mint--yoongs

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Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: Everyone believes Max died in an accident, but meanwhile he's fighting to get back to you.

Blinding lights. Tires screeching. Then bam—proof that Newton’s laws of motion cannot be changed. His face hits the dashboard, and the pain is temporarily subdued by a sudden thought that maybe if he was the one driving, his much better instincts would have helped avoiding the crash. 

The world soon fades away, leaving darkness and silence behind, the kind of void that’s strangely comforting. It’s like a warm blanket that keeps him safe, shielding him from the harshness of reality. 

The crash. He’s been in an accident. 

He can’t help but think about the practical things. That was his rented car. He wasn’t the one driving. Who was it? Oh, yes, that gamer guy he met at the party. He let him try the car after a lost bet. They were heading back to the club where he left his wallet with all of his documents. 

The car is his. Well, it was rented by him. They have to know it’s him even without the ID, right? It can’t be that bad, someone must have recognized him. 

And if they did, do you already know? Are you there with him? Maybe holding his hand and begging him to return to you? 

Despite the rapidly rising number of questions, he still feels calm—happy, even. This world is nice, and forgiving. A part of him wishes the outside world could be just like this. 

Well, it is like that, but only when it’s just the two of you. 

Max knows how to party. And drink. But that’s okay, he can handle it. He’s the typical fun drunk person, you usually enjoy being around him when he gets wasted. Sure, you obviously prefer your boyfriend sober, but even he deserves a night off every now and then, right?

This is why you aren’t worried when he stops responding to your messages. For you, it’s early in the morning in your shared Monaco apartment; for him, it’s the middle of the night in Miami. Maybe he bumped into another driver in the club and they started chatting. Maybe he’s already back in the hotel, sleeping like a baby. 

Everything’s going well until the first ping of your phone three hours after the last message. Because then that one ping is followed by dozens of others, then—before you could see what’s going on—the first phone call arrives from Daniel, who sounds extremely worried.

“Please, tell me you didn’t see the photos,” he opens the conversation. 

A crease forms between your brows as you come to a halt in the office and look at the person beside the printer as if he knew what your friend was talking about. He looks confused, then he scurries like some little animal after encountering a predator. 

Shaking your head, you return your attention to the call. “What photos?” you wonder. 

There’s a surprised gasp on the other end of the line. “Wait, you don’t know?” 

“Don’t know what?” 

“It’s all over the news. The Aston Max rented was found in pieces after a crash, and they could only save the passenger’s life according to anonymous sources. Nothing’s official yet, though, so take this report with grain of salt, okay?” he says. 

Only the passenger survived? “Max wouldn’t let anyone else drive his car, even if it’s just rented. And even after a party, if he was drunk, he would have just left it there and got into a taxi instead,” you spill the words quietly, trying to make sense of what you just heard. 

Daniel knows what’s going through your mind, because he’s quick to stop you from overthinking. “Okay, calm down. We don’t know if that source is correct, we don’t know who the passenger is. No one knows, you hear me? If it was Max, someone would have called you, after all, you’re his ICE contact, right?”

Blowing out the air you didn’t even know you’ve been holding, you lean against the wall behind you and pinch the bridge of your nose. “I need to go there. I—I need to know what’s going on,” you state hesitantly. 

There’s a part of you that doesn’t really know what to do now. You’re terrified of the possibility of losing him, but you can’t just stay here and wait for someone to finally tell you something. And why didn’t they call you? Why didn’t they check his phone to see who’s the contact for such cases? Why—

“Hey, I already booked you a jet to Miami. I’ll send you the details, so go, pack a suitcase, then head to the airport now,” Daniel tells you. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”

“Okay, thank you.”

Before you could end the call, you hear him say a quiet hey. “Under no circumstances check the photos that are circulating, okay? Promise me that.”

You promise not to do that. They must be terrible if he doesn’t want you to see them, so you come to the conclusion that you don’t need this in your life. If you don’t see the photos, if you don’t read the news, there can be at least some hope that he’s alive. 

After God knows how much time, he feels like the lightness is slowly shifting into crushing pressure, and excruciating pain, and panic, and he feels like his world is inevitably collapsing as he returns to reality. The sound of machines fill his ears, the blinding lights burn through his closed eyelids, and he can hear the murmurs of people around him.

He can’t hear your voice though. 

When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t see anything, but that’s because there’s gauze or something wrapped around his head. So, without thinking much about it, he tries to raise his hand to push it out of the way, but he’s stopped before he could actually move that thing. 

“Easy, Mr. Lillard, please, don’t touch it. Try to calm down,” a woman says. 

Lillard? Who’s Lillard? Don’t they recognize him? Didn’t the cops identify the car? 

He wants to speak, he wants to tell the woman that there’s a misunderstanding, that he’s not Lillard, he’s Max Verstappen. He left his wallet in the club, but his phone was there with him, if they have that, they can contact you, and if they can contact you, you can tell them who he is. 

But no sound leaves his throat. 

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t speak. He can’t see, he can’t speak. It feels like he was locked into a prison, away from the rest of the world.

He misses the void. He truly does. 

You get the notification after you turn on your phone. A missed call from an unknown American number. With trembling fingers, you hit the call button, then wait for whoever is on the other side to speak up. 

The conversation is short and to the point. 

Are you Max Verstappen’s fiancée? Yes. I am sorry to say this, but he was involved in a car accident, and the paramedics couldn’t save his life. Are you sure? Yes. And we need you to officially identify the body, so I will send you where to come. 

That was all you got from the cop who called. 

You break down right there at the airport, collapsing on the tarmac with tears falling from your eyes. All you manage to do is sending Daniel a text with the news, asking him when he will get here because you simply cannot do this alone.

You don’t want to see his body. If you do, it will be permanent, it will mean you lost him forever. It will mean you’re now going to focus on the logistics of taking his body home, focus on organizing a funeral that’s worthy of his legacy, focus on surviving. 

An hour later you’re standing in the door of the morgue, talking to the detective on your side. The driver of the other car was running a red light, and his system was full of drugs and alcohol. According to his ex, he was suicidal, she wouldn’t be surprised if this was his ticket out of this world. 

“Are you ready?”

Can anyone ever be ready for something like this?

But you nod nonetheless, trying to steel yourself until your friend arrives to help you through the worst of it. Until now, you ignored the messages and calls, but eventually, you’ll have to talk to people. Family and friends. The members of the Red Bull family. Other drivers. God, it’s gonna be a really dreadful task.

The table isn’t that far from the door, but the moment your eyes fall on the figure on it, covered with a white sheet, time seems to stop moving. This can’t be real, this can’t be real, this can’t be real, you keep repeating. 

When the coroner removes the sheet from his face, though, you feel like screaming. From shock? From pain? From relief? From happiness? 

Because the man on the table is definitely not Max. They look strangely alike, that you admit, but he’s definitely not your fiancé. Then who is he? And why was he driving Max’s car?

Max has fallen in and out of sleep in the past hour or so, although that’s just a guess, he has absolutely no idea what time it is. Time passes differently when he’s locked into his own body, when he simply can’t get himself to talk. 

He keeps trying whenever he’s awake and there’s someone in the room with him. If he can say as much as his name, they can hopefully realize that he’s not the man they think he is. Then they could contact you. Then he would be reunited with you. 

“Max!” 

Yes. That’s it. That’s exactly what he wants to say. If he could only say it out this loud…

“Where’s Max?” he hears it again, the voice he knows and loves so much sounding almost hysterical in his mind. “Max!”

“Miss, this is Richard Lillard, if you’re looking for—”

“Your Richard Lillard is in the morgue, the man in there is my fiancé, and I’m going to see him right now,” you tell the nurse angrily, and he can imagine you push past her before he hears your loud, confident steps getting closer. 

But is it really you? Isn’t it just his injured brain playing tricks on him? 

Did he have brain damage, though? Who knows, maybe that’s the reason why he can’t speak. 

When he feels a soft hand wrap around his own, he immediately knows it’s you. You’re here with him, so he squeezes your hand in an attempt to tell you that it’s okay, that he’s alive. He can hear you cry, repeating something under your breath that he can’t quite understand, but it’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay now. 

He would have come back from the grave just to come home to you. 

Even death wouldn’t be enough to keep you apart. 

Hey babe, I have a little request if you’re open to it !!

Could you maybe write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s still in high school and doesn’t come from money at all? Like she feels super out of place in his world — all the hotels, race weekends, the fancy people, and she kind of feels like she’s not “enough.”

But he’s just… soft. Gentle. The kind of guy who makes her feel safe, like she does belong, even when everything feels overwhelming.

I’d love something comforting, maybe with a tiny bit of angst because… identity crisis hits hard sometimes.I just feel like we don’t get enough of that dynamic. Golden boy driver and the girl who still takes the bus to school. No pressure at all! But if it ever inspires you… I will cry. In the best way.

Thank you so much if you do fill my request and of course I understand if you don’t. Have a lovely day!

𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | feeling out of place in his world is constant, the stares, the luxury, the silent judgment. still, his hand finds yours, his presence steady and soft

warnings | angst (insecurity, identity crisis), emotional vulnerability, a sense of feeling out of place, soft romance

word count | 1.2 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

Sometimes it feels like Kimi’s world shines too brightly.

And not in a romantic way, not like “his smile lights up the room.” No. It’s real shine.

Lights, cameras, watches that cost more than your house, impossible cars, and people who walk like the ground belongs to them.

You don’t come from that.

You come from broken alarms, crowded public transport, running not to be late. From counting coins, from saying “no, thanks” when invited to things you can’t afford. From that kind of life.

And yet… here you are.

In a hospitality lounge full of people who look like they walked out of magazines, with their designer sunglasses and conversations that revolve around sponsorships, race strategies, and private jets. And you, sitting in a corner, staring at your phone like you’ve got something going on.

The screen is black. No signal. No messages. No escape.

You pretend you’re fine.

You say it’s all cool. That you’re used to it. That you’re enjoying the experience. But inside… inside you feel tiny. Invisible. Like you snuck into a party you were never invited to.

“Are you okay?”

His voice is soft. Calm. Like him.

You look up. There he is. Kimi. Standing in front of you with that unshakeable calm. He looks at you like he actually wants to know the truth. Like he really cares.

“Yes,” you reply quietly. “Just… checking if my sister messaged me.”

A lie. You have no data. But you’re not about to tell him you’re on the verge of crying in front of all these people. That you feel so out of place it’s hard to breathe.

Kimi doesn’t say anything. He just sits beside you, without invading, without pressing. He doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. He just is.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything, he slips off his team jacket and puts it over your shoulders. It’s big, soft, with that scent that’s so him it makes you dizzy. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re fine… but you’re not.

So you let yourself sink into it.

And for a second, everything else fades. The noise, the stares, the world.

It’s just you, Kimi’s jacket, and the warmth of someone who doesn’t ask you to fit in, just to be there.

He doesn’t talk. You don’t either.

Eventually, the hospitality is quieter. The loud laughs fade, and the expensive suits vanish down the halls. Most people have gone off to team dinners or events you’d never be invited to directly. Kimi offered to go, of course. But you could tell by his tone he wasn’t obligated. And you just wanted silence.

So he stayed. With you.

Now you’re walking through the hotel hallways. He’s beside you, hands in his pockets, like nothing around him could touch him. But you… you’re a knot inside.

You don’t talk much. Neither does he. But somehow, it’s always been enough.

Until it isn’t.

You’re about to step into the elevator when your eyes fill with tears. You don’t even know why now, why here, but something just breaks.

Kimi turns to look at you, but he says nothing. Just watches, attentively. Like he senses the storm even if the first drop hasn’t fallen.

“I feel like I don’t belong here,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself. “Not in this hotel. Not in your races. Not in your life.”

You didn’t plan to say it. It just… came out.

“I still take the bus to school,” you go on, your voice shaking. “I’ve worn the same sneakers for three years. I have no idea how a VIP paddock works or how I’m supposed to act. Everyone here knows how to move, how to talk, how to dress. I’m just trying not to look like an idiot.”

Tears roll hot down your cheeks. You wish you could stop them, but at the same time… why bother?

“And I like being with you, Kimi. A lot. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just ruining something. If I’m just… a burden in the middle of all this.”

He listens in silence. Not a single interruption. No weird faces. No laughter. No trying to downplay what you feel. He just waits.

The elevator hasn’t even been called.

He takes a step toward you. Then another. And hugs you. Tightly. Wordlessly.

And in his arms, you feel something you didn’t realize you needed so badly: safety.

“You’re not a burden,” he says softly, against your hair. “You’re the only one who makes me feel like none of this matters so much.”

You hold on to him, not saying anything. Because you don’t know how to explain what it’s like to be you in this world. Because you don’t understand how someone like him can make all that hurt less.

But he does.

He does.

You don’t know how long you stay there, wrapped in his arms by the elevator. Maybe seconds, maybe a lifetime. But when he finally pulls back just a bit, it’s only to really look at you.

“Do you want to go up?” he asks, in that soft tone that seems to calm everything.

You nod.

You don’t talk much on the way to the room, but he stays close. His hand brushes yours now and then, no rush. Like he knows you need that contact to stay together.

When you arrive, he opens the door with his key and steps aside so you can go in first. It’s one of those massive suites you only see in photos. Everything elegant, minimal, spotless. But what strikes you most is that it smells like *him*.

And that, somehow, makes you feel safe.

“Do you want anything? Water? A hot shower?” he asks, closing the door.

“I just want to… be here a while,” you whisper.

He nods and hands you one of his t-shirts, like he already knows you prefer something comfy. Then he sits at the edge of the bed and waits. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t stare at you like you’re weak. Just gives you space.

When you come out of the bathroom wearing his shirt, you feel lighter. Like the water and the silence gave a piece of yourself back.

Kimi’s already lying down, leaning against the headboard, TV on without sound. He’s not watching anything. He’s just waiting.

You crawl in next to him, and he lifts the blanket without a word. You slip under it, and he wraps his arm around you, pulling you to his chest. Your head fits perfectly under his chin. His breathing is calm. Steady.

“You don’t have to be like them, you know?” he murmurs after a while. “I like who you are. Not because of what you have or don’t have. Because of how you see the world. How you see me.”

You bite your lip, eyes tight shut, as if that could stop more tears.

“But your world… it’s so different.”

“And that’s why I want you to stay you,” he answers right away. “Because my world sometimes needs someone like you to pull it out of the bubble. Someone real.”

You nestle closer. He holds you gently, as if silently promising to protect you from everything that makes you feel small.

“And if I never fit in?” you whisper.

“Then I’ll make room until you do.”

Plushie Kidnapping

(A/N): This one just ran away from me.

Summary: Max accidentally packed his girlfriends favorite plush toy. Now it's his chance to show her how good he can care for her loyalst compagnon.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader, Max interacting with other drivers

Wordcount: 2.2k

🏎Masterlist🏎 ___________________________

(Y/N) is on her way home from work when her boyfriend called her. She accepts the call through the car’s entertainment program, excited to hear Max’s voice after a grueling day.

“Hey Baby,” She greets him while steering the car along the streets. A smile takes place on her face, always giddy to talk to her love. “Schatje,” Max breathes into his phone, “how was your day?”

After some small talk and light banter, (Y/N) taxis her car into the parking space of her apartment building. “Are you home?” Max asks, hesitation in his voice. The young woman frowns upon hearing that. “Yeah, but we don’t need to end the call.” She assures him.

The driver hesitates again. “I made a… let's call it a moderately bad mistake.” He confesses, his voice quiet. (Y/N) stops in her tracks as she previously rummaged in her purse for her key. She looks up at the car’s display, as if it’s Max itself standing in front of her, wringing his hands with a nervous smile.

But he is not, instead he stands in a hotel room thousand of kilometers away from his girlfriend, staring at an object on his bed. She clears her throat, her little bubble of giddy having burst. “What?”

Her sharp tone makes Max wince. “This morning I did some last minute packing and - please don’t be mad at me - I may have accidentally, unwanted, really, by mistake… packed your little lion plushie.” Said toy stares back at Max accusatory. The Dutchman swears he is getting judged by it.

(Y/N) is silent for several moments. Max feels the weight though the line. He wishes for nothing more than to be able to turn back time to put the soft lion back onto her bed. Finally, (Y/N) sighs. “It’s” She starts and stops again, taking a deep breath. “You are on a triple header, right?”

That was more of a theoretical question. Of course she knows the answer. The date of his return, nearly four weeks away, is circled red in her calendar. Max doesn’t see the point in answering, instead choosing to keep quiet.

(Y/N) nods. “I- okay. You are sure you got Leon? The Leon who has been with me for most of my life? Who has been here before you?” She is waving her hands around as she is talking, still sitting in the car.

Max sits, pacing around in his hotel room. “I am so so sorry, Schatje. I- sending a package would be way too risky. We can’t have him getting lost somewhere. Or even risk it.” He paces a little more, knowing how much that lion means to his girlfriend. “I will have someone take my jet and fly Leon back to you.” At that (Y/N) lets out a humorless laugh. “Max, that’s too extreme. It’s okay. I will manage without Leon. Just… gosh this sounds pathetic. But please. Make sure he is safe. He means so much to me, even though he is just a plush animal.” (Y/N)’s voice gets quieter and quieter.

He stops in his tracks. “I promise you, Schatje. He is in the second best hands possible. No one can top yours, of course.” (Y/N) smiles to herself, albeit a bit warily. Okay. I trust you.”

Soon after, they end the call and the young woman finally leaves her car to enter her apartment.

For the remainder of the day her mind circles back to her plush animal. It was gifted to her some time during her early childhood days. (Y/N) doesn’t have a single memory or picture without that little yellow plush lion.

When she is making dinner, her phone pings. Max’s contact name with an attached photo lights the screen up. Curiously, (Y/N) puts the knife she used for chopping vegetables down and opens the messenger app.

The first thing she sees is Leon, sitting in front of an empty plate. Then the young woman spots her boyfriend, having taken a selfie of himself and her plushie during dinner, his own plate being filled. Leon is taking your spot during our dinner dates, I hope you don’t mind! Max texted her with the picture.

(Y/N) giggles to herself, her worries being eased for now. I hope you insist on paying like you do with me! Don’t let my best friend starve though. Love you two! After that, he sends her a picture of Leon sitting in front of a plate filled with a few peas. Not letting the little man starve, trust me.

And this is a common recurrence during the following weeks. Every day Max sends his girlfriend several pictures of him and Leon in different situations.

During the first weekend, Max brought Leon with him into the paddock, his little head looking out of his backpack. With a red bull can in hand and a smile on his face, he enters the paddock and is immediately greeted by different media personnel.

One of the red bull social media girls catch him on his hot girl paddock walk. “Hey Max. What’s up with the lion? Is this another opportunity to sell?” She asks, keeping up with his step and holding up the phone to film him for their instagram and tiktok channels.

He laughs a bit, tucking some hair behind his ear. “Oh no, he's my girlfriend’s most loyal companion in life and I accidentally packed him up. I promised her to take care of Leon during the triple header, and I felt like he would have been too lonely in my hotel room. So I’m showing him the paddock.” He explains, waving his arm around and pointing towards the plushie in his backpack.

That clip goes viral quicker than any video that had the word “inchident” uttered.

Soon enough, (Y/N) gets another photo of them, Leon being placed on a treadmill next to Max’s, “training” at the gym together. The picture has been taken by Rupert.

A few minutes later, the young woman receives a video of Leon bench pressing some very small weights, with Max spotting him. “He is very strong, I can see now why he is your actual protector instead of me”, he winks into the camera before the recording ends.

By the end of the first race of the triple header, the whole team has already been roped into the spiel of showing (Y/N) how good the Dutchman takes care of her stuffed companion.

Especially the red bull social media team jumped onto that wagon. They make clips of Leon getting a spa treatment at a place specialized on stuffed animals. They take Max and Leon to a zoo, showing him some actual lions. The team also ropes Leon into challenge videos with Yuki, who loses to the stuffed toy every time. (Y/N) gets the first view of course before the video hits all social media channels.

Every single video goes viral. Even other sports try to hop onto that train. But a person in a fursuit for a football team can never step up to be as iconic as a small plush lion.

Soon enough, Leon becomes some kind of mascot for the team, especially for Max.

“Schatje”, he mutters into the phone after turning another pole into a race win, still wet and sticky from champagne combined with red bull, “I think I need to bring Leon to all my races from now on.”

(Y/N) just gasps. “So it was deliberate of you! You packed him on purpose!” Ever since Max has told her that he took the stuffed lion with him, the couple has been bickering whether or not the Dutchman did it intentionally or not. The opinions on both sides are steadfast.

“Lies! Slander! I wouldn’t do such things. Maybe you just need to quit your day job and accompany Leon and me for the rest of the season. I have a championship to win and Leon has a championship winning driver to support!” (Y/N) groans at that. “Come home with my guy first and then we can do some talking. From what I saw, there were attempts to kidnap Leon. Your chances of being able to even have a conversation about my future as part of the workforce will be non-existent if something happens.”

This is true. After other drivers have witnessed the magic of the little lion, plans were made to claim that energy for themselves.

First and foremost the rookies under the lead of Kimi and Ollie tried to make some elaborate plan. In the end they didn’t go through with it, because between them all, they couldn’t agree who is allowed to keep Leon if their plan was to be successful.

Charles actually got close to getting his hands on the trophy in the form of a plush lion as he walked into the paddock with Max during the sunny afternoon for another day of media day. Staying in step with him, the Monegasque put his arm around his shoulder, acting friendly while his hand crawled towards Leon hanging out the backpack. “What is your opinion on the new soft tyre Pirelli introduced yesterday?” He tries to divert his attention.

But there is one thing he hasn’t accounted for, dealing with Max. His lightning fast reflexes. Quickly, Charles’ arm is pinned off Max. “Just touch Leon without my blessing and it’s not only my wrath you’ll get to witness, but (Y/N)’s anger too. And you don’t want to try her.” He warns the Ferrari driver. Charles backs off, a bit scared if he is being honest.

Even through all the evil attempts of commiting crimes, Leon also experiences the full mischief and chaos that comes with the other drivers and daily life in the paddock.

“Has Leon ever tried it?” Yuki asks during a fanzone appearance, gesturing towards said lion that is sat on the table on stage where they held some kind of building blocks challenge against the mclaren boys. The soft toy leans against a can of red bull.

Max is shaking his head laughing while Lando dashes to the front, his excitement barely contained as he puts his own can of Monster next to the red bull. “If he has to try something, it has to be the best energy drink in the world”, he speaks into the microphone. Their sponsors love him.

The Dutchman is quick to set the record straight. “Leon will not try any caffeinated drinks. He is like (Y/N), it would only upset his stomach and make him anxious.” Then he turns towards the crowd. “Especially some sugar water like that neon green piss.” Other sponsors hate him.

The interviewer has some work to do to calm the fans back down.

But also during drivers parades, the stuffed animal has become an icon quickly. It’s the only time where Max lets another driver hold him, since so many eyes and cameras are on them at that moment no one would dare to do something to or with Leon.

To everyone’s surprise, Oscar is weirdly possessive when he gets his fingers on him.

“I feel like it’s my turn to hold him now”, Alex whines as he makes grabby hands towards Oscar, who cradles the stuffy in his arms. He fixates the Thai with a dry look. “Too bad, I have him now.” The Australian successfully fends off everyone's advances of taking Leon from him with his witty remarks and mean glances. Up until the truck is back in the pits, where he gets approached by Max. With a sigh, he hands Leon over. “Ask your girlfriend if she also has a koala. This is weirdly soothing.”

Luckily, eventually all triple headers come to an end. The press later argues that Max’s drive to the airport after the race was faster than his actual fastest lap on track.

Finally, after three poles to wins, Max flies back to his shared apartment with (Y/N) in Monaco. He arrives in the middle of the night, rolling in his suitcase, his backpack slung over his shoulders and gripping Leon tightly in his free hand.

He dumps his luggage at the door quietly to tiptoe into the master bedroom. Max halts in the doorway, his eyes softening as he sees his love cuddled up in tshirt, clutching also one of his hoodies.

While trying to be as silent as possible, he changes out his plane clothes into some pjs before slipping under the blanket on his side of the bed. (Y/N) stirs slightly. Then turns around towards him.

“Did you-” Max already puts the small plush lion into her arms. “I did”, he reassures her with a gentle smile. He pulls her into his arms, before sighting satisfied. This is his home.

“He smells like you.” “Me?” (Y/N) hums, close to falling asleep again. “Like burnt rubber and victory.”

Max chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead. “And you smell like home.” He whispers, knowing she has fallen asleep already. While he looks at her, wishing he can take (Y/N) with him like he did with Leon. Carrying his love in his pocket at all times.

The Fifth Seat

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary... Four lucky fans win the contest of a lifetime: a chance to join the F1 grid for media week, shadowing drivers and getting the ultimate behind-the-scenes access. But what no one knows is that there's a fifth seat—a secret winner whose name never appeared on the announcement list. She’s not a fan. She’s his wife. And their entire relationship is a secret. But not for much longer. Hidden glances. Stolen moments. A marriage no one suspects—until media week turns into a pressure cooker, and secrets start to crack under the spotlight.

A/N: I don't know what I wrote. I wrote it at 2am and feeling a little delirious lol. request are open (:

I hope you guys enjoy it. Let me know what you guys think in the comments. I write for free but you can donate to support my writing over on my Ko-Fi!

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

They called it the opportunity of a lifetime.

The Fifth Seat Experience—sponsored by Formula 1, endorsed by every team, plastered all over social media like the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Four lucky fans, hand-picked from thousands of entries, flown in for Media Week to shadow the drivers, get exclusive access, live like insiders.

Except there were five of us.

And I wasn’t a fan.

Well. Technically, I was. Just not in the way everyone else thought.

The other four winners were bouncing in place as we waited for our credentials outside the paddock gates—talking over each other, gasping at every car that drove past, snapping selfies like they might blink and miss someone famous.

I kept my sunglasses on and my mouth mostly shut.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t excited. I was. But it’s hard to squeal over a driver when you sleep next to one every night.

"Y/N L.," the coordinator called, her lanyard outstretched. “Guest Winner #5.”

Winner. Right. Sure.

The plastic badge felt heavier than it looked as she clipped it around my neck. I could feel the name tug at my skin.

Y/N L. Like I’d never taken another last name.

I tucked the badge into my jacket, heart thudding harder than I liked. I didn’t have a plan beyond blend in and survive. No one—not the fans, not the other winners, not even the media team buzzing around us—knew the truth.

No one knew I was married to Charles Leclerc.

And if everything went smoothly this week, no one ever would.

-

They assigned each of us a driver pairing. Luck of the draw.

Callie, the girl with the Mercedes hat and long acrylics, screamed when she got Lewis. Tom practically wept when he got Max. The other two, Serena and Rachel, were with McLaren and Red Bull.

I got Alpine.

Safe. Distant. Harmless.

Not Ferrari.

Not Charles.

“Bit of a bummer, huh?” Serena said sympathetically, glancing at my badge. “Alpine’s been quiet lately.”

I shrugged. “Quiet’s kind of my thing.”

She laughed and wandered off, which suited me just fine. My heart was already crawling up my throat because I could feel him before I even saw him.

It always happened like that. Some sixth sense. Some magnetic pull.

He appeared at the edge of the garage bay—white polo, sunglasses, hair slightly messier than usual like he’d been dragging his fingers through it. He was talking to someone from the team, nodding, focused.

Until he wasn’t.

Until his head tilted just slightly and his eyes landed on me.

And stayed there.

Two seconds too long.

Three.

Four.

Then, like he remembered himself, he turned back to his conversation.

I swallowed hard.

God, he was terrible at this.

-

The rest of the day passed in a blur of team tours, media station walkthroughs, and overexcited chitchat. I smiled politely, answered questions when asked, and avoided cameras like they were fire.

But Charles kept finding me.

Not overtly. Not dramatically.

A glance as he passed in the hallway. A half-smile in the corner of the hospitality tent. Once, I could swear he deliberately lingered behind me in the lunch line just so he could whisper, “You’re torturing me.”

I didn’t turn around.

“Don’t make it obvious,” I muttered under my breath, grabbing a croissant I didn’t want.

“I’m not,” he replied. “You look incredible, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“Y/N.”

I took my tray and walked away before my face could betray me.

This was not going to work.

-

Later, when the sun dipped low and the paddock began to clear out, the five of us were ushered into a small media lounge for a casual welcome session—iced teas, branded notebooks, a low-key icebreaker game.

It was fine.

Until he walked in.

The room actually shifted. Like gravity pulled everyone forward.

Charles Leclerc, fresh from interviews, sunglasses pushed into his hair, smiled politely as the coordinator announced, “And here to welcome our winners—your fan-favorite Ferrari driver!”

My breath locked in my throat.

“Oh my god,” Callie whispered.

“Charles is so much hotter in person,” Tom mumbled, not even trying to be subtle.

He waved at the group, then sat down right across from me on the low couch.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

“You all excited for Media Week?” he asked casually, accent curling around every word like sugar on the rim of a glass.

Everyone nodded. Gushed. Talked over each other.

I picked at the edge of my napkin.

Then came the icebreaker.

“Let’s go around and say one thing we’re most excited about this week,” the coordinator prompted. “I’ll start—I’m excited to see you all soak in the experience!”

Rachel: “The garage tours!”

Tom: “Meeting the drivers, obviously.”

Callie: “The paddock passes and maybe... a selfie with Charles.” She winked.

He laughed politely.

When it was my turn, I cleared my throat.

“I guess I’m just... excited to see the sport from the inside.”

Charles’s eyes met mine across the table. Just for a second.

I don’t know what I expected.

But I didn’t expect the corner of his mouth to twitch—barely—like he was holding back something.

A smile? A secret?

Something.

Then, the coordinator clapped her hands. “Perfect! You all are going to have the time of your lives.”

Everyone cheered.

And as we stood up to head back to the hotel, Charles brushed past me, just close enough to murmur—

“Careful, amour. They’re starting to notice.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving my skin buzzing, my throat tight, and my heart whispering: This week is going to ruin us.

-

I didn’t sleep much.

The hotel bed was comfortable enough, the room quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional shout of someone stumbling back from the bar. But my brain was loud. Too loud.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, still hearing his voice in my ear.

Careful, amour. They’re starting to notice.

He couldn’t help himself. That was the problem. Charles Leclerc was many things—charming, reckless, maddeningly romantic—but discreet wasn’t one of them.

My phone buzzed from the nightstand.

Charles: Are you awake? Charles: Room 314.

Goddamn him.

I stared at the message. I could say no. I should say no.

Instead, I was out of bed and tiptoeing down the hallway before I could convince myself otherwise.

-

He opened the door like he’d been standing on the other side, waiting.

His hair was damp from a shower, curls pushed back, shirtless in nothing but black sweatpants. A gold chain rested against his collarbone, and his smile tugged slow and crooked when he saw me.

“You came.”

“You texted.”

“That’s not a no.”

I rolled my eyes and stepped inside. “We said no sneaking around.”

“We also said no falling in love, and look how that turned out.”

He said it like it didn’t still knock the air out of me every time.

Charles closed the door softly behind me, then leaned his forehead against it, sighing.

“This is torture,” he muttered.

“Media week or marriage?”

“Being married and not being able to act like it.”

I turned to him, arms crossed. “You’re the one who wanted to keep it secret.”

“Because I wanted to protect you.” He looked over his shoulder, voice quieter now. “You know what they’d do with this. With you. The articles, the headlines, the dissecting every outfit and every expression. I just wanted a little more time.”

“And this is your idea of time?” I gestured vaguely. “Throwing me into the paddock with a badge and pretending we’ve never kissed?”

He pushed off the door and crossed the room in three steps.

“Pretending we’ve never kissed is impossible.”

He kissed me then—soft and sweet, the kind of kiss that said I missed you instead of I want you.

Though, with Charles, it was usually both.

I let myself melt for a moment, my fingers curling into the hem of his shirt before I caught myself.

I pulled back. “We can’t keep doing this.”

He rested his forehead against mine. “One more night.”

“You said that in Monaco.”

-

Flashback – Six Months Earlier Monaco. 10:41 a.m. Tuesday.

The Civil Registry Office smelled like lemon-scented floor cleaner and legal ink. The ceiling fans whirred overhead.

I wore a cream linen dress and held a bouquet of flowers I picked up from a corner stand on the way there. Charles wore a navy button-up and the softest expression I’d ever seen on a man.

We signed the papers in under ten minutes.

“Wait,” I said, just before he handed over the final page. “Are we really doing this?”

He smiled. Not wide. Not cocky. Sure.

“Yes,” he said simply. “And if you’re not sure, we can wait.”

I looked down at the page. Then at him. And suddenly, it didn’t feel scary. It felt like choosing the safest person in the world.

“I'm sure.”

He kissed the back of my hand as we handed it in.

We walked out married. No ring, no guests, no Instagram post.

Just... us.

-

I left Charles’s room just before sunrise. No one saw me. I checked. Twice.

By the time we got to the paddock, the PR team had split us up into pairs for the morning rounds. My assigned driver, Esteban, was nice enough—friendly, funny, not overly chatty. It was an easy match.

But every time we passed a certain garage, my lungs forgot how to work.

Charles was everywhere.

In the Ferrari garage. On the track walk. On the screen playing highlight reels in the lounge. I couldn’t turn around without seeing his face or hearing his laugh.

It didn’t help that he kept glancing my way. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

And it really didn’t help when Carlos came up to him after a media hit and clapped him on the back.

“So who’s the girl?” he asked with a smirk.

My blood turned to ice.

“What girl?” Charles replied, too quickly.

Carlos nodded toward me across the hospitality tent. “The quiet one. She’s pretty.”

Charles’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah,” he said. “She is.”

I looked away before I could throw something.

-

By late afternoon, the paddock had cooled, shadows stretching long. Most of the group had wandered off to post content or explore the garages. I stayed behind, sipping an iced drink I didn’t want, brain spinning.

That’s when the PR girl found me.

“Oh, hey! Just a heads up, a few people were asking who you are.”

My chest tightened.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no—just curiosity. You weren’t tagged in the winner announcement, so some of the fans are like, ‘Who’s Guest #5?’” She laughed, like it was nothing. “Probably just internet sleuths doing their thing.”

I forced a smile. “Right. Totally.”

But I could feel it happening—cracks forming in the glass, light leaking through.

And the worst part?

I didn’t know if I wanted to stop it anymore.

-

Later that night, just before I climbed into bed, my phone buzzed again.

Charles: They think I’m flirting with a fan. Charles: I’m going to lose it. Charles: I miss you.

I stared at the screen, fingers hovering. Then I typed:

Me: Then stop pretending.

I watched the message sit. Delivered. Read.

And then nothing.

No reply.

Not that night.

Not the next morning.

Not until it was already too late.

----

Group Chat – “Fan Five 💖🏁”

Callie: anyone else notice how weird y/n was yesterday?? 👀

Tom: like, quiet weird or secret-agent weird

Rachel: she def knows someone. you saw her talking to a ferrari guy right??

Serena: nah that was charles leclerc 🫢🫢🫢

Tom: YOU'RE LYING

Serena: not joking. i went back through my stories—she was with him near the media tent. paused the vid. they were talking close-close

Callie: hold up i’m checking tumblr

-

Tumblr Post 📸: [image attached] 👤: f1-unfiltered “who tf is this girl Charles is chatting with in the media lounge?? she wasn’t on the winner list 👀 anyone know her @?? #charlesleclerc #fifthseat #mediaweek”

🗨️ top comment: “he’s totally checking her out. look at his face omg”

🗨️ second comment: “are we getting a Charles soft launch????”

🗨️ third comment: “her lanyard says Guest #5… we missed one 😭”

-

Twitter (X) @f1teaofficial 👀 something’s brewing. who is mystery “Guest Winner #5”? we’ve confirmed she wasn’t in the original contest posts… #fifthseat #f1drama #charlesleclerc

⬇️ Photo Attachment: blurry screenshot of Y/N and Charles mid-conversation

-

Private Messages – Charles → Y/N 9:47 AM I’m sorry. I saw it. The post. They think I’m flirting with you.

10:02 AM I hate this. I hate not being able to tell them you're mine.

10:17 AM Please say something.

-

Voicemail – Left at 11:26 AM "It’s me. I know you’re mad. I don’t blame you. I should’ve protected us better. I let the cameras turn you into a stranger. And I hate that. I love you. I love you, and I don’t care who knows it anymore. If you want to end this, I’ll respect it. But if there’s even a small part of you that still wants me to fight for us—please, just... call me back.”

-

Text – Y/N → Charles (unsent) You said you’d protect me. But I’ve never felt more alone.

-

Drafted Notes App Entry – Y/N Title: If They Find Out

They’ll say I used him.

They’ll say I didn’t deserve him.

They’ll say it was a stunt.

They’ll tear me apart.

But I love him. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.

-

Instagram Story – @scuderiaferrari 🎥 “Behind-the-scenes at Media Week Day 2!” Pausing at 0:41 reveals Charles, standing off to the side, watching something—or someone—just off camera. Blink and you miss it: a small gold band on his left ring finger.

---

There’s a kind of silence that only happens in chaos.

Like when your ears ring after a crash, or when the world tilts just a little too far to the left. That’s what it felt like in the paddock the morning the photo dropped.

Not an explosion. Not a scream. Just a silence so loud I couldn’t hear anything else.

Everywhere I went, I felt it. The glances. The hush when I passed. The way even the media team looked at my lanyard a beat too long before waving me through.

Guest Winner #5 was no longer anonymous.

And Charles— Charles was furious.

I didn’t see him until the mid-morning break. I was on my way out of the Alpine garage when someone caught my wrist and gently pulled me around the corner.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at me like he hadn’t slept.

“Hi,” I said, softly. Too softly.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said. His voice was rough. Tight.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He let go of my wrist. Stepped back like I’d burned him.

“I should’ve said something from the start,” he muttered. “We should’ve owned it.”

“No, Charles,” I snapped. “You said we should keep it quiet. You said—‘just one season, let me keep you safe.’”

“And I was wrong.”

That shut me up.

He raked a hand through his hair. “I saw the post. The edits. They’re tearing you apart already and they don’t even knowyou.”

My throat tightened. “They never were going to be kind.”

“I don’t care if they’re kind.” He stepped closer. “I care if they hurt you.”

God, he looked wrecked.

And I wanted—more than anything—to kiss him. To close the distance and forget the rest of the world existed.

But I couldn’t.

So I whispered, “Then let me go.”

His face broke open like glass.

“No.”

“Charles.”

“No.” His voice cracked. “You can’t ask me to pretend you don’t belong to me. Not after everything.”

“I’m asking you to protect me. And if the only way to do that is by stepping away—”

He kissed me.

Fast. Desperate. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission because it was already falling apart.

I melted. Fought it. Melted again.

But we were still in the paddock. Still surrounded by cameras, journalists, fans.

And I pulled away just before it became a headline.

“We can’t do this here,” I breathed.

“Then come with me.”

“What?”

“Now. Just—just come with me. Five minutes. No one will notice.”

I hesitated. The badge around my neck felt like a noose.

But I followed him anyway.

-

He led me through the back of the hospitality tent, past the fake plants and behind a row of stacked crates, where no cameras pointed and no PR eyes roamed.

A supply closet. Of course.

It was dark. Cramped. Smelled like rubber gloves and microfiber.

He shut the door behind us and leaned against it like he was trying to breathe.

“I feel like I’m going to lose you.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Why now?” I whispered. “Why is this the moment you suddenly want to tell the world?”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then—

“Because I watched you lie in that welcome lounge. I watched you say you were excited to see the sport from the inside like you weren’t already part of my world. Like you didn’t wake up next to me three days ago.”

He stepped forward, eyes burning.

“And I hated it.”

“Charles…”

“I hated pretending we didn’t mean something to each other. I hated hearing them talk about you like you were just some fan. I hated the way Carlos looked at you. I hated how beautiful you looked and how I couldn’t even touch you.”

I swallowed hard.

“I hated that too.”

“So then let’s stop.”

“Stop hiding?”

“Stop lying.”

My heart was beating like a drum in my ears.

“You really want to do this?” I asked. “You’re sure?”

He didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.

“Yes.”

And that’s when we heard it.

The voice outside the door. Someone calling his name.

“Charles? You back here?”

We froze.

He looked at me, eyes wide.

I looked at the floor. The walls. The door.

My fingers found the lock. Clicked it open.

And just before I stepped out, I looked back and whispered:

“Then do it. Say something. Or this is the last time I follow you.”

I left him standing there—speechless, shirt rumpled, heart in his throat.

And I didn’t look back.

-

By evening, the internet had moved on.

Sort of.

They’d stopped asking who I was.

Now they were asking something else.

“Why is Ferrari so quiet today?” “Where is Charles Leclerc?” “Is Guest #5 even a real fan?” “This week is feeling scripted.”

And just when I thought maybe things were calming down...

I saw the photo.

It was blurry. Candid. Taken from a distance.

Charles. Standing alone near the pit wall.

Holding something in his hand.

A ring.

My ring.

--

Flashback — Six months earlier Monaco, the night after the wedding

The courthouse was already closed. The florist stand where I bought my bouquet had packed up and gone home. The streets were glowing, just barely damp from a midday rain, and the city felt like it had exhaled.

And I was married.

To him.

To Charles.

We didn’t throw a party. No cake. No fireworks. Just a hotel suite high above the harbor and a bottle of champagne neither of us had planned on but somehow ended up with anyway.

“I can’t believe we actually did it,” I whispered, toeing off my sandals as he unlocked the room.

“I can.” His smile was lazy, wide. “I’d do it again right now if we hadn’t just paid the filing fee.”

The room was warm. Gold lamplight, cream linens, a view of the marina that looked like something out of a painting. I walked to the window and pressed my fingers to the glass.

Down below, life was buzzing. Music. Laughter. Everything too far away to touch.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I just... didn’t expect to feel this calm.”

“Marrying me is calming? That’s a new one.”

“Shut up,” I said, but I was smiling.

I heard the soft pop of the champagne cork and turned around just in time to see the foam spill over his fingers.

“Smooth,” I said.

“I’m rusty. I haven’t had a reason to celebrate in a while.”

He poured two glasses and crossed the room, handing me one with a small clink.

“To what?” I asked.

He looked at me, then at the tiny band of gold now resting on my finger.

“To the quiet kind of forever.”

I blinked once. Twice. Then I clinked my glass to his.

“To us.”

We didn’t drink right away. He leaned down and kissed me first—slow, warm, like he was trying to memorize the exact way I felt under his hands tonight.

“Mon amour,” he murmured. “Ma femme.”

His wife.

I kissed him back like that name had always been mine.

-

Later, I was wrapped in sheets, tucked against his bare chest, legs tangled and lips swollen, both of us laughing over something dumb we couldn’t even remember anymore.

The window was open, letting in the soft hum of the city and the faint smell of ocean salt.

Charles traced lazy shapes on my back.

“Do you think they’ll find out?” I asked.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“They’ll guess,” he said. “Eventually.”

“But not yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

He kissed the crown of my head. “Because I want to keep this—you—to myself for a little longer.”

“Selfish.”

“Absolutely.”

I turned to face him, cheek pressed to the pillow.

“I don’t want to hide forever.”

“You won’t have to.”

“But when it starts—when they know—”

“I’ll handle it.” He brushed his knuckles along my jaw. “I’ll take every hit if it means you don’t have to.”

My throat tightened. “You can’t protect me from all of it.”

“Maybe not. But I can try.”

And then he pulled me close again, tucked under his chin, his voice barely audible.

“I want a life with you. Not just a ring and a secret. A life.”

My eyes stung.

“I want that too.”

He held me tighter.

“Then we’ll build it. Slowly. Quietly. Until one day... no one’s surprised to see you in my garage. Or on my arm. Or wearing my name.”

“Not even the media?”

He smiled against my temple. “Especially them.”

We didn’t fall asleep until after 3 a.m.

And just before I closed my eyes, I looked at the clock glowing faintly on the nightstand.

11:11.

Make a wish, I thought.

I didn’t need to.

He was already mine.

--

There were three microphones on the table.

Three cameras aimed straight at my face.

Four other fan winners.

Twelve journalists.

And one Charles Leclerc.

Seated exactly two chairs away from me.

I could feel him more than I could see him—his presence like a magnet I was desperately trying not to lean toward. His voice when he answered a question was low and measured, but there was tension behind it. Like he was holding his breath every time someone said my name.

Because yes—this press conference?

It wasn’t just about the drivers anymore.

It was about us.

“Let’s talk about the now-viral Fifth Seat post,” the moderator said, glancing at the cards. “There’s been a lot of speculation about Guest Winner #5—Y/N, right?”

I smiled, as calmly as I could. “That’s me.”

The room chuckled, polite but interested. Someone’s pen scratched loudly against a notepad.

“You’ve been paired with Alpine, but fans noticed some interaction with the Ferrari garage. Care to share what that’s about?”

I didn’t look at Charles.

I looked directly at the moderator, and I lied.

“I was lost. Someone pointed me in the wrong direction. That’s all.”

He smiled like he bought it. Charles didn’t move. But I saw the way his hands curled into fists on the table.

Liar, liar, ring finger on fire.

-

The rest of the conference passed in a blur. Questions about team dynamics, fan engagement, media perception. I said what I needed to say. Charles said very little.

And then came the final question.

“For all five guests—if you could spend a full day with any driver, who would it be?”

Everyone turned toward us.

Callie answered first. “Lewis, obviously.”

Tom said Max. Serena picked Oscar. Rachel said Carlos and then blushed bright red when he grinned.

And then it was my turn.

My mouth opened. My heart thundered. I looked straight at the cameras and said:

“Esteban’s been amazing. I wouldn’t trade my assignment for anyone.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

Charles flinch.

Barely. But it was there.

A fraction of a second. A wound split wide open on camera.

The moderator wrapped up. Everyone clapped.

The moment I stood to leave, a hand caught my wrist.

Charles.

We were behind the curtain, out of view but not out of range. His eyes were sharp, glassy with something that looked a lot like heartbreak.

“You don’t have to lie for me anymore,” he said. Quiet. Bitter.

I pulled my arm back. “You said you wanted to protect me.”

“Not like this.”

And then he kissed me.

In full view of the other fan winners.

In full view of the PR team.

In full view of the Ferrari social media intern, who audibly gasped behind her phone screen.

It was soft. Quick. But it was a statement.

When he pulled back, his voice didn’t shake.

“We’re done pretending.”

-

Ten minutes later, the Ferrari garage was in full-blown crisis mode.

“Are you insane?” the team manager asked.

Charles shrugged. “A little.”

I stood beside him, fingers linked tightly through his.

The PR rep was pacing. “Do you want to crash the website? Break the internet? Do you know what you just did?”

He looked at me. Then back at them.

“Yes.”

The intern finally spoke up from the corner. “Do you want us to, like... post something?”

Charles didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

I squeezed his hand. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

Then looked straight into the camera.

“She’s not a fan. She’s my wife.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

---

Instagram Post – @charles_leclerc 📸: black and white photo Charles, in a suit. Me, barefoot in that cream linen dress. Holding hands on the courthouse steps.

Caption: Monaco. Six months ago. We didn’t do it for the press. We did it for us. ❤️

-

Twitter/X Explodes

🔥 trending: CHARLES LECLERC 🔥 trending: FIFTH SEAT 🔥 trending: “she’s his WHAT?” 🔥 trending: MA FEMME

-

Back in the paddock, later that night

I sat next to Charles on the pit wall. No cameras this time. No fans. Just the low rumble of tires being rolled back to the garage and the buzz of lights overhead.

He nudged me with his shoulder. “You okay?”

I let out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

“Too much?”

“Maybe.”

“Regrets?”

I turned to him. Let my hand find his.

“No. Not if it means I can hold your hand in public.”

He smiled—really smiled. The kind that started in his chest and bloomed onto his face like sunlight.

“You’re stuck with me now.”

“I’ve always been stuck with you.”

And this time, when he kissed me, no one interrupted.

No flashbulbs. No questions. No more hiding.

Just him. Just me. Just us.

---

Epilogue

The Best Seat in the House Six months later — Monza Grand Prix

The roar of the crowd was thunder in my chest.

Pit lane buzzed with its usual chaos—mechanics darting, tires rolling, cameras clicking like shutters could stop time. I adjusted my headset and tried not to look too giddy as the Ferrari engineers handed me a branded clipboard.

I wasn’t technically staff. But I wasn’t just a guest anymore, either.

“Looking official, Madame Leclerc,” someone teased as I passed.

I smiled. “Don’t I always?”

It had taken time, but people got used to me. The media storm passed. The internet’s curiosity dulled into mild fascination. I stopped being “Guest #5” and started being his.

His wife. His person. His home base between podiums and paddocks.

And now, every few races, I joined him on the road—not as a secret, but as a fixture. Quiet. Steady. Gold band glinting under fluorescent lights and camera flashes.

“Y/N.” His voice crackled through my headset.

I turned toward the monitors, where his car blinked red and white on the map.

“Oui, mon amour?”

“Look up.”

I tilted my head just in time to see his car glide past the pit wall during the formation lap. The Ferrari slowed for just a heartbeat—and in the split-second he passed my section, he lifted his hand off the wheel and held up—

Two fingers.

A peace sign?

No.

A V.

I laughed into the mic. “Victory?”

“No,” he said. “V for Valentine.”

God, he was ridiculous.

“Focus, Leclerc.”

“Always. Especially when you’re here.”

He sped off.

I turned to the monitors, heart racing, hands tight around the clipboard I wasn’t actually using.

Beside me, the Ferrari PR girl grinned. “You nervous?”

“No,” I said honestly. “Not about him.”

The lights dropped. The crowd screamed. The cars launched.

And I stayed right where I was.

Watching. Rooting. Loving.

Because I didn’t need the fifth seat anymore.

I already had the best one—

Right beside him.

-----

The end.

accepting it- c.leclerc

summary: charles has been a bit too distant during your pregnancy, and what max said about his own child brought some ugly truths to the surface, hurting you in the process. charles realises his mistake, but it's just too late for you to believe him.

pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader

part two!

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

The quiet unlocking of the door was what had woken you, Charles was sure of it. He hadn’t wanted to, mostly because he knew he’d say something stupid and piss you off. He wouldn’t mean to, but he would. That’s what the start of the season was, that’s what becoming a father was, that’s what the stress did to him. 

“Hey handsome,” you smiled sleepily from the coach, all bundled up in blankets as some random Netflix series played on the screen. 

“Hey beautiful,” he exhaled harshly, then turned to you, (fake) smiling. “You alright?”

You nodded. “Just tired,” you yawned. “Want to head to bed?”

He nodded with a groan. “Yes, please.” 

He helped you up off the couch and it hit him how close you were to giving birth. You were in the third trimester, heavily pregnant with a slightly complicated pregnancy. He grimaced when he saw you grabbing your back in pain. 

“Alright?” he asked as you winced. 

You took a deep breath and continued on to your bedroom. “Fine,” you said through gritted teeth, the pain easing. 

He led you over to your side of the bed and helped you lie down. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and turned out the lights, ready to sink into his side of the bed after his exhausting day. 

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He woke up to the sound of vomiting. It wasn’t usual to hear, but it had gotten less frequent as the pregnancy went on. “You alright baby?” he called out. 

His question was met with more vomiting. He huffed as he pulled himself out of bed and walked to the bathroom, looking at you hunched over the toilet. He frowned and knelt beside you, holding your hair. After another few minutes the vomiting stopped and you looked up at him, exhausted and sick. 

“Feels any better?” he asked. You shook your head and he frowned again, pulling you into his chest. He smoothed a hand through your hair as you leant against him, trying to calm yourself down. “It’s alright,” he soothed. “You’re alright.” 

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Brunch was going to be hell on earth for both of you, but you still both dressed up and got in the car, pretending to be excited about the family luncheon. 

“Can you believe Max said he wouldn’t miss a race for the birth of his baby?” you scoffed, scrolling through your phone as Charles drove to his mother’s house. “Poor Kelly.”

Charles gulped beside you. He’d been dreading this conversation for weeks, unsure when to have it. It’s not that he didn’t want to be there for the birth of his child, he did, badly, but he couldn’t throw away championship points for anything. He’d make an exception if it was a sprint race, but other than that… he couldn’t chance it. “Well, he has a good reason to,” he shrugged nervously. 

You turned your head to him, shock painting your features. “Are you joking right now?” 

Charles shrugged. “Not really. He’s the World Champion and he needs to stay on top this year, especially if it’s his last year, which he’s thinking it might be. I understand where he’s coming from.”

You were both quiet for a minute, taking in what he’d said. 

“So what about us?” you asked in a small voice. 

“You’re due on a non-race week,” he shrugged. “We just hope she doesn’t come earlier than that.” 

He didn’t dare look over at you, scared of what he might see. He knew this was selfish, but he couldn’t piss away his chance at being champion, not when he’d worked his entire life for it, not when his parents, family, and friends gave up so much.  

“Oh,” you breathed out, trying to stop yourself from crying. “Alright then.” 

The rest of the car ride was silent, you watched the streets of Monaco whip by you as Charles drove up to his mother’s house, and you thought. Thought about giving birth alone. Thought about how Charles had promised you he’d be there. Thought about how shitty it felt to be second to his job. You wiped your unshed tears away before you walked inside.

When you walked inside, Pascale instantly knew something was wrong. Charlotte immediately took you away to chat together, and Lorenzo was too busy giving out to Arthur about breaking up with Jade to notice, but Pascale noticed. She saw the way Charles watched you from across the room, trying desperately to catch your eye, to gauge your reaction, something. 

She pulled him aside. “What’s wrong?” 

He sighed. “Maman, it’s nothing-”

“What did you say to your wife?” he demanded. He looked down, ashamed. He knew he was in the wrong, but he still felt justified, though that justification was slowly dwindling. 

“We were talking about how Max wouldn’t miss a race for his baby, and I said I’d do the same,” he admitted. 

“Excuse me?” Lorenzo inserted himself in the conversation. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Arthur was even looking at him in disgust, Arthur. “Charles, that’s not right-” 

“You don’t get to talk, alright?” he shot at his younger brother, who quietened out of shock. “And what else am I supposed to do? Every single year in Formula One I feel the championship falling away from me! Y/n understands-”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Pascale interjected. “Do you want that little girl? The one your wife has been carrying without complaint for 8 months?” 

Charles nodded vigorously. “Of course I do-!” 

“So you should be there for the woman who’s carrying her! She has been pregnant basically on her own for the past 8 months, either you were racing, or training, or enjoying your break - which meant doing extreme sports that she cannot do! That woman loves you too much to see how you’ve been treating her, and it’s sad, Charles. She does everything for you, and you’re even entertaining the idea of not being there for her while she goes through possibly one of the most painful experiences of her life? Are you insane?” she argued, shocked at her own son's selfishness. “If you cannot see that the woman you love is more important than a race win, you should really just let Y/n go and find a man that actually loves her. Not one who is more focused on his personal goals than the goals of his family. Your father and I raised you to be a racer, yes, but first and foremost we raised you to be a good person. And being a good person means being a good husband and father to your family, which is just starting.” 

Charles stood there for a moment in silence, ashamed of his behaviour. “You’re right.” 

“I know I am,” she scoffed. “Go make it right with Y/n, now.” 

Charles scurried off to find you in the garden with Charlotte, she had her arms around you as you explained everything that had happened, how distant Charles had been, what he’d said about the birth, everything. Charlotte sent him a particularly withering look as he stepped out into the sun, and he knew he deserved it. 

“Can I talk to my wife?” he asked, standing behind you. 

“She’s busy right now Charles,” Charlotte scoffed. “I’m just trying to calm her down from crying. Come back later.” 

His heart broke slightly, he knew you’d been taking the burden of the baby a lot more than he had (obviously), and he thought he was being gracious by not bringing it up. He thought he was doing the right thing by giving you space, but he was just subconsciously trying to ignore the fact that his life was going to change drastically and that he was scared. Still, he never thought he’d be the one to make you cry. 

“Please,” he begged. 

You gave Charlotte a nod, and she smiled at you sadly, then left you to talk. He took the seat she had been sitting in and placed a hand on your thigh. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m ruining the whole day.” 

His heart actually broke then. He was being a dick, he was in the wrong, and you were apologising. What the actual fuck? He shook his head, squeezing your thigh. “No. If anyone ruined today, it was me. My selfishness has been ruining this entire pregnancy for you,” he admitted. “And I’m sorry.” 

You stared up at him in shock. 

“You’ve been doing this on your own since day one, and that’s my personal failing. I’m sorry that I was so… distant. I was busy getting in my own head about my career, when the most important thing was right in front of me. I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll forgive me,” he took your hand and squeezed, looking at the ground. 

“Charles, I know what I signed up for when I married you,” you admitted, dropping his hand. “I know you’re ambitious, I know you want to win, and I know you won’t stop until you’re the best. Sometimes it just… gets to me that I’m not enough for you, that our family isn’t enough for you. It’s just… hard sometimes, alright? And if I’m being honest this is a bit too much too late. I know my place in your life, and I’ve accepted it. I just hope you prioritise our daughter more than you prioritise me,” you tearfully explained before getting up and going back inside. 

Was that really the standard he’d set for the love of his life? Surely not?  He had to fix this, and quick.

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navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

Max finally gets his prize

Imola 2025

Warnings: you knew it was coming, it is finally here, fisting, come play, just Max being feral and entirely insane, and to any dutch people reading this don't hesitate to correct my shitty dutch lmao

One of the Boys Masterlist

Frantic.

That's how you would describe what happened after the race.

People were everywhere, the podium went by in a flash, media was a frenzy, everything was going too fast, and before you knew it you were being dragged into Max's car and driven to his hotel. You were all he could think about.

"You have no idea..." Max was breathless as he pressed you up against the door of his room, doing his best to get both his and your clothes off as quickly as possible. "how many times I've thought about this"

You could only nod, already overwhelmed by his hands seemingly all over your body at once.

"How many times I've thought about Brazil." he growled.

Max had indeed gotten off to the memory of that night more times than he could count.

The way your cunt had been stretched so much that he was able to slip inside you so easily... he didn't know why that of all things got him off so much, but it did.

He wanted to see that again, and this time be the cause of it.

He wanted to see you take anything he was willing to give.

He had lube prepared, after all the goal was to stretch you out, not hurt you.

He'd never do that... unless you asked him to.

But tonight wasn't that kind of night, tonight was about Max's crazy obssession.

You were laying on the bed, hips propped up with a folded pillow, and already you could feel sweat clinging to your skin.

For the first time, you were nervous.

Not in a bad way, it was just that you rarely tried anything new, nowadays.

Max had three fingers inside you already, easily fitted with the pehaps excessive amount of lube he was using.

"Still good?" He asked, voice cracking. He was almost as nervous as you were.

You huffed out a laugh. "It's three fingers, Max. I'll survive"

He pouted. "Okay, a fourth it is then..."

The extra stretch of his little finger slipping in next to the others made you gasp.

He was studying your face for any signs of discomfort, but all he could see was pure unbridled want.

He pushed in further, thrusting gently until the base of his thumb was blocking his hand from going any further. He pressed the fingers that were inside you into your g-spot, massaging it rythmically, and with his thumb rubbed harsh circles across your clit, almost too slippery with how wet you were.

"This... god, this is already so much" Max groaned as he watched your cunt stretching around the upper part of his hand. "Doing so good, schat..."

Max very rarely spoke in dutch to you, when he did it was your sign that his resolve and composure were definitely slipping.

"Max " you sighed, pleasure pulsing through your body in time with the insistent prods against your insides, and the need was rapidly growing inside you for more.

"Fuck-" the pressure on your clit was just right, and soon you were clenching around him as he drove you to your orgasm.

He didn't pull out once you'd come down through. He took advantage of the fact that you were loose and relaxed after your release, to tuck his thumb into you apply the slightest pressure.

Max knew he didn't have the biggest hands in the world, or even on the grid, but even his hands were big enough that you immediately felt the heavy stretch as your poor hole tried to accomodate him.

He was almost there, only a couple more centimeters before his knuckles would slip in...

You clenched and whined in slight pain at the intense pressure and he froze, retreating the slightest bit and staring up at you.

"You okay?" his voice was shaking, terrified of having hurt you. You just nodded and heaved in a breath.

"S'just a lot... go slow, okay?"

He nodded back at you, thrusting his hand in and out of you at a snail's pace, trying to stretch you out a bit before attempting the widest part of his hand again.

He couldn't help leaning down and placing a tender kiss on your clit to apologise. He didn't mean to be a bit over-eager, but this was like a dream coming true for him.

"Look so good all stretched out like this..." his eyes were trained on your puffy cunt pulsing around his hand, and as he pushed more of it in, he could feel his pants getting increasingly wet with the constant leak of precome.

He couldn't wait to be inside you later.

Once again, he got to the point where his knuckles were about to breach you, and he looked at you for signs of discomfort, but only found you with your head tipped back and your brow creased as you white-knuckled the sheets.

"Do it" you panted, a thin sheen of sweat covered your body, and the fact that Max was about to have his whole hand in you was making you clench in anticipation.

Max waited until you unclenched, before taking a breath and giving that last little push and...

Relief... pleasure, loud moans... your fluttering walls swallowed him down to his wrist, and he had to close his eyes or he would definitely come in his pants like a teenager.

Not that he ever did this as a teenager.

It was surreal for both of you.

You looked down, and it was almost unbelievable that something so big was currently fitting so perfectly inside you, and you wouldn't have believed it if not for the slight bulge in your stomach.

You noticed Max was breathing hard and had his eyes closed in concentration.

"Doing okay there, Max?"

"Yep" his tone was clipped, but the rasp in it told you exactly how much he was enjoying this.

"Look, Max." You took his free hand and placed it flat on your stomach "feel how big you are inside me..."

He whined, and finally looked at where, indeed, if he moved he could see and feel the slight bulge.

"Does it feel good?" He asked, his voice was hoarse and he looked like it was taking an inhuman amount of effort to not move too much.

"Yeah, fuck- you're like... I can feel you stretching me out" your body felt like lead, and your innards were burning with need. "Need you to uhh... you know."

He lifted a brow curiously. "What?"

"You know" you were becoming flushed at the attention. "Fuck me"

A small grin crept up on his face. "Fuck you? With my hand?"

His smirk was infuriating, you huffed and closed your eyes. "Yes, obviously"

"Then say it. Say you want me to fuck you with my hand."

You gulped. He sounded too cocky for his own good.

"I want you to fuck me with your hand. Please."

Gis eyes darted from your face to your cunt still stretched around his wrist, to your heaving chest.

"As you wish"

You weren't quite sure exactly what he was doing with his hand, but the pressure against your g-spot was exquisite, and the extrat stretch when he'd start to pull out knocked the wind out of you.

His mouth was on your clit, sucking and licking absentmindedly while he concentrated on using his impressive stamina to keep the movement of his arm steady and regular.

Your back was arched, and you took it all greedily as his pace increased, and soon you could feel yourself gushing around him as you came again with a loud cry of his name.

He slowly, very slowly, to savour the moment, pulled his hand out of you, and almost drooled at the way you were so stretched out you barely noticed, until you were completely empty and whined.

"Fuck"

You were gaping, puffy cunt clenching around nothing, but not fully managing to close completely with how wide it now was.

Max couldn't take it any more. He snapped.

He got rid of his pants, just pushing them down around his thighs and settled between your legs, crawling up to crash his lips against yours.

"Zo mooi " he groaned into it, lining himself up with you sopping entrance, and rubbed himself against it.

"Zo perfect" he gasped, finally sinking into you, all wet and trembling under him. You could barely feel him, yet somehow it felt so good to have him inside you like this, muttering nonsense as his hips slapped against yours while he chased his pleasure, groaning nonsense in your ear.

You could tell he was close by the pitch of his moans increasing and the rhythm of his hips getting sloppy, and you were almost sliding up the bed with the force of them.

With a final harsh thrust he moaned into your mouth "Allemaal van mij ", followed by a sound like a wounded animal as he came inside you.

He barely gave himself any time to recover before he was quickly pulling out and pushing your legs apart, intent on watching your combined mess leaking onto the sheets, cunt desperately trying to keep his come inside you, to no avail.

He looked so fucked out than you'd ever seen him, cheeks flushed and damp hair sticking out like he'd run his hands through it a hundred times, and he was mesmerised.

"This is the hottest thing I've ever seen" he panted, and you just looked up at him.

He was trailing his fingers through the mess, spreading it around your lips.

Then he put his fingers against your other lips, and you eagerly opened your mouth to suck on them.

You smirked and with some effort, managed to turn around onto your stomach, spreading your legs and arching your back to expose yourself to him. He just groaned softly and put his hands on you to spread you further.

"If you want a round two I'm certainly up for it. After all, you made all that space inside me, it would be a shame to not fill it up..."

His jaw dropped.

He crawled over you, already half hard cock nudging your entrance, threatening to slip inside you again as his face hovered next to yours.

"How much do you think you can take?"

He nipped at your ear, trailing down your neck, and sank his teeth lightly into your shoulder. That made your back arch even more, and the head of his cock slipped inside you.

"As much as it takes to tire you out"

He chuckled darkly, and pushed your upper body flat against the bed with a hand on the back of your neck.

"That's a dangerous offer... I'm not sure you're ready for that many rounds, schat..."

You could hear the vaguely threatening tone in his voice, accompanied by a teasing lilt.

"Do your worst, baby. Fuck me like a winner"

Hey could you do fic for Kimi Raikkonen with wife reader during his time at Ferrari? She was stealing his sunglasses like she crash his interviews just for it and he's not doing anything about it. Even when he's wearing it at night like at Singapore GP. So he's got a matching one for her. And they rocked together. Just something fluff and cute. Add something else to it if it's not right. Tag me later!! Thanks :))

NOT YOURS, OURS|K.RÄIKKÖNEN

Pairing; Kimi Räikkönen x Wife!reader

Summary; In which you’re constantly stealing your husband’s sunglasses so he gets you your own matching ones.

Warnings; none.

Author’s note; take a shot everytime the word sunglasses is mentioned.

F1 Master List

Kimi was constantly wearing sunglasses, it was his signature look and it wasn’t very often you’d find him without them, even if he wasn’t wearing them, they’d be there resting on his cap or hanging from his collar.

Even now, as the two of you stood at the entrance of the garage, watching as the rain fell down into the track, wrapped up in his arms as he wrapped the edges of the coat he was wearing around you to keep you warm, he had his sunglasses on.

Not bothering to fight your temptations you pulled back causing his grip on you to loosen and you reached up, taking the sunglasses from his face and putting them on your own.

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow but you simply smiled and posed for him. "How do I look?"

Kimi smiled and shook his head at your silliness. "Beautiful." He replied.

Your smile brightened at his words, stomach fluttering from his compliment as you leaned back into his embrace.

You couldn’t see a thing from the darkness of the sky and the sunglasses mixed together, you didn’t know how he walked about like this but that was a question for another day.

Kimi was out unwillingly doing some interviews so you made the decision to go and roam around the track with absolutely no destination in mind when you saw him in the middle of the track doing a sit down interview with Jenson for Sky Sports.

You smirked as you walked closer. Approaching him from behind, you stepped into frame and wrapped your arms around him to remove the sunglasses from his face, catching him by surprise but as soon as he noticed it was you he relaxed.

Watching as you placed them on your own face, giving him a smile and a cheeky wave before walking away, leaving him shaking his head at you.

"What was that all about?" Jenson asked, laughing.

"Bwoah, i don’t know." Kimi shrugged.

You were in Singapore and the sky was pitch black but the track was lit up reading for the race to begin, Kimi was standing in the pit lane and even though the sun went down long ago, his sunglasses remained on his face as he spoke to his race engineer.

Walking to to him, you didn’t hesitate to reach up and take them from him, the man not even flinching as he continued with his conversation as though nothing had even happened.

You smiled as you placed them on your own face, the dark shades blocking everything but the lights on the track.

When he was finished talking he turned to you with a pointed look. "Those are mine."

You shook your head. "Not yours. Ours."

Kimi hummed. "This is becoming a habit now."

"I like them." You simply told him.

You were in Qatar and the sun was glaring down on you causing you to scowl in annoyance, looking around with your hand raised above your eyes, you spotted your husband.

He was dressed as he always was, red cap, red shirt, black shorts, black sunglasses. You walked towards him with a spring in your step.

Just when you were close enough to reach up and grab his sunglasses from his face, Kimi grabbed your hand to stop you.

As a pout began to form on your face, your husband simply shook his head and reached into his pocket. In his hand was a pair of sunglasses, an exact replica of the ones that were currently resting on his nose and under them to you.

“You have no reason to steal mine now,” he huffed but there was the slightest hint of a smile growing on his lips.

You took the sunglasses from him and placed them on, not acknowledging his slight dig at your antics.

“How do I look?” You asked him the same question you did a couple races ago.

“Perfect, as always,” he responded simply.

✶ THE EX EFFECT

summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader

wc: 19.2k

cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!

note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!

WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.

Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.

Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.

It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?

Still, you decided to try again.

During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.

You went for humor instead. A joke. 

Terrible idea, in hindsight.

“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”

Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”

And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”

“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.

He didn’t even look away from the road.

“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.

That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.

You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.

Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.

Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.

Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.

Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.

And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.

After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.

Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it. 

It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.

Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.

But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.

It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.

You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.

Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.

Yeah. This was a good morning.

You should have known it wouldn’t last.

It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.

But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.

“Y/N?”

Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.

And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.

You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.

“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”

Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.

You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”

Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.

But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.

Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”

He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.

“Small world,” he added to your silence.

You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”

Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You stared at him.

Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.

Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”

That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”

How surprising.

“So─”

You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.

You lied.

“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.

Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”

He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression. 

That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.

Not today, Satan.

The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.

You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.

“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”

And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.

“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”

Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”

Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”

You finally turned to face him fully.

His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.

“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”

That’s when something clicked.

You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.

But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.

Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.

“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”

You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?

“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.

Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.

“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!

Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”

Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”

“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.

Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”

“So small,” you nodded stiffly.

The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”

Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”

Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”

“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”

“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.

You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.

You paused. “Huh?”

“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”

“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”

“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”

You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”

You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”

“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”

The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.

Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.

That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.

“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.

“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.

Lando studied you. Waiting.

“Do I have to guess, or…?”

The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”

You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”

“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.” 

You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.

Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.

Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it. 

One you didn’t have an answer to.

The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.

You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.

But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.

Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.

“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.

He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.

“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”

“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”

He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?

It took a while for reality to set in. 

You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”

Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”

You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”

Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”

“No way.”

“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”

You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”

“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”

“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.

“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”

“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”

“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”

You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”

“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.

You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.

You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.

You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”

“Come again?”

“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”

You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”

“There it is.”

“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”

“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.

You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”

“Never heard of that.”

“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”

“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”

“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”

Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”

The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”

He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.

“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”

Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”

You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.

And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.

“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”

You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”

The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.

Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?

First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.

You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.

“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.

You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”

Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”

“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.

“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”

You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.

So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.

The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.

By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…

“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.

Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”

You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.

“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”

“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off. 

“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”

You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”

Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.

You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”

Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”

You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”

“Glitter? Really?”

“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”

Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”

You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”

“Right side.”

“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”

You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.

Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.

Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”

“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”

“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”

“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.

You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”

He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.

You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”

And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.

You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued,  voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”

“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”

A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.

It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.

And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”

When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.

You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.

You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.

It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.

Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.

Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.

Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.

Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.

Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.

You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”

“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”

“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”

You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.

Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.

This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.

After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.

Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.

It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.

But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.

It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.

The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.

It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.

“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”

You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”

“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.” 

He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”

A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”

Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”

“How?”

“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”

He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”

“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”

Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”

The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”

That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”

It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.

“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”

You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”

It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”

When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.

For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend. 

At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.

Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.

The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”

Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”

“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”

You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.

Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.

Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”

It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”

Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.

And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.

He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder. 

“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.

“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.

Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”

“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.

He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.

The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.

You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.

Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.

Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.

It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play. 

But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.

Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.

You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.

You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.

Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”

Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”

And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.

“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“That’s because you are.”

The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.

The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.

You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.

The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.

You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.

You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.

His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”

The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.

Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.

That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.

His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”

It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”

“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”

“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.

Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”

You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever. 

“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”

“I made a mistake─”

“You made a choice,” you spat.

“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”

“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”

“Well─”

“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”

Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”

Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”

Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”

“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.

He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”

“Everything alright there?”

His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.

He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.

“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”

Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”

He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”

Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.

The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”

Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”

You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”

Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”

That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours. 

“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”

You couldn’t agree more.

The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.

Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”

You gave a small nod.

“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”

There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it. 

“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”

You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”

The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.

“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”

It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.

Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”

You blinked. “Do you?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.

Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.

He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.

And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.

“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.

Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes. 

He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.

And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.

You closed the space.

The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.

Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.

You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.

“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.

You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.

Yet, you still went to bed alone.

You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.

“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”

Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”

You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.

You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.

The expression on his face stopped you cold.

Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.

You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”

“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.

Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.

Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”

“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”

The world tipped.

The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.

You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”

“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”

Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”

Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.

He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.

Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”

You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”

You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.

A beat.

“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”

You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”

Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”

“And what about you?”

The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”

He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.

“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.

Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.

You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.

The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.

You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.

You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.

And with it, everything else.

Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.

You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.

Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him 

You let the weight of it all crash down on you.

If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.

The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.

Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.

Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.

You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.

Eventually, it came.

A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.

It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.

You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.

The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.

But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.

You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.

Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.

It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.

Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.

“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.

Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”

He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”

You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”

“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”

You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”

The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.

“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.

“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.

It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.

Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.

“Why not?”

You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”

Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”

“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”

It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”

He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.

You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.

You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.

You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.

He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.

He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.

“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.

You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”

“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.

Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.

“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.

You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.

Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”

“That’s good.”

He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”

“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.

“I’m glad.”

Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.

Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”

The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”

You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t. 

Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”

“And did they?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”

Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”

Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”

He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”

He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”

You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.

“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”

There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.

Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.

But that’s not what he did.

“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”

He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”

“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”

Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”

Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”

“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”

“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.

Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his. 

“So… what do we do now?”

The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”

You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings  and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.

As if you had the strength to even think about it.

You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.

The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.

When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.

He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.

“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”

“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”

“I’m just saying, I─”

You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.

That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.

He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.

He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.

Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

Rolling, Rolling, Red Bull

Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

Summary… When the Drive to Survive crew shows up to film a behind-the-scenes look at Max Verstappen’s life off track, Y/N is less than thrilled to be in the spotlight. But between sarcastic interviews, soft domestic moments, and a now-viral deleted scene involving a jar of pesto, the world gets a glimpse of a Max they’ve never seen before. Boyfriend-coded. Cat-dad certified. And very, very soft for her.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy! I’ve been kinda M.I.A. & irregular on my posting but I have been out of town for the last two week so I’ve been writing on my phone and it has been a little difficult.

I hope you guys enjoy this story and feel free to donate on my Ko-Fi, maybe that way I can buy a better computer and write more consistently for you guys.

like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Y/N was halfway through brushing her teeth when Max knocked on the bathroom door.

“They’re here,” he said, muffled through the wood. “The Drive to Survive guys.”

She spat into the sink. “Tell them to come back never.”

Max laughed, leaning against the doorframe in joggers and a Red Bull hoodie, his hair still wet from the shower. “You said yes last night.”

“I was half-asleep and you bribed me with stroopwafels.”

He pushed the door open and gave her the most annoyingly charming grin. “And yet, here we are.”

⸻

The Netflix crew had set up in their living room, pretending the chaos of wires and camera angles was “low-key.” Max greeted them like old friends, casual and cool, while Y/N hovered awkwardly behind a kitchen stool, holding her coffee like a shield.

“Just pretend we’re not here,” the producer said, adjusting his headset.

“Impossible,” she muttered.

Max, ever the calm in the storm, slipped a hand around her waist. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”

“That is the problem.”

⸻

They followed the couple through a normal day: breakfast on the balcony, Max fiddling with a simulator, Y/N curled up reading a book while their cats tried to chew on a mic cord.

But then they asked for a sit-down interview.

“Can you two just talk about what it’s like being in a relationship during the season?” the director asked, arranging pillows behind Y/N like this was a cozy podcast and not her personal nightmare.

Max shrugged. “It’s good. We don’t really fight.”

Y/N snorted. “You say that because you don’t consider ignoring my texts for six hours a fight.”

“I was driving,” he said, deadpan.

“You were on the simulator.”

“Same thing.”

The crew laughed. Max smiled sideways at her.

Then the director leaned in. “Y/N, how do you handle the pressure of being with someone constantly in the spotlight?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know, but because she hadn’t expected the question to feel so… real.

“I don’t try to handle it,” she said slowly. “I just try to remind him that there’s a world outside of racing. That he’s more than just Max Verstappen the driver.”

Max’s expression softened—one of those rare looks he saved just for her, all warm gaze and relaxed jawline.

“And she’s the only one who gets away with calling me out when I start acting like a robot,” he added, voice lower now.

There was a pause.

“Wow,” the sound guy whispered.

“Keep rolling,” the director whispered back.

⸻

Later, when they were reviewing footage in the trailer, someone asked if they could get a shot of Max hugging Y/N.

“We have the paddock stuff, the Monaco stuff—but we need something soft to end on.”

Max found her sitting on the edge of the Red Bull hospitality couch, phone in hand.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up, pulled her into his chest, and kissed the top of her head. Cameras or not.

“You’re doing great,” he said.

“You owe me ten stroopwafels and a massage.”

“I’ll give you twelve.”

The camera rolled as she smiled against his hoodie, arms tightening around his waist.

And later, when the season aired, fans clipped that moment. Over and over.

“Who knew Max Verstappen could be soft?”

“Protect this woman at all costs.”

“Relationship goals.”

But to Max, it was just Tuesday.

_______

Deleted Scene

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, struggling with a stubborn jar of pesto. The label peeled at the edge, and the lid refused to budge despite two dish towels and her full body weight.

“Max!” she called, mildly annoyed. “Can you come here?”

Off-camera, you hear footsteps. Then Max appears in the kitchen doorway, looking suspicious. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Just open this before I yeet it into the sea.”

He walks over, takes the jar, and opens it effortlessly with one twist.

She stares. “Are you serious?”

He grins, proud. “You loosened it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Without missing a beat, he dips a finger into the pesto and sticks it in his mouth.

“Max!” she gasps, swatting him with a tea towel. “That’s for dinner!”

He shrugs. “Taste test.”

A Netflix producer can be heard laughing behind the camera.

“Can we actually keep rolling?” another asks. “This is gold.”

Y/N turns, catching the crew still filming, and mock-glares at the camera.

“I’m going to need hazard pay.”

Max wraps an arm around her waist and plants a pesto-flavored kiss on her cheek.

“No one would believe how domestic you are,” Y/N mutters, smirking.

“Good. Let them think I’m scary.”

⸻

But don’t worry. The pesto jar ended up on eBay “signed by Max,” with a sticky note that read:

“She loosened it.” – M.V.

All proceeds went to cat shelters. Because Max demanded it.

⸻

FAN REACTIONS TO DELETED SCENE

Twitter/X:

@paddockbabie:

MAX OPENED A JAR AND A NATION FELL IN LOVE

#driveToSurvive #maxverstappen #domesticking

@softf1updates:

the way he dipped his finger into the pesto and then kissed her with zero shame?? I’m on the floor.

literally who gave him permission to be this boyfriend-coded

@f1spicypage:

“you loosened it.”

OH OKAY MAX VERSTAPPEN KING OF HUMBLE DOMESTICITY

⸻

Tumblr:

f1blurbs:

It’s not about the pesto.

It’s about her calling him like a husband.

It’s about him walking in like “what did I do?” like he knows he exists to be summoned.

It’s about the quiet love.

It’s about the damn jar.

I’m crying.

netflix-please:

Reblog if you too would risk it all to have Max Verstappen open a jar for you and call it “loosened by you.”

⸻

TikTok Comments (under the leaked scene with 4.8M views):

@formulalover44:

the way she’s like “MAX” and he just comes?? we love an obedient man

@jamgirlie:

petition to release ALL deleted scenes or i riot

@pestoprincess:

me @ my boyfriend: “why can’t you be more like max verstappen opening pesto jars and donating to cat shelters?”

⸻

Instagram Stories:

@f1gossipgrid:

MAX & Y/N: PESTO-GATE

This leaked deleted scene is the best PR Netflix never meant to drop.

Rumors say Red Bull marketing is already printing “You loosened it” merch.

We’ll take 5.

⸻

And yes—someone already made pesto-themed merch on Etsy with:

“You loosened it – M.V.” in sleek Helvetica on tote bags, mugs, and aprons.

⸻

the end.

Hii babe, I have another little request if you’re taking them!

Could you write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s super stressed because she’s about to take her final exams (like the French bac) and she hasn’t started revising at all?? It’s literally in a month, and she feels completely overwhelmed and behind.Like she’s spiraling a bit, maybe crying over highlighters and making dramatic “I’m gonna fail” speeches while Kimi just tries to calm her down and support her. Maybe he helps her organize her revision or just stays with her through the stress, reminding her that she’s smart and capable even if she doesn’t feel like it.Basically soft academic panic + golden retriever boyfriend energy. Only if it inspires you of course!! But I’d love that dynamic.

𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞: 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | final exams in a month, panic sets in tears, chaos, and dramatic speeches. kimi stays, calms, organizes, and reminds: you're capable

warnings | gf!reader, academic stress, panic attack elements (crying, overwhelm), comfort, fluff, golden retriever boyfriend energy

word count | 1.5 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

You're surrounded by highlighters. One is drying out on the edge of the bed without its cap, another is chewed between your fingers, and several more are scattered across the desk like witnesses to a crime.

Your notes are everywhere: some open on the floor, others crumpled, one pinned to the wall with washi tape like that’s going to help you absorb information through osmosis.

Your heart is pounding, your eyes are burning, and your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. You don’t even know where to start. You haven’t touched a single flashcard, haven’t opened the first topic, and the bac is in a month. One month. Thirty days. What can you do in thirty days? Go over the entire syllabus? Prepare text commentaries? Review philosophy, history, math? Sleep? No. Sleep is no longer an option.

You feel your throat burn. You're about to cry for the third time this afternoon—and it’s because of a damn dried-up highlighter.

And then, you hear the door open.

"Hey, amore..." says a familiar voice, soft, almost carefree.

Kimi walks in with a bag of croissants in one hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He has that smile he always wears when he sees you... but it fades the moment he takes in the disaster that is your room. And you.

"What happened here?"

You turn with a kind of hysterical laugh caught in your throat.

"What happened?" you repeat, your eyes wide. "Kimi, the bac is in a month! A month! And I haven’t started anything! I’m completely lost, I’m going to fail, my life is going to be ruined, I won’t get into university, and I’ll end up… I don’t know! Selling defective highlighters from a street stall while crying!"

You toss a tissue at your face and sigh. You're being dramatic you know it. But you're so overwhelmed you can’t help it. Everything feels too big, too hard, and you feel so, so small in front of it.

Kimi walks toward you carefully, like he’s afraid of spooking you.

"Are you crying because of…?"

"Yes, because of a highlighter!" you yell, pointing at the pastel yellow one that has tragically died on the floor. "It was dry and that was the last straw!"

He lets out a soft laugh and crouches beside you. With the kind of tenderness only he has, he runs a thumb over your damp cheek and wipes away the tear.

"At least you cry in style," he says, and you let out a choked laugh between sobs.

"Don’t make fun of me," you mumble, letting yourself fall against him. Your forehead rests against his chest, and you feel his arm wrap around you.

"I’d never do that. I'm here for this, right? To hold you while the world falls apart because of some exams."

He closes his eyes and rests his chin on your head. His voice, calm, steady, warm, filters through your chaotic thoughts like an anchor.

"You’re going to be okay. I promise. We’ll do this together, okay?"

You don’t say anything, but your hand clutches his shirt. Because even though everything in your head is spinning out of control... he always manages to stop the chaos, at least a little.

You don’t know how long you stay curled up against him. It could be minutes or an eternity. All you hear is his calm, steady breathing, like he’s trying to regulate yours with his. And in a way, it works. Your heart no longer beats with the same violence, and the tears though not completely gone have stopped flowing uncontrollably.

"Does your head hurt?" he asks quietly.

You nod, not lifting your face from his shirt. His hand moves gently across your back, drawing little circles that, for the first time in hours, make you feel like you’re not alone in this wreckage.

"Okay, listen," he says softly, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head. "I know it all feels like a giant mountain right now, but we can break it down. Step by step. Day by day. I’ll help you, amore. Want to start?"

"I don’t even know where…" you whisper, voice cracking.

"From the beginning. Tell me which subjects you need to prepare."

You take a breath, pull back slightly, and look at your desk in resignation.

"Literature, history, philosophy, english, geo, and math."

Kimi nods like it’s not a monstrous list.

"Perfect. Then we’re going to make a schedule. A real one. With breaks, time to breathe, and…" he reaches into the bag he left on the desk, "croissants as rewards."

You can’t help but laugh.

"You’re going to motivate me with pastries?"

"I’m going to motivate you with love and pastries. Which is objectively better than any educational system."

He hands you his phone, already open on a scheduling app. You look at it, surprised.

"You had this ready?"

"I know you, amore. I had a feeling."

You start dividing the days by subjects, assigning realistic study hours, leaving room for breaks, and marking small “rewards” at the end of each day. Kimi does it all with infinite patience, listening without judgment, suggesting instead of imposing.

"This is insane," you whisper at some point, watching the schedule take shape.

"No," he corrects you, taking your hand, "this is what you do when you decide to fight instead of give up. And you always fight even when you cry over highlighters."

You sigh. There’s still a pinch of anxiety in your chest, but it no longer fills the whole space. Because now he’s there, sharing it with you.

"What if I don’t make it? What if I run out of time?"

"Then we’ll improvise. Or you’ll do your best. Because you’re brilliant, even if you don’t feel like it today. I know that. And I’m not going anywhere. Even if you have to study twenty hours straight and yell at me because you don’t understand Rousseau."

You look at him. He has that soft, silly smile that always disarms you.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Don’t thank me yet," he replies, standing up to grab your flashcards. "The battle against the note mountain hasn’t even started. But don’t worry. I brought reinforcements. And croissants."

You laugh. For the first time in days, you truly laugh.

And while he starts sorting your notebooks by color, as if that were a war tactic… you realize maybe you can do this.

Because you have Kimi. And with him, everything feels a little less impossible.

Days passed. Some were chaotic, full of tears, existential dread, and internal battles with the voice in your head telling you you wouldn’t make it. Others were miraculously productive, with full hours of focus, checkmarks on your calendar, and that almost-forgotten feeling of progress.

But the best part was that Kimi was there for all of it.

He became your official study partner. He sat beside you, even if he didn’t understand a single word of your philosophy texts. He read your outlines, quizzed you, and gave you a kiss every time you got one right. He learned how to pronounce Spinoza without laughing and ended up having opinions about Victor Hugo. More than once, you caught him doodling nonsense in the margins of your pages while you reviewed.

"Is this a philosophical pig?"

"No, it’s Descartes… in cochon mignon version," he replied seriously, like it made perfect sense.

And you laughed. You laughed so hard you forgot, for a second, all the stress.

That particular night, you were both lying on your bedroom floor. Your notes were stacked, and your head was resting on his lap. He was stroking your hair absentmindedly while you repeated phrases quietly.

"‘L’homme est condamné à être libre…’" you murmured.

"That guy sounds intense," he said, and you smiled.

"It’s Sartre."

"Couldn’t he just say ‘do what you want but take responsibility’?"

"Wouldn’t be existentialism if it were that easy to digest."

"Touché," he said, kissing your forehead.

You fall silent for a few seconds. Your eyes sting a little from exhaustion, and that familiar twinge of insecurity creeps in.

"Do you really think I can do this?"

Kimi stops stroking your hair and makes you look at him.

"Y/N… I don’t think. I know. You’re smart—smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re scared, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re not capable. Look at you: you’ve been fighting this for days, organizing, reviewing, moving forward. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You keep going. And not everyone does that."

You feel a knot form in your throat. You’re not sure if it’s because of his words, his voice, or the way he looks at you like you're everything good in the world packed into one person.

"Can I give up for just a little bit?"

"You can give up for as long as you need," he whispers. "And I’ll stay with you until you’re ready to start again."

You wrap your arms around him tightly. And for a moment, between notes, highlighters, and philosophical theories, you feel safe.

And just a little bit braver.

13. “Ibuprofen and a Red Bull is not an appropriate breakfast.” Max Verstappen Fluff please🫶🏼🙏🏻

Breakfast of Champions

Verstappen x gf!Reader

Note: It would’ve been so easy to do it the other way around but I couldn’t get past the idea of hungover reader wanting to end Max with his Maxplaining while hungover 🤓 (wanna give him head so good his glasses steam up)

Masterlist

wc 457

“Max! Can you shut the fuckkkk uppp?” You call out loudly, head practically splitting in half with the noise of the simulation creeping up the hallway, burying your head deeper under the fluffy pillow as Max races the sim in the living room, not bothering with his headphones while Team Redline aren’t on it with him.

Max laughs breezily and rolls his eyes slightly at your words but doesn’t make any effort to stop the sim or come and check on you, it’s entirely self inflicted after a late night you had last night with Kika Gomes (ever the bad influence) and Magui Corceiro. He hears a soft thud and he glances to the door and then back to his sim, back to the door, where you’ve appeared, trudging to the kitchen like a wounded animal, then back to the sim. He glances at you, clattering about in the kitchen, duvet wrapped around your shoulders like some kind of ancient conqueror despite being nothing than a hungover wag.

He can’t help but laugh at the image, not bothering to finish the race he’s halfway through and would inevitably win, moving back from the wheel to approach you as you stare daggers at him over the can of Red Bull pulled from the fridge, sinking back a couple of small white ibuprofen.

“Breakfast of champions, eh? But actually, Red Bull and ibuprofen is not an appropriate breakfast, schatje. Maybe I’ll make you a protein shake or a smoothie, huh?” He offers, moving behind you despite the large duvet between your body and his, rubbing the parts of your neck that are exposed, pressing a kiss just below your ear as he reaches to take the Red Bull out of your hand.

“Max Emilian Verstappen, I will cut you if you take this energy drink from me and God knows you’ll bleed Red Bull you fucking hypocrite.” You half snap, glaring at him, his head falling back in a raucous laugh at how feral you seem to be this morning, probably drinking more last night than you were used to.

“S’bad for you liefje. Come, I’ll fill you up with a different kind of Red Bull to cheer you up.” The duvet’s pushed from your shoulders and you’re swung up into the air, legs wrapping instinctively around his hips as he heads to the bedroom.

You let out a low effort whine but it becomes a mown easily enough when he slaps your ass to quiet you.

Practice Makes Perfect

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: Max is teaching you how to sim race, and it’s all cute and fluffy, but you are so bad, so when Max is gone to races and stuff, you are practicing and getting better, and one day you surprise Max by showing the improvement.

Requested: yes

Warning: none

"No, not like that! You're braking way too late again," Max sighed, running a hand through his hair as he watched you spin out for what felt like the hundredth time. His gaming setup was pristine—three monitors, a professional racing wheel clamped to a custom rig, and pedals that had the perfect amount of resistance. It looked like a mini Formula 1 cockpit in your living room.

The virtual car slammed violently into the barrier, parts flying across the screen as the red "DNF" flashed mockingly. This was your fifth crash in less than fifteen minutes.

"I don't get it," you groaned, releasing the wheel in frustration. "I swear I'm following the racing line exactly like you showed me."

Max leaned over your shoulder, his cologne distracting you momentarily from your embarrassment. The warmth of his breath against your neck sent shivers down your spine as he spoke. "You're looking at the wrong thing. You're focusing on where you are now, not where you need to be in two seconds."

"That makes no sense," you huffed.

"Let me show you again." He gently moved you aside and took your place, his hands confidently gripping the wheel. "See how I'm looking ahead? I'm already planning for this corner while coming out of the previous one."

You watched, mesmerized, as he effortlessly guided the car through a series of complex corners. He made it look so natural, so easy.

The next day's lesson wasn't any better. You managed to lock up the brakes on a straight section of track—something Max claimed he'd never even seen before.

"How is that even possible?" he laughed, not unkindly. "You weren't even turning!"

"I panicked," you admitted, feeling your cheeks burn. "I thought I was going too fast."

On day three, you somehow drove the wrong way around the track after a spin. "At least you're being creative," Max teased as you narrowly avoided a head-on collision with an AI car.

By the end of the first week, you'd discovered at least twenty different ways to crash a virtual race car. You'd flipped it over a barrier, beached it in a gravel trap, and once managed to get it stuck between two tire walls in a way that Max had to take a photo of "for posterity."

"Maybe I should just stick to watching you race," you suggested after a particularly spectacular crash that had Max doubled over with laughter.

"No way," he insisted, wiping tears from his eyes. "You're getting better."

"At crashing maybe!"

"Everyone crashes at first," he said, suddenly serious. "I crashed constantly when I was starting out. The difference is, I didn't have anyone watching me fail repeatedly."

You slumped back in the seat. "I'm hopeless at this."

Max's expression softened immediately. He leaned over, his arm brushing against yours as he reset the sim. "You're not hopeless. Nobody gets it right away." His voice had that gentle patient tone he reserved just for you, a stark contrast to his competitive fire on real tracks.

"Easy for you to say, Mr. World Champion," you teased, trying to mask your frustration.

He laughed, the sound warming you from the inside. "I've been doing this since I was a kid. Trust me, I was terrible at first, too." He placed his hands over yours on the wheel, his fingers gently interlacing with yours. The tender touch made your heart race faster than any virtual car. "Like this, okay? Feel the way the car moves. It's a conversation between you and the track."

The next attempt ended with your car upside down in a ditch. The one after that saw you spin out three times in a single lap.

Two days before he was scheduled to leave, you finally managed to complete a full lap without crashing, though your time was nearly double his. Max celebrated as if you'd just won a championship, picking you up and spinning you around the living room. When he set you down, his hands lingered at your waist, and for a moment, his eyes dropped to your lips before he caught himself.

"See? Progress!" he exclaimed proudly, his voice slightly lower than before.

You tried a few more laps, still slow but at least keeping the car on the track. It felt like a minor miracle.

"I've got to head out tomorrow for the race weekend," he reminded you. "Three weeks on the road."

"I know," you said, forcing enthusiasm into your voice. "I'll be cheering you on from here."

Later that night, as Max packed his things, you caught him looking at you with that half-smile that always made your heart skip. His gaze held something deeper than just amusement—something that made your cheeks flush with warmth.

"What?" you asked, your voice softer than intended.

"Nothing," he replied, setting down the shirt he was folding and crossing the room to where you stood. "Just thinking how cute you look when you're concentrating on not crashing." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek.

You threw a pillow at him, which he caught effortlessly. "I'll have you know, I'm going to be amazing by the time you get back."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Maybe," you said with mock confidence.

He kissed you goodbye the next morning, lingering longer than usual. His hands cupped your face tenderly as he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm going to miss this," he whispered. "Miss you."

"It's only three weeks," you reminded him, though your heart was already aching at the thought of him leaving.

"Three weeks too long," he replied with a sigh, stealing one more quick kiss before reluctantly heading out the door, leaving you with his spare key and the sim racing setup all to yourself.

𐙚

The first day alone, you just stared at the equipment. It was intimidating without Max there to guide you. But after scrolling through social media and seeing posts about his qualifying session, determination filled you. You sat down and turned everything on.

"Okay," you whispered to yourself. "Let's do this."

The first week was disastrous. You crashed constantly, forgot brake points, and once even forgot how to shift gears properly. But you kept at it, setting an alarm to practice two hours every day.

You started watching YouTube tutorials while eating breakfast. During lunch breaks, you studied track maps. Before bed, you watched Max's old races, noting his racing lines.

By the second week, something clicked. You weren't good—not by any stretch—but you were finishing laps. Your times were improving by fractions of seconds each day.

The third week, you became obsessed with Spa. You drove it over and over, memorizing every curve, every elevation change. You knew where the shadows fell across the track at different times of day, where puddles would form in the rain simulation.

Max called every night, usually exhausted from his race weekend.

"How's everything at home?" he'd ask, his voice softening when your face appeared on his screen.

"Perfect," you'd reply, carefully hiding the racing gloves you'd bought yourself behind your back, out of the camera frame. "Just missing you." The words weren't just part of the deception—you meant them, counting down the days until he'd return.

"Miss you too," he'd say, his eyes reflecting the hotel room's dim lighting. "The bed feels too empty without you." His voice would often drop to a whisper on those words, as though sharing a precious secret. "Haven't touched the sim setup, have you?"

You laughed nervously. "Why would I do that? You know I'm terrible."

𐙚

The day before Max was due home, you set your personal best—still nowhere near his times, but respectable. More importantly, you'd completed twenty consecutive laps without a single crash.

You heard his key in the lock the next afternoon and jumped up from the couch, heart pounding with excitement.

"Welcome home!" you called, throwing your arms around him.

Max hugged you tight, his face buried in your neck. "God, I missed you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes drinking you in as though memorizing every detail of your face. Then he kissed you deeply, backing you against the wall, three weeks of separation dissolving in an instant.

After dinner and catching up, he glanced at his sim setup. "I think I need to blow off some steam. Want to watch me do a few laps?"

You bit your lip, trying to contain your smile. "Actually... I was thinking maybe we could race together?"

He looked surprised but pleased. "Really? You want to try again?"

"Something like that," you said mysteriously.

You sat down at the rig, and you let him choose the track. Your heart leapt when he selected Spa.

"You go first," you insisted.

Max shrugged and proceeded to drive a nearly perfect lap. When he finished, he handed you the wheel with an encouraging smile. "Your turn. Remember what I taught you about the bus stop chicane?"

"I think so," you said innocently.

You settled in, adjusted your position, and started your lap. You hit the first corner perfectly, feeling Max's surprise beside you. By the time you navigated Eau Rouge flawlessly, he was leaning forward, completely focused on your driving.

"How are you—" he began, but stopped himself as you nailed the next series of corners.

When you crossed the finish line with a time only five seconds slower than his, Max's jaw had literally dropped. You turned to him with the biggest grin.

"Surprise?"

"When did you—how did you—" he stammered.

"Every day while you were gone," you admitted. "I wanted to impress you."

His stunned expression melted into something incredibly tender. He pulled you into his lap, nearly knocking over the wheel. His arms encircled your waist as he gazed up at you with adoration. "You practiced all that time for me?"

You nodded, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I know how much you love this, and I wanted to share it with you properly."

Max cupped your face in his hands, thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. "That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me." He kissed you softly, then more deeply, one hand sliding into your hair to draw you closer. When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. "But you know what this means, right?"

"What?"

A competitive glint appeared in his eyes. "Now we can race against each other for real."

You laughed. "I'm still not going to beat you."

"No," he agreed with a mischievous smile. "But it'll be fun to watch you try."

He pulled you closer, your bodies fitting perfectly together. "Best welcome home ever," he whispered against your lips before kissing you again, slow and deep, the race forgotten for now. His hand traced lazy patterns along your back as you melted against him, feeling as though you'd won something far more valuable than any virtual race.

The next morning, you woke to find Max already at the sim rig, setting something up. Sunlight streamed through the window, gilding his profile as he worked, and you took a moment to admire him—the concentration in his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" you asked sleepily, hugging the blanket around you as you padded over to him.

He turned with that boyish excitement you loved so much, his face lighting up at the sight of you. "Setting up a two-player race." He reached for your hand, pulling you onto his lap and nuzzling his face into your neck. "I've got a week off, and we're going to make you even better."

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him from behind. "I like the sound of that."

"Plus," he added, turning to face you with a grin, "now I finally have someone who understands why I'm always talking about apex angles at dinner."

"I created a monster, didn't I?"

"Absolutely," he nodded, pulling you down for a quick kiss. "And I couldn't be happier about it."

As you sat side by side, racing together in comfortable silence occasionally broken by his tips or your triumphant whoops when you managed a good corner, you realized that sometimes the best surprises were the ones that brought you closer together—one lap at a time.

𐙚

A few days later, Max walked into the living room with an unusually mischievous look on his face.

"I have an idea," he announced, setting his phone down on the coffee table.

You looked up from your book. "That expression always makes me nervous. What are you plotting?"

"How would you feel about racing with me on my live stream tonight?"

Your eyes widened. "Your stream? With all your fans watching?" Max's regular sim racing streams had hundreds of thousands of viewers—mostly racing enthusiasts and his F1 fans.

"They'd love it," he insisted, already setting up the webcam. "Everyone's always asking about my personal life anyway. It would be fun to show them what we've been up to."

Your stomach fluttered with nerves. "But I'm nowhere near your level."

Max sat beside you, taking your hands in his. "That's not the point. It's about sharing something we both enjoy." His eyes softened. "Plus, I'm kind of proud of how far you've come. Is that weird to say?"

You felt your cheeks warm. "Not weird at all."

"So?" he asked hopefully.

How could you say no to that face? "Okay, fine. But don't blame me when I crash and embarrass you in front of everyone."

He kissed your forehead. "You won't embarrass me."

That evening, Max set everything up—the cameras positioned to capture both your faces and the screens, the chat window minimized but visible enough for him to catch questions.

"Going live in three, two, one..." Max clicked the button and instantly shifted into his stream persona. "Hey everyone! Got something special for tonight's stream." He glanced at you with a warm smile. "Many of you have been asking about what I do when I'm not on track, so I thought I'd introduce you to someone who's become my favorite racing partner."

You gave an awkward wave to the camera as the chat exploded with messages.

"We're going to do something a bit different," Max continued. "A few weeks ago, I started teaching her how to sim race, and today, we're going head-to-head on Spa. One of my favorite circuits, as you all know."

The chat scrolled by too quickly to read, but you caught glimpses of excitement and surprise.

Max guided you through setting up the race, occasionally answering questions from viewers. "Yes, she's been practicing while I was away at races. No, this isn't staged—I genuinely had no idea she was getting this good."

When the race started, your nervousness melted away as you focused on the track. Max took an early lead, but you kept your lines clean, remembering everything you'd practiced.

"She is actually keeping pace!" Max commented on the stream, sounding genuinely impressed. "Look at that line through Eau Rouge—perfect!"

You bit your lip, concentrating hard as you navigated the trickiest sections. The chat was going wild, and Max was narrating both his own driving and commenting on yours with professional precision.

On the final lap, Max was still ahead, but you were much closer than either of you had expected. As you crossed the finish line just seconds behind him, he let out a whoop.

"Did you all see that?" he exclaimed to the camera. "That was impressive!" He turned to you with undisguised pride. "You're getting dangerous, you know that?"

You couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. The chat was filled with supportive messages and demands for you to become a regular on the streams.

"What do you think?" Max asked you, nodding toward the comments. "The fans seem to like you."

You leaned against his shoulder, no longer caring about the camera. "I could be convinced to make another appearance."

"Good," he said, wrapping an arm around you while still addressing the stream. "Because I think I just found my new favorite racing rival."

As the stream continued, with Max fielding questions from fans and the two of you taking turns on different tracks, you marveled at how something that had started as his passion had become a shared joy—one that now even his fans were part of.

And when Max looked at you between races with that special smile that made your heart race faster than any sim car could, his fingers intertwining with yours beneath the desk where the camera couldn't see, you knew you'd found something far more valuable than improved lap times. In that moment, with his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand and his eyes full of admiration, you realized you hadn't just learned to master virtual corners—you'd found your way even deeper into his heart.

Hold On to Me

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: When your relationship with Oscar begins to strain under the weight of distance and silence, a harsh argument threatens to break it completely.

You don’t remember when the silence started feeling heavier than the words.

It had been creeping in slowly.

Missed calls. Short replies. Half-hearted kisses when he came home from long flights, and how he always seemed tired, too tired to talk, too tired to try. And maybe you were tired too. Of being second to the schedule. Of pretending it didn’t hurt.

Until one night, you broke.

“You forgot my call again,” you said softly, eyes on the cold dinner waiting between you.

Oscar didn’t look up from his phone. “I was in a meeting. I told you it might run late.”

You stared at him. “Do you even want to be in this anymore?”

That made him pause.

He looked up, defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I feel like I’m dating a ghost, Oscar,” you snapped, heart pounding. “You’re here, but you’re not with me. I don’t need the trophies. I don’t need the glam. I just need you. And I don’t even know if you want to be needed anymore.”

He stood too fast, his chair scraping across the floor. “That’s not fair. You know what this career takes—”

“I’m not asking you to give it up,” you interrupted. “I’m asking you to see me.”

And maybe it was too much. Because he just looked at you like he didn’t know where to begin.

So you walked away.

Just for the night.

But then the next morning came. And he was already gone, on a flight, off to another city, another circuit. You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t hear from him for days.

Until race day.

You sat alone in your apartment, watching from the couch because you couldn’t not.

Because even when you were angry, you loved him. A

nd halfway through the race, your breath caught in your throat when he spun.

A miscalculation.

A hit with the barrier. Smoke. Sirens.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered.

You were on the next flight before you even had time to pack properly.

The track, the hospital, it all blurred. He had a concussion. Some bruised ribs. Nothing life-threatening, thank God. But still, you sat by his bedside like he might disappear if you blinked.

When his eyes fluttered open, his voice rasped, “You came.”

Your throat tightened. “Of course I did.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorise the moment.

“I thought… I lost you,” he whispered.

You reached for his hand. “You almost did.”

There was a long pause. One filled with regret and something heavier.

“I’ve been stupid,” he said. “I thought the best way to handle the pressure was to shut everything else out. But you’re not everything else. You’re everything.”

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. You leaned down, pressed your forehead to his.

“No more shutting me out,” you whispered. “No more doing this alone.”

He squeezed your hand, his grip just strong enough to make you believe in tomorrow again.

♪ — 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗠𝗘 max verstappen x fem! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . You spend a season running—from him, from the feeling, from everything it could become, you call it a game, a fun chase. But in the end, under the lights of Abu Dhabi, something finally gives (3.1k words)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

Venice, Italy – The Balcony

Venice smells like rain and old stone, like secrets exhaled from the cracks of a city that remembers everything. The air is thick with the ache of something ancient, ghost stories that cling to damp bricks and kiss your skin when you’re not looking. The Grand Canal glimmers below like a mirror that only reflects the past, gondolas gliding with a lazy elegance that belies the electricity in your chest.

You're on the balcony, fingers curled around cold iron, your silk dress slipping from your shoulder like it’s trying to escape before the storm hits. But the storm isn’t in the sky. It’s behind you—six feet of tension and temptation, wrapped in Dutch stubbornness and Red Bull blue.

“You keep finding me,” you murmur without turning, eyes on the water, on the world, on anything but him. But your voice is softer than your smirk, tinged with something dangerously close to longing.

Max steps closer, his presence like thunder. You can feel it before you hear it. The air tightens.

“You keep running,” he says, each word low and even, but there’s something trembling beneath the surface. A ripple in the calm. A warning.

You turn just enough to meet his gaze, and it hits you—harder than it should, as always. That ridiculous face of his. Beautiful in a brutal kind of way. All edges and sharp lines softened only by the strange gentleness he saves for you alone. His eyes, glacial and guarded with the world, melt when they land on you.

And you hate that you love it.

“It wouldn’t be fun if I didn’t,” you say, letting your smile curl slow and wicked like the smoke of a dying candle.

He’s too close now. The kind of close that sets off every alarm in your body but makes you want to stay anyway. He plants his hands on either side of you, caging you in without touching you—just heat and threat and want, radiating off him in waves.

“You left me in Amsterdam,” he says, voice a blade that nicks something just beneath your collarbone. “Again.”

You arch a brow. “Poor baby. Did you miss me?”

His jaw ticks, eyes darkening just a touch. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

And that silence—it says everything.

Your heart’s racing, traitor that it is. You wonder what would happen if you said yes. If you told him you missed him too. If you told him you keep running not to escape—but to be chased.

“Tell me,” Max whispers, his breath a brush of fire against your mouth, “do you ever miss me?”

You don’t speak.

You kiss him.

And the second your lips crash into his, it’s war. His hands fly to your waist, your hair, your jaw—gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again if he lets go. You drag your fingers through his hair, yanking just to hear that sound he makes when he loses control.

He’s never gentle with his love. It’s always been a wildfire. And this—this is an inferno. Burning every city you’ve touched, turning history into ash.

But you let him.

You always let him.

Paris, France – The Empty Bed

The morning is quiet in that cruel way only Paris knows—silver light slicing through the curtains like judgment, the kind that peels back the night and asks, what did you think this was?

Max wakes slowly, the warmth of dreams evaporating as his fingers search for you in the sheets. He’s still half-asleep when he reaches out, expecting the curve of your waist, the softness of your thigh, your breath dancing against his neck.

But all he finds is cold linen.

And silence.

His eyes crack open, and the room tells him the story before his brain does.

You’re gone.

Again.

The pillows still hold the ghost of your perfume—amber and something floral, sweet and defiant. The scent clings to the air like a dare, like a memory that refuses to leave, and it makes his chest tighten in that infuriating way only you can.

The sheets are twisted, evidence of a night spent tangling and unraveling. His hoodie is draped across the armchair—yours now, apparently, because you steal things you don’t ask for. Like hoodies. Like hearts.

On the nightstand, he sees it. That familiar scratch of your handwriting, scrawled in black ink on hotel stationery like you were in a rush—or maybe you just didn’t care.

Je t’aime bien plus quand tu dors. I like you much more when you sleep.

He stares at the note for a moment too long. Not blinking. Not breathing. Not sure if he wants to laugh or scream.

“Fucking hell,” Max mutters, dragging a hand over his face. His voice is low, wrecked from sleep and something worse.

You always do this. Slip away while the world is still dim, while his guard is down. Like a thief who only wants the thrill of the chase, not the prize. Never the prize.

And he should hate it. Hate you. Hate the games, the vanishing acts, the lipstick on his collar and the cigarette burns in his soul.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sits up, bare-chested and exhausted, the note still in his hand like a brand. His thumb smudges the ink, and it feels like desecration, but he doesn’t stop. He never stops.

He reaches for his phone, voice steady even as his pulse betrays him.

“Call Lena,” he says to no one in particular, to the room, to the ghost of you still echoing in the corners.

A pause. Then—

“Book me a flight to Tokyo.”

Tokyo, Japan – The Hotel Room

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality.

Tokyo hums behind the glass, neon lights bleeding into the night like bruises—red, violet, electric blue. The air tastes like rain and sakura petals, like a story just starting even though it’s been written a hundred times before.

And he’s already there.

Max Verstappen, framed by the window like something out of a fever dream. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. Jaw tight. Still wearing Red Bull team gear, like he came straight from the paddock, still humming with engine heat and fury and the weight of a thousand expectations. But none of them matter now.

Not here. Not with you.

Your pulse stutters in your throat. Just a beat.

“You’re in my room,” you say, voice even, but there’s something sharp under the surface. Surprise, maybe. Or dread. Or hope you’re not ready to name.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches you with that look—the one that’s both fire and glacier, the one that melts and freezes you in the same breath.

“This is new,” you say again, a touch more amused this time.

“You’re predictable.” His voice is calm. Icy. Like he rehearsed this moment on the plane. “Every time you run, you come here.”

You click your tongue, letting the silence stretch as you cross the room, hips swaying, heels clicking against the polished wood like punctuation marks in a poem no one dares read aloud.

“And yet . . .” you purr, eyes glittering, “you still chase me.”

You reach out—just the ghost of a touch, fingers aiming for his collar, for something real—and that’s when he moves.

Fast.

His hand closes around your wrist, not hard but firm, pulling you into him like gravity always wins.

Suddenly, it’s skin on skin. Heat on heat. Breath shared and shallow. You’re close enough to feel the thunder of his heart. Or maybe it’s yours.

“I don’t want to chase anymore,” he says, low and rough and dangerous.

Your smirk wavers, just for a second. A crack in the mask. “That’s a shame.”

You twist, slipping from his grasp like smoke between his fingers—like you always do.

But Max follows. He doesn’t give you space to run this time. He crowds you back, herding you across the room with silent fury until your back hits the glass. Tokyo sprawls out behind you in chaotic beauty, but all you see is him.

“You think this is a game?” he growls, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet.

Your eyes narrow. Your chin tilts up like a dare. “Isn’t it?”

His hands land on your hips. Not to restrain. To anchor. To remind.

“Not to me.”

Then he kisses you.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

He kisses you like punishment. Like confession. Like he’s empty and you’re the only thing that can fill the void.

It’s teeth and tongue and fingers in hair. It’s breath stolen and given back. It’s every late-night call, every whispered don’t go, every bruised heart and burning look. It’s everything he’s never said carved into the curve of your lips.

When you finally pull apart, gasping, dizzy, wrecked— He doesn’t let go.

And for once, neither do you.

Monaco – His Apartment

It took a lot to get you here.

Phone calls you ignored.

Voicemails left in the middle of the night—raspy and tired and a little desperate.

A dozen texts that never quite said please, but every word was laced with it.

And finally, Max himself. At your door. Rain-soaked and stubborn. Eyes wild with something too tender for a man like him.

He said your name like a confession. Said come with me like a vow. Said I don’t want to chase anymore with his voice cracking like the sky.

And somehow . . . you said yes.

So now you’re here.

Wrapped in one of his hoodies, perched on his marble kitchen counter like a question he’s still afraid to answer. The sleeves swallow your hands, and the hem brushes your bare thighs. You look too soft in his space. Too dangerous.

Because this isn’t a hotel.

It isn’t Tokyo or Madrid or a back alley in Singapore.

It’s his home.

And the sunlight in Monaco is different.

Softer. Gentler.

Less about the thrill of pursuit, more about the ache of what comes after.

Max moves through the kitchen like he’s done this before—like this is normal. Like you are.

He’s barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, eyes focused as he flips something in a pan with the kind of precision that usually only lives on race tracks.

It’s unnerving.

This quiet. This domesticity.

The hum of something almost peaceful blooming in your chest.

You stare. Unblinking. Curious. Like he might vanish if you stop.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, without turning around.

You hum, stretching lazily, your back arching like a cat in sunlight. “I’m trying to decide if you’re real.”

That gets him. He turns, spatula still in hand, expression unreadable but eyes locked on you like you’re the only fixed point in the world.

“And?”

You swing your legs. Feet bare. Heart not quite. “Jury’s still out.”

He huffs a laugh, low and warm, shaking his head like you’re something ridiculous and holy all at once. He mutters something in Dutch under his breath—something you can’t quite catch but feel all the same.

But he’s smiling. Small. Barely-there. Real.

And it hits you, quietly, like all the best truths do:

This is what it looks like when a wildfire learns to stay.

The Côte d'Azur – Mid-Summer

You’ve never spent more than one night with Max.

It’s always been fleeting. A few hours wrapped in linen sheets, breathless silences in penthouse suites, the distant hum of a city that never quite felt like yours. Always a whisper of what could be—never enough time to see it through.

But then summer arrives like a dare. And somehow, he convinces you to stay.

At first, you think it’s a trap. Some beautiful illusion disguised as reality—a mirage with his arms around you and the Mediterranean just outside the window.

But the days bleed into one another with startling ease.

Mornings become late afternoons.

Late afternoons become dinners on the balcony, wine-stained laughter and fingers interlocked beneath the table.

And suddenly, you’re not counting hours anymore.

You’re just . . . here.

And it’s disorienting. The way he touches you now—like you’re made of something delicate. Not fragile like glass, but rare like a secret he never wants to lose. Like he’s not trying to catch you anymore, just hold you. Just keep you close enough to memorize the shape of your stillness.

One afternoon, you find yourselves on a quiet stretch of beach.

The sun melts over the horizon in shades of gold and fire, and Max lies beside you, one arm flung carelessly across his eyes, the other tracing patterns on your stomach. His fingers are lazy. Warm. Reverent.

“Stay,” he murmurs, almost too softly to hear.

You glance sideways, catching the shadow of him behind golden lashes. “I already am.”

He turns, props himself up on an elbow. The sand clings to his skin. His voice, however, is clean and clear.

“No.” There’s a catch in the word. “Stay after this.”

The wind tugs at your hair. The sea sighs behind you. And your throat tightens like it always does when he shifts the rules of the game.

“Max—”

“I’ll win for you,” he says, sudden and sharp. Like a promise he’s been holding on his tongue all week.

“Every race. Every championship. I’ll give you everything. Whatever it takes. Just . . . don’t leave.”

You let out a soft, startled laugh. Because what else can you do? He already wins. He already conquers the world at 300 kilometers per hour.

“You already do that,” you say, your voice a breath away from shaking.

He shakes his head, brushing a thumb across your cheek, his touch feather-light but grounding. “Not for me,” he whispers. “For you.”

And gods—it’s terrifying. The way he says it. Like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t change everything.

Because you were never meant to be loved like this.

Not so completely. Not so sincerely.

You were born to run. To vanish. To slip between fingers and leave only the echo of your laughter behind.

But lying there, in the afterglow of a half-formed future, Max’s heart beating steady against your shoulder, your fingers tangled in the space where promises go to rest . . .

You wonder. And yet. Maybe you don’t want to run anymore. Maybe—for once—you want to stay.

Round Fourteen – Singapore

It took weeks for Max to convince you.

Calls that stretched into the early morning. Messages you left on read. Voice notes you almost didn’t listen to. He begged without shame—told you he didn’t care if you stayed in the paddock or the hotel or halfway up Marina Bay Sands—he just wanted you there.

And god, you wanted to say no. But the way he said your name made it sound like home. So you came.

You wore black. Slipped into the paddock with quiet grace and sunglasses big enough to hide the hesitation in your eyes. Max spotted you immediately—grinned like the sun came back just to light up the weekend.

He kissed you like he’d already won.

But then Sunday came.

And Max didn’t.

The win streak snapped like a rubber band, loud and cruel. A slow pit stop, a strategy that unraveled, traffic that swallowed him whole. He didn’t even make the podium.

And the thing is—you didn’t care.

You didn’t care about the trophy or the points or the standings. You only cared about him—the way he clenched his jaw, the way he avoided your eyes after the race, the way his hand slipped from yours before you could ground him in something softer.

But somewhere in the mess of post-race silence, a horrible thought bloomed.

You ruined it.

You, with your cursed presence and clumsy heart. You broke the rhythm. The magic. The momentum. He had begged you to come, and you came, and he lost.

So you left.

Quietly. No note this time. No cryptic French.

Just your absence. Your perfume in the sheets. Your toothbrush missing from the sink.

And when Max returned to the hotel—tired, aching, and already looking for you—you were gone.

He stared at the untouched wine glass you left behind and felt the loss like a punch to the ribs. And then he assumed the worst.

She left because I didn’t win.

Because that’s what you do, right? You chase winners. You haunt champions. You don’t stay for failure.

Something cracked open inside him that night. Not anger. Not even grief. Something quieter. Something hollow.

So he did what he always does.

He drove.

Japan. Qatar. Austin. Mexico. Brazil. Vegas. 

Every race, he drove like he could undo the loss in Singapore. Like he could put the broken thing between you back together with lap times and champagne.

And he won.

God, did he win.

But every time he looked up at the crowd—at the garage, the grid, the VIP lounge— You weren’t there.

No slow smile behind oversized sunglasses. No click of heels across the concrete. No ghost.

Max kept driving. But the victory never tasted sweet again.

Abu Dhabi, The Final Race

Lap 58 of 58.

Nineteen wins. A season written in gold and sweat.

A symphony of records shattered, rivals silenced, legends carved into carbon fiber.

Max takes the checkered flag like a man possessed. Not with hunger. Not with fury. With purpose.

He parks the car. Throws the wheel aside. Climbs out to the roar of a world on its feet.

And still, he feels . . . incomplete.

Until he sees you.

Not in the VIP suite.

Not hidden behind tinted paddock glass.

You’re on the other side of parc fermé—leaning against the rail, heels digging into the concrete, that unmistakable silhouette framed by twilight and floodlights.

For a second, he thinks he’s hallucinating.

The ghost he’s been chasing all season.

But then you tilt your head, and that teasing, infuriating smile curves across your lips—so real it knocks the wind out of him.

You came.

You came to him.

And god, it guts him—because for once, you’re not the one disappearing into the smoke and silence.

You’re not the one he has to run after.

This time, you found him.

He’s still standing on the podium when his eyes catch yours again.

They hand him champagne. He barely notices.

His gaze never leaves you—not through the anthems, not through the trophy lift, not through the artificial rain of celebration.

Because nothing else matters. Not the title. Not the cameras. You’re here.

Later, in the half-lit quiet of his hotel suite, you walk toward him like a slow exhale, barefoot and sure, wearing one of his shirts like you never left in the first place.

You press a kiss to his jaw, soft and smug. “You look hot when you win.”

Max laughs, breathless, the sound cracking open something inside him.

“I win for you,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin.

You don’t run.

You don’t vanish with the sunrise.

You stay.

Fingertips in his hair, lips at his throat, body tucked into the space beside him like you were made to be there all along.

And maybe—just maybe—the chase is finally over.

Or maybe . . .

Maybe this is what it feels like when you both stop running.

Grid Mum 2 | MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Growing attached to the rookies meant that you now cared for them off track as well. So when some of them are not treated well by their teams, you and Max take your role of grid parents very seriously.

Author's Note: ok so i usually don't plan on doing part 2 for my fics but @robinivoryanvalentine gave me ideas and this lil thing was born ig so shout out to them🫶🏻 i have one request left that I'm hoping to write soon now that it's FINALLY school break and i hope I'll also get some inspo w the rest of the triple header🙂‍↕️

F1 MASTERLIST🏎 | Previous Part | Next Part

From the moment you had accepted that Max’s grid kids were also yours in the process, you had thought that your interactions with them would only be during race weekends. However, when you saw that some drama was already happening even though the season had barely started, you decided that the rookies would become both your on and off track children.

It had begun with Jack.

You had never been Alpine’s biggest fan – you mostly considered Esteban and Pierre as acquaintances during the previous season – and it had gotten worse when Flavio was back in the paddock. Still, you were glad for Jack when it was announced that he would get a full-time seat for the 2025 season – although it was a shit move from Alpine to sack Esteban for the last grand prix of 2024.

The drama had started a bit after Alpine announced their reserve drivers for 2025. First, Paul Aaron. He was a good driver, and had done a good F2 season, despite the insane amount of car issues he had suffered from. Then, Franco Colapinto. Having raced for a third of the 2024 season with Williams, Franco had quickly become a fan favourite due to this charming personality.

The issue wasn’t Alpine having two reserve drivers – it was honestly quite usual. No, the actual issue lay in fans already expecting Jack’s downfall so that Franco could take his place. Everyone was claiming that Jack only had the first five races to prove himself, and then it would be goodbye for him.

Then, it got even worse. Shortly after the New Year, Alpine announced their third reserve driver. You remembered seeing the news and being really surprised because “why do they need so many plans b?” – that’s what you had said to Max, who had agreed and had then proceeded to diss the French team for the next few minutes. And if you thought that they were done, you were wrong because Alpine waited until a few days before the first race of the season to announce their fourth reserve driver.

You truly hoped that Jack wasn’t too stressed about it, but the latest season of Drive To Survive showed you that he definitely was. The scene between Jack and Flavio in the latter’s office had truly scared you, and you couldn’t imagine the amount of pressure they were putting on the Aussie.

It also didn’t help when Jack DNFed at his home race, which led to the fans clearly awaiting the day when Alpine would replace him with Franco. The dinner you had invited him to along with the other rookies had helped, but you knew that it was only temporary comfort until the following races. The next week in China had been a bit better: Jack had finished 13th after the three DSQs, which wasn’t so bad, but you had seen the comments everywhere. ‘Fans’ were still dreaming of Franco taking his seat, not caring one bit about Jack.

You were truly saddened by the situation. Jack didn’t deserve that kind of reaction – no driver did. The only thing he deserved was the opportunity to prove himself, and his full potential couldn’t be seen after two races.

Two. races. were. not. enough.

And yet, it wasn’t Alpine that was currently at the origin of your newly-found anger. No, right now, you were only mad at one team: Red Bull Racing.

You had seen the rumours online. You had heard about them in the paddock. You hadn’t wanted to believe them; they were rumours for a reason. So when Max told you the news before it would be public, you thought he had been messing with you. You had been back in Monaco in your shared flat, when he announced it to you:

“Don’t be mad but…” Max waited for you to look at him before he kept talking. “They’re dropping Liam”.

“What?” Did you hear it well?

“Red Bull”, Max explained. “They’re switching Liam and Yuki.”

“You’re joking?”

“Wish I was, honestly. It’s such a shit decision, but I have no say in this.”

You were kind of glad that even Max wasn’t agreeing with the switch, but it still hurt. You were mad. Mad for Liam. Mad at Red Bull.

“Do they not realise they’re the fucking problem?” You couldn’t help the venom in your tone. “Have been for years. But no, it’s always the driver.”

“I know… Trust me, I wish I could have helped tilt the balance on the other side. Turns out my opinion suddenly doesn’t matter.”

“Shocker”, you sarcastically replied. You knew Max had vouched for Liam to stay; but when his team had decided something, even their star driver apparently didn’t have any right to go against it. “Do they wish to destroy another driver’s career?” You thought about Yuki, with whom you’d been friends for years since he had joined Racing Bulls. “At this home grand prix, that’s fucked up.”

“You know everything Red Bull does is fucked up at this point. That’s like your main take everytime they do something.”

“Am I wrong, though?” You raised an eyebrow at your boyfriend.

“Unfortunately, no.” Max sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I guess I won’t see you in my garage in Japan, then?”

“I’m not that much of a bitch, Max. I’ll show up for Yuki, obviously.”

“Obviously”, Max repeated with a chuckle. “You’ll text me which garage I have to collect you from, yeah?”

“You know me so well.” You smiled at him, before pulling him close for a quick kiss. “When are they announcing it?”

“I think some media are confirming it today, but the teams will only post about it starting tomorrow.”

“Does Liam actually know?” This was the dreaded question. You knew Red Bull was bad enough that they were capable of telling him after the entire world was made aware.

“He does, yeah.” Max thought for a second. “Don’t know for sure if they told him before Yuki, but they were decent enough not to let him find out through the internet.”

“I hope so.” You pulled out your phone, your thumb hovering over the messages application. “Is it too early to text him?” You really wanted to show Liam your support, but you were scared that Red Bull had actually been too cowardly to not notify Liam until the very last minute.

“Might be good to wait a couple days”, Max suggested. “He might be home right now, so he’ll probably have his family and friends with him.”

You nodded at Max’s words, agreeing to wait until the information would be out everywhere. Still, you made a mental note to start thinking of what you could eventually do to lift the Aussie's and Kiwi's spirits.

…..

At the end of the week, the whole world had seen the news. Red Bull Racing had definitely swapped Liam with Yuki, deciding that the younger driver had not shown enough potential after only two races.

Trusting yourself, you did what you thought was right and texted Liam as well as Jack. You sent them your address, and offered to have them for dinner that evening. You knew that even though almost the entire grid lived in Monaco, it was actually quite rare for the drivers to hang out. Max, especially, loved to stay home in order to avoid seeing his work friends. However, he was surprisingly glad to have Jack and Liam. Your boyfriend had even helped to cook tonight’s meal, and you were certain the rookies would particularly enjoy this information.

Monaco was a small town, so it didn’t take long for Jack and Liam to arrive at yours. It was known on the grid where each driver lived in the city, but actually seeing where Max lived with their own eyes felt surreal to the young drivers. When you opened the door to see them both awkwardly standing next to one another, it only took one warm smile from you to help them relax. They cautiously followed you inside; admiring every piece of furniture, every picture, Max’s beloved simulator which looked out of place in the living room you had beautifully decorated.

The most surprising thing for Jack and Liam, though, wasn’t the wall full of helmets and trophies nor the silly cushions you had bought with cats’ faces on them. No, it was the shocking view of four-times world champion Max Verstappen who was wearing an apron and currently setting the table.

When he saw you, the loving smile on his face naturally appeared. He then noticed the two rookies behind you and gave them a nod.

“Hi”, he said to them. “Welcome to our home, I guess.”

“Thanks for having us,” Jack replied. “It’s nice here.”

“Yeah”, Liam agreed. He then raised his right hand that had been holding a bag. “Hmm… I brought dessert?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” You exclaimed. “That’s so sweet of you, Liam.”

You took a large box out of the bag, and barely had time to put it on the table that another box got put down right next to it.

“We had the same idea”, Jack stated. “We didn’t buy the same thing, though. Had time to compare when we were in the lift.”

“You guys are so nice, thank you so much!”

Quickly opening each box, you saw that Liam had brought chocolate muffins while Jack had brought profiteroles. You let yourself out to the kitchen in order to put the boxes in the fridge, which meant that the drivers were now alone in the living room.

Safe to say, the atmosphere was quite awkward. There wasn’t any tension per say, but it wasn’t everyday that Max had people from his workplace at home. Remembering what he was wearing, Max looked down at his outfit and swiftly removed his apron.

“Yeah… hmm, sorry… you guys can sit down if you want. It’s almost ready.”

Jack and Liam thanked him with a nod, before they both pulled out the closest chair to them.

“Dinner is ready indeed, but everyone’s washing their hands before we eat please.” You had just come back to the living room. Your tone wasn’t harsh, but commanding enough that no one would disobey – exactly like a mother.

You made sure that everyone, including your boyfriend, had now washed their hands before leading them back to the table. You asked Max to bring the food there, which he did. Together, you had prepared lasagna as well as some potatoes to go with it.

You served the drivers, who all thanked you with a smile. You and Max were sitting next to each other, with Jack and Liam facing you both. You then all began to eat in a comfortable silence.

“Thanks again for having us,” Liam eventually said. “Food’s really good by the way.”

“It is”, Jack agreed with a nod.

“Max is a good cook, right?” You chuckled before offering them seconds, which they gladly accepted.

“Guess I have a plan b if racing doesn't work out,” Max claimed with a shrug. “Can't say that it's really going well recently.”

“We said no work talk, remember?” You reminded him while serving the rookies. “Tonight is supposed to be about anything but your jobs.”

“It’s fine, honestly.”

“Yeah, Jack’s right. If anything, better to talk about it with y’all than anyone else,” Liam added.

“Sure?” You wondered. They both nodded, which reassured you. “Well, if you don’t mind talking about work then I guess we can do so after dinner while racing.”

“Racing?” Liam and Jack repeated.

“Y’all know how to play F1 24?” You asked them, to which they positively answered. “Then yes, racing.”

Exchanging a glance, the two drivers in front of you were now even happier to be there. A proud smile made its way on your face, glad to have your boys in a good mood.

Dinner finished quickly enough after light-hearted chats. You learnt more about Jack’s and Liam’s childhood, while they asked you questions about your and Max’s relationship. They were really enjoying their time with you – even more than with Max – and loved getting to know you outside the track.

While the drivers were moving from the dining table to the sofas in front of the massive TV that adorned the wall, you went back to the kitchen to retrieve the desserts. When you came back, Max was giving controllers to Liam and Jack before he turned the game on.

Obviously not caring about you being here, Max left the racing mode on ‘expert mode’ which clearly wouldn’t bother the other drivers present. As expected, he chose to play himself. You let Liam select Lewis while Jack selected Oscar, before it was your turn. You picked Charles as you often did, and now it was actually time to race.

As usual when you played with Max, you didn’t do great. After a couple races, Liam and Jack realised that dating a world champion didn’t mean that you had gained his driving skills. So they decided to tone it down, and let you overtake them during the next race. You hadn’t noticed, simply thinking that this track wasn’t their favourite. Max, however, immediately realised what was going on.

“You shouldn’t let her win”, he told them while taking a quick bite from his muffin. “She’s used to losing, don’t worry about her.”

“Fuck you, Max.” You threw a cushion to his face, which didn’t even affect him as he still crossed the finish line in first position.

“You’re like the worst boyfriend ever, mate. I think my girl would kill me if I didn’t let her win from time to time,” Liam explained with a chuckle.

“What?” Max turned to Liam, a serious and intimidating look now on his face.

“I– I mean, not the worst of course!” Liam was scared he had joked about the wrong thing, and tried to take back his words. “You’re the racing driver so… yeah, makes sense you’re better than her.”

“I’m kidding, Liam.” Max simply said. “God, you’re easy to pressure.”

“And you are actually the worst”. Putting down your controller, you took a profiterole and faced the rookies. “Please don’t let him scare you or some shit like that, he’s literally just a silly nerd. If anything, be the ones to intimidate him. I’ll teach you both his weaknesses.”

“I’ll ban you from my garage”, Max retorted.

“Great, I didn’t even wanna be there anyways.”

“I’ll ban you from the paddock”, Max added.

“Then I’ll date another driver who’ll give me access and overrule you”. You innocently smiled at your boyfriend, knowing that he wouldn’t manage to get the upper hand back.

“I’ll run him off track and he won’t be able to race anymore.”

“I’ll join the FIA and give you stop-and-go penalties.”

As they had been sitting between the two of you, Jack and Liam could only watch the exchange between you and Max as if it were a tennis match. They were deeply entertained, and one thought was certainly shared between them: they would definitely side with you against Max, no matter the situation.

Max was their grid mum on track. But you were their grid mum off track, and that was worth so much more to them. If Liam and Jack had been nervous to come spend the evening here, all their worries had now completely disappeared.

If anything, they could even pretend to still be bothered about what was happening to them in the Formula 1 world, just so they could spend more moments like this one. They wouldn’t need to, though. Even without the excuse of wanting to distract them and lift their spirits, you would still invite them to dinner the next day, before offering them a ride on Max’s plane as if it was yours – it kind of was, according to Max who deemed everything he owned as your possession too.

So when the four of you would arrive together in Japan, the other rookies might be jealous. They might ask Liam and Jack about how they pulled it off, and maybe the two would agree in telling a little white lie just so they would gatekeep the family time they spent with you and Max.

And it would eventually become a competition as a joke: who would be able to get the most time with their grid parents?

..........

Hope y'all enjoyed it!! Y'all cannot imagine how mad i was when the devil (rbr) switched liam and yuki - actually you kinda can bc i posted ab it lol

But i fr hate that they only give liam 2 races to prove himself like THAT'S😭NO😭ENOUGH😭 and for jack, well i saw that oliver oakes confirmed they ain't getting rid of him + plan of having him for the whole season but they aren't giving him enough love imo - like why tf y'all have 4 reserve drivers

Anywayyys i acc have no idea whether liam was made aware of the switch before it went public but let's pretend rbr ain't bitches

Don't hesitate to like or reblog if you liked this<3 and don't be shy to leave a comment so i can know your thoughts as well :))

See you soon, take care of yourselves, i love y'all xx

Grid Mum 3 | MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Triple headers are tiring, especially when you have to take care of both your boyfriend and your grid kids.

Author's Note: okayy ig grid mum is officially a series now haha i fr never would've thought that I'd write anything else than one-shots but I've been surprisingly enjoying it + the love y'all are giving is insane so thank you sm for the support🤍🤍

F1 MASTERLIST🏎 | Previous Part | Next Part

Although you weren’t the one racing, triple headers were more exhausting than you remembered.

It was one thing to just accompany your boyfriend. But it was another to also have to take care of six other people.

First, there was Japan.

Thankfully, there had been the break after China; but when you had arrived in Japan alongside Max, Jack, and Liam, the other rookies had swarmed you. From Kimi asking why he wasn’t invited to fly on Max’s jet – “you were literally in Italy for school”, you had replied – to Gabriel complaining that you were playing favourites, you were definitely not catching a break anytime soon.

So you now had to make sure that everyone managed to get time with you – and Max, although the rookies cared more about you than your boyfriend – each weekend and started organising your own race schedule. You tried your best to equally split your time between the six of them, and asked them to make an effort as well. They couldn’t expect you to always only spend one-on-one time with them, so they agreed to hang out with you in duos or trios. Your main argument had been that this way, they could even see you multiple times during the weekend and that’s how you then easily convinced them.

You had spent half of Friday with Jack, who had been replaced by Alpine’s reserve driver – Ryo Hirakawa – for FP1. Then, after FP2 was Isack and Liam’s turn. They had both managed to get into the top ten during the practice, so you decided to take them out after their work day was over.

“Is it okay with you two if Max isn’t here?” You eventually asked them, as you were nearing the paddock’s exit.

“Because he was supposed to be here?” Liam wondered. “I thought you were the one we were spending the evening with.”

“Well, yes.” You let out a chuckle at Liam’s assumption. “It was the plan indeed, but I just felt like telling you in case you had expected him to come too.”

“Trust me, we’re perfectly fine with only you. We see Max way too often anyways”, Isack added.

“I swear”, you agreed with a laugh. “That man is everywhere, it’s crazy.”

“Plus, his team isn’t really that good. Racing Bulls is better, right?” Isack teased.

“Totally agree. Red Bull is mid, honestly. I mean, you both did better than him in FP2 so I’m with the real champions right now.”

Liam and Isack both knew that you were joking, as Max was obviously a better driver than them, but they liked that you were still supporting their small victories in Red Bull’s sister team. They had heard from the other rookies about your hatred slight dislike of Max’s team, but it was still unexpected to actually hear you talk about it.

“But I’m for real proud of you both, you know.” Your tone was now a bit more serious, to show them that you were being genuine. “You boys are rookies and it’s your first full season in F1; so compared to your first race, I know you’re already improving and you’ll achieve great things in the future.”

You meant every word. Simply from the fact that they were part of the world’s twenty best drivers, you were certain of their bright future. They had both earned their seats, and nothing would ever take that away.

You thought of the first race of the season, not even a month ago. They had unfortunately both DNFed the race. You remembered leaving the Red Bull garage back then, making your way to the Racing Bulls one after Isack had to give up his first F1 race during the formation lap. You had seen on the cameras that Lewis’s dad had found him on his way back to the paddock and had consoled him, which you also did when Isack eventually reached the Racing Bulls location. You hadn’t hesitated one second to offer him a loving hug, which he had reciprocated as you rubbed his back before letting him go to his family while you went back to Red Bull. Way later in the race, Liam had also been a victim of the rain and you had offered your support to him as well.

And now, you were able to see their improvement. Even though Liam had been demoted back to Racing Bulls, you felt that he was more comfortable there. He and Isack made a good duo, which seemed to benefit them both as you observed their new dynamic during the rest of the day.

Two happy rookies for now, four left.

…..

For this one, you left the other rookies no choice but to accept that you would solely be focusing on Jack. He was definitely not having the best weekend for now: replaced in FP1, he only had two sessions to test the car in Suzuka before qualifying. However, an unlucky DRS issue had led him to crash into the barriers during FP2 which meant that he only had FP3 left to make the most of the car.

He had understood your absence yesterday after FP2, when you had sent him a supportive message and offered him to spend Saturday morning with you. So now here you were, having breakfast with Jack before FP3 was to happen. Fortunately, he had confirmed to you that he was physically fine after his crash from the day before even though he could be feeling better mentally, and told you that the car had been fixed for him to drive today.

“Please, always remember that you are more important than the car. Alpine can make another one, but I don’t think your parents could remake you.”

“I know…” he replied. “I just– I still need to prove myself out there. I have Franco’s fans after me, and four fucking reserve drivers waiting for me to slip up. I can’t afford to fail after everything I did.”

“Jack, we’re only on race three. Out of twenty-four,” you reminded him. “I know the pressure is insane right now, but you know your worth – I know your worth. It’s not abnormal that you’re here, racing at the pinnacle of motorsports. You’ve been chosen because you deserve the seat, and even shitty Alpine knows that you’re capable of succeeding.”

Jack stayed silent for a couple minutes, taking in your words.

“Thanks… it means a lot to me. My whole family is behind me, my friends too; but they obviously support me because of our relationships.” He pondered on how to word his next train of thought. “But you, well… you’re not forced to have this opinion of me. So, it’s really worth a lot to know what you think.”

Jack could have cried. You knew he would have. But he still wanted to be strong, especially with you there as you had this high opinion of him. You weren’t giving him the same pressure that he felt everytime he stepped foot in the Alpine car. No, this was good pressure. He wanted to impress you, and the best thing about it? He knew that you would never hold it against him, and never be disappointed with his results.

The rest of your breakfast was spent in a light-hearted atmosphere, before it was time for you both to go to the track. Jack would be getting in the car with some weight off his shoulders, all thanks to you, and he eventually managed to be P14 despite the little amount of time he’d had in the car this weekend.

…..

Qualifying had been the easiest moment for you to split your time between the rookies. You had first begun to watch Q1 in Max’s garage – turns out he had slightly been jealous of you playing grid mum to the rookies and thought that you hadn’t spent enough time in girlfriend mode – before making your way through the other garages depending on who would not take part in the next session.

Both Jack and Gabriel had been eliminated in Q1, so here you were with them at Alpine. The three of you were watching Q2 together, and sharing opinions on who had the best shot at getting pole for tomorrow’s race. Your bet was – obviously unbiased – on Max while the two rookies were thinking that either McLaren would get it, given that Lando and Oscar had both topped the practice sessions.

Not long after, you were joined by Liam who had ended up P14. You had texted him about your whereabouts when you saw on TV that he was out in Q2, offering him to come spend the remaining time of the qualifying session with you and the two other rookies. Safe to say, he had wasted no time in reaching your location after a brief exchange with his team and one quick interview – actual debriefs wouldn’t happen until after qualifying ended as a whole, so he was in the clear to wander around until then.

You congratulated him on his performance in the Racing Bulls car, and asked him if he wanted to take part in your betting pole pool. None of you had put actual money whatsoever on the driver you each had chosen, the prize simply being some bragging rights over the others. It was all done in a friendly atmosphere as the four of you then spent the rest of Q3 together, and got a couple looks as people wondered about your weird little family hanging out in Alpine when only one driver was actually part of the team.

…..

When qualifying was over, you waited for your boyfriend to come and get you. He wasn’t really thrilled with the idea of having to enter Alpine, and the both of you knew that you were taking advantage of it. Still, you agreed to meet him outside in the paddock. What you hadn’t expected though, was that behind Max were three other people. And the look on Max’s face as half of the rookies followed him to where you had been waiting for him was hilarious, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your mouth.

“You know you’re being stalked right now?” You teased Max when he was finally in front of you.

“Said they wanted to file a complaint,” he explained as he pointed to the three drivers behind him. “But I told them to directly speak to you, so they tagged along.”

“We do have a complaint,” Kimi confirmed. “We” – as in him, Ollie, and Isack – “feel like you’ve spent more time with the others, especially me and Ollie. Isack had yesterday with you, but still.”

Ollie nodded beside him, as a way to confirm his words.

“And I’ll agree with you.” You weren’t about to gaslight those kids and tell them that they were overreacting – they were kind of dramatic, but it was endearing. “I’ll remind you that the weekend isn’t over yet, so we still have tomorrow.”

The rookies stayed silent, waiting for you to continue, and nodded to show that they were listening. Beside you, Max was weirdly invested in the ‘drama’ as it was kind of funny how the rookies had come to like you even more than him.

“Tell you what: whoever brings me some points tomorrow, we’ll spend time together after the race. And if you’ll authorise me, I’ll celebrate my boyfriend’s pole tonight. It’s been a while since he’s been performing well, and I don’t want him to get depressed.”

The offer seemed to satisfy them, as they all agreed to those terms.

“I’m still here,” Max reminded. “I can hear you.”

“Oh, I know. Does that mean you don’t want to spend the evening with me?” You argued, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t put words into my mouth.” Max sighed, but he still had that familiar smile on his face. “I’d love to spend the night with you”, he sarcastically added while sneaking an arm around your waist to pull you closer to him.

“Okay, we don’t wanna know more. We’re gonna go”, Ollie said as he grabbed Kimi’s shoulders and motioned for the other rookies to follow him.

“Max!” You exclaimed as you slapped his chest. “You traumatised our kids!”

“We could still find new ones?” He suggested.

“Not in F1, though!”

“There’s still Lando, I don’t know.” Max shrugged before he had an idea. “Or we can make our own.”

“Win tomorrow’s race and I’ll consider it”. You wouldn’t consider it, but what Max didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

“Oh, I’ll win it alright. I just had some new extra motivation,” he bragged with a smug smile on his face before leading you away from goddamn Alpine and back to Red Bull.

…..

And the motivation did seem to have a positive impact on Max, as he had crossed the finish line in P1 – his first win since the 2024 Qatar Grand Prix. You obviously knew that Max had won all thanks to his racing talent, but he still teased you about your comment from yesterday when he went to hug you after getting out of his car.

“Have you considered ditching the kids and having our own?” He asked you in between kisses.

“Nice try, but I’ve grown too attached to them so it’s too late now.”

“Fair enough”, he replied. Max gave you one last quick kiss before going to share his win’s happiness with the rest of his team.

The joy on his face was contagious, and you couldn’t help the matching smile that appeared on your face. Max would have a tough season, but he had shown that he wouldn’t give up that easily and that he was still capable of greatness even with both McLaren against him.

Speaking of great things, you were also over the moon due to three of your grid kids managing to get points today. The ones who had gotten into Q3 yesterday had succeeded in finishing the race in the top ten – that is to say Kimi in P6, Isack in P8, and Ollie in P10. You were especially proud of Isack as he had scored his first points as an F1 driver.

So that’s why you were now collecting everyone from their respective garage. You had told Max that you would come back to Red Bull with the rookies, and he agreed to wait. He had planned to celebrate with the team tonight, but he thought that it would still be nice to spend time with you and the rookies before going out to party.

After a quick trip to Haas, Mercedes, and Racing Bulls, you had the three drivers around you and you all walked back to Red Bull where Max was waiting for you. Obviously, race talk was to be expected as soon the four drivers were reunited. So you all began to discuss today’s highlights – there weren’t that many if someone asked you, except for Alex’s radios.

“The only impressive thing about today is Max winning four times in a row here,” you stated. “Y’all didn’t really give me an interesting race.”

“But we all got points!” Kimi argued. “That’s the main achievement. And I also led the race for a while!”

“Of course, and I’m very proud of you! The race as a whole was just… very reminiscent of a certain track where nothing happens.”

“Monaco?” The rookies all wondered, to which you nodded.

“I mean, Monaco last year was actually a bit more entertaining than usual. There were a couple crashes,” Max reminded.

“Says the guy who should have brought his pillow. You’re just saying that because Charles finally won his home race.”

“God forbid a guy is happy for a friend”, Max sighed with a shrug.

Stopping in your tracks, you were left speechless. The drivers kept walking for a few seconds until they noticed that you were behind them, looking at Max like he had grown another head.

“What’s wrong?” Max asked.

“Who taught you that?” You knew the trend from spending way too much time on TikTok, but why did your boyfriend know it too?

“Gabriel and I did”, Isack proudly claimed. “Before the parade, we were just exchanging ideas for our teams’ content.”

“It’s very educational,” Max said. “Maybe I should spend more time around the youth.”

“You act like you’re fifty, mate.” Ollie’s words made you laugh. “But we can fix that tonight; teach you more about social media.”

“I feel like you’re gonna ask me to film a stupid trend at the end of the night.”

“Never”, you reassured him. “As long as you pay the bill.”

“Be careful with the headline: Max Verstappen’s girlfriend is a gold digger and forces him to pay for her at the restaurant.”

You had seen Max laugh in the years that you had been together; seen him chuckle, burst out laughing; or just a sarcastic laugh. But the one he let out at this moment after Kimi’s words, was almost one of a kind. It was the genuine laugh, the one that took over Max within a second and left him breathless.

Max put his arm around Kimi’s shoulder, and you knew at that moment that this was it: Max was as smitten as you with the rookies, and he would never let them go from now on.

…..

When you arrived at the restaurant where you had booked a table, Max had come back to linger by your side for a bit as a waitress led the rookies to the table.

“They’re great kids,” he simply stated. “Don’t think I can be apart from them now.”

“You didn’t really have a choice from the moment that you started taking them under your wing. Should’ve thought about it before you became a role model for them.”

“More like they chose me as their own”, Max clarified.

“Except for Isack.”

“Except for Isack”, Max repeated with a chuckle. “Can’t compete with Lewis on this one.”

But honestly, even if the rookies had other favourites, the bond they were creating with Max was one of a kind; and you were glad to be able to be part of it.

When you and Max reached your table, the rookies were all sitting down and already looking at the menus. They asked about what you were planning to eat, comparing who had the most similar taste to yours. They even offered to share some of their food with you, after they had seen that you had taken a few bites from Max’s plate. And only when you reached dessert, did they realise that Max was still with them.

“You’re okay just spending the evening with us?” Ollie wondered.

“Yeah, didn’t you want to celebrate with your team?” Kimi added.

Looking at Max, you were carefully awaiting his reply. You hadn’t commented on it when you saw the time pass, and he was still peacefully enjoying his meal.

“Well…” Almost nervous to have been put on the spot, Max took a few seconds before answering. “I’ve won so many races already; doesn’t hurt to skip one celebration.”

He tried to pretend like he was indifferent to this, but you knew better. And Max knew that you knew when he caught you softly smiling at him, mouthing ‘liar’.

“Or maybe you just enjoy spending time with us”, Isack jokingly suggested.

“Yeah, maybe… must be that,” Max kind of confirmed.

But it was that. Max did currently enjoy spending his evening with you and your grid kids more than he would have enjoyed going out to party with his team. And if you weren’t already completely in love with this man, then you sure as hell were now.

_________________________________________________

Then, there was Bahrain.

To avoid having jealous rookies, Max had offered them all to fly on his private jet from Japan – safe to say, no one had refused the offer. Liam and Jack didn’t hesitate to remind the others that they had done this before, a smug smile on their faces as they confidently roamed around the jet when everyone got on.

“Okay, so this is where I sat last week”, Liam proudly announced as he pointed to a seat. “Jack was right there, and–”

“Mate, shut up. We don’t need you to play tour guide”, Kimi complained.

“Yeah, we’ll be just fine without you…” Ollie added as he side eyed the Kiwi driver. He approached what Liam has described as his seat, and took it as his own. “Though, I gotta admit this one is comfortable indeed.”

“That was where I was planning to sit, Ollie. You can choose somewhere else”, Liam nicely suggested.

“Don’t see your name written there”, the Brit said as he pretended to look around.

“Oh my God… I swear I’ll run you off track,” Liam threatened with a sigh before he went to sit a couple rows behind.

“I don’t want anyone to threaten anyone, please. I won’t hesitate to leave you stranded in Japan,” you warned the rookies. “Is that clear?” Your gaze stayed longer on Liam and Ollie than on the others, hoping that they would get the message.

“Yes Mum,” they all replied in unison. Their tone was definitely sarcastic, as a few of them rolled their eyes along with a smile.

“Be careful with how you speak to her,” Max told the rookies as he went to stand beside you. “You’re on my jet, you respect my girl.”

“We’re being respectful!” Kimi claimed, to which the other rookies nodded.

“Suddenly, you’re all getting along when it’s to be united against us. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, though.” You sat down across Ollie, getting comfortable. “Everyone sit please, I think we’re taking off soon.”

“Yeah, buckle up kids.” Max motioned for the rookies to find a seat, before he confirmed to the cabin crew that they were good to go.

The flight would be a long one like the previous week when you flew to Japan, so you really hoped that you could manage to keep everyone entertained. It honestly didn’t take long for all the drivers – Max included – to find something to do, and you were glad to be able to do your own thing.

You always brought a couple books with you when you were accompanying Max to his races, as you could take advantage of the numerous flights done throughout the season to at least finish several series in a short amount of time. So as usual, you were pulling out your current book and looked forward to finishing it. Last time you had paused your crime novel, you were in the middle of the investigation and making crazy theories – that you sometimes annoyed Maw with – about who the killer could be.

…..

An hour later, you were finally closing your book and putting it down on your lap. Similar to most of the crime novels you would read, you hadn’t predicted who the murderer had been even though it was making so much sense when the detective explained it.

While you unlocked your phone to add your finished book to Goodreads, you could feel a gaze on you. And when you looked up from your phone a couple minutes later, your eyes met Kimi’s. You gave him a smile, silently asking if he needed anything. He took that as a sign to stand up and walk up to you, his face showing some stress.

“Can I bother you with something?” He shyly asked, afraid that he was disturbing your peace. He had waited for you to finish your book before even having the nerves to come up to you.

“Of course, Kimi. How can I help?”

“Are you good at maths?”

“Maths?” You repeated. Kimi nodded and you thought for a second. “I think I can manage high school level, yeah. Want me to look at it?”

The bright smile that made its way on Kimi’s face was almost enough to blind you. He was so relieved at your positive reaction, and he immediately handed you his textbook.

“Take my seat, Kimi.” Max slowly stood up as he motioned for the Italian to replace him next to you.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, yeah…” Max ran his finger through his hair, as his eyes settled on the back of the jet. “I’m gonna stretch my legs a bit and get a drink, you guys want anything?”

Both you and Kimi shook your heads. Kimi then took Max’s seat, and observed you as you were reading the maths problem he was having issues with.

“Show me what you’ve done for now,” you said before Kimi also gave you his notes. You looked back and forth between what he had written and the exercise, before you managed to pinpoint what was confusing him. “Okay, got it!”

For the next couple hours, you worked with Kimi on his maths exercises as he showed you his method which you would correct when necessary. He was not a dumb kid, far from it, but he just needed someone else other than his high school teacher to explain things to him. You were definitely not a teacher yourself, but it seemed that your way of seeing things was close enough to Kimi’s. Therefore, he was gradually understanding his lesson better and was able to do his calculations a bit quicker than before as he more easily knew which formula to use.

You didn’t know whether you had just gotten the title of Kimi’s official maths tutor or not, but the esteem that the young driver had for you had exponentially risen and you were definitely his favourite person from now on. He thanked you at least a dozen times, as he was over the moon that he would not get behind his classmates while he was racing around the world.

Although glad that you had been able to help him, you were thankful that Kimi was the only driver who still had school as you didn’t know if you would survive parenting and teaching all the rookies at the same time.

…..

A short layover to breathe some fresh air, several chaotic card games, and a couple naps later: you were finally landing in Bahrain.

You already knew that the race weekend was starting more peacefully than the last one, as all your grid kids were leaving the plane on equal terms. This meant that the rookies would be less grumpy about having to split your time between them.

On Friday, you spent the first half of the day with Ollie. He was being replaced with Haas’s reserve driver – Ryo Hirakawa – for FP1 and was therefore “free to hang out with you” as he happily told you. His notion of being free wasn’t exactly the same as you, especially when he actually spent the first half hour of FP1 at the pit wall. Still, he eventually took the time to be there with you in his garage during the second half. He introduced you to the mechanics, showed you his driver’s room, and tried to make you spill secrets about Red Bull with some engineers.

You had a good time, and you truly enjoyed seeing more of Ollie in his ‘racing habitat’. You had always spent most of your weekends in the Red Bull garage since you started dating Max, so this was a nice change. Haas was another type of family, maybe – definitely – friendlier than what you were used to with Christian Horner and Helmut Marko. You even had the opportunity to meet Laura, the first and only female engineer in Formula 1, after the session had ended. You were glad to talk a bit with her, and you could only express your admiration towards the fact that she had reached the pinnacle of motorsport.

Eventually, Max called you to know about your whereabouts and suggested that you have a late lunch with him. He then had no choice but to accept when you answered his call on speaker with Ollie beside you, the rookie asking to join you. He also had to agree to Kimi tagging along when you and Ollie met him on your way back to Red Bull.

Fortunately for Max, the two rookies were needed back to their respective garages earlier than expected due to their lack of racing during FP1. So now, he could properly enjoy some alone time with you.

“I know you pretend to be annoyed with them, but you actually love spending time with them.”

“I only put up with it because you love spending time with them.” That was a lie, and the both of you knew it. “I can admit they’re growing on me, but I’m allowed to want to hangout with my girlfriend during the races. Alone.”

“We’re always together outside of races though,” you pointed out.

“Except when we do overtime”, Max added.

“Overtime?” You stifled a laugh. “You act like it’s a full-time job to take care of them.”

“It is a full-time job to be parents.”

“So you admit to being their grid dad?” You teased him.

“Step-dad, maybe…” He reluctantly admitted. “You’re the one who adopted them, I’m just accepting my fate because I’m dating you.”

“You’re unbelievable! You’re the one who began taking them under your wing during testing!”

You were appalled at Max’s refusal to admit of being the one who started this entire thing, until you noticed the smirk on his face. That damn smirk, you thought. That damn smirk that meant that Max was just toying with you, enjoying the fact that he could rile you up anytime.

“You’re just fucking with me”, you concluded.

“Of course I am,” he confirmed with a laugh. “I know what I did. And I absolutely know that I can’t pretend not to enjoy spending time with them. They’re indeed a bit overwhelming sometimes when I just wanna be alone with you, but they’re nice kids and I can’t argue with their passion.”

“You’re just a softie, Max. Who would’ve thought?” You wanted to tease him; but deep down, you were just melting at how sweet Max was. He had truly grown attached to the rookies, as much as you did, and it warmed your heart. “Wait, so you wouldn’t mind if we adopt some more? I have some names to suggest.”

“Please no,” Max immediately refused. “Six is more than enough.”

“But I’m sure they’re nice kids too!” You tried to plead your case, doing the best that you could at giving puppy eyes to Max.

“No”, he refused once again. But after a minute of silence, he eventually asked: “Just out of curiosity, who are you thinking of?”

“Luke and Dino”, you told him with a satisfied smile.

Max pretended to think about it for a moment, grabbing a bite of his food. You were thoroughly watching him, and waited for his reply. Eventually, Max sighed and you knew you had won.

“Maybe when they’re in F1, you can ask again…” He mumbled before you quietly cheered with a fist pump. Max softly smiled at the scene, and shook his head when he realised what he had just promised you.

He now just had to hope that there wouldn’t be any new rookies for at least a few years.

…..

The rest of the weekend was quite uneventful, the only thing worth noting was the insane heat that had you always carrying an iced drink wherever you went. You had been envying Mercedes’s space jacket that seemed to be doing wonders for Kimi and George, which almost made you go to their garage to ask for one.

Max wasn’t having the best weekend, which was a slight disappointment for him and his team after his superb race in Japan last week. On Saturday, the Dutch driver had only managed to reach the fourth row. He was two tenths off Lando and six tenths off Oscar – who had gotten pole, which was highlighting the fact that Red Bull was not going to have a flawless season. Even Kimi had qualified higher than him, getting P5 after a small penalty that made him lose a position post-qualifying.

The other rookies were scattered across the rest of the grid: Jack and Isack would start right outside points; while Liam, Gabriel, and Ollie had not made it to Q2. You had offered extra support to Ollie, who would start dead last, and encouraged him until the day of the race.

It seemed to have positively affected him, as he gained ten positions during the race and ended up being the only rookie to score points in Bahrain. Max had only reached P6 at the chequered flag, far from the podium he had been used to being on. He knew he had no choice but to accept that this could be a reoccurring performance from his car, and could only hope to keep getting the most out of it to still be a podium contender for the next race.

After the post-race interviews, you wanted to celebrate with Ollie as you were over the moon at his performance and his working strategy that had accommodated the safety car. But you knew he was with his father and brother, so you decided to let him have some family time.

However, you hadn’t thought about the fact that you were now like family to him as well. Because as you were waiting near the Red Bull hospitality for Max to finish his interviews – he was weirdly always in very high demand from every channel when he missed out on a podium, you saw the Bearman men walking up to you.

Ollie was frantically waving at you, yelling at his father and brother to keep up.

“She’s there, come on! Be quicker”, he ordered them as his long legs made him reach you faster than his family.

“Ollie, hi sweetheart!” You went for a hug, rubbing his back. “What a great race you did, I’m super proud of you!”

“Thanks,” he replied with a bright smile. He noticed his family finally there, and introduced you to them. “So this is my dad, and my brother Thomas. Guys, this is–”

“We know”, Thomas interrupted with a deadpan tone. He said your name and reached out his hand for you to shake. “He already talked a lot before, but now he talks even more when it’s about you.”

“Don’t be rude to your brother”, his dad scolded. “Sorry about him. But he’s right, we’ve heard lots about you.”

“Oh! All good things I hope,” you said with a nervous chuckle as you also shook Ollie’s dad’s hand.

“Of course, Ollie just loves telling us about you and your boyfriend spending time with him. It’s honestly reassuring to know he has you if we’re not there for him.”

“Well, I love Ollie – Max does too. So, it’s really my pleasure to have him around.” You were being genuine, and Ollie’s dad could only approve of you being a new adult figure in his son’s life. “You have a good kid, sir. Extremely respectful and really passionate,”, you told him as you softly looked at Ollie.

Ollie couldn’t have expected a better encounter between his dad and his grid mum. His eyes were bright and his smile wide, happy to have made his two families meet.

“Do you want to join us for a late dinner?” Ollie’s dad offered. “You can bring Max as well if he wants too.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. But I wouldn’t want to impose!” You wanted to refuse, but another glance at Ollie and you saw how hopeful his expression was.

“Just a drink then?” Ollie’s dad suggested, to which you nodded.

“Great!” Ollie cheered. “Call Max and get him here ASAP,” he told you.

“Jeez, calm down. It’s almost like you’re more excited to see him than me now”, you teased.

“Well, he’s the world champion.”

“And here I thought you were starting to like me better!”

As you bickered back and forth while texting Max to know his whereabouts, Ollie’s dad observed the exchange and he could only smile at the scene. It was easy for him to notice your motherly nature, gentle and caring. He knew his son was in good hands around the paddock, and he was truly glad to see that Ollie was surrounding himself with good people that could be trusted.

_________________________________________________

Finally, there was Saudi Arabia.

You had seen the pictures of some drivers arriving at the airport. And you had witnessed how welcomed they were when you arrived with Max. Like everyone else, he had been gifted a massive bouquet of flowers that you would have been jealous of if anyone other than the grand prix staff had given it to your boyfriend.

As soon as you left the airport before taking a taxi to your hotel, Max immediately gave you the flowers. One could have thought that it meant he just wanted you to take them as Max was already holding your suitcases, but you knew better.

Without a word, you understood what Max meant. He was just offering you the bouquet. For him, it meant more sense for you to have it. The flowers were pretty, like you, and he just felt like you deserved them more than he did. Also, it meant that Max could see a smile slowly making its way on your face and that was worth more than anything else in the world to him.

…..

As soon as you entered your hotel room, your first instinct was to lay on the bed with a relieved sigh. Max was supposed to be at the track soon, and your only wish was to take a nap.

“I really need to get used to triple headers again. That shit is exhausting,” you complained.

“Just rest,” Max simply told you. “I’ll come back after I’m done with media day and we can go out to eat, is that good?”

“That’s a great plan, yeah.” You turned on your side, ready to fall asleep at any second.

Max softly smiled at you, and hoped that you would be able to get some energy back for the weekend. He closed the curtains a bit before leaving the room, hearing you thank him as he was about to open the door while you were quickly getting into a deep slumber.

When you woke up several hours later, the sun was starting to set. You yawned and stretched your arms before getting up, noticing Max on the couch a few metres away. He looked up from his phone when he heard the sheets rustling from your movements.

“Slept well?” He asked. He actually knew the answer already, due to you not having heard him get back as well as the pillow marks on your face.

“Best nap of my life, top ten easily. When did you get back?” You glanced at your watch, before taking a seat next to Max.

“Half hour ago, I think. Maybe forty minutes. Wanna get some food now or do you wanna do something else?”

“Food sounds perfect right now, I’m starving. I think I could go for…” Your voice got lower as something in your peripheral vision confused you.

“For?” Max repeated, expecting you to finish your sentence.

“What’s that?” You were now forgetting all about food, your gaze focused on the table near the windows.

“What’s what?”

“The flowers.”

“You mean the flowers from this morning? Yeah, what about it?”

“Why did one bouquet turn into seven?” You could have thought you were going crazy, but you were certain Max had only given you his bouquet earlier today.

“Oh, that’s just the rookies.” Max was acting as if it was a normal occurrence, leaving you speechless.

“They gave me their bouquet?”

“Yeah. Apparently they saw pictures of me giving you mine and they felt like you deserved theirs too,” he explained. “They all accompanied me to drop them off when I came back here.”

“Oh, okay…” You felt like crying. Why are those kids so sweet? You wondered. Even if they thought you deserved their flowers, you definitely didn’t deserve their kindness.

“Are you gonna think about it every day for the next week?”

“Absolutely,” you confirmed with a chuckle. “You know me so well – that’s for real so nice of them, I love them.”

“And they definitely love you too”, Max added.

After admiring the seven bouquets adorning the table for a few more minutes, you took a picture of the scenery and decided to make a groupchat with all the rookies to thank them for their thoughtfulness.

You didn’t know it yet though, but the groupchat would never experience a day of silence from the moment it got created. That’d be for you to enjoy – and for Max to dread whenever your phone would notify you of a text – as the rookies were definitely certified yappers.

…..

If you thought the heat had been too much in Bahrain, it was somehow worse here. You were extremely thankful for night races, but you were definitely not built for extreme temperatures and were already dreading Singapore months in advance.

Like the previous weekend, you were therefore holding a refreshing drink at every given moment and gladly sipped it. Max had stocked up for you in his driver’s room, but you had to discover that there was only Red Bull. Was Max trying to kill you? Perhaps. Was Max trying to kill himself? More likely.

But you just couldn’t be drinking that for the entire weekend. So on Friday evening, you ventured around the paddock to look for something else and met Gabriel on your way. He was unfortunately unable to take part in FP2 due to a fuel leak, and you offered him to join you on your quest for a decent drink.

“Sauber has surprisingly good stuff, if you want” Gabriel pointed out.

“I don’t wanna risk seeing Binotto, though. What about sneaking into McLaren?” You suggested. “The champions must have something nice.”

“You mean other than a life supply of Monster? Is it actually better than Red Bull?”

“Well, technically I do prefer it. Don’t tell Max though,” you whispered with a chuckle. “But yeah, I guess that means Mercedes is out too.”

Eventually, you and Gabriel ended up getting basic tap water somewhere random in the paddock as you were both too thirsty to spend more time deciding where to go.

It was rare for you to spend one-on-one time with Gabriel, but you were glad to get to know him more – you truly hadn’t spent as much with him as you did with the other rookies. Max had always told you about how he held the Brazilian driver in high regards, and you could easily understand why. Gabriel was easy to get along with, and you really hoped that he would one day be able to show his full potential to the world. He had won the F3 and F2 championships back to back, but was unfortunately in the worst car of the grid now that he was in F1. He was still waiting to get his first points of the season, and you were definitely rooting for him to score some before the end of the year.

It still wouldn’t be his weekend yet as once again, he had qualified P20 on Saturday. And although he had gained two positions the next day, he was still last in the race due to Pierre and Yuki both DNFing. Jack didn’t have the best end of a grand prix either as he finished right above Gabriel, both having been lapped during the race by the leaders. Ollie and Liam had been a bit closer to reaching the top ten, but only Isack and Kimi had actually scored points.

You wished you could have spent your post-race time with the rookies to congratulate the point scorers and cheer the others up, but you felt like Max needed the support more despite having finished on the podium. He had gotten P2, bringing some good points to the team. But it wasn’t enough for him – he should have been first at the chequered flag.

Max was pissed. He was mad about the unfair penalty, mad about the FIA, mad about everything. He had refused to say more than two words during the post-race interviews of the top three, and didn’t even participate in celebrating the papaya drivers on the podium – he had preferred to immediately down his fake champagne as if it were a real one.

You knew that it wouldn’t last. Maybe he would throw some snarky reminders during the next grand prix and complain about it for a couple days, but then he would get over it because it would annoy him even more to keep thinking about it.

So you did what a loving and supportive girlfriend would do: you waited for him to come back to his garage, sitting on the couch in his driver room. He was glad to see you when he entered the room, and even more so when you gave him a kiss.

One turned into two, and you were soon ready to give Max the best makeout session of his life. You really thought you would’ve stayed there all night with him until some Red Bull mechanics would force you out as they were dismantling everything. But that was until he was the one to cut it short with one last quick kiss before he let go of your waist. You reluctantly removed your arms that had been around your boyfriend’s shoulders, and waited for him to say something while he had begun to change from his racing suit.

“Text the kids, we’re going out as soon as I’m out of this.”

“The kids?” You questioned.

“The kids,” Max confirmed with a nod. “Tell them we’ll do whatever they wanna do, whether it’s having the biggest post-race dinner of their lives or just doing something fun – ask them if they wanna check out one of the amusement parks near the track.”

“Wow, okay.” You let out a chuckle, not expecting Max to suggest that. You did as you were told, and texted the rookies about Max’s idea.

Anyone free to go to an amusement park?

Max is offering (and probably paying)

Safe to say, replies were sent almost instantly. The rookies were all happy to see that you were the one texting, and they got even happier when they actually read the content of your messages. The smile that was forming on your face was enough of a confirmation to Max, as he knew that you had definitely received positive answers.

“All good?” Max asked you, to which you nodded. “Okay, let’s go then. I don’t wanna see or talk to anyone else here so let’s get the hell out of here before I go insane.”

“Yes sir,” you answered before following Max until you were out of the garage and walking towards the track exit.

When you were finally out of the paddock, you notified the rookies of your whereabouts then sent them your location so that they could find you and Max more easily. Soon enough, the six rookies had joined you and you could all go check out the nearest amusement park.

…..

You had been at the Atallah Happy Land Park for almost two hours, having already gone on several rides – the first having obviously been bumper cars. It was unusual to see Max being so carefree and relaxed around other people than you, but it seemed that the rookies got this effect on him – on anyone actually. Max was just having fun, enjoying the night.

Right now, you were currently on a bench. You were sipping a drink Max had insisted on buying you after you had made a comment about the heat still being too much for you. Your eyes were carefully observing the drivers from a few metres away. Max was in the middle of organising the order in which he and the rookies would do the next rides, based on how long the queues were and how far the rides were from each other.

You couldn’t help the smile that appeared on your face, as you thought about how lucky you were to have Max in your life. He was being so attentive to the six drivers around him, listening to all of them, and treating them like they were his equals. He was just glad to make them happy tonight, because it made him happy too.

Checking something on your phone, you didn’t notice someone approaching until they were right in front of you. You looked up at the sight of unknown shoes, and met the eyes of a random man. You raised an eyebrow at him, silently asking if he needed anything.

“Hi! I couldn’t help but notice you were sitting all alone here,” he said. “So I thought you might need company.”

The guy wasn’t necessarily creepy or making you uncomfortable – he seemed nice and had a gentle smile, but you wondered if he would eventually notice that seven F1 drivers were now looking in your direction.

“I’m not here alone, though.” You glanced at where Max and the rookies were. Your relaxed form was enough of an indication to Max that you were handling this, and he knew that he didn’t have to intervene.

“But you’re alone right now,” he pointed out. “I’m not trying to be insistent, sorry. But can I still sit and maybe get to know you?”

“I’m fine by myself. Thanks for the offer, though.” You gave the man a smile, one that would be kind enough but still showing that you wouldn’t change your mind.

“Oh, okay…”

From afar, Max was almost wanting to laugh as he noticed how the guy’s posture had slumped a bit – it was a sign that he wasn’t successful in shooting his shot with you. However, the rookies weren’t reading the situation in the same way as Max, and they were confused as to why your boyfriend was leaving you alone to fend for yourself.

“Shouldn’t you go save her?” Ollie wondered.

“This creep is bothering her and you’re not doing anything,” Liam added.

“She’s fine, don’t worry.” Max actually enjoyed seeing the rookies being worried for you – it was cute and endearing, but it wasn’t needed.

“If you won’t protect her: I will,” one of the drivers said before leaving the group to walk towards you.

Back to you, you thought you would now be left alone. But despite his previous words, it actually seemed that the guy would insist a bit more before giving.

“Well, it was still nice to meet you. I’m–”

“Leaving?” Someone behind the man asked.

You leaned on the side to see who had talked as you took another sip of your drink, and noticed that it was Kimi. He was trying to look intimidating, even though he was definitely a few inches shorter than the guy.

“Who even are you?” The man asked, now annoyed that he was being interrupted by a kid.

You wondered if he knew that there had been an F1 race right next to the amusement park, and if he would realise that Mercedes driver Kimi Antonelli was standing in front of him.

“I’m with her,” Kimi simply said. “And I think you’ve been bothering her too much, so you can leave now.”

“You’re dating her?”

“What? No! Oh my God, that’s my mum you’re talking about.” Kimi didn’t think before speaking, and he eventually processed his own words a few seconds later.

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to laugh so bad right now, but you figured it wouldn’t hurt to follow the lead of Kimi’s lapsus. You obviously knew that he had meant to describe you as his grid mum, but the lack of precision about your actual parental role was working better in this situation.

“That’s actually flattering that you think I’m young enough to date him, but yeah that’s my kid right there.” Deciding that you had entertained the guy enough, you stood up from the bench and smoothed out the wrinkles of your dress before going to stand by Kimi’s side.

“I tried to be nice and polite to you, you know. But I wouldn’t even date someone who’s already a mother, at a suspiciously young age.” The guy sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair, and turned around to walk away.

Exchanging a look with Kimi, you both bursted out laughing at what just happened.

“That was kinda funny, to be honest. Thanks for saving me”, you told Kimi as you ruffled his hair. “Son”, you added with a teasing smile.

“Stop, I’m embarrassed to have said that.” Kimi covered his face with his hands, blushing as he remembered his words.

“Don’t be”, you tried to reassure him. You put your arm around his shoulders, before pulling him alongside to walk back to the other drivers that had observed the situation from afar. “It was kinda cute how you came to save me – my knight in shining armour who protects me better than my own boyfriend.”

Blushing even more at the praise, Kimi couldn’t help the proud grin that appeared on his face. He realised that you would have actually handled it perfectly on your own, but he was glad that you had appreciated him coming to help you.

When you both joined the group that had been waiting for you, they all asked questions about what had been said. Not wanting to embarrass Kimi in front of his friends, you stayed vague and simply said that the Italian driver had been way too intimidating for the guy and that he had scared him off.

“I honestly have a hard time believing that Kimi would look threatening,” Gabriel teased.

“That guy didn’t stand a chance against Kimi, though. And I don’t know how much longer it would’ve taken for him to take a hint,” you explained.

Max knew what you meant. You would have been fine on your own, but you were still glad for Kimi to have sped up the process of making the man give up on you.

For several more minutes, the rookies kept commenting and making theories about what had gone on - which Kimi neither confirmed nor denied. Out of the corner of your eye, you then noticed that Jack was stifling a yawn as the conversation died down.

“Might be time to go to bed?” You suggested as the other rookies also started to yawn.

“Yeah, I think so…” Jack admitted.

“Are you leaving with us?” Ollie asked, expecting you and Max to walk them back.

“There’s one more ride I wanna do with her,” Max joined in as he slipped his arm around your waist. “So we’ll stay just for a bit, but you go back safely.”

“Text me when you’re back to your hotels”, you told the rookies who all nodded.

After sharing hugs, they then walked away from you and Max. They turned back a couple times to wave at you, yelling thank yous for inviting them. You waved back at them with a large grin on your face, until they were out of your sight.

“So, what have you planned for us now?”

“Just follow me, you’ll like it.”

“Confident are we now, Mr Verstappen?” You raised an eyebrow at him, trying to guess which ride – amongst the tons the park had – you hadn’t been on yet.

“Always, when it comes to you.”

Squeezing your waist, Max pulled you along while he started walking to where he wanted to take you. It only took a few minutes before you noticed which ride was in the direction where you were going.

The Ferris Wheel.

You had often told Max of your love of ferris wheels, trying to go on them whenever you had the chance. But to your luck, or more like lack thereof, there was always an issue: too many people queuing, technical difficulty, arriving right after it closed…

But as you stopped in front of the ferris wheel, it seemed like nothing was preventing you from going on it with Max.

So here you were now, sitting next to Max as the cabin was slowly going up. You could only admire the streets of Jeddah from up there, noticing the track that was near.

“Are you feeling a bit better now?” You eventually asked when the cabin stopped at its highest point. Your tone was quiet and soft, afraid to ruin the peaceful silence.

“Yeah,” Max replied. “Thanks for tonight, I really enjoyed it.”

“Well, it was your idea. I barely did anything.”

“You came. That matters to me,” he explained. “You matter to me. The kids too.” Max leaned back with a sigh. “Fuck, I love those kids.”

“Welcome to the club”, you said with a chuckle. Slipping your hand into Max’s, you squeezed it to remind him of your presence – not that he would ever forget it. “I’m really glad you had fun, that was like the best post-race activity we ever did.”

“I can think of another activity that might be on par with that.” Max looked at you, a smirk on his face.

“I really can’t take you anywhere, of my God!” You couldn't help laughing, which made Max chuckle as well. “If you’re lucky and I’m feeling generous, you might get to do this one too.” You saw the way Max's eyes lit up a bit as he straightened up. “Only if you behave once we’re back on the ground.”

“Yes ma’am,” Max promised with a grin.

A comfortable silence settled again, lasting until you were leaving the ferris wheel. You and Max roamed around the amusement park for a bit, walking hand in hand under the bright artificial lights, until you saw that they would close soon and it would be time for you both to go back to your hotel room.

The smile on your face hadn’t left yet, and your cheeks were still flushed as a result from the heat. Max stole a couple glances at you, admiring how you looked under the night sky of Jeddah. He was truly grateful for you, grateful for your support, grateful for your love.

As he removed his hand that was in yours, Max draped his arms around your shoulders. The gesture made you stop in your tracks and look up at him, before noticing that his eyes were already on you.

“What?” You asked with a confused smile.

“Nothing, you’re just beautiful. Can I not admire my girlfriend anymore?”

“Who would I be to deny you that”, you sarcastically replied as you put your arm around his waist

Taking advantage of the fact that your face was so close to his, Max leaned down and kissed you. It was short, but meaningful. When he pulled back, you didn't hesitate to use your free hand to cup his face and pull him down to kiss him again. His lips smiled against yours, and Max realised he could taste the slight remains of the sugary drink he had bought you earlier.

Not a word was needed between the two of you, as you mutually started walking again in the direction of your hotel. When stopping at crossroads, waiting for the lights to turn green, Max would give you quick forehead kisses. You would smile every time he did it, and the blush on your cheeks never had a chance to go away.

Max usually wasn’t much for PDA, unless it was an arm around you or his hand resting on your lower back, so you were pleasantly surprised at how affectionate he seemed tonight.

It was the consequence of everything that had happened today on track, making you the somewhat only stable thing in his day-to-day life. Max liked having you close to him, and he was definitely not letting go of you for the rest of the night.

..........

Taglist: @umm-i-love-u @callsign-mirage @freyathehuntress @elieanana @suns3treading @fastandcurious16 @l3thal-l0lita (couldn't tag the last 2 people sorry guys)

Hope y'all enjoyed this🫶🏻🫶🏻 took me a while to write it omg like i respected the poll that showed most people wanted the whole triple header in chap so this ended up being almost 10k words lol

I'm trying to not be too repetitive when i talk ab the race weekends, so I'll keep doing my best during the rest of the season to spice things up a bit and also focus on what happens off track like i did a bit here!!

I've started writing for the miami gp, and it should be out next week (i hope😭) + I'll def write a short part ab jack being swapped w franco bc i need smth to cope w the driver change

See you soon, take care of yourselves, i love y'all xx

𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 | 𝙼𝚅𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x reporter!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where max and his reporter wife accidentally adopt five chaotic rookies and become the unofficial grid parents

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: sweet disposition - the temper trap

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The paddock was a hive of noise and motion as the sun began to dip over the circuit, golden rays catching the sweat on mechanics’ foreheads and the gleam of carbon-fiber wings. Post-race buzz hummed in the air—victory for some, frustration for others—but at the very center of it all stood the one woman who could command the attention of five energetic, half-exhausted rookies with nothing more than a look.

“You are not skipping cool down, I don’t care how much your legs hurt,” she said firmly, arms crossed as she stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit. “And Jack, stop trying to convince Gabriel to trade media slots with you.”

Jack Doohan blinked innocently. “Worth a try.”

Max, leaning a few feet away with his arms folded and an amused tilt to his lips, watched the scene with the same fondness someone might have when watching a cat try to wrangle five puppies. His wife—ever composed, ever commanding—had somehow become the gravitational center of the rookie pack, and Max had long since accepted his role as the silent co-pilot in their little operation.

“We need a whiteboard,” you muttered as Isack Hadjar arrived, hair still damp from his post-race shower. “I need a whiteboard. And a whistle.”

“You want a whistle?” Max asked.

“I want a bullhorn.”

Oliver Bearman arrived next, tugging off his cap and brushing sweat-damp curls back. “Are we doing interviews first or eating first? I swear I might pass out if—”

“You’ll eat after you give me one sentence that isn’t ‘the car felt good’ or ‘we take the positives,’” you cut in, tapping your iPad. “No bland quotes. I want actual thoughts.”

Gabriel Bortoleto offered him a protein bar from his pocket. “Here, you can survive five minutes.”

“You’ve had that in your pocket for two hours,” Oliver recoiled. “That’s like a biological weapon now.”

Kimi Antonelli, fresh from a P3 finish and visibly trying to act cooler than he felt, walked in just in time to see Oliver shoving the protein bar back at Gabriel like it was radioactive. “Children,” Kimi muttered under his breath.

Max straightened from the wall, clapping a hand lightly on Kimi’s shoulder. “Congrats, by the way. Good race.”

Kimi perked up at the rare praise from the four-time world champion, nodding once. “Thanks. Felt good after last weekend.”

Max didn’t say more, but the nod he returned carried weight—and Kimi caught it, posture squaring slightly.

You were already directing the boys into a loose circle outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, setting up for your impromptu group media debrief. The usual reporters had already swarmed them post-race, but yours was different—somewhere between an interview and a therapy session, half professional, half familiar. The boys trusted you. And Max… well, Max mostly observed, speaking when necessary, stepping in when the chaos got too loud or the mood shifted too dark.

Like now.

Isack had slumped onto the couch, jaw tight. He’d DNF’d—again. Three times in five races. The media had already started with the “overhyped” murmurs, and even though you hadn’t asked him to speak first, you noticed the way his leg bounced, eyes fixed on the floor.

You gave Max a look.

Without a word, he moved to sit beside the younger driver, not pressing, not announcing himself. Just… there. Solid. Real. Isack noticed, of course. Everyone did. It was rare for Max to show warmth like this outside the Red Bull bubble—but when he did, it hit hard.

“Tough race,” Max said simply.

Isack let out a breath. “Felt like I was driving blind. Car didn’t respond. Almost clipped the wall.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I might next time.”

“You won’t.”

There was no false encouragement in Max’s tone—just certainty. That unshakable Verstappen steel. Isack didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped a little, the tension leaking out.

You watched it happen, heart softening.

God, how had this become your life?

You—the paddock reporter who used to get mistaken for an intern. Max—the closed-off, stone-faced champion who’d once swore he’d never babysit rookies. And now here you both were: grid mum and dad, sitting on uncomfortable couches with five boys who had no idea how deeply they were cared for.

You cleared your throat. “Alright. Rapid-fire. Best moment of the race—go.”

“Overtaking Jack,” Gabriel said immediately.

“Hey!”

“Jack’s reaction, then,” Gabriel added.

Kimi smirked. “Probably my start. Got the jump on Piastri.”

“Oliver?”

“When I didn’t pass out from heat stroke on Lap 42.”

You nodded. “You hydrated?”

“Define hydrated.”

Max groaned. “You’re getting electrolytes now.”

“You sound like my physio.”

“I’m scarier than your physio.”

“He’s right,” you said. “He once threatened to throw Lando in a lake because he wouldn’t stretch properly.”

“It was a very shallow lake,” Max defended.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two nights later, the paddock chaos traded its background of engine whines and pit lane screeches for the quieter hum of your home — though “quieter” was a stretch with five young drivers crammed into your kitchen like it was a race briefing gone feral.

“I’m telling you, the mushroom ones are not real tortellini,” Jack insisted, poking at a package of fresh pasta like it had personally offended him.

“They are,” you sighed, pushing him gently out of the way as you balanced two saucepans and a tray of garlic bread. “They’re gourmet.”

“Italians would riot,” Kimi muttered from the dining table, scrolling through his phone.

“Then they can come over and cook,” Max deadpanned from the stovetop, where he was fiercely focused on carbonara like it was an FIA directive.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Oliver asked suspiciously, leaning over Max’s shoulder.

Max didn’t even look up. “I’ve watched like six Gordon Ramsay videos.”

“That’s not the same as cooking.”

“I beat two of you last week,” Max said, stirring the pasta. “You really want to test me on this, too?”

You hid your smile behind your wine glass. There was something inexplicably funny about watching your world-champion husband in sweatpants and socks, bickering with young adults over parmesan cheese.

And even funnier watching the rookies actually respect it.

Dinner, somehow, made it to the table in one piece — pasta, garlic bread, salad (which no one touched), and three types of fizzy drinks because “we’re not hydrating with water off-duty, Mum.”

Plates clinked. Conversation overlapped. Gabriel told a wild story about nearly missing a flight. Jack roasted Kimi for accidentally texting “love u” to his race engineer. Isack, now with a better result under his belt, looked lighter, laughing easily between bites.

It was loud. It was messy. It was perfect.

At one point, Max leaned back in his chair, just watching them. The dim kitchen lights caught in his hair, and his arm brushed against yours beneath the table.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“This is our insane,” you whispered back.

Halfway through dessert (store-bought tiramisu because you were not a miracle worker), Oliver spotted the old Nintendo Switch docked to the TV.

“Oh hell yes,” he gasped. “Do you guys have Mario Kart?”

Max blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“I’m calling dibs on Yoshi,” Jack declared, jumping up.

“No fair! You always play Yoshi!” Isack protested.

You blinked. “Wait, you guys… actually want to play a game here?”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ve literally been waiting for an invite.”

Kimi, still cool as ever, shrugged. “Let them embarrass themselves.”

You stood with your empty plate. “Max hasn’t lost a Mario Kart game in five years. Good luck.”

“Five years?” Oliver echoed. “Challenge accepted.”

And just like that, a Mario Kart tournament was born.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two hours, three arguments, and one broken Joy-Con later, the living room looked like a war zone.

Jack had screamed loud enough during one of the rounds that your neighbor’s dog had barked. Isack got so invested he’d physically ducked during a turn. Oliver tried to cheat by leaning over to press Gabriel’s buttons. Kimi sat straight-faced the entire time and still won twice. Without Max playing of course.

Max, of course, held his crown with quiet smugness, holding his controller like a weapon of war.

You sat curled up on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold, your heart full.

Because they weren’t just rookies. They weren’t just kids with team uniforms and talent and pressure pressing against their ribs. They were yours in a way that no one outside this circle would ever really understand.

You remembered how scared Oliver had looked when he’d been called up mid-season. How Isack had cried quietly after his third crash. How Gabriel had pulled you aside after a brutal interview, asking, “Do I actually belong here?”

How Kimi — calm, quiet, composed — had once confessed during a late media day, “Sometimes I think I’m boring. Like I’ll never be more than a name.”

And you’d been there. Max, too. Quiet in different ways, but always present.

You looked over at Max now. He had his arm slung along the back of the couch, eyes focused on the screen but clearly aware of the way you were watching him.

“You’re soft,” you whispered.

He gave a low laugh. “Don’t say that in front of them. They’ll never let me live it down.”

You leaned in. “Too late. I already told Kimi you teared up during that baby penguin documentary.”

“You what—”

You pressed your fingers to your lips. “Shhh. Grid dad’s gotta keep his edge.”

From the floor, Oliver shouted, “Okay but seriously, can we do this every week?”

Jack added, “I’ll bring dessert next time!”

Isack: “I’m bringing my own controller. I don’t trust these ones.”

Kimi, dry as ever: “Just admit you suck.”

Gabriel, mouth full of more tiramisu: “This is better than half the sponsor events we do.”

Max gave you a look.

You smiled.

“Every week?” he repeated, voice low, wry.

You looped your arm through his. “Every week.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The door clicked shut on the last of them just before midnight, leaving behind only the echoes of footsteps, laughter, and a faint smell of burnt garlic bread.

You stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the living room like it had personally betrayed you.

“Did Jack really spill soda on the couch again?” you asked, voice exhausted.

Max wandered in behind you, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he didn’t put the controller in the freezer this time.”

You blinked. “He what?”

“Long story.”

You groaned and collapsed onto the couch—carefully avoiding the suspiciously damp spot—and tossed your head back with a dramatic sigh. Max stood over you for a second, as if deciding whether to help clean or collapse next to you. Predictably, he picked the latter.

He sat with a grunt, thigh brushing yours. The room had settled into that warm, familiar silence that followed a day well spent—TV off, dishes drying, the chaos of earlier fading into the comfort of shared space.

“Do you ever wonder how the hell we got here?” you asked.

Max tilted his head toward you, brow raised. “Here as in… couch stained with soda and Mario Kart casualties?”

You gave him a dry look. “Here as in… being the unofficial grid parents to five emotionally chaotic, underfed children in motorsport.”

Max smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes. But I think I’d miss it if it stopped.”

You fell quiet, surprised.

“I used to think I was done with caring about anything outside my races,” he added after a beat. “Media, the circus, the drama. But now…” He glanced sideways. “You care. So I guess I started caring too.”

Your throat tightened.

“You do more than care,” you said softly. “You show up. Even when it’s quiet. When they need something and don’t know how to ask for it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “So do you.”

You leaned into him slightly, shoulder pressing to his.

There was a pause.

Then: “You think Oliver’s okay? He seemed distracted tonight.”

“Yeah,” Max said. “I caught him staring at his phone a lot. Could be pressure.”

“Or homesickness,” you said. “He mentioned something about his sister’s birthday.”

Max nodded. “I’ll talk to him at the track.”

You blinked. “You just volunteered for emotional labor.”

“I didn’t volunteer. I just said I’ll talk.”

“Which counts as—”

“Don’t.”

You grinned, sliding your hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused, familiar.

The two of you sat like that for a while. Just holding hands in a room that smelled like pasta and bad decisions, with a broken Joy-Con on the coffee table and your collective future somehow resting in the ability to balance mentorship, love, and motor racing chaos.

You hadn’t meant to become this. You hadn’t planned for the jokes about “grid mum and dad” to stick. But somewhere along the line—somewhere between media sessions and debriefs, late-night calls and race weekend dinners—it had turned real.

And despite all logic, it felt… right.

“I swear if Kimi calls me mum in public again, I’m walking into the ocean,” you muttered.

Max snorted. “I think he does it just to make you flinch.”

“I think he does everything just to make someone flinch.”

Silence again. Comfortable.

Then Max said, “You think they’re gonna be okay this season?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“They’ve got each other,” you said. “And they’ve got us.”

He nodded.

And that was it. That was the truth of it. The unspoken contract written in pasta dinners and post-race pep talks, quiet hallway chats and raucous living room tournaments. The family you never saw coming—but wouldn’t trade for anything.

Not even clean furniture.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The group chat was cursed.

You knew this the moment Jack renamed it “Grid Orphans Anonymous” and Kimi promptly changed it back to “Grid Children of Max & Mum.”

You groaned as the notification pinged at 2:12 a.m. on a race week.

Gabriel:

jack you absolute maniac you left your fireproofs in my hotel room

Jack:

I panicked! we swapped bags after the media thing remember???

also why is there a half-eaten protein bar in the pocket

Isack:

can we please just have one week without emergency?

Oliver:

guys max saw me spill my drink on the simulator

he didn’t say anything

just gave me the look

Kimi:

may God have mercy on your soul

You closed your phone and rolled over to Max, who was half-asleep and glaring at the ceiling like he could feel the idiocy through the walls.

“Tell me again why we let them have our numbers,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, pulling the duvet up to your ears. “This is your fault. You made eye contact with Oliver once and now you’re legally his father.”

“They need a manager,” he muttered.

“They need a babysitter. A live-in one. With military training.”

Max exhaled. “I’m not old enough to be a dad.”

You rolled onto your side. “Max, you yelled at Gabriel for not bringing a jacket in the rain. And earlier today, you said the phrase, ‘You’ll catch a cold like that.’ You are thirty.”

He blinked into the darkness. “That’s not that old.”

“You also made Kimi take a nap before media day.”

“He was cranky!”

“Oh my God.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two days later, at a sponsor event, it happened.

You were mid-conversation with a McLaren comms rep when you heard it—clear as day, across the crowd of journalists, VIPs, and crew.

“Hey, Dad, can I borrow your pen?”

Max visibly froze. The world slowed. Cameras clicked. PR reps turned.

Jack was holding out a Sharpie and looking at Max like nothing was wrong with the words he’d just said out loud, in front of dozens of people.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Max turned so slowly you thought his neck might snap.

“Don’t—call me that,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jack blinked. “But you are?”

“I’m not your dad, Doohan.”

Jack grinned, unbothered. “Sure, dad.”

You wheezed behind a camera rig.

Later, Max hissed in your ear, “He’s dead. I’m removing him from the will.”

“You’re not even his real father!”

“Exactly!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The final straw came at 7:04 AM on a blessedly rare day off.

The doorbell rang.

Twice.

Max, still shirtless and half-asleep, cracked the door open to find Oliver and Gabriel standing on your porch with smoothies and matching expressions of deep panic.

“…Why?” was all Max said.

“There’s a sponsor Q&A at nine,” Gabriel said. “They changed the location last night, and our hotel’s shuttle won’t get us there in time.”

Oliver held up a phone with the email. “We’re begging you. We didn’t know who else to call.”

Max looked like he aged ten years in five seconds. “Do I look like an Uber to you?”

You emerged in his hoodie and pajama shorts, took one look at the situation, and sighed like a saint.

“Get in the car,” you said. “No talking. If I don’t get coffee first, I’m leaving you in a parking lot.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later that day, after the boys had been safely dropped off (with strict instructions not to text before 10 a.m.), Max and you sat in the Red Bull motorhome, sipping your respective drinks in complete silence.

Max finally spoke. “We could’ve had another cat.”

You snorted. “We have enough cats.”

“So?”

“I think you secretly like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You like being the dad.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You do.”

He didn’t argue.

Just laced his fingers with yours under the table, silent and soft.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Somewhere across the paddock, five rookies sent the same text to the same chat:

Oliver:

race weekend dinner at yours again?

Gabriel:

i’ll bring snacks if Max promises not to cook

Kimi:

i’ll win mario kart again. just letting you all know.

Isack:

we should do a team quiz or smth. losers do pushups.

Jack:

do we think mum and dad will ever realize they adopted us

You smiled at the messages as they came in.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone.

“They’re coming for dinner again, aren’t they?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He sighed. “Fine. But if Jack calls me ‘Dad’ again, I’m unplugging the Switch.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

Reader is secretly married to Lando, and she starts using his sim, she misses him and she wants to feel closer and also really wants to learn (even if she is not ready to admit that she always had a thing for learning how it would feel to be in an actual f1 car). She creates a profile for herself for fun: Mrs Norris (which of course no one thinks it’s actually her). She becomes so good at it that she ends up beating the whole grid one time, and everyone is just wondering who the hell is this person…

👀👀👀👀

Very unrealistic, but well… 😂😂😂😂

Mrs Norris (Oneshot)

Lando Norris x Verstappen!Reader

Summary — It was only supposed to be a bit of fun, but really, what did she expect? Her surname might be Norris now, but she was born a Verstappen.

Notes — This was so fun!!!!!! Em, I will never not appreciate your cute ideas.

Lando had been gone for exactly twelve hours when she caved.

It wasn’t boredom—the Verstappen family didn’t do boredom. Her schedule was packed with gym sessions, influencer brunches, and brand events she had no real desire to attend.

But the apartment felt off without him. Too quiet. Too tidy.

And the sim rig—God, it just sat there. Smug. Taunting. Like it knew she’d eventually give in to its silent, high-tech seduction.

She told herself it was just curiosity. Racing was in her blood, even if she’d had zero interest as a kid. She used to stage silent protests just to get out of karting, sulking until her dad finally let her quit and focus on gymnastics instead.

Still, one harmless session wouldn’t hurt, right?

Just a few laps around Silverstone. Just something to do before bed.

Two hours later, she was red-faced, sweaty, and yelling at an AI Williams for brake-checking her into Turn 1.

She was terrible. Hilariously, painfully terrible.

But she was hooked.

—

By day three, she was watching tutorials, scribbling notes, and fine-tuning the seat and wheel setup like her life depended on it.

She texted Lando under the guise of checking in.

Hey handsome, you okay? Totally random, but what’s the best braking point for Eau Rouge?

He didn’t even question it—just sent a smug voice note with a full breakdown like she was a rookie on his team.

It made her want to destroy his time.

That night, she created a profile.

She debated using her real name, but that was a quick no. The username had to be anonymous… but also funny.

So she picked the most on-the-nose option possible.

@Mrs.Norris

It was meant to be a joke. A bit of fun. She never expected it to go anywhere.

She definitely didn’t expect to get good.

—

Two weeks in, she was holding her own in online lobbies. Four weeks in, she was winning. All of them.

Six weeks in, she entered a public charity sim race and beat George, Charles, and Alex.

The stream chat lost its collective mind.

Who TF is Mrs. Norris???

Actual alien pace.

Lando alt??

Plot twist: it’s Max Verstappen in disguise.

That last one made her laugh so hard she nearly fell out of the rig. The idea that they thought her brother was racing under her married name? Unhinged enough to make her cry.

Then came the text from Lando.

Lando:

Baby, are you using my sim under the username Mrs. Norris?

You:

Yep. And I beat them all.

Lando:

No. Shut up. You did not.

You:

Duh. I might be a Norris now, but I was born a Verstappen.

—

When he finally got home after the triple-header, he walked in to find her mid-race, cursing like a sailor, laser-focused, fire in her eyes.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.

She crossed the finish line five seconds clear of second place.

Slowly, she removed the headset. Even slower, she turned to face him, cheeks flushed pink.

“Hi,” she said softly, suddenly shy.

He didn’t say anything.

Then he grinned.

“Mrs. Norris,” he drawled, walking over to kiss her forehead, “we are so screwed if this gets out.”

She smiled. “It won’t. They think I’m Max.”

He leaned in, voice low. “You beat my Silverstone time.”

“Your fault for sounding all smug about Eau Rouge.”

He kissed her properly then, holding her like he hadn’t seen her in months.

And neither of them mentioned the way his hands trembled slightly at the thought of her in a real F1 car.

Because if her dad ever found out?

He’d have her in one tomorrow.

enough | mv1

500 celly request: prompt #33- “why wasn’t i enough?” w/ max

author’s note: teehee this hurt my feelings and i hope it hurts yours too 😋

warnings: hurt no comfort

word count: 1.9k

you’re wearing the dress he loves when it all falls apart.

the floor length gown that max zipped you into hours ago, humming as you smoothed the red silk fabric down, him pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you.

you thought you were happy then, or you were at least pretending well enough that everyone around you believed it.

now, as you step back into the luxurious hotel room, max close behind you, the silence is oppressive and unbearable.

you don’t move to unzip the dress, and he doesn’t move to help you either. the tension in the room is palpable, but neither of you say anything to diffuse the situation.

the fight inadvertently started at the red bull gala, with one stupid lighthearted comment from christian, which instead landed like a grenade between you and max.

—————————

“still not engaged, verstappen?” christian teased, clapping max on the back with the grin that you barely managed not to grimace at. “you better put a ring on her before someone else decides to.”

everyone involved in the conversation laughed, max laughing as you force a brittle smile onto your face to play along.

but you don’t miss the way max’s hand tightens on your leg under the table, the tension that seemed to snap into existence.

and the rest of the night the crack seemed to keep spreading between the two of you. you played it off, but you know the tension was bound to boil over as soon as you got out of the public eye.

cracking a bit more with every media censored answer, every fake laugh, every glance you saw him give you out of the corner of your eye.

—————————

you knew this wasn’t about a ring.

it was about everything the ring meant that he couldn’t seem to promise you, the roots he would never lay down, the timelines that never came to fruition.

your eyes watch him now as he paces the room, tugging his cufflinks off his suit jacket as he pries the bowtie off his neck with rough movements. his suit jacket is shoved down his shoulders, hitting the chair in the corner of the room with more force than is necessary.

“you’re mad,” he mutters, his voice low as he looks up at you, slipping off your earrings, facing away from him.

it’s not a question, like he knows what every microscopic shift in your facial expressions tell him.

you swallow thickly, unclasping the necklace from around your throat. “i’m not mad,” you say quietly, which is true. you’re heartbroken. and that’s so much worse.

heartbreak is a silent killer, the kind of sadness you don’t know how to address out loud without falling apart, and you can’t bring yourself to say anything further.

he exhales through his nose, running a hand over his forehead like he’s been dealing with a headache from this future conversation all night. he cards a hand through his hair, scratching briefly at the crown of his head.

“you knew what this was,” he grits out, jaw tight. “you knew what my life was like when we started all of this.”

you flinch like he slapped you.

not because he’s being too harsh, or lying, but because it’s fully the truth. you’ve always known something like this might happen, and you decided to love him anyways.

“max, i can’t..” you start, fighting off the lump of emotions rising rapidly in your chest. “i can’t just keep following you around forever. i can’t keep putting my own life and career on hold, waiting for a future that might never happen.”

he turns to face you, and you feel your lip tremble at the conflicting emotions on his own face. his shirt is slightly rumpled, the first few buttons shoved open.

he looks exhausted. but he looks so beautiful and wrecked all at the same time, so far away even though he’s standing less than ten feet away.

“you’re asking me to stop,” he says, his tone flat and calculating, like he’s discussing strategy and not your relationship. “you want me to give it all up. to what, settle down with you?”

“i don’t want you to give anything up,” you whisper, eyes shining with tears. “i just want you to want something with me.”

the space between you might as well be a chasm with the way he looks at you, and you feel your throat close up with emotion.

you can tell that this is the end, even if neither of you say it outright. but it’s been over for a long time. you just managed to keep avoiding it every time he would smile at you from a podium or surprise you with hotel upgrades when he knew you were coming along for a race.

the tension between you is thick, but fragile, like a glass pane waiting to shatter upon impact.

max drags a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the conversation away from existence, his eyes landing on you again.

“i can’t be who you need me to be,” he mutters, his tone softer and almost apologetic.

everything that has been building up seems to break wide open, the metaphorical glass shattering between you.

you don’t cry or scream, instead just nodding solemnly and walk past him toward the balcony, your heels clicking on the marble floor as you pass by.

the cool night air almost stings as it hits your face, heavy with salt from the waves crashing against the rocky shore not even two miles from the room, past the busy city.

your head is pulsing as you blink out the tears threatening to spill out of your eyes, looking down to the streets below. you know he loves you, but everything tonight almost seemed to cement your worst fears.

you hear him behind you, the subtle creak of the balcony door swinging shut again barely audible over the sound of the cresting waves. you’re gripping the railing beneath you so hard your knuckles are white, and you’re unaware you’re shivering until you feel the weight of his suit jacket being placed over your shoulders.

he stands close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, but not close enough to touch any part of you. the whole world seems to be holding its breath, witnessing the fragility of the moment unfurling on this small little balcony.

for a long moment, neither of you say anything, just staring out at the same city where you two had met years ago.

and then you ask the only thing that’s been circling in your head since you got back here, the words breaking loose before you can think to stop yourself.

“why wasn’t i enough?”

you don’t even attempt to look at him as you say it, you know you can’t. you keep your gaze forward, lip trembling when you feel him shift closer to you, his hand cupping your cheek like it’s the last time he’ll be allowed to touch you.

max’s lips brush over your forehead, and you can feel him trembling as he presses a kiss to your skin.

you make a quiet, pained sound, eyes looking away from him even as he guides your face toward him. the way he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shut down your question with comments of how you are enough for him.

the city goes on without you, like everything is still moving forward even as you stand here, feeling like this is the end of the only thing you thought was stable in your life.

it’s like the waves crashing are mocking you, freely moving about the shoreline as you stay frozen in place, shaking again.

“i’ll get my stuff,” you say finally, not looking at him as you subconsciously pull his suit jacket tighter around your shoulders, shifting away from his warm touch.

you can’t look at him. because if you do, you’ll crumble and stay like you always have. you’ll pretend it’s enough to warrant getting put behind his racing, until something happens and shakes everything loose again.

you know he wants to try and fix this, some small hopeful part of you wishing he will just kiss you, pull you in tight enough against his chest until you can forget this night happened.

the stupid bit of hope that your love for each other is enough to fill in the cracks fades more, and you both know it. the jealousy that’s been simmering low in your body for never getting priority in his life has been rotting inside you for months, the way racing will always be his first loyalty, and his biggest love.

you were always going to be second.

the wind catches your hair, whipping a strand against your face so hard you have to blink, finally sending a tear down your cheek. you wipe it off quickly, ashamed that you’re seeming to fracture into pieces while he stands stoically beside you.

max lets out a shaky breath, his hand coming into view in your peripheral, like he’s going to reach for you again. “you don’t have to..” he starts, voice shaky and raw with emotion.

you could stay.

you could turn towards him, let him wrap his arms around you, let your forehead rest against his chest and hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat and feel his breathing shake because he thought he was going to lose you.

you could let him kiss the corner of your mouth, whisper apologies as he takes you to bed and makes promises to you for a future he doesn’t want, promises he can’t keep.

but it would only delay the inevitability of what you both fully realized tonight. and it’s going to hurt worse the longer you keep it going.

your hands find the railing of the balcony again as you steady yourself, sighing.

“i can’t keep being the thing you come back to when you’re done chasing after what you really want.” you whisper, so quiet against the sound of the waves that you’re not even sure he’s heard you.

a small piece of yourself wants to look at him, to see him crying too, but you don’t. you don’t want to remember him like this, torn between you and the life he’s chosen over you time and time again.

max shifts on his feet again, and you can tell he’s fighting the urge to pull you into him and kiss your worries away.

the unspoken realization that this is over hangs between the two of you, and the knowledge that letting you go is the only right thing he can do right now.

and worst of all? you don’t hate him for it. you could never hate him.

you love him too much to make him choose, and he loves you too much to lie about what that choice would be.

the lights of the city blur into fuzzy stars behind the unshed tears still shining in your eyes, and you let out a shaky breath.

you turn, careful not to meet his gaze, and brush past him back into the empty room where your suitcase sits still packed by the door from your rushed flight here.

max doesn’t follow you back in, but you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you grab the few things you unpacked earlier for the gala, wincing to himself when he hears you sniffling.

but for the first time in a long time, he lets you go without any plans on how to fix this, and you leave the room knowing that he never will.

DON'T LEAVE ME

Ollie Bearman X fem!reader

Summary: When Ollie accompanies Y/n to her endoscopy. The anesthesia can make her say funny things, but also, some questions that make Ollie's heart break.

Words: 3.0K+

Warnings: Mention of the hospital, surgery (but nothing serious), Y/n under anesthesia, cute, funny, a bit of insecurity, mention of Y/n's almost profession, anguish, but romantic and happy ending.

Author: English is not my first language, so apologies for any spelling mistakes and slang that may be in the story. ❤️🇧🇷

MASTERLIST

Ollie wasn't the type to pass up any opportunity to take care of Y/n—not even when she said, with all the firmness in the world, that everything was fine, that it was just an endoscopy check-up, nothing serious.

But for him, there was no such thing as "anything major" when it involved her.

"What if I let you go alone and you, numb, start telling me everything we do in a room? No, no! I need to be there to ensure my reputation!" He said with a mischievous smile, drawing a rolled, but amused, look from her.

Now, a few hours later, Ollie was alone in the room where Y/n would recover. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, his cell phone in his hands, but his eyes fixed on the screen without really taking anything in. His leg was bouncing up and down, fast, as if his body reflected the silent whirlwind of his mind.

He knew, rationally, that it was a simple procedure. She herself had explained it a thousand times. But the most idiotic and unwanted thoughts insisted on going around in his head, creating catastrophic scenarios.

It was disgusting how anxiety acted like that.

The door opened with a soft creak and a friendly nurse smiled at Ollie. Right behind, the doctor was pushing a wheelchair where Y/n was sitting, her head resting on her hand and her eyes blinking slowly, completely groggy.

Ollie smiled the moment he saw her. He jumped up from his chair, his heart relieving just seeing that familiar, yet somewhat lost, face.

"She's still under the anesthesia." The doctor explained, stopping beside the bed. "The procedure went excellently, we didn't find any abnormalities, everything was clean.

Ollie let out a sigh of relief, resting his hands on his hips.

"Thank God." He murmured with a tender smile.

The nurse began to help Y/n out of the chair and put her on the bed. She snuggled into the pillow almost immediately, with that lazy and cute movement of someone who just wanted to go back to sleep.

"She may say some nonsense because of the anesthesia, but it should pass within 30 minutes to 1 hour." The doctor completed. "If she exhibits anything else out of the ordinary, notify the nurses' desk down the hall."

"Okay, I'll do that if I need to." Ollie nodded. The doctor and nurse left the room, closing the door behind them.

Ollie stood there for a few seconds, watching Y/n lying there, her eyes heavy. A warm relief filled his chest. He approached carefully, arranging the blanket about her. He sat down next to her, again in the armchair, holding her hand between his, observing every detail.

Y/n slowly opened her eyes and frowned when she saw him. "Where am I?"

"Hospital."

She looked around.

"Hospital?"

Ollie nodded, trying to hold back his laughter.

"Damn... I wish I was in a diamond castle like Barbie's and had a prince charming as my chauffeur."

"Look, this isn't a diamond castle and I'm not a prince, but I can be your private driver."

She smiled, still a little dazed, with a small smile. "As long as there's music in the car and you buy me a milkshake later..."

"Deal" Ollie said, chuckling and patting her hand lightly.

Y/n looked at their intertwined hands and frowned.

"Hey, you can't hold my hand like that... I have a boyfriend and I love him so much." She let go of his hand and ducked under the covers. Ollie laughed.

"Wow! Passed the loyalty test and everything. Wow!" Y/n made a confused face, and he leaned in with a smile. "It's me, Y/n. Oliver. Your boyfriend."

She pushed herself up a little, supporting herself on her elbows, and Ollie stepped closer to make sure she didn't fall over.

"My boyfriend? You?"

"Myself. Your boyfriend. With a ring and an apartment."

Y/n smiled as if she had won the greatest prize in the world.

"Ah... then I chose well."

Ollie's heart melted. He chuckled softly as she lay back down, gripping his hand more firmly.

"Do people live together?"

"Yes, we recently bought an apartment."

Her eyes widened. "Wow! That's really cool... how long have we been dating?"

"Let me think... about five or six years?"

"Wow, a really, really long time..."

"It's just that when I love, I stay." Ollie said with a sweet smile.

"If we've been together for so long... have you asked me to marry you yet?"

Ollie's eyes widened and he burst out laughing. "My God, you're really rude with these questions right now."

Y/n smiled, turning to him.

"How many times have we kissed? Do you remember the first time you saw me without makeup? It was horrible, wasn't it?"

Ollie laughed, confused by the bombardment.

"Okay, princess of the diamond castle! One question at a time!" He held up his hands. "Here we go: we've kissed more times than I can count, but I remember the first time—it was after the movies, you were wearing that silly strawberry sweatshirt. And the first time I saw you without makeup? It was perfect. Because you were just...you."

Y/n nodded slowly, looking around.

"Have we ever... you know... done adult dating things?"

Ollie coughed in surprise. "OH MY GOD, Y/N! You're putting me in a very unfair situation here!"

She chuckled softly. "Just scientific curiosity."

"Yeah, scientist, of course! I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, crazy doctor." He said, squeezing her hand affectionately.

"If we had a child, do you think it would have your nose or mine?"

"Probably yours. Mine's kind of boring."

"Your nose is cute... it looks like an elevator button." She wrinkled her nose, smiling.

Ollie frowned, laughing. "What?"

"Cute... makes you want to squeeze it."

"Now I'm scared you'll try to use my nose to get to the 12th floor."

Y/n smiled and began to blink slowly, looking at the ceiling. Ollie thought she was going to sleep and began to caress her hand and her brown locks lightly, lulling her to rest. But she opened her eyes again.

"Did you know that octopuses have three hearts? And that they dissolve if they get too sad?"

Ollie arched an eyebrow.

"That explains why you cry when you watch margarine commercials. You're an octopus!"

"It's not because of the margarine... it's the warm bread..."

"Of course, the drama of warm bread." He replied, smiling.

"You know what else? I once read that sleeping in a spoon position helps with immunity..."

"So we'll live to be a hundred years old."

"Yes..." She stirred happily in bed. "Or until the bones turn to fairy dust."

"That's it, love. Until our bones turn to Tinker Bell dust."

Her eyes lit up at that reference. "I remember I really wanted to be Tinkerbell when I was little..."

"Did you wish you had wings?"

"No. I wanted to throw magic dust at others and fly away when they scolded me."

Ollie laughed.

"Fair enough. Very emotionally healthy."

"I also had a phase where I thought Peter Pan was my boyfriend. Sorry, my love."

"No hard feelings. I'll just keep an eye out if he shows up in a green leotard."

She laughed, still a little groggily, and then turned around, a fond smile on her face.

"You're so beautiful, you know that?"

"Thanks, honey... do you still think I'm cute? I've been up all night and my hair is all messed up."

Y/n squeezed his hand lightly.

"Yes... looks like an angel... tired... but an angel."

"An angel on duty?"

"Exactly." She smiled, her eyes closing. "And you smell nice... like home... like my favorite pillow."

Ollie squeezed her hand and murmured, "You're my favorite pillow too, for the record."

The room was silent, muffled by a soft light that filtered through the window. And Y/n sighed, tired, her eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall.

"Back to talking about marriage..."

Ollie's eyes widened slightly, surprised by the sudden change of subject. But she continued, calmly, as if it had been on her mind for some time.

"Do you think if we got married, we should get a dog or a turtle?"

Ollie smiled, letting his body sink a little deeper into the chair.

"Hmm... dog, but only if he likes sleeping late and eating leftover pizza."

"What if we had a house with a balcony? One of those with a hammock..."

"And a giant couch, with room for your cold feet," Ollie added, still smiling.

She let out a muffled chuckle.

"And the walls would be yellow." Y/n hums.

"I didn't approve of that, calm down." Ollie said, amused.

Y/n paused for a moment, her eyes still on the wall, and she became serious. "Okay, okay, love. I'm sorry..."

Ollie held back a laugh. It was so like her to apologize for the silliest things.

And silence filled the room again. She closed her eyes, relaxing, almost giving in to sleep. Ollie reached out and began to gently stroke her hair. The only sound she could hear was the muffled rumble of the city.

Suddenly, she began to laugh softly, as if she had heard something that only she could understand.

"Listen, listen..." Ollie looked at her curiously. "My heart is singing..." She laughed again, softly, delighted with her own sentence.

Ollie frowned and laughed along.

"Are you sure you're just numb or did you end up drinking alcohol in there?"

Y/n didn't respond, she just kept laughing as if the world was lighter. Then he hummed some made-up tune.

She opened her eyes and saw Ollie smiling at her goofily. Suddenly, her eyes widened, as if a penny had just dropped.

"OMG, I REMEMBER! You're a Formula 1 driver!"

Ollie laughed, delighted.

"Yes, and you fell in love with a crazy guy who runs at 300 Kilometers per hour"

"Have you ever wanted to honk your horn in the middle of a race?"

"Love, there's no horn on an F1 car."

"So how do you curse others?"

"With the hand and with the radio."

Y/n laughed, finding that the funniest thing in the world.

"Are you the type to swear nicely or swear badly?"

"It depends. If it's Verstappen, I'll swear badly."

She put her hand over her mouth, feigning shock. "OLLIIIEE!"

"You just asked me!"

She blinked slowly and murmured, her eyes dreamy, "Have we ever taken a bath together? Like, a real bath..."

Ollie couldn't contain his laughter and closed his eyes.

"Bath? What do you mean 'a real bath'?"

"I really do. With shampoo, conditioner and everything..."

"We've drowned in soap suds a few times."

Y/n blushed. "That sounds a lot like us."

"Yeah!"

She turned slightly in bed.

"I'm really weird, right? Kind of silly, kind of lost..."

"You look beautiful."

"You are obliged to say that."

"No. I'm your boyfriend. And your number one fan. I say that by choice."

Y/n smiled, her eyes slightly teary. "I like it when you talk like that. It makes my heart stop hurting."

"Was it hurting?" Ollie asked cautiously.

"No..."

Ollie laughed. But she frowned.

"But would you love me if I were a worm?"

The pilot's eyes widened. "A worm?"

"You wouldn't love it, right?..." Y/n began to cry silently. Ollie leaned over, concerned, and gently wiped her face.

"Hey, hey. I would love you if you were a worm, okay? I would make a garden just for you to roam free and eat dirt..."

"Thank you..." She sniffs.

"You're welcome, love!" The pilot smiles, holding back his laughter.

The room became quiet again. Ollie continued to caress her hair, and Y/n settled down, curled up, warm under the blanket. She seemed to have fallen asleep. He smiled, relieved, and picked up his phone, scrolling slowly.

But then, in a low voice, she spoke again,

"Have you seen the other pilots' girlfriends? I mean... they're beautiful, aren't they?"

Ollie lowered his phone, alert.

"Beautiful...? In what sense?"

"They have these amazing jobs, like model, businesswoman, artist... You know? And me... I'm just an aeronautics student."

Ollie looked at her, surprised.

"Just an aeronautics student? Y/n, do you realize that? You're literally an airplane pilot! You're a thousand times more amazing than any of them!"

Y/n smiled slightly, hesitantly.

"But they always seem so confident, so collected. Beautiful. Elegant. I'm just... me."

Ollie leaned closer, his voice softer, "Are you just you? Y/n, you've always been true to who you are. And that's what made me fall in love the most. You have this light... this way of seeing the world with rocket eyes and a marshmallow heart."

Y/n chuckled softly, groggily.

"Rocket eyes, Ollie?"

"Yes! You see everything with intensity, passion. And even when you feel small, you keep trying. That is much bigger than any standard."

Y/n looked at him, still with tears in her eyes.

"Do you really think so?"

"I'm sure. And if one day you forget... I'll repeat it a thousand times. Because you're my standard." She reached for his hand. "I'm here reminding you that you're perfect and that I love you."

Her voice came out as a whisper lost in the sheets. "They have blonde hair... blue eyes... haven't you ever wondered if you'd be happier with someone like that?"

Ollie felt his chest tighten so much that it hurt to breathe. This wasn't just silly jealousy. It was insecurity, raw and alive, and he felt every crack of it echo through him.

Before he could respond, she continued.

"Do you think you'll ever get tired of me? Because... if you look at it, the other pilots' previous girlfriends were just like me. Simple. Students. From small families. And they traded them for powerful women... with blonde hair and eyes the color of the sea..."

The tears flowed soundlessly. Only then came a sniffle and a whisper. "I'm scared, Ollie..."

He felt his heart shatter. The air seemed trapped between his lungs. The pain of seeing her like this, so fragile, so overcome with fear, made him wish he could take every single one of those doubts away from her and cast them away forever.

Ollie sat up straighter, his eyes fixed on her. His voice was firm but thick with emotion.

"Honey, listen to one thing: I am NOT them. And you are NOT replaceable. I didn't fall in love with you because of the color of your eyes or your hair... I fell in love because when you talk about airplanes, your eyes light up. Because you dance barefoot around the house, with incredible energy. Because you are a captivating person who wins over everyone around you. Because you are a determined, strong woman who fights for her dreams. Because you make me laugh even when the world seems heavy. Because you ARE and always will be my best friend... And because, even when you are scared, you are the bravest person I know..." Ollie held back his own tears. "Because you, my love. Are the person I always waited to spend the rest of my life with. I love you so, so, SO MUCH. These last six years that I've been with you have been the best of my life, and I know that we will still have many happy years ahead of us. Because I want to marry you, build a family, travel the world and conquer the moon!"

Y/n cried helplessly, her eyes red. "Please, don't leave me..."

Ollie couldn't keep his distance any longer. He got up from the chair and lay down next to her, pulling her gently into his arms. Her body fit against his, her sobs still shaky but beginning to calm.

He hugged her tightly, feeling her heart beat fast against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, whispering.

"I will never leave you. Nothing in this world would make me change you. Because you are my home, Y/n. It's where my heart rests. Where my laughter lives. Where I am whole. And even if one day the whole world changes, I will continue to choose you. Every day."

Y/n closed her eyes, still sobbing softly, but holding tightly to his shirt, as if holding on to a promise. Ollie hugged her tighter, stroking her back slowly.

The room, previously illuminated by light, now seemed enveloped in the melancholy she exuded. He took a deep breath, pulling her closer and resting his chin on the top of her head.

"You don't need to be a model, or have eyes the color of the sea..." He began, his voice low and full of sincerity. "Because you are already all I need to see the sky."

Y/n, even with wet eyes, looked up at him, as if that affection was slowly sewing together every broken piece inside her. Ollie wrapped her even tighter, and with a slight smile on his lips, he continued.

"All I can think about is our future. I know how much you love making plans, so listen to mine..." His palm gently caressed her back, his fingers tracing a comforting path. "I want to be with you when you take your first solo flight." Ollie said, looking up at the ceiling as if he could see their sky there. "I want to be in the audience, screaming louder than everyone else, when you get your diploma. I want our house, with kids running around the yard, knocking over flowerpots and staining the walls."

Y/n smiled, even with tears in her eyes, and he noticed. He took advantage of the moment, pressing his forehead against hers.

"I want to be the guy who holds your hand when you think you can't... and reminds you that you can do anything, anything at all."

A softer sob escaped Y/n, as if her heart was being carefully cradled by his words.

"Besides..." Ollie chuckled, lowering his tone to a conspiratorial whisper. "Blue-eyed blondes? Pff. None of them look as good in army uniforms as you do."

Y/n let out a muffled chuckle, hiding her face in his neck, blushing.

"Because let me tell you..." He said with a smug smile. "You look extremely hot and sexy in them!"

She actually laughed now, still shy, and he took the opportunity to kiss her cheek affectionately, a long and secure kiss.

"Here it is..." Ollie murmured against her skin. "My favorite sound from the person I love the most."

Author: I would probably never be chosen, I'm a tall brunette, with brown eyes and from a small family hahahahah Just kidding.

Media Day Mayhem

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary... What should’ve been a simple twenty-minute press conference turns into full-blown chaos when Charles brings the kids along—and then the kids get their own turn behind the mic.

Warnings: Pure fluff, kid chaos, dad!Charles, teasing, swearing mentioned by children (in French), banter, major secondhand embarrassment

A/N: you guys... the way I had too much fun writing this! I hope you guys enjoy this little story. I would love to actually see a moment like this in the future maybe. That would be iconic. I hope you guys enjoy it. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next!!

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 fics and soft chaos like this, feel free to buy me a matcha 🍵 or reblog/comment to share the love!

As always—happy reading, and have a beautiful day today

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy :)

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

The press conference was supposed to last twenty minutes. Just a few pre-weekend questions before FP1, some sponsor shoutouts, and a bit of media fluff. Charles had done this a hundred times. Easy.

What he hadn’t done a hundred times was a press conference with all three of his children clinging to him like magnets to a fridge.

“Mila, baby, don’t twist that,” Charles says quietly into his mic, gently removing his daughter’s hand from the cord running down his chest. She’s seated sideways on his lap, twirling the cable like it’s spaghetti. His twin boys, Luca and Jules, are squished on either side of him on the small bench Ferrari provided — all three with messy chestnut curls identical to their father’s.

“Charles, you’ve had a strong start to the season. What would you attribute that to?” a reporter asks.

Charles smiles, glancing down quickly at Luca, who’s trying to sneakily remove one of his shoes.

“Uh—consistency, for sure. And a lot of work with the team during the off-season,” he answers, his voice smooth despite the circus unfolding around him.

“I want to talk!” Jules blurts out, grabbing at the microphone in front of his dad. “I’m fast too!”

“You are very fast,” Charles replies automatically, pressing a quick kiss to his son’s temple as reporters chuckle.

“I beat Mila in the hallway!” Jules announces proudly.

“You cheated!” Mila screeches.

Charles coughs to cover his laugh. “Okay, okay, let’s not yell, we are live on camera, darlings.”

Another journalist attempts to move things along. “Charles, what’s your mindset going into qualifying tomorrow?”

Before he can answer, Luca pipes up: “Papa said the car was ‘a pain in the—’”

Charles snaps his fingers in front of him. “Luca! What did we say about telling secrets?”

Jules leans toward the mic. “Mummy says we can’t say ‘merde’ either.”

Charles hides his face with his hand for a beat as the media room loses it with laughter.

From the wings, you — Y/N — shake your head, arms crossed but clearly amused. Charles glances over at you like please come rescue me, but you're already motioning for the boys to come to you.

“Alright, boys, go with Maman,” Charles says, ushering them off the bench.

“Can we get snacks now?” Mila asks, hopping down and walking backwards toward you.

“Only if you stop tattletelling,” Charles replies sternly.

Jules makes a face as you crouch and hold their hands on either side of you, whispering something that makes them all go quiet and pouty at the same time.

Charles watches for a second longer than he means to—how you always manage to calm them down like magic—before turning back to the mic.

“Apologies. Where were we?”

“Honestly?” one of the reporters grins. “This is better than Drive to Survive.”

Charles laughs. “Welcome to my real full-time job.”

As he tries to finish the final question, he feels a small tug at his pants. Mila has snuck back on stage with her stuffed bunny.

“I forgot Bun-Bun,” she whispers.

He grabs it quickly and hands it to her with a gentle ruffle to her hair. “Okay, allez, go sit with Maman now.”

She nods seriously, then skips off.

Charles clears his throat. “Anyway—thank you all. I think I’m going to go find a quiet corner to cry in now.”

The media room erupts into chuckles again as Charles walks off, applesauce pouch tucked in one hand, baby wipes in the other, and you waiting with a knowing smirk and two giggling little boys tugging at your sleeves.

Charles barely made it three meters off the stage before Mila tugged on his sleeve and declared, “It’s our turn now.” He blinked, confused, until he spotted the row of miniature chairs being set up at the front of the room—and the Ferrari PR team, looking far too pleased with themselves as they waved the kids forward like VIP guests. Jules had already climbed onto one of the seats, Luca was dragging a juice box across the floor like it was part of his media kit, and Mila marched toward the microphone like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. Charles stared for a beat, caught between horror and awe.

This was not on the schedule, he thought, eyes narrowing. Whose idea was this? Did Y/N sign off on this? Is this revenge for the broken espresso machine?

He looked toward you for backup, but you were already leaning against the wall, arms crossed and smirking like you’d known this was coming all along. When you caught his eye, you shrugged playfully and whispered, “You survived your press conference. Good luck surviving theirs.”

Charles let out a breath, resigned, and folded his arms across his chest. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered under his breath, watching his children take the stage with terrifying confidence.

Ferrari may build the fastest cars in the world, but nothing moves quicker than my own kids when there’s a microphone involved.

The Ferrari media tent is buzzing with cameras, press badges, and a surprising amount of juice boxes.

——

A journalist clears their throat. “Alright… first question for Mila. What’s it like having a Formula One driver as a papa?”

Mila: “Loud.” Jules: “Fast.” Luca: “Sweaty.”

Everyone bursts into laughter. Mila shrugs. “He yells a lot on the radio. I don’t think he knows we can hear it sometimes.”

Charles covers his face with both hands.

Another reporter tries to keep a straight face. “Jules, if you were in charge of Ferrari, what would you change first?”

Jules (serious): “Make the cars green.”

Luca: “And add rocket launchers!”

Charles chokes.

Mila (disapproving): “That’s not safe. I’d make the suits pink and add glitter so they sparkle on TV.”

Reporter: “What do you think Papa says the most on race day?”

Jules: “Merde.”

Mila: “No! He says ‘focus.’ And ‘where’s my drink?’” Luca: “And ‘WHY ARE THE TYRES GONE?!’”

The room is losing it. Charles is whispering something to Y/N, who is fully crying from laughter.

A hand goes up from a British reporter. “Luca, if you won a race, what would be the first thing you'd do?”

Luca (without hesitation): “Call my mumma.”

Everyone collectively awws—until he adds:

Luca: “And then eat a chocolate croissant the size of my head.”

Mila (muttering): “That already happened.”

Reporter: “Jules, do you like watching the races?”

Jules: “Only the start. Then I get bored and play Hot Wheels.”

Mila: “I watch the whole thing. I have a clipboard and give Papa scores.”

Luca: “She gave him a 6 last time and he almost won.”

Mila: “He messed up the overtake.”

Charles looks wounded.

Final question from a German journalist: “Mila, what advice would you give your Papa before his next race?”

Mila leans into the mic like a pro.

Mila: “Be brave. Go fast. And don’t cuss if the tires fall off.”

Everyone in the room breaks into applause as Charles walks forward, scooping Luca into his arms while Mila and Jules are immediately surrounded by press taking photos and asking for high fives.

Y/N slips a hand into Charles’, her smile wide. “They handled that better than you did.”

Charles grins, eyes still on his little trio. “They’re natural born media drivers.”

——

Back at the hotel that evening, Charles was flat on his back on the couch, eyes closed, two juice box wrappers on his chest. You were sitting cross-legged beside him, flicking through the photos already going viral online—Mila adjusting her mic like a pro, Jules midair off the chair, Luca holding up fingers like he was flashing a gang sign.

“Next time,” Charles murmured, eyes still shut, “we tell them I only have one child. Maybe two, max.”

You smiled, brushing curls from his forehead. “Sure, baby. But admit it… they kind of stole the show.”

He cracked an eye open, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not even mad.”

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

The pretty interviewer

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You are Max's favorite interviewer...so much that he will not stop flirting with you.

Warning: None

Three Races Earlier...

You stand off to the side of the paddock, fidgeting with your Sky Sports F1 microphone. Being the newest member of the broadcasting team means you usually get the less prominent interviews, while the veteran reporters get drivers like Max Verstappen. Today, you're supposed to be interviewing one of the midfield teams.

The buzz in the paddock suddenly intensifies as Max emerges from the Red Bull garage after his stunning pole position. A swarm of reporters immediately crowds his path, microphones thrust forward, voices overlapping with "Max! Max, a moment, please!"

You watch from your quiet corner as he walks past them all, his expression neutral, barely acknowledging their presence. It's a familiar scene – Max is known for being selective with media, often choosing to speak only with a handful of senior reporters.

That's why your heart nearly stops when his eyes suddenly lock onto you. His face transforms with a smile, and before you can process what's happening, he's changing direction, walking purposefully toward your corner.

"Sorry," he says to the shocked reporters behind him, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm giving my first interview to her."

Your producer's voice crackles in your earpiece: "Wait, what's happening?"

Max stops right in front of you, that signature half-smile playing on his lips. "Hi," he says simply, as if he hasn't just snubbed every major broadcaster in the paddock.

"I... um..." You scramble to gather your thoughts, acutely aware of the jealous stares from the other reporters. "Hi?"

He laughs softly at your confusion. "You're new, right? I've seen you around. You ask good questions – technical ones. Not just the usual PR stuff."

"I... yes, I started this weekend," you manage to say, still stunned. "But shouldn't you be talking to—"

"I'm talking to exactly who I want to be talking to," he interrupts, his Dutch accent somehow stronger when speaking quietly. "So, would you like to hear about that qualifying lap?"

𐙚

That first interview changed everything. Since then, Max has insisted on giving you his post-session interviews, each one becoming progressively more flirtatious than the last. Which brings you to today...

The Red Bull garage looms ahead as you adjust your Sky Sports F1 microphone for the thousandth time. Post-qualifying interviews are routine by now, but nothing about interviewing Max Verstappen has ever felt routine. Especially not since he started doing... whatever this is.

"Three minutes," your producer says through your earpiece. You try to focus on your questions, but all you can think about is last week's interview, when Max had deliberately held your gaze so long you'd forgotten the second half of your question.

He emerges from the garage, race suit tied at his waist as usual. Your heart does that familiar stutter-step as he approaches, wearing that infuriating half-smile that makes you forget basic English.

"Max, congratulations on another pole position—" you begin professionally.

"Thanks," he interrupts, eyes twinkling. "I was hoping it would be you interviewing me today."

You feel the heat creep up your neck. Stay professional, you remind yourself. "That last lap was incredible. How did you find the grip through—"

"The grip was good," he says, then leans slightly closer than necessary. "But you seem a bit nervous today. Everything okay?"

Your producer snickers in your ear. Traitor.

"I'm perfectly fine," you manage, though your voice comes out higher than intended. "About turn three—"

"You're cute when you're flustered," he says quietly, just low enough that the microphone won't pick it up. The smirk playing on his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

You nearly drop your notebook. "I'm trying to conduct an interview here," you whisper back, fighting a smile.

"And I'm trying to ask you out," he counters smoothly, before raising his voice back to interview level. "But yes, turn three was tricky today. The crosswind made it challenging."

Your face feels like it's on fire. You're painfully aware of the camera rolling, capturing what must be the most unprofessional blush in F1 broadcasting history.

"Speaking of challenges," Max continues, clearly enjoying himself, "there's this great restaurant in Monaco that's almost impossible to get into. I have a reservation for two tomorrow night... if you're interested in discussing race strategy, of course."

You hear your producer choking back laughter. "The interview, Max," you remind him, trying to sound stern despite your racing heart.

"Right, right. The interview." He grins. "But about dinner..."

"Maybe we should finish talking about your qualifying lap first?" You're fighting a losing battle against your smile now.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, then winks. "But just so you know, I'm going to keep flirting with you until you say yes."

Your producer is practically cackling now. "Best. Interview. Ever," she whispers in your ear.

"The qualifying lap, Max," you insist, but you're grinning too.

"The qualifying lap," he agrees, finally straightening up and attempting to look serious. "But I should warn you – I'm very persistent. Almost as persistent as I am on track."

You shake your head, trying to remember your questions through the butterfly storm in your stomach. One thing's for certain – this interview is definitely going to go viral on F1 Twitter.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll say yes to that dinner in Monaco.

𐙚

You barely remember how you finished that interview, your mind still spinning from Max's dinner invitation. But the real chaos was only beginning...

Your notifications haven't stopped buzzing since that interview went live. #MaxAndTheReporter is trending on Twitter, and F1 TikTok is having a field day with edited clips of every interaction between you and Max from the past three races.

"OMG THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER " reads one viral tweet, accompanied by a slow-motion clip of Max's eyes softening when he spots you in the paddock.

"Remember when Max used to HATE interviews? Now he's literally running to them. #MaxAndTheReporter" says another, with a side-by-side comparison of his usual stern media demeanor and his smile when approaching you.

Your producer sends you a link to a fan-made compilation video: "Every time Max Verstappen has flirted with the Sky Sports reporter (so far)." It has 2 million views already.

Not everyone's convinced, though. "She's just another reporter," one skeptic tweets. "Max is probably just being nice."

That theory gets blown out of the water during the next race weekend. You're in the middle of interviewing Carlos Sainz when Max casually walks by, then does such an obvious double-take that Carlos starts laughing mid-answer.

"I think someone wants to interrupt this interview," Carlos teases, watching Max hover nearby with poorly concealed impatience.

"He can wait his turn," you say professionally, though your cheeks warm as you hear Max chuckle behind you.

"Can I?" Max calls out. "Because I'm pretty sure my dinner reservation is in an hour, and someone still hasn't given me an answer."

Carlos raises his eyebrows, grinning. "Ah, so the rumors are true?"

Your producer's voice crackles through your earpiece: "The socials are going absolutely crazy right now. This is better than Drive to Survive!"

Later that evening, a photo surfaces of you and Max at that impossible-to-get-into restaurant in Monaco. He's looking at you instead of the camera, that soft smile on his face that F1 Twitter has dubbed the "reporter smile." The fan theories explode:

"HE REALLY TOOK HER TO DINNER, I'M SCREAMING" "The way he only smiles like that for her." "Remember when we thought Max would never date someone in the F1 media? This man really said 'Watch me."

Your phone buzzes with a text from Max: "Have you seen we're trending again? "

You send back an eye-rolling emoji, trying to ignore the butterflies that haven't settled since that first interview.

"Good," he replies. "Maybe now everyone knows why I only want interviews with you."

Your producer sends you a message: "Just wait until they see tomorrow's pre-race interview. The internet might actually break."

You smile, thinking about how a simple paddock interview three races ago changed everything. From reluctant interviewee to... whatever this is becoming, Max Verstappen has definitely kept his promise about being persistent.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

The Power Of Words - OP81

@pluto777777 prompt request #23 - Driver/player accidentally insults reader in casual comment and she does obsesses over it

Summary: Oscar didn't think before speaking and y/n can't stop thinking about what he said.

Overthinker!reader

Word count: 1.2k

Oscar is unbothered. He's famous for it.

But sometimes he maybe should be bothered. Because when he made a comment to y/n last week about making sure to leave him some of the birthday cake because he might want some. He was just kidding and making a light-hearted joke.

Now y/n has been hitting the gym twice a day, morning and night for over an hour each time. The diet has been restricted harsher than Oscar's and he hasn't connected the dots as to what has ignited this behaviour from her.

"Y/n no." Oscar groans hearing her alarm go off for her to get up and go to the gym.

"What?" Y/n frowns before Oscar gets up and drops his weight onto of her to pin her down to the bed. "Oscar, you're suffocating me."

"Yeah, I know but if it stops you from going to that gym then it's doing what I want it to do." Oscar states while y/n grumbles at him and makes some attempt at escaping him.

"Oscar, get off of me." Y/n groans actually managing to move his body a little which surprises him because going dead weight on her has always worked to keep her from moving out from under him.

"No. Why do you keep going to the gym at this time of day? What has got into you?" Oscar questions genuinely frowning at the young woman while she shakes her head at the fact that Oscar's frown deepens. "Baby, can you please explain?"

"I just haven't been eating good enough and I mean-I mean even you noticed I almost ate that whole cake on my own." Y/n states as the front cracks and she turns her head trying to avoid him seeing her tears that are gathering.

She didn't want to tell him. It wasn't intentional from him for her to overthink it but Oscar drops his head into her chest, wedging his arms under her body and wrapping them around.

"Baby, no." Oscar groans making her swallow thickly continuing to try and blink her tears away to the best of her ability. "No. I'm sorry. It was just a joke. I didn't want to upset you and make you change."

"I know. But you were right-even if it was a joke."

"No. No. Baby, I was wrong. I was so so so wrong. You should've eaten more cake just to prove me how stupid my joke was. It was a horrible, stupid, dumb comment that I never should've made. I'm sorry."

Y/n sniffles with her lip quivering while Oscar sighs realising that his carelessness over his words that he's previously been able to get away with is not going to slide with y/n. She overthinks and he knows that, he should've known that an off hand jokey comment could lead to her spiralling.

"Baby, you're perfect. You've always been perfect." Oscar mumbles but it's not going to be that simple of a fix. "Can you stay here with me today?"

"Ok." Y/n mumbles with a nod before Oscar sighs and rolls them over so y/n is on top of him.

"I love you." Oscar states as y/n shifts so she's comfortable.

"I love you too." Y/n whispers settling her head down on his chest.

-

Y/n did ease up but Oscar wasn't willing to leave the matter just addressed. He wants to make things right.

He's already made sure to telling her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her and complimenting her as much as possible. Every time it has successfully got her flustered.

There's never been a level of regret over his own words till now and he hates knowing that if he'd just put even a moment of thought into them that basically burrowed into her head and completely took over her mind.

He came up with a plan that he is hoping doesn't get him in too much trouble with his trainer but he feels like it might work. Or it's going to backfire so hard that he might be single within the hour.

"Alright, I have a surprise for you." Oscar states after making it obvious he has a surprise for her by having forced her to remain in the bedroom till he said so which even included him leave the apartment while she waited.

"That's cute of you." Y/n smiles lightly while Oscar sits down on the edge of the bed as she sits down. "You know you don't have to keep trying to make up for it."

"I want to because you deserve to know that I don't stand by what I said."

"I know that. I do."

"Good, but I've already got the surprise set up. Come on, I think-I hope you'll like this." Oscar states actually looking like he's been doing the overthinking since he discovered how much he'd upset his girlfriend.

Oscar has her close her eyes and guides her into the kitchen.

"Are you ready?" Oscar asks making her choke a laugh.

"If you're about to say I hope you're ready for nothing and show me nothing I'm breaking your ribs with my elbow." Y/n warns jokingly which brings some settling to his panic about this might backfire because at least he's not just fooling her with some sort of prank.

"Alright, open your eyes." Oscar smiles making her open her eyes and blink a little looking at the set up from her boyfriend.

"Oscar..." Y/n mumbles looking at the cake that he had frosted with a message.

For the most prettiest, most perfect girlfriend on the planet.

"You're actually unreal." Y/n laughs then turning to look at him. "What kind of cake it is?"

Oscar really stressed about choosing the flavour because he really didn't want to mess up by getting her something that she would hate.

"Vanilla with fresh cream and jam with strawberries. But now I feel like that was wrong." Oscar grimaces making her head shake.

"It's perfect. Really my favourite." Y/n assures him before she swallows and Oscar moves up behind her again, holding her waist and gently hugging her back to himself.

"We're both going to eat this because eating cake is not a crime and neither of us are hitting the gym."

"You have to hit the gym. You're in the middle of the season." Y/n laughs but Oscar just shrugs.

"We are both eating the cake. Everyone deserves cake." Oscar reiterates then kissing her cheek. "Cake for breakfast is literally the dream anyway. Free will and all that."

"You've officially spend too much time online." Y/n laughs then moving towards the cake since it does look so amazing and she is feeling herself drool at the thought of getting to eat it.

Meanwhile Oscar feels like he might've finally overpowered his comment from a few weeks ago by finally finding something that made her feel so loved that hopefully he can keep this going and make sure not to fuck up again like he did.

DOWN BAD

pairing: charles leclerc x singer reader

summary: the one where she falls into a depression, her brother picks his side and lando moves on all to quickly

warning:

a/n:

face claim: madison beer :)

f1 masterlist

main masterilst

series masterlist

f1gossip has posted

liked by 2, 495 users

f1gossip lando norris and magui corcerio spotted out recently

user1 i actually think they're pretty cute

user2 idc i miss yn and lano

-> user3 right? i wanna know the tea tbh

-------------------

"Y/n? Oh baby." Bsf muttered after opening the door to Y/ns bedroom. Her best friend immediately wrapped her arms around the girl, pulling her into her chest. Y/n began to sob, her chest heaving as everything came crashing down. "I can't do this, I mean its so stupid we weren't even together and I…" Bsf rubbed her arms up and down the younger girls back. "Shhh, just let it all out honey, I've got you." Her knees immediately gave out and the pair sunk to the floor together, bsf being Y/ns life line. "I'm so stupid." Y/n whispered. "No you're not stupid, you were just in love." And Y/n clung to the one person she knew would never leave her.

-------------------

ynspriv has posted

liked by bsfuser, thatgolfergirl and 20 others

ynspriv fuck all men honestly. and fuck everything if i cant have him. atleast i got a dog now. his name is bear.

bsfuser oh honey im so sorry

-> ynspriv its alright

thatgolfergirl we should have a girls night

-> ynspriv alright

-------------------

carlossainz55

liked by lando, charlesleclerc and 235, 495 others

carlossainz55 the best golf buddy lando

lando ⛳

-> carlossainz55 🏌️

charlesleclerc nice

liked by carlossainz55

-> user1 MY CHARLOS HEART 😭😭

user2 CARLANDO

-> user3 a reunion is just what i needed

user4 nah you wrong for this idc

user5 anyone else think this is dodgy asf after the whole yn lando situation

-> user6 they were just friends calm down

-------------------

------------------

Y/n wasn't sure how much she had drunk at that point, she did know that it was way more than she should've however. Lily and Alex were somewhere on the dancefloor, while best friend was grabbing the group another round of drinks.

Y/n quickly downed the shot that her best friend had given her before dragging her to the dance floor, "Come on I wanna dance." She said loudly as they made their way to the middle of the club.

It was a while before Bsf spoke up again, shouting loudly that she was gonna go to the toilet before wondering of. Y/n nodded aggressively before continuing to dance, as she did she stumbled, nearly face planting if a pair of strong arms hadn't wrapped her her waist to steady her.

She turned around to thank whoever had helped her but faltered when she heard a familiar voice. "Be careful, wouldn't want a pretty thing like yourself to trip." She rolled her eyes, ignoring the soft looking the man was giving her.

He went to say something but paused, shaking his head lightly, instead saying. "Little Sainz, I haven't seen you around recently."

She rolled her eyes harder than before, "Fuck off leclerc." She said loudly, the pair ignoring the fact that he still hadn't let her go.

He tilted his head slightly, slowly withdrawing his hands from her waist, "Testy testy, and here i thought we were friends."

"I don't like you, ergo your not my friend." Charles' eyes scanned her face, instantly noticing the tear tracks.

"Are you okay?" He asked her gently, his gaze intense, nearly making her melt.

"And why wouldn't I be." She questioned him, tilting her head slightly, ignoring the fact that their was no space between them.

He held his hands up, "I was just checking."

Her gaze narrowed at him as she cleared her throat, "Well, we're not friends, so theirs no reason for you to check up on me." She said sharply before turning around to find Lily and Alex.

-----------------------

part 2, idk if i like it but here it is guyssssss. also oscar won miami guyssss. this ones goes out to all my 911 fans cause we're all in mourning atm.

-----------------------

taglist @littlewhiterose @chlodavids @freyathehuntress @sadieurlady @pippyth3hippy @weekendlusting @ilovecharlesleclerc00 @loveitwhenhelies @bellsboops @wellimonlyheretoread @velentine @eugene-emt-roe @stinkyjax @catsdogs04 @coolcalmandc0llected @seonghwaexile @rosiemain @midnightbabylon @lil-soup @barzysreputation @gentlemonstersworld @imineverypossiblefandom @nichmeddar @formulaal @bia-wayne-west @eloriis @scorpiomindfuck @sesamepancakes @dilflover44 @primadonaprincess55 @angelluv16 @qghosty @sltwins @dark-night-sky-99 @alliwantisadonut @iambored24601

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. the morning after the race ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. max verstappen x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊ slight angst + comfort

The room is still. Dim. Heavy with sleep and leftover adrenaline. Somewhere outside, the city wakes, yoans, stretches and hums back to life. But in here, in the quiet comfort of the hotel room, it’s just you and Max.

He’s asleep—or something close to it. Curled against you like a napping cat, his arm draped across your stomach, face pressed to your collarbone. His breath is slow. Steady. Dusting light puffs of air against your skin in a way that tickles ever so slightly. But there’s tension in him, even now—a kind of exhaustion that lives in his bones.

The kind you can’t fix with sleep. The kind that has been there as long as you have known him.

It's easy for him to hide it from others in the adrenaline of the track, easy to smile to cameras and quickly walk away. But he can't hide it from you. Especially in these quiet moments.

You run your fingers lightly through his hair. He shifts but doesn’t wake, just burrows closer`, hand tightening in the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

You know the routine by now. After a race, especially one that drained him—win or lose—Max comes back to you with his tank on empty. He doesn’t talk much, he doesn’t need to, his body tells the whole story. He's tired. A kind of tired that goes beyond the body.

The quiet is sacred in moments like this.

You press a soft kiss to his temple and feel the way he exhales a little deeper than normal, his whole body relaxing just slightly. He’s not made for softness on the track—sharp edges, quick decisions, grit. But here, with you, he becomes someone else.

Not the world champion. Just Max. Just yours.

Your are only each other's.

Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, low and cracked with sleep. Accent heavy and slurring words together.

“You’re awake.”

You nod, not expecting him to open his eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“Didn’t mean to pass so fast that last night.”

You smile. “You needed it. We both did.”

He hums, forehead resting against your shoulder again. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

You won’t, he knows that. But he says it anyway—just to be sure. He needs to hear you say it. Its one of the few things that makes the heaviness in his soul lift just slightly.

So you stay. You stay and hold him while the morning moves quietly onwards somewhere on the other side of the window curtain. And when he finally falls asleep again, truly asleep, you stay.

Just in case he needs you when he wakes up. You have nowhere you need to be but right where you are.

parents of three l MV1 imagine

a/n: sooo max is officially a dad 😭😭 so I picked up the draft of my dad!Max series with the twins which you can find here! I hope you like it and let me m ow if you have some ideas!

summary: baby verstappen nº3 is here, and the twins are now happy with the idea.

It had been a quiet morning, at least by the new Verstappen household standards.

The Monaco penthouse, usually alive with the squabbling of six-year-old twins and the occasional feline disaster, was unusually peaceful. The cause of this rare tranquility? The arrival of Baby Lia had everyone mesmerized, literally and metaforically having everyone wrapped around her little finger.

Youcradled the newborn in your arms, gently rocking her in the nursery Max had insisted on painting himself. Pale pink walls, soft grey furniture, and a mobile of tiny stars that the twins helped assemble.

“You’re not even crying today,” you murmured, brushing a soft kiss on Lia’s forehead. “It’s like you know I needed a break, what a smart baby, yes you are.”

Footsteps padded down the hallway, fast and energetic. Then came the crash of something toppling over. The twins ready to disrupt the quiet.

“Mila!” Luca’s voice rang out, shrill and dramatic. “You almost dropped her bunny!”

“It’s not my fault Jimmy knocked it down!” Mila huffed back.

You sighed, smiling despite the quiet moment gone. The calm had lasted exactly twelve minutes.

You stepped into the hallway with Lia, just in time to see Jimmy dart out from under the baby’s toy box with a fluff of pink clutched between his teeth.

“Mama!” Mila wailed, dramatic tears already forming. “Jimmy stole Lia’s bunny!”

“Yes, because you dropped it, Mila!” Luca reprimanded his twin.

Before you could intervene, Max’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Jimmy! No stealing from the baby!”

Max appeared, wearing sweatpants, a Red Bull hoodie, and holding two sippy cups. He looked equally amused and tired. parenthood in a nutshell.

“Crisis averted?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“I think Jimmy wants attention,” you replied, bouncing Lia gently. “He’s jealous, he probably thought it was only going to be the twins forever.”

Max chuckled, scooping up the cat and plopping him into Luca’s arms. “That’s what happens when you’ve ruled the house for years. Then babies come and steal your spotlight. Tough life.”

“And what about Sassy?” You asked Max.

Max glanced toward the back of the couch where Sassy lounged with the disinterest of a feline queen, which of course she was. “She’s plotting our demise, probably.”

You snorted, the vibrations of your body earning a smile from Lia.

The twins came running, now united in their mission: cooing at their baby sister.

“Can I hold her again?” Mila asked, reaching for Lia’s tiny hand.

“No, me first!” Luca insisted, already positioning the couch pillows for support just like Max had shown them.

You sighed again, this time with a full heart. You remembered the day you told the twins about the pregnancy, Luca had declared he didn’t want “a baby stealing his toys,” and Mila had spent the afternoon sulking because “babies are boring.” And both of them had tried really hard to stop the baby’s arrival.

Now? They were obsessed.

It was later that weekend in Miami when Max found himself being cornered in the paddock for an interview with Sky Sports Netherlands.

“So Max,” the interview began in Dutch, “congratulations again on the new addition to the family! How are things going at home with three kids now?”

Max grinned, hands in his pockets. “Chaotic. Loud. Exhausting… Perfect.”

The interviewer laughed. “And the twins? How are Mila and Luca adjusting? I remember they weren’t too pumped when we crossed paths a few months ago.”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Honestly? I thought they’d hate it. When we told them (Y/N) was pregnant, Luca wanted to move out.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Mila made us sign a paper saying we’d still play Barbie games with her even after the baby came. They were so in denial that we got a call from their teacher.”

The small group of journalists laughed.

“But now?” Max continued. “They’re obsessed. They follow Lia around like bodyguards. Luca brings her toys she can’t even use, Mila sings to her. They fight about who gets to hold her. I think I’ve held her less than both of them.”

“And the cats?” The interviewer teased. “I hear Jimmy and Sassy have opinions.

“Oh, Jimmy’s a menace. He tries to sleep in the crib,” Max said, his tone fond. “Sassy’s smarter, she gives Lia a five-foot radius. She watches from a distance like she’s evaluating her for royal court or something which is very entertaining.”

There was more laughter.

“Sounds like a full house.”

Max nodded. “It is. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

-

Back home, the house was quieter than usual.

With Max in Miami, you were managing the trio on your own. Your mother had offered to stay, but you politely declined, liking the rhythm and evolving routine; early mornings with Lia after the twins left to school, midday chaos with the twins, and long, quiet evenings watching Max on the TV while feeding the baby.

You curled onto the couch, baby Lia nestled in a wrap on your chest, Mila curled up beside you, and Luca was completely knocked out from building a Lego fortress with a secret baby princess chamber, which he assured was for both Lia and Mila.

Max’s interview played in the background. “Luca wanted to move out,” Max said on the screen, laughing.

You giggled, watching Luca’s face twitch in sleep as if he’d heard his name.

The moment made your heart ache with pride and love.

Two days later, Max came home.

The door opened quietly, he’d learned not to make noise just in case Lia was sleeping, but before he could take a step in, Mila barreled into him.

“Papa!” she squealed.

Max laughed, lifting her with one arm and dropping his bag with the other. Luca followed, hugging Max’s waist.

You appeared at the end of the hall, holding Lia with one hand and balancing a bottle in the other. “Hello babe, the house didn’t burn down.”

He met you halfway, kissing you deeply, letting his hand rest over Lia’s tiny head. “Missed you,” he whispered on your lips.

“She missed you too. She kept staring at the TV every time you talked.”

“She’s a Verstappen, she knows good racing.” Max bragged, a habit he picked since the twins were born was now at its peak after the birth of Lia. “Plus, she was conceived the night I won the fourth so she knows what’s good.” Max whispered the last part so the twins wouldn’t hear.

Later that night, the five of you, cats included, were on the bed.

Mila had brought her blanket, Luca had brought snacks which were promptly confiscated by Max. Jimmy snuggled into Max’s feet while Sassy stared at the baby with mild disapproval.

Lia gurgled softly between you, wearing a pale pink Red Bull onesie Max had been gifted by the team.

“I can’t believe we made her,” you whispered, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I know,” he whispered back, brushing his thumb along Lia’s little hand. “She’s perfect.”

“I was so scared,” you admitted. “I thought adding another baby would ruin the balance and let’s be honest, we never really thought about having another baby, we were just desperate to celebrate your championship.” You giggled, remembering the night.

Max turned to you, cupping your cheek. “You were right to be scared. But we didn’t ruin anything. We just… added more love.”

Luca yawned. “Papa, can Lia come to the next race?”

Max smiled. “Not yet, buddy. But soon.”

Mila curled next to her mother. “She needs earmuffs with her name printed, like the ones we use when we go see daddy race.”

“She’ll have them,” Max promised. “We’ll get her baby-sized ones.”

You smiled, the warmth in your chest spreading like sunlight.

“I know we have enough but… I think we need a new cat.” Max proposed.

You snorted. “Excuse me?”

Max shrugged. “It’s only fair! The twins have Jimmy and Sassy, Lia deserves her own.” Your husband worked his beautiful blue eyes on you.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” You said, knowing this fight was already lost.

“Mila was also talking about a puppy after meeting Leo.”

“Max!”

hi! how are you? i was thinking maybe max x reader where reader just needs a hug. like maybe someone has made her feel bad and she just can't help but crumble into his arms, sobbing in his chest. hurt-comfort kinda :)

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you come home shattered after a rough day. max sees through your silence, holds you as you break down, and comforts you with quiet love

warnings | emotional distress, crying, hurt/comfort themes, mention of self-doubt/insecurity, soft fluff and vulnerability

word count | 1.3 k

🖇 more mv1 🖇 f1 masterlist

The day had started like any other. You woke up to the sound of your alarm, answered a few messages, even dared to wear that sweater you love so much the one Max always says makes you look “ridiculously adorable.” But as the hours passed, something inside you began to crumble, as if the world was mocking your efforts to hold yourself together.

It started with an offhand comment, one of those disguised as a joke but aimed straight at the heart. It wasn’t the first time someone questioned your place, your decisions, your way of being. But today, it caught you off guard. The words cut deep, right into that corner of your chest where you keep all your insecurities, that place Max tries to fill with his affection, but that sometimes just opens up on its own.

You pretended to be fine. You smiled. You nodded. You even made a joke yourself, as if it didn’t matter.

But it did matter.

It mattered so much that the moment you walked into the apartment you share with Max, everything felt heavy. You dropped your keys on the entryway table, like always, but you didn’t take off your shoes. Or your jacket. You just stood there, back against the wall, feeling your eyes well up with tears without permission.

Max was in the living room, checking something on his tablet—maybe telemetry or a strategy for the next race. When he saw you, his expression changed instantly.

"Love?" he asked softly, setting the tablet aside. "Are you okay?"

You couldn’t answer. You just shook your head, trying to say yes, but your lips trembled and your eyes filled completely with tears.

Max reached you in two steps, quick but unrushed, with that way he has of respecting your space without staying too far.

"Hey… look at me," he whispered, his hands gently cupping your cheeks. "What happened?"

And that was it.

Your body trembled. Your lips broke into a muffled sob. You shut your eyes tight and threw yourself against his chest as if it were the only safe place on earth.

Max held you without another word. His arms wrapped around you with firmness, as if he could hold together all the shattered pieces you were trying so hard to keep intact. His chin rested on your head, and he began to sway you gently, while your tears soaked his shirt.

"You’re here now," he murmured into your hair. "I’m with you. You don’t have to say anything yet."

Your fingers clutched his back as if you were going to disappear, and he simply held you. Patiently. Calmly. Lovingly.

Because sometimes, understanding isn’t what matters. Just being there.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that, in his arms, your face buried in his chest as your world melted into tears. The silence between you was warm, soft, as if Max knew exactly that you didn’t need solutions, just comfort.

When your crying slowly began to ease, you felt his hand stroking your back in slow circles, and his other hand interlaced with yours.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" he asked quietly, no pressure, just leaving the door open for you to step through when you were ready.

You took a deep breath. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. He wasn’t in a rush he just looked at you with that tenderness that seemed reserved only for you. And then the words began to come, halting, with pauses and knots in your throat.

"It was something stupid…" you murmured, hating how vulnerable you felt. "Someone said something. Like a joke. But it hurt. It made me feel… like I don’t matter. Like everything I do is a joke."

Max frowned. Not in anger toward you, but toward whoever had made you feel that way.

"Who was it?"

You shook your head. You didn’t want to cause trouble. You just wanted the pain to go away.

"It doesn’t matter. It’s just that… I was already holding in so much. And that was like… the last drop."

Max brought your hands to his lips and kissed them slowly, never breaking eye contact.

"Of course it matters," he said, his tone firm but full of care. "Because if something hurts you, then it matters. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. You’re not a joke. You’re not less. And if someone made you feel that way, they clearly don’t know who you really are."

His words broke you a little more, but this time in a different way. As if each sentence was unraveling the knot of guilt you carried in your chest.

"Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in," you whispered. "Like I’m less than everyone else. Like I don’t have the right to be tired, or sad, or hurt."

Max shook his head, eyes locked on yours.

"You have the right to all of that and more. You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me. I’m here to hold you up when you can’t anymore. Always."

And then he hugged you again, tighter this time, as if trying to rebuild you from scratch with nothing but his embrace.

"You fit with me," he added, whispering in your ear. "In my life, in my world. And if the world doesn’t see how lucky it is to have you, then the problem is with the world not you."

A silent tear rolled down your cheek, but this time, it wasn’t from sadness.

It was relief.

After that hug, there wasn’t much left to say… but Max still wasn’t ready to let go of you completely.

He helped you take off your jacket, took your hand, and led you to the couch as if you were made of glass—not out of pity, but out of genuine care. He made sure you were comfortable, knelt in front of you, and studied your face for a moment in silence, as if checking for any shadows that still lingered.

"Don’t move, okay?" he asked with a half-smile.

"What are you going to do?"

"Trust me."

And you did.

A few minutes later, the sound of the coffee machine filled the quiet of the house, followed by the soft crinkle of a cookie bag. It wasn’t anything grand. It wasn’t an expensive gift or a surprise trip. But when Max returned to the living room with your favorite cookies, a mug of warm milk, and a blanket in the other hand, you understood something important.

It wasn’t the gesture itself. It was the way.

It was how he remembered what you liked when you were sad. How he knew exactly what to say without pushing. How he looked at you—as if even after seeing you fall apart, you were still his favorite person in the world.

He sat next to you and wrapped the blanket around you with a care that felt like pure love. Then he handed you the mug and settled beside you, pulling you against his chest while his fingers played with your hair.

"Did I tell you today how brave you are?" he murmured suddenly.

You shook your head with a shy smile.

"Well, you are. A lot. But even brave people need to rest. Cry. Feel bad. That doesn’t make them weak. It makes them real."

You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling more at peace than you had all day.

"Thank you, Max."

"Always," he whispered, kissing your forehead. "This is your place. And no one—absolutely no one—has the right to make you feel otherwise."

He didn’t respond with more words. He didn’t need to. He just hugged you tighter, let the silence speak for you both, and for the first time all day… you felt like you could breathe again.

driver tells reader they want a baby and reader says yes but driver didn't think reader would say yes so they freak out

f1 text au — they text about wanting a baby (and then freak out when you say yes)

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drivers: max, charles, oscar, lando content: more silliness ig

guys... sorry in advance! I feel like these ones kinda suck lol

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MAX!

────────────

CHARLES!

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OSCAR!

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LANDO!

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Mr Oblivious

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri is absolutely oblivious to the fact that people try to flirt with him. It drives Lando nuts. Felicity finds it very amusing though. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando Norris had a very simple opinion about Oscar Piastri:

The man was smart, fast, loyal to a fault — And completely, hopelessly, oblivious.

Especially about certain things.

Like, say, the fact that every now and then, some thirsty influencer or overly-friendly interviewer decided they wanted to test their luck around one of McLaren’s golden boys.

Case in point: today.

It was supposed to be a simple media day.

Smile, wave, answer a few questions without accidentally swearing — easy stuff.

And then she showed up.

Some influencer.

Lando didn’t catch her name.

Didn’t want to.

Her outfit was orange enough to suggest she'd Googled "McLaren colors" five minutes before showing up.

 Her laugh was the kind that made Lando want to put himself in an ice bath.

But what really got him was the way she locked eyes on Oscar from the moment she walked into the room.

Like a hawk spotting a particularly delicious rabbit.

And Oscar — sweet, pure, unsuspecting Oscar — stood there politely, posture perfect, nodding like he was about to explain suspension geometry to a cactus.

She sidled up to him with all the grace of a Bond girl in heels, flashing teeth and dimples and Lando could see it coming.

Could see the slow-motion train wreck unfolding with the inevitability of a Ferrari strategy call.

She sidled closer.

Tilted her head. Big fake lashes, even faker laugh.

"So, Oscar," she purred, "looking very fit this season. What's your secret?"

Lando, standing just off to the side, already felt his skin crawl.

Oscar, meanwhile, nodded thoughtfully like she’d asked him about chassis balance.

"Consistency," he said, serious as anything. "And good hydration habits. Also core strength. That’s really important for maintaining control in high G-force corners. I’ve been working with a new strength and conditioning coach. Core engagement and flexibility training. Lots of functional range mobility exercises. Very important for endurance."

Lando nearly dropped the can of Monster Energy he was carrying.

He physically turned away, took a moment to compose himself, and turned back — and she was still going.

She giggled — the kind of giggle Lando associated with botched lip filler and red flags — and twirled her hair like they were in a teen movie from 2004.

"Flexibility, huh?" she said, her voice doing That Thing™. Then winked.

WINKED.

Oscar, God bless him, nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. Critical for cockpit comfort. Limited hip mobility can lead to premature fatigue during longer races."

Lando just stared.

The influencer stared.

Oscar stared earnestly back. Oscar blinked at her with the open innocence of a Labrador Retriever about to explain knee cartilage.

It was like watching someone flirt with a toaster.

And then — then — she tried it.

She went for the kill.

"Well," she said, laughing in a way that definitely wasn't natural, "maybe you could show me some... flexibility exercises later?"

Lando choked on air.

Oscar, bless him, just looked mildly puzzled.

Lando’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Oscar thought she wanted workout advice.

Meanwhile, this woman was basically trying to climb him like a tree.

"I mean," Oscar said, frowning thoughtfully, "I guess? If you’re interested in physiotherapy protocols? There's a lot of hip flexor and thoracic mobility involved."

He paused.

"Although," Oscar added very seriously, completely unaware he was standing in a verbal minefield, “you should always get a doctor’s clearance before starting any high-intensity exercise program.”

The influencer blinked.

Lando stared at the heavens.

Why.

Why had the universe given this man a marriage, a child, and a heart of gold, but no flirting radar whatsoever.

Lando was so angry on Oscar’s behalf he actually saw red.

Because it wasn’t just the flirting.

It was the disrespect.

Oscar — who had a wife who fixed racing models better than half the paddock. Oscar — who had a four-year-old daughter who beat engineers at Sudoku. Oscar — who literally carried his entire family in his heart wherever he went.

He wasn’t available.

He wasn’t interested.

And he damn well deserved to have people respect that without needing to tattoo MARRIED. TAKEN. HAS A BUMBLEBEE-OBSESSED DAUGHTER across his forehead.

And then — because clearly the universe wanted to personally test Lando’s self-control — the influencer winked.

Like, full-on, slow-motion, cartoon-style winked at Oscar.

Oscar blinked back, confused.

Then said, very seriously:

"You should also stretch regularly to avoid cramping."

Lando actually made a noise — somewhere between a groan and a dying animal.

The influencer tried to recover, laughing awkwardly, but Oscar had already turned — calm, unfazed — and was politely thanking the PR rep for organizing the media day.

Lando stormed over, practically vibrating with protective rage.

"Mate," he hissed when Oscar finally wandered off-stage, "you realize she was hitting on you, right?"

Oscar frowned. "Was she?"

"YES," Lando hissed, arms flailing. "She was basically ready to throw herself at you!”

Oscar looked genuinely perplexed.

"But... I’m married."

"YES," Lando repeated, louder, like he was explaining quantum physics to a pigeon. "You are married. You have a kid. You are the dictionary definition of off-limits."

Oscar scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe she didn’t know?"

"She definitely knew," Lando muttered darkly. "You are actually wearing your wedding ring for once and Bee’s little bead bracelet. You might as well walk around holding a sign that says 'I love my wife and daughter more than oxygen.'"

Oscar shrugged, entirely unfazed.

"I mean... it’s true."

Lando stared at him.

Somewhere between admiration and absolute rage.

When they reached the McLaren motorhome, Felicity was there — perched on the couch, Bee asleep with her head on Felicity’s lap, Button the Frog tucked under her tiny arm.

Oscar’s whole face lit up like a sunrise.

He crossed the room without hesitation, dropped a kiss onto Felicity’s hair, and gently stroked Bee’s back.

Felicity smiled up at him, all soft and warm and easy, like they had a language no one else could hear.

Lando stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

Watching how Oscar's whole world just locked into place around them, without hesitation, without second thought.

Yeah.

Let them flirt. Let them try.

Oscar Piastri had everything he needed right here. And he was smart enough — good enough — to never even glance anywhere else.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpill: BREAKING: Influencer tries to flirt with Oscar Piastri.

Oscar responds with “core strength” and “doctor’s clearance.”

Meanwhile, Lando Norris nearly combusts in the background.

[attached: video clip]

@/pitlanechaos: Not Oscar offering that woman a PHYSIOTHERAPY REFERRAL I’m losing it. He thought she wanted professional advice. He’s too pure for this world.

@/felicityfanclub (pinned tweet):

‼️OSCAR PIASTRI IS MARRIED

‼️HE LOVES HIS WIFE

‼️HE LOVES HIS DAUGHTER

‼️HE IS OBLIVIOUSLY LOYAL

‼️AND WE ARE HERE TO DEFEND HIS GOLDEN RETRIEVER ENERGY

@/formulawoah: This man said “consult your doctor” instead of realizing she was flirting. He’s not oblivious. He’s loyal at a molecular level.

@/landohmygod: Lando Norris being 1 second away from lunging across the paddock like an angry chihuahua deserves its own Emmy. He was FIGHTING for Oscar’s honor.

@/suspension_nerd: If I was that influencer and Oscar hit me with “thoracic mobility is important” when I was trying to flirt, I would simply evaporate on the spot.

@/gridgossip: This man has a wife who fixes telemetry errors in her sleep, and makes him bento boxes everyday. AND A DAUGHTER WHO BEATS ENGINEERS AT SUDOKU. What did you THINK was going to happen??

@/F1psychology: Watching Oscar Piastri react to flirting like it's a sports injury safety video is the most fascinating psychological case study I’ve ever seen. Also, Lando's visible rage is priceless.

***

Oscar waited until Bee was down for the night.

She’d fallen asleep curled up around Button the Frog, one arm flung dramatically across her pillow like she was staging a nap-themed protest. He’d kissed her forehead and tucked the blanket under her chin, switching the night light to its soft pink glow before slipping out of her room on quiet feet.

He figured... if Felicity was going to hate him, she probably shouldn’t have to do it in front of their daughter.

Which was stupid. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

He was sweating, suddenly aware of how clingy the collar of his t-shirt felt. His hands wouldn’t sit still — twitching, tapping, twisting his wedding ring around and around until the skin beneath it burned.

He felt fifteen again. Awkward and uncertain and too full of words he didn’t know how to say.

And then Felicity padded into the living room, hair twisted into a lazy bun, bare feet soft against the floorboards, wearing one of his old McLaren hoodies that hung off her like it still didn’t understand how it ended up lucky enough to be wrapped around her.

She looked soft. Tired. Safe.

She smiled when she saw him, sweet and a little sleepy, like she was expecting him to ask about what tea she wanted or whether he’d remembered to order oat milk.

Oscar nearly chickened out.

Instead, he sat up straighter — awkward and abrupt — and blurted:

"Someone tried to flirt with me today."

Felicity blinked.

Tilted her head slightly, eyebrows raised — curious, not alarmed.

"Okay," she said, in the same tone she might use if he told her they were out of clean towels.

Oscar frowned.

"No, like — really tried. At a media thing. In front of cameras."

She just blinked again. Still calm. Still patient.

Still not mad.

Just... waiting.

Oscar swallowed.

"And I didn’t realize it was flirting until Lando nearly had an aneurysm."

That earned him a real laugh — soft, sudden, surprised. The kind of laugh she gave him when Bee said something absurd or when Oscar accidentally fixed something in the kitchen by whacking it with a shoe.

It went straight to his chest.

God, he loved her.

"And I was worried—" he continued, words stumbling out now like they’d been dammed up too long, "I was worried you’d think I was — I don’t know — encouraging it or — or being stupid, or not noticing because I wanted to miss it—"

Felicity crossed the room in three quick steps, not breaking eye contact once.

She dropped onto the couch beside him, slid her legs over his lap like she did every night, and tucked herself against his side like she’d always belonged there.

"You thought I’d be mad," she said, amused, "because some random influencer tried to flirt with you?"

Oscar nodded miserably, guilt still clinging to the back of his throat.

Felicity pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Eyes shining. Smile small and full of something dangerously close to laughter.

"Oscar," she said slowly, "I saw the whole video. You tried to offer her hydration advice."

He groaned, already regretting every decision he’d made since opening his mouth.

"Please don’t remind me."

"You told her to stretch her hip flexors," Felicity said, delighted. "Oscar, you sounded like a yoga instructor trying to scare off a client."

"Bee probably would’ve handled it better," he muttered, rubbing at his face.

Felicity laughed — a real one this time, head back, eyes crinkled, full-body kind of joy.

Oscar melted a little.

She curled closer, arms winding around his waist like she didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.

"I’m not mad, love," she said gently, brushing her nose against his shoulder. "She never stood a chance."

Oscar blinked down at her, stunned. A little breathless.

Felicity grinned up at him.

"You are so... mine, it’s not even funny."

She said it like a joke. She said it like a truth carved in stone.

Both were true.

Oscar let out a long, shaky breath, tension finally bleeding out of his chest.

"I just didn’t want you to think—"

She kissed his cheek, quieting him with the ease of someone who knew every version of him — the champion, the kid from karting, the dad who braided Bee’s hair with frog clips.

"I married you," Felicity whispered. "I know exactly who you are. I trust you with my life. And frankly, if anyone tries to flirt with you again, I might just send them a condolence card."

Oscar laughed, startled and in love and still trying to figure out how he’d ever ended up this lucky.

"And also," Felicity added, smirking like a fox who had absolutely won, "it’s way too funny to be jealous about."

He buried his face into her neck, overwhelmed by the warmth of her, by the sharp edges of her wit and the soft edges of her love.

"You’re ridiculous," he mumbled, muffled by her skin.

"And you," she said, threading her fingers through his hair like he was something precious, "are very bad at realizing when people want you." A beat. "And your brain is permanently stuck on ‘wife good, daughter best, car fast.’"

Oscar smiled, eyes closed, letting her steady him with nothing more than her heartbeat and her presence.

"You really aren’t mad?" he asked, still half-disbelieving.

Felicity leaned back, just far enough to look at him fully — bright-eyed and ferociously sure.

"Oscar," she said solemnly, "you are the most obliviously loyal man I’ve ever met. If I had to design a loyalty test, it would look like you."

Oscar kissed the curve of her throat, slow and reverent.

"Good thing I only ever wanted you," he murmured.

Felicity’s arms tightened around him, like she could will him into her bones.

"Exactly," she whispered.

Exactly.

hiya, i have no idea if you do requests but i have a very brief and simple idea, which you can do your own take on - overly sensitive reader is dating oscar piastri & people are bothering her online but she doesn't tell oscar, instead she hides it and acts like she's fine but one night, she's in bed with him but then moves out to the living room & she's reading people's posts and messages about her not deserving him and she just sobs her eyes out, very quietly, thinking he's asleep - but he's not and he hears her, he walks out to the sight of her crying,,, then you can do whatever you want! just basically a hurt/comfort fic idea :) thank you!

𝒏ote , hi nonnie! thank you so much for requesting this. im convinced he is the sweetest sweetest bf and this thought goes so well with him . . .

fem!reader x oscar piastri. established relationship. hurt -> comfort. fluff. insecure!reader. mean online comments.

you knew better.

you knew better than to look. you knew better than to click on the notifications, the comments, the threads where strangers, bold and faceless, tore you apart like it cost them nothing.

you know it’s not true. these people don’t you. they don’t really know oscar. they don’t know anything about your relationship. and you knew better than to give them so much power over you, but you did it anyway.

it felt like a constant in your night routine at this point. after the steady rise and fall of oscar’s chest tells you he’s surrendered to sleep, you slip quietly from the bed.

you try to convince yourself you’re just stretching your legs, grabbing some water, anything to justify the gnawing pull toward your phone, toward the weight you tuck away during the day but can’t seem to ignore when it’s dark and that inner voice manages to convince you to look.

you curl up on the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells faintly like him, like the smell of your safe space can wrap around you and stop the words from piercing as deep as they always do.

“he could have anyone and he settles for that?”

“you can’t convince me she’s there for anything but the money”

“he could do way better”

“why do the best guys always tend to settle for the most basic, gold digging girls”

one after another they appear on the screen. picking apart your body, your intelligence, your motives.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the drops fall on the screen. little blots of water smearing and obstructing the words that had already twisted like knives in your chest.

you know you should turn it off. climb into bed and let oscar cuddle away all the insecurities gnawing at your chest. but it feels like you’re stuck. like if you just read one more comment, maybe you’ll find one that makes it all make sense, one that explains why you feel like you’ll never be enough for him.

you flinch when a familiar hand gently closes over yours, steady and warm, taking the phone from you. you hadn’t even heard him come in.

you don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe as he scrolls through the comments himself, brow furrowing more and more the further he goes.

after a few minutes he locks the phone and discards it on the table, settling next to you and pulling you onto his lap.

“you know none of it is true right?” he mumbles against your head, pressing a kiss to your temple and you sniffle

“osc—” you go to argue but he interrupts

“no” he says, the word so blunt and direct it catches you so off guard for a second that you pull your head away from his chest to look at him

“i’m not gonna sit here and listen to you justify what they’re saying. they don’t know you. they don’t know me. and they sure as shit don’t know anything about our relationship” he says, shaking his head slightly at the utter ridiculousness of what he just read.

“but it’s true. i’m not perfect and you could do so much bet—“ you mumble but he interrupts you again before you get the chance to finish, this time with his lips on yours, kissing you until those thoughts float away and the only thing you can focus on is the way his hand is running through your hair

“you’re perfect with me, to me, and for me. hell perfect doesn’t even begin to describe you baby. you’re everything. you’re all I want. the only way these people have any power over you is if you actually believe there’s some truth to what they’re saying. do you?” oscar asks, holding your jaw so you can’t look away from him.

“are you only with me for the money? the attention?” oscar asks, raising his eyebrows dramatically in a way that makes you wanna laugh and by the slight tilt in his lips, he knows.

“no” you say softly and he gasps in mock surprise

“really? I for sure thought you were” he teases and laughs when you hit him playfully.

“i’m just kidding baby. you hate attention even more than I do and you practically tackle me every time I try to pay for anything. and if you think for even one second that I don’t believe you’re the sexiest woman in the world, you come tell me and I’ll prove you wrong, yeah?” he says, pressing kiss after kiss against your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw, your lips. every inch he can reach.

“I love you” you say softly, hoping your gratitude for him shines through in your tone.

“I love you the most,” he murmurs back, no hesitation, no doubt. just the pure, simple truth.

his hands gently frame your face, thumbs brushing away the last of your tears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again, but in a different way this time. a softer way.

“let’s go to bed,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion and affection as he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, leaving your phone and all the negativity on it right there on the table.