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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

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LN4: GETAWAY CAR

pairing: art thief!reader x getaway driver!lando norris

summary: you don’t like lando. lando doesn’t like you. but with priceless paintings and thousands of euros on the line, it seems both of you will have to suck it up for the sake of the job.

warnings: lots and lots of swearing, implied violence, crime, lando being a smug shit, open ending sort of, everyone is a criminal basically except for ollie bearman.

word count: 10.6k

a/n: heist au!! finallly!!!! it only took like half a year :D also can you believe i had to make an account for an art auction site for this. wild.

BRUSH STROKES OF SILK BLUE. Daubs of gold. A smear of bronze. You prop your chin over your mop as you gaze at the painting with a pleased smile on your lips. Faint cracks by the edges, yellowed paint—the passing of time, clearly. Still, despite the faint signs of age, you have to admire the near pristine state of the artwork.

“You look pensive,” Charles notes, rolling the cleaning cart beside you. The cleaning coveralls you both wear are dull enough to make you feel like a smatter of gray on a lackluster wall. A sun-timed shadow, even though night has long since set in. Carlos can be heard shuffling a few steps behind, never one to appreciate the quality of true artwork.

You tilt your head appreciatively. You can’t help but imagine just how much more beautiful the painting would look like beneath the sunlight, as opposed to the clinically artificial lights that are on for the night shift.

“It’s one of my favorites,” you hum.

“La carta, right?” Carlos asks. He kisses his teeth and tilts his head. He does that weird jaw thing that’s long been a habit of his whenever he’s thinking, his own mop in his hand. “It’s just a woman with a letter.”

You don’t even need to glance at the metal plaque beside it—you know the facts by heart. One forty-one by eighty-three point five centimeters. Oil on canvas. Pedro Lira’s The letter.

“It’s more than that. It’s about what you can’t see,” you start, gesturing appreciatively. Distantly, you hear the last cleaning cart squeaking away onto the next room. “She’s hiding the letter behind her. She’s alone, but she’s facing the door, and you can see light coming from there, so someone is coming. Someone who’s not meant to see the letter she’s received.” You exhale. You’ve seen the painting in your textbook for weeks, but there’s no denying how all the more breathtaking it is in person. “It’s an anti-portrait. We get to see her secret, but not her face.”

A beat passes. Two. Carlos exhales impatiently. “No, I think it’s just a woman with a letter.”

You spare a glance at Leclerc, who seems to agree. “Et tu, Charles?” You shake your head with a disappointed sigh. “You two have no appreciation for fine art.”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, trust me. I have plenty.” He glances off to the side and something crosses his gaze, his expression growing more serious.

Charles is looking at you when he asks the question all three of you had been waiting for. “Ready?”

You feel the telltale buzz of static in your ear. Alex’s voice is loud and clear. “Alarms are off and exit route is clear. Eighty seconds start now.”

By the corner of your eye, you can see the red light of the camera flickering off. The regular cleaning crew has long deserted the room, leaving all three of you in your matching gray coveralls and black cleaning crew caps.

Eighty seconds.

You know the plan by heart because it was drilled into your head more times than you can appreciate. You know the service exit you’re supposed to take, the angles the cameras are facing, the amount of time it will take from the hallway to the inconspicuous car that will be waiting for you in the back alley. A clean break, Max had insisted. All as long as you make it out before your window of time is up.

Charles reaches for the painting, sparing one last glance at the cameras before taking it into his hands. You resist the urge to tell him to be careful with it. It’s beautiful, yes, but one scratch and the value decreases exponentially.

Satisfied, Carlos says, “Let’s go.”

The world turns red in a blink. You flinch at the loud, blaring noise.

Shit. Shit.

“That was not eighty seconds, Alex!” you hiss, wincing at the ear-piercing sound of the security system loudly announcing your unwelcome presence.

“The alarm is off!” Alex shoots back.

“Clearly not!”

“Everything’s fine on my end. Whatever tripped the alarm—that’s on you,” he retorts, and that’s easy to say from the safety of the meeting room, away from the absolute shit show that is about to unfold.

“Putain,” Charles curses.

The plan was simple. A clean break. You wouldn’t even need to run—just hide the painting in the cleaning cart and walk calmly to the service exit.

The sirens are making your spin. The red is dizzying. Burgundy. Amaranth. Crimson. To make matters worse, you’re certain you hear footsteps hurrying along the halls.

Then, as if on cue—“Stop right there!”

“Me cago en mi puta vida,” Carlos swears, and seeing the security guards standing a room’s length from you finally makes your survival instincts kick in.

“I am not going to jail for this,” you say—and you fucking bolt.

Carlos and Charles are hot on your tail—but so is security.

The walls bleed red with the lights. Carmine. Rosso Corsa. You make a sharp turn left. Service exit. Service exit.

“Alex, if the car’s not there, I’m slicing your fucking arm off.”

“Less talking and more running,” Alex responds, his voice sounding even more staticky than before as all three of you barrel down the narrow tunnel. Your steps are loud, too loud, and you have enough sense to duck your head to avoid getting hit by an industrial pipe.

A loud clang echoes behind you, followed by a sharp shout. Seems one of the security guards wasn’t as lucky.

“Door’s up ahead,” Alex informs you.

Carlos doesn’t waste time glancing behind before he pries the heavy metal door open. Given the loud, shrill sound the door makes, you gather it’s not as easy as he makes it look. You quietly thank the day Max had the foresight to hire Carlos as well.

As promised, there’s a car awaiting for you—a sleek red car with a loud rumbling engine.

“What is this?” you ask breathlessly. This isn’t subtle. This is the opposite of subtle.

“Just get in.” Carlos opens the passenger door and takes his seat. You swallow the other comments resting on your tongue and hurry onto the backseat. Love it when a plan comes together.

As you’re climbing onto your seat, you catch a glance of the driver behind the wheel—someone who is decidedly not the Aussie you know. In fact, it’s someone unfamiliar and younger—much younger.

Your entire face twists as you latch your hand onto the back of Carlos’ headrest. “Are you kidding?” you ask rhetorically as Charles haphazardly climbs onto his spot. You glance at the Spaniard with disbelief. “Who’s this—your nephew?”

The driver ignores you, rolling his eyes. “Who’s this—your wife?” he parrots back. You’re fairly sure you can see the white stick of a lollipop poking out from the corner of his mouth.

Both Carlos and you accidentally meet each other’s gazes. Carlos scowls. You shudder, sliding back onto your seat. “Gross.”

Carlos exhales exasperatedly. “Just drive, Lando.”

The engine rumbles even louder than before, and the car dashes out of the alley. You lay back against the headrest, only to catch a glance of the driver in the rearview mirror.

Charles peers at you, arms empty now that he has left the painting in the trunk. Buildings and street signs blur past you. “What’s with all the complaints today?”

You glare at him. Alarms. Security. Fleeing on the least inconspicuous car to have ever been made—and the police probably well on their way. “Max is gonna have all of our asses. We’re freakin’ fucked.”

The car turns sharply at an intersection, making your head slam against the window. Pain sparks from your temple near immediately. “Fuck!”

“Y’should watch your head,” Lando calls out, and you can see the conniving little smirk on his lips on the rearview mirror. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he shrugs. “And your mouth.”

To say Max isn’t happy with you all would be the understatement of the century. The silver lining, you suppose, is that he hasn’t yet started yelling.

There’s still plenty of time, though.

You watch as Max runs a hand through his face exasperatedly. You shift on your spot. The warehouse feels distinctly colder than it did when you left earlier today.

Carlos stands beside you, body wired and tense. Annoyed. He glances at Alex before finally asking, “What was with the alarms?”

Alex straightens on his chair, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I was, uh, checking that.” His chair spins to the side a little. He pointedly looks away from Max. At this point, you know that even making eye contact with him at in ill-timed moment could be enough to finally spark his temper. “My working theory is that the museum must’ve done a few security upgrades. Something that wasn’t in the original blueprints that Charles gave me.”

Charles arches a brow. “So, it is my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Your face scrunches. “Why?”

Alex shrugs. “Well, maybe the blueprints were a little dated, but that doesn’t mean Charles is to blame for—”

“No, I mean—why would a museum upgrade their security system so recently? So suddenly?”

Lando clicks his tongue, legs resting on a table by the corner of the warehouse. “Maybe they’ve seen the news,” he supplies, vague disinterest dripping from his tone.

You fold your arms over your chest, jaw ticking. You narrow your eyes at the new driver. “Or maybe they were tipped off.”

Lando’s brows knit-together as he meets your gaze. “What’re you looking at me for?” he scoffs. “I’m no snitch.”

Max calls your name, and you stifle a flinch. “That’s enough,” he says with an air of finality. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re staying to check the state of the painting. I want you to arrange a meeting with the buyer you’ve got lined up. Text me the information when you get it.”

“Fine—I mean, yeah. Sure.”

Carlos takes that as his cue. And now that you’ve all changed out of your gray coveralls, with him now wearing his usual long-sleeved black tee, he reaches for his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. He shares a look with Max as he straightens. “I’ll be waiting for my cut,” Carlos says pointedly.

Charles follows shortly, lightly nudging your shoulder. “See you next week?” he asks you, and you nod.

And then, as per usual, all that’s left is Max, Alex, and you. Well. Plus the new uninvited presence. You side-glance at Lando, who’s still scrolling on his phone, biting on the plastic stick of his lollipop. His legs rest on the table, recklessly swinging back on his chair. You resist the urge to tell him to cut it out before he falls and breaks his face.

Before you can fish for another argument, your phone buzzes in your hand, and the screen lights up with a notification from Alex. You furrow your brows at him, to which he subtly tilts his head towards the new driver. You tap the file he sent you.

It’s a police record.

Lando Norris. Your eyes skim through it. Illegal street racing. Reckless driving. So, he’s been arrested before.

“Alex,” Max calls.

“Hm?”

“The security system. Check what’s different.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Alex responds, face scrunched up. “I’ve said it a hundred times—that’s just cinema bullshit. I need the updated schematics to do a full review. I also need to see it in person, or at least to be in the vicinity. Movies always make it seem so easy but it’s really not—”

“Albon.”

The sharpness of Max’s tone makes him puff out his cheeks. “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow to see it in person.”

Max nods, his index and thumb rubbing against his eyes. He strides towards Alex, leaning over to see his computer screen. “Walk me through what went wrong today.”

Alex and Max’s voices settle into the background as you turn your focus back to the new face in the warehouse. Charles, Carlos and Alex didn’t seem all that surprised about Lando’s presence—which begs the question, were you the only one that wasn’t told, or simply the only one that cared?

You’re sitting down across from Lando before you can think better of it.

“Street racing,” you say, and he doesn’t even raise his gaze from his phone. You inch closer to him, tilting your head. “That’s what you were doing before this? Street racing?”

Green eyes flick up to you. There’s an unreadable glint in his gaze you can’t seem to place. “Did you do a background check on me already?” he drawls. “I’m flattered.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s with the change in career paths?”

He pulls his legs off the table, leaning his torso towards you. Lando shrugs, assessing you. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

“I wanna know who I’m in bed with.” Lando scoffs a laugh, and you don’t miss the way his eyes deliberately drop across your frame. You can practically see the comment resting on his tongue, so you quickly correct, “Who I’m working with.”

Lando clicks his tongue, appearing uninterested. “I don’t work with you. I work with Carlos—for Max now, apparently.”

“Mhm. Semantics.” You wave him off. That’s not the information you’re here for. “How many jobs have you pulled with him?”

Lando straightens at that, faux-surprised expression falling on his face. Finally, it seems, you’ve piqued his interest. “Oh, he hasn’t told you?” The corner of his lips twitches upward into a smirk. He lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like trouble in paradise to me.”

You give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Team chemistry’s at an all time high. We’re fine.”

Lando reaches beside you for his keys, and you feel his scent wash over you. Some expensive cologne. Sweat. Pine. He arches a brow, looking annoyingly smug. “Clearly.”

His chair screeches against the floor as he stands up and heads out. Before he does, you call out: “Did you at least win a few races?”

Lando chuckles, walking backwards as he gives you a self-assured shrug. “What do you think?”

Sunlight seeps through the overhead skylight as you stride down the gallery. Today, your outfit is a far cry from the gray coveralls Max had you wear two weeks ago. Instead of looking like the cleaning crew, today you’re wearing expensive clothes provided by Max—from where, you never ask—to play the part of the interested potential buyer. Nothing too showy, but classy enough to blend in among the other buyers wandering around in the gallery.

Charles wanders around the opposite side of the room, not wanting to seem like the two of you arrived together. He studies the angles of the cameras, the amount of security guards posted around the halls while you study the paintings. Even with your sunglasses on, you can tell the paintings from a distance. A Bogdanov-Belsky by the exit, a Caillebotte at your left, a Sisley on your right.

You stop your walk around the room as you find yourself face-to-face with a Theodore Robinson work that seems familiar, but you can’t quite remember the name of. You read the plaque recently installed next to it. A Trout Stream, Normandy.

“So,” Charles prompts, moving to stand beside you as he analyzes the painting in front of you. He looks nothing like he did a week ago—definitely not like someone who was stealing a prized piece of artwork with you. A matching pair of sunglasses are perched on his nose. “Thoughts on the new driver?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass,” you mutter, tilting your head as you move onto the next painting. It’s a Monet. You sigh, turning to Charles. “I miss Danny.”

Charles chuckles at that. “I get it. But Lando… he’s a decent enough driver—rough edges and all.”

You’re not sure you believe it all that much. Still, you murmur, “And that’s all we need, right?” You click your tongue, tilting your head appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”

Charles nods, watching the painting. “She really is.”

“Vue de la tour Montalban,” you hum. The one you’d been keeping an eye out for. “I have to say, it’s not my favorite Monet. It even feels out of place in this gallery, doesn’t it?” You kiss your teeth. “Can you believe she’s going for three million euros?”

“Auction is in two weeks.” There’s a thrilling look spreading across Charles’ face. He meets your gaze. “How’s three million split six ways sound to you?”

Now that brings a smile to your lips. “Make it rain.”

There are many upsides to working with Max. He’s meticulous. Likes to make sure you understand the layout of the place before throwing you into action. He always has a plan, if not, then an outline to be worked upon. He’s fast, and all you need to do is keep track of what he says about the job and learn it by heart. You appreciate that about him—that feeling that he always seems to value other people’s time. At least, you think that’s it. It could also be that he’s always in a rush to get things done and move on with them.

Today, the layout of the warehouse feels remarkably like being back at school. You sit on a chair with a desk attached to it, along with a notepad and a pen in hand. Usually, you don’t have an issue—usually. You take notes, you finish them at work, you do your research, and you’re done. But today—today your notes are not nearly as thorough as you’d like them to be.

Lando’s leg is bouncing against your chair. It makes your jaw tick, your concentration dwindle. Your chair creaks, and your patience frays.

You spin your head around, frustration evident. “Do you mind?”

Lando is relaxedly sprawled against his chair, pen tapping incessantly against his desk. He doesn’t even have anything to write on. He raises a brow at you, tilting his head. “What’re you on about?”

“You’re kicking my chair,” you hiss. You think you hear Alex snort, but you make a point to ignore him. “Cut it out.”

“What? ‘M not even doing anything.” Lando rolls his eyes, and there’s just something about him—an aura of smugness that seems to ripple from him in waves—that grates at you. You bite your tongue, lock your jaw, and turn around to face Max, who thankfully hasn’t cut his explanation short.

Max projects two pictures of the gallery. Hallways, rooms, camera angles and security placement—all courtesy of Charles and the gallery’s Instagram page. Your pen scratches on the yellowed paper before the bouncing against your chair starts again.

You whip your head around. “Are you five?”

He has his pen cap between his teeth when he responds with a shrugged: “What’s your problem?”

You scoff in disbelief. “My problem?”

“Lando,” Carlos says. Lando’s jaw ticks as he turns his gaze away from you, and it’s only then that you notice the slight furrow of his brows, the faintest traces of confusion embedded there.

For a moment, he looks like he’s going to defend himself. His leg bounces in its place, accidentally nudging against your chair again. He seems to opt for a different option, and instead, he says, “If you think the cops are expecting another robbery,” he starts, slowly, “wouldn’t it be smarter to steal from some low-security gallery? Or a museum with an eighty-something old security guard?” He licks his lips, running a hand through his curls as he leans back against his chair. “I just—doesn’t an auction seem too high profile?”

Charles shares an amused smile with you before he twists around in his chair to face Lando. “That’s the beauty of it.”

His jaw ticks. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s a rich people auction,” you say, as if that explains it. Lando stares at you, as if to say, you’re doing this on purpose. And yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you like seeing him not looking so smug. “Rich people think they’re untouchable. Like they exist on a whole different plane. They’ll do adjustments—showy things, like making more security guards stand at the entrance—but nothing that will inconvenience their precious costumers.

“No security system updates. No metal detectors. Nothing,” Alex adds with a relaxed shrug. “Works in our favor.”

Lando taps his pen against the desk. You’re enjoying this more than you should—finally seeing him realize he might be out of his depth. Or, at the very least, that he’s the outsider here.

Finally, he shrugs, leaning back against his chair. “If you say so.”

Strokes of green and viridian. Splashes of the pale purples and pinks of orchids. Touches of white jasmines and buttery-yellow tulips. The floral scent of hibiscus and roses always helps you concentrate—and, truly, you cannot bring yourself to understand why people go out of their way to study in noisy coffee shops when flower shops are always quieter, more welcoming environments.

Maybe it’s just you. Though, you suppose it helps that during most days it’s just Ollie and you.

You re-tie your apron as you turn the page on your art book, where you find a description on Claude Monet’s Vue de la tour Montalban. You lean closer to the counter, shifting your notepad as you write down, oil on canvas. 61.2 by 81.7 centimeters. Executed in 1874. Pending history of provenance. You draw a little asterisk there to remind yourself to check that later. Buyers rarely care for the past ownership of paintings, but in the case they do, it’s always useful to have it researched and ready.

The bell from the shop dings, and you don’t bother looking up. At this hour, it’s usually kids that never buy anything—or customers that take too long to decide and make a hundred turns around the store. Still, you chime, “welcome! Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Your attention is still set on your art book, reading the small note underneath the painting’s description. Monet’s first trip to the Netherlands was not a pleasant journey in search of new subject matters, but a necessity of politics. After Monet, his wife Camille and their baby spent the Franco-Prussian War—

A man stops just behind the counter, setting down a bouquet of pink roses. It forces you to look away from your work and put on your customer-service smile. “How can I—”

Your entire body grows cold, ice pricking against your skin. Those smug, annoying green eyes peer back at you, brows raised in slight surprise and lips curved upward.

“Oh, look who it is,” Lando drawls, looking disgustingly amused. “What is it, sweet little florist by day, art thief by night?” He drums his fingers against the counter, turning his head to scan around the shop. “It’s a nice place you got, by the way. Do you own it, or just work shifts?”

Finally, you find your voice. “What the hell?” Your thoughts are running too fast for you to properly process them. How is he here? How did he find you? “You need to leave. Now.”

Lando leans against the counter, arms folded over it. He’s not looking all that different from the other few times you’ve seen him. Black hoodie, dark jeans. He has the hood down this time, revealing unruly curls that somehow look in disarray but in a stylish manner.

Lando narrows his eyes. “What? So you can run background checks on me, but it’s wrong when I do it?”

You barely have time to spare a glance and check whether Ollie is in the near vicinity when you reach for the strings of his hoodie and yank him down to your level.

You glare at him. “What if I showed up to your place of work, huh?”

Lando snorts, unmoved by the sudden closeness. “I don’t work. Y’think driving cars for Max is a side-gig? I don’t double as Uber.”

“You are way out of line just by being here. Do you have any idea—”

Ollie calls your name from the back, making you stiffen. You let go of Lando’s clothes and turn around, hoping you don’t look as on-edge as you feel.

Ollie stands by the hydrangeas, matching white apron tied around his waist. “Hey, everything okay?” he asks softly, momentarily glancing at Lando. Ollie stands straighter, jaw tensing, as if trying to intimidate him. He turns back to you, traces of concern evident in his voice. “Is he bothering you?”

You blink. Then, you smile. “Ah. No—we’re okay. Thanks, Ollie.”

He nods, though unconvinced. He spares Lando one last look before going to water the lilies.

Ollie is barely out of earshot when Lando grins. “Someone has a crush,” he says in sing-song tone. It makes your eye twitch. “I get it. The whole girl-next-door, girl working at the flower shop vibe must work wonders for you.”

Your jaw ticks, a retort already posed on the tip of your tongue—but you can see Ollie lingering out of the corner of your vision. He’s a worrier—usually, it’s a good trait that favors him. He’s never late. The flowers under his care rarely ever die. He’s lended you his keys more times than you can count. But the last thing you need right now is another set of ears and eyes on Lando.

You bite your tongue until it bleeds. You smile, reaching for his pink roses. “Will that be cash or card?”

Afternoon air feels cold inside the warehouse as you pace, fists angrily clenched at your sides as you finally stop.

Max raises an unimpressed brow from his seat. “Are you done?”

“He went to where I work, Max!” There’s anger in your voice, indignation—but also something you haven’t quite placed yet. You still can’t get over Lando’s sheer audacity. “Not even Charles has that information.”

Alex raises his hand from his seat, noodles stuffed into his mouth. “I do.”

“That’s not the point.”

Max sighs, blue eyes scanning the printed documents you gave him. All the relevant information you could get on the painting you’ll be stealing from the auction—from the name to the possible prince ranges to the material of the frame. His eyes flick up to you, uninterested. “I’ll get Carlos to talk to him.”

Your jaw twitches. “Should’a bashed his fucking nose in the second he stepped in.��

“Don’t,” Max says, waving his hand, never looking away from your notes. “That could severely impair his ability to drive.”

“And we need a driver.” Alex supplies helpfully.

“Do your best not to damage him, yes?”

Your voice is quiet and barely restrained when you reply, “No promises.”

Lando is late. Which isn’t good—for a number of reasons. Starting with the fact that you’re stealing the painting from the Wolff auction tonight. It’s quite a sight you’re left with as you all wait for Lando to show up. Carlos and Max are wearing black suits and matching bow ties, while you wear a black silk dress and flats. Alex, on the other hand, is lucky enough to stay wearing a baby blue hoodie and jeans while he lounges in front of his monitors.

“If he doesn’t get here soon, we’re gonna be behind schedule,” Alex notes.

You fold your arms over your chest, a knowing scoff escaping you. “Didn’t I say he was unreliable?”

“He’ll be here,” Carlos says gruffly.

The door to the warehouse slides open as Lando steps in, looking out of breath. “Sorry! I’m here.”

You don’t realize you’re staring until Lando throws you a look that says what are you looking at? His hair is more messy than usual, the buttons of his dress shirt halfway undone as he fixes his suit jacket, no tie in sight. “Hell has frozen over.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “I couldn't find a tux on such short notice. I had to borrow it from a friend.”

“Why are you wearing a suit? You’re the getaway driver. Drivers don’t need to dress up.”

Lando clicks his tongue. “Y’know, for once, we’re actually in agreement, sunshine.”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Max states.

“Change of plans?” Max never changes his plans. Ever. He’s thorough, he’s precise—he doesn’t make changes because he doesn’t miscalculate. “Why?”

Max runs his ringed fingers across his jaw. “Charles isn’t making it tonight.” Your brow twitches. You’d assumed the reason Charles wasn’t here already was because he’d be meeting with you at the auction. “Some detective brought him in for questioning. He’s fine.”

“Is he?” Lando asks.

Max arches a brow, as if surprised Lando was the one to question him. “He will be, once we pull off this job without him and cops rule him out as a suspect.”

You start running the scenario in your mind. It doesn’t work—surely Max has realized that it doesn’t work. “I thought you said this was a four person job. Distraction, two for extraction, look out.”

“It is.” Max glances at Lando.

The protest is on your tongue before he can elaborate. “No, no. He is not replacing Charles—”

Lando seems just as opposed to the idea, protesting, “I’m the driver, breaking into auctions is not in my job description—”

Max pinches his nose, raising his hand to silence the two of you. “It’s either Lando or Alex.”

You don’t even blink. “Then it’s Alex.”

The man in question flinches in his chair.

“That’s not—it can’t be Alex, I need him shutting down the security system remotely and erasing any trace of us ever being there.”

“I don’t get why you can’t just contact Danny.”

Carlos shrugs. “Last I heard, he has the feds on his ass. We shouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Really?” You sigh. “Damn. I liked Danny.”

“Forget about Daniel,” Max says, exasperated. He meets your gaze. “Lando’s coming with—either get on board or get out.”

The car ride to the auction is quiet. Until—

“Are you even aware of the plan?”

Lando rolls his eyes so far back he probably gets a glimpse of his brain. “Are you even aware of the meter-long stick you’ve got up your arse? It’s a wonder you can even sit down—”

“Ya, suficiente. You two are acting like children,” Carlos groans into his palm, looking out the window.

“She started it,” Lando mutters, parking the car into the alley. For once, he’s chosen a vehicle that’s actually inconspicuous—no neon paint or an overly-loud engine, but just a sleek black car.

“We’ll go in first. Wait five minutes after us, so we don’t go in as a group. Carlos and I will go out the back,” Max explains. “Remember—eight security guards. You just need to distract the two that are posted outside of the room, and we’ll handle the rest.”

“Got it,” Lando says.

Max and Carlos step outside of the car, closing the doors behind them. Lando drums his fingers against the wheel, watching the two walk up to the entrance of the auction building. You stare at him from the backseat. A moment passes.

“Could you really not find a tie?”

Lando twists in his seat. “Can you lay off?” He glares at you. You meet it evenly. He’s the first to look away, muttering under his breath.

You roll your eyes. Instead of responding, you reach for your clutch, open the door of the car, and exit.

“Oi, five minutes are not—”

You open the door to the passenger seat and sit down. Lando looks at you weirdly, so you ignore him. You open your clutch, sifting through its contents. “Button up the rest of your shirt.”

“So, you’re giving orders now too, sunshine?”

“Quiet being so difficult.” Reluctantly, Lando does as you tell him. “And stop calling me sunshine.”

Lando scoffs, lips curving up into a smirk. “Why? I think it’s fitting. What with your sunny personality and all.”

You roll your eyes—and, really, that’s starting to become a habit whenever you’re around Lando. Finally, you pull out a rolled-up black tie from your clutch. You straighten it, making sure there are no visible creases and that it looks presentable enough.

You turn to Lando, and not trusting him to put it on properly, you wrap it around his neck. He leans closer to you, and you can feel his breath fanning against your forehead

“Why do you have a tie just on you?”

“It was for Charles,” you say, intent on making the perfect Windsor knot. “He had asked me to bring one for him. Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Lando snorts. “Yeah, right. Lucky.” It occurs to you at that very moment that Lando might not have experience with this type of job. That he might be nervous. You’re starting to consider offering some words of encouragement when Lando interrupts. “So, you and Charles, huh?”

“Me and Charles, what?”

“Y’know.” He shrugs. “You’re always paired up. You seem close. You had his tie in your purse.” You finish with his tie, but don’t pull back. Lando’s green eyes suddenly feel scrutinizing. “If you’re keeping it a secret from Max or something, you’re doing a shit job at it.”

You furrow your brows. Then, realization. A laugh bubbles out of you, and Lando has the sense to look surprised. “Charles and I aren’t… we’re not together, or anything. We’re friends.”

“…With benefits?”

You pull away from him. “You’re disgusting.”

Static sparks in your ear and Alex pipes up, “Look out and distraction. Can we get a move on?”

“Yep, on it,” you respond.

Getting inside is no issue—not when you both already look the part and Alex has gotten your fake names on the list. The hallways are well lit, a handful of collectors and potential bidders still wandering around, taking in the artwork that will be up for auction in an hour or two.

You’re about to get into position when you spot it, just out the corner of your eye. Forest greens. Splashes of blue. Bold strokes of red.

You’re walking up to the painting before you can think better of it. After tonight, it’s probably going to go into some rich person’s private gallery. You trace the metal plaque installed beside it—not that you need to read it, anyway. You know everything about it already.

Lando strides and settles beside you, hands inside the pockets of his slacks.

“Anémones, by Claude Monet,” you say absentmindedly. It’s part of a large collection—forty paintings with similar motifs—though you doubt Wolff managed to get possession of any others. Most of them have been tucked away from the public, belonging to miscellaneous private collections. “You know, I think this one is one of my favorites of his. He spent around four years just painting flowers for this collection—once, he actually said, I perhaps owe it to flowers for having become a painter.” More quotes of his come to mind, unbidden, from those late nights you spent studying to get your degree. What I need most are flowers, always, always.

You sigh, pulling away from it, feeling Lando’s attentive eyes on you.

“It’s tiny,” Lando says, as if the painting has personally wronged him.

“It’s not about the size.”

He chuckles. “D’you find yourself saying that a lot?”

The urge to smack him is strong. You stifle it. Instead, you turn to the artwork once again. Try to commit each brushstroke to memory—to appreciate the fact that, at least, you get to see it in person. One of the perks of the job, you suppose. “It’s just—sad. It’ll probably never be seen by anyone else again. Maybe it’ll even end up in some warehouse, gathering dust.”

“Why don’t you buy it, then?”

You exhale, tilting your head. “‘Cause it’s probably going for over 1.5 million euros.”

Lando coughs loudly, as if choking on air. He draws a few eyes your way. “1.5 million? For some shitty little painting of flowers?” Disbelief is evident in his voice. “Why would anyone spend that much to throw it in some warehouse? Scratch that—why would anyone spend that much period?”

“Rich people shit,” you murmur with a shrug, careful not to be overheard. “Auctions are for art collectors, sure—but there’s also uninformed millionaires with money to spend. And when there’s more of those—well, these things tend to become a dick measuring contest among them.”

Lando furrows his brows. He pokes his cheek with his tongue, thinking. “This isn’t the painting we’re here for, though.”

That snaps you back to reality. “No,” you say, sobering up. “It’s not.” But maybe a part of you wishes it was.

“Are you in position?” Alex asks through your earpiece. You hum in response, but don’t move.

Lando arches a brow, expectant. “So? Are you the distraction?”

This isn’t happening. “Yeah, Lando. I’m gonna bat my eyelashes and flash the security guards.” He blinks at you. Oh, he’s fucking clueless. “God, get a grip. I’m lookout. You’re distraction.”

His eyes widen comically. “What?” he asks, a little too loudly. “Is that true?” he hisses.

You can practically see Alex shrugging from the comforts of his seat. “You’re a lot more reckless than she is. You make for a better diversion.”

“What—What do I do?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t know how to be a fuckin’ distraction!”

Your smile drips with saccharine. “But you do it so naturally.”

Lando inhales deeply, and then moves towards the center of the room. Besides him, there’s a table with champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres. He lingers there, awkwardly, occasionally glancing at the two bodyguards posted outside of the room Max and Carlos have to get into.

You wince, tilting your head. It’s like staring at a car crash—tragic, terrible, but you can’t look away.

“He’s floundering,” you say. “Oh my god. Just pull on the freakin’ table cloth and break the glasses. What are you doing?”

Lando approaches one of the security guards, as if trying to establish conversation, but it doesn’t seem to work.

Unbelievable.

“We’re gonna miss the window,” Alex tells you.

You close your eyes, swallowing a groan. Damn it. “I’m going in.”

As Lando goes back to the table with the appetizers, you make a show of picking up one of the champagne flutes. Lando furrows his brows as he sees you, and you gesture for him to step closer to you.

He runs a hand through his curls, tugging at his hair. “Look, I don’t think I’m—”

“Oh my god, why do you keep following me?” you ask loudly, drawing the attention of multiple potential buyers and art collectors.

Lando’s eyes widen, glancing around. “What are you doing?”

You yank your hand back. “Let go of me!” you exclaim, making more heads turn. You can feel the eyes of the entire room on the two of you, all meaningless conversation ceasing near instantly.

“I’m not touching you,” Lando hisses.

A man side-steps you. A security guard, if the uniform means anything. He looks down at you. “Miss, is this man bothering you?”

Lando forces a smile, moving his hands in an attempt of a placating gesture. “This is all a big misunderstanding—”

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to back up.” He gestures at the other security guard to join. He settles behind Lando, a hand resting on his shoulder to prevent him from doing anything rash. The older security guard turns to you. “Ma’am?”

You widen your eyes. “Thank you so much, sir. He won’t stop following me. I’ve told him I’m not interested but he keeps—”

Finally, Lando seems to catch on to what you’re doing. “She’s lying, she’s a liar,” Lando declares loudly, dragging out the words. He makes a gesture as if trying to wave off the security guards. “She was all over me like a minute ago.”

You’re certain you hear a gasp somewhere in the room. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to swallow a laugh. Oh, is this what we’re doing now? If Lando thinks you’re one to back down from a challenge, then he’s sorely mistaken.

“That was before I found out you were engaged!” you cry out, whipping your head back to the security guard, reaching for his shirt dramatically. “Can you believe it?” you ask, and the man blinks down at you blankly. “His fiancé is probably at home, wondering why he’s stuck at work—meanwhile he’s feeling me up in a closet!”

You watch as Lando bites the inside of his cheek. He coughs to cover up a laugh.

“It was a very nice closet.”

“You are unbelievable—”

“Okay, I’m going to have to ask you two to leave,” the first security guard says, all too aware of the sudden quiet that has fallen over the room.

“Me? But he’s the one that—I came for the auction, I was—”

“Ma’am, please, it’s better if we handle this outside.” The way his palm latches onto your shoulder tells you it’s less of a suggestion and more of an order.

“Outside? But I don’t want—”

“They have it,” Alex says.

“—on second thought, going outside sounds divine.”

Lando lets himself be pushed by the security guard, who is decidedly less gentle than the one guiding you. Before leaving, however, Lando turns to the crowd and calls out, “You might want to send your coats to the cleaners. Or burn them.” He’s shoved by the security guard. “You folks have a good night!”

By the time the two of you are outside, escorted by security, you and Lando are still bickering. “You always do this, you have to make a scene out of nothing—”

“I’m making a scene? Maybe I should tell Tara about how it was my name you were saying when you—”

The doors to the auction building close, and your faux screaming match ceases. Lando stares at you. You stare a him. Your lips break into a smile, before a barely-stifled laugh sparks out of you and Lando follows suit.

“I don’t think I knew heists could be this fun,” you say between giggles. The two of you start walking towards the car, ready for when Carlos and Max arrive with the painting in tow.

“Yeah,” Lando grins. “Me neither.”

The two of you fall into easy step, side by side. The knot you made for Lando’s tie is starting to come loose and your black dress is starting to itch. When his hand accidentally brushes with yours, you find it doesn’t bother you all that much.

Lando is unlocking the car when realization rolls down your back like a cold bucket of ice.

“I was supposed to be lookout,” you say blankly, stiffly.

Shit.

“Do you have any idea how fucking unprofessional this was?” Max barks at you. You feel glued to your spot, something like a knot forming in your throat. Your cheeks feel hot, your hands clammy. Usually—usually, you’re never at the receiving end of Max’s anger-induced reprimands. You don’t mess up. Not like this, anyway. “We could’ve been arrested. Carlos nearly was arrested. Cops could have my fucking face in their radar now. Do you even understand what that means?” His jaw twitches, a muscle tensing as he glares at you. You stare at the floor. “We had a plan. You were supposed to be lookout. You nearly fucked up this entire operation.”

Your throat feels dry, your stomach in knots. You lick your lips, your voice weak when you try to apologize. “I’m—”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Lando protests.

Max’s eyes narrow in his direction, with Lando sitting over one of the tables of the warehouse. His jaw looks like it’s one misdirected comment from splintering in half. “She should’ve known better,” he growls.

Lando hops off the table, tie and suit jacket long discarded. He scoffs, doing a quick once-over of Max. Seizing him up. It’s not a good idea. “Yeah, maybe, but you don’t have to be a dickhead about it.”

“Lando.”

“What?” he asks, turning to you with disbelief written all over his face—as if to say, are you really gonna let him speak to you like this? “He’s being a prick.” Lando steps closer to Max, putting some distance between the two of you. He works his jaw with his knuckles, green eyes narrowed. “If your plan didn’t work out like you wanted, then maybe the problem isn’t her—maybe the problem is you.”

Max’s cold, calculating gaze sweeps over Lando, before a scoff escapes him. He shakes his head, as if discarding a thought. “You’re out.”

Lando huffs. “Fine by me, prick.”

“Not you.” Max’s gaze flicks to you.

The warehouse falls silent. You watch as Alex freezes on his chair, confusion and disbelief clear in his face.

Understanding feels remarkably like trying to digest a pile of stones. Hard to swallow. Heavy in your gut. You don’t trust your voice, yet you hear yourself asking— “Are you serious?”

Max looks unfazed. “You’ve proven you’re unreliable. I don’t work with unreliable people.” His voice is nothing but cold when he repeats, “You’re out.”

“Maybe this isn’t a decision we should—” Alex tries.

“But it wasn’t her fault,” Lando repeats loudly, frustration bleeding into his words.

“You will create a line of contact with the buyer we had agreed on. I will wire you your part of the money,” Max continues, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on you. You feel like you’re going to throw up—worse, you think you’re going to cry. “But after that, I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

You clench your fists at your side, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Is this all it takes? One mistake? It’s unfair, you think. It’s so fucking unfair. But Max has never particularly cared for fair—only for results. And today, you might’ve cost him the one thing he values above money: his identity. All it takes is one cop to make the connection, to linger on Max’s presence a moment too long, and this all unravels. He already said Charles had been taken in, that Carlos nearly got arrested. There’s too much heat at the moment to afford any loose ends.

Still.

You laugh. It’s a bitter, bitter thing. It coils inside your chest, around your ribcage. You feel pinpricks behind your eyes, but you’ll be damned if you even shed a single tear in his presence. “You know what? Fuck you, Max.”

You feel tremors in your bones—loss, maybe. Frustration. Embarrassment. Anger.

In the end, you walk out of the warehouse with your head held high, and Lando following just a few steps back.

“Fuck you!”

The metal door slams loudly behind you.

The drive home is quiet. Lando buckled his seatbelt silently, jaw tense and knuckles tight around the steering wheel. You didn’t speak, so neither did he.

Droplets of rain fall against the windshield, the clouds bleeding into different shades of indigo. Finally, the car skids to a halt. The drop-off point. A place that is neither too close nor too far away from your apartment—not close enough to give away any personal information, but not too far that you’ll have to spend a long time walking home.

You stare at the dashboard, at the smeared traffic lights that bleed into one another through the window.

This is it. It’s over.

“I’m sorry,” Lando says quietly, motionlessly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was. Fuck,” Lando squeezes his eyes, tugging too harshly at his hair. The silence lifts, paving the way for a frantic sort of planning. “I’ll explain it to him. I’ll make him listen—”

That almost draws a laugh out of you. “You can’t make Max do anything. Nobody can.” Your face crumples like paper, frustration tearing you apart at the seams. You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “How could I make such a stupid, stupid mistake? I know better than that.”

“Stop it,” Lando says harshly, sharply, “you didn’t make a mistake—you were great. If anything, this whole plan was doomed the moment he decided to make me replace Charles.”

You huff a laugh. Lando leans his head against the headrest, pursing his lips, as if considering something. Silence settles once again. You can hear the rain pattering against the roof of the car. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“I should tell you,” Lando starts. “It was an accident, that day I went to the flower shop.” He turns to you, shoulders dropping a little. “I didn’t know you worked there.”

A scoff scratches against your throat. “Yeah, right.” There’s no real malice behind your words, not anymore. Just exhaustion. You feel worn to the bone. Exposed. “You were just getting flowers, and it just so happened to be the flower shop I work at?”

“I didn’t know,” he insists, stammering, “It’s—It’s near my place.” He runs a hand through his curls again, as if that’ll help him convey his thoughts more clearly. “Running into you was an unlucky coincidence and I was—I was being a dick.”

Your brow twitches. “Are you… apologizing to me right now?”

“You’re sure as hell not making it easy.”

You chuckle. “Right.” You slump your head against the car seat. Surprisingly enough, you find you believe him. Maybe it should bother you more, that he knows where you work. Until a few days ago, it did. You’re not quite sure why it doesn’t anymore. At least now you know he didn’t do it to get under your skin.

Exhaustion makes you honest. “Did she like the flowers, at least? Your girlfriend?”

Lando squints, then laughs—a weak sound, tired—as he shakes his head. “I, no. No, the flowers were for my sister. She, uh…” he drums the pads of his fingers against the steering wheel, “She likes roses, and she’d just had a baby.”

“So, you’re an uncle now,” you note.

He shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks.”

“And, for the record, you were. Being a dick.” You exhale, tilting your head towards him. He meets your gaze evenly. “But I was also an ass to you. Multiple times. So… yeah.”

The corner of his lips curve up into a smile. “Was that an apology?”

“Take it or leave it, hotwheels.”

“I’ll take it.”

You click your tongue. “Since we’re speaking now, I should probably warn you to steer clear of the flower shop.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause of that, but also because I lied to Ollie and told him you were a piece of shit ex of mine.”

“Woah,” Lando straightens off his seat, “you told your boyfriend I was your ex?”

You roll your eyes, and the weight of the day feels a little lighter on your shoulders. “Ollie’s not my boyfriend, he’s my coworker. And he had a few questions after you left—figured it was a good lie in case you ever tried to come back again.”

Lando scoffs. “Please. Like the kid could take me. He waters plants for a living.”

You squint. “I mean—he is taller than you.” You shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

You can feel Lando’s eyes on you. Lingering. Tracing your features. “Why’d you work there?” he asks, softer this time. “You clearly don’t need the money.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You mean other than you’ve been pulling jobs with Max for a while?” He gestures at your hand. “I’m pretty sure that little bracelet of yours is worth more than you’d make in a year.” You glance down at it. It’s a small, barely noticeable silver chain. You bought it with the money from your first heist under Max. “Selling flowers doesn’t exactly sound like a lucrative business.”

You think about it for a moment. “I worked there when I was younger. The owner—she’s too old to take care of it now. It almost feels like it’s my own place in the world, you know?” You sigh, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I don’t know, maybe I just need to be a normal human being for a couple of hours a day.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, they’re tinted with a sarcastic scoff. “Like there’s anything normal about me,” you mutter, suddenly annoyed.

You rob museums and millionaire-funded auctions. You spend hours at your day job studying paintings you’re planning to steal and sell. Your best friend is a lockpick and a pickpocketer that has stolen your wallet multiple times for fun. You use your art degree and your contacts to fence stolen paintings for money.

“Who cares about normal?” Lando says, as if it’s the most natural response in the world. “Normal’s boring.” He looks at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

Lando’s eyes are pretty, you realize with startling shock. Not quite green, but not hazel either. There are splashes of blue there—daubs of brown in a sea of green. You can feel yourself lingering—maybe he can feel it too.

“I should go,” you say, reaching for the handle of the door. It’s still raining outside. The cold air rushes inside the car like a rippling wave.

“I don’t have one, by the way,” Lando says suddenly, abruptly. He grimaces, his nonchalant act faltering. “A girlfriend, I mean. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You can see from the way his face twists up that he regrets ever speaking. You shake your head, and to your own surprise, you find yourself smiling.

“See you around, Lando.”

Weeks pass by slowly. Mornings stretch into dull afternoons, days feeling grayer and grayer as winter starts to roll in. You try to make a routine for yourself, something to keep you from focusing on that throbbing emptiness you feel in your chest whenever you stop.

So, you don’t stop. You arrive at the shop hours earlier and leave at long after sundown. You trim bonsais and water plants and throw away flowers that have long since dried. You wipe the windows. You scrub down the counter. At some point, you find yourself staring at a pair of scissors and wonder whether you should cut your hair.

You start bringing your art textbooks back to work. There’s no heist to prepare, no painting to study—but you let your mind wander, just occasionally, as you study the different artworks. Kahlo, Bracquemond, Malharro, Lira. If Ollie notices any changes with you, he’s smart enough not to mention it.

It’s not like you need the money—though it’s always a pleasant addition. You’ve saved enough so that if you don’t live extravagantly, you could manage. But you miss the thrill, the rush of adrenaline it gives you.

The only time you let yourself linger is at night—when you stare at your phone for a moment too long, unsure whether you’re waiting for a text from Max or a text from Lando.

Neither ever comes.

You received a text from Alex, a few days after your unceremonious severing of ties—a text he undoubtedly sent behind Max’s back. It was an apology—something short, sweet, and enough for you to appreciate it.

The one person you’ve been talking to consistently is Charles. He must’ve been the last to get the news—and a part of you can’t help but wonder how he reacted. He’s more level headed than most of you, but still.

“I could quit,” he told you one afternoon, over the phone. You could imagine the concentrated pinch of his brows, the displeased turn of his lips. “We used to manage just fine before, when it was just us.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering.”

You sighed, going quiet for a moment. “It’s fine, Charlie. I mean it.” A beat. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Charles had just grumbled something in French, and that was that. You saw the news a few days after that—another auction house, a painting robbed from right under their noses. What surprised you was that the painting they stole—a Camille Pissarro—wasn’t even the most valuable work of his that had been on display that night. It almost managed to cheer you up a little. Their loss.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to close? I can stay a little longer,” Ollie says, untying his apron and hanging it behind the counter.

“I’m sure, Ollie,” you say, shaking your head. “Go home. It’s getting late.”

Ollie hums, bidding you a quick goodbye before exiting the shop to go get his bike. He’s a good kid, you think. You’re still not quite sure what you’ll do once he graduates.

The bell rings, and you find yourself fighting off a smile as you hang your apron beside his. “Did you forget something?” you call out.

You hear Ollie’s footsteps draw closer to the counter. Slow, measured. Then—

“Actually, I was hoping to get a suggestion.” You turn your head around so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. And there he is—decidedly not Ollie—standing in the middle of your shop like he belongs there. Lando’s hair looks longer, tousled, curls unruly as ever. He still wears that black hoodie of his, paired up with black jeans and sneakers. He’s tilting his head at you, waiting.

“We’re closed,” you say blankly. And, really—it’s jarring, seeing him here after expecting not to see him again unless he was showing up on the news.

“I figured,” he says. His fingers drum against the counter, green eyes with a mischievous glint. “Then again, I’m not really here for the flowers.”

Your mouth feels dry. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says honestly, earnestly. It makes something jump inside your chest. Something curls inside your gut—a feeling distinctly opposite to the bottomless pit that’s been churning in your stomach for over a month.

“Did you, now?”

“You haven’t exactly made it easy,” Lando says, curious eyes scanning the place. Still, you can see the growing grin in his lips. “You did warn me off visiting this place again.” He shrugs. “S’not like I had your number.”

You’re not sure why that makes your lips quirk up, gaze tinged with amusement. “Not like it would’ve been that hard to get it.”

He hums, sidestepping the counter as he strides closer to you—close enough that you can see that mischievous glint dancing in his green eyes. Mischievous, but paired with something… softer. “You just love arguing with me, don’t you?” Lando asks, head tilted.

“Not anymore than you do,” you respond.

Lando leans closer, eyes flickering down to your lips. You can feel his breath fanning against your cheeks. His hand brushes against your waist—slowly, tentatively.

“You know, it’s been a shit show without you,” he says quietly. Like a secret only you’re privy to. “Not that he would admit it. I’m pretty sure he got scammed with this last buyer—”

You lick your lips, reaching up for the strings of his hoodie. “I don’t wanna talk about Max,” you murmur. It’s not out of resentment, either—but looking at Lando under the warm light, cheeks rosy and lips pink, Max might just be the last thing on your mind.

Neither of you are sure who makes the first move—it’ll be something to argue about later. There’s nothing gentle or soft about the way Lando kisses. It’s teeth on teeth, tongue on tongue—a competition on who can be the first to draw blood. Still, you can feel him smiling against your lips, his hands splayed around your waist as your arms reach up around his neck. His teeth pull against your bottom lip. Your fingers pull against his hair. You’re the first to draw a sound out of him, making you grin.

When you pull apart, both your lips are glossy and rosier than they were before. He looks breathless. You imagine you do too.

“You can be really infuriating, you know?” Lando asks.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

He scoffs a laugh. “You just can never let me win, can you?”

“Definitely not.”

Before you can help yourself, you’re bringing him closer to you again, pressing your lips against his. Your tongue darts against his bottom lip, making him hum.

He pulls away first, eyes dazed. He looks down at your lips again then back up at you, as if restraining himself. “Let me take you out,” he says abruptly, voice a little wrecked at the end, “like on a proper date.”

You smile as you press your nose against his neck, lips trailing over the skin. He shudders, and it only eggs you on.

“Yeah?” you tease, voice breathy and quiet. Lando groans, moving to capture your lips with his again. “Where will you take me, hotwheels?” you ask between kisses.

He grins, green eyes alight. “Anywhere you want, sunshine.”

By the time Lando leaves, night has fallen outside, and closing time has long since passed. At last, it’s just you in the flower shop, lights turned off and windows locked.

You’re about to lock up and leave for the night, when you notice a small package you hadn’t seen before tucked into a corner, just beside the door. You kneel down, curious. It’s wrapped in a brownish paper, paired with a Fragile! Handle with Care sticker. You furrow your brows. There’s no way this is Ollie’s.

You wonder whether you should call him. Ask if he forgot a package. The thought dies as quickly as it appears. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you find yourself tearing at the brown paper.

The first thing you see is strokes of green. Perfected brushes of red and blue. You don’t believe your eyes. The gentle unwrapping becomes more desperate, urgent. Once it’s completely off, it’s unmistakable.

Anémones by Claude Monet. Inside your shop. In your hands. You’ve gone insane. There’s simply no other explanation for it.

You don’t know how long you sit there, on your knees, staring at the wooden frame in your hands. You don’t blink—afraid that the moment you do, it’ll vanish like you never had it in the first place.

You move your hand, only to feel something odd behind the frame. You scramble to turn it around, spotting a small, tiny slip of paper tucked behind.

You unfold it. There’s a phone number scribbled on it, followed by: No more excuses.

Then, on the other side: I think I’m starting to get why you liked this one so much.

You blink. Did Lando—

Fuck, he did. How did he get it? When did he get it? Your fingers trace the painting gently, as if it’ll turn to dust with the minimal pressure. Your body slumps forward slightly, disbelieving. This is yours now.

You drive home following every traffic law to ever exist. You signal as you turn, body taut like wire, unconsciously acting as if there’s already police eyeing you suspiciously. It’s only once you’re inside your apartment that you allow your shoulders to drop and gently place the painting on your rug.

A part of you wants to hide it under your bed. What if someone finds out? But even looking at it now, you know you could never do that.

You try to bite down a smile, but it’s futile. Maybe you could ask Lando for ideas on where to hang it. The thought feels remarkably like sunlight warming your chest.

You’re floating a bit, mind drifting anywhere other than your apartment. You still can’t quite believe it. All those thefts, all those fenced paintings and sculptures—it never occurred to you that you could keep one as your own. Lando did that.

When you reach for your phone to text him, you find that there’s another message already waiting for you.

It’s not from Lando. It’s from an encrypted number—one you’re all-too familiar with.

There’s a job that you could be useful for.

Are you in?

reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ⭐️

#wow this truly ate down so hard #i feel like i say this about everything i read but #this au is so creative and cool!!

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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

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oscar's legs bracketing lando. the touches on the shoulder. the slight jokes. oh my days.

#allegations are not beat #mclaren #oscar piastri #lando norris #this is girlhood #i swear i just had a brocedes flashback #but its okay theyre wayyy better than those guys #right?

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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

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oscar piastri wins the 2025 miami grand prix

#MY BOYYYY #f1 #oscar piastri #may i say i saw this coming #me when im busy but the f1 broadcast notifications pops up #period king #op81

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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

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star-crossed ☆ mv1

genre: angst, fluff, humor, lots of back and forth, smut

word count: 9.1k

Fixated, you and Max struggle to stay away from one another. All the while, everyone tries to convince you that it won't ever work out.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...penetrative sex, fingering

inspired by star-crossed, ethan gander !

cherry here!...as a wise person once told me: footnotes = crumbs. hope that helps!! enjoy :)

The table was long, practically going for miles, but not really—it was just your closest friends. They all converse with one another, talking about the upcoming season, the upcoming season, and oh, what’s that? The upcoming season. And you’ve had enough of it, he can tell, so he gently rubs his thumb over your hand, easing your nervous tick.

White florals lay neatly on the wooden top, fairy lights hang up above your heads, and Frank Sinatra plays from your fiancé’s phone, connected to the Bluetooth.

Pierre stands up firmly, clinking his glass with a spoon. When it doesn’t seem to get anyones attention, Alex lets out a loud whistle. Everyone’s heads turn. “Merde—finally. Well, first of all, welcome on behalf of the groom's best man!” Crickets. His smile drops. “I-Its me. I’m the best man.”

“More like Best Party Killer. Sit down,” Daniel yells, aiming a peony at his friend's head.

The Frenchman swats it away, to which Kika glares as it hits her. He nervously chuckles, pecking her cheek, swiftly. “Comme je le disais…we’re here to celebrate two very important people. Can ya take a guess?”

“Why did you choose Pierre as your best man again?” you whisper to the twenty-six year old. He shrugs, hushing you once before his watercolor eyes flicker back to his friend.

“Any more guesses?”

“Okay, thank you!” you yelp, standing up and motioning him down. “Thank you, Pierre, for saying a whole lot of nothing, really.”

The blue eyed boy silently pleads, hands pressed together in prayer. “Oui, oui, I’m done, I’m done.” A warm hand snakes to wrap around your wrist and you sigh, sitting back down onto his lap. He clears his throat. “I thought we could go around and…share some stories about the soon-to-be husband and wife. I’ll start.”

“Great,” Kika groans, massaging her temples.

“September 4, 2022.”

Circuit Zandvoort—September 4, 2022 (Dutch Grand Prix)

“You said it would be warm!”

Lissie squeals when you reach out to pinch her forearm. “I said slightly warm. More so cool.” A harsh glare. She winces. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Despite the evident goosebumps, you march your way over to the pen, awaiting your first interview. Lissie stands besides you, raising two thumbs up and a toothy grin. You got this! Your stomach churns as you fix your set up. She’s right, you’ve worked for this moment, day and night. You weren't going to mess up for any reas—

“Should I just come back later or…”

Blinking, your heart stops beating as your mouth runs completely dry. He looks around for his publicist who just sighs and starts tugging him away.

And we’re here with Max Verstappen, Lissie hisses—assisists. Coughing loudly, you bring up the microphone to your lips. “Max Verstappen!” The RedBull driver turns back to face you, clearly puzzled. You cringe at your sudden outburst, but continue. “So nice to see you. Saw you had a magnificent drive.”

Blue eyes pierce basically through your soul. He smiles, shoulders relaxing, hands leaning against the barrier. “Yeah. We did have a lot of luck on our side today. Plenty.”

It wasn’t that hard to pick up from there, question after question being basically given to you, to which he answers with professional ease. His dimples even pop out with every punctuation, it makes your chest swell. You clear your throat, eyes flickering to your list that now narrows down to one last inquiry.

“Everyone nowadays fears you, it seems like.” He laughs, rolling his eyes. “But I do have one question—how does it feel to be the villain in all of Formula One?”

His smile slips away. “Sorry?”

“Uh-oh,” Lissie mutters.

But you don’t catch onto it, his sudden defensive tone, his dark glare. Beaming like the sun on the earth, you nod. “Well you aren’t the most liked, per se. Often hated by others. Do you think your dominance has affected your relationship with the drivers on the grid?”

When you finally look up, you clearly notice his change in demeanor, and that makes you flinch. We should get going, his publicist squeaks, already pushing him away. Let’s not air that last question, thank you.

Fiercely, you turn to face your friend. “I still had a minute left!”

“Why would you say that?” she screeches. “Why, why, why?”

You blink. “I’m lost. What did I do wrong?”

The brunette sighs, brown orbs analyzing the short clip. “You got on Max Verstappen’s bad side, that’s what.”

“Their relationship had started rather…rocky,” Pierre announces, swaying his hands back and forth for emphasis. “But don’t you worry! I. Fixed. Everything.”

“She really said that?”

Max whips his head to Checo, then to Yuki, then to Pierre. Each wears a loopy smile. He scowls. “She’s new here, she must be—I’ve never seen her before. Who does she think she is?”

“A legend, that’s who,” the Frenchman retorts, almost high and mighty.

Max takes a long sip of his energy drink before scoffing. “I don’t care if she’s royalty, I’m never willingly doing an interview with her ever again.”

A few hours have now rolled by and you’ve finally realized—you messed up. Here you go, basically painting him out to be the bad guy, when really, he’s just a strong driver. No one thinks he’s a villain, you think he’s a villain.

“You think he’s going to protest against me? Get me fired? Boycott? Hates me?”

Lissie giggles, tidying up the equipment from the last round. “No. No. No. Maybe?”

Groaning, you hit your forehead over and over again with your clipboard before a sharp accent makes you stop. “Hello.”

“Oh! Hi!”

His lips stretch, then steps closer to you. “I’m Pierre—”

“I know who you are,” you cut him off. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m—”

“New?”

Your cheeks burn up at his accuracy. “Yes?”

“I thought so,” he pronounced with a goofy grin. Annoyance builds up inside of you but hold back and bite your tongue. The Frenchman fixes his sunglasses that lay on the bridge of his nose. “So…I’m going to take the chance and say that what you asked wasn’t meant to hurt his feelings?”

You soften up quickly. “I hurt his feelings?”

A nose scrunch. “Let me backtrack; Max doesn’t have feelings, therefore there’s nothing to hurt, but he does hold killer grudges, so yeah.” He lifts the frames. “He doesn’t like you.”

“Lovely,” Lissie mumbles from her spot besides you. “Is there a way…we…can fix all this misunderstanding? Because that’s what this is! A misunderstanding!”

The Alpha Tauri driver clicks his tongue in deep thought. “There’s not much to do other than apologize. Explain yourselves, maybe? He’s very Old-Fashioned.”

“Okay, yes.” You scurry down the paddock. “I could do that! I could so do that.”

“Other way!” he yells. Turning around, you see him pointing you down to the right. You giggle, nervously, and continue your sprint.

You catch him quite fast; his tall stature and blond hair are pretty easy to spot. “Hey—hi!” Gasping for air, you clutch onto your side. “H-hello. Again.”

His jaw ticks once, and in an eerie motion, a warm smile forms. You shudder. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to apologize about before. That was not the right thing to say, I am so sorry…please don’t demand for my release.”

A dark brow quirks up, looks around, then back down to you. “I’m not here to ruin your life, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You sigh in relief. “God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Crouching down to you, he tilts his head to the side with a sly grin. “You’re very welcome, but that doesn’t mean I like you.”

Your breath hitches, shivers spreading like a wildfire. “Sorry?”

“Yeah.” He steps away. “You already said that.”

“He was a bit guarded. Definitely guarded.”

“Isn’t this supposed to make me look good?” your fiancé grunts, dark eyes narrowing down on the Frenchman. “You know what? Just sit down.”

Pierre smirks. “See? Guarded.”

Autodromo Nazionale Monza—September 11, 2022 (Italian Grand Prix)

“I’m not a quitter.”

“There we go!”

“But he makes me want to quit.” “Oh, well now we’re back to square one,” Pierre groans. “He’s being hard headed, that’s all. I’ll talk to him again, don’t worry.”

And he does.

It happens during one of the worst moments in your life; you weren’t wearing makeup.

“You look—”

“Hideous?” You blush. “Yeah, don’t even mention it.”

He swallows, digging his hands deep into his pockets. “I wanted to apologize… for the way I reacted. It was immature.”

“N-no, you had every right to be upset. I crossed the line and I’m sorry.”

Max nods, Adam’s Apple dancing up, then down. “Truce?”

Staring down at his large hand, you smile and slip yours past it. “Truce.”

And as a rare occasion, his smile meets his eyes, crinkles and all. The RedBull driver disconnects first, then rubs his jaw once before signaling down to your wet hair. “Pool day, I see? Enjoying the benefits?”

With a cheesy look, you shrug. “It’s one way to relieve stress.”

“Yeah—and what’s another?”

His tone is sultry and irresistible, you can’t help but rip your gaze away. “Anything that brings thrill, I suppose.” A tick. “Whatever that may be.”

“And what if it’s something bad? Does that still count?”

You laugh, throwing your head back. The Dutchman’s lips wobble as a weak attempt to not smile. “You’re not a bad person, so yes.”

His tongue clicks. “Uh, I don't know. As I recall, you called me a villain?”

Groaning, you gently smack his chest. “Will you ever let it go?”

“Might take me a while…”

Just as you’re about to respond, your phone rings and you smile. “L-Lissie.”

The blue eyed boy nods. “Are you going to be interviewing me from now on?”

“Ah—is my ban lifted?”

“Yes.”

You roll your eyes. “Then yes.” Strolling past him, you wave. “See you around. And put on some sunscreen. It’s good for you.”

“Where are you even going with any of this?” Lewis hollers from the end of the table, taking a sip of wine. “You’ve just been talking about yourself, not them.”

Pierre scowls. “I’m getting there!” He returns his attention to the couple, gleaming. “So, as you can imagine, once I weaseled my way in and fixed their problems—your welcome, by the way—a certain spark came through. It was clearly evident.”

Marina Bay Street Circuit—October 2, 2022 (Singapore Grand Prix)

“Nepo-Baby?”

You hum. “They all are.”

Lissie groans. “So how will I know which one?”

“Oh, you’ll know.” Squinting accusingly, the British girl sticks her tongue out before standing up, hands on her hips. She yawns. “I have to go find Will. Something about—whatever, you probably don’t even care.”

You giggle. “Nope. Have fun.”

Silence engulfs you as you close your eyes momentarily, pulling your coat over your chest.

“Don’t you have to watch the race in order to report back on it? Ask questions?”

“Dude, I was just falling asleep…” You peek an eye open. “And yes. But it hasn’t started, so I'm clear.”

Max whistles, unimpressed. Falling down next to you on the fluffy couch, he places his hands over his stomach, closing his eyes, too. You try not to laugh and instead do the same.

“Haven’t seen you around much.”

“Been hiding from you.”

“Seems like. Don’t do that.”

“Fine.” You grin, sitting up straight. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“Probably.”

You snicker, pink tongue poking from in between your teeth. The cold air makes you snuggle deeper into your wannabe-blanket and he can’t help but take occasional glances. Teeth chatter. “C’mon. I’ll walk you.”

“...and I turned and said, isn’t that Celine Dion?” Lissie waves her hands back and forth, swaying like a Fly Guy. She pouts, stopping her movements. “Turns out I was just really freaking high.” Will laughs, jotting down God knows what onto a piece of paper as she continues cluttering herself with an obnoxious amount of wires. The British girl huffs. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder if it was—” A sharp gasp. “Him? Oh my—it’s him!”

“Don’t you mean her?” Will hums from his spot, still not looking up.

But wide-eyed Lissie stares with her jaw on the floor as you and Max cross by, laughing and pushing each other as you make your way down the paddock. As soon as you blush when he winks, it becomes all the more real. The young reporter nods, curled hair bobbing up and down.

“R-right—her.”

Autódromo José Carlos Pace—November 13, 2022 (Brazilian Grand Prix)

“Is he cute? Yeah, maybe.” A finger pinches her top lip before releasing. “In a weird way.”

“Hey,” you warn.

“Is he your type? Don’t know why, but yes. I could see why you’re into him.”

“Great…”

“But is he the right choice? No. Not at all.”

“...and fantastic.” Flopping down onto your towel, you groan. Suddenly the blazing sun wasn’t the worst feeling because Lissie was right. It’s unbearable, almost. You prop up, facing her with a scrunched nose and squinted eyes. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit too harsh?”

“Oh no.” A sip of coconut water. She purses her lips. “God no.” You sigh, slowly, then sprawl back down with a sour snarl. You can hear her debate; muttering, mumbling. Still, that doesn’t get rid of your bad mood. The brunette pokes your thigh gently, nibbling her bottom lip. “He’s just so—and you’re just so—” A beat. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“Yeah.” Waves crash harder. Sun beams brighter. You open up the bottle of sunscreen, spurting some onto your burnt legs. You rub briskly; up, down. She flinches. “Yeah, I know.”

“And for a while, that was that,” Pierre announces, feigning indifference. “No more love birds.”

“Oh,” George blurts. Dark brows pinch up, teasing smile playing out. “Then why are we here?”

“Oh God,” you groan, digging your face into the nape of the twenty-six year old. You can faintly sniff out his musk scent, clean and so him. It makes you smile like a teen. “What if we just elope?”

He chuckles, vibrating and sending you on your own personal rollercoaster. “We always can. Is that what you want?” And he asks because he knows—no. That’s not what you want. Separating yourself to peck his cheek, you shake your head with a playful pout. “No. That’s not what I want.”

“Good.” Watercolor eyes flicker to where Pierre finally gets yanked down and Lissie takes over with a proud smile. “Because I think this is actually going somewhere.”

Bahrain International Circuit—-March 5, 2023 (Bahrain Grand Prix)

So you kept your distance, and oddly enough, he did too. For plenty of reasons. And it wasn’t even that hard, really. He spent his summer break traveling and you spent yours as a homebody. No texts, no calls, no nothing.

“Heads or tails?”

“Tails.”

A sly grin. The silver coins flips a couple rounds before jumping up and down, clapping. “Heads! Go on, Coffee Boy. Oh, and make it extra sweet.”

“You’re going to get a sugar high and not be able to sleep later.”

“Until I can feel my teeth rot,” you retort, slipping your tongue over your pearly whites.

Answering a few emails, you perch onto a chair. It’s too stiff, so you twist and turn until you ultimately decide to just stand. A gust of wind salutes you as your orbs flicker up to the sudden shadow. A breath catches.

Max tilts his head in greeting. “Working hard already?” Your lips part. “The season’s barely begun.”

And just like that, your world tilts on its axis, but this time with more to lose.

“As your best friend—” Lissie points clumsily at Carmen who giggles while the British girl furrows her thick brows. She glances around before spotting you dying with laughter on your fiancé’s lap. She claps. “I knew straight away—he was the one for you.”

Miami International Autodrome—-May 7, 2023 (Miami Grand Prix)

“How long has this been going on for?” she hisses, disappointed eyes challenging both you and Max. She gags at the hickeys on your neck and his tousled hair.

With wobbly legs, you take her hands into yours. “A week—”

“No.”

“Well, two—”

Green paints her face. “No.”

“One month,” he murmurs from his corner in the elevator. Watercolor eyes flicker up, loopy. “It’s been a month. Ever since—”

“Azerbaijan.” Shamefully, you look down at your shoes and nearly scream bloody murder when you spot your thong just a few steps behind her. “Ew, gross,” Lissie gasps, shutting her eyes in despair. Taking in the opportunity, you scatter down and retrieve the thin fabric. The Dutchman releases a laugh, but bites down when the British girl glares hard. She curls a brow at your breathless state. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Giggling nervously from your place on the floor, you keep your hands behind your back; out of sight, out of mind. “Begging for forgiveness?”

“Oh stop it, a piece of land is what I need in order to forgive you for being dumb as shit.”

You frown, but quickly stand up when she exits the elevator. You can hear him follow with a bored expression. “Lissie, wait!”

Like a spinning top, she turns back, long layers slapping her pink face. “You two know this isn’t a good idea, right?”

“Yes—”

“For a million different reasons—”

“I-I’m aware,” you stutter.

“Then why did you do it?” she whispers.

And the truth is, you don’t know. All you know is that nothing else matters when you're with him. It’s sickening how blindsighted you get. Anxious eyes twirl over to the blue eyed boy who shared the same expression despite being unbothered a few seconds ago.

Licking your lips, you play with the fabric. “That’s it. We’re done.” You turn to the RedBull driver. “Tell her.”

“Done.”

For a moment, you almost let yourself flinch from how fast and easy he’s able to say that one word. Lissie’s judgmental eyes look at you, then him, then sighs, reluctantly nodding. An awkward moment ticks by and then she’s focused, appalled.

“Are those your panties?”

“You were like a dog who couldn’t bear the idea of leaving its bone.” Everyone snickers while you throw the same peony Daniel had aimed at Pierre to shut him up. She laughs, raising her arms up in defense. “And I know—I know—I came in like a monster, warning you off of all the drivers because like it or not, they’re scumbags—”

“Ey. Watch it,” Carlos deadpans from the corner, brown eyes playfully glaring.

She shrugs. “But I no longer liked playing the role of an evil step-sister so…” Tears brim and you choke on a wet sob. “I’m just so happy that you’re happy.” A pause. “That you're both happy.”

Leaping off his thick lap, you rush over, embracing her. She laughs, returning the gesture. “I love you,” you start. I know. “And I’m so happy that you never—”

A knowing smile. “I’d do anything for you.”

Circuit de Monaco—May 28, 2023 (Monaco Grand Prix)

Sneaking into his motorhome, you moan as soon as he gets his hands on your; sliding up and down your body with urgency. Heat radiates off of him and onto you. All of this— the cramped room, his lips attacking your neck—makes you dizzy. Clutching onto his sweaty hair, you arch, completely to him and for him.

“We s-shouldn’t.” You gasp. Long fingers tease your aching pussy as you whine. He instantly slaps a large hand over your mouth as he continues his movements. The stretch burns, but it's fairly familiar that you don’t even cry out, just stare back with knitted brows and an open mouth that he can’t see, but can feel expand beneath his palm.

“You’re probably right.” A steady stroke. “You should be out there.” His knuckles curl as he reaches your g-spot. “Preparing those foolish questions.” A muffled moan. “But you’re here, because you know that this excites you as much as it does me.”

Calloused pads push down before drawing figure eights deep inside. “You’ve been a bit uptight. Could it be—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Don’t even try and blame it on—”

“Fine, then answer me one thing; is this stress reliever a bad thing?”

Feeling your orgasm rolling in is one thing, but your snarkiness is another. Gritting your teeth, you force him down to kiss you, teeth and all, and then rip away with a sultry smile. “Maybe, but who cares?”

You’re not completely off. At that moment in time, neither of you cared about the consequences. It’s just that as soon as a room of watchful eyes flicker to you two, you swallow a low wince.

Grabbing your microphone, you fix your disheveled hair. Lissie’s eyes flicker between you and him, slow and scary. Like she’s reading right through you and your lies.

Beaming at the awaiting grid, you raise your chin up. “Who’s ready?”

“Finally,” Daniel yells, rolling his cuffed sleeves. “Someone with an actual story to tell.” A wide smile has never made you more nervous than at this very instant, so reasonably so, you swallow the entire glass of—

“Vodka, baby! That was my vodka—your champagne is right there.”

Blinking, you giggle, wiping your plump lips with the back of your hand. “What yours is mine, no? Isn’t that what marriage is all about?”

He chuckles. Lean arms wrap around your waist like a harness. “Keep this up and you’re not going to be able to sleep later.”

“The opposite, actually,” you state as a matter-of-fact. “Just need to get blackout drunk.”

He cocks his head to the side. “That’s not like you.” “...should have seen her! She was wasted as shit!” the Australian yelps, buzzing with excitement. You nip at the air all while he raises his voice an additional octave. “I found her there, at the bar, close to getting alcohol poisoning, but you know what they say—only drunks and children tell the truth.”

Red Bull Ring—July 2, 2023 (Austrian Grand Prix)

“Oui, the beer! Fucking amazing,” Pierre declares with a mouthful.

“Say it, don’t spray it,” someone screeches, and is quickly identified to be Alex when he wipes his shimmery forehead. You laugh, taking baby sips from your drink. Shirley Temple, because contrary to belief, you weren’t a nasty drunk.

The Frenchman pouts, tapping his fingers against the brown glass. He turns to you with a sheepish grin. “I read your article.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Have to admit, it's kind of boring. It’s not your fault though. Max Verstappen's domination has made the sport sort of…” He pretends to wilt, to which you toss your head back with laughter.

“Your time will come, Pierre, your time will come.”

“Shit, shit, shit! Bathroom!” Lissie’s long legs wobble like a plate of jello as you hurry over to catch her.

“Crap—you smell like shit.”

The British girl squeals, yanking her hair, dancing from side to side. “I smoked a fat blunt, but never mind that, if I don’t find a loo in approximately five seconds, then I will smell like actual shit.”

A nose scrunch. “That’s not very lady-like.” She paces some more. “Let’s go.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the crowded room, Max watches as the two journalists slip away. He keeps a close eye for a while until a certain brunette swoops in right next to him with a loopy grin and crinkly eyes.

“You should talk to her. Seems like you really like her.”

“What? What makes you say that? What makes you think that?”

Daniel shrugs, rotating his blunt back into his mouth. “Dilation.”

The Dutchman gags. “What…like when a woman gives birth?”

A sore laugh. “As in your eyes.” Another hit. “Y’know…they just look—different. When you look at her, I mean.”

And he hopes it is not apparent that these words make him swallow. For the past year, he’s tried his best to hide his feelings for the sake of not making a fool out of himself, and later for a whole other, but…

He licks his sudden dry lips. “Hm. Doesn’t matter if my eyes fucking shine or not, she’s not my type.”

The Australian frowns. “Sucks. Lissie’s really cool.” His eyes flicker over to the RedBull driver in a nonchalant manner, but when he blinks back with rose tinted cheeks, despite not having a sip of alcohol, he chokes on his puff. “Oh shit, no…”

In a flash, Max yanks the blunt away, dipping it into an anonymous drink. “You’re right, she is so cool—”

Brown eyes narrow down in accusation, brows knitted sharply. “Right, but we’re not talking about Lissie…” A wince. “Mate, you can’t…you know you can’t.”

And just like that, Daniel notices the blown out pupils revert back to its original shape. Small and empty. “Yeah. Of course.” He plops back down onto his stiff seat, rubs his eyes, then smiles. “I know that. I-I-I was never going to—yeah.”

“He—” Daniel points over to the broad twenty-six year old who sits with a timid smile. “...didn't have a single sip of beer that night because he was too focused looking after her.” A whistle. “And if that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.”

“Wow, congrats,” George says to your fiancé. “For not being an alcoholic, really, that's impressive.” You can hear the humor that coats his voice and you can’t help but giggle. Calloused fingers slip up to pinch your thigh as you laugh harder.

“That’s why I drank twice as much that day,” Pierre announces with a firm voice. “Because he was missing out on some fantastic beer.”

“Drunkard,” Alex whispers to Lily who stifles a snicker.

The tall Australian clicks his tongue. “So who was the wasted one who confessed their little white lies?”

Everyone’s eyes turn to face you as you burn up with mortification.

“What the fuck, I barely even drink!”

Red Bull Ring—July 2, 2023 (Austrian Grand Prix)

“You.”

“Me?”

You snarl, stomping over. “She's a lightweight, dumbass. Why would you get her high? Jesus, we have a flight in eight hours.”

Daniel cackles, clapping as if delighted at the fact. “She kept insisting! I felt bad.”

An eye roll. “Douche.”

He tries to make it up to you with a drink. “Pierre says they’re good.” You eye the bottle hesitantly. He sighs. “Come on, trust me.” He eventually sneaks off for a minute, but returns with a new blunt.

“Did you pull another one out of your ass or where did you get that from?”

“Oh no. How many did you drink?”

Squinting, you motion him to take a seat. He does, but he can’t even smoke in peace now that you sway from side to side, despite being seated. “I don’t know. Too many.” He groans, large hands tugging his hair. You take a long sip, then raise your glass like some wannabe. “He told me he loves me. Tonight. Right when you left. And you know what I told him?” Another sip. “I told him I love him too.”

The Australian chuckles. “I didn’t expect you to fall for someone like him.”

“Me either. But I fell—tumbled.” You frown. “I’m just not sure this is the right thing to feel, y’know?”

His orbs flicker to the twenty-six year old who huddles with a bunch of the other drivers. He smiles, tilting his head. “Why not?”

“Because everytime I look at him, I fear the way my heart beats. He laughs, I laugh, and it feels wrong. He smiles, I smile, and it feels wrong. He makes one of our inside jokes, I understand, and it feels wrong.” A shaky laugh. “And something that should feel fucking right, doesn’t.” Glossy eyes switch over to him. “Does that make sense?”

“Not really.”

“Great,” you let out, wiping your tears away. “It’s fine, I didn’t expect you to understand.”

Daniel smiles, fondly, like an older brother. “It doesn’t, and you want to know why?”

“Why?”

A second passes by before he leans back against his chair. “Because it looks like you really—really—like him, so why should any of that matter? Just let yourself be happy, fuck everything else.”

You scoff, furrowing your brows. “You’re a bad influence.”

“Why?”

“Because it would never work out.”

“And why not? You’re giving up too eas—oh.” Almost robotically, he drops his blunt into your beer bottle. “You can’t…”

“Yeah. I know.” A pause. “Beer’s ass, by the way.”

Daniel taps his fingers against his chin, comedically. His orbs flicker between you two who stare up at him in deep focus, awaiting for his next words. He grins. “You two, it works. It always has.”

Circuit Zandvoort—August 27, 2023 (Dutch Grand Prix)

“Oh fuck,” he grunts, thrusting into you harder as you cling onto his arm, eyes screwed shut. “H-holy fucking—hell.”

You moan, mouth hung wide open. “Feel so good, Maxie, so, so good.”

Blue eyes admire the way you arch towards him like some sort of warm invitation. The way your legs lazily drape over his sweaty waist, how your scent hugs him like no one else. It’s all so familiar, and nice, and right. Your soft palm grazing his jaw makes him alert in an instant, desperate to not miss a single thing that lives inside this moment.

He furrows his dark brows. “We-We’re not made for one another.”

“I know.” He grunts, animalistically. “They warned me about you.”

“They told me to stay away from you.” His tip brushes against your g-spot and your head lolls back, a loud sound. “But God, it’s been impossible.”

“Max, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—I’m close.”

He grins, rubs your clit, and whimpers when he feels you reach your orgasm. You shudder when he follows soon after, face digging into the nape of your neck. Your heart pounds like a ticking time bomb, but still, you run your fingers through his dirty blond waves.

“Lissie…Daniel…they’re—”

“Right?” You choke up. “Yeah, you don’t know how much I hate that they are.”

He pulls away, and somehow, his watercolor eyes appear more blue than ever before. Black, almost—nearly. And you’re sure yours do too.

Max plays with your hair, tracing it like a map. He gulps. “So do I.” A tug. “I love you. Y-you weren’t some fuck buddy to me…you’ve always been more than that. And…I hate that too.”

A wet laugh. “I love you, too.” Wobbly smile. “And it’s because I love you that I know what comes after this.”

He hums. “What would that be?”

“Nothing.”

“I know many of you guys are wondering why I’m best man—”

“Not wondering, more like questioning,” Carlos quips with a sly smirk.

Pierre flips him off and you laugh at the immature interaction between the drivers. “Because it really could have easily been anyone else. Ha! Even you Carlos.” The Spaniard mocks him with a shady, playful, look.

“Then again, who would have thrown a better rehearsal dinner for Charles and his bride-to-be?”

Circuit Zandvoort—September 4, 2022 (Dutch Grand Prix)

"You got on Max Verstappen’s bad side, that’s what."

“It’s probably nothing or he’s just a sensitive little pussy,” you shoot back defensively.

Lissie snickers, hushing you, orbs scanning the pen. “You can’t say shit like that! Any of it, actually,” she adds. “Just…think before saying anything.”

You huff, arms crossed, stubbornly. “Fine.”

As the open area starts filling up more and more, by some miracle, your nerves start dying down.

Or so you thought.

“Before I let you go, I do have one more question.” Charles smiles down at you, shy dimples poking through. You return the gesture. “Would you consider yourself Ferrari’s savior or their scapegoat?”

“Jesus,” the British girl groans, covering her eyes with second-hand embarrassment.

The Monegasque lets out a nervous laugh, turning to face his publicist who simply tippy toes and whispers something into his ear. He nods. “I-I-I actually have another interview set up, but thank you for your…questions.” Pink tints his ears as he looks at you one more time before strolling away.

“Alrighty then,” Lissie hollers. She sneaks the microphone away. “Jitters, totally normal, but yeah, you’re done for today.”

“I don’t care if she’s royalty, I’m never willingly doing an interview with her ever again.”

“Would you look at that?” Pierre gloats with a wicked grin. “Max Verstappen got butthurt.”

The Dutchman scoffs. “No, I did not. I just don’t like stupid questions, and she made one.”

Yuki snickers at his wary response. Pierre rolls his eyes. “I could talk to her, if you want me to. I love shit like this.”

“I don’t.”

“Well too bad, I’m going to.”

“Yeah. You already said that.”

Dumbfounded, you blink as he walks away, wet towel draped over his head. If you had known he was this much of a shithead, then you wouldn’t have bothered to try and apologize. Clicking your tongue, you burn with fury as you glare, but as soon as the Ferrari driver brushes past you, you fall back from your trance.

“Hey!”

He turns, green eyes furrowed with confusion. “Hey.”

A wince. “I’m sorry about my ignorant question from earlier. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Charles blushes. “Am I that easy to read?”

“No, but Pierre let me know.” You awkwardly kick your shoe against the pavement and his eyes follow. You stop. “I sort of pissed off two of the most important drivers on the grid today. You, uh, just happen to be one of them.”

He softens like ice cream on a hot summer day. “I’m not pissed.” You almost let out a giggle from how foreign his accent makes the curse sound. He stammers. “You just caught me off guard, that’s all. Plus, I can’t answer questions like those. It would make all of us look bad.”

“Oh. Duh. Of course.” Now you burn up. “I should have known. And it’s no excuse, but I’m new and I’m just…figuring it out.”

His eyes crinkle as he nods. “Who was the other driver?”

You groan. “Max.”

He winces, shaking his hands, theatrically. “Yikes. Yeah, now he’s probably pissed.”

Autodromo Nazionale Monza—September 11, 2022 (Italian Grand Prix)

“Will you ever let it go?”

“Might take me a while…”

As soon as your phone dings, vibrating against your palm, he curls a brow. “L-Lissie,” you fill in with a subtle smile. “See you around. And put on some sunscreen. It’s good for you.”

Rushing back to the pool with a new bottle of SPF, you grin as he aims a deadpan expression. “A little Vitamin D is always necessary.”

“Don’t care, I don’t want to look like a peanut in two years.” You plop some onto his hand as he childishly swipes it over his face. You squirm with the way droplets slither down his toned chest.

Charles extends his hands. “Can I have some more?”

You laugh, wet hair tossing back like a curtain. “Hypocrite.”

Green eyes glare down, playfully.

Marina Bay Street Circuit—October 2, 2022 (Singapore Grand Prix)

“I can’t believe someone’s rocking your boat,” Lissie yelps, clutching onto your hand desperately. “This is monumental.” A teasing giggle. “We should definitely document this.”

As soon as she pulls out her phone, you flip her off. “And this, my dear, dear friend, is why I’ve been keeping this a secret.” She zooms in as you laugh, brushing her away. “Quit!”

The British girl groans, slipping it into her back pocket, then wiggles her thick brows. “Can I guess who it is?”

“No.”

“It’ll be fun!”

You spin around. “No, Lissie—no.”

“Nepo-Baby?”

Flustered, you twirl your necklace and hum. “They all are.”

“Fucking hell. So how will I know which one?”

A mocking laugh. “Oh, you’ll know.”

The brunette stays wondering despite being in the middle of telling her story from last week at the pub. She traces back to every possible driver, but they’re all natural flirts, so fuck that, how would she ever even be able to guess that—

“Oh my—it’s him!” She gasps with hawk eyes as she watches you two keep a careful distance from one another, as if temptation burns within the gap. Lissie lets out a delirious laugh as she turns to Will, who is still rather focused on his task. “I, um, will be right back!”

Wearing a goofy smile, you make your way back to the pen, but squeal when a firm grip wraps around your waist, tugging you into a cramped bathroom. You cringe at the suffocated smell. On the other hand, Lissie jumps from corner to corner. “How did I not notice? I mean, shit, you’re eyes—they’re huge!”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

With a toothy grin, she pokes your ribs. “It means I know who it is.”

Your heart stops, then bite the inside of your cheek, feigning indifference. “We’re just getting to know each other, but he’s really kind, and I…I really like him.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” she whispers in a seductive manner, jeweled hands slapping your ass. You chuckle, opening the door, and turning back. “You get lost in his eyes, don’t you? Heard that could happen.” A swoon. “So what? Are they like the ocean? Like a blueberry Laffy Taffy?”

“Hm. No. More like green apple.”

She halts, mid-shimmy. “What do you mean green? His eyes are blue. And I would know—they scare me half of the time.”

“What are you talking about? Charles’ eyes are green.” The brunette gapes, mouth hung wide open as she pushes herself to speak, but can’t find the strength. You knit your brows, neat and high. “I told you not to scroll through your phone at three a.m. anymore. See? Jet lag is catching up to you.”

Autódromo José Carlos Pace—November 13, 2022 (Brazilian Grand Prix)

“I’m just looking out for you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tired eyes squint over at the blue waves, then at the kids who build sandcastles.

She sighs, propping herself to face you with a sorrowful smile. “It’s okay to be confused about your feelings.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, I know its as bad as it sounds.” You raise your straw onto your plump lips, sucking. “But they’re just so different from one another. I mean, Charles makes me feel giddy. Like really giddy. It’s nauseating. He’s sweet, and caring, and he's snappy but it’s endearing.” A soft smile and dreamy eyes. “He even helps with my notes.”

“But Max…he’s hot tempered. It drives me nuts. He never asks for help and always hides behind some brick wall. It isn’t like him to show me that he’s interested in getting to know me, but…” Cries ring through the hot air as a wave washes the sandcastle. “I want to get to know him. The real him.”

Lissie’s lips turn downwards at your broken tone. You act uninterested, but she knows it just for show, and that might be the worst torture of all.

She bumps your head with her shoulder, softly, and you instantly pout. “You’ll know what to do, babe. But if we’re being realistic here, Charles won’t wait forever.” Pause. “And Max isn’t the kind to grovel for anything other than podiums.”

Bahrain International Circuit—March 5, 2023 (Bahrain Grand Prix)

“Heads! Go on, Coffee Boy. Oh, and make it extra sweet.”

Charles lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders drooping as he strolls away. You pick and choose emails to respond to before leaning against one leg, typing away fiercely. You even have time to get back to your sister who begs for a souvenir. Any, she adds with a thousand smiley faces.

“Working hard already? The season’s barely begun.” Your breath catches so sharply that it hurts your throat for a second. His voice is somehow deeper, but it could be because you haven’t seen or heard from him in about forever. Max steps closer. “H-how was your summer break?”

Your berry lips open, then close, then repeat. It’s embarrassing. “Never bad to get ahead, and I—had a good one. Much needed.” He nods attentively. “You look—” You stop before admitting. “Healthy. You look really healthy”

A booming chuckle. “Thanks. You look really healthy, too.”

Blue eyes linger for a second too long and that fills you up with unwanted adrenaline. “Why are you here?” Pink expands through your cheekbones as you grimace. “I mean—here.” You point at the tiny tent as if it weren’t obvious what you were referring to. “Here, here.”

The Dutchman’s lips dance, fondly. “Well I was walking by, saw you, and wanted to say hi.” He looks around with a subtle frown. “Is now a bad time?”

“Well—”

“Mate,” a sweet accent rings through the air as you screw your eyes shut. Max turns to face Charles with a slow grin. The Monegasque tilts his head in greeting, hands occupied with your beverage and his. “How have you been?”

“So, so. Yourself?”

“Good. Refreshed.”

“For me?” he jokes. The brunette chuckles, raising the coffee cups with bright orbs. “Lazy Carlos, always sending you, right?”

The Ferrari driver shakes his head, curls following, then hands it to you. You hesitantly take it from him as you avoid eye contact. “Thank you, Charles.”

His smile widens, pecking your lips. “Still don’t think you should drink it on a daily basis, but hey, you’re welcome.”

Max blinks. “W-when did this happen?”

The green eyed boy hums, lips twisting against his straw. “Over break.”

“Oh.” Gaze slips over to where you bite your cheek. “You spent it in Monaco?”

A harsh tick. “Yes.” With an open mouth, he nods, like a muppet. You purse your lips, facing your boyfriend with pleading eyes. “Do you want to start making your way over? I don’t want Carlos to say anything about being late. You know how he is.”

Charles snickers, then intertwines his fingers through yours. “See you on track?”

The RedBull driver released a low breath, cracking a smile that looked more like a snarl. And while Charles doesn’t notice it, you do. Of course you do.

“See you on track.”

Miami International Autodrome—May 7, 2023

“Then why did you do it?” she whispers. The judgment and confusion that radiates off of Lissie is enough for you to grow gray. She rolls her tongue. “You can’t be doing stuff like this anymore, you have a boyfriend.” Her eyes screw shut, then snap open. “He adores the ground you walk on, are you insane?”

Tears well up at her truthful words. They sting all at once, and you carelessly crumble as your numb lips start to wobble. “Lissie—”

“No. Just—stop. Stop talking.” Max raises his eyebrows at the journalist and her sternness, but feels bad as you inch back, heels clicking. She huffs, pacing the hall. When she comes to a stop, she glares at the Dutchman. “How could you do this, too?”

“I never meant any harm—”

“Bullshit! Both of you are so stupid, it’s worrisome.” Shame fills your veins as you look down, pinching your undergarment as some coping mechanism. The British girl sighs. “You have to tell him.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no? He deserves to know.”

Decreasing the gap between you two, you sniffle, shaky hands clutching harder. “It’s going to kill him, Lissie. I can’t do that.”

And you can tell she’s running through her options because she’s your best friend. And above all, you were hers. With hesitance, she nods. “This has to end.”

You nod, desperately. “That’s it. We’re done.”

Circuit de Monaco—May 28, 2023 (Monaco Grand Prix)

“You’ve been a bit uptight. Could it be Charles that’s making you feel that way?”

“No. Don’t even try and blame it on him.”

He pinches your nipple, then licks your humid skin. You whine at the sensation. “You’re not getting anything in return for lying. It’s pathetic.”

You hiss when your climax tempts to fall. “What's the lie?”

“That you love him.”

“I do love him—”

He groans into your neck. “You sound so pretty.” A sloppy thrust. “When you choke around my cock, my spit, my cum.” Your eyes roll back when he pushes against your g-spot at a different angle. “Admit it, you’ve always enjoyed it.”

“You’re sick."

“Maybe, but you’re well worth it.”

You clench around his length and he hisses like a snake. In pain. In lust. Doesn’t matter. “You’re a shitty friend—”

Jaw clenches. “You’re a shitty girlfriend.” When you cry out in pleasure, he smirks. “Fine, then answer me one thing; is this stress reliever a bad thing?”

“Maybe, but who cares?”

And there's nothing left for him to do, simply smiling down at you like the Cheshire Cat, somehow scarier than The Joker. If not more.

Red Bull Ring—July 2, 2023 (Austrian Grand Prix)

“Right, but we’re not talking about Lissie. Mate, you can’t…you know you can’t.” Daniel grimaces. “She’s taken.”

“I know,” Max stutters. “Who do you take me for?”

The Australian is easy to tell when he laughs genuinely, but even the RedBull driver can spot the difference to the one exiting his mouth right now. “You think she’s pretty—that’s all.”

“That’s all,” he confirms.

“And that’s not a weird thing to admit because she is a pretty girl,” the brunette tries to help as Max nods happily.

“Exactly.” A pause. “You get it.”

Daniel brings the blunt up to his mouth, taking a hit, then blows out. “Y-yeah…because it’d be bad if you liked her, liked her.”

“I know that. I-I-I was never going to—yeah.” His heart pounds fast against his ribs when you giggle, pecking Charles’s neck, all while conversing with Lissie, Kika, and Pierre. He directs his attention back to the Australian and lets out a raw laugh.

“I wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

“Why?”

“Because it would never work out.”

“And why not? You’re giving up too eas—oh.” In an instant, his brown eyes follow yours, and it makes his heart drop. Because it’s not Charles that you’ve suddenly realized that you love, but Max. “You can’t…” Somewhere close by, Pierre yells, cheering with a group of older ladies as Kika glares, shaking her head. He inches closer. “You can’t do that to Charles. He loves you.”

“And I love him,” you announce, brushing your hair back. Timidly, you peek over at him. “I’m not a saint, I know that, but I would appreciate it if we kept this between us.” A sore chuckle. “W-what matters is that I choose Charles. He’s the love of my life.”

And Daniel knows he probably shouldn’t agree to any of this, and yet, he finds himself nodding, curls bouncing. “Just between us.”

You smile gently, going in for another sip before laughing at the blunt that sticks inside.

“Beer’s ass, by the way.”

Circuit Zandvoort—August 27, 2023 (Dutch Grand Prix)

“I love you. Y-you weren’t some fuck buddy to me…you’ve always been more than that. And…I hate that too.”

“I love you, too. And it’s because I love you that I know what comes after this.”

“What would that be?”

“Nothing.”

He flinches. “I-it doesn’t have to be that way. You could lea—”

You sigh, pulling your dress up as he zip his race suit. “I can’t leave him, Max. It’s not that easy.”

He pants, blue eyes tracing your face anxiously. “A-and why not? Why can’t it be that easy?”

A cruel laugh wiggles up your throat as you dig your nails into your palm. “Because I’m engaged!”

He ricochets with a scoff. “Oh, what? Now you suddenly care about not being called a cheater?” You look away and he chuckles. “Because that’s what you are—a fucking cheater.”

Your face patches into a shade of pink as you breathe heavily, refusing to let the tears fall. “And what does that make you?”

“I am not a cheater.”

You snarl. “No, but you’re a God awful friend.”

He steps back, large hand running against his lips, drying them out, getting rid of your saliva. “You’re just—you know what? Fuck you.”

You gasp. “No. Fuck you.”

Max rolls his blue eyes, finally reaching his breaking point as he pushes you against the wall to his motorhome. “You’re scared, aren’t you? Of realizing what we actually are.”

Heavy pants. Orbs flicker down to his rosy lips. He almost smiles. “What are we? A cheater and a bad friend?”

“No. A villain and their accomplice.” That seems to do it. A strong tide takes over as you sob against his grip. And it doesn’t hurt, it’s not tight. It’s only secure. He continues with a dark look swirling his orbs. “You know, you were always the first one to point out someone as a bad person, when in reality, it's you.”

“Okay, stop—”

“And I’m not innocent either—I’m well aware—but I’m not the one with a ring around their finger.”

“Stop!” you yell, pushing him away harshly. It should feel foreign, the fury and the shame, but that’s all you seem to know these days. Or ever since you met him. “You’re right. We’re two rotten apples, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, but can you blame me? You’re fucking with my head, Max!”

He softens, and for a moment, its pure silence, other than your tiny cries. Licking his lips, he pats his thigh. “You already know I’m wrongfully in love with you. I just actually thought I stood a chance. That it would be me.”

“Max…”

He winces in pain with how sweet your voice sounds pronouncing his name. It’s always been that way. When you first interviewed him a year ago, to when you first kissed him back and gasped his name. But it only got dirtier and dirtier throughout the course of time.

“Be honest with me, please.” Bloodshot eyes look up at him. “Is he your safest option? Is that what this is?”

And with one final, tormented look, you open your lips to breathe out.

“He’s someone I could envision a future with, Max.” A beat. “And you’re just a footnote.”

“Voilá!” Charles cheers as he claps loudly against your ear. You yelp at the sudden sound all while trying to reach for his hands to stop his movements. He grins, deep dimples imprinting like feet on sand. “That was beautiful, really, it really was.”

Rubbing your ass against his bulge is the only way you think you can get him to shut up, and he does, immediately letting out a strained chuckle. Smiling sweetly at your friends, you shrug. “I had my doubts, Pierre, but this was pretty cute. Thank you.”

The Frenchman gloats, clicking his fingers. I told you, I told you they’d like it! Your fiancé kisses your cheek. “That’s why I chose him.” A playful frown. “You see, mon amour? You never hold any faith in my decisions.”

Rolling your eyes, you stick your pink tongue out at him. “I still think you should have chosen one of your brothers.” A stern look. “Like Lorenzo—wasn’t he the one that helped you buy the ring?”

“Yes, but that would have been unfair to Arthur. He would’ve felt left out.”

“Arthur’s too distracted trying to figure out the difference between left and right!” The Monegasque tosses his head back and you admire with a soft glow. “I lo—”

“Wait,” Carlos hollers, deep accent ringing. You and Charles turn, bubble bursting. “We all went around sharing but Max.”

“Yeah,” Lily ponders, fingers tracing her lips. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Pierre hums. “Mate?”

Max blinks, shaking his head. “Ah, it’s alright. We’ve heard enough, don’t you think?” His joke is meant to be easy going, but it comes out dry, and even to this day, you can notice it. Licking your already glossed lips, you flip your gaze to Lissie and Daniel who share the same worried expression.

Because Lissie was your best friend. She would carry your secret to the grave.

Because Daniel was Max’s best friend. He would carry his secret to the grave.

But the Dutchman himself didn't care. He honestly felt like he had nothing else to lose.

“Okay then,” he whispers, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. He slightly tilts his head to the open sky, as if wondering when it would swallow him whole. He was secretly hoping it would. Beady, excited, and petrified eyes stare back at him as he smiles awkwardly. “I…”

“He doesn’t want to,” you declare, twisting to signal the Frenchman. “If he doesn’t want to, then he doesn’t have to say anything, it’s fine.”

“No.” Blue eyes darken as he places his drink down onto the wooden table. “I want y—” He bites his tongue, immediately tasting metallic. “I want to.”

“Let him,” Charles says, chuckling softly. “Don’t kill his stride.”

So, with neat brows drawn together, clammy fingers playing with your silver band, you sit back down. Like a force of nature, the Monegasque hugs you from behind. You gulp, leaning the back of your head against his shoulder.

“I think it’s crazy how one minor decision can change absolutely fucking everything.”

“Oh shit,” Lissie and Daniel mutter next to each other, exchanging the blunt back and forth.

Your face twists up like a wrinkled shirt. “If you’re not going to say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” he instantly shoots back, but feverishly deflates when Charles furrows his dark brows like some Doberman. Astonished at his cold tone, you blink, lashes fluttering like a notebook. He almost swoons at the sight, but amazingly holds back.

“If you hadn’t taken Pierre’s advice and apologized to Charles, then we wouldn't be here. If you hadn’t spent summer break with him, then we wouldn’t be here. If you hadn't fallen in love, then we wouldn’t be here.” He swallows. “It’s the little things.”

“And, um...what makes a relationship work out is the commitment. If one person commits and the other doesn’t then it won’t ever work out, but you two…” You nibble on your bottom lip harshly, holding your breath as he looks into your bright eyes. He releases a forced chuckle, as if it would help get rid of his splintered heart. “You two chose each other, so…cheers to that.”

“Wow,” Charles hums, blankly. “That was surprisingly heartfelt…” A sheepish grin. “Thank you, mate.”

It’s as if he’s suddenly admitting defeat to someone who didn’t know they had him as an opponent to begin with; the way he throws the peony at the Monegasque, who catches it with ease. “Don’t mention it.”

So, as Max sits alone, with no date, he begins to wonder that maybe—just maybe—you were right all along.

He gave his speech last.

He was the footnote.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious

#max verstappen #angsted so good that i fell to my knees #the max to charles to max to charles pipeline is insaneee #wow this truly ate down so hard #the rhetorical choice of non-linear narrative telling #wow wow wow #got me thinking about the author's purpose and whatnot

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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

Text

❀ downbad for you ❀

op81 x reader

in which oscar changes in little and big ways. aka oscar's downbad for you

warnings: suggestive, fluff, bit of pining, humour

word count: 1.9 k

masterlist

nicole piastri was not an impatient woman. she raised four kids, all of them talented, intelligent and painfully oblivious in some way or another.

so when oscar had started travelling on his own and barely - rarely - picked up phone calls or checked texts, she learned to wait for him to come to her. very reasonable, in her opinion.

but when she called him, early in the morning hoping to catch him before a sprint race, she was surprised to find that he actually picked up.

"hello?" he asked, tone a little eager and not it's usual monotone.

"oscar," she replied, a little startled.

"oh. hey, mum." he answered absentmindedly.

now she was suspicious, "why are you answering your calls all of a sudden?"

"didn't you call me?" he asked, with that born-nonchalance that made her want to rip her hair out sometimes.

"yeah, just checking in. everything good for the weekend?"

"sure, everything's fine. listen mum, i'm actually waiting on another call. i'll call you again after the sprint, okay? thanks."

then her own son, the one she'd painfully pushed - okay, that was a bit gross, but she was a little offended.

then it clicked.

the question she should be asking, instead of rolling her eyes over her firstborn's antics, is who is he waiting on?

nicole calls hattie next, who answers reliably on the first ring.

"is your brother seeing someone?"

"woah, mum. hello to you too," her eldest daughter huffs, "and yes, i think so."

she nearly jumps up in excitement, "who?"

"that, i have no idea. but he's been answering his texts so quick lately, and he asked me about what flowers were suitable for a first date."

"finally," nicole sighed, and then perking up, "when do you think he'll bring her home?"

lando is staring at oscar as he puts on suncream.

he looks so...serious, squeezing out lotion from a bottle that looks way too tiny in his hands, concentrating on the thin white lines that coat three of his fingers.

"what?" he then is rubbing it into his face, and lando is scared.

"mate, what the fuck?"

"i'm protecting my skin," the australian answers, straight-faced.

he is 100% sure he's never seen oscar put on sunscreen, ever. especially not in the middle of the day, right between filming videos outside.

it's probably a good idea, if they don't want to get sunburnt; oscar, especially, with his pale complexion.

and who is lando to judge? he used to love it when his ex-girlfriend's did his skincare or forced him to exfoliate - wait.

before he can think through what he's going to say, he blurts, "do you have a girlfriend?"

oscar stares at him, and the faint, pink blush that's rising from his neck is enough of an answer.

"oh, my days you do!" he gasps. oscar shakes his head, the corners tipping up despite himself.

lando watches him, half-disgusted and half-proud.

his teammate has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face, eyes bright. he leans back in the chair, looking dorky in his team kit and a little bit of sunscreen not blended in at his jaw.

lando could say with full confidence, after watching oscar not flinch at turns or crashes, that this reaction means that he is in love.

the first time oscar brings you around (and hard-launches both of you to the moon) is during the miami gp.

the two of you, your smaller hand tucked into the crook of his arm, make your way across the green turf of the paddock.

he's aware of the cameras and eyes; it's kind of hard not to be, but he doesn't mind like he usually does.

it's probably gross and neanderthal, and he will definitely deny it if you bring it up, but he's so proud to have you on his arm.

the two of you met a months ago, in monaco, where you were starting the second year of your doctorate degree.

you were (and are, in his opinion) way too smart for him, drop-dead gorgeous with a dry sense of humour.

although monaco was known for hosting f1 drivers you weren't super well-versed in the sport.

he likes that about you, and even more the way you ask him to tell you about it as you run your fingers through his hair, when the two of you are out on a date in some little cafe.

"okay?" he murmurs, and you squeeze your fingers around his bicep once.

"hmm," he can tell you're a little overwhelmed by the crease between your brows that he smoothes out with his thumb, "m'okay."

the little yellow sundress you're wearing makes your skin glow under the florida sun, and he wants to press his nose to your shoulder.

"it'll get better when we're not-"

"hard-launching at one of your races? you sure go big or go home, baby."

however many times you use that nickname, whether in the early morning when you're bribing him with coffee or hushed as he presses himself into you late at night, it never fails to make him flush.

it sounds so pretty from your lips, so personal and intimate his stomach lurches still when he hears that pet name.

"yeah," he laughs, "can't help it though. want to show you off."

this time, it's your turn to be flustered.

he can't believe someone as put together and elegant as you turns into a pile of mush for someone as unromantic as him.

but perhaps he's changed, he thinks as you twist your mouth and brush a hand over your sun and love-warmed cheeks.

"god, oscar. you can't say things like that. i'm going to turn into a liquid."

"a very beautiful liquid," he offers, his free hand grabbing the yours that's tucked into his elbow.

he moves you to his other side, the one closer to the cafés and motorhomes as more people start flooding into the paddock.

"c'mere," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your forehead.

normally, he would be against any sort of pda. but you look so relaxed under the sun, skin glowing as you watch him behind a pair of sunglasses that he can't help himself.

oscar hears the shutters of cameras, and he rests his cheek on yours.

"love you," he grins boyishly.

"love you, baby. good luck."

he wants a real kiss, one that makes you whimper the way he likes, but he's pushed his luck enough.

someone from the team leads you to the back of the garage to find a headset.

later that night, when the both of you are laying in bed, faces damp with skincare, he comes across an edit of you on tiktok.

there's some thirst-trappy song in the back and an annoying filter that makes everything a bit blurry, but he watches it three times anyways.

the first clip is of you in the garage, standing towards the back, fingers fluttering over your papaya headset. you look serious (though he thinks you do look a little confused, adorably so) with your eyes locked on the t.v. broadcasting his onboard.

the little skysports banner pops up, citing you as his partner.

oscar piastri's partner, it reads in block letters.

his heart warms in his chest, and he has to rub at it because of how intense he feels for you; you are so much more than that, and he can't wait for people to realize.

the next clip is you with alexandra, who you knew from someone's neighbor. or cousin. monaco was small, after all.

the two of you are laughing, striding with leo between your legs.

lastly, oscar watches with attentive eyes as the videos of you and him together come up.

it's undeniable that you guys look good together; he's smiling more than he probably has, ever, and you look up at him, adoringly as you blend some smeared sunscreen under his ear.

the sound of the tiktok has repeated four times by then, and you slide yourself into his embrace, wiggling up his chest.

he tilts his phone to you so you can see, and you bury your face in his neck.

"help," your breath warm on his skin, "i'm being perceived."

he laughs, pulling you up to kiss him, for real on the mouth, "thank you. for coming with me."

"of course," you say, a little surprised at how sincere he sounds, "anytime, baby."

now it's his turn to bury his face into your neck.

"he's never like this," hattie tells you.

"what?" you ask, smiling as your boyfriend's sister hands you a drink.

"he's so...touchy. it would be kind of gross, if you guys weren't so cute."

"yeah," edie pipes in, sipping her own drink, "it's freaky. unnatural."

"are you talking about me?" oscar asks drily as he slides into the seat next to yours.

frowning at the distance in between your chair and his, he wraps one large hand around the leg of yours and tugs until you're close enough for his to rest his arm to loop behind you.

mae shudders comically, just as edie pretends to gag. hattie hoots in laughter.

oscar, cheeks pink, unabashedly rolls his eyes as his parents take their seats around the table in their backyard.

it's nice seeing him in his natural habitat, teasing his sisters, helping his mum carry dishes to the dining table.

you insist on helping nicole wash up after dinner, and as you dry the dishes she hands you, she says something you don't expect.

"thank you," she tells you, "for taking care of him."

before you can respond, she goes on, "he's never been too good at taking care of himself. you know, he used to put his washing in the oven?"

you laugh, imagining oscar, on the cusp of adulthood, crouched over a oven with wet socks in his hands.

"but i can tell he's been well. so, thank you."

you blush, "i don't think it's anything to do with me."

she snorts, an easy smile on her face as she nudges you with her shoulder, "he's been calling more, he's eating well. i don't think he's been sunburnt or gone without fresh laundry for months."

you hum, "he takes care of me too, and i should thank you for raising a good man."

"i've got to stop leaving you alone with my family members." oscar sidles next to you, peering at his mum.

she brushes your cheek and pats his shoulder before wandering off to find his sisters.

"hi," he whispers into your hair, turning you around so he can crowd you into the kitchen counter.

"hi, baby."

he groans, burying his face into your neck. you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder, and you grin.

"okay?" you ask quietly.

"more than okay," he responds, smile content and squinty, "it's nice. to see you here, with my family. they love you."

"i love them," caressing his cheek, you press a kiss to his nose.

"this is probably weird for them," he hums, leaning into your hand, "to see me like this."

"i'm not going anywhere, so i think they'll get used to you being all gross and down bad."

"not downbad," oscar mutters, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug and swaying the two of you back and forth, "just in love."

"downbad," you giggle, and he doesn't disagree, not when it makes you smile, so lovingly and soft at him.

maybe he is downbad.

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 drabble #f1 fic #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #op81 #op81 x reader #oscar piastri fluff #mclaren #f1 2025 #formula 1

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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

Text

Sweet Relief | Chapter One

Summary — Lucía Mora has spent her entire life being the protector, the one who has to pick up everybody else's slack. Carlos Sainz, boss of the Sainz mafia, would do anything for his daughter. If that means burning down the world in order to protect her favourite teacher? So be it.

Warnings — Mafia!Carlos, organised crime, single dad Carlos, age-gap romance, smoking, slight sugar baby vibes, set in Spain, eldest daughter parentification.

Notes — Surprise! This is just an idea I've been playing around with for a little while! I plan to update this randomly, so if you'd like to be part of the taglist, let me know - Peach x

Word Count — 5k

Masterlist

The apartment building smelt like boiled rice and bleach again. Lucía had left the window cracked to tempt a breeze through the corridor, but all she got was the sour breath of exhaust from the street below and the far-off, metallic bark of a dog tied too tightly somewhere.

“Another one last night,” Señora Méndez said from the other side of the clothesline, her voice bouncing between the two buildings like a ball no one wanted to catch. “This time they took the poor boy’s bike. Pulled a knife. A child, Lucía.”

Lucía clipped a wet sock to the line, her fingers aching from cold water. “Did anyone call the police?”

The older woman snorted like that was the funniest thing she'd heard all week. “And wait three hours for a shrug? Please. They don’t come here anymore. Not unless someone dies, and even then, it takes them hours.”

Lucía didn’t reply. Not because she disagreed, but because she knew the rules of the neighbourhood: acknowledgment fed the fire. Let it flicker out on its own.

From the fourth floor, she could see a triangle of the schoolyard where she spent her days; the worn slide with the duct tape, the tree with a splintered trunk, the crooked hopscotch squares someone had drawn in chalk weeks ago and no rain had bothered to wash away. She squinted. Were those children already? It was too early.

“I told my youngest she can’t go out alone anymore,” Méndez continued, clicking her tongue. “Even just to the panadería. It’s not safe. People are saying it’s the Sainz men again. New blood in charge.”

Lucía’s stomach tightened at the name, though she couldn’t say why. It sounded too old-fashioned for her, like something that belonged in newspapers she didn’t read. She imagined men in long coats and rings too heavy for their fingers. Whispers behind car windows. The word “Sainz” hung in the air like smoke.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, too gentle to be believed. “Things will settle.”

Méndez gave her a look—the kind older women give younger women when they think they’re being naive.

Lucía smiled anyway.

Later, when she stepped back into her apartment, the floor tiles cooled her feet. A cracked mirror reflected the same thin figure it always did; oversized cardigan, damp hair in a claw clip, half-laced shoes. She didn’t look like someone important. She looked like someone who’d learned how to disappear in the middle of a crowd.

Still, her eyes lingered on the painting taped to her wall. Just a scrap. A figure in a car, shadowed face. She hadn’t meant to draw him. She didn’t even know who he was. But something about the lines felt familiar.

She turned away and went to make her tea.

Outside, down the street, a black car idled too long. She didn’t hear it over the whistle of the kettle.

—

Lucía slid into the staffroom just before the bell, shoulders tight under her threadbare coat. The lights overhead buzzed with that sleepy yellow hum that always made her feel like she was moving through syrup.

“El milagro llega,” came a voice from the coffee counter.

María, young and smug and dressed like she’d slept in something fashionable, handed Lucía a paper cup filled three-quarters of the way with burnt machine coffee. Her nails were painted a cheerful orange. Lucía’s were bitten to the quick.

“I’m two minutes early,” Lucía said, taking the cup with both hands like it was something precious. “That makes me God, not a miracle.”

María laughed and flopped into the nearest chair, kicking off one boot. “You’re always early. Just not for this. You always dodge the coffee meetings. Is it me? Do I intimidate you?”

Lucía arched her brow and sat. “I grew up with three brothers. You don’t even register.”

“Touché.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

María was all neon eyeliner and loud opinions. Lucía was muted grays and quiet nods. Still, they made it work. Like a pair of mismatched socks that no one sees under boots.

“You’re doing the after-school art class again?” María asked, softer this time.

Lucía nodded. “No other teacher signed up.”

“They never do,” María said, and then, delicately, “You don’t have to do everything, you know.”

Lucía’s smile faltered, just a breath. “If I don’t, nobody will, and then the kids will miss out.”

María didn’t push. “Have you ever thought about doing something else?” María asked, finally. “I mean… you’re talented, Lucía. The drawings on your board? The way you talk about colour to the kids. It’s not normal.”

Lucía shrugged, eyes on her cup. “Truly talented people don’t live in apartments with broken heaters and mould in the corners.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when your mother still calls you every Sunday to remind you the electric bill is due, and your youngest brother thinks the word ‘job’ is a slur.”

María winced. “Right. Fair enough.”

The bell rang then, sharp and sudden, scattering whatever truth had started to bloom between them.

Lucía stood, smoothing her skirt. “Time to go be magical.”

“Time to go be criminally underpaid,” María muttered, and followed.

As she walked down the hallway to her classroom, Lucía passed a row of children’s drawings taped to the walls. Most were bright chaos—scribbled suns and wobbly cats. But one stood out: a man in a suit. Dark glasses. A black car behind him. A child's scrawl underneath: Papá.

Lucía paused, fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

Then she kept walking.

—

The radiator had gone quiet again.

Lucía wrapped herself tighter in her cardigan and sat on the corner of her bed, phone cradled between her shoulder and cheek. Her sketchbook lay untouched on the windowsill, half a face etched in soft pencil lines that blurred into nothing.

The phone rang once. Twice.

Then her mother answered with a sigh, like she’d just been interrupted from something impossible and important.

“Ay, finally,” her mother said. “I thought you’d forgotten your own family.”

Lucía closed her eyes. “It’s Sunday, mamá. I always call on Sundays.”

“Yes, but it’s already past seven. We were starting to think maybe something happened. You know how things are. All the robos going on. I saw on the news someone got stabbed on Calle Nueve—that’s your neighborhood, isn’t it?”

“No, that’s a few blocks down.” Lie. It was the next street over.

Her mother made a clicking sound with her tongue. “You should move. It’s not safe. Not with all those gangs and criminals. That Sainz family is active again, they say. The one from the newspapers. You know him?”

Lucía nearly laughed. “Do I know the head of a crime syndicate?”

“I’m sure you meet all kinds at that school.” She said snidely.

Lucía let that pass. “Is everyone okay over there?”

A pause. Then the softest inhale, the kind that always came before the hook. “Well. Your father hasn’t worked in three weeks. The cold makes his knee worse. And I try, mi niña, you know I try, but food’s expensive and your little brothers eat like wolves these days. They need new shoes, too. The ones they have now—ay, the soles are like tissue paper.”

Lucía rubbed her temple. “I already sent you extra this month.”

“I know, I know. And we’re grateful. But if you have even fifty more euros—just fifty, to get us through until your tía sends something from Seville…”

“I’ll send it tomorrow.”

“Dios te bendiga,” her mother said, immediate and bright, like a switch had flipped. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Lucía didn’t reply. Her eyes had drifted to the cracked ceiling, where the plaster bowed in the corner like it might finally fall. She imagined standing under it, letting it come down. Letting something else break, just for once.

Her mother was still talking. Something about her neighbours. A cousin getting married. She listened, half-present, half-fading.

When the call ended, she sat in the dark for a while, phone in her lap.

The radiator ticked. A siren warbled in the distance. She reached for her sketchbook but didn’t open it.

Instead, she stood, crossed the room, and opened her little tin cash box. She counted the bills. Folded two twenties and a ten into an envelope. Wrote her mother’s name on it in her careful, teacher handwriting.

Then she sat again.

Not crying. Just quiet.

She didn’t need to cry. That was the thing about being the strong one.

You learned to be tired instead.

—

The classroom was quieter than usual.

Lucía noticed it first in the way the chairs scraped a little softer, the whispers tucked themselves under desks, the tension that hung like dust motes in the light. Something had happened.

She scanned the room. Then her eyes landed on Inés Ramos, seated in the far corner by the window.

Eight years old. Tiny. All knees and knotted braids, with a silence so profound it felt deliberate. Inés spoke the way birds did; only when she had to, and never too loud. She coloured her worksheets in delicate, swirling pastels, even when the instructions said “crayon.” Never caused any trouble.

Which was why Lucía’s stomach knotted at the sight of her now: hunched, turned slightly inward, like she was trying to fold herself into nothing.

Lucía crossed the room.

“Inés?” she said gently, kneeling by the desk. “Can I see your hands?”

The girl blinked, startled, but held them out. One was pink at the knuckles. Not quite bruised. But not unmarked.

Lucía’s voice stayed light. “Did you fall?”

Inés glanced sideways. Toward a pair of boys two rows down, still giggling into their sleeves. One of them—Mateo—noticed Lucía watching and immediately straightened, eyes wide with guilt.

Ah.

Lucía stood slowly, spine like a taut thread. She walked over to Mateo’s desk with the deliberate calm of someone who’s learned not to raise their voice unless they want to lose the moment.

“Mateo. Can you come with me?”

The class went dead quiet. Lucía didn’t yell. She didn’t scold. But everyone knew: this was worse.

Out in the hallway, she crouched to his level.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, voice soft. “All of it.”

Mateo squirmed. “We were just playing.”

“What kind of game ends with somebody being hurt like that?”

His mouth worked uselessly for a few seconds. Then, a sullen mutter: “She’s weird. Never talks. We just wanted her to say something.”

Lucía closed her eyes.

“You are never,” she said slowly, “to put your hands on another person in anger. You understand?”

A pause. A grudging nod.

“Good. Go back inside.”

When she returned to the classroom, Inés was still curled inward, her braid frayed at the end. Lucía didn’t touch her. She knew better. Some children needed space the way others needed hugs.

So instead, she sat beside her and pulled a piece of paper from the stack.

“Do you want to draw for a while?”

Inés hesitated. Then nodded.

They coloured side by side for the rest of the lesson. Lucía didn’t ask any more questions.

—

That evening, after the children had gone and the room had quieted to the ticking of the old wall clock, Lucía was cleaning paint cups when she saw it.

A man outside the school gate. Standing very still, arms crossed. Watching.

Not like a parent. Not like someone waiting.

Lucía squinted through the sun-glare. She couldn’t see his face. Just the suggestion of sharp edges. A suit, maybe. Or just the posture of someone used to control.

Then he turned and walked away.

—

The first time Carlos saw her, he thought, ‘She’s too soft to survive in this world.’

She moved like someone used to being invisible. Calm. Quiet. But not weak. No—there was something else. The way she watched the children like they were hers, even when they weren’t. The way her voice carried not because it was loud, but because it was certain.

She didn’t command the room. She held it.

Through the window of the town car, he watched as she crouched beside Inés in the playground.

She touched her.

A hand on the braid. A gentle tuck of hair behind his daughter’s ear.

And Inés didn’t flinch.

Carlos’ entire body went still.

He'd seen his daughter go catatonic at the lightest brush of a stranger’s hand.

But here she was, allowing it. Leaning toward it, even.

He felt it like a hook in the chest. “Who is she?” he asked, eyes still fixed.

“Lucía Mora,” Álvaro said, already flipping through the file. “Twenty-three. Teacher. Lives alone. No husband. No boyfriend. Supports her parents and two brothers financially. One of them’s a dropout. The other’s fourteen and doesn’t go to school.”

“Why?”

“Eh. No idea. Father’s got a back injury. Looks like she’s been the responsible adult in the family since she was fifteen.”

Carlos didn’t say anything. Just watched as Lucía handed Inés a piece of chalk. Let her work in silence. Matched her energy instinctively, like she’d studied her, but no—this wasn’t a performance.

This was instinct.

This was real.

“She’s overworked,” Álvaro added. “But no drugs. No record. Clean. Honest.”

Carlos laughed under his breath. “There’s no such thing.”

Álvaro paused. “You want us to keep tabs?”

“No.” That surprised even himself.

He took the file. Read through it slowly. Scanned the address, the salary, the debts she didn’t talk about. She was drowning in them.

She had no idea who Inés was. She wasn’t trying to impress him, wasn’t angling for proximity to power. She was simply... good.

And he’d spent so long surrounded by people who faked goodness to mask their rot. This woman, he thought, is a fucking anomaly.

Carlos closed the file. Lit a cigarette. Let it burn in his fingers.

“I want to meet her,” he said finally.

Álvaro tilted his head. “At the school?”

“No.” He tapped ash into the tray. “I want to see who she is when she’s off-duty.”

He watched her one last time—how she stood to clean, how she smiled at a student, how she rubbed the back of her neck like her body had forgotten it belonged to her.

Then, “Set something up. Soon.”

—

The walk home always felt a little longer in winter.

The sun dipped low behind the rooftops, casting everything in blue-gold shadow. The kind of light that made even broken things beautiful. Worn tiles, laundry lines strung between balconies, shutters half-hanging off their hinges.

Lucía clutched her coat tighter around her. The zipper had broken two weeks ago.

She passed the usual markers: the crumbling fountain outside the abandoned butcher shop. The dog with one ear that always watched from the fire escape. The little red café that played cassette tapes through dusty speakers.

Then she turned onto her street and paused.

Nothing looked different.

But something felt off.

She scanned the road. No one there. A few windows lit up in the apartments above. Someone arguing in rapid Catalan across the alley. The scent of something frying in oil.

Still.

She felt it. The weight. Like someone was watching.

Her fingers twitched at her side. Her heartbeat picked up, just a little.

She shook her head. “Get a grip.”

She’d been tense all day. The thing with Inés. The boys. The cold. The phone call from her mother, still echoing in the back of her mind.

She was tired. That’s all.

Still, when she reached the door to her building, she didn’t fumble for her keys the way she usually did. She kept her head high. Shoulders square. Turned the lock with practiced speed and slipped inside.

The stairwell smelled like rust.

She took the stairs instead of the elevator.

Halfway up, she glanced back down the dim concrete shaft.

Nothing.

But she couldn’t shake it.

She reached her apartment, locked the door behind her. Bolted it. Latched the chain. All the things she usually forgot to do, tonight done in sequence like ritual.

Inside, her little space waited for her—soft and cramped and cobbled together with secondhand furniture and fading art supplies. She turned on the lamp. Lit her candle. Boiled water for tea.

By the time she sat on the couch, blanket over her knees, sketchbook in her lap, she almost felt normal again.

Still…

She looked once at the window.

Nothing but window lights and laundry lines.

She stared for a moment longer.

Then she opened the sketchbook and began to draw. Gentle lines. A small hand. A braid. The memory of a quiet child.

—

He came alone.

That was rare.

But Álvaro didn’t need to see this. No one did.

Fernando stood across the street from her building, tucked into the shadow of a shuttered tobacco shop, hands in his coat pockets. Watching.

The place was worse than he expected.

Graffiti crawled up the walls like veins. One of the windows on the ground floor was cracked, taped over with a cardboard cereal box. The outer door didn’t shut properly. A group of teenagers smoked on the steps, passing something back and forth, loud with the recklessness of people who didn’t know how close they were to danger.

Carlos’ jaw locked.

He watched her window. Fourth floor. Faint light flickering behind a torn curtain. Warm, amber. A single candle glow in a city of broken teeth.

A woman like her shouldn’t live in a building that smelled like piss and regret. Shouldn’t have to walk home with her keys between her fingers like a weapon. Shouldn’t have to dodge stray hands on the metro or carry cash in her bra or count every euro at the corner market.

She should be somewhere safe.

Somewhere soft.

Somewhere… his.

That last thought came uninvited.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like how this felt. Like he’d swallowed something and it had lodged behind his ribs. Tight. Hot.

This was supposed to be curiosity. A thank-you for what she’d become for Inés. That was all.

But standing here, watching her silhouette move through that too-small apartment, watching her sit down at the table with a bowl of what looked like soup and stare into it like she was willing it to become more—it wasn’t curiosity anymore.

It was hunger.

And it was fury.

He imagined someone breaking into that building. Kicking open her door. He imagined her scream. He imagined getting there too late.

And something ancient inside him snapped its teeth.

No.

That wouldn’t happen.

Not to her.

He stepped away from the wall. Lit a cigarette with hands steadier than they should’ve been.

And started to plan.

—

It was just after lunch, and the classroom buzzed with the usual post-break energy: some students talking in hushed voices, others already immersed in their books or drawings. Lucía was at her desk, sorting through papers, when she noticed Inés standing by the door. Her little frame was still, her eyes wide, her hands clutching the strap of her bag tightly, as if unsure if she should enter the room or run a million miles away.

Inés didn’t usually seek out attention. She wasn’t the type to raise her hand or push herself into conversations. No, Inés was a child who observed, who stood on the edge of things, careful and quiet. But now, Lucía could see the hesitation in her posture—the way her feet shifted, the way she wouldn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes.

“Are you okay, Inés?” Lucía asked, her voice light but warm, calling the girl over with a gentle gesture.

Inés blinked, then slowly walked over, dragging her feet just slightly as if trying to make the decision to move. She didn’t say anything at first, but Lucía noticed how she leaned a little closer to her desk once she reached it, the silence between them not uncomfortable but filled with unspoken understanding.

Without a word, Lucía set down the papers she’d been holding and turned toward the girl, offering her the space to sit if she wanted.

Inés hesitated again, then sat down on the edge of the desk, just beside Lucía’s chair. She didn’t say anything; she simply curled in on herself a little, wrapping her arms around her knees, her eyes flicking from the floor to Lucía’s face and back again.

Lucía watched her for a moment, her heart softening. She didn’t need to ask what Inés wanted—she could see it in the way the child’s shoulders slumped, the way her fingers lightly tapped the edge of her notebook.

Lucía smiled gently. The other children in the class were too busy with their own conversations to notice, leaving the two of them in a kind of cocoon of quiet.

“You’re welcome to stay there for as long as you’d like, Inés,” Lucía said after a long pause, her voice soft but steady. “No rush to do anything.”

Inés looked up at her then, and for the first time, Lucía saw the faintest trace of something like relief in the girl’s eyes. It was fleeting but real.

Inés shifted closer, not quite enough to touch her, but enough. She glanced at the papers on Lucía’s desk, then at the art supplies scattered across the corner, but she didn’t move toward any of it.

After a while, Inés spoke so quietly that Lucía had to lean in to catch her words. “Do you think I could… draw with you?” she asked, voice soft and almost shy. “Like we did last time. But… just sit with you. Don’t want to go to my desk.”

Lucía’s heart skipped a beat. She nodded with a smile. “Of course.”

The little girl opened her bag slowly, pulling out a small, worn sketchbook. She didn’t start drawing right away. Instead, she just held it in her lap, tracing the edges of the pages with her fingers.

Lucía stood up, brought the attention of the rest of the class to the board, and gave them their tasks for the next hour. She found herself glancing at Inés every now and then, concern slowly morphing into something sweeter as she watched the little girl get lost in the splashes of colour.

Eventually, the bell rang, signalling the end of class.

Inés hesitated, as if reluctant to leave.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Lucía said, standing and gathering her things. “Whenever you need, you can come. I will excuse you from your other classes, if you’re having a hard time.”

Inés met her eyes for a moment, and for the first time, Lucía saw a small smile tug at the corners of the girl’s lips. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

—

Lucía’s apartment was dark when she arrived home, the quiet hum of the city outside her window the only sound. She closed the door behind her with a soft click and leaned against it for a moment, breathing in the stillness.

Something was different.

Her eyes immediately went to the door, to the lock she’d been complaining about for months. The old mechanism had been temperamental, sometimes jamming or refusing to turn, and she'd had to manoeuvre it a hundred times just to get inside. But tonight, the lock had turned smoothly. Too smoothly.

She paused, her gaze narrowing.

A small white envelope sat neatly under the door, right where the frame met the floor. There were no markings on it, only a single word: Compensation.

Lucía bent down to pick it up, her fingers brushing the paper before she slid it open. Inside was a thick wad of bills—far more than she was expecting for a few months of discomfort. The amount was substantial enough to make her pause, her heart skipping a beat in cautious disbelief.

She stared at the money, her mind racing.

Her suspicions stirred. Her landlord was an odd man, constantly vague, never really engaging beyond the bare minimum. And the money—it felt off. Too much. She hesitated before slipping it into the pocket of her cardigan.

With a sigh, she made her way toward the kitchen to drop off her bag and empty the trash can.

The hallway was dimly lit. Her building was old, like everything else in this part of town. The stairs creaked underfoot, and the walls were thin enough to hear muffled conversations from neighbouring apartments. Lucía could always count on hearing at least one argument or loud voice on any given evening. It was part of the charm, really.

She made it to the trash chute and started to open it when a familiar voice interrupted her.

"Lucía, wait a second."

She turned to find her neighbour, Marta, a woman in her late thirties with messy hair and a perpetually tired look, standing in the hallway. She had the same exhausted but defiant look that Lucía sometimes wore. A woman just scraping by.

“What is it?” Lucía asked, already guessing it was going to be about the building. Everyone seemed to talk about the building lately—its shitty carpets, its damp walls.

Marta lowered her voice, glancing around before stepping closer. “You’re not gonna believe it, but I just heard some things from a friend of a friend who works with the landlord.” She looked over her shoulder once more. “Apparently, the building’s being sold. To some big corporation, but it’s… God, they’re saying it’s Sainz. He’s buying up the whole block.”

Lucía blinked, half-thinking she hadn’t heard Marta correctly. “Sainz as in… The mafia family?”

Marta nodded, her eyes wide. “Yeah. The mafia. Apparently they’ve been looking at this building for months now. I mean, you know how sketchy things are around here. You can’t trust anyone.” She shifted on her feet, speaking faster now, as though needing to unload the whole story at once. “The rumour is they’re going to hike up the rent, make it impossible for us to stay here. It’s all about making money. They don’t care about us. They’ll just push us out if we can’t pay, move in people who can.”

Lucía’s chest tightened.

Marta’s face had already darkened, and she reached out, placing a hand on Lucía’s arm. “I don’t know, Lucía, but I’ve been looking for another place, just in case. If they raise the rent… we’ll be screwed. I don’t know how anyone will manage to stay here, not with the way things are.”

Lucía nodded, feeling oddly hazy about it all.

She didn’t know how long she stood there in silence, her hand still gripping the trash bag.

“I’ll think about it,” Lucía finally said.

Marta gave her a sympathetic look before nodding and walking away, muttering to herself about how it was just another in a long list of “impossible” things to deal with.

When she finally dropped the trash into the chute, she was still thinking about Sainz, about the landlord’s strange behaviour, and that envelope with the money. It all tangled in her mind, filling the space in her head with questions and suspicion.

She made her way back up the stairs slowly, her thoughts racing.

Back in her apartment, she locked the door behind her, the new lock clicking smoothly into place. She placed the envelope full of euros on the counter, still unsure what to make of it.

Her phone buzzed, a familiar tone signalling a new message.

Lucía stared at the screen. It was from her mother.

I don’t know if you’ve looked at the school uniform prices for your siblings this year, but they’re going up. Are you going to be able to help?

She couldn’t say no. She never could.

She glanced at the envelope. Bit her lip.

I’ll come by tomorrow with some cash.

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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

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Oscar Piastri for Vogue.

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springintosummerxx · 3 months ago

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under pink light in june ⸻ alex albon x reader .

featuring alex albon , summer camp au , slow burn , two idiots in love word count 2.5k author’s note first alex request WHO CHEERED !! this one is for @tsunodaradio - kae , you are SUCH an incredible writer and i’m in love with your work . writing this was a dream and i hope you love it as much as i do ! i’m still working through requests but this might be my last fic for a tiny bit bc … finals . as always , please tell me what you think or send me a request ! love you all <3 title is from close to you by gracie abrams .

54: a bunk bed and a crush .

Summer doesn’t really start until your first cannonball into the lake.

You’ve been coming here every summer for years, first as a camper and now as a counselor, and the routine is always the same — head to your cabin, find your friends, go to the welcome meeting, and then dive straight into the water. It’s always bracing in June when you arrive, enough to take your breath away, but that’s how you like it best.

You’re just trudging into your cabin, toting your ugly and monstrously large duffel bag on your shoulder, when you see Lissie waiting for you. “There’s a new guy,” she says by way of introduction, eyes sparkling. You blink, losing your concentration, and the bag falls at your feet. There’s rarely new counselors at camp: nearly all of you grew up together, coming back summer after summer, so this is the type of news everyone will be whispering about for at least the first few days. You wonder what he’ll be like — sweet like Charles? Bossy like George? You hope, at least, that he’s nice enough to get along with for the summer.

You spot him right away when you and Lissie get to the meeting, of course — he’s the only person in the room you don’t know. He’s sitting in a chair next to Lando, long legs stretched into the middle of the circle, watching everyone catch up about their years with a quiet sort of loneliness. No one’s invited him into the conversation, you realize. So you march over, sit in the empty chair next to him and promptly introduce yourself.

He turns to you, and. Whoa. Cute. “Nice to meet you. I’m Alex,” he says, and when he smiles gratefully at you, you might as well have already taken your first swim the way the breath gets knocked out of you.

Work week passes by almost too quickly, a blur of dusting cobwebs out of the old cabins and scrubbing the barnacles off the bottoms of the sailboats. Alex quickly makes himself useful; whether he’s trying to impress or he’s just a hard worker, you’ll never know. You find yourself talking to him a lot, trying to get him to open up just a little bit more, determined to solve the Mystery of Alex. When you ask about the accent, you find out he’s half-Thai, half-British. When he calms the nervous horses without blinking, you learn he grew up on a farm, that he and his siblings have a whole menagerie of pets. When Lissie asks him if he has a girlfriend, shooting a completely unsubtle glance your way, you learn he blushes easily. (And that he’s single. Not that it matters to you, of course.)

Before you know it, it’s the night before opening day. The boats shine like new. Each bunk has a personalized name card on it. Everything is perfect.

It’s nearly midnight, and you can’t sleep. You’re lying in your top bunk, the same one you’ve been sleeping in every summer since you were thirteen. Your fingers trace over a carving in the wall next to your bed, a heart with your initials and someone else’s. You distantly remember the name, but not the face. He only came for one summer. You wonder absentmindedly where he might be now. Then: if Alex worked here for just this year, whether you’d forget him after a while too.

“Lissie?” you murmur into the darkness. You’ve tossed and turned in the top bunk enough to know she’s awake.

She makes a small, muffled noise into her pillow, then rolls over. “What?” she yawns, and you feel a little surge of guilt for dragging her into your weird little insomnia.

“Just — be nice to Alex tomorrow?” you ask her.

She breathes out, a whoosh of air you can hear from above. “That’s what you woke me up for?”

“I just—” you pause. “I want him to feel welcome.” You want him to stay. “Don’t scare him away.”

“Okay,” she drawls, in a tone that screams we’re-definitely-going-to-be-talking-about-this-later. “I’ll be nice.”

You listen for a while to the sound of her breathing, slow and even. When you finally fall asleep, you dream of calm horses, trotting around an endless farm.

—

You always feel powerful on the lifeguard stands. You like to think of yourself as the keeper of the lake, your whistle your trusted weapon. (Really, it’s just that the lifeguard stand is the best place to get a tan. Also, you like blowing the whistle at Max, because for such a stoic guy it always makes him jump about ten feet in the air.)

The sun is high in the sky when the first session of free swim wraps up, and Lando and Charles bundle their campers off to their next activity. You have fifteen minutes of blessed silence, no campers swallowing too much lake water or screaming because they swear they felt a shark. You and Carlos exchange a glance, then tilt the umbrella back until the full force of the sun’s rays are hitting you. You sigh, closing your eyes. You could get used to this. “Who has the next free swim?” you ask lazily, draping your arm over the back of the chair. Carlos simply giggles, and your eyes fly open, looking out towards the path.

Alex is walking down, surrounded by his entire cabin. They’re practically hanging off him — you think he must have about three kids riding piggyback. Despite all that, his face lights up in a smile when he sees you perched on the chair, and he waves to you with all the enthusiasm of a passenger on the top deck of a departing cruise ship.

“Look at Alex. He’s such a dork,” you say fondly, cheeks flushing in the summer heat.

“Dios mio,” Carlos sighs, pushing his Ray-Bans to the top of his head and pursing his lips like he’s trying not to laugh at you. “Can you just kiss him already? I can’t watch this for the entire summer.”

“Stop. We’re friends,” you say, smacking his arm lightly without taking your eyes off Alex. He’s stripped off his shirt and is fussing around his campers like a mother duck, buckling life jackets and rubbing zinc on their noses. They start scampering towards the lake, one by one, and Alex starts to follow.

And then, like he can’t help himself, he glances back at you. He grins when he sees you’re already looking at him, and repositions himself like a swimsuit model, looking utterly ridiculous with his miles of arms and legs. He’s far too lanky for that pose, you tell yourself. He looks stupid.

Your suddenly dry mouth says otherwise.

“Sure,” Carlos says with a Cheshire Cat smile. “Friends.”

—

Alex is so good with the kids, has slotted into the fabric of your everyday in such an easy way, that sometimes you forget — he’s still new. He doesn’t know this place inside and out like you do, hasn’t learned every lesson in the book when it comes to dealing with campers.

Lesson number one: never tell them anything about your personal life.

You’re in the mess hall, carrying a box of popsicles to your cabin’s table, when a boy comes skidding to a halt at your feet. You’re not quite paying attention, so you remind him not to run almost automatically and keep walking. But he pulls on the hem of your camp pinny, keeping up with your pace, and asks “Do you love Alex?”

You drop the box of popsicles on the table, and the girls swarm. You turn your attention to the kid — one of Alex’s. You recognize him from free swim time, the one who’s always diving headfirst into the lake. Your eyes flick to Alex’s cabin’s table, nestled snugly next to yours. The boys aren’t eating their popsicles. No, they’re all watching you intently, whispering behind their hands. Carlos is sitting next to them, fucking smirking, and you make a mental note to flip him the bird when there aren’t so many seven-year-olds around. “Why?” you ask carefully, suspiciously.

The boy grins. One of his front teeth is missing. “Alex said out of all the counselors, you’re his most favorite. That means he loves you most. So do you love him?”

It shouldn’t make you as ridiculously pleased as it does. Kids take things out of context all the time, but the way he says it — it’s like it’s something important, like it’s a secret he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to tell.

“Hey,” says Alex from behind you. You nearly jump out of your skin, but he’s focused more on the kid than you. “What are you doing over here? Go sit down, Carlos has popsicles.” He sounds friendly, but no-nonsense, a combination you’ve never quite mastered. It’s probably why they all love him so much.

“It’s fine,” you shrug, your eyes catching on the way the cherry popsicle stains his full lips red. “He was just telling me I’m your very most favorite counselor.” You bat your eyelashes at him teasingly, and Alex nearly chokes on his popsicle. He flushes, eyes bright, and your heart stutters in your chest at the sight.

When you’re sitting on the green later, you untape the friendship bracelet you’ve been working on all summer from your water bottle. You nudge Alex with your foot, and he looks up just in time to catch it before it hits his chest.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, smiling at him. “You’re my favorite counselor too.”

—

Out of everything about camp that you love, the end-of-season bonfire has to be your favorite. The kids leave in the afternoon, and that night you all sneak out to the beach. Lando brings a speaker and the playlist he’s been steadily adding to for years, Max brings enough alcohol to fuel a small country, and you and Lissie make the superlative awards for every counselor. Alex beams when you present him with his, “Rookie of the Year” scrawled in your messy cursive across a paper plate. He folds it carefully, sliding it into the chest pocket of his button-down, and something warm blooms in your chest.

The party goes on into the late night, the full moon sparkling over the lake. You dance, you talk, Carlos sings along to some 80s bossa nova song, ridiculously off-key. In a way, you’re not surprised that you end up gravitating toward Alex. Every part of you is (pathetically) aware of where he is, pretty much the entire night. So when he approaches and asks you if you want to make a s’more with him, you don’t hesitate before plopping your butt in the sand and grabbing a marshmallow.

“Your exit interview is tomorrow, right?” you ask, and he nods, mouth twisting down at the corners.

“M’nervous,” he shrugs, and you bump his shoulder against his slightly. “What if they don’t ask me to come back next summer?”

“Of course they will,” you say, rotating the skewer between your fingers so your marshmallow browns equally. It’s true, you think — he’s a great counselor, the kids love him. You want to reassure him of that. But mostly, you say it because you just can’t imagine being at camp without him anymore. To you, summer is Alex, smiling that megawatt smile at you with his knee pressed against yours. “You’re, like, the coolest person I know, and you don’t even have to try.”

“I try really, really hard around you,” he says, and you drop your marshmallow in the fire.

Your hands start to shake a little bit, pulse thrumming under your skin like the drumbeat of the camp chants you shouted earlier. Alex doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes flickering to the fire like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen as he keeps speaking. “I’m serious. When I’m around you, I want to be my funniest, my kindest, my most interesting. You—”

He pauses abruptly, like he’s grasping for the right word, to make the moment as perfect as he can. “You bring out my superlatives,” he says, so urgently that it makes your breath catch in your chest.

You try to swallow the lump that’s grown in your throat as he finally, finally turns and levels you with his earnest gaze. Meeting his eyes feels like staring at the sun, like looking straight at a future you weren’t letting yourself think you could have. Your cheeks burn from the heat.

You have to avert your gaze. You can’t look at him when you ask the million-dollar question. “Alex. Why were you trying so hard to impress me?” you say, pulling at a loose thread at the edge of your cutoffs and wrapping it around your fingertip until it swells purple-blue in the light. You let the thread unravel, take a deep breath. “What were you hoping for?”

He sighs, helplessly. “Everything.”

You don’t know what that means — whether he’s satisfied with what he’s gotten from you all summer, or whether he’s waiting for more, or how much more he might want.

But with that being said, his skin is glowing in the golden light of the fire, and his long delicate fingers are drumming against his knee, and. Well. You want everything.

You kiss him, bracing your hand on his thigh, near the hem of his shorts. He doesn’t hesitate before responding, slow and so deliberate, like he’s been waiting for it all summer. His hands come up to cup your cheeks, sending sparks shooting down your spine. You weave your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he practically sighs into your mouth.

“I wasn’t trying to ask for that,” he says when he finally pulls away. For a moment, you’re too dazed to respond. His hand is still on your jaw, brushing along the curve of it like it’s something to be studied. The gesture is so sweet it makes your teeth hurt.

You lean in to peck his lips one more time. “No,” you agree. “But I wanted to give it.”

“Oi!” Lando calls from across the fire, and the romantic rose-colored bubble you’re imagining around you finally pops. You and Alex both turn to look at him at the same time, and he’s groaning. “You couldn’t have done it like, a week earlier? Now I owe Carlos a hundred bucks.”

“You bet on us?” you ask, scandalized.

Carlos just smiles smugly. “Ay. I knew you would only make a move at the last minute.”

Alex’s fingers find yours, threading between until your hands are intertwined, and he grins. “Better late than never.”

When the fire finally dies, you all head to the dock for one last jump. It’s never been your favorite moment; the water’s too warm for you by August, and you hate the sadness of endings. But this time, Alex takes your hand in his before you jump, and he kisses you when you resurface, and you can’t help but think it feels more like a beginning.

#this deserves more recognition!!!#more alex representation is neccessary i fear #miss girl you ate this up #so coming of age summer ribs by lorde core

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