally crashed for the night.
What struck you most was his boundary-setting. Oscar didn't try to be a "dad." He didn't try to buy Leo’s affection with expensive toys. He just... existed alongside your life.
Every time he invited you somewhere, or even just asked to come over, it was always preceded by a question.
"Is this okay?"
"Does Leo have a routine we need to stick to?"
"Do you need to leave early? I don't mind."
He was as precise with your boundaries as he was with a racing line.
You were supposed to go to a quiet Italian place—your first "real" date without a toddler present. But at 4:00 PM, Leo’s forehead felt like a stovetop, and by 5:00 PM, he was crying into your shoulder with a nasty ear infection.
You messaged Oscar, feeling a familiar weight of guilt.
“Hey, I’m so sorry. Leo is sick. Fever and earache. I have to cancel tonight. I’ll understand if you’re busy next time you’re in town.”
You expected a "No worries, get well soon!" and then silence for two weeks while he flew to Singapore or Japan. That’s how it usually went with guys who had "important" jobs.
Instead, an hour later, your doorbell rang softly—a controlled, two-tap knock.
You opened it, hair in a messy bun, wearing a shirt with a suspicious orange stain. Oscar was standing there holding two heavy paper bags.
"I'm not coming in," he said immediately, sensing your 'mom-mode' defensiveness. "I don't want to wake him or crowd the house. But the pharmacy said these drops are the best for kids, and I figured you probably hadn't had time to think about dinner."
He held out the bags. One had children's ibuprofen and a new, soft stuffed koala. The other smelled like high-end Thai takeout.
"Oscar, you didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he interrupted gently. He stayed on the porch, hands in his pockets. He didn't ask for a 'pity invite' inside. He just stood there in the porch light, looking at you with that same calm, steady gaze. "I'll be in town for three more days. If he’s feeling better, maybe we can just do coffee on the porch? If not... I’ll see you when I’m back from the next one."
He stayed for five minutes, just listening to you vent about the pediatrician's office, before waving and walking to his car. He stayed close, but he never invaded.
-
When Oscar invited you to the "home race," you pictured something like a local track meet—maybe a few bleachers and some loud engines. You packed extra snacks, a tablet for Leo, and wore your favorite comfortable jeans.
Then the car service picked you up. Then came the VIP credentials. Then came the Paddock.
It was a sensory assault. The air smelled of expensive rubber and high-octane fuel. People in crisp team uniforms hurried past with purpose, and every five feet, someone was holding a camera or a microphone. The noise wasn't just loud; it was a physical vibration that you felt in your teeth.
"Is there a parade?" you shouted over the whine of an impact wrench.
Oscar, already in his fireproof undershirt with his racing suit tied around his waist, appeared through a sea of mechanics. He looked different here—sharper, more focused, like a blade being unsheathed. But the moment he saw you looking overwhelmed, he bypassed a PR person trying to hand him a schedule and walked straight to you.
"It’s a bit much, isn't it?" he said, his voice miraculously calm despite the chaos.
"This is… a lot, Oscar," you admitted, clutching Leo’s hand. "I think I’m dressed for a car wash and I’ve accidentally walked into a space launch."
He reached out, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. "Yeah. You can stay with me." He looked down at Leo, who was currently staring at a McLaren car with his mouth hanging open. Oscar pulled a pair of heavy, team-branded noise-canceling headphones from a hook and fit them over Leo's ears.
"Cool?" Oscar asked.
Leo gave a frantic, excited thumbs-up. He looked like a tiny, fascinated astronaut.
For the next hour, Oscar kept you in his "bubble." He introduced you to his engineers as "his friend, Y/N," and made sure you had a seat in the back of the garage where you could see the monitors without being trampled.
As he climbed into the cockpit of the car—a machine that looked less like a vehicle and more like a weapon—he looked back one last time. He didn't give a "cool" driver wave to the cameras. He just gave you that small, private nod you’d come to recognize from the coffee shop.
You still didn't understand the rules. You didn't know what a "flying lap" was or why everyone was staring at a screen of purple and green sectors. But as the car screamed out of the garage, you realized one thing: The quiet man who fixed the toy ambulance lived in a world of thunder.
The race wasn't just a sporting event; it was a physical manifestation of everything you didn't understand about Oscar’s world.
From the back of the garage, you watched the monitors. The telemetry data looked like a heart monitor for a giant, and Oscar’s name—PIASTRI—was a constant, steady presence moving up the digital leaderboard. The mechanics around you were a blur of focused energy, their eyes glued to the same screens.
Then, it happened. A "bold move," according to the commentator in your headset. You saw the orange car dive into a corner that looked too narrow for a bicycle, let alone a car going 180 mph.
"Is he... is he supposed to do that?" you asked a nearby engineer.
The engineer didn't even look up, his grin wide. "That’s Oscar. He doesn't panic. He just executes."
You watched the onboard camera—the world was a shaky, high-speed blur, but Oscar’s hands on the wheel were disturbingly still. He wasn't fighting the car; he was part of it. The realization hit you like a physical weight: the man who sat on your floor and fixed a plastic ambulance was one of the most skilled human beings on the planet. He wasn't just nice. He was extraordinary.
When the race ended and the checkered flag waved, the garage erupted. Cheers, high-fives, and the rhythmic chanting of his name. He had finished on the podium—a massive achievement.
You expected him to be swept away. You saw the cameras swarming the pit lane, the flashbulbs, the celebrities lined up to shake his hand. You prepared yourself to be a footnote in his big night, already gathering Leo’s things to head to the car.
But then, the side door of the garage pushed open.
Oscar walked in, smelling of sweat and Nomex, his hair flattened by his balaclava. He was carrying his helmet in one hand. PR people were trailing him, holding clipboards and microphones, talking about "media pens" and "podium ceremonies."
Oscar ignored them.
His eyes scanned the crowded room, skipping over the sponsors and the team leads, until they landed on you and Leo. He walked straight past a reporter who was literally mid-sentence, stopping only when he reached your side.
"You're still here," he said, his voice a bit raspy from the heat. He looked exhausted, but the intensity in his eyes had softened back into that familiar, quiet warmth.
"We wouldn't have missed it," you said, still a little starstruck. "Oscar, that was... I don't even have words for what that was."
He gave a small, tired shrug, his gaze dropping to Leo, who was currently trying to "drive" a spare tire with his hands. "It was alright. A bit hot out there."
He didn't care about the cameras. He didn't care about the trophies. He just wanted to know if you were okay with the noise. In that moment, the "McLaren talent" vanished, and the man who stayed on your porch with Thai food was the only one left.
In the weeks following the race, Oscar became a permanent fixture in your shared vocabulary. It wasn't just that he was around; it was that he had become a constant in Leo’s world.
The questions started small:
"Will Oscar be at the park?"
"Does Oscar like broccoli?" (Oscar’s deadpan answer: "Not particularly, but I eat it for the aero.")
"Can Oscar see my drawing of the fast car?"
Oscar was remarkably patient. He never forced the bond. He didn't come in with "cool guy" energy trying to buy Leo’s love. He just showed up. He listened. He treated Leo’s 4-year-old problems—like a lost Lego piece or a stubborn shoelace—with the same analytical seriousness he gave his telemetry data.
One Sunday evening, after a long afternoon of "racing" in the backyard, Leo had finally reached his limit. He was sprawled across the sofa, fast asleep, his head resting on a cushion and his hand still clutching a small, orange die-cast car.
Oscar was sitting on the other end of the sofa, a book in his hand, but he wasn't reading. He was just looking at Leo. There was a look of profound, quiet gentleness on his face—a look he usually reserved for the moments right before he put on a helmet.
He caught your eye and tilted his head toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. He didn't speak; he didn't want to break the silence. He just gave you a questioning look, a silent request for permission.
You nodded.
Oscar stood up, his movements fluid and careful. He slid one arm under Leo’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting him with a practiced ease that made your heart skip. Leo didn't even wake up; he just sighed and tucked his face into the crook of Oscar's neck.
As Oscar carried him down the hall, you stayed on the sofa, the weight of the moment hitting you. This wasn't just a "casual thing" anymore. This wasn't a guy you were seeing between races. This was a man becoming a part of the foundation of your lives.
And that realization was as terrifying as it was beautiful.
-
The house was finally quiet, the only sound being the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant city traffic. You and Oscar were sitting on the back porch, a single light casting long shadows across the wooden deck. The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the heat of the race tracks he usually occupied.
You watched him for a moment. He looked so normal here—hoodie sleeves pushed up, nursing a glass of water, his expression unreadable. But that was the problem. He wasn't normal.
"Oscar?"
He looked over, his gaze centering on you with that unnerving focus. "Yeah?"
"I’m scared," you said, the words tumbling out before you could overthink them. "This... us. It doesn’t make sense. Your life is private jets, world championships, and people screaming your name. My life is parent-teacher conferences, finding matching socks, and worrying about whether or not I remembered to buy milk."
You looked down at your hands. "You have a whole world I don’t belong to. And my life is... it's complicated. It's not just me. It's Leo. I can't just pick up and fly to Monaco on a whim."
The silence stretched. You expected him to give a "we'll make it work" speech or perhaps realize you were right and start backing away. Instead, Oscar just leaned back in his chair, looking out at your small, overgrown backyard.
"I like your life," he said simply.
You blinked. "What?"
"The 'world championships' part is just what I do for work," he continued, his voice steady. "It’s loud, it’s fast, and everyone wants something from me. But here? With you and Leo? It’s real. I don’t want to 'integrate' you into my world. I don’t want to change your routine or make you an F1 expert."
He turned his head to look at you, his eyes soft. "I just want to be a part of yours."
He didn't offer a grand solution or a map of the future. He just offered himself—the man who liked sourdough, fixed toy ambulances, and didn't mind a juice stain on his sleeve. For the first time, the "different worlds" didn't feel like a barrier; they felt like a balance.
You realized then that Oscar wasn't looking for a "grid girl" or someone to cheer in the paddock every weekend. He was looking for a home. And somehow, in the middle of your chaotic, toy-strewn life, he had found it.
A year had passed, and your life was still a beautiful, loud, and disorganized masterpiece. You still hadn’t mastered the art of the 15-minute school run without losing at least one shoe, and your kitchen counter was still a graveyard of half-finished drawings and stray crumbs.
And you still didn’t understand Formula 1.
You’d tried. You really had. You’d watched the documentaries, you’d listened to the podcasts, and you’d even tried to read a book on aerodynamics that Oscar had "accidentally" left on the coffee table. But to you, it was still just loud cars going in very fast circles. You knew he drove for McLaren, you knew orange was his color, and you knew that when the little light on his steering wheel turned green, he was supposed to go faster. Beyond that? It was all static.
But you learned about him.
You learned that he liked his toast slightly burnt. You learned that he went completely silent when he was processing a bad day, and that the best way to bring him back was to ask for help with a "catastrophic" LEGO emergency. You learned that for a man who lived his life at 200 mph, his favorite speed was the slow crawl of a Sunday morning.
It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind where the light filters through the curtains in long, golden dusty streaks. The TV was on, muted, showing a replay of a race from a different time zone.
Leo was wedged firmly between you and Oscar on the sofa, his small legs draped over Oscar’s lap. One of Oscar’s hands was resting on Leo’s hair, absentmindedly smoothing it down, while the other was linked with yours.
On the screen, a digital version of Oscar was battling for a position in a cloud of spray and sparks. It looked dangerous. It looked impossible. It looked like a completely different universe than the one you were currently sitting in.
You looked at the screen, then at the man beside you. He was wearing an old t-shirt, his feet were bare, and he looked more relaxed than you had ever seen him.
"Is he winning?" you asked, nodding toward his digital counterpart on the screen.
Oscar didn't look at the TV. He looked at Leo, who was snoring softly, and then he looked at you—the woman who didn't care about his lap times, only his heart. A small, genuine smile broke across his face—the kind of smile he never gave the cameras.
He squeezed your hand, pulling you just a little bit closer.
anon that asked about kimi raikkonen here. so maybe something where the reader is a bit younger than him. he’s coming to the end of his f1 career and is looking to settle down with her. the press are all over their age gap but he reassures her softly and shuts the press down with his usual demeanour. thank you so much 😊
No Exit Clause - KR
pairing: kimi räikkönen x fem!young!reader
summary: with the end of his Formula 1 career looming, the press has decided to fixate on the one thing Kimi hates discussing: his relationship with a younger partner. They call it a mid-life crisis. They say it won't last past the checkered flag in Abu Dhabi. But Kimi has never cared about what the media thinks. A story about leaving the noise behind, finding peace in the Finnish winter, and a lifetime contract with no exit clause.
wc: 3.0k
💭 you can ask for a part 2 if you’d like!
The humidity of the Abu Dhabi paddock was suffocating, but it was nothing compared to the stifling weight of the cameras pointing in your direction.
Kimi was retiring. The "Iceman" was finally hanging up his helmet, leaving the chaotic circus of Formula 1 behind. It was supposed to be a weekend of celebration, of respecting a legend. Instead, a vocal minority of the press had decided to fixate on the one thing Kimi hated discussing: his personal life. specifically, you.
You were younger than him. Not a child, but young enough that when you stood next to him in his Alfa Romeo kit, the contrast was visible. You had met through mutual friends away from the track, and for a long time, you had kept it a secret. But now, with the end of his career looming, Kimi had wanted you by his side.
"Kimi! Kimi, over here!"
The shout came from a tabloid journalist who had been hounding you all weekend. Kimi tightened his grip on your hand. You tried to pull away slightly, not wanting to draw fire, but he held on firmer, his knuckles brushing against your hip.
"Kimi," the journalist shouted, thrusting a microphone over the barrier. "With retirement coming up, are you worried about keeping up with a girlfriend who belongs to a different generation? Some are saying this is a classic mid-life crisis response to leaving the sport."
The gathered crowd went quiet. It was a rude, biting question. You felt your face burn, your eyes dropping to the asphalt. You felt small. You felt like a cliché.
Kimi stopped walking.
He didn't shout. He didn't look angry. He just slowly turned his head, the reflective lenses of his sunglasses staring dead at the journalist. He chewed his gum rhythmically, the silence stretching out until the journalist looked visibly uncomfortable.
"Bwoah," Kimi finally said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He shrugged, looking completely unimpressed. "If you are worried about my energy, you should worry about yourself. You look tired."
A ripple of laughter went through the other reporters.
"We are happy," Kimi continued, his tone flat and final. "The numbers on a paper don't drive the car, and they don't make the relationship. Write what you want. I don't care. We are leaving now."
He didn't wait for a follow-up. He tugged your hand, pulling you through the parting sea of media and into the sanctuary of the team motorhome.
Once the door clicked shut, blocking out the noise of the paddock, the air conditioning hit your flushed skin. You leaned against the wall, letting out a shaky breath.
Kimi tossed his sunglasses onto the table and grabbed a water bottle. He took a long drink, then looked at you. He didn't say anything immediately, just watched you with those piercing blue eyes that were usually so guarded.
"Hey," he said softly.
You looked up, forcing a smile. "That was... intense."
"It’s just noise," he muttered, walking over to you. "They have to sell papers. They are stupid."
"Maybe they have a point, Kimi," you whispered, the insecurity leaking out. "I mean, you’re retiring. You’ve lived this huge life. I’m still figuring things out. People think I’m just a phase for you."
Kimi frowned. It was a rare expression of genuine confusion. He stepped into your space, placing his hands on your waist. His touch was grounding, heavy and warm.
"Y/N," he said, saying your name with a deliberate weight. "Look at me."
You met his gaze.
"I am done with this," he gestured vaguely at the door, indicating the paddock, the racing, the fame. "I have done this for twenty years. It is loud. It is busy. Everyone wants something."
He moved one hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with surprising tenderness.
"I don't want a phase. I want quiet," he said, his voice dropping an octave, meant only for you. "I want to go home. I want to fix my bikes. I want to be with you. That is the plan."
"Even if I'm younger?" you asked, searching his face.
Kimi let out a short, soft puff of air—almost a laugh. "You keep me young. Or maybe you make me tired. I don't know yet," he teased, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But it doesn't matter what they say. They don't know me. You know me."
He leaned his forehead against yours. "I am settling down, Y/N. No more traveling. No more interviews. Just us. If you are okay with a grumpy old man."
You laughed, the tension finally breaking in your chest. "You are pretty grumpy."
"I am the Iceman," he deadpanned, though his eyes were warm. He kissed you then—a firm, claiming press of lips that told you exactly where you stood in his life.
"Come on," he said, pulling away and grabbing his cap. "Let’s get this race over with. Then we go home. For good."
"Okay," you breathed, taking his hand again. "Let's go home."
When he walked you back out, he didn't hide you. And when the cameras flashed, Kimi didn't look at them. He only looked at you.
The silence of the Finnish forest was deafening compared to the screaming V6 engines you had grown used to over the last few years.
It had been three weeks since Abu Dhabi. Three weeks since the cameras, the farewell parties, and the chaos. Now, there was just snow—miles of it, blanketing the trees outside the massive glass windows of Kimi’s home—and a silence so deep it felt heavy.
You walked through the living room, clutching two steaming mugs of coffee. You were wearing one of his oversized hoodies, the fleece swallowing your frame, and thick wool socks. Kimi wasn't inside. He rarely was during the daylight hours, even in winter.
You found him exactly where you expected: the garage.
It was a pristine space, more of a showroom than a workshop, filled with his motocross bikes and cars. Kimi was crouched next to a disassembled bike, a wrench in his hand, grease smeared across his cheek. He was wearing a t-shirt despite the chill of the concrete floor.
"You're going to freeze," you said, your breath misting slightly in the air.
Kimi didn't jump. He just turned his head slowly, spotting you. The corner of his mouth twitched up.
"I am Finnish," he stated simply, as if that explained his immunity to hypothermia. He set the wrench down and wiped his hands on a rag, standing up to take the mug you offered. "Thanks."
He took a sip, his blue eyes scanning your face. "You okay? You look... thinking."
"I'm just..." You leaned against the workbench, looking around the quiet garage. "It's so quiet, Kimi. Do you miss it? The adrenaline? The people?"
"No," he answered immediately. Not a second of hesitation.
"Really? Not even a little bit? You’re not bored?" You felt that familiar prickle of insecurity again—the age gap nagging at you. You were in your prime energy years; he had just stepped off a twenty-year rollercoaster. "I worry that... I don't know, that just sitting here with me isn't enough excitement after everything you've done."
Kimi sighed, setting the coffee down on the workbench next to a pile of screws. He stepped into your personal space, the smell of motor oil and expensive cologne filling your senses.
"Y/N," he grumbled softly. He took your hands, his palms rough and calloused against your softer skin. "Listen to me."
He gestured around the garage, then to the snow outside.
"For twenty years, people tell me where to be. What to wear. What to say. 'Kimi, sign this.' 'Kimi, drive this.' 'Kimi, smile.'" He shook his head. "I hated it."
He stepped closer, trapping you between him and the workbench, his body heat radiating through his thin shirt.
"Now, I wake up. I see you. I drink coffee. I fix my bike. Nobody talks to me unless I want them to. This..." He squeezed your hands. "This is not boring. This is freedom."
He let go of one of your hands to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle given the grease stains on his knuckles.
"And you," he continued, his voice low and rumbly. "You are plenty of excitement. You keep me busy. I don't need fast cars for that."
You felt a blush rise to your cheeks. "Okay. I believe you."
"Good." He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours. "Bwoah, but you need to stop worrying. You will get wrinkles. Then I will be the younger one."
You laughed, swatting his arm. "Shut up."
"It’s true," he smirked, pleased with himself. He kissed your forehead, lingering there for a moment. "Go inside. It’s cold. I fix this brake, then I come in. We make dinner. Or we order pizza. I don't care."
"Pizza sounds good," you smiled, stepping back toward the door.
"Pizza is good," he agreed, picking up his wrench again.
As you reached the door to the house, you looked back. Kimi was already focused on the bike again, humming a tuneless melody under his breath. He looked completely at peace. The Iceman had finally melted, just enough to let you in, and he had absolutely no intention of going back out into the cold.
The log fire cracked loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney of the summer house. Outside, the Finnish winter was pitch black and biting, but inside, the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, root vegetables, and the strong, distinct aroma of glögi (mulled wine).
You were in the kitchen, aggressively chopping parsley. Your heart was hammering a rhythm against your ribs. This was the first time everyone was in the same room. Your parents had flown in, wide-eyed and slightly intimidated by the sprawling property and your boyfriend’s global fame. Kimi’s mother, Paula, and his brother, Rami, along with his family, were also here.
The age gap had been the elephant in the room with your parents over FaceTime. They were worried you were just a trophy. They were worried he was too old, too set in his ways.
Two large, warm hands settled on your shoulders, startling you.
"You are killing the vegetable," Kimi’s voice rumbled near your ear.
You exhaled, leaning back into his solid chest. He smelled like sauna wood and expensive scotch. "I’m just nervous, Kimi. My dad has been staring at your trophy cabinet for twenty minutes in silence."
"It’s a glass cabinet. It is made for staring," Kimi said, unbothered. He reached around you, stealing a piece of carrot from the cutting board. "Relax. My mom likes your mom. They are talking about knitting. Or snow. I don't know, my mom talks a lot."
"And my dad?"
"He is fine. I gave him a beer. We are friends now."
Kimi turned you around, his face relaxed and open. He was wearing a soft knit sweater that made him look less like a racing legend and more like a dad—which, in a way, he was to this chaotic little blended family tonight.
"Come," he said, taking the knife from your hand and setting it down. "Food is ready. Let’s eat."
Walking into the massive dining room was surreal. The long wooden table was packed.
On one side, your mother was laughing—actually laughing—at something Rami was saying. On the other, Kimi’s mom, Paula, was refilling your dad’s glass, gesturing animatedly.
Kimi guided you to your seat at the head of the table, pulling the chair out for you before sitting down next to you.
"So," your dad cleared his throat, looking at Kimi. The table went quiet. You held your breath. "Kimi. Y/N tells me you’re planning to build a motocross track on the back lot?"
You closed your eyes. Please don't be grumpy Kimi. Please don't be one-word-answer Kimi.
Kimi leaned back, swirling his drink. "Yeah. The land is flat. Good for jumps. You ride?"
Your dad blinked. "I... I used to. Back in the day. Before my knees gave out."
Kimi nodded solemnly. "Knees are bad. I have bad back. We are falling apart, huh?"
The table erupted in laughter. Your dad’s face broke into a genuine grin. The tension in your shoulders instantly evaporated. Kimi wasn't trying to be a superstar; he was bonding over the aches and pains of getting older, completely unbothered by the fact that he was closer in age to your dad’s generation than yours in some ways. He owned it.
As the bowls of stew were passed around and the noise level rose—a mix of Finnish and English, laughter and clinking glasses—you felt a hand on your thigh.
You looked over. Kimi wasn't looking at you; he was watching his brother’s kids chase each other around the sofa in the living room. But his thumb was rubbing circles on your leg, a silent anchor.
"It's loud," you whispered to him, knowing how much he valued his silence.
Kimi turned to you. His eyes were soft, crinkled at the corners. He took a sip of his drink and shrugged.
"It is good loud," he stated. "Better than engines. Better than journalists."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping so only you could hear amidst the chatter of your families.
"See? No one cares about numbers here. They just care that the food is hot and the beer is cold." He nudged your shoulder with his. "You worry too much. Eat your food."
You smiled, finally picking up your fork. You watched your dad toast with Kimi, watched your moms sharing photos on a phone, and realized Kimi was right. The press could say whatever they wanted. In here, in the warmth of the fire and the family, it just worked.
"Love you, old man," you teased quietly, taking a bite of potato.
Kimi smirked, hiding his smile behind his glass. "Eat, brat."
The Finnish summer was playing tricks on time. It was nearly midnight, but the sun still hung low on the horizon, casting a golden, ethereal glow over the lake. The water was perfectly still, a mirror reflecting the birch trees and the endless sky.
You were sitting on the edge of the wooden dock, your bare feet dangling just above the cool water. Kimi was beside you, leaning back on his hands, looking out at the nothingness.
It had been a year since he retired. The noise of F1 had faded into a distant memory, replaced by the sound of wind in the trees, the crackle of the sauna stove, and the hum of his boat engine. The press had moved on to the next drama, the next young star. You were just Kimi and Y/N now.
Kimi shifted, the wood creaking under his weight. He had been quiet all evening—quieter than usual. He had fidgeted with his cap, checked his phone without unlocking it, and paced around the terrace.
"The water is calm," he said, breaking the silence.
"It's beautiful," you agreed, leaning your head on his shoulder. "I'm glad we came out here."
"Mmm."
He sat up straight, dusting his hands on his shorts. He reached into his pocket.
"Y/N."
"Yeah?" You turned to look at him, expecting him to ask if you wanted another drink or if it was time to go inside.
Instead, you saw a small, velvet box resting in the center of his palm.
Your heart stopped, then restarted at double speed. You looked from the box to his face. Kimi wasn't looking at the ring; he was looking at you, searching your expression with an intensity that made your breath catch.
He didn't get down on one knee. He didn't recite a poem. He didn't hire a violinist or a photographer.
"I am not good at speeches," he said, his voice rough but steady. "You know this."
"I know," you whispered, your eyes welling up.
He shrugged one shoulder, a nervous tic. "We fit. You tolerate me. I like being with you more than I like being alone. That is... rare for me."
He opened the box. Inside sat a diamond—stunning, elegant, and timeless. It caught the light of the midnight sun, sparking against the velvet.
"I don't want to wonder what happens next," Kimi said, his gaze dropping to the ring and then back to your eyes. "I want to know you are there. When I wake up. When I am old and even more grumpy. I want you there."
He took a breath, the "Iceman" mask completely gone, leaving just a man who had finally found his home.
"So," he cleared his throat. "Marry me? We make it official."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You laughed, a wet, choked sound of pure happiness. "You make it sound like a business contract."
"It is a contract," Kimi smirked, though his eyes were shining. "A lifetime contract. No exit clause."
"Yes," you managed to say, nodding frantically. "Yes, Kimi. Of course."
His shoulders dropped, a visible weight lifting off him. He took the ring out and slid it onto your finger. His hands were steady now, warm and sure. It fit perfectly.
"Good," he said, satisfied. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, sealing the promise in the golden light of the unending day.
When he pulled away, he kept your hand in his, his thumb tracing the band of the ring.
"Big wedding?" you asked teasingly, wiping your eyes.
Kimi groaned instantly, leaning his head back. "No. No media. Just us. Maybe a few friends. If they behave."
"Deal."
He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close into his side again. The sun hovered on the horizon, refusing to set, just like the life you had built together—bright, steady, and finally, peacefully quiet.
"Okay," Kimi murmured, resting his chin on top of your head. "Now we can relax."
And for the first time in his life, he truly meant it.
a collection of lewis fics i've read again and again ♥️
i really hope it's okay to tag the same authors multiple times. if you'd like to not be tagged again in future rec lists, please let me know!
fic rec masterlist
✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
@silkdrs
tokyo ink
@astonmartinii
knives out
@ild-rllrcstr
your call - series
@rex-rambles
homemaker
@hamilton-here
a heart to hold
pole positions and parenting | part 2
right next door
out of routine (my absolute FAVE!!)
taste tester
after the storm
waiting wasn't enough | part 2
checkered desires
paddock royalty
@pucksandpower
to hell with duty
war is over (the plot is *chefs kiss*)
@formulafanfics13
pretty fearless
roscoe's new mom
the girl who writes his headlines
new girl, same heart
new motivation?
@lazysoulwriter
let them talk
drunk confessions
no turning back
again.
gifts of desire
@lucy-literates
say it live
in the backpack
fit for a champion
you're here
pinned post
the only one who matters
the heart he didn't see coming
equal parts fire and fuel (love this one a stupid amount!!)
esteban ocon x !ex reader x pierre gasly (smau + written)
you haven’t thought about esteban ocon in years. not really, anyway. sometimes his name sneaks into your head when the rain smells like home, or when you drive past a go-kart track and remember the way his laughter used to echo off the asphalt.
but that was a lifetime ago — another version of you, another version of him.
now you build engines for a living, your hands more familiar with metal than memories. you’ve built walls, too, ones you thought were unshakable. until pierre gasly crashes right through them with his grin, his warmth, his way of making you feel seen again.
you tell yourself it’s safe this time. easy. clean. until he invites you to one of his races, and you find yourself standing in a garage painted blue and pink — staring into the same brown eyes that once promised you forever.
fc : dekota_thompson on ig (used a few pics of kika + flavy as well!)
a/n : day 18 of chef's tea party series! (for the purpose of the story, estie is still with alpine and franco is at haas!) (also i switched up the og request ever so slightly, pierre and esteban knew each other as children obvs but reader and pierre never met until later on)
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yourusername
liked by pierregasly, alexandrasaintmleux, yourbff and 23,450 others.
yourusername : a little bit of this, a little bit of that <3
tagged : pierregasly
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pierregasly : mon bébé ♥️
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : mon amour🥰
liked by pierregasly
username007 : omg we have a new wag!!!!
↳ username13 : she is so beautiful too oml
↳ username15 : how did pierre pull her????
alexandrasaintmleux : please come to a race soon!!!! i need to meet youuuu😭😭
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : omg:,) i will be at the next one! so excited to finally meet you!
liked by alexandrasaintmleux
↳ username00 : omg important wag meeting
yourbff : the most beautiful girl in the world 💋
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : ily ily ily
liked by yourbff
username005 : pierre's new gf??
↳ username775 : yes yes. i heard she is super smart too. i believe she is an engineer
↳ yourusername : you heard correctly!
liked by 607 others
↳ username775 : omg hiiiii
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flashback!
You meet Esteban when you’re seven years old. He’s the boy next door — skinny knees, messy brown hair, a chipped front tooth, and an endless supply of energy. He shows up at your door one afternoon holding a small die-cast race car and says, very matter of factly, “You’re going to help me build a racetrack.”
From then on, you do everything together. Summers smell like gasoline and lemonade, scraped palms and laughter. He races anything with wheels, and you take everything apart just to see how it works. Your parents call you inseparable, but neither of you ever think much about it. You’re just you and Esteban.
He’s wild in the way kids are when they dream too big. You’re steady in the way kids are when they believe in something. He says he’ll be a Formula 1 driver one day, and you never laugh — you just nod and say, “Then I’ll build your car.”
When you’re twelve, he wins his first real karting race, and you’re the loudest one cheering. When you’re fourteen, he starts spending more time at the track than at home, but he always comes by your house to tell you about his day. He says it’s because you listen better than anyone else.
And when you’re sixteen, he kisses you for the first time — in the empty parking lot of the local grocery store, sitting on the hood of his mother’s car. It’s awkward and too fast, but it feels like something you’d both been waiting for your whole lives.
You start dating after that. Slowly, quietly, in that teenage way where everything feels both infinite and fragile. You learn how to love through him — through every early morning text, every late-night call, every promise whispered into the dark.
You build each other. You make each other believe that maybe dreams aren’t so impossible after all.
When you’re nineteen, the world stops being small.
He gets his first big opportunity — a chance at a Formula 1 career. You get accepted into one of the best engineering schools in France. It’s everything you both worked for, but it means being apart.
The first few weeks, you try. Calls, texts, photos — anything to keep the distance from swallowing you whole. But his schedule gets tighter, and your assignments pile higher. The calls turn into messages, the messages turn into silence.
You visit him once that summer. He’s different — not in a bad way, just different. He’s confident now, busier, surrounded by people who talk about lap times and sponsors instead of small-town dreams. He looks at you like he wants to hold on, but he doesn’t know how.
One night, you’re sitting outside his small apartment, your legs tangled under a blanket, and he says, “I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to do this.”
You don’t cry. You just take his hand and nod. “Maybe we’re not meant to figure it out right now.”
You kiss him goodbye the next morning — soft and steady, like you’re trying to memorize the way it feels.
And then you both go your separate ways.
You tell yourself it’s the right thing. You stop checking the race results, stop following the headlines. You focus on equations, engines, and blueprints. You stop wondering where he is or who he’s become. At least, you try to.
Years pass. You graduate with honors. You get your dream job at a leading motorsports company — designing hybrid systems and performance parts for race teams all over the world.
You’ve built a good life. A quiet one. Your apartment smells like coffee and metal polish, your hands are always inked with notes or grease. You don’t think much about the sport anymore; it’s just a job, one you happen to be very good at.
Then, one day, you’re sent to represent your company at a development conference in Monaco. You’re giving a presentation about energy recovery systems when someone interrupts from the audience with a question — half technical, half teasing:
“So, are you saying you could make me faster than Verstappen?”
You look up to see Pierre Gasly, grinning like he already knows the answer. The room laughs, and you roll your eyes, replying just as smoothly, “If you can keep it out of the wall, maybe.”
He finds you afterward. He’s charming, confident, but disarmingly kind. He tells you your work is fascinating, that he’s never met someone who talks about engines like they’re alive. You try not to blush when he asks if he can take you to dinner to “continue the scientific discussion.”
One dinner turns into two, two into weekends, and before long, into something real. Pierre makes you laugh again — a loud, honest laugh that you hadn’t heard in years. He listens to you talk about your projects, asks questions, remembers details. He tells you you’re brilliant, not just talented.
And you fall for him, softly, unexpectedly. He never pushes you to talk about the past, and you never tell him about the boy who taught you how to dream.
You don’t know that his teammate — the man waiting in the next garage over, the one he laughs about and argues with over lunch — is the same boy whose name you stopped saying years ago. Not yet.
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present day!
It’s one of those days that start wrong and never quite recover. The office lights flicker. The simulation software crashes twice. One of your senior engineers questions a design you’ve already tested and proven. You spill coffee on your white blouse right before a meeting and spend the entire afternoon pretending it doesn’t bother you.
By the time you get home, you’re exhausted — the kind of tired that sits in your bones. You drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and sigh into the quiet hum of your apartment. You’re already thinking about reheating leftovers and collapsing in bed when you hear it — soft music coming from the kitchen.
You frown, heart skipping. You didn’t leave anything on.
Then you smell it — garlic, basil, the warm sweetness of something simmering.
“Mon amour?” a voice calls from the kitchen.
Your breath catches. You round the corner, and there he is.
Pierre.
He’s in a white T-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly messy, barefoot on your kitchen tile. He’s holding a wooden spoon and grinning at you like you just lit up the whole world.
“Surprise,” he says, lifting the spoon as if it’s part of the announcement. “I came home early.”
For a moment, you just stand there, speechless. Then you laugh — tired, relieved, a little shaky. “You weren’t supposed to be back until Friday.”
“I know.” He crosses the room in a few steps and wraps his arms around you before you can say anything else. “But I missed you too much.”
You melt into him instantly, your face pressed against his chest. The warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, the faint smell of soap and spice — it all untangles the knot in your chest that’s been there all day.
He leans down to kiss your forehead. “Tough day?”
You nod. “Everything went wrong. Absolutely everything.”
“Then tonight,” he says softly, “everything will go right.”
Dinner is perfect — not because of the food, though his cooking is surprisingly good, but because of him. He tells you stories about the last few weeks on the road — about how he and his trainer accidentally got locked out of their hotel room, about a seagull stealing a mechanic’s sandwich, about the chaos of travel that somehow sounds charming when he says it.
You tell him about work — about the project that’s been giving you trouble, about the simulation that refused to run, about how your coworker insists that a certain formula “doesn’t make sense” when it absolutely does.
Pierre listens to every word. He doesn’t interrupt or try to fix it. He just listens, his eyes soft and full of that patient, quiet understanding that always makes you feel like the only person in the room.
When you finish eating, he insists on doing the dishes even though you protest. You try to argue, but he kisses you mid-sentence, a lazy, playful kiss that leaves you smiling against his lips.
“Go,” he murmurs. “Take a bath. I’ll take care of everything.”
You blink, a little dazed. “You’re running me a bath?”
He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”
You roll your eyes but your chest feels light, full.
The bathroom smells like lavender when you step inside. Candles flicker along the counter, and the water in the tub steams gently. You can hear faint music from the living room — something slow and soft, almost like a lullaby.
Pierre knocks once before poking his head in, holding a towel. “Everything okay, chérie?”
You smile, already sinking into the water. “Perfect.”
He walks over, crouches beside the tub, and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “You work too hard,” he says, his voice low and teasing.
“You race cars at two hundred miles per hour,” you counter. “I think we’re even.”
He laughs, that easy, boyish sound that always fills a room. “Maybe. But at least I get a few days off between races. You don’t.”
You close your eyes, letting the water cradle you. “That’s because machines don’t take vacations.”
Pierre leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. “Then I’ll make sure you do.”
Later, you’re both in bed — your hair still damp, his skin warm against yours. The city hums quietly outside, a faint reminder that the world is still moving even though this small space feels timeless.
He lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, just watching you. He traces the tattoo on your forearm with his fingertip, smiling faintly.
“You’re staring,” you murmur.
“Can you blame me?” he says, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “You look peaceful. I like seeing you like this.”
You lean into his touch, half-asleep, half-lost in the comfort of him.
Then his voice softens. “I was thinking…”
You hum in response, your eyes still closed.
“Would you come to the next race with me?”
Your eyes open, just slightly. “The race? Pierre, you know I—”
“I already spoke to your boss,” he interrupts gently, grinning when you sit up in surprise. “Don’t be mad. I just asked if you could have a few days off. I told him it was for something important.”
You blink. “Pierre…”
“He said yes.” He reaches for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “You’ve never been. I want you to see it — what I do, what I love. You’ve spent so much time helping others race. You deserve to see it up close.”
You search his face, trying to find a reason to refuse, but all you find is sincerity. The warmth in his eyes melts away any hesitation.
“Okay,” you say finally, smiling softly. “I’ll go.”
His grin widens. “You will?”
“Yes,” you laugh. “How could I say no when you’ve already planned everything?”
He laughs too, pulling you close again until you’re tucked against his chest. “You won’t regret it.”
You rest your head against him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your palm. The lavender still lingers on your skin, and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely at peace. You don’t know yet that this trip — this one, simple yes — will change everything.
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f1gossipgirls
567,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : we officially have a new wag in the paddock! after a few months of soft launching, yn ln, has finally entered the paddock alongside pierre gasly. the two have been rumored to be together for a few months now. yn ln is a top engineer for a massive motorsports company. i think pierre found a good one!
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user has limited the amount of comments on this post.
username008 : oh so she is SMART SMART
liked by f1gossipgirls
↳ f1gossipgirls : fr fr one of the teams should hire her
↳ username75 : i heard she also graduated from one of the best engineering schools in the world
liked by f1gossipgirls
username010 : was she seen with any of the other wags today??
↳ f1gossipgirls : yes! she was seen sitting with alexandra and carmen outside of hospitality:)
username085 : i saw her on alpines instagram story and wasn't sure who she was. beautiful girl!
↳ username23 : yeah i saw that video of her talking to esteban and some of the team
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Light filters through the curtains like honey, warm and golden against the linen sheets. You wake before Pierre does — or at least, you think you do. He’s already half-awake, watching you through heavy lashes, a lazy smile curling at his lips when your eyes meet.
“Bonjour, ma belle,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
You smile softly. “Good morning.”
He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers tracing your jaw in that absent, tender way that still makes your heart trip. “Big day,” he teases. “Your first time in the paddock.”
You groan and bury your face in the pillow. “Don’t remind me. I’m going to make a fool of myself.”
Pierre laughs — that quiet, melodic sound that fills a room without trying. “Impossible. You could walk in wearing pajamas and everyone would still adore you.”
You lift your head to give him a look, and he just grins wider. “I’m serious. You’ll be fine. Just be yourself — the brilliant engineer who makes everyone else look slow.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now.
You shower, dry your hair, and stand in front of the mirror trying to decide if the dress you packed is too much. It’s a simple white sundress — elegant but soft, paired with small gold earrings and comfortable shoes. You’re fussing with the zipper when you hear Pierre behind you.
“Need help?” he asks, voice quiet.
You nod, holding your hair out of the way. His fingers brush against your bare back as he zips the dress up, slow and careful, almost reverent.
When he finishes, his hands linger for a moment. “You look beautiful,” he says, so softly you almost don’t catch it.
You turn around, heart tugging in your chest, and kiss him gently — one of those soft, morning kisses that taste like sunlight and trust.
The drive to the paddock feels surreal. You’ve seen photos, of course — the glitz, the chaos, the fans leaning over fences for autographs. But seeing it up close is something else entirely. The roar of engines in the distance, the blur of team colors, the hum of energy that seems to vibrate in your chest.
Pierre’s hand stays in yours as you step out of the car. Cameras flash immediately, reporters calling his name, shouting questions. You blink against the brightness but don’t flinch — years of conferences and presentations have taught you how to handle being watched.
Pierre introduces you to a few staff members as you walk, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of your hand, grounding you. “This is YN,” he says with quiet pride. “She’s an engineer — one of the best, actually.”
You laugh softly, trying not to blush. “He’s exaggerating.”
But you see the glances exchanged between photographers and team members — curiosity, recognition, maybe even a bit of awe. You’re not just “Pierre’s girlfriend” to them. You’re someone who belongs here, even if you don’t realize it yet.
Across the paddock, Esteban Ocon is talking to his race engineer when something makes him look up. At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing — just the flash of a white dress, a familiar tilt of a head, a laugh that curls around him like a memory.
His heart stops. It can’t be. He blinks, thinking it’s the light playing tricks on him, but when she turns slightly — when you turn slightly — everything in him freezes. It’s you.
Older, poised, radiant. The same eyes, the same smile that used to undo him completely. You’re standing next to Pierre Gasly, hand in his, moving through the crowd like you were always meant to be here.
Esteban’s stomach twists. He looks away quickly, pretending to study his tablet, but his mind is gone — years rewinding all at once. The way you used to laugh when he tripped over his words. The way you’d fall asleep next to him during study breaks. The way you said goodbye. He forces a breath out. Of course Pierre didn’t know. How could he?
He tells himself he’ll stay out of the way. It’s better that way — cleaner. You’re happy, and he won’t ruin that. You don’t see him. You’re too caught up in the whirlwind of introductions and cameras. You move easily through the noise, shaking hands, smiling when photographers call your name, answering a few friendly questions about your work when someone recognizes you from an industry piece.
Pierre watches you the entire time, pride shining through every look. You handle it all effortlessly — calm, gracious, exactly as he knew you would.
After a few rounds of media, he leads you toward the hospitality area where a few of the other drivers’ partners are gathered. That’s where you meet Alexandra Saint Mleux, Lily Muni He, and Carmen Mundt — all of whom immediately take to you.
Alexandra greets you first, all warmth and curiosity. “Pierre told us you’re an engineer! You must be incredibly smart to do what you do.”
You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I like to think so, on good days.”
Lily grins. “You have to meet the rest of us. We’re kind of like the unofficial welcome committee.”
Carmen leans in with a conspiratorial smile. “And the best part of the paddock gossip circle. We promise to share the good stuff.”
You spend the next hour chatting, laughing, sipping on coffee that’s too strong but still comforting. They make you feel included instantly — teasing you about Pierre’s habit of talking about you constantly, telling you stories about life on the road.
It’s easy, warm, and for the first time since arriving, you feel like you truly belong here.
Eventually, Pierre returns, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, a grin on his face. “Having fun without me, chérie?”
“Always,” you tease.
He chuckles and gestures toward the garage. “Come on. There are some people I want you to meet.”
He takes you through the Alpine hospitality area, introducing you to the engineers and technical staff. When they learn who you are and what you do, their expressions shift from polite interest to genuine respect. You talk easily about energy systems, performance analysis, and design structures — it’s comfortable territory for you, and you can see how impressed they are.
Pierre beams the whole time, one arm casually around your waist. “Told you she was brilliant,” he says to one of the engineers, and you elbow him playfully.
Then, as you’re about to head back toward his side of the garage, Pierre glances around. “I should find Esteban — I haven’t seen him all morning.”
You freeze at the name, your pulse skipping. You tell yourself it’s a coincidence. It has to be.
But before you can say anything, Pierre spots him across the garage. “Ah! There he is!”
You follow his gaze — and your breath catches. There he is. Esteban.
Older. Broader shoulders. The same dark eyes, the same sharp jawline softened by surprise when he turns and sees you.
Pierre doesn’t notice the tension. He grins, clapping his teammate on the shoulder. “Esteban! Come say hello. This is YN.”
You and Esteban both hesitate for half a second too long — long enough for it to feel like the air shifts.
“Hi,” you manage, forcing a polite smile. “It’s… nice to meet you.”
His expression doesn’t flicker. If anything, he plays the part perfectly. “Likewise. Welcome to the team.” His voice is smooth, steady, but there’s something behind it — a tremor only you recognize.
Pierre nods proudly. “She’s an engineer, by the way. Works in performance systems. I’ve been trying to convince her to work for Alpine one day.”
Esteban’s eyes flicker, a small smile ghosting his lips. “That would be… fitting.”
The silence that follows feels like a held breath. You clear your throat softly. “It was nice meeting you, Esteban. I should let you get back to work.”
“Of course.” His tone is polite, professional. The same voice he used the day he told you goodbye.
You step back toward Pierre, who rests a hand on your back, none the wiser. As you walk away, you can feel Esteban’s gaze on you — not invasive, not possessive. Just quietly there.
That evening, back in the hotel room, you’re curled up on the bed with your laptop when Pierre comes out of the shower.
He sits beside you, towel drying his hair. “You were amazing today,” he says softly. “Everyone loved you.”
You smile. “It was fun. Tiring, but fun.”
He hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “You seemed… a little quiet after meeting Esteban. Everything okay?”
Your heartbeat stutters, but you force an easy smile. “Yeah, I was just overwhelmed, I think. There’s a lot to take in.”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to read something in your face, then nods. “Fair enough.” He leans over, kissing your forehead. “Try to rest, okay? Tomorrow will be even busier.”
You nod, watching him move around the room, your mind far away — back in that brief moment when familiar brown eyes met yours across the noise of the paddock and everything you’d buried came rushing back.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’ve moved on. But deep down, something you thought was gone has started to stir again.
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You wake slowly, the soft hum of early traffic beneath you, the faint rustle of fabric as Pierre moves around the room. He’s already half-dressed in Alpine blue, the crisp lines of his uniform fitting him perfectly. When he notices you blinking awake, his expression softens instantly.
“Morning, mon cœur,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead. His hand runs absently through your hair, the gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache a little. “Did you sleep well?”
You nod, stretching, your voice still raspy from sleep. “Better now that I don’t have to wake up alone.”
Pierre grins at that, helping you sit up before handing you a mug of coffee just the way you like it. There’s something about him on race mornings — focused but tender, calm but humming with the kind of quiet intensity that made you fall for him in the first place. You sip slowly, watching as he readjusts his shirt, fixing his small necklace as well.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” he says softly, almost to himself.
You smile. “You made it impossible to say no.”
His grin turns boyish, proud. “Good. That was the plan.”
You arrive at the paddock with Pierre’s hand in yours. The cameras start flashing immediately — fans calling his name, journalists shouting questions that he handles with effortless charm. He keeps you close though, his thumb brushing your hand every few seconds, grounding you through the noise.
The scent of rubber and fuel, the electric hum of engines warming up, the blur of blue and orange team colors — it’s all so familiar and yet completely new through this lens. You’ve worked in motorsport for years, analyzing performance data, designing simulations, but walking through the paddock as a wag is still brand new. They’ve all heard about you by now, the quietly brilliant engineer who managed to charm the driver.
When you lean close to whisper something to Pierre, the way his hand finds the small of your back, the way he looks at you — it’s soft, natural, unguarded. And from a few meters away, someone notices.
Esteban. He’s been pretending not to. He’s been trying, so hard, all morning — burying himself in race prep, in data sheets, in pit wall briefings — but every time he catches a flash of you, laughing, standing too close to Pierre, his pulse spikes in a way he hates.
He’s supposed to be over this. Over you. But there you are, wearing the same kind of sundress you used to wear when the two of you were young and stupid and in love — your smile bright, your hair caught by the wind, your hand in another man’s.
He tells himself to look away. He doesn’t.
When the drivers head to the garage for the pre-race briefing, you stand with a few of the other partners — Alexandra, Lily, Carmen — all of them sweet and welcoming. You chat about travel schedules, favorite circuits, jet lag, trying to seem normal while your heart beats like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest.
At one point, Alexandra leans close and laughs, “Pierre’s been glowing since you got here, you know that? He’s usually all intense before a race, but this morning he was actually smiling.”
You smile at that — genuine, warm — and glance toward the garage where he’s standing with Esteban.
They’re side by side, their Alpine suits matching, helmets under their arms. Pierre looks calm. Esteban… doesn’t. His expression is a practiced mask of focus, but you can see the tension in the way his jaw tightens, the way he keeps his eyes anywhere but where you stand.
The race itself is chaos.
You stand just behind the monitors in Alpine’s hospitality suite, your hand pressed to your chest every time the cameras cut to Pierre’s car. He’s fast today — confident, precise. Esteban too, but every time they battle on track, you feel that strange twist in your stomach.
You want Pierre to win. Of course you do. But when Esteban’s radio crackles through the speakers — his voice tight, straining, full of that same competitive fire you once loved — it hits somewhere deep and uninvited.
Pierre finishes P6. Esteban, P8. Both solid results. The team celebrates. Cameras flash. And you smile, trying to keep your focus on Pierre — who rushes up to you post-race, hair damp with sweat, still in his fire suit.
He kisses you, right there in front of everyone. It’s quick, but it’s enough to make your knees weak and for Esteban — a few feet away — to freeze mid-step.
Later, when things quiet down, you step outside for air. The sunset paints the paddock in gold and rose, soft light bouncing off the metallic trailers. You’re lost in thought when you hear his voice.
“YN.”
You turn — and it’s him. Esteban. Standing a few meters away, still in his base layer, hair tousled, eyes unreadable.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The hum of generators fills the silence.
“You look…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “You look good.”
You smile faintly. “You too. Congrats on the points.”
He nods. “Thanks.” His hands flex at his sides. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Pierre surprised me,” you say simply. “Didn’t really have time to overthink it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh — one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Sounds like him.”
The silence stretches again, heavier this time.
There’s a million things unsaid between you — old heartbreak, lingering what-ifs, the quiet ache of recognition. You can feel it, the pull of familiarity, the warmth of memories neither of you should still hold onto.
“I’m happy for you,” Esteban finally says. It sounds sincere. Mostly. “He’s… good for you.”
You nod, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “He is.”
And that’s it. That’s all there’s room for.
Before you can say more, Pierre’s voice carries down the walkway, calling your name — bright, warm, alive. You glance toward him, then back at Esteban. He’s already looking away.
You join Pierre, slipping your hand into his as you walk off together. Behind you, Esteban watches until you disappear around the corner, his chest tight with something that feels a lot like regret.
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a few weeks later...
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It happens on a quiet Thursday morning, the kind that starts with lazy sunlight spilling through the windows and Pierre humming to himself in the kitchen. You’re half-awake, padding in barefoot, your hair in a loose braid and your favorite mug in hand when your phone buzzes with an email notification.
At first, you don’t think much of it — your inbox is usually full of data reports, simulation updates, minor consultation requests. But then you see the subject line.
“Formal Offer — Alpine F1 Engineering Division.”
Your eyes widen. You set the mug down slowly. Pierre glances over his shoulder from the counter, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Everything okay?”
You read the first few lines once, twice, three times before your voice even returns. “They… they want to hire me,” you whisper. “Full-time. Alpine wants me on their engineering team.”
Pierre’s reaction is immediate. His face lights up, bright and pure and proud — like the sun catching on glass. He crosses the room in seconds, arms wrapping tightly around you, lifting you off the floor as he spins you once, laughing against your cheek.
“Mon cœur! That’s incredible!” he says between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. “You deserve this — you earned this.”
You cling to him, laughing and breathless. “They said I can lead one of the vehicle performance projects — redesigning their data models, adjusting the suspension and aero integration workflow. Basically, I can… change anything I think needs changing.”
Pierre sets you down gently but doesn’t let go. His eyes shine with pride. “Then say yes.”
You look up at him, heart pounding. “You really think I should?”
“I know you should,” he says softly. “This is your dream, YN. And selfishly?” His lips twitch into a grin. “I love the idea of seeing you in my garage every weekend.”
You laugh, swatting at his chest — but inside, you’re already imagining it. The paddock, the garage, the smell of fuel and machinery, the rush of purpose. And yes — the inevitable complication.
Because no matter how hard you try not to think about it, you know exactly who else wears Alpine blue.
Your first race weekend as part of the Alpine engineering team feels surreal. The uniform fits perfectly — navy and white with your name embroidered just above the logo. The lanyard around your neck carries new weight.
Pierre can’t stop smiling when he sees you step out of the hotel that morning. “You look perfect,” he murmurs, stealing a quick kiss before the cameras find you.
“Professional,” you correct, grinning.
“Same thing,” he says easily, his hand brushing yours as you walk toward the paddock together.
Inside the garage, you’re instantly in your element — monitors humming, mechanics moving with precision, engineers cross-checking telemetry. You slide seamlessly into the rhythm, reviewing data from free practice, analyzing wind tunnel feedback, suggesting adjustments that actually get implemented.
And it works. For the first time in a long while, Alpine feels… sharp. Balanced. Competitive. Everyone notices. Even Esteban.
He keeps his distance at first — polite nods, brief exchanges during debriefs — but his eyes linger longer than they should. Watching you in that space, confident and capable, sparks something both admiring and painful in him.
He’s genuinely happy for you. He really is. But when he sees the way Pierre’s hand rests on your back as he leans in to whisper something that makes you laugh, the way you glow under the fluorescent lights — it’s a quiet kind of ache. The kind that has no right to still exist.
Race day comes, and Alpine is flying. Strategy clicks. Pit stops are smooth. Pierre finishes P4; Esteban, P5. Double points. The best result the team’s had all season.
When the checkered flag waves, the garage erupts — cheers, applause, the slap of hands on shoulders. Someone pops a bottle of champagne over the monitors. You’re in the middle of it all, flushed and beaming.
Pierre finds you first, pulling you into a hug that lifts you clean off your feet. “You did it, engineer,” he laughs into your ear, his voice full of pride.
“We did it,” you correct, cheeks warm.
Esteban approaches a moment later, his helmet tucked under his arm, still in his suit. “That new setup on the suspension—” he starts, smiling faintly, “—genius. Really made a difference.”
You blink, a little caught off guard but pleased nonetheless. “Thanks. You drove it beautifully.”
Pierre glances between you two, smiling, oblivious to the quiet current that hums beneath the exchange. “My girlfriend’s brilliant, huh?” he teases, nudging Esteban’s arm.
Esteban laughs softly, nodding. “Yeah. She is.”
For a fleeting second, your eyes meet — and something unspoken flickers there before you both turn away.
The celebration dinner is full of laughter, champagne, and congratulations. But later, when you and Pierre finally slip away to your hotel room, the quiet feels heavier — gentler, somehow.
You’re both exhausted, the adrenaline finally fading. He’s sitting on the bed, still half-dressed in team gear, scrolling through messages from friends and colleagues. You sit beside him, twisting your fingers nervously in your lap.
“Pierre?” you start softly.
He looks up immediately. “Yeah, mon amour?”
You take a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
He sets his phone down, turning his full attention to you. “Okay.”
You exhale slowly. “It’s about Esteban.”
His brows lift slightly, but his expression remains calm. “Alright.”
You hesitate, searching for the right words. “Before you and I met… Esteban and I— we used to be together. A long time ago. When we were kids, really. It ended before I moved on with my career, before I met you. I just— I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else or think I was hiding it.”
Pierre watches you quietly, processing. Then, he nods once — slow, deliberate. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” He reaches out, taking your hand gently. “It doesn’t change anything. You had a life before me, YN. So did I. What matters is that you’re here now. With me.”
The relief hits you like a wave, your chest loosening. “You’re really not upset?”
He smiles — small, sincere. “Only if it makes you uncomfortable. If working with him hurts you in any way, we’ll talk about it. But otherwise?” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I trust you. Completely.”
Your throat tightens. “I don’t deserve you.”
He laughs quietly, pulling you into his chest. “You do. And for the record,” he murmurs against your hair, “I’m glad he gets to see how amazing you’ve become.”
You laugh softly, half-embarrassed, half in awe of him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head.
You stay like that for a long while — tangled together in the quiet, the city lights flickering outside the window, your heart finally still.
But later, when Pierre falls asleep with his arm draped over your waist, you find yourself staring at the ceiling, thinking about how easy he made it all seem. And wondering why, deep down, part of you doesn’t feel completely at peace yet.
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a few weeks later...
It starts small. Little things that no one else would notice.
The way Esteban’s gaze lingers across the garage a moment too long when you’re leaning over Pierre’s monitor, explaining the telemetry updates. The way your pulse jumps every time you hear his voice during debriefs — that same rhythm you once knew by heart.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re colleagues now. Adults. You’ve built something real with Pierre — something strong, something safe. You love him. You’re sure of that. But emotions don’t always listen to reason.
Three weeks later, Alpine heads into another race weekend, and the air in the paddock feels thick with heat and competition. Pierre’s been in form lately — two top-five finishes back-to-back — and Esteban’s pushing harder than ever to match him.
During FP2, they nearly collide in Turn 9. It’s nothing serious, just a close call, but when they return to the garage, the tension is unmistakable.
Pierre pulls off his gloves, shaking his head. “He cut in too early,” he mutters, more frustrated than angry.
Esteban, already out of his helmet, shoots back dryly, “Maybe if someone had checked their mirrors—”
“Maybe if someone remembered it’s practice and not the championship,” Pierre snaps.
You’re standing between them with a tablet in hand, pretending to review data you can’t even focus on. The engineers around you shift awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable.
You sigh softly, setting the tablet down. “Alright,” you say, keeping your tone calm, professional. “Telemetry shows both of you were within a tenth of the same braking point. It was close, but no harm done.”
Both men glance at you, then at each other. Pierre’s jaw relaxes first. Esteban just exhales, muttering something under his breath before walking off.
Later, when you pass him in the hallway, he slows just slightly, his voice low. “You always did have a way of calming me down.”
You pause. “I just did my job.”
He smiles faintly. “You always say that.”
And before you can respond, he’s gone.
You stand there for a beat longer than you should, wondering when he started looking at you like that again — like he’s remembering something he’s not supposed to.
That night, after the race briefing, you’re helping the team review tire degradation models. Most of the crew has gone to dinner, the garage quiet except for the low hum of machinery.
Esteban walks in halfway through, half in uniform, hair still damp from the shower. He smiles when he sees you. “Burning the midnight oil?”
You look up, startled but composed. “Someone has to make sure your car doesn’t fall apart tomorrow.”
He chuckles, leaning against the counter beside you. “You haven’t changed at all.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t either. Still impossible to keep off the throttle.”
That earns a quiet laugh. Then, for a moment, it’s silent — until he looks at you again, softer this time.
“Do you ever think about… back then?”
The words hang heavy in the air.
You glance down at the monitor, fingers tightening around your stylus. “Sometimes,” you admit. “But mostly I try not to.”
He nods, lips pressing together, as if he’s trying to respect a boundary but can’t quite help himself. “I never forgot it,” he says quietly. “Any of it.”
You swallow hard. “Esteban—”
He shakes his head, forcing a small smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t make things weird. I just… needed to say that once.”
You meet his eyes, searching for something to hold onto — but all you find is honesty. The same honesty that once broke your heart.
And that’s when Pierre’s voice echoes from the door.
“Mon cœur?”
You spin around, relief and guilt crashing together all at once. Pierre’s standing there, smiling — unaware of what he just walked into. “They’re closing the hospitality lounge soon. Thought you’d want dinner before everything shuts down.”
You nod quickly. “Yeah. I just— I’ll grab my stuff.”
Esteban steps back, letting you pass. “Goodnight, YN.”
“Goodnight,” you murmur.
Pierre wraps an arm around your shoulders as you walk away, pressing a kiss to your temple. He talks about the new sim setup Alpine’s testing next week, but your mind’s somewhere else — replaying Esteban’s voice, his eyes, the weight of words you didn’t ask to hear.
The next morning, Pierre catches you staring absently at your tablet, lost in thought. He chuckles softly. “You’re zoning out again. Should I be jealous of the data?”
You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You? Never.”
But something in your voice makes him look closer — a faint hesitation he knows too well.
He sets his hand over yours. “You okay?”
You blink, snapping out of it. “Yeah, just tired. Long week.”
He studies you for a moment longer but lets it go. “Alright. Just don’t burn yourself out. I need my favorite engineer at her best.”
You smile — genuinely this time — and lean up to kiss him. “Always.”
Still, later that afternoon, when Esteban’s car rolls into the garage after another strong session and you find yourself instinctively smiling at his feedback — that familiar warmth flickers again.
It’s nothing romantic. Not yet. Just history — the ghost of something that once mattered. But ghosts have a way of haunting the quiet places, the ones you thought were safe.
That night, after the race, Pierre finds you on the balcony of the hotel, sitting cross-legged with a glass of wine. The city glows below, soft and golden.
He joins you quietly, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “You were brilliant this weekend,” he murmurs. “Everyone’s saying you’ve changed the whole team dynamic already.”
You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. “I’m just doing what I love.”
He hums softly, his thumb tracing circles on your arm. “Can I ask you something?”
You turn toward him. “Of course.”
“Are you sure you’re okay working with him?”
The question lands gently but hits deep. You look at him, surprised but not defensive. “Pierre…”
He shakes his head quickly. “I’m not angry, mon amour. I just see how he looks at you sometimes. And I know history isn’t something you can just switch off.”
You exhale slowly. “It’s complicated. But I promise — it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
He nods, kissing your forehead. “I believe you. I just needed to hear it.”
The two of you fall quiet again, the night wrapping around you like a secret. Still, when you finally go to bed, your dreams are full of overlapping voices — Pierre’s laughter, Esteban’s quiet confessions, and your own heart caught somewhere in between.
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There was a tension you could almost taste in the air — a subtle, humming current that ran through the Alpine garage every time the three of you were in the same room. Weeks had passed since the first time the walls between you, Pierre, and Esteban had cracked, and in that time, it had only gotten harder to pretend.
The jokes between the two Frenchmen had softened. The teasing glances lasted too long. When Esteban smiled at you during debriefs, Pierre’s jaw would tighten almost imperceptibly. When you touched Pierre’s hand under the hospitality table, Esteban’s voice would falter mid-sentence. You were all trying to play it off — to keep things professional, light, normal — but there was nothing normal about the way your heart jumped at both of them.
It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It was history and possibility and something you didn’t have words for.
But then, the whispers started.
First, it was someone in comms mentioning that Esteban’s manager had been seen talking with another team. Then, the murmurs spread — that he might be in talks for a 2026 seat elsewhere. The minute you heard, your chest went tight.
You found him after hours, sitting in the quiet of the paddock, the light from the motorhome glowing faintly behind him.
“Are you really leaving?” you asked, voice soft but trembling.
Esteban didn’t look at you right away. “You shouldn’t have heard it like that.”
“That’s not a no.”
He sighed, looking down at his hands. “I just think it might be best. For everyone.”
Pierre arrived just then — still in his Alpine jacket, hair slightly messy, expression tight with worry. “So it’s true?”
Esteban’s laugh was hollow. “Depends on what version you’ve heard. That I’m leaving? That I can’t take this anymore?” His eyes flickered between the two of you. “Maybe both.”
You stepped closer. “If it’s because of me—”
“It’s not just you,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “But you’re part of it. You both are.” His voice cracked slightly. “Every time I try to tell myself it’s fine, that I can move on, one of you looks at me like that and—”
Pierre’s voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Like what?”
“Like I’m still wanted.”
That broke something in the air.
You felt tears sting the corners of your eyes as you reached for him. “Because you are, Esteban. You always have been.”
Pierre stepped closer too, his tone raw. “We didn’t mean to hurt you. None of this was supposed to happen like this.”
Esteban finally looked at you both, eyes full of a thousand unspoken things. “I still have feelings for you,” he said softly, looking at you. “But it’s not just that anymore. Somewhere along the way, I started feeling something for him too.” His eyes flicked toward Pierre, hesitant but honest. “And that’s the part that scares me the most.”
Pierre froze. You could see his breath catch.
“Esteban…” he whispered. “You should’ve told me.”
“How was I supposed to?” Esteban asked, voice breaking. “You’re my teammate, my friend, and you’re with her. I wasn’t going to destroy what you two have. I thought the only way to make it stop was to leave.”
You shook your head, stepping closer. “No. No, you’re not leaving. Not because of this, not because of us. I’ll quit before I let you do that, Esteban. You don’t run from people you care about.”
Pierre reached out then — one hand on your shoulder, the other tentatively brushing against Esteban’s arm. “We’ll figure it out. Somehow.”
For a moment, the three of you just stood there in silence — the night still around you, the tension slowly melting into something gentler.
You could see it in all your eyes — the exhaustion, the fear, the longing. None of you had the answers, but for the first time, there was honesty.
“I don’t know what this is,” Esteban said softly.
“Neither do we,” you admitted. “But it’s real. And that’s enough for now.”
Pierre nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “We’ll make it work. All of us.”
And somehow, in that dim corner of the paddock, where everything should’ve fallen apart — it felt like the three of you were finally starting to put it back together.
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The sun crept through the blinds of your Monaco apartment, cutting soft golden lines across the rumpled sheets. It was too quiet — the kind of stillness that came after something irreversible.
Pierre was the first to stir. You could feel him shift behind you, his hand finding your waist instinctively, thumb tracing small circles against your skin. On the other side, Esteban exhaled softly, the warmth of his body still close enough to feel. The three of you hadn’t meant for last night to end like that — with confessions and tears and then, somehow, a quiet comfort that had led here.
It wasn’t messy or rushed. It was just… human. Honest.
For a long moment, no one said anything. You could hear the distant hum of the city waking up outside, but none of you moved.
Finally, Esteban broke the silence. “We’re really bad at ignoring things, huh?”
Pierre let out a tired laugh against your shoulder. “Très mauvais.”
You smiled faintly but didn’t open your eyes. “I don’t think ignoring it was ever going to work. Not with us.”
Esteban turned slightly, looking at you both — his expression a mix of wonder and uncertainty. “Last night felt like something we shouldn’t have done… but I don’t regret it.”
You met his gaze, heart squeezing. “Neither do I.”
Pierre nodded slowly, sitting up just enough to look at both of you. “We needed it. To stop pretending. To stop running from it.”
You could see the conflict in Esteban’s face — the professional side of him already worrying, calculating the consequences. “We still have to race together. Work together. This doesn’t just go away because we feel something.”
Pierre reached for him then — just a hand on his arm, grounding. “Then we don’t let it ruin that. We talk, we trust, we protect each other. We’ve always done that, haven’t we?”
Esteban looked down at where Pierre’s hand rested against his skin. “Yeah. We have.”
The room went quiet again. You sat up between them, pulling the sheets closer around your chest, your voice gentle but firm. “We don’t have to label it. We don’t even have to explain it yet. But none of us should keep pretending this doesn’t matter. You’re both too important to me for that.”
Pierre’s hand found yours. Esteban’s followed, hesitant at first, but then sure. Three sets of fingers intertwined, warm and trembling and real.
“I don’t know how this works,” Esteban said softly. “I’ve never… done this.”
“Neither have we,” you said, smiling a little through the ache in your chest. “But maybe we don’t need to have it figured out yet. Maybe it’s enough to just care.”
Pierre squeezed both your hands, his expression soft. “Then that’s what we do. We care. We try.”
Outside, the sun had fully risen now — light spilling over the balcony, catching in Esteban’s hair, glinting off the curve of Pierre’s jaw. You wanted to freeze the moment — the fragile peace of it, the quiet understanding that something had shifted between the three of you.
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It had been weeks since everything changed — since the three of you stopped running from the truth and decided to start building something together. Somehow, it worked.
The tension had turned to quiet comfort, the uncertainty into trust. You found a rhythm — morning coffees before briefings, stolen touches in the Alpine garage when no one was looking, long nights filled with laughter and shared exhaustion. For the first time in years, Esteban looked lighter. Pierre couldn’t stop smiling. And you? You were exactly where you were meant to be.
Race day came with the kind of buzz that only happens when everyone knows it’s going to be special. The car setup was perfect. The strategy was clean. The energy in the garage was magnetic.
“Big day, mon cœur?” Pierre asked that morning, slipping behind you and kissing your temple as you checked over data one last time.
“Big day,” you said with a grin. “Let’s make it count.”
He winked. “For you? Always.”
Esteban passed by, catching the exchange, and laughed softly. “You two are ridiculous,” he teased — but the fondness in his tone betrayed him.
“Just jealous,” Pierre shot back.
“Maybe,” Esteban said under his breath, and the three of you shared one last look before helmets went on and engines roared to life.
By the time lights went out, your pulse was hammering louder than the crowd. You watched from the pit wall, headset on, voice calm but heart racing as the two Alpines held strong — lap after lap, strategy after strategy executed flawlessly.
And then it happened. P1 and P2. Across the line. Side by side.
For a moment, the world went silent — and then it erupted. Screams, cheers, blue and pink confetti bursting through the air. You were on your feet before you even realized it, laughter breaking out of you, tears slipping down your cheeks as you pulled off your headset.
They were both out of the cars within seconds, sprinting toward you — still in their helmets, adrenaline burning in their eyes. You barely had time to brace yourself before Pierre swept you up, spinning you around as Esteban wrapped his arms around both of you from behind.
You could hear the crowd roaring louder, camera flashes bursting all around. But none of you cared. Not about the optics, not about the questions that would come later.
Just this. Your boys, their victory, your team.
Esteban pressed his forehead against yours, both of you laughing breathlessly, Pierre’s hand still at your waist. “We did it,” he said, voice rough with disbelief.
“No,” you smiled, “you did it.”
“We,” Pierre corrected softly, eyes gleaming. “All of us.”
You watched them climb the podium a few minutes later, side by side under the French flag, champagne spraying into the air. You’d seen so many podiums before, but none had ever felt like this. The pride in your chest was overwhelming.
Pierre caught your eye from the top step, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. Esteban’s gaze found yours too, softer but just as full of emotion. He reached over and bumped Pierre’s shoulder — a small, unspoken thank you that said more than words ever could.
Later that night, when the celebrations died down and the cameras were gone, you found yourselves curled up in your hotel room — still wearing their Alpine shirts, smelling faintly of champagne and sweat and victory.
Pierre was on one side, his arm slung lazily over your stomach. Esteban lay on your other side, fingers laced with yours, his head resting against your shoulder. The air was quiet, warm, and safe.
“Never thought I’d see the day we’d all end up like this,” Esteban murmured, voice half-asleep.
Pierre chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not,” Esteban said softly, smiling into your skin. “It’s perfect.”
You turned your head just enough to press a kiss to his forehead, then another to Pierre’s hand. “It really is,” you whispered.
Outside, the streets glittered against the night — the city alive with celebration, the sound of laughter still echoing faintly from below.
But inside that quiet hotel room, the three of you had everything you’d ever wanted. Love, peace, and the soft, infinite warmth of finding your way back to each other. And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending. It just felt right.
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pierregasly
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Summary: you flee Monaco with nothing but car keys and a shattered heart. Your Alfa Romeo dies on a Swiss mountain road at dawn. The gates that open belong to the last person you ever expected to see — and he’s even worse at feelings than you are right now. But sometimes the Iceman thaws. Sometimes he lies about needing his laundry room redesigned. Sometimes “stay” is the only word that matters. (A story about vodka, questionable interior design projects, and finding home in the most unexpected place)
The end starts quietly.
It starts in the way the silence in your shared Monaco apartment stretches, thin and taut, until it feels like a physical thing. It’s a Tuesday night, oppressively normal. The city glitters below your balcony, a familiar cascade of diamonds spilled across black velvet. Charles is sitting opposite you on the white linen sofa, but he might as well be on another continent. He hasn’t met your eyes in an hour.
He’s turning his watch around and around on his wrist, a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times before a race. Never before a conversation with you.
“Charles?” You ask, your voice soft, careful not to break the fragile tension. “Is everything okay?”
He finally looks up. His green eyes, usually so bright, so full of warmth and a familiar mischief, are clouded over. Guarded. “We need to talk.”
And there it is. The four words that act as the starting pistol for the demolition of a world. Your world. Your heart does a sick, slow lurch in your chest.
“Okay,” you breathe, placing your wine glass on the marble coffee table with a hand that has begun to tremble. “Talk.”
He takes a deep breath, the kind a driver takes before a qualifying lap. All-or-nothing. “I don’t think—I can’t do this anymore, Y/N.”
The words hang in the air, nonsensical. “Do this?” You repeat, a hollow echo. “What is this? Us? You and me?”
He nods, just once. The movement is jerky, unnatural. He looks pained. He looks like a stranger. “I need to focus. Completely. The championship … the pressure with the team … it’s everything. I’m giving everything to it, and I don’t have anything left over.”
You stare at him, trying to process the logic, trying to find the Charles you know in this rigid, distant man. “What are you talking about? We’ve always been a team. I’ve always been your biggest supporter. Since F2, Charles. Since before any of this,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the opulent room, the view, the life he’s built. The life you’ve built together. “When has me being here ever taken away from your focus?”
“It’s not you,” he says, and the cliché is so sharp, so insulting, it feels like a slap. “It isn’t. You are perfect. But I’m not. I am … I’m not in the right headspace. I need to be selfish. For my career, I have to be. The margins are everything. Every little percentage of focus, it matters. And this …” he gestures between the two of you, “this takes a part of me that I need for the car. I need for the fight.”
Tears are welling in your eyes, hot and immediate. You refuse to let them fall. “So that’s it? After five seven? You’re trading me in for a hypothetical extra tenth on the track?”
“Please, don’t make it sound like that.” His voice is pleading, but there’s no give in his expression.
“How else am I supposed to make it sound?” You ask, your own voice rising, cracking with a hurt so profound it physically aches. “You’re sitting here telling me that our life, that I am a distraction you need to eliminate. Like you’re adjusting the front wing. Am I just a piece of setup you’re changing for the next race weekend?”
“Of course not! Merde,” he swears, running a hand through his perfectly messy hair. He stands up and begins to pace, the restless energy of a caged panther filling the room. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I don’t know what to think, Charles! You’re not making any sense! We were fine this morning. We had breakfast. You kissed me goodbye before you went to the factory. What happened between then and now?”
He stops pacing and faces you, his jaw set. “It’s not about today. It’s been … building. I need to be alone. I need to put the racing first. Only the racing. There can be nothing else.”
The finality in his tone is what breaks you. This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a verdict. He’s already decided. You were just the last to know.
“Fine,” you whisper, the word tasting like ash in your mouth. You look down at your hands, clasped in your lap, to avoid seeing the pity that you know is now in his eyes. “If that’s what you need.”
The silence returns, heavier this time, thick with unspoken words and the ghost of seven years of laughter, arguments, and love.
“I’ll … I’ll pack a bag,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll stay with Arthur for a while. Give you space.”
You just nod, unable to speak. You listen to his footsteps retreat down the hall, the soft clicks of drawers opening and closing. The sound of a life being neatly edited, with your part being cut out. He comes back a few minutes later with a single duffel bag. He doesn’t look at you as he walks to the door.
His hand is on the handle when he pauses. “I am so sorry, Y/N. I do love you. I just can’t …”
“Don’t,” you cut him off, your voice surprisingly firm. You finally look at him, letting him see the devastation in your eyes. “Don’t you dare say you love me right now. Just go. Go be selfish. Go find your extra tenth.”
He flinches as if you’d struck him. He gives a small, defeated nod and opens the door.
And then he’s gone.
The sound of the heavy door clicking shut is the loudest sound you have ever heard.
***
The next forty-eight hours are a blur of surreal, suspended numbness. The apartment is a museum of your relationship. The F1 helmet he gave you for your anniversary sits on the bookshelf. The photo of the two of you in Sardinia, sunburned and deliriously happy, is on the bedside table. His scent lingers on his side of the bed, a cruel, ghostly reminder.
You don’t answer your phone. The screen lights up with texts from Charlotte, from Pierre, from your mother. You ignore them all. What would you even say? Charles decided I’m less important than a qualifying position. It sounds insane. It feels insane.
You’re sitting on the sofa, staring at the same spot he was sitting in, trying to retrace the conversation, trying to find a loophole, a mistake in his logic, when your phone buzzes violently on the coffee table. It’s not a text this time, but a notification from Instagram. A post you’ve been tagged in by a friend. The caption is just a string of question marks and angry emojis.
Your finger hovers over the notification, a sense of dread washing over you. You open it.
It’s a gossip blog. The headline screams in bold, tacky font. CHARLES LECLERC MOVES ON: F1 STAR SEEN IN STEAMY CLINCH WITH MYSTERY dark brown IN MONACO.
The numbness evaporates, replaced by a firestorm of ice and acid in your veins. Your breath catches. There are three photos, all grainy, clearly taken with a phone from across a crowded room. But there’s no mistaking it.
It’s him.
He’s at Sass Cafe. Your Sass Cafe. The club you two always went to on a Thursday night for a quiet drink, hidden away in a corner booth.
In the first photo, he’s laughing with a woman. She’s beautiful, of course. Long, sleek dark brown hair, a backless dress. In the second, his hand is on the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin. In the third … the third photo shatters what’s left of your heart into a million irreparable pieces.
He’s kissing her.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s hungry, passionate. His other hand is tangled in her dark brown hair, pulling her closer. Her head is tilted back. They are completely lost in each other, illuminated by the flashing purple and blue lights of the club.
You zoom in, your thumb shaking. The timestamp on the article is from an hour ago. The photos were taken last night. Less than twenty-four hours after he walked out your door to “focus on his career.”
The lie is so blatant, so disrespectful, it steals the air from your lungs. It wasn’t about focus. It wasn’t about needing to be selfish for the racing. It was never about that.
It was about her.
A sob escapes you, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony. The betrayal is a physical weight, pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. He didn’t just leave you. He lied to you. He made you feel like you were the obstacle, when really, he just wanted someone else. He didn’t even have the decency to wait. He took her to your place.
Your phone starts ringing. It’s Pierre. You stare at his name on the screen. Pierre, his best friend. Your friend. But who is he now? Whose side is he on? Whose side is anyone on?
You decline the call.
It rings again immediately. Charlotte. You swipe to decline.
Then a text from Arthur, Charles’s younger brother, who has always felt like your own. Y/N, call me. What is going on? Charles isn’t making any sense.
You look around the apartment, and suddenly you feel like you’re suffocating. Every object, every memory, is tainted. This city, this tiny, glittering principality, is his. His friends are your friends. His family is your family. There is nowhere to go where you won’t be reminded of him, where you won’t see someone who will look at you with pity in their eyes. You’ll become the tragic ex-girlfriend in a story where he’s the hero.
A frantic energy seizes you. It’s a primal, instinctual urge. Flight.
You can’t be here. Not for one more second.
You stand up on shaky legs. You don’t go to the bedroom to pack a bag. You don’t grab your laptop or your favorite jacket. You walk to the small bowl by the door and pick up your car keys. You grab your wallet from your purse and slide your phone into the back pocket of your jeans.
That’s it. Keys, wallet, phone.
You walk out of the apartment, not looking back. You don’t allow yourself a final glance at the life you’re leaving behind. In the elevator down to the underground garage, you catch your reflection in the mirrored walls. Your eyes are red-rimmed and hollow, your face pale. You look like a ghost.
Your little Alfa Romeo is parked in its designated spot, nestled between Charles’s custom SF90 Stradale and his Purosangue. The sight of his cars sends another wave of nausea through you. You get into yours, the familiar scent of leather and your perfume doing nothing to soothe you.
You start the engine. The quiet rumble feels like the only steady thing in a world that has completely tilted off its axis.
You navigate the tight corners of the garage and emerge onto the streets of Monaco. It’s late, but the city never truly sleeps. The Casino de Monte-Carlo is lit up like a fairytale castle. The superyachts in the harbor bob gently, their lights twinkling on the dark water.
Every street is a memory.
There’s the corner where he pulled over to kiss you after your first official date. There’s the tunnel, the iconic Formula 1 landmark, where you’d always hold your breath as he drove through it too fast, making you scream and laugh. There’s the Rascasse corner, where the bar stands that you celebrated his first podium at.
Tears stream down your face now, hot and silent. You’re not just leaving a man; you’re leaving the only home you’ve known for five years. You’re leaving a life that was so intertwined with his, you don’t know where he ends and you begin.
You follow the signs for the A8 autoroute. France. Italy. The signs offer directions, destinations. You have none.
As you merge onto the highway, the city of Monaco shrinks in your rearview mirror until it’s just a cluster of brilliant, painful lights. You press your foot down on the accelerator. The engine whines as the car picks up speed, putting distance between you and the wreckage of your life.
The road unfurls before you, a dark ribbon under the moon. You don’t know where you’re going. You only know you have to go. You just drive. And drive. And drive.
***
The world outside your car is a smear of motion and light, a cinematic blur that you are no longer a part of. You are cocooned in the low hum of the engine, the smell of leather, and the all-consuming shroud of your own grief. The highway signs are suggestions you ignore. Marseille. Lyon. Geneva. They flash in your headlights and disappear into the darkness behind you, each one a step further away from the life that imploded just hours ago.
Your mind is a cruel and endless loop.
The photo. His hand in her hair. The way her back arched. Sass Cafe.
His words. I need to focus. It’s not you. The margins are everything.
The lie. The sickening, condescending lie. Did he think you were a fool? Did he think you wouldn’t find out? Or did he just not care? The arrogance of it is a fresh wave of agony, washing over the heartbreak, making it sharper, uglier.
The digital clock on the dashboard glows a malevolent red. 2:17 AM. 3:42 AM. 4:58 AM.
You don’t feel tired. You feel hollowed out, scraped clean of everything but a raw, buzzing nerve of pain. Your stomach is a tight knot. Your throat is sandpaper. You haven’t had a sip of water since that glass of wine you put down just before he shattered your world.
Sometime around 5:30 AM, the fuel light blinks on, an insistent orange eye in the darkness. You pull into a ghost-town of a service station, the only building for miles. The air is shockingly cold when you step out of the car, a clean, sharp scent of pine and damp earth replacing the stale air of the cabin. You’re in the mountains now. The sky is beginning to soften from black to a deep indigo, the first hint of dawn bruising the horizon.
You fill the tank on autopilot, your movements stiff and robotic. Inside the station, a sleepy-eyed attendant watches you with disinterest. Racks of chips and candy bars and brightly colored drinks line the walls. Your body knows it needs sustenance, but the very thought of putting something in your mouth makes you feel ill. You pay for the gas, your voice a rough croak, and get back in the car. You don’t buy a bottle of water. You don’t buy anything else.
Back on the road, the landscape is transforming. The winding coastal roads of the Côte d'Azur have given way to sweeping valleys and the formidable, dark silhouettes of the Alps. You’ve crossed a border at some point. A sign welcomed you to Switzerland. You barely registered it.
You are somewhere near Zurich, according to a sign you passed ten minutes ago. The name means nothing. It’s just another place that isn’t Monaco.
And that’s when it happens.
It starts with a stutter from the engine. A cough. Then a violent, metallic clank from under the hood that makes you jump in your seat. The car lurches, the power steering dies, and the wheel becomes heavy and useless in your hands. You wrestle the car to the side of the two-lane road as it rolls to a dead, silent stop.
You turn the key. Nothing. Again. Just a pathetic, defeated click.
A thin wisp of smoke curls up from the gap between the hood and the fender.
You stare at it, and a sound escapes your lips. It isn't a cry. It's a laugh. A single, sharp, hysterical bark of a laugh that holds no humor. Of course. Of course this would happen. The pathetic fallacy of it all is so on-the-nose it’s almost poetic. Your life has broken down, so naturally, your car must, too.
The last of the adrenaline that has been fueling you for the past seven hours drains away, leaving you feeling heavy and boneless. You are stranded. In a foreign country. In the middle of nowhere. At the crack of dawn. With a dead car, a dying phone, and a shattered heart.
You pull out your phone. The battery icon is a sliver of red. 11%. You scroll through your contacts, a gallery of ghosts. Pierre. Charlotte. Arthur. Lorenzo. Every single name is a direct line back to Charles, back to the life you are running from. Who could you possibly call? “Hi, sorry to bother you, I know my ex-boyfriend just humiliated me in front of the entire world, but could you please help me find a tow truck in Switzerland?”
The thought is so absurd it brings fresh tears to your eyes. They spill over, hot and silent, tracing cold paths down your cheeks. There is no one. You are utterly, completely alone.
So you do the only thing you can think of. You get out of the car. You don't take anything. You don't even lock the doors. You just turn and start walking along the shoulder of the road, in the same direction you were driving. Towards nothing.
The morning air is biting cold. You’re wearing nothing but jeans, a thin silk blouse, and a pair of ballet flats — an outfit for a casual dinner in Monaco, not a pre-dawn trek through the Swiss countryside. Goosebumps pebble your arms, and you wrap them around yourself, a poor substitute for a jacket.
The world is waking up around you. The sky is now a pale, ethereal blue. Birds are beginning to sing in the dense forests that line the road. The beauty of it feels like a personal insult. How dare the world be this lovely when yours has ended?
You walk for what feels like an hour. Your feet are aching, the thin soles of your shoes no match for the gravelly shoulder. A few cars pass, their drivers giving you a curious glance before speeding on. You keep your head down, your tear-streaked face hidden by your hair. You don’t know what you’re looking for. A house. A town. A sign of life.
And then you see it.
Set back from the road, almost hidden by a curtain of ancient, weeping willows, is a wall. A high stone wall, and in the center of it, a pair of immense iron gates, wrought into an intricate, modern design. They look impenetrable. There’s no house visible, just the wall, the gates, and a small, sleek intercom box mounted on a stone pillar.
It's your only option. Your legs feel like they’re about to give out. You’re so tired you could lie down on the damp grass and sleep for a century. You push yourself forward, your feet crunching on the gravel as you approach the gate.
Your hand is trembling as you press the button on the intercom. You half expect it not to work. But after a moment, a crackle of static breaks the morning silence. A voice comes through, and it’s nothing more than a low, clipped mumble. Not even a word, more of a sound.
“H-hello?” You stammer, your voice hoarse from crying and disuse. “I am so, so sorry to bother you. My car … it broke down. Just back there on the road.” You’re rambling, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “My phone is about to die, and I don’t know where I am. I don’t speak German. Could you … could you possibly help me? Just to call a tow service? Please?”
Silence.
A long, unnerving silence from the other end. You can hear nothing but the chirping of the birds and the frantic thumping of your own heart. He’s hung up. He thinks you’re crazy. You’re about to turn away, to sink down onto the ground in defeat, when you hear it.
A loud, metallic CLANK.
Followed by a low, electric hum.
Slowly, majestically, the huge iron gates begin to swing inward, opening onto a long, winding driveway. No voice says a word. No one tells you to come in. The gates just open.
For a moment, you hesitate. This could be a terrible idea. You’re about to walk onto the property of a complete stranger who hasn’t even spoken to you. But what other choice do you have? Freezing to death on the side of the road? You take a deep, shaky breath and step through the gates.
The driveway is paved with smooth, grey stone and lined with perfectly manicured gardens. It curves gently, so you still can’t see the house. It feels like you’re walking into another world, a secluded, private kingdom. The quiet is absolute. As you round a bend flanked by enormous fir trees, the villa finally comes into view.
It takes your breath away.
It’s not a traditional Swiss chalet. It's a stunning piece of modern architecture, all clean lines, dark wood, and vast panes of glass that reflect the morning sky. It’s sprawling and luxurious, but it blends seamlessly into the lush, green landscape. It’s beautiful and intimidating all at once.
You make your way up the last stretch of the driveway to the front entrance, your cheap, worn-out ballet flats feeling utterly inadequate for the setting. You reach a massive front door made of a dark, rich wood. You raise your hand to knock, your knuckles hovering inches from the surface.
Before you can make contact, the door swings silently open.
And standing there, silhouetted against the warm light of the foyer, is Kimi Räikkönen.
The Iceman.
Your brain short-circuits. Time seems to slow down. He’s not in a race suit or team gear. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, a pair of faded jeans, and socks. No shoes. His hair is messy, sleep-tousled. He looks groggy, like he was pulled from a deep sleep, and his famous ice-blue eyes are narrowed slightly against the morning light.
He looks at you, his expression a perfect blank slate. You can see the gears turning behind his eyes. He scans your face — the tear tracks, the smudged makeup, the exhaustion. And then, a flicker. A tiny, almost imperceptible spark of recognition. He knows you. Of course he knows you. You’ve been a fixture in the Sauber and then the Ferrari hospitality for years. The ever-present, smiling girlfriend of Charles Leclerc.
Another piece of your old life. Another person connected to Charles.
He is the last thing you expected and the very last thing you can handle.
The sight of him, a familiar face from a world that no longer belongs to you, is the final, crushing blow. The fragile dam of control you’ve been desperately maintaining for the past eight hours doesn’t just break, it explodes.
A raw, guttural sob tears its way out of your throat. Your entire body convulses with it. You cover your face with your hands as the full, catastrophic weight of your situation crashes down on you. The breakup. The lies. The public humiliation. The flight. The breakdown. The hopelessness of it all. It pours out of you in a storm of breathless, wrenching tears. You can’t stop. You are a wreck, a disaster, a crying stranger on Kimi Räikkönen’s doorstep.
And Kimi … Kimi just stands there.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, and his expression shifts from neutral confusion to a look of profound, stoic horror. This. This right here. A hysterical, crying woman on his property before he’s even had his morning coffee. This is Kimi Räikkönen’s personal version of hell.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looks over your head at a tree. Then he looks down at his socks. He looks anywhere but directly at you. The silence is broken only by your ragged sobs. An entire minute passes. It feels like a year.
Finally, he lets out a long, slow sigh. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated resignation.
“Okay,” he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, thick with sleep and his Finnish accent.
Another long, agonizing pause while you try, and fail, to stifle your crying.
“You come inside,” he states. It’s not a question. It's a command born of someone who has assessed a bad situation and chosen the most logical, least-effort path forward.
You can’t speak, you just nod pathetically, your face still buried in your hands.
He waits for you to take a shuffling, hesitant step across his threshold. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Or you can stay out here. Is same for me. But is getting cold.”
You stumble inside, and he closes the heavy door behind you, plunging the foyer into a soft, quiet dimness. The interior of the house is as clean and minimalist as the exterior. White walls, polished concrete floors, sparse but expensive-looking furniture. It’s immaculate, except for a small, bright pink toy car lying on its side near the staircase. A tiny, humanizing detail in the stark perfection.
You stand there dripping with misery, not knowing what to do, where to go. You feel like a stray animal that has wandered into a museum.
Kimi doesn’t offer a hug. He doesn't ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong or even who you are, though you know he knows. He just looks at you for one more second with that pained, trapped expression.
Then he turns and walks away without another word.
You listen to his socked feet padding softly across the concrete floor. He disappears into what you assume is a kitchen. You hear the clink of a ceramic mug, the sound of a cupboard opening, and then the loud, reassuring gurgle and hiss of an espresso machine firing up.
He’s decided to deal with the most immediate, practical problem. Caffeine.
And you are left standing alone in the foyer of Kimi Räikkönen’s house, wondering if you have finally, completely lost your mind.
***
You follow the sound of the espresso machine into a vast, open-plan kitchen and living area. The space is a testament to minimalist design. A huge, grey sectional sofa faces a fireplace that’s more of a sculptural art piece. The kitchen itself is a sleek expanse of stainless steel and dark cabinetry, dominated by a massive island topped with a single slab of white marble. The only warmth in the room comes from the morning sun pouring through a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, revealing a breathtaking panorama of rolling green hills and the distant, steely blue of a lake.
Kimi is standing at the counter, his back to you, focused on his task. He moves with an efficient, no-nonsense economy of motion, tamping the coffee grounds, locking the portafilter into place. He doesn't speak. You stand awkwardly by the entrance to the room, feeling small and out of place, your dirty ballet flats a sacrilege on the polished concrete floor.
He pulls two shots of dark, fragrant espresso into small white cups. He picks them both up and turns, his expression as unreadable as ever. He jerks his head towards the island, where two simple wooden stools are tucked underneath. It’s a silent order to sit.
You obey, sliding onto one of the stools. The marble is cool beneath your forearms. He places a cup in front of you and then takes the spot opposite, the island a wide, white expanse between you.
The silence that settles is profound. It’s not a comfortable silence, but it’s not entirely hostile, either. It’s just … a Kimi Räikkönen silence. A vacuum devoid of pleasantries and small talk. The only sounds are the ticking of a clock you can’t see and the gentle hum of the high-tech refrigerator.
You wrap your cold hands around the warm ceramic cup. The steam smells like heaven. You take a sip. The espresso is strong, bitter, and shockingly good. It’s a jolt to your exhausted system. You glance up at him over the rim of your cup. He’s not looking at you. He’s staring out the window, his gaze distant, his jaw working silently as he sips his own coffee.
Minutes stretch by. You finish your espresso. He finishes his. He takes your empty cup, along with his own, and places them by the sink. He still hasn’t said a word about your dramatic arrival. For all he knows, you could be a dangerous lunatic. But he seems completely unconcerned, as if this is a boring, routine weekday morning.
You watch him, your mind struggling to reconcile the man from the legends — the party animal, the monosyllabic F1 champion, the Iceman — with the quiet stranger in socks who is currently rinsing out coffee cups with meticulous precision.
He dries his hands on a towel, then leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He finally looks at you. His blue eyes are piercing, analytical. He’s finished his coffee. He has rebooted his system. He is now ready to deal with the problem that has invaded his home.
“So,” he says, the single word dropping into the silence like a stone.
You wait. He seems to be formulating his next sentence with the same concentration he’d give to finding the apex of a corner.
He sighs, a barely audible puff of air. It’s the sound of a man being forced to do something he finds deeply unpleasant, like filling out paperwork or attending a marketing event.
“What is the problem?” He asks.
The question is so blunt, so devoid of sympathy, it catches you off guard. There’s no “Are you okay?” or “What happened?” Just a simple, mechanical request for data.
You open your mouth, but only a shaky breath comes out.
He waits, his patience seemingly infinite. He adjusts his stance slightly. “Your car is broken,” he states, as if listing the known facts of an accident report. “You are here. In Switzerland. You were crying.” He pauses. “Why?”
And just like that, the dam breaks again. The directness of his approach, the lack of coddling pity, makes it feel safe to just … tell him. It’s like talking to a machine. A very stoic, Finnish machine.
“Charles …” you start, your voice cracking on the name. “He broke up with me.”
Kimi’s expression doesn’t change. He just nods once, slowly, processing the first piece of information.
“Two nights ago,” you continue, the words starting to flow, tumbling over each other in their haste to get out. “He said … he said he needed to focus. On his career. That he couldn’t afford any distractions, that he needed to be selfish to win. He said it wasn’t me, it was him, all of it …” You trail off, the memory of the insulting clichés making your throat tighten.
“Okay,” Kimi says. It’s not an agreement. It’s a prompt. Continue the data transfer.
“So I’ve been a wreck, obviously, just holed up in the apartment, not knowing what to do … and then last night … last night, my friend sent me something.” You have to stop, swallowing hard against a rising wave of nausea. “There were pictures. Online. From a gossip site.”
You look up at him, needing him to understand the gravity of this next part. His gaze is steady.
“It was him. In a club in Monaco. With another woman.” The word feels like poison on your tongue. “He was kissing her. He had his hands all in her hair, and they were—it wasn’t—it was from the night before. Less than twenty-four hours after he told me he needed to be alone to focus on racing.”
The whole sordid, humiliating story is laid bare in the quiet, sun-drenched kitchen.
“He took her to Sass Cafe,” you whisper, the final, petty detail feeling like the most painful of all. “That was our place.”
You’re shaking now, the adrenaline of the confession vibrating through you. “I couldn’t … I couldn’t be there anymore. My phone was blowing up. Pierre, Arthur … all of his friends, our friends. I felt like I was suffocating. So I just … I got in my car. I didn’t pack anything. I just drove. I didn’t even know where I was going, I just needed to get away from Monaco, from him, from all of it. I drove all night.”
You gesture weakly, a summary of your pathetic journey. “And then the car died. And I started walking. And I saw your gate.” You finish your story with a final, shuddering breath. “And now I’m here.”
The confession hangs in the air between you. Kimi remains silent, his arms still crossed. He’s processing. You can almost hear the whir of the gears in his mind, fitting all the pieces together: The Breakup. The Lie. The Other Woman. The Escape. The Breakdown.
Having said it all aloud, having given voice to the full scope of the betrayal, is too much. The fragile composure you’d gathered crumbles into dust. A fresh sob rips through you, and you bend forward, hiding your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with the force of your renewed grief.
You feel, more than see, a shift in the room. When you dare to peek through your fingers, he’s no longer leaning against the counter across from you. He’s standing beside your stool. He hasn’t said a word. He’s just … moved closer. He’s standing there awkwardly, like he’s been summoned but hasn’t been given his instructions yet.
In that moment, your desperation outweighs all sense of propriety. You need an anchor. You need something solid to cling to in the storm. Before you can think about it, you surge off the stool and do the most unthinkable thing you could possibly do to the Iceman.
You hug him.
You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face against the soft cotton of his black t-shirt, and you just let go. All the pain, all the humiliation, all the exhaustion erupts in a tidal wave of tears. You are sobbing, loud and ugly, your whole body trembling. Snot and tears are soaking into his shirt, and you’re vaguely aware of how disgusting it is, but you can’t stop.
For a terrifying second, Kimi is completely rigid. He is a statue. His arms are locked at his sides. You can feel the tension in his entire body, a man confronted with his worst nightmare. You think he might just push you off.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, after a moment that stretches into an eternity, one of his arms moves. It comes up slowly, hesitantly, and then his hand lands on your back. And he begins to pat.
It’s the most awkward, mechanical pat in the history of human comfort. It’s rhythmic, steady, and completely devoid of emotion. He’s patting you like you’re a piece of malfunctioning equipment that might respond to a percussive reset. He says nothing. He just continues to stand there, a human wall for you to cry on, thumping your back with the detached air of someone trying to dislodge a trapped piece of food.
And strangely, it’s exactly what you need. It’s so absurd, so perfectly Kimi, that a tiny, hysterical giggle bubbles up through your sobs. Crying on the Iceman while he pats you like a dusty rug. The situation is insane.
Eventually, the storm passes. Your sobs subside into shuddering breaths and pathetic little hiccups. The adrenaline is gone, leaving behind an ocean of bone-deep weariness. You become acutely aware that you are still clinging to Kimi Räikkönen and that his shirt is now a biohazard.
You pull back, mortified, wiping at your face with the back of your hands. “Oh my God,” you mumble, your voice thick and clogged. “I’m so sorry. Your shirt … I’ve ruined it.”
Kimi looks down at the sizable wet patch you’ve left on his chest. His expression is neutral, as if he’s examining a dent on a car.
“Is okay,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Is only a shirt.”
He turns, walks to a drawer with the unhurried calm of a man who was most definitely not just used as a human tissue, and pulls out a clean, folded kitchen towel. He hands it to you. You take it gratefully, pressing the cool, clean cotton to your swollen eyes.
He goes back to his spot, leaning against the counter, and crosses his arms again, resuming his previous position as if the entire, mortifying embrace never happened. He is quiet for a long moment. You can see he has finished processing the data. The verdict is in.
“So,” he begins, his ice-blue eyes locking onto yours. “He tells you he needs to focus on the racing.”
You nod meekly, dabbing at your nose with the towel.
“But two days later,” he continues, his voice flat and factual, “he is in a club with a new girl.”
You flinch but nod again. “Yes.”
Kimi considers this for another second. His expression doesn’t change, but his tone becomes one of absolute, unshakeable certainty, as if he’s stating a fundamental law of the universe.
“He is an idiot.”
The words, so simple, so blunt, so undeniably true, slice through the fog of your heartbreak. He doesn’t offer pity. He doesn’t say, “you deserve better” or “it’s his loss.” He just states the obvious, objective truth. It wasn’t some grand, tragic sacrifice for his career. It wasn’t some complex emotional turmoil. It was simple, straightforward idiocy.
And hearing it from Kimi Räikkönen, the man of famously few words, makes it feel like the most profound wisdom you’ve ever heard.
It’s so simple, so definitive, it acts as a strange sort of balm on your raw nerves. The smile that flickers on your face feels alien, like a muscle you haven’t used in years. It’s weak, watery, but it’s there.
Kimi watches this small transformation, his expression unchanged. He has delivered his verdict and now considers that part of the problem-solving process complete. He pushes himself off the counter. The phase of emotional assessment is over. It is time for logistics.
“Where is the car?” He asks.
You blink, pulled from your reverie. “What?”
“The car,” he repeats, his voice flat, patient. “Where did you leave it?”
“Oh. Um, back on the road. I don't know, maybe a kilometer or two from your gate? It’s a grey Alfa Romeo Giulia.” The make of the car is another small, cruel twist of the knife, a reminder of the F1 team he once drove for, the world you once inhabited.
He nods, already moving towards a drawer near the pristine kitchen sink. He pulls out a small notepad and a pen. “License plate?”
You tell him the Monaco plate number from memory. He jots it down in a surprisingly neat, compact script.
“Keys,” he says. It’s not a question.
You fumble in the back pocket of your jeans, your fingers closing around the familiar, cool metal. You pull them out and hold them up. The little prancing horse keychain attached to them feels like a branding iron against your palm.
He walks over and plucks them from your hand, his fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second. His touch is cool and dry. He drops the keys on the marble island with a soft clink, then turns and retrieves a cordless phone from its charging base on the wall. He presses a few buttons and brings it to his ear, turning to face the wall of windows, his back to you once more.
You hear him speak, and the language is not one you recognize. It’s a fluid, melodic string of sounds that you assume must be Finnish. Then it switches to crisp, perfect German. You watch his reflection in the glass as he talks. He’s gesturing with his free hand, a short, chopping motion, as he describes the location of the car. He is all business. There is no wasted energy, no wasted words. He gives the license plate number, describes the make and color. He is efficient, competent, and completely in control. Everything you are not.
You sit there on the stool, clutching the kitchen towel like a lifeline, feeling the full, crushing weight of your helplessness. Less than seventy-two hours ago, you were planning a dinner party in your multi-million-euro apartment in Monaco. You had a life, a future, a partner you loved. Now you’re a charity case in a stranger’s house in Switzerland, unable to even organize a simple tow truck for yourself. The disparity is so vast it makes you dizzy.
He ends the call with a clipped, “Danke, tschüss,” and places the phone back on its charger. He turns back to you.
“Okay,” he says. “They come in one hour. Maybe less.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, the words feeling utterly inadequate. “Really, Kimi. I … thank you.”
He gives a slight shrug, as if to say, what else was I supposed to do? He walks over to the high-tech refrigerator, the one that’s been humming softly this whole time, and opens it. The interior light illuminates a space that is as organized and minimalist as the rest of his house. Bottles of water, cartons of milk, some vegetables, and a few containers of what looks like yogurt.
“You are hungry,” he states. It’s not a question. It is a diagnosis.
Your stomach clenches at the thought of food, but you also know he’s right. You’re running on empty, on nothing but grief and a single shot of espresso. You haven’t eaten in well over twenty-four hours.
“I-I don’t know,” you stammer.
He closes the fridge and looks at you, his gaze lingering on your pale face, the dark circles under your eyes. “You need to eat,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you need water.”
He retrieves a tall glass from a cabinet, fills it with water from a dispenser in the fridge door, and places it in front of you on the island. “Drink.”
You drink. The water is cold and clean, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. You drain half the glass in one go, your parched body soaking it up gratefully.
He watches you for a moment, then seems to come to another decision. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the room, his socked feet silent on the concrete. You are left alone again in the vast, quiet space. The sun is higher now, flooding the room with a brilliant, clean light that makes you feel even more grimy and dishevelled. You can see the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams.
You finish the glass of water and look around the room properly. There are no photographs. No clutter. No personal trinkets, save for the single pink toy car you saw earlier, which you can now see is parked neatly beside the leg of a sleek, low-profile media console. The whole space feels less like a home and more like a luxury hotel suite that has been meticulously prepared for a guest who has yet to arrive. It is the home of a man who lives an uncomplicated life. A man who, you suspect, actively purges any and all potential complications.
And you are a walking, crying, five-foot-something complication that has just been deposited in the middle of it.
The sound of his returning footsteps makes you jump. He comes back into the kitchen holding a phone to his ear. He’s listening intently, his expression impassive.
“Ja … ja, ich verstehe,” he says into the phone. “Okay. Wie lange?” He pauses, listening. “Drei tage? Minimum?” Another pause. His eyes flick over to you, a quick, unreadable glance. “Okay. Schicken Sie mir die Details. Danke.”
He hangs up and places the phone face down on the counter. The finality of the sound echoes in the quiet room.
“That was the garage,” he says.
“And?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper, though you think you already know the answer. Bad days do not suddenly turn good.
“The engine is a big problem,” he says, delivering the news with the same emotional investment he’d use to report the weather. “They need to order a part from Italy. It will not be fast.”
“How … how not fast?” You ask, dreading the answer.
He looks you straight in the eye. “Three days,” he says. “Maybe four. If you are lucky.”
Three or four days.
The words sink in like stones. Three or four days stranded here. With no car, no clothes, no plan. The idea is so overwhelming you feel a fresh wave of panic begin to rise in your chest. A hotel. You’ll need to find a hotel. You can call a taxi. You have your wallet. You can handle this. You’re not completely useless.
You start to slide off the stool, a frantic energy seizing you. “Okay. Okay, a hotel. I’ll just call a taxi. Is there a hotel nearby?”
Kimi just watches you, his head tilted slightly, like you’re a particularly confusing species of animal. “A hotel,” he repeats, his tone flat.
“Yes, I can’t impose on you any longer. You’ve done so much already. I just need to get to a hotel, and I’ll figure it out from there.”
He doesn't move. He just continues to look at you, his arms crossed over his chest. He takes in your appearance: your tear-swollen face, your tangled hair, the fine tremor in your hands, the way you’re still clutching his kitchen towel like a security blanket.
He lets out one of his long, slow sighs. The sigh of a man whose peaceful, orderly existence is being systematically dismantled.
“Okay,” he says. “So. Your car is broken for three, four days. You have no clothes. You look …” he pauses, apparently searching for the right word. He settles on, “… not good. You have no hotel. You do not speak the language.” He lists these facts off, one by one, a calm, rational inventory of your pathetic situation.
He lets the weight of his assessment settle in the air between you.
Then he delivers the logical conclusion.
“You stay here.”
It’s not an invitation. It’s not a question. It is an instruction. A solution to a problem. He has identified the variables and calculated the most efficient outcome. You will stay here.
You stare at him, speechless. “What? No, I can’t. Kimi, that’s too much. I’m a stranger.”
“I know who you are,” he says simply. “Is easier if you stay. A taxi to a hotel is … a complication. Finding a hotel is a complication. You here,” he gestures around the vast, empty house, “is not a complication.”
The logic is bizarrely sound. You are clearly in no shape to take care of yourself. Navigating a foreign town, checking into a hotel, being completely alone with your thoughts for three days sounds like its own special kind of hell. Here, at least, there is … Kimi. A strange, silent, stoic guardian who seems to have reluctantly decided you are his problem to solve.
“I don’t know what to say,” you stammer, overwhelmed by the absurdity and the unexpectedness of the offer.
“Say nothing,” he replies, already turning away, the decision made and the discussion, in his mind, clearly over. “Come.”
He starts walking towards the grand, floating staircase you saw when you first came in. You hesitate for a second, then scramble off the stool and hurry to follow him, trailing in his wake like a lost duckling.
He leads you up the stairs. The second floor is a long hallway with the same polished concrete floors and white walls. He stops at the first door and pushes it open.
“Guest room,” he announces.
The room is beautiful, of course. It’s as minimalist as the rest of the house, but it feels softer. A large, low-slung bed is covered in a fluffy grey duvet. A plush, cream-colored rug covers a portion of the floor. One wall is entirely glass, looking out onto a dense forest of pine trees. It is serene. A calm, quiet sanctuary.
He walks into the room and opens another door, revealing a sleek, modern en-suite bathroom. “Bathroom is here,” he says, pointing. “Towels are in the cabinet. There is soap. Everything.” He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your rumpled silk blouse and jeans, the clothes you’ve been wearing for more than a day. “You should shower.”
It’s a suggestion, but it feels like another one of his non-negotiable instructions. And he’s right. You feel disgusting. A film of grime and grief coats your skin.
“Okay,” you say softly.
He nods, seemingly satisfied. He turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway. He looks back at you, a flicker of something in his eyes.
“Do not worry about the car,” he says. “Is just a car.”
And then he’s gone, pulling the door quietly shut behind him, leaving you alone in the silent room.
You stand there for a full minute, just breathing. The quiet is a balm. The room feels safe. You walk over to the glass wall and press your forehead against the cool pane, looking out at the endless green of the forest. For the first time since Charles said those four fateful words, you feel like you can breathe again. Just a little.
You turn towards the bathroom, peeling off your dirty clothes as you go. You leave them in a sad, crumpled pile on the floor. In the bathroom, you find a stack of thick, fluffy white towels in a cabinet, just as he said. You turn on the shower, and the water pressure is incredible. You step under the steaming hot spray and let it wash over you.
You wash your hair. You scrub your skin. You watch the grime and the sweat and the last twenty-four hours of misery swirl down the drain. You cry a little more, but these are different tears. Quieter ones. Tears of exhaustion and release, not of sharp, agonizing pain.
When you finally step out, wrapped in one of the enormous, soft towels, you feel almost human again. You dry your hair as best you can with the towel, your reflection in the fogged-up mirror still a stranger — puffy-eyed and pale, but cleaner.
You walk back into the bedroom, and you stop.
Lying neatly folded on the foot of the bed is a set of clean clothes. A soft, grey t-shirt and a pair of black athletic shorts. They are simple, clean, and clearly his.
A lump forms in your throat. He had gone and found you something to wear. He hadn’t mentioned it. He had just done it. Another problem identified, another solution quietly executed.
You pick up the t-shirt. It’s impossibly soft and smells faintly of clean laundry and something else … a subtle, clean scent that is uniquely him. You pull it on. It’s huge on you, the hem falling to your mid-thighs, the sleeves loose on your arms. The shorts are equally big, but they have a drawstring you can pull tight.
Dressed in his clothes, feeling small and swaddled in them, you feel a strange sense of security. You look ridiculous, but you are clean, and you are comfortable.
You pad barefoot out of the room and back towards the stairs. As you descend, a new smell fills the air. A rich, savory, delicious smell that makes your long-dormant stomach rumble loudly in protest.
It’s the smell of bacon.
You reach the bottom of the stairs and walk back into the kitchen. Kimi is standing at the stove, his back to you again. He has a pan sizzling on the cooktop. Beside it, another pan holds four perfectly frying eggs. A rack of toast is cooling on the counter.
He is cooking you breakfast.
He hasn’t made a sound. He has simply anticipated your needs and met them, one by one. Tow truck. A place to stay. A shower. Clean clothes. Food. He moves with a quiet competence that is both baffling and deeply comforting. He is, you realize, taking care of you. In his own strange, silent, Iceman way.
He must hear you because he glances over his shoulder. He sees you standing there, dressed in his clothes, your hair damp and combed, your face scrubbed clean. He gives a single, almost imperceptible nod of approval. The problem of the crying, hysterical woman on his doorstep is slowly being downgraded to the more manageable problem of a quiet, sad houseguest.
“Sit,” he says, jerking his chin towards the island. “Is ready now.”
***
The days that follow fall into a strange, quiet rhythm, dictated not by conversation, but by a series of unspoken routines. Life inside Kimi’s minimalist sanctuary is calm, predictable, and blessedly free of drama. It is the exact opposite of the life you just fled.
He is, you learn, an early riser. You wake on your first morning to the distant, comforting scent of coffee already brewing. When you emerge from your room, still swimming in his oversized t-shirt, you find a mug placed on the kitchen island at your usual spot, steam gently rising from the dark liquid.
He’s already dressed in jeans and a fresh t-shirt, staring out the vast glass wall at the lake, his own mug in hand. He doesn't greet you with a “good morning.” He just gives a short, sharp nod in your direction, a silent acknowledgment that the day has begun.
This is how he shows he’s caring. It’s never in words. It’s in actions, a series of quiet, practical gestures that speak volumes. He notices you don't have a phone charger, and a little while later, a universal charging block with multiple cords appears on the counter beside your mug. He sees you shivering in the air conditioning, and a soft, grey blanket appears on the arm of the sofa. He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry for lunch; he simply starts making sandwiches at noon and places one on a plate in front of you.
He demands nothing from you. He doesn’t push you to talk. He doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. He seems to understand, in his own innate, logical way, that you are a system that has suffered a catastrophic failure and requires a period of quiet diagnostics and basic refueling before you can even begin to function again. He provides the quiet. He provides the fuel.
You spend most of that first day in a daze, curled up on the enormous sofa under the blanket he provided, staring blankly at the news on a muted television. Your phone sits on the counter, charging. You can’t bring yourself to look at it. You know it will be a minefield of pitying texts from friends, missed calls from your mother, and, most terrifyingly, either a wall of silence or a string of hollow excuses from Charles. For now, ignorance feels like survival.
Kimi leaves you to it. He disappears for hours at a time, either into a room down the hall that you assume is an office or outside onto the sprawling property. You hear the faint roar of what sounds like a go-kart engine at one point, and the sound is so familiar, so tied to your old life, that it sends a fresh pang of grief through you.
Late in the afternoon, you finally summon the courage to pick up your phone. You have thirty-seven missed calls and over a hundred messages. Your thumbs tremble as you scroll through them. Most are from your friends in Monaco, a cascade of “Are you okay?”, “Where are you?”, and “Call me RIGHT NOW.” There are frantic, worried messages from your parents. There are even a few from people on Charles’s team, from his press officer, from his trainer.
And from Charles? Nothing. Not a single call. Not a single text.
The silence from him is somehow more damning than the photos. It’s an admission of guilt. It confirms that he doesn’t care, that he has simply deleted you from his life with the same ruthless efficiency he’d use to drop a struggling race engineer. The coldness of it chills you to the bone. You feel a fresh wave of tears threatening, and you quickly put the phone back down, face-down on the counter, as if you can physically block out the hurt.
You’re trying to pull yourself together when Kimi walks back into the kitchen. He sees your stricken face, his eyes flicking from you to the phone and back again. He says nothing about your tears. He just walks to the fridge.
“Salmon for dinner,” he announces, pulling out two large fillets. “And potatoes.”
His refusal to engage with your emotional turmoil is, you realize, the greatest kindness he could possibly show you. He’s not ignoring your pain, he’s simply building a world for you where that pain is not the most important thing. In this house, the most important thing is that dinner will be ready in an hour.
He is, as it turns out, an excellent cook. In a simple, no-fuss kind of way. He seasons the salmon perfectly, roasts the potatoes until they are crispy, and steams a side of asparagus. He works with the same quiet competence he applies to everything else.
He sets two places at the island. When he brings the plates over, he also brings two small, heavy-bottomed glasses and a bottle of vodka, slick with condensation from the freezer. He places it on the counter between you.
You stare at it. “Vodka?”
“Yes,” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He uncaps the bottle and pours a generous shot into each glass. “Is good with salmon.”
You don’t know if that’s true, but you’re certainly not going to argue. You pick up the glass. The vodka is icy cold and clean. You take a sip, and the sharp, clean burn is a welcome shock to your system.
Dinner is eaten in their now-customary silence. But it feels different tonight. Less awkward. More companionable. The shared meal, the surprising shot of vodka, it feels like a tentative step towards something resembling normalcy.
***
The second day is when you learn about his children.
You’re helping him clear the breakfast dishes — a task he allows you to do after you insist, though he watches you with a critical eye to make sure you put everything in the dishwasher correctly — when you notice it. Taped to the door of the otherwise immaculate stainless steel fridge is a child’s drawing. It’s a crayon rendering of two stick figures, one big and one small, standing next to a red car. The sun in the corner has a smiley face. It’s the single most personal, chaotic object in the entire house.
“Who’s the artist?” You ask, your voice soft.
Kimi follows your gaze to the drawing. A flicker of something crosses his face. It’s not quite a smile, but the hard lines around his eyes soften for a fraction of a second.
“Robin,” he says. “My son.”
The information surprises you. You knew he had been married, of course, the F1 paddock being the gossip mill that it is. But his private life was always a black box.
“And who’s this?” You ask, pointing to the smaller stick figure.
“Rianna. My daughter.”
“It’s a good drawing,” you say, tracing the wobbly outline of the red car. “Is this a Ferrari?”
“Of course,” he says, with a tone that implies it couldn’t possibly be anything else.
“Where are they?” You ask, realizing as soon as the words are out of your mouth that it might be too personal.
But he doesn’t seem to mind. “In Finland. With their mother,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “They come here next week.”
He falls silent, but there's a new quality to the air. You remember the small pink toy car you saw on your first day, parked by the television. Suddenly, the sterile, minimalist house feels different. It is not the empty shell of a bachelor pad,it is a home waiting for its children to return.
“You must miss them,” you say quietly.
He just grunts in response, but it’s an affirmative grunt. He closes the dishwasher with a definitive click. “They are good kids,” he says, almost to himself. “Fast. Like me.”
The pride in his voice is unmistakable. In that moment, you see a glimpse of the man behind the Iceman persona. A father. A man who loves his children wholeheartedly. And you realize that his quiet, gruff kindness isn’t so strange after all. It’s the protective, practical language of a parent.
Later that afternoon, you’re scrolling through your phone again. The news of your breakup with Charles is now everywhere. Celebrity gossip sites, F1 fan forums, even some mainstream news outlets have picked it up. They’re all using the same grainy photo of him kissing the brunette. Her name, you learn, is Margot. She’s a model. Of course she is.
The articles are full of speculation. Sources “close to the couple” claim the split was “amicable” and that Charles “wishes her all the best.” The hypocrisy makes you want to throw your phone against the wall.
Kimi walks in as you’re staring at an article with the headline LECLERC'S NEW LAP OF LOVE: F1 ACE MOVES ON AT RECORD SPEED!
He glances at your phone screen. A look of profound disdain crosses his features.
“He talks to the media before he talks to you,” Kimi states, shaking his head slowly.
“His press officer probably released a statement,” you say, trying to defend a man who doesn't deserve your defense. It’s an old habit.
“Is the same thing,” Kimi says, dismissing the excuse. He looks at the phone again, at the picture of Charles and Margot. “He thinks with the wrong head.” He walks to the fridge to get a bottle of water, his verdict delivered. The conversation is over. But his simple, crude, and accurate assessment makes you feel a little stronger. He doesn’t suffer fools. And he has officially, unequivocally, classified Charles Leclerc as a fool.
***
It’s the third night. The day before your car is supposed to be ready.
The reality of your departure looms over you. Tomorrow, you will get your car back. And then what? You can’t go back to Monaco. Not yet. Maybe ever. Where will you go? The questions spiral in your mind, bringing with them a familiar sense of panic and hopelessness. The calm, safe bubble Kimi has built around you is about to burst.
You feel a desperate need to not think about it. At least for one more night.
Kimi seems to sense your mood. Or maybe he’s just decided that the evening’s menu calls for it. When he starts cooking dinner — simple grilled chicken and a fresh salad this time — the bottle of freezer-chilled vodka makes an early appearance.
“A long day,” he says by way of explanation, pouring two very generous shots.
“A long few days,” you agree, picking up your glass.
You drink the first shot quickly. The burn is familiar now, almost comforting. He immediately refills your glass.
“The car is ready tomorrow,” he says, flipping the chicken on the grill pan. “At noon.”
“I know,” you say, your voice small. “Thank you … for letting me know. And for everything.”
“Is nothing,” he says, his standard reply.
But tonight, it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like everything. He has saved you. Maybe not in a grand, dramatic way, but in a quiet, essential one. He has given you a sanctuary when you had nowhere else to go. He has fed you, sheltered you, and, in his own way, protected you.
The vodka works its magic quickly on your empty stomach and frayed nerves. The sharp edges of your anxiety begin to soften. The kitchen fills with the savory smell of cooking, the comfortable silence punctuated by the sizzle of the chicken and the clink of your glasses.
You have a second shot. Then a third. By the time you’re eating, you’re feeling a warm, pleasant buzz. You’re talking more than you have in days, telling him a stupid story about a trip you took to Japan, and he’s actually listening, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be the beginning of a smile.
After dinner, he refills your glasses again.
“Kimi,” you say, your words slurring slightly. “You’ve been … you’ve been so good to me. I don’t know how to thank you.”
He looks at you, his blue eyes surprisingly clear and focused. “Is not necessary,” he says. “He was an idiot. You needed a place to go. Is logical.”
“No, it’s not logical,” you insist, feeling bold from the alcohol. “Logical would have been calling me a taxi and sending me to a hotel. Logical would have been not letting a crying, crazy stranger into your house. That was … kind.”
He considers this for a moment, swirling the vodka in his glass. “Maybe,” he concedes, which for Kimi is a seismic admission.
You’re both leaning against the island, the empty dinner plates pushed to the side. The kitchen is dark now, the only light coming from a soft, recessed glow above the counters. It feels intimate. The rest of the world has faded away. There is only this quiet room, the lingering scent of dinner, and the icy burn of the vodka.
Your eyes meet across the counter. The silence that falls this time is different. It’s not empty. It’s charged with something new, something you can’t quite name. The professional, platonic distance he has so carefully maintained for three days seems to be dissolving in the alcoholic haze.
He looks at your mouth. It’s only for a second, but you see it. And your breath catches in your throat.
He pushes himself off the counter and starts gathering the plates. The moment is broken. Or so you think. He stacks them by the sink, then turns back to you. He doesn’t return to his side of the island. He stops on yours. He’s standing close. So close you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. You have to tilt your head back to look up at him.
“You should go to bed,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You have a long drive tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to drive tomorrow,” you confess in a whisper. “I don’t want to leave.”
You hate how pathetic you sound, but it’s the truth. Leaving means facing the wreckage of your life. Staying here means … safety.
He looks down at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His famous icy gaze seems to have melted into something softer, darker. He reaches out, and you flinch, expecting him to pat your shoulder or do something equally awkward and paternal.
But he doesn’t.
His hand comes up to your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. His touch is warm and surprisingly gentle. It sends a shiver through your entire body.
“Kimi,” you breathe, your voice trembling.
He says nothing. He just lowers his head, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don't. You can’t. You are rooted to the spot, caught in the gravity of his gaze.
His lips meet yours.
The kiss is not what you expect. It’s not hungry or passionate like Charles’s had been in that horrible photo. It’s slow, and deep, and questioning. It tastes of vodka and a quiet, profound loneliness that you recognize because it mirrors your own.
You lean into him, your hands coming up to grip his t-shirt. You kiss him back with all the desperation and confusion and gratitude that has been building inside you for three days. It’s a kiss that says thank you. It’s a kiss that says I’m so lost. It’s a kiss that says please, just for tonight, don’t let me be alone.
He seems to understand all of it. He deepens the kiss, one hand moving from your face to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the solid, steady beat of his heart against your chest.
When he finally breaks the kiss, you’re both breathing heavily. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
“Is a bad idea,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips.
“I know,” you whisper back. “I don’t care.”
He opens his eyes, and the conflict is clear in them. The logical, sensible man is at war with something older, more instinctual. For once, instinct wins.
Without another word, he slides his arm around your waist, his other hand finding yours, and leads you out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. He leads you past the guest room door, past the long, quiet hallway, all the way to a door at the very end. His room.
His bedroom is as stark and simple as the rest of the house, dominated by a huge, low bed. He doesn’t turn on the lights. The moonlight streaming through the glass wall is all you need.
There is no awkward fumbling. There are no declarations. There is only a quiet, mutual shedding of clothes, a shared sense of purpose. It’s a silent, desperate search for human connection. When you are under the cool, crisp sheets of his bed, and he is beside you, his skin warm against yours, it feels less like a seduction and more like a homecoming.
It’s a quiet, desperate collision of two lonely people in the dark. And as you lose yourself in the feeling of his arms around you, his body over yours, you manage, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, to not think about Charles Leclerc at all.
***
You wake slowly, drifting up from the depths of a dreamless, heavy sleep. For the first few blissful seconds, there is nothing. No grief, no panic, no searing memory of betrayal. There is only a profound sense of peace, a quiet warmth you haven’t felt in years.
Then, you become aware of the body next to you.
The events of last night come rushing back not in a torrent, but in a soft, hazy wave. The vodka. The kiss. The silent, urgent journey to this room. You are in Kimi Räikkönen’s bed.
You open your eyes.
The morning light is filtering through the vast glass wall, painting the minimalist room in pale, gentle shades of grey and gold. The room is as stark and clean in the daylight as you imagined, but it feels different now. Warmer. Lived in. Your crumpled clothes are a messy heap on a sleek leather armchair in the corner, a chaotic splash of color in the otherwise perfect space.
You turn your head on the pillow. Kimi is still asleep, lying on his back, one arm thrown over his head. His face, usually a mask of stoic indifference, is completely relaxed in sleep. He looks younger. The hard lines around his eyes and mouth have softened. His breathing is a deep, steady rhythm beside you. In this moment, he is not the Iceman. He is just a man.
You lie there, perfectly still, just watching him, listening to the quiet sounds of the house waking up around you. A bird sings outside the window. The house is silent. You feel a strange, protective urge to not disturb this peace, to let this moment stretch on for as long as possible. Because you know what comes next.
Reality.
Today is the day your car will be ready. Today is the day you are supposed to leave.
The thought sends a familiar jolt of anxiety through you. Leaving means driving away from this strange, quiet sanctuary and straight back into the chaos of your imploded life. It means finding a hotel, dealing with the logistics of moving out of the Monaco apartment, and facing the soul-crushing silence from the man you thought you would spend your life with. The prospect is exhausting.
You carefully, slowly, slide out from under the heavy duvet, trying not to wake him. The cool morning air raises goosebumps on your bare skin. You tiptoe over to the chair to retrieve your clothes when a low, gravelly voice stops you cold.
“Where are you going?”
You turn. He’s awake. His eyes are open, that piercing ice-blue fixed on you. He hasn’t moved a muscle, but his gaze is alert, watchful.
“I … I was just going to get dressed,” you stammer, feeling suddenly exposed, vulnerable. “I should probably—I have to go pick up my car at noon.”
You say the words, and they hang in the air between you, a stark reminder of the temporary nature of your stay. The bubble is about to burst.
Kimi continues to look at you, his expression unreadable. He pushes himself up, leaning back against the headboard, the grey sheet pooling around his waist. He doesn’t say anything for a long, heavy moment. He just watches you, and you feel like he’s seeing right through you, to the panic and the fear you’re trying so hard to hide.
This is it, you think. The awkward morning-after. He’ll give you a polite nod, maybe offer you coffee, and then you’ll be on your way. Last night was a fluke, a vodka-fueled moment of shared loneliness. A bad idea, as he himself said.
But then he speaks, and the word he says is not one you expect.
“Stay.”
It’s not a question. It’s not a command. It’s … something else. A plea, delivered with the blunt force of a man who does not know how to plead. The word is quiet, but it lands in the room with the weight of a dropped engine block.
You stare at him. “What?”
“Stay,” he repeats, his voice a little rougher this time. He shifts, sitting up straighter. This, you realize with a jolt, is a display of emotion. For Kimi Räikkönen, this is the equivalent of a grand, heartfelt speech. He is visibly uncomfortable, out of his element, but he is not backing down.
“Kimi, I can’t,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. The kindness of the offer makes your throat ache. “You’ve been incredible, but this isn’t—I can’t just hide here forever. I have to go get my life together.”
“Your life is not together in Monaco,” he states, his logic infuriatingly simple. “Idiot is there. Paparazzi. Is not good.”
“I know that,” you say, a fresh wave of despair washing over you. “But I can’t just move into your house. I have a job. I have clients. I have responsibilities.”
This seems to genuinely pique his interest. The logical, problem-solving part of his brain kicks in, overriding the uncharacteristic emotional display. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. He is back on familiar ground: data acquisition.
“A job?” He asks. “What is your job?”
“I’m an interior designer,” you tell him.
A beat of silence. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. His eyes light up with a sudden, brilliant idea. A solution. A way to make you stay that fits within his logical framework.
“Perfect,” he says, his voice full of a strange, triumphant finality.
You’re confused. “Perfect? What’s perfect?”
“You have a job,” he says, as if explaining something to a small child. “Here. With me. You are hired.”
You stare at him for a full ten seconds, and then you burst out laughing. You can’t help it. The laughter is a release of all the tension, all the absurdity of the last few days. It’s a real, genuine laugh, and it feels incredible.
“You’re hiring me?” You manage to get out between giggles. “Kimi, have you looked around this house? It’s stunning. It looks like it was ripped from the pages of a magazine. You don’t need an interior designer. Whoever designed this place already did a perfect job.”
You gesture around his beautiful, minimalist bedroom. “What could I possibly do? Pick out a new throw pillow?”
This is where he starts to fumble. He’s been so confident in his brilliant solution, he hadn’t thought this far ahead. His eyes dart around the room, searching for a flaw, for a project, for any justification for his ridiculous offer. You can see the panic begin to set in. He looks at the sleek, custom-built wardrobe. He glances at the perfectly appointed en-suite bathroom. Nothing. The place is flawless.
He’s completely cornered. And then, he finds it. The one thing. The only thing. He looks back at you, his expression now deadly serious.
“The … laundry room,” he says.
You stop laughing. You just stare at him. “The laundry room?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice gaining confidence. He latches onto the lie with the tenacity of a driver defending his position on the track. “Is no good. The … the flow. Is all wrong. The machines are in a bad place. The … folding area,” he says, clearly inventing the term on the spot, “is not efficient. It needs to be redone. Completely.”
The lie is so transparent, so wonderfully, hilariously bad, it makes your heart ache. The Iceman, the master of unflappable cool, is inventing a laundry room crisis to convince you to stay. He would rather lie about the logistical efficiency of his linen care than admit, simply, that he wants you around. And in that moment, it’s the most romantic, most endearing thing anyone has ever done for you.
You decide to play along, a slow smile spreading across your face. You cross your arms, looking at him with a mock-professional expression. “The laundry room, you say? A major design flaw.”
“Yes,” he insists, nodding seriously. “A disaster.”
“And you want to hire me, an expert, to handle this … critical renovation?”
“You said you need a job,” he points out, his logic a perfect, closed loop. “I have a job. You do the job. You stay here. Problem is solved.”
You walk over to the edge of the bed and sit down, facing him. The sheet is still pooled around his waist, and you have to resist the urge to reach out and touch him. “Okay, Mr. Räikkönen,” you say, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s talk terms. What’s the budget for this … laundry room disaster?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Whatever,” he says.
“And the timeline?”
“As long as it takes,” he replies, his gaze intense.
You look at him, at this stubborn, ridiculous, unexpectedly wonderful man. You weigh your options. You can go. You can drive away in your repaired car and face the music, face the empty apartment, face the suffocating pity of your friends and the crushing silence of your ex. You can be strong and independent and miserable.
Or.
You can stay. You can accept this absurd, transparent, and incredibly sweet offer. You can stay in this quiet haven, with this quiet man who makes you feel safer than you’ve felt in your entire life. You can work on the most pointless, most romantic renovation project in the history of interior design. You can give yourself a minute to breathe. To heal.
It’s not even a choice.
“Alright,” you say, a real, happy smile lighting up your face. “You’ve got yourself a designer.”
A look of relief washes over his face. It’s a subtle shift, a slight easing of the tension in his jaw, but to you, it’s as clear as a checkered flag. He won.
“But,” you add, holding up a finger, “I am a professional. My first order of business will be a full on-site consultation. I’m going to need to see this disaster of a laundry room for myself. Immediately.”
A rare, small smile plays on his lips. The kind of smile that feels like a secret you’re both sharing. He looks at you, then at the rumpled sheets, then back at you.
“Later,” he says, his voice a low, husky growl. “The consultation can wait.”
Before you can react, he reaches out, grabs the front of your borrowed t-shirt, and pulls you down onto the bed with surprising strength. You let out a squeal of laughter as you tumble into the soft duvet.
He rolls over, caging you in with his arms, his body warm and solid above you.
“First,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, “breakfast.” He pauses, his mouth hovering just inches from yours. “After one more round.”
You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull him down to you. The laundry room could wait. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
***
A year can change everything.
A year ago, your world was a silent, minimalist villa owned by a stranger, a sterile sanctuary from a life that had just been publicly detonated. Now, that same villa is your home. And it is no longer silent.
It is filled with the sound of a little girl’s infectious giggles as she runs through the living room, her bright pink socks slipping on the polished concrete floor. It is filled with the low hum of a go-kart engine being meticulously tuned in the garage by a father and his quiet, focused son. It is filled with the scent of your baking, a warm, sweet counterpoint to the clean, modern lines of the kitchen. It is filled with life. Your life.
The laundry room, for the record, is a masterpiece of logistical efficiency and aesthetic calm. It was your first project, a ridiculous, wonderful monument to the lie that started your new life. After that, the changes were smaller, more organic. A plush, deep blue velvet sofa replaced the cold, grey sectional. A gallery wall of framed photographs — Kimi holding a laughing Rianna upside down, you and Robin covered in mud after a motocross session, the four of you squinting into the sun on a boat in a Finnish lake — now covers the vast white expanse of the main wall. There are plants, and books, and a worn, antique rug in the hallway that you found in a little shop in Zurich.
You have taken Kimi Räikkönen’s perfect, sterile house and you have made it a home. And he has, in his own quiet, steady way, helped you rebuild your heart.
“Robin, have you seen your pass?” You call out, holding up a lanyard with a VIP credential attached. “We can’t get into the paddock if you lose it!”
Your voice echoes slightly in the high-ceilinged space. You’re in the midst of the controlled chaos that is trying to get two children and one famously unhurried former Formula 1 World Champion out of the door on time.
Robin, a miniature version of his father with the same serious eyes and quiet intensity, appears from the hallway. He doesn’t speak, just points to the pocket of his little jacket.
“Okay, good,” you say with a relieved smile, ruffling his hair. “Rianna, sweetie, shoes!”
“But I want to wear the sparkly ones!” Comes a determined voice from the direction of the sofa.
Kimi emerges from the kitchen, holding a bottle of water and a half-eaten apple. He looks at you, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He is dressed in his usual uniform of jeans and a black t-shirt, but he looks different than he did a year ago. Softer. The constant, low-level tension he used to carry in his shoulders is gone.
“The sparkly shoes are not for the race track,” he says to his daughter, his voice its usual gravelly monotone. “Too much walking. You wear the trainers.”
“But Isä!”
“He’s right, Ri,” you interject, crouching down in front of her. “The trainers are much better for running away from scary reporters.”
This makes her giggle. “Okay!” She agrees, suddenly compliant.
You stand up, and Kimi is watching you, his expression one of quiet contentment. He hands you the bottle of water.
“You are ready for this?” He asks. It’s the closest he’ll get to acknowledging the potential awkwardness of your return to the F1 paddock.
You take a sip of water and smile at him. “It’s just a race, Kimi.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “People are the same. Mostly idiots.”
You laugh, leaning in to kiss him. The kiss is soft and familiar, a comfortable punctuation mark in the conversation of your life together. A year ago, the thought of returning to this world, the scene of your greatest humiliation, would have sent you into a spiral of panic. Now? Now it feels like a field trip. Your real life is here, in this house, with this man and these children. Everything else is just noise.
***
The Monza paddock is exactly as you remember it, only a thousand times more so. It’s a sensory overload of noise, color, and controlled chaos. The roar of an engine being tested in a nearby garage, the smell of burning rubber and high-octane fuel, the frantic energy of people marching with purpose, headsets on, clipboards in hand. And above it all, the passionate, ever-present hum of the Tifosi, the sea of red-clad fans chanting on the other side of the barriers.
This is Ferrari’s home. Charles’s home.
You feel a brief, phantom pang of the old anxiety, a ghostly echo of the girl you used to be. Then you feel a small hand slip into yours. You look down to see Robin looking up at you, his expression serious. You squeeze his hand. On your other side, Kimi is holding Rianna’s hand, who is pointing excitedly at a passing television camera.
You are a fortress, the four of you. A solid, hand-holding, impenetrable unit.
You walk through the turnstiles, your VIP passes beeping your entry into the inner sanctum. The plan is simple: say a quick hello to Kimi’s old friends at Alfa Romeo, grab a famously bad paddock coffee, and then watch the qualifying session from their hospitality suite. In and out. Minimal fuss.
Of course, that is not what happens.
The first domino falls as you pass the glowing red monolith of the Ferrari motorhome.
A pair of senior engineers, men you knew well from countless dinners and victory parties, are standing outside, deep in conversation over a data screen. One of them, a kind, balding man named Lucio, glances up. His eyes widen in recognition.
“Y/N?” He says, a huge, surprised smile breaking out on his face. “Ciao! Che sorpresa!” He takes a step toward you, his hand outstretched.
And that’s when he sees him. The man whose hand is linked with yours. His smile freezes. His brain visibly short-circuits, trying to process the impossible image in front of him. You, plus Kimi. And then his gaze drops to the two small children between you. You. Kimi. Children. A family.
Lucio stops dead in his tracks.
The other engineer, who was still looking at the data screen and walking forward, is not prepared for the sudden stop. He walks directly into Lucio’s back with a comical oof. The tablet he was holding goes flying, skittering across the asphalt. A third engineer, rushing out of the garage with a tray of espressos, swerves to avoid the flying tablet, trips over a power cable, and goes down in a clattering, coffee-splashing heap.
It’s a multi-engineer pile-up, a tangle of red uniforms and bewildered expressions.
“Isä, those men fell down,” Rianna observes, her voice full of childish curiosity.
“Yes,” Kimi says, not breaking his stride. “They forgot how to walk.”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing, pulling Robin along as Kimi leads your little parade away from the spreading puddle of espresso.
The second domino is a mechanic. A young guy you vaguely recognize, who always had a bit of a crush on you, is walking towards the garage carrying a front wing — a multi-million-dollar piece of carbon fiber. He spots you, his jaw going slack. His eyes follow you, completely mesmerized. He doesn’t see the partition wall for the tire bay.
THUMP.
The sound of his head connecting with the solid wall is sickeningly loud. He slides down to the ground, dazed, the precious front wing still clutched in his hands like a holy relic. A group of his colleagues rush over, torn between concern and hysterical laughter.
By now, your little procession is starting to draw attention. People are staring, whispering. The former girlfriend of Ferrari’s golden boy, holding hands with Ferrari’s last World Champion and his children. The gossip is spreading through the paddock at the speed of light.
And then comes the third, and perhaps most spectacular, domino.
Lewis Hamilton is cruising towards you on his signature paddock scooter. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, in some avant-garde designer outfit that probably costs more than your first car. He sees the commotion around the Ferrari garage, the dazed mechanic, the pile of engineers. He looks over to see the source of the disturbance.
He sees you. He sees Kimi.
The seven-time World Champion, a man famous for his precision and focus, a man who can place a racing car on an apex with millimeter accuracy at 200 miles per hour, completely forgets how to operate a scooter.
His eyes are wide with a mixture of shock and what looks like pure glee. He turns his head to get a better look, but he forgets to turn the handlebars. The scooter continues straight, veering off the pristine asphalt, over the curb, and onto a small patch of decorative grass. There’s a soft whump as the scooter tips over, dumping one of the greatest drivers of all time onto the lawn in a surprisingly clumsy tangle of limbs and expensive fabric.
He’s unharmed, but he sits up, looking bewildered, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened.
You are now the undeniable center of a three-ring circus of chaos. You look at Kimi, your eyes wide with a mixture of horror and amusement. He just looks at the scene, at the fallen engineers, the dazed mechanic, the sprawling World Champion, with an expression of mild, detached curiosity. To him, this is just further proof of his long-held theory.
And then you see him.
He’s walking out of the back of the Ferrari garage, his trainer at his side. He’s already in his race suit, zipped down to the waist, his helmet tucked under his arm. He has that look on his face, the one you know so well. The intense, pre-qualifying focus, where the rest of the world just melts away.
His trainer says something, and Charles glances up, his eyes scanning the paddock. And then they land on you.
Time slows down.
His step falters. The focused mask drops, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock. He sees you. And he sees that you are not the ghost he has likely been picturing for the past year. You are not sad. You are not broken. You are smiling, your face glowing with a quiet, confident happiness he has never seen before.
His gaze slides from your face to the large, familiar hand holding yours. Kimi. A former Ferrari driver. His predecessor. A man he respects. The confusion on his face deepens.
And then, his eyes drop lower. He sees the two small children. He sees Robin, quiet and serious in his little jacket. He sees Rianna, who chooses that exact moment to wave at him with her free hand.
You. Kimi. Children. Holding hands. Smiling.
The equation does not compute. His brain, a finely tuned instrument designed to process thousands of points of data per second on a race track, cannot solve this one, simple, human problem.
You watch as the color drains from his face. His skin goes from its usual healthy Monegasque tan to a pale, clammy white. His green eyes, usually so bright, go wide and then seem to lose focus. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. Andrea, sensing something is wrong, puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Charles? Are you alright?”
But Charles doesn’t hear him. He takes one last, uncomprehending look at the happy, solid family unit you have formed with another man. And then, with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, he faints.
It’s not a dramatic, swooning faint. It’s a sudden, complete system failure. His knees buckle, his eyes roll back in his head, and he just … collapses, a heap of red race suit and shock on the paddock asphalt.
Pandemonium erupts. His trainer shouts his name. Medics come running. People are yelling.
You stand there, in the quiet eye of the hurricane you have unintentionally created, and you feel … nothing. No, that’s not right. You feel a quiet sense of closure. The last, withered vine connecting you to your old life has just been decisively severed.
Kimi has watched the entire scene unfold with the impassive air of an inspector at a crash site. He has analyzed the data and reached a conclusion.
Rianna tugs on his hand, her little face a mask of concern. “Isä,” she asks, her voice piping high above the noise. “What’s wrong with that man in the red pajamas?”
Kimi looks down at his daughter, then back at the chaotic scene of Charles being attended to by a frantic crowd. He considers the question for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Then he gives his official, expert diagnosis.
“Bwoah,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “The car must be really bad this year.”
You stare at him. At this absurd, impossible, wonderful man. And you finally let yourself laugh. It’s a full, deep, joyous laugh of pure liberation.
Kimi watches you, and the corner of his mouth quirks into the smallest, most secret of smiles. He’s seen enough. This complication has been dealt with.
“Okay,” he says, giving Rianna’s hand a little squeeze. “We go. Ice cream now.”
He steers the four of you away from the mess, away from the gasps and the cameras and the ghost of your past life. You walk away from the chaos you created, a little island of calm in the storm.
And you look at him, this strange, silent man who saved you with a lie about a laundry room. You look down at the two wonderful children who have become your own. You are no longer a footnote in someone else’s story. You are home. And behind you, the wreckage of your past is, quite literally, being scraped off the pavement.
Summary: you’ve dated the Bare Minimum Brigade your entire life — men who let doors slam in your face and split bills to the last cent — so when Oscar’s unconscious acts of care become impossible to ignore, you’re forced to confront a startling possibility: chivalry isn’t dead, you just never knew what it looked like
The thing is, you’ve never considered yourself a damsel.
You open your own jars, kill your own spiders, and have a colour-coded spreadsheet for your personal finances. You are, by all accounts, a woman who has her life meticulously, almost aggressively, together.
Your dating history reflects this preference for self-sufficiency. It’s a veritable graveyard of men who viewed chivalry as a quaint, dusty relic from a bygone era: men who let doors swing shut in your face, who walked ten paces ahead on a busy street, who split the bill down to the last miserable cent on a first date. You called them the Bare Minimum Brigade. You didn’t need a knight, you just wanted a partner.
And then, there’s Oscar.
The London air is crisp, carrying the distant scent of rain and exhaust fumes. You’re walking side-by-side, a comfortable silence settled between you after a long lunch. The pavement is uneven, a mosaic of cracked grey paving stones. He’s telling a story about babysitting Max Verstappen’s cats, something about a strategically destroyed roll of toilet paper, and his voice is a low, pleasant rumble against the city’s hum.
You’re approaching a particularly busy intersection. As the crowd thickens, funnelling you closer to the curb, a gentle pressure settles on the small of your back. It’s his hand. Before your brain can fully process the warmth of it, he’s steering you.
It’s not a push, not a pull. It’s a seamless, fluid motion, like a current guiding a boat into harbour. In the space of two steps, you’ve switched places. You are now on the inside of the sidewalk, nestled against the muted brick of a storefront. He is on the outside, a quiet barrier between you and the roaring red blur of a double-decker bus.
He doesn’t break his story.
“… and I swear Sassy looked me dead in the eye while she did it,” he finishes, a small smile playing on his lips. “Pure evil, that one.”
You’re not listening. Your mind has snagged on the manoeuvre. It was so subtle, so practiced, you might have missed it if you weren’t actively cataloguing every new and bewildering thing about him.
You stop walking. He pauses a few feet ahead, turning back, his expression shifting from amusement to concern. “Everything alright?”
“You just … you moved me,” you say, the words feeling clunky and strange in your mouth.
He glances back at the street, then at you. A flicker of confusion crosses his face. “Yeah? It was getting a bit crowded.”
“No, not … you switched sides with me. I was on the outside, and now I’m on the inside.”
He looks at you, really looks, and the cogs are visibly turning behind his calm, brown eyes. He seems genuinely baffled that this is something worth commenting on.
“Oh. Yeah,” he says finally, as if just realizing he’d done it. “Well, you’re not supposed to walk on the road side.”
He says it so simply. A statement of fact, like ‘the sky is blue’ or ‘water is wet’. It’s not a declaration of protective intent. It’s not a grand gesture. It’s just … a rule. An unspoken, deeply ingrained piece of code in his programming that he executed without a second thought.
Your ex, a man named Seth who considered sending a ‘u up?’ text at 2 a.m. the height of romantic effort, would have let you get clipped by a cyclist’s handlebar and then blamed you for not looking.
“I … huh,” is all you can manage.
Oscar’s brow furrows slightly. “Is that a bad thing?” He sounds genuinely worried now, as if he’s just committed some egregious social faux pas he’s entirely unaware of.
“No,” you say, shaking your head, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across your face. “No, Oscar. It’s really not a bad thing.”
He watches you for a second longer, his expression still a little uncertain, before he offers a small, relieved smile in return. “Right. Good. C’mon, my flat’s just around the corner. I’ll make you a tea that’ll make you forget all about my weird walking habits.”
He starts walking again, and you fall into step beside him. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t throw an arm around you. But you are acutely aware of his presence beside you, a solid, unassuming shield against the chaos of the city. And for the first time in a very, very long time, you feel the foreign, terrifying, and wonderful sensation of being looked after.
***
A week later, you’re on the phone with your best friend, Jess, pacing the length of your small apartment.
“He did it again,” you say, twisting the phone cord around your finger.
“The dishes? Because if he did the dishes without you having to ask, I might have to build a small shrine in his honour,” Jess’s voice crackles through the receiver.
“No, not the dishes. The thing.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific. He does a lot of things. You know, for a man. Things like ‘listening’ and ‘remembering your coffee order’. Bizarre, I know.”
You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see you. “The sidewalk thing. We went out for dinner tonight. We walked from the restaurant to the car park, maybe a hundred metres. He switched sides with me three separate times. Three! Every time we crossed a street. It was like a perfectly choreographed dance I didn’t know I was a part of.”
There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then a low whistle. “Wow. So, what you’re saying is, he’s not just a fluke. This is a factory setting.”
“It has to be! Jess, it’s … weird.”
“Weird how? Weird bad? Or weird like finding a twenty-pound note in a jacket you haven’t worn in a year?”
You sink onto your sofa, tucking your feet under you. “Weird good. It’s just, no one has ever done that. Ever. My exes would have used me as a human shield against a rogue puddle.”
“Ah, yes. The Bare Minimum Brigade. A truly distinguished group of gentlemen,” she says dryly. “So, what did you do?”
“Nothing! I just let it happen. What am I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me, sir, could you please stop being so subconsciously considerate? It’s unnerving.’”
Jess laughs, a bright, clear sound. “Okay, I see your point. It’s like you’ve been subsisting on dry toast your whole life and someone just handed you a perfectly baked, artisanal sourdough with French butter. You don’t know what to do with it.”
“That is a startlingly accurate metaphor,” you admit. “It’s not just the walking, either. He always opens the car door for me.”
“Get out.”
“I’m serious. Not in a showy way. He just gets to the passenger side first, opens it, and waits for me to get in before he walks around to his side. The first time he did it, I just stood there like a lemon for a full ten seconds.”
“What did he do?”
“He just waited. Patiently. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me like, ‘Are you getting in, or …’”
“This man is a unicorn,” Jess declares. “A rare, Australian, motorsport-driving unicorn. You need to protect him. Keep him away from the influences of modern, emotionally stunted masculinity. Put him in a biodome if you have to.”
You laugh, the tension in your shoulders loosening. “It’s just, I’m not used to it. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, is this all an act? Is he going to turn around one day and ask me to pay him back for all the doors he’s opened, with interest?”
“Honey,” Jess says, her voice softening. “Some people are just nice. Genuinely, properly nice. Maybe he’s not putting on an act. Maybe that’s just who he is. Maybe his parents raised him right.”
The thought is both comforting and terrifying. If this is just him, if this isn't some elaborate ruse, then what does that mean? It means you might actually have to let your guard down. It means this might actually be … real.
“He also holds the door for everyone,” you add quietly. “Not just me. Men, women, elderly people, kids. If he gets to a door first, he holds it. It’s like a reflex.”
“Okay, the biodome is a go,” Jess says decisively. “I’ll start drawing up the blueprints.”
***
You’re in the paddock at Silverstone. The noise is a physical entity, a roaring, vibrating beast that seeps into your bones. The air smells of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and the nervous energy of thousands of people. It’s overwhelming, a sensory assault course, and you’re trying your best to look like you belong here.
Oscar has a debrief in ten minutes. You’re walking with him from the hospitality suite to the garage, a journey that feels like swimming upstream against a tide of media, team personnel, and VIPs. He has his game face on — focused, serious, his gaze fixed straight ahead. But his hand is resting lightly on your lower back again, a steady, grounding presence in the chaos.
A small crowd of fans has gathered near the entrance to the McLaren garage. They surge forward as he approaches, shouting his name, holding out caps and programmes for him to sign.
“Oscar! Oscar, over here!”
“Good luck this weekend, mate!”
He gives them a quick, polite nod, a tight smile. “Thanks, guys. Bit busy right now, maybe later.”
Most of them are respectful, but one man, burly and insistent, leans over the rope, shoving a phone in your direction. “Can you take a picture of us?” He barks at you, not even making eye contact.
You flinch, surprised by his aggression. Before you can form a response, Oscar has moved. It’s that same seamless efficiency as the sidewalk maneuver, but amplified. He takes a half-step, placing himself squarely between you and the man. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look annoyed. He looks … blank. Incredibly, unnervingly calm.
“Not right now, mate,” he says, his voice low and even, but with an edge of steel you’ve never heard before. It cuts through the surrounding noise. “And you’ll speak to her with a bit more respect.”
The man’s bravado immediately deflates. He mutters an apology, pulling his phone back.
Oscar gives him a short nod, then his hand is back on your back, urging you forward. “C’mon.”
You’re bustled through the garage doors and into the relative quiet of the engineering office. The door clicks shut behind you, muting the roar of the paddock to a distant hum. Your heart is hammering against your ribs.
“Are you alright?” He asks, his attention now fully on you. His brow is creased with genuine concern.
“I’m fine,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “He just startled me.”
“Some people just have no manners,” he says, shaking his head. It’s a simple statement, but the underlying frustration is clear. He runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” you say, looking up at him. “You … thank you.”
“For what?” He looks genuinely confused again. “He was being a tosser.”
“For stepping in. For saying that.” You try to explain, the words tumbling out. “It’s just … most guys I’ve dated would have either ignored it or, worse, thought it was funny. They would have told me to ‘lighten up’.”
A look of deep distaste crosses his features. “Why would anyone think that’s funny?”
“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug, a bitter little laugh escaping you. “Because they’re idiots?”
He gives a small, wry smile at that. “Can’t argue with that logic.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Right, I’ve really got to go.” He hesitates for a second, then leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you after?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, touching the spot where his lips were. “See you after.”
He gives you one last small smile before disappearing into the debrief room. You’re left standing alone in the sterile office, the thrum of the garage vibrating through the floor.
It wasn’t a grand, dramatic defence. He didn’t puff out his chest or start a fight. He just calmly, quietly, and unequivocally drew a line. This is not acceptable. He didn’t do it to look like a hero. He did it because, in his world, you don’t let a stranger be rude to someone you’re with. It’s another rule from his unspoken codebook. Chapter 3, Subsection B: Don’t Tolerate Blokes Being Tosspots.
You sink into a nearby office chair, the adrenaline slowly leaving your system. It’s being replaced by something else. Something warm and solid and terrifyingly hopeful. Jess was right. This isn’t an act. This is just him. And you’re starting to think you could get very, very used to it.
***
The night is quiet. You’re curled up on his sofa in his Monaco apartment, a ridiculously soft blanket draped over your legs. A half-finished movie is playing on the television, casting flickering blue light across the room. Oscar is in the kitchen, the gentle clinking of mugs the only sound.
He comes back with two cups of tea, steam rising in fragrant clouds. He sets yours on the coaster on the side table, exactly how you like it — milky, one sugar. Another one of his small, silent observations.
He settles onto the other end of the sofa, stretching his long legs out. For a few minutes, you just sit in comfortable silence, watching the film, sipping your tea.
“I have a question,” you say, breaking the quiet.
“Shoot,” he says, his eyes still on the screen.
You take a deep breath. You’ve been wanting to ask this for weeks, ever since that first day in London, but you’ve been afraid of how it might sound. Afraid of making a big deal out of something he clearly sees as nothing.
“Why do you do it?”
He finally turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Do what?”
“All of it,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your mug. “The sidewalk thing. The doors. Today at the track. All the … gentlemanly stuff.” The word feels old-fashioned and silly on your tongue.
He processes this for a moment, a thoughtful frown touching his lips. He doesn’t laugh or dismiss it. He just thinks.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, honestly. “I don’t really think about it. It’s just how I was raised, I guess.”
“By who? Your parents?”
“Yeah. My dad, mostly,” he says, a fond, distant look in his eyes. “He’s a very proper bloke. Not in a stuffy way. Just … decent. He always told me, ‘You look after the people you’re with, Oscar. It’s not hard. It’s just what you do.’ It was never presented as a big deal. It was just part of being a good person, you know? Like saying please and thank you.”
You stare into your tea, the warmth seeping into your hands. It’s not hard. It’s just what you do. The simplicity of it is staggering. The Bare Minimum Brigade had always acted like basic consideration was a monumental effort, a task worthy of a medal.
“So it’s not a conscious choice?” You press, needing to understand. “You’re not thinking, ‘Oh, I must now place myself between her and the traffic’?”
He lets out a soft chuckle. “God, no. If I had to consciously think about it, I’d probably trip over my own feet and walk into a lamppost. Nah, it’s just … automatic. Like I said, it’s just how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?”
He asks it as a genuine question. Isn’t it? As if he can’t conceive of a world where men don’t do these things. As if your entire dating history is an anomaly from a bizarre alternate universe.
And in that moment, something inside you, a tightly wound knot of cynicism you’ve been carrying for years, finally begins to unravel. The constant analysis, the suspicion, the waiting for the other shoe to drop — it all just dissolves in the face of his simple, unpretentious decency.
He’s not trying to prove a point. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s not playing a role.
He’s just being Oscar.
“I guess it is,” you say softly, your voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite name.
He seems to sense the shift in you. He puts his mug down and shuffles closer on the sofa, closing the distance between you. He gently takes your mug from your hands and places it next to his. Then he just opens his arm in a silent invitation.
You don’t hesitate. You slide across the cushion and curl into his side, resting your head on his chest. You can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear. His arm wraps around you, holding you securely. It feels less like an embrace and more like a homecoming.
He rests his chin on the top of your head. The movie continues to play, forgotten. The sounds of the actors’ voices are just background noise to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
You settle back against him, feeling a profound sense of peace wash over you. The world outside, with its noise and its crowds and its rude men with camera phones, feels a million miles away. Here, in the quiet of his apartment, curled up on his sofa, you are on the inside. You are safe.
You think about all the things you thought you wanted in a partner. Someone who would challenge you, who would match your fierce independence, who wouldn’t try to ‘take care’ of you. You were so busy building your fortress, you never realized how nice it would be to have someone who just quietly, instinctively, makes sure the drawbridge is secure. Not because he thinks you can’t do it yourself, but because it’s just what you do for the people you care about.
He shifts slightly, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. It’s a simple, comforting gesture. Another unconscious act of care.
And you finally let yourself believe it. This isn’t a 2000s rom-com. It’s not a fairytale. It’s just a quiet Tuesday night with a decent man who was raised right. And you realize, with a stunning, heart-stopping clarity, that it’s more than you ever dared to wish for. It’s everything.
Hi, I love your writing, anyway I have a request: could you maybe write something like reader is the passenger princess and like even though she has a drivers lincense (or not) he won’t let her drive or give up her seat as passenger princess, or just being overly overprotective, of course only if your comfortable and want to write this. You choose what driver. No pressure to write it it’s just a thought.
Thanks xoxo
-🐨
Passenger princess
Author note : thank you so much for your request, I twist the story a little bit because apparently I can't write a story without a little bit of drama... but hope you still like it :)
Summary : She has a license. She knows how to drive. But Lando has made it very clear: as long as he’s around, she’s not touching the wheel because he refuses to let the girl he loves be anything other than his passenger princess. He likes taking care of her, driving her everywhere, holding her hand at stoplights and making sure she never has to worry about a thing.
But when she asks for the keys one day, everything shifts.
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Genre : fluff, oneshot, request, slight angst
Main Masterlist
Lando had one single rule :You. Do. Not. Drive.
Not when he’s around.
You could have a Formula 1 Super Licence and it wouldn’t change anything. Lando Norris has made it his personal mission that his girl does not lift a finger, especially not to reach for a steering wheel.
You still remember when he declared it officially.
You were six weeks into dating, sitting in his car after a dinner date in Monaco. You pulled out your keys and offered to drive back because he’d had two glasses of wine. He just looked at you with the slowest blink of disbelief.
“Absolutely not, you’re not driving.”
“And you can?”
“Well I’m Lando Norris.”
“That doesn’t make you immortal.”
“Maybe but it makes me your designated driver. Forever. Passenger princess duties are now legally binding. Sorry.”
He meant every word.
From then on, he opened every car door for you, insisted on picking you up and dropping you off even if it was wildly inconvenient, and responded to your attempts to drive with various tactics, including distraction kisses, key theft, or physically lifting you out of the driver’s seat like a cheeky menace.
You eventually gave in.
Not because you couldn’t drive, you actually were a good driver but because there was something stupidly endearing about the way he’d reach for your hand across the center console, or check your seatbelt like a paranoid dad, or mutter under his breath about how “princesses don’t worry about traffic.”
But there comes a day. A very specific day where you needed his car.
“Can I take the McLaren to Nice?” The words leave your mouth casually.
Lando is in the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, dressed in a McLaren hoodie and shorts, spoon halfway to his mouth with a bowl of yogurt and granola. He freezes.
You can literally hear the information processing in his head.
“Sorry?” he says slowly, as if you’d just asked if you could drive his F1 car to the grocery store.
You tilt your head, resting against the doorframe. “I have that appointment in Nice this afternoon. It’s a beautiful drive. I don’t want to take a taxi.”
“So I’ll take you,” he says instantly, standing straight.
“You can’t,” you remind him, amused. “You have a team briefing remember.”
“I’ll skip it.”
“You won’t.”
He narrows his eyes. “You want to drive the McLaren? Wich one ?”
“I don't care I just want to drive a nice car,” you say, playful but firm. “But preferably the 720S. It’s got that nice citrus interior and the top-down roof feels very main character energy.”
“You are the main character,” he says without blinking. “But you can’t drive her.”
“Her?”
He winces. “The car.”
“Oh my god, you called your car 'her'?”
“No. I just… she’s delicate.”
You cross your arms, biting your lip. “Delicate? Are we still talking about the car or me?”
He sets his spoon down slowly. “Do you even know how to drive that car, you've never driven it before.”
“Because someone has control issues and God complex.”
Lando raises a hand, jaw clenching. “She has 710 horsepower. Twin-turbo V8. You so much as sneeze wrong, and she’ll take off the road.”
“Exactly,” you grin. “Sounds fun.”
He stares at you, horrified. “Baby.”
You step closer, dropping your voice into something sweet and slightly dangerous. “Lando. I love you. I respect you. But you know I'm actually capable of driving right ? Just trust me. ”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You know that look. It’s the same one he gets when he’s arguing with his engineer but knows he’s wrong. He tries to rally.
“You could take the Audi instead.”
“No.”
“The Fiat Jolly?”
“God no, it will make me look like an idiot.”
You soften, step closer, brushing your fingers through his curls.
“Please, baby? Just for today. One little drive. I’ll bring her back with not a scratch. I’ll even fill the tank.”
He groans like it physically pains him.
“I have to go,” he mumbles, already backing toward the hallway. “The meeting start in 10. I don’t have time to talk you out of this insanity.”
“So it’s a yes?” you say brightly.
He groans again, louder this time and disappears down the hall. But not before you hear him yell over his shoulder:
“If there’s a single scratch, we’re breaking up!”
Not so long after, you’re standing in the garage, keys in hand.
The car looks like something out of a dream, sleek, silver with blood-orange leather and enough power to make the air around it hum. You slide in, adjust the seat, and you’re smiling like a lunatic.
From the garage door, you hear a thud.
Lando is standing there with the most worry expression on his face.
“I have to admit, you actually look hot in that car,” he mumbles, pained.
You blow him a kiss. “See, driving look good on me too!”
He sighs, walking over slowly.
“I left you a route,” he says. “No tunnels. No mountain roads. No overtaking anyone. Please just go to the speed limit.”
He watches you like he’s not sure if he wants to cry, laugh, or beg you to switch seats.
“I love you,” you say softly.
He exhales. “Love you too. But please be carefull.”
“I won’t. I’ll drive her like she’s made of glass.”
“She’s made of carbon fiber, but thanks.”
You laugh and start the engine.
The car roars to life.
Lando flinches.
And then you’re gone.
The Côte d’Azur has always looked like a painting, seafoam catching light like glass, mountains folding into the horizon, the road ahead carving through it all like a silver ribbon. The sky is impossibly blue. The kind of day where it feels like nothing can go wrong.
You were almost in Nice.
The road had opened up, smooth and gently curving, an occasional coastal breeze slipping through the open cabin of the car. You had the roof down, sunglasses on, one hand lightly resting on the wheel.
You can't belive he trusted you. He gave you the keys.
And for a long stretch of road, you felt something close to joy. Real, effortless joy.
Until the corner.
A left-hander. Nothing dramatic. Just one of a thousand bends like it, except this one comes a fraction tighter, your line slightly too wide, your rear wheels clipping the gravel at the edge of the asphalt. The car responds with the fury of something alive.
You feel it.
That split-second shift, grip lost, control slipping. Then an impact.
You never even have time to scream.
The sound is what stays with you first. A tearing. A shattering sound.
The howl of carbon fiber being ripped apart, metal crumpling like paper, and glass exploding as your side window bursts inward. The car spins once, maybe twice and then crashes nose-first into the side of the mountain wall with a force that throws your body against the seatbelt so hard your lungs collapse on the first breath.
Then, silence.
Not true silence more like the absence of motion. The engine is dead. Smoke coils faintly from the front. Your ears ring. Blood is sliding down your forehead and into your left eyebrow, warm and disorienting.
You don't move. Can’t.
You blink slowly, registering only fragments: The bent steering column. The shattered passenger-side window. The trembling in your own fingers. The sky above, warped and off-center.
Then pain. Dull, but growing. A deep ache in your ribs. Scratches on your arm. A tightness in your chest you can’t immediately place.
You bring one shaking hand to your head and feel blood. It’s not gushing, but there’s enough to paint your fingertips. Your breath catches. Your vision swims.
But that’s not what breaks you.
What breaks you is the sudden, sickening realization: you crashed his car.
The McLaren. His McLaren.
You crashed it. Ruined it.
Your throat tightens. The pain behind your ribs isn’t just bruising anymore, it’s anxiety blooming like rot.
What is he going to say?
The car, his car, is wrecked. The front end is completely folded in, the hood smashed in on itself, like a fallen lung. The windshield is webbed with cracks, already splintering inward. Bits of the headlight are scattered across the asphalt like broken teeth.
You try to sit up straighter but your body disagrees. Your seatbelt is locked so tight you can barely breathe.
You don’t even know if you’re crying, everything is wet: your eyes, your face, your brow. You can taste blood on your lip, iron and salt, and it makes you feel nauseous.
You fumble for your phone.
Your hand shakes so badly you nearly drop it.
You consider not calling him. Maybe call an ambulance. Maybe disappear off the side of the earth before he finds out. Maybe vanish into the sea.
But then you see his name in your recent calls and your thumb moves on instinct.
It rings once. Twice.
He picks up on the third.
“Hey, everything good?” His voice is casual, smiling. Unaware. “You make it there already...”
“I crashed,” you whisper. Your voice sounds strange. Far away.
“What?”
You inhale, shakily. “I lost it. On a corner. I’m, I’m okay. I think. But the car, it’s...”
There’s rustling on his end. The sudden sharpness in his voice makes your stomach twist.
“Where are you?”
You give him your approximate location, your voice barely audible. He doesn't say anything else, just hangs up.
You sit there, barely moving.
Then omeone stops, a couple in a rental car, asking if you need help. You nod, numbly, and they call emergency services even though you told them it's not needed. They stay nearby, give you water, tell you not to move too much.
But nothing reaches you. Not really.
All you can think is: He’s going to hate me.
And that thought alone cuts deeper than anything else.
Lando’s POV
Her voice was small.
Too small.
It came through the phone distorted, thin and trembling, soaked in panic, but Lando had heard enough of her to know: this wasn’t nerves. This was fear. Real, shaking, breathless fear.
“I crashed.”
Two words. Quiet. Flat. But in the center of them was something that lit his entire nervous system on fire.
His engineer shouted something after him while he exit the meeeting. Zak called his name. Someone mentioned media waiting downstairs, some nonsense about schedule, structure, protocol but it didn’t register. Nothing did.
Lando ran.
Straight out of the building, down through the tunnel under the Monaco paddock, into the garage where his car was parked. He slammed the door behind him, yanked the gearshift like it had personally offended him, and peeled out onto the street with a screech that echoed between the buildings.
His hands shook.
Because he was scared.
Not for the car.
Not for the damage.
Not for insurance or press or the reputation of a McLaren driver’s girlfriend crashing a hypercar on the Riviera.
No, he was scared for her.
Because he knew her. Knew her well enough to understand that if she said “I think I’m okay,” it meant she was covering up how bad it really was. That her first instinct wasn’t to cry or scream, it was to call him to tell the car was ruined.
The coastal road stretched long and sharp before him, curves blurring past as he pushed the car harder than it was ever meant to go. He barely registered the scenery.
His GPS pinged her location from her phone.
It took twenty-seven minutes to reach her.
Twenty-seven minutes of clenching the wheel so tight his knuckles ached, replaying the sound of her voice over and over in his head, trying not to imagine the worst.
He rounded a long bend near the mountain wall, and then he saw it.
The McLaren was facing the wrong direction, its nose crumpled violently into the rock face. The front end was mangled. Glass littered the pavement. The left wheel was completely detached, folded under like a snapped ankle.
And there she was.
Leaning against a rock barrier a few feet from the wreck. Blood smeared across her temple, hair matted, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was trying to physically hold her body together. There was a couple beside her, clearly the ones who’d stopped, standing nearby but giving her space.
She wasn’t looking at the car. Or the view. Or anything, really.
She was staring down at her hands.
And she was crying.
Lando didn’t remember getting out of the car.
One minute he was behind the wheel. The next, he was running.
“Hey, hey!” he called, breath already catching in his throat.
Her head snapped up. And when she saw him, something in her face cracked wide open: relief, shame, fear, all of it tangled together.
He didn’t stop to process it. He just dropped to his knees in front of her and grabbed her face gently, cupping it like it was something fragile.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked instantly. His voice was already hoarse. “Talk to me. Right now.”
“I’m okay,” she whispered, barely audible.
“No, don’t do that. Don’t say that. Are you dizzy? Can you breathe? Did you hit your head?”
She flinched slightly when his hand brushed her temple. That’s when he saw the cut, shallow, but bleeding more than it should, streaking down into her brow.
His stomach clenched.
He turned to the couple who’d stayed with her.
“Did anyone call emergency?”
“Yes,” the woman nodded. “They’re on their way. She didn’t want to move much.”
“Good. Thank you. Seriously.”
Then he turned back to her.
“You’re gonna be alright, okay?” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, ignoring the blood on his hands. “They’re coming. You’ll be looked at properly. It’s just a few cuts. You’re here. That’s what matters.”
But she was still shaking. Her lip trembled. Her eyes weren’t on him.
They were fixed on the car behind him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and it shattered him.
“What?” he frowned.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, more desperately this time. “I didn’t mean to, I just, the corner came too fast, I didn’t expect the back wheels to kick and...God, I didn’t mean to...I tried to correct, I swear...”
“Stop, hey!” He moved closer, hands gripping her shoulders now, gentle but firm. “Stop. Look at me.”
Her eyes met his, swimming in guilt.
“Are you apologizing for crashing the car?” he asked slowly.
She blinked once.
Then nodded.
Lando let out a breath, long, pained, and almost disbelieving.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice so quiet it nearly broke, “I couldn’t give less of a fuck about the car.”
She froze.
“I love that car, yeah,” he went on, cupping her cheek again. “But it's just carbon and wires and leather. And you’re you. My girl. My everything.”
Her bottom lip trembled.
“I’d burn ten of those cars if it meant keeping you out of pain for five more seconds,” he said. “There is nothing that matters to me more than you walking away.”
Her tears spilled freely now, silent but relentless. He didn’t stop them.
“Baby, you’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re here. That’s all I care about.”
She leaned forward without warning, pressing her forehead to his chest. And Lando held her instantly, wrapping his arms around her as if trying to shield her from the world itself.
“I thought you’d hate me,” she choked out. “I thought you’d be furious.”
“Never.”
“I ruined it.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair.
“You scared me,” he admitted quietly. “But not because of the car. Because the idea of losing you… I can’t even...”
His voice cracked. He stopped. Swallowed hard.
“I was so fucking scared,” he said into her shoulder.
They sat like that until the medical team arrived, Lando never once letting go.
Not even when they tried to clean the blood from her face.
Not when they insisted on taking her vitals.
He stayed close, his hand gripping hers the whole time, his eyes locked on her like she might disappear if he blinked.
And even after the car was hauled off the mountain road, even after the sirens faded and the adrenaline left his system in a crash of its own, Lando couldn’t forget the image of her, sitting alone, bleeding and crying, staring down at her hands like she’d just destroyed everything that mattered.
And how wrong she was.
Because the only thing that mattered to him in that entire moment… was her heartbeat still ticking beneath his fingers.
The hospital released her just past sunset.
A mild concussion, a bruised rib from the seatbelt, a handful of superficial cuts and a bottle of prescription-strength painkillers she wasn’t thrilled about. They’d patched her up, poked and prodded, asked the same questions a dozen different ways but eventually, they’d deemed her fit to leave. Stable. Out of danger.
Still, Lando hadn’t stopped hovering for a second.
Not in the exam room.
Not while the doctor spoke.
Not in the hallway while she signed discharge papers.
He walked two steps behind her with a hand lightly resting on her lower back like he thought she might shatter if he let go. And she didn’t complain, not once, because his touch anchored her. Grounded her. Reminded her that even if her body was still sore, her heart was in one piece.
Outside, Monaco was quieter than usual, the sea dark and reflective beyond the hills. His car waited just outside the private entrance, doors already unlocked. Lando opened the passenger side without a word and crouched down like he had a hundred times before.
But this time, when he looked at her, it wasn’t teasing.
“Can you sit okay?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “Yeah. Just a little stiff.”
He didn’t move. Just watched her, as if trying to read something she hadn’t said yet.
“You sure?”
She smiled faintly. “You ask me that again and I’m going to start charging you per reassurance.”
That earned her the smallest, quietest curve of his lips, the first real smile of the night.
He helped her in, buckled her seatbelt for her even though she could do it herself, then pressed a light kiss to her shoulder before closing the door gently.
He circled the hood, climbed in on the other side, and started the engine.
Silence stretched for a few moments. Not heavy, not awkward, just full of thoughts neither of them quite knew how to unpack yet. The radio was off. The windows fogged slightly at the edges.
Finally, she looked over at him.
“You haven’t said anything smug about being right.”
He blinked. “What?”
“About me driving. About how I shouldn’t have.”
A beat passed.
Then he shook his head, eyes still on the road. “That’s not what I’m thinking.”
“No?”
He let out a breath. Slow. Careful.
“I’m thinking how grateful I am that you’re sitting next to me right now. That’s it.”
Her throat tightened.
Lando glanced over briefly, then back at the road again.
“You know,” he said, softer now, “I’ve been thinking about it. Why I never let you drive.”
She smiled weakly. “Because you have control issues?”
He huffed. “Fair. But no. Not really.”
She watched him, his grip on the wheel, the gentle twitch in his jaw, the way he blinked more than usual like he was thinking too hard.
“It’s not that I don’t think you can drive,” he said. “You’re smart. You’re capable. You’ve always been independent. That’s part of why I fell in love with you.”
She stared at him, warmth stirring in her chest even now, even after the worst day.
“It’s just…” He hesitated. Then laughed once, softly. “When I drive, and you’re next to me, I know you’re okay. I know where you are. I know you’re not out there in the world where something can go wrong.”
“Like crashing a car into a mountain wall?”
“Exactly like that.”
He smiled, but there was something behind it, vulnerability. The raw kind he only ever let her see when the world had quieted down enough to make space for it.
“It’s not about control,” he said. “It’s about care. I like driving you. I like knowing you’re safe. I like you beside me, legs tucked up, stealing my hoodie, humming to the music while I make sure you get where you’re going.”
She swallowed.
“I like you as my passenger princess,” he finished, glancing at her again. “Not because you can’t drive but because it’s the one time I get to take care of you without you arguing.”
She let out a breath that caught somewhere in her chest.
And then, slowly, she reached over and laced her fingers through his.
He took her hand easily, like it was second nature, thumb brushing over her knuckles like he always did.
“I thought you’d be mad about the car,” she admitted, voice soft.
“I will never be mad” he said. “I don't care. Not one bit. It’s just a car. I can buy another one.”
He looked over again, eyes steady and full of the kind of love that didn’t waver in the face of fear.
“But I can’t replace you.”
The rest of the drive was quiet.
Comfortable. Peaceful.
Lando took the turns slowly, one hand still in hers, his focus sharper than ever. When they pulled up to the house, he killed the engine and didn’t move for a moment , just sat there, the engine ticking as it cooled.
Then he turned toward her fully.
“You’re home,” he said gently. “Safe.”
She smiled, tired but warm. “Thanks to you.”
He leaned over and kissed her, softly, not rushed, not panicked, not full of adrenaline like earlier, just slow, and sure, and safe.
She sighed against his lips. Let herself be held.
And in that moment, she understood.
It had never been about the car. Or control. Or rules.
Summary : While filming a “What’s In My Bag?” video for TUMI during a dreamy shoot in Lake Como, Lando Norris proudly shares his favorite travel items: headphones, cinnamon mints, lucky charms… and a stack of Polaroids of his girlfriend.
Until one very private photo slips into the mix, and suddenly the internet sees a whole lot more than he meant to show.
Genre : suggestive, fluff, oneshot
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Warning : mature content, allusion to nude and sex activities
Main Masterlist
Author notes : funny and soft oneshot to bring a little bit of joy after the race of Sunday. Everyone please stay safe and if you can, stay away from social media if it gets too hard after this week-end race, love you all <3
Lake Como glistened in the soft morning light, its surface scattered with diamonds of sun as gentle waves rolled against the dock. A light breeze rustled the cypress trees lining the water’s edge, carrying with it the scent of pine and polished wood from the nearby villas. Birds chirped, water lapped, cameras clicked.
And somewhere on a private terrace above the lake, Lando Norris was trying not to sweat through his linen shirt.
“Alright, we’re rolling in three, two, one...” the cameraman’s voice faded into silence as the red light blinked on.
Lando sat back in the sleek director-style chair, a black TUMI backpack resting on his lap. He adjusted the strap, cleared his throat, and gave the camera his signature, cheeky grin.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
His voice echoed softly against the terracotta walls behind him.
“This is my TUMI backpack. I take it everywhere, especially when I’m traveling. It’s kind of like my...survival kit,” he chuckled, unzipping the top compartment. “You’ll see what I mean.”
One by one, he began pulling items out, placing them carefully on the small table beside him.
“First up: my headphones,” he said, holding up a sleek black pair. “Can’t live without these. Whether it’s music, Netflix on the plane, or zoning out in the paddock, these save me.”
He paused and smirked at the camera. “They also help when I’m pretending not to hear Oscar.”
The staff behind the camera chuckled.
“Next... passports. Plural. Yeah. I have three.” He fanned them out like a hand of cards, laughing. “I’m international, baby.”.”
He dug deeper into the backpack and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Opening it carefully, he revealed several stone bracelets in warm earthy tones.
“My mum got me these for Christmas,” he said quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t always wear them on track days, but I keep them close. Just… makes me feel a bit more grounded.”
He placed them gently down and then brandished a small tin.
“Cinnamon mints,” he declared proudly. “For the sweet tooth. Helps with cravings. Or when you want to pretend you don’t eat like a raccoon at midnight.”
More laughter. The atmosphere was warm, friendly. Lando was in his element, somewhere between boyish and bold.
“Now we’re getting to the fun stuff.”
He pulled out a tangled mess of keychains, one shaped like a tiny McLaren helmet, another a fluffy orange pom-pom, and the last: a piece of tissue with the initials LN sewn into it.
“A fan gave me this,” he said, holding it between his fingers. “I’ve had it for years. It’s falling apart but... can’t travel without it.”
He smiled at the memory, then paused as his hand slipped into one of the deeper side pockets. His brow furrowed.
“Oh... wait,” he muttered, pulling something halfway out before immediately stuffing it back in.
He looked up at the camera, suddenly sheepish.
“Uhh...yeah. Some stuff I definitely can’t show you,” he said, grinning and scratching the back of his neck. “Let’s just say... it's better to stay protected”
The staff broke into laughter. One of the camera guys let out a dramatic “ooooohhh.”
“What?” Lando laughed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You never know, okay? I like to get prepared.”
Still grinning, he reached again into the bag and pulled out a small, silver disposable camera.
“This guy comes everywhere with me,” he said. “I take film photos when I travel. Stuff that’s just for me, you know? Not for Instagram. Just memories.”
He held it up with affection, then reached in again and began pulling out little mementos: a handmade skull keyring from Mexico, a folded receipt with something scribbled on the back, a broken friendship bracelet.
“I’m kind of a hoarder,” he admitted. “These are all... pieces of places. People. Moments. I like keeping them close.”
His hand brushed against something in the side pocket. A small, rubbery bottle.
He pulled it out before he registered what it was.
There was a beat.
He stared at the camera.
The bottle gleamed in the sunlight. Bright pink. Labelled clearly ' Lubricant: Strawberry flavor' .
“Oh. My god.”
He blinked, went pale, then immediately turned red.
“I...okay, that’s not, this is not...this wasn’t meant to be in here.”
He stuffed it back into the pocket, eyes wide.
The cameraman wheezed behind the lens. A staffer covered her mouth.
“I swear this is not... I didn’t pack this bag this morning!” Lando stammered. “Okay I did, but not, like, not with this interview in mind so I didn't know I had to show it.”
Lando groaned. “Can we cut that out? Please? It’s for...dry skin.”
“Oh wich part of your skin?”
He buried his face in his hands and trie to change the subject.
Still flustered, he grabbed one of his tech pouches and unzipped it, desperate to pivot.
“Oh!” he beamed. “Okay. These are my favorites.”
From the padded pouch meant for a laptop, he pulled out a neat little stack of Polaroids tied with a red ribbon. He untied them quickly, holding the first one up to the camera.
“This... is my girlfriend.”
The way he said it, like he couldn’t believe his luck, was soft, sincere.
He flipped through the pictures with reverence.
“This is her in Spain last summer. Look at this, she was trying to take a serious photo and I made a face behind her.”
He laughed.
“This is us in Monaco. Don’t ask how I convinced her to get in the pool. She hates cold water.”
Another.
“This is her sleeping. And this... this is her at breakfast, in my hoodie.”
His smile melted into something private, like a quiet sunrise behind his eyes.
“And this...”
He held up the next Polaroid to the camera without looking at it first. There was a beat. A pause.
From behind the camera, someone made a choked noise.
Lando glanced up. “What?” Then looked at the picture.
“Oh...oh, no. No, no, no...”
He yanked it back quickly, his ears flushing bright pink.
“Shit, this isn’t...this was not supposed to be in that pile.”
He stuffed it deep into the side of the bag, clutching the remaining Polaroids protectively.
“Oh my god, please can you blur it,” he groaned, covering his face. “That’s from the other pile. Like...the private-private collection.”
The entire crew burst into cackles.
“I swear to god if that makes the cut, I’m a dead man. She’s going to kill me.”
“Was that a nude?” someone asked, not even trying to hide the glee.
“I am not answering that.”
“Was it?” the assistant pressed.
“I plead the fifth,” Lando said dramatically, still red-faced. “Blur it. Blur it, please. I’m begging you. I have a career. I have a relationship.”
He tried to laugh it off, but his smile was flustered, eyes wide and nervous.
Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to move on.
“Anyway. My phone. My wallet. You know. The boring stuff.”
But even as he listed the rest of his items, he kept glancing at the camera, haunted. Regretfully boyish. Still blushing.
“Alright. That’s what’s in my bag,” he said quickly, snapping the backpack shut. “And apparently... a reason to get murdered by my girlfriend.”
He groaned again. “Can we cut that part? Please? I swear, she’s gonna make me sleep on the balcony.”
The red light turned off.
The staff burst into applause.
“Best interview yet,” one of the directors laughed, clapping. “Gonna break the internet.”
@TUMIofficial
WHAT’S IN MY BAG with Lando Norris: Lake Como Special
Catch our exclusive behind-the-scenes interview with what Lando really carries with him👀
@_user1
WAIT. Did he just… show a nude of his gf on camera?? 😭😭😭
@_user2
THE WAY HE PANICKED. omg that was NOT staged. He looked like he wanted to die 💀💀💀
@_user3
No bc I NEED to know what was on that Polaroid. Was it like artsy nude or nude-nude?
@_user4
LMFAO he had the audacity to hint at condoms, then literally WHIPPED OUT A NUDE LIKE IT’S A FAMILY VACAY SNAP 💀💀
@_user5
He carries cinnamon mints for his sweet tooth AND spicy pics of his girl?? man’s layered fr
@_user6
Not Lando Norris accidentally exposing his thirst for his gf on a sponsored ad 😭 someone check on the TUMI PR team
@_user7
Lube AND nudes of his girl?? Lando Norris is not packing for a trip. He’s packing for a weekend of sin.
@_user8
He really said: “this is her being pretty, this is her sleeping… and this is her NAKED” lmao LANDO WHYYYYY
@_user9
This man is not traveling. He’s on a mission.
@_user10
Lando really opened that bag and gave us: emotional support bracelets, cinnamon mints, protection, lube, porn. He's got range.
@_user11
“Some stuff I can’t show you” and then five minutes later accidentally shows us 😭 this man has NO filter and NO chill
@_user12
This isn’t a “what’s in my bag” this was a “what’s in normally in my bedroom drawer but I somehow take it everywhere in my backpak”
@_user13
He said “I like to be prepared” and I believe him now
@_user14
“That’s from the other pile” UM. HELLO????? THERE IS A PILE??
@_user15
Protective AND obsessed with his girl?? I need a man like Lando
@_user16
He really said “what’s in my bag?” and the answer was: horniness
Texts messages
Y/N
Just watched the TUMI video 😇
Lando
Oh no.
Y/N
The one where my nude photo makes a guest appearance in front of 1.2 million people? 🤗
Lando
BABE
It was an ACCIDENT But don't worry it's blur we can't see a single thing
I didn’t mean to pull that photo
I meant the cute ones!! The breakfast one!! The one where you’re wearing my hoodie!!
Y/N
So you show the one where i’m wearing nothing at all?
Lando
I’m sweating
I’m actually sweating
I’m gonna get sued. by you. By TUMI. By your parents
Y/N
My mum did text me
She said “interesting campaign... very modern”
Lando
NOOOOOOOOOOOO
I’m crawling into the lake
Y/N Also “i like to be prepared”?
Really?
What exactly are you preparing for mid-flight with lube? 🤔
Lando
Dry skin!!!
I said it's for my dry skin!!!!!
Y/N
Right
Because when i think of skin hydratation i think of edible lubricant 🙃
Lando
I’m scared to check twitter
Someone called my bag “frat boy coded" They’re not wrong
Y/N You do carry condoms, lube, candy and a Polaroid of me naked in the same backpack
You’re like Dora the Explorer if she was addicted to sex
Lando
DORA?!?!?! 😭
Y/N
“What’s in my bag?” Everything but self-control
Lando
Okay, first of all, RUDE
Second of all… the lube smells nice
Third of all…
You didn’t complain last time
Y/N
Oh so now you’re doubling down??
Lando
Just trying to make the best of my public humiliation
Besides
What’s so wrong with carrying a few... essentials?
A man’s gotta travel prepared
Y/N
You sound like a horny boy scout
Lando
“Always be ready” is a valid motto 🙋♂️
Y/N
Valid until you drop a bottle of lube in front of a camera crew
Lando
They laughed so hard i thought someone was gonna need CPR
Y/N
You’re lucky i love you
And you’re lucky the nude was actually a good one
Lando
Thank you 🥺 i almost show the one where you’re biting the sheet but i had... instincts
Y/N
INSTINCTS????
You mean your last two brain cells had a moment of clarity
Lando
Pls
Do you still love me?
Y/N
Debatable
Might depend on whether or not you bring me almond croissants when you will come back
Lando
Deal
But only if you let me take a new Polaroid…
One just for me to see😉
Y/N
…
Good luck on media day tomorrow Norris
Lando
Oh no god I forgot about that
The paddock was already buzzing by the time Lando arrived, hoodie up over his head like he was trying to go incognito. Not that it helped, cameras turned as soon as he walked through the gates.
Media day.
He kept his head down, offering a few tight-lipped smiles to passing crew and journalists. He could feel the looks. The barely contained smirks. The PR team had already warned him to "expect commentary.” He hadn’t realized commentary meant the entire motorsport world was now intimately familiar with the contents of his bag.
He reached the McLaren hospitality unit and headed straight for the driver lounge.
Oscar was already there.
He looked up from his phone the second Lando walked in, and the smile started immediately.
“Morning,” Oscar said, way too casual. “Sleep well?”
Lando didn’t answer. Just dropped into the chair across from him and stared at the ceiling.
Oscar waited half a beat.
Then: “So… what’s in your bag today?”
Lando groaned, eyes closing. “No.”
“No what?” Oscar asked, blinking innocently.
“I’m not doing this with you.”
Oscar nodded slowly, tapping his phone against the table. “Right. Of course. Strict media day focus. No time for lube talk.”
Lando didn’t move but look at him shocked. “Oscar!”
“Yes?”
“I will actually fight you if you keep talking”
Oscar continued, unfazed. “I’ve learned a lot about you this week.”
“Please stop.”
“Your skincare routine. Your travel essentials.”
“It’s for my girlfriend,” Lando muttered.
Oscar nodded slowly. “Romantic.”
Lando looked at him. “I didn’t mean to show half that stuff.”
Oscar took a long sip of his water bottle, then added, deadpan: “You were really sweating.”
“I was panicking, Oscar.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
There was a pause.
Oscar looked back down at his phone.
“I just didn’t know you were the type to carry… souvenirs.”
Lando threw his head back and groaned. “It’s private. It’s supposed to stay private.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You handed it to a camera crew.”
“I didn’t know it was that one.”
Oscar hummed. “Risky system.”
Lando covered his face. “I’m not coming out for media. Tell them I’ve combusted.”
Oscar leaned back again, shrugging. “Might be safer. Someone from Williams asked if you’re sponsored by Durex now.”
Lando didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to crawl into his chair.
Oscar gave a tiny, satisfied nod.
Then, after a beat: “At least the mints were normal.”
“Thanks,” Lando said miserably. “Really comforting.”
Oscar took another sip from his water bottle, then looked back at Lando, who was still sulking in the chair across from him, hoodie half over his face.
After a moment, Oscar spoke again. Calm. Curious.
“Okay, but... I actually have a question now.”
Lando didn’t move. “Please don’t.”
Oscar ignored him, tone completely deadpan. “What’s in the pile?”
Lando sat up slowly, blinking at him in horror. “What the hell, Oscar?”
Oscar stayed relaxed, perfectly composed. “You said it yourself. There's the normal Polaroids. And then there’s the private-private pile. So… what’s in it?”
“I am not...” Lando pointed at him, absolutely done. “...having this conversation with you.”
Oscar raised a brow. “Just curious. For science.”
Lando stood up instantly. “I’m leaving.”
Oscar shrugged. “Fair.”
Lando stormed toward the door, muttering something about changing teams, changing sports, maybe even changing names.
He was halfway out when,
“Oi!” Oscar called after him. “Don’t forget your backpack, Norris.”
Lando froze mid-step.
Oscar was already grinning.
“You left it,” he added, far too casually. “Y’know… the one with your precious things in it.”
Lando turned around like a man walking back into a crime scene, snatched the bag off the chair with one hand, and glared.
“Stop talking about it,” he muttered.
Oscar just smiled. “I’m not saying anything.”
“You are thinking them.”
Oscar leaned back, unfazed. “I’m not.”
“You’re being insufferable.”
Lando slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out without another word.
As the door shut behind him, Oscar shook his head slightly and let out a quiet laugh, just enough to himself, just loud enough for it to echo in Lando’s memory for years to come.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Norris!reader - Lando Norris x twin!reader
Warning: a very awkward Oscar
Summary: after complaining about each to your friends, Oscar finally got the courage to ask you out
a/n: hope y'all enjoy this 🫶🏻
mainmasterlist seriesmasterlist part 1
Max had been your rock since forever. Childhood pranks, first go-kart crash, first podium celebration, it was always him. If there was anyone who could handle your spirals without judgment, it was Max Fewtrell. And today, he was getting a full, no-filter vent session.
You burst into the apartment, helmet still in hand like a murder weapon, and threw it onto the couch with enough force to make Max flinch.
“I hate him, Max.”
He didn’t even look up from his phone, just raised an eyebrow like a man who’s seen this movie a thousand times before. “Hm… sure you do. You hate the guy who’s been staring at you like you’re the most important thing in the world since 2023?”
You groaned, dramatic as ever, and flopped face-first into the couch cushions. “It’s infuriating! He’s… he’s everywhere. Smiling. Talking. Breathing. And I like it, but I shouldn’t! Max, I shouldn’t!”
He put his phone down, smirk already blooming. “Ah yes, the classic ‘I like him but I’m going to act like a feral toddler about it’ situation. I’ve missed this.”
You peeked out from the couch like a swamp creature, glaring. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not supposed to help,” he said, grinning. “I’m supposed to mock you until you realize you’re being ridiculous.”
You groaned again, throwing a cushion at him. “He’s so awkward! Like—he tries to flirt, but then he just… stares. Like a deer in headlights. And every time he touches my shoulder I—”
“…you melt,” Max finished smoothly, leaning back like he’d just dropped a mic.
“…shut up.”
He laughed, that annoying loud bark that always made you laugh too, even when you didn’t want to. “You so melt. Like ice cream on a hot day, babe.”
You rolled onto your back, hair everywhere, frustration practically radiating from your skin. “He makes me nervous, Max. Me! I don’t get nervous. Not in front of cameras, not in a car at 300 kph—but one smile from Oscar bloody Piastri and I forget how to speak.”
“Tragic,” Max said flatly. “A world-class driver taken down by an Australian man with anxiety and good cheekbones.”
“Exactly!” you exclaimed, sitting up. “He’s Lando’s teammate, Max. My brother’s teammate. It’s practically a crime.”
Max raised an unimpressed brow. “Right, because Formula 1 definitely has a rule against falling for socially awkward Australians.”
You threw another pillow at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe,” he said, catching it midair, “but I’m also right. You’re completely gone for him.”
You crossed your arms, trying to glare, but it came out more pout than power. “I am not gone for him.”
“Oh, really? You only talk about him every day. You know his post-race snack order, his Spotify playlists, and that weird little thing he does with his sleeves when he’s nervous.”
“That’s just observation.”
“That’s obsession.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I hate that you’re right.”
Max chuckled, stretching lazily. “So, what’s the plan, then? Avoid him forever, or make him confess first?”
You peeked between your fingers. “Neither! I… I think I already want him, Max. But he’s Oscar Piastri. He blushes if I even look at him for too long. He doesn’t know how to flirt properly, and I...I like it.”
Max tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”
“It’s a disaster,” you muttered. “He’ll never make a move.”
“Then maybe you should,” Max said, smirking. “Scare the poor guy into admitting he likes you.”
You groaned again, dragging a pillow over your face. “I’d probably die, Max. Literally. Emotionally first.”
Max just laughed and tossed a handful of crisps at you. “If you don’t tell him soon, I’m going to. And I’ll do it publicly. Maybe during a stream.”
You peeked out from under the pillow, glaring murder. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” he said sweetly. “Because I’m your best friend, and this is entertainment.”
You pointed a finger at him. “You’re evil.”
He shrugged, grinning. “And you’re in love. Guess we’re both doomed.”
Meanwhile, Oscar was pacing in his hotel room like a caffeinated cat, fast, twitchy, and one mental breakdown away from running into a wall.
Logan, bless his soul, sat cross‑legged on the bed, nursing a can of Red Bull and the world’s most exhausted expression. He had no idea what he’d signed up for when he agreed to “hang out” with Oscar tonight.
Spoiler: it wasn’t hanging out. It was therapy.
“I can’t. I just can’t,” Oscar said for what had to be the seventeenth time that hour, hands flying everywhere. “She’s… she’s perfect, Logan. And fast. And she smiles at me and...”
“Oscar.” Logan didn’t even look up. “Bro. Calm down. What is this? You sound like a fan account.”
“I’m not—” Oscar froze mid‑stride, jaw dropping in horror. “Okay maybe I am. But it’s not my fault! She’s literally..God..she’s sunshine with a golden heart!”
Logan blinked. “You need help.”
“I need her!” Oscar blurted, then groaned and dragged his hands through his hair. “Every time I’m near her I forget how to speak like a functioning human. I trip over words. I make jokes that aren’t even funny, and she still laughs, which makes it worse!”
“Uh‑huh,” Logan hummed, sipping his drink. “So basically you’re in love with your teammate’s twin.”
Oscar froze. “Don’t say it like that. It sounds illegal.”
“It kind of is,” Logan said with a smirk. “At least in the ‘bro code’ sense.”
Oscar began pacing again, faster this time. “Yesterday I offered her my hoodie...like three times. Three! And she said yes. And then she actually wore it. The whole day. Logan, do you understand what that does to a man?”
Logan looked at him, deadpan. “Yeah. It makes you sound like a man who’s one heartbeat away from writing poetry in his Notes app.”
“I have!” Oscar exclaimed, before immediately regretting it. “I—no. No I haven’t. Shut up.”
Logan’s jaw dropped. “You actually have notes?”
Oscar’s silence was all the answer he needed.
Logan fell backward on the bed, cackling. “This is gold. The great Oscar Piastri, calm and composed F1 robot, writing secret odes to a girl who calls him ‘Piasty’ when he blushes.”
Oscar covered his face. “I hate this. I hate me. Why does she have to be so… her?”
“Because that’s how attraction works, mate.” Logan grinned, leaning up on his elbows. “You like her. She likes you. It’s cute. Also very painful to watch.”
Oscar stopped pacing, hands on his hips like a scolded golden retriever. “But what if she says no, Logan? What if she laughs, and it’s not the nice kind of laugh, and she tells Lando, and then I’m the team embarrassment forever?”
Logan rolled his eyes so hard they practically did a full lap. “Then she says no. You move on. But considering history—and the fact she’s been looking at you like you’re the last Tim Tam on Earth—I’d say your odds are pretty good.”
Oscar blinked. “The last Tim Tam?”
“Yeah, mate. Irresistible.”
Oscar groaned, collapsing face‑first onto the bed beside him. “I hate this. I love this. I hate myself. I love her. I’m spiraling.”
Logan patted his back with the emotional subtlety of a brick. “You’re an idiot.”
“I know.”
“An adorable idiot.”
Oscar peeked up, hair sticking out in ten directions. “So you think I should ask her out?”
Logan smirked. “I think if you should..."
Oscar shot upright, horrified. “Really!?”
“Yup.”
Oscar exhaled sharply, resolve flickering to life in his eyes. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
Logan grinned. “Good. Now for the love of God, stop pacing before you burn a hole in the carpet.”
Oscar sank back down, heartbeat still doing cartwheels. “This is going to end badly, isn’t it?”
Logan chuckled. “Oh, 100%. But it’ll make a great story at your wedding.”
The next day in the paddock, it was… different. Electric. Tangible. Like the air itself had been spiked with caffeine and butterflies.
You spotted him near the garage, leaning against a crate like he owned the place or at least pretending he did. Your stomach did that weird flip-flop thing that made you briefly question if breakfast had been a bad idea.
“Hi,” you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you, wobbling slightly.
“…Hi,” he replied, his voice low and just barely catching the nerves in yours. That little hesitation, that tiny hitch… you could practically feel his heart racing.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of your own hands, which had decided to act like they were auditioning for their own nervous slapstick show. “…Do you wanna… uh… grab a coffee?” Instant regret. Smooth level: negative infinity.
He blinked, chewing on his lip like he was deciding whether to confess a crime. “…Yes. I mean...yes. Coffee. That would be… great.”
Silence fell for a heartbeat, long enough for both of you to realize you were smiling like idiots.
From that moment on, the paddock felt like a minefield of sparks. Every time you passed him in the garage, your shoulders brushed. Every. Single. Time. And each brush left a little warmth lingering, like static electricity crawling up your arm.
He handed you a water bottle, and he didn’t just hand it over, he lingered a beat too long, eyes locking with yours. You swallowed and murmured, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent… and then promptly tripped over his own feet, catching himself on the crate behind him.
You bit back a laugh, your heart hammering for entirely unrelated reasons. “Smooth,” you teased, nudging him lightly.
He flushed, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah… uh… yeah, totally.”
Every interaction was this delicious blend of torture and bliss. A joke gone wrong, a laugh shared, a glance held a heartbeat too long. The coffee break they’d promised each other stretched into an hour of accidental confessions. He talked, nervously at first, about nothing, car setups, tyre choices, even the ridiculous sandwich he’d grabbed that morning but every sentence was punctuated by little glances that made your chest feel like it was doing its own laps around Silverstone.
And you… you were terrible. You laughed too loudly, touched his arm by accident, twirled your hair when he looked away but he noticed anyway. He noticed everything.
“You’re… really fast, you know,” he said finally, voice quiet, almost a whisper over the hum of the paddock.
You blinked. “I—thanks. You’re… not too bad yourself.”
He smirked, the tiniest, shy smirk that made him look way too adorable for someone who could outdrive half the grid. “Not too bad? That’s… your compliment?”
“Uh… yes?” You realized halfway through saying it that it sounded like a dare. And somehow, he didn’t get offended. He laughed, soft, awkward, and totally stolen by you.
It was torture. It was bliss. It was everything all at once. Every accidental touch, every shared smile, every fleeting brush of his fingers when he passed you a tool… it was an electric little chaos that left your chest tight and your stomach in knots.
And the worst and best part? Neither of you wanted it to stop.
The night air was still buzzing from the race, engines cooling, press packs winding down, and the paddock mostly empty. You were leaning against the barrier near the garages, helmet under one arm, still riding the adrenaline high from the win. Your body was tired, but your mind was sharp, replaying every corner, every overtake.
And then you saw him.
Oscar.
Standing there under the glow of the floodlights, a bouquet of your favourite flowers, looking… impossibly nervous.
You froze. “…Oscar?”
He flinched slightly, like he’d been caught sneaking cookies from a jar. “…Hey.”
You blinked, taken aback. “Wait… what are you doing here? I didn’t even know you were at the race!”
He shifted from one foot to the other, cheeks already pink in the cool night air. “I… uh… thought I’d… surprise you. Needed to… see you after… the race.” His voice stumbled over the words like they were made of glass.
Your chest did a stupid little flip. “Wow… sneaky. And terrifying.”
He gulped, then plunged anyway. “…So… uh… I was wondering. If… maybe… you’re not too busy being insanely talented and amazing and… incredibly gorgeous and...uh h-hot… would you… uh… like to… go on a… dinner? With me?”
You blinked at him, completely thrown by the surprise, your adrenaline still racing from the race and now… him. Then your grin spread, slow and teasing. “You mean… a date?”
He swallowed, heat rising in his cheeks. “Yeah. A date. If you want. No pressure. I can… go back to being awkward somewhere else.”
You laughed, your relief and amusement mingling with the lingering adrenaline from the track. “No pressure, huh? You’re standing there like a very nervous yet incredibly adorable cactus.”
He groaned, tightening his hold on the helmet. “I… I know. I’m terrible at this. I’m—”
“You’re fine,” you said, stepping closer, letting your hand brush against his, almost accidental, almost deliberate. His chest did that ridiculous flip again.
“I… think… I’d like that,” you murmured, voice still low, heart still hammering from both the race and him.
Relief washed over him like a wave, he exhaled sharply, helmet slipping slightly in his hands. “You… really?”
You nodded, eyes sparkling in the floodlights. “Yeah. Dinner with you. I think I can survive a meal without asking you to explain every car setup in existence.”
He laughed, nervous and uneven, and it made him look impossibly endearing. “That… that actually sounds perfect. I promise not to trip over my words. Well… too much.”
Chaos, the kind that had been swirling around you two, every accidental shoulder brush, lingering touch, stolen glance, shifted into something else entirely.
Flirtation became acknowledgment. Tension became possibility. And the Norris twin curse? Yeah… it just got way more complicated.
He held your gaze a moment longer, almost afraid to blink. “So… dinner, tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you confirmed, grin wide, heart still racing from both the race and him.
And under the glow of the night lights, after the roar of engines had faded, after the paddock had quieted into an almost intimate hush, the world felt impossibly electric.
