cheftsunoda - Tumblr blog

cheftsunoda · 4 days ago

Note

Hi!! i love your landoscar x reader smau

and was wondering if you could make one where its on of those mclaren bake offs but fans notice both lando and oscar flirting with the interviewer whose up there with them

kiss the cook — op81 + ln4

smau + written blurbs

oscar piastri x !model/influencer reader x lando norris

you never really thought much about formula 1. fast cars, fast drivers, the occasional photoshoot—nothing that had ever touched your world beyond glossy magazines. but then mclaren slid into your inbox with an invitation you couldn’t quite refuse— co-host a fan panel for their drivers, maybe judge a lighthearted bake-off, smile for the cameras and enjoy the race, easy enough, right?

except, nothing about it feels easy once you’re standing between lando norris and oscar piastri, both of them looking at you like you’re the most interesting part of their weekend. the fans notice first—how lando keeps cracking jokes just to make you laugh, how oscar’s quiet compliments seem to linger.

what you don’t know yet—what no one knows yet—is that lando and oscar aren’t just teammates. they’re already each other’s. and somehow, without meaning to, you’ve wandered right into the middle of it.

fc : fatherkels

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yourusername

zandvoort 📍

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, franciscagomes and 4,300,400 others.

yourusername : got to spend the weekend judging two f1 drivers on their ability to race and make stroopwafels :) thank you @/mclaren for hosting me and congratulations on your win @/oscarpiastri 🧡

tagged : lando, oscarpiastri, franciscagomes and mclaren

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view 134,500 other comments.

lando : thank you for the judging… although i think i deserved more points for presentation 😅

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ alex_albon : can confirm lando’s stroopwafels were a disaster. yn’s score was being generous

liked by lando, yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : all i will say is neither lando or oscar should be allowed in a kitchen on their own😇

liked by mclaren, lando and oscarpiastri

↳ mclaren : noted 📝

mclaren : our favorite guest ever 🧡💪🏻 come back to us!

liked by yourusername, lando and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : on my way to italy as we speak🗣️

carmenmmundt : obsessed with the boots AND you. officially the cutest person on the planet 🤍

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : so nice to finally meet you😭😭 you’re the sweetest

franciscagomes : cutest judge in the paddock 🫶🏻 had the best weekend with you 💕

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : i missed you so much😭 it was so nice to get to spend the weekend w you💋

liked by franciscagomes

oscarpiastri : we have to have a redo at some point. we are both too competitive to do it just once

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ yourusername : ill be back whenever you guys need me ;)

liked by oscarpiastri and lando

↳ lando : just stay the rest of the season 😇

liked by oscarpiastri and yourusername

username00 : petition to keep her in the paddock forever pls and thank u

↳ mclaren : we are thinking the same thing

liked by yourusername

username55 : lando AND oscar both flirting with her had me in a chokehold ngl

↳ username75 : right???? bc wdym little shy oscar piastri is flirting in front of 20,000+ people

↳ username25 : id flirt with her too. can’t blame em

↳ username100 : those boys are in love your honor

↳ username77 : with each other AND yn.

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You step out of the car with Kika’s arm looped through yours, both of you laughing about something silly from the drive. Pierre trails a step behind, shaking his head with that patient, fond expression he always wears when Kika is around. The three of you must look like trouble—two girls dressed to the nines for a weekend at the track and one driver already regretting his decision to arrive with you both.

The paddock is already loud, cameras clicking, fans waving from behind the barriers. Kika squeezes your hand.

“You’re going to love it,” she says, all bright-eyed excitement. “And they’re going to love you. Trust me.”

Before you can ask who “they” are, Pierre nudges you in the direction of papaya-orange banners fluttering above a garage. “This is where we leave you. Good luck.” His tone is teasing, but you notice the way Kika grins knowingly.

You smooth down your outfit and take a deep breath before stepping into the McLaren garage. The air is cooler here, filled with the faint scent of engine oil and something metallic. Engineers bustle around, but your eyes are immediately drawn to two figures near the back.

Lando Norris is the first to notice you. He does a little double-take before breaking into a wide grin, abandoning the tool in his hand and strolling over. “You must be our special guest,” he says, his voice warm, playful. “Finally, someone to keep Oscar in check.”

Oscar Piastri, standing a few feet away, looks up from his conversation with a mechanic. He’s quieter than Lando, more reserved, but the way his gaze lingers on you says plenty. He walks over at a slower pace, that easy smile of his making your chest feel a little lighter. “Welcome to McLaren,” he says softly. “I hope we make a good first impression.”

“First impressions are looking pretty solid so far,” you tease, earning a chuckle from Lando and the faintest pink dusting Oscar’s ears.

It doesn’t take long before you’re swept into easy conversation with them—Lando throwing in jokes at every opportunity, Oscar making sure you have everything you need, offering you a seat, water, anything. They’re different in every way, but somehow equally magnetic. And maybe, just maybe, you start to wonder if Kika’s grin earlier had meant something more.

The first hour in the garage feels like a whirlwind. McLaren’s PR manager whisks you through a quick rundown of the schedule—panel first, then the fan voted bake off. But even while she’s talking, you can feel Lando and Oscar orbiting you like satellites, hovering close enough to make sure you’re settled, cracking jokes, checking in with you like you’ve been part of the team for ages.

Lando insists on walking you through the garage like it’s his own personal museum.

“So here’s my car. Don’t touch, she’s moody,” he says with mock seriousness, wagging a finger before grinning. “Though, if you did touch it, maybe she’d behave for once.”

Oscar, trailing behind, shakes his head. “Ignore him. He treats her like a pet, but she doesn’t listen to him anyway.” He throws you a quick smile, the kind that makes your stomach do a little flip.

By the time you’re led to the stage area, the seats are already filling up with fans, the room buzzing with orange caps and jerseys. A table with three mics sits front and center. You’re seated between Lando and Oscar, which feels… strategic.

The panel starts lighthearted. Fans cheer, you introduce yourself, and Lando leans toward his mic dramatically.

“You should’ve seen her in the garage earlier. Already bossing us around like she’s been here for years.”

“I did not!” you protest, laughing.

“You kind of did,” Oscar says, smirking just enough that you can tell he’s teasing. His voice is softer, but it carries, and fans in the front rows nudge each other knowingly.

Questions roll in—about the season, about racing, about what it’s like having you there. Someone asks who’s the better baker, and Lando immediately points at himself.

“I have the creativity. That’s all that matters.”

Oscar shakes his head, deadpan. “It’s going to be a disaster. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The crowd laughs, but you notice how their eyes flick to you every time one of them speaks, like they’re waiting for your verdict. It’s both nerve-wracking and exhilarating, having their attention split between you and their favorite drivers.

The bake-off area is set up with two stations side by side, complete with mixing bowls, flour, sugar, and stacks of stroopwafel ingredients. You’re given a little judge’s seat in the middle, clipboard and all, which only makes Lando lean over with a mischievous grin.

“Are you going to be fair? Or do I get extra points for making you laugh?”

You raise a brow. “Bribery won’t work on me.”

“Flattery, then,” he shoots back without missing a beat, pouring flour into a bowl and immediately spilling half of it onto the table.

Oscar, carefully measuring his ingredients like a scientist, sighs. “I’m not even competing with him. I’m competing with the mess he’s about to make.” He glances your way with that small, crooked smile. “Don’t let him charm you into ignoring burnt stroopwafels.”

Fans are eating it up—phones raised, recording every exchange. You hear snippets of giggles from the crowd:

“Are they… flirting with her?”

“Both of them???”

Lando tries to flip a stroopwafel mid-air like a pancake and misses completely. It lands half-folded on the counter, and he gasps dramatically.

“Judge! That was a ten for effort, right?”

You can’t stop laughing. “That was a negative ten, actually.”

Oscar hides his laugh behind his hand, but when you catch his eyes, they’re sparkling. “You’re too generous. I would’ve given him negative fifty.”

By the end of it, you taste both. Lando’s are interesting—half undercooked, half slightly burnt, but he watches your face like your reaction is the most important thing in the world. Oscar’s are neat, perfectly golden, and the flavor actually surprises you. He tries to act casual, but you can tell he’s nervous too.

“They’re both…” You pause dramatically, clipboard in hand, and the fans start chanting “LANDO! OSCAR! LANDO! OSCAR!” like it’s the world championship.

“They’re both edible,” you finally declare, earning loud laughter. Then you grin. “But the winner is… Oscar.”

Lando groans, throwing his hands up. “Rigged again! Why do I even try?”

Oscar just shakes his head, ducking it a little, but when you hand him the makeshift trophy, you see the faint blush on his cheeks. He whispers, just for you: “Thank you, judge.”

And as the fans cheer, phones flashing and posts already making their way online, you can’t shake the feeling that something shifted today—that maybe the weekend isn’t going to be as simple as you thought.

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By the time the day winds down, your cheeks hurt from smiling. The panel, the bake off, the endless fan photos—all of it leaves you buzzing, but in the best way. When McLaren’s PR gently asks if you’d like to join the drivers for a dinner they had set up, you don’t even hesitate.

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet street, a team favorite apparently. The kind of place with low golden lighting, warm chatter, and tables tucked into corners for privacy. When you arrive, Lando is already at the table, leaning back in his chair with his hoodie up like he’s trying to disguise himself. Oscar sits beside him, scrolling absently through his phone until he looks up and spots you.

“Finally,” Lando says, standing just enough to pull out the chair between them. “We were starting to think you ditched us.”

“Not yet,” you laugh, sliding into the seat. “But you might regret inviting me after the way I judged you today.”

Oscar smirks, closing his phone and setting it on the table. “I’m fine with your judging. I won.”

“Unfairly,” Lando mutters, reaching for the bread basket. “You only won because you can follow instructions.”

“That’s… usually how baking works,” Oscar replies, deadpan.

You giggle into your water glass, and the sound makes both of them look at you at the same time. It sends a strange little shiver through you—something about the way their attention feels, not competitive exactly, but… intent.

The three of you trade stories — Lando exaggerating wildly, Oscar cutting in with sharp little corrections that make you laugh even harder. You tell them about your career, the chaos of the modeling world, the way fans can sometimes feel like detectives with how closely they study your life.

“You’re telling me,” Lando says, rolling his eyes. “If I breathe wrong, it’s on TikTok within the hour.”

Oscar smirks. “Sometimes even before.”

There’s a comfortable rhythm between them, one you notice more and more as the night goes on. It isn’t just banter—they share looks, subtle nudges under the table, the kind of familiarity that only comes from trust. Still, every time your hand brushes against one of theirs reaching for a plate or your laugh lingers too long, you swear their focus sharpens, drawn back to you.

Dessert arrives—something decadent and rich. You cut into it with your fork, humming happily at the taste. Lando leans forward immediately.

“Okay, share. That sounded way too good not to.”

You roll your eyes but slide the plate toward him. “One bite.”

He grins, takes a forkful, and then, without missing a beat, holds the fork out toward you. “Here. Fair’s fair.”

It catches you off guard, the easy intimacy of it. But before you can decide, Oscar clears his throat. “You’re going to make her feed you in public?”

“What, jealous?” Lando teases, his grin widening.

Oscar doesn’t bite back—just takes his own fork, cuts a neat bite, and offers it to you with a quiet, “Here. Try this piece, it’s better.”

Your face warms as you lean in, accepting both their forks in turn, laughing at the absurdity of it. Around you, the restaurant hums on, but at this little table, it feels like the three of you are in your own bubble.

Later, when the plates are cleared and the night stretches on, the conversation softens. No cameras, no crowd—just the three of you tucked into a corner booth.

Lando fiddles with the paper wrapper from his straw, glancing at you. “So… did today scare you off? Or are we fun enough that you’d come back?”

You smile, tilting your head. “I had a lot of fun, actually.”

Oscar’s gaze lingers, steady and warm. “Good. Then you should come again. Next race.”

The way he says it, quiet but sure, makes your heart skip. It doesn’t feel like a polite invitation—it feels like he means it. Like they both do.

You don’t notice the way their knees press a little closer under the table, or the subtle glance Lando and Oscar share over your head, but you do notice the warmth blooming in your chest. And when you leave the restaurant hours later, with Lando insisting on walking you back to your hotel and Oscar quietly making sure you’re on the safe side of the street, you realize something undeniable: You’ve only just met them, but somehow, it already feels like you belong.

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mclaren

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, lando and 2,750,000 others.

mclaren : @/yourusername is back by popular demand! she is now helping our boys create the ultimate italian cuisine🧡🍝 out now on our youtube!

tagged : yourusername, oscarpiastri and lando

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view 77,000 other comments.

lando : kiss the cook (it’s not a suggestion)

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ username55 : MR NORRIS. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!

yourusername : thank you for bringing me along to supervise the chaos again 🧡

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and mclaren

franciscagomes : i’m waiting for leftovers 😌🍝

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : come on over, we have plenty🧡 (i would only eat mine) (don’t touch what lando or oscar made)

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and franciscagomes

↳ lando : you said mine was good😟

↳ yourusername : i believe i said “edible” my love

liked by lando

↳ lando : edible means good in my brain

liked by yourusername

scuderiaferrari : italian cuisine? i need to judge this myself…

liked by yourusername and mclaren

username55 : the throuple cooking in monza, we won. keep feeding us mclaren

username75 : petition to make yn an official team member. orange was made for her

liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri and lando

username57 : these two want her so bad IM GAGGED

username85 : papaya throuple soft launch part 2 😌🧡

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The McLaren kitchen is set up with cameras, lights, and an array of ingredients that look a little too ambitious for two Formula 1 drivers. Fresh tomatoes, herbs, bags of flour, eggs stacked neatly in bowls. You’re perched at the counter with a mic clipped to your shirt, watching as Lando and Oscar are herded in by the filming crew.

“Welcome back to another episode of Cooking with Chaos,” the producer jokes, and Lando immediately points at Oscar.

“Chaos is him. I’m the talent.”

Oscar gives him a flat look, then glances your way with a quick smile. “You’re here to keep us from burning the place down, right?”

“That’s the plan,” you say, hopping off the counter. “I’m the supervisor-slash-judge. The pasta police.”

Lando leans his elbow on the counter, grinning at you. “Can I bribe the police with compliments?”

Without missing a beat, Oscar adds, “Or with edible food, which I’ll actually be making.”

You laugh, shaking your head as the cameraman signals the start.

The first challenge is making pasta dough. Lando immediately cracks eggs onto the flour like he’s seen in a cooking show, but when he tries to mix it, yolk spills everywhere.

“Brilliant start,” Oscar mutters, kneading his dough with quiet focus. “It’s like watching a toddler.”

“Oi,” Lando protests, shoving his messy hands toward Oscar. “Give me a hand then.”

He reaches out like he’s going to smear flour on your shirt, but you catch his wrist just in time.

“Absolutely not. You’re not dragging me into this.”

The cameras catch the way Lando freezes for half a second at your touch, grin faltering into something softer before he recovers. “Fine. You get a pass. For now.”

Oscar, meanwhile, smirks down at his dough. “If you need help, you could just ask nicely.”

Lando huffs. “I’ll just ask her.” He shoots you a pleading look. “YN, save me.”

You give in, stepping behind him to guide his hands through the motion of kneading properly. Your palms press against his, fingers dusted with flour. “Like this,” you say quietly, aware of how close you are.

Oscar notices. He notices everything. His jaw flexes slightly, but when you move over to check his dough, his expression softens. He doesn’t need your help—his dough is already smooth and perfect—but he lets you lean in, lets your hand rest briefly on his wrist as you nod approvingly. “This is actually impressive,” you tell him.

He tilts his head, lips curving. “Impressing you was the goal.”

Sauce-making is next, and it’s chaos. Lando tries to chop garlic and nearly loses a fingertip before you reach out, steadying his hand.

“Do not give McLaren a medical emergency over garlic,” you scold, laughing.

“I’d heal faster if you took care of me,” he shoots back, eyes crinkling.

Oscar stirs his sauce methodically, but when you pass behind him to grab a spoon, his hand brushes your lower back, steadying you without thought. “Careful. Floor’s slippery.” His voice is low, warm.

It’s a small touch, barely noticeable, but it makes your heart jump.

By the time plating comes around, the kitchen looks like a storm passed through. Lando has flour on his cheek, Oscar has a smear of tomato sauce across his hand, and you’re somewhere in between, trying not to laugh every time the cameraman whispers “gold” under his breath at the chaos.

Lando twirls his pasta dramatically onto the plate, then holds the fork out toward you. “Ladies first.”

You take the bite, chewing thoughtfully as he watches you like your reaction is the only thing that matters. “It’s… surprisingly edible,” you admit.

“See? Chef Lando,” he announces proudly.

Oscar, more understated, sets his plate in front of you with a quiet “Try mine.” You do, and it’s rich, perfectly balanced. He doesn’t gloat, doesn’t say anything, but the little smile that curves his lips when you hum in approval says enough.

The cameraman calls cut, but none of you move right away. Lando’s still grinning at you, Oscar’s gaze lingering, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out. “I feel like I didn’t supervise as much as I was supposed to.”

“You supervised perfectly,” Oscar says softly.

“Yeah,” Lando adds, eyes crinkling as he leans in just a little closer. “You made it fun.”

And surrounded by the mess of flour and pasta, with two drivers standing a little too close on either side of you, it feels less like a video shoot and more like something else entirely. Something you can’t quite name yet—but you know the fans will pick up on it the second the video goes live.

The cameras shut off, crew members begin packing equipment, and suddenly the kitchen feels much quieter. The overhead lights are still buzzing, but without the lenses pointed at you, the air relaxes. You exhale, brushing flour off your hands onto a paper towel.

“That was…” You pause, glancing at the chaos on the counters, the bowls stacked haphazardly, tomato stains splattered across the stove. “…a disaster.”

“An artistic disaster,” Lando corrects, wiping at the flour streak across his cheek with the back of his wrist. He misses completely, leaving the smudge there, and Oscar just sighs.

“Hold still.” Oscar steps closer and, without thinking, reaches up to swipe the flour off. His touch lingers for a second too long, knuckles brushing against Lando’s jaw before he drops his hand back down.

You catch it, the softness in the gesture. The way Lando ducks his head like he’s trying to hide a smile.

“You two are worse than the flour and sauce combined,” you tease, trying to shake the warmth creeping into your chest.

“Don’t lump me in with him,” Oscar says dryly, but his eyes are on you now. “You’re the one who encouraged him.”

“I was supervising!” you protest, but you’re laughing, and that just makes Lando grin wider.

“Yeah, supervising very closely,” Lando adds, wagging his brows. “Especially when you were helping me knead the dough. Very hands-on.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, Lando nudges your shoulder with his. It’s playful, light, but the brush of contact makes you stumble just slightly toward Oscar—who steadies you immediately with a hand at your waist.

It’s instinctive, protective, and when you glance up at him, his gaze is steady and unreadable. “I got you,” he murmurs.

Something flickers in your chest, quick and confusing.

“See?” Lando says after a beat, smirking. “I cause chaos, he saves you. We’re the perfect package.”

Oscar shoots him a look, but there’s no heat behind it. If anything, it feels practiced—like this is a dance they’ve done a hundred times. And somehow, you’ve been pulled right into the middle of it.

“Perfect package, huh?” you say lightly, brushing past both of them to toss your paper towel into the bin. “Not sure I’d go that far.”

Lando gasps dramatically. “Unbelievable. After everything I’ve done today to impress you.”

Oscar just shakes his head, but when you glance back, he’s smiling in that small, almost shy way again. “You’ll come around.”

The crew calls out goodbyes, leaving the three of you alone in the kitchen for a moment longer. It’s quiet, warm, flour dust still lingering in the air. And though nothing has been said outright, the energy between you feels charged, like you’re standing at the edge of something you don’t quite understand yet—but maybe don’t want to step back from.

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You’re sitting cross legged on the small couch, fiddling with the edge of a water bottle label, while Oscar leans against the counter, still in his team kit.

Lando had been whisked away by comms for a last-minute press thing, leaving you and Oscar behind with an awkward stretch of free time. At first, you both tried to fill it with harmless small talk—your impressions of Monza, how quickly the pasta video had already racked up views, whether or not Lando would be unbearable about it later—but eventually the words tapered off.

Now, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s heavier. Charged.

Oscar glances over at you, his expression soft but searching. “You know,” he says, voice quieter than before, “you’re… surprisingly easy to be around.”

You snort, trying to hide the way your stomach flips at the compliment. “Surprisingly?”

“Yeah,” he says, lips twitching. “I figured someone like you—model, media, all of that—you’d be… intimidating, maybe. Untouchable.” His eyes flicker down briefly before meeting yours again. “But you’re not. You’re…” He trails off, shoulders shifting like he’s not sure how much to say. “…real.”

The word lands heavier than you expect. Your breath catches, and before you can deflect with another joke, Oscar pushes away from the counter and takes the seat next to you on the couch. Close enough that his knee brushes yours. Close enough that you can smell the faint mix of his cologne and the lingering spice of whatever the catering team had for lunch.

You look at him, and for a moment, the world narrows to just this small space—your knees touching, his gaze flicking down to your lips, the way the air feels too thick to breathe.

“Oscar…” you murmur, not even sure what you’re about to say.

He leans in, slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. His hand hovers, then rests gently on your knee. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver up your spine. He’s so close now that if you shifted forward even an inch, your mouths would brush.

And god, you want to.

But reality slams back into you—Lando, the cameras, the fact that you barely know what any of this is.

You turn your head slightly, just enough that his lips graze your cheek instead of your mouth. The faintest brush of contact, electric and fleeting. Then you pull back, heart pounding.

“I—” Your voice cracks. You swallow and try again. “I’m sorry.”

Oscar blinks, pulling back immediately, guilt flashing across his face. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s not—” You shake your head, words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just… it feels… complicated.”

He studies you for a long moment, his hand still hovering near yours like he wants to take it but doesn’t dare. Then he nods slowly, his usual calm composure slipping back into place. “Yeah. I get it.”

The air between you feels different now—still charged, but fragile. Like you’ve both acknowledged something you can’t quite take back, even if nothing technically happened.

Before either of you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door and Lando’s voice filters through, loud and teasing. “Oi, you two having a party without me?”

You both jump slightly, exchanging a look that’s equal parts guilty and unspoken promise. Then Oscar stands, running a hand through his hair, and you force a smile before calling back: “Just waiting for the fun to arrive.”

The door opens, and Lando bounces in, grinning. The tension dissipates, hidden neatly beneath practiced smiles. But when you glance at Oscar out of the corner of your eye, the memory of almost-kissing him lingers like static in the air.

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

It’s later in the weekend, the day stretched out with sponsor events and press obligations. You’d found yourself tucked away in a quieter corner of the hospitality suite, scrolling absentmindedly on your phone while waiting for the next thing on the schedule. The noise of the paddock is still faintly audible through the walls, but here it’s warm, calm, almost cozy.

Then, like always, Lando shows up without warning—dropping into the seat across from you, spinning it around so he’s straddling it backwards, chin resting on the top of the chair.

“There you are,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Been looking all over for you.”

You arch a brow, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Pretty sure you have a team of people paid to know exactly where I am.”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun when I find you myself.” His eyes are bright, mischievous, but there’s something else there too, something softer beneath the bravado.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he corrects. Then, leaning forward, he adds, quieter, “And you laugh every time, so I must be doing something right.”

The words hang there for a second too long, and you feel your stomach flip. You should say something light, brush it off—but instead, you just look at him. Really look. The curve of his smile, the crinkle by his eyes, the way he’s studying you like he’s cataloguing every reaction.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Careful,” Lando says softly, and it’s not a joke this time. He shifts the chair slightly closer, close enough that his knee bumps against yours. “You keep staring at me like that and I might get the wrong idea.”

Your pulse skitters. “What idea is that?”

“That you…” He trails off, a rare hesitation in his voice. “…like this as much as I do.”

He’s teasing, yes, but there’s something real underneath. His hand twitches against the back of the chair, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you. You can feel the energy pulling tight between you, electric and impossible to ignore.

“Lando…” you start, but the word comes out softer than you mean, more like a plea than a warning.

“Yeah?” His voice is low now, eyes flicking down to your lips before snapping back up to your gaze. He leans in just slightly, like he’s testing the air, giving you every chance to stop him.

Your breath catches. He’s so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the shampoo from his damp hair. It would take nothing—just a tilt forward, just an inch—for this to tip into something else entirely.

But just like with Oscar, reality presses in. The chaos of the paddock, the fact that you don’t understand what you’re stepping into, that voice in the back of your head screaming too complicated.

You draw back a fraction, just enough to break the spell. “I… can’t.”

The words slice through the air like glass. For a beat, Lando just blinks at you, his smile faltering—but then he covers it, quick, with that easy grin you’ve already learned hides more than it shows.

“Yeah,” he says lightly, leaning back in his chair again, giving you space. “No worries. Timing sucks anyway.” He’s joking, but there’s a flicker of something raw in his eyes before he looks away.

You chew your lip, guilt prickling at you. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is quiet, sincere this time. He glances back at you, that crooked grin softened. “I’d rather you stop me than regret it.”

Before you can reply, someone calls his name from the hall, pulling him back to reality. He stands, pushing the chair back into place, already slipping his mask of easy charm back on.

But as he leaves, he shoots you one last look over his shoulder—playful, yes, but loaded with something unspoken. The same static that had crackled between you and Oscar now hums with him too, leaving you breathless and confused, wondering how you got tangled in the middle of something you can’t quite name.

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third person pov ;

It’s late. The Monza paddock is winding down, mechanics trickling out, the hum of generators filling the emptying air. Most of the media have gone, and the hospitality suite is quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes being cleaned up in the kitchen.

Lando and Oscar are tucked away in Oscar’s driver’s room, both of them sprawled on the narrow couch, exhaustion pulling at their shoulders. But neither of them is really tired. Not in the way that matters.

There’s a tension between them that hasn’t let up since the weekend started. It’s not new—they’ve been together long enough to recognize the shape of it—but it’s heavier now, humming with an edge that neither of them has dared to put into words.

Finally, Lando breaks the silence.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, tilting his head against the back of the couch to look at Oscar. “Even for you.”

Oscar exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitates. “About her.”

The air tightens instantly. Lando sits up a little straighter, studying him. He’d expected it—he’s not stupid, he’s seen the way Oscar looks at you—but hearing it out loud still makes his chest twist.

“You mean…” Lando says carefully, testing.

Oscar nods, slow. His voice is steady, but softer than usual. “You noticed too.”

It’s not a question.

Lando laughs, but it’s humorless. “Hard not to. The way you look at her, mate? You’ve got it bad.”

There’s no accusation in it, no bite—just truth. And maybe a hint of resignation, because Lando knows he’s not one to talk. He remembers the way you’d looked at him earlier in the week, the way your breath had caught when he leaned too close. He remembers the moment you pulled back, the apology in your eyes.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Oscar says quietly. “I just… when she’s around, it’s different. She makes everything feel good.” He glances over at Lando, searching his face. “But you… you’ve been the same way with her.”

Lando doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Instead, he runs a hand over his jaw, sighing. “Yeah. I have.” His voice drops. “And I feel like an idiot for it, because I already have you. That should be enough.”

Oscar’s throat bobs as he swallows, eyes fixed on the floor. “It is. You are. But—” He breaks off, frustration flickering across his face. “I can’t switch it off. And I don’t think you can either.”

The silence between them is thick, but not with anger. With something else. Something scarier.

Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “So what are we supposed to do? Pretend it’s not happening? Let it eat us alive?”

Oscar shifts closer, his knee brushing Lando’s. “Or we could… not pretend.”

Lando looks up at him, eyes searching. There’s a beat of stillness, the world outside fading until it’s just the two of them in this small, dimly lit room, hearts pounding too loudly in their ears.

“Are you saying…” Lando trails off, but Oscar’s gaze is steady, unwavering.

“I’m saying I don’t want to lose you,” Oscar murmurs. “And I don’t want to lose what this could be either. With her.”

Lando’s chest tightens, the honesty of it hitting him square in the ribs. He reaches out almost without thinking, his hand brushing against Oscar’s. Oscar doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in.

The kiss is slow at first, careful, like they’re testing the weight of what they’ve just admitted. But then Lando’s hand curls into the fabric of Oscar’s shirt, and Oscar tilts his head to deepen it, and suddenly it’s not careful anymore—it’s raw, desperate, full of all the tension they’ve been holding back.

And then the door creaks open.

You’re standing there, framed by the fluorescent light of the hallway, eyes wide as the scene registers. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

The world seems to freeze. Lando jerks back, Oscar’s hand still half-clutching his. Both of them look at you with shock written across their faces—shock, and something else. Guilt.

You blink, throat tight, heat rushing up your neck. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Your voice cracks. You don’t finish.

Before either of them can speak, you step back, fumbling for the door handle, and the words tumble out of you like glass shattering. “I’m sorry.”

The door shuts behind you, leaving Lando and Oscar alone again, but now the air is heavier, suffocating. Neither of them moves for a long time, the taste of the kiss still lingering, the image of your face burned into their minds. And for the first time all weekend, neither of them knows what to do.

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second person pov ;

Your suitcase is half-zipped on the hotel bed, clothes spilling out in messy folds. You’ve been packing and repacking for the past hour, not because you need to but because it’s easier than thinking. Easier than replaying the image of Oscar and Lando kissing in your head over and over again like some cruel loop.

You’d been ready to leave Monza quietly—slip away before morning, bury the weekend under layers of “what ifs” and “almosts.” But a knock at your door stops you cold.

It’s late. Too late for housekeeping. You freeze, suitcase zipper in hand, debating whether to answer. Then the knock comes again, louder this time. And a voice.

“YN?”

Lando. Your stomach twists. You hover for a second, but before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet carry you to the door. You crack it open—and there they are. Both of them.

Lando, shifting nervously on his feet, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. Oscar, calm on the outside but with that tightness around his eyes you’ve come to recognize.

“What are you—” Your voice falters. “Why are you here?”

“Can we come in?” Oscar asks quietly.

You hesitate, then step aside, letting them slip into the room. They look out of place against the neutral hotel décor—bright papaya team jackets against beige wallpaper. The silence that falls is heavy, suffocating.

Finally, Lando blurts out, “We need to explain.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “There’s nothing to explain. I saw what I saw.”

Oscar takes a small step forward, measured, careful. “You deserve to know the truth.”

Your throat feels tight. “The truth?”

Lando and Oscar exchange a glance, and for once, neither of them looks like they know exactly what to do. Then Lando exhales, raking a hand through his hair.

“We’ve been together. For a while now,” he admits. “Not many people know—actually, no one knows. We kept it private. Just us.”

You blink, heart thudding. “Together?”

Oscar nods. “It’s real. We’re… in love. With each other.” His eyes lock on yours, steady and unflinching. “But then you came along.”

The words hit like a jolt.

“We didn’t plan it,” Lando rushes to add. “God, we didn’t even want it at first. We tried to ignore it, push it away. But it’s impossible.” He swallows hard, his usual bravado stripped down to something raw and trembling. “YN, we both… we both fell for you.”

Your chest aches, a cocktail of relief and panic and longing. You look between them, searching their faces for any trace of a joke, but there’s only sincerity.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

Oscar’s jaw tightens, his voice low. “Dead serious.”

The room spins for a moment as everything collides—the almost-kiss in Oscar’s driver’s room, the charged moment with Lando, the guilt you’d carried for wanting both, for feeling too much.

“I—” Your voice cracks, and you press a hand to your mouth. “You don’t understand. I thought I was losing my mind. Because it wasn’t just one of you. It was both. I thought…” You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “I thought I was selfish. Wrong. For wanting you both.”

Silence. Then, soft, “You do?”

Oscar’s words are almost a whisper, like he’s afraid he misheard.

You look up at them, eyes stinging. “I love you. Both of you. And that terrifies me.”

The tension in the room snaps. Lando exhales, shaky and disbelieving, like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. Oscar’s expression barely changes, but his eyes—his eyes shine with something you’ve never seen before.

Lando moves first, crossing the room in two strides. He takes your hand, tugging it gently, grounding you. “You don’t have to be scared. Not with us.”

Oscar steps closer too, his hand brushing yours where Lando’s already holds tight. “We’ll figure it out. Together. No pretending, no secrets.”

Tears prick your eyes, but you nod, breathless. “Okay.”

It feels fragile, this moment—like porcelain balanced on the edge of breaking—but also right in a way you can’t explain. You’re still trembling when Lando dips his head, pressing the gentlest kiss to your temple, and Oscar’s hand settles warm against your back.

The three of you stand there for a moment, tangled in the middle of a hotel room that suddenly feels like the center of the universe. It’s messy, terrifying, and yet—utterly, undeniably right.

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yourusername

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yourusername : i love italy, pasta and this little orange team <3

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You’d barely had time to catch your breath after the race before they were planning something. They wouldn’t tell you what—it was all whispered conspiracies and teasing smiles, Lando’s excited energy barely contained, Oscar’s usual calm betraying just enough sparkle to give him away.

All you knew was that they told you to dress up. So you did.

When you step out of your hotel room that evening, they’re already waiting in the corridor. Lando whistles low, eyes trailing over you with no attempt at subtlety, while Oscar just shakes his head with a smile that somehow makes you feel even warmer.

“You look incredible,” Oscar says simply, sincerity heavy in his voice.

“Yeah, what he said,” Lando grins, looping his arm through yours before you can protest. “Now come on, no time to waste.”

They take you outside, where a sleek car is waiting. Oscar drives, calm and steady, while Lando controls the playlist from the passenger seat, bouncing in his seat as he cues up songs he claims are “perfect date night vibes.” The car fills with a mix of laughter and quiet anticipation, the city lights blurring past outside the windows.

When they finally stop, you realize you’re on the outskirts of town, pulled up beside an ivy-covered villa bathed in golden light. It doesn’t look like a restaurant—more like a private home.

“What is this?” you ask, eyes wide.

“You’ll see,” Oscar says, and his small smile makes your heart flip.

Inside, you find a long table set up just for the three of you on a terrace overlooking the hills. Candles flicker in glass holders, strings of fairy lights twinkle overhead, and the smell of fresh basil and tomato drifts through the air.

“You… you rented this whole place?” you breathe, stunned.

“Technically, we bribed one of the team chefs to help us out,” Lando admits proudly, tugging you toward the table. “But the idea was all ours.”

Oscar pulls out a chair for you, ever the gentleman, and when you sit, Lando immediately takes the one beside you while Oscar slides in across from you. For the first time all weekend, it feels like you’re not surrounded by chaos—just the three of you, wrapped up in soft light and possibility.

Dinner is simple but perfect: fresh pasta, bruschetta, roasted vegetables, all prepared by the chef but plated and served by your drivers themselves. Lando spills wine while trying to pour it, earning a long-suffering sigh from Oscar that makes you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your bread.

“See?” Lando smirks, handing you the glass. “All part of the charm.”

“Chaos,” Oscar mutters, but there’s a fondness in his tone that betrays him.

Between bites, the conversation flows easily. They ask you about your childhood, your career, your first modeling job. You ask about their earliest memories of racing. At some point, Oscar admits he used to line up toy cars on the carpet and commentate his own races. Lando teases him mercilessly until you threaten to demand a demonstration right there at the table.

The food dwindles, replaced by tiramisu and espresso. The night air cools, but the warmth between you only deepens.

At one point, Oscar leans forward, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you laugh at one of Lando’s dramatic reenactments of a karting crash. His gaze is so soft, so open, it makes your breath catch.

And when you glance to your side, Lando is already watching you too, grin fading into something gentler, more reverent.

It hits you then: they’ve both been planning this not just to impress you, but to show you they mean it. That this is real.

After dinner, they lead you down a small path behind the villa, where a blanket has been spread out on the grass. A bottle of wine sits in the middle, surrounded by lanterns glowing like fireflies.

“Okay, this is…” You shake your head, at a loss for words. “This is insane.”

“Romantic,” Lando corrects, plopping down on the blanket and patting the space beside him.

Oscar sits on your other side, stretching his legs out in front of him. The three of you lie back, staring up at the stars pricked across the sky.

For a while, no one speaks. You just breathe, shoulder to shoulder, the night wrapping around you like a cocoon.

Then Oscar’s hand finds yours in the dark. Warm, steady, grounding.

And a moment later, Lando shifts closer, head resting against your shoulder, his fingers brushing your other hand until you twine them together.

Your chest tightens, but not with fear this time. With something fuller. Softer.

“I don’t know how we got here,” you whisper, voice thick, “but I don’t want it to end.”

Lando hums against your shoulder, squeezing your hand. “Then don’t let it.”

Oscar’s thumb strokes gently across your palm. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of both of them pressed against you, the weight of the stars above, the certainty that for once, the chaos has stilled into something achingly, perfectly right.

And when Lando tilts his head up to kiss your cheek, and Oscar presses a kiss to the back of your hand, you realize you don’t have to choose. They both want you.

୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ୭˚⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ You blink your eyes open slowly, the early morning light spilling in through curtains. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the air conditioner and the uneven breaths of the two men pressed against you.

Oscar is on your left, face pressed against the pillow, lashes fanned across flushed cheeks. His arm is draped firmly around your waist, holding you. His hair is sticking up in every direction—messier than you’ve ever seen it—and something about the sight makes your heart ache.

On your right, Lando is sprawled, one leg thrown lazily across yours, his nose tucked against your shoulder. His curls are damp with sleep and his lips are parted, a soft breath fanning over your skin. You shift slightly and he groans low, nuzzling closer like he instinctively knows when you move. And you remember. The night before.

The wine. The stars. The confessions whispered in the dark. The way one kiss became another, and another, until you were lost in both of them—hands, mouths, soft laughter between gasps, heat and tenderness all tangled together until it felt impossible to know where one ended and the other began.

Your cheeks heat at the memory, but the strongest thing you feel isn’t embarrassment—it’s peace. A quiet, overwhelming sense that somehow, this is where you’re supposed to be.

You shift a little, brushing a hand through Oscar’s messy hair, and he stirs. His eyes blink open slowly, bleary but soft, and when they land on you, his lips curve into the faintest smile.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hi,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb across his cheek.

Lando grumbles at the sound, not ready to wake, but his grip tightens on you anyway, pulling you closer between them. You can’t help but laugh softly, the sound muffled as Oscar leans forward to press a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

The movement makes Lando finally crack one eye open. “Oi,” he rasps, glaring halfheartedly at Oscar. “No fair starting without me.”

You roll your eyes affectionately, but before you can say anything, Lando shifts to press a sloppy kiss against your jaw, then another on your cheek, until you’re giggling and squirming. Oscar groans but doesn’t let go of your waist, muttering something about Lando being insufferable even as his lips find the corner of your smile.

For a long while, that’s all it is—kisses and cuddles, whispered teases, tangled limbs. Lando makes some joke about you looking like an angel stuck between “two very lucky idiots,” which makes you bury your face in the pillow out of sheer embarrassment. Oscar just shakes his head and tucks the blanket tighter around all three of you.

Eventually, hunger (and Lando’s relentless whining about coffee) pulls you out of bed. But even as you shuffle toward the kitchen, wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies with Lando trailing behind you like a puppy, you feel their presence at your sides—two steady anchors keeping you grounded.

And when you’re all crammed into the hotel’s tiny kitchenette, Oscar making coffee while Lando burns toast because he refuses to listen to the directions, you realize something important:

Last night might have been the first time. But it won’t be the last. Because the morning after is even sweeter.

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oscarpiastri

liked by yourusername, lando, patriciooward and 2,7500,000 others. oscarpiastri : my forever and always. love you both so much tagged : yourusername and lando

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929 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 4 days ago

Note

release the landoscar x reader from your drafts soon PLEASEEEE im on my knees

have some editing and cleaning up to do‼️‼️

but the fic shall be with you in a few hours my angels 😇😇🌟

this was me the entire time I was writing it btw

#cheftsunoda #cheftsunodaspeaks #cheftsunodaasks #chefyaps #f1 fanfic

27 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 5 days ago

Note

https://www.instagram.com/share/_8o_l0suS

landoscar x reader who joins their relationship afterwards 😛😛😛

you know me SO well. already got one in the drafts 😇😛

#cheftsunoda #cheftsunodaspeaks #cheftsunodaasks #chefyaps

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cheftsunoda · 6 days ago

Note

i know u said u haven’t had a lot of motivation to write recently so dont pressure yourself!!! but as a fellow nolan girlie it felt necessary to send in some inspo in case ur feeling it 🫣 anyways i just started a new year in college and its lowkey been a rough adjustment. what if u wrote something about nolan and reader dealing with the distance together and maybe him surprising her on campus during an off week/weekend. (would be very silly to see him at a football game or tailgate tbh) something a lil angsty at first but comforting if possible! we love u chef!!!

honorary frat boy — ns6

smau + written blurbs

nolan siegel x !o’ward reader

college has kept you busy—papers, late-night study sessions, football games, and everything in between—but even with the distractions, the distance with nolan has started to feel heavier lately. balancing school with his indycar season isn’t always easy, no matter how much you both try.

what you don’t know is that this weekend holds a surprise, one that just might make the space between you and him feel a little smaller.

fc : darianka on ig

(a/n) : omg hey baby! ive been CRAVING some nolan fics recently so thank you for the suggestion! i also had a few requests for more nolan x o’ward reader so i added that into this fic:) i just started another year of school as well so i def understand! love u love u love u!!! hope you enjoy 💋💋💋

(note from me whilst writing : this is officially my fave nolan fic i've written!!!! rahhhhhhhh. remind me to tell you guys the story of the first time i met nolan sometime)

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yn_oward

university of miami 📍

liked by patriciooward, elbaoward, nolansiegel and 345,000 others.

yn_oward : back for round 2 at the U ⭐️💚🧡 (im desperately missing my boyfriend and my siblings SEND HELP)

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nolansiegel : about to leave my day job and enroll at miami to be closer to you🙃

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↳ yn_oward : nolan you wouldn’t last a day in calc II

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↳ nolansiegel : true but at least id be with you🤠

liked by yn_oward

patriciooward : send help??? you have a porsche and access to my credit card. come visit. 🤨

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↳ yn_oward : patricio. i also have exams.

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↳ patriciooward : exams are temporary. sushi dates with me are forever.

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↳ yn_oward : valid point.

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↳ elbaoward : i don’t think mamá y papà would be very happy to hear you convincing her to blow off school, patito. 🤨

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↳ patriciooward : i don’t think they would be happy to hear she spends 95% of her time at parties either buttttttt

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↳ yn_oward : alr alr that’s enough. what they don’t know won’t hurt them 🗣️🗣️

liked by patriciooward and elbaoward

elbaoward : i miss you too mi amor 🫶🏼 please no beer pong without me supervising.

liked by yn_oward

↳ yn_oward : no promises 😇

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yourfriend1 : our game day outfits always EAT

liked by yn_oward

yourfriend2 : mcdonalds talegating w the porsche>>>>>

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davidmalukas : college life looks way more fun than the off season

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↳ yn_oward : daviddddd pls i’ll sneak u into the student section

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↳ davidmalukas : brb booking the first flight to miami

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alexanderrossi : less party more study

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↳ yn_oward : stop hanging out with my brother. he is making you lame

liked by alexanderrossi and elbaoward

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The apartment is unusually quiet for once. Your roommates are scattered across campus—one at practice, another stuck in a late lab—leaving you in the soft hum of your desk lamp, textbooks open and iPad glowing with hastily scribbled notes. You’re supposed to be focusing on economics, but your brain keeps wandering, tracing the ache of absence you’ve been carrying around like a second backpack.

You’re halfway through highlighting a paragraph when your phone lights up with the familiar name: Nolan. Your heart leaps before your mind can catch up. You don’t even hesitate before answering.

His face fills the screen, slightly pixelated but still unmistakably him—messy hair, soft smile, the kind of tired eyes that make you want to reach through the glass and smooth the weight off his shoulders.

“Hi,” you say, and the word comes out softer than you mean it to.

“Hey, pretty,” Nolan replies, his voice warm and tired all at once. He’s sprawled across what looks like a hotel bed, the curtains drawn tight behind him. Another race weekend. Another city you’re not in.

You tuck your knees up to your chest, the highlighter still in your hand. “You look exhausted.”

“Not as exhausted as you,” he teases gently. “You’ve got, like, four textbooks open. That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

You laugh, but it’s a quiet laugh, one that trembles at the edges. “College life, remember? You chose race cars, I chose exams.”

“Yeah, but I’d trade it all if it meant I could be there with you,” he says, and suddenly the air feels heavy between you.

There’s a beat of silence where you both just stare. You can hear the faint sounds of his hotel—voices in the hallway, maybe his teammates down the hall—but mostly it’s just him. Him, and the distance.

“I miss you,” you whisper.

He shifts on the bed, holding the phone closer until it feels like he’s right there, inches away. “I miss you more. Way more than I thought I would when the season started.”

Your throat tightens. You want to tell him about the nights you fall asleep with your phone clutched in your hand, about the way you sometimes hear his voice in a crowded room and whip your head around only to remember he’s miles away. Instead, you say, “I hate that I can’t just drive over and see you. It’s stupid.”

Nolan’s lips curve into a soft, sad smile. “It is stupid. But it’s temporary, right? We just… have to hang in there.”

You nod, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. Temporary.”

For a while, neither of you talks. He asks about your day, and you ramble about your professor’s obsession with pop quizzes; you ask about practice, and he shrugs, saying it’s nothing exciting without you there to watch. Eventually, you’re laughing again—real, belly-deep laughter—when he describes Pato’s attempt to cook pasta in the hotel coffee pot.

But underneath it all, the ache remains. The missing. The wanting.

“Promise me something?” Nolan says finally.

“Anything.”

“Don’t get too used to being without me. Because I’m going to fix this, okay? Somehow. I’ll find a way.”

Your chest warms even as your eyes sting. “You always do,” you whisper.

And for the rest of the call, you let yourself believe that the distance is only temporary, that soon, the space between your worlds will close.

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You walk out of the lecture hall with your brain buzzing and your heart still racing, adrenaline from the exam not quite settled yet. For weeks, you’d been dreading this one—your toughest class, the professor notorious for brutal questions, the kind of test that could make or break your grade. You’d barely slept, living off iced coffee and sheer panic.

But now it’s over. The relief is almost dizzying. You sling your backpack over your shoulder, step out into the late afternoon sunshine, and let yourself breathe for the first time all day.

By the time you get back to your apartment, you’re running on fumes, already planning a nap before your roommates drag you out for celebratory drinks. But the second you open the door, you freeze.

Sitting right on the kitchen table, bathed in golden light from the window, is a massive bouquet of flowers—roses and lilies, your favorites, arranged in an almost comically huge glass vase. The kind of thing that looks like it belongs in a movie, not your student apartment.

Beside it, there’s a small red box with a crisp white ribbon. Your heart jumps into your throat.

You drop your bag and walk closer, fingers trembling as you untie the ribbon. Inside, nestled in velvet, is the Cartier watch you’d been secretly obsessing over for months—the one Elba had teased you about wanting, the one you’d told yourself was “ridiculously impractical” but had still saved screenshots of on your phone.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The card tucked under the bouquet is simple:

For my girl who can do anything. I’m so proud of you. Always. — N

The tears slip out before you can stop them. You fumble for your phone, not even caring if your makeup is streaking down your face as you hit Nolan’s contact and press call.

He picks up on the first ring, his familiar grin filling the screen. “Hey, superstar.”

“You didn’t,” you say, voice cracking. “Nolan, you didn’t.”

His smile softens when he sees your watery eyes. “I did. And you deserve every bit of it.”

You shake your head, laughing through the tears. “This is insane. Flowers and—Nolan, it’s Cartier. You’re—this is too much.”

“It’s not enough,” he counters gently. “You’ve been killing yourself over that class for weeks, and I hate that I can’t be there to hug you when it’s finally done. So, this is me trying to be there in the best way I can.”

You press your hand over your mouth, overcome. “You’re going to make me sob.”

“I can see that,” he teases, even though his eyes are glossy too. “Please don’t ruin your mascara. You’ll make me feel guilty.”

You glance back at the watch, glinting in its box, impossibly elegant, impossibly you. “How did you even know?”

“Elba may have helped,” Nolan admits, smirking. “But only because she said you’d never buy it for yourself. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect it would look on your wrist.”

You slip it on, holding up your arm for the camera, your breath catching at the sight. It fits flawlessly, like it was made for you.

“Nolan,” you whisper, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how you always do this. How you make me feel so—” You stop, the words knotting in your throat.

“Loved?” he supplies softly.

You nod, blinking hard. “So loved.”

He leans closer to the camera, his expression so tender it makes your chest ache. “That’s because you are. More than you’ll ever know.”

And as you sit there, in your little college apartment with flowers too big for the table and a watch that catches the light just right, you realize that even with the miles and the ache, Nolan Siegel has found a way to close the distance—if only for a moment.

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yn_oward added to her story!

seen by nolansiegel, patriciooward, elbaoward and 257,000 others.

nolansiegel : i was right. it does look perfect on you:)

↳ yn_oward : i love you so so much. but you really didn’t have toooooooo

↳ nolansiegel : oh but I did! anything to make my girl smile 🙃

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patriciooward : mocosa mimada (spoiled brat)

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↳ yn_oward : you spoil me all the time. you helped create this monster 😇

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↳ patriciooward : god gave me a baby sister to spoil and bully 🫡

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alexanderrossi : mclaren is paying that kid way too much 🙄

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↳ yn_oward : jealousy is a disease rossiiiiii

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elbaoward : he’s a good man savannah 😭🥹

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↳ yn_oward : thank you for helping him🤍 i could not imagine that man walking into a cartier store by himself

liked by elbaoward

↳ elbaoward : he was so adorable…and lost😇

liked by yn_oward

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You’ve got the windows down, the late afternoon breeze tangling your hair as you drive back from class, phone balanced on speaker through the car’s Bluetooth. The sound of your siblings’ voices fills the car, both of them talking over each other in the way only Pato and Elba can.

They’re in Vegas with your parents, something about a sponsor dinner that somehow turned into a family weekend.

“—and then mamá made us walk half a mile because she said she didn’t trust the hotel buffet, can you believe that?” Pato’s voice cuts through first, dramatic as ever.

Elba’s laughter follows. “You love walking, don’t even start. Anyway, how did your class go, hermanita?”

You groan, pulling into your apartment’s lot. “It was fine, I guess. Long. I just want to crash. Or maybe cry. Or both.”

“Don’t cry,” Elba soothes, though you can practically hear her smile. “You’re doing amazing. And you know it’s temporary, right? You’ll see Nolan soon.”

That makes your chest tighten, the ache you’ve been carrying around sharpening at her words. “Yeah, I know,” you murmur, parking the car. You grab your bag, already planning to heat up leftovers and bury yourself under a blanket—when your eyes catch on something that makes your brain short-circuit.

Parked two spaces down, gleaming even under the dull glow of the lot’s streetlight, is a McLaren. Not just any McLaren. His McLaren.

For a second, you think you’re hallucinating. You blink hard, shake your head, but it’s still there. Shiny, unmistakable, Nolan Siegel’s car, sitting in your parking lot like it belongs there.

You let out a noise so loud that both Pato and Elba fall silent on the other end of the call.

“YN?” Elba says carefully.

“What the hell was that?” Pato demands.

You’re already scrambling out of the car, nearly tripping over your backpack strap. “He’s here. He’s here!”

“Who’s there?!” Pato yells, instantly in overprotective brother mode.

“Nolan!” you scream, sprinting across the lot like your life depends on it. “HE’S HERE, HE’S—” You cut yourself off because your lungs are burning and you’re fumbling with your apartment keys like a madwoman.

Elba’s voice is faint but gleeful through the phone. “Oh, this is good.”

You don’t even say goodbye before hanging up on them, shoving your phone into your pocket as you barrel up the stairs two at a time. Your heart is in your throat, adrenaline flooding every nerve. You burst into the apartment, barely remembering to slam the door shut behind you, and then—

There he is.

Nolan is stretched out on your bed, one hand propped behind his head, the other scrolling lazily through his phone like he does this every day. He looks up at the sound of you crashing in, and his lips curl into the calmest, cheekiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” he says casually, like you didn’t just lose your mind in the parking lot. “Took you long enough.”

You scream again—louder this time—and then you’re running, launching yourself onto the bed so hard it nearly knocks the wind out of him. He laughs, catching you with an “oof,” his arms automatically locking tight around you as you bury your face in his chest.

“You’re actually here,” you mumble, your words muffled against his shirt. “You didn’t tell me, you didn’t—oh my god, Nolan, I thought I was going insane when I saw your car—”

His laugh rumbles through you, warm and steady. “Surprise.”

You lean back just far enough to look at him, your eyes stinging with happy tears. “You’re insane. You’re literally insane.”

“Insanely in love with you,” he corrects smoothly, grinning.

You swat at his chest, but you’re smiling so hard it hurts. “You could’ve warned me! I almost had a heart attack in the parking lot!”

“And miss this reaction?” he teases, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “No way. Totally worth the risk.”

You just shake your head, overwhelmed, your heart finally catching up with the moment. He’s here. Really, actually here. The space between you isn’t miles of highway or time zones—it’s just a breath, a touch, a kiss waiting to happen.

You collapse against him again, holding on like you’ll never let go. “I missed you so much,” you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, his voice quiet and certain. “Missed you more. That’s why I’m here.”

And just like that, the ache of distance dissolves, replaced with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek, a reminder that some surprises are worth every mile.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

For a while, you don’t move. You just curl into him, tangled up in sheets and arms and the steady press of kisses against your hair. The kind of quiet where the world feels far away and nothing exists except the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. Nolan trails his fingers up and down your back absentmindedly, as if memorizing the shape of you all over again.

Eventually, you tilt your head up, and his lips are right there, waiting. The kiss is slow at first—soft, almost hesitant, like you’re both savoring the fact that you don’t have to imagine it anymore. Then it deepens, your hands finding his jaw, his thumb brushing against your waist, both of you smiling into it because you can’t not.

When you finally break apart, breathless and grinning, you press your forehead to his. “You’re trouble,” you whisper.

“Trouble, huh?” he teases, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I thought I was romantic.”

You laugh, swatting him lightly before rolling off the bed. “Romantic and trouble. And now I’m taking you on a tour.”

Nolan props himself up on his elbows, looking amused. “A tour?”

“Yes,” you declare, tugging at his hand until he follows you. “If you drove all the way here and surprised me like this, you’re getting the full college experience.”

He humors you, slipping his shoes back on—well, he tries to, until the two of you step into the living room.

Your roommates are sprawled across the couch, half-watching Netflix, half-scrolling on their phones. They look up when you emerge, and the second their eyes land on Nolan, chaos erupts.

“Oh my GOD.”

“NO WAY—IS THAT HIM?!”

You laugh, already bracing yourself as they scramble to their feet, squealing like they’ve just seen a celebrity.

Nolan gives a sheepish little wave. “Uh… hi.”

“This is insane,” your roommate gasps, clutching her chest. “Okay, wait, he has to put on the guest of honor shoes.”

Before you can stop her, she’s sprinting to the hall closet and returning with the most ridiculous pair of oversized yellow Minion slippers. She thrusts them into Nolan’s hands like they’re sacred.

Nolan blinks down at them, then at you, and you’re already giggling so hard you can barely speak. “It’s tradition,” you explain, covering your mouth. “Every visitor has to wear them at least once. House rules.”

With a dramatic sigh, Nolan slips off his sneakers and slides into the Minion slippers, which are two sizes too big and squeak slightly when he stands. Your roommates lose it, screaming and taking pictures immediately.

“Perfect,” one of them declares. “Officially initiated.”

“Yup,” you grin, lacing your fingers through Nolan’s. “Now he’s ready for the tour.”

He lets you drag him outside, still wearing the slippers, though he shoots you a look that says he’s going to get payback later.

The sun is starting to set, painting the campus in soft pinks and golds. Students wander between buildings, laughter and music floating on the breeze. You point out everything—the library that always smells like coffee, the tree you studied under all last semester, the statue everyone rubs before exams for luck.

Nolan listens intently, smiling at your stories, occasionally asking questions just to hear you ramble more. At one point, he stops you mid-sentence, tugging you gently to face him.

“What?” you ask, heart fluttering.

He squeezes your hand, eyes soft in the fading light. “Nothing. Just… you look really happy here. And I love seeing it.”

Your chest warms at the words, and you lean up to kiss him again, slow and sweet, with the sun dipping low behind you.

You keep walking, hand in hand, the Minion slippers flopping with every step, and for once, the distance doesn’t feel so impossible. With Nolan here, in your world, it feels like maybe—just maybe—the two of you can have it all.

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yn_oward added two posts to her story!

seen by patriciooward, elbaoward, yourfriend1 and 450,000 others.

patriciooward : very rude to hang up on your brother earlier. but ill let it go…if i also can wear the slippers.

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↳ yn_oward : you have to come visit me first patito

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↳ patriciooward : oh. it’s happening little one🥸

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yourfriend1 : he deserves every aspect of the college experience:)

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↳ yn_oward : banana!!!!!!!!!

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↳ yourfriend1 : papoi!!!!!

elbaoward : oh this is just adorable. i could cry:,)

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↳ yn_oward : the only thing that would make my weekend better is you:')

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You wake up to the sound of shrieking. Not panicked shrieking—game day shrieking.

At first, Nolan groans and tries to bury his face deeper into the pillow, arms still looped tightly around your waist. But then another door slams, someone yells, “WHO TOOK MY GREEN SKIRT?!” and he lifts his head, bleary-eyed and confused.

“What the hell is happening?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

You laugh, stretching in his arms before slipping out of bed. “Welcome to college football Saturday.”

By the time Nolan pulls himself up, the apartment is pure chaos. At least ten girls are already inside—your roommates, their friends, friends of friends—music blasting, mimosa glasses clinking, curling irons hissing. Someone’s painting glitter on someone else’s cheeks in the kitchen. Another girl is already tipsy, loudly proclaiming she’s “going to marry the quarterback.”

Nolan stands in the doorway of your bedroom, completely shell-shocked. “This is… a lot.”

You grin at him, holding out a glass. “Mimosa?”

He accepts it slowly, like it might explode. “It’s… 9:30 a.m.”

“Exactly,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek before dragging him back into your room. “Now, you have to look the part. You can’t just show up looking like you.”

“Like me?” he echoes, sipping the mimosa and grimacing slightly at how strong it is.

“Yeah,” you say, already digging through your drawers. “You need school colors. And, preferably, a shirt that looks like you’ve owned it for five years.”

He watches in amused horror as you toss random options onto the bed: a too-big vintage tee with your university logo, a green and orange striped rugby shirt, and—worst of all—a sequined crop top from a costume party that somehow ended up in your drawer.

“You’re joking,” Nolan says flatly, holding up the crop top.

You bite back a smile. “Okay, that one’s a joke. But the others are serious. Try them on.”

He gives you a look that says you’re impossible, but he humors you anyway, slipping the vintage tee over his head. It’s a little big, soft and worn, and when he pushes his hair back and looks at you, your heart stutters.

“That one,” you say immediately, grinning. “Perfect.”

“Perfectly ridiculous,” he mutters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

You step closer, smoothing the shirt over his chest, fixing the way it hangs on his shoulders. “No, you look hot. Like a frat boy, but hot.”

Nolan laughs, leaning down to kiss you quickly. “As long as I look hot to you.”

Before you can respond, one of your roommates bursts into the room without knocking, already halfway through her third mimosa. “OH MY GOD, HE’S WEARING SCHOOL COLORS! HE’S ONE OF US NOW!”

Within seconds, the rest of the girls crowd into the doorway, cheering and clapping like Nolan just got drafted into the NFL. Someone puts a foam finger on his hand, someone else drapes a beaded necklace around his neck, and suddenly your boyfriend is standing there in full game day gear, looking bewildered but amused.

“Do I get, like, a certificate or something?” he deadpans, which makes everyone scream louder.

You loop your arm through his, eyes sparkling. “No certificate. But you get to tailgate with us, and that’s basically the same thing.”

He lets himself be dragged out into the chaos, his hand finding yours as the girls chant your school’s fight song at the top of their lungs. And as you look up at him—smiling, relaxed, a little overwhelmed but still holding on tight—you realize he’s not just surviving the college world. He’s actually loving it, because it’s yours.

And for Nolan, that’s enough.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The parking lot outside the stadium is a sea of tents, music, grills, and people in every shade of green and orange imaginable. The smell of burgers and sunscreen mixes in the air, and every few seconds someone starts a chant that half the crowd immediately joins in.

Nolan sticks close to you, hand firm around yours as he takes it all in, eyes wide. He’s been to paddocks filled with screaming fans, but this is different—messier, louder, more chaotic in a completely unfiltered way.

“So this is… tailgating,” he says slowly, watching a group of guys shotgun beers on top of a truck bed.

“This,” you reply proudly, tugging him toward your friends’ tent, “is college football tailgating. Completely different breed.”

The second you arrive, your roommates and their friends swarm. Someone shoves a Solo cup into Nolan’s hand before he can even protest, another girl insists he has to learn the fight song immediately, and someone else points dramatically at the beer pong table.

“Oh no,” he mutters, realizing too late what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” you laugh, already dragging him over. “If you want the full experience, you have to play at least one round.”

The table is sticky, the cups already half full of warm beer, and the crowd around it is loud enough to rattle your teeth. Nolan hesitates, clearly out of his element, but the chants of “NEW GUY! NEW GUY!” win. He sighs, shooting you a mock glare before picking up a ping pong ball.

And then—swish. Right into the cup.

The crowd erupts, your roommates screaming like he just hit the game-winning three-pointer. Nolan blinks, then grins at you, suddenly competitive. “Beginner’s luck?”

You arch a brow. “Or maybe you’ve secretly been training for this moment your whole life.”

He laughs, shoulders relaxing as he gets into it, sinking another shot while the crowd goes wild. By the end of the round, Nolan is practically a campus legend, with half your friends chanting his name and the other half trying to recruit him for the next game.

You’re still laughing when your phone buzzes with a text from Elba: look outside your tent.

You frown, glancing toward the edge of the crowd—and your heart almost stops.

Pato is striding toward you in a green jersey two sizes too big, a cooler slung over one shoulder like he’s been tailgating his whole life. Elba follows right behind him, already wearing school colors, carrying a tray of cupcakes.

You don’t even think. You scream, launching yourself at them both, nearly knocking the cooler out of Pato’s hands.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!” you yell, hugging them so hard Elba squeals.

“Surprise!” she beams, kissing your cheek. “We couldn’t let you have all the fun without us.”

Pato grins, ruffling your hair. “And I wanted to see this legendary ‘college tailgate’ you never shut up about.”

The second your roommates realize who just showed up, chaos doubles. Someone actually drops their drink, someone else screams, “IS THAT PATO O’WARD?!” and suddenly Pato’s being mobbed like he’s a celebrity—which, well, he is.

Nolan makes his way over, clearly amused but also a little wary of how loud everything just got. You slip an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “I swear I didn’t know they were coming,” you murmur.

He kisses your temple, chuckling. “It’s okay. I like it. Makes sense that your siblings would show up in the most dramatic way possible.”

Pato hears that and claps Nolan on the back so hard he nearly spills his drink. “Siegel! Let’s see if you’re actually good at this beer pong thing or if my sister’s been hyping you up.”

Elba rolls her eyes, sliding between you and Nolan like a protective shield. “Don’t listen to him. Come with me—we’re going to get you face paint and a necklace.”

So now Nolan is standing at the pong table, facing off against Pato while half the tailgate cheers for one or the other. He’s wearing glitter stripes on his cheeks, two beaded necklaces in school colors, and the biggest grin you’ve seen on him in weeks.

Elba leans over, watching the chaos with you. “He fits in,” she says softly.

You nod, your heart swelling at the sight of him laughing with Pato, relaxed and alive in a world so different from his own. “Yeah,” you whisper, smiling. “He really does.”

And as the sun climbs higher, the music gets louder, and your worlds collide under a cloud of glitter and laughter, you realize this is exactly what you’ve been missing.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

By the time you all make it to the stadium, the sidewalks are rivers of green and orange. The student section is already loud enough to rattle the concrete, and you can feel the bass of the marching band in your chest.

Nolan has been dragged along like a prize guest, one of your roommates perched on his arm while she explains the chants, Elba skipping ahead with face paint, and Pato hoisting the cooler over his shoulder like he’s training for a strongman competition.

“You weren’t kidding,” Nolan says as you press your tickets at the gate, his eyes darting to the crowd chanting before the game even starts. “This is… insane.”

“Welcome to game day,” you say proudly, lacing your fingers through his. “You wanted the full experience, remember?”

He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire climb up the stands. When you finally reach your row in the student section, the noise swallows everything else. Your roommates are already dancing, Elba is handing out cupcakes like some fairy godmother, and Pato? He’s immediately leading the nearest group of strangers in a chant.

“Pato,” you groan, tugging on his jersey. “You don’t even go here!”

He just grins, cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling louder. “DOESN’T MATTER, I’M IN SCHOOL SPIRIT NOW!”

Nolan laughs so hard he nearly spills the soda he’s been clutching like a lifeline. “He’s going to own this place in five minutes, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” you sigh, but you’re smiling too.

When the band marches in, the stadium erupts. Nolan jumps at the cannon fire, nearly jerking you into his lap. You giggle, patting his chest. “It’s tradition.”

“Your traditions are terrifying,” he mutters, but his arm stays wrapped securely around you, his thumb rubbing circles into your hip like it’s second nature.

As the game kicks off, your whole section is a storm—chanting, screaming, swaying, throwing arms around each other like lifelong friends. Nolan tries to keep up, but his timing is hilariously off, his lyrics wrong.

“Fight, fight, go green fight—” he shouts, only to stop mid-cheer when the crowd yells something completely different.

You double over laughing, clutching his arm. “Oh my god!”

He grins sheepishly, cheeks flushed but happy. “I’ll get it eventually!”

Pato, of course, notices. “HEY SIEGEL!” he bellows from two rows down. “You’re embarrassing my sister!”

You immediately slap him on the arm. “Shut up!”

But Nolan just smiles softly at you, leaning down to whisper so only you hear: “Doesn’t matter if I get it wrong. I’m here with you. That’s what matters.”

And just like that, your heart squeezes so hard you think it might burst.

By halftime, Nolan’s got nacho cheese on his fingers, glitter smeared on his cheek, and a necklace of school beads someone draped on him after his enthusiastic (and completely wrong) attempt at the fight song. He looks ridiculous and perfect all at once, and you can’t stop staring at him under the stadium lights.

The fourth quarter comes down to the wire, your section buzzing like electricity. Everyone’s standing on the bleachers, screaming until their voices crack. Nolan’s shouting too now, not even pretending to know the words—just yelling pure joy into the chaos, his arm tight around your shoulders.

When your team scores the game-winning touchdown, the stadium explodes. People are crying, hugging strangers, throwing popcorn in the air. Nolan spins you around before you can react, laughing so hard you’re dizzy, and presses a kiss to your forehead while the band blares the victory song.

“Okay,” he yells over the noise, “I get it now. This is amazing.”

You beam up at him, breathless. “Told you!”

And when you finally tumble out of the stadium hours later, voices gone, glitter in your hair, your hand tucked in Nolan’s, you realize he hasn’t just survived the chaos—he’s become part of it.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The walk from the stadium to frat row feels like a victory parade. Music thunders out of every house, the sidewalks are packed with students in face paint and glitter, and someone’s already climbing a lamppost while a crowd cheers them on.

You’ve got one hand locked with Nolan’s, the other hooked through Pato’s arm as he carries the momentum from the game.

“Frat party,” Pato announces like it’s a sacred pilgrimage. “It’s a rite of passage.”

Nolan glances down at you, his brows raised. “Do I even… qualify?”

You squeeze his hand, grinning. “You’re my boyfriend. That makes you VIP.”

The party is absolute chaos from the moment you step inside. Beer pong tables line the hallway, the living room floor is sticky, and the bass from a half-broken speaker rattles the windows. A chorus of “WOOO!” erupts when your group walks in, like the crowd already knows you just came from a win.

“Alright, Siegel,” Pato claps Nolan on the back so hard he nearly stumbles. “You’re on my team. We’re running this pong table.”

“I—what?” Nolan sputters, but before he can argue, he’s being handed a red cup and shoved toward the table.

You lean against the counter with your friends, laughing so hard your stomach hurts as you watch him try to adjust. His stance is way too technical, like he’s approaching it as an engineering problem instead of a party game.

“Babe,” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth, “you’re not setting up a pit stop—just throw it!”

But somehow, whether by luck or sheer beginner’s magic, the ball arcs perfectly and lands in the cup. The room erupts. Nolan’s ears go red as strangers slap him on the back and start chanting his name.

He glances at you, sheepish but proud, and you blow him a kiss.

Pato, of course, thrives in this environment. He’s chest-bumping frat boys, starting chants, and at one point climbs onto the couch to lead the entire room in a victory song. When someone shouts “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!” he doesn’t even hesitate.

“Elba’s going to kill him,” you mutter to your roommate, but you’re doubled over laughing anyway.

Meanwhile, Nolan finds himself cornered by a group of students asking rapid-fire questions.

“So, you’re actually an IndyCar driver?”

“Wait, like, a real one? With sponsors?”

“Dude, do you get to keep the car?”

He looks overwhelmed, glancing at you across the room. You swoop in, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Yes, he’s real. No, he doesn’t get to keep the car. And no, he will not race your friend’s Honda Civic.”

“Aw, man,” someone groans.

The party keeps rolling—music, laughter, glitter on Nolan’s hoodie. At one point, someone hands him a cowboy hat, and he actually puts it on, tipping it down with mock seriousness that makes the whole room scream.

Later, you drag him out onto the porch for some air. The noise muffles behind you, the night warm and buzzing with leftover energy from the game. Nolan leans against the railing, his arm wrapping automatically around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“Okay,” he admits, smiling down at you, “I think I might actually like this whole college thing.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the thud of his heartbeat under the thrum of the music. “Told you it was the full experience.”

From inside, you can hear Pato starting yet another chant—probably leading the entire frat in karaoke by now.

Nolan kisses the top of your head, soft and unhurried, like the chaos inside can’t touch the bubble you’ve made out here. “As long as you’re here, I’ll take it all.”

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

yn_oward

liked by patriciooward, elbaoward, nolansiegel and 575,000 others. yn_oward : woke up with 890 drunk selfies of pato and nolan in my phone and they are now frat celebrities. id say it was a successful game day at the u 💚🧡🤍

tagged : nolansiegel, elbaoward and patriciooward

—

view 57,000 other comments.

nolansiegel : i do not recall approving of any of those 890 selfies to be posted

liked by yn_oward and nolansiegel

↳ yn_oward : the internet deserves to see frat king nolan‼️

liked by nolansiegel and patriciooward

patriciooward : correction. FRAT PRINCE nolan. king is already taken 😎👑

elbaoward: frat celebrities and my sister was the baddest girl in the room 💅

↳ yourusername: love u hermanaaaa

↳ nolansiegel: facts.

patriciooward : miami welcomed us with open arms (and a lot of beer) 🍻

↳ yourusername: understatement of the century.

↳ fratbro123: pato for president of the frat??

davidmalukas : damn everyone is there IM ON MY WAY GUYS

liked by patriciooward, nolansiegel and yn_oward

lando : never thought i’d see the day pato & nolan were frat boys 😭😭

↳ patriciooward : don’t knock it till you try it bro

↳ yourusername: lando would last 5 mins at a frat party.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

You wake up to the faint sound of groaning and the sharp smell of cheap beer clinging to the air. Your head is pounding, but the real chaos isn’t inside your brain—it’s outside your bedroom.

You shuffle out in an oversized hoodie, hair a mess, and nearly trip over a stray shoe (you’re pretty sure it doesn’t even belong to anyone who lives here). Pato is sprawled on the couch like a starfish, one leg hanging off, an empty bag of chips resting on his chest like a trophy. His mouth is slightly open, and there’s a faint snore. Someone—probably Nolan—has draped a blanket over him, but it’s only covering one arm.

Nolan himself is in the kitchen, looking painfully domestic with bedhead and sweatpants, squinting down at his phone as if reading takes all his energy. “Morning,” he says in a raspy voice, giving you a small smile. “Thinking about breakfast. I might need your help walking, though.”

Elba is already up and moving like the saint she is. She’s got her hair pulled back in a bun and is carrying a trash bag in one hand, scooping up red Solo cups and discarded beer cans like she’s running post-disaster relief. “I swear, you guys are worse than teenagers,” she mutters, though her tone is more amused than annoyed.

You pad over to Nolan, resting your chin against his shoulder, and he leans into you instinctively, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We should get breakfast sandwiches,” you whisper, half for him and half for yourself, and his head bobs in quick agreement.

“McDonald’s hash browns,” he mumbles, eyes closing as if the thought alone could cure his hangover.

From the couch, Pato groans dramatically and throws an arm over his face. “Bring me back a McGriddle or I’ll die right here.”

Elba rolls her eyes but tucks a blanket properly over him before looking back at you. “I’ll keep cleaning. Just get the boys fed.”

So you and Nolan, both a little wobbly, pull on sweatshirts and sunglasses and head out into the morning light, holding hands like you’re the only two people alive. The drive-thru line is long, but it doesn’t matter—you’re curled into the passenger seat, Nolan’s hand warm on your thigh, laughing about blurry memories of last night.

By the time you get back, Elba has the apartment looking halfway normal again. You set the bags of food on the counter, and like magic, Pato stumbles in, hair sticking up, eyes half-shut, but with enough energy to grab his sandwich first.

It’s messy, chaotic, and a little loud, but sitting there with Nolan pressed against your side, Elba scolding Pato gently, and the table piled high with greasy breakfast food, you can’t help but think it’s perfect.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

The table looks like a battlefield, but in the best way. McDonald’s bags torn open, hash browns disappearing at record speed, orange juice cartons lined up between empty water bottles. You’re curled into Nolan’s side at the table, your legs tangled with his under the chair, still in that oversized hoodie that smells faintly of his cologne.

Elba sits across from you, hair messy but her posture still somehow graceful, sipping black coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. She side-eyes Pato, who’s hunched over his sandwich like it’s the most important mission of his life. “You’re cleaning the bathroom later,” she tells him pointedly.

Pato lifts his finger, as if to argue, but just groans instead and takes another bite. Nolan snickers quietly, leaning down so his lips brush your ear. “He’s braver than me. I wouldn’t dare argue with Elba right now.”

You stifle a laugh, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. There’s a strange kind of softness in the morning light—your messy little group gathered around the table, greasy breakfast food in hand, the chaos of last night reduced to funny stories and blurry photos.

Elba starts scrolling through her phone, shaking her head. “Look at this,” she says, turning the screen toward you—one of the blurry selfies Nolan and Pato took, their faces squished together, eyes half-shut. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts, Nolan joining in right behind you.

He watches you more than the photo, though. His arm is draped across the back of your chair, thumb idly stroking your shoulder, eyes soft and hazy but full of something warm. Like he’s storing this exact moment away—the mess, the laughter, the morning-after comfort of family.

When you catch him staring, you smile, your chest tightening in that way it always does with him. “What?” you tease gently.

“Nothing,” he says, but he shakes his head with a little grin, squeezing your knee under the table. “Just… yeah. Nothing.”

Elba stands with her coffee, muttering about trash bags and Febreze, Pato groans and collapses face-first onto the couch again, and the apartment hums with quiet, sleepy life.

And you, tucked against Nolan’s side, surrounded by the people you love most, feel like you’ve found something golden in the middle of the hangover chaos.

The night before might’ve been wild and blurry, but this—this morning—is what you’ll remember.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

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cheftsunoda · 6 days ago

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hi cheftsunoda i love ur posts ^^ i wanted to start my own blog for f1 and make smaus as well but idk how to start it,, pls give tips queen

hi angel!! first of all, thank you so much for your sweet words <3 starting a blog can feel overwhelming at first but it’s honestly so much fun once you get going, so here are some tips i’ve picked up along the way!

for smaus specifically

• pinterest will become your best friend. i highly recommend keeping it organized with boards for different things (ex: i have separate folders for each one of the drivers and i also have color coded folders for different pics i find.) when everything has its place, it makes finding the right vibe/picture so much easier when you’re in the flow of writing.

• i also suggest keeping a list of faceclaims that you like! it helps a ton when you’re building characters and need inspiration. i actually have a list myself, and i’d be more than happy to share and help out if you ever need it!

for blogging in general

• post what you love. people can always feel when you’re having fun with your work, and it makes your blog feel genuine and special.

• don’t pressure yourself to update constantly or push out content when you’re not feeling it — burnout is real, and this is supposed to be enjoyable for you too.

• don’t get discouraged if you don’t “blow up” right away. everyone’s journey looks different, and building a community takes time. consistency + authenticity really do pay off.

• interact with others! reply to asks, reblog, leave tags, and hype up other creators. tumblr is at its best when it feels like a group of friends sharing things we love.

at the end of the day, your blog should feel like a comfy little space that makes you happy — and the people who vibe with it will naturally find you. 💕 i wish you all the love and success in the world! feel free to message me if you have anymore questions 💘💓🤍🌟🩵💋 happy blogging

#cheftsunoda #cheftsunodaspeaks #cheftsunodaasks #chefyaps #f1 smau

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cheftsunoda · 7 days ago

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look at this little bean. im obsessed with him. i want to shrink him down and keep him in my pocket <33333

#cheftsunoda #cheftsunodaspeaks #cheftsunodaasks #chefyaps #indycar #indy 500 #nolan Siegel #ns6

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cheftsunoda · 7 days ago

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Babes you scared me for a second with that post I thought you were writing that you aren't gonna write anymore and my heart stopped

sorry for the scare loves!

i would never leave you guys or stop writing completely! i love to write and i love love love all of you and getting to interact with you all!

i may take little breaks or take a little more time between uploads but i will always be here :)

#cheftsunoda #cheftsunodaspeaks #cheftsunodaasks #chefyaps

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cheftsunoda · 7 days ago

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hi 🫶🏻🫶🏻 i love you’re stuff and was wondering if you could do an smau or maybe including an imagine as well with it where pato’s wife is the reader and is pregnant if you haven’t already 🧡

hi my baby<3333 tysm for reading!

i do have a written fic exactly like this called norbi��s intuition and you can read it here!

i can also eventually do an smau like this if you want in the future!

#cheftsunoda #cheftsunodaspeaks #cheftsunodaasks #chefyaps #pato o’ward fic #pato o’ward x reader

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cheftsunoda · 8 days ago

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OMG HADJAR PODIUM!!! i need isack x reader who is his girlfriend after that p3 masterpiece please🤞🤞

my boy — ih6

written blurbs

isack hadjar x !gf reader

you’d seen isack dream about this moment a thousand times over, in the quiet hours of the night when he whispered his hopes into your shoulder, and in the tired mornings when he dragged himself to training with nothing but determination in his eyes. now, standing in the paddock with your heart in your throat, you realized it wasn’t a dream anymore. his first podium—his first real taste of everything he’d worked for.

and the only thing sweeter than watching it happen was knowing you got to be there, loving him through it all.

(a/n) : lowkey started writing a blurb like this yesterday because I had total faith in him that he would make it happen! and i spent the rest of the day writing this while watching the disastrous indycar race. so proud of him🥹🤍☁️🌟

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The small hum of activity in the paddock seemed a world away from the quiet of Isack’s driver room. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, head bent, fiddling with the strap of his gloves like it was the most important thing in the world. His knee bounced restlessly, and you could see the tightness in his jaw.

“You’re overthinking again,” you teased softly, slipping inside and closing the door behind you.

He looked up at you with a sheepish smile, like he’d been caught. “Maybe a little.”

You crossed the room and stood between his knees, nudging his hands until he let go of the gloves. “Isack, you’ve been doing great. You’re not here by luck, you’re here because you deserve it.” Your thumbs brushed over his knuckles, grounding him. “Zandvoort loves you, the fans are already chanting your name, and all you need to do is trust yourself the way I trust you.”

His lips curved, but his eyes stayed uncertain. “What if I mess it up? What if I—”

You didn’t let him finish. “Hey. Even if you spun out in Q1, even if you forgot which way the track goes, I’d still be proud of you.” Your voice was gentle but firm. “But you won’t. Because you’re Isack Hadjar, and you’ve been dreaming of this since you were a kid. You’ve put the work in, you’ve done the laps, and you’re ready. This is your moment.”

You bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, letting your lips linger there until you felt his shoulders loosen beneath your touch. “And besides,” you added with a smile, “you look really, really hot in a race suit, so you’ve already won in my book.”

That finally earned a real laugh out of him, the tension easing as he pulled you closer, burying his face in your stomach for a moment like he needed to soak you in before heading out.

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice muffled but steadier now. “Okay, I’ll do it. For me… and for you.”

“That’s my boy.” You kissed the top of his curls and stepped back just enough to look at him properly. “Now go show them what you’re made of.”

He stood, taller than you but still leaning down to kiss you quickly, softly, like a promise. “When I get that podium,” he whispered against your lips, “the first person I’m looking for is you.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The energy in Zandvoort was electric, but nothing compared to the way your own pulse thrummed as the session ended. You were standing just outside the garage when Isack climbed out of the car, helmet still on, and the moment his engineer told him he’d secured P4, you swore the grin behind his visor was big enough to light up the entire track.

By the time he peeled the helmet off and tugged down his balaclava, his curls sticking in every direction, you were already pushing past a few crew members to reach him. He barely had time to drop the helmet into a mechanic’s hands before you launched yourself into his arms.

“P4!” you squealed, nearly knocking him back into the garage wall. “Isack, P4! Do you even realize what you’ve just done?”

His laugh was breathless, boyish, as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and lifted you off the ground for a second. “I know! I can’t believe it either—my best quali ever!”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over his flushed cheeks. “You don’t get it,” you said softly, your excitement giving way to the kind of pride that made your eyes sting. “You were perfect out there. You’ve been pushing and fighting so hard, and now everyone else finally sees what I’ve always known.”

Isack’s smile softened, his chest still heaving from the adrenaline of the session. He leaned his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky little laugh. “You’re going to make me cry in parc fermé.”

“Good,” you teased gently, though your own voice wobbled. “Then we’ll match.”

For a moment, the world was just the two of you—his hands pressed firm at your back, your fingers in his hair, the muffled cheers of the crowd fading into nothing. You kissed him quickly, unable to hold back, not caring who saw. He kissed you back just as urgently, the kind of kiss that spoke more than words ever could.

When you pulled away, he was still grinning like he couldn’t stop. “You know what the best part is?” he asked.

“What?”

“I kept thinking about what you told me earlier. About trusting myself. And when I crossed that line, I swear I heard your voice in my head.” His eyes shone as he brushed his nose against yours. “It felt like you were in the car with me.”

Your heart clenched in the best way possible. “I’m always with you. Every single lap.”

He laughed softly, pressing another kiss to your temple. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, almost like a promise. “Tomorrow, let’s make it even better.”

“Podium better?” you teased, raising a brow.

“Podium better.” His grin widened, a spark of determination cutting through the softness. Then he kissed you again, right there in the middle of the chaos, like it was the only way he knew how to thank you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The hotel room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the muffled sounds of the wind outside. Isack lay sprawled across the bed beside you, his hair still damp from his shower, curls sticking adorably to his forehead. His body was warm against yours, his arm draped over your waist like he was anchoring himself to you.

It was late, and exhaustion should have had him asleep already—but you could feel the way he kept shifting, restless, like his thoughts wouldn’t let him drift off.

“You’re not sleeping,” you whispered into the dark, brushing your fingers lazily over the curve of his arm.

He hummed, a low sound against your collarbone. “I’m trying.” A pause, then quieter, “I just… I keep thinking about tomorrow.”

You tilted your head, catching the faint outline of his face in the dim light. “Thinking what?”

Isack let out a small sigh, the kind that told you he was debating whether to admit what was on his mind. Finally, he spoke, voice soft, like he was confessing a secret. “That this might be my chance. P4 is the closest I’ve ever been. If things go right, if the strategy is clean, if I can keep the pace… I could really do it. I could get a podium.”

Your heart squeezed at the mix of hope and fear in his tone.

“But,” he went on, his words tumbling faster now, “what if I don’t? What if I mess it up? The team worked so hard to give me this car, and the fans here… god, the fans. They were cheering so loud today. What if I let everyone down? What if I let you down?”

“Oh, Isack.” You shifted so you could look at him properly, your hands gently cupping his face. His eyes glistened in the dim light, wide and searching. “Listen to me. You could finish dead last tomorrow and I’d still be proud of you. You’re already giving everything you have—more than anyone could ask. That’s what matters.”

He frowned softly, like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know how. “But a podium would mean everything.”

“I know,” you said, your thumb stroking along his cheekbone. “And I believe you can get it. More than anyone, I believe in you. But even if you don’t, it doesn’t erase the fact that you’re incredible. That you’ve already done something no one can take away from you—you’ve proved you belong here.”

He buried his face into your neck then, holding you tighter, his voice muffled. “You always know what to say.”

“That’s my job,” you teased softly, kissing the top of his curls. “To remind you that you’re already enough. The podium would just be the cherry on top.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his breathing evening out, the tension in his body finally melting away. Just when you thought he’d drifted off, he whispered, barely audible, “If I do get it tomorrow… will you be the first person I see?”

You smiled into the dark, your hand finding his and giving it a squeeze. “Always. I’ll be right there, waiting. Just like I always am.”

That earned you the softest sound—a sleepy, content little laugh—and soon his body went still against yours, his dreams already pulling him under. You stayed awake a little longer, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, your heart full at the thought that tomorrow, no matter what happened, you’d be exactly where you belonged: by his side.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The garage was already a buzz — mechanics moving quickly, engineers bent over screens, the scent of fuel and tire rubber thick in the air—but inside Isack’s driver room, it was just the two of you. A rare bubble of calm before the storm. You could tell the weight of the moment was pressing on him—his best qualifying yet, his first real shot at a podium.

“Hey,” you murmured, crouching in front of him so you were at his level. “Eyes on me.”

His gaze snapped up, those dark eyes already shining with nerves and adrenaline. You took one of his hands and started tugging the glove over his fingers, smoothing it down carefully like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you know what I see right now?” you asked softly as you worked.

He gave a shaky laugh. “Someone about to have a heart attack?”

You smiled and shook your head. “No. I see the kid who used to stay up way too late watching old race replays, who never stopped dreaming about being here. I see the man who worked harder than anyone, who took every setback and kept fighting. I see someone who deserves to be exactly where he is—on the grid, P4, about to make his dream a reality.”

You finished with one glove and reached for the other, sliding it gently onto his hand. He watched you the entire time, his breathing slowly evening out.

“You don’t have to be perfect today,” you continued, fastening the strap at his wrist. “You just have to be Isack. And that’s more than enough.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice low. “You really believe that?”

You cupped his jaw with your free hand, your thumb brushing the edge of his cheek. “With everything I have. I believe in you more than I believe in gravity. You’re going to be brilliant.”

For a moment, he just leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut, like he needed to soak in every word. Then he opened them again, determination glinting there through the nerves.

“Alright,” you said softly, standing and reaching for his balaclava. You tugged it gently over his head, fixing it so his curls weren’t sticking out at funny angles. “Helmet hair, but make it cute.”

That earned you a laugh—real this time, warm and boyish. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it.” You pressed a kiss to the top of the fabric, right where his forehead was, before handing him his helmet.

He stood now, taller in his suit, all geared up and ready. But before he could leave, he reached out, threading his gloved fingers through yours. His grip was warm, firm, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“Last handhold before the lights,” he whispered, almost shy.

You squeezed his hand tightly, giving him your brightest smile. “Then make it count.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, just looked at you like you were his anchor in the chaos, his whole world in this tiny, fleeting second. Then he kissed you through the balaclava, quick but full of promise, before finally pulling away.

As he walked into the garage, helmet tucked under his arm, he glanced back one last time. You lifted your hand, waving, and mouthed the words you’d told him a thousand times before: you’ve got this. And judging by the determined smile that spread across his face, he believed it.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The race had been chaos from the very start—clouds threatening rain, strategy calls flying back and forth, your nails bitten down to nothing as you clutched the edge of the pit wall. Isack had been steady, focused, running in P4 for what felt like forever. Close enough to dream, but just out of reach.

Then, suddenly, the radio chatter spiked, mechanics leaning closer to their screens. You looked up at the timing tower just in time to see the orange car ahead slowing down.

Lando.

Your heart lurched as McLaren confirmed engine failure, his car crawling to a stop on the side of the track. Gasps erupted around you, the crowd’s noise swelling like a wave. And just like that, Isack was in P3.

“Alright, Isack, that’s P3, P3—you’re on for the podium now. Keep your head down, keep it clean,” his engineer’s voice rang through the comms.

Your breath caught in your throat. He was there. He was really there.

But George Russell wasn’t going to make it easy. Lap after lap, the silver Mercedes loomed large in Isack’s mirrors, DRS open, pushing him to the absolute limit. You could see how hard he was working, how precise every corner exit had to be.

“George within half a second,” the radio warned.

You could barely breathe, whispering under your breath, “Come on, baby, you’ve got this. Just hold him. Just a few more laps.”

And he did. Perfect defense, lap after lap, using every ounce of skill he had, every lesson he’d learned. You knew his arms must be burning, his tires screaming, but he refused to let go.

Then, the final lap board came out. One more to go.

You were on your feet now, hands pressed together like a prayer as the entire garage yelled at the screens. Oscar and Max crossed the line first, and then—

“There’s the checkered flag! That’s P3, P3! That’s a podium, Isack! Incredible drive, mate, absolutely incredible!”

Tears filled your eyes as his voice came crackling over the radio, breathless and disbelieving.

“NO WAY! No way, guys! First podium—thank you, thank you so much for the car, for everything. This is a dream. Oh my god.” A pause, then softer, more personal, “And YN—this one’s for you. Always for you.”

You covered your mouth, sobbing and laughing at the same time as the team erupted around you—mechanics hugging, champagne already being pulled from the back, the entire garage buzzing with pride.

On the cool-down lap, Isack’s car crawled along the circuit as the Dutch crowd roared, orange flares filling the air. He waved to the grandstands, his joy radiating even through the TV cameras. But every time the feed cut to him, you saw it—the way he kept glancing toward the pit wall, toward where you were. Searching for you.

When he finally pulled into parc fermé, climbing out of the car with a grin that could have powered the whole circuit, the first thing he did was point to the crowd, then to his chest, mouthing: for you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

You’d dreamed of this moment almost as much as he had, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of seeing him up there—standing on that podium with a trophy in his hands, champagne dripping from his suit, a grin stretched so wide across his face it looked like it hurt.

The crowd was deafening, smoke swirling in the air, but all you could focus on was him. Your Isack. The boy who used to whisper his dreams into your shoulder late at night, now living them out in front of the entire world.

When the anthem finished and the spray began, he tilted his bottle just slightly, champagne arcing through the air toward where he knew you were standing in the crowd. And then—your breath caught—he looked down, found you instantly, and smiled. Not the polished, camera-ready smile he gave to the press. The soft one. The one that was just for you.

You raised your hand in the air, mouthing “I love you,” and even from that distance, you could see the way his chest rose a little higher, the way his shoulders eased. For just a second, it was like there was no one else in the world but the two of you.

The reunion afterward was chaos in the best possible way. Parc fermé was overflowing—team members cheering, mechanics clapping him on the back, journalists calling his name—but Isack’s eyes were scanning through it all, searching only for you.

And when he found you, he didn’t hesitate. He broke through the crowd, still dripping champagne, still in his fireproofs, and swept you up into his arms.

“P3!” you squealed, laughing through your tears as he spun you in a tight circle. “You actually did it!”

He pressed his face into your neck, holding you so tightly you could feel the tremble in his arms. His voice was rough when he whispered, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you out there. Every lap, it was just—hold it for her. Hold it for us.”

Your chest ached in the best way, and you cupped his face, forcing him to meet your teary eyes. “You didn’t just hold it, Isack. You proved to everyone what I’ve known all along—you belong here.”

For a moment, the noise of the paddock faded, leaving only the sound of his breath mingling with yours. Then he kissed you, quick and fierce, like he didn’t care who saw. The crowd erupted louder, but he didn’t notice—he was too busy holding onto you like you were the real trophy.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, he grinned through his tears. “First podium,” he whispered. “And the first of many. But this one’s ours.”

And with champagne still sticky on your hands, laughter bubbling in your chest, you knew he was right. This moment would be yours forever.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The club was a blur of lights, music, and laughter, and both of you were just slightly tipsy—your cheeks flushed, voices louder than usual, and everything feeling ten times more exciting than it should have at nearly midnight. Isack’s first podium had set the tone for the night, and now you were dancing and laughing like there was no tomorrow, champagne in hand and confetti still stuck in his hair.

“You did it!” you yelled, nearly shouting over the pounding bass, looping your arm through his. “I can’t believe it! My Isack—on the podium!”

He laughed, loud and unselfconscious, his eyes sparkling. “I still can’t believe it either! P3! My first podium! And I get to celebrate it with you!”

You stumbled slightly as he spun you around, laughing into his shoulder. The club around you was chaos—flashing lights, people cheering, someone spraying a little extra champagne into the air—but none of it mattered. It was just the two of you, tipsy and happy, caught up in the energy of the night.

At some point, you tripped a little over your own feet, and before you could even register it, Isack had you scooped up into his arms. “Isack!” you squealed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Put me down!”

“Nope,” he said with a grin, his stride steady and unshakable. “You’re coming with me.”

You laughed into his shoulder, half embarrassed, half thrilled, as he carried you effortlessly through the crowded club, weaving between dancers and waiters with ease. “You’re not even struggling!” you exclaimed, your voice muffled against his chest.

“Why would I?” he said, smirking down at you. “I’m big and strong, remember?”

The city lights outside were a blur as he carried you along the streets, your legs dangling and your laughter echoing into the night. You swayed a little against him, the slight tipsiness making everything feel light and magical. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head.

“Absolutely,” he agreed, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

By the time you reached the hotel, you were still laughing, hair slightly messy, clothes a little sticky with spilled champagne, but your heart was so full it almost hurt. He carried you right up to the lobby doors, still smiling like it was the easiest thing in the world—and in truth, for him, it was.

He set you down gently, just enough so your feet touched the floor, but his hands stayed on your waist, holding you close. “Tonight was insane,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your flushed face. “But you… you made it perfect.”

You kissed his cheek, giggling. “We’re a perfect mess.”

“And the best part?” he said, grinning like a kid. “I can still carry you to bed if you want.”

You laughed again, wrapping your arms around him as you let him lead you inside. And somehow, after all the chaos, all the lights, all the champagne, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The hotel room smelled faintly of champagne and the lingering night air, warm and comforting. You barely managed to kick off your shoes before collapsing onto the bed, laughing softly as Isack dropped down beside you, still grinning from ear to ear.

“You are completely impossible,” you mumbled, turning onto your side to face him.

“And you love me for it,” he countered, scooting closer until your legs tangled, his hand brushing yours lazily.

You laughed again, your head resting on the pillow as he traced small circles over your arm with his thumb. “I’m tipsy,” you admitted, voice soft and dreamy. “I didn’t think I could feel this… happy.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Me neither. But it’s perfect. All of it—today, the podium, the club… you, right here.”

You curled into him, his chest warm under your cheek, and he tightened his arms around you, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured into your hair. “P3… my first podium… and I got to celebrate it with you. You were there for every moment. I swear, it feels unreal.”

“It was unreal,” you whispered back, nuzzling into him. “And I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. You deserved every second. You still do.”

He smiled against your hair, brushing a stray curl from your face. “You’ve made this… everything. Better than I could’ve imagined.”

You giggled, curling tighter into him. “You’re my chaos,” you murmured. “And I think… I think I’m yours too.”

“Always,” he whispered, tightening his hold, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Always yours.”

You both drifted into a comfortable quiet, still a little tipsy, still buzzing from the night, just holding each other as the city hummed outside. His warmth against you, the faint stickiness of champagne, the memory of the club’s chaos—it all melted together into the perfect, soft cocoon of just the two of you.

And somewhere between the tipsy giggles, whispered confessions, and slow heartbeats, you realized that no podium, no lights, no confetti could ever match this moment—this perfect, chaotic, beautiful moment where you were together, completely.

He pressed a final kiss to your temple, whispered, “Goodnight, mon chèri,” and you felt yourself smiling as sleep pulled you under, tangled in his arms, the world outside fading away entirely.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

The morning sun filtered softly through the hotel curtains, warm and gentle, as you slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to wake Isack. His chest rose and fell steadily, still tangled in the sheets where he’d fallen asleep, a peaceful smile on his face. You smiled, brushing a kiss across his forehead before tiptoeing out, excitement bubbling in your chest.

Alicia and Eli were already waiting in the lobby, grinning like co-conspirators as soon as they saw you. “Are you sure about this?” Alicia asked, her tone teasing but eyes sparkling.

“Absolutely,” you whispered, sliding into the backseat of the car they had waiting. “It’s perfect. He’s just… he’s everything, and I want him to know that this weekend—this podium—it’ll always be ours. Forever. And what better way than a little permanent reminder?”

Eli laughed softly. “You’re another level of crazy. But we love you.”

By the time you arrived at the tiny, sunlit tattoo studio tucked away on a quiet street, your nerves were doing little somersaults. The artist was cheerful, immediately putting you at ease, and the three of you spent the next half hour chatting, sipping coffee, and giggling while the stencil of a small, elegant number 6—Isack’s race number—was applied to your wrist.

“It’s going to look amazing,” Alicia said once it was done, holding your hand and admiring the fresh ink. “He’s going to freak out when he sees it.”

You grinned, tracing the delicate lines with your finger. “That’s the plan.”

Back at the hotel, you tiptoed up to the room again, hiding your wrist behind the blanket as you slid inside. Isack was still stretched across the bed, tangled in the sheets, and your heart did a little leap just watching him.

“Morning,” you said softly, bouncing onto the bed beside him.

He groaned and opened one eye, still half-asleep. “Morning…mon ange,” he mumbled, reaching out to pull you closer.

You leaned against him, hiding your wrist under the covers. “I have a little… surprise for you,” you whispered, just loud enough to make him curious.

His eyebrows shot up, fully awake now. “Oh? A surprise? What kind of surprise?”

“Close your eyes,” you said, grinning. He groaned but obliged, letting you gently guide his hands away from you so you could reveal your new tattoo.

Slowly, you lifted your wrist, turning it so he could see the small, perfectly inked number 6.

His eyes went wide, a laugh escaping his lips, full of disbelief and joy. “You… you did this for me?”

You nodded, smiling, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “For you. For your first podium, for everything this weekend, for us. So that every time you look at it, you remember… this. And me.”

He pulled you into his arms, squeezing you tight as if he could somehow keep the moment and the feeling forever. “I can’t believe you did this… I love it. I love you.”

You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat echo your own. “I love you too. Always.”

He kissed the top of your head, lingering, and whispered, “You’re impossible. But this… this is the best thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

You curled into him, giggling as he peppered little kisses across your hair and shoulders. The chaos of the past few days—the race, the club, the podium—melted into a quiet, perfect bubble of warmth and love.

“Number six,” he murmured, tracing the tattoo gently with his finger. “Forever lucky. Just like us.”

“Forever,” you whispered back, and in that simple, soft, sticky-sweet moment, you both knew there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than right here, tangled in each other, with the memory of a weekend that neither of you would ever forget.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

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