The Power Of Words - OP81

Flawed - myg

Genre: Fluffy asf, slight angst

Warnings: self-harm scars, and that's really it lovelies.

Word count: 2K

Request: can you write one where yoongi is y/n’s neighbor (either he recently moved there or she did, doesn’t matter) and y/n is pretty introverted and has had a tough life. she deals w self-harm (if ur not comfortable writing this part its totally fine, you can skip it or u can just make it so that it was in the past and she doesn’t currently do it anymore) and depression. she’s a painter but is always self conscious of her paintings/drawings but he sees them and appreciates them, they become good friends, and both open up to eachother, their windows are next to eachother in a way so they always meet up on the roof that’s connected to their window(idk if i’m making sense lol) and they lay there talk and stare at the stars. you can end it however u want but this is the gist of what i was thinking (also, if you do decide to write the SH part, u don’t have to write the act of it, just him maybe seeing them and her talking about it and him comforting her about it) and ofc if u can make it fluffy lol

Ofc!! I hope you don't mind the direction I took it :)))

These small moments of peace are what keep you sane. 

A good book, a new favorite song, rainy days spent on your sofa watching movies. 

The small moments in between are what really matter – between the chaos and excitement, where nothing really matters more than how warm you are bundled up under your favorite blanket or how the breeze moves through you perfectly on an evening walk. 

This moment was one of those moments. 

Sat on the small chair you had on the fire-escape you’d turned into a nice enough little balcony. A warm cup of coffee clutched by your cold fingers as the autumn morning breeze chilled them. 

The apartment across from yours had been empty for some time, not that you minded at all. Their fire escape was no more than 10 feet away from yours, the buildings almost hugging in this gridlocked city you moved to. 

But today it seemed your peace was over, as you could see through the window that someone was moving in. You sighed briefly as you stood, empty mug in hand as you stepped back into your apartment through the small window before closing it behind you, catching a glimpse of who you presume would be your new neighbor. 

He peered at you through his own window, a small curious smile playing on his lips as he gave you a small wave. 

You returned it, giving a small smile of your own before you turned away. 

One of the thing’s you found yourself grateful for was the size of your apartment. It wasn’t large or glamorous by any stretch of the imagination, but you had enough room for a small art studio in one of the bedrooms. 

You smiled to yourself almost unconsciously as you eyed down a blank canvas, the gentle features of your new neighbor flooding your mind, and you wondered for a moment how often you’d have to run into him. 

-

You leaned against the front door to your apartment as it shut, a deep wave of relief washing over you to finally be home. The late-night shifts at your job always had been the most draining, and today was no different. 

You slid off your jacket after you finally managed to push yourself from the door and hung it on the rack. As you reached up to hang it, the sleeve of your sweater raised up slightly, revealing the scars you’d long-since stopped collecting. They served as reminder as to why you stopped, but from time-to-time, they seemed more to be egging you on rather than reminding you why you stopped. 

Another small sigh left your lips as you gently rubbed over your wrist, before pulling your sleeve back down. 

After making yourself a cup of tea and grabbing your sketchbook, you headed over to the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. You sat down and brought your knees up, resting your sketchbook on them as you opened up to a fresh page. Your new neighbor had decorated his own fire escape with plants and fairy lights, a very nice sight in comparison to the empty one it’d been days before. 

You began to sketch the scene in front of you, looking up every so often to refresh your memory, but this time when you looked up, the man that’d waved at you a few days prior was standing in front of you, a cup of coffee in his hands as he stood out on his fire escape; looking at you with another one of his small smiles. 

“Hope you don’t mind, I used yours as inspiration,” You sat confused for a second before realizing he was referring to your own “balcony”. 

“Not at all, gives me something new to look at,” You smiled, going back down to your drawing, copying down the way the vines of one of his plants wrapped around the railing. 

“What are you doing up so late, anyways?” He asked, now leaning over an un-occupied portion of the railing. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” you responded, not looking up from your paper. 

“I just got off work,” you smiled, looking up briefly with the intention of getting another look at how the lights were hanging, but instead just looked at him and back down again. 

“Me too.” 

-

As weeks passed, you’d gotten to know the man with the pretty fire escape, Yoongi, pretty well. You both got off work around the same time and made your way out so you could talk to one another, and tonight was no different. 

“You can’t just tell me that you paint and then refuse to show me anything you’ve painted, that’s just cruel!” You giggled, pulling your jacket closer to your body as the cool air nipped at your skin. 

“I wouldn’t say cruel, I was just making conversation! How was I supposed to know that you’d want to see it?” You smiled lightly, a blush creeping on your cheeks as you looked up at the night sky, Something Yoongi and you had started doing so you could point out different constellations to one another, and now continue doing so you can talk for more  time without having to sit up. 

“Who hears about someone doing any form of art and doesn’t immediately want to experience it? That’s like going up to someone and telling them you have fresh-baked brownies but and not letting them have any,” 

“What if I made the brownies for myself? I didn’t go through all the trouble of baking a whole pan of brownies just to hand them out to people, I made the brownies so I could eat them.” 

“Ah, an artist who creates for themselves, keeping the beauty of their creations to themselves while the rest of the world remains blissfully unaware of what it could be experiencing. Truly the most cruel act I can imagine,” His voice was more serious than his previous digs at you, but even without looking at him, you knew he was smiling as he spoke. 

“That’s a lot easier to say when you don’t have art to hide. When it’s just yours you can appreciate it, the work you put into it and the flaws that make it yours. But when showing it to others, they might not have the same appreciation for it,” 

While it was true that there was a point in time where you desperately wanted the world to see what you’d spent so much time creating, that time has long since passed; the words of the ones you’d shown your art to etched into your brain and no matter how much you tried to shake them away, they still cling in your memory. 

There was a silence, not an uncomfortable or long one, but one where you both sat and thought about what was said, still staring up at the stars that twinkled softly. 

“I make music, you know,” You looked over at him, suddenly less engulfed in the way the stars shone and more interested in whatever Yoongi had to say; yet his gaze remained fixed up at the sky. “I never wanted to show anyone until one day I did, and now…” he was silent, but you could see his lips begin to curve upward before you decided to turn your attention back to the sky.

“Well now I let the world listen, and in return, it thanks me.”

-

You were honestly half-asleep on your sofa when a gentle knock on your door startled you back to the land of the living. You stood up and paused the show and threw your blanket over your couch, having no idea who could possibly be here and how judgmental they would be about blanket-placement. 

You opened your door to see Yoongi, smiling somewhat nervously. You turned and peered at the time on your stove, surprised that it was already nearly 3 in the morning. 

“Sorry, I hope you don’t mind, I just thought we could like actually hang out, instead of just sitting on the fire escape,” he noticed your hesitation and quickly spoke again. “I meant like out for a coffee or something, you don’t have to invite me in-” 

“Yeah sure, sorry, I’m still half asleep. You can come in while I change,” You stepped aside and opened your door a little further to allow him in. “Make yourself at home, I’ll be right back,” 

You smiled as you closed the door and swiftly moved back to your room to but on something more inappropriate than sweatpants and the oversized t-shirts of one of your ex’s. 

You walked back out to the living room, but he wasn’t there. You furrowed your brow briefly before you realized that there was only one other room he could possibly be in. You ran to your studio, the lights now on with Yoongi staring at all the paintings you had propped up against the wall. 

“These are…” He trailed off, never taking his eyes away from your work to acknowledge you were even in the room. 

“Not really that great, I know, but they weren’t really meant to be seen-” 

“Y/n, these are amazing,” He looked at you now, his smile shining brightly before he looked back at them, almost in disbelief at how good they were, at how good you were. “How have you never shown these to anyone?” 

You silently leaned up against the wall, thinking back to the last time you had shown someone. “The last person that saw anything I made had a very different reaction than you,” He tore his eyes away from them and moved them to you, confusion strewn about his features, as if he couldn’t fathom anyone seeing your art any differently than he had. 

“It was a long time ago, anyway,” You looked down at your feet, shifting awkwardly as you tried to move on from the tense moment. “He just didn’t really like anything that wasn’t perfect, and everything I make is full of flaws.” 

“But that’s what makes it beautiful, isn’t it?” He asks, taking a few steps closer to you. “Like with most things, the more flawed; the more human that they are, the more beautiful they are,” He was right in front of you now, taking in your features as you did his, much different now in decent lighting and not from completely different buildings. 

He was much softer than he seemed from the fire escape. His eyes warmer and cheeks fuller, he almost seemed ethereal standing in front of you, praising the art you poured your heart and soul into. 

He reached out for your hands, pulling your sleeve up slightly where he feels the healed-over ridges of what once was the worst pain you’ve ever felt, and your heart jumped; someone seeing both your art and your scars within the same 3-minute window of time being much too vulnerable for you. 

He looked down at your arm, wanting to fully see what he was feeling, not fully believing his first thought when he felt them. 

Your arm pulled out flat in front of him as he gently pushed your sleeve up further to reveal more of the scars that littered your body. 

“More of that flawed, human stuff,” You spoke softly, trying to make a joke that came out sounding a lot more depressing than you had intended it to be. 

He brushed his thumb over it softly, realizing he’d stumbled into much more than an art studio when he came over for an innocent cup of coffee. 

Moving almost as if he had no control over his actions, his hands moved to your cheeks and his lips to yours, engulfing you in a kiss that portrayed so much more than words ever could. 

The voices in your head telling you all the negative things about yourself fell away as he filled you with positivity; filled you with reassurance and understanding that no one else had been able to offer you with all the words that they knew. 

He softly pulled away, your foreheads connected and his hands still cupping your face as you opened your eyes to see him already looking back at you with his warm dark eyes. 

“And all the more beautiful it makes you.”

---

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

........................................................................

The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

Emergency Contact - Max Verstappen x Reader

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender hand soap—the soft, almost apologetic kind they keep in private hospitals tucked into the hills of Monaco. Outside the tall windows, the sky was still a dusky lavender-grey, the sea just beginning to glisten like a spilled secret. The city hadn’t quite stirred yet. The yachts in the harbor rocked lazily in the hush of dawn, and the streets—usually alive with the quiet luxury of another world—were still.

You weren’t sure if you were dreaming.

Your body felt like mist. Bones suspended in honey. There was a dull ache in your side and a whisper of pain behind your temple, like the aftertaste of something sharp. Machines beeped softly around you in a rhythm that felt too slow, too gentle for what had happened.

The crash. Rain-slick asphalt. Screeching tires. A flash of headlights. Then nothing.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The world wavered like a watercolor before it cleared.

And there he was.

Max was seated beside your bed, shoulders hunched forward in a way that was so unlike him it made something twist inside you. His Red Bull hoodie was wrinkled and slightly damp near the hem, like he’d stepped out into the rain and hadn’t noticed. His hair was a mess. His hand was in yours.

And his eyes—stormy and rimmed red—were locked on your face like it was the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

He didn’t speak at first. Just let out a breath so shaky it nearly broke you.

“I thought I lost you.”

The words were hoarse. Ragged. Like he’d been screaming them in his head all night. You tried to smile, but your face didn’t quite cooperate.

“I’m okay,” you managed, voice soft and a little raw. “I think.”

“You’re not okay,” he snapped, then caught himself, breathing in hard through his nose. He looked away, eyes glossing over the sterile white of the hospital walls like he could will himself back into control. “They said… it was close. You weren’t waking up. I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen.”

Your fingers tightened weakly around his.

“I put you down as my emergency contact,” you whispered. “Didn’t think you’d actually have to come rushing over in the middle of the night.”

Max laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. More like a sharp exhale of disbelief.

“I’ll always come rushing,” he said. And then quieter, like a confession to the silence: “I should’ve told you that before.”

There was a pause. Long enough to hear the ocean hum somewhere far beyond the window. Long enough for you to read it on his face before he said it.

“I love you.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t explode into the air like fireworks. They landed quietly, like snow on an already beautiful morning. But they shook something loose inside you nonetheless. Something you’d kept hidden beneath your ribs for too long.

You stared at him. The Max you knew—fierce, untouchable on the track, rarely unguarded—was gone. In his place was something softer, realer. His knuckles were pale where he gripped your hand, and his thumb kept brushing over yours like a prayer.

“I love you,” he said again, as if repeating it would make it true in both your hearts at once. “I should’ve said it sooner. I just… I didn’t want to mess this up. But when I saw them wheel you in, when they said you weren’t waking up—nothing else mattered.”

You swallowed hard. Eyes stinging.

“Say it again.”

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, so close you could feel the words before he spoke them.

“I love you.”

And that was it. That was everything.

The world know him as the champion. The racer. The living legend. He’d wear his fireproof suit like armor and chase glory at two hundred miles an hour.

But this morning—this fragile, golden, precious morning—he was just Max. Yours. And that mattered more.

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"

♪ — 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.

this was meant to be a late night ramble but i got carried away. will format once i'm on my pc, was written on my phone. not proofread or checked for grammar. also i wrote this in two hours so..............

tl;dr: my take on how the both of you will cope with one of max's worst crashes to date.

tw: crash, max having major injuries after the crash, struggles with alcohol abuse.

you had never been one to ever criticize someone for their choice of profession, especially not when it came to something that paid as high as this, but you wondered if you would ever see your boyfriend in one piece after every race.

it was nerve-wracking of course, seeing him go 350km per hour and hoping his car doesn't fuck itself up and end up in a barrier before then catching into flames. he was good at his job, he loved to drive the damn car so why was it such an issue then?

max didn't understand it either. one moment you would be happy for him and the next you'd be ridden with anxiety whenever he would step into the car, he would always reassure you though. the car was fine, he got the world's best engineers working on his car, that he would be safe.

you didn't understand what had happened though, one moment he was overtaking norris and the next he was in the barrier, a gasp escaped your lips and tears brimmed your eyes when you saw car number 1 in the barrier.

you wanted to claw yourself up there and pull him out of the car yourself but you were being restrained by a few red bull mechanics, telling you that it's gonna to be okay and the marshalls were going to get him out in one piece.

"max? are you alright? talk to me mate."

no response. that's when people started panicking.

max wasn't fine, he wasn't okay. so much force had hit him, he was going max speed when he hit those barriers. he couldn't feel his face, couldn't feel his arms and legs. he felt numb, and it scared him. his ears were ringing and the helmet was suffocating him, he needed air. right now.

he didn't know what happened next, through his blurred vision he could only guess that he had been pulled out the car and his helmet was pulled off his head, he could breathe better but not by much.

the next few moments were just a black void.

you were hysterical when you found out that he was being sent to the nearest hospital, the medical center said, 'it's too big of an injury for us to handle here.' you felt like you were the one dying when you heard he had to go through surgery. you knew he shouldn't have picked this profession, it's insane. how was any of this legal and approved by the government? you didn't know.

you weren't given the specifics because you were neither lawful spouse or family, and his family was hours away from being able to come visit him so you had to sit there and wait for him to come to before you could even know what was going on with him. his profession never scared you quite like this did before.

being in a coma wasn't something on his bucket list, he prayed that he would never go through an accident as traumatic to have to be in a coma.

max could hear the voices, they weren't the clearest. he could hear bits and pieces, but never the full conversation. it was almost as if he was half-asleep and the world around him was just so incredibly quiet. he didn't know what he would do or say to you when he woke up, he was most worried about what you would say. maybe kill him before the injuries from the crash could? max wanted to chuckle from that but nothing came out from his lips, just soft breaths. signaling that he was still alive in there to the outside world.

slowly, he would start hearing and feeling less and less of what happened in the world around him. no longer being able to hear your beautiful voice, and that's what hurt the most, not knowing if you were there with him or not.

you had stayed by his side almost everyday when that happened, not wanting to leave even when the visiting hours were unavailable. always waiting nearby in a coffee shop or booking a hotel room the closest to the hospital in order to be there as soon as visiting hours started.

life felt so empty. you were used to his playful banter and teases but you hadn't heard his voice in two weeks now. you weren't religious, having some religious trauma in life, you would never devote yourself to some invisible god ever again, but you prayed. you prayed to that invisible man upstairs to wake him up, that if he were to wake up, you would start going to church, but that didn't come.

you just wanted him to get better, to open his beautiful blue eyes, look at you and tell you that he loved you. faith was hard to come by but you would always come back to that disgusting sterile smelling room and hold his hand gently, some days you would talk to him, some days you would sing to him but it didn't matter what you did because you would always be there. never missing a possible moment where he would wake up.

the doctors said it didn't look good. they hadn't been medically inducing him in a coma for a week now, he should be conscious by the first few days of taking him off the medically induced coma and you didn't know what to think. you were scared.

you had told him so many times that it made you anxious that an accident like this would happen, that he would get in that car and you couldn't see him anymore but you didn't know it was going to be this soon.

at first you couldn't believe it, it had been almost a month since you heard his voice last. he couldn't be, right? he was the most talented driver you knew, there was no way he was in a coma after a big crash. he was always careful, never taking risks that was unnecessary, right?

you were in denial, you knew it. everyone knew it. you were spiraling out of control and there was nothing anyone could do about it, unless they would magically wake max verstappen out of his comatose state.

there was a hole left in your chest when you realized that maybe he was never going to wake up from this, that you would never see his beautiful blue eyes anymore. slowly, you started to lose hope. visits became far and few between, you just wanted to get away. not wanting to see the day that his family decided that there was no more hope for him and to pull the plug.

you buried yourself in work, not wanting to think, not wanting to feel, just wanting to focus on anything else other than the gaping hole in your chest.

drinking became your best friend, hitting up bars as soon as you finished your shift. downing shot after shot, your friends and his friends were all concerned, always asking if you needed anything, if you needed them and that they were there for you, but frankly you didn't care about anyone else.

coming home drunk wasn't something that was far and few between anymore, it would be every other night, then every night and then sometimes you would sneak a flask in when you were at work. just something to numb the pain of losing your boyfriend. it wasn't enough though.

you were angry.

who cared about all of those other people when the person that mattered the most was in a hospital bed? waiting for his own death that wasn't even entirely up to him? you were angry, you wanted to scream at anything, at someone.

why did it have to be him? why did it have to be your max? why did it have to be him at the wrong place at the wrong time? why? why? why? he did nothing wrong, all his life he was a saint. he was never cruel to anything or anyone in his life, all he did was try to please the people around him, why did it have to be him?

you wished you had the answers, you still prayed. almost like a devoted follower of that stupid god most of the population of the earth believed in. you laughed at the irony of your desperation, no amount of praying or bargaining could ever bring him back, it was too late but damn, if you didn't try you knew you'd regret it.

max's family checked up on you often, sophie and victoria being the ones to ask you how you were. you always appreciated them checking up on you when you knew that they were hurting the most out of all of this, they were his family afterall. you were just... the girlfriend. your feelings were not important in this equation.

trudging through life without waking up next to him was painful, the small pitiful meows coming out of sassy and jimmy were almost even more painful. the reminder that you were in his apartment, with his cats but without him. when was he going to wake up? when were you going to wake up from this bad dream?

a ring from your phone had woken you up from your drunken adventures from the previous night, you wanted to yell at them for interrupting your sleep. you wanted to sleep forever, maybe even be in a comatose state similar to max so then you would be able to wake up together.

"hello?" you mumbled through closed eyes, very much annoyed that whoever this person was, waking you up from your sleep. you didn't even bother to check the called id.

"you need to come down to the hospital, right now."

you haven't scrambled up and got dressed any faster than you just did, you didn't bother doing your hair or even brushing your teeth. one second you were in your shared apartment, the next you were in your car, speeding past the streets of monaco to get to the hospital, maybe breaking a few laws and going as fast as an f1 car.

"schatje."

you were crying when you got there, burying your face in max's chest, you wanted to yell at him, for leaving you alone for two months too long but you didn't have it in you. his hand found its way to your hair, petting your head. a gentle kiss was left against your temple as you continued to cry against his chest, you couldn't form words, basically inconsolable.

you were eventually able to peel yourself off of him though, his hand firmly wrapped around yours, mainly for your comfort and not his. the doctor's had explained that he had to slowly learn to walk and speak again because he was in a coma for so long but the first words out of his mouth when he first became conscious was schatje which made you cry a little bit more. some of his friends and family came throughout the day and he could recognize who they were, just had a hard time speaking.

it was only at the end of the day where you two had a time for yourselves, just basking in the presence of each other, finally being able to see his pretty blue eyes look at you.

"lay... ne-next to me..?" max asked, his voice a bit scratchy for not being awake in two months, tilting his head a little to the left, a little quirk of his which you thought was cute and complied with his request. he wrapped his arm around yours after scooting to make space for you, the both of you just laying there in each other's presence, not wanting to let go.

max didn't understand how much time had passed and understandably so, but he missed you. it felt like he had just gone to sleep and succumbed to his injuries but for you, it felt like a lifetime without having to see the love of your life. the atmosphere was quiet, but comfortable. seeing max alive and in one piece was all you needed before slowly drifting off into sleep, and for once the nurses didn't kick you out after checking in on max.

recovery was hard, max had been told that he suffered damage when he got a concussion from the crash. his spine had been mostly intact but since he suffered injuries to his brain, he had to learn how to walk and talk again.

"what about happiness?" a therapist had asked max as he sat across from her. they were doing some exercises to train max's speaking, something that the doctors had mentioned would help max recover faster. max's face lit up before pointing to you, who was sitting next to him, "nice try max, but you understand what i mean."

a giggle left your lips before he tried again, with a pout dancing on his lips, "joy, winning a race?" he tilted his head cutely before the therapist let him have the answer, it was cute. he was cute but he was a fighter.

the moment the doctors cleared him of any sustaining injuries, he was ready to get on the track again, only after six months after the crash.

"you can't be serious max," you shook your head as you paced around the apartment, "it's only been six months... you should just rest for the remainder of the season and get in next year. i don't understand the rush, you have your life in front of you to compete, what's wrong with waiting a few more months?"

max shrugged, he realized after the crash that he in fact did not have his entire life to race. what if his life was taken early and he couldn't spend the rest of his life with her, what then? he didn't want to waste any time. he wanted to get his head in the game while he was at his prime and get it over with before retiring and getting away with her on a private island and living there for the rest of his life.

he didn't want to race for the remainder of his life, nope. he wasn't like alonso who was going to be on the track when he's old and frail and no longer in the top teams. he wanted to win, and that's what he was going to do, to win. he knew that him coming back so soon even after his injuries were going to be hard on you, he was scared to even bring it up in the first place.

it had only been a few months, and he was so ready to come back to racing. his fingers were basically itching for it, but he was very mindful with how you were going to feel, he always was. he hinted at it a couple times before, but her response was always different than what he wanted.

max sighed when you were obviously going to be upset with his decision, "look, i know you're worried and you do not want me in the car so soon, but you have to trust me—"

you set your back straight before looking him dead in the eyes, "i trusted you six months ago! look where that got us!" you didn't mean to yell, but you were scared and you did not want to lose him because he was driving a silly fast car. max looked hurt, and rightfully so. you sighed before you walked over to where he was on the couch, wrapping your arms around him in a hug, which he welcomed with open arms, "i'm just worried, okay? you being in that coma was the scariest thing in my entire life. i even lost hope, do you understand how scary it was for me to lose hope?"

max nods before landing a kiss on your lips, wanting to reassure you that he made a mistake and that it wasn't going to happen again. he didn't mean to leave you for those two months, but he knew that he was never going to do that to you again. he didn't want to hurt you anymore than he already did.

"trust me, i'm not gonna make the same mistake twice and i'm gonna make you proud."

and max never did. he got in the car the next week, ready to fight. baring his teeth for anyone who could get anywhere close to him. he closed out the season with multiple trophies, even though the driver's championship was out of reach.

he celebrated that season with a big smile on his face and you knew it was the right decision to let him get back to racing. as much as you didn't want to admit it, he loved racing more than he loved you and you were okay with that. you were okay with being second to his ambitions and dreams because that's what good girlfriends do, let their boyfriend's risk their lives driving silly fast cars if that meant it made them happy.

unfortunately, you anxiety wouldn't go away even after all the constant reassurance your boyfriend gave you. the nights where you were alone, wondering whether if max was going to pull through still haunted you.

of course, alcohol was still a problem for you. you turned to it when you felt like you didn't have a choice. some nights, on particularly rough anxiety ridden nights, you would sneak out. just grab a drink or two to soothe your heart. it wasn't long before max caught on though.

"where have you been?" max had asked as you entered their apartment after coming home from work, it wasn't like you came home late and came home absolutely drunk which is why you didn't think he was suspicious. there had been a break between the current races, which is why he was home before you were.

a hiccup breaks the silence as you close the door behind you, you lock eyes with max and you can see the disappointment floating in his eyes, that's when you knew that he knew but you weren't sure how much he knew.

"answer the question, liefje," max sternly spoke up once again, walking towards you, in his eyes was a challenge. he was waiting to see whether you were going to lie to his face or not. he could practically smell the alcohol from there, he went out drinking a lot too, being a formula one driver meant parties like there was no tomorrow.

you didn't know what to answer with, so you answered as vaguely as possible, "i was out with some friends," hoping that the answer you gave him would satisfy him enough without him asking too many questions, you tried to brush past him but he held onto your arm.

max had heard stories from his friends, telling him that you weren't at a good spot after the accident. that you turned to drinking and it seemed like nothing could help except for max himself.

he took one whiff and he knew it was alcohol, "which friends?" he asked, not wanting to let you slip from his fingers, he knew how dangerous alcohol addiction was and he wasn't going to let his girlfriend fall into the grasps of it.

"work friends, max— let go. i want to take a shower," you tugged on his hand that was holding onto your arm, but he was unrelenting. he stared you down, not convinced with the bullshit answer you gave him. he knew you had been out drinking, it wasn't even race week. you didn't have an excuse.

max's eyes softened, he knew that somewhere deep inside of you that you were struggling, that you needed help but you just didn't know how to reach out. was it hard to reach out to him? has he made himself so unapproachable after the accident?

"talk to me, what's going on with you?" max's grip on your arm has softened but you could only sigh and look away, you didn't know how to face him. yes, you were struggling but you didn't know how to bring it up. just like everything in your life, you needed someone to comfort you and tell you it was going to be okay and that there were people there for you, but you were stubborn almost in a similar fashion to him.

you only looked back up at him when max squeezed your arm and the eyes that looked back up at him were no longer hard and guarded, but full of vulnerability and glassy, "i—"

"you've been drinking?" max cut you off and finished your sentence for you, now you knew how much he knew of your struggles. you swear it wasn't supposed to get this bad, you promised yourself you would stop on the weeks where he didn't have races, or maybe just stop altogether but that was easier said than done.

"yes," was all that left your lips and that was the day that max swore he was going to get you through this.

max had offered to take a break like you suggested for the rest of the year, just to ease your nerves but you told him that it was a hard no for you. you knew that it was going to get much worse if you got too used to his presence, the cycle would just repeat itself once he got back into racing.

this time there was another road to recovery, just not for him. max had been nothing but helpful, always offering you help, even offering to pay for your rehab. you contemplated whether you even wanted to go or not, you didn't want to feel weak. to feel like there was something was wrong with you, that you were a freak but at the end, after endless heart-to-heart conversations with max, he was convinced you to go.

the first few months were hard, there was no way you could attend the races while going through rehab so you had to just suck it up and go through it without watching. max felt bad, of course he did. that was the love of his life that he put in that rehab center, but he knew he had to make tough decisions if he wanted you to get better.

he felt horrible not having you there for even some of the races, not because he sent you to the rehab center but because he missed you. he knew that the accident hit you hard, but not this hard. he didn't understand how much anxiety racing did to you, and he was beating himself up for it.

he should've seen the signs, should've reached out sooner before they could fester into something as serious as alcohol addiction but there was no use in beating himself up for something he didn't do in the past, as least he was doing it now after he saw the signs of you struggling.

the initial withdrawal symptoms were insane, if you weren't in rehab, you would've probably relapsed the first day there. it was hard for you and you were trying your best, and you did. overtime, you were recovering and that's all that mattered.

max had received updates of course, he requested them. he wanted to see how you were holding up, if there were any signs of improvement. the therapists there all said that you were doing splendid, that she might get out in a few months which was great news to max.

it would only take you another six months to fully recover and the first thing you did when you saw max when he picked you up was jump into his arms, he breathed out a sigh of relief after not seeing you for a couple of weeks. he could live like this.

both of them had their own battles to fight through but the most important part was that they both overcame both battles, never forgetting to support eachother, even when one lost themselves along the way.

Hello there! Love your work on the Max Verstappen x reader fiction. If it isn't too much, can I request an angst based on the song " All I wanted was a coffee" by Samantha Ebert? You can decide the ending but, a gut wrenching angst with kelly is appreciated. Thank you!

I hope you like this, I tried to use the song in the way that I saw fit. The reader has many insecurities and bit of mommy issues. Mention of cuts and bleeding.

I wish you loved me

{Reader’s POV}

Max and I started dating soon after he got out of a really long relationship with his ex. With Max being a Formula One driver; the details of his past were general knowledge, did I wish I didn’t know? Yes. Because in the pictures of Max and Kelly, you could see his eyes sparkled and he would smile so bright sometimes and I felt like I never got to know that Max. But every relationship is different; I couldn’t compare it, could I?

Max was loving, I mean every boyfriend is. He would sometimes forget important stuff but he was a busy man with an even busier job.

But it hurt when I saw Max with P or Kelly for that matter. His eyes would light up; I just felt like crap every time he met them, but Max never noticed. At the end of the day, Max was always around P while she was growing up, it was a given she missed him, right?

It got worse when Kelly started coming to races and meeting Max. The worst was yet to come; the other girlfriends started to side eye me whenever me and Max would interacted as if Max was Kelly’s boyfriend.

I was in the bathroom when I heard them; they were talking about how Max and Kelly looked cute together, they were the model family, that Max deserved better. Kelly even talked about all the gifts he got her and P recently. I just sat there in the cubical for a very long time.

I waited, I was dumb I know but no one’s loved me before and the fact that Max was willing to love me even for a moment felt like relief. I didn't want to let him go, I couldn't not when there was a chance he would come back.

I waited like always, Max was always away having dinner with P since she missed him. She missed him a lot ever since we started dating. I never said anything since Max was like her father figure but it hurt.

One of those nights, I was sat drinking whiskey, it was in Max’s alcohol cabinet. The bottle was almost over. The snacks finished up soon after the third glass. I was sat on the floor, glass in hand when Max walked in. “World’s best dad everyone” I sang. “How much did you drink?” He laughed. He laughed at me. “You know my mother was right” I said, trying to get up. “She wasn’t really the best mom, now was she” Max commented. “Yeah but she was right about a lot of things and she was right about how difficult to love I was” I laughed. Max looked at me with sadness in his eyes, “don’t pity me Max.... How could Kelly steal you from me?” I cried. Max said nothing. “No no sorry sorry, how can something be stolen from me when it was never mine to begin with.” I laughed bitterly taking the last swig from my glass. “The alcohol’s gone Max, just like your feelings for me or did you ever have them to begin with?” I slurred.

“Y/N I” Max began. “No Max, you’re not at fault. It’s my fault for coming between 2 lovers. You should’ve told me that you loved her, I would’ve never dated you” I cried for the first time tonight in front of Max. As I steadied myself, the whiskey bottle fell down, and I tried to pick up the pieces but ended up cutting myself. “Hehe look Max I’m bleeding” I giggled holding up my hand. “Y/N let’s clean that up” Max said trying to hold my hand. “NO, Kelly won’t like it. I’m not a home wrecker...or maybe I am” I laughed bitterly. “Let me help you” Max pleaded. “You look at me with so much concern for the first time since we started dating” I pointed out. Max’s eyes bore into mine. I tried to walk away but ended up stepping on the glass. “Look I’m bleeding from my foot now too. At least now people can see that I’m hurt since I’ll have bandages all over me. My heart ache gets missed every time. Maybe now, they might see my hurt, for once” I said with fresh tears forming.

“Mothers are always right. I’m unlovable, always been. If only I was pretty, if only I was a model, if only I was thinner, if only I was….Kelly Piquet, then you would’ve loved me. But I’m me, I’m plain old difficult to love, Y/N that’s why I’m unlovable” I chuckled. “Let’s go to the hospital” he pleaded again. “No, I’ll take care of myself. Don’t worry about me anymore. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it. Then you can have your happy ever after with Kelly” I laughed bitterly. “Did you ever love me?” I asked. Max was quiet. “I was just a rebound wasn’t I. Tell me you really loved me even for a second” I begged. “I’m sorry.” He said.

I grabbed my phone with my other hand while bleeding on to the floor; “don’t worry. I’ll clean your place before I leave” I said looking at the trail of blood I was leaving and dialled my phone calling the only person I knew in Monaco, the only person who didn’t hate me or talk badly about me, Lewis. “Lewis, Hi....I need to go to the hospital. I’m bleeding” I giggled. “Are you drunk? How did you hurt your self? Where are you?” He asked concerned. “Yes, yes, home no wait, Max’s home” I answered. I heard him sigh. “Where Max?” He asked. “He’s here” I said looking up at Max. “Ask him to take you now?” Lewis suggested. “NO, we broke up, and ex-boyfriend’s don’t take their ex-girlfriend’s to the doctor” I explained. “What?” He asked shocked. “Please Lewis, it hurts. Can you come soon?” I asked. “I’ll be there soon” Lewis said and cut the call. I sat there and looked at Max, “The whiskey tasted sweet as always and you sobered me up so fast” I sighed looking at the mess I had made.

Lewis came to take me to the hospital; he did not speak to Max. I guess even he knew what was going on. I didn’t see Max again after that either.

✶ 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.

Idk why but this scene simply warms my heart so much. The casual and easy way he gives his hand and the way she moves and he moves to indulge her and her laugh at the end. Siiigh. I miss this show 😭

main masterlist \\ f1 masterlist

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𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫?

✩ : the f1 drivers giving more attention to your brother than you

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. : max verstappen, lando norris, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, carlos sainz, lewis hamilton + special guest... franco colapinto!

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : humor, suggestive in some parts

✍︎ : *insert the lion king song here* (no i haven't seen the movie yet 🙃)

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©italiangirlcoresblog // do not copy, rewrite, or translate any of my work on any platforms