chaostudee

[chaostudee]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU.

Summer at the Leclercs’ was always easy—sun, sea, and your best friend Arthur by your side. But now Charles is back, older, bolder, and looking at you like you’re not a kid anymore. And suddenly, everything feels new, exciting, and a little dangerous.

pairing. Charles Leclerc x fem! reader. (bonus: platonic! Arthur Leclerc x fem! reader)

warnings. 11,6k words, best friend’s brother! charles (based on this post), summer romance, angst, fluff, mean! charles kinda, drinking alcohol, 3 years age gap, implied timeskips, badly proofread (sorry was too lazy).

YOU GREW UP IN MONACO, running barefoot through the streets and spending almost every day with Arthur Leclerc. He was your best friend, your partner in crime. The two of you were always getting into trouble, laughing too loud, and making every summer feel like a movie.

Arthur’s house became your second home. You knew every room, every smell, every sunlit corner of it.

And then there was Charles.

Arthur’s older brother. He was taller, moodier, and always seemed annoyed when he had to watch over you. He didn’t like missing out on plans because of “the kids,” and he never let you forget it.

There were a lot of things you hated about Charles Leclerc.

When you grew up, things changed. You moved away, found new streets to run on, new friends to laugh with. But you never lost touch with Arthur. Not really. There were messages, blurry video calls, bad jokes that still made you smile.

Still, your favorite part of the year was always summer.

Because every summer, you came back. Back to the sun, the sea, and the little town that still felt like yours. Back to the Leclercs’ house—your second home, even now.

This year, you were back again. The air smells the same, the sea still sparkles the way you remembered, and your heart raced faster than it should.

Because you were about to find out if you still hate all those things about Charles Leclerc.

─── 1: I HATE HOW YOU STILL CALL ME KID.

You were back. Finally.

The air smelled just as you remembered—salt from the Mediterranean curling into every breath, sunlight warming the pavement, and that familiar scent of citrus and expensive perfume that always clung to the Leclerc villa like a secret. It was the smell of summer, of comfort, of the place that shaped you. Coming home didn’t feel like going back. It felt like waking up.

“I missed you so much, Y/n,” Arthur said, his hand wrapped around the handle of your suitcase as he hoisted it up the stone steps like it weighed nothing. His voice was the same—familiar and easy. “Everyone’s already here. Even Charles,” he added casually, like the mention of his older brother didn’t land in your chest like a stone skipping across still water.

You hadn't seen Charles in five years.

You were nineteen the last time you saw him. Half-baked plans, scraped ambitions, and a heart still soft around the edges. You came back every summer since, but not once had his car pulled into the drive, not once had his voice echoed down the hallway. He was too busy chasing the dream you'd heard him whisper about when he thought no one was listening—Ferrari, podiums, the roar of the track.

Now you were twenty-four. You had your own life, your own routine, your own apartment with a loose drawer handle you never fixed. You had grown into a version of yourself that didn’t chase things anymore. But something about being here—this house, this moment, that name—unraveled you slightly. Softened edges you’d carefully carved out.

“Go wait on the terrace, I’ll be there in a sec,” Arthur said, nodding toward the tall glass doors that framed the golden light spilling onto the patio. His tone was casual, but your pulse wasn’t. You offered him a small smile—tight-lipped, trying to look like your heart wasn’t suddenly echoing in your ears—and stepped forward, the wheels of your suitcase clicking softly on the stone as you walked away..

The door gave easily, and as you stepped out, the familiar scent hit you like it had been waiting: warm salt air, blooming jasmine, sunscreen, and sea breeze rolling straight off the Mediterranean. Everything about it said home.

And then you saw him.

A figure stood at the far end of the terrace, lean frame silhouetted against the view of Monaco—postcard-perfect and glittering in the late afternoon sun. He hadn’t heard you at first, too caught in whatever thoughts the horizon was pulling from him. But the sound of the door clicking shut behind you must’ve given you away, because he shifted, turned.

Charles.

His name collided with your heartbeat.

He looked—different. Not unrecognizable, but older. Sharper around the edges. There was a mustache now, annoyingly well-suited to the shape of his face. His hair was longer, messier, starting to brush the tops of his ears like he didn’t care much for styling anymore. He wore a plain white T-shirt, one hand tucked into his back pocket like he had all the time in the world.

But the eyes—those were the same. Steady, unreadable, a shade too amused for your liking as they landed on you.

"Kid’s back in town?” he said, and the sound of his voice nearly tripped your step.

It was deeper than you remembered. Rougher. And somehow, that one line managed to undo five years of growing up.

You stiffened, heat creeping up the back of your neck. Of course he’d go straight for that.

“I’m twenty-four, actually,” you replied, sharper than intended. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

His eyes skimmed over you then—slowly, thoughtfully—not with the arrogance you braced for, but with something quieter. He was taking you in, cataloging the details: your longer hair, your steadier voice, the way you didn’t shrink beneath his gaze this time.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low and lazy. “I see that.”

Then, without missing a beat: “But for me, still a kid.”

He said it so easily. Like it wasn’t a knife disguised as a tease.

Like it didn’t sting the way it always had.

And still, your breath hitched. You hated that. You hated how much that one word could pull you backward. How five years dissolved into nothing the second he opened his mouth.

Worse, you hated that a part of you wasn’t sure whether it was anger or something else rising in your chest. Something more dangerous. Something like longing.

Your voice came out before you could stop it, sharper than intended, laced with something that had been sitting in your chest for too long. “Why did you disappear for five summers? And not even say anything?”

The words surprised even you, but the ache behind them was real. It had always hurt when he teased you—but it hurt just as much when he simply vanished.

Charles shifted, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly. “I was working.”

You let out a dry laugh, folding your arms. “Right. Living your dream. Must’ve been exhausting.”

His gaze flicked to you, more tired than annoyed. “It wasn’t as easy as it looked. We struggled for a few seasons—midfield car, no podiums. It wasn’t all champagne and celebrations.”

You shrugged, tone cool. “I wouldn’t know. I was busy working too.”

He tilted his head, studying you like he hadn’t expected that answer. But you didn’t flinch.

Charles didn’t answer right away. He just kept looking at you—not glancing, not brushing you off the way he used to. It was the kind of look that pulled threads loose. Like he was comparing memories with reality and realizing they didn’t quite match anymore.

The quiet stretched, and you felt it settle heavy in your chest.

Your gaze dropped to the terracotta tiles, their pattern suddenly fascinating. Anything to ground yourself. “You could’ve said something,” you murmured, softer now, the fight draining from your voice. “Even just a message.”

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair, and for the first time he looked like he might feel it too. The absence. The distance. The weight of what wasn’t said.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I know.”

Before the moment could tilt too far, Arthur’s voice cut through the haze.

He appeared behind you, all bright energy and innocence, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “So,” he grinned, “how’s the big reunion going?”

You didn’t even look at Charles. Your reply was sharp, dry, and laced with more than a little salt.

“Perfect.”

─── 2: I HATE HOW YOU LOOK AT ME.

The morning sun spilled across the terrace like honey, painting the table in gold and warmth. Plates clinked, cutlery scraped gently against ceramic, and the scent of fresh espresso mingled with ripe melon and toasted bread. You sat across from Charles, barely breathing, trying to pretend you hadn’t noticed the way he kept watching you.

Arthur was in the middle of a story—loud, animated, waving a spoon around for emphasis. “—and I swear, we thought it was our boat. It had the same name, didn’t it? I mean, what are the odds, right? We were halfway into the harbor when this man comes running down the dock yelling in Italian—like actual yelling. Y/n looks at me and goes, ‘Arthur, why is that man pointing at us?’ And then—wait, wait—this is the best part—she hits the throttle!”

His voice was all sunlight and nostalgia, his laughter easy and infectious. Around the table, someone chuckled; someone else swore they remembered it differently. But for you, Arthur’s voice was more like background music—a melody you loved, but couldn’t really hear right now.

Not when Charles was sitting right across from you.

He hadn’t said much. Just sipped his coffee, eyes half-lidded behind sunglasses he didn’t need anymore. But you could feel his gaze burning into your skin. Not teasing, not mocking—something slower. He looked at you like you were something he didn’t expect to find again. Like he was trying to memorize you without letting on.

And you hated it.

You hated how your fork paused in midair when you felt his eyes again. How your skin heated under the weight of it. How every glance felt like a wordless conversation you weren’t ready for.

Arthur was still talking—“…and she’s shouting at me over the wind like, ‘Do you even know how to steer?!’ Like I ever had a chance, Y/n, you were the one pressing buttons like it was Mario Kart—”

But his voice had faded now. The table, the clatter, the laughter—it all blurred behind the silence stretching between you and Charles. The silence said more than Arthur ever could.

Because Charles wasn’t just looking at you.

He was seeing you.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

The second you stood, his eyes followed. Of course they did.

“Sorry—bathroom,” you muttered, not meeting anyone’s gaze as you pushed your chair back. Arthur was too deep into a tale about someone’s disastrous karaoke night to notice, but you could feel Charles watching you leave. You didn’t need to look to know.

The hallway was cooler, quieter. You stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and exhaled like you hadn’t breathed properly all morning.

You braced your hands against the sink, heart pounding in your ears. You hadn’t expected it to be like this. The staring. The tension. The way his eyes felt like a hand on your skin, pulling something up from the inside that you thought you'd buried years ago.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Same face. Same mouth. Just… different somehow. You hadn’t changed overnight. But the way he looked at you made it feel like you had.

And you hated that.

You hated that his stare said things he’d never said out loud. You hated how your body responded, like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you were supposed to be over him.

You gripped the edges of the sink one last time, the porcelain cool beneath your fingertips. Your reflection stared back at you, chest still rising and falling too fast, eyes too wide like they’d seen something they weren’t ready for. You'd come in here to breathe—to break whatever invisible thread was pulling taut across the breakfast table. But even behind a closed door, that look had followed you.

You ran your hands under the tap, splashed cool water on your cheeks, and closed your eyes. It helped. Not enough—but just enough to move again.

You dried your hands slowly, counted to five under your breath, and opened the door.

And there he was.

Standing in the hallway like he belonged there—which of course, he did—but to you, in that moment, it felt suffocating. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, posture relaxed, but his eyes were anything but. Focused. Watchful. Like he’d been waiting.

You stopped short. “Charles!” The name escaped like a reflex, startled and sharp.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just looked at you. That same heavy gaze that you’d run from minutes ago. Quiet. Curious. Too much.

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “Can you stop looking at me like that?”

Still, he said nothing at first. Just tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

And then, finally, that voice—low, slow, achingly calm.

“You’ve changed so much, kid.”

─── 3: I HATE HOW YOU ALWAYS WIN.

It took you a while to adjust to the new version of Charles—the older, quieter, more unreadable one. He wasn’t exactly the boy you remembered, and yet… being around him felt frustratingly easy. Too easy. As if no real time had passed at all.

What surprised you most wasn’t how much he’d changed—but how little it mattered.

You, Charles, and Arthur sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the big TV, pillows and half-finished drinks scattered around like evidence of a lazy afternoon. The sun was dipping outside, turning the windows soft gold.

“Loser pays for drinks,” Arthur announced, wiggling his controller like a sword. “No excuses.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You always say that after you’ve had a practice round.”

Charles leaned back slightly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because he cheats on the practice round,” he said. His voice was smooth, low. Relaxed in a way that made your skin buzz.

Arthur gasped dramatically. “I do not cheat! I am simply… fast.”

“Fast at losing,” you muttered, smirking as you selected your go-to Mario Kart character.

Your kart was spinning, bananas flying, and your voice rising above the chaos. “You idiot!” you shouted, smacking Arthur on the arm as his character swerved in front of yours, blocking your path on Rainbow Road. “Get out of my way!”

Arthur was already laughing, wheezing through his half-shouted apology. “It was an accident! I swear, I didn’t mean—”

But whatever excuse he was making got drowned out by the sound of Charles erupting into laughter beside you.

Not just the usual chuckle, either—full-on, head-thrown-back, eyes-crinkling kind of laughter. It tumbled out of him, warm and boyish and utterly unguarded.

And then—he leaned into you.

Barely. Just enough for his shoulder to press against yours, solid and warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. He didn't pull away. Didn’t even seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and that was worse.

You froze for a beat.

Just long enough to miss the next turn.

Your kart plummeted off the side of the track.

“Are you serious?” you groaned, eyes wide, “Now you’re in my way!”

But Charles just kept laughing.

And for a moment, you almost did too.

Except now your heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with the game.

You barely had time to recover before another green shell flew across the screen and sent your kart careening into a wall.

“Arthur!” you shrieked. “Are you targeting me on purpose?!”

He doubled over beside you. “I swear I’m not—I’m just chaotic neutral!”

“You’re just chaotic!” you snapped, frantically mashing buttons as your character respawned in 12th place.

“Hey,” Charles cut in, voice smug but smooth, “try staying on the track next time.”

You whipped around, glaring at him. “Try not breathing so loudly. It’s distracting.”

It was complete, unfiltered mayhem. Controllers clicking like mad. Arthur howling. You yelling threats you had no intention of following through on. And Charles—silent but deadly—always three moves ahead, glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that maddening grin he tried to pretend wasn’t there.

When the race ended—Charles in first, of course—you threw your controller onto the rug in mock defeat. “I hate how you always win.”

He leaned back on his hands, eyes glinting. “Then get better.”

Arthur gasped. “Ooooh, the audacity!“

You lunged for a throw pillow and launched it across the room.

It hit Charles square in the chest. He didn’t even flinch—just tossed it right back.

And for the first time in a long time, you forgot to be guarded.

You just laughed.

Arthur had barely finished laughing when another pillow flew through the air—this time from Charles. You ducked, but not fast enough. It clipped your shoulder and sent you twisting, more out of laughter than anything else.

“Oh, you want to play dirty?” you challenged, scrambling for a second cushion.

Charles didn’t answer. He just lunged.

You shrieked, tossing a pillow wildly in his direction, but he dodged with infuriating ease and caught your wrist instead. In the next breath, you were flat on your back on the rug, giggling uncontrollably as Charles loomed over you with a wicked grin.

“Charles—don’t you dare—”

But he did.

His fingers found your ribs and you shrieked again, dissolving into breathless laughter as he tickled you without mercy. Your legs kicked. Your hands flailed. Arthur howled in the background, absolutely no help at all.

“Say you surrender!” Charles laughed, breathless himself now.

“Never!” you gasped, tears in your eyes from laughing so hard.

“You’re stubborn,” he murmured, still grinning, “just like I remember.”

Eventually, you gave up, limp from laughter, panting against the carpet. He stopped tickling, resting back on his heels as he looked down at you, the edges of his smile softening.

Arthur declared something about needing a refill and disappeared into the kitchen, still cackling to himself.

And for a moment, the room was quiet again.

You lay there, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, heart thudding far too fast.

Charles was still watching you—but this time there was no smirk, no teasing. Just a calm, quiet recognition in his eyes. Like something had settled between you.

It felt reckless. Familiar. Like right before a storm, or right before a kiss.

Like summer had finally come home.

Charles shifted beside you, the pillow slipping from his hands as the last echoes of laughter faded into a quieter kind of silence. The kind that settles when the chaos dies down but the feeling lingers—bright and warm and heavy in all the right places.

You were still catching your breath, head tipped back against the couch, hair in every direction, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. He was close. Not in the accidental way. In the way that happens when neither of you decides to move.

You turned your head just slightly, and there he was—watching you again. But not with that sharp, impossible gaze from breakfast. This one was softer. Like he was remembering something and seeing it completely differently this time.

“What,” you whispered, a laugh still stuck in your throat, “you gonna say I’m still a kid after that performance?”

Charles gave a small smile, not the smug one he wore during Mario Kart victories. This one was real. Quiet. Thoughtful. “You’ve got fight in you,” he said softly, almost to himself.

You raised an eyebrow. “I always did.”

“I know,” he said. And the way he said it made your breath stutter again.

Outside, the light shifted into that golden hour glow. The kind that softened every corner and turned even old memories into something cinematic.

Arthur shouted something from the kitchen—something about cocktails and “where’s the damn ice?”—and the moment cracked just slightly, letting a breeze of normalcy back in.

You sat up, brushing your fingers through your hair. “We should probably go help before he burns the house down.”

Charles stood and offered you a hand without a word.

You took it.

─── 4: I HATE HOW YOU MAKE ME LAUGH.

It was far too late for you to be awake. The villa had gone still hours ago, the only sounds outside your window were the gentle lap of waves and the occasional rustle of night wind in the palms. Everyone else was sleeping off wine and laughter, the kind of drowsy contentment that came with salt-soaked skin and sun-kissed shoulders.

But not you.

Sleep refused to come, your thoughts coiled tight beneath your skin. Every shift beneath the sheets only stirred more questions—about him, about tonight, about the way he looked at you like he saw something he wasn’t ready to admit either.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Barely there.

Two polite taps against the wood, like someone trying not to be caught.

Your pulse skipped.

“You up?” Charles’s voice was quiet, almost careful. The kind of careful that made you think he’d been standing there for a minute, hand hovering, debating whether to knock at all.

You blinked at the door. What the hell was he doing here at—what? Two in the morning?

You threw the covers back and padded over, unsure if you were annoyed, curious, or worse—excited.

You cracked the door open just wide enough to peer out. He stood barefoot in the hallway, hoodie slung loose over his frame, curls messy from sleep or maybe indecision. His expression was unreadable. But he was here.

“No,” you said flatly, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the ghost of a smirk.

His grin was already trouble the moment it curled up the side of his face. “Wanna go swimming?” he asked, voice hushed like a secret he was daring you to share.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed loosely over your sleep shirt. “Now? You want to sneak out? Are we seventeen?”

The roll of your eyes was automatic. But your smile—damn it—gave you away.

He didn’t miss it. “Just like when we were teenagers,” he said, smirking with a warmth that made the hallway feel ten degrees hotter.

You paused. Thought about the cool water, the hush of the waves, the moonlit grin of a boy who knew exactly which part of your brain still belonged to summers past.

“Give me five minutes,” you muttered, already turning to grab your towel.

He nodded once, already turning with that smug, unbothered confidence that somehow hadn’t faded with time. “I’ll be waiting at the dock,” he said over his shoulder, voice low, almost teasing. The hallway swallowed him up, and the air felt warmer for it.

You closed the door and leaned back against it, pulse thrumming just beneath your skin. It was ridiculous. Reckless. Exactly what you weren’t supposed to be doing.

And yet—five minutes later, you were slipping into the hoodie you always stole from him back then, your swimsuit underneath, towel in hand, tiptoeing barefoot down cool stone steps toward the water.

The moon sat high, casting silver ripples across the bay, and the yacht rocked gently against its ropes like it had been holding this secret just for the two of you. Charles was already there, one hand on the railing, waiting. When he saw you, his expression didn’t shift—not really—but something in it softened.

“Nice hoodie,” he said.

You rolled your eyes again, but your mouth twitched. “Still smells like you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a complaint?”

You ignored him, stepping onto the deck. The sea shimmered like glass all around you, and suddenly everything felt too quiet, too close.

“It looks so cold,” you muttered, tugging the hoodie—his hoodie—over your head. The salty air kissed your bare skin, sharp with night chill, and goosebumps rose instantly along your arms.

You padded to the edge of the yacht, eyes on the water, but you could feel it—him. That unmistakable weight of his gaze trailing over you, pausing like punctuation, drinking in every inch with quiet certainty.

You turned, and your eyes met.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting. A smirk, maybe. A smart remark. But what you found was steadier than all of that. Intent. Like he knew something you didn’t—or maybe just wasn't afraid to admit what you both had stopped pretending not to feel.

And just when your lips parted to say something—anything—

His arms wrapped around your waist.

“What the—Charles!”

But you didn’t get to finish.

He lifted you, fast and without warning, laughter already catching in his chest. You shouted, twisting in his grip, but it was too late. You were airborne—both of you—and then falling.

The world paused.

You weren’t in the water yet, but your stomach had already dropped.

“You absolute asshole!” you yelled, just as the sea swallowed you.

Cold and wild and breath-stealing. You surfaced sputtering, hair slicked back, a curse halfway out of your mouth when he popped up beside you, grinning like the devil.

“You were taking too long,” he said, brushing hair from his eyes

You laughed—harder than you had in weeks. The kind of laugh that left your ribs aching and your voice cracking, tangled somewhere between disbelief and pure, breathless joy. The sea cradled you both in its cool hush, waves rising gently around your shoulders as you swam closer to him, every stroke slow and easy like the night had finally let you go.

“You are such an idiot, Charles,” you managed between gasps, your grin wide and irrepressible as another giggle slipped through. Water beaded along your collarbones, your skin flushed with the thrill of it all—of sneaking out, of salt on your lips, of him.

He floated nearby, treading water with casual grace, that infuriatingly confident smirk still pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You love it,” he said, his voice low and smooth, rippling across the water like a secret.

Maybe you did.

You drifted forward, slow and unhurried, like the water itself had drawn you toward him. It was barely more than a ripple, but the space between you vanished. His hand found your waist again, confident but gentle, fingers steadying you like the water might carry you away if he let go.

You didn’t realize how close you'd come until you were looking directly into his eyes—dark and lit by the shimmer of moonlight, reflecting something quiet but impossible to ignore.

Then his hand rose slowly, fingertips brushing your cheek before pushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear. The contact was featherlight but deliberate. Like he needed an excuse to touch you, and that one moment was all he dared to take. You forgot to breathe.

“You’re driving me insane,” you said, the words slipping out on the edge of a laugh. You meant it to be teasing—sharp, flippant—but the way it caught in your throat gave too much away.

He didn’t respond immediately. Just looked at you like that was exactly the effect he’d been hoping for.

And still—you laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was safer than silence. Safer than admitting what was happening between the laughter and the splash fights and the way his thumb had drifted from your waist to rest just above your ribs.

You hated that even now, with the ocean holding you both in its quiet cradle, you couldn’t stop smiling. That your body kept reacting like it remembered this version of him—warm, close, daring—before your mind could catch up.

His eyes flicked down, barely a breath, to your mouth. Then back up.

Not cocky. Not assuming. But sure.

Sure that he could kiss you right now.

Sure that you wouldn’t stop him.

He was watching you again—really watching. Like the only thing he could see in this whole endless dark was you.

“Charles…” you started, but you didn’t even know where the sentence was going.

Then—just as your lips parted, just as your eyes flicked down in that barely-there way that meant you could—

A clatter.

Somewhere nearby. Metallic. Sharp.

Your heads whipped toward the source instinctively—a boat hook had slid off the deck railing and clanged against the rail with enough noise to shatter the fragile quiet.

You sucked in a breath. He let out a muttered curse under his.

And then, from the far-off shore, Arthur’s voice carried like a warning flare: “If you two are making out, at least wait ‘til I’m asleep!”

You both blinked. Froze. And then burst into laughter again—real, ridiculous, too-loud laughter that cracked the silence and brought you crashing back to earth.

Charles leaned in, forehead briefly against yours in mock defeat, still chuckling under his breath.

“I swear, he times these things.”

You didn’t move. Just let yourself float there with him, tangled in the could-have-beens and the not-quites.

─── 5: I HATE HOW YOU SAY MY NAME.

It wouldn’t be summer at the Leclercs’ without a chaotic night at your favorite club—the one with sticky floors, neon signs, and exactly zero self-control. The bass vibrated through your bones, sweat-slick bodies packed wall to wall, drinks flowing like Monaco didn’t believe in hangovers.

And, of course, this time you were paying.

So naturally, Charles had been at the bar like it was a personal challenge. Three shots in, he was charming. Five shots in, dangerous. By the seventh, he was gone.

Now he swayed through the crowd with a glazed grin, sunglasses (where had he even found those?) perched crookedly on his nose, mouthing lyrics he didn’t know while dancing in a way that could only be described as... enthusiastic.

You and Arthur had been dancing near him, sharing glances every time he nearly tripped over nothing or saluted the DJ with a full drink in hand.

“Should I take him out?” you asked, leaning close to Arthur so your voice didn’t get swallowed by the bass. Close enough that your breath brushed his ear.

Arthur shrugged without looking too concerned. “Maybe.” Then he turned his head, giving you a far-too-knowing look. “Do you need help?”

You narrowed your eyes, shaking your head with a roll of your own. “No.”

Of course not. You knew Charles’s drunk rhythms better than anyone.

You cut through the crowd and caught his wrist mid-dance, halting him just before he could spin himself directly into a group of strangers. His skin was warm and damp under your fingers, his whole body still moving like the music hadn’t let him go yet.

“Time to go, buddy,” you said, tugging gently.

But Charles just blinked at you, lids heavy, hair sticking to his forehead, and smiled the slowest, most devastating grin. He leaned in—closer than necessary, breath brushing your temple—and mumbled, slurring ever so slightly, “You look so hot when you’re responsible, Y/n.”

You froze. Not because of the words—but because of the way he said them. No teasing lilt. No smugness. Just soft, honest awe. It landed somewhere dangerously deep in your chest, like gravity changed direction for a second.

“Oh god,” you muttered, looking anywhere but at his eyes.

He tilted his head, clearly pleased with your reaction and entirely unaware of the emotional war he’d just started inside you. “What?” he asked, grinning like he'd just won something.

You gritted your teeth and started guiding him toward the exit, trying not to trip on your own thoughts. Outside, the air was cooler, laced with sea breeze and the echo of muffled bass from inside. The cobblestones were uneven beneath your heels, and Charles wobbled dramatically, clinging to your arm like you were the only thing anchoring him.

“I’m fiiine,” he said as you helped him down the steps. “Just... tired. But you’re very pretty.”

“You already said that,” you muttered, but your cheeks betrayed you.

He dropped himself onto the curb like the weight of the night had finally caught up to him, elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed. The streetlights cast a soft gold glow over his face, making his flushed cheeks and unfocused eyes look even younger than usual.

You hovered nearby, arms crossed, watching him with a sigh that came from somewhere deeper than just annoyance.

He looked up at you—slow, lazy—his eyes wide and glassy and far too sincere. That kind of drunk honesty that clung to the edges of everything he said.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n,” he slurred again, voice thick and slow like honey warmed too long.

You rolled your eyes, even as your stomach did a quiet, inconvenient flip. “You’ve already said that, Charles. Twice.”

“I meant it both times,” he said, lifting one hand to gesture vaguely, as if his words needed space to land. “I’d say it a third. I’d say it a hundred. You’re—” He paused, squinting at you, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous. Like, movie-scene gorgeous. Like… I’d die for you.”

You froze for a second, your breath catching somewhere between disbelief and reluctant softness.

“Okay,” you said, crouching in front of him. “That’s enough compliments for one night.”

“I’m serious,” he murmured, voice dipping low, suddenly quieter. “You don’t get it. You never got it.”

He was still slouched on the curb, the fluorescent spill of the streetlight painting soft shadows along the line of his jaw. You watched him, your arms crossed, trying to mask the chaos bubbling just beneath your skin. You'd seen Charles drunk before—knew the rhythms of his laughter, his stumbles, the way his charm dialed up to blinding—but this? This was different. The words that had slipped from his mouth weren’t tossed out for effect. They had landed with a weight you hadn’t been ready for.

“Y/n, mon amour,” he repeated again, quieter this time. Like maybe he liked the way it sounded in the air between you. Like maybe he’d been saying it in his head for years and only now had found the nerve to speak it aloud. His French curled around the words, gentle and devastating. It made your name sound like something delicate. Sacred.

“I think about you all the time,” he said. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, no longer teasing but soft, unexpectedly vulnerable. “Like… damn.” He chuckled to himself—an embarrassed sort of sound—and you could see the pink bloom across his cheeks, deeper than the flush from the alcohol. “I’ve been in love with you since like… forever.”

You felt the ache bloom slowly in your chest. It was a strange kind of ache—familiar and foreign all at once. Because in some impossible way, it made perfect sense. Like maybe you’d been waiting to hear those words your whole life and just didn’t know it. But before you could say anything, before you could let yourself feel anything, he added quietly, “But Arthur would probably kill me, you know how he is.”

And there it was—the unspoken name that always hovered like a ghost in the space between you. Arthur. His brother. Your best friend. The tether that had kept you both firmly rooted in the land of what-ifs and never-coulds. You swallowed hard, trying to find air in lungs that had forgotten how to expand.

Charles didn’t seem to notice your silence. Or maybe he did, and chose to fill it anyway. “Just look at you,” he whispered, voice low, almost reverent. “Who wouldn’t love you, darling?”

You crouched down next to him, knees brushing the edge of his thigh. He turned toward you slowly, his eyes glassy, but still full of everything he hadn’t said. Your name sounded dangerous in his mouth now. Like a truth he couldn’t stop telling.

─── 6: I HATE HOW YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN ANYONE.

You hadn’t talked about it.

Not the things he’d said on the curb. Not the way he’d looked at you like you were the center of every blurry constellation in his mind. Not the way your name had fallen from his mouth in that accent of his—careless and reverent at the same time.

And definitely not the night swim. The moonlight. The silence that had almost turned into something else.

You’d both slipped back into the rhythm of summer like nothing had cracked beneath the surface. No one mentioned it. Arthur was clueless. Everyone else was oblivious.

And now—now it was just you and Charles in the kitchen. Late afternoon sun filtering in through the shutters, making the countertops glow. A bowl of half-sliced watermelon sat between you, juice bleeding into a paper towel. The hum of the fridge. The rhythmic thud of a knife against the cutting board. Your wet bikini clung uncomfortably to your skin, the water from your hair dripping onto the marble floor and leaving little trails behind you.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“Can you pass me a bowl?” Charles asked, not loudly. His voice was gentle, like he was being careful with it.

You didn’t look up. Just reached for a clean one from the open cabinet and passed it to him wordlessly.

His fingers brushed yours. Briefly. Deliberately?

You didn’t ask. Didn’t meet his gaze. But you could feel it anyway—resting on your temple, drifting across your collarbone, dragging slowly down to where your hair was still damp against your shoulder.

The silence stretched. Thick. Charged. Still pretending to be casual. You sliced another strawberry. A little too hard this time.

You hadn’t said much in days. Not since *that* night. You stuck close to Arthur, keeping conversations quiet and safe, using him as a shield from what the rest of the world—what Charles—might still remember.

So when Charles finally spoke, it landed like something breaking. “Are you okay?” His voice was careful, but not distant. Not forced. He was watching you again, really watching. “You’ve been quiet lately.” You didn’t look up. You didn’t have to. Of course he noticed. Charles always noticed. He knew how loud you were meant to be, how your voice usually filled spaces and your laugh skipped over tile floors and soft poolside evenings like it belonged in every corner of his summer. Now, you barely made a sound.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice clipped and too polished to be honest. And maybe you hoped he’d let it slide. Maybe if you delivered it with just enough steadiness, he wouldn’t ask again.

But he didn’t back off. Instead, Charles stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his gaze trying to reach beneath your skin. “C’mon, Y/n,” he murmured, voice just low enough to feel private in the open room. “I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s off.”

You said nothing, eyes still locked on the cutting board as if the watermelon rind would answer for you. You didn’t expect what he said next.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said, softer now. “With the corner of your lip.”

Your breath caught in your throat, subtle but sharp. That hit in a way you weren’t prepared for. It was something tiny. A detail. Something so easily missed, even by people who claimed to know you inside out. Arthur hadn’t noticed. No one had ever said it aloud. And yet here Charles was—casually cracking open a part of you you hadn’t even known you were showing.

It wasn’t fair. That he could do that. That he could see through the armor you’d spent days, maybe years, building up. You hated how it rattled you, how it made your fingers falter just slightly on the knife. You hated even more the warmth blooming in your chest—because maybe, deep down, you wanted someone to notice. And it had to be him. Of course it was him.

You finally looked at him, really looked, and saw that he wasn’t teasing. His gaze was steady, unwavering, all the warmth stripped of charm—just the quiet kind of concern that only comes from someone who’s paid too much attention for too long.

“You know you can tell me anything,” Charles said, voice low and careful, like he was handling something fragile—like maybe he was handling you.

Your grip tightened around the edge of the counter. “I’m just—” You stopped, jaw clenching as emotion scraped against the back of your throat. “I’m just fucking confused, Charles.”

You tried to sound annoyed, sharp, anything but shaken. But it cracked at the end, too raw to hide.

His brows pulled together, but he didn’t interrupt.

You drew in a shaky breath and pressed on, your voice quieter, tremor riding every syllable. “I thought… I thought there was never gonna be anything between us. Especially not from your side. You were always joking. Flirting. But I figured it was just... you being you. And now—” You shook your head, words starting to tumble faster, too much and not enough. “And now you say these things. And I feel like you want me but maybe only halfway. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Your chest rose and fell faster now. You hated that your eyes were stinging. You hated even more that he was still just standing there—quiet, listening, like he wasn’t going to run.

Charles exhaled slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not halfway.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right.

He took a step closer. “It was never halfway.”

The silence that followed was thunderous, vibrating between your ribs. You turned slightly, your hand now resting on the counter more to steady yourself than anything else.

“You’re not just another person I flirt with, Y/n,” he said, and you could hear the weight in his voice now. “I joke around because I’m scared. Because what I feel for you doesn’t fit into something simple or easy or casual.”

You turned your head, eyes meeting his, and what you saw there unraveled something in you—honesty, fear, hope, all tangled together.

Charles stood quiet for a moment, watching the way your fingers clenched the edge of the counter, like if you let go you might fall apart entirely. There was something in your eyes that made his throat tighten—vulnerability you hadn’t meant to show, heartbreak you hadn’t had words for until just now.

He stepped forward again, slower this time, and leaned slightly against the island across from you. “I should’ve told you sooner,” he said, his voice rough at the edges. “God, I wanted to. So many times. But I didn’t want to ruin what we already had. I thought maybe if I kept it to myself, it’d go away. That I could just... be near you and be fine.”

He swallowed hard, eyes not leaving yours. “But I wasn’t fine. I never was. I’ve been carrying this thing around for years—this stupid, constant, inconvenient feeling. And I didn’t know how to give it to you without making everything harder.”

You stared at him, and for a second, the ache in your chest felt too heavy to speak around. But the words came anyway—fragile, but true. “Then why say it now? Why wait until you’re drunk and I’m already trying to forget how much it almost meant?”

Charles looked down, then back up, eyes glassy and unguarded. “Because pretending it didn’t matter hurt more than the idea of losing everything.”

A silence fell, thick and trembling between you.

Your voice broke it first. “I don’t know how to be your friend after this.”

His lips crashed into yours with no warning—just heat and certainty and a kind of desperation that had nothing to do with impulse and everything to do with time. Years of restraint, half-swallowed words, and silent moments that had begged for more—all of it spilled out in the space of a single breathless kiss.

His hands settled on your hips like they’d belonged there all along, steady and warm, grounding you even as your world tipped on its axis. You didn’t move at first. Maybe from shock. Maybe because deep down, you’d imagined this exact moment a hundred times and still never expected it would feel quite like this—both inevitable and completely surreal.

Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled back, just an inch, his forehead barely brushing yours. He was close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against your lips, close enough to see the way his eyelashes fluttered before his eyes opened again, searching yours for permission—or apology. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. The quiet buzzed between you, too fragile to break.

“I can’t do this to Arthur,” you whispered, your voice frayed and trembling, the words escaping before you could hold them back. Guilt coiled instantly, sharp and familiar, winding around the base of your ribs and tightening with every syllable. Even saying his name aloud in that moment felt like betrayal. Your arms were still around Charles. His hands were still on you. But everything inside you had started to ache with the weight of what this meant.

Charles didn’t move away. His gaze didn’t waver. “I know,” he said softly, and his voice wasn’t defensive—it was resigned. Honest. A quiet confession of a boundary he never wanted to cross but already had.

“I know,” he repeated, and something in the way he said it made your chest ache. Because he wasn’t just saying it about Arthur. He was saying it about all of it. The guilt. The risk. The impossibility of pretending this hadn’t just happened.

─── 7: I HATE HOW YOU ALWAYS HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

Those days felt almost unreal—like living inside a warm, slow-motion dream you knew couldn’t last. You and Charles kept falling into each other easily, effortlessly. Whispered jokes over breakfast. The way his fingers would brush your lower back as he passed behind you. Shared looks that lingered a little too long across sunlit rooms.

But always—always—there was Arthur.

He wasn’t saying anything, but he didn’t need to. You felt it. In the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. The way he’d glance up when you laughed with Charles, and then look away just as fast. Like he was bracing for the confirmation he didn’t want. And when he’d sit at the table with you both, his hands wrapped around a glass too tight, pretending not to notice the space between you narrowing… you knew.

Charles noticed it too. You caught him watching Arthur sometimes—subtle, cautious. Like he was waiting for him to say something. But Arthur didn’t. Not yet.

The silence between the three of you was turning into something dense. Fragile.

And you could feel it bending.

The afternoon sun cast golden stripes across the stone terrace, the air thick with late summer haze and the fading scent of oranges from the grove below. You sat perched on a cushioned bench, legs draped lazily over Charles’ lap, one of his hands idly tracing circles just above your knee as you laughed at something dumb—some ridiculous childhood story involving a treehouse, jellybeans, and a poorly timed wasp. He was smiling, easy and warm, the way he always got when he felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

And for a few fragile seconds, it almost felt normal.

Then the sliding door creaked open behind you. Arthur stepped onto the terrace.

You felt it instantly—the shift. The way laughter collapsed in your throat. The way Charles' hand froze. You moved quickly, instinctively, pulling your legs back to the floor with an awkward glance down, like maybe if you didn't look at him, it wouldn’t look like what it was.

Arthur didn’t say anything at first. He walked to the table, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, and sat in the chair across from you with a calmness that felt louder than shouting.

He didn’t look at either of you when he spoke. “That’s okay,” he said, voice even but heavy. “You can keep them there.”

You didn’t move.

“I’m glad you two are getting along,” he added, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the railing, past the olive trees, toward the blue stretch of sea where no one had to answer for anything.

Charles sat a little straighter, eyes narrowing, the sudden shift in tone igniting something defensive beneath his skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, not cold, but edged enough to invite tension. The humor was gone.

Arthur let out a dry, clipped breath, half a laugh, half disbelief. “I think you know exactly what it means,” he murmured, his eyes still on the water. “I’ve seen it.”

Charles ran a hand down his face like he was trying to smooth out the moment, but his words came sharp anyway. “If you have a problem, just fucking say it.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. When he finally looked over, the disappointment in his eyes landed like a punch you’d been bracing for—but still knocked the wind out of you. “Alright,” he said. “My problem? Maybe it’s that you’re sleeping with my best friend and acting like it’s just another one of your harmless flings.”

The words dropped heavy and final, like a door slamming that neither of you had the courage to close. You could feel Charles bristle beside you, but he forced a scoff, masking his tension with mockery. “Oh, so what, you’re jealous? Is that it, little brother?”

Your stomach twisted. The shift in Charles was subtle but sharp—his voice too calm, too practiced. You reached to nudge his knee under the table, but it didn’t slow him.

Arthur let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “I’m not jealous, you idiot. I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me,” he said, shaking his head like even speaking it aloud stung more than he expected.

His voice wasn’t raised, but it hit hard—each word clipped, careful, hurt wrapped in sarcasm he couldn’t quite control.

He turned toward Charles first. “I saw the way you looked at her for years. You think I didn’t notice? I expected this from you, honestly. The flirting.“

Then his eyes landed on you. And this time, they didn’t waver.

“But you?” he said, softer now—but sharper somehow. “I didn’t think you’d be that easy to pull in. I didn’t think you’d make it that easy to leave me out.”

Charles spoke before you could even form a thought. “Maybe it’s time you accept she’s not yours to protect forever,” he said, his voice colder than the air between them.

Your heart sank. Oh god, no. Not like this.

“Charles!” you snapped, your voice cutting through the tension. “That’s enough.”

Arthur turned, something flickering behind his eyes—hurt, betrayal, something years old finally surfacing. “I wasn’t trying to own her,” he said, voice rising just enough to crack. “I was trying to make sure she didn’t get dragged into your mess like everyone else.”

Then, with a bitter scoff, “You’ve always been good at talking, Charles. Never been great at staying.”

He shook his head and stepped back, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re still the same selfish bastard you’ve always been.”

And just like that, he turned and walked inside, the door swinging slightly in the breeze behind him.

“Arthur!” you called, already pushing back your chair, chasing the echo of the door and the boy who once knew all your secrets.

Charles barely had time to react before your words sliced through the tension like a blade.

“You are such an asshole, Charles,” you snapped, your voice trembling with exhaustion and disbelief. He looked at you—like he hadn’t expected that from you of all people—but you didn’t care. You didn’t stop. You just turned, jaw clenched, blinking back the heat in your eyes, and stormed into the house after Arthur.

“Arthur, wait!” you called, voice urgent as your footsteps echoed down the hallway. He was already halfway to the guest room, shoulders rigid, head down like he didn’t want you to see how much he was breaking. You caught up and reached for his wrist—gently, like any more pressure might cause him to shatter completely.

He paused but didn’t turn. The seconds between you stretched impossibly thin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breath catching. “I was stupid.”

He let out a breath—half a sigh, half a laugh—and finally glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, a shrug in his voice. “A bit.”

And somehow, it broke the tension enough for your chest to loosen just slightly. You smiled—tiny, wobbly. “You know you’ve always been the most important Leclerc to me, right?”

Arthur turned all the way around then. And his expression—soft, exhausted, barely held together—cut deeper than any shouting ever could.

“God, Y/n,” he murmured, finally facing you. “You know I can’t stay mad at you.”

You didn’t expect it—not that fast, not like that. One second you were barely holding yourself together, and the next his arms were around you, grounding you like gravity had suddenly picked sides.

It wasn’t tentative. It was tight, certain, and real. The kind of hug that speaks before you can. His chin brushed your shoulder, his hand curled lightly into the fabric of your shirt like he was afraid if he let go, something might disappear.

─── 8: I HATE HOW YOU LEAVE WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.

The silence after the fight wasn’t just quiet. It was heavy. Every room in the house felt colder, like the laughter that used to fill it had been packed away too. You and Charles hadn’t spoken. Not properly. Just a few passing looks, a few stiff moments in the same space—but nothing real. Nothing that fixed anything.

Instead, you found yourself spending more time with Arthur. At first, it was just easier. Less tense. But soon, it started to feel like something you needed. You’d sit together on the back steps in the mornings, sharing coffee. Walk through the orange grove in slow silence that didn’t need words. He didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t push. He was just there, and maybe that was the most comforting thing of all.

But still, it felt like choosing sides. And some part of you hated that.

Then one morning, you noticed the space behind the gate was empty. Charles’s car was gone.

You asked Pascale, his mother, where he had gone. She answered casually—like it meant nothing. “He went to Carlos’s for a few days,” she said, stirring sugar into her tea like it wasn’t strange. Like it wasn’t everything.

He hadn’t told you. He hadn’t said goodbye. And somehow, that made it worse. Because after all the noise, the arguments, the pain—you thought maybe he’d at least say something before leaving. But he didn’t.

The sun poured through Arthur’s window, soft and golden, stretching across the bed where the two of you lay belly-down on the covers. The photo album was open in front of you, pages slightly curled from years of flipping and laughter.

You turned another page, and there it was.

A snapshot of you and Arthur at around ten years old, sitting on the dock with your legs dangling over the edge, clutching ice cream cones like treasure. Your head leaned sleepily on his shoulder, both of you grinning so wide it looked like your faces might split.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, pointing. “I remember this. I dropped mine on the ground like, three minutes later.”

Arthur chuckled. “And I gave you mine, because I’m a saint.”

“You gave it to me after taking one last dramatic bite,” you said, nudging him with your elbow.

“Fair. I was ten and deeply attached to my desserts.”

You smiled, eyes soft. “That was the day I decided you’re the one I need to keep.”

Arthur turned to look at you, mock-scandalized. “Decided? As if I wasn’t already keeping you? Please.”

You both broke into laughter, full and warm, the kind that shakes your shoulders and leaves your cheeks aching. The kind that belongs to inside jokes and old stories and years of knowing someone down to the last freckle on their nose.

“I swear, we peaked at ten,” Arthur said between giggles, flipping to the next photo.

It was one of him in a bright blue bucket hat, mid-cartwheel, legs a blur and his shirt flying up.

You burst out laughing again. “Never mind, I take it back. This was the actual peak.”

Arthur groaned. “Burn it. Burn the entire album.”

“Nope,” you grinned, hugging the album to your chest. “This is going in my will.”

Arthur rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand as he looked at you, still laughing. “I swear, if someone ever publishes this album, my dignity is done for.”

You hugged the book tighter to your chest, feigning solemnity. “Don’t worry. I’ll only leak the bucket hat photos. The rest are safe—maybe.”

He gasped. “You wouldn't.”

You grinned. “I would, absolutely.”

He groaned and flopped back onto the pillow. “I knew trusting you at six was a mistake.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “Too late now. You’re stuck with me.”

He glanced over at you again, his smile softening just a little. “I can live with that.”

You turned the page, and the photo made you smile the second you saw it. There the three of you were—on the yacht, the day before Charles’s 18th birthday. You were lying on your stomach with cards in your hand, laughing at something out of frame.

Arthur and Charles were sitting behind you on the sofa, both grinning like everything was simple and good. Charles looked like he had just won a round of UNO and was very proud of it. Arthur looked like he was pretending not to care, but you could tell he was annoyed that he was losing. Everything about that photo felt warm—sun, sea, and three people who didn’t know things would change.

You turned the page, and the photo made you smile the second you saw it. There the three of you were—on the yacht, the day before Charles’s 18th birthday. You were lying on your stomach with cards in your hand, laughing at something out of frame.

You stared at it for a moment before speaking. “Do you think it was always that innocent?” your voice soft, maybe even a little unsure.

Arthur looked at the photo for a long moment, then at you. “Was it ever?” he said with a quiet laugh, like he wasn’t sure of the answer himself.

You laughed a little too, shaking your head. “I don’t know,” you said, tracing the edge of the picture with your finger. “But I was so into him back then. Like, so into him.”

Arthur burst out laughing, louder than you expected. You turned to look at him, surprised, but he just grinned. “You still are,” he said through a laugh, nudging your shoulder with his.

You raised an eyebrow, but you couldn’t help but laugh too. Something about the way he said it—casual, light—made it easier to breathe. It didn’t feel like teasing. It felt like honesty, said kindly. And for the first time in days, the memory didn’t sting. It just made you miss the way things used to be. Before it all got so complicated.

You exhaled a small, guilty sigh. “Yeah, maybe,” you admitted quietly. “I’m... sorry.”

He blinked, then rolled his eyes with a grin. “Oh, come on, Y/n. Don’t apologize. I think I’ll survive the emotional trauma of you liking my absurdly good-looking brother.”

You smiled, a little caught off guard, but grateful for how easily he brushed it off.

He leaned back slightly, arms folded under his chest as he looked at you, his voice gentler now. “I just want you to be happy. If that means it’s him… then that’s okay.” He smiled again, more honest this time. “Really.”

And somehow, sitting there with him like that—laughing, remembering, being heard—it felt easy. Easier than you thought it would. Like maybe forgiveness didn't always have to come wrapped in pain. Sometimes, it could just sit quietly between two people who still cared.

Arthur’s words settled between you, light but real, like sunlight warming the edge of a shadow you hadn’t realized you’d been standing in.

For a second, you didn’t speak. You just looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something settle in your chest. Not confusion. Not guilt. Just… gratitude.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” you said, your voice still soft, but steadier now.

He rolled his eyes with a smile. “Took you long enough.”

You laughed and leaned your head briefly on his shoulder, the way you had in the photo from years ago. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He just let you rest there, like that was exactly where you were supposed to be.

─── 9: I HATE HOW YOU KNOW I’M WAITING FOR YOU.

The night was quiet, and the dock felt like the only place where the world stood still. You sat at the edge, legs dangling over the side, your feet slowly moving through the cool, dark water. The air smelled like salt, wood, and a little bit like everything you hadn’t said. Above you, the sky stretched wide and clear, filled with stars that didn’t help answer anything at all.

Your thoughts always went to Charles.

You didn’t know where he was, or who he was with. Maybe he was laughing. Maybe he was thinking of you. Maybe he wasn’t. That hurt more than you wanted to admit. You wondered if he missed you even a little, or if it was easy for him to leave without saying anything.

You thought about what he might be doing, if he had already moved on, or if he was still somewhere in between like you were. You never thought loving him could feel this heavy, this confusing. But here you were, sitting in the quiet and trying not to fall apart. Maybe if you hadn’t been so quick to fall for him, things would be different. Maybe everything would be fine. Easier. But you did, and it wasn’t.

You heard it then—footsteps behind you, slow and uneven on the wood. You didn’t move. You didn’t have to. You already knew it was him.

“I knew you’d be here,” came his voice, low and familiar. That voice that had been missing.

Charles.

You didn’t turn around right away. You just stared out at the dark water, your voice soft and full of something tired. “You came back, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, he stepped closer and sat down next to you. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel his presence again. Like he never really left, not completely. You didn’t look at him. Not yet. But his being there stirred something that had been still for days.

His voice cut through the quiet. “I had to come back. For you.”

It landed too sharp. Too flat. Like the feeling got lost somewhere between his chest and his mouth.

You didn’t turn to look at him. You just stared at the dark water, trying to breathe around the ache in your throat. “You didn’t have to,” you said, barely loud enough. “I would’ve been fine.”

It was a lie, and you both knew it.

He let out a breath, like he’d been holding it for days. “I love you, Y/n,” he said, softer now. “I love you too much to stay away. I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t do it.”

That stilled something in you.

You drew in a shaky breath, the air cool against your skin, and finally let the words fall. “I’m scared, Charles. I don’t know what to do next... after this ends.” Your voice was low, barely louder than the waves brushing the dock’s edge. It felt like saying it aloud made it more real—that this moment, this summer, this version of the two of you might slip away the minute it was over. And you didn’t know how to make peace with that.

You turned to look at him then, really looked, the tears clouding your vision making his face blur slightly. But you could still see the way his expression shifted—how the boy you knew sat beneath the man in front of you. He seemed just as lost. “I don’t know, Y/n,” he said after a long pause, his shoulders lifting in a quiet shrug. “I wish I did.”

There was a weight behind those words, the kind that only comes from knowing something good has an expiration date. He looked out toward the water as if the answer might be hiding in the waves, and for a second, you both just let the silence stretch between you. It wasn’t empty. It held everything unsaid.

“Maybe we should just... not think about it,” he said finally, his voice gentler now. “Just enjoy the last few weeks. Let it be what it is. And then... maybe we just forget.”

Your chest tightened at that. The idea of it all—being reduced to a memory, a footnote in a chapter you didn’t want to close—made something inside you ache. You were about to nod, to agree even if it was a lie, when he added, softer this time, as if he wasn’t even sure you were meant to hear it, “I don’t want to forget.”

That changed everything.

His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, like he wasn’t sure he should say it—but he did anyway. “I just want you to know I’ll always love you.”

You didn’t look at him right away. The words settled between you like something tender and impossible to hold.

“Yeah,” you said softly, nodding just once. “Me too.”

Then your smile faltered a little, and you added, “Maybe that’s the problem.”

You breathed out slowly, your chest tight with the truth of it. Loving him had always been the easiest part. It was everything else—the timing, the choices, the weight of what ifs—that had turned things hard. The love was constant. Maybe that’s what made it so complicated.

─── 10: I HATE HOW YOU ALWAYS WILL BE THE ONE.

And somehow, you did enjoy it as much as you could.

The days blurred into one another—warm mornings by the water, quiet afternoons full of sun and stories, soft nights under the stars. You laughed more than you expected. Sometimes too hard. Sometimes just enough. Arthur kept finding ways to pull you into old games, silly traditions, the kind of things that didn’t matter unless you were ten years old or heartbroken and trying not to be. Charles didn’t say much at first, but he didn’t leave your side either. And slowly, he softened again. Or maybe you did.

It all felt dreamlike—so easy it was hard to believe it belonged to real time. Like you’d stepped back into some version of childhood, but this time you knew what was coming. So you held on a little tighter. Laughed a little louder. Let every golden hour slip into your skin before it passed completely.

They tried not to talk about the end. About what would come after. Arthur joked more. Charles stayed longer when he didn’t have to. You never asked. You just let the days keep coming.

But every moment slips away, as all things do.

You stood outside the airport, suitcase by your side, the air a little colder than you expected. People rushed past with bags and tickets, voices rising and falling, but your whole world had narrowed to the two people in front of you—Charles and Arthur. Both of them just standing there, like they didn’t know what to say either.

You gave them a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It was really good to see you again, boys,” you said, glancing from one to the other slowly. Taking them in one last time. You wanted to remember everything—the way Arthur’s smile always made things lighter, the way Charles looked at you like you still mattered, even when neither of you said it.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around Arthur first. He didn’t hesitate—just pulled you in tight like he already missed you. You held onto him like you weren’t ready to let go either.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you whispered. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Arthur stepped back, and you saw it right away—the way his eyes were glassy, blinking too quickly. He tried to smile, but it wobbled at the edges. “Aw, don’t cry,” you said with a soft laugh, your voice catching as your own tears finally slipped free.

You wiped at your cheeks, half-laughing through it now. “Great, now we’re both a mess.”

He shook his head, chuckling quietly as he swiped at his face too. “We’ve always been a mess.”

But in that moment, it didn’t feel like a bad thing. Just honest. Just the kind of goodbye that only happens when it really meant something.

You turned toward Charles, and the look in his eyes almost undid you. They were shining with the kind of emotion he rarely let show, blinking too fast like he was trying to hold it all in. “Char,” you said gently, your voice softer than it had been all day, “come here.”

He didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath shook near your ear. “I love you,” he said, barely louder than a whisper, but thick with everything he couldn’t say before.

You laughed through the lump in your throat, trying to keep it together. “Stop,” you said, voice shaking, “or I’ll cry even harder.”

When you finally pulled back, both of you were smiling through tears. His laugh came first, low and a little broken, then yours followed, and suddenly you were both laughing like you hadn’t just said goodbye.

“So...” he said between breaths, trying to calm the shake in his smile, “see you next summer?”

You looked at him, heart full and aching, and nodded. “Yeah,” you said quietly, “see ya.”

You knew, deep down, that you’d made the most of this summer. You’d squeezed every last drop from the slow days, the warm nights, the laughter that echoed through quiet rooms and open fields. Even with the weight of saying goodbye, even with the ache that came from leaving Charles behind, you didn’t regret a single moment of it.

The ending was bittersweet—yes. But you wouldn’t have traded it for something easier or simpler. Not when it gave you memories that felt like sunlight, friendships that held you up, and a love that, even if only for a while, felt like everything.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! First summer break day. Can u believe it? That’s crazyy… hope u guys enjoy it as much as you can!! <3

tag list ! @haniette

[chaostudee]

charles leclerc x girlfriend texts

summary : a/n : something a little different hope u like it !!

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

taglist⭑.ᐟ

@lottalove4evelyn @sweetestgirlintown111 @mxryxmfooty @hadidsworld @llando4norris @heavy-vettel @love2readd @depressedriches @nichmeddar @seonghwaexile

[chaostudee]

dada's girl.

pairing lando x reader

synopsis an unexpected pregnancy, the journey through milestones and a race day with dada's girl.

warnings just some cute, long awaited norris family fluff <3

author’s note here's the dad!lando i promised heheh, hope you enjoy! special thanks to @clovermoters for always being there to proofread and help me get my creativity flowing with her ideas. highly recommend you check out her dad!lando (and other!!) stuff, it's as great as herself

₊ ⊹

Lando never knew he wanted to be a dad until 3:05 pm on a random Tuesday in June. 

He was sitting on the couch, eating whatever you had started for lunch that day, before you started feeling ill and he had to take over. What you planned to be a delicious pasta dish for that day had turned into a burnt… something… on Lando’s plate. The guilt of ruining your food made Lando promise to buy you some takeout once you felt better.

You had gotten increasingly nauseous and felt weak nearly every day for the past two weeks, but Lando figured it was just the flu so he brought you tea and some chicken noodle soup (ordered in) every once in a while. 

“Lando!”

Your voice echoed down the halls from you two’s bedroom and he paused his show before jogging over, ready to get you the world. What he saw when he opened the door made his heart swell— you looked like a shell of yourself, all pale and weak underneath the sheets. 

“What do you need, angel?” He sat down next to you, gently placing the back of his hand on your forehead to check if you had a fever. 

You sat up, taking his hands in yours before taking a deep breath. “I need you to buy me something.” 

“Anything.” He nodded, paying attention. What he didn’t expect to hear was pregnancy test as soon as he answered you. “A what?” 

“Pregnancy test,” you repeated. “Just in case. I don’t want to scare you into anything, but we also can’t be unprepared if that’s the case.” 

“You mean if you’re pregnant,” he hums, completely lost in thought. “I, uhm, I gotta get a shirt on and I’ll go get you the, uh. The pregnancy test.”

Lando flailed around your bedroom like a headless chicken, looking for a shirt to pull over his naked chest, his hips already covered by black shorts. He tugged on a Quadrant hoodie and looked over to you, about to say something. You raised your eyebrows to encourage him, but he just turned around and ran out of your bedroom, closing the door behind himself. 

He’s not even sure how he got to the pharmacy. All he remembers is calling Max frantically from the car on his way home.

“Dude, are you okay? You look insane.” Lando’s best friend laughed through the screen. When he noticed his curly haired friend simply glancing over at his phone with worry, Max furrowed his brows. “Seriously, what’s going on?” 

“Isn’t it crazy how, like, someone peeing on a stick could potentially change your whole life? Like I know more goes into that and, like, stuff happens before the pee stick, but isn’t it insane to you?” Lando rambled. 

“Mate, pee stick?” Max looked confused. It’s only when Lando held up the little pink box that he finally understood. “Oh, you think she’s pregnant?” 

“No, she thinks she’s pregnant. I was watching Dexter and she just called for me, and then I’m-“ 

“Lando, breathe.” Max cuts him off. “It’s okay, you two are at a great place in your relationship right now to start planning for these things, if this turns out to be just a pregnancy scare.” 

“Are we? I mean, am I even ready to be a dad?” Lando continued freaking out, the car already parked at the garage. “I’ve never even thought about kids, and this is just-“ 

“How about you go inside, go be there for her, and if it turns out that you will be a dad, then you call me and freak out, okay?” 

Lando was about to bite off his whole finger with how aggressively he was nibbling at the skin around his nails. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.” 

It took him another ten minutes before he got himself out of the car. He was dreading it. He wasn’t sure what you were thinking about it, either, so he didn’t know whether or not his lack of excitement was because he was scared for himself or for you. 

You knew he would never force you into anything you didn’t want to do, but motherhood? That’s not something Lando could imagine was easy to be in or get out of. Hell, he couldn’t imagine what the next nine months would be like for you. Especially with how he’s away for most of the time.

Maybe that’s what he’s most scared of.

He knows you’d be a great mum and he could be a good dad if he tried, but his career could interfere with this. 

Lando liked how you would sometimes pick to come and visit him during race weekends, especially at Silverstone or Monaco, but what if that’ll have to stop and he’ll only get to see you a few days every month? 

The fear of being a present but physically absent father shook him to his core. 

He was still scared and trying to stop biting his fingers as he watched you open the bathroom door. “So?” 

“We have to wait five minutes,” you told him before sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. He noticed your shoulders shake before you let out a quiet sob. “Sorry, I’m just-“ 

“Shh, it’s okay,” his arms instinctively wrapped around your body as he pulled you in, all the fear from his just gone the second you needed him. “I know you’re probably terrified.” 

“Yeah,” you sobbed into his shoulder. “I know I should be happy, but I’m so scared.” 

“You shouldn’t be anything other than you are, babe.” His hand came up to caress your head, like he knew you liked him to do. “I’m fucking scared to death right now, and I honestly feel better knowing you didn’t expect me to be happy.” 

“No, I know. This could fuck up your whole career,” you pulled away, wiping your eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, no, what?” Lando’s face changed from worried to confused. “Don’t even think like that and don’t apologise. It’s kind of both of our fault if we’re having a baby.” 

That’s when he saw you dart up from your seat and practically throw yourself towards the bathroom. He followed you closely, leaning on the doorframe to your en-suite bathroom, his bottom lip between his teeth as he anxiously nibbled at it. 

Lando couldn’t exactly read your expression. He couldn’t tell if you were looking at a positive or a negative, your face was just frozen in the expression you had when you looked at it. “So?” 

Your bottom lip quivered as you turned the little plastic stick towards him. 

“We’re having a baby?” He took it into his own hands, hastily, eyes darting between the two lines on the test and the nervous look on your face.

“We’re having a baby.” You nodded, a sad smile decorating your face as you welled up in tears again. 

Lando’s not sure what changed, but in that split second, he felt an overwhelming amount of joy pump through his system. His face erupted into a wide grin as he picked you up and spun you around. 

“We’re having a baby!” 

— november

The bedroom door opened to reveal your boyfriend with a small smirk on his face. 

“What have you bought this time?” 

He raised his arms in offense. “What do you mean? Why does me entering the bedroom have to mean that I bought something again?” 

“Because you have that look on your face. The one that tells me you bought something, and I won’t know if it's a new car or a tub of ice cream until you tell me.” You rubbed your little bump as a thought came to your head. “Oh, ice cream. Could you get some? Caramel, please.” 

“Yeah, sure, later. And you’re right,” Lando finally revealed what he was hiding behind his back. It was a small, turquoise, paper bag with a pacifier logo on it. “I did buy something.” 

You watched closely as he dumped the content of the bag onto your bed. He lifted up each article of clothing one by one, showing you what he picked out with a proud smile on his face. 

“Aren’t these cute?” He asked, glancing over at the laid out onesies, shirts and socks on the bed. “I got them for like four to six months, cause I heard they grow out of newborn clothes, like, immediately.” 

“That’s sweet, angel,” you smiled at him. “But we don’t even know the gender yet and you’ve already bought the baby their whole wardrobe.” 

“No, I know.” Lando nodded. “That’s why they’re all either green, yellow or papaya,” he said the last colour with a wiggle of his eyebrows, which made you roll your eyes and laugh. 

“You’re lame.” 

He leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead. “And you’re beautiful. What does baby want for dinner?” 

Lando developed a habit of speaking to you through the baby now. It was honestly adorable— he’ll wake up in the morning, a hand softly caressing your belly as he asks how did the baby sleep, which in truth is asking how you slept. It was lame, but cute. 

“Ice cream. Caramel.” You remind him. “And maybe some chicken with rice.” 

“Ew, are you trying to be healthy?” Lando grimaced. “That’s like what I eat for race weekends to be all fit and stuff. You need to eat nutritious and filling meals.” 

“Is chicken not nutritious or filling?” You crossed your arms, challenging him. 

He shrugged. “I don’t think that’s what the baby wants.” 

He knew your little tricks and habits. You would spend a little too much time on pregnancy blogs online, reading into their nonsense about how much or little you should eat, and what you should or shouldn’t eat. 

You had already had some doctor visits and Lando had made sure to ask if you needed any dietary changes, to which your doctor said no. So, Lando knew that you being a health-freak again meant you were in your head, and he wasn’t wrong.

When you finally dropped your shoulders in defeat, he smiled softly. “Yeah. Baby wants fries and nuggets.” 

“Coming right up,” he waltzed out of the bedroom, leaving you to fold all the new baby clothes and put them in the dresser Lando had built for them. It stood right next to the crib, of course. 

Lando was a little over prepared at a really early time, but it made you that much more excited to see him become a father. 

You know he’ll do great, even if he spends about half his money on baby stuff.

— august

It’s a few months after your daughter was born and you have yet to fully get the hang of parenthood. 

She’s amazing— little Maryn Grace Norris, a head full of hair and the chubbiest little cheeks known to man. Lando fell in love with her the second he saw her, his eyes welling up in tears when they laid her on his bare chest for the first time. 

And you fell in love with him all over again seeing how he carried Maryn in one arm and prepared a bottle with his other. He was tired, hair messy and a yawn left his system as often as a breath at this point, but still— fatherhood looked gorgeous on him. 

Lando thought the same about you. His heart grew twice the size when little Maryn was born, and he admired how you immediately knew what to do to make Maryn feel content.

Since it’s already been a few months since her birth, you two decided to let friends and family come visit. The first two people who wanted to see little Maryn were Max and Pietra. 

The pair came bearing many gifts, of course, and you had to put them all in the spare guest room since your bedroom had an abundance of baby products in it already. 

You and Pietra sit on the couch, watching how Maryn slept soundlessly in your arms. There’s distant chatter from the kitchen where Lando and Max are discussing racing stuff and preparing dinner, so you three decided to head to the living room and watch a show.

“She’s so tiny,” Pietra softly tucked her finger into Maryn’s tiny palm. “Is she always this calm?”

“Most of the time, yeah. She gets fussy at night, but Lando’s always up with her.” You look towards the kitchen, a small smile on your face as you watch your fiance stir the pan. He’s always shirtless, because Maryn immediately calms down when she feels the warmth of his skin— something she probably would’ve gotten from you if it was genetic— and his back muscles were on full display.

“What?” Pietra notices your gaze lingering for a while and once she sees who you’re looking at, she snorts. “Are you thinking about another one?”

“Another what?” You snap out of your tiny daydream and turn to her. “Baby? No, definitely not.”

“Mhm,” she gives you a knowing look and takes a sip of her wine. “I’ll give it a year or two before we have another copy of Lando running around.” 

“We’ll see,” you look down at the sleeping girl in your arms. She began to fuss a little, rubbing her nose with her fist and threatening to cry. 

In a few more minutes, Lando waltzes into the living room with a new glass of wine for Pietra and one for you. “Non-alcoholic,” he says, placing the glass down in front of you. “Now gimme my girl.”

You gently lift her up and hand her off to Lando, and of course, the second her cheek lays against his bare chest, she’s calm again. Pietra’s eyes widened. “You weren’t lying.”

“I know!” You pick up your glass and take a sip. “He’s like magic or something.”

As Lando walks away back towards the kitchen, he briefly turns his head towards the two of you with a proud smile. “She’s just a daddy’s girl.”

Both you and Pietra roll your eyes before continuing your conversation.

— march 

It’s the middle of the day and Lando was helping you get Maryn ready to go visit your parents.

The little one was now ten months old, babbling about things only she could understand, but Lando found it entertaining to have full-on conversations with her, as if she could respond in any intelligible way.

He was getting her dressed when Maryn started babbling again.

“Yeah? You like this dress, huh?” He smiles down at her. “I bet your grandma will love it, too.”

You were in the bathroom, curling your lashes when Lando suddenly called out for you. When you walked out into your bedroom, he was holding your daughter with a little glimmer in his eye. “She just said dada.”

“No way,” you gasp. When you’re close enough, Maryn reaches her arms towards you and you pick her up into your embrace. “Did you? Is my big girl about to start talking?”

She starts babbling again, poking at your face and playing with her fingers. In the midst of her babble, she says dada again, and your eyes immediately shoot to Lando. “I told you! I knew she’d be a dada’s girl.”

“That’s just unfair, I spend so much time with her!” You sigh in defeat before turning to your daughter. “C’mon, you got this. Say mama.”

Maryn just looks down at her fingers and how she’s grasping her own hands in an odd way. She babbles again, blowing raspberries as you lay her down on the changing table.

Lando walks up behind you and places a kiss on your shoulder, before harmoniously announcing, “dada’s girl,” as he walks away.

“I don’t know how you do it, Mar,” you look at your daughter again, a wide grin on her face as she continues talking to you in a language only her little mind can understand.

— june

Dulcet sounds of your favourite songs play through the kitchen as you prepare lunch for you and Maryn. Lando’s out to golf with Max, so you two decided to have a little girls day. 

She’s playing in the living room when you turn around to the pans for just a minute. You can hear the pitter patter on the floor and assume it’s her tiny palms as she crawled over.

Maryn was a traveller, she enjoyed playing in the dirt and sand, and crawling through your backyard to find rocks and flowers. And she was a huge daddy’s girl. To the point where she would start crying if she hadn’t seen Lando in more than an hour. 

Today, however, she didn’t seem to be too bothered by his absence.

When you turn around, you see her sitting on the floor in the spot between your kitchen and living room. “Are you coming to mama?” You kneel down and watch as Maryn begins crawling to you.

What you don’t expect to see is her stand up on two feet and steady herself, eyes focusing on you as she held herself up with a hand on the wall. She was determined to make her way toward your outstretched arms, and so she did.

Maryn took one step, and then another, and then three, four, five, until she slumped into your arms with a giggle. 

“Oh my god,” you kiss her head as you pick her up. “Your dada will be so happy.”

As if on cue, the front door opens and Maryn’s head whips to the source of Lando’s cheery voice. He steps into the kitchen with a grin on his face, “my two favourite girls,” he kisses your temple and takes Maryn into his arms. 

You decided to not tell him that she already took her first steps and instead let Lando experience them himself without expecting it. You’re not sure how long it’ll be till she decides to walk again, but you’re sure it’ll spark that same excitement in Lando’s chest as it did in yours. 

It took her a few more days, and a week before her first birthday, to take her second-first-steps.

Lando was sitting on the couch watching an old race of his, you were in the kitchen preparing a snack for your little girl while she sat and played on the playmat in the hall between you two. Lando would glance over at her every once in a while to keep an eye on what she was doing, but Maryn has always been a calm girl so there was no worry there.

“What’s on the menu today?” Lando asks when you set down the plate on your coffee table. He has a habit of stealing a few bites of Maryn’s snack once in a while, which eventually made her understand that he was also hungry when she was, so she’d immediately share her food when he’s in sight. 

You smack his hand away when he reaches over to take a cucumber off her platter. “Leave her food alone, she hasn’t even had a bite yet.” Lando sighs in defeat and looks at Maryn when you call her name. “Maryn, come have your snack.”

Lando’s heart skips a beat when the girl pushes herself up to stand on her legs. He softly touches your shoulder, “babe, look.”

Maryn lets go of the wall, her balance still off for the most part, but she reaches her arms towards you two and waddles a few steps over to the coffee table. Lando’s beaming and jumps out of his seat to pick Maryn up and spin her in the air. “My big girl can walk!”

You watch as Maryn erupts in giggles and Lando kisses her face, a warmth in your chest so big it could replace the sun.

— a year later

The paddock was buzzing with people and Maryn grew more and more anxious in Lando’s arms.

You walked beside them when Maryn tucked her head into the crook of Lando’s neck. “You okay?”

“Loud,” she mumbles, snuggling closer to hide her face from the sun. Maryn was now two and a half years old, and made her first paddock appearance today.

She had already met a few of the drivers and found them all incredibly funny, and all of them adored her. Maryn had grown into her personality— she’s curious, funny, caring and silly. She pulls funny faces when she notices someone’s sad, gives pieces of her food to you and Lando when she’s eating, makes jokes without even realising it and asks questions about everything. 

The three of you make your way to the McLaren garage and all the engineers beam at the sight of Maryn. 

“Alright, you two can stay right here while I go get ready,” Lando pressed a quick kiss to your lips and softly pinched Maryn’s cheek before making his way to where he needed to be. 

Maryn watched as her dad walked away and gently placed her head on your shoulder. “Where is dada?”

“He has to change into his special clothes for the car, remember?” You look down at the curly-haired blonde girl and she nods an answer to your question. “He’ll be back in a bit, don’t worry.”

The little girl just huffs a sigh and takes a look around the garage from where she’s sat on your lap. She can see all the aunts and uncles who work with her dad, noticing how all of them are dressed in the same colour as her— a small LN4 shirt sitting baggy on her torso. Maryn smiles to herself, believing that they are all matching her. 

“Mum?” Maryn glances up at you. You smooth a hand over her curls, knowing that whenever she says your name like that— soft, a little hesitant— she’s about to ask something important.

“Yes, love?”

“Why does dada have to go in the car?” she asks, blinking up at you with those green, wondering eyes that always seem to look right through to your heart.

“It’s his job,” you remind her, “he has to go fast and win the race. It’s kind of like a game.”

She rests her head against your chest, processing, as her tiny fingers play with the hem of her shirt. Then, in the smallest and most sweet voice: “Can I go fast too?”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arms around her, softly tickling her sides. “Maybe one day, but for now you get to sit with mama and watch daddy race.” Maryn giggles at that, leaning into your arms as she tries to wriggle out of your hold. 

One of the engineers comes by and hands her a tiny headset, custom-made just for her. She squeals when she recognizes it— she’s seen Lando wear one just like that. “Look, mum! I match again.”

“You do!” You grin a smile as wide as your daughter and softly adjust the headset to sit more snugly. “You look just like your dad.”

As if summoned by the sentiment, Lando appeared back in the garage, now clad in his orange race suit. Maryn spots him and immediately sits up, bouncing a little in your lap. “Dada!” She waves with both arms and Lando makes his way over. 

He picks her up from your lap with a soft peck to her forehead. “There’s my little racer,” he beams. “Ready to see me go fast?’

Maryn nods, enthusiastically. “Mhm! But, be careful, okay?” She curls into Landos’ embrace, awkwardly laying her head against his chest. 

“Of course, baby,” he softly caresses her back in an attempt to calm her. “I promise only safe speeds today, okay?”

You watch the two of them, softly smiling as the paddock noise blurs in the background. When one of the engineers informs Lando that he has to go, the curly-haired racer hands Maryn off to you and places a kiss on each head of his girls. 

“Go win this,” you tell Lando, smiling as he prepares to walk away. Maryn raises her arms in support, “go win, dada!”

“For my girls,” he nods, flashing the two of you a smile before tugging on his balaclava and disappearing further into the garage. 

Soon after, the race is about to begin and the garage springs to life—monitors flicker with telemetry, voices crackle through the headsets and engines roar as the cars exit the pitlane. You pull Maryn closer on your lap and adjust the volume on her headset, making sure it’s just low enough not to startle her, but high enough to hear her dada’s voice filter through. 

Her big, green eyes track every movement on the screens—all the colourful cars are displayed but she’s only looking for orange. When a McLaren appears on the screen, she narrows her vision to notice the helmet. She knows that uncle Oscar has a blue one, and her dada’s got a fleuro green. 

Excitement erupts in her whole body when she notices the green helmet, “there! That’s dada!” She squeals with such awe, as if she can’t believe that the superhero on the screen is the same man who tucks her into bed and sneaks her cookies when you’re not looking. 

You brush some curls away from her forehead and plant a soft, but proud, kiss on it. “Yep, that’s him. Look at him go.” 

For the next laps, Maryn sits still, as if her movement could, in any way, make a difference in the race. She thought that if she sat still, her dada could focus and win, so she did just that. In all truth, she was completely captivated. Maryn didn’t understand a thing about racing just yet, but she knew enough to know that when the aunties and uncles in orange start leaning forward, narrowing their eyes at the screen, her dada’s doing something incredible. 

And he was. 

Lando gains a position, going from p4 to p3. A cheer breaks out in the garage and Maryn shrieks with joy, mirroring the smiles on everyone's faces. 

“Did he win, mum?” she asks, looking up at you with curious eyes. 

“Not yet, love, but he’s getting there.” 

A few more laps pass and she begins to fidget, tired. You lay her against your chest and her thumb slips into her mouth like it does when she’s sleepy— a habit she formed soon after you took pacifiers away. Still, despite the noise of the garage lulling her to sleep, Maryn’s little eyes stay glued to the screen, watching Lando in quiet admiration. 

Then, in the last few laps, when Lando’s another position ahead and fighting for pole, the energy shifts. The entire garage sits still— hopeful, waiting. Maryn’s eyes flutter shut, no longer fighting the sleep as your eyes stay focused and your heart pounds, watching as the gap between Lando and the car ahead shrinks corner to corner. 

“Come on, Lan,” you whisper under your breath as you subconsciously caress the back of Maryn’s head. 

And on the very last lap— through a risky overtake and a perfectly timed sector— he does it. He gains the position and lands himself in first place. 

Maryn jolts awake at the noise of engineers cheering around her, and she quickly glances to the screen. “Mum, he won!” She grins widely, still sleepy but happy to be included once you tightly squeeze her into a hug. 

“He did!” You laugh, blinking away a tear or two. 

The cooldown lap passes in a blur of shared hugs and smiles, and Lando’s voice plays in the headsets, light and breathless. “This one’s for the two loves of my life waiting for me. I love you.” 

You feel your daughter sigh happily in your arms, waiting patiently for when her dad joins you two. Once the team helps him out of the car, Lando makes his way back to the garage, flushed and sweaty, but beaming. He barely gets his helmet off when Maryn starts running in your lap, her feet not even touching the ground yet. 

She wriggles out of your lap and sprints across the floor, arms raised for her dad to pick her up. Lando catches her mid jump, lifting her high in the air and twirling the two of them around before bringing her close. 

“You went so fast!” She beams. “And you were so brave!”

“I had to be,” he mirrors the same smile that’s on her face. “You were watching.” 

You join them when Lando walks over to you, heart full and eyes welled with happy tears. Lando leans in to kiss you and you meet him halfway. 

“She didn’t take her eyes off of you the whole time,” you murmur against his lips. 

“She's just like you, then.” He gives you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but still wrap an arm around his waist, hugging the two most important people in your life, surrounded by victory and love. 

Maryn tucks her head into the nape of Lando’s neck, cheek pressed against his race suit as she softly mutters, “I want to be fast, too. Just like you.” 

“You will be, princess. One day.” 

— 

It’s late by the time you get home. 

Your little girl is barefoot the second she gets through the door, padding down the hall to her bedroom, in search of her stuffie and blanket. You and Lando follow more slowly, shoes off, bags dumped at the door, the post-race adrenaline now wearing off, but still faintly buzzing in your limbs. 

Lando yawns as he drops down to the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as the other lays across his belly. “I think I aged six years today.” 

“You say that after every race,” you laugh, making your way to the kitchen. You grab a glass of water and lean your back against the counter, watching as he runs a tired hand down his face. 

Maryn returns with her blanket trailing behind her on the floor and a half-eaten bag of popcorn she must’ve hid somewhere in her bedroom. “Movie time,” she declares and plops herself down next to her dad like she owns the house. At this point, she kind of does. 

Lando raises a brow at you, helping her pull the blanket over her legs. “You approve of this?” 

“She’s almost three. She doesn’t ask for approval.” 

Maryn hums contently as she rests against Lando in her usual manner— one arm draped across his stomach, cheek pressed against his chest. “You won today.”

Lando kisses the top of her head. “That’s right. And who cheered the loudest?” 

“Me,” she mumbles through her best battle against sleep. 

You cross the room and join them, tucking your legs beneath yourself as you sit next to the two of them. None of you say anything for a while, letting the TV play a replay of the race on low volume as you closely observe every move. Maryn eventually stills completely, asleep, face soft and peaceful. 

Lando’s still absentmindedly playing with the ends of her curls when he says, “I used to think winning was the best part of this,” he nudges his chin at the TV. 

“And now?” You raise a curious brow. 

“Now it’s this,” he leans his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion tugs at his features. “Coming home to you two. Even when there’s popcorn crumbs all over me and my back hurts.”

You shake your head with a laugh, softly nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’re getting soft, y’know.” 

“Probably am.” He looks at you— tired but content—and adds, “still wouldn’t change a thing.”

[chaostudee]

fortune favors the feline ⛐ 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

r/aita · anon asked, “aita for manipulating my boyfriend (m27) into adopting a cat?”

ꔮ starring: charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.1k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, tiny baby angst. established relationship, set pre-2024 season, cats of all kinds, crybaby reader -ish. ꔮ commentary box: this is honestly one of the best requests i’ve ever gotten!!! i really hope i did it a bit of justice 🐈‍⬛ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You’ve always loved hearing Charles say it.

Je t’aime.

Sometimes whispered against your shoulder while the city rolls out beneath the balcony. Sometimes mumbled, half-asleep, into your hair after a red-eye flight and too much turbulence. Sometimes shouted, grinning, across the pit lane because he thought the camera mics were off (they were not, and the internet was delighted).

You remember the first time he said it. So earnestly, so terrified, like the words were brittle. You were both on the kitchen floor, half-drunk, elbows deep in a flat-pack bookshelf. There were screws missing, your patience was missing, and something in the way he looked at you with an Allen key in his teeth made you laugh until you cried.

He said it again when you moved in. Monaco in the summer, the light doing that soft golden blur thing it does only in his apartment. You had one box. He had three of the exact same hoodie in different shades of rosso corsa. There was no ceremony. Just you, barefoot on the cold tiles, holding up a cracked mug like it was a peace offering, and him looking at you like you hung the moon and also knew how to use the espresso machine.

Je t’aime. A prayer. A promise. A fact.

Which is why it’s so jarring now, when he gives you three different words—the kind you thought you wanted to hear just as much as I love you.

“Let’s adopt tomorrow.”

He says it like a revelation. Like the clouds have parted. Like the universe has given him a neon sign in the shape of a cat paw.

Your spoon pauses mid-air. The soup in your bowl is going tepid, and you’re vaguely aware that the cat currently curled around your ankle is not, in fact, yours. She appeared yesterday. You named her Madame just to be difficult.

Charles is looking at you with that specific kind of hope. Blinking, soft, fragile. It’s as if he thinks this is the right answer on a test you didn’t know he was taking.

“Adopt?” you repeat slowly, trying not to sound like you’re choking on your own villainy.

He nods, too fast. “Oui. I’ve been seeing so many cats lately. Videos, mostly. And then the strays, they keep appearing. And today! I swear, I saw one crossing the track in my dream. It has to mean something.”

It means you’re a menace with his TikTok algorithm. It means you’ve staged no fewer than four feline-themed hauntings. It means he is responding exactly as you hoped, and for some reason, that fact makes your throat close up.

You set your spoon down gently. Madame flicks her tail against your shin. “That’s a big step,” you offer, voice light. 

You reach for a smile and hope it doesn’t look as strained as it feels, but Charles is still bobbing his head up and down. “I know,” he argues. “But I think it is the right one. Something has to change.”

And there it is.

You’ve known for weeks now that something’s been eating at him. The shitty machinery. The DNF’s and DNS’s. The interviews that leave him chewing the inside of his cheek long after the cameras are gone. He’s been trying to laugh through it. You’ve been trying to hold the pieces steady.

Maybe this is what people mean when they say hope is a dangerous thing.

You wanted this. You wanted this. A cat. A shared responsibility. Something small and fluffy and domestic. A sign that the two of you could be a little more settled, a little more permanent. But you didn’t want to manipulate him into it. You didn’t want it to be a superstition he clings to, instead of something he wants for himself.

“We don’t have to,” you say quickly, already backpedaling. “Only if you’re sure.”

He frowns, tipping his head. “You don’t want to?”

You look at him. At the worry lining his forehead. At the pipe dream crouched in his shoulders. At the hapless way he’s trying to fix something intangible with a very tangible kitten. You think, maybe the cat isn’t the fix. Maybe it’s just the thing he wants to believe in right now.

You exhale. This time, your smile is a little more real. “Of course I do,” you murmur. “But only if we name it after your worst track result.”

His laugh is startled and bright. “P19 it is,” he grins.

Madame meows like she disapproves. You suspect she does.

Later, he pulls you into his chest and whispers it again, low and warm. Je t’aime.

You whisper it back and try to ignore the guilt curled up beside the cat hair on the couch.

You had started with his algorithm. 

You discover somewhere between the third lonely breakfast and the second thunderstorm that his phone doesn’t have a passcode. Rookie mistake. Love does that to people.

So when he's away—some hotel in Baku, maybe, or a paddock in Japan where the air smells like burnt rubber and anticipation—you pick up his phone and start liking cat videos. Relentlessly. With purpose. Not just the cute ones either, but the chaos gremlins. Cats screaming into voids. Cats knocking over wine glasses with the dead-eyed precision of a mafia enforcer. Cats wearing sweaters against their will.

You feel like a digital puppeteer, pulling strings through pixels. A god of curated content.

At first, he doesn't notice. Or pretends not to. Then one night, you’re curled up in bed, and he calls from some place with bad lighting and worse WiFi. “Bébé,” he says, half-laughing, "my explore page is all cats now. What did you do?"

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. “Maybe the algorithm knows something you don’t.”

“Maybe it thinks I am lonely,” he snorts.

You say nothing to that, because it is half-true for the both of you. 

Then, like he’s trying to lighten the air between continents, he adds, “There was one video. A kitten trying to fight a slice of ham. I laughed so hard I scared the physio.”

You smile into your pillow. The next day, he sends it to you. No caption. Just a kitten, utterly defeated by processed meat.

After that, it becomes a thing.

He sends you Reels. Always cats. A running gag with a secret heartbeat. A shared language between flights and qualifying sessions and your half-finished crossword puzzles.

Sometimes, when you wake up to a new one, you watch it three times before replying. Not because the video is that good, but because his name on your screen feels like a presence. A reminder. A hand squeezing yours across the distance.

One night, when the rain won’t stop and the power flickers twice, you find yourself watching the latest video he sent you on his phone instead of yours. Just to pretend for a second that he’s there. Just to pretend you’re looking at something together.

The cat is wearing a frog hat. Charles has captioned it: Tell me this is not our future child.

You laugh. Then pause. You look at a stray named Baklava, who’s sitting on the windowsill like he pays rent.

That’s where phase two kicks on. 

You bring home your first stray after a grocery run. He follows you, scrawny and mottled, with the kind of ancient limp that suggests he’s been in at least three gang fights. You name him Sir Reginald.

“I swear he just... appeared,” you say, holding him like a soggy loaf of bread while Charles stares from the doorway. Reginald wheezes.

“This is not normal behavior,” Charles says dryly. “You are not a Disney princess.” 

“He looked cold!”

Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. Reginald sneezes on his shoes.

It becomes a pattern. A rhythm. Cats in reels. Cats on couches. Cats in conveniently timed coincidences. 

A calico with half a tail. A wide-eyed kitten hiding in your tote bag like she paid fare. A mother and her litter huddled behind the recycling bins. You never go out looking for them. Not really. They just find you. Or maybe they sense it, that you’re a sucker with warm hands and guilt issues.

You don’t keep them. You just give them names. Food. The fire escape. You tell yourself this isn’t manipulation. It’s public service.

But the fire escape becomes a kind of liminal space. A rotating cast of characters. Monaco’s unofficial cat sanctuary. They always leave. Some stay a little longer. A few learn the rhythm of Charles’ voice, how it dips when he’s annoyed but not serious.

“There are paw prints on my sim rig,” he announces one morning, like he’s reporting a crime.

“That could’ve been me,” you say.

He looks at you. “Was it you?”

“No.”

He sighs, long-suffering and dramatic. Then spoons his cereal like he’s been personally wronged.

His emotions swing like a door with a bad hinge.

Sometimes he grumbles. Sometimes he deadpans about allergic reactions he doesn’t have. Once, he made a very pointed comment about how Madame has a nicer food bowl than he does.

And yet.

You catch him once, crouched by the fire escape at midnight, letting a ginger cat bat at his fingers. He doesn’t know you’re watching. He makes a sound you’ve only heard him make with small children and elderly fans—soft, coaxing, a little ridiculous.

When you walk into the room, he pretends it didn’t happen. “I was just checking the lock,” he mumbles, straightening too fast.

You nod solemnly. “An im-purr-fect lock.”

He grabs you by the waist and hauls you to the bedroom. You squeal the entire way there, and the cat at your window scratches the glass as if to ask whether you’re okay. 

Charles’ resignation settles slow. Grudging. Grumbly.

But it settles, and that feels like a win. The kind you don’t gloat over. The kind you tuck in your pocket, small and shining. Something warm to press your thumb against when he’s away and the apartment is too still.

You’re not pushing. You’re just opening a door and letting him decide to walk through it. When Charles starts sending you kittens with captions like Do you think this one would like Monaco?, you feel it: a tug in your chest, equal parts smugness and something more fragile.

You wanted him to want this.

You didn’t realize it would feel like this when he did.

You tell yourself it was harmless. That it was a nudge. A gentle, loving, maybe-slightly-sinister push in the direction of companionship and warm paws and Instagrammable moments. That’s the thing about him: he’s so superstitious.

You chalk it up to the Italian team. It must be contagious. You swear he wasn’t like this before Maranello. Now it’s salt over the shoulder and red underwear on race weekends. He kisses the steering wheel twice before every quali. He avoids talking about podiums on Thursdays and never, ever, says “easy win” out loud.

Once, you caught him circling the couch three times before leaving for the airport. You blinked at him. He just shrugged. “It worked in Imola.”

You had laughed. Kissed his cheek. Turned back to your tea.

This—this cat thing—it wasn’t supposed to become one of those rituals. You just wanted him to want it. Not need it.

Not see it as a charm against failure. As some cosmic trade-off, like if he gives this cat a home, the universe will give him a tenth of a second in Sector 3.

You wanted to laugh. Wanted to say, Bébé, the universe doesn’t speak in cats. But he looked so serious. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he was waiting for the omen to save him.

You hadn’t meant to give him another talisman; you just wanted something to love while he was away. Now you’re scared he’ll love it for the wrong reasons. As you fall asleep in his arms, you let his silence fold around your guilt, warm and temporary.

The next morning, you wake to the sound of a cabinet door closing and Charles humming something off-key in the kitchen.

For a second, you forget what day it is.

Then you remember.

Shelter day. Adoption day. 

Thirty minutes out. One nervous wreck inbound.

You roll over and bury your face in the pillow, hoping the bed might swallow you whole. It doesn’t. It smells like him and linen and something vaguely citrus. Probably the detergent he swore was on sale but cost double.

He pokes his head in ten minutes later, hair still damp from the shower, a white t-shirt half-tucked into his sweatpants like he’s auditioning for a role in a European rom-com. “Are you alive?” he sing-songs.

You groan in response. 

“That’s not a no,” he says, saccharinely sweet, enough to coax you out of your misery. 

You eventually peel yourself out of bed, brush your teeth like you’re preparing for a firing squad, and watch as he moves around the apartment with the kind of focused joy you’ve seen him reserve for fresh tire strategy and really good carbonara.

He hums. Packs a bag. Checks a list he made on the back of a receipt. You catch a glimpse:

carrier

treats (no fish?)

toy mouse (non-negotiable)

ask about vet recs

Every bullet point is a tiny knife.

He looks so happy. Nervous-happy. Hopeful-happy. 

It’s disgusting. It’s perfect. It’s breaking your heart.

You drag your feet. Not obviously. Just enough that he notices you haven’t said much. He zips up the bag and finally pauses. Leans on the counter. Folds his arms like he’s trying to be casual about it. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks, cautious as ever. 

You could say it.

You could say: I rigged your TikTok algorithm and staged a feline intervention over several months.

You could say: You think this cat is your cosmic lucky charm and I can’t tell if that makes me the worst person you’ve ever loved.

Instead, you lie. Kind of.

“Just tired,” you say.

He softens immediately. Comes over, kisses your temple, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“We don’t have to go today,” he offers. “We can wait.”

You shake your head. “No. Let’s go.”

Because you know he won’t sleep tonight if you don’t. Because he already printed the directions. Because his phone is full of bookmarked posts about cat anxiety and proper litter box placement.

So you get in the car. He drives, one hand on the wheel, the other flitting to your knee every few minutes like he needs to remind himself you’re there. “So,” he starts, already buzzing, “Did you know cats need vertical space? Like shelves. Or trees. I was reading about it last night. One article said it helps them feel secure.”

You hum.

“And they don’t like citrus, apparently? So I had to hide the soap in the bathroom. Not that I was planning to bathe them. I know. I’m not stupid.”

You glance at him. “Did you write that down? ‘Don’t bathe the cat’?”

He smiles, unrepentant. “Obviously. But just in case I forget."

The road winds along the coast. The sun’s too pretty for how sick you feel.

He keeps going. Talks about names. About food preferences. About how maybe this will be the thing that resets the season, the year, the version of himself he doesn’t say aloud.

You nod. Laugh in the right places. Your fingers are cold. Tucked under your thigh. Anchored.

You can’t stop thinking that you built this. Every reel, every stray, every paw print, and now he’s running toward it like it might save him. It’s not supposed to. 

Refuge l’Abri sits just outside the city, tucked into a quiet stretch of green that smells like soil and something sun-warmed. The gate buzzes open, and Charles pulls in with the hum of his favorite song as a kid. 

You’d called ahead. You didn’t say who you were, but they recognize him instantly.

There’s a flurry of excitement. The kind that tries very hard not to be excitement. A woman with a clipboard keeps looking at him, then back at her phone, as if verifying he’s not just a really convincing cosplay.

He signs a couple things. Takes photos with volunteers who whisper merci, bonne chance, je vous aime.  

Then, finally, the cats.

You brace for the worst. For sterile cages and vacant eyes.

Instead, it’s warm. Not the smell—that’s definitely cat box adjacent—but the space. Lived-in. Humble. Merciful, in that way only kindness can be. A volunteer leads you into a visitation room and explains the rules. Charles listens with the attentiveness of someone being briefed on a new engine map.

They let the cats in.

At first, it’s chaos. In the softest, furriest sense. One black-and-white tom instantly jumps into Charles’ lap. A tiny tabby with three legs weaves around your ankles. A ginger with cloudy eyes curls into the corner like he’s already said goodbye to the world, but not rudely.

Charles is... radiant.

You don’t have another word for it.

He laughs, genuinely. Coos in the most embarrassing baby French. Tries to reason with a calico who refuses to let go of the hem of his shirt. You watch him crouch down with the patience of someone who doesn’t know he’s being watched, who forgets he’s someone people watch.

And then: her.

She’s handed to you carefully. Like she’s something precious. Which she is.

Elderly. Black-furred. Eyes milky with age. Fragile but not breakable. “She’s blind,” the volunteer says softly, “but she finds her way.”

You take her into your arms and she settles there immediately. No flinch. No fear. Just a tiny, tired warmth curling into your chest without missing a beat.

And then you’re bawling.

No warning. No graceful welling of tears. Just a flood, sudden and hot. Your throat closes up and your vision swims and you know you’re making a scene, but you can’t stop it.

The staffer freezes, hovering. “Ah... I will give you two a moment,” she says awkwardly, stepping out of the visitation room to let your boyfriend deal with your emotional ass. 

Charles is at your side in seconds. One hand on your back, the other steadying the cat against you. “Hey,” he says, soft and close. “Bébé, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head. The cat’s purring. Of course she is. “She just...” You hiccup. Try again. “She didn’t even hesitate. She just trusted me.”

His hand strokes your spine in slow, grounding lines. “Because she knows you,” he says, simply.

You press your face into the cat’s fur. “That doesn’t make sense.”

He kisses your temple. “Sure it does,” Charles says. “I would trust you.” 

You’re still crying.

Just a little. In that quiet, leaky way that happens when your body keeps processing something your mind is too scared to name.

Charles hasn’t moved. He’s crouched in front of you, hand on your thigh, watching like he’s waiting for a signal. Not rushing, not coaxing. Just there.

The cat snores. It had fallen asleep, uncaring of your breakdown. 

You start babbling.

“Okay, so,” you say, voice wet and cracking. “There’s something I should probably tell you. And I need you to promise not to... I don’t know, laugh, or crash a car, or break up with me.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “That’s quite the range.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

Deep breath. Here it is. You unravel.

“I’ve been liking cat videos on your phone,” you blurt, fast. “Like. For months. Reels. TikToks. Anything with whiskers. If you left your phone on the coffee table? Boom. Another round of algorithm poisoning.”

His mouth twitches.

“I also—okay, don’t interrupt me—I also kept bringing in strays. On purpose. Not that I chased them down! They just... looked at me with their little eyes and next thing I knew, there was a bowl on the fire escape and Charles, you were stepping over a feral tabby to do your sim work.”

He is fully grinning now.

“This isn’t funny,” you scold, even as your lip wobbles. “I emotionally manipulated you into pet ownership. That has to be illegal in, like, three countries.”

He starts to laugh. That deep, delighted, belly-laugh that makes your chest ache in a different way. His forehead drops to your knee.

“You are insane,” he murmurs, fondly.

“And you kept seeing signs. Like a madman. Do you know how guilty I—” Your voice cracks again. You sniff hard. The cat, bless her, just curls tighter against your chest.

Charles sobers at the sound.

You look at him, breath catching. “What if she doesn’t fix anything?”

His smile fades, not in disappointment, but in something gentler. He sits up straighter. Takes your hand. “She won’t,” he says.

You blink.

“She won’t fix anything,” he repeats, “because she doesn’t have to. I don’t want a cat to save me. I want a cat because you want one. Because our apartment has too much silence when I am gone. Because you keep talking to the kettle and I feel like I am losing ground.”

“The kettle has a good vibe,” you sniffle but Charles only rolls his eyes affectionately and goes on. 

“I want her,” he says, nodding at the ball of snores in your arms. “Even if she is black and blind and very likely going to ignore me. I want her because I want this life. With you. In all your manipulative, soft-hearted glory.”

You clutch the cat tighter. Try to appeal to the last of his superstitions. “She’s bad luck.”

He leans in, kisses your cheek.

“No such thing,” he whispers against your skin. “We make our own luck.” 

Somehow, that feels like a promise that matters more than fate.

Of course, you name her Chanceuse. Fortune. 

If any cat were born to upend luck, it’s this one—black, blind, ancient in that slow-moving, soup-boned way. She takes to it as if she chose it herself, ears flicking just slightly when Charles says it aloud for the first time like she’s acknowledging the bit.

You bring her home in a box too large, lined with fleece. Charles insists on playing soft jazz on the drive back. “So she doesn’t get overwhelmed,” he explains. You don’t fight him on it, so t’s Miles Davis all the way to Monaco.

She doesn’t fix anything.

Charles doesn’t win that year. Not Monaco, not Spa, not anything of consequence. He DNF’s twice in a row that summer and comes home with the kind of stillness that isn’t peace. But Chanceuse is there. She’s always there.

She sleeps curled against the warm tile in the kitchen. She follows your voice with the precision of something that loves you. She knocks over Charles’s energy drinks with the uncaring paw of God and refuses to sit anywhere that isn’t freshly folded laundry.

When he travels, she’s your shadow. When you travel, she rides in a little soft crate with a Ferrari tag on the side. Fans learn her name. She becomes a paddock myth. The blind black cat who attends more races than some junior drivers.

You dress her in tiny red bandanas. Charles complains every time. Still, she has four.

You spend your evenings like this: Chanceuse curled at your feet, Charles lying on the couch with one arm thrown over his eyes, the other reaching for you. He speaks in half-sentences when he’s tired. You understand every word. Even if he claims she hates her, Chanceuse listens, too. 

The years pass like this. Softly. Without ceremony.

Until 2024.

Until Monaco.

Until, impossibly, he wins.

You don’t see the final lap. Not really. You’re too busy crying. Screaming. Holding onto a railing like it might hold you back from exploding entirely. The noise of the crowd is white-hot, like the world cracking open to make space for him.

He finds you in parc ferme. Helmet off. Hair matted. Grinning so wide you worry his face might split.

You try to say something but all that comes out is a broken sob.

He pulls you in.

Kisses the top of your head. Holds you like he never intends to let go.

“Je t'aime,” he says into your hair. Over and over, like it’s the only sentence left in him.

You’re soaking his fireproofs. You’re beyond caring.

He kisses your cheeks. Your eyelids. Your nose. Every part of your face he can find between the tears. His hands are shaking.

Later, much later, back at the apartment, the trophy sits crooked on the table next to an unfinished can of La Croix. Charles is barefoot, champagne-damp, still high on something unnameable.

He leans down, picks up Chanceuse from her designated spot on the armchair. She is the best-groomed cat in Monaco and she is several pounds heavier than when you first got her.

She makes a sound like a huff. Charles cradles her anyway.

“Merci,” he sing-songs, pressing a sweet kiss to her forehead.

She flicks her tail. Ignores him entirely. Knocks over his trophy, probably intentionally. 

She is, as ever, unimpressed.

And Charles is, as always, yours. ⛐

[chaostudee]

controversially young gf part 2, lewis hamilton.

summary : being in an age gap relationship in the public eyes isn't easy. faceclaim : tyla a/n : part 1 is here hope u enjoy !!

y/nusername guess who's backk !!

liked by madisonbeer, sabrinacarpenter, gracieabrams and 6,680,569 others.

user77 nobody asked for this ever

fangirl omggg girl i missed u smmm stoppp i coulf cry

user44 fuck yeah we missed u diva

username66 so we're not gonna talk about u and lewis hamilton....cause that shit is still hella weird

user67 no one asked for your opinion username66 don't pmo

y/nstan idc what anyone says girl i missed you ad honestly it is nobodies business who you date <3

f1fan she knows that she is that girl trust

user445 don't mind the haters y/n they are just jealous that they can't have your man

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y/nusername

》 i knew damn well lewis would know how to treat a woman right

》 body coffee....tea isn't strong enough

》 okay baddie we see you

》 girl release the album

》 lovergirl y/n love to see it !!

》 im sry girl but u are so weird he is old enough to be your dad......

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lewishamilton cooking something up 🍳

liked by charlesleclerc, y/nusername, georgerussell and 2,829,662 others.

user66 oh plsss this better be a collab with y/n

georgerussell lewis is the studio before gta 6 👀

lewishamilton wow he makes jokes

user99 okay wait this could acc be sooo good

f1fan i just know his voice sounds heavenly

f1girl release date plssss

username33 he is called sir lewis hamilton for a reason

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y/nusername haters are mad because they aren't me

liked by lewishamilton, bellahadid, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,289,331 others.

alexandrasaintmleux yesss clock them babe !!

user727 oh she knows exactly who she is

f1fan the haters are quiet now

username22 this is why i stan y/n

user616 okay periodddd

f1girl literally my idol

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lewis and y/n text messages

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entertainmentweekly. on the carpet tonight y/n was asked about her partner lewis hamilton famous f1 driver and this was her response...

liked by lewishamilton, georgerussell, gracieabrams and 422,610 others.

user728 "it's not clocking to you that i'm standing on business is it?"

username22 omgg justin bieber reference 🤭

f1fan yesss girl setting boundaries

user526 love her for this because some people can't seem to understand that her relationship should be her own business

f1girl aww lewis liked

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lewishamilton great weekend, now onto the next.

liked by charlesleclerc, maxverstappen, georgerussell and 4,729,891 others.

user627 yess finally we are doing good again

f1fan forza ferrari

username24 where is y/n....i haven't seen her in the paddock in a while

user62 girl idc about her i care about the racing

user222 unc actually cooked this week

username111 my fav driver for a reason

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lewishamilton f1 movie premiere

liked by georgerussell, charlesleclerc, nicohulkenberg and 8,672,992 others.

georgerussell the best night 🔥🔥

user627 no y/n a bit sus

username72 omgg maybe they broke up?? user627 woah u might be right

f1fan fit ate and devoured

username22 so jelly of y/n

f1girl it's sir actually ☝️

username415 im actually so hyped for this movie i can't even lie

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texts between lewis and y/n and y/n and george

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y/nstan omg poor y/n stopped soundcheck early because she was crying hope she's okay <3

liked by ynstan, fangirl4ever, username662 and 528,772 others.

user627 the hate has gone too far

username22 is this about lewis???

f1girl omg the poor girl

user00 lol

username672 omg whatt i hope she is okay

fangirl4eva this is insane

username12 she needs a break tbh

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texts between the grid and lewis

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lewishamilton to forever 🥂

liked by charlesleclerc, georgerussell, y/nusername and 15,829,341 others.

y/nusername forever and always

lewishamilton ❤️

*comments on this post have been limited*

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[chaostudee]

NOSTALGIA.

“Funny thing about nostalgia, didn't show up 'til I lost ya.” — You and Lando were childhood best friends until fate tore you apart in the most painful way. From that moment, you thought you’d never see him again—until you did. And suddenly, the past wasn’t forgotten, and the hurt still lingered.

pairing. Lando Norris x childhood friend! fem! reader.

warnings. angst, 12,8k words, hurt/no comfort, childhood friends to strangers to ??, huge timeskips, young asshole! lando, bitter reader (valid), drinking alcohol, I think that’s it ?

music. Nostalgia by Tate Mcrae.

IT STARTED AS SOMETHING INEVITABLE. You were always around each other, thrown into the same spaces, the same gatherings, the same long afternoons where the adults talked endlessly, leaving you both to entertain yourselves. At first, you hated it—hated the forced proximity, hated that your parents assumed you would automatically get along just because you were close in age. But there was no escaping him, no avoiding the way he always had something to say, always had some ridiculous idea brewing, always found a way to pull you into whatever chaos he was creating.

Lando Norris was too much—too reckless, too restless, too eager to push boundaries just for the thrill of it. He climbed trees that were too tall, ran faster than he could control, and seemed to have an unwavering confidence that made it impossible for him to ever admit when something was a bad idea.

And somehow, despite all of it, despite the way you told yourself over and over that he was annoying, that he was frustrating, that he was the kind of kid who made parents nervous—you started to follow him anyway.

Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that, even when he was pushing limits and doing things that should have gotten both of you in trouble, it was fun.

And before you even realized it, he had worked his way in.

You started hanging out even without your parents forcing you together, finding yourselves in each other’s orbit even when it wasn’t required. It was effortless, natural—the kind of friendship that just happened, without needing an explanation. You went to the same school, shared the same classes, sat together at lunch like it was expected, and walked home side by side, barely even questioning how normal it felt. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it was just the way things were.

Before long, there was no separating the two of you. He had become your constant, the person who had always been there, the one who knew you better than anyone else, the one who could read you without you saying a word. He could make you laugh with a single look, could drag you into some wild idea just by saying trust me, could fill the silence with whatever nonsense was swirling in his mind that day.

You never really decided to let him in. But somehow, he became the biggest part of your life anyway.

Life had been effortless for so long—filled with laughter, late-night conversations, and an unspoken understanding that no matter what, you always had each other. Every childhood sleepover, every ridiculous inside joke, every moment spent side by side had only strengthened the bond that had always felt unbreakable.

But then, racing became real.

Lando had always loved it—always talked about it, always dreamed about it—but when he got to F4, it wasn’t just something he loved anymore. It was something he had to commit to, something that took him away more often than not, something that started shifting the rhythm of your friendship into something unfamiliar.

At first, it was subtle—the missed hangouts, the postponed plans, the texts that came hours later than they used to. You understood, of course. This was his dream, and there was no way you’d ever resent him for chasing it. But then, the distance grew—not just physically, but in ways you hadn’t expected.

He was always traveling, always at a racetrack, always so caught up in training, in competition, in the next step that sometimes it felt like you were watching him from the outside, trying to reach through a window that kept getting harder to open.

And maybe that would have been fine—maybe the changes wouldn’t have felt so sharp—if it hadn’t started hurting.

If he hadn’t forgotten things he never used to forget.

─── October 2015

The anticipation had been building all week. A sleepover with Lando—something you hadn’t done in ages, something that felt like returning to the simplicity of childhood, to the nights spent laughing until your stomach hurt, to the effortless comfort of being around someone who had always been there. You had packed light, just the essentials, knowing you wouldn’t need much—just time, just space to breathe, just the familiarity of him.

When you reached his house, the front door swung open almost immediately, revealing Cisca’s familiar, warm presence. “Hey, sweetheart,” she greeted, her voice carrying the ease of years spent knowing you, spent welcoming you into their home like you were just another extension of the family.

You smiled, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Hey, Cisca,” you said, tone easy, comfortable, because it had always been like this—casual, effortless, familiar. “Is Lando home?”

And that’s when you saw it—the shift.

The way her smile faltered just slightly, the hesitation in the way she tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure how to say it without letting you down.

“No, he’s at training,” she said gently, shaking her head like she wished the answer had been different. “Had you something planned?”

Your stomach dipped, something heavy settling inside you before you even had the chance to process it fully. Wow. You hadn’t expected that. Or had you? Maybe part of you had known—had prepared for the possibility that things weren’t as simple as they used to be. Maybe you had just hoped this time would be different.

“Oh.” You exhaled, the weight of disappointment creeping into your voice, despite your best efforts to swallow it down. “We planned a sleepover.”

Cisca’s expression didn’t change—still warm, still understanding—but there was something in the way she sighed, in the way she noticed your disappointment, that made it clear she wished she had a better answer for you.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice gentle, the kind that made it clear she knew. She knew how much you had been looking forward to this, how much it had meant to finally have time with Lando like before. “I thought he had told you.”

You swallowed, forcing a small smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly feeling silly. Of course, he hadn’t told you. Not because he didn’t care, but because racing had consumed everything now, because his days revolved around training and competition and an entirely new world that didn’t leave much space for things like sleepovers, for things like you.

“No,” you admitted, the weight of reality settling in deeper than you wanted to acknowledge. “He didn’t.”

Cisca sighed, shaking her head like she wished she could fix this, like she could see exactly what you were thinking. “He’s been caught up in everything lately,” she said, her voice softer now. “It’s not personal.”

You nodded, even though it felt personal.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t the first missed plan, the first forgotten promise, the first moment where you realized that your place in his life wasn’t the same anymore.

Still—you weren’t mad. You weren’t even surprised. Just tired.

Cisca hesitated, watching you carefully. “Want to wait for him?”

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe that waiting would change something, that staying would make this sting any less, that he would walk through that door, grin at you like nothing had happened, and make everything feel normal again. But realistically? You weren’t sure how late training would go. And honestly—you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep waiting.

So instead, you forced a smile, shaking your head. “No,” you said, pushing the glass she had offered away gently. “Just tell him I stopped by.”

The world felt different that evening—heavier, quieter, like the weight of everything had finally settled in your chest, making it impossible to ignore. You walked home with your bag slung over your shoulder, footsteps slow, aimless, as if dragging out the journey would somehow soften the disappointment curling deep inside you.

But it didn’t.

Your throat burned, your chest ached, and despite every effort to swallow it down, the tears still came. Silent, unbidden, slipping down your cheeks in a way that felt frustratingly inevitable.

You weren’t angry—not really.

Just hurt. A lot.

─── February 2016

The classroom buzzed faintly with background conversations—the low hum of pencils scratching against paper, the occasional shuffle of chairs, murmured exchanges between classmates—but none of it really registered. It all blurred together, distant and unimportant, as if the world had dimmed along with the gray sky outside. The day felt cold, the kind of dull, overcast afternoon that seeped into your bones, that made everything feel slower, heavier, emptier.

You lay on your desk, arms folded, cheek resting against the cool surface, phone loosely gripped in your fingers. There was no real purpose to your scrolling—just mindless motion, just a way to fill the silence, just something to look at to keep your thoughts from wandering. And yet, they wandered anyway, slipping into the past, into the memories frozen on your screen.

A collection of photos—moments that felt so effortless once, so simple. Lando grinning at the camera, mid-laugh, hair a mess from whatever ridiculous stunt he had just pulled. A blurry photo of the two of you, both smiling wide, caught mid-motion as if time itself had been too slow to capture you properly. A screenshot of a stupid conversation, filled with inside jokes that nobody else would understand.

He was supposed to be sitting next to you right now.

That thought clung to you, dug deep, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight you couldn't shake off. He should be here—nudging your arm, making some dumb joke just to get you to crack a smile, distracting you from the mind-numbing monotony of the lesson in front of you.

But instead, the seat beside you was empty.

You stared at it—switched your gaze between the photos and the space where he should have been.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitation pressing heavy against your chest. You knew you shouldn’t—knew that part of you expected silence, knew that this wasn’t the first time you were reaching out to him when it felt like things had already changed.

But still, you couldn’t help yourself.

The weight of the empty seat beside you, the ache of old photos, the way this felt different—it all pushed you forward.

So you typed.

yn sittin in mrs. evans class rn still sooo boring wish you were here i miss u

You regretted it the second you hit send.

The message felt desperate, like grasping at something that had already slipped too far away, like searching for reassurance where you knew there wasn’t any. And yet—you had sent it anyway, had let that flicker of hope push you forward, had let yourself believe, for just a moment, that maybe this time would be different.

But the response came too fast—too short, too simple, too distant.

lando yeah sorry

Silence would’ve been better, wouldn’t it? A clean break, a moment where you knew—without doubt—that things had ended, that you weren’t waiting anymore, weren’t lingering in the space between what you had and what you were slowly losing.

But this? This wasn’t closure.

This was uncertainty— not quite forgotten, not quite remembered, stuck somewhere in between where his absence loomed just enough to hurt, but never enough to make the pain feel worth confronting.

Because this wasn’t him saying goodbye.

This was him drifting, slipping further out of reach, making you question whether you should keep holding on or finally let go.

─── May 2017

The moment should have been perfect.

You had waited for this day for so long— had imagined it over and over, had pictured the ceremony, the walk across the stage, the applause that followed. You should have been smiling, should have been focused on the achievement, should have felt nothing but pride. But despite the celebration surrounding you, despite the cheers and the flashing cameras, your mind couldn’t quite settle, couldn’t quite accept the joy without feeling the emptiness lurking beneath it.

Because your eyes kept drifting—kept searching the crowd, scanning through the rows of chairs, looking for him.

And there it was.

The empty seat.

The one that should have held him, the one that was supposed to be yours together, the space where he had promised he’d be. It stood out among the rows of occupied chairs, a glaring absence in a sea of support, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to ignore it, this day wasn’t the same without him.

But he wasn’t there.

Because school had ended for him long before this day. Because racing had taken priority. Because everything had changed in ways that were impossible to ignore. You had known it, had felt it creeping in for years, had understood why things shifted. But today? Today, more than ever, it was undeniable.

You had asked him if he was coming, had heard the easy promise in his voice, the certainty in the way he had said it—like there was no question, no hesitation, no possibility of him letting you down. And for a fleeting moment, you had believed him. Had let yourself picture the way it was supposed to be—the two of you side by side, laughing at something stupid in the middle of the ceremony, making memories the way you always had.

But still—he didn’t come.

The diploma was clutched tightly in your hands, its edges slightly crumpled from how firmly you had been gripping it. The moment was supposed to be celebratory—loud cheers, flashing cameras, the rush of accomplishment filling your chest. But none of it felt right. None of it matched the image you had held in your mind for years—the picture of this day being yours and his, the two of you together laughing at something dumb during the ceremony, teasing each other over your gowns, making this milestone something shared.

But instead, an empty seat had stared back at you.

So you moved quickly, weaving through the crowds, heart hammering, breath uneven with frustration that had nowhere to go. You weren’t even thinking about where you were headed—you just wanted out, away from the suffocating weight of what should have been. Away from the reality of yet another promise broken. Away from the truth you didn’t want to admit.

Until—you crashed into someone.

The force of it made you stumble, steps faltering as you sucked in a sharp breath, ready to mutter an apology and keep moving. But then, your gaze snapped up—

And you froze.

Lando.

Lando?

Standing right in front of you.

Like he was supposed to. Like he should have been.

But it was too late.

Your anger surged before you could stop it, bubbling up, hot and unforgiving, spilling out before you had a chance to think.

“You’re late,” you said, the words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably under your glare. “I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, sincerity laced in his voice. “There was traffic.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, gripping the diploma even tighter, frustration burning through you with a sharp, undeniable sting. That was his excuse? Out of everything, that’s what he went with?

“Gosh, stop making these stupid excuses!” you snapped, the words coming faster than you could stop them, sharper than you meant them to be—except, no. You did mean them. You meant every syllable.

“You don’t understand, Y/n!” Lando’s voice came sharp, slicing through the air between you. His frustration crackled like static, his jaw tightening, his hands gesturing wildly as if trying to make you see the chaos he carried. “I have so much going on! I’m busy—constantly! It’s not just racing, it’s training, it’s meetings, it’s travel—it’s everything! If you haven’t figured that out by now, then I don’t know what else to say!”

His words crashed into you, each syllable pushing against the weight already pressing on your chest.

You blinked, your breath uneven, anger curling inside you like a flame that had been waiting too long to ignite. Waiting. That’s all you ever did with him, wasn’t it? Waiting for a moment, waiting for a reply, waiting for him to show up like he said he would. Waiting for him to put you first.

“Yeah?” you shot back, voice loud, unrelenting, carrying months—years—of frustration. “Always racing, racing, racing! That’s your whole damn life, isn’t it? Nothing else matters—no one else matters! Not me, not this, not today!”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe where this conversation had gone, like you were the one making this difficult. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy curls, gaze flickering with something unreadable—frustration, guilt, exhaustion—all of it tangled together in a way that made it impossible to decipher.

Then, his next words shattered everything.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice lower, tighter, more bitter. “That’s why maybe your graduation wasn’t really that important to me.”

The breath slammed out of your lungs.

Like he had taken all the air, all the warmth, all the pieces of hope you had left and crushed them in the palm of his hand.

You stared at him—at this version of him, at the boy who once made promises he kept, at the person who had once made you feel like a priority. But suddenly, he didn’t look like that boy anymore. He looked distant. Unrecognizable. Like someone you had spent years loving and now couldn’t even reach.

Your grip on the diploma tightened, knuckles turning white, heartbeat pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out the distant sounds of celebration around you.

God. He had really said it.

You swallowed hard, throat burning, refusing to let the weight of everything sink you down into the ache curling in your chest. But your voice still wavered when you finally spoke, softer, lower, but sharp.

“You know what?” you murmured, the words slipping through your lips like the last breath of something you hadn’t realized was dying. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.”

Lando inhaled sharply—so small, so brief, but you saw it. You felt it. Maybe he hadn’t expected you to say that. Maybe he hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. Maybe, for a split second, he realized exactly what he had done.

He had said your graduation wasn’t important—that the moment you had been waiting years for, the milestone that was supposed to be yours, wasn’t worth his time. And the second those words left his mouth, something inside you broke—not suddenly, not all at once, but slowly, like a fracture that had been forming for months, maybe even years.

So neither were his races to you, right? It wasn’t like you ever missed a single one. Every podium, every interview, every late-night live timing session, every pulse-pounding moment when he fought for position—you had been there for it. You had cared. You had celebrated his highs and sympathized with his lows because he mattered to you. You had tracked every result, known every stat, memorized the patterns of his driving like they were second nature to you. And maybe, foolishly, you had assumed that meant something. That even in the chaos of his world, even when the schedules got tighter and the obligations got heavier, you still mattered.

And yet, here he was, saying the worst thing he could have said. The worst part wasn’t just the words themselves. The worst part was that you didn’t even know if he actually cared. You waited—just long enough to see if there would be hesitation, regret, anything that hinted that he wanted to take it back. But there was nothing.

“Look, Y/n,” he muttered, exhaling sharply, shaking his head like you were the one making this difficult. “We’re not fourteen anymore.” Like that was supposed to excuse everything. Like growing up meant growing apart had to be inevitable.

You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down, refusing to let the frustration and heartbreak choke you. You thought of the years you had spent together—of the stupid inside jokes, the late-night conversations that stretched until sunrise, the times when you truly believed that no matter what, the two of you would always be there for each other. That time and distance wouldn’t change that. That his world of racing and your world of growing up side by side could exist together. But maybe you had been wrong.

“Yeah,” you said, voice lower, rougher, edged with something final. “Maybe not.” Your gaze flickered over him, this version of him, the boy you used to know so well but now felt like a stranger. He looked the same—same messy curls, same sharp, quick movements, same intensity burning behind his eyes. But something fundamental had shifted, something irreversible, something you couldn’t unsee now.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t cry—not here, not in front of him, not when he had already taken too much from you. But the tears burned anyway, hot against your skin, slipping past the walls you had tried so desperately to keep up.

“Fuck you, Lando!” Your voice cracked, but it didn’t matter—you meant every word. Every syllable was weighted with months of frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. “I don’t wanna ever see you again!”

───

You never saw him again after that day. The moment graduation ended, you packed your things, left the town you had spent years growing up in, and disappeared without a trace—no messages, no explanations, no attempts to soften the goodbye that had already been said. Because why would you? He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to know where you were or how you felt or whether you ever thought of him again.

The only ones who did were Adam and Cisca—the two people who had been there, who had sat in the crowd, who had cheered you on when their son hadn’t. They were the only ones who deserved a proper goodbye, the only ones who had earned a place in whatever future you were heading toward.

And so, you left. The world beyond that town opened itself up to you, unfamiliar yet freeing, a fresh start wrapped in the quiet promise of never looking back. You settled into new routines, built a life that didn’t have his shadow lingering in it.

Some days, it was easy to forget—days when the weight of the past didn’t press quite so heavily on your chest, when laughter didn’t carry the bitter taste of memories, when moving forward actually felt like moving forward. And then, there were days when the past curled around you like a ghost, whispering its presence into quiet moments, slipping into your thoughts when you least expected it.

And then—two years later—you heard it. His name flashing across a news headline, appearing in an interview clip, mentioned briefly in a conversation you weren’t even part of. He had made it. Formula One. The dream he had been chasing since the moment he decided racing was the only thing that mattered.

For a split second—just one—you let yourself wonder what he was doing, where he was, how he felt now that he had everything he ever wanted. You wondered if, in the quiet moments between races, between podium celebrations and press conferences, he ever thought about you. If he ever regretted how things had ended. If he ever wished he had said something different, done something more, shown up when it mattered.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how many times nostalgia grabbed hold of you, no matter how many times you found yourself wondering, the reality remained the same—you didn’t care.

You never checked his results. Never searched his name. Never let yourself linger in the world he now belonged to. Because that wasn’t your world. Not anymore.

Every time his face appeared on TV, every time his name was spoken like it was something larger than life, you switched the channel without hesitation. It was second nature now—like shutting a door you had long since walked through.

─── EIGHT YEARS LATER , march 2025

Monaco had been everything you had imagined—the yachts lining the marina like shimmering jewels, the streets humming with the sounds of expensive cars weaving through the winding roads, the very air thick with a sense of wealth and exclusivity. Fashion was everywhere, woven into the fabric of daily life, stitched into the essence of the people who walked past in designer coats and tailored suits. It felt like stepping into another world, one built from dreams and ambition, one you had spent years chasing, and now, finally, it was yours.

The apartment was still a mess. Boxes stacked on top of each other, half-unpacked belongings scattered across the floor, clothes draped over furniture in a way that made it clear you were still in the middle of making this space a home. You and your friend sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by unpacked memories, flipping through items that held pieces of your past. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the lingering scent of cardboard, and the distant hum of city life buzzed from beyond the windows. This was the start of something new—something separate from everything before. And yet, in the middle of the chaos, the past still found a way to crawl back in.

Your friend reached into one of the boxes, pulling out a framed photo. She studied it for a second, curiosity flickering in her expression before she turned it towards you. “Who’s this?” she asked, holding it up for you to see.

The moment your eyes landed on the photo, you felt it—nostalgia slamming into you like a wave, pulling you under so suddenly that you almost forgot how to breathe.

There he was.

Lando, grinning by the sea, sunlight catching in his messy curls, his arm slung around you like it belonged there, like it always had. You were laughing, caught in a moment of ease, the sky a breathtaking shade of blue behind you. The photo was from that family vacation—the trip the Norris’ had taken you on, the one where the days stretched lazily along the coast, filled with late-night talks, stupid jokes, and a kind of simplicity you hadn’t realized you would one day lose.

You blinked, forcing the lump in your throat down. You could tell her everything—about the friendship that had once felt unbreakable, the way he had always been there, the way you had been there for him, the way time had twisted everything into something that no longer resembled what you once knew. You could tell her about the laughter, the inside jokes, the trust that had felt like it could withstand anything. You could tell her about how it ended, about the fights, the disappointment, the realization that sometimes growing up meant growing apart in ways you could never prepare for.

But instead, the words stuck.

Your fingers hovered over the frame for just a second longer before you exhaled, shaking your head slightly, swallowing back everything you wanted to say.

“It’s just,” you started, voice quieter, the weight of the past pressing heavily against your ribs. Then, after a beat, you exhaled again, steadier this time, forcing yourself to move on. “Someone I used to know.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing that your answer wasn’t the full truth, that there was more beneath the surface. “Really?” she said, flipping the frame in her hands, studying it closer. “You look so happy.”

Why did she keep asking?

You exhaled sharply, shrugging your shoulders in a way that you hoped looked effortless, casual, unaffected. “Really,” you said, forcing out the words, ignoring the way your chest ached. “Just an old friend.”

You knew it was anything but casual. You knew this wasn’t just some old friend. But that didn’t matter anymore.

Without another word, you reached forward, took the frame from her hands, and set it aside, facedown. You didn’t need to look at it. You didn’t need to remember.

And just like that—you moved on.

Or at least, you pretended to.

That night, boredom settled into your chest, heavy and unshakable, the kind that made your thoughts wander places they shouldn’t. There was nothing to distract yourself with—no texts lighting up your phone, no unread messages waiting for a response, no new shows to binge, nothing that could pull you out of the restless grip of your own mind. You paced for a bit, moving from the kitchen to the living room, opening and closing cabinets with no real purpose, sipping on a drink you barely tasted, mind still circling the same thoughts. And then, before you even realized it, your steps carried you toward the box.

It was still sitting there, untouched, exactly where your friend had left it—the lid slightly askew, revealing just a glimpse of its contents, like it was waiting. Waiting for you to give in. Waiting for you to finally sift through the pieces you hadn’t had the courage to throw away. You sank down onto the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, exhaling slowly as you stared at the mess of memories in front of you. Damn. You had a whole box dedicated to him.

Photos—some bent at the corners, some still pristine, all holding pieces of a past you weren’t sure you wanted to remember. You pulled one out, fingertips tracing the familiar image. You had been laughing, caught mid-motion, a blur of sun and saltwater, with Lando standing beside you, his own laughter bright, effortless, easy. It was so easy back then, before everything had changed, before life had twisted in ways that pulled you apart instead of holding you together.

The plushie he had given you sat at the bottom of the box, the soft fabric still familiar beneath your touch. You remembered the night he had handed it to you—some inside joke about always having something to hold onto, something that wouldn’t leave, even when everything else did. The memory made you scoff now. Ironic. But still, you hadn’t left it behind. Hadn’t left any of this behind.

His racing cap, worn and creased from years of use, was tucked neatly beneath the rest, the sight of it forcing a sharp inhale from your lungs. There had been a time when you had worn it all the time—flipping it backward, teasing him about his obsession with racing, pretending you belonged in the world he had immersed himself in. Back when you had cared about every race, every result, back when you had celebrated his wins like they were your own.

And the worst part?

You had taken them all with you.

Why?

If you hated him so much for what he did, if you had truly moved on, why had you packed these things alongside the rest of your life? Why had you carried them with you all the way here?

You sighed, shaking your head, bitterness curling in your chest as you flipped through the photos, fingers ghosting over smiles that didn’t belong to the person you knew anymore.

But shit—you used to be so close.

You pulled out another framed photo. The frame felt heavier in your hands than it should have, like the weight of the memories pressed into the glass, refusing to let go. You traced the edges absentmindedly, fingers skimming over the smooth surface as your mind drifted backward, pulled into a past that still sat quietly in the depths of your chest.

Karting. Your birthday. His laughter ringing out across the track, bright, effortless, teasing. You could still hear it if you closed your eyes, could still picture the way he had grinned at you from his kart, shaking his head as you struggled to control yours, the tires skidding slightly as you oversteered. You had been so bad at it— horrible, actually. But he had made it fun. He had made it feel like it didn’t matter, like failing wasn’t embarrassing, like it was just another thing to laugh about. The way he had looked at you that day—full of amusement, full of something warm—had made you believe it wasn’t about winning, wasn’t about proving anything. It was just about being there, about sharing something that was his, about letting him pull you into his world for a little while.

You exhaled slowly, the memory twisting something deep in your chest, something tangled between nostalgia and regret. It had felt so easy back then, so simple, so natural to believe that forever meant forever, that nothing would change, that no amount of time or distance could erase what you had.

But time had proved you wrong.

Your fingers tightened around the frame, the edges pressing sharply into your skin as you flipped it over, eyes scanning the back without thinking, without expecting anything more than a blank surface.

But there it was.

"Love you 4ever. Lando."

The words slammed into you harder than they should have.

Your breath hitched, a sharp inhale getting caught in your throat, emotions rushing up too fast for you to control, too fast for you to push away. Salty, bittersweet tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill, threatening to break past the walls you had spent years reinforcing.

Because back then, you had believed it.

Back then, you had thought forever meant forever, not just until life got too busy, not just until priorities shifted, not just until everything crumbled beneath the weight of not caring enough.

─── march 2025

The remote sat loosely in your grip, your movements slow and idle as you flipped through channels, letting the dull hum of background noise fill the space around you. The apartment finally felt like yours—no more boxes cluttering the corners, no more unpacking to distract you, no more mess making it feel like just another transition instead of a permanent home. Everything had its place now.

The couch was soft beneath you, the room dimly lit, the quiet settling in comfortably around you. For the first time since moving, you let yourself relax. You skipped through channels mindlessly, barely paying attention to the flickering images, letting them blur together without much thought. Nothing caught your interest—nothing held your focus—until something familiar slipped onto the screen.

The Australian Grand Prix. It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t meant to land on it. But before you could even think about switching away, your gaze lingered. The podium ceremony was already underway, the celebration unfolding in bright lights and flashing cameras, the winner standing tall at the top, drenched in champagne, soaking in the moment of victory. You weren’t really paying attention at first. Not to the commentary, not to the energy radiating from the crowd, not to the excitement buzzing through the broadcast. Until you saw the name.

Lando Norris.

Your breath stilled. And then, slowly, your gaze sharpened, your focus narrowing in on the figure standing at the top of the podium.

It was him. But not the version of him you had last seen. Not the boy you had walked away from, not the friend you had left behind. No—this was someone else entirely. He had grown so much. His features were sharper, more defined, the youthful softness replaced by something stronger, more grown, more changed.

The messy curls had stretched longer, spilling into a mullet that framed his face differently, giving him an edge that hadn’t existed back then. His shoulders had squared, his stance more solid, more certain, the weight of experience shaping the way he held himself. He looked different—older, more weathered by time, by racing, by life itself. But his eyes. The green hadn’t changed. It was the only familiar thing left.

No matter how much you wanted to turn it off, to look away, to pretend like it didn’t matter, you couldn’t. You sat there, frozen, the remote resting in your hand, thumb hovering over the button, the familiar instinct urging you to switch the channel like you always had before. But something stopped you. Something kept your eyes locked on the screen, on the figure standing tall at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, grinning like he had just conquered the world.

The cameras flashed, the crowd roared, the energy of the moment rippled through every pixel on the screen, making it impossible to ignore. This was his moment—his victory, the thing he had fought for, worked for, sacrificed your friendship for. And now, after years of avoiding everything that had to do with him, years of refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond old memories, you were watching.

─── april 2025

Monaco was made for nights like this—bright lights reflecting off the glistening streets, the hum of expensive cars weaving through the roads, the buzz of laughter spilling out from exclusive lounges. It was the kind of city that begged you to live in the moment, to let the night swallow you whole, to forget about anything that existed beyond the golden glow of luxury. And that was exactly what you and your friend had decided to do. Like any young woman in Monaco, dressing up and heading to the most electrifying party in town felt like the only reasonable choice. Who wouldn’t want that?

The club pulsed with energy, bodies moving in rhythm to the beat, music loud enough to drown out every thought, every worry, every lingering ghost of the past. You were lost in it, fully surrendering yourself to the moment, swinging your hips in time with the music, laughing carelessly between sips of your drink. Drunk, carefree, weightless—that was what tonight was supposed to be. Nothing but excitement, nothing but escape. Until your friend tapped your shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, leaning in closer, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Isn’t this that guy from the photos?”

The words barely registered at first, your mind too fogged by alcohol and the blur of flashing lights to process what she was saying. Confused, you furrowed your brows, turning slightly to follow her gaze, not expecting anything, not preparing for what came next. And then your eyes landed on the DJ stage.

You almost fainted.

Everything around you seemed to slow, the world tilting slightly under the weight of your shock. For a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks on you, that the alcohol had distorted reality, that there was no way—absolutely no way—this was happening. But as you stared, as you focused, as you took in every detail, you knew. You knew exactly who it was.

Lando?

Lando.

You knew him very well, all too well.

The realization hit hard, stealing the breath from your lungs, sending a wave of emotions crashing into you too fast to control. He looked different—sharper, older, changed—but there was no mistaking him. The same green eyes, the same familiar presence, standing right there when he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near you. You swallowed hard, pulse thudding loudly in your ears, shaking your head quickly in an attempt to shove the moment away, to deny the reality of it.

“Definitely not,” you said, dismissing the thought, waving her off as if the words would make it true.

But God, it was him.

And no matter how badly you wanted to convince her otherwise, the person you really needed to convince was yourself.

“I may be drunk, but I’m not dumb,” she said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience, her hand outstretched expectantly. “Give me your phone.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, already regretting handing over your phone. Your friend was relentless—too relentless.

She wasn’t about to let this go, not when she knew damn well that the truth sat right there, in your gallery, in your past. You should have known better. Should have made up a more convincing lie. Should have walked away, pretended like you hadn’t heard her, redirected her focus to something else, anything else. But instead, you hesitated just for a second. And that was enough for her to pounce.

You sighed, already knowing how this was going to end. Begrudgingly, you handed it over, bracing yourself for the inevitable. She wasted no time—her fingers flew across the screen, tapping, scrolling, searching. And then, just as you had dreaded, she found it. The photo. The one you should have deleted years ago but hadn’t. The one that still sat there, preserved in pixels, a reminder of something you had tried so hard to forget.

Your breath hitched as she held it up, comparing the image on the screen to the man on stage, flicking her gaze back and forth between them like she was studying two versions of the same reality, like she was dissecting proof of something that had long been undeniable. Like it wasn’t just some stupid coincidence. Like it meant something. Like it mattered.

“That’s definitely him,” she said, voice firm, confident, staring at you with an expression that made it clear there was no point in arguing.

And you just stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable to deny it, unable to pretend like seeing him—like knowing he was here, so close, so real—hadn’t completely thrown you off. Because it had. And no matter how much you wanted to push it away, to pretend it didn’t affect you, the truth sat heavy in your chest, refusing to be ignored.

“Let’s go say hi,” she offered, her voice bubbling with excitement, like this was some ordinary encounter, like it wasn’t the exact moment you had spent years avoiding. Absolutely not. The second the words left her mouth, you shook your head, firm and unwavering. No way. No chance. You were not doing that. “Old friends reunion,” she added, grinning, nudging you like this was just some fun little moment that needed to happen. But you weren’t falling for it. Not even a little. Blah blah blah—whatever she wanted to call it. You were not going up there, not seeing him, not acknowledging whatever twisted fate had thrown him into the same room as you after all these years.

She sighed dramatically, clearly exasperated with your refusal, the kind of sigh that told you she wasn’t going to drop this easily. “C’mon, Y/n,” she whined, her fingers tightening around your wrist, tugging on you like she could physically drag you towards him. “He’s hot, at least.”

Yeah. He was. So annoyingly hot.

But also an absolute asshole. At least, that was what he had been when he was eighteen. That was the version of him you knew—the version that had made you walk away, that had made you promise yourself that you would never deal with his bullshit again. And sure, maybe time had passed, maybe things had changed, maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore. But you weren’t someone who judged purely on appearances—except, God, look at him.

White button-up, half undone like he was starring in some careless, effortless, look-at-me-I’m-perfect movie. Backwards cap, messy curls sticking out just enough to add to the whole I don’t care but I look good anyway vibe. Confident stance, lazy smirk, body language screaming that nothing in the world could touch him. Every bit of him exuded the same energy he had back then—like the years hadn’t done much more than make him hotter, like he was still the guy who thought life would always bend in his favor, like he had never needed to grow up at all.

Fuckboy.

Through and through.

And you had zero intention of dealing with that again.

“Y/n, seriously, you have a chance to shoot your shot.” Her voice was teasing, playful, as if she didn’t understand the storm brewing inside you, as if this was just some harmless fun. But shoot your shot? With him? With the boy who had forgotten your graduation, who had ghosted you when you needed him most, who had taken you for granted like you’d always just be there, waiting, unshaken?

Maybe you should tell her the whole story. Maybe you should make her understand that this wasn’t some game, that he didn’t deserve this moment. But before you could even blink, before you could form the words to stop her, you were standing under the stage.

The music pulsed through your chest, the energy of the club drowning out every rational thought, every bit of logic telling you to run. Lando leaned forward slightly, his stance easy, his presence effortless, bending down just enough to hear your friend, completely unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, completely unaware of the way your mind was screaming for an escape. “Hey, can you play this song?” she asked, sweet, casual, unbothered by the fact that she had just dragged you straight into hell.

You hardly listened, your ears ringing with everything except the conversation in front of you, your gaze flickering toward the exit, toward anything that wasn’t him. You tried to act like you didn’t know them. Tried to pretend you were just another person lost in the crowd, just another passerby in a place you didn’t belong. But she was smart. Too smart. And too cruel.

“For Y/n.”

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse stopped.

His reaction was instant. The way his body stiffened, the way his head snapped toward you, the way his mouth parted just slightly in disbelief. His eyes widened, searching, recognizing. “Y/n?” The way he said your name—like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, like you weren’t supposed to be standing there, like this wasn’t supposed to be real. Everything came back.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife deeper, as if your friend wanted to ruin your life entirely, “yea, Y/n L/n,” she confirmed it. Loud. Clear. Unmistakable.

Your whole name. Given to him so easily, so casually, like she hadn’t just shattered the fragile distance you had spent years crafting between you and him. Omg. Why did you friend an idiot like that?

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face even as his eyes locked onto you—wide, searching, unbelieving, like he couldn’t quite piece together how you were standing in front of him. “Y/n? She’s here?” he asked, the words sounding almost stupid the second they left his mouth, carrying just enough disbelief to make it nearly funny. If you weren’t too busy fighting off the urge to scream, maybe you would have laughed.

Because yes, you are here.

And maybe if his eyes weren’t staring right at you, he could have asked that question to someone who wasn’t standing right in front of him. But no—he was looking straight at you, drinking in the sight of you, the reality of you, like his brain just couldn’t quite accept that this was happening.

You didn’t move, didn’t react, just stood there, letting the weight of the moment settle, letting the air between you grow heavier with something unspeakable. Everything felt slower, stretched out, too thick with unspoken words, with the unbearable past forcing its way into the present.

And honestly? He looked so stupid for asking.

“Y/n, don’t act like you don’t know him,” she said, tugging you forward with way too much force, her grip firm, unrelenting, dragging you closer to the one person you wished you never had to see again. You barely had time to process, barely had time to resist, barely had time to breathe before you were suddenly there— closer than you wanted to be, closer than was safe.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already mocking you enough, Lando spoke.

“What about you guys going up here?” he asked, referring to the stage, his voice casual, like this wasn’t the most surreal, earth-shattering moment imaginable.

Your stomach twisted. Your pulse hammered against your ribs. Your friend lit up beside you, clearly entertained, clearly loving every single second of this disaster.

But all you could do was wish you didn’t know him at all.

You barely had the chance to protest before she cut you off entirely, jumping in with way too much enthusiasm, her grip tightening around your wrist as if she had just won some personal victory.

“Sorry, we need to—” you started, voice tight, desperate for an escape, desperate to pull yourself out of the disaster unfolding in front of you, desperate to disappear entirely before anything got worse.

But she didn’t let you finish.

“That’s a good idea,” she answered instead, flashing a grin, fully committing to the mess she had just created, fully ignoring every ounce of panic rushing through you, fully pushing you into a moment you never signed up for.

You stepped onto the stage, the energy of the club pressing into you from all directions, the flashing lights making everything feel just a little too surreal, like you had just walked into some alternate reality that wasn’t supposed to exist. Your friend wasted no time, seamlessly folding into conversation with Lando’s friend, her body language open, animated, comfortable—like she had belonged here all along, like this was exactly what she had been planning from the second she dragged you into this mess. She was talking, laughing, exchanging words that you barely registered, already adapting to the situation in a way that only she could. It was effortless. It was unfair. It was everything you couldn’t do.

And you, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, caught between the suffocating heat of the room and the overwhelming weight of him, standing way too close, way too present, way too real. The music thumped beneath your feet, the beat vibrating through the soles of your shoes, pulsing through your chest, drowning out everything except the thoughts racing through your mind at a pace you couldn’t control. You could feel the tension settling thick in the air, could feel the invisible force pulling your attention toward him, toward the quiet way his presence still managed to fill every inch of space around you. It was unbearable. It was unavoidable.

And you did what anyone would do in this situation—nothing.

Just stood there, frozen in place, staring down at nothing in particular, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to entertain the idea that this was happening, that you were here, that he was here, that time had twisted itself cruelly enough to bring you back to this moment, back to this person, back to whatever mess had been left unresolved all those years ago. You could feel him there—watching, waiting, probably trying to figure out the words to say, probably wondering if he should say anything at all.

And you?

You were just waiting.

For someone, for something, for anything to save you.

Your chest tightened, pulse hammering beneath your skin as the space between you disappeared far too quickly, dissolving into something suffocating, something unavoidable, something you had spent years ensuring would never happen again.

Oh hell no.

“Y/n?” His voice was cautious, uncertain, dripping with something unspoken, something fragile, something that made your stomach twist violently. He rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one you hadn’t seen in years, one that somehow still belonged to him, one that made the moment too real. No way. No way was this happening. No way was he standing here, looking at you like that, speaking to you like nothing had happened, like time hadn’t stretched between you like an unfixable wound, like he hadn’t made the choice to let you slip away.

And then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, as if the universe truly had no mercy, he added another layer to the disaster unfolding before you.

“You changed since we last saw each other.”

The words hung in the air, soft, hesitant, laced with something just shy of regret—or maybe curiosity. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe something else entirely.

Your stomach twisted again, the weight of it pressing deep into your bones.

Had you? Had you changed? Or had you simply become the version of yourself that no longer had space for him? That no longer had room for the kind of heartbreak he had carelessly handed you all those years ago? That no longer needed the version of him standing in front of you, pretending like this conversation wasn’t drenched in every painful, unresolved moment he had left behind?

And why the hell did he care?

What exactly was he hoping for?

You narrowed your eyes, skepticism laced in your stare, your tone still tangled with the bittersweet remnants of everything that had come before. The years had stretched long, had pulled at the edges of old memories, had tried to reshape the hurt into something manageable, something distant—but it was still there. Lingering. Settled deep beneath the surface. It had never truly disappeared, no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much effort you had put into convincing yourself that it didn’t matter anymore.

“And did you?” you asked, voice steady, yet laced with something just shy of accusation, something that made it impossible to pretend like this was just casual conversation, like it was just two old friends catching up, like it didn’t hold the weight of every unanswered question you had let rest for years. The words slipped past your lips too easily, too naturally, as if they had been waiting for their moment to finally be spoken.

Lando hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing into him, making him pause just slightly before he finally answered. The seconds stretched thin between you, the silence pressing against your ribs, forcing your pulse to quicken. You watched him, studied the way his expression flickered between uncertainty and something else—something unreadable, something you weren’t sure if you wanted to name.

“Pretty much, yes,” he shrugged, his words careless, simple, like they didn’t hold the gravity they should have. Like they didn’t mean as much as they should have. It was an answer, sure, but it wasn’t a real answer. Not the one you wanted. Not the one you needed. It felt hollow, like he had tossed it out into the air just to have something to say, just to fill the space between you before it became too unbearable.

And then—he added it.

“I think.”

Two small words, dangling at the end of his sentence, uncertain, hesitant, a mistake.

Because if he wasn’t sure—then what was the point of saying it at all? What was the point of answering if he didn’t know what he was even saying?

Your pulse spiked.

Had he changed? Had he grown? Had he actually become a different person, or was this just some empty attempt at convincing you that things weren’t as bad as they had seemed? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t justified in holding onto the bitterness that still lingered in your voice?

─── one hour later

It had taken about an hour—just enough time for the alcohol to settle into your system, just enough for the world to feel a little softer around the edges, just enough for decision-making to become questionable at best.

You weren’t drunk enough to forget things, not enough to completely erase history or drown out the quiet truths that still lurked in the back of your mind. But you were definitely drunk enough to agree to stupid decisions. The kind of choices you wouldn’t have considered under the harsh light of sobriety. The kind of choices that felt too easy when the world was buzzing and blurred, when the weight of the past didn’t seem quite so suffocating.

And that stupid decision?

A late-night walk with Lando. Drunk. Alone.

Something absolutely absurd. Something that didn’t quite fit with the carefully crafted distance you had spent years maintaining between you. But you hadn’t argued. You hadn’t fought against it. And now, somehow, you had ended up here—sitting cross-legged on the ledge of a stone wall, overlooking the vast stretch of the Mediterranean Sea, the moonlight reflecting against the gentle waves below like some impossibly perfect painting. The air was warm, the city behind you humming softly in the distance, the quiet of the night settling against your skin like an old, familiar embrace.

And despite everything—despite the mess of unresolved history, despite the tension still lingering between the moments of silence, despite the sheer ridiculousness of finding yourself in this exact situation—you were sitting there, eating McDonald’s with Lando Norris.

Your childhood best friend.

Lando glanced over at you, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knew exactly what he was about to unleash. “Do you remember how I took you karting?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement, clearly ready to relive your humiliation.

You barely had time to process his words before laughter burst out of you—loud, uncontrollable, instant, like the memory had slammed into you at full speed, just as violently as you had crashed that day.

“Don’t even start,” you gasped between fits of laughter, shaking your head, barely holding yourself together as you tried to take another bite of your hamburger. The second the ridiculousness of it all fully hit, you had to physically fight to avoid spitting it all over yourself.

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he watched you dissolve into laughter, the memory hitting you full force, crashing back into your mind with all its chaotic, humiliating glory.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own burger, smirking like he had been waiting years to bring this up again. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You barely managed to swallow before shooting him a sharp look, still breathless from laughter. “Not that bad?” you scoffed, eyebrows raised, voice coated in disbelief. “I crashed so hard that the guy running the place had to come check if I was still alive, Lando.”

He snickered, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Okay, fine,” he admitted, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Maybe it was a little bad.”

“A little?” You nearly choked on your food, shaking your head as you wiped at your mouth, still struggling to contain the laughter bubbling inside you. “I’m scarred, Norris. Scarred.”

He laughed loudly, the sound unfiltered, genuine, slipping through the easy rhythm of the night like it belonged there—like it had never left.

Lando shook his head, laughter still lingering in his voice as he watched you struggle to compose yourself. The memory was too good, too vivid, too perfectly disastrous for him to let go.

“You were so bad,” he teased, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he wasn’t about to single-handedly ruin your night with humiliation.

You groaned dramatically, wiping at your mouth, still trying to stop yourself from choking on your own laughter. “Yeah, well, excuse me for not being a child prodigy in motorsport.” You shot him a look, eyes narrowed, but the smirk he threw back was unbelievable.

“That’s not what I meant,” he insisted, though his grin didn’t falter for a second. “You just had, like, zero concept of turning. It was literally a straight line, and you still managed to crash.”

You gasped, slapping his arm in mock outrage, though the memory did technically support his argument. “It was a complicated turn!” you defended, though the absurdity of the statement was immediate.

“A complicated turn?” He nearly choked on his drink, eyes wide. “Y/n, it wasn’t even a turn. You drove straight into the barriers like the track just disappeared in front of you.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, shaking your head, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was uncontainable. “Yeah, well, maybe I just wanted to give everyone a good show.”

Lando snickered, throwing a fry at you. “Mission accomplished.”

And somehow, in the warmth of the Mediterranean night, with laughter spilling between shared bites of fast food, it felt almost like nothing had changed at all.

You looked at him, really looked at him for the first time that night, and something inside you shifted.

His smile—so easy, so natural, so completely him—pulled at something buried deep in your chest, something you hadn’t let yourself think about in years. It was familiar, painfully so, a reminder of everything that had once made this friendship effortless, everything that had once made him yours.

His humor hadn’t changed—still sharp, still quick, still laced with that dry British edge that made everything just a little bit funnier, a little more ridiculous. And in that moment, between the laughter, the shared food, the warmth of the night curling around you, you remembered.

You remembered why you were friends.

You remembered why you had loved him.

You turned to Lando, the memory slipping through the cracks of the night, resurfacing with all its chaotic, hilarious glory. A smirk tugged at your lips as you nudged him lightly, already knowing he’d try to defend himself. “Do you remember how we got kicked out of Mrs. Evans’ class?” you asked, voice laced with nostalgia, with amusement, with just the slightest hint of accusation. “Because you couldn’t stop making me laugh.”

Lando grinned, his eyes lighting up the way they always did when mischief was involved, when trouble was just a little too tempting to resist. He shrugged, casual, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t single-handedly responsible for one of the most chaotic moments of your academic history. “And what should I have done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence with absolutely no sincerity. “It was so boring!”

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the laughter bubbling under your breath gave away the fact that you weren’t actually mad—just exasperated. “Boring enough that we almost got detention,” you reminded him, leveling him with a pointed stare, though the ridiculousness of it all made it impossible to sound truly scolding.

Lando only laughed, stretching his legs out in front of him, like he had no regrets. “Key word—almost,” he teased, throwing a playful wink your way, fully basking in the chaos like it was some kind of badge of honor.

The words hung between you, soft yet unavoidable, stretching across the quiet, sinking into the space where the past had been tucked away for too long.

“I’m glad I had you by my side growing up.”

So simple. So soft. So undeniably true.

And yet, something inside you twisted at the sound of it, at the weight of it, at the way it should have felt warm but instead carried a sharp edge—an unspoken ache buried beneath nostalgia. It was honest, sure, but honesty didn’t erase the years, didn’t undo the mistakes, didn’t rewrite the nights you had spent wondering where things had gone wrong. Because he could have had you by his side for more than just childhood. He could have had you always—if he hadn’t been careless, if he hadn’t let things fall apart, if he hadn’t made the choices that had cracked the foundation between you until it was barely holding together. If he hadn’t been such an idiot.’

Your jaw clenched, bitterness surfacing before you could push it back down.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just about growing up together. It wasn’t just about the laughter, the memories, the late-night conversations that once felt like they’d stretch on forever. It was about everything after—the parts where he wasn’t there, the parts where silence replaced friendship, the parts where the absence was louder than anything he had ever said before.

And yet, despite all of that—despite the anger that still lingered beneath the surface—you couldn’t bring yourself to say what was truly pressing against your ribs, couldn’t let the words spill out, couldn’t tell him that he could’ve had you forever if he had just chosen to keep you.

The words slipped out of his mouth softly, like he had been holding onto them for far too long, like they had been sitting heavy on his chest for years without escape. “I’m sorry for the graduation.”

Simple. Direct. Honest. And yet, the weight of them hit harder than you expected, settling deep into your ribs, pressing into the space where that memory—where that absence—still lingered.

Graduation. The day that should have been filled with celebration, with excitement, with closure that never really arrived. It had been a day of transition, of stepping into something new, of leaving behind childhood and stepping forward into a future that had felt both thrilling and terrifying. And yet, despite all of that, despite the bittersweet nature of endings and new beginnings, he wasn’t there.

You had told yourself it didn’t matter. You had convinced yourself it didn’t change anything. And yet, standing there, waiting for that familiar face to show up, for him to be there—he never came. And suddenly, it had mattered a lot.

Now, years later, with the ocean stretching endlessly in front of you, with the night settling warmly around you, with the past creeping in between bites of fast food and nostalgia, he was apologizing. Your chest tightened, something complicated twisting inside you, something bitter yet soft, something that wanted to hold onto resentment but wasn’t sure if it could anymore.

“You should be,” you murmured, voice steady, not cruel, not sharp—just honest. And Lando just nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. He didn’t argue. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t try to talk his way out of it like he had done in the past, like he had done with so many other things, so many other moments.

Lando exhaled slowly, shifting slightly, gaze fixed on the waves, the silence stretching between you in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—but was definitely heavy. He had never been the type to sit with things like this, never been the type to let the weight of past mistakes settle into his chest without some quick distraction, some clever deflection. But this time, he didn’t try.

“I should’ve been there,” he said finally, voice lower now, less casual, less teasing. Just honest. “I should’ve shown up.”

You stared at him for a moment, studying the way his fingers drummed lightly against the stone ledge, the way his posture wasn’t as relaxed as it had been earlier, the way his words carried something real—something that felt less like an empty apology and more like remorse.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice steady, simple. “You should’ve.”

Another beat of silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward. The kind that just existed.

Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head lightly. “I was a bit of an ass, wasn’t I?”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “A bit?”

He shot you a look, but his grin—small, hesitant, almost self-deprecating—surfaced anyway. “Alright, fine. A lot.”

You smirked, though there wasn’t malice in your expression—just nostalgia, just something soft wrapped in the edges of lingering hurt. It wasn’t like everything could be fixed with a single apology.

It wasn’t like words could erase the years apart, the way things had splintered without resolution, the way wounds had settled so deep you had forgotten what it was like to exist without them. But maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.

Something better.

The conversation had shifted—still warm, still easy in some ways, but laced with something deeper now. Something that wasn’t just nostalgia, wasn’t just laughter over childhood chaos, wasn’t just revisiting memories like old photographs tucked away in forgotten drawers. This was different. This was real in a way that it hadn’t been for a long time.

“I wanted to reach out,” he admitted suddenly, voice quieter, more careful. Like he wasn’t sure how the words would land. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them at all. “After graduation. After—everything. But I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You studied him for a moment, the way his expression had shifted from mischievous to contemplative, the way he actually seemed hesitant—like he had spent years thinking about this exact moment, about how he would say these exact words if he ever got the chance.

And part of you knew that if he had tried back then, if he had sent that text, made that call, said something when it mattered—you wouldn’t have ignored it.

You wouldn’t have been able to.

But he hadn’t. And time had stretched between you, pulling everything apart until you weren’t sure if there was anything left to hold onto at all.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, and it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t sharp—it was just curious. Because after all this time, after all the years spent wondering, you deserved an answer.

Lando’s lips pressed together for a brief second before he exhaled again, shaking his head. “I was scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me,” he admitted, voice raw, honest. “And maybe... I thought I deserved that.”

And for the first time, since the distance had formed, since the resentment had settled, since the laughter had faded—his regret felt real.

Lando’s voice was steady, careful, carrying something unspoken beneath it—something raw, something real, something fragile enough that it almost felt like it didn’t belong in the easy rhythm of the night. “I really want to be your friend again, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since this conversation had begun, since nostalgia had crept in and laughter had softened the edges of old wounds, you felt the weight of every single moment that had led up to this one.

It wasn’t a lighthearted remark. It wasn’t just words tossed into the sea breeze without meaning. It was something deeper, something intentional. And then, like he realized that saying it once wasn’t enough, like he needed to make sure it landed the way he intended, he added—“and I want you to be my friend again.”

Not just that he wanted to be yours.

But that he wanted you to want it, too. That he wasn’t just asking for forgiveness, wasn’t just trying to smooth over years of absence and missteps and hurt—he was asking for something real, something that required more than just words.

He was asking for a chance. For the possibility that this wasn’t just reminiscing, wasn’t just two people revisiting a past they had lost, but maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something new. And suddenly, after all this time, after all the years apart, you held all the power.

The tear slipped down your cheek, warm against the cool night air, but you didn’t wipe it away. You let it fall, let the weight of emotion settle deep into your chest, let the moment exist without hesitation, without restraint. “I miss you, Lan,” you said, voice raw, uneven, laced with something fragile—something true. “I missed you over the years. Nonstop.”

Lando inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the breath out of him, like hearing them out loud made them real in a way that thoughts alone never could. His fingers curled slightly against the stone ledge, his posture tense for just a second before he exhaled, slow, measured. When he spoke, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just honesty, just everything he had been holding back.

“I miss you too,” he admitted, and it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t just a response for the sake of filling silence. It was real. It was heavy. “I always thought about you. In the car, before sleep.” His voice dipped slightly at the end, quiet but steady, carrying the weight of years, of regret, of something so much bigger than just missing someone. He glanced at you then, expression softer, more exposed than you had seen it in a long time. “And I also thought about how much I fucked up.”

"I can't hate you, Lando," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them, before you could think too hard about what they meant.

Because it was true.

Even after everything.

Even after the hurt, the silence, the years of unspoken apologies—you never could.

Lando’s breath hitched, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His fingers curled against the stone ledge, his posture rigid for a moment before he exhaled, letting the weight of your words sink into his chest. He nodded once, barely, his gaze flickering toward the waves as if searching for something—some kind of grounding, some kind of steadiness in the moment that was suddenly too real.

“I thought you did,” he admitted, voice quieter now, less controlled, less confident. “For a long time, I thought you hated me.”

You swallowed, lips pressing together, letting the truth sit between you, because maybe—back then—you had tried to. Maybe you had wanted to. Maybe it would’ve been easier if you had.

But you never did.

“I was angry,” you said finally, voice steady but soft. “I was hurt. But I never hated you, Lan.”

He turned toward you then, fully, eyes searching yours with something raw, something desperate—not in a selfish way, not in a way that begged for more than you could give, but in a way that told you this moment meant everything to him.

Your voice was steady, but there was something fragile underneath it—something you hadn’t meant to admit out loud, something that had been sitting in your chest for years, tangled up in old resentment and unspoken frustration.

Lando’s expression flickered, something shifting in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding, or both. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to laugh it off, didn’t do anything except wait, letting you say the thing you had never really let yourself process before.

“I wanted to be happy for you,” you continued, inhaling slowly, like the words were harder to say now that they were actually being said. “But every time I saw you winning, every time I saw you smiling on that podium, every time I saw you getting everything you wanted, I just… I was bitter, Lando.”

He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against his knee, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “Because I wasn’t there?” he asked, voice careful, like he didn’t want to assume—but like he already knew.

You nodded, lips pressing together, letting the truth settle between you. “Because you weren’t there,” you echoed. “Because I wanted to be part of it. Because I wanted to be your friend, but instead, I was just—just some person watching it all happen from a distance.”

Lando exhaled, slow, measured, like he was absorbing all of it—like he wasn’t just hearing your words, but feeling them, carrying them in the space between past and present. He shook his head lightly, eyes dipping downward before meeting yours again. “I should’ve reached out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, less certain, more vulnerable. “I should’ve had you with me. Should’ve made sure you never felt like that.”

And for the first time, since this conversation had started, since the past had resurfaced, since the years of distance had finally been acknowledged—you felt like he understood.

“I didn’t want to feel that way,” you admitted, voice quieter now, more careful. “I wanted to be proud of you, wanted to celebrate with you. But instead, it just felt like proof that—" You inhaled, pressing your lips together for a brief second, steadying yourself before letting the words slip out. "Proof that you didn’t need me anymore.”

Lando’s expression flickered, something deeper shifting behind his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to pain.

“No,” he murmured immediately, shaking his head, his fingers curling into a fist for a brief second before he exhaled, forcing himself to breathe. “It was never that. It was never because I didn’t need you, Y/n.” He looked at you now, really looked at you, like he needed you to understand, like he needed to make sure there was no space for doubt, no space for misinterpretation.

“I was an idiot. A selfish idiot who didn’t know how to deal with everything changing, so I—” He sighed, running a hand through his curls, his voice dipping lower, carrying something raw, something heavy. “I handled it badly. And I let everything slip away, because I was scared to—scared to admit that I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

Lando was quiet, until he broke the silence with one, short question.

“Do you think I deserve a chance?” he asked, voice softer this time, like he was bracing for whatever came next. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, his posture just a little too rigid, his expression just a little too careful. He wasn’t asking lightly. He wasn’t expecting an easy answer. He was giving you the space to decide.

You inhaled slowly, letting his words settle, letting yourself really think about them. It wasn’t just about whether he deserved it. It was about whether you wanted to give it. About whether you were ready to step into something new, to let go of the bitterness that had clung to the edges of the memories you had tried to hold onto for so long. And maybe, just maybe, you were.

“Yeah, you do.”

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! For my dearest @haniette and for all the lovely people reading this !! This is my longest and favorite fic I have ever written. This is literally asking for part 2!! Let me know if u are interested !<3

[chaostudee]

miss possessive ⛐ 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙙

dating a driver is not for the faint of heart. when they've got millions of eyes on them—well, you can't be blamed if you're a little possessive, can you? (𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda, oscar piastri, lando norris, isack hadjar, carlos sainz, alex albon, george russell, charles leclerc. ꔮ word count: 4.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff, humor/crack. cussing; mentions of alcohol consumption, food; suggestive content. established relationships, jealousy. ꔮ commentary box: was amused with the amount of requests i got in my inbox for tate mcrae's miss possessive, so i opted for this format. technically part of my this is: f1 event. format inspired by wttcsms match my freak; all/most of these were conceptualized with the love of my life, @norrisradio. shoutout to @binisainz for coming up with the carlos one. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

❤︎ YUKI TSUNODA. 

Everyone is talking about the new video with that celebrity chef who made it pretty far in Culinary Class Wars. It’s part of Red Bull’s marketing plan. Humanizing the drivers, presenting them a little differently. Except the marketing that the video got was all about Yuki’s ‘chemistry’ with said chef. How his eyes light up when he talks about the linguine, how he asks all the right questions about the pasta-making process. You know better. Your boyfriend is always just enthusiastic when it comes to food. People see it differently, though. They see a ship that’s about to sail. 

The next day, there’s a new addition to Yuki’s Instagram bio. ‘🇯🇵 F1 Driver #YT22’ has always been there, but now there’s also an @’d account. It leads to an account that says Followed by yukitsunoda0511 and yourusername. @yukiyoueatstheworld has posts from months worth of culinary adventures; it seems to have only gone public recently, though. Everybody now gets to enjoy snaps of street food and Michelin star dishes, as enjoyed—and rated—by you and Yuki. The most recent post features an adorable selfie of you two sharing pasta, Lady and the Tramp style. The caption: “food is always better when it’s with the one you love 😜” 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

You’re still chewing—grudgingly—when Yuki sets down another plate in front of you.

“It’s not that deep,” he says, nudging the fork closer to your hand. “You know I only look at food like that.”

You hum around your mouthful, refusing to make it easier for him. “I’m just saying, if anyone saw the way you looked at that risotto…”

Yuki cuts you off with a grin. “You’re going to leave a bad review on a Michelin restaurant because I complimented the chef?”

You shoot him a withering glare. “I might.”

“That’s petty.”

“It’s well-deserved.”

He laughs and reaches across the table to smear a bit of mascarpone on your nose. You let out an indignant sound, but it dies in your throat when you see the look of sheer affection on your boyfriend’s face. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” he hums as he cuts into his antipasti. 

You scrunch your face before swiping a piece of focaccia from his plate. He usually protests; today, he lets you. “I’m not jealous,” you insist. “I’m… skeptical. Of her plating technique.”

“Oh, absolutely. Very suspicious.” Yuki nods solemnly, then breaks into another grin when you roll your eyes.

He doesn’t say anything else, just leans back and watches you eat like you didn’t just threaten a scathing review out of spite. It’s not like Yuki can do anything if you want to give the celebrity chef’s plating two out of five stars. He’ll defend your opinion like it’s his own. 

You keep chewing. Still petulant. Still pretending you didn’t just melt a little under his loving glances.

The pasta is annoyingly good.

❤︎ OSCAR PIASTRI. 

They say Oscar has been ‘caught in 4K’ with the way the moment is taken from multiple angles. When the interviewer asks him about clinching pole in qualifying, she’s just a little too coy about it. Pitching her voice low so that Oscar is forced to lean in. Dragging out the conversation with intentional ‘uhm’s and ‘sorry, wait’s. The cherry on top is when she reaches over the barrier to pat Oscar’s arm, congratulating him for a job well done. It’s nothing overt, but the intention is there. More eagle-eyed fans can sense his slight discomfort underneath the veneer of politeness. This journalist thought she could flirt with your boyfriend and get away with it. 

Kym Illman snaps the photo of Oscar coming into the paddock for race day. This time, though, Oscar is not in the McLaren team kit or his usual plain shirt. No, today, it’s something that means to send a message: a white tee with something you can only see when you zoom in. If you can read this, you’re too close. That, in itself, is already a dig to what had unfolded the day prior. But the cherry on top is the friendship bracelet resting snug around Oscar’s wrist, the one that he only takes off for the race but immediately puts right back on the moment he finishes P1. The orange-and-white bracelet features beads of ‘OP81’, a heart, and your initials. In that order. He makes sure it’s visible in every interview he does. 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

You find him leaning against one of the garage walls, arms crossed, still flushed from all the post-race adrenaline. 

“You actually wore it,” you say, crossing your arms to match his stance. The shirt you left out for him this morning had fit just right, annoyingly so, the text across his chest cheeky and perfectly timed.

Oscar shrugs, but there’s a tiny smirk playing on his lips. “Thought it was funny. Also very effective.”

You raise an eyebrow, toeing the line between amused and exasperated. “That shirt was a joke,” you point out, even though it wasn’t really. 

“Worked, though.” He steps closer, just enough that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne. Something citrusy and clean. “She didn’t even try this time.”

You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrays you with the start of a smile. Your fingers flick at the bracelet peeking from beneath his fireproofs. It’s not Oscar’s style, and it’s not something he’d ever donned before, either. 

“And this?” you ask, amused. “When did you find the time?”

Oscar looks down at it like he’s seeing it for the first time. His voice is a little more hesitant when he says, “Made it last night. After you fell asleep.”

“You spent your pre-race night making a friendship bracelet?”

He shrugs again, trying to play it off, but there’s a tell—he’s always been bad at hiding how soft he gets with you. “It’s not just any bracelet. It’s got my name. And yours. And a heart, if you haven’t noticed.”

You had. Of course you had.

You reach out and tug gently at his wrist, letting your thumb brush the beads. “You’re such a sap.”

Oscar tries—and fails—to fight back his grin. “Only for you,” he says, taking the opportunity to pull you into his side. 

“Am I not ‘too close’?” you jab. 

He buries his face in your hair, muffling his chuckle. “No,” he breathes. “Never close enough.” 

❤︎ LANDO NORRIS. 

It breaks the internet, the music video. It’s the Tate McRae Sports Car of everyone’s dream. Think Sabrina Carpenter; think Charli xcx. The scantily clad starlet croons filth and flirtation as she drapes herself over Lando’s sports car. Your boyfriend is the music video’s leading man, bringing the heat to this 1080p, high definition sequence of the hottest song on the charts. It trends for days and gets edited a dozen different ways. The popstar gushes about Lando being such a good actor, and when she’s asked about off-screen romance? She winks at the camera and fucking grins. 

Lando’s Instagram story is up for only 30 minutes. That’s all it takes. People speculate that his PR team advised him to take him down, but the truth of the matter is that Lando just liked messing with people. Make something seem forbidden and it’s suddenly a whole lot more interesting. The story is straightforward: a mirror selfie from the corner of his hotel bed. His phone, partially obscuring his face. And you, sitting in his lap, your face buried into the side of his neck as he wraps his free arm around your waist. You’re both fully clothed, but the lights are low enough to suggest that may change soon enough. Lando makes sure to slap the pop star’s song on to the story, just for extra measure. Talk about breaking the internet. 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

“Hold still,” Lando mutters, his thumb hovering over the shutter button. His other hand is curled around your waist, half-supporting you as you rest against him.

You’re mid-protest, shifting like you want to hide your face completely. “Norris, I swear to God—”

But the click comes anyway. Too late. He’s already captured it: the mess of his curls, the afterglow softening both your features, the sheets curling around you like a premonition.

He doesn’t even bother asking for approval. The man has the audacity to upload it right there, the faint sound of the Instagram story whoosh confirming your doom. “Bit shy now, are we?” he teases, pulling back so he can flash you that infuriating grin of his. “Had so much to say about the music video earlier, though.”

Your eyes narrow. The story had been his idea, hastily snapped to appease you after you ranted for 27 minutes straight. “You’re unbelievable,” you grit out. 

Lando just shrugs, absolutely unapologetic. “You were so fired up. Kept saying how she was really committed to whoring out on the car bonnet.”

“That was not what I said.”

“Oh, I remember the exact words. Something about how ‘no one should be allowed to sing about leather like that.’”

That’s it. That’s the last straw.

You pounce, wrestling him back down onto the mattress with a growl. He could fight back, but Lando’s joy in life was riling you up. He goes willingly, laughing breathlessly as your legs tangle, as your fingers curl in the front of his shirt.

“Fucking menace,” you say, voice low against his skin.

His breath hitches when your teeth graze his pulse point, but his hands are already slipping underneath your shirt. “And you love it,” he sing-songs.

You’d deny him, but then he snaps the clasp of your bra and you figure there are other ways to teach him a lesson. 

❤︎ ISACK HADJAR.

Isack has been spending a lot of time with his socials team. He’s the bread and butter of VCARB’s social media strategy, with his easy disposition, humorous takes, and uncanny ability to lipsync trending audios. You’ve never been one to get particularly jealous of your boyfriend’s co-workers, but you swear the social media intern is pushing it just the teensiest bit. How she keeps Isack around a little longer, how she’ll use the team account to comment flirty replies under his posts. The team account! The Internet is calling it a Wattpad story in the making. 

And so Isack gives them a story. A TikTok, specifically, where he hard launches the girlfriend nobody knew he had. You and him do the (500) Days of Summer trend in the paddock. ‘I love The Smiths,’ you mouth. ‘Sorry?’ he syncs, feigning hard of hearing. ‘I said ‘I love The Smiths’,’ you say smilingly, and then he goes in for the kill. Isack grabs your face with both his hands and kisses you so hard, he sends the two of you out of the frame. It becomes VCARB’s most shared video of the month. And the social media intern? Well, she had to write the caption for it. 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

You’re both sprawled out on the couch in the hospitality suite, your phone held high above your heads. The numbers keep climbing—thousands of views per second. Someone’s already edited the video into a compilation of top ten F1 driver couple moments. Someone else posted a slow-mo of the kiss with a Lana Del Rey track layered over it.

You groan, partly from secondhand embarrassment, partly from pride. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Isack smirks, elbow propped behind his head, looking far too satisfied for someone who almost knocked you over in a public display of affection. “You’re the one who picked a fight over a TikTok comment.”

You glare at him. “She put a heart and a fire emoji! From the team account!”

“Which I have no control over,” he reminds you, gently prying your phone from your hand so he can scroll through the comments. “Wow. People really love us. We should do this more often.”

“Don't get any ideas.”

He shifts so his head rests on your stomach, the promise ring you got him glinting in the light. “Hear me out: couples who trend together, stay together. We could do the Spider-Man kiss one next. Or that thing where I pretend to ignore you and you throw a shoe at me.”

“Why would I pretend?”

Isack laughs, bright and boyish, and you can’t help it—you laugh too. The tension from earlier melts like it was never there. You run your fingers through his curls, still slightly messy from the day, and he closes his eyes in quiet satisfaction.

“Thanks for the hard launch,” you say, quieter now.

He cracks one eye open. “Anytime. Especially if it means I get to kiss you like that again.”

You throw a pillow at his face. It’s not a no.

❤︎ CARLOS SAINZ.

The DJ plays Smooth Operator, because when race winner Carlos Sainz is on the dance floor, you just have to. You watch from a couple of paces away, a small smile on your face. You don’t want to take away your boyfriend’s spotlight; not now, not tonight. And so you watch him scream-sing with his team, watch him drunkenly sway from one side to another. But then somebody approaches him. One of those influencers who had lingered on the fringes this whole time. She shimmies, falls into step, gets into his space. A little too close for comfort. Your eyes narrow. 

When the night winds to a close, the paparazzi snaps a couple damning photos of Carlos, who looks thoroughly debauched. His hair, a mess; his gaze, slightly unfocused. The real headline is in the collar of his unbuttoned polo shirt. Against the crisp, white material are lipstick marks that weren’t there when the party started. He’s holding your hand as the two of you clamber into the back of a cab, which is a good enough indication of who got him in this state. To sweeten the deal, though, you pucker your mouth and shoot the press a flying kiss—showing off just how smudged your lipstick is. 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Carlos catches your wrist as you pass him by, his fingers warm and grounding against your pulse. You look at him. He’s watching you with that gaze he reserves for moments when the crowd is too loud and you’re the only thing that still makes sense.

“Alright?” he murmurs, but he knows the answer.

You jerk your head toward the girl who’s still hanging around, watching him like she’s waiting for another opening. “She’s annoying,” you mutter.

Carlos quirks an eyebrow. “You’re jealous.”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” you prompt, and he endeavors to prove it. 

He doesn’t drag you—he never would—but he doesn’t let go either, threading your fingers together as he leads you through the crowd and into the dim, flickering hallway that leads to the bar’s back bathrooms. The music is muffled here, bass leaking through the walls like a distant heartbeat.

He pushes open the door and pulls you into a cubicle, locking it behind you with a quiet click. Your back hits the wall, and you’re on him in an instant. Carlos doesn’t flinch. He accepts your bruising kiss, accepts the way you bite a little at his bottom lip, the way your hands tug at his shirt like you can’t stand the idea of him wearing it any longer.

“You wanna leave your mark?” he whispers between kisses. “Go ahead.”

You pause, breathless. There was a reason why hickeys were off-limits between the two of you. “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” you mumble against his lips. “The cameras—”

“My shirt is white,” Carlos says plainly. “Yours for the taking, mi vida.” 

You don’t need more convincing. Your lips find his collar, your hands pulling the fabric closer to you. The first kiss is almost tender, but when his fingers slide beneath your hem and stroke your waist with that infuriating calm, you do it again. And again. And again, and again. 

He exhales sharply, clutching at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the moment. “That’s it,” he praises lowly, eyes fluttering shut. “Just like that.”

It’s not about possessiveness. Not really. It’s about claiming a moment in a night that had started to spiral. And when you finally pull back to admire your handiwork—deep red smudges stamped along his collar like a constellation—Carlos grins dazedly. A little wrecked, entirely yours.

“Now,” he says, brushing a thumb along your jaw. “Let’s go show them who I’m going home with.”

❤︎ ALEX ALBON.

There’s an F1A driver who calls herself Alex’s biggest fan. It’d been cute, at first, to have someone so openly supportive of your boyfriend. He had been benevolent and properly flattered, too, exchanging a couple of comments here and there with the sweet girl. But then the Internet had to go and claim you and Alex were over, that you’d been replaced by this someone who had more similar interests with him. A single formulafakers tweet out of context is all it takes for the two of them to go trending. The F1A driver doesn’t correct anyone. She just giggles, like she knows something no one else does, and that’s what gets you. 

Alex doesn’t say anything about the rumors. Well, not directly. But at the next race, he announces a special helmet—his most gorgeous one so far, in your honest opinion. The first photos have him showing it off, have closeups of the details, but you’re modeling it in the last picture of the slideshow. People quickly make the connections. The little doodles? The heritage references? They all go back to you. A sure win this weekend, he says in the caption, because I’ve got this one with me. The F1A driver leaves a comment about it being sooo cute. Alex doesn’t respond. 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Alex finds you in the motorhome, still in your oversized hoodie and bike shorts, scrolling through the avalanche of reactions from his announcement. He’s got his phone in one hand and that ridiculous, gorgeous helmet in the other—the one everyone’s talking about.

“Alright,” he says, grinning. “Get up. I need more photos.”

You blink up at him. “Didn’t you already post the best one?”

“Yeah, but that was for the fans. I want a few just for me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already getting up, walking over to where the natural light hits just right. He hands you the helmet, watching with quiet satisfaction as you settle it over your head, adjusting it with practiced ease.

“Always planned to do this, by the way,” he adds casually, snapping a quick photo. “A special helmet for you. It was part of the whole reveal thing. But if it gets me out of the doghouse early…”

Your laugh is muffled by the helmet, but he hears it anyway. “You think a few photos are going to make me forget Miss F1A and her winky emojis?”

He lowers his phone for a second. “No,” he says simply. “But you wearing this? Making it obvious? It helps. And hey—she left a comment. I ignored it. That’s growth.” 

You give him a look through the visor, a silent oh, really? He steps closer, phone camera raised again. “Come on. Tilt your head a bit. Perfect. Now smile—well, smirk. Yeah, like that.”

Click. Click.

“And maybe one more when we get back to the hotel.”

“More?”

“In nothing but my helmet. I need a new lockscreen, baby.”

You tug the helmet off, hair a mess, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

Alex just grins and lifts the helmet again. “No. I’m yours. Big difference.”

❤︎ GEORGE RUSSELL.

You love George for being a gentleman. It’s one of his most endearing qualities, and you’d never fault him for it. But there are some days, some instances, when you wish you could tell him to shove his chivalry up his—anyway. Today, it’s because of the stupid Adidas Climacool jacket that’s supposed to be exclusively for George and Kimi. The press catches wind of Mercedes’ PR girl wearing it, and George easily confesses to handing it off because of how infertile the Saudi Arabia heat is. You would’ve let it go, but then you found yourself staring at the girl’s tweets posing with the jacket like it was some badge of honor. Like borrowing something of George’s was a right. 

You waltz into the paddock dressed head to toe in clothes that are just a little bit ill-fitting. The shirt has been repurposed into a crop top. The jeans have to be held up with a chunky belt; its hems, folded a couple of times. George has his hands on your shoulders, and he maneuvers you to face every camera that you pass. He’s absolutely beaming, and his shit-eating grin is explained when one paparazzi asks who you’re wearing. ‘Me!’ George hollers happily. ‘She’s wearing me, mate. Hope that helps!’ 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

George is already propped against the headboard when you emerge from the bathroom in nothing but a towel and a mission. Your eyes flick to the suitcase in the corner of the room, and before he can say anything, you’re rifling through it with the efficiency of a woman scorned by PR.

George has to stifle his giggle. “You know I would’ve given it to you first if I knew you’d turn this into a full-blown war,” he drawls. 

You ignore him, lifting a shirt and eyeing it with mild disgust. “This one’s got sponsor logos all over it,” you sniffle. “I want to wear you, not advertise you.”

He chuckles, setting his book down. “So, just my scent, not my salary? Got it.”

You toss a sock at his face.

Eventually, George slides out of bed, joining you at the open suitcase. He pulls out a dark polo, slightly too large, and lifts an eyebrow. “What about this? Tuck it in, roll the sleeves. Turn it into a crop top. You could make it work. You make everything work.”

You accept the shirt reluctantly, narrowing your eyes. “You just want me in something tight so you can gawk.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees without shame. “In fact, now that you mention it, maybe you should try it on. Right now. Just so I know it’s… media-ready.”

You snort, but the defiance in your spine begins to soften. He leans against the dresser, arms crossed, eyes following your every movement.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he coaxes. “Give me a little fashion show. Maybe spin once or twice. Strut. It’s important for team morale.” 

You mutter something about how bloody perverted he is, but the grin you try to suppress betrays you. You slip on the polo. And yes, you roll the sleeves. George lets out a low whistle, eyeing how you’re wearing nothing but his shirt.

“You look obscene,” he declares proudly. “I’m going to have to fight off the photographers.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t you mean PR girls?”

His eyes gleam. “Not if you keep wearing me like this.”

You shake your head, but let him tug you closer, his hands slipping under the hem of the shirt to trace lazy circles on your hips. Just like that, the argument begins to dissolve into something else entirely.

❤︎ CHARLES LECLERC. 

Everyone on Twitter assumes Charlie is dating this Hungarian model. A pretty face, new to Monaco. All the signs point to her being Charlie’s lover—the biggest clue being her place of residence. It doesn’t take too long for the Internet to realize the two live in the same apartment building. Sure, they’ve never been pictured coming or going together, but isn’t the chase part of the thrill? There’s one too many TikToks and Instagram reels trying to figure out a timeline, trying to place when and where they meet if not in their allegedly shared apartment. When somebody spreads a rumor that they’re adopting a dog together, you finally snap. 

Charlie’s most recent stream goes viral for all the right reasons. He’s fiddling with the simulator for an audience of thousands when he suddenly jolts upright. ‘My girlfriend is knocking,’ he explains to his stream, ‘I think she might have forgotten her keys.’ Viewership doubles in minutes. The chat flies by like the Ferrari on a good day. Charlie steps out of frame, presumably opening the door. The two of you are just barely out of frame, but it’s pretty clear that this is not the model he’s been linked to. Especially when he swoops you into a hug, angling you backward just so—keeping you private for now, but making it clear that you’re not who they want you to be. You’re so much more, and so much better. 

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Charles’ eyes flick to where you're curled up just off camera. He mumbles a quick apology to his chat and rises from his seat with the kind of easy grace that makes your heart clench. “Be right back,” he tells them with a grin, already leaning in to steal another kiss from you. It’s the third time he’s paused his stream just to come over and kiss you, and this time, he lingers.

“Happy now?” he murmurs against your mouth, his accent curling around each word like it's a secret meant only for you.

You wrinkle your nose. “You keep asking that like I wasn’t fine before,” you huff. 

He chuckles, his hands slipping down to your waist as he presses one more kiss just beneath your ear. “Mmh, but I like it when you're not just fine,” he hums. “I want you happy, mon amour.” 

You open your mouth to retort, but then his touch changes—fingers trailing low, teasing where he knows you’re most sensitive. A sound escapes you before you can catch it: half sigh, half moan.

He pulls back, eyes glinting. 

“By the way,” Charles chirps, brushing his knuckles across your cheek, “I didn’t mute the stream.”

Your eyes widen. “Charles—”

He’s already cackling, darting back toward his setup like you haven’t just made a very compromising noise in front of thousands. “She’s murdering me!” he shrieks, laughter bubbling as you launch yourself onto him, sending his computer chair reeling backward. “She’s going to kill me, chat! This is it! It was nice knowing you all!”

You shove him, mortified, and he only laughs harder, catching your wrists and pulling you into his lap. The stream explodes with emotes. They can’t see everything, can’t hear all of it, but the squeals of laughter tells them all they need to know. 

Charles ends his stream not long after, claiming he’s going to be rather busy for the rest of the night. ⛐

[chaostudee]

Please Please Please

: Lando Norris x Reader

: Y/n really hopes this relationship works out…after all no one likes being embarrassed by a boy

: Series Masterlist

: Main Masterlist

…

2022 (october)

liked by User32 and 62,718 others

👤: Yourname, jacobelordi

CelebGossip: SPOTTED: Y/n L/n and Jacob Elordi, in what seems to be a cozy getaway in Miami! Could this be the start of a new relationship? We’ll find out soon enough!

view all 48,932 comments

User32: SHUT UP!!!!! Y/N and JACOB

User09: OMGGGG I LOVE THEM ALREADY

User66: this is a total invasion of privacy!

liked by jacobelordi and 98,619 others

👤: jacobelordi

Yourname: Cats out of the bag ig 🤭

view all 72,780 comments

jacobelordi: 💙💙

*liked by Yourname*

Yourname: Can you tell blue is our color?? 🙈

*liked by jacobelordi*

lilyzneimer: Cutiessss 😍😍

*liked by Yourname*

-> User52: WAITTT WHY IS LILY HERE????

-> User21: Lily and Y/n are childhood friends

User33: GOALS!!! 🔥

User09: PLEASE DON’T BREAK UP 🙏🏻

liked by Yourname and 102,729 others

👤: Yourname

jacobelordi: Summer of 22’ 🐞

view all 87,627 comments

Yourname: To many more 🥂

*liked by jacobelordi*

-> jacobelordi: 🥂

User51: THEY’VE BEEN TOGETHER SINCE SUMMER??????

-> User07: ILRRRRRR

-> User66: This explains why Y/n was always blushing whenever she was asked dating questions in interviews!

2023 (march)

liked by User32 and 72,718 others

👤: kaiagerber, jacobelordi, Yourname

CelebGossip: HE DID WHAT? Looks like flowers aren’t the only thing set to blossom this season. Jacob Elordi and Kaia Gerber were CAUGHT making out in public. This comes as a shock to many, as Elordi is still believed to be in a relationship with singer Y/n L/n. Have the couple already broken up in secret, or did Jacob just air his dirty laundry out in public? Stay tuned to find out!

view all 62,839 comments

User32: WTFFFF

User59: HE CHEATED?????

User88: Ohhhh poor Y/n 💔💔💔

User01: Ik he cheated and all but why are they both kinda giving 💅🏻

-> User54: Ya giving home wrecker if that’s what you mean!

2023 (august)

liked by User72 and 129,628 others

👤: Yourname, shawnmendes

CelebGossip: Y/n L/n, back in the game? After being publicly cheated on by ex boyfriend, Jacob Elordi, L/n seems to have found herself a new beau! Revenge rebound or true love? Either way we’re here to see how it plays!!

view all 97,628 comments

User88: Ok it’s clear Y/n’s type is tall boys!!! GIRL THE WAY THAT I RELATE 🤭🤭🤭

User02: wow! I did not think Shawn had it in him to move on from hailey

-> User63: IKRRR!!! Like he was devastated after their break up 💔💔

User44: This confirms NOTHING!! This can just be a friendly conversation for all we know 🤷🏻‍♀️

-> User58: With the way he’s looking at her 🤨 ya right, friendly my ass

2023 (december)

liked by Yourname and 282,529 others

👤: Yourname

shawnmendes: Guess this makes it official or something doesn’t it @/Yourname??

view all 162,729 comments

Yourname: hmm 🤔 I guess it does @/shawnmendes!

User21: OH FUCK! I THINK IM GONNA FAINT 😵

User01: THIS PERFORMANCE>>>>>>>>

User08: “Cause friends don’t know the way you taste” AHHHHHHHH

User66: I KNEW THEY WERE LYING WHEN THEY SAID THEY’RE “JUST FRIENDS”

User50: I know they just announced their relationship but can we just talk about how GOOD Señorita is!!!!!!

*liked by shawnmendes*

liked by shawnmendes and 216,828 others

👤: shawnmendes

Yourname: I never thought our friendship could turn into something so beautiful 🤍

view all 113,728 comments

User44: this girl is in LOVE!!!!!

User20: I always knew they’d date! I JUST KNEW IT 🥰🥰🥰🥰

shawnmendes: 🤍🤍

*liked by Yourname*

2024 (february)

liked by haileybaldwin and 197,211 others

👤: Yourname, shawnmendes

CelebGossip: 2 heartbreaks in less than a year?? Y/n L/n might just be setting records, for all the wrong reasons. L/n was recently spotted with friend-turned-beau Shawn Mendes for what seemed to be a lovely lunch but ended up leaving the restaurant in tears. Looks like another heartache is in the books for L/n. Could it be bad luck, bad timing, or simply bad choices? Stay tuned to find out.

view all 97,828 comments

User11: WTFFFFF WHAT HAPPENED????

User43: This is why you should never mix friendship with love!!!!

User06: No but like Hailey liking this is just WILD!!!!

-> User71: Wait whattttt!!! I completely missed that!!

2024 (march)

liked by haileymendes and 210,732 others

👤: haileybaldwin, shawnmendes

CelebGossip: Dearest gentle reader, it seems history has a way of repeating itself. Shawn Mendes and Hailey Baldwin, spotted together once again. Could this reignite the spark they once lost? With Mendes’ recent breakup, one can’t help but wonder?

view all 157,621 comments

User02: SHUT UPPPP!!! I KNEW THERE WAS NO WAY SHAWN WAS OVER HAILEY

User23: oh nooo! How could he do this to y/n 💔

User10: they’re not gonna last 👎🏻

liked by shawnmendes and 99,718 others

👤: shawnmendes

haileybaldwin: Funny how things have a way of falling back into place ❤️

view all 81,728 comments

shawnmendes: Better than ever ❤️

*liked by haileybaldwin*

User06: I still can’t believe how cruel people can be! Y/n deserves better 🤍

User88: They’re so in love 😍

*liked by haileybaldwin*

2024 (may)

liked by oscarpiastri and 134,278 others

👤: lilyzneimer

Yourname: I’m gonna marry her someday 💍

view all 97,628 comments

lilyzneimer: It’s a love story, baby I’ll say yes 💒

*liked by Yourname*

-> Yourname: 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

User18: Poor Oscar 😭😭😭😭

-> Yourname: umm who tf is that????

-> oscarpiastri: Wow Y/n Wow 🙂

-> Yourname: 🤨🤨

User81: PETITION TO BRING Y/N TO A GRAND PRIX

-> lilyzneimer: 🤔

-> oscarpiastri: Lily No 🙅🏻

-> mclaren: Lily Yes 🙌🏻

liked by oscarpiastri and 168,829 others

👤: mclaren, oscarpiastri

Yourname: Blessing McLaren with my presence 😌

view all 104,753 comments

mclaren: Feeling very blessed 🛐🛐

*liked by Yourname*

-> Yourname: 🤭🤭

oscarpiastri: Did you really have to use that picture??

-> Yourname: I think the word you’re looking for is ‘Thank You’ for not using the other picture 🤨

-> landonorris: @/mclaren MOM! They’re fighting again!!!!

-> Yourname: tattletale 😒👎🏻

-> landonorris: 😇😇

User40: I pity Lily 😞

*liked by lilyzneimer*

User55: Okay so are we all just gonna ignore that interaction???

2024 (july)

liked by Yourname and 219,628 others

👤: Yourname, oscarpiastri, lilyzneimer

landonorris: Date night with Oscar, when two random girls crashed it. Weird!

view all 154,872 comments

Yourname: Wow! If I remember correctly you’re the one who called us and said “please join us!!! We miss you!!! Please guys, Please!!!”

-> landonorris: I remember no such thing 🙂‍↔️

-> User12: Yk it’s bad when you gotta use please 3 times!! 😭😭

lilyzneimer: umm that’s literally my boyfriend 😃

-> landonorris: I think you mean our* boyfriend!! 😌

-> lilyzneimer: No I absolutely did not mean that???

-> oscarpiastri: I don’t know if I should feel happy or worried about you two 🫤

User58: IS THAT LANDO AND Y/N IN THE THIRD PICTURE???????

-> User04: IT ISSS OMGGG

-> User03: Damn Y/n’s gonna get her heart broken all over again

LN4Hater: @/Yourname he’s just gonna use and dump you! Girl have some self respect! You’ve literally been through 2 heartbreaks already!

User57: Honestly I just don’t get it! Like Y/n why is your taste so bad?? Just why??????

-> User77: I just wonder how she isn’t tired of being embarrassed?? Like, I personally could never handle that level of public humiliation 🫣🫣🫣

liked by User11 and 102,881 others

👤: landonorris, Yourname

CelebGossip: The rumour mill is spinning, and your favourite pop princess is at the centre of it again! Word on the street is that Lando Norris and Y/n L/n are getting close, and fans aren’t exactly thrilled. Especially after learning out about Norris’ colourful dating history.

We’ve done all the hard work for you and compiled a list of every single person Norris has been linked to in the past year. Click the link in bio to get a full scoop on his playboy past.

Will this mark the end of his streak or will L/n just be another name added to the list.

view all 96,738 comments

User39: Wow! That list looks like a class roll call, DAMN!!

User09: @/Yourname please please please get a hold of yourself! THIS MAN HAS BEEN AROUND 🙏🏻🙏🏻

User04: Guys this is bullshit! This whole list is ridiculous and CelebGossip posting it is even worse!

2024 (september)

liked by User04 and 168,813 others

👤: Yourname, landonorris

CelebGossip: Looks like things are still going strong between Y/n L/n and Lando Norris. The duo was first spotted together back in May and against all odds (and exes), they’re still going steady. Are they in it for the long run, or is our heartbreak queen about to score a hat-trick?

view all 110,727 comments

User52: Sorry girly but that looks like love to me!!!

Nowinsnorris: There is no way that man has changed! Y/n run away as fast as you can

-> User04: Oh please! Just shut up 🙄

User65: I mean at least she’s happy! That’s all that matters ig!

liked by Yourname and 275,718 others

landonorris: Couldn’t have asked for a better end to the weekend! Thank you so much, Singapore 🇸🇬🫶🏻

view all 201,782 comments

oscarpiastri: Congrats Mate 🥂

-> landonorris: you too Osc 🙌🏻

mclaren: LETS GOOO 🔥🔥

Yourname: Good race!

-> landonorris: just good? 😏

-> Yourname: hmm 🤔 could have been better ig 🤷🏻‍♀️

*liked by mclaren*

-> User44: Not mclaren liking the comment 😭😭😭

User77: The effect Y/n has on Lando needs to be studied, cause tell me why the man who usually spends all his podium celebrations in clubs is now having DINNER AT HOME with his girlfriend??????

-> User09: It’s true what they say, sometimes, all it takes is the right person to make you change

liked by landonorris and 169,627 others

Yourname: lovin’ my life 🫶🏻

view all 102,882 comments

landonorris: ohh any particular reason why? 🤔

-> Yourname: Yes actually! Been spending a lot of time with the loml @/lilyzneimer

-> lilyzneimer: love you too 😘

-> landonorris: OMGGG first Oscar and now this!!! Lily just say you hate me already

-> lilyzneimer: I would, but then McLaren would make me sit with you for a PR meeting, and I am not ready for that kind of suffering 😩

-> mclaren: It’s true, we will!

2024 (november)

liked by landonorris and 165,728 others

👤: landonorris

Yourname: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE OUT NOW!!! Enjoy 💋

view all 112,838 comments

User32: OMFGGGGGG IS THAT LANDO IN THE MV??????

landonorris: I see you’ve been to jail 👀

-> Yourname: what can I say I’m a dangerous girl 😌🔪

lilyzneimer: SO GOOD!!! Been streaming this ALL DAY LONG!!!

*liked by Yourname*

-> oscarpiastri: It’s true, she has been! Anyways, great song Y/n/n!!!!

*liked by Yourname*

User55: I never knew I needed to see Lando in handcuffs before this!! THANK YOU Y/N 🛐🛐🛐

User87: please please please don’t ever break up!!

*liked by landonorris*

liked by Yourname and 279,637 others

👤: Yourname

landonorris: Been in handcuffs a lot lately 😈

view all 172,728 comments

Yourname: From the looks of it, you seem to like it

-> landonorris: And what if I say I do 👀

-> mclaren: Y/N PLEASE DON’T ANSWER TO THIS 🙏🏻

-> Yourname: Oops 🤭🤭

oscarpiastri: This caption is very concerning

-> landonorris: 😙✌🏻

User58: YOU NEED HOLY WATER 💦

*liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren, lilyzneimer*

2025 (january)

liked by landonorris and 239,627 others

👤: landonorris

Yourname: To everyone who said he wouldn’t win this season and we wouldn’t last…how’s that working out for you? 😌

view all 147,627 comments

User32: AHHHHH THE CAPTION

landonorris: Winning on and off track I’d say 🥂

-> Yourname: hmm and what did you win off track? 🤔

-> landonorris: your heart ofc 😏

-> oscarpiastri: please stop! Some conversations aren’t meant for social media 🙏🏻

mclaren: On a regular day, this caption would’ve led to a PR meeting, but we’ll let it slide, only because you’re our fav 🧡

-> mclaren: Also because we’ve exhausted all our ppts over lando 🫢

*liked by Yourname*

-> landonorris: 🥲🥲🥲

…

Tags: @sheblogs | @wobblymug | @evasmlp | @ln8118 | @urfavsgf | @tvdtw4ever | @linnygirl09 | @dejavuontrack | @stylesmoonlight12 | @ellelabelle | @piastri-fvx | @vannylen2144

[chaostudee]

REDCOAT PT1 | LN4

an: hello my loves i've missed you all and i've missed writing even more. i had a lot of fun with this fic and i think at the moment it stands to be one of my favourite historical fics ive written? we'll see i can't wait to talk about this with all of you, as per usual this has a fair share of angst lol xx

wc: 7.0k

summary: in the waning light of the american revolution, a spirited colonial shopkeeper crosses paths with lando norris, a sharp-tongued british redcoat whose loyalty to king and country begins to falter the moment their worlds collide. what begins as a clash of wit and will blossoms into a dangerous, forbidden love, hidden in shadows and silence. as the fires of rebellion burn hotter and allegiances are tested, their hearts wage a war of their own. disappearances, betrayal, and near-death draw them to the edge of heartbreak, until a desperate reunion under cover of night reminds them what they stand to lose. torn between duty and desire, loyalty and love, theirs is a romance born in war. delicate, defiant, and destined to change everything.

THE BELL ABOVE THE SHOP DOOR gave a half-hearted jingle as the wind ushered in an uninvited guest. She did not glance up at first—she had learned, in these past months, that a Redcoat’s presence was best ignored. A British soldier in her family’s establishment was as common now as dust upon the shelves.

Lando’s boots clicked against the wooden floor, measured, unhurried. He knew he was unwelcome, he could feel it in the silence, in the stiffness of her shoulders as she arranged goods behind the counter. He did not mind. If anything, it amused him.

“Good day,” he drawled, removing his hat with a slow flourish. “Or do your kind no longer observe courtesy?”

She did not grace him with a full look, only a sidelong glance, cool as the December air that had slipped in with him. “Oh, we do. Just not for the King’s dogs.”

Lando smirked. “How fortunate, then, that I am not a dog.” He leaned an elbow upon the counter, far too comfortable in a place where he ought to be despised. “A wolf, perhaps.”

She let out a breath, not quite a scoff. “A wolf fights his own battles. You lot prefer to take what does not belong to you.”

He chuckled, tilting his head as though considering the remark. “And yet, here you are, selling us your wares. Seems a curious sort of defiance.”

She turned to him properly now, meeting his gaze with a fire that almost made him regret his teasing. Almost. “You mistake necessity for surrender, sir. Not all of us have the luxury of fighting with muskets and sabres.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Lando studied her, not just the words upon her lips but the steel in her eyes, the way her hands gripped the counter’s edge as though restraining themselves from throwing something at him. He liked that. A spirit unbroken.

“I should buy something, then,” he mused, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Wouldn’t want to mistake myself for a thief.”

Her gaze flicked to his crimson coat. “No, you’d need to wear plainer colours for that.”

Lando laughed, properly, this time. He reached into his coat for his coin purse, all the while watching the way she refused to look away, unflinching, proud. This war would end one way or another. He wondered, fleetingly, what would become of her then.

But that was a thought for another day.

For now, he wanted to see how many more barbs she could hurl before she surrendered a smile.

She held out her hand expectantly, palm upturned, waiting for payment. A simple gesture, yet one that carried all the weight of her contempt.

Lando placed a coin in her hand with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing against hers for but a moment, long enough to test her resolve, too fleeting to be called an offence. He watched for a reaction, some flicker of surprise, of awareness.

Nothing.

She merely turned, retrieving a paper-wrapped parcel from the shelf behind her. “That will suffice, I expect?”

He did not look at it. “What is it?”

“Something for your kind.” She placed it upon the counter. “Dried tea leaves. I hear you’ve quite the fondness for it.”

Lando huffed a laugh, picking up the package and weighing it in his hand. “Ah, but only when properly taxed.”

Her smile was as cold as the winter outside. “I shall be sure to charge double next time.”

He slipped the parcel into his coat, tapping the counter lightly with his knuckles. “A shrewd businesswoman.”

She tilted her head. “A survivor.”

A pause.

For the first time since stepping inside, Lando found himself without a retort. He had expected resistance, certainly cold glares, tight lips, perhaps even silence. He had not expected this: a woman whose tongue was as sharp as any bayonet.

He ought to leave. The wise thing would be to take his tea and be gone, to return to his duties, to think no more of her nor the way her voice curled around each word like a challenge.

And yet, he lingered.

“Do you truly despise us so much?” he asked, tilting his head as though the answer might be found in the angle of her jaw, the fire in her eyes.

She leaned forward, just enough to close the space between them. “Enough to know that if you were not wearing that coat, you would not be standing here.”

Ah. There it was, the truth, unvarnished.

Lando exhaled, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then let us hope, for both our sakes, that I do not take it off.”

Her lips parted, a sharp inhale betraying the flicker of something, whether irritation or something else entirely, he could not yet say.

The bell above the door jingled once more. Another customer, stepping inside, bringing with them the crisp scent of winter air and the unspoken demand for propriety.

Lando straightened, stepping back with an ease that suggested he had never leaned in at all. “A pleasure, Miss.”

She did not offer him the courtesy of a name, nor a farewell. Only a gaze that lingered for a fraction too long as he turned towards the door.

And he, damn him, smiled as he stepped out into the cold.

She did not expect him to return.

It had been a week since the Redcoat had darkened her shop’s doorstep, since his teasing words had slipped like smoke into the air between them. She ought not to have thought of him beyond that moment, ought to have dismissed him as just another soldier, another thorn in her country’s side.

And yet, when the bell above the door gave its telltale jingle, and she turned to see him, standing there once more with that insufferable smirk, something in her stomach twisted in a way she did not care to name.

“Ah,” he said, stepping inside as though he belonged. “Still in business, I see.”

“Unfortunately.” She dusted her hands against her apron and moved towards the shelves, if only to put space between them. “I had hoped the war might rid me of certain customers.”

Lando let out a soft chuckle, his gloved fingers trailing idly along the wooden counter. “Unfortunately for you, here I stand. You must learn to temper your expectations.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “What do you want?”

“A loaf of bread, if you would be so kind,” he said, entirely too at ease for a man whose presence was unwelcome. “And, if you’ve any left, another parcel of that fine, over-priced tea.”

She huffed, snatching a loaf from a basket. “You mean the tea that your lot taxed to the heavens? That tea?”

“The very same.” He leaned against the counter, watching as she wrapped the bread with swift, efficient movements. “Though I must say, it tastes all the sweeter knowing it costs you dear.”

She slammed the parcel down before him. “Is there a reason you insist upon provoking me, or do you simply enjoy the sound of your own voice?”

Lando exhaled, a low, amused sound. “Ah, but you see, I rather enjoy our conversations.”

She stilled for but a moment, her fingers curled against the counter. She could not look at him, not now, not when she could hear the grin in his voice, when she could feel the heat of his gaze upon her.

Instead, she held out her hand once more. “That will be four shillings.”

Lando said nothing as he placed the coins in her palm, but when his fingers brushed against her skin, just as they had last time, she could not ignore the way her breath hitched.

It was fleeting, nothing more than a whisper of contact, yet it lingered long after he pulled away.

She swallowed, willing the warmth in her cheeks to fade. “Was there anything else, sir?”

Lando tilted his head, as though considering his answer. And then, in a voice softer than before, he said, “No. I have all I need.”

The moment stretched, thin and uncertain, until at last he stepped back.

“Until next time,” he murmured, before turning towards the door.

She should have been relieved to see him leave.

Instead, she watched him go, her fingers still curled around the coins he had placed in her hand.

And damn him, she was already dreading the silence he left behind.

It was late when he returned.

The shop was quiet, the last of the day’s customers long since gone, leaving only the warm scent of flour and spices lingering in the air. She had been tidying the shelves when the bell above the door jangled, startling her from her thoughts.

She turned, expecting the usual, a weary townsman, perhaps, or a British officer on some tiresome errand.

But it was him.

And this time, there was blood.

A deep gash cut across his cheekbone, dark against the pale of his skin, half-dried yet still raw. It stretched from the corner of his eye down towards his jaw, and though he carried himself with the same infuriating ease as always, she did not miss the way his jaw was set, the stiffness in his movements.

For a moment, she simply stared.

He raised a brow. “No sharp remark to greet me?”

She recovered quickly, folding her arms across her chest. “I was merely debating whether it would be rude to ask what poor soul got the better of you.”

Lando exhaled a quiet laugh, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at the wound. “General Washington’s armies are strong.”

Her heart clenched before she could stop it.

She ought to have been pleased. He and his kind were the enemy. Every victory for the Revolution was a step closer to freedom, to the end of their occupation.

So why, then, did the sight of his blood stir something uneasy within her?

She lifted her chin. “Good.”

Lando smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “I thought you might say that.”

He stepped past her towards the counter, reaching for a small cloth parcel, sugar, by the looks of it. As he moved, the candlelight caught upon the sharp lines of his face, the shadowed hollows beneath his eyes as he placed more than enough coins on the counter.

She ought to have left it at that. Ought to have let him pay, let him leave, let this be nothing more than another brief encounter.

But as he turned his back, something in her stirred, a quiet, treacherous thing.

“You know,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather, “it doesn’t bring me much pleasure to be here and fighting a war not worth fighting.”

She had not expected it. Not from him.

Lando did not turn, but she saw the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his fingers paused in the act of fastening his coat.

The words hung in the air between them, fragile, dangerous.

For the first time since meeting him, she did not know what to say.

At last, he moved towards the door, hand upon the latch.

“Comfrey balm,” she said suddenly.

He glanced back, brows drawing together. “Pardon?”

She met his gaze evenly. “Comfrey balm. I hear it does wonders for cuts.”

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, he smiled. A quiet thing, half-hidden in the dim candlelight.

He said nothing more as he stepped out into the cold.

And for the second time that week, she found herself watching him go.

She had not seen him in weeks.

Not since that night, when he had left with a bleeding cheek and words that lingered long after the door had closed behind him.

She ought not to have thought of him beyond that moment. Ought to have carried on as she always had, sweeping the floors, tending to the shelves, selling goods to British soldiers with her lips pressed into a thin, silent line.

But each day that passed without sight of him left an uneasy weight in her chest.

She told herself it was curiosity. Nothing more.

And then—

The bell above the door jangled.

She turned sharply, pulse kicking against her ribs.

There he was.

Lando stood in the doorway, his coat damp from the rain, his jaw dark with stubble, his expression unreadable. He looked different. Not quite worn, but weathered, as though the weeks had pressed upon him like a heavy hand.

And yet, as his gaze found hers, something in his posture eased, just slightly.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

She exhaled slowly, willing her voice to be steady. “You’ve been gone.”

Lando tilted his head. “You noticed.”

She frowned. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, stepping further inside, shaking the water from his coat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The shop was quiet. Too quiet.

She busied herself behind the counter, though there was nothing to do. “Did you come to buy something, or merely to test my patience?”

Lando exhaled, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off something unseen. “I was sent away,” he said at last. “Orders. A skirmish near the Hudson.” He paused, gaze lingering upon her. “I returned as soon as I could.”

She stilled.

The words were nothing, really. Just a simple statement, spoken in that same easy, infuriating tone.

And yet.

She swallowed. “You needn’t have troubled yourself.”

Lando’s gaze darkened, sharp as the edge of a blade. “No?”

She lifted her chin. “No.”

A pause.

Then, in three slow steps, he was before her, hands braced against the counter, close enough that she could see the way his breath rose and fell, the flecks of gold in his otherwise storm-dark eyes.

Too close.

“You lie,” he murmured.

Her pulse stuttered. “You presume.”

His lips curled slightly, gaze flicking over her face, searching. Testing.

The rain drummed softly against the windows, the candlelight flickering between them.

Neither of them moved.

She should step back. She should put space between them, should end this before it became something neither of them could afford.

Instead, she remained exactly where she stood, hands clenched against the wood.

“You infuriate me,” she said quietly.

Lando huffed a low laugh. “The feeling is entirely mutual.”

Silence. A breath.

And then—

He reached out, fingers grazing her wrist, tentative, uncertain.

It was the smallest of touches, but it may as well have been a match to dry kindling.

Her breath caught.

Slowly, deliberately, he ran the pad of his thumb along her pulse point, a touch so light she might have imagined it.

“I should go,” he murmured, though he made no move to leave.

Her lips parted, her voice betraying her. “Yes.”

Neither of them moved.

Lando’s gaze flicked to her lips, only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

A sharp inhale. A moment stretched taut as a bowstring.

And then—

He kissed her.

It was not soft. It was not gentle.

It was weeks of sharp words and stolen glances, of battle lines drawn and crossed, of a war fought in more ways than one.

When at last they broke apart, breathless, unsteady, he let his forehead rest against hers.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered.

Lando exhaled a quiet laugh, his hands still firm against her waist. “I know.”

Neither of them let go.

Her breath was still unsteady, her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat before she forced herself to let go.

She stepped back, only slightly, just enough to put space between them, to remind herself of what this was, of what it could not be.

“The people will talk,” she murmured.

Lando huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand through his rain-damp hair. “Let them.”

And then, before she could so much as blink, he turned, walking towards the door with a slow, deliberate ease.

She watched, half in disbelief, half in something else entirely, as he reached up and flipped the wooden sign on the door—Open to Closed.

Then, without a word, he moved to the window, drawing the heavy blinds down, one by one, shutting out the grey light of the storm outside.

Her pulse skittered.

“You would like that,” she said, folding her arms, though she could not quite quell the heat rising in her chest. “The Americans losing profit.”

Lando turned back to her then, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he murmured, stepping towards her once more. “I simply like having you to myself.”

Her breath hitched.

He was in front of her again, behind the counter this time, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that she could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the storm-dark glint in his eyes.

She should push him away. Should tell him to leave, to undo whatever had just begun between them.

Instead, she whispered, “You are insufferable.”

Lando smirked. “So you’ve told me.”

His lips were on hers again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no restraint.

She gasped softly against his mouth, but he swallowed the sound, one hand rising to cradle the side of her face, the other finding purchase at her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The counter dug into her back, but she hardly noticed.

All she knew was the way his hands gripped her, firm and unyielding, as though he had been holding himself back for far too long.

She curled her fingers into his coat, pulling him impossibly closer, tilting her head as his lips moved against hers with a fervour that sent heat pooling low in her stomach.

His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, slow, reverent, a stark contrast to the desperate, almost bruising kiss he pressed to her lips.

This was reckless.

This was foolish.

This was—

A moan slipped past her lips before she could stop it, and Lando exhaled sharply, breaking away only to press his mouth to the side of her throat, his breath hot against her skin.

She should stop this.

Shouldn’t she?

His teeth grazed the delicate line of her jaw, and her resolve shattered.

Her hands slipped beneath his coat, fingers splaying against the warm linen of his shirt, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the quick, steady beat of his heart.

He groaned softly, his grip tightening at her waist.

“God help me,” he murmured against her skin. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”

She could not.

Instead, she tangled her fingers into his hair, tilting his head back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Stay,” she whispered.

And so he did.

The Revolution was growing bolder.

Skirmishes turned to battles, whispers of rebellion swelled into cries of war, and the streets were no longer safe after dark.

With each passing week, Lando’s visits grew scarce.

She told herself she did not mind. That it was better this way.

And yet, whenever the bell above the shop door jangled, she could not stop the way her breath caught, the way her heart leapt foolishly in her chest.

When at last he returned, one late, quiet evening, when the rain pattered soft against the window panes, she did not greet him with words.

She simply stared, taking him in.

He looked tired. Not just weary, but bone tired, as though the weight of the war had begun to settle upon his shoulders.

But when he met her gaze, he smiled, soft and unguarded.

She exhaled, stepping forward. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

Lando hummed, reaching for her hand, his fingers brushing hers. “Impossible.”

She shook her head, though she did not pull away. “You should not be here.”

“Unfortunately for you,” he murmured, tilting his head, “here I stand.”

A quiet laugh escaped her lips, and he watched her, as he always did, as though committing her to memory, piece by piece.

From the folds of his coat, he withdrew a small, silver locket.

She raised a brow. “Sentimental, are we?”

He smirked but said nothing, instead pressing the locket into her hands.

Curious, she pried it open, only to find, tucked within, a tiny, delicate sketch of herself.

Her breath caught.

It was not an artist’s masterpiece, just a simple drawing, likely done in stolen moments, but the likeness was unmistakable.

She swallowed thickly. “Lando—”

“I keep it with me,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual teasing lilt. “Always.”

Something lodged in her throat, something she could not quite name.

She glanced up, and there he was, watching her with something too raw, too real, for her to pretend this was anything less than dangerous.

With slow, deliberate movements, he took the locket from her hands and tucked it safely inside his coat.

That damn red coat.

She huffed a soft laugh. “You keep me close to your heart, and yet you tuck me into the enemy’s colours.”

Lando grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “A cruel irony, isn’t it?”

She sighed, shaking her head as she reached up to adjust the folds of his coat, her fingers lingering over the brass buttons. “One day, someone will see that locket, and you will have to explain why a British soldier carries the face of an American woman.”

Lando exhaled, his hands finding her waist, his touch warm even through the fabric of her dress. “Then let them ask.”

She rolled her eyes, though her pulse stuttered at the tenderness in his voice.

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her knuckles.

And though she would never admit it, never dare say it, she prayed, in that moment, that war would be kinder to him than it had been to so many others.

Because she was not sure her heart could bear it if one day, the man in the red coat never returned.

He lingered in the doorway, his fingers grazing hers one last time before he stepped back into the night.

She watched him go, the red of his coat disappearing into the shadows, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of rain-soaked streets.

Only when he was truly gone did she let out a slow, unsteady breath, pressing her palm against her chest as if she might steady the frantic beat of her heart.

And then—

“I knew it.”

She froze.

The voice came from the stairway, low but laced with something sharp, something between disbelief and exasperation.

Slowly, she turned.

There, half-shrouded in the dim candlelight, stood her sister.

Arms folded, brow raised, mouth set in that maddening way that meant she had seen everything.

A slow dread coiled in her stomach.

Her sister stepped forward, voice quieter now, but no less insistent. “That could get you killed, you know.”

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain level. “I don’t know what you—”

Her sister scoffed. “Don’t insult me.”

She clenched her jaw, lifting her chin. “Then perhaps you should stop lurking in doorways.”

Her sister gave her a look, the one that had always made her feel as though she were made of glass, easily seen through, no matter how carefully she tried to hide.

Silence stretched between them.

And then, softly, too softly, her sister said, “I didn’t see anything.”

A beat of stillness.

Then she exhaled, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Her sister hummed, watching her closely. “He knew from the beginning, didn’t he?”

Her breath hitched. “What?”

“The moment he set foot in this shop.” Her sister tilted her head, gaze unreadable. “He knew.”

She did not answer.

Could not.

Because the truth was there, settled deep in her chest like an ache she could not shake.

Yes. He had known.

From the very first moment, when their sharp words had curled between them like smoke. When he had met her defiance not with scorn, but amusement.

When he had stepped too close and she had let him.

Her sister sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. “God help us both.”

She swallowed. “You won’t tell anyone?”

Her sister hesitated, only for a second. Then she shook her head.

“No.”

She felt something in her chest ease, if only slightly.

But then her sister met her gaze again, her expression unreadable.

“But you must be careful,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Because one day, someone else will see. And they may not be so kind.”

She nodded, though the truth of those words settled heavily upon her.

Because she knew.

She knew that this could not last forever.

And yet, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise—

She was not sure she could bear to stop.

Following that night, she swore she would be careful.

She would guard her words, her glances, the restless ache in her chest.

She would not linger too long at the window, nor let her breath hitch at the sound of boots upon the cobblestones.

And yet.

Lando had not come back.

Not since that night, when he had pressed a kiss to her knuckles and tucked her likeness into the folds of his red coat.

Not since her sister’s warning had settled into her bones like a chill that would not leave.

She had counted the days.

Ten.

Then fifteen.

Then twenty.

The war had not stopped for them, nor for anyone. Battles raged beyond the city walls, each new whisper of violence twisting her stomach with something she refused to name.

It was foolish to worry.

Foolish to let her mind wander to every possible fate that might have befallen him.

A skirmish. An ambush. A captured redcoat. A man bleeding into the dirt, far from home.

She swallowed hard, pressing her palms to the worn counter, willing herself to be steady.

You are not his wife. You are not even his beloved.

She was nothing to him.

And yet, she still counted the days.

Still turned at the sound of the bell, still felt the foolish, desperate spark of hope before realising—

It was never him.

Never the man in the red coat who had stolen a piece of her heart, whether she had willed it or not.

And so she continued to count.

Until, at last, she lost track altogether.

The fire had burned low in the hearth, its embers casting long shadows against the wooden walls.

She was kneeling behind the counter, restocking the shelves with careful, measured movements, anything to keep her mind from wandering where it should not.

Outside, winter had settled in earnest, the streets dusted with a thin layer of frost, the air sharp enough to sting the lungs.

The shop was quiet.

Too quiet.

She had almost convinced herself that she was alone, until the door slammed open with a force that rattled the windows.

She started, knocking over a tin of dried herbs as a figure stumbled inside, breathless and wild-eyed.

Her sister.

Cheeks flushed from the cold, strands of hair escaping her bonnet, her hands gripping the doorframe as she fought to catch her breath.

She took one look at her and knew, something was wrong.

Her sister sucked in a sharp breath and choked out, “The redcoat.”

The world seemed to tilt.

She rose to her feet, heart hammering. “What?”

A strangled sound left her lips before she braced a hand against the doorframe once more, wheezing out—

“Your redcoat. The square.”

Her blood ran cold.

She did not think. Did not hesitate.

She ran.

Her sister called after her, but she did not stop, only heard the hurried footfalls as she followed.

The streets were near-empty, the air thick with the promise of snow, but she hardly felt the cold.

The square was not far.

And yet, every step felt like wading through sand, like the city itself was conspiring to keep her from what lay ahead.

Then, at last, they turned the corner—

And she saw him.

Saw them.

A group of men, American soldiers, ragged and battle-worn, their uniforms mismatched but their resolve unshaken.

And in their grasp, forced to his knees in the frozen dirt, was Lando.

Her breath left her in a silent gasp.

His coat was torn, his hands bound behind his back. Blood ran from a fresh cut above his brow, tracing a path down his cheek, staining the collar of his coat.

One of the men stood behind him, rifle in hand.

Another gripped him by the hair, jerking his head up so he had no choice but to meet their eyes.

And oh, God.

She had never seen him like this.

Lando was many things, cocky, insufferable, sharp-tongued even in the face of peril.

But now?

Now he was silent.

Not broken.

Not yet.

But close.

A sick sort of panic twisted in her gut, and she felt her sister’s hand clamp around her wrist, holding her back.

“You cannot,” she whispered fiercely.

But she barely heard her.

Her pulse roared in her ears, her breath coming too fast, too uneven, as she stared at him, willing him to lift his gaze, to see her.

As if she might find the right words, the right plea, to undo whatever horror was about to unfold

And then, as if summoned by her silent desperation—

Lando did look up.

Bloodied, battered—

And smirking.

Her stomach twisted violently.

He was taunting them.

Even now, on his knees in the dirt, a prisoner of war, he was taunting them.

God help her.

She had to stop this.

Somehow.

Before it was too late.

Lando spat blood onto the frozen earth, tilting his head back with a slow, insufferable grin.

“Is that the best you can do?” he rasped, voice raw but laced with amusement. “I’ve met barmaids with a harder swing.”

The soldier gripping his hair scowled. “You’ve a sharp tongue for a man about to lose his.”

Lando chuckled lowly, even as pain laced through his jaw. “A shame. I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

The man standing before him, broad-shouldered, face shadowed by the brim of his hat, exhaled sharply through his nose, before drawing a knife from his belt.

The steel caught the dim light as he crouched, fingers curling around the rope binding Lando’s hands.

“You want to fight?” he murmured.

And then—slash.

The rope between his wrists snapped apart, the strands fraying, falling uselessly to the ground.

Lando flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders despite the stiff ache. He lifted his gaze, meeting the soldier’s eyes with something close to amusement.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have done that.”

The soldier smirked. “Thought I’d give you a fair chance, Redcoat.”

Another man scoffed, spitting into the dirt. “What’s the point? He’s not worth the time.”

The first man arched a brow. “Then what do you suggest?”

A beat of silence.

Then a third soldier, leaner, his coat patchy from wear, jerked his chin towards the bridge at the edge of the square.

“Throw him in the river.”

Lando stilled.

The first soldier turned. “You serious?”

“Deadly.”

Lando let out a sharp breath, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I take it all back. You’re all very hard men. No need to prove it further.”

But they had already made up their minds.

Rough hands seized him, one at his arm, another at the collar of his coat. His boots scraped against the ground as they hauled him up, dragging him towards the bridge.

And for the first time, something in Lando’s chest tightened.

Not at the prospect of the river itself, but at what lay beneath—frozen waters, jagged ice.

A man could drown in silence like that, and not be found until the thaw.

His pulse kicked up, but still, his mouth curled at the corners. “If you wanted to get me alone, you need only have asked.”

No one laughed.

The square blurred around him as they pulled him forward, his boots catching against the cobbles.

Then—

A scream.

High, sharp, cutting through the bitter air like a blade.

The men faltered, just for a second, but it was enough.

Because he heard it.

Knew it.

Felt it in his chest before he even turned his head.

And then he saw her.

She stood at the edge of the square, hands clenched at her sides, her chest heaving as though she had run all the way from hell itself.

Her eyes—God, her eyes—

Wide. Wild.

Filled with something he did not know how to name.

Something dangerous.

One of the soldiers followed his gaze, brow furrowing. “Who the hell is—?”

“She’s no one,” Lando cut in sharply, though his voice lacked its usual easy arrogance.

Because he knew.

Knew she was not no one.

Not to him.

And now they had seen her.

Now they knew.

And if she did not run—

God help them both.

The bridge loomed before them, dark against the winter sky, the river below a slithering mass of black and silver.

Lando dug his heels into the ground, but the hands gripping him only tightened, shoving him forward with renewed force.

He let out a sharp breath, lifting his chin. “This seems excessive.”

No response.

The edge of the bridge met his boots.

The drop was not a great one—but the waters below were half-frozen, shifting sluggishly between sheets of ice.

A man could survive it.

If luck allowed.

But luck had never much favoured him.

The hands at his collar shoved him forward—

And then he was falling.

Cold wind roared in his ears, his stomach lurching as he plunged down, down—

And then—

Impact.

The river swallowed him whole.

Freezing.

Brutal.

The shock tore the breath from his lungs, ice biting into his skin like teeth, the weight of his coat dragging him down.

The world blurred.

Darkness. Cold. Silence.

Somewhere above—

A voice.

High. Frantic.

A scream that cut through the wind.

But then the water pulled him further, and he knew nothing more.

Above, a voice shouted “Hey!”

The shout rang across the bridge, sharp and commanding.

The American soldiers turned, startled.

Another group of men had appeared at the far end of the street, British soldiers, red coats stark against the grey of the sky.

Panic flared in the Americans’ eyes.

One of them cursed under his breath. “To hell with it—go!”

And then they ran.

Boots pounding against stone, their figures vanishing into the fog before the British soldiers could reach them.

But she did not care.

Did not see them go.

Because she was already running.

Heart hammering against her ribs, breath tearing through her lungs.

She reached the bridge, hands gripping the cold stone as she peered over the edge.

And froze.

Below, the river churned.

Dark and violent.

And floating amidst the swirling current, barely visible between the sheets of ice—

Was him.

Back to her, red coat glaring up at her, like some sick joke.

Her breath caught.

“No—”

She turned wildly, eyes locking onto the British soldiers. “Save him!” she pleaded, voice cracking. “Someone do something!”

But none of them moved.

They only looked at her, their expressions unreadable.

Tension rippled through them.

He was one of them, yes, but he had been captured. He had been marked.

And for all they knew, he was already dead.

She shook.

Chest rising and falling too fast, hands curling into fists.

“Please—”

But still, they did not move.

And the realisation crushed her.

No one was going to help.

No one was going to save him.

A sharp sob tore from her throat, and suddenly.

Arms wrapped around her.

Warm. Familiar.

Her sister.

Pulling her close. Holding her tight.

And at last, she broke.

Collapsed into her, shoulders shaking, gasping for breath as tears burned.

The river below carried Lando further, the dark waters swallowing him whole.

And she could do nothing but weep.

A week and a half had passed.

The river had long since stilled, the ice thickening over its surface, sealing its secrets beneath.

The town had moved on.

And so, she supposed, must she.

She had spent the first few days locked away, claiming illness when her parents questioned her absence. Her sister had run the shop in her stead, sparing her from the knowing looks, the pitying glances.

But now she was back behind the counter, hands busying themselves with small, mindless tasks, though her heart was elsewhere.

Somewhere beneath the frozen waters.

She did not turn when the bell above the door chimed, announcing the entrance of another customer.

Another red coat.

They came often, these days. Their presence no longer made her breath catch, no longer sent ice through her veins.

She did not look at them.

She did not dare.

She simply pressed her lips together, smoothing the creases in her apron. “May I help you?”

Silence.

Then—

“May I speak to you?”

Something in the tone made her still.

Not sharp, nor commanding, as most of them were.

This was softer. Measured.

Cautious.

Only then did she look up.

He was young.

No older than Lando.

Dark hair, serious eyes. A red coat, pristine and well-fitted, but worn with a weight that did not suit him.

Her brow furrowed. “I—”

But then.

He reached into his coat.

And pulled out a locket.

Her breath vanished.

She knew it.

Even before he stepped closer, even before he placed it on the counter, she knew it.

The same locket she had watched him tuck into the folds of his coat that night.

The same locket that should have been—

Her hands trembled as she reached for it, fingers ghosting over the cold metal.

And beside it—

A scrap of fabric.

Dark red.

Torn.

Stained with something too dark to be ink.

The floor beneath her swayed.

She swallowed, willing her voice to remain steady. “Where did you—?”

“I found it.”

She looked up sharply.

The soldier—no, the man—watched her carefully, expression unreadable.

He exhaled, then lowered his voice.

“My name is Oscar. I was—” He hesitated. “I am Lando’s closest friend.”

Her stomach twisted.

“I followed the riverbank,” Oscar continued. “Days after. His coat washed up on the shore. Torn, bloodied. But no sign of him.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric, something breaking inside her chest.

No sign of him.

No body.

Just this.

Oscar’s voice softened. “I thought you should have it.”

The world blurred.

Her throat burned, her breath coming too fast, too shallow.

She could not.

A choked sound left her lips, and before she could stop herself.

She collapsed into him.

Oscar caught her without hesitation, his arms warm and steady as he held her upright.

And in the middle of the shop, in the arms of a man she did not know, she wept.

Silent, shuddering sobs that shook through her whole body.

Because he was the only one, besides her sister, who knew.

And for the first time since she had watched him disappear beneath the ice—

She was not alone.

Oscar remained close as she pulled herself together, his arms steady around her as she wiped her eyes, embarrassed by the flood of tears that had come without warning.

He didn’t speak at first, just waited, his presence a quiet comfort.

When she finally found her breath again, she drew away from him, her hands trembling as she reached for the locket once more. She traced her finger across the metal, feeling the weight of it, feeling Lando’s absence.

Oscar cleared his throat. “If you ever need anything—”

She looked up sharply, meeting his eyes.

“I’m in the barracks, just by the bridge. You can find me there, any time. If—if you need to speak, or...” His voice faltered slightly, but he steadied himself quickly. “Or if you need help. I’m no good with words, but I’ll do what I can.”

She nodded, though the words seemed distant.

Her gaze drifted back to the locket, and a small, hollow laugh bubbled up in her chest.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said, almost to herself.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Funny?”

“Just…” Her words trailed off as she shook her head, looking out the window at the frost-covered streets. “The revolution was supposed to give us freedom—freedom to live as we please. To make our own choices.”

She let out a bitter chuckle. “And yet, here I am. Befriending a redcoat.”

Oscar’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “I’m not quite like the others.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “But still... Funny how it works out, isn’t it? The freedom I wanted so badly, and yet…” Her voice faltered for a moment, her mind flickering back to the other redcoat—the one who had captured her heart in the most unexpected of ways. “I ended up falling in love with redcoat and befriend his friend.”

Oscar didn’t speak for a long moment, but when he did, his voice was gentle, understanding.

“I think sometimes, the world doesn’t give us what we expect,” he said softly. “It gives us what we need.”

She glanced at him, his words ringing in her ears. But still, she could not shake the weight of her heart, heavy with loss, heavy with the uncertainty of what had happened to Lando, and the strange, impossible twist of fate that had led her to where she was now.

Oscar cleared his throat again, stepping back slightly. “I’ll leave you to your work. I just thought… well, I thought you ought to know. And if ever you need me…” He paused, giving her a small nod. “I’ll be there.”

She managed a smile, though it was faint. “Thank you, Oscar. Truly.”

He turned to leave, but she called after him, her voice quieter now. “I’m sorry for what happened to Lando. I know it was no easier for you.”

Oscar gave her a final look, his face unreadable. “It wasn’t. But he’d have wanted you to know he didn’t go quietly.”

And with that, he was gone.

She stood there for a long time after, holding the locket, running her fingers over the edges.

She hadn’t expected any of this, none of it.

The war. The revolution. The quiet, fragile peace she had sought.

The friends she had made, enemies turned companions. And love.

A love she had never thought possible with someone who wore the very coat she had come to despise.

A love that seemed, now, so impossible.

Yet here she was.

And now… now she was without him.

part two...

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @driverlando @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey

[chaostudee]

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

part two of controversially young gf??

[chaostudee]

max verstappen masterlist

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

brother's bestfriend

summary : you are lando norris's younger sister and when you show up to the paddock to support him a certain driver for red bull falls for you.

[chaostudee]

i hope this finds you well ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“you’ll be bored of him in two years,” oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.” (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘰.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k (!!!) ꔮ includes: friendship, romance, angst. cussing, mentions of food & alcohol. references to greta gerwig's little women (2019), mostly set in melbourne, oscar's sisters are recurring characters. ꔮ commentary box: i've written way too much oscar as of late, so before i go on a self-imposed ban, i had to get this monster out. fully, wholly dedicated to @binisainz, whose amylaurie lando fic does this feeling go both ways? started all this. birdy, i love you like all fire. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ let you break my heart again, laufey. we can't be friends (wait for your love), ariana grande. cool enough for you, skyline. do i ever cross your mind, sombr. bags, clairo. true blue, boygenius. laurie and jo on the hill, alexandre desplat.

Oscar Piastri is not the kind of boy who usually finds himself at house parties.

Especially not the kind with balloons tied to banisters, tables laden with sausage rolls and buttercream cupcakes, and a Bluetooth speaker hiccupping out the tail-end of some pop anthem. But here he is, cornered into attendance by his sisters—Hattie, Edie, and Mae—who’d all dressed up for the occasion and declared, in unison, that he had to come.

So he had. Because he was a good brother and an unwilling chaperone. 

And now he’s bored.

Oscar stands near the drinks table, nursing a cup of lukewarm lemonade and trying to look vaguely interested in the streamers above the kitchen doorway. Hattie had already been whisked off to dance by someone in a navy jumper. Edie had found the girl who always brought homemade brownies to school. Mae was giggling wildly with a trio of kids Oscar vaguely recognized from the street down. 

No one notices him lingering by himself. That suits him just fine.

Still, he can’t quite shake the restlessness crawling up his spine. The noise is too loud, the lights too warm. With a quick scan of the room and a glance over his shoulder, Oscar slips behind a long, velvet curtain that cordons off what seemed to be the study.

Except there’s already someone there.

He realizes it a moment too late, nearly landing on top of you.

“Oh my God—sorry!” he blurts out, practically leaping backward. His foot catches on the edge of the curtain and he stumbles a bit, arms flailing before catching the side of a bookshelf. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t see you. I didn’t think anyone else—sorry. Again.”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, legs curled beneath you on the armchair he had almost sat on. There’s a half-eaten biscuit on a napkin beside you, and your fingers are wrapped around a glass of ginger ale. Contrary to everyone else at this godforsaken event, you’re not a familiar face. 

“It’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. Accented. Affirming Oscar’s theory that you’re not a Melbourne native. After a pause, you tentatively joke: “You didn’t sit on me, so that’s a win.”

Oscar huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Close call.”

The silence after is not awkward, exactly. Just shy. The two of you are tucked away behind a curtain, neither fully sure what to do next. Oscar takes the plunge first, figuring it’s the least he could do after intruding on your escape.

“I’m Oscar. Piastri,” he adds unnecessarily. He gestures vaguely toward the chaos outside. “Dragged here by my sisters.”

“I figured you were with the girls,” you reply amusedly. “I’m new. Just moved here a few weeks ago.”

Oscar’s brows lift. “So this is your introduction to the madness?”

“Pretty much.” You offer a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really know anyone, and pretending to be cool isn’t really my thing.”

“Mine neither,” he says quickly, maybe a bit too quickly. “Hence the hiding.”

That earns him a soft smile. It’s a pretty smile, Oscar privately notes. 

He gestures to the empty bit of couch beside you. “Mind if I sit? Promise to check for limbs first.”

You shift slightly to make room. “Be my guest.”

He sits, careful this time, knees bumping slightly against yours as he settles. The party noise feels far away behind the curtain—muted like a dream. Oscar glances at you from the corner of his eye, curiosity bright beneath his awkwardness.

“Got a name, new kid?” he asks, because even though he had agreed that he doesn’t like feigning coolness, he’s still just a teenage boy with a god complex. 

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you, careful with the syllables like he’s folding them into memory.

A few more minutes pass, filled with idle chatter. You talk about your move, the weird smell of paint still lingering in your new house, and the fact that none of the cupcakes at this party have chocolate frosting, which is a tragedy. Oscar, in turn, tells you about his sisters. How Mae once tried to dye her hair green with a highlighter and how Hattie got banned from school discos after she snuck in a smoke machine.

The laughter between you is easy. Unforced.

Then you say it, maybe without thinking too hard. “We should dance,” you muse, finishing off the last of your biscuit. 

Oscar freezes. His eyebrows shoot up, alarmed. “Dance? With me?”

“Unless you’d rather go back to pretending the streamers are fascinating.”

“I don’t dance with strangers,” he says, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“We know each other’s names now,” you point out. “That makes us not-strangers.”

With a beleaguered sigh and a scrunch of his nose, Oscar comes clean. “I’m bad at it,” he grumbles. 

“Who cares?”

“My sisters. They’ll see. And I’ll never live it down.”

You purse your lips, tapping your glass lightly against your knee. Then, a spark lights in your eyes. It’s the kind that spells trouble; Oscar has seen it in his siblings’ faces, right before they do something so invariably stupid and reckless. “Come with me. I have an idea,” you urge. 

He hesitates, a part of his brain screeching something like stranger danger! in flashing, neon lights. In the end, he follows.

You slip out through the back door, motioning for him to stay quiet as you lead him down the wooden steps and out onto the wrap-around porch. The party sounds are muffled here, only the faint thump of bass slipping through the walls.

“Out here,” you say, turning to him with an expectant grin. “Nobody to laugh. Just us.”

Oscar stares at you. “This is crazy.” 

“Shut up and dance.”

And so he does.

Awkwardly, at first, because you start them off with wild moves and dance skills that are much more abysmal than his. It gives him the confidence to start swaying a bit, his laughter poorly stifled as he watches you flail like an octopus. 

You take his hands, and he lets you spin him gently, sneakers squeaking against the porch boards. There’s no rhythm to it, not really. Just swaying and clumsy steps and the faint thrum of music in the background.

The porch light flickers above you, casting long shadows. Somewhere inside, someone cheers. But out here, it's just you and Oscar.

Two kids dancing badly and not caring.

“You’re a weird one,” he says with a smile that splits his face open.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, fingers squeezing his as you twirl yourself through his arm. It’s a gross miscalculation and you end up stumbling, the two of you cackling as you attempt to detangle from the mess of limbs you’ve entangled each other in. 

For the first time that night, Oscar thinks he might actually like this party after all.

Christmas morning in the Piastri household always comes with a sort of chaos—the kind born of slippers skidding across hardwood, sleepy giggles, and the rustle of wrapping paper long before the sun climbs properly into the sky.

This year, however, there’s something new. A wicker basket sits on the porch, ribbon-wrapped and dusted in the faintest layer of frost. 

It’s heavy with gifts, each one handmade and meticulously labeled in curling script. Hattie, first to spot it, gives a shriek loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Within minutes, the whole family is gathered in the living room, the basket placed like treasure at the center.

“It’s from the new neighbors,” their mum announces, plucking a card from the basket. Her voice is touched with surprise and delight. “The old man and his granddaughter. Isn’t that sweet?”

Hattie unwraps a pair of knitted socks, blue and gold. Edie lifts out a jar of spiced jam. Mae discovers a hand-bound notebook. Each gift is simple but exquisite, the sort of thing you only receive from people who notice details.

“She’s the one who doesn’t talk to anyone,” Hattie says knowingly, curling her legs beneath her on the couch. You were in the same level as her, it seemed—a year below Oscar. 

“That house is huge.” Edie glances out the window, towards your home. “Do you think her parents are loaded?” 

“I heard they aren’t even around,” Mae whispers. “Just her and the grandfather. He looks ancient, though. Like, fossil ancient.”

“Girls,” their mum cuts in sharply. “That’s enough. They were kind enough to send gifts. We will be kind in return.”

Oscar, perched on the armrest of the couch, stays quiet through the speculation. His hands toy with the tag on his gift—a simple wooden bookmark, engraved with an amateur sketch of a stick figure dancing. He doesn’t say anything about the study, or the curtain, or the ginger ale.

But the memory floats to the front of his mind: the soft hush of the party behind a curtain, the brush of knees, your laugh when he had called you weird. 

“We should make friends with them,” Oscar says finally, looking up. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

The girls pause. Hattie raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about new neighbors?”

He shrugs, trying not to look too interested. “Just saying. It wouldn’t kill us to be nice.”

Their mum smiles, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

Oscar glances back down at the bookmark, running a thumb over the edge.

He finds your family acquainting with his soon enough.

On a sunny afternoon, right as Edie is pouring cereal into a bowl and Oscar is elbow-deep in the dishwasher, the home phone rings. Hattie picks up, listens for a moment, then calls out, “Mae’s at the neighbor’s. She fell off her bike.”

There’s a rush of clattering cutlery and footsteps, and in no time, Oscar finds himself trailing behind his sisters down the sidewalk, toward the big house next door—the one with the sprawling lawn and mismatched wind chimes on the porch.

When they arrive, Mae is perched on your front steps, a bandage already wrapped around her knee and a juice box in hand. She waves lazily as Hattie and Edie fall upon her with a dozen questions. Your grandfather, white-haired and kind-eyed, stands nearby, looking amused by the commotion. He introduces himself and ushers them all inside despite their protests.

Oscar hangs back for a moment until he spots you just behind the door, barefoot and half-hidden by the frame. You glance up, catch his eye, and grin.

“You again,” you say, stepping out onto the porch. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, just scraped her knee,” Oscar replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Thanks for patching her up.”

“We had a pretty solid first aid game back at my old school. I’m well-versed in playground accidents.”

He chuckles, leaning against the porch railing. “That so? Must be a pretty rough school.”

“Brutal,” you agree solemnly. “There were snack thieves and dodgeball champions. It was a jungle.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“It built character,” you say with mock seriousness, then flash him a grin. “Want to come in? I made too much lemonade.”

Oscar nods and follows you inside. The kitchen smells like lemon zest and fresh biscuits. Hattie and Edie are now harrowing your grandfather with questions about the old piano in the corner and whether the house is haunted. He answers everything with a twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying the attention.

You hand Oscar a glass and settle across from him at the kitchen table. He takes a sip. “You weren’t lying,” he says through another swig. “This is good.”

“Of course not. I take my beverages very seriously.”

“You’re weird,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m starting to think it might be a compliment.”

You clink your glass against his in cheers. He smiles, and something warm unfurls in his chest. A startling kind of certainty. Like something’s taking root—a real friendship, honest and surprising and entirely unplanned.

Oscar is surprised to find that he doesn’t mind. 

It happens gradually, like most real things do.

You begin spending Saturday afternoons with the Piastri bunch, lounging on their back deck with Hattie and Edie, gossiping about the neighbors or watching Mae attempt increasingly dangerous trampoline flips. You get good at knowing who takes how many sugars in their tea, when to duck because Edie’s chucking a tennis ball, or when Oscar is about to try and quietly leave the room.

You’re there for board games on rainy days and movie nights on Fridays. You help Hattie with her French homework, braid Mae’s hair when her fingers get too clumsy with excitement, and lend Edie your favorite books. Their mum always saves you an extra slice of cake, and their dad asks how your grandfather’s garden is faring this season.

It starts to feel like you’ve always belonged there, wedged into the rhythm of their household like a missing puzzle piece finally found.

Oscar is often quieter than the others, but he’s still a constant. You and he become fixtures in each other’s orbit. Trading messages about school, tagging each other in silly videos, or sending one-word replies that only make sense to the two of you. 

Despite being one year his junior, the two of you are close in a way that you aren’t with the girls. He swears it’s because he met you first, because the two of you have emergency dance parties and cricket watch parties that nobody else knows about.   

He leaves for boarding school, and the absence sits awkwardly on both your chests at first. But he never really disappears. He always texts when he’s back. Always walks you home at least once before he has to leave again. Always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

And then—one summer—he comes home and something’s different.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t swoon. He doesn’t speak in slow motion. It’s just... subtle.

Oscar stands taller. His shoulders are broader. His voice has deepened slightly. There’s a small scar at the corner of his lip you don’t remember, and when he grins, it strikes you—how he’s grown into himself, soft and sharp all at once.

You catch him staring at you too, once or twice. Like he’s trying to recalibrate what he thought he knew. Your hair is a little longer, and your skin is tanned from all the days in the sun. He remembers the freckles; he doesn’t remember when they became so prominent.

But it never becomes a thing. You don’t talk about it. You fall back into your usual rhythm.

Because even if your faces are a little older, your banter is still quick and familiar. You still chase each other down the street. You still squabble over the last biscuit. He still rolls his eyes at you, and you still prod him for his terrible taste in music.

Whatever has changed, whatever is beginning to, you both keep it tucked away. For now, it’s enough just to have each other nearby.

It’s a fact Oscar remembers as digs his toes into the hot sand. His jaw is tight; he watches the waves break in even swells. The sun’s beating down hard, but he barely feels it. Not with the way his chest still burns from the shouting match earlier.

Hattie had stormed out of the house with her towel clutched like a shield, and Oscar had followed, only because everyone else was pretending like nothing had happened. His sisters always expected him to be the reasonable one, and today—he hadn’t been.

He’d snapped. Something petty. A dig at her choice of music in the car. Then something sharper about her always having to be right. And before he knew it, she’d looked at him like he was someone else. 

He hadn’t apologized.

Now, he sits beneath the shade of a crooked umbrella, arms wrapped around his knees. He watches the group scatter across the sand and into the waves. Hattie’s already out with her board, paddling strong into the break like she’s trying to prove something. Edie is further down the shore, half-buried in a sandcastle war. Mae’s running between them, laughing.

You drop into the sand beside him, skin glinting from seawater, hair tied back and still damp. “You two going for the title of Most Dramatic Siblings today?” you ask, unsurprisingly up to date. Hattie probably told you all about it while the two of you were getting changed. 

Oscar sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was a bit of a tosser this morning,” he says dryly. 

You nod, not offering him an out. Just letting the honesty settle.

“She’ll forgive you. Eventually,” you add. “You Piastris always find your way back.”

He tilts his head, watching you. The sunlight makes your nose wrinkle when you squint toward the water. Your shoulders have lost some of their shyness from when he first met you. You’ve become more sure of yourself, laughing louder, teasing easily. Comfortable. Confident. Certain. 

He likes that. 

The two of you sit in silence until Oscar stands, grabbing his board. “I’m going out.”

“Be nice,” you call after him, and he flashes a grin over his shoulder—tight but genuine.

In the surf, Oscar feels the tension bleed out with every push through the waves. The water’s cold and biting, salt sharp in his mouth. He catches sight of Hattie up ahead and paddles after her, trying not to let the guilt slow him down. Hattie notices him, grimaces, and rushes on. 

Trying to prove something. 

The waves pick up. Hattie catches one, standing briefly before wiping out. She resurfaces quickly, almost laughing, but Oscar watches her expression shift just moments later. There’s a sudden pull in the water, subtle but unmistakable. A riptide.

She paddles against it. Wrong move.

Oscar feels the fright hit like a tsunami. 

He’s been scared before. Of course he has. He’s terrible when it comes to horror movies. He’s seen his karting peers fissure into pretty nasty accidents. But this, the fear of this, of his younger sister— 

He starts shouting, but the wind carries his voice sideways. Instinctively, he glances to shore—and sees that you’re already running. Board abandoned, feet flying across wet sand. You make it to him in record time, that crazed look in your eyes mirroring his.

Together, you plunge into the surf. Oscar’s strokes are strong, slicing through the current. He reaches Hattie just as she starts to panic.

“Float! Don’t fight it!” you yell, coming up on her other side.

Oscar grabs her wrist, firm but steady. You’re on the other, speaking calm, clear instructions, guiding her body as the three of you angle sideways out of the current. 

You’re the voice of reason; Oscar is the force that perseveres. 

It’s slow. Exhausting. But eventually, the pull lessens.

You reach the shore heaving, salt-stung, and shaking. Hattie collapses onto her knees, coughing up seawater, and Oscar sinks beside her, heart hammering. His hands rest at her back, as if he’s scared she’ll go down under the moment he lets go. 

Hattie says nothing at first. She just looks at him with wet, furious eyes.

It’s a look Oscar is used to seeing on Hattie’s face. They’re siblings. Of course they squabble, and they fight, and they know where to hit for it to hurt. Such was the curse and blessing of being a brother. 

Underneath all that, though, Oscar goes back to two cardinal truths: Being the eldest, he made his mum and dad parents—but when Hattie came around, they made him a sibling. 

And a sibling he would always be, come hell or high water. 

“You didn’t even say sorry,” Hattie sputters, like that’s still the worst thing that has happened this afternoon. 

Oscar can’t decide if he wants to cry or laugh. You hover nearby, giving them space. But not too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s I’m sorry for picking a fight, and I’m sorry for being a bad brother sometimes, and I’m sorry I never taught you about riptides. 

Hattie sniffles, then swats at him. “You better be.”

And that’s how they make up.

Later, as the sun begins to dip, casting everything in amber, Oscar finds you rinsing your arms at an outdoor shower.

“Hey,” he says, stepping close with your towel in his hands.

You look over your shoulder. “Hey.”

He shuffles awkwardly. With salt in his hair and gratitude tangled in his ribs, Oscar thinks there’s no one else he’d rather have next to him when the tide pulls under. 

But there’s something deeper, something closer to guilt gnawing at him. 

You sense it, in the same way you know when Oscar’s about to have a bad race weekend or when he’s overwhelmed with schoolwork. Stepping out of the shower, you take your towel, wrap it over your shoulders, and gesture at Oscar to follow you. 

The two of you walk along the shore, away from where Edie is snapping photos of her sandcastle and Mae is reading some trashy romance novel. Hattie is passed out on a beach blanket, the excitement of the near-drowning taking the fight out of her. 

“If she had died,” Oscar tells you, his tongue heavy as lead, “it would’ve been my fault.” 

It’s the kind of thought he figures only you will understand. Not because you have any siblings of your own, not because you had been there, but because you’ve always read Oscar like he was a dog-eared book you could keep under your pillow. 

“She’s fine, though,” you say delicately, but he’s started and he can’t stop. 

“What is wrong with me?” A laugh escapes Oscar—the self-deprecating kind, one that grates more than the sand beneath your feet. “I’ve made so many resolutions and written sad notes and confessed my sins, but it doesn’t seem to help. When I get in a passion—” 

A passion. A fit. With his siblings, with his mates, with you. He can’t count the amount of times his sarcasm has offended you. The instances where he’s made you cry, intentionally or not. 

And when he’s racing. God, when he’s racing. 

In a couple of months, he’s slated to join Formula 4. He has a stellar karting career behind him, one he can barely even remember—because he had seen red throughout it all. Oscar was clinical and cutthroat and cruel the moment he got behind a wheel, and a part of him worries that’s who he’ll always be. 

A man who would stop at nothing to be at the top step of any podium. A boy who would insist on being right like his life depended on it. 

“When I get in a passion,” he tries again, “I get so savage. I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.” 

It’s a damning confession. The kind that could absolutely ruin and unravel Oscar. But he knows, he trusts that it’s safe in your hands. You hum a low sound like he hadn’t just bared his heart out for you to sink your claws into.

“I know what that’s like,” you say, and he has to do a double take. 

“You?” He studies the side of your face, as if checking for insincerity. “You’re never angry.” 

You’re annoyed with him often and you’ve got a hint of fire in everything you say. But there’s never been rage, never been the sort of flame that could incinerate. And so it shocks him all the more when you confess, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life.” 

“You are?” 

“I’m not patient by nature. I just try to not let it get the better of me,” you offer, glancing up at Oscar. 

The two of you have come to a stop at the edge of the shoreline. Soon, you’ll have to get back to his waiting sisters. For now, though, he surveys your expression and finds nothing but the truth. 

He files the facts away in that mental cabinet he has containing what he knows about you. Angry, nearly every day. And then he takes to heart the rest of your words, the roundabout advice of not letting it consume him.

The blaze in him stops roaring for a minute. With you, it’s like a campfire. Inviting and warm. 

Better. You make him better.

“Look at us,” he says, tone almost awed. “After all these years, looks like I can still learn a thing or two from you.” 

There’s something in your eyes that Oscar can’t quite place. You’ve always looked at him a certain way, but he could never really put a word to it. It’s tender and pained all at once; subtle, ultimately, buried underneath whatever he needs you to be at the moment. 

“It’s what friends are for,” you respond, your voice catching on the word in the middle. He pretends not to notice. 

Friends.  

Oscar’s Formula 4 debut is everything he thought it would be.

The pressure, the lights, the nerves so sharp they buzz under his skin—it’s all there, and then some. He tries to soak in every second, from the chorus of engines roaring around him to the feel of the wheel under his gloved hands. But even with everything happening so quickly, even in the blur of adrenaline and pit stops, there’s still time for his thoughts to drift back home.

More specifically: To you.

It starts small. Just a notification that you’ve made a new post. A photo.

You with your boyfriend.

A guy Oscar’s met once, maybe twice. The sort of guy who plays guitar at parties and wears cologne that smells like department store samples. He isn’t bad—just doesn’t fit. Doesn’t match the version of you Oscar has always known. The one who once danced on a porch, hair a mess, daring him to keep up.

He doesn’t know what to do with the bitter feeling that curdles in his chest. You’re not his, per se. You’ve never been. But surely you could do better than this Abercrombie-wearing, Oasis-playing asswipe. 

Summer arrives like it always does—hot and sprawling, with cicadas humming in the trees and long days that stretch lazily into nights. Oscar is home for a few weeks between races. 

You’re still around, too. A little less, though, because your boyfriend is a demanding thing who insists he “doesn’t like Oscar’s vibe.” You fight for the friendship, citing it as a non-negotiable, and when Oscar finds out, he doesn’t even try to hide his smugness. 

The two of you steal away one evening, climbing onto the roof of the Piastri house with cans of lemonade and a bag of sour candy. It’s tradition by now. The tin roof is warm beneath you, and the stars blink faintly above, a faded scattering against the navy sky.

You sit close, your shoulder brushing his every so often.

“You’ve changed,” you say, head tilted toward him.

“Have not.”

“You look taller.”

“I’ve always been taller.”

You laugh, a soft sound. “Okay. You’ve changed in a good way.”

Oscar bumps your knee with his. “So have you.”

The two of you are older, now, more accepting of the facts of life. Time is not your enemy. It’s just time. You’re still in school, and Oscar is still racing. Your paths have diverged, but the road home is one you both know like the back of your hand. 

You go quiet, fiddling with the tab on your lemonade. He watches you closely, trying to read what you’re not saying. You’re nervous. He figures that much out from the fiddling. Nervous about what, though, he can’t— 

“I want to run away with him,” you say suddenly.

Oscar stiffens. He wants to call you out for making such a stupid joke, for not having all your screws on straight. You go on, eyes fixed on the dark street below. “Doesn’t sound too bad. Eloping,” you muse. “I’ve never been one for big weddings, anyway.” 

“Why?”

“Why don’t I like big weddings?” 

“No, stupid. Why the sudden plan of eloping?” 

“Because I love him.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, the slope of your cheek in the half-light, the determination behind your words. It doesn’t sit right. This isn’t you. You make rash decisions, but none so life-altering. Not anything that would give your grandfather grief, and most especially not anything that would disclude Oscar. 

“You’ll be bored of him in two years,” Oscar says flatly, “and we will be interesting forever.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you let the words hang between you. Those two things could co-exist. Your love for this loser (Oscar’s word; not yours), and the fact that there was nothing in the world that could electrify quite like your friendship with Oscar Piastri. 

He doesn’t know where this is coming from. He hadn’t realized this would be so serious, that he’d been away long enough for you to start considering marriage with what’s-his-face. 

“I don’t expect you to know what it’s like, Oscar,” you say eventually. “To want to be shackled.”

And there it is. 

You’ve always supported Oscar’s career. You have years worth of team merchandise for all his loyalties; you’ve been there for every race that mattered, each one that you could make. 

But you were also selfish in ways that his family wasn’t. You got moody whenever he had to go away after breaks. You made snide comments about him always being the one who leaves. He’s grown to tolerate that petulance, to take in stride your fears of him failing to come back in one piece. 

For the first time ever, Oscar feels what you do. And, God, it doesn’t feel good. 

“I just hate that you’re thinking of leaving me.” The words are past his lips before he can reel them in. 

It sounds desperate, so unlike him, that he understands the shock that flits across your face. There’s a split-second where he sees a hint of anger, too, like you’re mad at Oscar for being honest, for saying all this after his redeye flights and janky timezones. 

He goes on, because what’s the point of backing down now? “Don’t leave,” he presses. 

“O…”

You’re the only one who calls him that. O. OJ, when you’re feeling playful—Oscar Jack. He’s teased you time and time again about not falling back on Osc, as if you were desperate to carve out a nickname that belonged to you and you alone. 

“God,” he interrupts, eyes turning skyward, as if the stars might hold answers. “We’re really not kids anymore, huh?”

You were kids together. Now, you’re teenagers—young adults. Complicated, messy. Entangled in more than limbs and waves.

“Our childhood was bound to end,” you say, and then you reach out to put a hand on his knee. He considers joking something like Careful, your boyfriend might try to pick a fight and you know I have a mean left hook, but then you might come to your senses and pull your touch away. 

He doesn’t say anything more, and neither do you. You just sit there on the roof, side by side, listening to the quiet hum of summer and the distant echoes of who you used to be.

You break up with your boyfriend sometime in early spring, citing incompatibility in a text that Oscar reads while lying flat on the floor of his hotel room in Baku. 

He blinks at the message, reads it twice, and then tosses his phone across the bed. The relief that floods through him is disproportionate, almost unsettling. He chalks it up to instinct. Or something like that.

He tells himself it’s just the same feeling he gets when Edie starts seeing some guy from her literature elective, a summer not too long after you joked about eloping. Maybe it’s the older brother in him, wanting to be protective of the women in his life. 

That’s what he’s muttering to himself when you catch him scowling at Edie’s date from across the local food park. He was chaperoning once again, though this time Edie had banished him to hang out with you while she was making heart eyes at this lanky transfer student. 

“I thought you’d be pleased,” you tease Oscar, popping a chip into your mouth.

Oscar doesn’t look away from where Edie is laughing at something the guy just said. “At the idea of anybody coming to take Edie away? No, thank you.”

You smirk. “You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”

He finally glances at you, one brow raised. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

“So would I!” you shoot back, grinning as you sip your soda. Oscar’s withstanding singleness was something the two of you joked about often, even though he always reasoned that he was busy. Busy with racing, busy with family, busy with you. “That poor soul wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Oscar opens his mouth to reply, but then you pull a cigarette from your coat pocket. It’s a thing you picked up since you got to uni, and Oscar’s frown deepens at the sight of it. At your audacity. Before you can light it, he snatches it from your fingers.

“Oi!” you protest.

He waves it out of your reach. “None of that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

You lunge for it, but he’s already up and jogging backward, the cigarette held aloft in triumph. You chase after him with a string of cusses, half-laughing, half-serious, and Edie and her date pause to watch you and Oscar bolt down the street like kids again—legs flailing, shouts echoing against the sidewalk.

“Are they—?” Edie’s date asks, and the Piastri girl only heaves out a sigh.

Oscar doesn’t stop until he hits the corner, chest heaving from laughter. You skid to a halt beside him, hair wild in the wind, eyes bright. The cigarette’s long gone, tossed in a bin somewhere behind them. 

“That was expensive,” you whine. 

“More incentive for you to quit it, then,” he responds. 

You glare up at him. He rubs a knuckle into your hair, his free hand snaking to your pocket to grab the rest of the pack. You screech profanities as he bins it, but he makes it up to you with a meal of your choosing. It takes a sizable chunk out of the racing salary he sets aside for leisure, but you’re unrepentant and he’s wrapped around your finger. 

You’re both older now. But sometimes, it still feels like nothing’s changed at all.

Albert Park is golden in the late afternoon. 

The sun spills through the treetops, casting shadows across the path as Oscar kicks absently at a stray pebble, hands buried in his jacket pockets. You’re walking beside him, careful to match his pace even as his strides grow longer with whatever is bubbling up inside him. 

A new year. A new contract. A new team, new plan, new person he has to be. 

“It’s all happening so fast,” he mutters. “The Renault thing. Tests. Travel. They said it’s everything I ever wanted—and it is, it is—but I can’t stop feeling like I’m coming apart.”

You glance at him, brows furrowed. “Coming apart how?” 

Oscar raises one shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, but you’ve always had this philosophy that helped him be more honest around you. Say it first, you’d say. Backtrack later.

“I’m just not good like my sisters,” he blurts out, reaching and settling for a familiar comparison that might make him more comprehensible. “They’re—Hattie’s top of her class, Edie’s already talking uni offers, Mae’s got that whole ‘brightest light in the room’ thing. And me? I’m angry, and I’m restless, and I drive fast cars because I don’t know how to sit still.”

“You don’t have to be, O.” 

He lets out a dry laugh. "Why? Are you about to tell me that I’m patient and kind, that I do not envy and I do not boast?"

You stop walking. He does too, when he notices.

You’re just a step or two behind him, the afternoon sun bathing you in a light that practically rivals the warmth you radiate. But there’s something so utterly stricken on your expression, something so undeniably raw that Oscar feels everything click into place.

The look on your face is one his parents sometimes give each other. He’s seen it in movies, seen it in the photos of his mates with long-term relationships. It’s the expression you’ve given him for years, and years, and years, and he feels like the world’s biggest fool for missing all the signs. 

“No,” you say softly, denying him of his cruelty, of his failures. You think of him like that—patient, kind, humble. 

The makings of a person who deserves—

Oscar begins to shake his head, saying, “No. No.” 

“It’s no use, Oscar,” you say, your fingers curling into fists at your sides, and that’s his first sign that this is really about to happen. Not O, not Piastri, not any of the dozen annoying nicknames you’ve assigned him over the years. 

“Please, no—” 

“We gotta have it out—” 

“No, no—” 

Your conversation overlaps. It’s a twisted kind of waltz, as if the two of you are out of tune and out of step for the first time in your lives. Oscar starts pacing. Like he might somehow be able to run from what’s about to come. 

You barrel on. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Oscar,” you breathe, following his panicked steps. “I couldn’t help it, and I’ve tried to show it but you wouldn’t let me, which is fine—”

“It’s not—” 

“I’m going to make you hear it now, and you’re going to give me an answer, because I can’t go on like this.” 

He flinches, takes a half-step back. Tries to say your name with more of those despairing please, don’ts, which fall on deaf ears. 

You step toward him like the whole park is tilting and he’s the only thing keeping you upright. The words pour out too quickly now, too long held back. Years worth of yearning, bearing down on an unassuming Saturday. 

“I gave up smoking. I gave up everything you didn’t like,” you say. “And I’m happy I did, it’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I—”

You stutter, swaying on your feet like the weight of your next words was too heavy for you to shoulder. You soldier through like a champion; that’s why Oscar listens, hears them out, even though they rip through him as if he’s crashed right into a wall. 

“You know, I figured you’d love me, Oscar.” 

A damning confession. The kind that should be safe in Oscar’s hands, but his fingers are shaky and his eyes are wide and he thinks he’s going to die, then and there, over how absolutely heartbroken you look that he’s not agreeing with you immediately. That his love was something vouchsafed, a promise for a later time. 

“And I realize I’m not half good enough,” you whimper, “and I’m not this great girl—” 

“You are.” Helplessness wrenches the words out of Oscar’s chest. It’s the same emotion that has him surging forward, his hands darting out to hold your shoulders and keep you upright, keep you looking at him. “You’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you and I’m so proud of you. I just—”

He falters. You gave him your honesty, so he fights to give you his. 

“I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to,” he confesses. “I don’t know why.” 

Your voice gets impossibly smaller. “You can’t?”

His eyes close, just for a moment, before he answers. “No,” he says slowly, each word measured against your frantic ones. “I can’t change how I feel, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so desperately sorry, but I just can’t help it.” 

You step back; his hands fall to his sides. The distance opens like a wound.

“I can’t love anyone else, Oscar,” you say dazedly. “I’ll only love you.” 

“It would be a disaster if we dated,” Oscar insists. “We’d be miserable. We both have such quick tempers—” 

“If you loved me, Oscar, I would be a perfect saint!”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed.”

And he has. He’s had sleepovers with you, wondering what it might feel like to wrap his arm around your waist. He had once contemplated holding your hand during a movie. He figured it would be a given; no one would bat an eye. You and Oscar. 

Except his heart had never fully gotten the memo, and now he pays the price for only ever being able to love the thrill of a race. 

Your voice catches on your next words. “Everyone expects it,” you say in a ditch attempt to change his mind. “Grandpa. Your parents, your sisters. I've never begged you for anything, but—say yes, and let’s be happy together, Oscar.” 

“I can't," he repeats, each syllable heavy. “I can’t say yes truly, so I’m not going to say it at all.”

The evening light keeps on glowing. The world doesn’t end. But you feel like it might've anyway, and he’s right there in that boat with you. You’re willing to settle for scraps, while Oscar refuses to give you half-measures. The silence between you stretches taut, pulling thinner and thinner until it threatens to snap.

“You’ll see that I’m right, eventually,” he says. Like he believes it will make the truth hurt less. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

You laugh bitterly. "I'd rather die."

He looks like you slapped him. “Don’t say that.” 

You’re walking, now, your pace quick as you hurtle down the park pathway with the vengeance of a woman scorned. He calls your name and follows, keeping a sizable distance between you should you not want him to close. 

“Listen, you'll find some guy who will adore you, and treat you right, and love you like you deserve,” he pleads, skidding in front of you and forcing you to do a full stop. “But— I wouldn’t. Look at me. I’m homely, and I’m awkward, and I’m mean—”

“I love you, Oscar,” you say, as if you’re savoring the first and last times you will get to say the words.  

He goes on. He can’t answer that, can’t say anything to those words. “And you’d be ashamed of me—” 

“I love you, Oscar.”

“And we would always fight. We can’t help it even now!" He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’ll never give up racing, and you’ll have to hide all your vices, and we would be unhappy. And we’d wish we hadn’t done it, and everything will be terrible."

He gasps for air. You blink back the sting in your eyes. “Is there anything more?” you ask. 

He meets your gaze, and finds nothing there but rightful heartbreak. “No,” he murmurs. “Nothing more.”

You shoulder past him. He tilts his head back and eyes the sky for a moment, praying to be struck down by any higher power that exists. “Except that—” he starts, and you turn around so fast. 

You turn, retracing your steps, and the guilt wells up in him like a faucet that had burst. He realizes—you think he’s going to take it back. You think it’s going to be a … but I love you instead of an I love you, but… 

“I don’t think I'll ever fall in love,” he manages. “I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up.”

Your expression crumples. “I think you’re wrong about that,” you sigh.  

“No.”

You shake your head, slowly. “I think you will care for somebody, Oscar. You’ll find someone, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way and your will.”

Oscar’s way. Oscar’s will. Two things he’s believed in wholeheartedly, until they’ve both failed him. Failed you. 

You take a step back. The anger you once claimed to always have is somewhere, there, beneath all the hurt and the love. Oscar sees it, now. All of it; all of you.

“And I’ll watch,” you add. 

Oscar will love someone— and you’ll watch. 

The wind rustles the leaves above. A bird sings somewhere in the distance. But all you hear is the sound of something breaking open, and bleeding between you. 

The deep and dying breath of the love you’d been working on. 

Oscar doesn’t see you much after that night in Albert Park. 

You’re still around, still next door. He hears you laughing with Hattie, helping Mae with a school project, or chatting idly with his mum over the fence. But it’s not the same. Something fundamental had shifted.

He tries. God knows he tries. He greets you when he sees you on the street. Makes light jokes. Keeps it easy, breezy, friendly. But every conversation feels like a performance, a pale imitation of what it used to be.

He’d broken both your hearts. He knows that too well. 

Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, not even Hattie, who always had a sixth sense for these things. He lets you control that narrative; he’s sure you’ll tell his sisters, and they’ll all have something to say. Surprisingly, none of them bring it up. He wonders if that’d been your condition with them, and he is grateful, and he is angry, and he is so, so sorry.

He channels everything into racing. He throws himself into his training, enough that it gets him trophies and podiums and a contract with a frontrunning team. 

His dream—the one he’d chased his whole life—is here. 

And it’s everything he ever wanted. Almost.

A few days before he’s due to fly out for testing with McLaren, he finds himself in the backyard, watering the garden with Mae. She’s picking mint leaves with the same dramatic flair she does everything. He doesn’t notice when she says your name until the silence that follows makes him realize he’s been staring blankly at the hose.

You have a part-time job now, Mae had said. Oscar knows. Not from you. Rarely does he know anything about you from you nowadays. He watches your life in fifteen Instagram stories, in the Facebook posts of your grandfather. He hears about you from his parents and whichever of his sisters is feeling particularly brave that day. 

It’s so sudden, his urge to be honest. And so, for the first time since what happened in the park—he lets himself speak his mind. 

“Maybe I was too quick in turning her down,” he says, voice low. Contemplative. 

Mae looks up from the mint. She looks a bit surprised, like she hadn’t expected to be the one to get Oscar to finally crack after over a year of dancing around the topic. 

“Do you love her?” she asks outright. 

He fucking hesitates. 

His throat feels dry. 

“If she asked me again, I think I would say yes,” he says instead, his gaze fixed on the poor tomato plant now drowning in water. “Do you think she’ll ask me again?” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Mae straighten. She brushes her hands against her jeans and stares straight at him, willing him to look at her. “But do you love her?” she repeats, and he knows it’s not a question he’s going to escape. 

“I want to be loved,” Oscar admits. The words taste like copper.

Mae doesn't flinch. “That's not the same as loving. If you wanted to be loved, then get a fucking fan club,” she spits. 

Her voice is firm, but not cruel. It lands with the weight of care disguised as exasperation. And Oscar feels so much, then, but above all he feels gratitude that his sisters love you like one of their own. Their fierce protectiveness of your welfare—in the face of Oscar’s indecision—knocks some much-needed sense into him. 

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

“She deserves more than piecemeal affection, Oscar,” Mae adds, softening. “You can’t go halfsies with someone like her.”

Oscar knows his sister is right. 

Something aches in his chest, then. He can’t tell if it’s loneliness or the shape of losing you, still carved somewhere in his chest. Beneath the ache of what he turned away is the terrible fear that he never really understood what he was saying no to.

“I won’t do anything stupid,” he promises Mae. 

Later that afternoon, Oscar is pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when movement catches his eye through the window. He turns and sees you biking past with Hattie. Your carefree laughter carries across the breeze, light and familiar. Your hair catches the sun.

You glance up and see him. There’s a pause. Beyond the cursory small talk, the two of you haven’t really talked much this break. He understands why you need your space., and so he never presses, never pushes. 

Even though he can’t help but think of how a pre-confession you might have reacted. How you would’ve ditched your bike and slammed into the house, demanding he pour you a drink, too. Or how you would’ve goaded him into a race until the two of you were spilling onto the pavement, all breathless laughter and skinned knees.

As it is, all Oscar gets is a polite smile and a half-wave. He doesn’t know if it’s a hello or a goodbye. 

He raises his hand, waves back. He watches until you disappear around the corner.

And then he keeps watching, long after you’re gone.

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: Stupid stupid stupid 

I hope this email finds you well. 

Actually, I hope it never finds you. This is a bit stupid. A lot stupid. But I’ve just had my first proper testing and I wanted to text you about it, except I wasn’t sure how you might feel to hear from me. I reached for my phone, opened our text thread, and then decided to fake an email to you instead. 

You’re right. It’s definitely more orange than papaya. 

And Lando Norris is not so bad. I think you’d like him. But not like like him. I’m not sure, actually. We could find out. Or not.

This is stupid. Bye. 

— O. (McLaren Technology Centre)

*** 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: I don’t know what to call this one

Hey,

Doha's airport smells like cleaning chemicals and tired people. I watched a family fall asleep upright on a bench. The dad had his hand curled around the kid's backpack like he was scared someone would run off with it. I don't know why I'm telling you this. 

Maybe because it's 2AM and I'm tired and I can't sleep on planes unless you're next to me. Which is stupid, because you were never on that many flights with me. But the ones you were? I slept like a rock.

I hope you're well. I hope you're sleeping.

—O. (Doha International Airport) 

*** 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.com Subject: New Year 

Happy New Year.

I watched the fireworks from the hotel rooftop. I wish I was back in Melbourne, but stuff made it not-possible. 

It was cold. Everyone had someone to kiss. I had a glass of champagne and a view. 

You came to mind. You always do when things start or end. I'm starting to think that's what you are to me. The start and the end.

Love, O. (Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo) 

Edited to add: It was midnight when I wrote all that stuff. I’m rereading it now, hungover at the breakfast buffet. Guess I can be a bit of a romantic too, huh? Although I think it’s only ever with you. 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: You're in my dreams 

I dreamed about you again. You were wearing that ridiculous jacket you got on sale for $5, the one you claimed made you look mega. You did not look mega. You looked like someone lost a bet.

You hugged me and told me everything would be okay. Then I woke up and it wasn’t.

I know I don’t get to tell you this anymore, but I miss you.

—O. (Tokyo Bay Ariake Washington Hotel) 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: Hahaha

I heard someone with your exact laugh. Turned my head so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

It wasn’t you.

You’d tease me for how dramatic that sounds. You always said I was a little too sentimental for a boy who liked going fast.

Still thinking of you.

—O. (Silverstone Circuit) 

***

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: oscar.piastri81@mclaren.comSubject: If I had said yes…

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes that day in Albert Park.

I don’t know if we would’ve worked. Maybe we would have burned bright and fast and hurt each other in the end. Or maybe we would’ve grown into each other like roots. I don’t know. I just know I still think about it.

And that’s not fair. And I would never tell a soul. I just 

wonder.

Sometimes. 

Always your O. (Yas Marina Circuit)

The glitch hits sometime between 2 and 3 a.m. local time.

Oscar doesn’t notice at first. He’s still jet-lagged from the flight from Abu Dhabi, half-awake on his phone in bed, replying to a team manager's message. It's not until he opens his inbox to forward a document and sees the string of outbox confirmations—all with your name in the recipient line—that he realizes something is very, very wrong.

His breath catches.

He stares at the screen for a long, stunned moment before scrambling up from bed, heart in his throat. He checks the Sent folder. It’s all there. Every last one. The emails he never meant to send.

They'd been his safekeepings. His way of getting through the ache without adding more weight to yours. Some were barely a few sentences; others pages long. And all of them, every last word, are now sitting in your inbox like little bombs waiting to go off.

He Googles it with trembling fingers. Gmail glitch sends drafts. 

He sees the headlines flooding in. Tech sites confirm that a rare global sync error had triggered thousands of unsent drafts to be sent automatically. They call it “an unprecedented failure.” Users are up in arms. Memes are already spreading.

Oscar wants to fucking hurl.

He’s home for the winter holidays. Back in Melbourne, back in his childhood room with the familiar creak in the floorboard by the desk. And you—you’re just next door.

You. With those emails.

He covers his face with both hands, dragging his palms down slowly.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s no escape to this. Just the silent, inescapable weight of every unsaid thing now said. Every truth, every maybe, every I thought of you today signed off with hotel names and airport codes and times when he was still trying to figure out how to stop missing you.

And now you know. Every word of it. Every selfish, unfair thought that he didn’t deserve to have about you, not after he’d ripped your heart right out of your chest. 

He peeks out the window before he can stop himself. Your lights are on. 

For some reason, Oscar is reminded of the book you had been so obsessed with as a child. The classic Great Gatsby; the millionaire with his green light at the edge of the dock. Oscar never really cared much for the metaphor of it until now, until he stares at the filtered, warm light streaking through your curtains like it’s something he will forever be in relentless pursuit of. 

But then your light flickers off, and Oscar stumbles back down to his bed. 

You’re going to sleep, he realizes with a breath of relief. He sinks into the mattress with a thousand curses against modern technology. 

Oscar tells himself he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Explain everything. Try to salvage what’s left of the peace you’ve both learned to live in, however shaky and distant it is. He’ll explain that he didn’t send them on purpose. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean to—

A soft knock at the window makes him bolt upright.

He hasn’t heard that sound in years. Not since you were kids and the ladder in his backyard was your shared secret. 

His breath catches. He doesn’t move right away. 

He has to be dreaming, he thinks dazedly, but then he hears it again. Three quick taps. A familiar rhythm.

Oscar throws the covers off and crosses the room in two strides. He pulls the curtain aside.

You’re standing on the top rung of the ladder, and he briefly contemplates making a run for it again. 

Instead, he throws the window open. You climb in without a word, landing on the floor of his bedroom with the same ease you always had. You’re in cotton pajamas with a hastily thrown-on hoodie, which—whether you remember or not—had been one of Oscar’s from years and years ago. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” he breathes. 

“And you’re in love with me,” you say without preamble. 

Accusation. Question. 

Fact? 

Oscar is frozen like a deer caught in headlights. You’re staring up at him, searching, with that same matchstick flame of anger that has carried you through life so far. 

When he doesn’t immediately counter you, you go on. “Do you love me because I love you?” you ask, and the question knocks the wind out of Oscar. 

“No,” he says quickly. “It’s not like that.”

He— he would never forgive himself, if his affection for you was nothing more than an attempt at reciprocation. 

You stare at him through the darkness. “Why, then?” you press, because of course you deserve to know why. 

His throat works around the answer. It’s a confession that’s been in the making for more than a year. In some ways, it’s been there since he almost sat on you at that damn house party. The words tumble out of him, overdue but not any less sincere. 

“I love you because you’re a terrible dancer,” he says, “and you know how to swim against riptides, and you’re the person I think of when I’ve had a bad free practice and when I'm on the top step of a podium. I love you. It just took me a little while to get here, but I do.” 

“O,” you start. He’s not ready to hear it. 

He steps back, as if to give you space he should’ve offered long ago. “I don’t expect you to have waited,” he says hastily. “I would never—I would never ask you to reconsider, not when I know the type of person I am and how much time it took for me to get here.”

“Oscar.” 

“But I love you. I don't know how not to.”

The room is silent, but it feels like it holds the weight of a thousand words left unsaid. The ones he wrote. 

You remind Oscar, gently, of what you said in Albert Park those many years ago. “I can’t love anybody else either,” you say, your eyes never leaving his face even as he begins to panic, starts to retreat. 

He swallows hard, his throat moving with the effort. “I should have realized sooner,” he babbles. “I should’ve known. I—” 

You reach out, your hand slipping into his. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

It feels so good—your fingers in between the spaces of his. He wishes he could appreciate it more, but his race-brain has kicked in, and he’s suddenly not the calm, cool, and collected Oscar that everybody in the world think they know. 

No, he’s your Oscar. The one who’s a little bit of a wreck. The one who is always racing away from something. 

“I wasn’t kind,” he says, voice tight. “I let you go. I thought I was doing the right thing. and maybe I did, but it still hurt you. It ruined everything.”

“We’re here now,” you say simply. “That means something, doesn’t it?”

“What if we ruin what’s left? What if it doesn't work?”

You smile at him, soft and sure. “Then it doesn’t. But I don’t think we’ll fail.” 

“I’m still homely, and awkward, and—” 

Mean, he meant to say, but then you’re pressing your lips against his. 

It silences all his fretting, all his guilt. For a second, he doesn’t move, stunned into stillness, and then he kisses you back like he’s falling into something he’s wanted his whole life but never believed he could have. Like he can’t breathe unless he's doing this, unless he’s kissing you.

When he’s more sane, when he’s less panicked, this is something the two of you will talk about. He knows that. 

In this very moment, though, he can only watch his sharp edges dull; the fury of his rage, extinguish. The softness of your understanding, the kindness of your patience, the gentleness of your kiss. It’s all he wanted, all he needs.

His hands frame your face, hesitant, reverent, like he can't believe you’re really here with him. That you waited. That you still want him. 

In his head, he makes a promise: If he must hit the ground running, he will make sure it’s towards you.

When the two of you pull back for air, you murmur teasingly against his lips, “Your emails found me well.” 

He giggles, a short, incredulous sound, before kissing the laughter right out of your mouth. ⛐

[chaostudee]

bf moments | charles leclerc

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!charles x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : compilation of fluffy boyfriend charles moments

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : ferrari did a lot better this week im proud.. it's hard being tifosi out here istg.. but doing some charles content bc i feel like i haven't in a LONG LONG LONG time... late post though oops >.<

boyfriend!charles who writes your initials on the fogged-up mirror after his shower without even realizing it.

boyfriend!charles who puts your cold feet between his legs in bed and acts like he’s so bothered but never moves them.

boyfriend!charles who always lets you try the first bite of his food and watches your reaction like it’s a michelin review.

boyfriend!charles who kisses your forehead when you’re ranting, mid-sentence, like he can’t help it.

boyfriend!charles who facetimes you after races, helmet hair and all, and says “did you see me wave at you?” even if you weren’t there.

boyfriend!charles who reads next to you in bed, but keeps rereading the same page because you’re resting on his chest.

boyfriend!charles who shyly tugs at your sleeve when he’s tired in public, like a silent “let’s go home.”

boyfriend!charles who sends voice notes instead of texts because he likes when you “hear how much I miss you.”

boyfriend!charles who always takes blurry pictures of you on film, then says they’re perfect “because they look like how I see you.”

boyfriend!charles who doesn’t say much during arguments, but always comes back quietly with “can we fix this?” and his hand out.

boyfriend!charles who buys you flowers just because he “walked past them and they looked like you.”

boyfriend!charles who rubs your back when you're falling asleep and hums without realizing it.

boyfriend!charles who saves all the notes you leave in his suitcase and keeps them folded in his wallet.

boyfriend!charles who pulls you onto his lap during video calls with the boys and acts like it’s no big deal while smiling like it’s the only thing that matters.

boyfriend!charles who acts cool in front of others, but turns into the softest version of himself the second the door closes behind you.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[chaostudee]

hi! i have no clue what i'm doing here, but i've been so inspired by @harrysfolklore, so i decided to try my hand at smaus! i'm also so very new to the world of f1, so pretty please go easy on me <3

in my weird little noggin' - yn is a famous singer dating shawn mendes whom (spoiler) turns out to be a jerk and wittle baby oscar is in love and just wants a chance :'( let me know if you wanna see more <3

fc: gracie abrams

liked by piastrisbakery, teammclaren, landoe04, and others

piastriupdates oscar is never beating the fan boy allegations and we love to see it :')

view all 1,342 comments

sc4rlett_44 LANDOS FACE I CANNOT

↳ vroomvroombois he looks like spongebob after squidward ate the krabby patty 😭

↳ piastrisbakery you like yourusername, don't you oscarpisatri 😏

landoland A FEARLESS RESPONSE SOME MIGHT SAY FDHJFKSDHF

↳ newintown THE WAY YOU CAN TELL THAT'S NOT THE FIRST YN-RELATED PUN LANDO HAS EVER SAID TO HIM

↳ forever_mclaren omg PLEASE go watch the 'oscar being in love with yn for 15 minutes' video on youtube. you'll quickly find that lando is the captain of the yncar ship.

wrongagain osc is soooo cute!! but yn is never leaving shawn. they're too perfect for each other ❤️

↳ oscarsfearless89 idk... oscar talks more about yn than shawn does at this point...

liked by zendaya, oscarpiastri, shawnmendes, arianagrande and others

yourusername shawn peter raul, how i will forever love you :’) the sunshine on my darkest days. i simply don’t know what i would do without you. thank you for choosing me two years ago today <3

view all 1,112,210 comments

love4yn mom and dad mom and dad mom and dad mom and dad!!

↳ starryeyesandbutterflies i think your parents are getting divorced bc shawn didn't even post her :(

↳ ynlover111 SAYING YOUR PARENTS ARE GETTING DIVORCED IS SOOOOO CRAZY WHAT THE FUCKSJDF 😭

forever_yn i love when we get boyfriend pics of shawn but he never posts any cutie pics of our girl :(

timotheechalamet ew

↳ yourusername shouldn't you be clocking in at the chocolate factory right about now? 🤨

vroomvroombois PLEASE oscarpiastri not you liking this like you aren't WAITING for the day they break up 🧐

↳ f1fanatic81 osc would 100% treat yn better

↳ landoe04 i see what you did there...

camilaisqueen shawn and camila were cuter imo 🤷🏻‍♀️

↳ ynsgirly I SWEAR TO GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT KING CHARLES' DUSTY ASS WIFE

↳ speaknowstan arguably the better camila...

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

shawnmendes uploaded a story!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

mclaren posted a new video!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

yourusername uploaded a story!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

liked by calilovesoscarp, sc4rlett_44, pitstoppiastri, landoe04, and others

oscarpiastriupdates these spot the difference games are becoming impossible.

view all 453 comments

foreverpiastri ive never seen him look so angry...

sc4rlett_44 the audacity of that interviewer 😬

↳ newintown wait, what happened?

↳ sc4rlett_44 during the pre-quali interviews, someone from press kept dropping shawn mendes song titles in their question and he was making it *really* obvious. Osc was pissed.

↳ vroomvroombois he turned into such a little diva. i love.

↳ piastriprincess no because if someone said "hey Oscar, i'm curious if you would be able to treat YN better than Shawn Mendes? i've heard you're a fan, so i figured you'd be left in stitches following the news. luckily there's nothing holding you back! hopefully YN will have some mercy on you!" i'd kill them

↳ ynoscarsunshine osc is such a gentleman though :( "you know those are actual people you're making a joke out of, right? someone in that situation has real, hurt feelings, and, to be honest, i'm unintrested in joking and capitalizing off someone's pain. next question."

shippingyncar the way he defends her </3 oscar > shawn no contest.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

liked by selenagomez, yourbrother, oscarpiastri, oliviarodrigo, and others

yourusername *taps mic* is this thing on?

well, hi there! i apologize profusely for my sudden absence, but your girl had to touch grass, pick up some new hobbies, catch up with old friends, and teach my nieces how to tell good apples from bad ones (a very important life lesson)! for complete transparency, i've had a really rough go of things lately. the heart was never meant to break with millions of eyeballs upon it, but mine did and boy did it suck. if you find yourself hurting now, please let me be your reminder that hard times *do* pass. things *will* get better. just give it some time.

i'll get off my soapbox! anyway, i am *so* excited to show you guys what i've been working on while cozied up on my parents' front porch swing watching spring roll in :') i'll being seeing you guys oh so soon 💚

view all 1,101,238 comments

drewbarrymore ❤️😘

inlovewithyn istg your instagram posts are like a kiss on the forehead

mclaren 🧡 if you're looking for a new hobby, watching F1 races is highly entertaining! ♥️ by author

↳ oscarpiastri this is true.

↳ landonorris can confirm.

↳ charlesleclerc can also confirm.

↳ lewishamilton 👆🏾

↳ maxverstappen fast cars are fun, yes.

↳ danielricciardo very fun indeed.

↳ scuderiaferrari ❤️🏎️

↳ bestofyn YN HAS THE WHOLE GRID IN HER COMMENTS I CANNOT WHAT IS HAPPENING

↳ boxboxbaby EVEN FERRARI IS HELPING OSCAR SHOOT HIS SHOT IFDSJFISL?!

arianagrande the vid u sent of your nieces singing defying gravity has been on repeat 💖

rarebeauty stunning ❤️

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

liked by sainzsmiles, danielricciardo, landoe04, landonorris, and more

mclaren yo bro, who got you smiling like that? 🧡

we are smiling because bahrain is just five days away!

view all 13,210 comments

landonorris i know 😏

↳ oscarpiastri 🤨 mclaren i'd like to request a new teammate

↳ danielricciardo i also know 💁🏽‍♀️

↳ piastrisbakery danielricciardo WHY DID YOU USE THAT EMOJI??? I CANNOT

↳ danielricciardo because i am sassy 💁🏽‍♀️

↳ maxverstappen i know, too!

circuitcutie oh this is absolutely bc yn followed him back

↳ bigmclarenfan ?? can we focus on racing please??

↳ oscpresso no ❤️

↳ danielricciardo no 💁🏽‍♀️

[chaostudee]

simp...ly lovely

feat. max verstappen

lyrics you: a worldwide renowned singer. max: four-time f1 world champion... and apparently your biggest fan?

maddie corny title, corny faceclaim, definitely corny concept, but i had SO MUCH fun writing it (if you want more smaus, send in your ideas!)

faceclaim @ lalalalisa_m

ynofficial

❤️ 3.8M 💬 18.2K

liked by tatemcrae, oliviarodrigo, maxverstappen1 and others

ynofficial singapore was UNREAL tonight. thanks to every single one of you for making it possible, i love u all <3 (still can't believe this was the last show tbh, miss u already)

asia tour over for now, see you guys soon xx

comments

tatemcrae ATE

↳ ynofficial you can't spell ate without tate

❤️ by tatemcrae

↳ user1 MOTHERS

↳ user2 their friendship is my roman empire

↳ user3 collab when???

↳ user4 yn x t8 would be the end of me

oliviarodrigo prettiest girl everrrrr 💞

↳ ynofficial back at you liv 💞💞💞

↳ user5 AWWW

↳ spotify our favorite pop princesses 💕

❤️ by ynofficial and oliviarodrigo

↳ user6 prettiest besties alive fr

↳ user7 the matching heart emojis 🥹

↳ user8 people need a ynolivia tour ASAP

↳ user9 i am people people is me

↳ user10 YES PLEASE 💳💥💳💥💳💥

user11 the duality of woman

↳ user12 i swear like how is that the same person

↳ user13 good girl 🫦 vs good girl 😚

↳ user14 LITERALLY

↳ user15 if girlhood is a spectrum was a person:

user16 "miss you already" JUST ADD NEW DATES???

↳ ynofficial working on it 🫶

↳ user16 oh

↳ user17 LMAO IT ACTUALLY WORKED

↳ user18 @.user16 the hero we deserved 👏

↳ user19 wait so new dates actually confirmed!?

↳ user20 omg chill she didn't say anything yet

user21 BODY. IS. TEA.

↳ user22 outfit too 🙂‍↕️

↳ user23 don't forget the makeup!

user24 am i the only confused f1 fan here or

↳ user25 NO BECAUSE SAME

↳ user26 so we're all seeing max in the likes right

↳ user27 apparently

↳ user28 max verstappen being part of the yn fandom was not on my 2025 bingo card

↳ user29 are we sure he didn't like this by accident 😭

↳ user30 that sounds like something he would do yes

↳ user31 i hate to break it to you but he's been at it for the past three weeks

↳ user32 guys he liked ALL her tour posts

↳ user33 SIMPly lovely huh?

↳ user34 LOL BYE

↳ user35 plot twist is plot twisting

f1 and ynofficial

❤️ 3.2M 💬 39K

liked by maxverstappen1 and others

f1 coming soon... @.ynofficial 🎤✨️

05.04.25 | 21:00 utc

#japanesegp

comments

user36 who is this and why is she on my fyp

user37 what about focusing on the race instead? just a thought

user38 and the earth kept spinning

user39 world before: 🌍 world after: 🌍

↳ user40 no one asked 😍

user41 YN STANS HOW ARE WE FEELING ABOUT THIS

↳ user42 f1 fan here, i have no idea who she is and i couldn't care less

↳ user43 okay?

↳ user44 this is exactly why f1 "fans" scare me

↳ user45 anyways I'M SO EXCITED AAAHH

↳ user46 me too! i missed her tour but i bought tickets to the race so now i get both... 🫠

↳ user47 ugh you're so luckyyyyy

↳ user48 f1 x yn fans living their best life rn

user49 OH THIS IS GOING TO BE SO GOOD

user50 face card never declines 🛐

↳ user51 🔥🔥🔥

user52 mommy 🥵

user53 if this is an april fools' joke it's not funny

↳ user54 PLS IT HAS TO BE REAL

↳ user55 🕯manifesting hard🕯

↳ user56 may our prayers be answered 🙏

↳ user57 🍀🍀🍀

↳ user58 you're not normal

user59 why is everyone in the comments so mad 💀

↳ user60 fr like get a life

user61 forget everything the dutchman did it again

↳ user62 he's so real for that

↳ user63 DUDUDUDU HE'S DOWN BADDD

↳ user64 the real question now is can suzuka handle these two goats

↳ f1 guess we'll see 😉

user65 SCREAMING

ynofficial

❤️ 6.8M 💬 40.6K

liked by f1, maxverstappen1, oliviarodrigo and others

ynofficial quali now, sound check later 🥂🏁

comments

oliviarodrigo babe you're GLOWING

↳ ynofficial it's the suzuka weather ☀️

f1 keep an eye out for our next pole sitter 👀

↳ ynofficial on it 🫡

❤️ by maxverstappen1

↳ user66 *insert leonardo dicaprio gif here*

↳ user67 BRO THOUGHT WE WOULDN'T NOTICE

↳ user68 he's so confident he'll get pole 😭

↳ user69 he will just for her 🗣🗣🗣

↳ user70 stay delulu folks ✊️😔

↳ ynofficial i believe in him 🙃

↳ user71 WHAT'S WRONG WITH THEM

↳ user72 i'm already way too invested in their dynamic

↳ user73 new ship to obsess over unlocked

↳ user74 now my life is complete again 😌

↳ user75 do you people really have nothing better to do in your free time?

↳ user76 as a ferrari fan the only other available option is depression so no 🥰

↳ user77 @.user75 we're good thanks 👍

user78 why is she here again?

↳ user79 let her breathe ffs

↳ user80 still genuinely don't understand where all the hate came from

↳ user81 maybe it's because she has nothing to do with f1?

↳ user82 she's not the first celebrity they've invited tho???

↳ user83 i fear this argument is going nowhere

↳ user84 neither is our girl but y'all aren't ready for that conversation

↳ user85 PERIOD

f1gossippofficial

❤️ 62.7 K 💬 23.4K

f1gossippofficial max verstappen was seen attending yn's concert last night in suzuka!

comments

user86 you don't say

user87 *20 missed calls from lando*

user88 are we supposed to be surprised?

user89 yeah like any other driver so what

user90 who cares

user91 celebrating his pole position in style i see

↳ user92 like a winner 🙂‍↕️

↳ user93 he is a man of culture after all

user94 it's giving supportive boyfriend

↳ user95 they're not even together

↳ user96 exactly

↳ user97 a girl can dream 🤷‍♀️

user98 okay but that clip of him singing along was genuinely so funny

↳ user99 man knew the lyrics word by word

↳ user100 where can i find it???

↳ user101 it was on lando's stories i think(?)

↳ user102 bro woke up and decided to expose max's ass

↳ user103 very demure and mindful of him

↳ user104 he did god's work 🙏

↳ user105 lando is actually maxyn's number 1 supporter and no one can change my mind

user106 THE WAY HE'S LOOKING AT YN IN THE FIRST PIC HELLO ⁉️⁉️⁉️

↳ user107 how do you know it's her 💀

↳ user108 i mean i don't think he would look at lando like that

↳ user109 maybe charles was on stage

user110 her smile omg 🥹

↳ user111 she was congratulating max btw

↳ user112 JAIL

↳ user113 STOP SHE WAS BLUSHING SO HARD HAHAHA

user114 they're in love your honor

user115 i'm so not normal about them

redbullracing

❤️ 7.6M 💬 42.5K

liked by ynofficial, maxverstappen1, lando and others

redbullracing it was simply lovely meeting you @.ynofficial ❤️

comments

user116 PARENTS

user117 OMG ADMIN SHIPS IT TOO

user118 wasn’t this a lestappen fanpage

↳ user119 💔

↳ user120 charles crying in the corner because he's not max's main love interest anymore

↳ redbullracing dw he's still our favorite 😉

↳ user121 try not to ship two of the most problematic drivers on the grid: level impossible

↳ user122 no one fangirls over them like red bull

user123 MAX LOOKS SO PROUD I CAN'T

↳ user124 i bet the little fanboy in him was screaming

↳ user125 max "i'm just happy to be here" verstappen

↳ user126 they're so barbie and ken coded idc what anyone says

↳ user127 wait i can actually see that

user128 idk about her outfit...

↳ user129 and she doesn't know about you, problem solved 😘

user130 get her away from the paddock

↳ user131 what did she ever do to you 😭

↳ user132 i say let 👏 the 👏 woman 👏 breathe 👏

↳ user133 amen 🙌

user134 SHE WAS THE ONE WAVING THE FLAG I'M UNWELL

↳ user135 i'm gonna pretend this means she helped him win (i'm delusional)

↳ maxverstappen1 she did

↳ maxverstappen1 she was my lucky charm

↳ user136 AGAIN!?

↳ user137 i'm ending it all

↳ user138 he's so awkward it's painful

↳ user139 STOP DELETING THE COMMENTS AND JUST ASK HER OUT ALREADY

↳ user140 why do i feel like he could really use some rizz classes from lando

❤️ by lando

↳ lando @.maxverstappen1 told ya

maxverstappenfanclub

❤️ 91.3K 💬 31.2K

maxverstappenfanclub unseen photos of max and yn in suzuka 🤩🇯🇵

comments

user141 how dare instagram hide this from me for a whole minute

↳ user142 HOW DARE RED BULL HIDE THIS FROM US IN GENERAL

↳ user143 the disrespect 😨

↳ user144 they wanted to keep all the wholesomeness to themselves

↳ user145 selfish pricks

user146 if you heard someone screaming that was me

↳ user147 if you heard someone screaming no you didn't. i passed out

↳ user148 only acceptable reaction

user149 do they know it's legal to talk about their feelings instead of doing whatever the fuck this is

user150 BLUSHING GIGGLING KICKING MY FEET

↳ user151 SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

↳ user152 there are two types of people:

↳ user153 both valid af

user154 THE FIRST ONE IS THE REASON I STILL BELIEVE IN LOVE

↳ user155 the eyes chico, they never lie

↳ user156 the physical need to have someone looking at me like that

↳ user157 so true

user158 oh he's GONE gone

user159 everyone talking about max BUT WHAT ABOUT YN

↳ user160 ❗️❗️❗️

↳ user161 YES THANK YOU

user162 you have no idea how much this means to me

user163 HER SMILE WHEN SHE SAW HIS CARHQYQKCZGUD

↳ user164 and the little happy dance MY HEART

user165 they're disgusting (i love them sm)

f1wags._

❤️ 245K 💬 63.7K

f1wags._ ⁉️NEW WAG ALERT⁉️ @.maxverstappen1 and @.ynofficial spotted together after their collab shoot in suzuka!

comments

user166 hey so this is actually insane 😃

user167 I JUST OPENED INSTAGRAM WTF IS THIS

user168 WE WON

↳ user169 SUCK IT HATERS

↳ user170 calm tf down it doesn't mean anything

↳ user171 suuure

↳ user172 they say denial is a river in egypt

↳ user173 just accept the fact that we were right all along and move on 😝

user174 MAXYN NATION RISE

↳ user175 our moment has finally arrived

user176 i have no idea how we got here but i'm definitely not complaining

user177 we're being fed with this content

user178 I DIED DEAD

user179 when why and how did this happen

user180 i love how it goes from normal shooting to flirting to full-on tits out

user181 HAND PLACEMENT

↳ user182 i see what you did there maximilian

↳ user183 i'm 99.9% sure he smacked her ass one second after that picture was taken

↳ maxverstappen1 why the 0.1%?

↳ user184 FREAKSTAPPEN STRIKES ONCE AGAIN

↳ user185 i can't believe he actually wrote that omg

user186 BOOM SHAKALAKA

↳ user187 max or yn?

↳ user188 both. both is good

user189 I NEED A BIG BOY GIVE ME A BIG BOYYYYY 😫❣️

user190 great now kiss

ynofficial

❤️ 11M 💬 86.2K

liked by maxverstappen1, oliviarodrigo, tatemcrae and others

ynofficial fast cars, faster hearts 🫶

comments

oliviarodrigo can't believe i really lost you to a m*n 🤢

↳ tatemcrae he doesn't deserve you babe

↳ ynofficial don't be mean🧍‍♀️

↳ tatemcrae not mean. just honest

↳ oliviarodrigo yeah no i'm sticking to mean

user191 nothing will ever top this day

user192 THIS IS A HISTORICAL MOMENT

user193 I FUCKING KNEW IT

user194 canon event

user195 it was bound to happen at one point

user196 not the couple we deserved but the one we needed

user197 YOU CAN'T JUST DROP THINGS LIKE THIS ON A RANDOM SATURDAY

user198 the ship has sailed i repeat the ship has sailed

user199 words cannot describe how i'm feeling right now

user200 i've been jumping around my room for the past five minutes

redbullracing happy for you 🥰 (charles... not so much)

↳ user201 admin is still stuck on lestappen and so am i

↳ user202 maxyn defender till the day i die but lestappen is THE otp

user203 lando's lessons actually paid off lol

↳ lando you had doubts?

↳ user203 no sir 🫡

↳ user204 lando yesrizz

❤️ by lando

user205 HOLY SHIT THIS WAS BETTER THAN READING A FANFIC

maxverstappen1 ❤️❤️❤️

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

[chaostudee]

let them talk - lewis hamilton.

---

The headlines never stopped.

“Too Young?”“Why Lewis Hamilton’s Wife Is Raising Eyebrows in the Paddock”“Age Gap or Power Gap?”“The Mystery of Mrs. Hamilton”

They called you mysterious because you didn’t feed the tabloids. They called you too young because they couldn’t believe someone your age could hold their own next to him. They said a lot of things.

And honestly? You couldn’t care less.

You were Mrs. Hamilton. You loved him. He loved you. You had the ring, the house, the matching toothbrushes, and enough laughter between you to drown out every whisper from every headline.

So when you walked into the paddock hand in hand with him, dressed in your chic little outfit, skin glowing, smile lazy, eyes locked on him like he was the only man on Earth—yeah, people stared. Cameras clicked. Journalists held their breath.

Let them.

He was in his race suit already, sunglasses pushed into his curls, the fabric hugging every inch of muscle you’d kissed that morning. He looked cool, focused, but the second he glanced at you— God.

That smile. That smile that always melted into something softer when it was just for you.

“You’re staring,” you teased, stepping into his space.

“You’re stunning,” he said, without missing a beat. His hand rested on your waist, fingers brushing against the bare skin just under your top. “You always make it hard to focus on the car.”

“I thought you were good at multitasking,” you smirked.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “I am. But right now, I just want to kiss my wife.”

So you let him.

Right there. In front of everyone. Reporters, cameras, fans—didn’t matter.

What started as a sweet kiss turned molten in seconds. His hand cupped the back of your head, your fingers curled in the collar of his suit. You felt him exhale against your lips, tasted every ounce of affection and pride and desire rolled into one kiss. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. Didn’t care who was watching.

It was a statement.

When he pulled back, just a little breathless, his smile turned into something cocky—possessive in the way that made your stomach flip.

“I hope they caught that,” he murmured.

“They definitely did,” you laughed, smoothing your lipstick with your finger. “That was kind of… a lot.”

He grinned. “Good. Let them talk.”

And they would. You knew the headlines were already being written. “Too Hot for the Paddock: Lewis and His Wife Share Fiery Kiss Before Race”“Age Gap, What Age Gap?”

But none of it mattered. Because as he walked away toward the garage, he glanced over his shoulder and winked at you—and that was the only headline you needed.

---

[chaostudee]

mini charles - cl16

summary: charles and his son. one and the same (just cute boy dad charles fluff)

folkie radio: I MISSED WRITING CHARLES SO MUCH!!!! and what's better than dad charles fluff??? enjoy!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by charles_leclerc, francisca.cgomes and 203,858 others

yourinstagram Nothing beats watching daddy race ❤️ We missed this!

view all comments

username1 MY HEART OMFG

username2 THE WAY HE JUMPS EVERY TIME THE FERRARI GOES BY 😭

lorenzotl Little man has Charles' entire energy from his karting days!

└ yourinstagram Don't remind me, he's asking when can he start karting already

pierregasly He's going to be faster than his dad soon enough

└ lando true

└ charles_leclerc Stop attacking me

username3 baby boy already knows more about racing than the entire ferrari strategy team

username4 THE LITTLE ALLEZ PAPA WHEN CHARLES PASSES BY MY HEART

username5 imagine when him and little max verstappen join f1

arthur_leclerc My favorite nephew mastering the racing lines already! Tell him uncle Arthur is taking him karting next weekend

└ yourinstagram He's asking if he can face time "uncle turtur" tonight

carlossainz55 Mini Charles giving me engineering feedback after the race again? 😂

└ yourinstagram He misses Uncle Calos over here

username6 DADDY CHARLES HAS MY ENTIRE HEART

username7 i can’t believe charles has a kid

kellypiquet Mini Charles and Penelope need a playdate at the next race!

username8 FUTURE WDC

iamrebeccad I miss my little bff!

└ yourinstagram He misses his pretty friend Becca too

username9 watching daddy race i can’t do this

username10 MINI CHARLES WE LOVE YOU !!

charles_leclerc My champion ❤️ See you both after all the media duties mon amour

└ yourinstagram We love you so much

liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 1,022,738 others

scuderiaferarri Our youngest strategy expert hard at work 👨‍🔧

Some say he already knows the perfect timing for pit stops 😉 #MiniCharles

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username1 MINI LECLERC OMFG

username2 finally someone who can fix Ferrari strategy 💀

username3 "Papa, you should box box now"

username4 mini charles probably making better calls than the entire pit wall 😭

username5 the way he's got Charles' focused expression when he's analyzing data 🥺

username6 little man already calculating tire degradation better than most

username7 "By my calculations, daddy should've won 5 more races" - Mini Charles Leclerc, age 4

username8 he headphones are bigger than his head I can't 😭❤️

username9 HIS CAP I CANTTTT

charles_leclerc My champion ❤️

yourinstagram My babyyy🥹

username10 Future Ferrari Team Principal right here

username11 when a 4-year-old understands race strategy better than... nevermind 💀

liked by username1, username2 and 19,544 others

f1updatesdaily Charles Leclerc was beaming talking about his son in the post-race press conference:

"He's already telling me where I need to improve my lines. This morning before the race he gave me a drawing of the perfect racing line. He made me promise to follow it exactly."

"He's quite serious about it actually - last race he told me my apex at turn 4 wasn't good enough. Sometimes I think he watches more onboards than I do! But it's special, you know... having him in the garage. He knows every single mechanic, everybody adores him..."

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username1 THIS IS THE CUTEST THING EVER

username2 little leclerc already following his father's footsteps.

username3 the way charles' eyes lit up talking about his son 🥺

username4 DAD CHARLES IS SOMETHING ELSE

username5 he’s giving charles racing advice at the age of 4 MY HEART CANT TAKE THIS

username6 "Papa you missed the apex" - a toddler dragging his F1 driver father, we love to see it 😭

username7 like father like son rn

username8 not charles having to explain to his 4yo why he didn't follow his racing line advice 💀

username9 I WANT TO HAVE KIDS NOW

username10 this is the most wholesome thing ever

liked by yourinstagram, landonorris and 2,976,896 others

charles_leclerc My toughest critic, biggest supporter, and favorite engineer all in one ❤️ Thank you for always telling me to push harder, even if sometimes it's just to race you to bedtime 😅 Je t'aime mon petit champion

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username1 MINI CHARLES MY HEART

username2 his little ferrari suit i can’t do this

carlossainz55 Still waiting for his feedback on my last lap 😂

└ charles_leclerc He said that “Uncle Calos was better in Red”

arthur_leclerc Best race engineer in Monaco, hands down

username3 IM SOBBING REAL TEARS

sebastianvettel This is what it's all about ❤️ Miss my little racing critic!

└ yourinstagram He keeps asking when is uncle seb coming to visit !

username4 he’s the cutest little thing ever i can’t

yourinstagram Like father like son... both perfectionists 🥰

└ charles_leclerc And stubborn like his Maman

alex_albon the new ferrari team principal looks promising

└ lando fred watch your back

f1 When's he joining the grid? 👀

username5 outsold charles already

username6 BOY DAD CHARLES IS WHAT THE WORLD NEEDED

username7 i’m glad to be alive to witness charles being a dad

username8 THE PADDOCK’S BABY

username9 i know i say this all the time but really i can’t believe charles is a dad

username10 wdc in 20 years

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liked by carlossainz55, yourinstagram and 2,938,547 others

charles_leclerc 5 years of teaching me how to be better, on and off track. Joyeux anniversaire mon petit champion ❤️ Je t'aime

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username1 HAPPY BIRTHDAY MINI CHARLES

username2 I CANT BELIEVE HES 5 ALREADY

carlossainz55 Happy birthday to the only person who can give Charles a proper strategy briefing

└ lewishamilton Agreed

maxverstappen1 Happy birthday Mini Charles ! Still waiting for that racing line analysis you promised me 😉

arthur_leclerc Happy birthday to my favorite nephew! The mini strategy meeting during cake time was 10/10 👌

└ charles_leclerc Your only nephew**

username3 HES SO BIG! time for another charles

username4 the ferrari themed party has me dying

pierregasly Bon anniversaire champion! Your detailed feedback on my qualifying lap was much appreciated 😂

scuderiaferrari Happy Birthday to our youngest strategist! 🎂

username5 i can’t believe mini charles is 5 remember his baby pics

username6 how long until charles puts him in a kart

username7 charles is the best dad in the world

username8 THE LITTLE FUTURE WORLD CHAMPION

username9 all the drivers love him so much my heart

username10 MINI CHARLES IS SO BIG

yourinstagram I can’t believe my baby boy is 5 🥹 We love you so much

└ charles_leclerc Thank you for giving me him ❤️

liked by username1, username2 and 10,937 others

f1news Spotted at Monaco Kart Track: The Leclercs doing Sunday practice! Mini Charles (5) was seen taking his first proper kart laps while Charles played race engineer. According to onlookers, mini Leclerc was explaining to his dad why his racing line suggestions were "pas correctes" 😭

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username1 like father, like son... but more intense??

username2 THIS IS SO CUTE

username3 mini charles is karting already i can’t do this

username4 charles creating a monster and we love to see it

username5 "Papa the racing line here is simple, you just..." - Mini Charles , 5, to his F1 driver father

username6 everyone talking about how he was faster in sector 2 than kids twice his age 👀

username7 charles trying not to laugh while getting a full technical debrief from his 5yo is the content we need

username8 FUTURE WDC

username9 project leclerc starts now

username10 HE TRULY HAS RACING IN HIS BLOOD

liked by charles_leclerc, leclerc_pascale and 205,673 others

yourinstagram His only birthday wish was "Maman, I want to race like Papa" 🥺

Now we have another Leclerc analyzing telemetry data over breakfast... The way he insisted on creating a "proper race weekend schedule" including briefings and debriefs 😅

Your Papa and I are so proud of you, mon petit pilote ❤️ Just remember - having fun is the most important strategy!

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username1 AWEEEEEE

username2 this is the cutest thing in the entire world

charles_leclerc He already told me my suggestions for turn 4 were "completely wrong, Papa" 🤔

└ yourinstagram He’s already miles ahead of you babe

arthur_leclerc The new family champion! Tonton Arthur is ready for coaching duties 💪

└ yourinstagran He’s dying to have you at the track!

pierregasly Mini Charles taking racing lines more seriously than half the grid 😂

└ lando speak for yourself

username3 MINI CHARLES WITH HIS LITTLE HELMET I CANT

iamrebeccad Look at that cutie 🥹

username4 this is the cutest kid i’ve ever seen

username5 i’m so parasocial about the leclerc family

scuderiaferarri Another Leclerc on track! The legacy continues 🏎️

lorenzotl The way he's exactly like Charles at that age... même esprit!

f1 We're keeping an eye on this young talent 👀

username6 the real predestinato

username7 watch him become wdc in 20 years

username8 max verstappen competition is here

username9 HIS BDAY WISH WAS TO START KARTING I CANT

username10 imagine when jack wolff and mini charles meet each other on track

liked by lando, yourinstagram and 2,089,544 others

charles_leclerc From explaining racing lines with toy cars to actual karting... my heart wasn't ready

But of course, he informed me that my suggestions for the hairpin were "completely incorrect, Papa" and proceeded to demonstrate the "proper technique" 😅

The best part? He insisted on having a proper engineers' meeting after practice. At 5, he's already more organized than me - he made his own notebook for track notes and demands proper debriefs after each session.

P.S. To the other parents at the track - I apologize for him stopping your kids to explain the perfect racing line. He gets that from his mother's side obviously 😂

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username1 AHHHH STOP

username2 mini charles is an icon already

sebastianvettel This brings back memories... except he's way more professional than we were!

└ charles_leclerc He’s in a whole other level !

maxverstappen1 Mini Charles taking racing more seriously than his father 😂

└ charles_leclerc Heyyyy

arthur_leclerc My nephew really said "racing or nothing"

└ yourinstagram And his Maman wasn’t ready at all

username3 i know a wdc when i see him

scuderiaferrari Future Ferrari driver in training 👀

lando Please tell me you got the traditional "this is how you should drive Papa" speech

└ charles_leclerc I did, and you’re probably getting it next race

f1 Like father, like son ❤️

username4 imagine the power in a few years

username5 CHARLES THE PROUD PAPA

username6 CRYING THIS IS BEAUTIFUL

username7 imagine charles freaking out with mini charles on track and he’s like don’t worry papa i got it !

username8 HES KARTING ALREADY IM SOBBING HE WAS JUST BORN YESTERDAY

username9 man they grow up so fast

username10 CUTIE

yourinstagram My baby 🥹

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liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 389,625 others

yourinstagram When Papa had a tough day at work, someone prepared a special technical briefing with "guaranteed winning strategy" and "proper racing lines" to cheer him up 🥺❤️ His words: "Don't worry Papa, next race we fix everything!"

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username1 IM SOBBING THIS IS TOO CUTE

username2 I FEEL SO MUSHY OVER THIS

charles_leclerc My best engineering briefing of the weekend ❤️ The racing lines are definitely more accurate than mine 😅

└ yourinstagram We love you, Papa

lilymhe the cutest little thing🥺

lewishamilton Already better technical drawings than our engineers

└ charles_leclerc True

francisca.cgomes My heart can't handle this 😭❤️

username3 not mini Charles being more supportive than the entire paddock

username4 this kid understands racing better than most adults

username5 HE LOVES HIS PAPA SO MUCH

username6 boy dad charles is my favorite thing ever

username7 cheering his papa up after the dsq i can't do this

username8 MY HEART CANT HANDLE THIS. WAY TOO CUTE

username9 chares and mini charles are one and the same

username10 MY FAVORITE FAMILY

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,099,482 others

charles_leclerc At the end of the day, this is all that matters. He waited up to give me his detailed analysis of what we need to improve for the next race... before falling asleep mid-explanation of the perfect racing line for turn 3 ❤️

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username1 this is the cutest thing i've ever seen

username2 WHAT IF I SON

carlossainz55 Did he finish explaining why my apex was wrong though? 😅

└ charles_leclerc He's going to tell you all about it in person

lewishamilton Next time bring him to the strategy meeting 👀

└ charles_leclerc None of us will be talking at all

lando the mini ferrari uniform kills me every time mate

username3 THE RAINBOW DRAWING IM SOBBING

username4 mini charles is such a cutie i cry every single time

maxverstappen1 Future World Champion in training 🏆

└ charles_leclerc You better watch your back

scuderiaferrari Already taking notes for 2035 💭

username5 AND FUCK FERRARI

username6 even sleeping he's probably dreaming about racing lines

username7 charles is such a good dad i could sob

username8 the leclercs have my entire heart this family is all about love

username9 the fact that mini charles made drawings so his papa could feel better after a bad race. TOO ADORABLE

yourinstagram My boys ❤️

liked by username1, username2 and 8,947 others

formula1news Spotted at Nice Airport: The Leclercs heading to Suzuka! Mini Charles was seen carrying his own "race engineer notebook" and apparently told waiting fans "we're going to fix the strategy this time" 💀

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username1 ferrari strategists seeing mini charles arrive with his notebook: 👁️👄👁️

username2 finally, the strategy department getting the reinforcement they needed

username3 "Don't worry everyone, I studied Suzuka on my simulator" - Mini Charles, probably

username4 ferrari about to get schooled by a 5-year-old with crayon drawings

username5 "Papa I already calculated the tire degradation" - Mini Charles at passport control

username6 IM SCREAMING MINI CHARLES COMING TO DRAG THEM ALL

username7 Mini Charles on his way to give Vasseur a presentation about proper strategy execution

username8 MINI CHARLES YOU'RE SO DEAR TO ME

username9 a 5 year old really said nvm i'll fix it myself

username10 CRYING

liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 509,684 others

scuderiaferrari Our newest technical consultant has arrived in Suzuka. We've been informed our strategy "needs work" and our racing lines are "pas correctes" 😅 #MiniCharles

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username1 WHAT A CUTIEEEE

username2 THE MINI SUIT IM SOBBING

charles_leclerc He already told Vasseur the simulation data was wrong 🤣

└ username1 IM DYING

lewishamilton Just got a 20-minute presentation about my racing line in sector 1...

username3 finally someone brave enough to fix ferrari strategy

maxverstappen1 The competition just got serious 👀

arthur_leclerc My nephew about to revolutionize Ferrari strategy

username4 the way he's standing EXACTLY like charles i can't 😭

username5 more organized than the entire pit wall

username6 that leclerc DNA is something else

username7 Charles created a mini strategy genius and we're here for it

username8 THIS IS WAY TOO CUTE HE'S JUST LIKE HIS PAPA

username9 MINI LECLERCCCC MY HEART

username10 that's it charles jr drag them

liked by username1, username2 and 5,968 others

f1updatesdaily ADORABLE: Mini Charles gave his first-ever interview at Suzuka! When asked about his karting, he went full technical advisor mode 😭

Reporter: "Do you like racing like your papa?"

Mini Charles: "Yes! But Papa needs to fix his racing line in turn 3. I showed him in my notebook. In karting, you have to take the perfect apex..."

Reporter: "Who's your favorite driver?"

Mini Charles: "My Papa is the best! But he needs better strategy. I help him. I make plans like this..."

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username1 I'VE BEEN CRYING OVER THIS FOR LIKE AN HOUR

username2 mini charles you're the cutest little thing

username3 the way he switched from adorable 5-year-old to full race engineer mode 💀

username4 "Papa is the best but his racing line needs work" I'M CRYING 😭

username5 not him pulling out detailed track notes during the interview

username6 Charles watching his son give better technical explanations than he does 👁️👄👁️

username7 HE'S NOT TAKING HIS HELMET AND MINI SUIT OFF AHHHH

username8 "I help Papa with strategy" We know sweetie, we know 😭

username9 charles trying not to laugh in the background while his son critiques his driving

username10 Mini Charles really said "I'm my Papa's race engineer now"

username11 "Sometimes Papa doesn't listen to my strategy but I'm always right" - Mini Charles, future Ferrari Team Principal

liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 398,584 others

yourinstagram Great weekend in Suzuka! According to our resident technical director, "Papa listened to my racing lines this time!" 😅 P4 for my love and a very detailed post-race analysis from someone who insists the strategy could still be "more optimal" 🤓 Love you so much my boys

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username1 AWEEEE MY HEART

username2 see how charles had a better race with mini charles there?

charles_leclerc Our post-race debrief lasted longer than the actual team debrief 😅 Thank you for your support mon amour

lewishamilton Still waiting for my detailed analysis of where I lost time in turn 13 👀

username3 not him giving vasseur strategy advice 😭

username4 more organized than the entire ferrari strategy department

username5 he's so proud that his papa followed his racing lines

username6 I LOVE THIS FAMILY SO MUCH

username7 charles created a mini racing genius and we're here for it

username8 petition to hace mini charles at every race

username9 THATS FERRARI WDC

username10 dad charles you have my heart

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 1,099,387 others

charles_leclerc P4 this weekend! According to my technical advisor, "much better racing lines Papa, but we still need to work on the strategy." Thank you Japan for an amazing weekend, looking forward to reviewing the very detailed race analysis someone prepared for me during the flight home... before falling asleep mid-explanation again 😴❤️

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username1 EVERYBODY SAY THANK YOU MINI CHARLES

username2 mini charles really said "i run this team now" and went OFF

arthur_leclerc Thats my nephew !!

lewishamilton Still recovering from yesterday's strategy meeting with him

scuderiaferrari Future World Champion AND Technical Director 👊

lando most thorough race engineer on the grid

maxverstappen1 Like father like son

username3 not him falling asleep with the notebook again 😭

username4 mini charles said fixed ur driving but the strategy still needs work and i'm CRYING

username5 THE MINI SUIT HAS ME DYING

username6 charles is the best dad in the world i swear

username7 no thoughts just mini charles in his matching ferrari suit giving detailed technical feedback

username8 "papa listened to my racing lines this time" PLS THIS KID IS TOO MUCH 😭

username9 mini charles is the ultimate boss

username10 BOY DAD CHARLES. THATS IT