I Mean It - Franco Colapinto

Radio Silence | Chapter Four

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, ableism, strong language.

Notes — They're ridiculous. The entire grid thinks the same. I love them your honour.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2019

The door to the motorhome clicked shut behind him, and Lando barely had time to grab a bottle of water from his mini fridge before he heard his name.

“Lando.” His dad’s voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that meant he was either about to get bad news, or he was in a shit ton of trouble. 

Lando turned, water bottle halfway to his lips. “Yeah?”

Adam was sitting at the small table in the lounge, one arm draped over the back of the seat. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked more like the man Lando had watched negotiate million-pound deals than the easygoing dad who sent him memes and wore mismatched socks with his dress shoes.

“I spoke to Zak today,” Adam said. “About the two of you.”

Lando blinked, lowered the bottle. “The two of who?”

Adam gave him a look. “Don’t play dumb, kid. People are talking. Zak is… God, I thought he was going to collapse. He’s pissed off, Lando. Thought he could trust you with her.”

Lando felt his entire body go stiff. “We’re just friends.” He forced out. 

“Are you?” His dad asked, and then sighed. “We both know how this world works, Lando. I’ve watched you work yourself to the bone for this since you were eight years old. Everything you’ve done, everything we’ve sacrificed — it’s all led you here. And right now, you’re risking all of it meaning nothing.” 

Lando shook his head. “No. It’s not like that.”

“Maybe not yet. But it will be. The media will twist it. Her father is your boss. It isn’t just your reputation on the line — if this goes sideways, it could cost you your seat.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “Zak isn’t like that.”

“No,” Adam agreed, wearily. “But other people are. Sponsors. Management. People who don’t know you. You think they’ll believe this isn’t going to cause favouritism? That you won’t start getting special treatment?”

Lando felt like he was being burned alive. “I would never—.”

“But that’s what it’ll look like.” Adam’s voice stayed even. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true.”

Lando looked away, glared at the wall. His hands clenched into tight fists. 

“She’s not just… some girl,” Lando muttered. “She’s smart. And she’s… funny, in her own way. She always knows what she’s talking about. Knows how to make me feel better when I’m in a shit mood.”

Adam just looked at him, steady and quiet. “You like her,” he said. He sounded defeated.

Lando didn’t say anything. Because yeah. Maybe he did. Maybe he liked her a lot. Enough that it scared him a little. Enough that his stomach flipped weirdly every time he saw that rare smile of hers. Enough that he didn’t even know when it had started — just that it had snuck up on him and now it was everywhere.

Adam sighed, reaching a hand up to rub between his eyes. “I’m not saying you have to stop being her friend, mate. I’m just saying that you need to think long and hard about what you want; don’t think like a nineteen year old boy. Think like a world champion.”

Lando’s fingers tightened around the water bottle. The plastic crinkled.

“She’s Zak’s daughter,” Adam stared at him, like he was trying to drill the crux of the issue into him. “You really think that doesn’t come with consequences?”

“I didn’t… mean for it to be like this,” Lando said quietly. 

“Sometimes it just sneaks up on you,” he said. “Doesn’t mean it’s always a good thing.” He stood up, gave Lando’s shoulder a light squeeze — the way dads do when they mean I’m not angry, I’m just worried — and then walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Lando stayed frozen in place, staring at the floor, pulse still loud in his ears. He wasn’t even sure what he was feeling; just that it was too much, all at once.

He looked at the bottle in his hand. Still full.

Not thirsty anymore.

— 

“She said it wasn’t a date,” Tracy said, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug of tea. “They just got burgers.”

“After qualifying,” Zak pointed out. “He drove her to get burgers. Alone.”

Amelia sat at the kitchen table, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, utterly baffled. “I don’t understand how eating burgers together means that we’re dating. We didn’t even share our fries.”

Tracy snorted softly into her tea. Zak did not laugh.

“This isn’t about fries,” he muttered, pacing. “This is about perception. Do you know how many people saw the two of you together? In public? My phone blew up. There are photos all over instagram. And don’t get me started on how often you’re photographed together in the paddock. I— I was blind. Totally blind.” Great. He’d reached the spiralling stage. 

“Well, I texted you where I was!” Amelia said, affronted. “That’s the rule, and I followed it!”

“Yes,” Zak stressed, eyes wide. “An hour after you left the paddock, Amelia! I would’ve stopped you, had I known that he was going to… to steal you like that.”

Tracy giggled. Zak, notably, did not.

Amelia just stared at him, her expression caught somewhere between confused and concerned.

She had never, in all of her nineteen years of life, seen her father act so out of sorts out over something so insignificant. 

“Okay, look,” he took a deep breath, rubbing at his forehead like it pained him. “Amelia. Honey. You’re my daughter. And Lando? He’s my driver. If people think that something is going on between you two, it could become a very, very big problem for me. And for Lando. Do you understand that?”

Amelia blinked. She wasn’t stupid. She’d read plenty of romance books on her Kindle since getting it for her fifteenth birthday — and if she and Lando were in a book, she was pretty sure their trope would be “forbidden romance,” maybe even “opposites attract,” though she wasn’t entirely convinced she was Lando’s opposite. More like… Lando adjacent.

It was fun to think about.

But if her dad really believed this could negatively affect Lando’s career… maybe he had a point.

“Okay,” she said seriously. “So how do I stop wanting to kiss him?”

Zak made a sound. Like a dying animal.

Tracy full-on howled into her tea.

“I—oh my god,” Zak muttered, dropping his head into his hands. “No. Nope. I can’t do this.”

Amelia frowned at him, and then looked at her mom. “That wasn’t rhetorical. I would appreciate an answer.”

Zak didn’t respond.

Tracy, tears in her eyes from laughter, leaned over and gave Amelia a tight shoulder squeeze. “You don’t,” she said sweetly. “You just get very good at pretending that you don’t want to.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Zak grumbled into the table. “Great parenting. A masterclass.”

Amelia nodded, serious. “Okay. I can pretend.”

A beat passed.

Then, with total sincerity, she added, “But if he kisses me first, it’s not technically my fault, right?”

Tracy almost spit her tea. 

Zak’s forehead hit the table with a thump. 

— 

Amelia wasn’t eavesdropping. Not on purpose.

She was just looking for her water bottle. She remembered leaving it near the PR area while charging her phone. The door was mostly shut, but not all the way, and when she reached for the handle, hearing her name made her pause.

“Amelia is becoming a bigger problem than I think anyone wants to admit.”

It was Lisa, one of the senior PR officers. She recognised her voice; had sat and eaten lunch with her a few times at the MTC. They only travelled to races with a small PR team, and Lisa was one of them. 

Amelia squinted at the gap in the door. She should leave, but it felt like her feet had been glued to the floor. 

“She’s sweet,” someone else said. A man she didn’t recognise. “I mean, she’s obviously harmless. It’s not like she’s pulling a Piquet.”

“No, she’s not doing anything wrong,” Lisa agreed, “but she's constantly in the garage, on camera, lingering around Lando like a girlfriend would, or an engineer, but she’s not officially anything. She's Zak’s daughter, yes, but that shouldn’t give her free rein. Should it?”

There was a pause. Someone clicked a pen.

“I know we’re not supposed to say it out loud,” Lisa continued, “but she’s… neurodivergent. There’s only so much control we have over how she’s perceived. She’s different, and I think people can tell.”

Suddenly, it felt a little harder to breathe. 

“She, ah, fixates. And she paces. She’s terrible on camera, can’t speak to reporters at all. I saw a thread yesterday, talking about hor she has weird vibes, speculating if Lando’s only spending time with her because she’s Zak’s kid and he’s trying to be a teachers pet.”

“That’s awful,” someone said, though they didn’t sound shocked.

“I know. But if this turns into a tabloid story, it’s not going to be cute anymore. It’s going to look irresponsible. And nepotistic.” 

There was a shuffle of paper. A sigh.

“Either we bring her into the fold properly, media train her, give her a title, have Zak back their friendship publicly, or we need to start distancing her. She can’t just float.”

Amelia stepped back, her breath caught somewhere sharp in her ribs. She didn’t realise she was shaking until she saw her own hands.

They hadn’t said anything untrue.

Not really.

But they’d said it like she was a problem to manage instead of a human being with feelings.

She backed away quietly.

She no longer wanted her water bottle.

In fact, she didn’t want to be here at all.

— 

She found Lewis leaning against a wall near the back of the Mercedes hospitality unit, Roscoe sprawled on a cooling mat like a little lion in the sun.

He looked up and smiled when he saw her. “Hey, trouble. Wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

Amelia tried to smile back. It didn’t really work.

Lewis’s face changed. “What’s wrong?”

She sat down heavily next to Roscoe, crossing her legs, arms tight around her ribs. The dog lifted his head, gave her a sniff, then licked her knee. She didn’t react.

Lewis crouched. “Amelia?”

“I’m just,” She sucked in a deep breath. “I think I’m making a mess of everything.” She stared at the floor. “I didn’t mean to. I just thought—I thought that I was just being helpful and quiet and normal enough. But I’m not doing any of it right. I talk too much, or I hover, or I forget to look people in the eye, and apparently people think I’m weird.” 

Lewis’s face darkened. She wasn’t looking at him, though, she was staring at her shoes now. At the last race, Lando had used an orange marker pen and written his number ‘4’ on the side of them. 

“They were talking about me,” she continued, voice flatter now. “The McLaren public relations people. They said I might ruin things for him. For Lando. Because I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

“They said that to you?” Lewis asked, his voice sharp.

She looked at him. He sounded angry. Her stomach twisted tighter.

“No one said it to me. But I heard them. I wasn’t meant to. I don’t think they knew I was there.” Her hands tugged harder at the cuffs of her sleeves, wrapping the fabric around her fingers until they turned pale. “And they’re right, really. It’s not personal. It’s strategic. I’m a… a flaw in the system.”

Lewis exhaled slowly, deliberately, like he was keeping something inside. “Amelia, you don’t get to say that about yourself, alright? That’s a rule now.”

She blinked at him. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not true,” he said, quieter. “I’ve raced with actual liabilities. People who don’t care. Who don’t try. You? You’re none of those things. You’re thoughtful, you work hard, and you pay attention in a way most people don’t. That already puts you ahead of half the paddock.”

She didn’t say anything. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, like she could physically push the confusing feelings away, then leaned a little closer to Roscoe. The dog didn’t move, just let her run her fingers through the warm fur along his side like it was the only thing keeping her from floating away.

Lewis stayed close but gave her space. After a moment, he glanced down at his phone and the telltale *swoop* sound informed her that he'd sent somebody a message.

A few minutes later, footsteps approached from behind. Light. Quick. Familiar.

She didn’t even need to turn around.

“Hey,” Lando said, voice low and careful.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

“I’m okay,” she said automatically. 

Lewis stood, brushing off his hands. “Take her for some air, yeah?” He suggested to Lando. “She needs a break. And someone who won’t let her be mean to herself.”

“I got her,” Lando said quietly, eyes on her the whole time.

Lewis gave him a look — subtle, but full of something unspoken. Then he reached down to ruffle Amelia’s hair, a brief and awkward brotherly gesture.

She winced.

Her shoulders curled up, recoiling slightly before she could stop herself. It wasn’t Lewis’ fault — she liked him, respected him, even — but he wasn’t Fernando. He didn’t know how to touch her gently. How not to startle her.

Lewis paused and immediately pulled his hand back. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Force of habit.”

She nodded once. She appreciated the apology more than the touch.

Lando sat down beside her, close but not touching.

“Tell me who I need to fight,” he said.

She huffed a breath. Almost a laugh. Almost.

He didn’t rush her. Just waited.

After a long moment, she looked at him. Her voice barely a whisper. “I think I might mess everything up for you.”

He shook his head immediately. “Nah. I’ll be the one who ends up doing that.” 

She looked at him then, really looked at him. He looked serious, but she could never be sure. 

He smiled at her, then. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take a walk around, yeah? The sun’ll start setting soon.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he started walking, and after a second of hesitation, Amelia stood up and followed. She walked beside him, glancing at him occasionally. He led her around the paddock, moving past engineers and mechanics who were too busy to pay attention to either of them. 

“My dad talked to me. About, uh, this. Us.” He glanced at her. She frowned at him. “Because we went for burgers.” He explained. 

Amelia sighed. “Everyone is so obsessed with that. I don’t understand.” 

Lando smirked. “Because you went with me, Amelia.” 

She made a face at him that she hoped portrayed her frustration. “That doesn’t explain anything.” 

“I like you,” he said slowly, his voice steady. Honest. She blinked at him. “I think a lot of people worked that out before I did — and definitely before you did.” He said. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. Was he making fun of her? It didn’t feel like it. It… it felt a lot like he was teasing with her. Flirting with her, like the men in her books.

Her heart did that thing again. The one that felt like it skipped a beat, but not in the way she wanted it to. He was, wasn’t he? He was flirting with her. Because he liked her.

Before Amelia could say anything, Lando stopped suddenly, and she almost bumped into him. Looking up, she saw a camera swing toward them, one of the Sky cameras following the action around the paddock, with Ted Kravitz just a few meters away.

Her stomach dropped. A rush of panic hit her chest.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, instinctively trying to step out of the camera’s line of sight.

Lando’s hand landed gently on her back, guiding her in the opposite direction, but it was too late. The camera was already focused on them. Amelia could feel her face flush as heat spread up her neck. This was exactly what she didn’t want — being seen alone with Lando was only going to make everything worse.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” Lando said, his voice low and steady, reassuring her without a hint of panic.

But just as the camera zoomed in closer, Amelia heard a familiar voice.

“What do we have here?” It was Max Verstappen.

She blinked. Carlos Sainz appeared beside him, and Daniel Ricciardo wasn’t far behind. The three of them swarmed around her and Lando like it was something they did every day. Max slung an arm around Lando’s shoulders, and Carlos and Daniel positioned themselves between Amelia and the camera, effectively blocking the view. 

“We were just on our way to get ice cream,” Daniel said with a mischievous grin, his accent thick and playful. “Warm evening, isn’t it?”

Amelia blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in energy. Max gave her a wink, his smile wide and completely unbothered by the camera’s presence. Carlos just chuckled. 

Lando shook his head, clearly amused, but his eyes didn’t leave her. There was something there, something that made her stomach flutter, and for a second, she forgot about the camera entirely.

“You guys are ridiculous,” Lando said with a smile, his tone light but grateful. It was clear he wasn’t at all mad at the distraction. In fact, he seemed oddly relieved by it.

“Only when it’s necessary,” Max quipped, and with that, the trio slowly started backing away, blocking the camera’s view like pros.

As they made their way toward the back of the paddock, Lando’s hand remained at the small of Amelia’s back, a silent reassurance that she was, for now, out of the spotlight.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice just for her.

Amelia nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking about how many points you guys have combined.”

“In Formula One?” Daniel asked, raising an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of confusion and amusement.

She shook her head. “No, I mean, like, total points. From when you all started karting.” Her voice was mumbled, her thoughts swirling with a million numbers. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be able to tell you.”

Max raised an eyebrow at Lando. “Mate…”

Lando laughed, his eyes full of pride. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

— 

iMessage — 5:09pm

Dad You okay honey?

Amelia Yes. I do not like Lisa anymore.

Dad Lisa who?

Amelia She works in public relations.

Dad What did she do? Did she say something to you?

Amelia I eavesdropped.

Dad: Amelia

Amelia She said that people say that I have weird vibes. Do I?

Dad No, you don’t. Your vibes are just fine. I’ll have a chat with Lisa about where her focus should and shouldn’t be. Are you okay, though? Did you feel upset?

Amelia It’s fine. Lando made me feel better :)

Dad: Amelia Brown. Where are you right now?

Amelia I am in Lando’s rental car.

Dad I can’t believe this. Tell him that I am going to murder him.

Amelia No. He hasn’t kissed me yet. He probably won’t do it tonight because we are with his friends.

Dad … Which friends?

Amelia Max Verstappen. Carlos Sainz. Daniel Ricciardo. 

Dad I see. Have fun, sweetheart. 

— 

iMessage — 5:18pm

Zak Brown You told me you had a chat with him.

Adam Norris I did. What’s he done now?

Zak Brown Check Sky Sports. Your son’s created an Amelia army. A very expensive one. Looks like Max Verstappen’s leading it.

Adam Norris Just saw it. Never seen him like this with any girl before.

Zak Brown Look, he’s a great kid, but I’m trying to figure out how to handle this. It’s turning into a media circus.

Adam Norris I can talk to him again.

Zak Brown Maybe we just tell them they can’t see each other. Lay down the law. I’ll tell Amelia to stay out of the paddock for a bit, create some distance.

Adam Norris That’ll only make it worse, Zak. Lando’s young. He’s a bit of a party animal. Amelia seems like a good kid, but she’s not his usual type. Maybe this will blow over.

Zak Brown Let’s hope so.

— 

Carlos paced slowly down the pit-lane, the cool morning air brushing against his skin. The soft hum of the paddock was building as teams made their final preparations. He adjusted his cap, squinting against the light creeping over the horizon, the sun just peeking out from behind the clouds, casting long shadows on the tarmac.

His gaze flicked to the pit-wall, where strategists were already setting up, even at this hour. His own crew were deep in race plan discussions, while other teams were doing the same. The calm before the storm. The last moments of peace before the full intensity of the race weekend took over.

Silverstone always had a unique energy. The fans here were different—almost like they had a special connection to the track. It was Lando’s home race, and McLaren’s too.

Carlos glanced over at Lando’s garage without thinking. He was already there, leaning against the back wall in a pair of matching grey sweats, smiling widely. Carlos followed his gaze. Ah. Of course. Amelia Brown, perched on the counter in front of the telemetry screens, animatedly talking, her hands moving as much as her words.

Carlos found himself wondering if the way her feet kept bouncing against the cabinet was a... stim, the English term. He had done his research when he learned about Amelia’s autism. It had helped to understand why she was so blunt when giving advice and never made eye contact. It also explained why his father's words had clearly hurt her more deeply than he would ever be able to understand.

The sound of Amelia’s laugh echoed across the pit-lane, rare and light, catching Carlos off guard. A few people turned to look, but he smiled to himself and resisted the urge to do the same.

All he could do was hope that his younger teammate knew what was at stake, and took great care in the meantime. 

— 

Amelia lingered at the edge of the McLaren hospitality, watching the crowds begin to surge toward the podium. The noise was already swelling; chants, cheers, announcers shouting over each other, and she could feel the pressure building in her chest, like the edge of a storm. 

She didn’t usually go. Podiums were too loud, too crowded, too much. But this was Lewis, and he’d won his home race, and something just… tugged at her.

She turned, scanning the garage until she found Lando, who was mid-conversation with one of the engineers, still in his race suit, half-zipped down and tied around his waist. His face was flushed with post-race adrenaline, curls stuck damp to his forehead. But when he saw her staring, he excused himself and jogged over.

“You okay?” he asked, slightly breathless.

“I think…” She hesitated, glancing at the rising noise and the streamers already flying in the air. “I want to go to the podium. For Lewis. Just for a bit.”

Lando blinked, but then he grinned, and she stared. He was… he was all sunlight and softness. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He said. 

She nodded once, but didn’t move.

Lando seemed to understand immediately. “Do you have your defenders?”

She nodded and pulled them out of her cross-body. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “Put them on. It’ll be chaos.”

“I will try not to freak out.” She promised him. 

“I won’t let that happen,” Lando said, already turning to lead the way.

He didn’t reach for her, didn’t crowd her. Just walked a few steps ahead, carving space through the sea of people with casual ease, occasionally glancing back to make sure she was still following. She appreciated that. That he didn’t hover. That he didn’t try to fix, fix, fix. Just… made it easier.

By the time they reached the base of the podium, the champagne was already spraying. Lewis stood centre stage, beaming, arms raised in triumph. The crowd roared, and Amelia’s McLaren branded ear defenders did their job, muting the sharp edges of it until it was just a distant hum. She watched Lewis through the fog of smoke and sound, her eyes soft with pride. He deserved this. He always did.

Lando leaned slightly toward her, not close enough to touch, just enough that she could hear him clearly. “You glad you came?”

She nodded, eyes still on the podium. “Yes. It’s good.”

The following day, a picture of them would go viral on F1 social media. Lando, still in his fireproofs, race suit dragging slightly against the ground, standing just behind Amelia — who wore her noise-cancelling headphones like armour, her eyes fixed on the podium. She was smiling, wide and unguarded, the kind of smile people didn’t often get to see from her. Lando was looking at her; fond and sweet.

The photo would circle the internet within hours. People would say a lot of things.

But the overwhelming consensus?

Soulmates.

Whether they knew it yet or not.

NEXT CHAPTER

i'll come home to you ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

ih6 x uni!reader

in which lovedrunk! isack shows up at your door

warnings: mildly suggestive

word count: 696

masterlist

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Isack knows that this is a bad idea. He doesn’t want to scare you off, because…

Well, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to him, including becoming a Formula One driver. 

He’s thinking about you, the way you smile at him and the kiss you’d left on the corner of his mouth the last time he saw you. 

He’d been out drinking with some of his friends, but he needed to see you, desperately. 

He’s been really desperate lately, so much so that Liam flicks his forehead every time Isack gets a text from you to clear his face of the cheesy, down bad smile. 

It’s worth it, though. He’d endure a sore forehead as long as you keep texting him about your day. 

That’s why he finds himself, tipsy and flushed at your doorstep. 

You open the door, face and legs bare. 

“Baby?” You ask, surprised, but moving to let him in. 

He has a hard time crossing into the doorframe, distracted by the smooth skin of your thighs, and the fact that you’re wearing one of his Hugo Boss hoodies he’d given you on your second date. 

This is your third, if you count showing up at the doorstep of your kind-of girlfriend at 12 AM. 

Melting into your arms, he greets you with a slurred French pet name. 

Your giggle reaches his ears just as he blows a raspberry into your neck. 

You squeal, trying to escape, but he lands the two of you on the couch. 

He digs his face into your chest, breathing in your body wash. 

“Hi, handsome. Where’d you come from?” You coo, fingers tracing his earlobe.

He shivers in pleasure, half from the sheer happiness of being in your presence, half from the feeling your hands on him. 

Slipping his hands under the thin tank you wear with the unzipped hoodie, he mutters to you about his evening. 

You hum at his story, laughing when he tells you how Yuki jumped on a table to dance. 

By the time he’s finished, you’re stripping off his hoodie due to the heat of his body pressed up against yours. He doesn’t mind at all as you push him gently up so you can take the hoodie off. 

Not when he gets to pull you onto his lap. 

“Isack, what-“ you start, but the feeling of his lips on your pulse point cuts you off. 

Isack practically purrs when your neck falls back as he mouths across your soft skin. The little whimpers you’re letting out is sending heat straight to his groin, and he groans when you shift even closer to him, clinging to his shoulders. 

“Mm,” he tells you, which you answer by threading your fingers into the short, black locks on his head. 

His eyes roll back in pleasure, at the feeling of you, desperate for him as he was for you. 

“You are so drunk,” you murmur, slipping off of his lap, grin a bit teasing and a bit disappointed. 

“Mon chérie, non!” He complains, trying to tug you back onto him. 

“Baby, c’mon. Let’s go to bed.” You start your way to what he assumes is your bedroom, looking back with wide, expecting eyes. 

He follows, half-hard and eager like the world’s most loyal puppy. 

“To sleep,” You clarify, and he deflates. Then, he bounces his steps because that means he gets to cuddle you all night. 

The two of you get unready together, brushing your teeth side by side and he lets you smooth on skincare onto his skin. 

He takes his shirt off, wearing only his boxers as you slip under the covers. You watch him, eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. 

Isack has to look at the ceiling and think about Helmut Marko for about ten seconds until he can join you. 

“Goodnight,” he pulls you into his bare chest, and you press a kiss to his heart, and then his lips. 

As you fall asleep, with his stomach warm from thick, heavy affection, he realizes this is where he wants to be forever. 

In your arms, in your bed, no matter where he is. 

With you, he thinks. 

Always with you. 

Call Me When You Breakup (Role Reversal)

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You’re with the wrong person, and Max knows it. So do you. He won’t ask you to leave but he’ll be here, hoping, aching, waiting. Just… call him when you do.

Authors Note: Okay so when I was writing Call Me When You Break Up, I genuinely couldn’t pick whether Max or the reader should be the one in a relationship bc I loved both versions too much. So… I wrote both. Figured I’d share this one too in case you needed a little comfort after the first one! (Spoiler: this one ends happier, promise 💕)

1.6k words / Inspo / Masterlist

Max knows he's in trouble the moment he sees you with him.

It shouldn’t hurt like this. Shouldn’t feel like something inside him is being wrenched apart, piece by piece. But it does. Because that’s not where you’re supposed to be.

You should be with him.

Instead, you’re laughing at something your boyfriend just said, your hand resting lightly on his arm, and Max feels like he’s suffocating in plain sight.

Because he knows that laugh. He knows your real laugh, the one that starts low in your chest and crinkles the corners of your eyes. This one is polite, forced, paper-thin.

You're fading right in front of him, and he doesn’t know how no one else sees it.

"You’re staring."

Lando’s voice pulls him back to reality, but Max doesn’t bother denying it. What’s the point? Everyone knows. They’ve always known.

Lando follows his gaze across the restaurant, shaking his head. "You really gonna keep doing this to yourself?"

Max exhales sharply, gripping his glass tighter. "What choice do I have?"

Lando scoffs. "I don’t know, maybe tell her how you feel instead of sitting here like some lovesick idiot?"

Max wants to. God, he wants to. He’s rehearsed it a thousand times, in the car, in the shower, in those sleepless hours past midnight when he’s certain no one will hear his heart breaking. But it’s never that simple.

Because you’re in a relationship. One that looks fine from the outside. One that checks boxes. One that convinces everyone… except Max, that you're happy.

But Max knows better.

Because he’s seen the way your boyfriend talks over you when you’re excitedly telling a story. How he interrupts, how he subtly corrects you. How he walks ahead without waiting, and rarely looks back to see if you’re still with him. How he only reaches for your hand when people are watching, when it can be seen, posted, admired.

But still, you stay. And Max doesn’t understand why. Because you were meant for him.

You know it too. He sees it in the way your eyes linger on him a second too long. The way your laughter always falters when he looks at you like this, like he’d burn the world down if you asked him to.

But you never ask.

And Max? He’s stuck waiting.

We’re so meant for each other. When will you wake up.

The words sit heavy in his chest, but he swallows them down. Because as much as he wants to say them, to beg you to choose him, it has to be you.

Call me when you break up.

He thinks it almost every time he sees you. It sits there behind his teeth, aching to be said. A quiet, desperate plea. Because he can’t say it first.

You have to want it. Want him.

Until then, he’ll keep watching from across the room. Holding his breath. And praying that one day, you’ll finally stop pretending.

And come home to him.

It gets worse before it gets better.

Max tries to move on. Tries to shove the feelings down, bury them beneath podium celebrations and mindless distractions. He flirts with women he doesn’t care about, lets them kiss him in the shadows of clubs, lets them wrap themselves around him like temporary bandages, but their lips never feel right.

Because they’re not yours.

You’re the only person who’s ever made him feel like he doesn’t have to win to be worth something.

He tells himself he’s fine. That if he says it enough, he’ll start believing it.

But then he sees you again.

You’re sitting alone in the paddock, scrolling through your phone, and you look exhausted. Not just physically, but in the way that sits deep in your bones. Like you haven’t been happy in a long time.

Max doesn’t think. He just moves.

"Hey."

You glance up, startled, before a slow smile spreads across your face. "Hey, Max."

It’s stupid, how much just hearing his name in your voice makes his chest ache. How his whole world rearranges itself around that one sound.

He sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. "You okay?"

You hesitate just for a second before nodding. "Yeah. Just tired."

You’re lying. He knows it. You know he knows it, but you don’t elaborate, and Max doesn’t push.

Because this isn’t his place.

Not yet.

So he swallows the things he wants to say. Swallows the part of him that wants to take your face in his hands and ask what happened to the girl who used to give him hell just for fun. The one who could make him laugh with a single raised eyebrow, who used to challenge him just to see if he’d rise to it.

He forces himself to play the part. The best friend. The one who listens but never crosses the line. The one who waits in the background, hoping that one day you’ll finally wake up.

But waiting is hell.

Especially when he sees it clearer than ever that you’re not yourself anymore. Not the girl who used to light up every room, not the girl who used to challenge him on everything just to make him laugh. You’ve gotten quieter. Like the wrong love dimmed your light.

And Max? He wants to be the one who brings it back.

He wants to remind you what it feels like to be loved loudly. To be listened to. To be challenged and adored in equal measure. He wants to be the arms you fall into, not because you’re tired, but because it finally feels safe. He wants to fight with you and for you, and he wants to laugh until you can’t breathe, until your face crumples in that way that only happens when you’re so happy you forget to hold it all in.

The call comes finally at 2 a.m.

Max is half-asleep when his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with your name. His heart lurches before he even picks up.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Then—

"Can I come over?"

Your voice is raw, like you’ve been crying, and suddenly Max is wide awake.

"Yeah," he says immediately, already sitting up. "Of course."

You don’t offer an explanation. You don’t need to.

Because he already knows.

You show up at his door twenty minutes later, eyes red-rimmed, wearing the same clothes from earlier.

Max doesn’t ask what happened. He just steps aside, letting you in.

You sink onto his couch without a word, pulling your knees to your chest. Max sits beside you, close but not touching. Waiting.

It takes a minute before you finally speak.

"It’s over."

The words send a jolt through his chest, but he keeps his expression careful. "Are you okay?"

"I don’t know." You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I feel like an idiot... I should’ve left a long time ago, but I was scared. Of being alone. Of starting over."

Max swallows hard. "You’re not alone."

Your eyes flick to his, something unreadable swirling in their depths. "I know."

A beat of silence. Then—

“Were you… waiting for this?”

The question slips out of you like a confession, small and uncertain, but it lands like a thunderclap between you.

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t deflect with a joke or pretend he didn’t hear. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and unflinching, like he’s bracing for impact.

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I was.”

“Max—” you breathe, voice thick and trembling.

But he cuts you off gently, a hand lifting like he’s physically trying to slow the moment down.

“Don’t,” he says softly, eyes searching yours. “Don’t say anything if you don’t mean it, not because you feel guilty, or because you’re hurting, or because I’ve been stupid enough to love you this long.”

“I think part of me always knew,” you continue, blinking hard. “That I was supposed to end up here. That it was always going to be you. But I kept talking myself out of it. Because you were safe. And I didn’t think I deserved safe.”

“You deserve everything,” Max says hoarsely.

You nod, a few tears finally escaping down your cheeks

Max is still watching you like he doesn’t dare breathe, like if he moves too fast, you’ll disappear again.

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”

His grip tightens instinctively. “What do you feel?”

You swallow hard, but your voice is clear now. Certain. “I’m in love with you.”

Max exhales like he’s been underwater this whole time and finally broke the surface. His hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb catching a tear before it falls.

“Say it again,” he whispers, eyes shining.

You smile through the tears. “I’m in love with you.”

“I love you too,” he says. “I’ve been yours since the beginning”

And then you’re kissing him.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, a little desperate. There’s hesitation in the way your lips press to his, like you’re testing the waters of a dream you never let yourself have. But Max doesn’t hesitate.

His hands find your waist, anchoring you to him, pulling you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if there’s any distance between you. His fingers slide into your hair, and he kisses you like it’s the only language he’s ever been fluent in.

Like he’s been waiting forever.

You gasp softly into his mouth, and he slows down, gentling it, letting you set the pace. Letting you feel safe. Loved. Wanted.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the small space between you. Your eyes stay closed, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Max exhales, brushing your hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten.

“You’re here now,” he says, thumb ghosting across your cheek. “That’s all that matters.”

hey i had an idea and i love your seb x reader writing so i wanted to send this to you! driver! reader has a really big accident during a race like shes in a coma for some time seb becomes this completely closed off person but he visits you everyday so one day he comes to the hospital ig and readers heart stopped or something but then she comes back to life and wakes up or she dies idk if they have kids but would be nice if they’re married. idk i leave it up to you just give me some angst pls 🙏🙏🙏

COME BACK TO ME| S.VETTEL

Pairing; Sebastian Vettel x Wife!driver!reader

Summary; Sebastian’s world is turned upside down when he finds out the reason behind the red flag, the aftermath is just as torturous as the moment he got the news.

Warnings; Serious crash (a bit like Jules Bianchi’s), angst, coma, severe injuries, Sebastian’s sad :( Also Kimi and Seb bickering like children.

F1 Master List

It was no secret that Formula One was a dangerous sport, the fans knew it, the FIA knew it and the drivers knew it; but there are decisions that need to be made in order to protect the drivers because their safety should be the number one concern.

So when the FIA decided that that the weather in Suzuka wasn’t severe enough to postpone or cancel the race, pretty much every driver was against getting back on the track, there had already been a crash and to continue was just plain stupid.

Y/N knew that everyone, including the drivers, had their eyes on her. She had won the last few seasons and was the one to beat.

She never had a problem driving in the rain, in fact most of the time it added to the thrill of the race but when you could hardly even see the steering wheel you were holding, it wasn’t fun, it was scary.

She didn’t really know what had happened, she was battling Max Verstappen who had been recently promoted to RedBull; she’s been enjoying the challenge the younger driver is offering her but there were times that she didn’t agree with his decisions, they could be extremely risky and not in a good way, in a way that could cause some serious damage to either him or someone else and it seemed that this time was one of those times that his risks had consequences.

She had been ahead of him when she felt the contact that had been made to the back of her car, it wasn’t light at all, it sent her spinning completely off the track and with the slippery track and the rain continuing to pour she could not stop the car no matter how hard she tried to gain control.

She heard the gasps of the crowd as her car flipped and spun but it faded away as she tried to keep herself from moving about too much in her car; wondering how long it would take for her to stop.

Y/N did stop, eventually, but the moment she felt the contact she knew something was wrong. It felt like she had hit a brick wall, she heard the crumpling of the car’s structure before a pain like no other filled her entire body; her head throbbed and her eyes fluttered closed, her body shrouded by the remains of her car and the heavy rain.

"Red flag, Sebastian, you’re heading into the pits," Riccardo spoke over the radio.

"Fuck sake! I told you guys we shouldn’t have been sent back out here, what happened?" To say he was angry was an understatement, for the FIA to risk the lives of every driver on this track was ridiculous and quite frankly plain stupid.

"What happened, who was it?" He asked again when he wasn’t given an answer, pulling into the pits behind the two Redbulls.

"There’s been a crash, no response," Riccardo vaguely replied.

Sebastian sighed in frustration at the lack of information and detached his steering wheel, pulling himself out of the car, he didn’t even have time to pull his helmet off before Max was walking up to him and grabbing his arms.

"Seb I’m so sorry, I lost my grip and I couldn’t control it and we just collided-"

Sebastian shook his head, cutting Max off. "What are you talking about, what happened?"

Max simply stared at Seb for a moment, guilt filling his entire body as he realised Sebastian had absolutely no idea. "Seb, it’s Y/N…."

It was as thought the world had stopped turning, Max’s voice had faded away along with the sound of the crowds and everything else around him, the only thing he heard were his racing thoughts as he remembered Riccardo’s words.

No response

No response

No response

He looked up at the big screen that was showing the wreckage live, his heart dropped, the car was completely crushed and she was still in it.

He saw as a few of the Marshalls looked towards the ground briefly before looking into the direction of the camera as they all started making the same gesture, not even a minute later the screen was shut off so that no one could see what was happening.

Sebastian didn’t register his feet moving or the drop of Max’s hand from his shoulder but the next moment he was storming into the Mercedes garage demanding for some sort of information.

If it was any other driver entering their garage without permission they would’ve been immediately kicked out but knowing that Sebastian was here for no other reason that to know if his wife was okay they didn’t mention the red race suit that stood out against everyone else’s black and white uniform.

Seeing that Sebastian was simply stood there, seemingly not knowing what to do, Toto walked over to him and directed him away from his team so that they could talk.

"There was no response over the radio so we can assume that she’s unconscious, she went into that barrier at an incredible speed and the from the damage we can see there’s no way she isn’t injured in some way so she’s going to be airlifted to the nearest hospital, okay?" He spoke in a low voice so that no one could hear besides the two of them.

Sebastian made no indication that he had registered Toto’s words but he did swallow thickly before simply walking away and making his way into his own garage; he didn’t speak to anyone, instead heading straight to his drivers room.

He has taken the quickest shower of his life and changed into regular clothes, he had no intention of getting back into that car this weekend and if anyone expected him to then they were delusional.

As soon as he walked through the doors of the hospital he was approached by an older looking nurse that seemed to have been waiting for him and he could tell by the look on her face that he wasn’t going to hear anything good.

She gestured him to follow her; she lead him into an empty hospital room and gestured for him to sit down on one of the two chairs that were underneath the window, she took the other.

"Mr Vettel, I’m going to be straight with you because I wouldn’t want anyone to beat around the bush if I was in your position. The speed and force at which your wife crashed into barrier quite frankly should have killed her so bear that in mind when I go over her injuries with you because they might sound bad but for what happened I’d say she got out lucky."

Her words cut through Sebastian like a knife, tearing into his skin to leave him vulnerable to whatever she has to say next. Though, he’s grateful she’s telling him how it is instead of sugar coating the severity of everything just so that he’s not uncomfortable, he wants to understand and be aware of what exactly has happened so he gulped and nodded for her to continue.

She didn’t look at him sympathetically which he was thankful for but her expression was comforting. "The impact shattered Mrs Vettel’s tibia and fibula in her right leg, three of her ribs were also broken and a few of them are bruised, during the crash something must have made contact with your wife’s head because when we were cutting the helmet off the back of it was already broken through and it’s caused her some severe trauma to her head."

It was as though Sebastian felt the pain with each injury that was listed, the nurse was explaining it precise and slow so that he could probably understand it but there was really only one thing he wanted to know. "Is my wife going to be okay?"

This time the nurse did look at him sympathetically as she saw the pure worry in his eyes, she could see the love he felt for the Mercedes driver and the pain that this was causing him.

"Your wife is in surgery right now to fix both bones in her leg and suture up the injury on her scalp, her ribs should heal by themselves in at least six weeks but will most likely be longer, the thing we’re most worried about however is when she’s going to wake up. Whilst the knock on her head hasn’t caused any internal bleeding, we do think that’s the reason she was unconscious and not the crash itself."

Sebastian’s blood went cold at her words, "So-what, she’s in a coma?"

The woman nodded in confirmation. "Yes, it’s hard to determine when a person in a coma is going to wake up because each person is different when they’re in a position like this and I’m aware of how difficult this is for you to hear but whilst she’s in this state, it’s really the best time for her injuries to heal and hopefully she’ll wake after the worst of the pain has passed."

"How long do you think she’ll be in the coma for?"

"It varies from person to person but I’d say anywhere between a few weeks to a few months."

Sebastian nodded his head, glancing down to his lap where he was fiddling with his wedding ring. "Thank you." He simply muttered to the nurse who took that as her cue to leave.

"Mrs Vettel will be brought here after her surgery is complete, you’re welcome to wait until then or if you wish to go and come back after they’re finished we can give you a call if-"

"I’ll wait," Sebastian interrupted her and she nodded before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

Sebastian sighed heavily into the silence of the room, placing his head in his hands; now that he was alone the strong front he had put up had disappeared, before he could stop it his eyes were watering and silent tears were falling into his hands.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that before he heard the doors to the room open and a bed was wheeled in by four or five doctors, once the bed was locked in the middle of the room all of them left but one.

The man was probably in his forties but he seemed kind enough as he regarded Sebastian. "You must be Mr Vettel?"

Sebastian hastily wiped his eyes before rubbing his hands on his legs, nodding his head.

The doctor smiled before speaking. "The surgery went well, both bones in your wife’s leg have been reconstructed but those pins will have to stay there for a month or two and afterwards she’ll need physical therapy to regain her strength back and the cut to her head has been sutured up with no issues. A nurse will come by tonight to check her vitals and ensure everything is okay, they usually do checkups every 6-8 hours but if you need something then feel free to press the button."

"I will, thank you." Sebastian smiled weakly.

"As you are her husband you can come and go as you like, you are more than welcome to have someone come and take your place when you want to go and shower or rest. If anyone wishes to come and visit then visiting hours are between 8am and 8pm, after that we only permit one person to stay."

The doctor left shortly after and after taking a deep breath Sebastian got up from his seat beneath the window and made his way to the bed.

The sight of her made him want to burst into tears all over again, she had cuts and bruises all over her face and arms, her right left was resting on a pillow but trapped inside a metal brace that was attached to the pins inside her leg, her head was bandaged to protect the stitches on from the pillow she was laying on.

She looked lifeless and the sight of it pretty much tore him in two.

He didn’t know what to do, he was here alone and the love of his life almost died.

He carefully leaned against the edge of the bed, making sure he didn’t budge anything he shouldn’t before carefully grabbing her left hand, it was bare of any rings and Sebastian hoped that they were in her driver’s room somewhere and not lost because she was so protective over them rings and would be pissed if they were lost.

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it.

It was way too silent in here, he hated it.

He leaned his body forward and pressed his face into the pillow, being mindful that he wasn’t hurting her even if she was unconscious and most likely wouldn’t feel it.

"Please come back to me, Liebling. I need you so much."

Sebastian didn’t leave the hospital that night, he had dragged the chair across the room so he could spend the night beside his wife, he hardly slept instead choosing to sit and simply watch as she ‘slept’ hoping that if he stayed awake long enough then eventually she would wake up.

She didn’t.

He had countless messages from family and drivers but he didn’t answer them, he knew not answering her family was selfish but he found that he really only cared about Y/N and no one else, that and he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

He messaged her and his parents this morning explaining what the doctors had told him yesterday but had left the other messages unread.

Not once had he let go of her hand, not when the nurses came in every couple of hours to do their checkups or when they brought him something to drink or eat, most of which went untouched.

He couldn’t explain the heartache he was feeling, to have the person you love the most in the world be in such a vulnerable position was heart wrenching, especially when it was your job and vow to protect them.

He couldn’t have stopped that crash but he will make sure he is around for every step of her recovery process.

Sebastian was thankful that there wasn’t a race this week because there was no way he was leaving her in the hospital alone to get in the car, he wasn’t in the right mindset anyways.

It seemed silly that he was also thankful that there was only four races left and Y/N had already won the championship otherwise he would’ve been devastated for her.

A knock at the door tore him away from his thoughts and he assumed that it was a nurse but was proved wrong when Max walked through the door with flowers in his hand.

Sebastian pursed his lips and looked down, he couldn’t even look at the man knowing that he was the reason his wife was unconscious in the hospital.

He knew it was wrong to blame him because he had no grip and the weather was no help but he was aware of the way the younger lad drove and knew that he took unnecessary risks, risks that could’ve killed the woman he loved.

"Uhm," Max cleared his throat awkwardly. "I messaged to see if it was okay for me to come but I didn’t get an answer and I just needed to see if she was okay."

Sebastian bit his tongue which was hard when everything inside him wanted to turn and shout at the RedBull driver that this was all his fault and he had no right to come here when he was the reason she was here in the first place, and his wife didn’t even like fucking roses so be can shove them up his arse for all Sebastian cared.

"Is she okay?"

Sebastian scoffed at the question, looking up at Max as if questioning his sanity. "Does she look okay?"

Max looked at him guiltily before glancing away, not being able to stand the look of complete despair in the German’s eyes.

"Just leave," Sebastian shook his head. "My wife’s pretty much on her death bed right now because of you and I really don’t need you coming here pretending like you care when we both know that that the only thing you care about when you’re in that car is yourself, not anyone else and certainly not their lives."

Max bit back the retort that’s on the end of his tongue knowing that the man was not in the right place right now so he placed the flowers on the table by the door and took his leave.

Sebastian sighed and tipped his head back to try and stop himself from crying, he needed to stop crying, he hadn’t done anything else in the last 24 hours.

It had been a week and Sebastian had talked to no one, none of the drivers had tried to visit so he assumed that Max had warned them to stay away which he was glad.

He had left the hospital only twice to pack some clothes and essentials for the two of them, Y/N still hadn’t woken up but the bruising on her face and arms was going down and the doctors had said her ribs were healing nicely.

He had never realised how much he had depended on her and needed her until he didn’t have her to depend on.

He loved her so much and felt like he was going insane with her right next to him but not exactly there at the same time.

Shortly after Max had left that day, two nurses had came in with Y/N’s race suit, fireproofs, balaclava, gloves, boots, two halves of her race helmet and her rings.

Sebastian had wasted no time in placing her rings back onto her hand, he didn’t think she looked right without them and knew that if she woke up without them on her hand she wouldn’t be impressed.

He had almost cried again when he picked up both pieces of her helmet and saw the place where she had been stricken on the head, there was a gash that went right through the helmet and a large red stain on her balaclava that would be beneath where the hole on her helmet is.

He had told his and Y/N’s parents that there was no point in flying in to visit until she was awake and they agreed, he also assumed that the teams had all flown back to their headquarters or the next race location so he was here alone.

Quite frankly, Sebastian didn’t know what to do, there was a race in America this week and even though it was the last thing on his mind and the last thing he wanted to do he knew that he had an obligation to be there, he couldn’t just not show up and it seemed like Britta had the same idea as he saw her name pop up on his phone trying to call him, it wasn’t the first time but it seemed like she was unrelenting this time.

"What do you want?" He sighed as he pressed the phone against his ear, running a hand over his face.

"Oh, so you are alive!" Her surprised voice was way too loud in his ear.

"Just tell me what you want, Britta." Sebastian had no time or patience for her teasing or jokes.

"You need to be in America in three days, Sebastian, I understand that you don’t want to see anyone and the last thing you want to do is get in a car but you do have an obligation to be there." She told him sadly.

"I have an obligation to take care of my family, Britta, I couldn’t give a shit about racing."

"You can’t stay in Japan, Seb."

"What do you want me to do, leave her here in a different country by herself?"

"I think you should move her to a facility in Switzerland for starters so that you can at least be near home."

Sebastian stayed silent, he couldn’t argue with that logic, it probably would be better, even for Y/N so that she wouldn’t have to fly when she was awake and recovering.

"I’ll talk to you tomorrow," he told her before hanging up, not allowing her to say anything else.

The next day he had payed to have Y/N transferred to the closest hospital to where they lived in Switzerland and had flown out her parents so that they could stay with her whilst he was in America.

He had put his foot down on missing media day, he’d go Friday, Saturday and leave immediately after the race on Sunday and would call his in laws multiple times a day whilst he was gone, he was not happy about it but it was the best he could do.

They were currently waiting outside of the room whilst Sebastian said his goodbyes to Y/N, he had spoken to her everyday just on the off chance that she could hear everything that was going on around her, the last thing he wanted was for her to have to suffer in silence whilst she was in this position.

He pressed his forehead against hers, which was now bandage free, closing his eyes to relish in the contact that he wouldn’t have for the next couple of days.

"I love you so much, liebe and I’m going to be back as soon as I can. You better not wake up whilst I’m gone otherwise I’m going to be pissed off with you," he chuckled weakly knowing that is something she’d probably do.

He pressed a kiss to her head and one to the back of her hand before reluctantly getting up, grabbing his back and leaving the room, knowing that if he didn’t go now then he never would.

Sebastian knew he was pushing his limits but couldn’t find it in himself to care, it was Friday and he had arrived in America this morning but hadn’t shown up at the track until just ten minutes before FP1 started.

He had been on the phone with his mother in law as soon as he got off the plane and hadn’t hung up until a few hours later but the real reason he had left it so long to head to the track was so that he could avoid most of the cameras as he was walking in, knowing that they’d now mostly be focused on the team garages.

Speaking of teams, Y/N’s seat had been filled in by Esteban Ocon for the rest of the season, the smallest part of Sebastian felt guilty knowing that Toto Wolff had been trying to find out what was going on with his driver but Seb had made sure everything was kept under wraps.

The only people who knew how she was were family, Britta and Y/N’s PR manager, Freya and every single one of them had no intention of spilling any information.

He could feel the eyes on him and hear the muttering as he walked through the paddock, he hadn’t even been here five minutes and he was already getting annoyed by the cameras and how loud it was.

It pissed him off even more when he saw team members from other motorhomes coming out to watch as if he was going to stand there and make a grand statement to let them all know how Y/N was.

He just ignored them and walked into the Ferrari motor home to his drivers room so he could change into his race gear.

He made sure he had his helmet on before he left his room, making a clear statement that he was in no mood to talk to anyone, thankfully the team respected it and let him get straight into the car, just in time for FP1 to start.

It felt wrong, he and Y/N had a small ritual they did before they got into the car, they had done it for years and this would be the first time getting into the car without it.

"Okay, Sebastian, you’re free to leave the garage, just give Mattia a heads up when you’re ready. You’re on mediums for now," Riccardo spoke through his ear piece.

Sebastian didn’t answer but he did nod his head towards a mechanic to let him know he was ready.

He was top of the time sheet for both practises today, he wouldn’t say he had tried to be in that position, he had just channelled his frustration into his driving.

"Sebastian, top of the time sheet today, does that mean the car was feeling well for you?" The woman in front of him asked, holding out her microphone for him.

"It felt fine," he responded, he wasn’t even looking at her, he was too busy thinking about phoning Y/N’s parents when he got out of here.

"You’re back after a week off, did you end up doing anything interesting?" He was aware that the woman was trying to subtly pry information from him about Y/N and it pissed him off so he just scoffed and walked away, knowing Britta was going to have to do a bit of damage control.

"Hey! Seb! Seb!" He heard Lewis call after him but continued walking causing the English driver to have to run to catch up to him, clasping a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder to get him to stop walking.

"Hey, are you alright, mate?"

Sebastian rolled his eyes "I’d be find if everyone stopped asking me that stupid question."

"Alright," Lewis nodded, not one to get offended or hurt at the tone Sebastian used because he understood. "How’s my teammate?"

Seb raised a hand to his forehead in frustration at the question, he could feel himself losing it. "What do you want me to say, Lewis? She’s clearly not fine other wise you would’ve heard something so will you and everyone else just leave me the fuck alone."

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead walking away, hopefully to make that phone call he’s been wanting to make since the last one had ended but just as he was about to shut the door to his driver’s room, a hand caught it.

"For fuck sake, can I not get a moment alone around here!?"

"Don’t start your attitude with me," Kimi grunted and Sebastian sighed, now was not the time for him to deal with Kimi.

"What do you want?"

"I want what everyone else wants."

"Well I hate to break it to you but just because you’re my teammate doesn’t mean I’m telling you how she is."

Kimi rolled his eyes and made himself comfortable on Sebastian’s bed whilst the latter was looking around for his phone.

"That’s not what I was talking about, I’m talking about the mood you’re in, you need to get out of it and get a grip, that’s what Y/N would want, not you walking around and sulking ruining everyone else’s day."

Sebastian shot him a dirty look. "You don’t know what she’d want and neither do I right now because she’s in the hospital, and if anyone has a problem with my attitude I’m perfectly fine with them staying away from me."

Kimi sent him a sarcastic smile, matching his attitude. "Well I have a problem with it cause you took my personality."

"What?"

Kimi sighed and stretched out. "You know how exhausting it is to have to be the happy one out of the two of us, that’s supposed to be your job but since Y/N’s crash, I have to be that person and I’m sick of it."

"Well I’m sorry that my wife’s injuries are such an inconvenience to you," Sebastian rolled his eyes.

Kimi groaned in annoyance, "you are so fucking annoying without her."

"Thanks, I’ll tell Minttu you said that." Sebastian replied sarcastically, now having his phone in his hand.

"Go for it," Kimi shrugged. "When Y/N wakes up I’ll tell her how much of an arsehole you’ve been."

Seb ignored him and pressed his phone to his hear, waiting for his mother in law to pick up for an update.

He had finished P4 in the race that weekend and had gotten straight on a flight back to Switzerland, skipping his post race interviews in the media tent.

He hadn’t even called Y/N’s parents after the race for an update, instead settling for a simple text in the airport when he was boarding the plane; both of them were picking him up from the airport and taking him straight to the hospital, he was strangely looking forward to being able to see her again, even if she was still in a coma.

He was happy that his flight had quite literally flown by and was sitting in the car behind his in laws just twenty minutes after landing.

"How is she?" He immediately asked.

"She’s okay, the doctors have said she’s healing up nicely." Y/N’s dad told him, the news relaxing him a bit.

"Are you guys coming in?" He asked as he held the car door open, surprised when he saw them both shaking their heads.

"We’ll come by tomorrow, you should have some time alone with her."

Sebastian nodded and bid them goodbye, actually happy that they had chosen to do that because after not seeing her for a couple of days, some time alone was what he needed.

He practically ran through the hallways of the hospital, care workers saw him but chose not to reprimand him as they were aware of who he was and how eager he probably was to see his wife.

He exhaled heavily when he got to the closed door of her room, standing there for a few moments to calm down a bit.

When he pushed open the door, he got the shock of his life.

Y/N was lying there in her hospital bed with her leg still resting on a pillow as it had been for the last two weeks but this time, the top of her bed was raised to put her in a sitting position, she had oxygen tubes in her nose but her head was turned towards the door he had just walked through and she was looking at him!

She was clearly very sleepy and tired but her eyes were as open as far as she could hold them and she was looking at him with a sleepy smile on her face.

She blinked slowly at him for a moment as he stared before holding out her hand for him and he took that as his cue to move towards her.

"Hi baby," she mumbled through a smile, not really having the energy to say anything more but it was enough for Sebastian’s eyes to start watering as he collapsed onto the chair that was beside her bed, grasping her hand in his own.

He raised his other to her cheek and softly stroked the skin there, smiling through his tears as he felt her lean into his touch.

"Hi," he breathed in disbelief, "How long have you been awake?" He whispered, fearing if he spoke any louder it would hurt her.

"Before the race, I watched it," she told him as though she was proud of herself was waking up in time to see it.

"Yeah? What did you think?" He humoured her, not really wanting to talk about the race but it seemed to make her happy so he did.

"You did good," she told him, subtly rubbing her thumb across his hand.

Sebastian simply smiled at her, he wiped his face on his arm to get rid of his tears before looking back at her again with nothing but adoration in his eyes.

"I love you so much." He told her surely, as though she may have forgotten whilst she was in the coma.

"Ich liebe dich auch," she replied back softly making him laugh, she always said it in his native language because she thought it would feel more real for him to hear.

"Are you tired?" He asked when he noticed her fighting to keep her eyes open.

Y/N nodded slowly before looking at him. "Come and lay with me," she told him.

Sebastian shook his head softly even though he wanted nothing more than to cuddle with her. "That’s probably not a good idea, liebe."

"When has that ever stopped you?" She pouted but rose an eyebrow at him.

He couldn’t argue with her there so he got up from his seat, protesting when she tried to move and make room for him.

He climbed in next to her and lightly wrapped his arm around her, she scooted closer and carefully adjusted her top hand so that her head was resting against him.

Sebastian rested his head against hers, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Liebe?" He asked, earning a slight hum in return.

"Don’t listen to anything Kimi says, he’s a liar."

"Hm’kay, Seb." She muttered, already pretty much asleep.

"I missed you so much," he muttered against her, carefully tightening the arm he had wrapped around her,

He wouldn’t be letting her out of his sight again.

Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

swaddle- c.leclerc

summary: the joys of being a father

pairing: dad!charles leclerc x fem! mom! reader

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Charles sighed again as Theo, your newborn baby, wriggled still. He’d been born 2 weeks ago, and the swaddling wasn’t going so well for him. Everytime you’d had to step in and help him, and it made him feel… shitty. He already felt guilty for barely making it to the birth (and not being there mentally or physically for the majority of the 3rd trimester) But tonight, you’d fallen asleep on the couch, which meant he had a chance at Theo duty.  

“Come on my love,” he whispered. “Keep your legs still,” he pleaded with the little bundle of you and him, all mixed up into the perfect baby boy. He had your eyes, but Charles’s lips, your cheekbones, but Charles’s eyelashes and so on. He adored him, and his favourite thing to do was just stare at you holding him. His entire world in one place. When he met you, his brain had finally decided to let go of some of the racing shit he had and let you take up space instead. The same happened when Theo came, and suddenly the thought of going to work got harder. Nevertheless, his son was in his arms and he still had to swaddle him before he could fall asleep. “You’re doing great Theo, just stay still.”

Theo moved his legs again, almost as if he didn’t want to be swaddled by him. Theo’s bottom lip jutted out and Charles left the situation tense. Theo would cry and wake you, and Charles would be a failure again. He had to get this. 

“Theo,” he whispered gently. He tried not to notice the way his and your voice soothed Theo because if he did, he’d probably start sobbing and never stop. “It’s alright,” he whispered, rubbing his finger over his nose. Theo was so small, such a bundle of light in your lives. Theo’s bottom lip retracted, and Charles felt some of the pressure lift off. 

He quickly went to work, expertly swaddling him, and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead as he left asleep. He turned to the door, ready to take you off the couch and carry you to your shared bed, but he saw you standing there with a soft, prideful (yet tired) smile. Honestly, you’d been glowing ever since Theo was born (and before then, obviously), everything about you was perfect to him. Everything. 

You walked up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You did it,” you whispered. 

“I did it,” he smiled, his voice low as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “You woke up?”

You nodded. “Mom instincts or something,” you shrugged. “But you had it covered,” you smiled and kissed his cheek. “Come on Char, bedtime for mom and dad too,” you chuckled, taking his hand and leading him to your bed on the other side of the room. 

He adored his life, even when he was going slow. 

Slow was gentle. Slow was love. 

Slow was everything.

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navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

fill her veins — lando norris

lando norris x fem!reader [3.5k] summary: your friend’d had you in all the different ways. fast and hard, deep and bone rattling but this was his favourite. lazy, slow and deep. warnings: 18+ explicit smut & language, friends with benefits, porn without plot, lazy sex, unprotected (piv) a/n: to the anon that dropped this concept in my ask box, I hope you don’t mind that I took the idea and ran with it. I have so many drafts to finish but this just wouldn’t leave my mind. consider this as a thank you for all the amazing love you’ve poured me with lately, I love you guys so much!! lmk what you think of this!

Lando has an odd taste for trashy reality tv shows. He claims that he doesn’t, that he usually puts them on for background noise but he always ends up settling down on the nearest flattest surface; Eyes glued to the screen. It’s funny, it’s not something you’d expect and most of all, you don’t really mind it. Because he doesn’t care if you don’t pay any attention to it, as long as you’re either in his lap or spooning him.

He’d texted you earlier tonight and you hadn’t expected it, not really. You figured that after the long weekend in Belgium, he’d be ready to travel where the wind took him without any worry about the next weekend where he’d have to show off his best side and bring home a win for his team. Lando had talked about the Maldives and even Singapore, hinting at you coming with him but you’d been quick to shut him down, claiming that your life couldn’t be put on hold. Because it couldn’t.

But he’d gone home, spending exactly three hours with Max before the fucker abandoned him to hang out with his girlfriend and Lando was bored out of his mind when the flat got too quiet, so quiet that he could hear the neighbours flushing their toilets. Then you’d sent him a funny video of cats and Lando had responded with an ‘are you home?’ after laughing himself silly to the video.

Keep reading

to be honest ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

“i’m sorry i had a machine hooked up to me and i couldn’t lie.” 

ꔮ starring: alex albon x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 1.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff. inspired by and references the Does Alex Albon think he is No. 1 at Williams? | The Lie Detector video, secret (not for long, sucker) relationship. ꔮ commentary box: this idea has been clanging in my head for two weeks now, i fear 🐈‍⬛ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Alex had asked—begged—you not to watch the lie detector test video. 

You agreed, but not without teasing him about divulging some embarrassing secret. You figured it was something along those lines. Maybe they made him choose his favorite cat or reveal his ridiculous pre-race routine. Either way, your boyfriend seemed pretty serious about not wanting you to see that particular piece of content. 

Except it’s been impossible to avoid. 

Your algorithms are unsurprisingly fine-tuned to anything and everything Alex. Clips of his radio messages on Instagram reels, edits of him to Hamilton songs on your TikTok For You page. You’re idly scrolling through your Twitter feed when one particular post catches your attention. 

It’s not even the concept of a reveal that catches your attention. No, that was to be expected. 

What did they mean—Alex asked for it not to be mentioned? 

It’s one thing to keep you from watching. It’s a completely different situation to ask everybody else to stay mum, as if purposefully keeping you out of the loop.

That would make no sense. You try to shake the thought out of your head, try to go back to doom-scrolling, but it nags in the back of your brain. Alex wasn’t the type to hide things from you. The two of you were a secret to the rest of the world, sure, but there were no secrets between you. 

Right? 

You set your phone on Do Not Disturb. You scrub the kitchen clean. You take a scalding hot shower. None of it helps. 

By the time you’re back on your couch, red-faced from the heat of your bath and something else entirely, you make an executive decision. It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, you decide. Alex has given you grace for much worse. 

You pull the video up.

The guilt you’re feeling ebbs at the familiar lilt of Alex’s accent. My heart is gonna be, like, two hundred.

He’s not even on the screen yet, but you can imagine the way his boyish smile would curve around the words. He’s not due to visit until much later, so this six-minute video will have to tide you over the feeling of missing him. And your curiosity. That, more than anything. 

For a moment, you nearly forget why you’re watching. It’s so easy to be distracted by Alex’s sheer expressiveness, by the way he’s always just a bit breathless when he’s laughing. You want nothing more than to reach into your phone and will him to be seated right next to you, alleged reveal be damned. 

Have you ever sat on the toilet so long, your legs fell asleep?, he’s asked, and you simultaneously snort with on-screen Alex. 

Many a times, he answers, and it’s registered as the truth. But it’s more because that’s my time to watch TikTok.

You’re all-too aware of that habit. The petty arguments of you slamming on the bathroom door, demanding for your turn, only for Alex to shout back that he’s finishing part 32 of some movie cut up into several videos, and he’ll be out soon, he swears. It’s the type of domestic image that paints how comfortable the two of you have been this past year, even if there was nobody else to see it. 

Did you have a celebrity crush growing up? 

Yes, on-screen Alex responds. When prodded, he adds rather sheepishly, Erm… Emma Watson. 

You knew that, too. When you first found out, you made Alex sit through the fourth movie so you could tease him relentlessly. Fed up, he had tackled you down onto the mattress during the Triwizard Tournament’s Second Task. The ensuing makeout session had been both heated and playful. A part of you can still feel it thrumming beneath your ribs, months later. 

You’re scheming how to orchestrate another Harry Potter marathon just as two things happen at once. 

First, the Alex on-screen gets asked—baited, more like—with a query of And does your girlfriend compete? 

Then, your front door swings open. The man himself calls out like he always does, “Honey, I’m home!” 

It’s an inside joke, one you can’t really dwell on. Your attention is halved. 

You’ve started out of shock, and your phone is playing on full volume. Just enough for your boyfriend to hear his own sputter of My—my what? from what you’d been watching. 

There’s the sound of something crashing in the entryway. Later, you’ll discover it’s Alex having dropped his duffel bag in his own panic. 

He’s at the mouth of the living room in the next second, but you’re too busy going slack-jawed at the scene in the challenge. The polygraph shoots up. The examiner shakes his head amusedly. The man on the screen fucking laughs, goading Alex, So there it is! You’ve got a girl, Albono?

“You’re watching the video!” Alex shrieks accusingly. 

In return, you screech, “You told everyone about me?!”

Alex darts forward. You mentally curse his racer reflexes and his long legs as he throws himself on top of you. He’s blissfully unaware of his own weight, and so you feel winded amid your attempts to fight back. 

“I didn’t—tell about you,” he argues, his arms flailing as he tries to wrestle your phone out of your hands. “That’s all I said!” 

Which is a damn lie, of course. You don’t even see your screen anymore, but you can hear the video playing out. 

Alex being asked, Would you say this is your soulmate? 

Alex, without missing a beat: Yes. Without a doubt, yes. 

The Alex on top of you groans. He buries his face in the crook of your neck like he might be able to run and hide from his answer, especially as the examiner declares, He’s not lying. 

You relent, hitting pause and casting your phone aside. It lands somewhere by the foot of the couch. “I can’t believe you watched it,” your boyfriend petulantly murmurs against your skin. 

“I can’t believe I’m your soulmate,” you shoot back, and he pinches your side in retaliation. 

“Seriously,” he huffs, adjusting his positioning so that he’s not crushing you too much. “What happened to trust, huh?” 

“Slow down, Gabriella Montez.” 

“Stop being a nerd. It makes me want to kiss you.” 

You’re giggling as Alex rolls off you, flopping to the other end of the couch. He’s all lanky limbs and furrowed brows, his glare fixed on your phone like Sky Sports has personally wronged him. You reach out to rub his ankles, and he instinctively relaxes as if his body is fine-tuned to respond to your touch. 

“I’m sorry for watching the video,” you say. 

Alex frowns. “You’re not sorry.” 

You’re not. 

He heaves out a long-held sigh. “I had to do this whole thing,” he grumbles absent-mindedly. “Hid my Instagram story from you and all that…” 

“You what?” 

“Anyway. Anyway.” Alex clears his throat, his frown curling into a thin pressed line. It’s a rueful kind of grin, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tick for when he’s guilty. “I was going to tell you.” 

“I bet you were,” you hum. 

You’re not mad. Not really. You know he’s been itching to go public, has wanted you in the Williams hospitality suite for God-knows-how-long. That laminated ID card that would proudly proclaim Guest of Alex Albon.

“They still don’t know you,” he offers. This time, he’s reaching out for you. Preemptively trying to soothe some imagined annoyance. Alex tugs you gently until you’re resting between his legs, his face burying in the back of your hair. 

“All they know is that you exist,” he adds, “and they don’t have to know anything else.” 

You feel a pang in your chest, one put there when you’re reminded of just how lucky you are to have somebody so patient. Someone so willing to set aside his wants for your comfort, your peace of mind. 

“Okay,” you say, voice now softer that Alex has his chin hooked over your shoulder. “It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry I had a machine hooked up to me and I couldn’t lie.” 

You laugh. “As long as you promise to never lie to me,” you note, nudging his ribs lightly. He lets out an exaggerated howl. 

“I would never,” he grumbles, and you know—you know that’s the truth, too. 

You tilt your head slightly, catching the complicated expression on Alex’s face. There’s that hint of insecurity, that touch of guilt, that flash of impatience. But all of it eases up when you lean in, and you kiss the doubt away. 

“I believe you,” you breathe against his lips, and he’s already smiling before he pulls you in for more. ⛐

BONUS —

More Amor

Summary: you are going out with Carlos, you can speak his language, but you don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.

Song: Friends · Chase Atlantic

Taglist: @random-bouts-of-randomness

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! Also please follow for more! 🫶

Word count: 3.5k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engines was a constant lullaby in the Formula 1 paddock, a song that vibrated through your very bones. You loved it here, the controlled chaos, the palpable energy, the feeling of being part of something larger than yourself.

Your focus, however, was often drawn to a specific corner of the Ferrari garage – where Carlos Sainz, with his disarming smile and effortless charm, held court.

You and Carlos were friends for a long time. You found him incredibly easy to talk to, his enthusiasm infectious. You liked Carlos, perhaps more than you should.

But there was also a barrier, subtle but ever-present, that you yourself had erected. It was a secret you carried, one that gnawed at you with each passing day: you spoke fluent Spanish, his native tongue.

You hadn't always been this secretive. Back in school, Spanish had been your favorite subject, a fascination with the language and culture that had blossomed into fluency. There was a time when you'd have proudly displayed your linguistic prowess, but a few harsh critiques in a university language class, comments that chipped away at your confidence, had left you hesitant.

Now, you kept your Spanish a closely guarded secret, especially in the presence of Carlos. The thought of him, a native speaker, judging your accent or vocabulary was enough to send shivers of anxiety down your spine.

This particular afternoon, you were tucked away in the hospitality area, a small respite from the frenetic pace of the paddock. Charles Leclerc, Carlos’s teammate and another friend, was perched opposite you, nursing a bottle of water.

He was in a lighter mood after a good practice session and was keen for a diversion.

“So,” he said, his French accent thick, “teach me some more Spanish. The last phrase you taught me was very… useful.” He grinned mischievously, a glint in his eye.

You laughed, remembering the rather informal phrase you had taught him the previous day. “Okay, okay,” you said, pulling out your notebook. “Let’s try something a little less… provocative.”

You flipped to a fresh page. “How about ‘Es un placer conocerte’ – ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you’?”

You broke it down for him, pronunciation and all, your voice a soft murmur that was just audible above the ambient noise. He repeated the phrase several times, his brow furrowed in concentration until he finally managed something that was, while not perfect, definitely understandable.

“Magnifique!” you exclaimed, giving him an approving nod. He grinned, pleased with his progress, and began repeating the phrase to himself, practicing the rhythm and inflection.

Just as he did, a familiar voice spoke behind you. “Que estan haciendo ustedes?”

You froze, a chilling feeling spreading from the base of your neck. It was Carlos, standing in the doorway, a curious smile playing on his lips.

The Spanish he’d spoken was casual, his words rolling off his tongue as naturally as breathing. What are you guys doing?

A wave of panic washed over you. It was close, too close. He had heard you speaking Spanish, even if it was with Charles. Your secret, the one you had painstakingly guarded, was on the verge of unraveling.

Charles, completely oblivious to the tension thrumming in the air, turned to face Carlos, his face beaming. “‘Es un placer conocerte,’” he announced proudly, his accent thick but understandable.

You cringed internally. Oh no, Charles, no.

Carlos raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from Charles to you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Ah, I see. You're teaching Charles Spanish?"

You forced a smile, trying to appear casual. "Kind of," you said, your voice a little too high-pitched for your liking. "Just a few simple phrases for fun." You did not want to admit you'd been teaching him the basics.

Carlos crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe as he observed you and Charles. “Well, that’s good,” he said, his Spanish accent taking over his English slightly. “It’s always good to learn new languages.” He was still looking at you, a playful glint in his eyes that made your heart pound.

You nodded, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, absolutely.” You picked up your notebook and began flipping through it, pretending to be engrossed with your notes as if you didn’t already know every word you'd already written.

"What else have you taught him?" Carlos asked, stepping further into the room.

You tensed, your heart thumping wildly. “Oh, just basic stuff,” you said, your voice tight. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, and you wanted nothing more than to disappear. “You know, ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye,’ that sort of thing.” You hoped he didn’t see through your act.

Charles, bless his oblivious soul, was happily repeating the phrase he had learnt until it was as close to perfect as it could be. Carlos watched him, but his eyes were still on you.

He knew you were lying. He’d spoken to you in the past in Spanish and you had responded without so much as blinking. Why were you being like this?

“You sure?” he asked, a smirk dancing on his lips. He could see the panic in your eyes and the way your hands were clutching your notebook like a lifeline.

He looked at Charles again, and then back to you. “You speak a little Spanish?”

"No, I don't," you said quickly, a little too quickly. Your voice was far too high pitched. You hoped he didn't hear the fear that was leaking in your tone.

Carlos seemed to hesitate, his eyes scrutinizing yours for a moment longer. A subtle shift in his expression told you he knew you were lying, but he said nothing.

"Okay," he said finally, his tone still amused. "If you say so." He patted Charles on the shoulder. “Enjoy your lesson, Charles,” he said before turning and heading out of the room.

You breathed out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It had been too close. You watched him leave, your heart still beating fast. You were acutely aware that you needed to be more careful.

One more slip up like that and your secret wouldn’t be a secret anymore. You knew you should tell him, but your fear of not being good enough held you back.

Later that evening, while you were trying to text, a message popped up on your phone. It was from Carlos.

“Hey, you okay? You seemed a little… agitated earlier.”

You stared at the message, your mind swirling. He had noticed. Of course, he had. He was observant, perceptive. You hesitated before typing a response.

“Yeah, all good. Just a bit tired.”

He replied almost instantly. “Tired? Or hiding something? Maybe a secret language?”

You felt a jolt run through you. He was teasing you, playfully pushing at the edges of your lie. You took a deep breath and decided to deflect.

“Nah, just a very complicated article on tire degradation. Don’t let me keep you, you probably have more important things to do!”

A few seconds later, Carlos responded; “I always have time for you. By the way, you should try speaking more Spanish. It suits you.” He included a winking emoji in the text, leaving you completely frozen.

How did he know? You hadn’t said a single word in Spanish to him, apart from earlier when it was directed at Charles. He was definitely onto you.

Your heart started pounding in your chest. You didn’t know what to do. You finally replied with a simple “Night, Carlos” message and put your phone down.

You knew that sooner or later, you would have to face the truth. You liked Carlos, and you didn’t want to keep secrets from him. But the thought of that vulnerability, the risk of judgment, still held you captive.

You hoped one day you’d find enough courage to reveal your secret, to let Carlos in completely. But for now, you would keep your language locked behind a wall of fear, hoping that the wall would come tumbling down one day.

But for now, you had to keep up with the charade, and try not to let him see you were lying about knowing his native language.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The leather armchair cradles you like a familiar friend. Sunlight, filtered through the lace curtains, dances across the spines of Carlos’s bookshelves, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere.

You’re in his living room, a space that feels as comfortable as your own, except for the subtle undercurrent of nervous energy that always seems to hum beneath your skin when you’re here.

Carlos, with his easy laugh and eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, is the source of that familiar flutter in your chest.

He's gone to the market, a quick errand for the missing ingredient – ricotta cheese, if your shoddy Spanish comprehension served you correctly – needed for his legendary fluffy pancakes.

He'd called them “panqueques esponjosos” and the way his tongue rolled over the words had made your heart do a little tap dance.

You trace the rim of your teacup with your finger, the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway the only sound. You pull your phone from your pocket, a small smile playing on your lips.

A message from Sofia, a friend from Spain pops up. You haven't seen her since the end of your vacation and you miss her friendly banter. You hadn’t told her that you knew Carlos at first. She was thrilled when you had finally spoken about him and also excited the day you finally felt comfortable enough to speak Spanish to her.

You dial her number.

"Hola, mi amiga!" Sofia's voice crackles through the speaker, warm and vibrant as always.

"Hola, Sofia! Como estas?" you reply, feeling the familiar comfort of the language wash over you. The words flow easily, a melody you've secretly nurtured for months.

You and Sofia slip into a comfortable rhythm, gossiping about mutual friends, discussing the latest drama in her life, and laughing about inside jokes from class. You tell her about how you’ve been spending a lot of time with Carlos recently, describing the comfortable silence that settles between you, the way he always offers you the first cup of tea, and the lingering glances that sometimes catch you off guard.

She’s always encouraged you to take the leap with Carlos, but you've always been too afraid of ruining the comfortable friendship you had.

"¿Y qué tal, el chico que te gusta? ¿Como va con Carlos?" Sofia asks, her voice teasing. And how about the boy you like? How is it going with Carlos?

"He's...he's good," you stumble, a flush rising to your cheeks even though Sofia can't see you. "He's making pancakes later." You hope it doesn’t sound as silly as it feels.

You are so aware of your own internal dialogue.

"Ooh, panqueques! Sounds romantic," Sofia giggles. “Maybe he will be speaking Spanish to you soon” she winks, she is completely aware that he doesn’t know you can speak Spanish.

You have not told her about the pet name he has given you.

"Don't be silly," you say, though a small part of you desperately wishes she were right. "He calls me a few names, it's kinda silly,"

Sofia chuckles, “he likes names?"

"Yeah, Cariño." you say quietly. It’s a term of endearment that sits in your chest like a warm coal, always threatening to ignite a fire. you feel your cheeks burn a deeper shade of pink.

"Ay, ay, ay! Cariño! That means 'darling'! He definitely likes you," Sofia says, her voice filled with excitement.

You laugh, trying to downplay the significance. "It's just a word, Sofia." Even as you say the words you know it isn’t true.

You adore the way he says it, the way his voice softens slightly when he addresses you as ‘cariño’. It feels intimate, a secret language woven into your friendship.

"No, amiga, it's not just a word. It's a feeling," Sofia counters, her voice knowing.

You are about to reply when you hear a thud. A bag, probably groceries, hits the floor with a soft, muffled sound. You turn, your heart leaping into your throat, to see Carlos standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with surprise.

His face, usually so open and inviting, is frozen in a state of shock. A second later he looks hurt.

His gaze is focused on you and he's holding the bag of groceries precariously in his hand as if he's forgotten that it is there. There's a strange mix of bewilderment and something else – hurt, maybe? – flickering in his eyes.

He stares at you, mouth slightly ajar, and no words are coming from him, which is so unlike Carlos to be lost for words.

You freeze, phone clutched in your hand, heart hammering against your ribs. The blood rushes to your ears and you suddenly feel as though you’re unable to breathe, feeling as though he’s looking at you differently.

The Spanish words, the comfortable rhythm of your conversation with Sofia, the comfortable feeling you had all but a moment ago evaporates into the air.

“Carlos…” you whisper, your voice sounding small and weak. You feel your cheeks burn and you can only imagine how red your face is.

He sets the other abag on the floor with a soft thud, the sound echoing in the suddenly charged silence. “You…you speak Spanish?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

The playful light in his eyes was gone, the crinkles that always appeared when he smiled did not appear this time.

You nod slowly, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. You feel sick at the thought of how he must feel, you should have told him. You should have shown him the real you sooner. “I do,” you managed to say.

You sat perched on the edge of Carlos's ridiculously plush sofa. Your heart was still thrumming a little too fast, admittedly by the man himself. Carlos.

He was pacing in front of you now. He ran a hand through his already tousled dark hair, the movement highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw.

“I still can’t believe you spoke it,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

You fidgeted, picking at a loose thread on the throw pillow next to you. “It’s not that big of a deal,” you mumbled, your gaze fixed on the intricate pattern.

The idea of speaking it, of letting it flow freely in front of anyone, especially him, had always filled you with a surprising amount of anxiety.

“Not a big deal?” He stopped pacing, planting his hands on his hips, his gaze finally locking with yours, a faint amusement dancing in his brown eyes.

“You mean the fact that you’ve been listening to me struggle through English for years, when you could have corrected me all this time, is ‘not a big deal’?”

A blush crept up your neck. You avoided his eyes again, feigning interest in the small water stain on the coffee table. “I… I wasn't correcting you on purpose.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. It melted the nervous knot in your stomach a little. He dropped down beside you on the sofa, the cushions giving way with a soft sigh.

He turned, his whole attention now focused on you. “So, why didn’t you? Why did you keep that amazing Spanish tucked away?”

You took a deep breath, the words tasting like lead in your mouth. “I guess… I wasn't confident enough,” you finally admitted, the admission feeling like a weight lifting off your chest, however slightly. “I wasn't sure about my accent. Or if I even sounded… right.”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his hand reached out to gently touch your arm, his fingers sending a jolt of warmth through your skin.

He’d always had a way of making even the simplest touch feel charged. “Mi amor, you are always right. Never doubt that. And your accent… it’s beautiful,”.

You finally looked up at him, your eyes searching his for any hint of sarcasm, but finding only genuine sincerity. The term of endearment was a fresh shock, and it sent little shivers down your spine. “You really think so?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, his thumb now tracing lazy circles on your skin. “Absolutely. It’s unique, and it's yours. It's part of what makes you, you." He leaned closer, his eyes boring into yours. "And I want to hear more of it.”

The air crackled, charged by the intensity of his gaze. You were acutely aware of the proximity between you, of the warmth emanating from his body, and the way his gaze lingered on your lips.

He'd managed to convince you to stay, the casual invitation coming after a day spent working with his team at the track. Your initial plan was always to return to your hotel, to maintain the comfortable distance that you had been living in.

But then you saw him, his hopeful expression and the puppy-dog pleading in his eyes and you found your resolve melting away. You told yourself it was the pull of shared language, the thrill of having someone that understood you; but deep down, you knew it was something far more profound and far more dangerous.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice a low, husky plea. “Speak more amor? Just a little bit.” His brown eyes, usually full of mischievousness, were now pools of earnest emotion.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat creeping up your face again. “What… what do you want me to say?” you asked, the Spanish words a little hesitant at first.

A wide grin stretched across his face. “Anything. Tell me about your day. Tell me you think I’m the best driver on the grid,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with humor.

You laughed, the sound light and airy in the quiet space. "You're arrogant, tonto," you said, the Spanish rolling off your tongue with more ease than you expected.

His grin widened. “But you like me, arrogant and best driver?” he challenged.

"Perhaps," you replied, playfully avoiding his question. "It was a long day. I spent most of the morning working from home. Then, I had lunch with..." You trailed off, momentarily forgetting the English word for the person you had lunch with during the day.

"Your coach?" Carlos suggested, his gaze unwavering.

"Yes! My coach. We discussed the race strategy and went over some notes," you continued, the Spanish flowing much more easily now.

You felt a strange sense of liberation, of finally letting go of the fear that had been holding you back.

He listened intently, his head tilted slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. Every now and then, he would let out a small chuckle or offer a prompting question.

“And now?” he asked softly, interrupting you mid-sentence. “What are you going to do now?”

You glanced around his living room, its sleek lines and modern features a stark contrast to the cozy comfort of your small apartment.

"Now? I suppose... well, I guess I'm going to stay here." You held his gaze, each beat of your heart pounding in your chest.

He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb softly stroking your skin. "You're perfect," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "You being here... it makes everything feel perfect."

You shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. “Carlos…” you began, your voice trembling slightly.

He leaned in, his gaze locked on your lips making the moment feel charged with unspoken promises. “Just… say it, amor,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You closed the distance between you and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was everything you expected and far, far more. It was a melting pot of the connection you’d so desperately tried to suppress.

It was a declaration in a language both shared and unspoken. When you finally pulled away, you were breathless, your heart pounding against your ribs.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “Tell me in Spanish,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You took a shaky breath, finally letting the words flow freely, without reservation or fear. “Te quiero, Carlos,” you whispered, the words finally escaping your lips. I love you.

His response was immediate. His lips crashed against yours in another kiss, this one deeper, more passionate, and full of a raw, unfiltered emotion.

You pulled him closer, your arms wrapping around his neck, losing yourself in the moment, in him, in the magic of finally being understood, finally being heard, finally being loved in the most perfect language possible.

The fear, the insecurity you had carried for so long, seemed to dissolve, replaced by a dizzying rush of hope. You had found a home in his arms, in his eyes, and in the shared language that had brought you together.

And in that moment, in his arms, with the city twinkling outside the window, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were exactly where you were meant to be. . . .

HE DOESN’T WANT ME WHEN HE’S SOBER.

lando ending | logan ending

summary: lando’s your best friend but seems to like you when he’s drunk. but then again, he seems to like everyone when he’s drunk.

pairing: lando norris x gn!reader

wc: 1.5k

The music was too loud but Lando was so close that he didn’t need to alter his volume - he was talking at the perfect volume that only you could hear him. Each sentence was getting lower, deeper and quieter, but your own mind made him louder, filling up every space in it with replays of him. He was engrossing. He was all you could think about.

He almost dropped the cup in his hand as he took the final step closer, not that the cup would've mattered to him, his only concern would’ve been making sure you stay dry. Still, your throat turned dry at the little distance between you both; at the prospect of what was surely about to happen.

His free hand drifted to your jaw, holding it so delicately and manoeuvring your face gently to face up at him at the perfect angle for him to kiss you. When it was just right, and he could no longer remove his eyes from your lips, not even for a second, his hand moved to the back of your head, holding you in place.

He leaned down, oozing out confidence despite the absolute fear inside of him, and rested his forehead against yours. You had closed your eyes, expecting him to kiss you, but you opened them again when you realised he wasn’t, pulling away only slightly due to the hand on your head preventing it further.

“Lan,” you breathed, your tone showing everything that you weren’t saying, “What are you waiting for?”

His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily like resisting kissing you was the hardest thing that he’d ever done in his life. “I’m just making sure you want this,” he paused, opening his eyes and flicking them between your eyes and your lips, “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” you responded instantly, your desperation being evident from miles away. He held back a chuckle and instead revelled in the fact that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. “Please, Lan.”

“So polite,” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse. He titled your head again, bringing you impossibly closer. You could feel his shirt against your chest and his breathing on your face - there was no going back and you both knew it.

He was going to kiss you, he was leaning down, too slowly for your liking but it was happening and so you weren’t complaining. You felt a ghost touch against your lips - the slightest feeling - but it was there before being harshly ripped away in an instant.

“Mate! I’m going now, congrats on the podium,” Carlos said after walking up to Lando from behind, a hand on his back, the other one shaking his hand.

“Congrats on your win, more like it,” Lando replied, a half smile on his face, trying to be as genuine as possible and not show his annoyance that his moment was ruined.

Carlos looked towards you, about to share a goodbye with you, before noticing your dazed look and shifting between you and Lando as he noticed what was happening. “Shit- sorry, man- carry on, I’ll see you later, yeah?” he said, not letting either of you reply before wandering off, towards the door.

You both stood there frozen for a while, not speaking or moving, just staring into each other's eyes, begging the other for an answer.

Quickly, Lando had given up and stood up straight, looking into his cup and swirling what was left around. “I’m getting another drink, do you want anything?”

“No,” you said, barely audible and no longer looking at him or in his general direction. If you hadn’t shook your head as you spoke, he wouldn’t have known what you said and he really didn’t want to get into an awkward cycle of asking you to repeat yourself a few times before he finally heard you.

“I’ll find you,” was all he said as he left. You watched him as he cut through the crowds to the bar and ordered a drink and a shot, downing the shot the second that he got it.

He turned around and scanned the room, briefly meeting your eyes. You could tell he was debating whether to come back or not but you didn’t know what he decided as he began to stand up, so you made the decision for him and walked away to the side of the club, hopefully weaving through the tides of people enough that it would take a while for him to find you.

You ended up in one of the back corners of the club, pushing yourself into the wall so that people could squeeze past you and so you could people watch better. You were busying yourself giving strangers names and storylines, trying to distract yourself from whatever just happened, or could’ve happened, when you almost threw yourself to the floor in shock from a sudden hand waving in front of your face.

“Don’t jump - I was just trying to get your attention. I called your name a few times,” Alex said. You turned to look at him, slouching right next to you against the wall.

“Sorry, loud music,” you replied. It wasn’t a lie, the music was loud, but you could barely hear it over your thoughts whirring anyway. You watched Alex grimace and shake his head, somehow knowing it wasn’t the music distracting you.

“I saw,” he hummed as you took in a sharp intake of breath.

“I don’t-”

“You kissed him, finally, then what happened? Why are you all alone?” he questioned, his eyes scanning the place for Lando, knowing he’s not usually the type to leave you alone in places like this. He could tell you were upset and confused, and he needed to get to the bottom of it in order to work out whether he’d need to drive his car into Lando’s during the next race or not.

“No- he almost kissed me. Again. Carlos interrupted and he left. He left, Alex. Asked if I wanted a drink and left,” you spat, a mixture of uncertainty and anger clouding your voice. Why did he leave? He started it and left knowing exactly what was happening whilst leaving you with nothing - it was unfair.

Alex sighed. He wasn’t happy with Lando but knew what he felt for you and ultimately wanted to give him the chance to tell you without any mistakes.

“Maybe talk to him about it. He might just be unsure of where you’d like it to go-”

“He called the shots, Alex, he does it whenever he’s drunk, I don’t think he gets to be the confused one,” you sighed, looking at your feet. Alex paused and tried to think of another way to give Lando another chance to tell you how he feels without ruining it.

“Maybe talk to him when he’s sober. He’ll-”

“He doesn’t want me when he’s sober,” you whispered but wanted to scream. It hurt you to say it but you felt like it was true. Alex felt his breath hitch and his heart ache to scream at you that Lando does want you.

“That’s not right. Who wouldn’t want you?” he could see how it was affecting you and wanted nothing more than to make you feel better, but his train of thought was abandoned when he saw your body recoil into the wall in disgust.

He followed your eyeline to find Lando towards the middle of the room, kissing some girl that you had never seen before. He was leaning into her as if he’d die if he let go, and his hand was on the same place on the back of her head as it was on yours.

“Oh,” Alex said, not really knowing what else he could do. He was furious and wanted to mortify Lando in front of everyone in the room.

“Yeah, oh,” you repeated sarcastically. Your knees felt weak and your eyes were on the brink of bursting - it was impossible to hide if you tried. “I’m going to go home,” was all you could get out, your voice choking on every word.

You tried to convince yourself that you weren’t upset and rather you were disgusted but you couldn’t after the image of Lando sucking some other girl's face was plastered in your mind and you shed tears the whole way home. Lando didn’t know - in your mind he didn’t even care but as you were crying to Alex and Lily in an uber, he was looking for you everywhere. But as it hit him, the guilt and weight of what he’d done, and the realisation that you must’ve seen, he prayed that you’d let him explain, like he did every time this happened, whilst you would tell yourself, again, that you meant it this time; that he was too late.

lando ending | logan ending