ahgase99

Latest Posts by ahgase99

future wife - ln4

summary: lando always says that yn russell is his future wife. the entire paddock thinks he's just joking, but he's not. wc: 6k + social media posts

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!! FINALLY !! i loved writing lovesick puppy lando so so much and i really hope you love him too. PLEASE SEND YOUR FEEDBACK AND LEAVE A REBLOG !

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by georgerussell63, landonorris and 206,378 others

yn.russell silverstone race weekends always hit different 🥹 big bro starting front row tomorrow and i couldn’t be prouder LETS GOOOO

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username1 the most iconic russell

username2 COME ON RUSSELL NATION

landonorris excuse me why didn’t you include a picture of your future husband here ??

↳ yn.russell lando your delusions are talking again

↳ username1 hey he ALWAYS does this

↳ username2 lando and yn’s banter will never get old

carmenmmundt Love you both ❤️

username3 LANDO BEING ANNOYING IN THIS COMMENT SECTION AS ALWAYS

charles_leclerc I see homeboy trying to shoot his shot again

↳ landonorris what are you talking about? we’ll get married

↳ yn.russell LANDO STOP 😭

username4 she’s the real paddock princess

username5 lando really said fake it till you make it

username6 GEORGIE BOY DID IT

georgerussell63 Love you so much little one 🤍 Also Lando, she’s still my sister

↳ landonorris and? she’s my girl 😍

↳ yn.russell STOP

liked by yn.russell, maxverstappen1 and 986,409 others

landonorris honey i’m hooooome 🇬🇧😘 picture by my favorite girl @/yn.russell

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username1 LANDOOOOO

username2 the papaya hat is killing me

username3 CALLING LITTLE RUSSELL HIS GIRL AS ALWAYS

mclaren Papaya forever 🧡

username4 manifesting lando and yn wedding

carlossainz55 Just wait until George finds you cabron

↳ landonorris he knows she’s my future wife

↳ georgerussell63 I HATE YOU

username5 DYING AT THIS COMMENT SECTION LANDO YOU HAVE NO SHAME

username6 lando and yn are my favorite platonic lovers (actually there’s nothing platonic about them we all know it)

username7 SO BOYFRIEND CODED

yn.russell lando i need you to look at me when i tell you this…

↳ landonorris yes i do darling 😍

↳ georgerussell63 I’m literally never letting you two fly together again

↳ username1 IM WHEEZING

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You're lounging in George's motorhome at the track, scrolling through your phone while he reviews data with Alex. Carmen is perched on the sofa beside you, both of you sharing occasional knowing looks at the boys' intense focus on lap times.

"Oh, by the way," you say casually, not looking up from your phone, "I won't be around for dinner tonight. Got a date."

The effect is immediate. George's head snaps up from the screen, Alex nearly drops his water bottle, and Carmen tries (and fails) to hide her amused smile.

"A date?" George's protective brother mode activates instantly. "With who?"

"That new marketing guy from McLaren," you reply, finally glancing up. "Jacob. You know, the one I was talking to at the paddock party last week?"

"The tall blonde one?" Alex pipes up, earning himself a sharp look from George.

"Not helping, mate," George mutters.

"He seems nice," Carmen offers diplomatically, though there's something knowing in her expression that you can't quite read.

"Speaking of nice," Alex says with a poorly concealed grin, "should we tell Lando? You know, since he's been planning your wedding since 2018 and all."

The friendship between you and Lando dates back to karting days, when you'd tag along with George to races. You were fourteen when you first met a tiny, curly-haired Lando who immediately declared you were "pretty cool for a girl." Despite George's protective big brother routine, you and Lando became inseparable during race weekends.

The marriage jokes started right when Lando was making his F2 debut. You were both hanging out in the paddock when he suddenly announced, "When we get married, our wedding colors have to be papaya orange. Because I know I'll drive for Mclaren"

"Bold of you to assume I'd marry you, Norris," you'd laughed.

"Please, you love me," he'd grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "Plus, I've already told my mum you're the one. Can't disappoint her now, darling."

That was the first time he called you darling, but it certainly wasn't the last. Over the years, the pet names multiplied - love, sweetheart, future wife - each one delivered with that characteristic Lando grin that somehow managed to be both cheeky and endearing.

But at the end of the day, he was Lando. And it was all jokes.

"He's probably too busy planning our honeymoon in papaya-colored paradise to care about my actual dating life," you said, trying to sound casual.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Carmen murmurs, just as the door bursts open.

Lando's characteristic energy walks in, his curls slightly messy from his helmet. "Hello lads! Future wife," he grins, making his way over and dramatically flopping onto the couch, his head landing in your lap like it's his designated spot.

"Comfortable?" you ask dryly, but your hand automatically goes to his curls.

"Very," he beams up at you. "Why's everyone looking so serious though? Did George finally realize his neck's too long?"

"Ha ha," George deadpans, while Carmen tries to hide her laugh behind her hand.

"Little Russell was just telling us she's got a date tonight," Alex announces, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding.

Lando sits up so fast he nearly headbutts you. "A what now?"

"A date," you repeat, watching as his face does a complicated journey before settling on forced nonchalance. "With Jacob from marketing."

"McLaren Jacob?" Lando's voice goes up an octave. "My Jacob?"

"He's not your Jacob," you roll your eyes. "And yes, that Jacob."

"The one who still can't figure out how to work the coffee machine?" Lando scoffs, repositioning himself to face you properly. "Come on, darling, you can do better than that. What happened to our sacred Friday night FIFA tournaments?"

"Sacred?" George snorts. "Is that what you call screaming at the TV when she beats you?"

"Oi, whose side are you on?" Lando throws a nearby cushion at George. "Besides, I let her win. Can't have my girl crying, can I?"

"Your girl?" you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way your stomach flips at his words.

"Obviously," he grins, but there's something slightly off about it. "Who else is going to fulfill my mum's dreams of having you as a daughter-in-law?"

"I'm sure Jacob would love to hear about these marriage plans," Alex teases, earning himself a glare from Lando.

"He better watch himself," Lando mutters, then louder, "Where's he taking you anyway? Probably somewhere boring like that chain restaurant near the factory."

"Actually," you say, "he's taking me to that new rooftop place in town."

"The one I said we should try?" Lando looks genuinely offended now. "That's just... that's just rude, love. I called dibs on taking you there."

"When exactly did you call dibs?" Carmen asks innocently.

"In my head," Lando protests. "This is not fair."

You poke his side. "Jealous, Norris?"

"Of course I am," he says, and for a moment, his voice loses its playful edge. "Can't have someone stealing my future wife away. We've got plans, remember? House in Surrey, three kids, dog named Fernando..."

"You've really thought this through, haven't you?" you laugh.

"Been planning our future since I was fourteen, love," he grins, but there's something soft in his eyes. "Now, would you cancel on Jacob and have a proper movie night with your future husband instead?"

"Still not your wife, Lando," you remind him.

"Not yet," he corrects, "But I'm a patient man, darling."

"Okay this is getting weird," Alex chimes in, "Lando, we're leaving. Little Russell, have fun on your date."

"Right," Lando stands up, but his usual bouncy energy seems subdued. "Have fun with boring Jacob. But just remember," he points at you with mock seriousness, though something flickers in his eyes, "I'm not giving up without a fight. Can't let some marketing guy steal the love of my life, can I?"

"The love of your life?" you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your heart skips.

"Since karting, darling," he winks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on, Alex, let's leave the Russell siblings to their protective brother-sister chat."

As soon as the door closes behind them, Carmen turns to you with raised eyebrows. "You really have that boy pining over you, you know that right?"

"Oh please," you wave her off, though your cheeks feel warm. "We're just joking around. We've been doing this since forever."

"Sure, sister, sure," George snorts, exchanging a knowing look with Carmen. "Because every guy I know plans out their future house in Surrey with their 'joke' wife."

"And names their future dog Fernando," Carmen adds.

"It's just Lando being Lando," you insist, but you can't help glancing at the door where he'd disappeared. "He jokes like this with everyone."

"Really?" Carmen leans forward. "Because I've never heard him call anyone else 'the love of his life' or 'darling' or plan out their wedding colors."

"Or look like someone kicked his puppy when they mention going on a date with someone else," George adds.

"You're both reading way too much into this," you say, standing up and grabbing your bag. "I have to go get ready for my date with Jacob."

"The date that Lando looked absolutely thrilled about," George mutters under his breath.

You pretend not to hear him as you leave, trying to ignore the way Lando's slightly hurt expression keeps playing in your mind.

Because it's all jokes. And he's just Lando.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 211,984 others

yn.russell great great night 😙

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username1 OMGG LITTLE RUSSELL

username2 she's so pretty its not fair

flonorris1 we need to catch up 👀

username3 HUHH DID LANDO FINALLY ASK HER OUT

username4 how did george allow her to go on a date

charles_leclerc Oblivious little baby russell

↳ yn.russell ?

↳ username1 EXPLAIN

iamrebeccad Prettiest girl 😍

jacob___ ❤️

↳ yn.russell 😘

↳ georgerussell63 I'm watching...

↳ username1 IM YELLING

↳ username2 WHATS GOING ONNN

landonorris the prettiest girl in the world and my future wife idc idc

↳ username1 lando have some class ffs

↳ yn.russell ENOUGH

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liked by carmenmmundt, jacob__ and 229,836 others

yn.russell snaps from the summer break 💙 happy happy

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username1 AN ICON

username2 i wish i was this pinterest feed coded

carmenmmundt Love you my girl !

username3 HOLD ON. THE SECOND PICTURE

username4 did she just soft launch 👀👀

username5 LITTLE RUSSELL HAS A BOYFRIEND ?????

username6 if her bf is not lando we don’t want it

alex_albon i know someone who’s NOT going to like this

landonorris my darling 😍😍 do u miss me as much as i miss youuuu?

↳ username1 HES SHAMELESS

↳ yn.russell STOP THIS MADNESS

georgerussell63 I know a lot of ways to make a crash look accidental

↳ yn.russell you’re literally not intimidating anyone BYE

↳ username1 SO SHE DOES HAVE A BF

jacob__ ❤️

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The sun is surprisingly bright as you make your way through the Zandvoort paddock, dodging various team personnel rushing around for Thursday preparations. The summer break was finally over and it was time for race cars again. You're just turning the corner when you hear a familiar voice.

"There's my darling!" Lando calls out, jogging over with his signature grin. "Thought you'd forgotten about your future husband during the break."

Before you can respond, he's pulled you into a tight hug. You catch a whiff of his familiar cologne, the one he's worn since F2, and automatically hug him back.

"How was your summer?" he asks, keeping an arm around your shoulders as he starts walking with you. "Did you miss me terribly? Cry yourself to sleep thinking about our FIFA rematch?"

"Actually," you start, feeling unexpectedly nervous, "I've got some news."

"Oh?" His eyes light up. "Did George finally admit his neck is abnormally long? Because I've been saying—"

"Jacob and I are officially together," you cut in quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. "Like, properly together. Boyfriend and girlfriend."

Lando's step falters slightly, his arm dropping from your shoulders. "What?"

"Yeah," you continue, fiddling with your paddock pass. "We kept seeing each other after that first date, and during the break... it just got serious."

"Serious?" His voice sounds strange. "How serious? When did this— why am I just finding out about this?"

"We wanted to keep it quiet at first, you know? But he talked to the higher-ups at McLaren today about dating someone connected to another team, and they're cool with it, so..." you trail off, watching his face carefully.

"Cool with it," he repeats slowly. Then, visibly forcing his usual grin, "Well, that's... that's great, love. Really great. Though I have to say, my mum will be devastated. She was really counting on those papaya-themed grandchildren."

But his joke falls flat, lacking its usual warmth. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lando—"

"No, really," he cuts in, running a hand through his curls. "I'm happy for you. Even if he is rubbish at making coffee. And boring. And probably doesn't even know your favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip, or that you secretly love watching those terrible reality shows, or that you—" he stops himself, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Good for you. Both of you."

You're about to respond when his race engineer calls him over.

"Duty calls," he says, already backing away. "But hey, tell Jacob he better treat my future wife right. Even if she's... not actually my future wife anymore."

He tries to wink, but it looks more like a flinch. Before you can say anything else, he's gone, leaving you standing alone in the paddock with an inexplicable heaviness in your chest.

But you immediately brush it off. Because at the end of the day, he's just Lando.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,504 others

yn.russell making it official 🤍 @/jacob___

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username1 OH?

username2 YALL HE WORKS FOR MCLAREN ??

username3 what happened to lando ?? the marriage proposal??

georgerussell63 About time you stopped sneaking around 🙄

↳ yn.russell shut up old man

↳ carlossainz55 Protective brother mode activated

carmenmmundt You guys look so cute! ❤️

↳ yn.russell love you xxx

alex_albon Well this is going to be interesting 👀

↳ landonorris mate.

↳ alex_albon what? I said nothing

username4 But what about Lando?? 😭 They were literally perfect together

usernsme5 nooo my ship is sinking

username6 the way lando looks at her tho…

jacob___❤️

↳ yn.russell 🤍

landonorris i guess i need to find a new future wife then 🤷‍♂️ applications open x

↳ danielricciardo i volunteer as tribute mate

↳ landonorris sorry mate you're not george's sister

↳ carlossainz55 You okay there buddy?

↳ yn.russell don't worry, you'll always be my favorite husband-that-never-was x

↳ landonorris 💔

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yn.russell has added to their stories

landonorris has replied to your story

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The Singapore night air is thick with humidity and celebration. The club's bass thrums through your bones as you watch Lando being congratulated for what feels like the hundredth time. He's practically glowing, champagne-drunk and victory-high, but something seems off about his smile.

"Babe, want another drink?" Jacob's voice pulls your attention back. His hand is possessively placed on your lower back, and you notice Lando's eyes flicker to it before he quickly looks away.

Across the VIP section, Alex nudges Charles, nodding towards where Lando is now aggressively stabbing at his ice with a straw.

"Subtle, mate," Alex smirks, sliding into the booth beside Lando. "Very subtle."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Lando mutters, but his eyes betray him, darting back to where Jacob is now whispering something in your ear.

"Ah, l'amour," Charles sighs dramatically. "It is painful, no?"

"Nothing's painful," Lando protests, straightening up. "I just won a Grand Prix, in case you forgot."

"And yet you look like someone stole your puppy," Alex points out.

"Or your future wife," Charles adds with a knowing look.

"She was never actually going to be my future wife," Lando says, but his voice lacks conviction. "It was just jokes. Always has been. She's George's sister, for fuck's sake."

"Right," Alex drawls. "So you wouldn't mind if I told you they're probably going to move in together soon?"

Lando chokes on his drink. "They're what?"

"He's joking," Charles quickly intervenes, shooting Alex a look. "But your reaction..."

"Means nothing," Lando insists, but his knuckles are white around his glass. "I just... I don't want her to rush into anything. As a friend. A protective friend. Who happens to be her brother's mate. And her future husband. But like, as a joke. Obviously."

"Obviously," Alex repeats dryly.

Suddenly, Charles straightens up. "Where did they go?"

The spot where you and Jacob were standing is empty. Lando's eyes scan the crowd, something uneasy settling in his stomach.

"Probably just getting more drinks," he says, but he's already standing up.

"Lando..." Alex starts.

"I just need some air," Lando cuts him off, making his way through the crowd.

The corridor leading to the outdoor area is quieter, the music muffled. That's when he hears raised voices.

"You're being ridiculous," Jacob's voice is sharp. "I was just talking to her."

"With your hand on her waist?" Your voice sounds tired. "While I was right there?"

"Oh, so I can't even network now? That's literally my job, YN. But I wouldn't expect you to understand that, since you're only here because of your brother."

Lando's feet move before his brain catches up.

"Everything alright out here?" His voice is deliberately light, but there's steel underneath.

"Fine," Jacob snaps. "Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend."

"Doesn't sound very private," Lando steps closer to you instinctively. "Or very pleasant."

"This doesn't concern you, Norris."

"See, that's where you're wrong, mate," Lando's usual playful demeanor is gone. "YN's wellbeing always concerns me. Future wife contract, remember? Legally binding and all that."

"We're still doing that joke?" Jacob scoffs. "Bit pathetic, don't you think?"

"Not as pathetic as hitting on sponsors' daughters while your girlfriend watches," Lando retorts, then softer, to you: "You okay, darling?"

The familiar pet name makes your chest tight. "I'm fine, Lando."

"Great, she's fine," Jacob moves to grab your arm. "Let's go."

"Touch her like that again," Lando's voice is deadly quiet, "and you'll be looking for a new marketing job. Might want to learn how the coffee machine works first though."

Jacob looks between you and Lando, jaw clenched. "Whatever. This is bullshit anyway. Call me when you're done playing happy families with your brother's friend."

He storms off, leaving you and Lando in charged silence.

"So," Lando finally says, attempting his usual lightness, "does this mean I can keep the dog name Fernando?"

You let out a watery laugh, and without thinking, he pulls you into a hug. You fit against him like you always have, his cologne familiar and comforting.

"My darling," he murmurs into your hair, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't call you that anymore."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "You've been calling me that since we were teenagers."

"Yeah, well," he gives you a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "things change, don't they?"

The way he's looking at you makes your heart stutter. Has he always looked at you like that?

"Is he always like this?" Lando asks quietly, still holding you close. His usual playful tone is gone, replaced by something more serious than you're used to hearing from him.

"No, no," you shake your head quickly. Maybe too quickly, because Lando's brow furrows as he studies your face. "It's not— he's not usually... it was just a misunderstanding."

He's silent for a moment, his hands fidgeting like they always do when he's worried about something. "You'd tell me though, right? If he ever... if he's not good to you? Or tell George at least?"

"Of course," you try to smile reassuringly. "But really, today was just a bad night. Too much pressure, too much champagne..."

"YN," he cuts in, and the way he says your name instead of one of his usual pet names makes you look up at him. His eyes are intense, concerned. "Promise me."

"I promise," you say softly. "You're a great friend, Lando."

Something flickers across his face – so quick you almost miss it – before his signature grin returns, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Friend?" he scoffs, but his voice sounds slightly strained. "Future husband, remember? Can't have my darling dealing with drama alone. Bad for our future marriage prospects."

You laugh, and he joins in, but there's something heavy hanging in the air between you. Before either of you can say anything else, Alex's voice carries from the doorway.

"Found them! Everything okay out here?"

"Never better," Lando announces, stepping back and throwing an arm around your shoulders with practiced ease. But you notice how his smile doesn't quite match the one in all those podium photos from earlier. "Just reminding the future Mrs. Norris about our very legitimate marriage contract. Very binding. Legally waterproof and everything."

He's doing that thing he does when he's uncomfortable – talking too fast, jokes tumbling out one after another. But his hand squeezes your shoulder gently before he lets go, and you catch him glancing back at you as he bounces toward the club entrance, his "Let's celebrate my amazing win, shall we?" almost drowning out the sound of your heart beating too fast.

Alex watches the exchange with knowing eyes but mercifully says nothing, just offers his arm to escort you back inside.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between george and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 287,540 others

yn.russell british boy steps foot in mexico city and instantly thinks he's a local... who's gonna tell him

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username1 LANDO X LITTLE RUSSELL IS SO BACKKK

username2 he looks so cuute

username3 i know her bf is not going to like this

alex_albon he can't even keep tequila shots down. such a fake

↳ landonorris want to test that theory?

↳ charles_leclerc Poor little Lando Norris

username4 HELP SHES SO IN LOVE WITH HIM 😭

jacob___ 👀

↳ username1 i know he's JEALOUS

username5 the way yn's feed is like 60% lando

username6 MY PARENTS

landonorris why is my future wife so mean to me

↳ yn.russell LANDO

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Later that afternoon, you're sitting with Carmen in the Mercedes hospitality when George joins you, stealing a bite of your sandwich.

"Get your own food," you swat his hand away.

"Sharing is caring, little sis," he grins, then notices your expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," you say automatically, but Carmen raises an eyebrow.

"She's overthinking," Carmen supplies helpfully. "About Jacob."

"I'm not overthinking," you protest. "I'm just... thinking. Normal amounts of thinking."

"About?" George prompts.

You fidget with your paddock pass. "He wants me to meet his parents. After Abu Dhabi. Says it's time we got more serious."

George's expression shifts slightly. "And you want that?"

"I mean... yeah? I think so. It makes sense, right? We've been together for a few months now, things are good..."

"Are they?" Carmen asks gently.

"Of course they are," you say, but your voice lacks conviction. "The Singapore thing was just a one-off. He apologized. He's been really sweet since then."

"Sweet enough to make up for being a dick?" George mutters.

"George."

"Sorry, sorry," he holds up his hands. "Just... you don't sound very excited about meeting his parents."

"I am excited," you insist. "It's just... a big step."

"Not as big as naming your future dog Fernando," Carmen says under her breath.

You shoot her a warning look. "Can we not?"

"Not what?" George asks.

"Nothing," you say quickly. "Just... Carmen thinks I'm not fully committed because..."

"Because you still light up every time Lando calls you 'darling'?" Carmen finishes.

"That's not— he calls everyone darling."

"No, he doesn't," George and Carmen say in unison.

"I hate you both," you groan. "Look, Lando and I are friends. That's all we've ever been. The whole future wife thing is just our running joke."

"Sure," Carmen nods. "That's why he looks like someone kicked his puppy every time Jacob touches you."

"He does not—" you start, but stop when you catch sight of Lando walking past. He gives you a small wave and his signature grin, but something about it seems off.

"Doesn't what?" George prompts.

"Nothing," you shake your head. "I should go. Jacob's waiting for me."

As you leave, you hear Carmen say to George, "They're both idiots, aren't they?"

"Complete idiots," George agrees. "But at least they're consistent about it."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 298,605 others

yn.russell happy birthday to my favorite “future husband” 🎂 from stealing your caps in karting to stealing your FIFA records (still undefeated btw), you've somehow become one of my favorite people in this weird little world of ours. here's to many more years of terrible jokes, impromptu dance parties in the garage, and you pretending to let me win at everything (we both know I'm just better 😌). love you loads landolorian 🤍

ps: fernando the nonexistent dog says happy birthday to his future dad x

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username1 THIS IS TOO CUTE

username2 YOUR HONOR IM CRYING

landonorris still waiting for that marriage certificate darling 💍 also you definitely cheated at FIFA last time

↳ yn.russell sounds like someone's a sore loser

↳ landonorris sounds like someone's avoiding the marriage topic

↳ georgerussell63 get a room you two

↳ landonorris working on it mate

↳ username1 LANDO WTF

↳ username2 HE HAS NO SHAME

mclaren Happy Birthday @/landonorris! @/yn.russell when's the wedding?

↳ landonorris asking the real questions admin

↳ oscarpiastri I'll officiate

↳ landonorris DEAL

↳ yn.russell STOP IT

jacob___ 🙄

↳ landonorris problem mate?

↳ yn.russell boys.

↳ username3 THE TENSION

username4 why aren't they together yet??

username5 my heart can't take this anymore just date already

liked by username1, username2 and 3,976 others

f1.gossip Lando Norris and YN Russell spotted getting cozy at his birthday celebration last night. Swipe for more 👀

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username1 "just friends" my ass

username2 no because why does he look at her like she hung the stars

username3 wait where's jacob? 👀

↳ username1 apparently he left early...

↳ username2 he posted from a different party later that night

username4 george watching his best friend and his sister like 🧍‍♂️

↳ username1 he's been watching this slow burn for years poor man

username5 jacob watching these photos like 👁👄👁

username6 the way lando calls her darling more than her actual boyfriend does

username7 who's gonna tell jacob his girlfriend has better chemistry with lando in these photos than their entire instagram feed

username8 the "future wife" jokes don't seem so jokey anymore huh

username9 okay but can we talk about how she literally glows when she's around him?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The afternoon sun filters through your apartment windows as you put the finishing touches on your makeup. You're going out to dinner with Jacob - another fancy restaurant, another chance for him to network while you smile politely beside him.

A knock at your door makes you pause. Opening it reveals Lando, holding a bag of takeaway and what appears to be your favorite ice cream.

"Oh," he says, taking in your dress and heels. "You're going out."

"Yeah," you adjust your earring, but can't help smiling at the familiar sight of him with food. "With Jacob. Remember?"

"Right," his smile dims slightly. "The boyfriend. Must've slipped my mind." He holds up the bags. "I brought provisions for our traditional post-race debrief. You know, where you tell me how amazing I was and I pretend to be humble about it?"

You laugh despite yourself. "Since when are you ever humble?"

"I'm incredibly humble. The most humble. No one's more humble than me," he grins, then peers around you into the apartment. "But seriously, can't you reschedule? I got your favorite ice cream. Mint chocolate chip, because I'm the best future husband ever."

"Still going with that, are we?" you ask, turning back to the mirror to check your lipstick.

"Always, darling," he follows you in, setting the food down and flopping onto your couch like he owns it. "It's legally binding, remember? Can't disappoint my mum now."

"I can't tonight," you say, checking your phone. "Jacob said he has something important to tell me."

"The one who made you cry?" Lando's voice loses some of its playfulness.

"That was one time," you defend, though without heat. "And he apologized. He actually told me he loves me last week. Says he wants us to be serious."

Lando sits up straighter, his usual energetic demeanor momentarily stilled. "And do you? Love him?"

"You don't know anything about my relationship, Lando," you say, but it comes out softer than intended.

"I know you," he counters, standing up and moving to lean against the wall near your mirror. "I know you scrunch your nose when you're trying not to laugh at bad jokes. I know you secretly love those terrible reality shows but pretend you're 'just watching them ironically.' I know you stress-eat ice cream when George has a bad race."

"That's different," you say, but you're fighting a smile.

"Is it?" he challenges, but his tone is gentle. "Look, I just... I want you to be happy. Even if it means dealing with boring Jacob who still can't work the coffee machine."

"He figured it out last week, actually," you laugh.

"Finally! Only took him what, six months?" Lando grins, then sobers slightly. "But seriously, if he makes you happy..."

"He does," you say, though something in your chest tightens. "Most of the time."

"Most of the time?" Lando raises an eyebrow. "That's not exactly a ringing endorsement, darling."

"Nobody's perfect."

"I am," he says immediately, making you laugh. "What? I'm just saying, our future children would have excellent genes. Plus, I make a mean cup of coffee."

Your phone buzzes - a text from Jacob asking where you are.

"I have to go," you say, grabbing your purse. "Lock up when you leave?"

"Fine," he sighs dramatically. "Abandon your future husband with melting ice cream. But just know, Fernando the dog is very disappointed in you."

"Still haven't given up on that name, huh?"

"Never," he grins, but something flickers in his eyes. "Save me some time this weekend? For proper FIFA revenge?"

"You mean so I can beat you again?"

"Excuse you, I let you win," he protests, following you to the door. "It's part of my long-term strategy."

"Which is?"

"Can't have my future wife thinking I'm bad at something, can I?" he winks. "Even though we both know I'm actually terrible at FIFA."

You shake your head, laughing. "Goodbye, Lando."

"Wait," he calls as you start down the hall. "Just... be happy, yeah? Even if it's with someone who took six months to learn how to make coffee."

"I am happy," you say, but even to your own ears, it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"If you say so, darling," he says quietly. "But just remember, the Fernando name reservation is still valid. You know, in case the coffee-challenged boyfriend doesn't work out."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling as you walk away, trying to ignore the way your heart seems to be arguing with your head about exactly what - or who - makes you happiest. Behind you, you can hear him humming what sounds suspiciously like the wedding march, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

Because at the end of the day, he's still Lando. Your Lando. Even if you're not quite ready to admit what that really means.

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liked by carmenmmundt, lilymhe and 276,498 others

yn.russell last dinner date before heading back to the circus 🏎️ @/jacob___

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username1 ewww

username2 cute couple tbh

jacob___ miss you already x

↳ yn.russell ❤️

landonorris see you in las vegas darling x

↳ jacob___ can you not?

↳ landonorris sorry mate, contractual future wife obligations

↳ yn_russell boys. please.

↳ georgerussell63 🍿

↳ carlossainz55 Share some with me

↳ username1 LORD

↳ username2 THIS IS SO MESSYYYYY

username3 THIS COMMENT SECTION HAS ME IN TEARSSSS

username4 i feel like shit is about to hit the fan reaaaally soon

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"I just don't understand why you have to be there for every single race," Jacob's voice carries down the paddock corridor. "It's not like you're actually part of the team."

You're standing outside the McLaren hospitality, what started as a casual conversation having turned into yet another argument. "My brother races in F1, and Lando's one of my closest friends. Of course I'm going to be here."

"Right, Lando," Jacob scoffs. "Because God forbid you miss one of his races. Wouldn't want to disappoint your 'future husband.'"

"Don't do that," you say tiredly. "You know it's just a joke."

"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you'd rather spend time with him than support your actual boyfriend's career."

"Your career? I've been to every single marketing event you've asked me to attend. I've smiled and networked and played the perfect girlfriend."

"Perfect?" He laughs humorlessly. "You barely talk to any of the sponsors. You're too busy hanging out in the Mercedes garage or watching Lando's practice sessions."

"That's not fair—"

"You know what's not fair? Having a girlfriend who's more invested in other people's careers than mine."

"I didn't realize I was supposed to give up my entire life just because we're dating."

"Your entire life?" His voice rises. "You mean hanging around the paddock like some glorified fan?"

You step back like he's slapped you. "Is that what you think I am?"

"I think," he says coldly, "that you need to figure out what's more important - playing happy families with your brother's friends or having a real relationship with someone who's actually going somewhere in life."

"Hey!" A sharp voice cuts through the tension. George is standing there, face thunderous. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Just having a private conversation with my girlfriend," Jacob says stiffly.

"Doesn't sound very private to me," George steps closer, positioning himself slightly in front of you. "Or very respectful."

"George, it's fine," you start, but he cuts you off.

"No, it's not fine," he says, not taking his eyes off Jacob. "No one talks to my sister like that."

Jacob holds up his hands. "Look, this is between me and YN."

"Not anymore it's not," George's voice is dangerously calm. "I think you should leave."

For a moment, it looks like Jacob might argue, but something in George's expression makes him think better of it. "Whatever. Call me when you're ready to be a proper girlfriend."

As he walks away, George turns to you, his anger melting into concern. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," you say automatically, but your voice wavers.

"Come on," he wraps an arm around your shoulders, leading you toward his driver room. "Let's talk."

Once inside, you sink onto the couch while George grabs two water bottles. "How long has he been talking to you like that?"

"It's not... it's not usually that bad," you say, fidgeting with the bottle label. "He's just stressed about work."

"That's not an excuse," George sits beside you. "Has he said things like this before? About you being just a fan?"

You stay quiet, which is answer enough.

"YN," George's voice softens. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's embarrassing," you admit quietly. "He's right, isn't he? I am just hanging around because of you."

"Stop," George says firmly. "You've been part of this world since we were kids. You understand racing better than half the people in the paddock. Hell, you probably know more about tire strategies than some of the engineers."

You manage a small laugh. "Only because you never shut up about them."

"Exactly," he grins, then turns serious again. "Look, being here isn't just about me. It's your life too. You've built relationships with everyone here. Carmen loves you, Alex considers you a little sister, and Lando..."

"Don't," you cut him off. "Please don't bring Lando into this."

George studies you for a moment. "Why not? He's your best friend."

"Because..." you trail off, not sure how to explain the complicated mix of emotions that surface whenever Lando's name comes up lately.

"Because Jacob's jealous of him?" George suggests gently.

"He's not... it's not like that."

"Isn't it?" George raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like your boyfriend has a problem with how close you are to someone who's been in your life a lot longer than he has."

"Lando and I are just friends," you say, but the words feel hollow.

"Are you?" George asks softly. "Because friends don't look at each other the way you two do. Friends don't have elaborate future plans including dogs named Fernando. Friends don't get that look in their eyes when the other person is dating someone else."

"George..."

"I'm just saying," he continues, "maybe Jacob isn't entirely wrong to be jealous. Just... wrong about everything else."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. "I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do," George says simply. "You just need to be honest with yourself about what - or who - actually makes you happy."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?" He challenges. "Because from what I just heard, Jacob doesn't make you happy. He makes you feel small. And my little sister," he squeezes your shoulder, "deserves someone who makes her feel like she could take on the world."

"Someone like Lando?" You ask quietly.

"I didn't say that," George grins. "But now that you mention it..."

You shove him playfully. "Shut up."

"Make me," he laughs, then sobers. "Seriously though, YN. You deserve better than someone who makes you question your place here. This is your home too."

You lean your head on his shoulder. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. I'm the older sibling, remember?"

"By like two years!"

"Still counts," he says smugly, then adds more seriously, "Just... promise me you'll think about what I said? About being honest with yourself?"

"I promise," you say softly, even as your mind drifts to a certain curly-haired driver who's probably wondering where you are for your traditional pre-race FIFA tournament.

"Good," George stands up. "Now, want to go watch Lando absolutely butcher his quali prep? I heard he's still convinced he can take turn 3 flat out."

You laugh, letting him pull you up. "Some things never change, do they?"

"Nope," George agrees, but there's something knowing in his smile. "And some things are just waiting for you to realize they've been there all along."

As you walk toward the McLaren garage, you can't help but think about how some of the best things in life start as jokes - like a fourteen-year-old boy declaring you'll have papaya orange wedding colors, or a nickname that feels more like home than any other word in the world.

Maybe it's time to stop pretending it's all just a joke.

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liked by georgerussell63, carmenmmundt and 301,988 others

yn.russell my big brother just won in VEGAS!!! 🏆✨ from watching you race karts in the rain to watching you stand on top of the podium under those lights... i've never been prouder to be a russell. you deserve this more than anyone georgie. also thanks for letting me steal your champagne and ruin your hair before the photos 😘

ps: mum's crying, dad's crying, i'm crying, even fernando the dog is crying and he's not real x

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username1 I LOVE THEM SMMMM

username2 THIS IS MY FAMILY

georgerussell63 love you little sis ❤️ (but i was definitely the cuter kid)

↳ yn_russell keep telling yourself that x

↳ landonorris can confirm yn was the cuter kid

↳ georgerussell63 no one asked you lando

↳ landonorris just supporting my future wife mate

↳ yn.russell boys please this is george's moment

username2 THE WAY SHE RAN TO HIM IN PARC FERME 😭

username3 sibling goals fr

username4 ok but can we talk about how lando waited to celebrate with george until after yn had her moment with him 🥺

↳ username1 future brother in law behavior

username5 wait why isn't jacob in any of these photos? Wasn't he there?

carmenmmundt so proud of you both ❤️

↳ landonorris *all three of us

↳ carmenmmundt ?

↳ landonorris future wife = future family

↳ yn.russell this is GEORGE'S post omg

↳ landonorris sorry darling carry on x

charles_leclerc the russell genes are strong

↳ landonorris hopefully our kids get her genes

↳ georgerussell63 LANDO.

↳ yn.russell i swear to god

↳ landonorris what? just planning ahead 😌

username6 THIS COMMENT SECTION IS KILLING ME

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yn.russell has added to their stories

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The Abu Dhabi night is alive with celebration, the McLaren garage covered in papaya and champagne. But you're hidden away in one of the quiet corridors behind hospitality, mascara smudged, trying to muffle your sobs.

"There you are, darling! We've been looking everywhere for—" Lando's voice cuts off abruptly when he sees you. "YN?"

You quickly try to wipe your tears, but it's too late. His championship-winning smile vanishes instantly as he drops down beside you.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, concerned. When you don't answer, he gently takes your hands away from your face. "Talk to me."

"It's stupid," you manage to say. "You should be celebrating. You just won the constructors'."

"Pretty sure the champagne will still be there in ten minutes," he says, thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. "What happened?"

You take a shaky breath. "Jacob... he..." Your voice breaks.

Lando's expression hardens. "What did he do?"

"He broke up with me," you let out a bitter laugh. "Apparently now that he's secured a position at Mercedes for next season, he doesn't need the Russell connection anymore."

"He what?" Lando's voice is dangerously quiet.

"Turns out I was just... convenient. A way to get closer to Toto. To Mercedes." Your voice cracks again. "God, I feel so stupid."

"You're not stupid," Lando says fiercely. "He's the stupid one. He's worse than stupid, he's a complete—"

"I really thought..." you cut him off, fresh tears falling. "I actually thought he cared about me."

Without hesitation, Lando pulls you into his arms. You bury your face in his race suit, still damp with champagne, and let yourself break.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, darling."

You stay like that for a while, his hands running soothingly up and down your back as you cry. The distant sounds of celebration feel like they're from another world.

"Want me to crash his car?" Lando finally asks, making you let out a watery laugh. "I could do it. Make it look like an accident. I am a professional driver, after all."

"Lando..."

"Or we could put laxatives in his coffee. Though he'd probably notice, since he still can't make a proper cup himself."

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling slightly.

"There's my girl," he says softly, then catches himself. "I mean... sorry. Probably shouldn't..."

"It's okay," you whisper. "I've always been your girl. Even if it was just as a joke."

Something shifts in his expression. "YN..."

"Don't," you pull back slightly. "Please. I can't... I can't lose you too. Not tonight."

He studies your face for a long moment, then nods, pulling you back against his chest. "You'll never lose me. Future husband contract, remember? Legally binding. Can't get rid of me that easily."

You close your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. "Promise?"

"Promise," he kisses the top of your head. "Besides, Fernando still needs both his parents."

This gets a real laugh out of you. "We don't actually have a dog, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects. "We don't have a dog yet. But when we do—"

"His name will be Fernando," you finish with him, and for a moment, everything feels okay again.

"Want me to get George?" he asks after a while.

You shake your head. "Not yet. Can we just... stay here for a bit?"

"As long as you need," he says, and you can hear his heart beating steadily under your ear. "I'm not going anywhere."

In the distance, someone calls his name.

"Go," you start to pull away. "They need their champion."

"They can wait," he says firmly, pulling you back. "You need me more."

And maybe it's the way he says it, or the gentle kiss he presses to your temple, or how his arms feel like the safest place in the world, but suddenly you realize what everyone's been trying to tell you all along.

This was never just a joke to him.

And maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke to you either.

But that's a revelation for another night, when your heart isn't quite so broken and his race suit isn't covered in your tears. For now, you let yourself be held by your best friend, your future husband, your Lando, as the Abu Dhabi night carries on without you.

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 288,760 others

yn.russell back to my favorite job: professional thirdwheel 🏖️ (at least they feed me occasionally) @/georgerussell63 @/carmenmmundt

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username1 MY PARENTS

username2 wait... where's jacob? 👀

↳ username1 he unfollowed her last week 👀

↳ username3 tea incoming

georgerussell63 You love us

↳ yn.russell debatable

↳ carmenmmund We literally paid for your dinner

↳ yn.russell okay fine you're alright

landonorris need a fourth wheel? 👀

↳ yn.russell ...

↳ landonorris i'll bring snacks

username4 THE WAY LANDO COMMENTED SO FAST

username5 LANDO THIS IS YOUR CHANCE

username6 single little russell era is coming

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The winter sun is setting early, casting long shadows across your apartment. It's been a month days since Abu Dhabi, a months since Jacob revealed his true colors, and you're curled up on your couch in your comfiest sweats, surrounded by empty ice cream containers.

George and Carmen tried to cheer you up, making you tag along on their vacation, but now that you were back home, the sulking feeling inevitably came back too.

A familiar pattern of knocks at your door makes you groan. "Go away, Lando."

"Not a chance, darling," his voice calls back. "I come bearing provisions!"

"I don't need provisions," you call out, but you're already getting up to open the door. "I need to wallow in peace."

You open the door to find Lando, arms full of bags, wearing a ridiculously oversized hoodie that you're pretty sure belongs to George.

"Wallowing is officially cancelled," he announces, breezing past you into the apartment. "We're having a proper heartbreak recovery session."

"We are?"

"Absolutely," he starts unpacking the bags. "I've got all the essentials. More ice cream - mint chocolate chip, obviously. Every terrible rom-com Netflix has to offer. Popcorn. Those weird crisps you like that no one else understands. And..." he pulls out a bottle with flourish, "your favorite wine."

"Lando..."

"No arguments," he says firmly, but gently. "I'm not leaving you alone to cry over that coffee-challenged idiot."

"I wasn't crying," you protest weakly.

He raises an eyebrow at your clearly tear-stained face. "Right. And I'm not the most talented driver on the grid."

This actually makes you laugh. "Your modesty never fails to amaze me."

"I know, I know, I'm incredible," he grins, already making himself at home on your couch. "Now come here. We're starting with The Notebook because I know it's your guilty pleasure, even though you pretend to hate it."

"I do hate it," you say, but you're already curling up next to him.

"Sure you do, darling," he throws a blanket over both of you. "Just like you hate reality TV and actually love Jacob's boring marketing presentations."

You wince slightly at Jacob's name, and Lando immediately softens.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "No more mentions of He Who Shall Not Be Named. Though I still think we should put glitter in his car ventilation system."

"George already offered to have him banned from the paddock," you smile slightly.

"Good man, your brother," Lando nods approvingly. "Though my revenge plans are much more creative. I was thinking we could reprogram his laptop to only play 'Baby Shark' when he opens PowerPoint..."

You can't help but laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Made you smile though, didn't I?" he says softly, and something in his voice makes you look up at him.

"You always do," you admit quietly.

He holds your gaze for a moment before clearing his throat. "Right, well, that's what future husbands are for, isn't it? Can't have my darling being sad. Bad for our wedding photos."

"Still going with that, are we?"

"Always," he says, and despite his light tone, there's something earnest in his eyes. "Someone's got to look after you properly."

"I can look after myself," you point out.

"Oh, I know," he grins. "But it's more fun together, isn't it? Plus, who else is going to appreciate your terrible taste in movies?"

"My taste is not terrible!"

"Darling, you genuinely enjoyed that film about the talking cats."

"It was artistic!"

"It was horrifying," he laughs, pulling you closer. "But I watched it three times with you anyway."

"Because you're a good friend," you say softly.

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "The best friend you'll ever have. Even if you have questionable taste in everything except future husbands."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. "Speaking of questionable taste, weren't we supposed to be watching The Notebook?"

"Oh right!" he brightens, grabbing the remote. "Time to pretend you're not going to cry at the end."

"I never cry at the end."

"Darling, you've cried every single time we've watched it."

"Have not!"

"Have too! Remember last time? You got tears all over my favorite hoodie."

"That was one time!"

"One time this month, maybe," he grins, then softens. "It's okay though. My hoodies are always available for your tears. Even if they're about stupid coffee-challenged marketing guys who don't deserve them."

You lean your head on his shoulder. "Thank you, Lando."

"For what?"

"For being you. For being here. For..." you gesture at all the supplies he brought. "For everything."

He's quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Always, darling. In sickness and in health, remember?"

"We're not actually married, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects, but there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "We're not actually married yet."

The movie starts playing, but you're more aware of his steady breathing, of how perfectly you fit against his side, of how safe you feel in this moment. And maybe it's too soon, maybe your heart is still too raw, but you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the right person has been here all along.

But that's a thought for another day. For now, you let yourself be comforted by your best friend, your constant, your Lando, as he quotes along with the movie and keeps you supplied with ice cream and terrible jokes until you're laughing more than you're crying.

And if you do end up crying at the end of The Notebook, well, his hoodie is already there to catch your tears.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 291,483 others

yn.russell FIRST RACE OF THE SEASON. WHAT A RIDE !!!! lando winning and georgie on podium. ALEX P5 !!!! all of my boys killing it 🥺 so happy to be back, i missed this so much

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username1 LITTLE RUSSELL BIGGEST SUPPORTER

username2 SHE WAS SO HAPPY FOR LANDO OMFG

username3 still gutted for the missed mclaren 1-2 but GEORGE P3!!

carmenmmundt You almost broke my hand with all the squeezing !! Missed you so happy my girl 🤍

↳ username1 AHH LITTLE RUSSELL IS HEALING

username4 the way she JUMPED into lando's arms

ciscanorris My future daughter in law! It was so good to see you

↳ username1 AHH MAMA NORRIS CLAIMING HER

landonorris THAT WAS FOR YOU MY DARLINGGG

↳ yourinstagram 🥺

↳ username2 AHH SHE DIDN'T CORRECT HIM

georgerussell63 Love you sis, even tho you hugged Lando first

↳ yn.russell he won okay

↳ landonorris and i'm her future husband

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Miami night air is warm and sweet, carrying the distant sounds of celebration from the post race party below. You're leaning against the balcony railing, watching the lights of the circuit sparkle in the distance, when familiar footsteps approach.

"There's my darling," Lando's voice is soft as he joins you. "Hiding from your adoring public?"

You smile, not looking away from the view. "Just needed some air."

The past few months flash through your mind - Lando showing up at your door with takeaway after particularly hard days, marathon gaming sessions that somehow always ended with you falling asleep on his shoulder, countless movie nights where he'd quote every line just to make you laugh. He never let you wallow, never let you retreat into sadness. Whether it was surprising you with your favorite coffee in the morning or sending you ridiculous memes at 3 AM, he was constantly there, slowly piecing your heart back together without you even realizing it.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, bumping your shoulder gently with his.

"Just thinking about everything that's changed since last season."

He hums in agreement. "Good changes though, right?"

You finally turn to look at him, really look at him. His curls slightly messy from running his hands through them - a nervous habit you've known since you were teenagers. But there's something different in the way he's looking at you now, something that makes your heart skip.

"Yeah," you say softly. "Good changes."

He takes a step closer, and suddenly the air feels charged with possibility. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"Dangerous hobby," you tease, falling into your familiar pattern.

"Very dangerous," he agrees, but his voice is serious. "Been thinking about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes."

Your breath catches. "Lando..."

"Like when a fourteen-year-old boy tells this pretty girl she's going to be his future wife," he continues, taking another step closer. "And he keeps saying it for years, making it this big running joke, because it's easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, it was never really a joke at all."

"What are you saying?" you whisper, though your heart already knows the answer.

He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering on your cheek. "I'm saying that I've been in love with you since we were kids. I'm saying that every time I called you darling, every time I talked about our future dog Fernando, every time I claimed the future husband title - I meant it. All of it."

"Lando..." your voice wavers.

"I know it's only been a few months since... everything," he says quickly. "And if you're not ready, if you don't feel the same way, we can pretend this never happened. We can go back to just joking around. But I needed you to know that for me, it was never just a joke. You were never just a joke."

You stare at him, this boy who's been your constant, your safe place, your home for so long. And suddenly everything clicks into place.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he says softly, giving you time to pull away if you want to.

You don't.

His lips meet yours, gentle at first, like he's afraid you might break. But when your hands slide into his curls, pulling him closer, the kiss deepens into something that feels like coming home and falling free all at once.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours. "So," he says, slightly breathless, "about that legally binding marriage contract..."

You laugh, the sound full of joy. "Still going with that, are we?"

"Always," he grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. "Though now I'm thinking maybe we should make it official. You know, for Fernando's sake."

"We still don't have a dog, Lando."

"Yet," he corrects, pulling you closer. "We don't have a dog yet. But we will. Right after the wedding. Which will definitely have papaya orange colors because I called dibs when we were fourteen and—"

You cut him off with another kiss, feeling him smile against your lips.

"FINALLY!"

You break apart to find George standing in the doorway, grinning like he just won the championship.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Lando grumbles, but he doesn't let go of you.

"On a balcony door?" George raises an eyebrow. "Besides, I've been watching you two dance around each other for months. Years, actually."

"Have not," you protest.

"Have too," both men say in unison.

"I hate you both," you mutter, but you're fighting a smile.

"No you don't," Lando says confidently. "You love me. You're going to marry me and we're going to have a dog named Fernando and—"

"Still with the dog name?" George groans.

"It's tradition!" Lando defends. "Tell him, darling, tell him how important traditions are."

You look between your brother and the boy - no, the man - who's been your everything for so long, and feel your heart might burst with happiness.

"Actually," you say slowly, "I was thinking maybe we could name the dog George."

"What?" both men exclaim.

You burst out laughing at their expressions. "Just kidding. Fernando it is."

"See?" Lando beams at George. "She agrees with me. Because she loves me. Because we're getting married. Because—"

"Because it was never really a joke?" you finish softly.

His expression softens as he looks at you. "Never."

"Right," George clears his throat. "I'm going to leave before this gets any more sickeningly sweet. But Lando?"

"Yeah?"

"Hurt my sister and they'll never find your body."

"Please," Lando scoffs, pulling you closer. "I've been planning our future since I was fourteen. I'm not about to mess it up now."

As George leaves, shaking his head but smiling, Lando turns back to you.

"So," he says, his eyes twinkling, "about those wedding colors..."

You silence him with another kiss, thinking about how sometimes the best love stories start as jokes, and how sometimes the person you're meant to be with has been there all along, calling you darling and planning your future with a dog named Fernando.

And maybe, just maybe, those papaya orange wedding colors don't sound so bad after all.

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liked by landonorris, georgerussell63 and 201,384 others

yn.russell turns out some jokes become reality 🧡 @/landonorris (yes, we're actually getting the dog. yes, his name will be fernando. no, this isn't a drill - the future wife position has officially been filled, i love you my lando)

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username1 SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP IS THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENING??? 😭😭😭

username2 THE WAY I JUST SCREAMED IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS

username3 THE FUTURE WIFE JOKES WERE REAL ALL ALONG

georgerussell63 About bloody time 🙄 (but actually very happy for you both)

alex_albon the group chat can finally rest, no more "should I tell her?" messages from lando every 5 minutes

carmenmmundt The paddock's favorite love story

ciscanorris Finally! I've only been waiting for this announcement since they were teenagers 🥰

username4 the way this man has been calling her darling for YEARS and we all thought it was just banter 😭😭

username5 THE WAY I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE 2019

username6 ok but can we talk about how he's literally been manifesting this since they were TEENAGERS???

username7 this is actually the cutest thing ever like???? he's been planning their wedding since he was 14???? hello???

username8 the way george is probably somewhere being like "finally i don't have to pretend i don't see them flirting"

landonorris worth the wait, every single second❤️ love you darling x

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It's a lazy Sunday afternoon in late summer, and you're curled up on your couch with a book when you hear Lando's key in the door. You smile, not looking up - he's been coming and going from your place so much lately that it feels more like his home than his own apartment.

"Darling!" his voice calls out, sounding suspiciously excited. "Close your eyes!"

"Why?" you ask warily. "Last time you had a surprise, it didn't end well."

"Just trust me!"

You sigh fondly, closing your eyes. "Fine, but this better be good."

You hear him moving around, and then something warm and furry lands in your lap.

Your eyes fly open to find yourself face to face with the most adorable chocolate Labrador puppy you've ever seen. The puppy immediately starts licking your face while Lando watches, beaming with pure joy.

"Lando..." you breathe, already in love with the wiggling bundle of fur. "What did you do?"

"Well," he drops onto the couch beside you, reaching over to scratch the puppy's ears, "I was thinking about how we've been together for months now, and living together basically even though we pretend we don't, and how there's this one very important member of our family still missing..."

"You didn't," you whisper, even as the puppy settles contentedly in your lap.

"I did," he grins. "Meet Fernando. Finally."

You look between Lando and the puppy - Fernando - feeling your heart might burst. "You actually named him Fernando?"

"Of course I did! I've been planning this since I was fourteen, remember?" His eyes soften. "Plus, I made you a promise, didn't I?"

"We're not married yet," you point out, but you can't stop smiling.

"Yet," he emphasizes, leaning over to kiss your cheek. "But really, I thought... I mean, we practically live together anyway. Might as well make it official. You, me, and Fernando."

You look down at the puppy, who's now snoring softly in your lap, then back at Lando. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Properly?"

"Maybe," he fidgets slightly. "Unless you think it's too soon? I know we haven't been together that long, but it feels like we've been building towards this forever, you know? And I thought, with Fernando here now..."

You cut off his rambling with a kiss. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move in with you. Properly. All three of us."

His face lights up like you've just given him the best gift in the world. "Really?"

"Really," you laugh.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him fondly.

"You love it," he says confidently.

"I do," you admit softly. "I love you."

His expression melts into that soft look he reserves just for you. "I love you too, darling. Both of you," he adds as Fernando stirs and licks his hand.

Just then, your phone buzzes - a text from George.

"Oh no," you groan, reading it. "George is coming over."

"Perfect!" Lando brightens. "He can meet his nephew!"

"You did not just call our dog George's nephew."

"Of course I did! He's family now. Speaking of which..." he pulls out his phone, "my mum's been asking when we're bringing Fernando to visit."

Before you can respond, George's voice carries through the door. "Why is there puppy food in the hallway?"

Lando jumps up excitedly. "Ready to meet Uncle George, Fernando?"

The puppy perks up at his name, tail wagging as George opens the door.

"You didn't," George says, taking in the scene.

"We did!" Lando announces proudly. "Meet your nephew!"

"My... nephew?"

"Fernando Russell-Norris," Lando declares. "Well, technically just Norris for now, but that'll change once your sister finally agrees to marry me."

"Still waiting on that proposal, aren't you?" George smirks.

"All in good time," Lando winks at you. "Got to do it properly, haven't I?"

You watch George pretend not to be completely smitten with Fernando, while Lando chatters about all his plans for family weekends and teaching Fernando tricks. You can't help but think about how sometimes the best things in life start as jokes about future marriages and dogs named Fernando.

"Our little family," Lando says softly, pulling you close while Fernando attempts to climb into George's lap.

And as you lean into his side, watching your brother and your boyfriend argue about who gets to be Fernando's favorite uncle (while the puppy seems more interested in chewing George's shoelaces), you realize that this - this moment, this love, this little family - is better than any dream you could have had.

It's your reality. Your perfect, slightly chaotic, absolutely wonderful reality.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

Since Forever

Max Verstappen x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too

Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays

The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.

And then you walk in.

“Is that-”

“No way.”

“Schumacher?”

You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.

Christian sees you first.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.

You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”

“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”

“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”

Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”

“Flattering.”

You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.

And then-

“Y/N?”

His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.

He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.

“Max, we’re still-”

“Later.”

He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.

You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.

“Hey yourself,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.

And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.

“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”

He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.

“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”

“Debatable.”

He grins. “Liar.”

And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.

You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”

That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.

“She called him Uncle Jos.”

“Did she just-”

“Holy shit.”

He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.

“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.

“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.

“You’re your father’s daughter.”

You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”

Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.

“Good to have you back.”

Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.

“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.

“You were already soft,” you reply.

He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.

Because you do.

“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”

“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”

“Close enough,” Max says.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.

You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”

“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”

“Max.”

“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”

You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”

“We were always the main act, anyway.”

It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.

And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.

A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”

“Perfect,” you say.

Max doesn’t move.

“Max,” Christian warns.

“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.

You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”

“Try and stop me.”

And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.

And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.

Phones are out. Whispers spiral.

Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.

Max Verstappen is in love.

You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.

“You used to like that about me.”

You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”

And Max?

He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.

***

When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”

He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.

“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”

“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.

“You sound like my dad.”

Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”

You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”

“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”

You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“I’ll fix that.”

“You’re not a sleep aid.”

He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”

You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.

“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.

Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”

“In your apartment.”

He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”

You tilt your head. “Do I?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”

You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t argue.”

“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”

He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”

You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.

“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.

“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”

Oh.

The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.

***

You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.

Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.

Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.

“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

“I’m not crying,” you snap.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”

Then he takes your hand.

And doesn’t let go.

He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.

“She’s fine,” Jos said.

But Michael just smiled.

“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”

***

Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.

“That’s why you left the box?”

He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”

You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.

“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”

“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”

“Next to your helmets?”

He nods. “Next to your letters.”

Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”

Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”

“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”

“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”

You do. God, you do.

***

Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.

You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.

Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.

You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not serious.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”

Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.

“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”

***

Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”

“What?”

“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”

You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.

“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”

You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You were twelve.”

“Still could’ve scared you off.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

***

Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.

Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”

You glance at him. “Who?”

“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”

You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”

“Because I let them see it.”

You frown. “Do you regret that?”

Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”

Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”

You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.

“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”

He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”

“Let them.”

“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”

You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”

“I want to.”

“You do.”

He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”

You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”

***

You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.

“You’ve always been mine.”

And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.

***

Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.

But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.

Not to Lando, at least.

He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.

“Wait, no fucking way.”

Oscar glances at him. “What?”

Lando squints.

“No way.”

At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.

But then he sees you.

You’re laughing.

Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.

And Max-

Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.

“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”

Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”

Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.

Lando keeps staring.

“Are they-”

“Looks like.”

“When did-”

Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”

He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.

Max, being gentle.

“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.

Oscar blinks. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”

And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.

***

You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.

“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.

Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”

You look up, grinning. “Hey.”

Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!

“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.

Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And you’re touching her. In public.”

“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”

Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”

“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.

“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”

Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.

Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”

“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.

“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.

“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.

Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”

Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.

“When did this happen?”

You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”

Lando blinks. “Letters?”

“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.

“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”

“Every week,” you say.

“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.

“And you kept them?”

Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”

Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”

“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”

Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”

A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.

Then-

“Wait. Does Jos know?”

“Of course he knows,” Max says.

Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”

You sip your wine.

“Jos adores her,” Max says.

And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.

Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.

“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

Lando drops his fork.

“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.

“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”

“Perfectly,” Max replies.

Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.

Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.

Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”

***

After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.

“You okay?” He asks.

You glance up. “More than.”

“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”

You smile. “It was kind of funny.”

He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”

His voice is low. Serious.

“Especially that part.”

You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”

“Always have been.”

The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.

And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.

***

It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.

One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.

Jos Verstappen.

Yuki stills.

“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.

But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”

Yuki blinks. A bet?

“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”

Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”

There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”

Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.

“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.

Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.

“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”

There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”

Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.

Ten.

Ten years old.

***

It’s impossible to unhear.

That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.

Except … not.

Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.

And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.

“Give me five.”

The room stills.

The engineer frowns. “You want-”

“Five minutes.”

“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”

Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.

Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.

He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.

“Hey. Did you eat?”

There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.

“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”

“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.

“I’m working.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”

“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”

Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.

Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”

“You are such a-”

“Did. You. Drink.”

You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”

There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”

Yuki practically blacks out.

***

When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.

Except Yuki.

He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.

Then, “So … ring pop?”

Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.

“Where did you hear that?”

Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”

Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.

“She still has it,” he mutters.

“No way.”

“In a box.”

“Oh my God, Max.”

Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”

Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”

Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”

***

Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.

He always does.

“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.

You give him a look. “You checked?”

“I check everything.”

He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.

“I had coffee,” you offer.

“Not food.”

“Coffee is made of beans.”

“Y/N.”

You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”

Max smirks. “About that …”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. He just overheard something.”

“Max.”

He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”

“Define fine.”

“He found out about the ring pop.”

Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”

“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”

“Oh my God.”

Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”

You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.

You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.

“You have kept it.”

He nods, solemn. “Every day.”

***

Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Yuki sidles up next to him.

“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.

Jos glances at him.

“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.

Then he smiles.

Again.

Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”

***

The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.

Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.

He’s not moving.

“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”

GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.

“Talk to me, Max.”

Nothing.

Then-

“I’m fine.”

The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.

“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”

You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.

***

The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.

He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.

And he’s angry.

“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”

“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”

“I said I’m fine-”

“Max.”

Your voice.

Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.

He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.

“Schatje.”

You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.

You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.

“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.

“I don’t want-”

“It’s not about what you want right now.”

He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”

“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”

He opens his eyes again, searching yours.

“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”

You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”

The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.

Max doesn’t argue again.

GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.

“That was witchcraft.”

You shrug. “It’s just Max.”

“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”

You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”

***

Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.

You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.

He stops just behind you.

“Is he hurt?” He asks.

“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”

Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.

“You got him to agree to scans?”

You nod. “He was being Max.”

“That sounds right.”

GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.

Jos Verstappen. Smiling.

Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You rise. “All clear?”

“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”

Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”

Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”

Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow.”

Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”

Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”

Everyone in the room hears it.

GP actually drops his cup.

**

Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.

“It’s not tight, is it?”

“No.”

“You’ll tell me if it is?”

“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”

You smile. “True.”

Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”

You nod. “Let them.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”

“You were being impossible.”

“You love it.”

You grin. “I do.”

***

Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.

Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.

And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.

***

Max is late.

Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.

The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.

The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.

You weren’t expecting the letter.

It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.

Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.

But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.

When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.

Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.

And read.

March 5th, 2014

Y/N,

I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.

You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.

You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.

I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.

Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.

Your Max

***

By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.

The kind that were never just about the letter.

***

Max finds you like that.

The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.

When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.

And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.

“Hey-”

He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.

“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”

You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.

He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.

His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.

You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.

Then he looks back at you.

“You found this?”

You nod. “It was in the book.”

He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“You kept it,” you whisper.

“Of course I did.”

“I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”

You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.

“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”

Your breath hitches.

“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”

You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”

He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”

A pause. Then-

“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”

You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”

He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.

“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”

Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.

“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”

He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”

You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”

“The letter?”

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze, unwavering.

“I still mean it.”

You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”

“And I drive like I used to.”

“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”

He grins. “Because you’re here.”

“Because I’m home.”

***

Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.

“I want it close,” he says.

You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”

Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:

“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”

You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”

He smiles.

“Deal.”

***

You don’t notice it right away.

The photo.

You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then nonstop.

Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”

You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.

It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:

So … it’s out.

Your stomach twists.

“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.

You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.

A photo.

Of you.

And Max.

It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.

He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.

It’s not yours anymore.

The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?

Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

You murmur, “Max …“

He doesn’t speak.

You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.

Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.

That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.

His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.

Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?

Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”

Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.

“Max …“

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”

You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”

He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”

***

You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.

But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.

By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”

Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.

You reply. I’m sorry.

His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

You almost cry again.

***

But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.

You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”

“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.

Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.

Max raises a brow. “What about him?”

“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”

You frown, inching closer to see.

The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:

@josverstappen7 About time.

There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.

Then-

Max snorts. Actually snorts.

You blink. “He what?”

“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”

Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.

“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.

You blink. “He’s always liked me.”

“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”

***

The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.

Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.

But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.

***

You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.

The moment.

The question.

The quote that breaks the internet again.

Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.

And then-

A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.

“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”

There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.

Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.

He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.

“She’s not new.”

A pause.

“She’s always been there.”

***

When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.

You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.

The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.

He just tells the truth.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

***

You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.

He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.

“You saw it?”

You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”

“I meant it.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.

“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.

“Let them.”

You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”

“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”

You press your forehead to his.

“They’re going to write stories.”

“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.

***

On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.

Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.

You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.

“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “Then be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you every morning.”

You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”

“That’s foreplay.”

You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.

And this time, you don’t care who hears it.

***

The drive is quiet.

Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.

Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.

He probably has.

You definitely have.

You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.

Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.

But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.

You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”

“I remember everything.”

You glance over at him. “Do you?”

Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”

A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.

He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”

You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”

“He knows.”

“Max-”

“He always knew.”

***

The estate hasn’t changed much.

The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.

You hesitate before getting out.

He doesn’t rush you.

Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.

***

Your mother meets you at the door.

She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.

Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.

He hugs back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.

Max only nods.

She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”

***

You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)

The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.

And then, you see him.

He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.

His eyes are open. Alert.

Your breath catches.

Max is silent beside you.

You step forward first.

“Hi, Papa.”

His eyes flick to yours.

Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”

Max takes a slow step closer.

Michael’s gaze moves to him.

There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.

Just … calm recognition.

As if he knew you were coming all along.

“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.

You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”

He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.

But his hands are warm.

You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.

“I missed you.”

Max kneels beside you.

He doesn’t say much at first.

Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.

Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”

There’s a pause.

“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”

You let out a breath that trembles.

Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”

Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.

Still no words.

But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.

You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.

“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”

You choke on a sob.

Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You don’t resist.

You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”

He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”

“He doesn’t even …“

“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”

You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.

And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:

“I love you.”

Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”

Michael’s hand twitches.

You freeze.

Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.

Max sees it too.

His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”

***

You stay in the garden for hours.

Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.

Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.

You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.

You don’t ask what he said.

Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.

You press a final kiss to his cheek.

Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.

The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.

“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad we came.”

“I am too.”

You pause.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.

“You were all I ever imagined.”

***

Victoria doesn’t knock.

She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”

But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.

It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.

And then stops dead in the hallway.

Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.

She recognizes you instantly.

As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.

The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.

You.

Y/N Schumacher.

And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.

Victoria blinks.

Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.

Because it looks like he’s home.

She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.

“Hey, Vic.”

You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.

“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”

“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”

“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.

Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.

“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.

“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.

You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”

He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”

Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.

Max is … soft.

Not weak. Never that.

But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.

She pulls out a stool at the counter.

“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”

Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”

You blink. “You what?”

Victoria smirks. “You what?”

Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”

“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”

He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”

You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.

Victoria watches with something like awe.

“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”

“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.

“You did. Like the noise stopped.”

He doesn’t argue.

You glance at him, puzzled.

Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”

“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”

You go quiet.

He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.

Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”

Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”

“I built you a desk,” Max adds.

Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”

“I made GP help.”

You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”

“They were wrong,” Max mutters.

Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.

“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”

You glance at him.

Max is already looking at you.

“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”

You press your lips together.

He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.

Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”

Max smiles. “I know.”

But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.

You’ve been through everything.

Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.

But this?

This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.

Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.

You hand her a plate.

“Tell me if it’s too sweet,” you say.

Max nudges your hip. “It’s perfect.”

You look up at him.

So is he.

So is this.

Crash Course in Love

Lando Norris x Carlos Sainz’s best friend!Reader

Summary: in which Carlos forgets to tell his two best friends they’ll be staying in his villa together, and now a stressed out lawyer has to survive living with a human golden retriever, but you know what they say … opposites attract

You’ve been in Marbella for four days and already gone through three bottles of wine and two existential crises.

Carlos’ villa is too quiet for someone used to white noise: emails pinging, heels clacking, cortisol. The silence in this place isn’t peaceful — it’s accusatory. You’ve spent more time staring at the sea than you have your own reflection in the last ten years, which is saying something.

It feels indulgent. Like if someone walks in, they’ll accuse you of being lazy. You’d have to explain the insomnia, the migraines, the crying in bathroom stalls between depositions.

But Carlos isn’t here to judge. He’s off somewhere filming shampoo commercials in Paris or golfing in socks with his dad. He just texted you the gate code and told you to “relax, coño.” So here you are, inhaling almond-scented air and avoiding your inbox.

You’re halfway through a rerun of The Holiday when the doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

It rings again. Louder.

“Delivery?” You mutter to no one. You didn’t order anything.

You shuffle to the door in socks and an old hoodie of Carlos’ that you’ve unofficially adopted. You crack the door open and freeze.

Lando Norris is standing there. With a suitcase. And a sunburn.

“Hey,” he says, blinking like he’s not entirely sure this is the right house. “You’re not Carlos.”

“You’re … not a delivery guy.”

“Definitely not. Unless you ordered someone with mediocre Spanish and no plan.”

You blink. He grins.

“Sorry, I’m Lando. Uh. Carlos said I could crash in the guest room. Hotel bailed on my reservation. Long story. But he didn’t mention you’d be here.”

“He didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

“Cool. So we’re both surprised. That’s … fun?”

You stare at him. He looks like he just rolled off a yacht he wasn’t invited on. Sleeveless shirt, board shorts, and the confidence of someone who’s never had to Google “how to flirt.”

You open the door all the way. “Come in, I guess.”

He wheels his suitcase past you. It makes an annoying thunk over the threshold. You follow him into the hallway, watching as he does a slow 360 like he’s never seen furniture before.

“Whoa. This place is insane. Does Carlos actually live like this, or is he secretly royalty?”

“Just rich.”

“Same difference.”

You cross your arms. “You want something to drink?”

“God, yes. I’m parched. Is that still a word people use? Parched?”

You turn toward the kitchen. “Not since 1912.”

Behind you, you hear him mutter, “Alright. Tough crowd.”

He follows you to the kitchen like a golden retriever. Doesn’t ask where things are — just opens cabinets and drawers like it’s his Airbnb.

“I got this,” he says, pulling out two glasses. “I’m a fantastic guest. Top tier. Five stars on all platforms.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You have reviews?”

“No, but if I did? Flawless.”

He pours two drinks. One is wine. The other is apple juice. He hands you the wine. “Cheers.”

You eye the juice. “Is that … what you’re drinking?”

“I burnt a little on the flight. Gotta rehydrate.”

He’s completely serious. Like drinking juice is a medical emergency. You stifle a laugh.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly earnest. “You look like you’re tired. But not like, normal tired. Lawyer tired.”

You blink at him. “Lawyer tired?”

“Yeah. Like … your eyeballs are sleepy but your soul’s still trying to finish a brief.”

You stare.

“I mean that in a good way. Like, impressive. Respectfully.”

“Wow.”

“I should stop talking.”

“Yeah, probably.”

***

Dinner is his idea. You offer to order something in. He insists on cooking. “I make a mean carbonara,” he says. “Or maybe risotto. Wait, do you eat dairy?”

You nod.

“Okay, sick. Chef Lando it is.”

You spend the next hour watching him destroy Carlos’ kitchen with the chaotic enthusiasm of a man who’s only cooked two times in his life and once lit a tea towel on fire.

He tells stories while he cooks, most of them involving near-death experiences, bad tattoos, and a rental car that somehow ended up in a lake.

You lean on the counter, sipping your wine. “Do you ever filter?”

“Rarely. But I can if you want. I can be quiet. Mysterious. Brooding.”

“You?”

He makes a face. “Okay, rude.”

“You burn your hand yet?”

“Twice,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m hiding it to preserve my ego.”

He fumbles with the tongs. Pasta flies out of the pan and onto the floor. He shrugs. “Five-second rule?”

You deadpan. “I’m not that desperate yet.”

He laughs. You notice he has a nice laugh. Not performative. Just … happy.

Dinner is terrible. Somehow both overcooked and cold. You take one bite and try not to gag.

“So?” He asks, eyes wide with hope.

“It’s … ambitious.”

He winces. “I’ll order pizza.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Should’ve stuck with cereal,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

You don’t mean to smile. But you do.

***

Later, you sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls through terrible Spanish romcoms on TV.

“This one’s got a 3.4 on IMDb.”

“Perfect.”

He clicks play.

You steal glances at him when he’s not looking. He’s gotten more attractive since the last time you saw him, though you’re not sure if it’s the jawline or the fact that he keeps folding your hoodie when you leave it on the back of a chair.

He’s obnoxious, yes. Too comfortable too fast. But when you yawn mid-movie, his entire face falls.

“Oh no, I’m boring you.”

“It’s the wine.”

“I’m still boring you.”

“You’re not.”

“I totally am.”

He turns toward you, earnest again. It’s disarming. “You wanna sleep? I’ll shut up.”

“You never shut up.”

“Harsh.”

He watches you for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

You pause. That question again. The one you’ve been dodging since the breakdown.

“Yeah,” you lie.

He nods. But doesn’t push.

You both go quiet. The movie drones on in the background.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a cool vibe.”

You look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I dunno. Like … your energy. It’s nice.”

You snort. “Are you high?”

“No! I’m complimenting you. With words.”

“This is how a teenager hits on a barista.”

“Okay, true, but still. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “Just accept the compliment.”

You roll your eyes. But you don’t say no.

***

By the time you head to bed, the house smells like burnt garlic and whatever cologne he bathed in.

You hear him shuffling around in the guest room next to yours. Singing under his breath. Awful pitch.

You press your face into the pillow. You’re not supposed to like this. The noise. The chaos. The presence.

But when you wake up later and find your bags stacked neatly by the door — shoes lined up, hoodie folded on the chair — you smile.

Just a little.

And only when no one’s looking.

***

It starts the next morning with coffee.

You’re barely awake — just a hoodie-draped zombie with bed hair and a fading dream you don’t want to examine — when he appears in the kitchen, too chipper, too shirtless.

“You drink it black, right?” Lando asks, holding out a steaming cup like he’s been doing this forever. His curls are a mess. There’s toothpaste on his chin.

You blink at him. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

“You made fun of me yesterday for putting oat milk in mine. I remembered.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s called observation. I do it professionally.”

“Driving is not the same as remembering my coffee order.”

“I do both with style.”

You accept the cup, suspicious. “Did you spit in this?”

“Only love and a little judgment.”

You take a sip. It’s surprisingly decent.

“You’re not completely useless.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He says it with a grin, but something flickers in his eyes when you smile over your cup. You don’t catch it. Not yet.

***

Days pass like that. Mornings laced with caffeine and accidental comfort.

You fall into a rhythm neither of you talks about. He gets up earlier than you expect — blasts music while brushing his teeth, sings ABBA off-key in the hallway, makes smoothies that look like radioactive goo.

You argue over playlists constantly.

“No. We’re not doing Pitbull at eight in the morning.”

“He’s Mr. Worldwide! It’s inspirational.”

“He’s bald and shouting.”

“That’s showbiz, baby.”

Sometimes, you win. Most of the time, he sneaks Mr. Brightside onto every playlist and pretends he didn’t.

You never thought you'd get used to someone like him. Loud. Playful. Constantly hovering in your peripheral vision. But there's a gentleness under the antics. A sweetness that doesn't beg to be noticed, but you notice anyway.

He drives you to the market without asking. Carries your groceries like it’s a competition. Starts trying to cook again — more confident than competent.

“What’s your favorite dish?” He asks one evening, hunched over his phone like it owes him money.

You answer without thinking. “Cacio e pepe.”

“Easy. I got this.”

He doesn’t got this.

He overcooks the pasta, forgets to salt the water, and ends up Googling “what is pecorino” in a panic.

You walk in on him whispering “don’t clump, don’t clump” at the sauce like it’s sentient.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Need help?”

“Nope. I’m an artist. This is part of the process.”

He serves it with flair. You pretend not to notice the texture is more glue than cheese.

Still, you eat it. He watches your face the whole time, pretending not to. When you finish the plate, he beams like he’s won a Michelin star.

^**

The rain starts on a Tuesday.

You wake to gray skies and the soft percussion of drops against the villa’s roof. You think it’ll pass. It doesn’t.

By mid-afternoon, you’re both restless.

“I have to move,” you say, pacing in the living room. “I need to do something.”

Lando sprawls across the rug like a teenage boy at a sleepover. “Let’s play Mario Kart.”

“That’s not productive.”

“You’re literally vibrating with stress. Sit down. You need to get your ass kicked by Princess Peach.”

You do not get your ass kicked. You annihilate him.

“This game is rigged,” he whines as your kart zips past his. “You’re cheating.”

“I'm just better.”

“You're heartless. Cruel. Unfairly good at drifting.”

“You sound like a man who’s losing.”

He groans, flops over, and covers his face with a throw pillow. “I hate fish.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just thought I’d change the subject.”

You snort. “Okay. Why?”

“They smell weird. They look weird. Their eyes freak me out.”

“Do you think fish can understand us?”

He lifts the pillow slightly. “Are we high right now?”

“No, I’m serious. What if they know we’re watching them?”

“Then I owe a lot of apologies to some sushi.”

You laugh. A real one. Not the polite chuckle you use in meetings, not the rehearsed smile for courtroom civility. This one hits your ribs.

He sits up. Watches you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“What?” You ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just … you’re different when you laugh like that.”

You glance away. “Like what?”

“Like you forgot something was weighing on you.”

His voice is soft now. Uncharacteristically so. You don’t respond right away. Just look out the window, rain sliding down the glass in long, lazy streaks.

After a while, you say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He looks over.

“I mean, with my life,” you continue. “I was going so fast, for so long, and now I’ve stopped and I don’t … know what’s left.”

You stare at your hands. You hate how raw that sounds. How uncertain.

He doesn’t jump in. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t try to fix it.

Just sits beside you. Quiet.

“I used to think being successful would feel better than this,” you say. “But I don’t even remember who I was before I started chasing things I don’t even know if I wanted.”

“Do you wanna go back?” He asks.

“No. But I don’t know how to go forward, either.”

He nods. Not like he understands completely — but like he’s trying to. Like he’s holding space for you, instead of advice.

“I don’t have answers,” he says eventually. “But I’m really good at distractions.”

You smile faintly. “Clearly.”

“I mean, c’mon. My carbonara almost killed you.”

“It did. I wrote a will after.”

“Harsh.”

“Truthful.”

He grins, and you feel lighter. A little.

***

That night, the rain intensifies.

You can’t sleep. Not because of the storm, but because something inside you is too noisy. Like your mind won’t stop pacing the room.

You wander out into the hallway, barefoot and restless, planning to make tea.

You don’t expect to see the front door open.

Or the rain soaking the floor tiles just past the entry.

Or him — barefoot, shirt clinging to him, hair dripping, crouched on the porch with his hands around a toppled plant.

You step outside. The rain is warm. Immediate. Your hoodie clings to your skin.

“Are you serious?” You call.

He looks up. His smile is sheepish, wide. “It fell over. I didn’t want it to drown.”

“In the middle of a storm?”

“Poor guy didn’t ask for this.”

You stare at him. His knees are muddy. There’s a leaf in his hair. He’s cradling the ceramic pot like it’s a kitten.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.”

“But also kind of … sweet.”

He looks at you.

You’re not sure what’s shifted. Maybe it’s the rain. The hour. The silence between the two of you that’s no longer awkward.

You’re suddenly aware of how close he is. How sincere his face becomes when he thinks you’re not looking.

He stands slowly. Water drips down his neck.

You say, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You say, “You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

And there it is — that moment. Hanging. Taut.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

But the kind of stillness that precedes something inevitable.

He tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t touch anything else.

His fingers are cold. His eyes are impossibly warm.

You shiver.

He notices. “Come on. Let’s not catch pneumonia.”

You nod. Follow him inside. Neither of you says much as you dry off.

But something’s different now.

And you both feel it.

Like you’ve stepped into something bigger than a holiday detour.

Something that might last.

***

You don’t expect him to ask.

You’re elbow-deep in a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some Spanish cooking show neither of you understands, when he says it — casual, like it’s nothing.

“You should come to Monaco next weekend.”

You blink. “What?”

“To the race. I’ll give you the VIP treatment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you get a lanyard. And free food. And I pretend to be cooler than I actually am.”

“So, your regular weekend?”

He smirks. “Exactly.”

You scoff. “I’m not going to be some … grid girl.”

His grin falters. Just a little. “It’s not like that.”

“Lando.”

“You’d be my guest.”

“That’s worse.”

He turns toward you on the couch, legs folded under him like a golden retriever mid-persuasion. “Come on. It’s glamorous. There’s champagne. Helicopters. You love judging rich people.”

“That part is tempting.”

“I’ll let you wear one of my team shirts.”

“Still not sold.”

“I’ll bribe you with food.”

“Try again.”

“I’ll-” He pauses, thinks hard, then lights up. “-I’ll serenade you. Publicly. At the paddock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Off-key. Acapella. I’ll make the engineers cry.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

He leans closer, dramatic whisper: “Come on. I’ll look lonely if you’re not there.”

“You’ll be surrounded by people.”

“Yeah, but none of them steal my fries and insult my music taste.”

You try not to let the warmth bloom too fast. “That’s your best argument?”

He lifts his hands. “That’s all I got.”

You shake your head. “Fine.”

He blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You sigh. “Yes. Before I change my mind.”

He fist pumps the air. “YES. I mean — cool. Chill. No big deal.”

You snort. “You’re such a loser.”

“Your loser.”

You ignore the way your chest does a weird little flutter.

***

You regret saying yes almost immediately.

Not because you don’t want to go — but because it’s a lot.

The paddock is chaos. Noise. Cameras. Sunglasses on everyone, like they’re all pretending it’s not just overcast. You can feel eyes on you from the second you step out of the car.

Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet beside you, grinning like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he kind of does.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod, a bit dazed. “You weren’t kidding about the VIP treatment.”

“Would I ever lie?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

He hands you a pass. “Here. This is your all-access badge. Makes you important.”

“Is it laminated?”

“Of course it’s laminated. We’re not animals.”

You laugh. He smiles like that was his whole goal.

People greet him constantly — engineers, press, fans. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder more than once, guiding you through the crowd.

You notice it after the third introduction: no one asks who you are. They all assume.

“Oh, so this is your-”

“Hey, you finally brought her!”

“Lando’s girl, right?”

You start correcting people. At first.

“Oh no, we’re just-”

“Not together, actually.”

“Just friends.”

But he never jumps in. Never clarifies. Just smiles, tugs you along, calls you mate in that annoyingly endearing way.

At some point, you stop correcting anyone. You tell yourself it’s just easier that way.

You’re lying.

***

You meet Oscar by the snack table.

He’s polite, a little dry, surprisingly funny. You’re mid-laugh when Lando shows up, scooter wheels screeching dramatically.

“Hey,” he says, too loud. “What’s going on here?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Just talking.”

“Looked like flirting from over there.”

Oscar blinks. “I was complimenting her trainers.”

Lando squints. “They’re mine.”

“Ah.” Oscar smiles. “Well, you’ve got good taste.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Lando like heat from asphalt.

“Oscar was just telling me about the simulator,” you say, steering the conversation.

Lando crosses his arms. “Yeah? I’m faster than him in it.”

“By two-tenths,” Oscar says mildly.

“Still counts.”

You glance between them. “Are you … racing right now?”

Oscar shrugs. “Always.”

Lando tries to lean casually against a tire stack. Misses. Nearly faceplants into a crate of water bottles.

You wince. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, hopping back up.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable.

You bite your lip. “Should I, uh, go find my seat?”

Oscar nods. “Probably safer over there.”

You follow Lando as he storms off, silent. His curls are a mess. His ears are red.

When you finally stop near the garage, you say, “What was that?”

“What?”

“You nearly crashed your scooter trying to interrupt a conversation.”

“He was flirting with you.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“He was definitely flirting with you.”

“And if he was?”

Lando blinks. “I-”

You tilt your head. “Lando.”

“I didn’t like it.”

You cross your arms. “Why not?”

He stares at the ground. Rubs the back of his neck. Looks nothing like the confident, camera-ready version of himself from earlier.

Finally, he says, quietly, “I just really like you.”

You freeze.

“I know I’m not your type,” he adds quickly. “And I know you’re probably just being nice to me because I make dumb jokes and cook badly and follow you around like a puppy-”

“Lando-”

“-but I’d try, you know? To be whatever it is you’re looking for. Even if I’m not it.”

The words hang between you. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen from him before.

You laugh. Just a little. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s too much.

He looks crushed.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That wasn’t — I’m not laughing at you. I’m just … overwhelmed.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying to smile through it.

You reach for his arm. “You don’t have to be anything else. You’re already …”

You stop. Your heart fills in the blank your brain can’t say.

You’re already it.

***

Back in the garage, you watch him from a distance. He’s talking to his engineers, gesturing wildly, helmet tucked under one arm.

He doesn’t glance your way.

For once, you’re the one staring.

Something’s shifted again. The line you’ve been walking is gone. Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

Maybe this thing — whatever it is — isn’t waiting to be defined.

Maybe it’s just becoming.

***

It starts with a subject line you don’t want to read.

RE: Return to Work Policy Update.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the villa’s sun-warmed patio, coffee cold beside you, when the email comes through. You stare at it for a full minute before opening it.

Then you read it. Reread it. And again.

By the time the words actually register, your throat is dry.

They want you back.

In the office. Full-time. Effective immediately.

No room for extension. No regard for the months of burnout, the time zone, the soft, tender recovery you’ve only just begun to trust.

The deadline sits there, bold and final: next Friday.

If you don’t return, they’ll consider it a resignation.

Your hands tremble. Not dramatically. Just enough to spill a little coffee when you try to pick up the mug.

You wipe it away with your sleeve. Then you close the laptop slowly, gently, like maybe that’ll keep the contents from being real.

***

Lando doesn’t notice at first.

You’re good at hiding. You always have been.

He bounds into the kitchen mid-morning, wearing swim trunks and no shirt, hair wet from the sea. “I made toast!” He announces proudly. “It’s only slightly burnt. Also, I may have used all the butter.”

You smile. Or something close to it.

He pauses. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“You wanna go for a swim?”

“Not right now.”

He watches you for a second longer than normal.

Then shrugs. “I’ll save you a good floaty.”

You nod.

But later, you don’t join him. You stay inside. You open a suitcase you haven’t touched in weeks. You fold slowly, carefully. As if touching your things too fast might make it all feel too real.

***

The villa shifts.

There’s a silence between you that hasn’t been there before. Not sharp, just … echoey.

You stop making jokes. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop stealing his hoodies and pretending not to.

Lando notices.

And he spirals.

First, he overcompensates — louder jokes, bolder breakfasts, compliments that sound like YouTube comments.

“You’re glowing today. Like, solar flare-level.”

“Okay.”

“That hoodie’s working overtime. Is that a new shade of existential dread?”

You manage a weak laugh. It makes him look relieved. Which only makes you feel worse.

Because none of this is his fault.

He doesn’t know.

You don’t tell him.

***

Wednesday, he plans the party.

He does it in secret. Sort of.

Oscar is in on it. So is Carlos — over FaceTime, mostly to say things like “Do not set anything on fire” and “Are you using actual TNT?”

Lando doesn’t care about the logistics. He just wants to make you smile.

“She’s leaving, I think,” he mutters, digging through drawers for balloons. “She hasn’t said it, but … I can tell.”

Oscar looks at him, concerned. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.” Lando shrugs. “I think I broke it.”

“You?”

“She’s … retreating. Like, emotionally. It’s like she’s packing her heart before her suitcase.”

Oscar frowns. “That’s poetic. Are you okay?”

Lando ignores the question. “I just want her to know she matters here. That this mattered. That I’ll-” He stops. Runs a hand through his curls. “-that I’ll miss her. So fucking much.”

***

The party is terrible.

Confetti ends up in the punch. The playlist is just ABBA and Martin Garrix on loop. Oscar bails halfway through. Carlos texts I warned you.

But the real problem is this.

You don’t show up.

Lando waits. He checks his phone. Checks the garden. The pool. The kitchen.

Nothing.

Eventually, he wanders outside. Something tells him to check the back.

That’s where he finds you.

Curled into yourself on a bench beneath the lemon tree, head bowed, fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt. Shoulders shaking.

He stops mid-step. Heart hammering.

“Hey.”

You flinch, barely.

He walks slowly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast.

“What’s wrong?” He asks gently.

You shake your head.

“I thought you were mad at me,” he admits. “But you’re-”

“I’m leaving,” you say suddenly, voice hoarse. “Next Friday. If I don’t go back, they’ll fire me.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lando sits beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just near.

You bury your face in your hands.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper. “But I don’t know how to stay, either.”

And just like that, the dam breaks. The tears come fast, messy, embarrassing in their intensity.

You expect him to panic. To joke. To offer a stupid, misplaced solution.

He doesn’t.

He just slides closer. Wraps his arms around you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says softly, chin resting on your hair, “but I can sit here until you’re okay.”

You cling to him like he’s a life raft. And maybe he is.

You cry harder.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I’ve spent years building a life I’m not even sure I want anymore.”

“Then don’t go back to it.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am without it.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, quietly, “I think you’re someone who deserves to choose. And be chosen.”

You pull back slightly. Just enough to look at him.

His eyes are red. Not from tears, just open. Vulnerable.

“Lando,” you whisper.

He leans in.

Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss is gentle. Reverent. A question more than an answer.

You breathe into it. Let your hand slide to his jaw. Let yourself feel the way he sighs against your mouth, like kissing you is something he’s been holding in for weeks.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he says, barely audible.

You close your eyes.

“I want to.”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

You don’t decide to stay because of Lando.

Not exactly.

You decide to stay because the thought of packing up now — of folding all this softness into a suitcase and shipping it back to a life you’re no longer sure you chose — makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with clarity.

Lando doesn’t ask questions. He just finds you that morning in the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, scribbling a pros and cons list onto the back of an electric bill.

You don’t look up. You just say, “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

He’s quiet for a second too long, and you glance up — worried he didn’t hear, or worse, that he did.

But then he grins. Huge. Bright. Like someone lit a fire inside him.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No.”

“Like … not leaving leaving?”

“For now.”

“For now,” he echoes, nodding, trying to play it cool. “Right. Yeah. Cool. Chill.”

You sip your coffee.

He bumps your shoulder. “So … does this mean I can keep introducing you as my emotionally exclusive, spiritually bonded non-girlfriend?”

You laugh into your mug. “That’s not a thing.”

“It could be. It sounds deep. Very committed. Like a tax bracket.”

“Just say girlfriend.”

“But we didn’t talk about it.”

“Then talk.”

He straightens, clears his throat dramatically. “Would you do me the honor of being my emotionally exclusive-”

“Lando.”

“Girlfriend. Would you be my girlfriend?”

You give him a long look. “Okay.”

He whoops and spins you around the kitchen before you can change your mind.

***

The days fall into place like dominoes after that.

Not perfect. Just … consistent. Yours.

Mornings start with half-burnt toast and Lando doing pushups in the living room because “I skipped the gym, babe. You want me to be weak?”

You steal his hoodies like it’s your job. He leaves little notes in your shoes like it’s his.

Sometimes, you fight. Over dumb stuff — who used the last clean towel, whether ketchup belongs in the fridge or the pantry, if “driver” is a real career or just a glorified Mario Kart enthusiast.

But the making up is easy.

It always has been, with him.

***

One afternoon, Lando walks into a coffee shop holding your hand and introduces you to the barista.

“This is my girlfriend.”

You blink. He hasn’t used the word out loud yet.

“Well,” he adds quickly, “not officially officially, but like, we’re emotionally exclusive. Spiritually connected. She knows where I keep my socks.”

The barista nods slowly, very confused.

You squeeze his hand. “We’re dating.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “Cool.”

Lando turns to you as soon as she walks away. “Was that weird?”

“A little.”

“Did I oversell it?”

“Maybe.”

“But you still like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He beams. “Sucker.”

***

You record a video of him attempting to fold laundry and accidentally inventing a TikTok dance while pulling a hoodie inside out. It gets 300,000 likes overnight.

He tries to act modest. Fails completely.

“I’m an icon,” he says, scrolling through the comments. ‘Boyfriend energy — see that? That’s me. I am the boyfriend.”

You steal his phone.

“HEY!”

“No more reading comments. You’re unbearable.”

He leans in, eyes wide and innocent. “You knew what you signed up for.”

You did.

You just didn’t know it would feel this good.

***

Carlos calls during dinner one night. You’re sitting outside, feet in Lando’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of pasta between you.

Lando puts the call on speaker.

“Have you both burned down my villa yet?”

“Nope,” Lando says cheerfully. “Just christened all of it.”

You kick him.

Carlos sighs. “I knew letting you stay there was a mistake.”

You grin. “We’ll leave it better than we found it.”

“Good. Because I’m coming back next month.”

Lando chokes on his milk.

Carlos raises an eyebrow — visible even through the pixelation. “What?”

“Nothing. Cool. Chill. Welcome back, mate.”

You lean in. “We’ll be out before then.”

“Where are you going?”

Lando shrugs. “Nowhere far.”

Carlos stares suspiciously, but lets it go.

For now.

***

It happens on a Sunday.

You come home from the market, arms full of fresh herbs and way too many lemons because Lando said “go big or go home,” and walk into absolute chaos.

Smoke. Everywhere.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Lando?”

A pan clatters. “It’s fine!”

You drop the groceries and rush in. He’s waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, eyes watering.

“What did you do?”

“I was trying to make that shrimp thing you like!”

“I told you I was allergic to shellfish!”

He pauses. “Wait, shrimp counts as shellfish?”

You just stare.

“I thought it was like … seafood.”

“It is seafood!”

“So … not fish?”

You blink at him. “That’s your defense?”

He drops the towel. “I’m really bad at this.”

You cross your arms. “I noticed.”

He opens his mouth to keep digging the hole.

You laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“God,” you say, walking over, “you’re a disaster.”

“I tried to impress you!”

“With anaphylaxis?”

“I got confused!”

You wrap your arms around his waist, still laughing.

He exhales, relief flooding through him.

You tilt your head up. “Next time, just buy me a cupcake.”

He grins. “Can do.”

Then he kisses you. Slow, familiar. Like you have nowhere else to be.

And maybe you don’t.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this mess of smoke and lemons and burnt fish-smelling air is yours.

***

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, you ask, “So what’s the plan when Carlos comes back?”

Lando taps something on his phone, pretending to be casual. “We … move?”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

He tosses the phone down and stretches, clearly trying to be nonchalant. “I mean, we can’t actually stay here forever.”

“No,” you admit.

“I’ve been looking at places.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, cheeks going pink. “Just, you know. In case we want … options.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “And do we?”

“I do.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, then grins.

“Hey … do you know any good lawyers?”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because Carlos is definitely going to want his villa back. And I think I need legal counsel before I sign the papers on a new one.”

You laugh. “Are you trying to retain me?”

He grins. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Legally.”

You nudge him playfully. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

And you’re staying.

***

Carlos arrives at the villa just after noon, sun-tanned and dead-eyed, dragging two suitcases and a single, unrelenting hope.

Peace. Quiet. Maybe a cold beer. No one yelling. No team meetings. No cameras.

Just Marbella, his lemon trees, and the blessed sound of absolutely nothing.

He exhales as he unlocks the front gate, breathing in the soft scent of sea salt and sunscreen. It’s good to be home.

Or so he thinks.

Because he hasn’t noticed the massive moving truck parked next door yet.

***

He’s halfway through unpacking — half a beer gone, half a suitcase open — when he hears it.

A crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like, yep that’s Lando’s voice shouting, “Babe, I think I broke the blender but like … in a hot way?”

Carlos freezes.

“No,” he mutters. “No. No. No.”

He walks stiffly out to the garden wall, cranes his neck — and there, as if summoned by evil spirits and bad karma, is Lando.

Wearing a tank top, holding a screwdriver, grinning like the world is made of sunshine and Monster energy.

“CARLOS!” He yells, delighted. “You’re back!”

Carlos stares, horrified. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, right — funny story!” Lando sets the screwdriver down on what might once have been a blender. “We live here now.”

“You what?”

“Moved in last week.”

Carlos blinks. “Here? As in … next door?”

“Yeah! Isn’t that great?”

Carlos looks like he’s trying to mentally summon a lightning strike. “You bought that place?”

“Well, technically it’s still in escrow,” Lando says, wiping his hands on his shorts. “But spiritually, we’ve already moved in.”

Carlos glares.

Lando grins wider. “Wanna see the kitchen? We painted one of the walls blue by accident but I think it kind of slaps.”

Before Carlos can recover enough to yell, you step out from inside, wearing Lando’s hoodie and holding a glass of orange juice like you own the sun.

You freeze. “Oh.”

He blinks. “You’re here too?”

You smile sheepishly. “Hi, Carlos.”

Lando beams. “We’re neighbors!”

Carlos closes his eyes. “I need another beer.”

“Want one of ours?” Lando offers brightly. “I bought those fancy ones you like. The ones with the weird labels.”

Carlos opens one eye. “Did you drink all the ones in my fridge?”

“No! I have your beer memorized.”

“That’s not better.”

You snort, already laughing.

Carlos stares at the two of you, then sighs. “This was supposed to be my peaceful getaway.”

“We can be peaceful,” you promise.

Lando leans against the garden wall. “Super peaceful.”

A loud crash echoes behind him.

You wince. “What was that?”

Lando blinks. “Oh no. I left the microwave on.”

Carlos groans into his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

“C’mon, it’s us,” Lando says, grinning. “What could go wrong?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He just walks back into his villa, muttering something about divine punishment.

***

From his kitchen, he can hear you both laughing through the open windows.

And weirdly, it kind of sounds like home.

worth the wait

pairing: lando norris x williams driver!reader

summary: winning the monaco grand prix brings to light some not so hidden feelings between yourself and a certain papaya wearing driver. (7.6k)

warnings: friends to lovers, mutual pining, use of Y/N, sexual insinuations but nothing graphic. the FW46 is not a tractor—also fictional. takes place in the 2024 season.

a/n: started writing this a little after monaco last year, didn't finish it until now 😭 my first major attempt at driver!reader, and also perhaps the longest one shot fic i've ever written?? i can't remember but i hope you all love her as much as i do <3 also sorry to charles for erasing his home win i still love you babe

“That’s P1, Y/N. Repeat, that is P1, congratulations.” 

You can barely hear your race engineer over the beating of your heart in your chest, the roar of blood in your ears as you make your way far past the checkered flag. Looking at your surroundings as you zoom by, you see people waving at you from all around you, people cheering at the top of their lungs, and you wave back. 

“Oh my god…” You say softly, just for yourself to hear. 

You’ve done it. 

You’ve won your first race, won Monaco, and you have no earthly idea how to react. It feels weird, like you know you’ve won but at the same time, it doesn’t feel quite real. 

Like you’re asleep and you’re about to wake up to find it’s all been just a dream. “Holy fucking shit.” 

“Y/N, do you copy? Radio check, please. Can you hear me?” 

Blinking a few times to ground yourself, you manage to hit the radio button on your wheel to respond to your team. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m here, I’m—wow, that’s…thank you, everyone. Couldn’t have done any of this without you guys. I love you all, thank you for everything, really.” 

You can hear cheering on the other end of the channel, gleeful whoops and lots of clapping. They’re all absolutely wild with happiness, as you’re sure you should be too. 

You are happy. You’re so happy you can’t even feel anything except the familiar rumble of your trusty car. 

“Make your way to the grid. We’ll see you soon.” 

It begins to trickle in now, the realization that you’re now a Formula 1 winner, and here at Monaco, no less. 

You break into a face-splitting grin, letting a disbelieving laugh bubble from your mouth, which soon turns into a series of loud whoops you’re glad you’re the only one who can hear. 

It’s just you and your car out here right now, soaking it all in. 

The other two cars are already parked at their respective signs when you finally roll up to the grid after a celebratory cooldown lap, a Red Bull and a McLaren flanking your open spot on the left and right as they wait for you. Their drivers are standing by too, waving around at the fans. You spot Lando’s bright helmet immediately and Max a few feet away. 

You kill the engine as soon as you’re in place, shaky hands gripping the halo to pull yourself out of the cockpit. The roar of the cheering is loud even through your helmet, but the thump of your heart threatening to beat out of your chest seems more deafening. 

You aren’t entirely sure that your knees won’t give out when you step onto the hood. 

Nevertheless, you step out as confident as you can, punching both hands above your head in a sweeping motion, fist pumping the air once, twice, a third time. Each swing brings a louder cheer from the crowd, and you take it all in, clasping your hands as if to say thank you to anyone who’s watching—which is everyone. 

Everyone’s watching you as you take off your helmet and peel off your balaclava. Your fingers fumble with the cord of your earpieces, but you manage to wrench those off too, stuffing everything into the interior of your helmet clumsily. 

You hop down from your car, and immediately you’re swept off your feet. Lando crashes into you so hard you’re surprised he hasn’t knocked you both to the ground. He hugs you tight around the waist, swinging you around, and he’s laughing joyfully, that high pitched, squeaky laugh you’re only used to hearing when he’s extremely excited about something. 

If you hadn’t gotten P1, you would’ve thought he’d gotten it by the way he’s celebrating. 

“You did it!!!” He exclaims. “Oh my god, I knew you could do it!”

You’re both sticky with sweat and still breathing hard from those seventy odd laps, but his embrace feels welcoming. Familiar. It always has. You’ve known each other for a while now, having been rookies in the same season, and you’re close with him off the track too. 

Your helmet falls to the ground with a loud thud as you return Lando’s crushing hug. “Thank you,” You breathe, another disbelieving laugh spilling from you. “Holy fuck, it really happened!”

“You made it happen, Y/N. I’m proud of you. Seriously. You deserve this win and so many more,” He says sincerely. He sets you back down now, hands sliding from your shoulders down to your elbows, holding you almost tenderly. It’s a total opposite from the pure excitement he’d had mere seconds ago. 

Something in his eyes seems to deepen, though you can’t put your finger on exactly what. You can’t bring yourself to look away.

If you weren’t so attuned to Lando’s expressions by now, you wouldn’t have noticed the way his gaze flicked down to your lips for a split second. But you are, and you do notice. 

His lips part slightly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he visibly gulps. 

It feels like you’re the only two people in the world in this moment, not as who the public sees you both as, but as the versions of yourselves you really only get to be with each other. You’ve had the privilege of getting to know exactly who Lando Norris is, away from all the cameras and the media. 

Lando is kind and warm and genuine and would go to war for the people he cares about, but he’s still young. Despite having matured a lot in the past few years, he still hasn’t lost that boyishness he had about him when you first met him just before your rookie season together. He still has that spark that pulled you in from the beginning. 

A chant of your name begins to ripple through the grandstands, and just like that, the moment breaks. You remember that not only are you in front of thousands of people, but on the screens of millions more too. 

You inhale sharply and step away from him to pick up your things. He clears his throat, probably realizing the same thing you just did. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this position with Lando, and maybe it’s the adrenaline high, maybe it’s all the years of dancing around each other and your own feelings, but you can’t say for certain that you would’ve been able to hold yourself back if he’d looked at you that way any longer. Either way, you’re sure of one thing. 

In that moment, you wanted to kiss him. You wanted him to kiss you. 

He backs away before you have time to process any of the information firing its way through your brain, giving a little wave of his gloved hands as if to say ‘This is your moment. Take it in.’

Max is much more contained than Lando in his congratulations, giving you a nice pat on the back and firm handshake with a smile that feels genuine. You still can’t quite wrap your mind around the fact that you’d finished ahead of him for the first time. 

You make a run for your team just behind the barrier next, all but throwing yourself into them to celebrate not just your win, but theirs too. It truly takes a village, and you wouldn't have been able to do much of anything, let alone this, without yours. 

You want to stay with them for much longer than you’re allowed to, but you’re redirected by a few of the track marshals far too soon. 

The walk down the outside of the track is mostly a blur. Fernando clasps a hand over the back of your neck, telling you how proud he is of you and your hard work. His pride reminds you so much of your own father you can only squeeze his arm in a silent thanks. 

Charles and Carlos sandwich you into a congratulations group hug of Ferrari red, Lewis ruffles your hair like an older brother would. Daniel squishes you in such a tight hug that the breath gets squeezed out of your chest. 

You’re vaguely aware of various other people coming to congratulate you, clapping you on the back, jostling you excitedly. Reporters, photographers, track marshals all clamoring for your attention, shaking your hand, cameras hovering in your face. All while you're trying to wave to the fans and listen to the multitude of things being told to you by so many people. 

It’s overwhelming, but in the best possible way. 

Next is Alex, who wraps you up in a hug with such a fierceness that rivals Lando’s when you get to where he is, a beacon of familiarity for you. When people say Formula One teammates can never truly be friends, they’ve never seen you and Alex before. There’s some competition there, obviously, but it’s a healthy kind. You push each other to be better. 

He keeps you company until you need to split off for the cooldown room. Even then, he promises to find you afterwards. 

It feels like everyone is beyond happy for you, and you revel in it. This is the first and last time you’ll ever get to experience that maiden win feeling. 

The air conditioning in the tiny room feels like heaven on your sweaty skin when you finally make it there, and even though there's a chair you know you should be sitting in, the ground looks much more enticing. 

Your sore limbs scream as you lower yourself down to the floor, but it feels nice and cold when you extend your legs out in front of you with a noise that somewhat resembles a strangled groan. 

Max takes a seat in his assigned chair with an amused shake of his head. You expect Lando to do the same, but he makes a beeline in your direction, throwing himself down next to you with a reaction not dissimilar to the one you’ve just had. It takes all you have in you not to smile like a fucking idiot when he holds his hand out for a high five. 

You’re still buzzing as you sip your water while watching a few moments from the race on the screen. One of the clips that rolls is you crossing the finish line, which makes a lump rise up in your throat. You’re able to hear some broadcast commentary as it plays, and it feels surreal.

“And she’s done it!!! Y/N L/N wins the Monaco Grand Prix! First P1 ever for the Williams driver, here at the historic circuit in Monte Carlo, and Williams’ first Monaco title since 2003! That’s gonna have to be a win for the books, I’d say,” He’s saying. He sounds ecstatic. 

You do your best to swallow the lump down, sniffling quietly a few times. 

What you’re not going to do is cry in front of these cameras. You refuse to give the people who ever doubted you any ounce of ammunition against you. 

Lando hastens a look over at you, spots the tiniest crinkle of your brow, and nudges your knee with his water bottle. When you meet his eyes, he mimes taking a deep breath, smiling reassuringly. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

You match the rise and fall of his chest, finding that it helps. He doesn’t even have to say a word. 

“Wow, that was turn 10, wasn’t it? Where you overtook me?” Max asks suddenly, looking over to you for an answer. Your gaze slips back to the screen, where you see your Williams sneaking around his Red Bull at the chicane right after the tunnel, then over to him for a sheepish nod. 

It’s not everyday you can say you’ve gotten past a three time World Champion. 

Max looks almost impressed. “That was a bold move, but I’ve got to hand it to you—it was a pretty solid overtake. In a tricky spot too. Nice one.” 

He’s always been nice to you on the track, and you’ve even spent some time together in the offseason, but any ounce of praise from the Max Verstappen still feels like it’s coming from a legend. Even if you’ve witnessed that legend absolutely smash it at drunk karaoke at Charles’ Christmas party a few years ago. 

Your time in the cooldown room also seems far too short, and before you know it, the podium awaits. 

You manage a peek outside whilst the announcer is welcoming Max to the podium, and you’re absolutely floored. The crowd is a sea of different colors, all different teams gathered to witness your very first time on the top step of the podium. You spot yours front and center chatting excitedly amongst themselves, eagerly awaiting your arrival. 

“Feels different, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re about to climb to that winning step,” Lando asks, pulling his P2 hat down over his damp curls. 

He’s right. You’ve been on the podium before, but anticipating being at the top of it, anticipating finally getting to hear your home country’s national anthem—it’s something different entirely. 

“I feel like I’m about to shit myself,” You answer honestly, not bothering to censor yourself in any way. It’s Lando; he’s heard you say much worse before. 

“I would advise against that, but hey, everyone celebrates in their own way. To each their own and all that.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender, shit-eating grin present on his face. “Just know, I’ll never let you live it down if you do.” 

“That’s rich coming from the guy who nearly peed himself when he got his first podium!” You scoff. 

Lando’s teasing grin morphs into an offended drop of the mouth. “I did not!” 

“You so did, don’t even try to lie about that.” 

“Right, well if I did, and that’s a huge fucking if, it was only because I didn’t have time to hit the toilet before the ceremony.” 

“I’m sure it was.” 

“Say, we should celebrate tonight. I was thinking about going out clubbing later, if you’re up for it?” He offers, effectively changing the subject. His brows raise mischievously a beat later, eyes full of mirth. “Unless…you’re too tired, of course.”  

“Ha, nice try! I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep tonight, so you’re on,” You shoot back, tilting your chin up in challenge. 

“That’s my girl.” Lando’s expression turns warm and fond, and it makes your insides go fuzzy. You know it’s just a phrase. It isn’t even the first time he’s said it, but this one feels different. 

The way he’s looking at you feels different. It feels like he’s staring into your soul with those eyes of his you still haven’t quite figured out yet. Were they green, were they hazel? Truth be told, you’d been wondering about it since what feels like forever. 

Lando steps forward—once, twice, a third time. Three steps and he’s right in front of you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand comes up to run along the length of your arm, thumb rubbing over the sleeve of your race suit. 

There’s no cameras here this time. The people around you aren’t even paying any attention to the two of you. It would be so easy just to let it happen, to just close the gap between you and…kiss him.

Before either of you can make a move, you hear his name echo from outside, followed by even more cheering. Lando opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out. 

You give him a light shove, pushing down your disappointment in favor of a smile. “Go. You deserve to bask in the glory. Before I steal the show, I mean.” 

Lando looks like he doesn’t want to go, but really, he doesn’t have a choice. There are people waiting for his grand arrival out to the podium, and yours too. Before he leaves, he squeezes your hand once, and then he’s gone. The roar of the crowd grows louder. 

You take a few centering deep breaths to calm yourself. This moment is what you’ve been waiting for your entire career, and you’d be damned if you let anything, let alone your own running thoughts, take away from it all. 

The sunlight nearly blinds you when you round the corner, but you take it in stride, waving at the crowd as you take that rightful top step. You aren’t sure if you could stop smiling even if you tried. That smile only grows as your home anthem fills the air, and you swear it’s never sounded more like music to your ears than it does right here and now. 

It’s all for you.

You inhale deep, soaking in every bit of the moment as much as you can before it ends, and as you exhale just as deep, your shoulders sag with relief. It still feels surreal. 

The final notes of the anthem fade, and then you’re being handed a huge trophy by the literal Prince of Monaco, which is mindblowing in and of itself. You like to think you’re playing it cool, but you’re sure if you watch back anyone’s footage of the moment sometime later, you would probably see how not cool you were being. 

Nonetheless, the trophy is a welcome weight in your hands, and when you look down at it, all you can see in the sleek metal is a promise of things yet to come. The pride you feel is insurmountable—of yourself, of your team, of every little thing that has happened to bring you to this day, bad or good. Everything has led you here. 

You beam bright, hoisting it above your head proudly to the tune of hooting and hollering and whistling. 

It feels…well, the only word you can think of to explain how being up here feels is glorious. Even when you’re suddenly being blasted with champagne from all sides, you feel like you’re on top of the world. You can’t see a thing, but you don’t need to in order to know that you could get used to this. 

You don’t feel like you’re truly back down on the ground again until you make it back to the paddock. Natalie Pinkham from SkySports is waiting for you with a proud smile, waiting patiently as your media officer ushers you towards the group of cameras in the media pen. 

“Natalie, hi!” You greet her with a hug, having become extremely familiar and fond of the reporter in your few years of racing. There’s a reason why she’s a favorite amongst most of the grid. 

“Hi, Y/N! Thanks for taking the time to chat with myself and SkySports, I’m sure you’ve got a thousand things to do before calling it a day and going home. Or going to celebrate, maybe?” 

You bob your head, chuckling lightly. “Celebrating, definitely. Dunno what’s in the cards yet, but one of the many good things about Monaco is that afterwards I can sleep in my own bed for once.” 

“That definitely sounds like a win to me. Speaking of wins, massive congratulations on today! Now I have to ask, did anything feel different about the race or qualifying, or even any of the practices that made you think, ‘this is the weekend, today is my day’?”  

“The car’s felt amazing all weekend. Even though I wasn’t on pole, I still managed to move up in the race, and I think my pace was pretty good from the start today. Y’know, obviously nothing was perfect, there’s always bound to be a few hiccups here and there, a few unexpected things to come about at times when you don’t want them to, but overall?” You explain, letting your shoulders drop in a shrug. 

If you wrack your brain, there really hadn’t been anything that clued you into how this weekend would go. You were always confident in your own skills as a driver, but you’d been doing this long enough to know that most of it boiled down to luck, especially with a track like Monaco. 

“Overall I think things went nice and smooth this weekend. I’m not sure what could’ve made it different from other races, if I’m being completely honest, but I’m very happy with the way everything turned out in the end.” 

“Oh, you’re being modest now, aren’t you? Your first ever win, here of all places. You must be over the moon!” Natalie laughs. You chuckle too. That seems like an understatement. “Tell us a little bit about that. How does it feel to not only have that maiden win finally under your belt, but to also be the first female Formula 1 driver to win here at Monaco?” 

It’s a loaded question, of course. 

How does it feel to have beaten nineteen of the best drivers in the world? How do you feel about the highest point of your racing career so far? How does it feel to be amongst the names of all the greats who’ve driven and won this race in the past? 

You’re really not even sure where to begin, but for some reason, you laugh. Your emotions feel jumbled up right now, so much you can barely cobble together a well thought out answer to the question. 

“Sorry, I don’t—gah, I’m all over the place right now, I’m sorry,” You manage to say, taking a cleansing deep breath in an attempt to center yourself. Good thing she just nods encouragingly, giving you time to recompose. 

You can see Lando doing his own interview off to the side, talking animatedly with the biggest smile gracing his face, and you flash back to that moment on the track just a little while ago. The way he was so happy for you despite missing out on P1 himself by less than two seconds, how hard he’d hugged you as soon as you’d climbed down from your car. 

The way he looked at you right after he did, some foreign emotion lingering in his eyes that you couldn’t shake your thoughts free of. 

It’s as though he senses you looking at him, because he glances over at you, catching your gaze for a moment. He smiles even bigger, if at all possible, before turning back to his own reporter seamlessly. It makes you feel giddier inside by a tenfold, which definitely doesn’t help your focus. 

You manage to tear your attention away from him at last. You hope nobody’s noticed you looking at each other. “Okay. Alright, I’m good. Sorry again. I…I think for any driver, winning at Monaco is the dream, with all the history behind the track and—and the stories you hear. Um, it’s definitely always been a dream of mine, ever since I got into karting as a kid, so actually being able to make that dream come true is absolutely unreal to me.” 

You will yourself not to let your voice waver, on live television of all places. You kind of want to cry again (in the best possible way), but you steel yourself, keeping your head held high. This is your time. 

“This win is—above all, it’s extra special, especially since it’s my first win ever and because I’m the first female driver to win. It’s…truly, it’s such an honor. And to be racing among so many other talented drivers this season too, winning is certainly a high point. I think the rest of the season is looking up for Williams. Feels like this is only the start. I don’t really know what else to say other than that.” 

“You’re part of Monaco history now, congratulations again, Y/N. One more question and then I’ll let you get back to your celebrations,” Natalie replies, looking genuinely thrilled for you. That’s something you’ve always admired about her, the way she seems to really care about the people she’s interviewing, instead of rushing through things like you were just something to check off a list. You nod happily for her to continue. “What do you have to say to all those girls watching at home right now, watching you pave the way for future drivers, wanting to race in Formula 1 one day?” 

“I’d say exactly what my dad said to me before every one of my karting races. You’re strong, you’re determined, and you can do anything you put your mind to. Just work hard and keep the focus, but have fun too.” 

“Truly lovely advice from Monaco’s newest Grand Prix winner, thank you so much, Y/N. And congratulations again on the accomplishment! Very proud.” 

You thank her and give her another quick hug before you’re shown off towards another gaggle of reporters to answer their questions. These feel less daunting than the first, maybe because you now have somewhat of an idea of what to say, but you still need to keep things professional—no matter how much you want to shout from the rooftops. 

Maybe you’ll do that later, after you’ve been released from your media duties. 

-------

The club is so loud you can barely hear yourself think. 

You’ve shaken hands and taken pictures with so many people you begin to lose track of who’s who, though you also suspect that might be because of how many drinks you’ve had so far. But it is a celebration—a celebration for you, so really, who’s counting? 

“This is the best night of my life!” You exclaim, plopping down into the empty seat between Alex and Lando. Lily sits on the other side of her boyfriend, stifling a laugh at the state of you. 

“Having a good time?” She asks, reaching over Alex to pluck some confetti out of your hair. You beam at her brightly, nodding. “Good. You deserve to celebrate!” 

“I love you, Lil,” You sigh, squeezing her hand gratefully. “You’re my favorite person.” 

“Um, hello? I’m sitting right here, you know.” Alex sounds and looks genuinely offended, squinting at you in disbelief. You only smile guiltily. “Oh, that’s mean. You’re a mean drunk, did you know that?” 

Lando giggles loudly into his nearly empty glass, lips working the straw intently to get the last few drops out. 

Alex turns his attention on him, raising a brow. “Easy there, tiger. There’s nothing else in that poor glass.” 

“Whatever, dad,” Lando huffs drunkenly. He plonks the now empty glass onto the table with a pout. 

You let out a cackle at that, keeling over into Alex’s shoulder with the force of your laughter. “Dad! You’re an old man, Dad!” 

“I’m only four years older than you two,” He deadpans, seemingly unamused. 

“I’m getting another drink. Don’t miss me too much,” Lando announces to the general vicinity, clambering to his feet with a dangerous sway to him. 

You pop up from your seat too and he notices, holding out a hand for you to take. When you do, he pulls you in even more, tucking you under his arm so you won’t lose each other in the crowded club. 

Alex watches the two of you weave through people together, leaning towards Lily. “Hundred pounds says they’re going home with each other tonight.” 

She rolls her eyes playfully at her grinning boyfriend, scoffing. “You’re not getting my money that easily, Alex. Make it higher stakes next time.” 

Before you can make it to the bar, you tug at Lando’s hand gently to get his attention and he turns immediately, ducking in close so he can hear you over all the noise. “I need to use the toilet.” 

“Go. I’ll order for you.” He nods, giving you a gentle push towards the restrooms. You stumble a little, but right yourself quick, straightening out on your way. 

The corridor right outside the toilets is fairly quiet, and you slump against the wall to catch your breath. Fatigue is starting to set in at this point, the adrenaline from today fizzling out until you’re left feeling tired. You still haven’t quite come to terms with everything that’s happened today. 

You’re a fucking Grand Prix winner. A Formula 1 winner. 

It’s what you've dreamed of since you were a kid, something you’ve worked so hard and so tirelessly for. You’re still happy, of course, but there’s something else biting at you that rings louder in your subconscious. 

What the hell are you supposed to do now? 

The obvious answer is to do it again, and again, and again, until one day you have what it takes to be World Champion, but you're far away from that ever becoming a reality yet.  

What if this win was just a stroke of good luck? 

It’s a miracle you got past Max when you did, but really, it was the track that helped you keep your position. Monaco is notorious for making it near impossible to overtake the car in front of you. 

Had he been just a few inches over to the other side, you would’ve caught too much kerb, maybe even locked up right before the apex of the next turn. It could’ve ruined your entire race, but you got lucky. 

What if you can’t win any more races? What if this was the peak of your career and you’re destined to go downhill from here? What if you lose your seat? 

Tears slip down your cheeks before you even realize you’re crying, your pesky ability to overthink everything taking its toll once again. You dig the heels of your palms against your eyes, letting out a frustrated groan. 

Now is not the fucking time to be second guessing yourself. 

“There you are!” Lando’s voice echoes from the end of the corridor, and you swear quietly, swiping at your cheeks to rid yourself of tear tracks before he reaches you. “I was starting to think you’d fallen into the—” His teasing remark dies on his lips the moment he lays eyes on you. Immediately, you know he can tell something’s off. “Why are you sad? What happened? Did someone do something?”

You shake your head through his bombardment of questions, squeezing your eyes shut with a heaving sigh. “Nothing happened, Lando. Everything’s fine.” 

“I’m sorry, but that’s a load of crap. You’re sat out here crying when you should be celebrating the biggest moment in your career, and you say everything’s fine, but those aren’t happy tears,” Lando insists. “You can talk to me. You know that. Let me help you with whatever’s wrong.” 

You open your eyes and he’s looking at you like he’s in pain, and suddenly you feel like your chest has cracked wide open. “What if the only reason I won today was because I got lucky?” 

“Don’t say that,” He says, shaking his head firmly. “C’mon, don’t talk like that. You’re being ridiculous, alright?” 

You scoff weakly, crossing your arms over your chest. “I thought you were here to help, not bully me.” 

“This isn’t bullying, this is tough love. I wish someone would’ve had this talk with me after Miami, ‘cause I went through the same headspace you’re going through right now. What if it’s just a one off, what if I can’t live up to the brand new expectations everyone else has for me now that I’ve won a race?” 

“So you know the feeling?” 

“Yeah, I do. But you’ve got to ignore it. Whatever you think you can’t do, push it down. Lock it away and throw out the key.” 

“But what if people are right? What if this is the best I can do?” 

“When has anyone ever been right about you?” Lando asks sharply. You feel a bit taken aback at the bluntness of his question, but you bite your tongue. He’s going somewhere with this, if you just wait. “They said you wouldn’t be able to get a seat on any team, you proved them wrong. They said you’d never make it in this sport, now look at what you’ve managed to do! You’ve won the most coveted race in history, and you’re the first female driver to do it. You’re constantly smashing glass ceilings, every single day, and if anyone ever says otherwise, they don’t know you. Not like your team knows you. Not like I know you.” 

If you think back all these years, even to the very beginning of your career, Lando has always been one of your fiercest supporters, always in your corner rooting for you. Even though you’re rivals on track, off the track he’s been a fantastic friend. You’re lucky to have someone like him. 

And now, as he stands here before you, looking at you with such unwavering support and admiration, you’re whisked back to the last time you were this close to each other, mere hours ago. The only difference is, you didn’t kiss him then, but now…

Your mouth is on Lando’s before your brain even registers the movement, but even then, you can’t bring yourself to pull back. Especially not when his hands come around your waist to steady you both.

You’re kissing him and he’s kissing you back, and it’s everything you’ve imagined it would be like despite it happening outside the bathrooms of a club. 

The weight of what you’re doing dawns on you a split second later. You jerk back, eyes wide as Lando’s mouth drops into a tiny, dazed oh. 

You let go of your grip on the front of his shirt, dropping your hands back down to your sides. You aren’t sure how you can even begin to explain this one. “I’m—fuck, Lan, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” 

Lando smothers your weak excuse of an apology with a searing kiss, only this time you’re the one caught by surprise when his tongue darts out, swiping over yours expertly. 

Fuck, he’s really good at this. 

He pulls away before you can think too much on it, blinking at you slowly. “I think—” He pants, licking his lips, “I think we should leave.” 

“Your place?” 

He nods quickly. “My place.” 

You drop by where you’d left Lily and Alex to let them know you’re leaving without letting them know why you’re leaving, but judging by the not-so-subtle back and forths their eyes do between Lando and yourself, it isn’t exactly a secret. 

The constant buzzing of your phone in your purse in the car taking you back to Lando’s place is most likely Lily wanting all the details as soon as possible. 

It feels as if you can’t keep your hands off each other as you stumble down the quiet corridor after Lando, fingers interlocked as he tugs you towards his apartment. 

Every so often, he stops in his tracks, turning around to capture your lips in a quick kiss before remembering where you’re going and forging ahead again. It seems like forever until you manage to get inside with the door shut behind you. 

You’re nudged up against the back of it by one of Lando’s hands splaying flat over your torso the moment the locks click shut, the other one bracing him next to your head as he leans in, kissing you fervently. It’s messy and rushed and frantic, but you’ve both waited way too long for each other to even give a fuck. 

You thread your fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck, giving a testing tug at the curls. What you’re not expecting is the whine that escapes his mouth against yours, the ever so slight buckle of his knees that follows.

You freeze. 

It seems like he wasn’t expecting it either because he does the same, retreating just enough to gauge your reaction to his slip up.  

“That was cute,” You murmur, lips quirking into a smug smile. 

“Nuh uh. Not another word about it.” 

“I said it was cute!” 

“I don’t want you to think I’m cute right now, I want you to think I’m sexy.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I do think that. Like that thing you always do with your tongue when you’re thinking? Hot.” 

“Yeah?” He hums, mouth lifting into an easy smirk. You roll your eyes at him. It’s so like Lando to be flustered one moment, but able to turn on the charm in a blink. But then he hooks his hands under your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly now you’re the flustered one. “You like that?” 

Your breath hitches in your chest, but you manage a nod. 

“Wanna see what else I can do with it?” 

-------

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the terrible pounding in your head. It feels like a hundred little people in your skull, banging little hammers everywhere like they’re making an attempt to escape. You want to lay in this bed and hibernate for the next three days, at least. 

The second thing you notice is that the bed you’re laying in is certainly not yours. Your duvet isn’t dark blue, and you don’t have a shelf full of helmets across the room. 

But you know who does. 

Slowly, you turn your head to the side. You pretty much already know who you’re going to see in the spot next to you, but it can’t hurt to check, right? 

The moment your gaze lands on a head full of dark curls smushed face first into the pillow and tanned skin, your suspicions are confirmed. You’re not wearing much of anything, and if you lift the duvet covering Lando, you’re sure you’ll find him in the same way. 

Everything that happened last night is starting to come back to you. 

Lando stirs right at that moment, a rather loud yawn accompanying the stretch of his long arms above his head as he rolls onto his back. 

“Hey,” You say hesitantly. Quietly. 

Apparently you aren’t quiet enough, because he startles easy, scrambling into an upright position and pulling the covers over his chest like he’s accidentally exposed himself. Once he realizes it’s you, though, he relaxes. 

“Hi,” He breathes, smiling. He seems to connect the dots about what happened at this moment, because he takes in the mess of clothes trailing from his bedroom door, then looks back at you with a furrowed brow. “So, last night…happened.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay. Do you—I mean, should we talk about it?” He lets the blankets pool back down at his waist, rubbing his eyes furiously to rid them of sleep. Your eyes skate over the marks littering his chest and neck, and it makes you think back to last night when your mouth was the one planting them there. 

“I’d kill for some breakfast first.” 

“I’ll make you something.” 

“Uh, no. The last time you cooked for me I had food poisoning for a week. I’ll handle the cooking, thank you very much.” 

Lando makes a face at you, lips screwed up into a pout. “I already said I was sorry, like, a million times! How was I meant to know the cream was expired?” 

“Expiration dates, Lando. That’s what expiration dates are for.” 

“Those are a suggestion.” 

“They’re really not,” You insist, to which Lando merely shrugs. “You’re so weird. D’you mind closing your eyes while I grab my clothes?” 

He snorts, chuckling. “Why? S’nothing I didn’t see last night.” 

“I know, but—whatever. Can you just look away?” 

“Yeah, fine. Just take my shirt though, it’ll be easier to put on.” He slaps a hand over his eyes, gesturing for you to go with the other. 

Inhaling a deep breath, you move quickly, scurrying across the room grabbing what you need before locking yourself in his en suite. 

Your hair is a mess, you’re fairly certain your breath is absolutely rank, and you’re on the verge of freaking out. Last night happened way faster than you were expecting it to, and you don’t regret it one bit, but now in the light of day and a fully sober state of mind, you’re not sure what to do next. 

But then you think about it a little more and quickly come to realize that whatever it is, whatever happens, you’re going through it together. 

You’ll cross that bridge together. 

Lando isn’t in bed anymore when you finally hype yourself up enough to reemerge, though the banging of cupboards coming from the kitchen is a clear indicator of where he’s gone. Always making such a racket, he is. 

As you work with what little food he has in the fridge (which to be honest, really isn’t much), he quietly makes two giant mugs of tea for you both. You decide eggs and toast are the safest bet. 

You’re already well attuned to where things are in this kitchen, so you don’t need much help finding what you need. Still, that doesn’t stop Lando from cozying right up behind you as you reach for something in the spice cupboard, one hand curling around your hip to thumb at the bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. 

It feels natural to accept the kiss he sneaks to the side of your neck where he’d nipped at last night, to lean back into his chest in the fleeting second his nose nuzzles in just below your ear. 

In no time, the two of you are scarfing down the food like you haven’t eaten in days. It isn’t until your plates are nearly empty that you look at each other again. 

“Are we—” 

“Do you think—” 

Both of you stop mid-sentence, giving each other matching sheepish smiles. You gesture for him to go first. 

“Is this—was this just a one off because we were drunk, or did last night mean something more?” He blurts, setting his fork down.

“What d’you want it to be?” You’re testing the waters now, putting out your feelers to see what Lando thinks of the situation. You know what you want, but whether or not he wants the same thing is a total unknown factor.

He blinks for a concerningly long amount of time, clears his throat before responding. “I want it to be whatever you want it to.” 

That doesn’t answer any of your questions. Great. 

“Same,” You decide, struggling to remain neutral. What you want to do is drag him in by the front of his jumper and kiss him again, but you’ll restrain yourself. 

“So…what would that be?” 

“Promise me no matter what, I won’t lose you.” 

“You won't. You could never lose me,” He says softly, reaching across the table to curl his fingers over yours. “Just tell me what’s going on in that head of yours. I know you’re thinking.” 

You gnaw on your lip in contemplation. Well, here goes nothing. 

“We’ve worked basically our entire lives to get where we are today.” 

He bobs his head in agreement. “Sure did.” 

“So it would be selfish of us to let anything get in the way. Distract us from the main priority.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“And you’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” 

Lando offers up a cheeky grin, tilting his head to one side. “Not one bit, no.” 

You roll your eyes at his sass, moving to take your plate to the sink. He intervenes before you can get far, easing the dish out of your hands in favor of intertwining your fingers. 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’ll be serious now, I promise,” He insists, nodding sharply. You raise a disbelieving brow. “Look, I’ve had feelings for you since we were nineteen and didn’t know what the hell we were doing outside of racing, and ever since then, I’ve waited for the day I finally got my head out of my arse and did something about it.” 

“Is today that day?” You ask softly, only partially teasing.

“Depends on if you feel the same way,” Lando says softly. “Do you?” 

“Am I a Formula 1 winner now?” 

The smile that stretches across his face grows big enough to make his eyes squint, and he nods enthusiastically. “Fuck yeah, you are.” 

“There’s your answer then.” You drape your arms over his shoulders, fingers linking around the back of his neck loosely. “I love you, Lan.” 

He surges forward right there and then instead of using his words, connecting your lips in a second. 

Yesterday’s kisses felt like zooming towards the checkered flag mere hundredths of a second at the front of the pack, putting everything you have into crossing the line first. Fighting tooth and nail for your points, clawing your way up to the top and digging in your heels so you stay there. 

Frantic, urgent, like you’re running out of time. 

Right now is a total juxtaposition to that rush of adrenaline. 

Right now, Lando kisses you like he has all the time in the world to do it. It’s slow and sweet and more like lazy mornings in bed on an off day. Of sunshine pouring through the curtains as you gradually wake up on your own time. No plans, no training, no work. Just peace. Not something you’re used to, but definitely something you’d love to do more. 

You’re both breathless when you break apart for air. 

Lando’s still smiling hard as he studies you, that dizzyingly gorgeous swirl of the blue and green in his eyes flitting all around your face like he can’t quite believe you’re real and in front of him right now. 

“I love you too,” He says happily, grinning even bigger as the words slip off his tongue. You’re beaming just the same, so big your cheeks are starting to ache a little bit, but you don’t care. 

Finally, after years and years of telling yourself it just wasn’t your time, you’ve got the two things you’ve wanted more than anything. You’ve got your first win, and you’ve got your first love. 

Both have been beyond worth the wait. 

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Who I Choose - LN

@diya-dln request - so i’m the person that’s never been in a relationship before. usually the guys i like don’t like me, or are talking to me since they are interested in my friends and my friends feel the same. can you write something like this but driver chooses reader

Word count: 2.8k

A life altering moment for y/n was when she watched the movie the DUFF because she realised how heavily the label applied to her. By the time she hit adulthood, she's resided to the fact that her love life would likely be forever dry and she'd likely become a cat lady.

Somehow life did deal her an amazing group of friends who never leave her out and always hype her up even if she feels like it's a hopeless effort.

"Hey, what happened? I thought you were going out tonight?" Laura frowns seeing y/n appearing at her door.

"He cancelled. It felt weird going on a blind date anyway" Y/n smiles trying to mask her pain. She can't help but feel like the man sensed just how desperate her love life is for anyone.

"You were going to miss a good night out anyway. Come on. Let's make use of that amazing outfit. You look so gorgeous." Laura smiles not wanting to allow y/n a moment of y/n feeling low about it. "Plenty of other men to catch the attention of."

Y/n has long since bothered with the effort of trying to inform her friends that she's a lost cause and is just willing to admit the defeat to the fact no man is going to choose her.

-

Y/n had, as expected, found herself feeling quite the odd one out. Her friends have paired off either with men they've met tonight or their boyfriends who tagged along. Either way she finds herself alone and sipping at her drink as she has found herself on many a night out.

"Hey. Good to see I'm not the only one who was left alone." A man states making her look away from the busy dance floor. "I'm Lando. Friends with...half the men that your friends have gone off with."

"Oh right, I thought I recognised you. I'm y/n." Y/n laughs then feeling a little defeated.

Someone who looks like Lando clearly has a girlfriend who just isn't present so he's being friendly enough to just say hi to the fellow odd person out.

"You don't have to look so upset about being left with me. I promise I'm not that bad." Lando states making y/n smile a little as she looks at him again. "Or did you just want to be alone?"

"No. It's not that. I'm just...It's nice that you came over. I'm used to being left to my own devices when everyone pairs off." Y/n explains then shrugging and trying to shake it off but she can't help her wince at how pathetic she's starting to sound.

"So you're single?" Lando asks making y/n actually snort at how ridiculous the question feels from her perspective. "What? What's the little snort over?"

"Oh just if you knew me. You'd know how silly of a question that is."

"Did I miss a ring..." Lando questions making y/n's eyes bulge as he leans to look at her left hand and she tucks it away as if it's embarrassing for him to see how naked her ring finger is.

"No. The opposite. I'm eternally single. It's like a chronic condition." Y/n states while Lando frowns a little at her. "What about you? Surely you have a very loyal and loving girlfriend somewhere. Can't imagine someone like you could be single."

"Work makes it hard." Lando sighs and y/n wrinkles her nose since while she's never had to hear a man say that directly to her before she's heard the stories from her friends. Primarily about finance bros who seem to believe work falls above and before all else and use it as an excuse to let women down time and time again.

Despite the turn of conversation, the two end up talking to each other for the rest of the night until y/n is retrieved like a child from a daycare by her drunk friends who have a "no man left behind" policy on nights out. Although y/n has always found she's the only reason it exists.

"It was nice meeting you." Y/n states making Lando nod.

"You too, I had fun. Not your average night out."

Y/n nods not even sure what that means but she leaves with her friends and doesn't dwell too much on her night as she returns home having heard all the girls relay their evening and how they got some numbers, how they're going to be making the most of the whole thing. Y/n sort of tuned their plans with the men they spent the night with out. As much as she loves her friends, she knows that hearing about their sex lives and love lives does trigger some mild jealousy because her life just doesn't work out like that.

It's not their fault, but some days it's a harder pill to swallow that she'll probably be alone.

Especially when someone like Lando is actually nice to her. Somehow it's easier to accept being single when men are just assholes. Nobody wants to date an asshole who treats them badly. But when a guy is nice and friendly, that's when it's harder to accept when she has to remind herself that he's just being nice. He's not interested in dating her, he just had limited other options and noticed she was alone so made conversation.

-

"Y/n! You won't believe it. That guy, the guy you were talking to the other night. What his name? Ally what the fuck is his name?" Laura gasps actually having broken into y/n's apartment on a Saturday morning at 6:30.

"Lando Norris." Ally states brightly while y/n groans digging her head under the pillow.

"Yes. Lando Norris has sent us tickets over to Italy! Italy y/n! Free hotels, free flight, free everything! And that includes you. We're going to see the race."

"Race? What race?" Y/n mumbles from underneath her pillow.

"Formula 1. Don't you realise you were talking to a millionaire race driver. Now get out of bed. The flight is in 4 hours." Laura laughs pushing y/n out of the bed making her land with a thud.

"I hardly even remember talking to him." Y/n grumbles as she looks up at the two and Ally offers her hands to pull her up. "I was drinking that night."

It's lies, she remembers every detail. Not only of the night, but of Lando. Not that she was aware he was a F1 driver, because in all honesty she avoided allowing herself to stalk him online and get over excited about it.

"Why has he invited us?"

"Do you always ask questions when good luck falls into your lap? Who cares. We get to go befriend millionaires. Maybe a sugar daddy is finally going to be on my agenda...Is Fernando Alonso still single? I feel like Lewis Hamilton has commitment issues but I could easily be seduced by a Spaniard." Laura states thinking out loud while y/n and Ally look at her in disbelief.

-

It was a surreal experience getting business class over to Italy and then getting to the track. Laura did as much research as possible and learned that it's the Imola race. It has a longer name but apparently no one calls it that. The rest of the group were eagerly getting themselves to the paddock club seating.

Y/n is happily sitting just waiting to see what the hell happens on an F1 weekend on a Saturday and she is enjoying the whole thing a lot despite having no concept of what qualifying means, why it happens 3 times with less people every time. But it's fun to watch with everyone else getting excited.

But eventually they do leave and y/n sighs returning to her hotel room in the Hilton, moving to just collapse onto her bed. But she doesn't get much chance to do anything more than that before there's a knock on her door making her frown but assume it's her friends coming in for a debrief of the day.

Laura did manage to spark up conversation with Fernando, somehow, y/n is still trying to figure out how the hell she did that. Not that she bagged the older man but she definitely tried and credit has to be given for that much.

"Hey, y/n." Lando greets making y/n jump a little, completely caught off guard.

They hadn't seen Lando the whole day and y/n just assumed he's working so they'd not see him at all.

"Lando?" Y/n mumbles then leaning out the door to look for some others. "Is...everything ok?"

"Yeah, thought I'd drop by see if you wanted to grab something to eat."

"Oh...yeah, I could eat. Is everyone else already there?"

"No. Just you and me." Lando smiles making y/n raise an eyebrow feeling her subconscious act stupidly trying to raise her hopes for a bad to have an interest. "We can invite them if you'd rather though."

"I'm pretty sure they've all gone out on dates to enjoy the free tip to Italy. So we can have a singles meal." Y/n smiles before she moves back while Lando looks like he's got something to say on that but bites it back quickly when she walks back inside. "Let me just grab my stuff."

"No problem."

And that's how y/n ends up at dinner with Lando.

"Should you not be getting a good night of a sleep before you race tomorrow? I might not know much about Formula 1 but I know every athlete is meant to be well rested before they compete."

"I have plenty of time for that." Lando shrugs while y/n smiles a little at him. "So you're not a fan of the sport before now?"

"No. I...didn't even know who you were-are-but in my defence I didn't think you'd like my friends so much you'd invite us all to a race a week later." Y/n confesses and Lando doesn't miss her choice of wording.

"Well I didn't really get to know your friends."

"They're great people. Though if you want to get to know them more you might have to invite them to dinner." Y/n laughs while Lando frowns not being able to ignore it this time.

"Y/n, I invited you all because I wanted more time with you." Lando states and he could've sworn he's never felt the temperature between two people drop so suddenly. Her whole mood visibly drops with he smile disappearing in an instant and she almost takes a grey tinge. "Everything ok?"

"I don't really get it..." Y/n mumbles then feeling the fight or flight finally kick in. "Will you excuse me? I'll be right back-lady's room."

"Are-Yeah, yeah. Sure take your time." Lando frowns about to question her but clearly something happened as a result of him admitting her wanted to spend time with her.

Nearly 10 minutes pass before a waitress appears.

"Sorry, y/n asked me to tell you she's just out for some air."

"Thank you. Is she just out front?" Lando asks deciding he's more than willing to chase the woman if that's what he needs to do. After all he literally got her here for the purpose of wanting to get closer to her.

He moves out searching before he finds her leaning against the building off to the side from the entrance.

"Hey, are you feeling alright? Looked like you got spooked in there?" Lando comments trying to keep it light-hearted but y/n looks at him almost with a helpless expression. "Did I say something?"

"Guys don't choose me, Lando. I'm the friend, I'm tolerated by men and befriended as a result of their interested in my friends. But I'm single for a reason and the universe has made it clear that I'm meant to live and die alone and I've accepted that so you can't come in and mess up that...fate." Y/n states hating how cringy she sounds about everything she says.

It definitely sounds worse out loud than it does in her head and the expression of Lando trying to not to laugh immediately makes her groan.

"I don't expect you to understand. I saw how many fans you have here. You're hardly a man who has to do the chasing."

"Really? Because I just chased you out here and you can tell me about how blind and stupid other guys have been towards you but that doesn't mean I'm going to be like that. I invited you to dinner because I want to speak to you again. I had a good time when we met because of you and I came up to you because you seemed nice and gorgeous and then we talked and I could've spent the rest of the night talking if your friends didn't interrupt."

Y/n actually feels like this is some sort of cruel joke, like he's going to kiss her and then say "sike" as if they're in some sort of cheesy American teen romcom.

"You can say no...but I want to take you on dates. I was drawn to you from the moment I saw you and it might be a dick thing to say, but I'm glad I'm not fighting other guys for your attention because I don't want you to date other guys and it might be too much, too soon to say that but that's how I feel and I'm saying it so you understand."

"You might change your mind when you know me better."

"I might...but I might not. I think there's a higher chance of might not. But if you want to completely eliminate risk of that then you can tell me to leave you alone."

There's a loud vicious voice screaming at her to do exactly that. To eliminate the risk of being hurt and ending up completely devastated because after years of rejection and hurt and acceptance over how alone she'll be. The fear of feeling love only for Lando to change his mind later is enough for her stomach to churn.

"But you could give me a chance and you won't regret it." Lando offers making her swallow, yanked back from her aggressive thoughts as Lando looks at her for a moment. "I'm not that evil."

-

It took a couple months, a lot of travelling, amazing dates, hours of talking, flowers, weekend trips, countless facetimes and some pretty incredible sex. But eventually y/n began to accept that Lando really is the real thing.

She feels like she might've really found her person and she's...so happy.

She's never felt the type of love towards or received from someone else and it almost feels all consuming. The fear she had is long forgotten and the rejection she felt for years has faded away. It lingers, sometimes it rears it's ugly head and y/n feels herself panic a little but Lando reassures her without trying and settles any nerves that she has without being aware she has them.

"For you." Lando states casually presenting her with some red roses. "Happy 3 months."

"You are the only man on the planet to celebrate 3 months. You know that?" Y/n laughs as Lando moves behind her hugging her tightly as he kisses her cheek and lifts her up.

"I love you and you deserve flowers anyway, but this way I have an excuse too."

"Well thank you...they're amazing...like you."

"Gotta make sure you always know how I feel." Lando shrugs then sighing. "And we are going out, golf first and then we'll go to a restaurant like I know you actually want to."

"I like watching you golf, I just don't like failing so badly when I attempt too participate."

"Yeah, but you make me look good." Lando jokes then feeling her elbow dig back into her. "I deserved that. However, I also deserve a shower to get ready with my girlfriend for golf and our anniversary plans. So...put the flowers down, they can be taken care of later."

Y/n laughs as places the flowers down and then gets tossed up over his shoulder, she knew it was coming but she still scolds him for the action playfully only to receive a smack on the ass while Lando laughs getting them into the bathroom where he once again proves just how happy he is to ravish the woman he had to do some fighting for but he got her and that's what matters.

Reader is secretly married to Lando, and she starts using his sim, she misses him and she wants to feel closer and also really wants to learn (even if she is not ready to admit that she always had a thing for learning how it would feel to be in an actual f1 car). She creates a profile for herself for fun: Mrs Norris (which of course no one thinks it’s actually her). She becomes so good at it that she ends up beating the whole grid one time, and everyone is just wondering who the hell is this person…

👀👀👀👀

Very unrealistic, but well… 😂😂😂😂

Mrs Norris (Oneshot)

Lando Norris x Verstappen!Reader

Summary — It was only supposed to be a bit of fun, but really, what did she expect? Her surname might be Norris now, but she was born a Verstappen.

Notes — This was so fun!!!!!! Em, I will never not appreciate your cute ideas.

Lando had been gone for exactly twelve hours when she caved.

It wasn’t boredom—the Verstappen family didn’t do boredom. Her schedule was packed with gym sessions, influencer brunches, and brand events she had no real desire to attend.

But the apartment felt off without him. Too quiet. Too tidy.

And the sim rig—God, it just sat there. Smug. Taunting. Like it knew she’d eventually give in to its silent, high-tech seduction.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Racing was in her blood, even if she’d had zero interest as a kid. She used to stage silent protests just to get out of karting, sulking until her dad finally let her quit and focus on gymnastics instead.

Still, one harmless session wouldn’t hurt, right?

Just a few laps around Silverstone. Just something to do before bed.

Two hours later, she was red-faced, sweaty, and yelling at an AI Williams for brake-checking her into Turn 1.

She was terrible. Hilariously, painfully terrible.

But she was hooked.

—

By day three, she was watching tutorials, scribbling notes, and fine-tuning the seat and wheel setup like her life depended on it.

She texted Lando under the guise of checking in.

Hey handsome, you okay? Totally random, but what’s the best braking point for Eau Rouge?

He didn’t even question it—just sent a smug voice note with a full breakdown like she was a rookie on his team.

It made her want to destroy his time.

That night, she created a profile.

She debated using her real name, but that was a quick no. The username had to be anonymous… but also funny.

So she picked the most on-the-nose option possible.

@Mrs.Norris

It was meant to be a joke. A bit of fun. She never expected it to go anywhere.

She definitely didn’t expect to get good.

—

Two weeks in, she was holding her own in online lobbies. Four weeks in, she was winning. All of them.

Six weeks in, she entered a public charity sim race and beat George, Charles, and Alex.

The stream chat lost its collective mind.

Who TF is Mrs. Norris???

Actual alien pace.

Lando alt??

Plot twist: it’s Max Verstappen in disguise.

That last one made her laugh so hard she nearly fell out of the rig. The idea that they thought her brother was racing under her married name? Unhinged enough to make her cry.

Then came the text from Lando.

Lando:

Baby, are you using my sim under the username Mrs. Norris?

You:

Yep. And I beat them all.

Lando:

No. Shut up. You did not.

You:

Duh. I might be a Norris now, but I was born a Verstappen.

—

When he finally got home after the triple-header, he walked in to find her mid-race, cursing like a sailor, laser-focused, fire in her eyes.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

She crossed the finish line five seconds clear of second place.

Slowly, she removed the headset. Even slower, she turned to face him, cheeks flushed pink.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

He didn’t say anything.

Then he grinned.

“Mrs. Norris,” he drawled, walking over to kiss her forehead, “we are so screwed if this gets out.”

She smiled. “It won’t. They think I’m Max.”

He leaned in, voice low. “You beat my Silverstone time.”

“Your fault for sounding all smug about Eau Rouge.”

He kissed her properly then, holding her like he hadn’t seen her in months.

And neither of them mentioned the way his hands trembled slightly at the thought of her in a real F1 car.

Because if her dad ever found out?

He’d have her in one tomorrow.

Fashion Show X George Russell (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: George Russell x Reader The Reader is a model and they meet at a fashion show and become the fashion couple of the grid. 

The backstage chaos of a fashion show is a unique kind of madness stylists with scissors in their mouths, interns sprinting in heels, and makeup artists dabbing last-minute gloss on lips already trembling with nerves. I was used to it. I'd walked a dozen runways, been shot by the best, and worn gowns stitched in silence by names no one dared mispronounce.

But I wasn’t prepared for him.

George Russell, of all people, standing backstage in a perfectly tailored suit like he’d walked straight out of a GQ cover shoot which, to be fair, he probably had. He was chatting to someone from the design house, all polite smiles and blue-eyed charm. And then he looked at me.

Not just looked. He noticed.

I tried to play it cool. Adjusted the strap on my heel and glanced away like I hadn’t just felt my stomach flip.

“You’re Y/N, aren’t you?” he asked a few minutes later, after I’d strutted down the runway in a sleek black number that hugged all the right places. He was waiting by the refreshment table, holding a sparkling water and looking annoyingly relaxed for someone causing minor havoc in my chest.

“I am,” I said, reaching for a bottle myself. “And you’re George Russell. The driver with the perfect posture.”

He laughed, a proper, belly-deep one. “I’ll take that. Though I’ve been told I look more like a mannequin than a man sometimes.”

“Well,” I said with a smirk, “you’re in the right place, then.”

That was how it started. A shared joke, a quiet moment among flashing lights and fabric. The next week, he invited me to a Grand Prix. I wore red. Ferrari red, despite him being a Mercedes man. He teased me about it the whole day.

Before long, the press had latched onto us. F1’s Fashion Couple. We became the unexpected duo that people didn’t know they needed me in couture, him in sharp suits that made headlines. We weren’t just walking red carpets; we were setting trends.

But behind all that, George was just… George. Sweet and supportive, always sneaking me chocolate after long fittings, always sending “good luck” texts before shoots. I returned the favour with calm pep talks on race weekends and silly superstitions we pretended worked.

Tonight, he was waiting for me after a Paris runway show, holding a single white rose and looking like a dream.

“Knocked ‘em dead again,” he said, pulling me into a hug that melted every inch of tension from my body.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. They should build a statue in your honour outside the Louvre.”

I laughed, resting my head against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you.”

And just like that, we walked hand-in-hand past flashing cameras, the click of shutters chasing our every step not that we noticed anymore. Because being the fashion couple of the grid wasn’t about the headlines or the hype.

It was about him and me. Runways and race tracks. And a love that somehow fit better than any designer gown.

Drive with Y/n and Lando...

lando norris x quadrant athlete reader

Summary- where you and Lando do a quadrant video, where you drive around and he asks you questions that fans sent in, talk about your relationship

------

Landos' camera guy, Ash, mounted the camera onto the dashboard, making sure it was secure and recording before giving us a thumbs up. One of the Quadrant admins put out a post on Twitter asking what quadrant athlete and or general video fans would like to see, and the most requested one was that you and Lando do a 'drive with me' type video, but the twist was that they wanted you to drive, so here you were sitting in the drivers seat of your Nissan G-T r35 (you can change the car if you want) with Lando in the passenger seat. 

You had the Quadrant admins post an Instagram story and a Twitter post for people to send in their burning questions. You and Lando both picked out 10 of your favorites and got the team to put them on cards for Lando to read out. "I swear," you mutter, buckling your seatbelt and starting the car, "if you pick anything weird, I’m kicking you out. I mean it, Norris."

"You wouldn’t dare," he grins, stretching out like he’s on a beach somewhere. "I’m your emotional support passenger." You gave him an eye roll. You put the car into drive and made your way out of your street, so nobody could figure out where you lived from the video. "Quit touching things", you muttered as you wacked Landos' hand away from your phone as he kept pressing shuffle on your playlist. He let out a huff before dropping your phone back into the cup holder 

Giving Lando a quick glance you mutter "Start the Q&A before you break something." as you flick your turn signal and ease the car into a nearby parking lot so you could do the intro together. The editors were going to have a field day with trying to edit this chaotic mess

You pulled into a car park to film the intro of video 

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the best Quadrant video you’ll see this month. Possibly ever," he announces, dramatically looking over to you before continuing  "Today we’re in the car with quadrant athlete and my girlfriend Y/N. She’s driving and I’m fearing for my life." you let out a loud sigh "Ignore my very dramatic boyfriend, I'm stepping aside from flipping dirt bikes to be here with you today" you said eyes flicking to the camera with a practiced smirk. "So you better appreciate the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?"Lando repeats, feigning offense. "Anyways moving on. We asked you guys to send in questions on Instagram and Twitter, and we’ve picked our favorites. I’m driving because you lot demanded chaos and Lando is reading the questions." 

"And making sure we don’t die," he adds. You hit him gently on his bicep when he tightened his seatbelt for dramatic effect "Okay you ready love" Lando cooed grabbing his cards from the floor of you car, you nodded back pulling the car out of the carpark "Okay first question coming from @.PitStopQueen Who takes longer to get ready in the morning?" Lando read out and with no hesitation you called out "Lando"

"Excuse me?" he says, eyes wide. "Don’t lie to the internet," you say calmly, changing lanes with one hand on the wheel. "You spend at least twenty minutes just fixing your hair." "That’s called personal grooming," he argued, waving one hand toward the dashboard camera. "Some of us care about looking presentable." 

You raised an eyebrow. Making Lando second guess what he just said Lando just shook his head and held up the next card. "From @.Y/nLandoshipper How do you guys handle long distance?" You let out a soft breath, glancing at him to see if he wanted to answer or for you too, Lando gave you a nod silently saying you can answer 

"Its not easy, let me just say, there are somedays where its tougher than most but it makes us value the time we do get to spend together" You said trying not to let tears out as you think of times when you needed Lando and he was on the other side of the world, Lando put his hand on your thigh gently rubbing it to give you comfort 

"Lots of FaceTime calls," Lando added. "And spontaneous visits. I flew to your last event even though I had to be back the next day." you let out a little laugh remembering that day  "You were only there for like twelve hours." "Best twelve hours of my life," he said with a wink.

You smiled despite yourself. "We’re lucky we understand each other’s schedules. I think that’s the key." Lando let out a hum agreeing to your statement, Lando held up the next card, reading dramatically "From @.CircusFan Lando what is the coolest trick you have seen Y/n preform?" 

He let the question hang in the air for a second, glancing over at you with a grin that said he already had an answer locked and loaded. "Oh, that’s easy," he said, looking straight into the dash-mounted camera. "It was that backflip thing you did, off the mega ramp, in Vegas, I think? And then you let go mid-air and somehow landed it like it was nothing."

You smirked, eyes still on the road. "Superman seat grab backflip."  "You were just casually flying through the air like gravity was optional. I’ve never screamed so loudly watching a live stream. I called you right after, didn’t I?" Lando exclaimed, still clearly amazed by it. 

You nodded, laughing at the memory. "You were more breathless than I was." Lando turned back to the camera with a pointed look. After a couple of more questions it was time to answer the last one, Lando looked over at you, grin already tugging at the corner of his lips as he read the final card.  "Okay last question is from @.GridGossip How did you two meet" 

You groaned softly, your face already warming. "you picked this one didn't you"  Lando gave you his classic not so innocent face "Maybe" Lando said, practically vibrating in the passenger seat with excitement. "You said you not lie to the internet, remember?"

You gave him a look. "yeah but I didn't really want to expose myself to much today" Lando let out a little laugh "c'mon its a cute story" You sighed, knowing there was no way of getting out of this "Fine, we met on raya. Happy now?" You groaned not really ready for the comments you were going to receive from this, you pulled into a car park quite ready to end this video and go home to hide away,  

"At the same time," Lando insisted, pointing between the two of you. "Let’s do it properly. On three." You rolled your eyes, but held up three fingers with him. "One, two, three" "Raya," you both said, in perfect sync. Then came the laughter. Easy, familiar, the kind that felt like home.

You both interlocked hands "Okay thank you everyone for watching todays video, I'm going to go get y/n ice cream for making her answer that last question, thank you to everyone who sent in questions." You laugh, leaning in toward the camera. "If you want a part two where Lando drives and I cling to the door handle for dear life, like, comment, subscribe, all the YouTube things." 

"bye" you both said waving at the camera 

@.User This was pure chaotic gold. Y/N's so calm behind the wheel and Lando's just... there for vibes 😂 

@.User2 The thigh grab when she talked about long distance??? They're so in love it physically hurts me 

@.User3 they're giving chaotic domestic energy and i'm eating it UP.

@.User4 Thank you for feeding us with (yourship name) content

*Photo is from pinterest- however, I made the YouTube bit

please reblog, like and comment 🫶

Matchmaker - LN

@lou-bean28 request - Would you be able to do Lando x sir jackie stewart granddaughter!reader ??!! I need it so badlyyyy

Summary: Lando never would've imagined an 85 year old F1 champion would help him find his person. But he was wrong.

Themes/warnings: Suggestions of smut but no smut

Word count: 1.4k

Sir Jackie Stewart is without a doubt a big name in F1 and he makes himself as present in as many ways as possible. And he is very much a friend of the drivers, to none one more than Lando Norris.

And with his granddaughter newly single after yet another man disappointed her, trying to use her for her name and grandfather's status rather than for her. Which Jackie thinks is a crime because y/n is the sweetest person alive and of his family, he feels that she is most deserving of the best love that she can get.

Recently after a meal in Bahrain, he concluded Lando is the man she deserves and he quite likes the idea of him officially being part of the family.

Sadly for both Lando and y/n, subtly has never and will never be Jackie's strongest trait.

"I going to go out on a whim here and say that he's late because he's not intending to show up." Y/n sighs softly while sitting across from Lando as they wait for her grandfather to show up to the meal he arranged with the two. Not that they had any clue that the other would be there when they agreed to the meal with the older man. "The man thinks he's a matchmaker."

"So I'm not the first man he's set you up with?"

"Oh you are the first, only because he's lost faith in my ability to choose a man on my own." Y/n laughs shaking her head at him while Lando winces a little at the dig at herself. "Sorry, if you knew my dating history you'd be laughing too, I promise."

"So Sir Jackie Stewart thinks I'm the man to change your bad luck?" Lando smirks a little leaning back in his chair as y/n counters him leaning closer on the table and resting her head in her hands. "We can count this as a date, but I will have to take you out another time that isn't set up."

"I guess I have no say in this but I wasn't about to decline a date with thee Lando Norris." Y/n shrugs with a small smile before they are greeted by the waitress to get their order.

-

Y/n sighs arriving at breakfast the next morning with Jackie awaiting her and she sighs shaking her head as he smiles brightly at her with his telltale expression letting her know he is aware that the dinner with Lando went well.

He probably planted spies there to report back to him.

"Were you not feeling well last night? We missed you." Y/n comments making Jackie shrug.

"Getting old, y/n. I needed an earlier night and I just completely forgot." Jackie states simple then smiling. "Did you have a good time? Lando is a very nice young man. I thought the two of you would get along quite well."

"We did get along well. Might've been nice to mention ahead of time that he'd be there."

"Ah, that doesn't matter." Jackie dismisses shaking his head while y/n smiles at the older man with a sigh. "Lando and you are a good pair. I know these sorts of things. It comes with age."

"Oh right, of course." Y/n laughs then smiling at the waitress appears to take her order for breakfast.

After breakfast with her grandfather, they leave to get to the track where y/n sticks with the older man but he decides to get on a mission to find Lando since it's Thursday and Jackie really gets to do whatever the hell he pleases which includes dragging his granddaughter to the McLaren unit to find Lando.

"Hey, Jackie." Lando greets spotting him then leaning to look around him with a small smirk. "Hi, y/n."

"Y/n is bored and I have a few people to see so would you mind if I leave her here. I trust you."

"I'm sure you do." Y/n whispers to herself but both men hear her, not that Jackie acknowledges her at all since he feels his plan is just going along perfectly.

"I'll take care of her." Lando agrees while y/n feels like she's being treated as if she's not even in the room by this point.

"Great. I'll see you later, love. You two have fun." Jackie smiles before taking off with an impressive amount of speed for a man of his speed as the two watch him disappear and y/n sighs turning back to Lando who continues to smirk other.

"I don't actually need babysat by the way."

"Maybe I paid him off to bring you here." Lando shrugs making her roll her eyes at him.

Y/n has already fallen for Lando after their meal together. They hit it off exactly as Jackie wanted and y/n is wondering if maybe she should've just let him arrange a relationship for her years ago. After all Lando is hardly the first man that he's befriended that he could've set her up with.

But maybe this is the best timed so she can be with Lando and he makes sure that for the majority of the day unless he absolutely can't bring her around, he keeps her either by his side or within sight of him.

-

"I don't know if I'm his favourite or you are." Y/n comments as she lies in bed next to Lando who just got a text from Jackie tell him to attend the next family gathering. "Also, we just had sex and you're prioritising texting my granda back."

"I would apologise but he's Sir Jackie Stewart and I want to make sure I stay on his good side." Lando shrugs then tossing his phone away. "Anyway, what do you mean we just had sex? This was an intermission, I'm not done."

"Feel like it's worse that you text him back during a pause." Y/n laughs while Lando shrugs unapologetically. "What is the family event then since I haven't even been informed of what's going on?"

"A cousin's birthday I think."

"Oh, news to me." Y/n laughs before climbs onto him to straddle him which makes Lando grunt a little from her weight pressing down on his crotch while her hands trail down his upper body. "Not that I hate my family, but talking about them while I'm naked with a man is a bit of a mood killer."

"Understood." Lando nods hoping that he's about to get the round 2 he was aiming for.

-

The next race sees y/n attending with Lando and attention definitely snaps to them since whispers had been drifting around the F1 media sphere after the last race but then the rumours of Lando attending a Stewart family event also leaked.

Neither figured hiding it was going to be worth it or that it would last long.

"Apparently you're having a positive effect on my public image. The PR team love you for dating me." Lando comments as he walks into his drivers room from a team meeting.

"No surprise there. Have you seen my granda? He's a beloved man within F1 and by association, I am liked. Just wait till everyone finds out why we're dating." Y/n laughs while Lando hums. "He is here somewhere, probably taking all the credit he deserves for setting us up."

"If I get asked, I'll be giving him all the credit. Publicly thanking him." Lando hums leaning over and kissing her since she's lying on his physio bed. "You look comfortable there by the way. Having fun."

"Yeah, I didn't realise WAGs had such a cushty set up. This is nice." Y/n grins while Lando laughs and begins to change. "And I get a strip tease. You're really pulling out all the stops. You know you already got set up with me successfully. You don't have to slut yourself out-but equally now I've cleared my moral conscience. Please continue."

"Oh for fuck sake." Lando laughs while y/n smiles gesturing for him to get on with it. "What would your granda say?"

"Probably that he's happy to see we're getting on so well and he knew we would." Y/n comments in earnest and Lando actually feels like she hit the nail on the head with that comment.

royally screwed | jack doohan social media au

pairing: jack doohan x fem royal!reader

head up king, your tiara is falling

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

f1

liked by jackdoohan, danielricciardo and 1,204,899 others

tagged: pierregasly & francocolapinto

f1: that’s something both franco and the alpine mechanics won’t want to see back… the argentine takes both himself and his teammate out of the race!

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user1: i’m so sorry all the karma got directed to you franco i was aiming for flávio i swear

user2: idk what kind of voodoo protection that old man has but even my etsy witch can’t defeat it

user3: what if we ALL paid etsy witches?

user4: not gonna lie guys there’s an easier way to deal with this… it’s called a dark alley and a charging car

user5: oh?!

user6: honestly? valid reaction at this point

alpinef1team: we’ll get them next time!

user7: but who is getting YOU?

user8: sorry social media admin but i’m sad so i fear you’re going to have to hear about it

user9: how DARE you make jack do all of those stupid ass tiktoks and let me get attached :(

user10: making him do all of this social media stuff and didn’t keep him around long enough to finish his soft launch

user11: do NOT remind me

user12: it was so carefully planned and everything

user13: really? that’s what you’re angry about?

user12: let me live? i’m in mourning and thinking about his actual career will make me crash out heavier than the alpines today

user14: okay you have a point

user15: rip alpine you would’ve love jack doohan … oh wait!

user15: @alpinef1team CHOKE

this comment was liked by oscarpiastri, daniel ricciardo, jackdoohan and yourusername

user15: oh WOW my comment collected some big likes

user15: oscar? yeah makes sense. daniel? cool aussie bromance. jack? obviously. y/n windsor? WHY THE FUCK IS THE PRINCESS OF ENGLAND IN MY LIKES?

user16: she has an account?

user17: it’s all her charity stuff mostly but she has been caught like sports stuff before lol

user18: y/n idk what kind of powers come with being a princess but i know you’re next in line so PLEASE GET JACK HIS SEAT BACK

user19: actually any seat will do we’re not fussy

user20: alpine… look at what you’ve made us

yourusername and jackdoohan

liked by oscarpiastri, kimiantonelli and 13,983,029 others

yourusername and jackdoohan: surprise! jack and i have finally decided to make our relationship public as we continue to prepare to settle down.

we first met many years ago when i was on duty at the british grand prix and met a very charming boy who was racing in formula 3 at the time, and i have been smitten ever since.

i have supported jack in his racing and wanted to make that support public in these particularly tough times.

while i’m sure this is a big shock for you all, we ask that you continue to respect our privacy.

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user21: i’m sorry

user21: WHAT THE FUCK

user21: i can’t tell if this is helping my alpine induced misery or not

isackhadjar: HUH?

jackdoohan: you knew i was in a relationship ?

isackhadjar: i’m sorry but how was i meant to deduce that “my girlfriend y/n” actually means the princess of england

jackdoohan: do i not seem princely to you?

isackhadjar: do not try and set me up

isackhadjar: unless there’s some eligible royals who can get down with a freaky lil guy like me

yourusername: probably not best to frame it that way?

isackhadjar: yes, your grace! (am i doing it right i’ve only ever watched game of thrones)

yourusername: you can just call me y/n, isack

isackhadjar: OMG COOL

user22: so i thought this would excite me more but now im just thinking we could’ve gotten these type of reactions on film and in the paddock

user23: how do we know they’re not being filmed

user24: i’m in their walls

oscarpiastri: what?

jackdoohan: can i have the aussie seat after you win the championship pretty please ?

oscarpiastri: i am not answering that until you tell me how the fuck you ended up in the british royal family?

jackdoohan: can you not read anymore? y/n explained it pretty well in the caption…

oscarpiastri: i’m gonna need some more detail

yourusername: you’re more than welcome to come for some tea at ours oscar

oscarpiastri: AT THE PALACE?

oscarpiastri: i mean - yeah that sounds good to me!

kimiantonelli: ME TOO IM COMING TOO

olliebearman: i can’t believe you’ve not invited the only british rookie jack :(

jackdoohan: idk if you guys missed it but im not a rookie any more, im not even a driver

yourusername: enough of that, you can all come for tea and we’ll do some visits to the london hospitals while we’re at it

gabrielbortoleto: yay count me in!!!

isackhadjar: today just keeps getting better and better

user25: dropping this news to distract from the fact that he got dropped for the far superior driver

user26: i wouldn’t be surprised if his woman drops him for franco as well

yourusername: first of all, i am no one’s “woman” get that right and second of all, jack is the kindest, funniest and most gentle man in the world and you’d have to move heaven and earth to take him away from me

jackdoohan: i love you <3

user27: oop - she told yall

kimiantonelli

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 1,023,488 others

tagged: olliebearman, jackdoohan & yourusername

kimiantonelli: yo this royal stuff is kinda crazy …

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user28: fomo has never fomo-ed this bad before

user29: the fact that she knew this would get a load of publicity so she used it for good >>

user30: and this is why she’s my fave royal !!!

yourusername: i hope you had a wonderful time kimi! thank you so much for joining us.

kimiantonelli: are you kidding? that was insane !!!!

kimiantonelli: and also it was very fun to meet all of the children

kimiantonelli: but can we please take the aston martin for a spin again ???

jackdoohan: kimi ???

kimiantonelli: like y/n didn’t tell us that you take her for drives in it all the time …

jackdoohan: y/n ???

yourusername: what? you’re an amazing driver and i love watching you do what you love!

user31: i wish alpine weren’t such FUCKHEADS i want this dynamic at silverstone so bad

user32: if they didn’t fumble this bad we could’ve gotten a monaco situ where she could’ve presented the trophies every year

user33: you could’ve shot me and it would’ve hurt less

maxverstappen1: hmm

charles_leclerc: hmmm

alexalbon: hmmmm

georgerussell63: hmmmmm

landonorris: hmmmmmm

carlossainz55: hmmmmmmm

lewishamilton: hmmmmmmmm

kimiantonelli: you guys good? sorry you weren’t cool enough to be invited

maxverstappen1: i’m literally an officer in the order of orange-nassau???

lewishamilton: IM A SIR?

lewishamilton: I WAS LITERALLY KNIGHTED BY Y/N?

yourusername: sorry gentlemen, you should’ve spoken up sooner. however, jack and i are hosting a charity ball between canada and the red bull ring?

alexalbon: IM SO THERE

alexalbon: i’m so there, security are telling me the ball is weeks away but im so there

charles_leclerc: YIPEE

georgerussell63: omg my first royal event… gasp!

user34: obsessed with how the grid get so excited about all of this

user35: max … asking to go to an event ???

user36: and to think we could’ve had it every weekend :(

yourusername

liked by jackdoohan, isackhadjar and 12,309, 788 others

tagged: jackdoohan

yourusername: it was such an honour to host this dinner to raise funds for the youth art network! so many children in our country are being pushed out of artistic fields because of the lack of funding, hopefully with these funds and the continued support from jack and i, we can help keep britain creative!

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user37: they’re actually so precious to me

user38: this is such a great initiative i’m so glad they do things like this with their money and time!

user39: i’ve honestly never seen jack happier

user40: good for him!!! making the best out of a bad situation - this probably also means he won’t be going back to f1, at least not with alpine

francocolapinto: jack might not be in this garage anymore, but i'd still love a visit from you

user41: ummmmmmmm… what?

user42: this is really not cool

pierregasly: let’s delete this while you can

francocolapinto: shooters shoot, isn’t that what you said?

pierregasly: yeah to a girl at the bar maybe, not a royal who is very clearly in a relationship

francocolapinto: i took his seat, i can take his girl too

yourusername: excuse me?

francocolapinto: you’re saying you can’t give me one chance to convince you of my worth?

yourusername: at this point you have one chance to convince me why i shouldn’t find the one legal loophole that means jack can kick your ass

francocolapinto: woah?

yourusername: there’s no charming your way out of this one, franco. jack has done nothing to you and yet you allow your fans to send him countless death threats and flirt with his fiancée openly. find some respect for yourself franco, you won’t be this young forever.

user43: HOLY SMOKES

user44: i can’t even get caught up on the way she snapped here because of the FIANCÉE mention

user45: no this bro must’ve been testing her patience because never in my life have i seen her snap at someone like that

user46: so valid from her though

user47: honestly i’d throw hands for less

jackdoohan: always an honour to just be at your side and help you achieve the wonderful things you do

yourusername: even when i accidentally reveal our engagement while having an argument on the internet

jackdoohan: especially then

yourusername: i love you!

yourusername: and i know doohan was a pretty cool name for merch before, but i feel like windsor could look pretty good on a car or a cap

jackdoohan: if it means i have a little piece of you wherever i go, sign me up

user48: aside from confirmation that he’s going to take her name - ON A CAR? doohan return confirmed ?

user49: they need to stop playing with my feelings so many times on one post

user50: so this might be a royal fuck up from franco right?

f1

liked by jackdoohan, yourusername and 2,309,472 others

f1: BREAKING: flávio briatore has been forced to resign from his position as team principal at alpine! princess y/n windsor and jack doohan attended the friday of the british grand prix where briatore was served by windsor’s legal team, who had found that the contracts given out by briatore were not legally binding. briatore left the paddock on the friday evening long before windsor and doohan, who were seen with a number of team personnel from across the paddock. Colapinto will complete this race weekend but his future with the team is now up in the air.

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user51: one moment of peace and quiet in f1, that's all i ask

user52: i can't even go to sleep without waking up to five breaking news graphics

user53: honestly? if they were all like this i wouldn't mind it...

user54: jack and y/n being in the likes is so funny to me

user55: babe they're not just in the likes, they were there in person to deliver the news

user56: i knew flavio should've been worried when the relationship was revealed... those royals WILL have the best lawyers

user57: i mean i only just found out that flavio is/was jack's manager?

user58: HE WAS JACK'S MANAGER?

user59: i know their lawyer was just as bamboozled as us

pierregasly: CAN I PLEASE GET A DRINK? PLEASE?

user60: bro it's only friday ...

pierregasly: I HAVE NO TP? I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT'S HAPPENING WITH MY TEAM?

jackdoohan: our bad!

pierregasly: no yall did what you had to do but i was hoping i could maybe get a bottle of something top shelf for my troubles

kikacgomes: and maybe a horse ride at the palace ???

charles_leclerc: can leo meet the corgis???

lewishamilton: u.k. met gala when?

jackdoohan: oh so i get engaged to a princess and suddenly you all want to be my friend?

pierregasly: WOAH ignore all of them, we're the victims here!

yourusername: at this point, if we can turn it into a charity event, we can do whatever you want

maxverstappen1: this is a dangerous precedent

maxverstappen1: and i'm willing to find the limits

user61: i'm having visions of the f1 grid at a royal wedding...

user62: does max know he can't wear skinny jeans to a royal wedding?

maxverstappen1: please refer to my last comment

user63: does he know that the secret service can shoot him on sight if he does wear them?

maxverstappen1: HUH?

jackdoohan: that's true... they told me themselves!

yourusername: jack...

jackdoohan: i am protecting the dress code of our future wedding!

kimiantonelli: i guess you could say he's royally screwed

kimiantonelli: ????

kimiantonelli: i thought it was funny :(

kimiantonelli: no worries guys y/n told me irl she thought it was funny

kimiantonelli: WAIT

kimiantonelli: I SAID NOTHING

jackdoohan

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 4,920,482 others

tagged: yourusername

jackdoohan: jack WINdsor at your duty! i've been given a second chance at my dream, but i wouldn't be here without my family and my amazing fiancee. i promise i'll make you proud.

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user64: i WILL not cry about this

user65: i tried not to but BABY JACK

user66: i think people forget how young he still is :(

yourusername: i'll forever be proud of you, my love. no matter what

yourusername: however, i think the palace would look extra dashing with some trophies ...

jackdoohan: for you? anything

yourusername: oh my charming boy, i'm not sure i want to share you with f1 again so soon

jackdoohan: but you will come with me won't you?

yourusername: to be without you is a thorn in my side

user67: FUCK ME THEY'RE SO CUTE

user68: i love them so much

user69: i don't think yall are ready for the level of paddock fashion we're going to get with a literal princess...

user70: wait - what happens when as inherits the throne?

user71: i think jack would have to retire

user72: WHAT?

user73: that's just how the royal life is

jackdoohan: and i'll do it

yourusername: i appreciate the concern everyone, but my mother is in good health and has many, many years left as queen

user74: jack doohan/windsor first kilf (king i would like to fuck)

user74: i've been blocked by y/n ????

user74: AND JACK?

oscarpiastri: you got MARRIED WITHOUT US ???

jackdoohan: once again, can you not read a caption?

oscarpiastri: oh lol.

oscarpiastri: i just saw windsor and started yelling at my phone

user75: obsessed with how jack having a f1 seat is actually great for the british government

user76: diplomatic relations are on the UP because government officials come to races to meet and talk with y/n

user77: and the fact that they both still find time to do charity work in each country they go to.. they’re so precious to me

yourusername: i never thought i'd be planning a royal wedding around the formula one calendar, but there's a first for everything

jackdoohan: but a summer wedding is so cute?

yourusername: i know, my love

yourusername: but flower picking via face time has been a struggle

jackdoohan: i know whatever you choose will be perfect

jackdoohan: just like you

yourusername: i love you, sweet talker

jackdoohan: i love you too sweetheart

fin.

note: as you can tell I AM NOT HAPPY. i like franco but justice for my queen jack. updates for you all, other side of the moon chap 7 is about 80% done so that's exciting !!!! hope you are all good despite the many many horrors lol xx

Can you write military!reader x f1!driver like they back from tour and surprises the driver persanely I would like to read Lando but you write with your fav driver ofc

home soil- m.verstappen

꩜summary: you surprise max with an early homecoming

꩜pairing: max verstappen x fem! sargeant! reader

꩜a/n: if there's anyone in the US military, sorry! i probs got something wrong about how it works- i'm irish so my b if i did!

Max hadn’t been looking forward to Miami. He knew the car would be shit. He knew he’d be fighting Lando on track. He knew Oscar would pass him. He knew everything in store for him, and he still had no word from you. You went off-grid 2 weeks ago. He had no idea where in the world you were. What you were doing. If you were safe. In all honesty, he hated your job. He hated being away from you for so long. He hated the amount of unknowns it came with. He hated it meant you had to stay in the US. He hated that it took him 4 months to convince you that he wanted you, and to have you believe him. 

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutter under his breath as he walked into his driver’s room. He could’ve ripped the thing apart. P4 in the race. He was pushing like crazy. 

“Alright?” your voice broke through every thought in his head and silenced them. You. You. Home. Safe. 

He didn’t care that he was sweaty. He didn’t care that he had media duties. He wrapped his arms around you, and for the first time in weeks, he finally relaxed. “You’re here,” he whispered like it wasn’t true. You chuckled against his skin, nodding into his neck. 

“And I’ll be in Imola too,” you smiled brightly as his eyes went wide, his hands cradling your face like you could break at any second. “Got my leave approved.”

“That’s brilliant, schatje!” he smiled, and pulled you in for a kiss. 

Max wasn’t known for keeping his calm. He was a racer, he won, and he didn’t care how many times he got in someone’s way. 

You kept your calm no matter what. Cool, calm, collected. Calm enough to pull the trigger of a gun on a person and not have it faze you. Calm enough to date an F1 driver and keep him stable. Calm enough to be here tonight, and not make it a big deal that Max Verstappen was your fiancé. You were strong too. Tough. Sure of yourself. He liked it. 

That’s why he didn’t feel the need to intervene when he saw you being chatted up by some sleeze. He just smirked as the man inched closer, it was free entertainment for the night, which was always necessary at F1 events. 

“I have a boyfriend,” you reminded the man who had been hounding you for the past few minutes. Fiancé, if we’re getting technical, but Max rarely did. 

Charles flashed him a smirk. “Going to go over there?” he questioned. 

Max shrugged. “If it gets boring,” he chuckled. “She can hold her own.”

“She’s scary,” Lando admitted. “First time I talked to her she threatened to break my arm.” 

“You were flirting with her,” Alex reminded him. “I remember how pissed Logan was.”

“Oh yeah!” Oscar laughed, nudging Logan (who was beside him). “And when you found out about Max and Y/n.”

“He went ballistic,” Lando laughed. “Almost killed his sister!” 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Logan defended, but even Max gave him a look. “Ok, but it is shitty to go after someone’s sister!” 

The group continued laughing as Max listened back in on your conversation. 

“Oh yeah?” the guy smirked. Was it Tim, or Tom? Either way, he was a dick. “I don’t see him.”

“Now you do,” Max interrupted, wrapping an arm around your waist and smiling in a polite ‘fuck off’ way. The man chuckled. He was some NFL player. “Have a good night-”

“Let the pretty lady decide for herself, thank you very much,” he smirked. You gagged. 

“I chose him,” you deadpanned. 

“You’re in McLaren merch,” he pointed out, flicking at the hat on your head. You felt Max stiffen beside you, you could tell he was holding himself back from a fist fight. As much as this guy deserved it, Max was no MMA fighter, and you didn’t really want to be the reason he got his shit rocked. 

“Yeah, my mate drives for them,” you shrugged. “Do we have a problem here?” you demanded. “Because if we do we can talk about it.”

“No problem sweetheart, just don’t know if he understands how to be with a real woman such as yourself. I don’t see you at many races-”

“No, you don’t. Usually because I’m fighting for your fucking freedom you ungrateful asshole,” you scoffed, flashing your military ID card. The colour drained from the guy’s face and, before he could speak again Max whisked you away and back to the table with the rest of the guys.  He watched as you joked and laughed with them, happy you were there in front of him. He couldn’t ask for much more. You were safe.

You were here.

navigation for my blog :)

redbull & vcarb masterlist

request this would be cool if you could do it but if not totally fine!

Lando x y/n reader have been dating privately for a while but lando comes down really sick for a race week and reader can't not be their to support him so comes and takes care of him very fluffy lol

summary: where yn cames to support her sick bf warnings: nones

In Sickness and in Speed

The text comes in at 5:02 AM.

Can’t breathe through my nose. Feel like death. Plz send help 😩

You blink blearily at your phone, barely making out Lando’s name above the message. You’re curled up in your hotel bed, hundreds of miles away from the paddock. Technically, you were going to fly in tomorrow for the race. Technically, no one’s supposed to know you’re dating him—not even his engineer. But technically… Lando sounds like he’s on death’s door.

And technically, you can break a few rules for the man you love.

It had started months ago. The two of you met through a friend-of-a-friend situation—blame it on a birthday party and one too many rounds of “Never Have I Ever.” You hit it off immediately. He liked that you didn’t fawn over his fame. You liked that he listened—really listened—when you talked.

But privacy was non-negotiable. The media frenzy around his life was a hungry thing, and the thought of throwing you into that chaos had his stomach twisted in guilt before you even had your first kiss.

So you made a pact: lowkey, quiet, private. Texts deleted. Social media ghosted. You had your own life, and he had his. But when you could, you met in the quiet in-betweens.

Now, he’s sick. Really sick, judging by the barely comprehensible text messages he’s been sending all morning.

“Head spinning. My bones feel like paper mache.”

“Oscar keeps throwing tissues at me. Rude.”

“They’re making me do press 😩 I might die live on Sky Sports.”

Your heart twinges. You FaceTime him as you speed-pack a bag and order an earlier flight.

When his face appears, your heart practically sinks through the floor. His eyes are puffy, his nose is red, and he’s swaddled in what looks like three layers of McLaren hoodies.

“Oh, baby,” you coo. “You look like a sad little gremlin.”

“Don’t mock the ill,” he croaks, trying to smile. “It’s abuse.”

You grin, soft and fond. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Was cute. Now I’m just a human snot fountain.”

“Hang tight,” you say, grabbing your passport. “I’m coming.”

By the time you arrive at the paddock hotel, it’s early evening. You have your lanyard, your credentials, and just enough insider pull to convince security you’re here “in an unofficial support capacity.”

Lando’s room is a mess of tissues, vitamin packets, and half-empty bottles of water. The TV is playing F1 highlights on mute. The air smells like menthol and misery.

You let yourself in quietly.

He’s passed out on the bed, one arm draped dramatically over his face, tissues stuck between his fingers. He looks like the dictionary definition of pathetic.

You set your bag down gently and tiptoe over.

As you lean down to brush the curls off his damp forehead, his eyes flutter open.

“Y/N?” he rasps.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

He tries to sit up. “You’re here?”

“I’m here.”

Lando melts back into the pillow, relief washing over his face like warm sunlight. “Thought I was hallucinating.”

“Nope. Very real. And very ready to nurse you back to health.”

“Do nurses usually crawl into bed with the patient?”

You smirk. “Only the really good ones.”

You spend the next few days in a cocoon of tissues and tenderness.

You run to the paddock to get him soup between meetings. You sneak vitamins into his smoothies. You find out that he has a very specific hierarchy of throat lozenges (“the green ones are evil”), and you somehow bribe a hotel chef into making him plain mashed potatoes at midnight.

He groans and whines and calls you his “angel of mercy.” He sneezes on you twice and immediately tries to apologize with sick-boy cuddles. You fake being annoyed, but you wrap yourself around him like a koala every night anyway.

On qualifying day, you wake up to find him sitting up in bed, sipping tea and trying to put on his race suit backwards.

“Lando,” you say, barely stifling laughter. “That’s not how arms work.”

“I’m disoriented,” he mumbles, but he smiles for the first time in days. “Feel a little better though.”

You help him get dressed, comb your fingers through his hair, and press a warm kiss to his cheek. He leans into it like he’s starving for affection.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

Later, at the garage, when he pulls off his helmet after a decent quali run, he finds you waiting with a bottle of water and your eyes sparkling with pride. No one questions your presence. You blend in, just another support staffer, clipboard in hand.

But when he looks at you like that—soft, grateful, filled with something unspoken—you know it’s only a matter of time before the secret slips.

And maybe, you think, as he walks past the cameras and sneaks a wink at you…

Maybe you’re okay with that.

but daddy i love him. part two - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc:13.5k. READ PART ONE

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!!! THE OTHER PART OF THEIR STORY !!! first of all i want to thank you all for the incredible support on part one, it was so nice to read all of your feedback ! please make sure to leave some feedback on this part as well. let me know ALL of your thoughts, and most importantly, ENJOY!

Monaco, 2021

The two weeks after Abu Dhabi are the longest of your life. Your phone remains silent - no late-night calls, no secret messages, no pictures of the cats that Max knows always make you smile. The space where he used to be feels enormous.

Your father is still dealing with the aftermath, appeals and media statements consuming his days. You watch him move through the house like a storm cloud, muttering about Masi and the FIA, and think about Max's words: "perfect Mercedes daughter."

You've never felt less perfect.

It's late one night when the doorbell rings. You're alone in the apartment - the one that's technically yours but has become a sanctuary for both of you over the past year. When you open the door, Max is standing there, looking as exhausted as you feel.

"Hi," he says softly.

You stand aside to let him in, heart pounding.

"I'm sorry," he says before you can speak. "I was cruel that night. You didn't deserve that."

"No, I didn't."

He runs a hand through his hair - a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "I was high on winning, angry you weren't there, and I took it out on you. But that's not an excuse."

"I'm sorry too," you move closer. "You were right about some things. I should have been there for your celebration. It was your moment."

"It wasn't just my moment though, was it?" He sits on the couch, looking up at you. "It was your father's worst nightmare. Lewis' heartbreak. The most controversial end to a season ever." He laughs quietly. "Not exactly the best timing to announce we're in love."

You sit beside him, careful to maintain a small distance. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying… you were right. Telling them now, with everything so raw… it would be like throwing fuel on a fire." He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. "I was so focused on finally being able to tell everyone, I didn't think about what that would mean for you. For your relationship with your dad."

"Max…"

"No, let me finish." His thumb traces patterns on your palm - another familiar gesture that makes tears prick at your eyes. "I've spent six years loving you. I can wait a bit longer for the timing to be right. For the wounds to heal a bit."

"What about what you said? About not being my dirty little secret anymore?"

"You're not keeping me a secret because you're ashamed," he says quietly. "You're protecting your family. And mine too, probably. Can you imagine Jos' reaction if we told him now?"

You both wince at the thought.

"So what do we do?" you ask.

He tugs you closer until you're against his chest, where you can hear his heartbeat - steady and strong and familiar. "We love each other. We wait for the right moment. And this time…" he kisses your head, "this time we decide together when that moment is. No ultimatums, no pressure."

"I missed you," you whisper into his shirt.

"I missed you too. These two weeks…" he shudders slightly. "Never again, okay? No matter how angry we get, no silence. We talk it out."

You lift your head to look at him properly. "Promise?"

Instead of answering, he kisses you - soft and sweet and apologetic. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he says. "Mercedes daughter and all."

You laugh through sudden tears. "I love you too. Even when you're being an insufferable World Champion."

"Speaking of…" he grins, that boyish smile you fell in love with all those years ago, "I believe this is the first time I'm kissing you as a World Champion."

"Technically you've already kissed me as a World Champion."

"Ah, but that was angry championship kissing. This is making up championship kissing. Completely different."

You roll your eyes but let him pull you closer. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm. Much better. Want me to demonstrate the difference?"

Later, curled up in bed together, you talk about the future - not just when to tell everyone, but what comes after. Houses and holidays and maybe someday kids who'll have Wolff determination and Verstappen speed.

"Your dad might actually kill me when we tell him," Max muses, playing with your hair.

"Probably. But at least by then he might have calmed down about Abu Dhabi."

"That's optimistic of you."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him. "Are you okay with waiting? Really okay?"

He considers this, serious now. "Yeah, I am. Because this time it feels different. This time we're deciding together." He touches your face gently. "And because this time I know you're not running away."

"Never again," you promise. "No more running."

As you fall asleep in his arms, you think about timing and choices and love that survives silence. Maybe it's not perfect - sneaking around, hiding from families, loving in the shadows.

But it's yours. And for now, that's enough.

2022

After Abu Dhabi last year, you and Max spent a quiet Christmas apart with your respective families, but managed to escape for New Year's. Away from the media frenzy and family tensions, you found peace in the simple moments - cooking together, watching movies, Max trying (and failing) to teach you sim racing.

On New Year's Eve, standing on your balcony watching fireworks illuminate the harbor, Max held you from behind. "This is how I want every year to start," he murmured against your neck.

"Just us?"

"Just us. No drama, no hiding, no championships on the line."

You turned in his arms. "Well, about that last part…"

"Okay, maybe some championships," he grinned. "But the rest… we'll figure it out, right?"

"We will," you promised, sealing it with a kiss as the clock struck midnight.

The first weeks of 2022 brought exciting changes. Susie announced her plans for the F1 Academy, a project aimed at supporting young female drivers, and immediately asked you to join her team.

"I need someone I can trust completely," she said during one of your planning sessions. "Someone who understands both the technical and human side of racing."

"Are you sure? It's a huge responsibility."

"YN, you're perfect for this. You've grown up in this sport, you understand the challenges these girls will face." Susie squeezed your hand. "Plus, you're the only person besides Toto who can match my caffeine consumption during race weekends."

Working closely with Susie brought you closer than ever. She became more than just your father's wife - she was your confidante, mentor, and friend. You spent long hours together, planning programs, reviewing applications, discussing how to break down barriers in motorsport.

Which made the current breakfast situation even more uncomfortable.

"Andreas has an impressive background in aerodynamics," Toto was saying, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort. "Oxford educated, worked with Ferrari's junior program…"

"Dad," you interrupted, pushing your eggs around your plate. "Can we maybe not?"

"I'm just saying, YN, you should give him a chance. He's exactly the kind of person who would understand your world."

Lewis and George exchanged knowing looks while Susie watched you carefully.

"The new regulations are keeping me busy enough," you tried. "Between that and the Academy with Susie…"

"There's always time for personal life," Toto persisted. "You're young, successful, beautiful. You shouldn't spend all your time buried in work."

After breakfast, Susie found you in your office, surrounded by Academy paperwork.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked, closing the door.

"About Dad's sudden career as a matchmaker?"

"He means well," Susie sat across from you. "He just wants you to be happy."

"Can you maybe… talk to him? Get him to drop it?"

"Why? Andreas seems like a lovely young man. Smart, ambitious…"

You set down your pen, heart racing. This was it - the moment to trust someone else with your secret.

"I… I already have someone."

Susie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? How did I not know about this?"

"Because…" you took a deep breath. "Because it's complicated. Really complicated."

"YN," Susie leaned forward, "you can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

"It's Max," you whispered. "Max Verstappen."

Susie's eyes widened, but she didn't immediately speak. She got up, locked your office door, and sat back down.

"How long?"

"Since 2015, on and off, you know that story. But seriously since I came back in 2020."

"Through everything? The championship battle?"

You nodded, tears forming. "It was… difficult. Especially Abu Dhabi."

"Oh, sweetheart," Susie moved to your side, pulling you into a hug. "That must have been awful for you."

"You're not… mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"Because he's Red Bull, because of everything with Dad…"

"Listen to me," Susie pulled back to look at you. "Love doesn't care about team colors. God knows this sport has enough rivalry without policing people's hearts too."

"I don't know what to do," you admitted. "We want to tell everyone, but after Abu Dhabi…"

"The timing's not great," Susie agreed. "But YN, you can't hide forever. It'll only get harder."

"I know. But Papa…"

"Your father loves you more than anything in this world. More than Mercedes, more than championships." She squeezed your hands. "Will he be shocked? Absolutely. Probably throw something expensive. But he'll come around."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I've seen how he looks at you - like you're still that little girl who used to fall asleep in the garage. He might not like your choice, but he'll respect it. Eventually."

"He was furious back then, said Max was too young, too reckless, that it would end in disaster. He threatened to send me back to boarding school."

"That explains a lot," Susie said softly. "Why he's been so pushy about these 'suitable' men lately."

"He thinks he protected me back then. Maybe he did - we were young, and things got messy. But now…"

"Now you're both different people," Susie finished. She was quiet for a moment, thinking. "You know what the real issue was back then?"

"That Max was the enemy?" you said dryly.

"No. That Toto couldn't control it. He's used to managing everything, planning ten steps ahead. But this…" she gestured vaguely, "this wasn't in his carefully constructed plan for you."

"I never wanted to disappoint him."

"Hey," Susie's voice was firm. "Loving someone isn't disappointing. It's probably the bravest thing we do."

"Thanks," you whisper, hugging Susie tightly. "For understanding. For not judging."

"Just... be careful, okay? And know that I'm here if you need to talk."

The conversation with Susie lifts a weight you didn't realize you were carrying. Having someone know, someone in your corner, makes everything feel more manageable.

Bahrain, 2022

The morning of the Bahrain Grand Prix buzzed with the familiar nervous energy of a season opener. You were in one of the back offices of the F1 Academy, triple-checking schedules and programs for the upcoming season, when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

"Shouldn't you be in pre-race prep?" you asked, trying to sound stern but failing to hide your smile.

"I have fifteen minutes," Max murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck. "Wanted to wish you luck. Big day for you too."

You turned in his arms. "Nervous?"

"About the race? Nah." He grinned. "About you stealing the spotlight with the Academy launch? Terrified."

"Idiot," you laughed, playing with the collar of his race suit. "As if anything could overshadow the great Max Verstappen."

"Hey," his expression turned serious. "What you're doing here… it's important. You're going to change lives."

"Now who's being dramatic?"

"I mean it," he insisted. "You remember what it was like, being the only girl in karting? These kids won't have to feel that way because of you and Susie."

"Well... I quit karting after a year," you joke and Max rolls his eyes, "Oh come on, just kiss me before you have to go all defending world champion on track."

And he does, but before you can go any further the door opened.

"YN, have you seen the timing sheets from- OH SHIT!"

George Russell stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide as saucers. You and Max jumped apart like teenagers caught by their parents.

"I… um… I should…" George stammered, pointing vaguely behind him.

"George, wait!" You rushed to close the door before he could escape. "Please…"

"This is literally my first day as a Mercedes driver and I'm already caught in..." he gestures wildly between you and Max.

"George," you step forward, "you CANNOT tell my dad."

"I... what... how long..." he stammers.

"Please," Max speaks up, "We'll explain everything, just... keep this between us?"

George looks between you and Max, then sighs dramatically. "Well, I guess this is one way to start my Mercedes career - harboring my team principal's daughter's secret relationship with our biggest rival."

"Welcome to Mercedes?" you offer weakly.

"Right," George shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile. "I'm going to leave, pretend I never saw this, and maybe drink enough tonight to forget it entirely."

As he turns to go, he pauses. "But for what it's worth? Your secret's safe with me."

The door closes behind him, and you collapse against Max, half laughing, half panicking.

"Well," Max says dryly, "that's one more person who knows. At this rate, the only person who won't know will be your father."

You looked up at him. "You should go. GP will be looking for you."

"Yeah," he sighed, but made no move to leave. "Good luck today. Show them what the Wolff women can do."

"Good luck to you too. Try not to make Dad throw anything at the TV?"

He laughed, kissing you quickly. "No promises. But hey," he paused at the door, "for what it's worth, George's reaction wasn't terrible. Maybe there's hope for the others too."

As you watched him leave, you couldn't help but smile. One more person in their corner, one more step toward not hiding. Maybe, just maybe, the universe was trying to tell you something.

Singapore, 2022

The humidity of Singapore still clung to the air as most of the paddock crowded into Marquee, celebrating another street circuit spectacle. The bass pulsed through the exclusive VIP section where drivers and key personnel gathered.

You were at the bar with Lewis when Andreas appeared, looking particularly polished.

"YN Wolff," he smiled, a bit too confidently. "I was hoping to find you here."

You caught Lewis' subtle eye roll as he conveniently spotted someone he "needed to talk to."

"Andreas, hi," you tried to sound polite but distant, very aware of Max watching from across the room where he sat with Lando and Charles.

"You looked beautiful today in the paddock," he moved closer. "That dress you wore to the team dinner…"

"Thanks," you cut him off, scanning for an escape route. You found none.

"Your father mentions you're still single," he continued, either oblivious to or ignoring your discomfort. "I find that hard to believe."

At the other end of the VIP section, Max's jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfold.

"Mate, you're going to break that glass," Lando noted, watching Max's white-knuckled grip on his drink.

"Who is that guy?" Charles asked, following Max's gaze.

"Some engineer Toto's trying to set YN up with," Lando explained, then froze, realizing what he'd revealed.

Charles' eyes widened. "Wait, why do you know that? And why does Max look like he's about to commit murder?"

Before Lando could deflect, Max stood abruptly as Andreas placed his hand on your lower back.

"Oh shit," Lando muttered.

"I don't understand," Charles said, watching Max stride across the room. "Why is he- oh. OH."

Back at the bar, you were trying to subtly remove Andreas hand when you felt a familiar presence behind you.

"Everything okay here?" Max's voice was controlled, but you could hear the edge in it.

Andreas looked annoyed at the interruption. "We're fine, thank you."

"I wasn't asking you," Max said coldly, then softer: "YN?"

You turned toward him gratefully. "Actually, Max, would you mind helping me with something?"

"Of course," he placed his hand where Andreas' had been, but this touch was different - protective, familiar, right.

Andreas looked between you two, confusion turning to understanding. "Wait, are you…"

"She's not interested," Max said simply. "Never was."

You let Max guide you away from the bar, very aware of the eyes following you. Lando and Charles weren't even trying to hide their interest now, and you noticed Carlos and Pierre joining them, speaking in hushed tones.

"You didn't have to do that," you said quietly.

"Yes, I did." Max's hand hadn't left your back. "I'm tired of watching guys hit on my girlfriend because they think she's available."

You reached the relative privacy of a corner booth. "Max…"

"I know, I know. We're being careful. But YN," he turned to face you, "half the paddock already suspects something. Charles and Carlos are literally taking bets right now."

You glanced over - sure enough, money was being exchanged. "Great."

"Would it be so terrible?" Max asked. "If people knew?"

"No," you admitted. "But Dad…"

"Will find out eventually. Wouldn't you rather he heard it from us than through paddock gossip?"

You were about to respond when George appeared, slightly out of breath.

"You two need to be more subtle," he hissed. "Lando just asked me if there was something going on between you."

"What did you say?" you asked anxiously.

"I'm a terrible liar! I just made a noise and ran away!"

Max couldn't help laughing. "Smooth, Russell."

"This isn't funny," George insisted. "Look!"

You followed his gesture. The other drivers were gathered together, all of them looking your way occasionally.

"Oh god," you groaned. "They all know, don't they?"

"If they didn't before, they do now," George confirmed. "Max's little knight-in-shining-armor act wasn't exactly subtle."

"He had his hands all over you," Max defended.

"His hand was on my back for two seconds!"

"Two seconds too long."

George looked between you, amused. "You two are ridiculous. Also, heads up - Lando is coming over."

Sure enough, Lando was making his way through the crowd. He slid into your booth without invitation, expression unreadable.

"So," he said calmly, "how long?"

You glanced at Max, who squeezed your hand under the table. "Since 2020."

"Through the championship battle?" When you nodded, Lando let out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. That must have been…"

"Horrible," you finished. "But we managed."

Lando studied Max for a moment. "You better be sure about this. Because when Toto finds out…"

"I am," Max said firmly. "We both are."

"Good." Lando smiled finally. "Because I'm pretty sure Daniel just started a betting pool on how Toto's going to react, and I've got money on him throwing his headphones."

"Lando!" you exclaimed.

"What? Might as well profit from the drama." He stood up. "For what it's worth, I think it's kind of perfect. In a weird, Romeo and Juliet way."

"They both died in that story," George pointed out.

"Details," Lando waved him off. "Come on, George. Let's go see what odds Daniel's offering."

As they left, you buried your face in Max's shoulder. "This is a disaster."

"Is it?" he asked, running his hand up your arm. "Look around - no one seems shocked or angry. Well, except maybe Andreas."

You peaked up - he was right. The drivers were all still watching, but their expressions were mostly amused or knowing. Carlos gave you a thumbs up when he caught your eye.

"I guess the secret's out," you sighed. "At least in this room."

"Good." Max tilted your chin up. "Because I really want to kiss you right now."

"Max! Everyone's watching."

"Let them watch."

And before you could protest, he kissed you. When you pulled back, Max was grinning. "See? World didn't end."

"No," you said softly, "It really didn't."

The night continued, but differently now. No more hiding in corners or pretending not to know each other. Just you and Max, surrounded by friends who were apparently more supportive than you'd imagined.

Now you just had to figure out how to tell your father that his entire team - including his wife - had known about your relationship before him.

A late afternoon in Monaco, in Toto's office overlooking the harbor. What had started as a routine pre-race weekend meeting had quickly derailed when Andreas' name came up again.

"He asked about you again," Toto said, shuffling some papers on his desk. "He's a good man, YN. Smart, ambitious…"

"Dad," you cut in, "I've told you, I'm not interested in Andreas."

"You haven't even given him a chance," he insisted. "One dinner…"

"No."

Toto sighed, that familiar mix of frustration and concern crossing his face. "Liebling, I worry about you. Ever since that rebellious phase with Verstappen when you were eighteen…"

You tensed, feeling your heart rate spike. In the corner, you saw Lewis shift uncomfortably - he'd been quietly reviewing race strategies, but now he was fully alert.

"Dad…"

"You haven't been serious about anyone," Toto continued. "I know that boy hurt you, but you can't let one teenage romance…"

"You don't know anything about it," you said quietly, dangerously.

"I know enough. I know he was reckless, impulsive. I know ending it was the right decision."

Lewis cleared his throat. "Toto, maybe we should focus on qualifying…"

But Toto was on a roll now. "Andreas is different. He understands our world, he's stable…"

"He's boring," you snapped. "And you don't get to decide who I date."

"I'm trying to protect you!"

"From what?" You stood up. "From making my own choices? From being with someone who actually makes me happy?"

"Max Verstappen did not make you happy!" Toto's voice rose. "He was a distraction, a rebellion…"

"He was everything!" The words exploded out before you could stop them.

The office went deadly quiet. Lewis had his head in his hands.

"What?" Toto asked softly, dangerously.

You swallowed hard, years of secrets sitting heavy on your tongue. "You didn't protect me back then, Dad. You forced us apart. But you want to know something? He was never just a rebellion."

Toto stands slowly, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying, YN?"

You take a deep breath, catching Lewis' subtle head shake in your peripheral vision. The words are there, the whole truth ready to spill out, but... not like this. Not in anger.

"I'm saying I'm not eighteen anymore," you say finally, your voice steady. "I'm a grown woman who runs part of this team, who's helping build the F1 Academy with Susie. I make my own choices - about my career, about my life, about who I date."

"I only want what's best for you," Toto says, softer now.

"Then trust me to know what that is." You move toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. "And please, stop trying to set me up with Andreas. Or anyone else."

Zandvoort, 2022

The Dutch air mingles with the lingering scent of champagne in Max's private motorhome. The celebrations outside are still going strong - Dutch fans painting Zandvoort orange in honor of their hero's home win - but here, in this quiet space, it's just the two of you.

"Happy birthday," Max says softly, pulling a small wrapped package from behind his back. You're curled up on his couch, still wearing his Red Bull team jacket that you'd snuck on after everyone else had left.

"You already said that this morning," you smile, but take the package. "And before the race. And after you won."

"Well, it's not every day you turn twenty-five. And it's not every day I win at home on your birthday."

The package reveals a delicate gold necklace with a tiny racing helmet charm. But when you look closer, you notice something engraved on the back of the helmet - 15.03.15.

"The day we met," you whisper, running your finger over the date.

"I thought about getting something more obvious, but since we're still keeping us quiet…" He takes the necklace, moving behind you to clasp it around your neck. "This way you can wear it without anyone asking questions."

You touch the charm resting against your collarbone. "It's perfect."

"Unlike the cake situation," he grins, glancing at the remains of what was supposed to be a homemade birthday cake on the counter. "I really did try."

You laugh, remembering walking in to find Max covered in flour, frustration etched on his face as he stared at the somewhat lopsided creation. "The thought counts. Though maybe stick to driving?"

"Hey, I won today! I deserve some respect."

"You always win here," you tease. "It's your home race."

"True." He pulls you closer, until you're practically in his lap. "But winning on your birthday makes it special. Even if I couldn't kiss you in parc ferme."

"Dad would have had a heart attack right there in the garage."

"Speaking of Toto…" Max's voice turns serious. "How was the birthday lunch with him?"

You think back to the awkward meal, where your father had once again tried to subtly mention Andreas. "Same as usual. He means well."

"Still pushing the Andreas agenda?"

"Mhmm. Though Susie shut it down pretty quickly this time." You play with the helmet charm. "Can we not talk about it tho?

Max kisses your temple. "Whatever you want. It's your birthday - you make the rules."

"In that case…" you turn to face him properly. "I want to dance."

He groans. "YN…"

"Birthday rules," you remind him, already standing and pulling out your phone. When the first notes of a slow song fill the motorhome, you hold out your hand. "Dance with your birthday girl, World Champion."

He takes your hand, pulling you close as you sway together. Outside, you can still hear the distant sounds of celebrating fans, but in here it's just the music, Max's heartbeat under your ear, and the weight of a tiny gold helmet against your skin.

"This is nice," Max murmurs into your hair. "Though if anyone sees the mighty Max Verstappen slow dancing…"

"Your reputation will survive." You lift your head to look at him. "Thank you for making my birthday special, even if we had to celebrate in secret."

"Next year," he promises, "we'll do it properly. Big party, everyone we love, no hiding."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He spins you gently. "But for now…" He dips you dramatically, making you laugh. "I kind of like having birthday girl all to myself."

You kiss him then, tasting chocolate and victory champagne and love that's grown from teenage rebellion into something unshakeable.

"Best birthday ever," you whisper against his lips.

Outside, Zandvoort celebrates its champion. Inside, in this quiet space that belongs just to you, you celebrate something else - another year of loving each other, of building a life in the spaces between public and private, of planning for a future where you won't have to choose between family and love.

For now, though, you're content to dance in a motorhome, wearing his team jacket and a gold helmet that carries your history, celebrating not just your birthday but everything you've built together.

Monaco, Summer 2023

The sleek car glides through Monaco's winding streets, but you can barely focus on the stunning views. Max's mysterious smile has you intrigued and slightly nervous - he's been unusually secretive all day.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" you ask for probably the tenth time, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sundress.

"Patience," he says, taking one hand off the wheel to squeeze yours. "We're almost there."

"You know I hate surprises."

He laughs. "No, you love surprises. You just hate not being in control."

He turns onto a quiet street lined with elegant villas, each one more beautiful than the last. The Mediterranean stretches out below, a perfect azure canvas. Your heart starts racing when he pulls into a driveway. The house is stunning - modern yet classic, with large windows and a terrace overlooking the sea.

"Max…" you start, but he's already out of the car and opening your door.

"Come on," he says, taking your hand. His excitement is palpable as he leads you to the front door. "Close your eyes."

"Really?"

"Trust me."

You do as he asks, letting him guide you forward. You hear keys jingling, a door opening, then his soft "Okay, open them."

The interior takes your breath away - open and airy, with natural light streaming in from every angle. But it's not just the architecture that catches your attention - there are small touches that feel incredibly personal. Racing memorabilia tastefully displayed, a few framed photos you recognize from your own collection.

"I bought it," Max says softly, watching your reaction. "For us."

You turn to face him, eyes wide. "What?"

"I want this to be our home," he continues, his voice full of emotion. He takes both your hands in his. "Where we can grow old together, maybe raise a family someday. No more sneaking around, no more hiding. Just us."

"But… when? How?"

"I've been working with a realtor for months. Remember all those 'simulator sessions' I had to do?" He grins sheepishly. "I was actually house hunting."

"You sneaky…" You trail off, speechless.

"Want to see the rest?" He's practically bouncing with excitement now. "There's a home gym downstairs, and the kitchen is amazing - I know how much you love to cook. And wait until you see the master bedroom…"

Tears start falling before you can stop them. Max reaches up to wipe them away, but you catch his hand.

"You bought us a house," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "You planned this whole future for us, and I can't even tell my dad about us."

"Hey," he pulls you close, one hand cradling the back of your head. "It's okay. We'll figure it out together, like we always do."

"No, it's not okay." You pull back to look at him. "You've been so patient, Max. For years. And I've been such a coward."

"You're not a coward," he says firmly. "Our relationship is complicated. I understand that."

"Still." You shake your head, suddenly determined. "I'm telling him tomorrow."

"YN, you don't have to—"

"I want to." You look around at this beautiful space he's created for your future. "You've given us a home. The least I can do is be brave enough to fight for us."

"Are you sure?" His eyes search yours. "Because if you're not ready…"

"I'm sure." You walk to the windows, taking in the view. "Besides, can you imagine trying to explain why I'm suddenly moving to a new house without telling him why?"

Max comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "We could tell him you've developed a sudden passion for real estate investment."

You laugh despite your tears. "Yes, because that would totally explain why half my clothes are already in that closet I spotted upstairs."

"You noticed that, huh?"

"The Dior dress from the FIA gala was a bit of a giveaway." You turn in his arms. "How long have you been moving my things in?"

"A while," he admits. "Susie helped."

"Of course she did." You shake your head fondly. "Any other conspirators I should know about?"

"Well, Lewis might have helped coordinate the furniture delivery…"

"Lewis?!" You pull back to stare at him. "Lewis Hamilton helped you furnish our secret love nest?"

Max winces. "Please never call it that again. And yes - turns out he has great taste in interior design."

You laugh, really laugh, and it feels like releasing years of tension. "This is insane. We're insane."

"Maybe," he agrees, pulling you close again. "But it's a good kind of insane, right?"

You look around at this beautiful house - your house - taking in all the thoughtful details. The photos telling your story, the mix of both your tastes in the décor, the way the space already feels like home.

"The best kind," you whisper, and kiss him.

Max kisses you back, soft and sweet, and you can feel his smile against your lips. When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours.

"So," he says, "want to see our bedroom?"

"Our bedroom," you repeat, testing the words. "I like how that sounds."

"Me too." He takes your hand, leading you toward the stairs. "Though fair warning - I let Lando help with the media room setup, so that might need some adjustments."

"Oh god."

"Yeah, there may be more gaming consoles than strictly necessary…"

In this moment, in your new home, tomorrow's confrontation feels less daunting. After all, you've built something real and lasting here - something worth fighting for. And as Max leads you through your future together, room by room, you can't help but think that maybe it's time for everyone to know.

You've been standing outside your father's office at Mercedes for what feels like hours, but the watch on your wrist says it's only been ten minutes. Taking a deep breath, you finally knock.

"Come in," his familiar voice calls out.

Toto looks up from his desk, his face brightening when he sees you. "Schatz! What a lovely surprise." He stands to greet you, but pauses when he notices your expression. "What's wrong?"

"Papa, I need to tell you something." Your voice trembles slightly. "And I need you to listen. Really listen."

He gestures to the chair across from his desk, concern etching his features. "Of course. You can tell me anything."

You sit, hands clasped tightly in your lap. "I'm in love."

His face relaxes into a smile. "Is that all? Liebling, you had me worried. Who's the lucky—"

"It's Max." The words come out in a rush. "It's always been Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch as confusion crosses his face, followed by understanding, and then something darker.

"Max… Verstappen?" He says the name like it tastes bitter. "This is a joke."

"No, it's not." You straighten your spine. "We've been together for two years. Actually, we never really stopped loving each other after… after what happened when we were eighteen."

Toto stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "This is impossible. You can't be serious."

"I am. And there's more." You take another deep breath. "We're moving in together. He bough a house for us, because he wants us to build a future together."

"No." His voice is sharp. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"I'm not asking for permission, Papa. I'm telling you."

He turns to face you, and the hurt in his eyes makes your heart ache. "How long have you been lying to me?"

"Since 2020," you admit quietly. "When I came back… we tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn't."

"So what, you've been sneaking around behind my back all these years?" His accent grows thicker with emotion. "Meeting in secret like teenagers?"

"We didn't have a choice."

He's quiet after that, and you can almost see the storm inside his head.

"Who knows?" The question is sharp, hurt evident in his tone.

"I told Susie last year. Lewis has known almost from the beginning. George found out in Bahrain. Some of the other drivers..."

"So everyone but me?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My own wife, my drivers, half the paddock knew my daughter was in a relationship with Max Verstappen, and no one thought to tell me?"

"They were respecting our privacy. Our choice."

"Our choice?" He stands again, agitated. "He's Red Bull, YN! Our biggest rival! The same team that's been fighting us for years, the same driver who—"

"Who makes me happier than I've ever been," you interrupt. "Who loves me for who I am, not whose daughter I am. Who's supported my career, my dreams, everything I want to do."

"And the team rivalry? The competition?"

"We've managed it for years, Dad. We know how to separate personal and professional."

"All those times I tried to set you up with other people..."

"I know you meant well."

"And Susie?" His voice catches. "She knew and didn't tell me?"

"She said it wasn't her story to tell. That I needed to be the one to tell you when I was ready."

Toto runs a hand over his face. "And now you're ready because...?"

"Because I'm tired of hiding. Because Max and I have built something real and beautiful, and I want you to be part of it." You stand, moving around his desk to touch his arm. "Because you're my father, and despite everything, I want you to know me. All of me."

"And if I can't accept it?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. You feel tears threatening but force them back.

"Then that's your choice. But I won't give him up. Not again. Not for anyone."

Toto is quiet for a long moment, staring out at the factory below. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. "You really love him?"

"More than anything."

He turns to look at you, really look at you, maybe for the first time seeing not his little girl but the woman you've become. "And he makes you happy?"

"Yes." Your voice is firm, certain.

Another long pause. "I need time."

It's not acceptance, but it's not rejection either. You nod, wiping away a stray tear. "Okay."

"Does he…" Toto clears his throat. "Does he treat you well?"

"Better than I deserve sometimes."

He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No one could ever deserve better than you, Schatz."

You close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him. After a moment, his arms come around you too, holding you like he did when you were small.

"I'm still angry," he murmurs into your hair.

"I know."

"And hurt."

"I know that too."

He pulls back, cupping your face in his hands. "But you are my daughter. My precious girl. Nothing will ever change that."

Fresh tears spill over. "Papa…"

"I can't promise to like this. Or him. But…" He sighs deeply. "I will try. For you."

It's more than you dared hope for. "Thank you."

As you leave his office later, you know this isn't the end of it. There will be more conversations, more tensions to navigate. But for the first time in years, you feel truly free.

The Monaco sunset paints the dining room in warm hues as you clear the plates from dinner, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. Lewis lounges in his chair, gesturing with his glass as he speaks.

"Still can't believe Toto didn't notice for two years, honestly," he chuckles. "I mean, you two weren't exactly subtle at the Saudi GP last year."

Max groans. "That was YN's fault. She's the one who kissed me in the paddock."

"After you won! Away from everyone," you defend yourself from across the table. "Besides, Papa was too busy arguing with Christian to notice."

"Lucky for us," Max mutters, but he's smiling.

"How is he taking it now?" Lewis asks, his expression growing serious. "It's been what, two weeks?"

You exchange a look with Max. "Better, I think. He's… processing."

"He called me yesterday," Max adds quietly. "First time ever."

Both you and Lewis straighten up. "What? You didn't tell me that!" you exclaim.

Max shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you can see the tension in his shoulders. "It was brief. He just said that if I ever hurt you, they'll never find my body."

Lewis nearly chokes on his wine. "Classic Toto."

"I'll get the dessert," you announce, standing. "And Max, we're talking about that phone call later."

As you head to the kitchen, you can hear their voices carrying through the open-plan space.

"Seriously though," Lewis' voice drops lower, but not low enough. "You need to be prepared. Toto might try to…"

"Separate us again?" Max's voice is steel wrapped in silk. "I'd like to see him try."

"I'm just saying, be ready. He did it once before."

"We were kids then. It's different now." A pause. "I'm different now."

"I know you are, mate. That's why I helped with the house. But Toto… he can be protective."

"Lewis." Max's voice is deadly serious now. "I would rather end my career tomorrow than lose her again. She's… she's everything."

You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, tiramisu forgotten in your hands.

"I know what it did to her last time," Max continues, unaware of your presence. "What it did to both of us. But I'm not that scared teenager anymore, and she's not that girl who was afraid to stand up to her father. We fought too hard to get here."

"Good." Lewis' voice is warm with approval. "Because if you hurt her, Toto won't have to hide your body. I'll do it myself."

Max laughs. "Get in line. Susie already called dibs."

"Speaking of Susie, how's she handling being in the middle?"

"Better than any of us deserve," Max sighs. "She's been amazing. Especially with YN. When Toto first found out…"

"That bad?"

"YN cried for hours after telling him. I've never felt so helpless." Max's voice cracks slightly. "All I could do was hold her."

"Sometimes that's enough," Lewis says softly. "Sometimes that's everything."

You wipe away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. The tiramisu trembles slightly in your hands.

"I'm going to marry her someday," Max says suddenly. "I already have the ring."

The tiramisu nearly slips from your grasp.

"Does she know?" Lewis asks.

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until things settled with Toto. She deserves a proper proposal, not one overshadowed by family drama."

"Smart man." Lewis pauses. "You really have grown up, haven't you?"

"Had to. She deserves the best version of me."

You can't take it anymore. You walk back in, pretending you haven't heard a word. "Who wants dessert?"

Both men straighten up, but you catch the knowing look Lewis gives Max. As you serve the tiramisu, Max's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

"Everything okay, liefje?" he asks softly.

You look at him - this man who's grown and changed and loved you through everything - and feel your heart swell. "Perfect," you whisper, and mean it.

Lewis watches you both with a soft smile. "You know," he says, "I think Toto will come around eventually. He may be stubborn, but he's not blind. Anyone can see what you two have is real."

"Real enough to redecorate my gaming room?" Max asks hopefully.

You laugh, the emotional moment breaking. "Nice try. But Lando's RGB setup stays."

"It gives me a headache!"

"Should have thought of that before letting him design it," Lewis points out.

As they fall into friendly bickering about proper gaming room aesthetics, you sit back and take it all in - this beautiful home, these people you love, this life you've built. It hasn't been easy, but everything has been worth it.

Your phone rings just as you're finishing up some work in your home office. Seeing your father's name on the screen makes your heart skip.

"Papa?"

"Schatz." His voice is carefully neutral. "Are you free tonight?"

"I… yes?"

"Good. You and Max will come to dinner. Eight o'clock."

It's not a question. You glance at the clock - it's already 4 PM. "Tonight?"

"Unless you have other plans?"

"No, no plans." You swallow hard. "We'll be there."

"Good." A pause. "And YN?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Max to breathe. It's just dinner."

The line goes dead before you can respond. You sit there for a moment, phone still in hand, before rushing downstairs to find Max.

He's in the gym, finishing up his workout. One look at your face and he's pulling off his headphones.

"What's wrong?"

"Papa called. He wants us for dinner. Tonight."

Max freezes mid-stretch. "Tonight? As in… tonight tonight?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Fuck." He starts pacing. "Fuck fuck fuck. This is it. He's going to murder me. He's probably got a plan to make it look like an accident. Lewis will help him hide the body—"

"Max."

"—probably already has an alibi arranged. Susie will vouch for him, of course—"

"Max!"

He stops pacing. "What?"

"He actually said to tell you to breathe. His exact words were 'it's just dinner.'"

Max stares at you. "That's worse. That's so much worse. He's lulling me into a false sense of security."

You can't help but laugh, even as anxiety churns in your own stomach. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "The last time I was in the same room as your father, he looked at me like he was calculating how many pieces he could cut me into."

"That was three weeks ago, right after he found out. Things are… better now."

"Are they? Because that phone call he made last week about hiding my body didn't feel like 'better.'"

You cross the room to him, placing your hands on his chest. "Hey. Look at me."

His eyes meet yours, and you can see the genuine worry there.

"Whatever happens tonight, we face it together. Okay?"

He takes a deep breath, covering your hands with his. "Okay."

"Good. Now go shower, because you stink."

"Charming," he mutters, but he's smiling now. "What should I wear?"

"Something bulletproof?" you suggest innocently.

"Not helping!"

The drive to your parents' house is tense. Susie opens the door, her warm smile immediately putting you both at ease. "Come in, come in. Toto's just opening the wine."

"We brought some too," you say, holding up the bottle you'd carefully selected.

"Ah, his favorite." Susie winks. "Good choice."

The dining room is set beautifully, candles flickering on the table. Your father stands as you enter, and for a moment, everyone freezes.

Then Toto steps forward, kissing your cheek. "You look beautiful, Schatz."

He turns to Max, who looks like he's trying very hard not to bolt. They regard each other for a long moment before Toto extends his hand.

Max shakes it, and you breathe again.

Dinner starts surprisingly well. The conversation stays safe - racing, weather, Susie's latest projects. Max gradually relaxes enough to actually eat, though you notice he keeps looking at your father like he's expecting an ambush.

It comes after the plates are cleared.

"So," Toto says, setting down his wine glass. "We need to talk."

Max's hand finds yours under the table.

"Max." Your father's voice is measured. "I need you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say."

"Yes, sir."

"When YN was born, I made a promise to protect her from anything that could hurt her. When she was eighteen, I thought I was doing that by keeping her away from you."

You feel Max tense beside you.

"I was wrong."

The admission hangs in the air. Even Susie looks surprised.

"You were angry then. Volatile. Too much like your father." Toto continues. "But you've grown. Changed. I see that now."

He leans forward, eyes intense. "But understand this: that girl sitting next to you? She is my world. My greatest joy, my greatest pride. And if you ever - ever - give me reason to think you don't deserve her…"

"I don't," Max interrupts quietly. "Deserve her, I mean. I know that. I try every day to be worthy of her love, and I'll keep trying for the rest of my life."

Something shifts in Toto's expression.

"And you," he turns to you. "My strong, stubborn daughter. You've grown too. Standing up to me… it showed me you're not my little girl anymore. You're a woman who knows her own mind, her own heart."

Tears prick at your eyes. "Papa…"

"I trust your judgment," he says softly. "Even when it differs from mine."

Susie reaches over to squeeze his hand, pride shining in her eyes.

"Now," Toto straightens, his expression growing serious again. "We need to discuss the media situation. Your relationship will be public knowledge soon, if it isn't already."

"We've been careful," you start, but he holds up a hand.

"Careful isn't enough. The press will be relentless. They'll try to create drama, stir up controversy. Everything you do, every interaction, will be scrutinized."

"We know," Max says. "We've talked about it."

"Good. But you need to be prepared. They'll drag up the past, try to create tension between the teams. Your relationship will become clickbait."

"We can handle it," you say firmly.

"Perhaps. But you'll need support." Toto looks between you both. "Which is why… which is why I'm offering mine."

Max's grip on your hand tightens.

"When the story breaks, there will be questions. Speculation. I will make it clear that you have my blessing." The words seem to cost him something, but his voice is steady. "It won't stop the circus, but it might help control the narrative."

You're crying openly now. Max looks shellshocked.

"Thank you," he manages finally. "That… that means everything."

Toto nods once, then reaches for his wine. "Now, who wants dessert? Susie made Sachertorte."

As Susie bustles off to the kitchen, you catch your father's eye. The love there, the acceptance, makes your heart full.

Max leans over to whisper in your ear. "I think I just aged ten years."

You squeeze his hand. "Worth it?"

He looks at you, then at your father who's pretending not to watch you both, then back to you.

"Every second," he says, and kisses your temple.

And just like that, your worlds align.

Saint-Tropez, 2024

The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains of your villa, casting warm patterns across the rumpled sheets. Max's fingers trace lazy circles on your bare shoulder as you lie there, both reluctant to acknowledge that real life awaits.

"Do we have to go back?" you mumble into his chest.

"Mmm, eventually." He drops a kiss on your head. "Though I could get used to this."

"What, me using you as a human pillow?"

"You do that at home too, liefje."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him, taking in the relaxed set of his features, the way his hair is sticking up wildly. "True, but here you're not constantly checking the time for sim racing with Lando."

"That was one time!"

"It was three times last week alone."

He tugs you back down, rolling so you're trapped beneath him. "You're just jealous because I'm better at it than you."

"Excuse me?" You poke his ribs. "Who won last time?"

"You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"You distracted me!"

"Not my fault you can't focus when I kiss your neck."

His eyes darken. "Want to test that theory?"

"We'll be late for our flight," you warn, but you're already tilting your head as his lips find that spot behind your ear.

"Worth it," he murmurs against your skin.

Later, tangled in sheets again, you check your phone while Max dozes beside you. A frown crosses your face.

"That's weird."

"Hmm?" Max doesn't open his eyes.

"Lewis still hasn't answered my texts from yesterday. Or the day before."

You feel him tense slightly. "Maybe he's busy."

"During holidays? And he always answers eventually." You sit up, noticing how Max suddenly seems very interested in the ceiling. "Max…"

"What?"

"You know something."

"I don't."

"You're doing that thing with your jaw."

His hand flies to his face. "What thing?"

"That clenching thing you do when you're hiding something." You narrow your eyes. "Spill it."

"There's nothing to spill." He sits up too quickly. "We should start packing."

"Max Emilian Verstappen."

"YN Wolff," he mimics, but there's an edge of nervousness to his teasing.

"Is Lewis okay?"

"He's fine! Totally fine. Completely fine. Never been better."

You stare at him. "You are the worst liar ever."

"I'm not—" He cuts himself off with a groan. "I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look, it's nothing bad. Just… something that's not public yet."

Your stomach drops. "Is he sick?"

"What? No! No, nothing like that." He catches your hands. "I promise, he's okay. It's just… complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"The kind of complicated I really can't tell you about yet." His eyes are pleading. "Please don't ask me to. I promised."

You study his face, seeing the genuine conflict there. "But he's okay?"

"Yes."

"And it's not bad news?"

He hesitates. "That… depends on how you look at it."

"Max!"

"I've already said too much." He kisses your forehead. "You'll know soon enough."

You flop back onto the pillows with a huff. "I hate secrets."

"Says the woman who kept our relationship secret for two years."

"That was different!"

"Sure it was." He stretches out beside you, pulling you close. "Can we go back to the part where we were enjoying our last morning in paradise?"

You want to protest, to push for more information, but his hand is sliding up your thigh and his lips are at your neck again and suddenly Lewis' mysterious silence seems less important.

"Fine," you concede, already breathless. "But this isn't over."

"Never is with you," he murmurs fondly. "It's why I love you."

"Because I'm stubborn?"

"Because you never give up on the people you care about."

Something in his voice makes you pause. "Max…"

"Let me love you," he whispers. "Just for now, let that be enough."

The world and its complications can wait. For now, there's just this - the sun on your skin, Max's heartbeat under your palm, and the knowledge that whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

Even if he is terrible at keeping secrets.

The gentle hum of your computer fills your office at Mercedes HQ as you review the latest F1 Academy reports. A notification pops up on your phone - Instagram, probably another post from Max complaining about his training session.

Your coffee cup freezes halfway to your mouth.

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton to join Ferrari in 2025

The cup clatters onto your desk, coffee spilling across papers you can't bring yourself to care about. Your hands shake as you scroll through post after post confirming it.

Lewis is leaving.

Lewis is going to Ferrari.

Lewis didn't tell you.

Max knew and didn't tell you.

Your father…

You're on your feet before you realize it, striding through the corridors. People step out of your way, perhaps recognizing the storm in your expression. You barely register Susie calling your name as you pass her office.

The door to your father's office bangs open. He looks up, unsurprised.

"What is going on?" Your voice trembles.

"YN—"

"No." You hold up your phone, the Ferrari announcement glaring at you. "What is this?"

Toto sighs, removing his glasses. "Come in and close the door."

"You knew." It's not a question. "You all knew. That's why Lewis wasn't answering my messages. That's why Max was acting strange in Saint-Tropez."

"We couldn't tell you."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" The words come out sharp, hurt. "I'm not just your daughter anymore, Papa. I'm co-director of F1 Academy. I work here. This affects me professionally as well as personally."

"Which is exactly why we couldn't tell you." He stands, coming around his desk. "The announcement had to be handled carefully. Any leak could have—"

"Leak?" You step back when he reaches for you. "Is that what I am to you? A potential leak?"

"Schatz, no—"

"Lewis is family!" Your voice cracks. "He's been here my entire life. He watched me grow up. He helped Max and me when…" You swallow hard. "I had to find out from Instagram. Instagram, Papa!"

"I know."

"Did everyone know except me? Was there some big meeting where you all decided poor YN can't be trusted?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" Tears spill over. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like nobody trusted me enough to tell me that one of the most important people in my life is leaving."

Toto moves forward again, and this time you let him pull you into a hug. "Lewis wanted to tell you himself," he says softly. "He was going to come see you today, after the announcement. He didn't want you to have to carry the secret."

"I could have handled it."

"I know you could have." His hand smooths over your hair like when you were small. "But he didn't want to put you in that position. Neither did Max."

You stiffen. "Max knew for how long?"

"YN…"

"How long?"

"Since before New Year's."

The betrayal hits fresh. "That's why he was so weird about Lewis not texting back. He let me worry instead of just telling me."

"He was protecting you."

"I don't need protection!" You pull away. "I need honesty. I need the people I love to trust me. I need—" Your voice breaks. "I need to not feel like an outsider in my own family."

"Oh, Schatz." Toto's face crumples. "You have never been an outsider. Lewis insisted on keeping it quiet precisely because he cares so much. He knew how hard it would be for you."

"It's harder finding out like this."

A soft knock interrupts. You turn to see Lewis in the doorway, still in his Mercedes gear - for one of the last times, you realize with a pang.

"Little Wolff," he starts, but you hold up a hand.

"Don't." You brush past him, ignoring his attempt to catch your arm. "I have work to do."

"Please—"

"Congratulations on Ferrari," you say stiffly, not looking back. "I'm sure you'll do great things there."

You make it back to your office before the tears really start. Your phone buzzes - Max calling. Then Lewis. Then Susie.

You silence it, staring out your window at the Mercedes logo shining in the winter sun. It looks different now, knowing Lewis won't be racing under it anymore soon.

Everything looks different.

Your phone lights up again - a text from Max.

"I'm sorry. I hated keeping this from you. I love you"

You turn the phone face down.

Later. You'll deal with all of it later.

By the time you make it home that evening, your eyes are red and puffy from crying. Max is already there - of course he is - waiting in the kitchen with that worried look you've come to know so well.

"Baby…" he starts, but you brush past him, dropping your bag on the counter with trembling hands.

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Just… don't."

But Max has never been good at leaving you alone when you're hurting. His arms wrap around you from behind, and despite your anger, you find yourself leaning back into his warmth.

"I wanted to tell you," he whispers against your hair. "Every day, I wanted to tell you."

The dam breaks. You turn in his arms, burying your face in his chest as sobs wrack your body. His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs soothing circles on your back.

"He's leaving," you choke out. "Lewis is actually leaving. How can he leave? He's… he's my brother, Max. He's been there my whole life. The garage won't be the same without him. The team won't be the same."

"I know, baby. I know."

"He didn't tell me. None of you told me." You pull back enough to look up at him, tears still streaming. "You all just decided I couldn't handle it."

Max wipes your tears with his thumbs, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Lewis wanted to protect you. We all did. You've been working so hard with F1 Academy, with the team… he didn't want you carrying this weight."

"But I could have handled it! I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting anymore."

"No," Max agrees softly, "you're the strongest person I know. But Lewis loves you like a sister. He wanted to tell you himself, properly. Not through some leaked rumor or whispered secret."

You collapse against him again, letting out a shuddering breath. "I can't imagine Mercedes without him. Every memory I have there, he's part of it. Even when we were hiding us, he was there, watching out for us, covering for us…"

Max leads you to the couch, pulling you into his lap. You curl into him, feeling drained.

"Talk to him," he murmurs. "Not today, not tomorrow if you're not ready. But don't let this distance grow. You'll regret it."

"When did you get so wise?" you ask weakly.

"Around the same time I realized that sometimes loving someone means letting them be angry at you for trying to protect them." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Even if you'd do it again."

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in Max's arms as the sun sets outside. Your phone buzzes occasionally - more messages from Lewis, probably - but you ignore it. Tomorrow you'll deal with it all. Tomorrow you'll be strong again.

But tonight, you let yourself be held and comforted, mourning the end of an era while knowing, deep down, that family is family - even when they're wearing red instead of silver.

Bahrain, 2024

The Bahrain paddock buzzes with its usual first-race energy, but everything feels off-kilter. You've been masterfully avoiding proper conversations with Lewis all weekend, keeping interactions professional and brief. The pit wall feels different already, knowing it's his last season here.

You're reviewing data sheets in the garage when his shadow falls across your tablet.

"Little Wolff," Lewis says softly, using the nickname that usually makes you smile but now just makes your chest ache. "Can we talk?"

"I'm quite busy," you reply, not looking up. "Qualifying strategy needs finalizing."

"YN." His voice is gentle but firm. "Please."

You finally meet his eyes, seeing the concern there, the sadness. He looks older somehow, or maybe that's just your perception shifting with everything else.

"What's left to say?" You keep your voice low, mindful of the mechanics nearby. "You made your decision. You kept it from me. We move forward."

"That's not fair and you know it." Lewis steps closer. "I've tried calling, texting…"

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding me." He sighs. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Well, you did." The words come out sharper than intended. "Did you think finding out from social media wouldn't hurt? That watching Max and Papa dance around it for weeks wouldn't hurt?"

"I wanted to protect you—"

"Stop saying that!" You catch yourself, lowering your voice again. "Everyone keeps saying they were protecting me. I'm not a child anymore, Lewis. I run part of this team. I handle confidential information every day. I've kept secrets bigger than this."

Understanding crosses his face. "Like Max."

"Yes, like Max." You swallow hard. "You trusted me then. You helped us. Why couldn't you trust me with this?"

"Because this wasn't just my secret to keep." Lewis runs a hand over his face. "There were contracts, negotiations, timing issues. And yes, I wanted to tell you myself, properly. Not have you carry it around for weeks knowing you couldn't talk to anyone about it."

"So instead you let me worry when you weren't responding to messages? Let me think something was wrong? Let Max lie to me?"

"I asked him not to tell you." Lewis reaches for your hand but you pull back. "He wanted to. He hated keeping it from you."

"But he did anyway."

"Because he understands sometimes protecting the people we love means letting them be angry with us." Lewis's voice softens. "You're my family, YN. You're the little sister I never had. Leaving Mercedes… leaving you… it's one of the hardest decisions I've ever made."

You blink back tears, refusing to cry in the garage. "Then why are you?"

"Because sometimes we need to chase new dreams, even when it means leaving safe harbors." He smiles sadly. "You taught me that, actually. When you chose Max despite everything, despite what it could cost you. You taught me that sometimes the scariest choices are the right ones."

"That's different."

"Is it?" Lewis raises an eyebrow. "You took a risk for love. For growth. For what you believed was right for you, even knowing it would hurt people you care about."

You look away, his words hitting too close to home.

"I'm not asking you not to be hurt," he continues. "I'm just asking you not to let that hurt break us. I'm still your Lewis. That doesn't change just because I'm wearing red."

"It feels like everything's changing," you whisper.

"Some things never will." He opens his arms. "Come here, Little Wolff."

This time you don't resist, letting him pull you into a hug. The familiar smell of his cologne brings fresh tears to your eyes.

"I'm still mad at you," you mumble into his chest.

"I know."

"And you better not beat us too badly in that Ferrari."

You feel his laugh rumble. "I'll do my best."

"Lewis?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to miss you so much."

His arms tighten. "I'm not gone yet. We've got a whole season ahead of us. And after… I'm still your big brother. That doesn't change with the color of my race suit."

Over his shoulder, you catch Max watching from the Red Bull garage, a soft smile on his face. He gives you a small nod before turning back to his engineers.

Some things change. Some things stay the same. And sometimes, you realize, holding onto anger hurts more than letting it go.

Miami, 2024

The sun beats down mercilessly as you pace your hotel room, phone clutched in your hand. The notifications won't stop - Instagram, Twitter, all exploding with the same photos. You and Max on his boat in Monaco last weekend, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you, both of you clearly lost in each other.

You'd been so careful for so long. One moment of letting your guard down, and now…

The door opens and Max rushes in, still in his Red Bull gear from practice. "Baby?" His voice is soft with concern.

"Have you seen them?" You hold up your phone, hands trembling. "They're everywhere. Everyone knows. Papa is going to have to address it in the press conference and—"

Max crosses the room in three long strides, taking your face in his hands - just like in the photos, you realize with a jolt. "Breathe," he murmurs. "Just breathe with me."

"But—"

"Breathe first." His thumbs stroke your cheeks. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me."

You follow his lead, matching your breathing to his until the panic starts to recede. Only then does he lead you to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping one arm around you.

"Now," he says, "tell me what you're really afraid of."

"Everything!" You gesture wildly with your free hand. "The media circus, the speculation, the questions about favoritism in the sport, Papa having to defend us publicly, the board's reaction…"

"YN." Max turns you to face him fully. "We knew this would happen eventually. We talked about it."

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." His blue eyes are intense, earnest. "We're not doing anything wrong. We're two adults who love each other. Yes, there will be talk. Yes, there will be questions. But we can handle it." His lips quirk. "We've handled worse."

You lean into him, letting his steady presence ground you. "Papa's press conference is in twenty minutes."

"And he'll handle it like he handles everything - with that terrifying Wolff composure." Max's hand runs soothingly up and down your back. "He loves you, baby. He's not going to let anyone suggest anything improper about us."

"I should be there," you whisper. "I should face it with him."

"No." Max's voice is firm. "Let him handle this part. That's what fathers do - they protect their children, even when their children are grown up and running F1 programs."

Your phone buzzes again - another news alert. Max gently takes it from your hand and sets it aside.

"Remember what you told me?" he asks softly. "That night in Monaco when I was worried about how people would react to us being together again?"

You smile slightly. "I told you that what other people think doesn't matter."

"Exactly." He presses his forehead to yours. "You said that we've earned the right to be happy, that we're not teenagers anymore trying to sneak around. You said we're stronger together than apart."

"Using my own words against me?"

"Always." He kisses you softly. "Because you were right then, and you're still right now. Let them talk. Let them speculate. We know the truth."

Your phone lights up with a livestream notification - the press conference is starting. Max reaches for the remote, turning on the hotel room's TV where it's already being broadcast.

"We can turn it off," he offers, but you shake your head.

"No. I need to see."

You curl into Max's side as the questions start. Your father sits there, calm and collected as ever, fielding questions about strategy and performance. Then:

"Toto, there are photos circulating of your daughter YN with Max Verstappen. Given the rivalry between Mercedes and Red Bull, and Max's history with both Mercedes and your family, do you have any comment?"

The room goes silent. You hold your breath, feeling Max tense beside you.

Your father adjusts his glasses, that familiar gesture that usually precedes something important. "Yes, I do have a comment." His voice is measured but firm. "My daughter is a highly respected professional in this sport, running our F1 Academy program and working tirelessly to create opportunities for young women in motorsport. Her personal life is her own, and she has my full support in all her choices."

"But given the competitive nature of F1—"

"Let me be very clear," Toto interrupts, and you recognize that steel in his voice. "YN has proven herself time and time again. She has earned her position through hard work and dedication. Max Verstappen is one of the most talented drivers of his generation. They are both adults who conduct themselves with integrity and professionalism. Any suggestion otherwise is not only disrespectful but reveals more about the person asking than about them."

Tears blur your vision. Max's arm tightens around you.

"See?" he whispers. "Terrifying Wolff composure."

On screen, your father continues: "My daughter and Max have my blessing and my respect. They have shown wisdom and maturity in handling their relationship alongside their professional responsibilities. Now, unless there are questions about this weekend's race…"

You bury your face in Max's chest, overwhelmed. His hands stroke your hair as he murmurs soft Dutch endearments.

"He defended us," you say wonderingly. "He really defended us."

"Of course he did." Max kisses the top of your head. "He's your father. And…" he hesitates, "I think maybe he's starting to like, a little bit."

You look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "You know he likes you."

"Yeah." Max smiles softly. "He called me yesterday, you know. Said if any reporters gave me trouble about the photos, to refer them to him. Said he'd handle it."

Fresh tears spill over. "He did?"

"Mmhmm." Max wipes your tears with his thumb."Does this mean I can finally kiss you in the paddock?"

You laugh through your tears. "Maybe let's ease them into it?"

"Fine." He sighs dramatically. "But I'm holding your hand in public. No negotiation on that."

"Deal." You curl back into him, feeling the panic from earlier dissolve into something warmer, more certain. "Thank you for being here. For being you."

"Always, baby." Max kisses you again, soft and sweet. "Now, what do you say we give them something else to talk about and go absolutely dominate this race weekend?"

You smile against his lips. "Now that sounds like a plan."

Las Vegas, 2024

The neon lights blur through your tears as you watch the podium ceremony. George and Lewis stand there together, silver suits gleaming under the artificial lights, Mercedes' last 1-2 with this particular lineup.

Your heart feels like it might burst - pride, joy, and melancholy all tangled together. Max clinched his fourth title today, and you couldn't be prouder.

"Look at them," Susie whispers, squeezing your hand. "Our boys."

You can barely speak around the lump in your throat. George looks radiant, his second win of the season perhaps the sweetest. And Lewis… Lewis is beaming with genuine joy for his teammate, even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears. His last podium in Vegas as a Mercedes driver.

Your father stands tall beside you, his usual stoic expression softened by emotion. As the champagne starts flowing, you catch sight of Max making his way toward the Red Bull garage, where you know the championship celebrations are about to begin.

"Go," your father says suddenly.

You turn to him, surprised. "What?"

"Go celebrate with Max." His voice is gentle. "It's his fourth championship. You should be there."

"But…" you glance at the podium, at your Mercedes family celebrating.

"We've shared every celebration with you," Susie says softly. "Let him have this one."

"Are you sure?" You look at your father. "Papa?"

Toto's eyes are warm as he cups your face in his hands. "For three years, you couldn't celebrate with him. Couldn't share his victories. Couldn't be by his side when he achieved his dreams." He kisses your forehead. "Go make up for lost time, Schatz."

"But Lewis and George…"

"Will understand." Toto smiles. "Besides, I think Lewis would be disappointed if you didn't go congratulate your boyfriend on his championship."

As if on cue, Lewis catches your eye from the podium and nods toward the Red Bull garage, mouthing "Go!"

Tears spill over as you hug your parents. "I love you both so much."

"We know," Susie strokes your hair. "Now go. Make your man's celebration complete."

You run through the paddock, your heart pounding. The Red Bull garage is already in full celebration mode when you arrive. Christian sees you first, and instead of any awkwardness, he just smiles and points toward the back room.

You find Max there, surrounded by his team but somehow looking like he's waiting for something - or someone. When he sees you, his entire face lights up.

"Baby," he breathes, and then you're in his arms, his race suit damp with champagne, his heart beating fast against yours.

"Congratulations, four-time world champion," you whisper against his neck.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. "You came."

"Of course I came." You touch his face, memorizing this moment. "Papa and Susie practically pushed me out the door."

Max's eyes widen slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You smile through your tears. "Papa said we had three years of celebrations to make up for."

Something vulnerable crosses Max's face. "I used to dream about this," he admits quietly, despite the noise around you. "Every championship, every win… I'd imagine you here, celebrating with me. But I never thought…"

"That my father would be the one sending me to you?"

"Yeah." Max laughs softly. "Things really have changed, haven't they?"

"For the better." You kiss him softly, not caring who sees. "I'm so proud of you, Max. So incredibly proud."

He presses his forehead to yours. "Stay? Celebrate with us?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away."

"Good." His smile turns mischievous. "Because I have three years of championship celebrations to make up for, and I plan to make this one count."

From somewhere behind you, you hear Jos' voice: "Max! The championship photo!"

"Coming!" Max calls back, then looks at you. "Join us?"

You blink. "In the Red Bull championship photo?"

"Why not?" His eyes are bright with joy and love. "You're part of this story too. Always have been."

The photographer arranges everyone, and Max pulls you close to his side. Here, under the neon lights of Vegas, surrounded by celebrations both here and in the garage next door, you feel the weight of the moment. The past - three years of separation, of watching from afar. The present - standing proudly by his side as he achieves another dream. And the future - stretching out before you both, full of possibilities.

"Ready?" Max whispers in your ear.

You look up at him, this man who never stopped loving you even when the world tried to keep you apart, and smile. "Ready."

The camera flashes, capturing the moment forever - the four-time world champion and the girl who crossed rival lines to love him, surrounded by celebration and joy, making up for all the moments they missed and creating new ones all their own.

In the distance, you hear the Mercedes celebration continuing, George and Lewis' laughter carrying through the night. Two families, two celebrations, and you finally allowed to be part of both.

Melbourne, 2025

"YN, we need to check something at the track," Max says casually as you're getting ready for bed.

"At this hour? It's past midnight."

"Trust me?" He gives you that same boyish grin that still makes your heart skip, even after a decade.

You're both jet-lagged anyway, so you agree. But instead of heading to Albert Park, Max drives to a familiar hotel. Your breath catches when you realize where you are.

"Max…"

"Come on," he takes your hand, leading you through the quiet lobby to the coffee shop where it all began. The lights are dimmed, but it's clearly open - though completely empty.

"How did you…?"

"Being a four-time world champion has some perks," he grins. "Plus, the owner remembered us. Said she never forgot the night the youngest F1 driver and Toto Wolff's daughter had their secret meeting here."

The same table is there, the one where you shared your hot chocolate ten years ago. There's even a steaming mug waiting.

"You were so smug," Max laughs, pulling out your chair. "Letting me ramble about being a driver when you knew exactly who I was."

"You were cute when you were flustered," you tease. "Especially when I dropped my last name."

"I couldn't believe it. Here I was, trying to impress this beautiful girl, and she turned out to be my biggest rival's daughter."

You take a sip from the mug - hot chocolate, just like that night. "Papa wouldn't stop talking about you."

"And now he's my biggest defender," Max shakes his head in wonder. "Remember how scared we were to tell him about us?"

"Worth it though," you squeeze his hand. "Every secret meeting, every careful distance in the paddock, every time we had to pretend we were just friendly acquaintances."

Max's eyes go soft. "You know what I remember most about that first night? You were the first person who didn't treat me like I was either Jos's son or some record-breaking novelty. You just… saw me."

"I still do," you whisper.

He stands suddenly, pulling you up with him. "That night, I was terrified about my first race. Everyone had opinions about whether I deserved to be here. But then there was this girl, sharing her hot chocolate and making me feel like maybe I could actually do this."

"Max…"

He drops to one knee, and your heart stops. "Ten years ago, in this exact spot, I met the love of my life. I didn't know it then, but that girl who kept her name secret until the last possible moment would become my biggest supporter, my best friend, my home."

Through your tears, you see him pull out a ring. "You've been there through everything, YN. Every victory, every defeat. When the pressure got too much, when the critics were too loud - you were my safe place. Just like you were that first night."

"Remember what you told me then? That your intuition said I'd do great?" He laughs softly. "You believed in me before anyone else did. And I want to spend the rest of my life believing in you, supporting you, loving you."

"YN Wolff," his voice cracks slightly. "Will you marry me? Will you keep being my safe place, my biggest supporter, my best friend? Will you let me spend forever trying to make you as happy as you've made me?"

Through your tears, you see the same boy from that late-night coffee shop - still determined, still passionate, still looking at you like you're his whole world. But now he's also the man who's grown with you, fought for you, loved you through everything.

"Yes," you manage, pulling him up to kiss him. "Yes to everything."

As he slides the ring onto your finger, Max pulls you close, and you can smell the same coffee shop scent that surrounded you ten years ago. "Thank you for sharing your hot chocolate that night," he murmurs against your hair.

"Thank you for making me believe in intuition," you reply, feeling the weight of the ring - a promise of all the years to come.

Outside, Melbourne sleeps, just like it did that first night. But now, instead of two strangers sharing a drink and their fears, there's you and Max, sharing a future.

And it feels like coming home.

tags: @mimiteller712 @lydia-demarek, @rory-cakes, @swaggymadi, @chriskevinevans @p7-otterton, @cherrystars81, @whokilledmarlene @lilymaleshka @kodeelynn @formoola1fan @pausmoon @lalala28 @baby-alien11 @allthings-fandoms @downsideup1989 @urbaebarnes @ivegotparticulartaste @liethatyouloveme @codymthepenguin @finn-dot-com @rayaskoalaland @angelluv16 @pourmercymercy0nme @tweetledeedumb @osclerc @scientifichufflepuff @cometpiastri @hobiismyhopeu @monsterdesandia @amyelevenn @damonsalvatorelikessex @rmvb @virtualperfectioncat @emma-chiara @chelle1306 @idontknow0704 @lilypat @elieanana @nothaqks @1800-love-me

but daddy i love him, part one - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc: 17k

folkie radio: HERE. IT. IS. FINALLY !!!!!!!! as i've stated before i'm absolutely terrified of posting this, this is my longest fic ever and different from what i've done before. i know it's a long read but i'm really proud of it and i think it's worth it. IN THIS FIC MORE THAN ANY OTHER. I ENCOURAGE YOU TO LEAVE FEEDBACK.

DISCLAIMER: as stated in the title THIS IS PART ONE!!! part two is ready in my drafts and will be posted shortly (in a week tops). i'll stop talking now. BUCKLE UP AND ENJOY (and please leave feedback okay)

Melbourne, 2015

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour - that strange liminal space between late night and early morning when most reasonable people are asleep. But you've never been great at reasonable, and jet lag has your body clock completely scrambled.

That's how you end up in the hotel's deserted coffee shop at 1 AM, nursing a hot chocolate and trying to calm your nerves about tomorrow.

You're so lost in thought you don't notice someone else enter until they speak.

"They're still open?"

You look up and your heart skips. Of course you recognize him immediately - Max Verstappen, the 17-year-old prodigy your father hasn't stopped talking about for months. "The next big thing," Papa had said, watching testing footage. "He's going to shake up the whole paddock, just watch."

"Sort of," you gesture to your drink, trying to keep your voice casual. "The barista took pity on me. Said she'd make one last drink before closing."

He glances at the now-dark counter and sighs. Up close, he looks even younger than in the photos you've seen, but there's something in his eyes - a fierce determination that makes you understand why everyone's been talking about him.

"Here," you push your barely-touched hot chocolate towards him. "I'm not really drinking it anyway."

He hesitates. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Probably shouldn't have caffeine at this hour anyway."

He sits across from you, taking a careful sip. "Thanks. I'm Max."

I know, you think. Everyone knows. The youngest F1 driver in history, Jos Verstappen's son, the rookie everyone's watching.

"You're not from around here," you note his accent, playing along with the pretense that you don't know exactly who he is.

"Neither are you," he grins, and something warm flutters in your stomach. His smile transforms his whole face, makes him look his age.

"Fair point. Here for the Grand Prix?"

"You could say that." He studies you, and you wonder if he can hear your heart racing. "You?"

"Something like that." You're enjoying this little game more than you probably should.

"Cryptic."

You laugh. "Says the equally cryptic stranger."

"Okay, okay." He takes another sip. "I'm one of the new drivers. Toro Rosso."

You try to hide your smile. You've watched every clip of his testing sessions, heard every conversation your father has had about his potential. "Ah. The youngest F1 driver in history. That must be a lot of pressure."

He shrugs, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of expectations already heavy on him. You know that weight - you've carried your own version of it your whole life.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Scared?"

"No," he answers too quickly, then sighs. "Maybe a little. You won't tell anyone I said that, right?"

There's something vulnerable in his admission that makes your heart ache. Behind all the hype and headlines, he's just a boy on the verge of something enormous.

"Your secret's safe with me." You lean back. "For what it's worth, I think you'll do great."

"You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me."

If only he knew how many hours you'd spent watching his karting videos. How many times you'd heard your father say "That Verstappen boy is going to change everything."

"Let's call it intuition."

He laughs - a genuine, unguarded sound that makes your pulse quicken. "You're different."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Just… different." He finishes the hot chocolate. "Most people, when they find out who I am, they either get weird about it or start asking about Jos."

"Your father?"

He nods, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes - the same shadow you sometimes get when people mention Toto.

"Well, I know a thing or two about father-related pressure, so…"

"Yeah?" He looks interested. "What does your father do?"

You check your watch, knowing it's time to end this little charade. "Oh wow, is that the time? I should probably head up."

"Wait," he stands as you do. "I didn't catch your name."

You pause at the door, turning back with a small smile, savoring what you know will be his reaction. "I'm YN Wolff."

His eyes widen. "Wolff? As in…"

"See you in the paddock, Max Verstappen."

You leave him standing there, but not before catching his surprised laugh. Your heart is racing as you walk away - from the deception, from his smile, from the way his eyes had lit up when he laughed.

The next morning, you spot him in the paddock. He does a double-take when he sees you with the Mercedes team, then grins and shakes his head. You're wearing your team kit now, no more pretending to be just another girl in a hotel coffee shop.

"Cryptic stranger," he mouths at you as he passes.

You just smile, trying to ignore how your stomach flips when he winks at you.

Neither of you could have known then - in that quiet hotel coffee shop at 1 AM - that this was the beginning of something that would change your lives.

Singapore, 2015

The paddock is eerily quiet now, the usual chaos of race day reduced to a whisper of distant maintenance and soft lighting. You're sitting on one of the team benches, the night air cool against your skin. Max is close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the line between friendship and something more feels increasingly blurred.

It wasn't a sudden thing, this connection with Max. It had been a slow burn, a gradual unraveling that began that night in the hotel coffee shop and grew through stolen moments between races, brief conversations in crowded paddocks, and late-night messages that became increasingly frequent.

At first, it was simple curiosity. You'd catch each other's eye across the paddock, exchange a knowing smile. Then came the texts - random observations about races, inside jokes about team dynamics, comments that walked the line between friendly and flirtatious. Max had a way of making you laugh like no one else could, his wit sharp and unexpected.

He nudges you playfully. "So, daughter of the most powerful team principal in Formula 1. Must be interesting."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. "Not as glamorous as you might think."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Try me."

You pause, considering. The weight of your father's reputation is something you've carried your entire life - a constant backdrop to every interaction, every moment.

"Imagine," you say slowly, "having every conversation potentially recorded, every interaction analyzed. One wrong move and it's not just about you, but about your family's reputation."

Max's expression shifts. There's understanding there - he knows something about familial expectations, about the pressure of carrying a name.

"My father," he says quietly, "Jos Verstappen. Not exactly a walk in the park."

The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. These moments have become more frequent - brief windows where the polished racing personas fall away, revealing something raw and real.

"Tell me," you prompt softly.

He takes a deep breath. "Constant pressure. Every race, every test, every moment - it's like I'm living not just for myself, but for some expectation he's created. Sound familiar?"

You laugh, but it's a sound tinged with something harder. Sadness. Recognition. "Absolutely."

Your conversations have been like this lately - layers peeling back, revealing something raw and real beneath the polished exterior of Formula 1.

"Sometimes," Max continues, "I wonder if I'm racing for myself or for the legacy everyone else wants me to create."

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the night. "Little Wolff?"

Lewis approaches, his team kit still impeccable despite the late hour. His eyes narrow when he sees Max, taking in your proximity.

Lewis had been a constant in your life long before Max entered the picture. Since joining Mercedes, he'd taken on a role that was part mentor, part protective older brother. It wasn't an official designation, but in the Mercedes family, it might as well have been law.

Lewis knew everything about you - your hopes, your fears and everything in between. He was more than just your father's driver. He was family.

"Oh," Lewis says, a mix of surprise and something else - protection, wariness. "Verstappen."

Max stands immediately. "I was just leaving," he says quickly, a touch of nervousness breaking through his usual confidence. "See you around."

As Max walks away, Lewis turns to you, his protective big brother persona fully activated. "What," he says slowly, "was that about?"

You start walking together, the paddock lights casting long shadows. Lewis' stride is purposeful, matching yours.

"Nothing," you say, but the word sounds unconvincing even to your own ears, "He's my friend."

"Friend," he says, uncertainty in his voice, "Just be careful, okay? Things are never that simple in this paddock" he'd said, and you knew he meant more than just about Max.

You said nothing. But you heard him. You always did.

Barcelona, 2016

The champagne sparkles in the late afternoon sun as you watch from a secluded corner of the paddock. You smile as you watch Max on that podium - the youngest winner in Formula 1 history. Your smile is wide, uncontrolled, and you're grateful for the relative privacy of your spot. If anyone noticed that your eyes never left Max, that your smile was meant only for him, they didn't say.

You remember the first time you saw him race, really race - not just in videos or testing. The raw talent, the fearlessness that made your breath catch. Over the past year, you'd watched him grow from that confident teenager in the Melbourne coffee shop into someone who commanded respect on track. And somewhere along the way, between stolen moments in the paddock and late-night conversations, he'd become so much more than just another driver.

The past year had been a dance of almost-moments and careful distances. Shared glances across crowded rooms, text messages that made you smile at 3 AM, touches that lingered just a second too long. You'd both known the complications, the impossibility of it all - the Mercedes team principal's daughter and Red Bull's rising star. It was like a modern Romeo and Juliet, except instead of warring families, it was competing Formula 1 teams.

Later that evening, you stand in your father's office doorway, heart hammering but determined. Toto is absorbed in post-race papers, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the formidable team principal even hours after the race.

"Papa?"

He looks up, his expression softening slightly at the sight of you. "Yes, Schatz?"

"I'm going out," you say, trying to keep your voice casual while mentally rehearsing your prepared explanation.

Toto's eyebrows rise slightly. "Out?"

"With some friends," you elaborate, grateful for years of practice at maintaining your composure under his scrutiny. "To celebrate the race."

He sets his papers down, removing his glasses. "Friends from the team?"

Your heart skips. "Just… friends from the paddock," you say carefully. "Daniel invited me."

"Ricciardo?" His tone sharpens slightly.

"He's always been nice to me," you reason, which isn't a lie. Daniel has been a friend since his early days, always treating you like a friend rather than just the boss' daughter.

Toto studies you for a long moment, and you force yourself to meet his gaze steadily, even as your pulse races. You've always been close to your father - he's been your hero, your guide, your biggest supporter. The weight of potentially disappointing him sits heavy in your chest.

"Be careful," he finally says, though his tone suggests he's not entirely convinced. "You know how complicated things can be in this world."

"I know, Papa," you say softly. "I'll be careful. Promise."

Getting into the Red Bull celebration is easier than expected, thanks to Daniel's help. He meets you at a side entrance, his trademark grin wider than usual.

"Looking good, Wolff," he winks, pulling you into a quick hug. "Though I'm pretty sure your dad would kill me if he knew I was helping you sneak in."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," you say, trying to ignore the guilt that accompanies the words.

"Just…" Daniel's expression turns serious for a moment. "Be careful, yeah? With Max. He's my teammate and you're like my sister, and I don't want either of you getting hurt."

You're saved from responding by the noise of the party as he leads you inside. The atmosphere is electric - the joy of Max's first win filling the air along with music and laughter.

When Max spots you, his eyes widen, champagne glass freezing halfway to his lips. The surprise on his face quickly melts into something softer, more private. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over, that familiar smirk playing on his lips - the one that never fails to make your heart skip.

"Should I be worried about Mercedes spies in our midst?" he teases, but his eyes are soft, drinking you in.

"You know me," you counter, matching his playful tone while trying to ignore how good he looks in his race winner's shirt, "I live for trouble."

"That you do, Wolff." He steps closer, just slightly, but enough to make your breath catch. "I didn't think you'd come."

"And miss your first win celebration? Never." You mean it to sound light, teasing, but your voice comes out softer, more sincere than intended.

"Still can't believe it," he says, shaking his head with a boyish grin that makes him look his age for once. "My first win."

"I can," you reply, taking a sip of champagne. "I've seen how you drive. It was only a matter of time."

He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. "You've been watching me drive, then?"

"Someone has to keep an eye on the competition," you tease, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"Is that what I am? Competition?" He moves closer, and suddenly the music seems far away.

"Among other things." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.

The conversation flows easily between you, as it always has. You talk about the race, about his incredible overtakes, about the moment he realized he was going to win. His eyes light up when he describes the feeling of crossing the finish line, and you find yourself caught between admiring his passion and getting lost in the way his hands move as he talks.

As the night progresses, the party gets louder, more crowded. Max notices you glancing around at the growing crowd.

"Want to get some air?" he asks, nodding toward a door that leads to a quieter area.

You follow him to a private terrace overlooking the city. The music is muffled here, and the night air is cool on your skin. You lean against the railing, city lights twinkling below.

"Better?" he asks, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Much." You turn to face him, drawn in by the way the lights play across his features. "Though I have to say, you throw quite a party for a rookie winner."

He laughs, the sound low and warm. "Rookie? I've been racing since before I could walk."

"Oh right, I forgot - Max Verstappen, born in a go-kart," you tease, making him smile wider.

"You're impossible, you know that?" He shakes his head, but his eyes are fond.

"Part of my charm," you counter, feeling bold in the privacy of the moment.

"Is that what you call it?" He's even closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"Would you rather I was predictable?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging.

"Never." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down your spine. "Predictable is boring. And you, YN Wolff, are anything but boring."

The tension between you is electric, years of carefully maintained distance crumbling in this quiet moment. Your heart is racing so fast you wonder if he can hear it.

"Well," you say, stepping into his space until there's barely a breath between you, "I think the winner deserves a reward."

Before you can second-guess yourself, you're kissing him. It's everything and nothing like you imagined - soft at first, tentative, like you're both afraid of breaking something precious. Then his hand comes up to cup your face, and the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. You can taste champagne on his lips, feel the solid warmth of him against you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world spins around you.

It's a perfect moment, suspended in time, until he pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

"You're trouble, Wolff," he murmurs against your lips, but he's smiling that smile that makes your heart flip. "Beautiful trouble."

"Scared?" you challenge softly, echoing your first conversation in Melbourne.

"Terrified," he admits, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "But in a good way."

You stay at the party longer than you should, caught in Max's orbit. Every smile, every touch, every shared look feels charged with possibility. But reality crashes back hours later when you return.

Your dad is waiting, his expression thunderous in a way you've rarely seen directed at you. Your stomach drops as soon as you see him, the lingering warmth from Max's kisses turning to ice in your veins.

"Would you like to explain," he says slowly, each word precise and controlled, "why did I receive a call informing me that my daughter was at a Red Bull celebration?"

"Papa, I-" you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture.

"Don't." His voice is hard. "Don't try to fool me. I've seen you with Max Verstappen."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. You want to defend yourself, explain that Max isn't just the Red Bull driver he sees, that there's more to him.

"Do you have any idea," he continues, "what position this puts me in? Puts the team in?"

"It's not about the teams," you say quietly, finding your voice. "It's just-"

"Just what?" he challenges. "Just you and him? Nothing is ever just anything in Formula 1, YN. Every action has consequences. Every relationship has implications."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "This sport isn't about fair. It's about winning. About loyalty. About trust." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "How can I trust you to put the team first when you're sneaking around with our biggest rival?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I would never betray the team," you whisper, hurt that he could even think that.

"Maybe not intentionally," he says, his voice softening slightly. "But this… whatever this is with Max Verstappen… it can't continue. I won't tell you again. Stay away from him."

You want to argue more, to make him understand. But you recognize the finality in your father's tone, the immovable force that has made him such a successful team principal. In this world of racing and rivalry, some lines aren't meant to be crossed.

As you leave, you touch your lips, still feeling the ghost of Max's kiss. Your phone buzzes - a message from Max: "Worth the trouble?"

You stare at the screen, tears threatening to fall. Sometimes the biggest crashes in Formula 1 aren't on the track at all. Sometimes they're in the space between what your heart wants and what the sport demands.

Germany, 2016

The German summer air is thick with tension. You can feel it crackling through the paddock like electricity before a storm. Nico and Lewis' rivalry has turned the Mercedes garage into a pressure cooker, and your father's stress is palpable. Being around him feels like walking on eggshells, which makes your secret meetings with Max even more dangerous.

You've gotten good at this dance over the past few months - stolen moments between practice sessions, hidden corners of the paddock, coded messages about "casual meetings" that are anything but casual. Every stolen kiss feels like a victory and a risk all at once.

The sun is setting over Hockenheim when you slip behind the Red Bull motorhome, your heart racing with the familiar mix of excitement and fear. Max is already there, leaning against the wall with that cocky smile that still makes your stomach flip.

"Cutting it close, Wolff," he murmurs as you approach. "Your father's been prowling the paddock all day."

"Worried?" you tease, even as you glance around to ensure you're alone.

His answer is to pull you against him, one hand sliding to your waist while the other cups your face. "About your father? Always. About this? Never."

The kiss is heated from the start - months of practice have taught you both exactly how to make each other breathless. His thumb traces your jawline as he deepens the kiss, and you press closer, fingers curling into his team shirt. You love how solid he feels against you, how his breath catches when you bite gently at his lower lip.

"You're going to get me in trouble," he whispers against your mouth, but his smile suggests he doesn't mind at all.

"You love trouble," you remind him, trailing kisses along his jaw.

His hands tighten on your waist. "I love-" he starts, but cuts himself off, choosing instead to capture your lips again in a kiss that makes you forget everything else.

You lose track of time, lost in the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he whispers your name like a prayer. It's dangerous and perfect and everything you shouldn't want but can't resist.

A sound makes you both freeze. You pull apart quickly, straightening your clothes, but it's too late.

Jos Verstappen stands at the corner of the motorhome, his expression dark and unreadable. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him.

"I… I should go," you manage, your voice shaky. Max's hand brushes yours briefly - a small comfort - before you hurry past his father, avoiding his stern gaze.

Behind you, you can hear Jos' voice, low and harsh in Dutch, but you don't stop to listen. Your heart is pounding as you make your way back to the paddock, wondering if this is the moment everything falls apart.

Max stands his ground as his father's disapproval fills the space between them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jos demands in Dutch, his voice controlled but sharp. "The Wolff girl? Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not what you think-" Max starts, but Jos cuts him off.

"It's exactly what I think. You're letting yourself get distracted. By a Mercedes girl, no less. Toto Wolff's daughter?" Jos steps closer, his presence intimidating despite Max now being taller than him. "You're just starting to prove yourself in Formula 1. This is when you need to focus more than ever."

"I am focused," Max argues. "My results prove that."

"For now." Jos' voice turns cold. "But girls like that, from families like that - they're nothing but distractions. She'll get in your head, make you soft. And then what? You think Toto Wolff wants his daughter with a Red Bull driver? You think this ends well?"

Max clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to defend you, to explain that you're different, that you understand the sport as well as he does. But he knows his father won't listen.

"Stay away from her," Jos says finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Focus on what matters. On winning and being champion. That's what we've worked for all these years. Don't throw it away for some girl."

The words hit harder than Max wants to admit, echoing his own doubts, his own fears about what this thing with you means. But he can't forget the way you look at him like you see past the racer, past the name, to who he really is.

Jos leaves him there in the growing darkness, with only the weight of expectations and the lingering taste of your kiss on his lips.

Monaco, May 2017

Another year, another dance of stolen moments and secret smiles. If anything, the warnings and opposition have only made whatever this is between you and Max more intense. Like a forbidden drug, each stolen moment leaves you craving more, even as the risks grow higher.

"This is a terrible idea," Max whispers as you pull him through your back door, "Your dad is literally upstairs."

"He's dead asleep," you assure him, carefully closing the door. "He took sleeping pills for his flight tomorrow. Besides, he sleeps like the dead anyway."

Max still looks like he's ready to bolt at any second. "YN, if he catches me here-"

"He won't." You tug him closer by his shirt. "Unless you keep talking so loud."

He glances nervously at the stairs. "Your room is up there? Past his?"

"Scared, Verstappen?"

"Terrified, actually." But he follows you anyway, both of you carefully avoiding the creaky third step you'd mapped out years ago during teenage sneaking attempts.

You're almost at your door when Max freezes. "Was that-"

"Just the house settling," you whisper, but your heart is racing too. "Come on, we're almost-"

A door opens down the hall.

Max actually whimpers. You shove him into your room just as Toto's voice calls out, "YN? Is that you?"

"Just getting water, Papa!" you call back, praying your voice sounds normal. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine! Those pills should be kicking in, right?"

A yawn. "Ja, starting to feel them. Goodnight, Schatz."

"Night, Papa!"

You wait until you hear his door close before slipping into your room. You find Max standing perfectly still in the middle of the floor, looking absolutely terrified.

"I think I'm having a heart attack," he announces in a whisper. "I'm actually having a heart attack. I can see the headlines now: 'F1 Driver Dies of Fear in Team Principal's House.'"

You try not to laugh. "You're being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" His voice rises slightly before he catches himself. "YN, your father was ten feet away from me. Ten feet! Do you know what he would do to me if he found me here?"

"Well, first he'd probably have a heart attack himself-"

"Not helping!"

"Then probably murder you-"

"Still not helping!"

"And Lewis would hide the body-"

"Why did I agree to this?" He runs his hands through his hair. "I'm a professional athlete. I have championships to win. I can't die in Toto Wolff's house because his daughter is too pretty to say no to."

You wrap your arms around his neck, grinning. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're trying to kill me." But his hands settle on your waist automatically. "If your father walks in right now-"

"He won't."

"But if he does-"

"Max." You kiss him softly. "Stop talking about my father when you're in my bedroom."

"Missed you," he murmurs against your mouth, hands already sliding under your shirt. "Watching you in the paddock all day, not being able to touch you…"

You smile against his lips. "Poor baby. Must be so hard being professional."

He responds by lifting you up, making you laugh as he carries you toward your bed. "You have no idea."

Hours later, you're tangled in your sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. The city's lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older than his twenty years.

"We should sleep," you say, even as you press closer to him. "You have meetings tomorrow."

"Meetings are overrated," he mumbles into your hair, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Says the guy who's already breaking records." Your fingers trail down his chest. "Future world champion can't skip meetings."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Future world champion can do whatever he wants."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. But morning comes too soon, sunlight streaming through your windows and your alarm blaring way too early.

Max groans, burying his face in your neck. "Five more minutes."

"You said that twenty minutes ago," you remind him, even as you run your fingers through his hair. "You're already going to be late, and my father is still next room, remember?"

He lifts his head, giving you that boyish grin that still makes your heart skip. "Worth it."

But reality can't be held at bay forever. Max rushes to get dressed, stealing kisses between looking for his scattered clothes. You watch from your bed, sheet wrapped around you, trying to memorize how he looks in the morning light.

"Tonight?" he asks, pausing at your bedroom door.

"Text me," you say, and he gives you one last smile before he's gone.

Max is still smiling when he arrives at the Red Bull office, nearly an hour late for his morning meeting. The smile dies on his lips when he sees his father waiting outside, arms crossed and expression thunderous.

"You were with that girl weren't you? Nothing's changed" Jos demands without preamble, switching to Dutch.

"I was just-"

"Don't lie to me." Jos' voice is low, dangerous. "Are you trying to destroy everything we've worked for?"

"I'm not destroying anything," Max argues, frustration creeping into his voice. "My results-"

"Your results could be better," Jos cuts him off. "You could be focused on becoming champion instead of sneaking around with Toto Wolff's daughter. Do you think this is a game?"

"It's not a game-"

"Then what is it?" Jos steps closer, his presence still intimidating despite Max being taller now. "Love?" He spits the word like it's poison. "You think love wins championships? You think that girl is worth throwing away everything we've sacrificed for?"

Max clenches his jaw, the weight of years of his father's expectations pressing down on him. "I can handle both-"

"No." Jos' voice is final, absolute. "You can't. And you won't. This ends now. Cut her off."

"Or what?" The words slip out before Max can stop them, a rare challenge to his father's authority.

Jos' eyes turn cold. "Or I'll make sure Toto knows exactly what his precious daughter has been up to. How do you think that ends for her? For her relationship with her father? For her position in the paddock?"

The threat hangs in the air between them. Max feels his stomach turn to ice, knowing his father well enough to know this isn't an empty threat.

"Your choice, Max," Jos says, already turning away. "But make it soon. This distraction ends now, or there will be consequences. For everyone."

Max stands there long after his father leaves, the taste of your kisses still on his lips, now bitter with the weight of choices.

Monza, 2017

The Italian late summer heat feels suffocating as you finally corner Max behind the Ferrari motorhome - neutral territory. He's been dodging you since Hungary, responding to texts with one-word answers before stopping altogether. You've seen that look in his eyes when he spots you in the paddock - the way he quickly turns away, finds somewhere else to be.

"Hey stranger," you say, aiming for casual despite your racing heart. "Been a while."

He looks everywhere but at you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "YN…" There's a warning in his voice that you choose to ignore.

"I've missed you," you continue, taking a step closer. "We haven't talked since-"

"We can't do this anymore." His words cut through the air like a knife.

You freeze, the practiced speech you'd prepared dying in your throat. "What?"

"This." He gestures vaguely between you, still not meeting your eyes. "Whatever this is. It has to stop."

"Just like that?" Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "After everything?"

"I need to focus on racing." He sounds like he's reciting a rehearsed speech. "Just racing. No distractions."

The word 'distraction' hits you like a physical blow. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"

Finally, he looks at you, and for a moment you see something crack in his carefully constructed facade - pain, regret, something more. But then it's gone, replaced by a coldness you've never seen directed at you before.

"This was never going to work," he says flatly. "We both knew that. It'll only cause trouble - for you, for me, for our families. It's better to end it now."

You think about all the stolen moments, the late-night conversations, the way he'd look at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. All reduced to 'trouble'.

"Fine." You straighten your spine, channeling every ounce of Wolff pride you possess. "See you around, Max Verstappen."

You turn and walk away before he can respond, each step measured and controlled despite feeling like your world is crumbling. You make it all the way to the Mercedes motorhome before the tears start to fall.

You duck into what you think is an empty corner, trying to get yourself under control, when a familiar voice makes you jump.

"Little Wolff?"

Lewis stands there, concern etched across his features. He's known you since you were a kid, has watched you grow up in the paddock. In many ways, he's your brother.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, wiping at your eyes. "Just… allergies."

"Right," he says softly, not believing you for a second. "Because Monza is famous for its allergies."

A sob escapes before you can stop it, and suddenly Lewis is pulling you into a hug. You break down against his chest, all your carefully maintained composure crumbling.

"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing your back. "What happened? Who do I need to beat up?"

You laugh wetly against his shoulder. "Nobody. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

"You're one of the smartest people I know," he counters. "So whatever it is, it's not stupid."

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. "I just… I thought…" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly I was wrong."

Understanding dawns in Lewis's eyes. He's not blind - he's probably noticed more than most about your relationship with Max, even if he's never mentioned it.

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people make choices out of fear rather than what they really want. Especially in this world."

"He said I was a distraction," you whisper, the words still burning.

Lewis's expression hardens slightly. "He's young. And scared. And probably being pulled in a hundred different directions." He pauses. "Doesn't make it hurt any less though, does it?"

You shake your head, fresh tears threatening to fall.

"Come here." He pulls you into another hug. "For what it's worth, I think he's an idiot. But maybe this is for the best, he's not good for you."

You stay there for a while, letting Lewis comfort you, grateful for his presence and his wisdom. But you can't shake the image of Max's face, that moment when his mask slipped, and you'd seen the pain in his eyes. You wonder if Lewis is right - if this is really about fear rather than feeling.

But in the end, you suppose it doesn't matter. A choice is still a choice, even if it's made for the wrong reasons.

Monaco, Summer 2018

The bass thrums through your body as you down another shot, Lando cheering beside you. The club is packed - all of Monaco's elite young crowd mixed with racing's next generation. Your father would have an aneurysm if he saw you here, but that's half the fun.

"Another!" Lando shouts over the music, already signaling the bartender. He's technically too young to be here, but money and fame open most doors in Monaco.

"You're a bad influence, Norris," you laugh, but you don't stop him.

"Me?" He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm an angel. You're the one corrupting the youth."

"You're literally younger than me."

"Details, details." He hands you another shot. "To being young and irresponsible!"

You clink glasses with him, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down. This is what you needed - no paddock politics, no disappointed looks from your father, no thoughts of…

"Oh shit," Lando says suddenly, following your gaze. "We can move to another section if you want."

Max has just walked in with a group of friends. He looks good - he always looks good - in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. Your stomach does that familiar flip before you forcefully squash it down.

"Why should we move?" you say, perhaps a bit too loudly. "We were here first."

Lando gives you that knowing look he's perfected over the past year of friendship. "YN…"

"Don't start," you warn him. "I'm fine. It's fine. Ancient history."

"Right," he drawls. "That's why you drunk-called me crying about him last month."

"I did not!"

"'Lando,'" he mimics in a high voice, "'why doesn't he want meeeee?'"

You shove him playfully. "I hate you."

"You love me." He grins. "I'm your favorite driver now."

"You're not even in F1 yet."

"Yet!" He wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Next year though. Then I'll be beating your ex's ass on track."

"He's not my ex," you mutter. "We were never actually together, remember?"

"Right, just sneaking around making out for like a year and a half. Totally casual."

You're about to retort when movement catches your eye. Max is at the bar now, and there's a girl with him. Tall, blonde, model-beautiful. She's touching his arm, laughing at something he's saying, and he's leaning in close to hear her over the music.

"YN…" Lando's voice has that warning tone.

"I need another drink," you announce, turning back to the bar.

Three shots later, you're on the dance floor with Lando, trying to forget the scene playing out at the bar. But your eyes keep drifting over, watching as Max gets closer to the blonde, his hand now on her waist.

"Stop torturing yourself," Lando says in your ear.

"I'm not-" you start, but the words die in your throat as you watch Max lean down and kiss the girl.

Something inside you snaps. You scan the crowd, spotting a guy who's been eyeing you all night. He's good-looking enough - dark hair, nice smile, probably a trust fund kid like half the people here.

"YN," Lando tries to grab your arm, but you're already moving.

You approach the guy with purpose, channeling every ounce of confidence the alcohol has given you. "Want to dance?"

He looks surprised but pleased. "Absolutely."

You let him pull you close, perhaps closer than necessary. You can feel eyes on you - Lando's concerned ones, and maybe, just maybe, someone else's too.

The guy - you think he said his name was Alex or Alec - is a good dancer. His hands are respectful but firm on your hips as you move to the music. When he leans down to kiss you, you let him.

It's not a bad kiss. He knows what he's doing. But he doesn't taste right, doesn't feel right. His hands aren't calloused from racing. He doesn't smell like motor oil and expensive cologne. He's not… him

But you kiss him anyway. When you finally pull back from the kiss, Lando is at your elbow.

"I think we should head out," he says, glancing meaningfully at your nearly empty glass.

"I'm having fun," you protest, even as the room spins slightly. Alex-or-Alec's hands are still on your waist.

"YN." Lando's voice is firmer now. "Come on."

You turn back to Alex-or-Alec, pulling him down for another kiss. It's messy and desperate and you can taste the expensive whiskey on his breath. You're proving something, you think, though you're not sure what or to whom anymore.

Through the haze of alcohol and bass-heavy music, you hear a familiar voice.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Max is standing there, his face tight with anger. The blonde from earlier is nowhere to be seen, but there's another girl hovering behind him - brunette this time.

"Having fun," you say sweetly, pressing closer to Alex-or-Alec. "You should try it. Oh wait, you already are."

"You don't even know this guy," Max snaps.

"His name is Alex." You pause. "Or Alec."

"It's Adrian," the guy supplies helpfully.

"Whatever." Max steps forward. "You're drunk. You need to go home."

"And you need to mind your own business." You turn to Adrian with an exaggerated smile. "Want to get out of here?"

"YN," Lando pleads. "Don't."

"Sure," Adrian grins, clearly oblivious to the tension. "My place isn't far."

Max moves so fast you barely register it, suddenly between you and Adrian. "She's not going anywhere with you."

"Excuse me?" You push at his chest. "You don't get to decide that. You lost that right when you-" You cut yourself off, aware you're saying too much.

"When I what?" Max challenges, his eyes dark. "When I did exactly what you're doing right now?"

"No," you laugh, but it comes out bitter. "When you decided that sneaking around was fine until it wasn't. When you started showing up to every event with a new girl on your arm. When you-"

"YN," Lando tugs at your arm. "Not here."

You shake him off. "Go back to your girlfriend, Max. Or girlfriends. I lost count tonight."

"You're being ridiculous."

"And you're being a hypocrite." You grab Adrian's hand. "Let's go."

Max's hand closes around your wrist. "You're not leaving with him."

"Get your hands off me." Your voice is ice cold. "You don't get to play protective boyfriend when it suits you. Go find another model to add to your collection."

Something flashes in his eyes - hurt maybe, or anger. "Fine. Do what you want. You always do anyway."

"Exactly. I do what I want." You turn to Adrian. "Sorry, but I've changed my mind. Turns out I have standards."

You shake off Max's grip and push past him, heading for the exit. Lando hurries after you, already calling for a car.

"YN, wait-" Max calls after you.

"Go to hell, Verstappen."

Outside, the Monaco air is cool against your flushed skin. Lando wraps his jacket around your shoulders as tears start to fall.

"I hate him," you whisper.

"No, you don't." Lando pulls you into a hug. "That's the problem."

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows feels like actual daggers in your skull. You're nursing your third cup of coffee, wearing sunglasses indoors like the walking cliché you are, when your father's voice cuts through your hangover haze.

"Would you care to explain these?"

Toto slides his phone across the breakfast table. Your stomach drops as you see the photos - you dancing with Adrian, Max confronting you, your tearful exit with Lando. The Monaco nightlife paparazzi are relentless, and you were too drunk to notice them.

"Papa, I-"

"No." His voice is quiet but firm. That's worse than yelling. "This stops now, YN. This... rebellion phase of yours. It stops."

Lewis and Valtteri are suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates. Susie, your stepmother, places a gentle hand on your father's arm, but doesn't contradict him.

"It wasn't-"

"Wasn't what?" Toto's accent gets thicker when he's angry. "Wasn't you, drunk in a club, making headlines again? Wasn't you creating another PR nightmare for the team?"

Your head throbs. "I'm not part of the team."

"No? Then why does every tabloid headline read 'Mercedes Boss's Daughter in Club Drama with Red Bull Star'?"

You wince. Both at his words and at the volume.

"The drinking, the parties, the public scenes - it needs to stop." He leans forward. "You're not just any teenager, liebling. Everything you do reflects on this family, on this team."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair." He softens slightly. "I know this past year has been... difficult."

You feel Lewis shift beside you. He knows - of course he knows. He's probably the only one at this table who knows the full story of you and Max.

"But this self-destructive behavior cannot continue." Your father's voice is final. "You're grounded."

"I'm twenty one!"

"And living on my yacht, in my house, representing my name." He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer to go back to boarding school?"

The threat lands. You sink lower in your chair.

"No, sir."

"Good." He turns to his own coffee. "No more clubs. No more parties. And for God's sake, no more scenes with Max Verstappen."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know without looking it's probably Lando checking on you. Or worse, Max.

"YN." Your father's voice draws your attention back. "I mean it. Whatever is going on between you two... it ends now."

"Nothing is going on," you mutter.

"Then it should be easy to maintain distance."

Susie finally speaks up. "Why don't you come work with me for a while? Help with the She Moves Forward initiative?"

You know it's a peace offering - a way to keep you busy and out of trouble. But the thought of structured days and responsible tasks makes your hangover worse.

"Fine," you concede, if only to end this conversation.

Lewis nudges you under the table - a small gesture of solidarity. Valtteri offers a sympathetic smile.

"Good." Your father stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have damage control to handle."

After he leaves, Lewis slides a bottle of Advil towards you. "Here. You look like death."

"Thanks," you grumble, dry-swallowing two pills.

"He's right, you know," Lewis says quietly. "About Max."

"Not you too."

"YN." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. The drinking, the acting out - it's not going to make it hurt less."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He stands, squeezing your shoulder. "Just... think about what you're really angry at. Because I don't think it's your father, or the team, or even Max."

"I'm going back to bed," you announce to no one in particular.

"Honey," Susie calls after you. "This doesn't have to be a punishment. Maybe it's an opportunity."

You pause at the door. "For what?"

"To figure out who you are without all the drama. Without..." she hesitates. "Without defining yourself by who you're trying to hurt."

You think about Max's face last night, about the girls he was with, about how none of it made you feel better.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "Maybe."

The air feels thick and oppressive as you stumble out of another club, the world spinning slightly. You're not entirely sure how you ended up here - after the disastrous night a few weeks ago, you'd promised yourself (and your father) that you were done with the party scene. But one text from Lando about needing to "get out" had quickly spiraled.

Except Lando had bailed last minute with food poisoning, and you'd gone anyway. Because you're nothing if not stubborn.

The familiar figure of Charles Leclerc materializes beside you. "YN? Are you okay?"

"Charles!" You throw your arms around him, nearly losing your balance. "My favorite Ferrari boy!"

He steadies you with practiced ease. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Lost count," you admit cheerfully. "But it's fine. Everything's fine."

Charles sighs, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Lewis."

"No!" You grab for his phone but miss entirely. "Not Lewis. He'll tell Papa."

"Good. Maybe he should."

You slump against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Everyone's so disappointed in me."

Charles' expression softens as he puts the phone to his ear. "We're worried, not disappointed."

Twenty minutes later, you hear the distinctive rumble of Lewis's car. He jumps out, concern etched on his face.

"YN? What were you thinking?"

"That alcohol makes feelings go away?" you offer weakly.

Lewis turns to Charles. "Thanks for calling me."

"Of course. Take care of her."

The ride home is quiet until Lewis finally speaks. "This has to stop."

"I know," you whisper.

"No, I mean it really has to stop. You're hurting yourself, and for what? To prove something to Max?"

"It's not about Max."

"Isn't it?"

You stare out the window, tears forming. "I need to get away from here."

"What do you mean?"

"The paddock, the drama, all of it." You turn to him. "I can't keep doing this. Being the Mercedes princess, the ex-whatever of Max Verstappen. I need… space."

Lewis is quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad idea. Take some time, figure out who you are away from all this."

"Will you help me convince Papa?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'll help. But you have to promise me - no more nights like this."

You nod, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. "I promise."

As Lewis helps you out of the car, you freeze. Toto is standing in the doorway, still in his sleeping clothes. Your stomach drops and fresh tears spring to your eyes - this is it, the final disappointment.

But instead of the anger you expect, your father simply opens his arms.

You practically fall into them, suddenly sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he soothes, holding you tight like he did when you were little. "You're alright, liebling. You're alright."

"I can't-" you hiccup against his chest. "I can't do this anymore. I need to get out of here."

"Out of where?"

"Monaco. The paddock. All of it." You pull back slightly to look at him. "I need space. To figure out who I am without… without all of this."

Toto exchanges a look with Lewis over your head. "I know," he says softly, surprising you. "I've seen it coming."

"You have?"

He cups your face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. "You're my daughter. Of course I have. I just needed you to realize it yourself."

"I'm tired, Papa," you whisper. "Of being the Mercedes princess, of the gossip, of seeing…" You trail off, but they all know what you mean. Who you mean.

"Then go," he says simply. "Find yourself. The paddock will still be here when you're ready."

"You're not mad?"

He laughs softly. "Oh, we'll discuss tonight's adventure when you're less drunk. But no, liebling. I'm not mad. Sometimes we need to step away to see things clearly."

Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We've got your back, little Wolff. Whatever you need."

Fresh tears fall as you're overwhelmed by their support. "I love you both so much."

"And we love you," Toto kisses your forehead. "Now, let's get you to bed. We can make plans tomorrow."

As they help you inside, you feel lighter somehow. Like maybe this isn't an ending, but a beginning. A chance to become someone new - or maybe to find who you've been all along, underneath the labels and expectations.

Austria, 2020

The familiar scent of rubber and fuel hits you as you step into the Mercedes garage for the first time in almost two years, your heart doing a little flip at being back after so long. Everything looks exactly the same, yet somehow different - or maybe you're the one who's different now.

"Little Wolff!" Lewis' voice booms across the garage before you're engulfed in a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off your feet. "Finally back where you belong!"

You laugh, squeezing him back just as tight. "You literally saw me at Christmas, Lewis!"

"That's not the same and you know it," he sets you down but keeps his hands on your shoulders, studying your face. "Christmas is family time. This," he gestures around the garage, "this is home."

Looking at him now, you can see the genuine joy in his eyes. Lewis has always been your second father, and these past two years, he's been your biggest cheerleader from afar, always sending encouraging messages when you were climbing mountains in Nepal or teaching English in Thailand.

"She's hardly been here five minutes and you're already monopolizing her, Lewis?" Your father's voice carries that familiar warmth that makes your chest tight with happiness. Your relationship with him has transformed during your time away - all those long phone calls and video chats where you really talked, not just about racing but about life, dreams, fears. Distance made you both realize what you'd been missing.

"Papa," you smile, walking into his open arms. He holds you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Welcome home, liebling," he murmurs. "The garage hasn't been the same without you."

"I missed you too," you say, then pull back with a grin. "But I need to go see someone else before he thinks I've forgotten him entirely."

Toto laughs. "Go on then. Lando's been asking about you non-stop since he heard you were coming back."

You practically skip your way to the McLaren garage, your heart light. The past two years have given you perspective, helped you understand yourself better. You're not the angry, lost girl who fled Monaco anymore. You're stronger now, more sure of who you are outside of being "Toto Wolff's daughter" or "Max Verstappen's conquest."

"YN!" Lando's screech of delight echoes through the garage as he launches himself at you. "You're back, you're finally back!"

"I missed you so much, you idiot," you ruffle his hair, noting how he's grown even more into himself. He's not the shy rookie anymore - he's coming into his own as a driver.

"Group hug!" Carlos appears, wrapping his long arms around both of you. "Welcome back, pequeña. It's been too quiet without you here to keep this one in line."

"Oi!" Lando protests, but he's beaming.

You're in the middle of telling them about your adventures in Japan when movement catches your eye. Your words trail off as you see him - Max, walking past the garage with Christian. He's filled out more, shoulders broader, face more mature. Your heart does that familiar stutter-step it always did around him.

Two years haven't completely erased the memory of his hands on your skin, his laugh against your neck, the way he used to look at you like you were his entire world. First loves leave permanent marks, and Max Verstappen had branded himself onto your heart when you were both too young to understand the weight of it all.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, and for a moment, your eyes lock. There's something there - recognition, remembrance, maybe even regret. You see him swallow hard, his step faltering just slightly. But neither of you moves to bridge the gap.

You turn back to Lando and Carlos, forcing a smile, but your mind is still with that brief moment of eye contact. You're not that lovesick teenager anymore, but part of you wonders if you'll ever fully get over Max Verstappen. If anyone ever really gets over their first love, or if they just learn to live with the echo of what could have been.

"YN?" Lando's voice brings you back to the present. "You okay?"

You look at your friend's concerned face and give him a genuine smile this time. "Yeah, I am. Just… remembering."

Carlos squeezes your shoulder knowingly. "The past is the past, si? You're here now, that's what matters."

You nod, grateful for their understanding. You're not the same person who left two years ago, running from heartbreak and confusion. You're stronger now, wiser. Ready to write a new chapter.

Even if sometimes, just sometimes, you still feel the ghost of an old love story tugging at your heart.

Barcelona, 2020

The Barcelona night is warm and heavy with memories as you sit at the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Daniel's telling some ridiculous story about a kangaroo, but your attention keeps drifting to the other end of the table where Max sits, deliberately positioned as far from you as possible.

Five years ago, you'd kissed him for the first time just a few streets from here. After his first win, giddy with freedom and teenage rebellion.

"So how was Bali?" Charles asks making your come back to your senses,"The surfing photos were insane."

"Almost died about twelve times," you laugh. "But worth it."

"She's exaggerating," Max comments casually, surprising everyone at the table. It's the first time he's directly addressed anything about your travels. "I saw the videos. Your form wasn't that bad."

You catch his eye across the table. "Been keeping tabs on me, Verstappen?"

He shrugs, a hint of that old smirk playing at his lips. "Hard not to when you're all over everyone's Instagram stories."

The tension at the table shifts slightly - not gone, but different. Lando kicks your foot under the table, raising an eyebrow when you look at him. You ignore him.

The conversation flows easier after that, stories and laughter bouncing around the table. You find yourself watching Max when he's not looking - the way he's grown into his features, how his laugh is deeper now, how he still runs his hand through his hair when he's trying not to smile.

As the night winds down, you end up being the last two waiting for cars. The others had filtered out gradually - Daniel dragging Charles off to some club, Lando claiming early training, Carlos heading home with his father.

"So," Max breaks the silence first, hands in his pockets. "Two years."

"Two years," you echo, leaning against the wall. "Feels longer sometimes."

"And shorter," he adds, then glances at you. "You look good. Happy."

"I am. Mostly." You study his profile in the streetlights. "You've changed too."

He laughs softly. "Had to grow up sometime, right? Can't be the paddock's problem child forever."

"No more sneaking around in garages?" The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes darken slightly at the memory. "Bit harder to get away with that these days. Plus, there hasn't been anyone worth the risk."

The weight of unspoken things hangs between you. All those stolen moments - behind motorhomes, in empty conference rooms, dark corners of victory parties. Never official, never acknowledged, but burning so bright it scared you both.

"Want to come up to my place?" he asks suddenly. "Just to talk. Properly. Without…" he gestures vaguely at the paddock world around you.

You should say no. But two years of distance have made you forget how magnetic he is, or maybe just made you brave enough to pretend you can resist it. "Okay."

The penthouse is exactly what you'd expect - sleek and modern, with a view that makes you catch your breath. You walk to the windows, Barcelona sprawling below like a constellation.

"Remember that night after your first win?" you ask softly. "When we snuck onto the roof?"

"Papa Wolff nearly had a heart attack," Max comes to stand beside you, close enough that your arms almost touch. "Worth it though."

"Was it?" You turn to look at him. "All of it? The sneaking around, the fights with our families, the constant hiding?"

"You know it was." His voice drops lower. "At least, it was for me."

"Max…"

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "Not just… not just the physical stuff. I missed talking to you. Making you laugh. The way you'd roll your eyes every time I said something stupid in press conferences."

"I still do that," you smile despite yourself. "Some things don't change."

"Maybe they shouldn't." He steps closer, and suddenly you're eighteen again, heart racing at his proximity. "Maybe some things are worth holding onto."

When he kisses you, it feels like muscle memory. Your body remembers this dance - the way his hands find your waist, how he tastes like wine and possibilities. It's softer than the desperate kisses you used to share in dark corners, but somehow more dangerous for it.

You pull back first, breathing hard. "We can't."

"Why not?" His thumb traces your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. Who cares what anyone thinks?"

"I do," you step away, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I left to get away from this, Max. From sneaking around, from being the paddock scandal waiting to happen. I built a life where I'm not defined by who I'm secretly sleeping with or whose daughter I am."

"It wouldn't be like before-"

"Wouldn't it? The politics haven't changed. Our families still wouldn't approve."

"I don't care about any of that," he reaches for you but you step back.

"That's the problem," your voice cracks. "I had to live with all of it. The whispers, the judgment, watching my father's face every time there was another rumor about us. I can't go back to that."

"YN, please-"

"I should go." You grab your phone from the counter. "This was a mistake."

At the elevator, you turn back one last time. He's still by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. "For what it's worth," you say softly, "you were my first love. Maybe that's why we have to let it stay in the past."

The elevator doors close on his response, and you lean against the wall, heart pounding. Some part of you will probably always want Max Verstappen. But you've worked too hard to become your own person to let that want destroy everything again.

Even if walking away feels like leaving part of yourself behind.

Monaco, 2020

The yacht party is winding down, the late hour thinning out the crowd until somehow you find yourself alone on the upper deck. The Mediterranean breeze carries fragments of music and laughter from below, but up here it's quiet enough to hear your own thoughts - dangerous, when they all seem to revolve around him.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. You don't need to turn around to know it's Max - your body has always been attuned to his presence, like a compass finding north.

"Hiding?" His voice is soft as he comes to stand beside you at the railing.

"Just needed some air." It's not entirely a lie. "Shouldn't you be downstairs? This is your best friend's party."

"Daniel can handle it on his own," he shrugs, looking out at the harbor lights. "Needed some air too."

The silence that follows should be uncomfortable, but it isn't. That's the problem with Max - everything still feels as natural as breathing. Two years away hasn't changed how your body relaxes in his presence, how the air seems to crackle with possibility when he's near.

"Remember that party in Singapore?" he asks suddenly.

You smile despite yourself. "When we hid from Lewis for half of the night?"

"You were wearing that blue dress," he continues, and something in his voice makes your heart skip. "I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."

"Max…"

"I still can't," he admits quietly. "Even now. Even when I'm supposed to be focusing on other things, my eyes just… find you."

You grip the railing tighter. "We can't do this again."

"Can't we?" He turns to face you now. "Because ever since Barcelona, since that kiss…"

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?" He steps closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like coming home."

The words hit you right in the chest, because he's right. That's exactly what it felt like - like every cell in your body recognizing where it belonged.

"Nothing's changed," you say, but your voice wavers. "The politics, our families, the media…"

"Everything's changed," he counters. "We're not those kids anymore, sneaking around without putting a label on it because we didn't know better. I know exactly what I want now. Who I want."

"Max, please-"

"Two years, YN. Two years of watching you live your life through Instagram stories and paddock glimpses. Two years of trying to convince myself I was over you." His hand finds yours on the railing. "But the truth is, a part of me has belonged to you since that first night in Melbourne, and I don't think that's ever going to change."

You should pull your hand away. Instead, you turn it over, letting your fingers intertwine with his. "I tried so hard to become someone new," you whisper. "Traveled the world, built this whole independent life. But the moment I saw you again…"

"I know." His other hand comes up to cup your face, and you lean into the touch instinctively. "Because I felt it too."

"It scares me," you admit. "How easy it is to fall back into this. How right it feels when it should feel wrong."

"Maybe that's exactly why it isn't wrong." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Maybe some things are just meant to be, despite everything else."

When he kisses you this time, it's different from Barcelona. That kiss had been hesitant, testing. This one feels like surrender, like finally stopping a fight you were always meant to lose. Your hands find his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispers. "You're the first girl I ever loved, and I think maybe you'll be the last. I know it's complicated, I know there are a million reasons why we shouldn't, but I don't care about any of them. I just want you."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the truth in his words, by how perfectly they mirror your own feelings. "I never stopped loving you," you confess. "I tried. God, I tried so hard. But it's like… it's like a part of me just belongs to you, and no amount of distance can change that."

"Then be with me," he pleads softly. "For real this time. No more running."

"How?" But you're already melting into him as he pulls you closer. "Nothing's changed, Max. My father would still lose it, Christian would still disapprove, the media would have a field day…"

"So we don't tell them." His hands slide to your waist. "We keep it between us. No sneaking around in garages this time, no risky moments in the paddock. Just us, in private, doing this properly."

You should say no. You know all the reasons why this can't work. But as his lips find yours again, you realize you're tired of fighting this magnetic pull between you.

"If anyone finds out…" you start.

"They won't," he promises. "We'll be careful. We're not those reckless kids anymore."

And maybe that's the key difference - you're not acting on impulse anymore, not diving in blindly. You're choosing this, fully aware of the consequences, of what you both stand to lose.

"Okay," you whisper against his mouth. "Okay."

When he kisses you again, it feels like every kiss you've ever shared and completely new all at once. Like coming home and starting an adventure. Like an ending and a beginning wrapped into one.

Later, you'll figure out the logistics, the careful dance of secrecy. But for now, you let yourself exist in this moment.

Some things, you realize, are worth keeping secret. Some loves are worth protecting, even if it means hiding them from the world.

Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max's apartment, painting everything in soft gold. You're awake before him, taking in the familiar weight of his arm around your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck. It feels surreal - like stepping back in time, but with the sharp edge of awareness that comes with being older.

You feel him stir, his arm tightening slightly around you. "You're thinking too loud," he mumbles against your shoulder.

"Sorry," you turn to face him, finding his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Hard not to."

He props himself up on an elbow, studying your face. The morning light makes everything feel more raw, more real. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," you say honestly. "Just… thinking about how we make this work."

"We managed before."

"And look how that ended." You trace a pattern on his chest absently. "We were reckless then. Every stolen moment was a near-miss."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "So we're smarter this time. No more risky moments in the paddock. No sneaking around where anyone could see us."

"It's not just that." You sit up, pulling the sheet with you. "Max, if this gets out… it's not just about our families being angry. It could affect your career, the team dynamics. And my father-"

"Would probably try to have me assassinated," he finishes with a half-smile, but you can see the seriousness in his eyes. "I know. Trust me, I've thought about all of it."

"And you still want this?"

He sits up too, cupping your face in his hands. "More than anything. The question is, do you?"

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. "You know I do. That's what scares me. How much I want this, despite everything."

"Then we figure it out." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. We know how to be discreet. Your place, my place, private locations only. No public appearances together unless we're with the whole group. No suspicious social media activity."

"No telling anyone," you add. "Not even Lando or Charles."

"Especially not them," he agrees. "The fewer people who know, the safer it is."

You open your eyes to find him watching you with that intense focus he usually reserves for racing. "It's going to be hard," you warn. "Pretending there's nothing between us in public. Watching you from a distance at races."

"We've had years of practice at that," he reminds you softly. "At least now I get to hold you afterward."

The simple statement makes your heart clench. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. "When did you get so good with words?"

"Must be all those media training sessions," he smirks, but then turns serious. "I meant what I said last night. I love you. Whatever we have to do to make this work, I'm in."

"I love you too," you whisper back. "God, I really do."

He kisses you then, slow and deep, like he's trying to memorize the moment. When you pull back, you're both breathing harder.

The morning light is brighter now, reality creeping in with the rising sun. Soon, you'll have to leave separately, go back to pretending there's nothing between you. But for now, you let yourself sink into his embrace, memorizing the feeling of being here, being his.

"This is crazy, isn't it?" you murmur against his chest.

"Probably," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your hair. "But some of the best things in life are a little crazy."

You know there will be challenges ahead - difficult moments, close calls, the constant strain of secrecy. But as Max pulls you back down onto the pillows, his lips finding yours with familiar hunger, you think maybe he's right.

Some things are worth the risk. Some loves are worth keeping secret.

The key card clicks softly as you slip into Max's Monaco apartment late on September 30th. You'd made your excuses to your friends early - a headache, an important call - knowing they wouldn't question it too much since they'd already planned Max's official celebration for tomorrow.

But tonight is just for the two of you.

You find him in the kitchen, already changed into sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, pulling something from the oven. The domestic scene makes your heart flutter.

"Is Max Verstappen actually baking?" you tease, dropping your bag.

He turns with that smile that's become exclusively yours - soft, unguarded, real. "It's just heating up the cake Victoria made. I'm not completely useless."

You cross the space between you, wrapping your arms around him from behind. "Happy birthday, baby."

He turns in your embrace, backing you against the counter. "This is already better than last year's birthday."

"Mm, because last year you weren't secretly dating your rival team principal's daughter?"

"Because last year I couldn't do this," he murmurs, before kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

The timer dings, making you both jump and then laugh.

"The cake can wait," he starts, but you push him back gently.

"Let's do this properly. Cake first, then presents, then…" you trail off suggestively.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes are sparkling. "But I'm holding you to that 'then'."

You sit cross-legged on his massive couch, sharing pieces of Victoria's chocolate cake straight from the tin. It's comfortable in a way that still surprises you sometimes - how easily you've fallen into these private moments, these glimpses of normalcy in your decidedly abnormal situation.

"Got you something," you say, reaching for your bag.

He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were my present?"

"Cheesy," you throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Here."

He unwraps the small package carefully. Inside is a simple leather bracelet, dark brown with a subtle pattern worked into it. "Turn it over," you say softly.

On the inside, barely visible unless you know to look, are your initials and the date from Monaco - the night everything changed.

"YN…" his voice is rough as he runs his thumb over the engraving.

"I know we can't do obvious things," you explain. "But I wanted you to have something… something that's just ours. Something you can wear without anyone knowing what it means."

He pulls you into his lap, kissing you with an intensity that makes your head spin. "I love it," he murmurs against your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whisper back, heart full with how natural those words feel now. "Even if you are getting old."

He retaliates by tickling your sides until you're both breathless with laughter, ending up horizontal on the couch with you pinned beneath him.

"Twenty-three isn't old," he protests, pressing kisses down your neck.

"Ancient," you tease, but it turns into a gasp as he finds that sensitive spot below your ear. "Max…"

"Mm?"

"The cake…"

"Can wait," he finishes, hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. "Right now, I want to unwrap my other present."

Later, much later, you're tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest as he plays with your hair. The city lights twinkle through the windows, creating patterns on the ceiling.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"For what?"

"For this. For making my birthday special even though we have to hide. For loving me despite everything."

You prop yourself up to look at him, trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "Thank you for making it worth it."

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Sometimes I wish we could just tell everyone. Walk into the paddock holding your hand, take you on real dates, post about you on Instagram like a normal couple."

"I know," you sigh, settling back against his chest. "Me too. But…"

"But it would cause chaos," he finishes. "I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting it though."

You lift your head again, kissing him softly. "Maybe someday. But for now, I'm happy just having you like this. These moments are ours, just ours."

His arms tighten around you. "I love you," he says again, like he can't help himself. "More than racing, more than winning, more than-"

"Don't," you laugh, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't say more than racing. We both know that's a lie."

He grins, rolling you under him again. "Maybe it's a tie?"

"I can live with that," you smile up at him, pulling him down for another kiss.

The world outside keeps turning - tomorrow there will be the official party, the public celebrations, the careful distance you'll have to maintain. But tonight, in this space that's become your sanctuary, you can just be Max and YN, two people in love, celebrating another year together.

Even if the rest of the world doesn't know it yet.

Monaco, 2021

You're curled into Max's side on your couch, some Netflix show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm while you scroll through your phone, both enjoying the calm before tomorrow's storm - the start of a new season, new expectations, new pressure.

"Nervous about tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head to look at him.

He shrugs, but you can feel the slight tension in his shoulders. "Not nervous. Just… ready. The car feels good, testing went well."

"Mm," you press a kiss to his jaw. "Maybe this is your year."

"Maybe," but his smile is confident as he turns to capture your lips properly. "Though right now I'm more interested in-"

Your phone buzzes loudly, Lando's name flashing on the screen. You answer it without thinking.

"Hey Lan-"

"I'm outside your place!" his cheerful voice cuts through. "Charles and I brought wine and that awful reality show you love. Open up!"

Your heart stops. "What?"

"Come on, it's freezing out here! I can see your lights on."

You sit up straight, panic flooding your system. "Lando, I-"

"Don't even try to say you're busy. It's the night before the first race, I know you're just sitting there overthinking everything."

Max is already moving, gathering his shoes and jacket silently. Your eyes meet across the room, both knowing how catastrophic it would be if Lando found him here.

"Give me five minutes," you say into the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm… I need to put clothes on."

"Gross, too much information," Lando laughs. "Five minutes!"

You hang up, heart racing. "Shit, shit, shit."

"It's fine," Max is surprisingly calm as he pulls on his shoes. "I'll go out through the back stairs."

"What if they see you?" You're already scanning the room for any evidence of him - his Red Bull cap on the coffee table, his phone charger by the couch.

"They won't." He grabs his things efficiently, muscle memory from two years of sneaking around kicking in. "I'll text you when I'm clear."

Another knock at the door makes you both freeze. "YN!" Charles's voice this time. "We can hear you moving around!"

Max pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss. "I love you. Don't worry."

"Be careful," you whisper against his lips.

He flashes that cocky grin you love. "Always am."

You watch him disappear through your bedroom toward the back stairwell, then take a deep breath, running your hands through your hair to mess it up slightly - making your "just got out of bed" excuse more believable.

When you open the door, Lando immediately pushes past you with wine bottles clinking. "Finally! What were you really doing?"

"Told you, getting dressed." You accept Charles' hello kiss on the cheek, praying your face isn't as flushed as it feels.

"Your shirt's inside out," Charles points out, smirking.

You look down - shit, he's right. You'd thrown it on hastily after… earlier activities. "I was sleeping," you say quickly. "You guys interrupted my pre-race nap routine."

"At 9 PM?" Lando's already making himself at home on your couch - right where Max was sitting minutes ago. "Sure, sure."

Your phone buzzes with a text: "All clear. They didn't see me. Missing you already x"

Relief floods through you as Charles pours wine and Lando queues up the show. You settle into the evening, letting their familiar banter wash over you, trying to act normal even as your skin still tingles from Max's touch.

"You seem different lately," Charles observes suddenly, studying your face. "Happier."

"Just excited for the new season," you deflect smoothly, a skill you've perfected over the past year.

"Mm," he doesn't look entirely convinced. "No secret boyfriend we should know about?"

You laugh, the sound only slightly strained. "Right, because that worked out so well last time."

"Last time was Max," Lando points out. "Thank god you're both over that whole thing."

If only they knew. But you just smile and take a sip of wine, letting them move on to discussing tomorrow's race.

As the evening progresses, the wine flows and the reality show plays in the background. You're carefully avoiding any topics that might make Charles or Lando suspicious, laughing a bit too loudly at their jokes.

Lando, ever restless, decides to raid your kitchen for snacks. "Where do you keep the good stuff?" he calls out, opening cupboards.

Your heart immediately races. You know exactly what might be lurking in those cupboards - Max's favorite energy drink, a Red Bull can he'd left behind last time he was here. You stand up quickly, "I'll get it for you-"

But Lando's already moving, pulling open the refrigerator door. "Found it!" he announces, then pauses. His hand emerges holding a Red Bull can, but something else catches his eye. A water bottle with a distinctive Red Bull Racing team logo sits next to it.

"Huh," Charles looks over. "Isn't this Max's water bottle?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. "Oh, um-" Your mind races, searching for an explanation. "I... must have picked it up from somewhere. You know how these things get mixed up."

Lando turns, one eyebrow raised. The playful smile slowly morphs into something more knowing. "Mixed up, huh?"

Charles is watching you now, that sharp observant look that made him such a good racing driver now focused entirely on you.

"Yeah, I must've picked it up by accident, didn't even realize."

Lando shrugs and cracks open a packet of chips, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. But Charles continues to study you with that piercing gaze that makes you want to squirm.

Keeping this a secret is becoming harder and harder.

Silverstone, 2021

The English countryside blurs past your window as Max takes another curve, maybe a bit faster than necessary. It's nearly midnight, and you should both be resting before tomorrow's race, but these night drives have become your thing - the only time you can be truly alone during race weekends, truly free.

"You're showing off," you accuse, but you're smiling.

"Me? Never." He takes his eyes off the road for a second to grin at you, his hand finding yours across the console.

The radio plays softly in the background, some British pop song you don't know. The summer air rushing through the open windows carries the scent of grass and freedom. It feels perfect. Until it isn't.

It happens so fast - a deer appears out of nowhere, Max swerves to avoid it, but the road is narrow and dark. The tires lose grip on loose gravel, and suddenly you're spinning, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of shadows and panic.

The impact when it comes is brutal. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and everything goes still.

"YN?" Max's voice is tight with fear. "Baby, are you okay?"

You do a quick mental check. Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken. "I'm okay. You?"

"Fine." He's already trying to open his door, but it's jammed. The front of the car is wrapped around a tree, steam hissing from the hood. "Fuck. Fuck!"

Your phone is somewhere on the floor. When you retrieve it, the screen is cracked but working. "We need help."

"We can't call emergency services," Max says immediately. "It'll be all over the news in minutes."

He's right. You can already see the headlines: "Verstappen in Late Night Crash with Mercedes Boss's Daughter."

"Christian?" you suggest.

"He'll kill me. We have a race tomorrow." Max runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We need someone who can be discreet, who has the resources to handle this quietly, who-"

You both realize it at the same time.

"No," Max says.

"He's the only one who can help us without this becoming a scandal."

"YN, he's the last person-"

"Max." You reach for his hand. "We don't have a choice."

He knows you're right. With a resigned sigh, he nods.

Your hands shake slightly as you dial Lewis's number. It rings three times before he answers, voice groggy with sleep.

"Little Wolff? It's midnight, what-"

"Lewis, I need your help. And I need you to not ask questions."

There's a pause, then rustling as he presumably sits up. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but… we're stuck. Had an accident on the back roads near Silverstone. We need help getting the car towed without anyone finding out."

There's a pause. "We?"

You close your eyes. "I'm with Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. "Send me your location. Don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

True to his word, headlights appear eighteen minutes later. Lewis steps out of his car, taking in the scene - the wrecked vehicle, you and Max standing by the roadside, the unspoken truth of why you were together at this hour.

"Are you both alright?" He asks first, concern overriding any other emotions.

"Just bruised," you answer. "The car took the worst of it."

He nods, already on his phone. "Angela's on her way with a tow truck. She'll be discreet."

Max steps forward. "Lewis, I-"

"Don't." Lewis holds up a hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for her." He looks at you, something sad in his expression. "How long?"

"Since last year."

He lets out a low whistle. "Well, that explains a few things."

The wait for Angela is tense. Lewis keeps his distance, occasionally speaking quietly into his phone. Max doesn't let go of your hand, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

When Angela arrives with the tow truck, she doesn't bat an eye at the situation. The car is loaded efficiently, and arrangements are made to have it repaired at a private garage Lewis trusts.

"I'll drive YN home," Lewis says, and it's not really a question.

Max tenses beside you, but you squeeze his hand. "It's safer this way," you whisper. "Less suspicious if anyone sees us."

He knows you're right, again. "Text me when you're home?"

"Promise."

The drive with Lewis is quiet at first. Then the storm pours down.

"Of all the stupid, reckless things," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "A year? You've been sneaking around with him for a year? Again?"

"Lewis-"

"No." He turns to face you, anger and worry warring in his expression. "Do you have any idea what could happen if this gets out? What your father would-"

"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, making your head throb. "I don't care what anyone thinks anymore."

"Well, you should!" Lewis's voice rises to match yours. "This isn't some game, YN. This is your life, your career, your family-"

"You think I don't know that?" You bite back. "You think we haven't spent the last year terrified of exactly that? Hiding everything, sneaking around, lying to everyone we care about?"

"Then why?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "Why risk everything for him?"

"Because I love him!" The words echo in the car. You lower your voice, tears threatening to fall. "I love him, Lewis. And he loves me. Isn't that enough?"

Lewis' expression softens slightly, but the worry remains. "Love isn't always enough, YN. Not in this world. Not with everything at stake."

"It has to be," you whisper. "Because I can't do this anymore - pretending I don't feel what I feel, acting like my heart doesn't race every time he walks into a room. I'm tired of hiding."

"He's not good for you," Lewis says quietly. "You remember how broken you were after-"

"He was nineteen," you cut him off. "We were both kids, both scared. Things are different now."

"Are they?" his voice is gentle but firm. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still sneaking around in the middle of the night, still hiding from everyone. That doesn't sound different to me."

You sink back into your seat, suddenly exhausted. "I'm not asking for your approval, Lewis. I'm just asking for you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Because getting into a car accident at 2 AM doesn't exactly scream good decision-making."

"That wasn't-" you start to defend, but he holds up a hand.

"You shouldn't have been out there in the first place. These secret meetings, these late-night drives… it's not sustainable, YN."

"I know," you admit quietly. "We know. We've been talking about telling people, about doing this properly."

Lewis studies your face for a long moment. "And what happens when the media finds out? When your father finds out? When the pressure becomes too much and he runs again?"

"He won't." Your voice is firm despite your injuries. "He's not that scared kid anymore, Lewis. He knows what he wants now."

"And what is that?"

"Me." You meet Lewis's gaze steadily. "He wants me. All of me, no matter what it costs. And I want him."

Lewis sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "I can't support this, YN. I've watched him hurt you too many times."

"I know," you say softly. "And I love you for wanting to protect me. But I'm not asking for your support. I'm just asking you not to make this harder than it already is, I know you're worried. But please… please don't tell anyone. Not yet. Let us do this our way."

He doesn't respond, just pulls up the car outside your hotel and unlocks it so you can get out.

Silverstone, 2021. Race day

Your hands are still shaking slightly as you make your way through the paddock. Last night's crash left more than just physical bruises - the tension with Lewis, the close call, the reality of how fragile your secret is, it all weighs heavily.

The Mercedes garage is already buzzing with pre-race energy when you spot Lewis by his car, going through data with Peter. You wait until he's alone before approaching.

"Lewis," you say softly. "Can we talk?"

He glances around before responding, voice low. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Please. What you did last night-"

"Was a mistake," he cuts you off, finally turning to face you. "I should have called emergency services, protocol be damned."

"You know why we couldn't-"

"No, YN. You couldn't because you're sneaking around like teenagers. Do you have any idea what could have happened? If that tree had been a few inches to the left-"

"But it wasn't," you interrupt. "We're fine."

"Fine?" He scoffs. "You're both bruised, his car is wrecked, and I'm now complicit in your little romance."

"It's not a little romance-"

"Then what is it?" His voice rises slightly before he checks himself. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern as before. You, him, secrets, lies."

"I told you last night - I love him."

"Love?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Love doesn't hide, YN. Love doesn't put people in dangerous situations. Love doesn't-"

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't pretend you understand what we're dealing with."

"Oh, I understand perfectly. You're playing girlfriend with my biggest rival while there's a championship at stake. You're risking everything - your reputation, your father's position, the team's integrity-"

"This isn't a game to me!" The words come out sharper than intended. A few mechanics glance your way, and you lower your voice. "This isn't about the championship or the team. This is about me and him."

"Nothing in this paddock is ever just about two people," Lewis says coldly. "You of all people should know that."

Before you can respond, Bono approaches. "Lewis, strategy meeting."

"I need to focus," Lewis tells you, his expression hardening. "I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie before someone gets really hurt."

He walks away, leaving you standing there with a hollow feeling in your chest. Angela catches your eye, her expression sympathetic, and you wonder how much she knows.

The pre-race preparations pass in a blur. You go through the motions, smile when appropriate, but your mind keeps drifting to Max. You haven't seen him since Lewis dropped you off last night - you both agreed it was safer to stay apart until the race.

Then you're in the garage, watching the formation lap. Your father stands beside you, discussing something with the engineers, but their words sound distant.

Lap one. Copse Corner.

The contact happens so fast - Lewis's Mercedes alongside Max's Red Bull. The touch of wheels. Then Max's car is airborne, spinning, crashing into the barriers with devastating force.

The garage erupts in chaos. Screens show the replay from every angle. Your father is immediately in discussion with the stewards.

You can't breathe. Can't move. Your eyes are fixed on the smoking wreck of Max's car, willing him to move, to get out, to be okay.

"Racing incident," Toto argues. "Lewis had the line-"

Their voices fade to background noise as you watch the medical team reach the car. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, but you can't check it - not here, not with everyone watching.

"YN," Angela touches your arm gently. "You look pale. Maybe some water?"

You follow her away from the garage, grateful for the excuse. As soon as you're out of sight, your composure breaks.

"I don't know if he's okay," you whisper, hands shaking. "I can't- I can't check my phone, I can't ask anyone, I can't-"

"Breathe," Angela steadies you. "Just breathe."

"I should be there. I should be with him. After last night, after everything-"

"I won't say anything," she promises quickly. "But YN... this is bigger than just keeping a secret now."

"I know," you admit. "God, I know. But I can't- I can't even ask if he's okay without raising suspicions."

The race continues. Lewis gets a ten-second penalty but fights back to win. The garage celebrates, and you have to join in, have to smile and cheer while your heart is somewhere else entirely.

Hours pass with no news. Social media is full of speculation, but nothing concrete. You catch snippets of conversation - "hospital for checks" and "conscious but shaken" - but nothing official.

It's torture, pretending everything is normal. Pretending you're just concerned in a general, professional way. Pretending last night never happened, that you don't still have bruises from a different crash, that your world isn't falling apart all over again.

Finally, after what feels like years, you manage to slip away to the Red Bull motorhome.

The motorhome is quiet when you enter. GP looks up from his laptop, surprise crossing his features.

"YN? You shouldn't-"

"Please," your voice breaks. "Please, I need to see him."

GP studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "Last door on the right. But be careful - he's pretty beaten up."

You find Max lying on the small bed, eyes closed but breathing steady. The room smells of medical cream and defeat.

"Max?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

His eyes open immediately, finding yours in the dim light. Despite everything, his lips curve into a small smile.

"Two crashes in twenty-four hours," he mumbles. "Must be some kind of record."

"Don't," tears spill over finally. "Don't joke. Not now."

"Come here," he tries to move over but winces.

"Careful," you rush to his side, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"

"Everything hurts," he admits. "But nothing's broken. Well, except my championship lead."

"I was so scared," your voice breaks. "When I saw the crash, and then I couldn't- I couldn't even ask if you were okay. I had to stand there and pretend like I wasn't terrified."

"Hey," he reaches for your hand, wincing at the movement. "I'm okay. Well, relatively speaking."

"This is my fault," you whisper. "If I hadn't called Lewis last night-"

"Stop," he squeezes your hand. "This had nothing to do with last night."

"Didn't it? He was so angry this morning, about us, about having to help us-"

"Lewis and I race hard regardless of personal feelings," Max says firmly. "What happened today was racing. Stupid, dangerous racing, but still racing."

You study his face in the dim light, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain he's trying to hide, "Max, don't you think it's time?"

"Time?"

"To tell people. About us." The words rush out now that you've started. "I can't keep doing this - watching you race and pretending I don't care, hiding how I feel, lying to everyone we know. Today made me realize… if something had happened to you, really happened…"

He's quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing patterns on your hand. "What about your father?"

"I don't care anymore. Well, I do care, but… not more than I care about you. About us." You meet his eyes. "When the season's over. Before next year starts. We tell everyone."

"You're sure?"

"Are you?"

He pulls you closer, carefully, until you're lying beside him. "I'm sure if you are."

"Even with the championship? The media circus it'll cause?"

"Especially then." He kisses your forehead. "Today… when I hit that barrier, all I could think about was you. Not the championship, not the points, just… you. And how much time we've wasted hiding."

You curl into his side, mindful of his bruises. "So we're agreed? After Abu Dhabi, whatever happens with the championship…"

"We tell everyone." He lifts your chin to kiss you properly. "No more hiding."

"Promise?" You need to hear him say it.

"Promise," he pulls you closer, careful of both your injuries. "Besides, after last night's adventure and today's crash, I think we've filled our drama quota for a while."

You stay there, tangled together in the quiet darkness, both battered from different crashes but somehow still whole.

"I should go," you whisper eventually. "Before someone comes looking."

"One of the last times we'll have to say that," he reminds you.

"Promise me something else?"

"Anything."

"No more late-night drives for a while?"

He laughs, then grimaces in pain. "Deal. Although technically, both crashes were Lewis' fault."

"Max..."

"Kidding," he kisses your forehead softly. "Kind of."

You stand carefully, already missing his warmth. "Text me when you're feeling better?"

"Text me when you're home safe," he counters.

At the door, you turn back one last time. He's watching you with those eyes that made you fall in love twice - once when you were too young to know better, and again when you were old enough to know exactly what you were risking.

"Max?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. Even when I have to pretend I don't."

His smile, despite the pain, lights up the dark room. "I love you too. Even when Lewis Hamilton tries to kill me. Twice in twenty-four hours."

You shake your head, but you're smiling as you slip out into the night. A few more months of hiding, of pretending, of careful distances and secret meetings. Then everything changes.

You just hope you're both ready for whatever comes next.

Abu Dhabi, 2021

The final showdown. Equal points, one race to decide it all.

The morning of the race, you slip into the Red Bull garage before sunrise. Max is already there, going through his pre-race routine, but his face softens when he sees you.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, pulling you into his arms.

"Not really," you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Too much going on in my head."

"Talk to me."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "I'm nervous. For you, for the race, for what comes after…"

"Hey," he cups your face gently. "Whatever happens today, we're in this together. Remember?"

"I know," you try to smile. "It's just… everything's going to change after today."

"Good changes," he kisses your forehead. "No more hiding, remember?"

You've had this conversation countless times over the past months, planning how you'll handle the revelation of your relationship. Your father still doesn't know, though you suspect he's noticed something's different.

"I brought you something," you reach into your pocket and pull out a small charm - a tiny silver racing car. "For luck."

Max takes it, turning it over in his hands with a soft smile. "You're my luck."

"That was incredibly cheesy," you laugh, but your heart swells.

"You love it," he pulls you closer, kissing you properly this time. "And you love me."

"I do," you whisper against his lips. "So much it scares me sometimes."

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before reality intrudes again.

"I should go," you sigh. "There's something else I need to do before the race."

Max knows without asking. "Lewis?"

"Yeah," you bite your lip. "I can't let things end like this between us."

"Go," he squeezes your hand. "Just come back to me after?"

"Always."

Finding Lewis proves harder. He's been avoiding you since Silverstone, your relationship reduced to professional nods and carefully maintained distance. But you finally spot him in the Mercedes garage, alone with his thoughts.

"Lewis?" your voice is hesitant.

He tenses but doesn't turn around. "YN."

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me-"

"Then why are you here?"

You take a deep breath. "Because you're my brother, Lewis. Not by blood, but by choice. And I can't stand how things are between us."

He finally turns, and the pain in his eyes matches your own. "You chose him."

"I chose love," you step closer. "That doesn't mean I stopped caring about you."

"You could have told me," his voice cracks slightly. "Before Silverstone, before any of it. I thought we told each other everything."

"I was scared," you admit. "Scared of exactly this - losing you, losing my family, losing everything I've known."

"So instead you just lied? Snuck around?"

"I know it was wrong," tears prick at your eyes. "And I'm so sorry, Lewis. Not for loving him, but for hurting you. For breaking your trust."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face. "Does he make you happy? Really happy?"

"Yes," you whisper. "More than I ever thought possible."

Lewis sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Come here, little sister."

You practically fall into his arms, tears flowing freely now. He holds you tight, like when you were kids and he would protect you from everything.

"I'm still mad at you," he mumbles into your hair.

"I know."

"And I still think you're crazy."

"Probably."

"But," he pulls back to look at you, "I love you. And I miss you. And if he ever hurts you, I'll end his career so fast-"

You laugh through your tears. "There's my overprotective brother."

"Someone has to look out for you," he wipes your cheeks gently. "Even if you make it incredibly difficult."

"I'm sorry," you say again. "For everything."

"I know," he kisses your forehead. "We'll figure it out. After today."

"About that…" you hesitate. "We're planning to go public. After the race."

Lewis nods slowly. "I figured something like that was coming. The way you look at each other isn't exactly subtle."

"You noticed?"

"YN, everyone with eyes has noticed. They're just too scared of your father to mention it."

You both laugh, and for a moment it feels like before - easy, comfortable, safe.

"Lewis?" you grab his hand. "Whatever happens today… I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be."

He squeezes your hand. "Right back at you, little Wolff. Even if you have terrible taste in men."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying, there are other drivers-"

"Goodbye, Lewis," you start walking away, but you're smiling.

"YN?" he calls after you. "For what it's worth… he better know how lucky he is."

An hour later, you're standing in the Mercedes garage, heart in your throat, watching the screens as though your life depends on it. In a way, it does. Six years of loving Max in secret, two years of running away from it all, and now here you are - watching the man you love fight your father's driver for the championship in the most intense finale you've ever witnessed.

When Nicholas Latifi crashes, everything changes. The safety car comes out, and suddenly the garage erupts with activity. Your father's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and authoritative as he argues with race control. You've never seen him like this - the usual composed Toto Wolff replaced by someone desperately fighting against what feels like destiny shifting.

"No, no, no, Michael, that is so not right!" Your father's voice booms through the garage as the lapped cars are allowed through. You flinch at the fury in his tone, at the way he slams his headset down.

The final lap is unbearable. You watch Lewis getting hunted down by Max on fresh tires. Your nails dig into your palms, torn between family loyalty and the love you've kept hidden for so long.

When Max makes the pass, when he crosses the line as World Champion, the Mercedes garage falls silent. The contrast between the Red Bull celebrations on screen and the devastation around you is stark.

Your father looks destroyed, a mixture of anger and disbelief on his face. But it's Lewis who breaks your heart - the way he sits in his car, processing what just happened, the dignity with which he eventually emerges to congratulate Max.

You find Lewis in the drivers room a few hours later, away from the cameras. His eyes are red, his shoulders slumped in a way you've never seen before.

"Lew," your voice breaks.

He looks up, and suddenly you're both crying. You wrap your arms around him as he breaks down.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this," he whispers.

"I know," you hold him tighter. "I know."

You stay with him, through the protests, through the appeals, through the obligatory congratulations he has to give. You stay because he's family, because he needs you, because some things are more important than celebration.

Through it all, you catch glimpses of Max - being crowned champion, celebrating with his team, searching the crowd with eyes that keep finding you. But you stay where you're needed most.

Hours pass before you make it to Max's hotel. The celebrations are still going on somewhere, but he's in his room when you arrive, pacing like a caged animal.

"Where were you?" he demands as soon as you enter.

"I was with Lewis."

His face darkens. "Of course you were. Consoling the Mercedes garage while I won my first championship."

"Max, don't."

"Don't what? Don't be upset that my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me? That she was too busy comforting the opposition?"

"That 'opposition' is my family!" Your voice rises to match his. "Lewis is like my brother, my father is devastated-"

"Your father?" He laughs bitterly. "The same father you've been lying to for years? The one we're supposedly telling about us after this race?"

"Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"When else am I supposed to do it? When you're ready? Because I've been waiting for you to be ready since 2015!"

The words hit like physical blows. "That's not fair. You know why I left in 2018, the way you cut me off like I was nothing, it tore me apart."

"Yeah, because it got too hard. Because loving me was too complicated." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And now here we are again. I just won the World Championship, and where were you? With them."

"They're my family!"

"And what am I?" He steps closer, eyes intense. "What are we, YN? Because right now it feels like I'm still your dirty little secret."

"That's not-"

"Then prove it. Let's go tell Toto right now. Let's end this charade."

"Today? After everything that happened? Are you insane?"

"Why not today? When will it be convenient enough for you? When will loving me not conflict with your perfect Mercedes family?"

Tears are falling freely now. "You're being cruel."

"No, I'm being honest. Finally." He sits heavily on the bed. "I love you. I've loved you through everything - through you leaving, through you coming back, through all the hiding and sneaking around. But I can't do this anymore."

Your heart stops. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want all of you. Not just the parts that are convenient, not just the stolen moments between races. I want to celebrate with you when I win, hold you when I crash, build a life with you in the open." He looks at you, and you see the tears in his eyes too. "But I don't think you want that. Not really. Not enough to risk everything else."

"Max…"

"Go home, YN. Go console your father. Go be the perfect Mercedes daughter." His voice breaks slightly. "Just… don't come back unless you're ready to choose me. All of me. The rival, the champion, everything."

You stand there, frozen, both of you crying. Everything you've built, every secret moment, every whispered promise, feels like it's crumbling around you.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I know." He doesn't look at you. "That's never been our problem."

As you stand in the doorway of Max's hotel room, the weight of seven years of love, secrets, and choices bears down on your shoulders. The championship trophy gleams on the table behind him, a symbol of everything he's achieved and everything that's torn you apart.

In a sport that credits and even praises Jos Verstappen for the discipline and talent of Max, be like Anthony Hamilton, Marco Antonelli, David Bearman and Adam Norris.

does it ever drive you crazy...

Lando's smile 🥹🥹

these are soooo cute 🥰

I made one for each team cause these were fun to make :)

Williams Racing has replaced Logan Sargeant with Franco Colapinto for the remainder of the 2024 season.

There’s so much I want to say but I truly don’t know how to gather my thoughts into words.

Williams rushed Logan out of F2 and into F1 prematurely. They gave him a seat, yes, but not the opportunity to succeed in it.

Logan waited weekends for upgrades his teammate had long since received. Logan had to drive in 2024 with parts from 2023 because of how unprepared the team was. Logan sat and watched from the sidelines as his car was given to his teammate. Logan returned the following race and drove the very same chassis his teammate crashed.

Logan did all of this with a smile.

Logan deserved so much better.

James Vowles has graced us with the following statement:

I do find it quite ironic that they “need to maximise every points-scoring opportunity in a remarkably tight midfield battle” after completely glossing over the fact that the driver who did in fact originally bring home points this past weekend was disqualified due to an illegal floor caused by team error.

And “investing in our young drivers in the Williams Racing Driver Academy” will only do so much if you shove those same drivers into a seat and leave them to fend for themselves when it matters.

I hope Logan knows how many of us love and support him. I hope Logan knows that I watched him drive in the junior series and there’s no doubt in my mind that he has the skills to succeed if given the opportunity. I hope Logan knows that I will keep cheering him on no matter where he decides to go next.

And as for Williams … I will keep supporting their drivers but I certainly will not be supporting a team who has tried to paint themselves as lovable underdogs but repeatedly shown their true colors throughout this past season.

I’m sure there’s something I forgot to add, but my heart hurts and my thoughts are a veritable mess.

But, no matter where Logan ends up landing, be that IndyCar or another series, I can’t wait for him to kick ass.

What the fuck is a kilometer 🦅

We need to have a serious conversation about the commodification of professional athletes.

Logan Sargeant’s car went up in flames after a nasty crash — a crash that he is incredibly lucky to have walked away uninjured from.

You would think that’s a good thing, right? No one could possibly be upset — after all, cars are replaceable but people very much are not.

Except “fans” (and I hesitate to even call them such) on Twitter and Instagram seem to disagree. They value an upgraded chassis more than the human being driving it.

And this isn’t something new — we see it happen all the time in other sports when athletes get injured and “fans” are more upset about how it’ll impact their fantasy lineup or favorite team than the actual human being having to deal with everything. But just because it’s not new doesn’t make it any less disappointing to see.

Athletes are people, let’s treat them as such.

Thank goodness Logan made it out okay, he’s more important than the car he drives ❤️

Let's talk about Logan.

It's most definitely not his fault. He wasn't ready. He isn't ready. Maybe if he had had another year, we would be looking at the future of F1, but a combination of James and Williams American Sponsors left Logan with one opportunity that he was never going to get ever again.

It's devastating, and it's tragic, and it is reality.

Logan Sargeant deserved a real, fair chance in F1. Williams wasn't that. Not with the TP crooning about the first driver constantly, about how the first driver is going to be the one the team focuses on.

But he gives Logan a second chance.

Or, rather, based on what has been coming out of late, the American Sponsors give him another chance. And in retaliation, the TP spends the entirety of the rest of the season essentially making it clear to everyone that while Logan has the second seat, he was never James's first choice.

So be it.

But what the Williams team weren't prepared for is the fact that the American Sponsors weren't wrong for keeping Logan in the seat for another year. Just on here and even on Instagram (screw X, the demon child), the support, if anything, grew.

Because you talk about dignity and then you take away his car.

You talk about skill and then the driver you replace him with doesn't score points.

You talk about talent, but the driver you're replacing him with has been in Red Bulls and Ferraris. One would hope that he is skilled.

You don't talk about the fact that the whole world is watching you publicly embarrass someone whom you yourself say you have a "duty of care" for.

You don't talk about the fact that maybe Logan would have stood a chance if the Feedback actually came from you instead of the pretty little sentence on the radio at the end.

So unfortunately, but realistically, Logan Sargeant is out of F1.

But his legacy will live on. He is the first American to score points in 30 years. He is the reason people on this website and across the media were able to clock that Mr. Nice Guy is just a very good act.

He's the reason so many Americans did start tuning in.

He's one of the reasons that the conversation about the way drivers are treated in this sport is a conversation that isn't going away.

It's not the legacy he had in mind, but it is an important one.

So thank you, Logan, for paving the way. You're in the record books, and we appreciate what it took for you to get there.

mclaren a special place to visit to @.herendporcelain. ✨🎨

Broken Bones

pairing: george russell x reader

summary: George gets in a wreck and you happen to be the surgeon on-call.

a/n: i loved this prompt, i hope you love it ❤️

masterlist

————————

George was enjoying his home race, he was holding P3 with a comfortable lead due to some great defending earlier in the race. Unfortunately for him, mother nature decided to put her hand into the race and have a pop up rain shower come through.

“It should clear through shortly, let’s keep with the softs,” his engineer says, hoping to outsmart those pitting for inters. George says a quick response and continues focusing on the track, especially the dry line. With the rain pouring, he catches a wet line in turn 4, sending the car spinning and into a barrier.

You rush down a couple floors to where you have been paged. Being the only orthopedic trauma surgeon in the hospital and on-call, you have to make haste.

“Is there really no one else to take this?” you ask, looking at the chart that has initial images and the patient information.

“Big fan?” the nurse beside you asks as you mentally plan the procedure. Most of Britain is basically a fan of the racing driver.

“Yeah. It’s not ethical, but I took an oath,” you tightly smile, beginning the process of scrubbing in.

“You are a great surgeon, you will have no problem keeping the fan part of you out of your mind,” the nurse reassures you. You take a couple deep breaths before heading to surgery.

The procedure goes well, you repair the broken wrist and fix the damage as best you can. Of course, time will finish healing it, but you do your best.

Afterwards you scrub out, finish paperwork, and go home. You won’t need to check in until anesthesia wears off, and that can take a while. You return later in the day, dressed in business casual and your lab coat.

“Mr. Russell, how are you feeling?” you ask, needing to check on your work. You close the door behind you when you enter the room.

“You are so pretty,” George says, still a little out of it.

“Thank you. Mind if I check your arm?” you ignore your blush.

“You look like my wife. She’s a doctor too, soooo pretty,” George babbles.

“I know, love, let me see your arm,” you say gently, sitting beside him.

“What happened?” George asks with a confused look.

“You spun out and crashed into a barrier. It was raining, you were on slicks, and caught a wet line,” you explain, carefully examining the surgical site, removing the splint immobilizing the wrist.

“I know that much. Injuries?” he asks, eyes trained on your wound examination.

“Broken wrist. We are going to brace it rather than cast it,” you check his chart for other injuries noted.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me, I love you,” George says, moving his non-injured hand to grab yours.

“I love you too, Georgie,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb over his hand as he processes everything. You note things in his chart, making sure your observations and updates are written down.

“I’m glad you did my surgery, I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” he smiles, you can’t help but smile back. It’s not illegal, but it certainly is borderline unethical to treat your husband.

“I’m happy to hear that. Why don’t I go and see if your family is out in the waiting room?”you hum, needing to stay inconspicuous. Of course, those close to you know who your husband is, but since you don’t share his last name it isn’t obvious.

“One kiss before you leave,” George pouts and you hesitate. “Please, I was just in a crash and your kisses make me feel better,” he pouts. You playfully roll your eyes and lean in, giving him a quick kiss.

“I love you, I’ll be right back,” you reassure him. You find his family and Toto waiting outside in the waiting room.

“Family of Mr. Russell,” you say, calling them to you.

“Y/n, dear, did you do his surgery?” George’s mom asks, a little hopeful.

“I did, I was the only one here and on call. Thankfully nothing too major, he can probably get back into a car in a month if we rehab him correctly. Want to see him?” you ask, knowing the answer. You lead them to his room, but stop Toto before he walks in.

“Y/n-“ Toto starts but you don’t hesitate to cut him off.

“You got very lucky that the broken wrist was the worst of it. Keeping him out on slicks? Are you stupid, a win is not worth more than a life,” you fume.

“I know, I gave his engineers and strategists a talking to. I just wanted to check in on him, but knowing he is in your care is all I needed. I check in tomorrow then,” Toto stays calm, knowing you had to since George was brought in and you needed to yell at someone.

“I, um, thank you. He should only be here another day for observation. I’ll keep you updated,” you recompose yourself and watch as Toto leaves.

“She’s just the best doctor ever. So pretty too, and smart, and really good at surgery,” you overhear George tell his parents, he likely just got another dose of pain meds.

“Thank you, Georgie. You are a pretty good patient,” you smile from the doorway.

“Can you believe that doctor loves me? And she married me?” George asks his mom who laughs.

“You chose a wonderful wife. Why don’t you let her get back to work?” his mom asks, catching your amused gaze.

“Yes, I have another surgery scheduled. I will check on you in a few hours,” you walk over to your husband, giving him a quick kiss.

“I love you so much, I want to have babies with you,” George blurts, causing your face to flame bright red.

“Okay, let’s talk about that later,” you awkwardly say, stepping out of the room.

You are quick to return after your scheduled surgery. You know the nurses rotations and know that they won’t check in for another hour.

“There’s my beautiful wife,” George grins as you walk in. “You look so sexy post-surgery,” he eyes you up.

“Really? I don’t feel like it,” you slide onto the bed beside him, careful to avoid hurting him. You relax in silence for a minute before you address the feeling eating at the pit of your stomach. “Please try not to crash again. I know it’s unavoidable, but the feeling I got when I saw your name and didn’t know how serious the crash was. It… I don’t think I can describe the panic,” you take a deep breath, closing your eyes and focusing on the sound of his heartbeat under you. The cool hospital air is a stark contrast to his warmth.

“I’m sorry, it’s the one part of racing I hate too,” George is unsure how to respond. He looks at the blank hospital wall, as if it’ll give him the answer. “I’ll always come home to you, and I have a badass surgeon to take care of me,” he laughs a little, trying to lighten the mood.

“I can only do so much, like brain surgery? You are on your own,” you grin, happy to let the vibe change.

“You could do it, you can do anything,” George says, he always gets gushy when he’s tired.

“Okay, baby, you should get some sleep. I’ll go home and get you clothes. I will be back tomorrow morning to check on you,” you yawn, also needing sleep. George knows you can’t stay in the room too long, and he wouldn’t want you to stay up in an uncomfortable chair.

“I love you. Drive safe,” he mumbles, tiredness washing over him in waves. You fix his sheets and make sure he is okay before kissing him goodnight and leaving. It feels weird, to go home and not have him there. You burn the rest of your anxious energy by reaching out to some good physical therapists that you know to help with George’s recovery.

Under your watchful eye, he makes a recovery similar to Lance’s, even with you fussing the first few races post-injury. You framed one of his x-rays. George had to listen to you talk about how beautiful it was, you claimed it to be your best work. It allows for a good story when having friends over, and it reminds George to not let it happen again.

bruce springsteen's babysitters club

how it started vs how it’s going

#127 Day 🥹

nct 127 // 230212 sbs inkigayo

low quality gifs of a high quality guy kendama player

bonus, ft. hoshi: it's not as easy as it looks

Sam Lansky has such a wondrous way with words, and I’ve loved reading his pieces for over a decade. If you’ve ever been around him, you know he’s just the best type of person: Curious. Interested. Hilarious. Intriguing and intrigued. I have tRuSt iSSueS when it comes to interviews but I couldn’t be happier that I did this one with him. I was blown away to see quotes from people I adore and admire like Stevie Nicks, Greta Gerwig, Shonda Rhimes, Phoebe Bridgers, Natalie Maines, Kenny Chesney, and Lucian Grainge. I was so happy he spoke to fans Madison and McCall who were so eloquent, loyal, and kind. I’m really reflecting on this year, and all the years that led up to it. Can’t say thank you enough times. 🥲

https://time.com/6342806/person-of-the-year-2023-taylor-swift/

HONGJOONG ❀ HAPPY BIRTHDAY 231107