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suliigwp · 17 hours ago

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I just saw this now I'm so sorry!! Thank you soooo much for your kind words, I'm so glad you enjoyed 🫶🫶🫶

Controversially Young Girlfriend

Max Verstappen x Reader | age gap, written+smau

Inspired by my follower @maxswhore33 's blog title (I got permission)

SULI: Hey so.....🫦 I'm sorry this is my guilty pleasure— I tried to keep everything in check though I promise it's not too much🙏 the girls that get it, get it — short and sweet

SUMMARY: max and his young girlfriend have a hard time navigating what everyone has to say about their age gap

Warnings: age gap (duh) 27-20

“Anyone sitting here?”

He gestures to the empty spot beside her.

She doesn’t even glance at him.

“Is anyone ever sitting anywhere at these things, or do you just like the idea of asking?”

He blinks, then laughs. “Fair enough.”

She finally looks up—dead in the eyes. Calm. Amused, maybe. “You’re Max Verstappen, right?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She shrugs. “Just a thing.”

Max sits. Sips his drink. There’s a pause. “You here alone?” he asks.

“My father’s here. Somewhere between the scotch and the politicians pretending to care about art.”

She tilts her glass toward the display on the far wall. “This is his idea of bonding.”

“Right.” He chuckles. “So you’re not into any of this either.”

“I like the environment,” she says simply. “Not the company.”

Another pause. Then—

“You here alone?”

Max scratches his jaw. “No. My girlfriend’s somewhere upstairs. Talking to someone about those paintings upstairs, I think.”

“Ah,” she says, and something shifts. Her tone is lighter, but her eyes? Sharp.

“Those are mine, I'll get her on the guest list if she meets the age requirements. How old is she?”

He frowns a little, caught off guard. “Uh… thirty-five.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“That’s… a bit weird, isn’t it?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she says, as if it’s obvious, “you’re what—twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six,” he says.

“Still. That’s like dating your older cousin.”

A tiny sip. “Emotionally speaking.”

Max stares at her. “That’s a reach.”

She hums, unconvinced. “No judgment. Just interesting.”

She leans forward, a sly smirk curling.

“So… how old were you when you two got together?”

Max blinks, caught off guard. “Uh… nineteen, I think?”

She nearly chokes on her drink.

“Dude. Really?”

Max shrugs, uncomfortable.

“Yeah. It just... happened.”

She laughs softly. “Wow. So she’s basically been your age for a minute. That’s wild.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“And you’re okay with that?” she asks, voice teasing but sharp.

Max looks away. “I guess.”

“And how old are you?” she asks, shifting back, deadly serious again.

“Twenty,” she says flatly. “Still know how to use a microwave. You?”

He laughs again, out of confusion or disbelief, he’s not sure.

“You really don’t care who I am, do you?”

She tilts her head. “Should I?”

“No. It’s… refreshing, actually.”

She finishes her drink and stands up, pulling her phone from her coat pocket.

“Give me your number,” she says.

He hesitates. “You didn’t even tell me your name.”

“You can earn that later.”

She holds the phone out. He taps in the number. Watches her save it.

She shows the screen before she tucks it away:

“Dutch.”

He chokes on his laugh. “Seriously?”

“It’s either that or ‘older cousin dater.’ Your pick.”

She walks off, coat slipping over her shoulder, not even glancing back.

...

They didn’t become friends so much as they kept… happening to each other.

It started with the texts.

She wasn’t exactly warm. Her replies came in lowercase, sometimes hours later, never with an emoji. But they always had bite.

Artiste: you drive like you’re trying to kill the car

Dutch: you watch?

Artiste: first five minutes, I fell asleep

Dutch: harsh

Artiste: honest

He liked it. She didn’t ask for selfies or gossip. She never brought up his girlfriend, either. She asked about silence, about books, about whether he thought fame was real or just a side effect of boredom.

And then there were the encounters.

Always random, always surprising.

At a Monaco rooftop party in May, she appeared at his side just after midnight, arms crossed, gaze heavy-lidded. He offered her a drink. She stole the lemon slice from his instead.

“Still dating the older cousin?” she asked dryly.

He almost choked.

She smiled, the corner of her mouth lifting like a secret.

In Silverstone, she was in the VIP section with someone Important and Very Tired Looking. She caught his eye from across the paddock and lifted her hand—not to wave, just to show him a book.

When he squinted, she mouthed, “Camus.”

That night, he texted her:

Dutch: Why are you reading The Stranger during qualifying?

Her reply: existential dread pairs well with overpriced hospitality passes

By summer, he looked for her. At afterparties. At brand dinners. In the background of other people’s photos.

She always showed up unexpectedly—leaning against a balcony, sipping red wine, disappearing before anyone else even realized she’d been there. Her laugh was rare, but when he got it? It echoed in his head longer than his podium anthems.

Then came September.

A lowkey watch event in Milan. Nothing serious. He spotted her standing near a sculpture, arms folded like she didn’t trust the marble.

They talked for nearly an hour. Not about racing. Not even about art.

He told her about his childhood in karting. How sometimes, when the adrenaline was gone, the silence after a win scared him more than any crash.

She listened without interrupting, head tilted, eyes like glass.

...

Few Months Of Meeting Later

The walls are covered in stark, minimalist paintings and photos — cold, evocative, unapologetic. The kind of place where silence feels loud.

Max steps inside, slightly out of place but trying not to show it. She’s already there, arms folded, eyes scanning the newest exhibit.

She looks up and smirks.

“Well, if it isn’t Dutch.”

Max grins, running a hand through his hair.

“Hey. Figured I’d finally see where all your mysterious gallery talk was about.”

She nods toward a black-and-white detailed painting of a lone tree in winter.

“Cold, right? I like to think it’s honest.”

He shrugs.

“Kind of like you.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused.

“Maybe. So, how’s life? Still hanging with the older cousin?”

Max’s smile fades for a second.

“Actually... we broke up a few months ago.”

She studies him quietly.

“Really? What happened?”

He sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Guess the age gap wasn’t just a headline. Things got complicated.”

She folds her arms tighter.

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet.”

Max smirks.

“Maybe. Or maybe I just traded one complication for another.”

She tilts her head.

“Oh?”

He shrugs.

“Let’s just say… I’m still figuring out what I want.”

She smiles softly, but there’s steel beneath it.

“Well, if you ever want a crash course in complicated, you know where to find me.”

He looks at her, eyes sharper now.

“Yeah. I do.”

...

May, 2024

They were careful.

No holding hands. No public eye contact that lingered. She always walked two steps ahead, and Max never looked at her for too long when there were phones nearby.

But that night in Madrid — some dim-lit restaurant tucked into a quiet street after a sponsor event — someone caught them slipping.

It wasn’t even dramatic.

Just a blurry photo.

She’s leaving the restaurant first, coat draped over her shoulders, head turned slightly toward the car. Only the lower half of her face is visible — but it’s enough. The shape of her jaw. The curve of her mouth. The unmistakably young silhouette.

Behind her, Max walks out.

Not too close. But closer than friends.

He’s smiling.

Not the “for-press” kind of smile — the kind no one had really seen before.

...

F1GossipNow.com

🗞️ “Mystery Woman Spotted with Verstappen in Madrid — New Flame or Just Dinner?”

> Sources spotted Max Verstappen leaving a private dinner Tuesday night with a mystery woman. Dressed casually, the two exited separately but entered the same vehicle minutes later. Her identity is still unknown — but fans are already buzzing about how young she appears...

F1 Twitter

@/F1Spill: there’s no way max is out here with a girl who looks FRESHLY 19… bro this better be a niece or something 😭😭

@/wagwatcher: not to be that person but that’s not his girlfriend. his girlfriend is literally 36 and this girl has a side part and ballet flats. do the math.

@/verstappen_stan88: people age differently??? y’all always jump to conclusions 🙄

@/pitlanequeen: it’s the way he’s smiling. I’ve never seen him look like that. I’m scared.

REDDIT THREAD: “Max’s New Girl???” [RUMOR]

> u/f1deepsleuth

I reverse image searched and I think she was at that Monaco rooftop party in April — I posted about it then. She’s always in black, always quiet, and someone said she might be the daughter of that EU guy who owns like five galleries.

> u/softlaunchalert

She's always ahead of him. Never with him. This is the first time we’ve seen them in the same frame. Trust — something’s going on.

Max says nothing.

She says even less.

But that weekend, she’s not seen at the race. And Max?

Max crashes in Q2. For the first time all season.

Coincidence?

The fans don’t think so.

...

Her name was supposed to stay out of it.

That was the unspoken rule.

The one she didn’t write, but enforced — with private profiles, no tagged photos, a digital footprint cleaner than most politicians.

She never posted. She never smiled for cameras. She wasn’t Max’s girlfriend; not officially, not loudly.

But it took one cousin.

One private school girl with too much free time.

One blurry paparazzi photo from Madrid where she was stepping into a car and Max was just a few paces behind, smiling in a way that no man does for “just a friend.”

That was all it took.

11:07

Her phone buzzes. Then again. And again. And again.

By the twelfth vibration, she doesn’t bother turning it over.

She knows what this is.

Online, it unfolds like a murder scene

“Her name is y/n”

“She’s 20. Twenty. Let that sink in.”

“She was 10 when Max started f1.”

“Is no one gonna talk about how WEIRD this is?”

There are edits. Screen-recorded TikToks.

A quote from The Stranger overlays a video of her walking silently in heels.

There’s a photo from when she was sixteen.

One from a yearbook.

A repost of her standing next to a man in a tux—her father—but the comments assume otherwise.

“oh so she’s been groomed to orbit rich men”

“this is giving succession x pretty little liars”

“she’s not even hot, she just looks expensive”

She scrolls once. Then stops.

Opens a bag of grapes and eats one slowly.

11:26

Dutch: They found you. Don’t post anything just ignore it all

Dutch: I’m sorry.

Artista: don't be silly, focus on the race, good luck🫶

By the next race weekend, her name is being whispered louder than lap times.

At the press conference, the question is polite on the surface.

“Max, given the increase in media attention surrounding your private life, how are you staying focused this season?”

He blinks. The PR girl to his left stiffens.

He leans forward slightly, jaw tight.

“I drive.”

A pause.

“So you’re not addressing the rumors about—”

He cuts them off with a glance that could kill.

“I said what I said.”

He leaves two questions early.

Her Father’s Villa, Côte d’Azur

She’s on the terrace, curled into a corner of the outdoor sofa. Her black hoodie swallows her whole. The wind off the sea is cold but welcome.

Her phone is still buzzing.

She hasn’t checked it all day.

She eats another grape, slow, thoughtful.

Her father steps outside, hovering like smoke.

“Do you want me to call someone? I can—”

“No.”

“We can release something if it’s hurting your reputation.”

She doesn’t look up.

Just shifts her legs beneath her and murmurs, "It's not, I don't care about it."

It’s past midnight when she finally calls him.

No warning. No text. No “you up?”

Just his name on her screen.

Just the silence stretching between them like a red string pulled too tight.

He picks up after two rings.

His voice is quieter than usual — less cocky, more… careful.

“Hey.”

She doesn’t speak at first.

She just listens. To the way he breathes. To the way he says nothing, waiting for her to go first.

Then—

“They found me.”

Max exhales like he’s been holding it since Madrid.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, even though he can’t see it.

Her voice is even, calm, cold in that way only she can be — like a girl narrating her own biography from outside her body.

“They found my name, my school, a photo of me at sixteen in a Christmas concert.”

A pause.

“I think I’ve officially become an archetype.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know.”

“Are you okay?”

That’s what makes her pause.

Not the press. Not the edits. Not the death threats in her DMs from strangers calling her everything from manipulative to brainwashed.

But that. Are you okay?

“I am now.”

Max is quiet again. And then—

“I shouldn’t have smiled in that photo.”

That makes her laugh. Just a breath.

“You were doomed the moment you did. You smiled like I was yours.”

He doesn’t argue.

“You are,” he says.

Silence again.

But this time it’s warm.

“My father wants to issue a statement,” she murmurs. “Some PR girl sent me a suggested apology. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be sorry for.”

“Existing,” Max mutters.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells her.

“You don’t owe anyone that.”

“I know,” she says softly.

“But I owe me something. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

There’s a long pause. Neither of them fill it. Neither of them need to.

Then—

“I’m coming to see you,” he says.

“Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you want.”

“You’ll be seen.”

“Let them look.”

She closes her eyes.

Lets herself smile, just a little.

“Okay,” she says.

“Come tomorrow.”

“Tell me where.”

“You already know where.”

...

He’s been holding it together for three weeks.

Three long weeks of whispered questions disguised as “racing talk.”

Three weeks of edits and threads and sick little opinion pieces calling her everything but a person.

At first, he brushed it off.

Then he ignored it.

Then he started flinching whenever someone mentioned the word age.

But today?

Today, he snaps.

The room is packed. The lights are hot. Someone in the second row is already typing before he’s said a word. He can hear the click of nails on a phone screen.

He doesn’t want to be here.

The first few questions are fine. Tires. Conditions. Something about tire deg. He answers robotically.

Then a hand goes up in the back. A reporter from one of the tabloids. The kind who always smiles with her eyes when she's about to ruin you.

“Max, there’s been a lot of discourse lately about your personal life. People are concerned about the age difference with your alleged girlfriend—”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“—do you think that criticism is fair?”

And that’s it. The chair shifts. He leans forward.

“Are people also concerned when it’s a 27-year-old woman dating a 19-year-old guy? Because I didn’t see headlines when that was my situation nine years ago.”

A beat of silence.

The room freezes.

“Or is it only weird when I’m the older one now?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.

“You’re all suddenly experts on morality when it suits you. When it trends. When there’s a girl you don’t recognize and a headline you can stretch into outrage.”

Another breath. Controlled. Measured. Dangerous.

“She didn’t ask for this. She didn’t post anything. She hasn’t said a word. But people are treating her like she committed a crime by breathing near me."

"So no—I don’t think the criticism is fair. I think it’s pathetic.”

The PR girl next to him reaches out gently, warningly. He doesn’t stop.

“Next question.”

He gets up before anyone can ask one.

Walks out.

Doesn’t wait for his handler. Doesn’t look back.

Behind him, the room erupts into camera flashes and urgent whispers.

He doesn’t care.

Dutch: I snapped at them. Sorry.

I couldn’t just sit there and let them talk about you like that.

...

comments.

feralforf1: the way he said “she didn’t say a word” like he knows she’s been silently watching everything… I’m unwell

f1lawyerwannabe: let’s be real. the press has never known what to do when max goes full ice mode. he’s scary when he’s mad in defense not just competition.

mcloveme:.the “pathetic” was delivered with chest 😭😭 he’s in his protective boyfriend arc and I support him

maxsupremacy: not him standing up for her harder than he ever defended red bull strategy 😭

paddockpookie: max saying “is it only weird when I’m the older one now?” is the media accountability moment of the year.

wagscentral: she didn’t ask for this. she didn’t post anything. she hasn’t said a word ← go ahead and tattoo that on my spine

scuderiashawty:.this man said “next question” and the whole press room collectively peed a little. we love to see it

teammaxxx33: he didn’t flinch. he didn’t yell. he didn’t look at PR. he looked dead in their eyes. king behavior only.

maxwellgirl1999: I love how he didn’t say her name. Didn’t try to “own” her. He just defended her right to exist in peace. That’s real respect.

racerxqueen: notice how the room went silent after he said “you’re all suddenly experts on morality” — he read them for filth

noodlebrainf1: clock em king

...

It was late — past 1 a.m.

Max was asleep beside her, one arm slung across her hip like he was afraid she’d vanish in her sleep.

She stared at the screen in the dark, thumb hovering.

The photo was already in her drafts.

She stared at it for another second. Then hit “Post.”

The likes came in fast. Faster than she’d expected. The comments even faster.

She locked the phone, rolled over, and tugged the blanket higher over Max’s bare shoulder.

His breathing didn’t change, but his arm tightened around her.

“You posted something?” he murmured, half-asleep.

She raised a brow at the man, "what- how do you know?"

"My phones blowing up."

...

painted.by.y/n

Liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, landonorris and 4.3M others.

painted.by.y/n stay mad

305k comments.

dutchdefenseunit: WHAAAAAAT

prettylittlerogue: she said “here’s the mouth you’re all talking about” 😭😭😭

suliiwgp: “stay mad” is what i’m going to whisper before i die

maxverstappen1: 💜 ♥️105.4k likes.

↳ painted.by.y/n: stop stealing my likes old man

↳ maxverstappen1: 😔

redbullconfessions: YOU DIDN’T JUST POST THAT. YOU NUKED THE GRID.

pitlaneprincess: soft launch? babe this is a declaration of war

lonelyferrarifan: how does it feel to wake up and choose violence and victory

mclarenfangirl33: ma’am some of us were TRYING to sleep

maxstappenlove: i’m scared. i’m impressed. i’m making this my phone wallpaper.

padDOCKedup: PR teams are on the FLOOR. sponsors are CRYING. she is DRINKING CHAMPAGNE.

exposethegrid: casually kissing the reigning champion

deadeyefem: i want to be her. i want to be kissed like that. i want to make the world mad by existing.

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

#sulibesties

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suliigwp · 3 days ago

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Piastri And His Logistics Crush

Oscar Piastri x Reader | Fluff

SULI: GUESS WHOS BACK FROM HER LITTLE BREAK next fic I post will be tronab🙏🫦 omg suli writing sweet reader?! Sorry if it's awkward I felt awkward writing it, nice readers seem pick me to me omg — actually hate this but I have to give you something

SUMMARRY: Oscar Piastri seems very interested with a random girl from logistics

WORD COUNT: 3,638

WARNINGS: none!

Oscar’s cap was already damp, the brim heavy with water, and his rain jacket stuck slightly to the sleeves of his hoodie as he stepped away from the media pen. His comms handler—Ben or maybe Josh, he couldn’t keep up anymore—was trailing behind him, reading off something from his phone.

“They’ve pushed the debrief to after lunch, and Lando’s got some new setup feedback—he said it’s too stiff on entry but better through Spoon. Oh, and there’s a short sponsor shoot after. Just a five-minute thing…”

Oscar nodded, only half-listening. The rain had been falling all morning—light at first, now turning the entire Suzuka paddock into a slick, grey haze. Everything felt hushed beneath it. Umbrellas flitted past, bright logos printed on nylon. Engineers jogged across the gravel with equipment cases, shouting over the sound of tires sloshing through puddles.

The whole world felt hurried.

Except one thing.

He slowed, squinting ahead.

There—just outside the McLaren hospitality tent, pressed close to the wall like she was part of it—stood a girl. She wasn’t doing much of anything. Just holding a clipboard above her head, trying and failing to shield herself from the rain.

It wasn’t working. Her jacket was soaked through, darkened and clinging to her arms. Damp strands of hair stuck to the side of her face. She wasn’t shivering exactly, but she looked cold. Quiet. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for her—and Oscar hadn’t been.

But now he couldn’t stop.

He had seen her before, in passing. Always tucked behind a screen, a clipboard, a lanyard with three laminated passes clipped to it. She was one of the logistics girls—paddock operations or scheduling, something like that. Always moving fast, always quiet, never stopping to chat like some others did.

He realized the comms handler was still talking.

“—you can grab lunch after that, I’ll make sure catering keeps something—”

“I’ll be right back,” Oscar said abruptly, and turned without explaining.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just pulled his team jacket from around his shoulders, the warm interior already cooling in his hands, and started across the gravel toward her.

She didn’t notice him at first. She was trying to read something, squinting at her clipboard as if she could will the paper to stay dry. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, like she wanted to move but didn’t know where to go.

Oscar stopped just in front of her.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Her head snapped up. Her eyes widened just slightly—nothing dramatic, but surprised. She hadn’t expected to be spoken to. Maybe hadn’t expected to be seen.

“Come inside,” he said, keeping his voice light. “You’re going to catch something out here.”

She blinked once. “I’m fine,” she replied quickly. Her voice was soft, like someone who didn’t speak up often. “I’m just—finishing something.”

“You’re soaked.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, almost stubbornly.

He hesitated, then held out the jacket.

“Here. Just… take it. You can give it back whenever.”

She looked at it like he’d handed her something strange. Her fingers didn’t move. She just stared.

“It’s clean,” he added awkwardly. “I mean—it’s not sweaty or anything. I just grabbed it a minute ago.”

She didn’t reach for it.

Thunder cracked, far off in the distance, and just as she glanced toward the sound, the clipboard slipped from her hands. It slapped into the wet gravel, pages bending and streaking with mud.

“Shit,” she muttered, dropping to grab it.

Oscar didn’t think—just crouched beside her, tucking the jacket over her shoulders as she lifted the soggy clipboard and shook it off in frustration. She froze the second the fabric touched her. He lingered just long enough to make sure it was secure, then stepped back, giving her space.

The sleeves swallowed her hands. The jacket hung awkwardly off her frame, almost comically oversized, the orange stripes on the collar peeking up near her ears.

She didn’t say thank you. Not right away.

Instead, she adjusted the collar slowly, staring at the ground like she couldn’t quite make sense of what just happened. Rain still fell around them, soft but steady. Somewhere behind them, a mechanic shouted something in Italian.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight.

“I thought you looked cold,” he said quietly, unsure why he felt the need to fill the silence.

Finally, she looked up. Her eyes were clear, dark, a little guarded—but not unfriendly.

“I’ll return this,” she murmured, touching the collar of the jacket lightly.

“I hope you don’t,” he said before thinking, then faltered. “I mean—you can. Just… no rush.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Not full, not wide—just there for a breath of a second.

Then she nodded, gave him the softest little thank-you that he barely caught, and disappeared inside the tent.

Oscar stayed in the rain for a moment longer, jacketless, hands in his pockets, watching the spot where she’d stood like the silence she left behind had weight.

He didn’t know her name.

But now he needed to.

...

It was Sunday evening when she finally found him.

The paddock had thinned out — media crews packing up cables, garages half-empty, the air thick with post-race adrenaline and exhaustion. The sun was dipping low behind the Suzuka skyline, casting golden light across the gravel. Everyone moved slower now. The rush was over. Flights were being checked into. Vans were being loaded.

Oscar was leaning against the low fencing outside McLaren’s hospitality tent, his phone in one hand, the other tucked loosely into the pocket of his hoodie. He was laughing at something a team member had just said, easy and warm, that end-of-weekend looseness in his shoulders.

She almost turned around.

But then he looked up. Like he felt her there.

His eyes found hers almost instantly.

She stopped mid-step, jacket folded carefully in her arms — not lazily stuffed, but square and neat, like she’d taken the time to smooth it just right. There was something awkward in the way she held it, though. Like she’d been holding it too long.

He stepped away from the fence, expression softening. “Hey.”

“I—” she started, then paused, eyes flicking past him like she was checking if anyone else was watching. “I’ve been… trying to give this back since Friday.”

She held out the jacket.

He didn’t take it.

“Could’ve kept it,” he said, tilting his head just slightly.

Her grip didn’t loosen. “I didn’t want to keep it.”

“Didn’t want to?” he echoed, teasing, one brow raised.

Her face warmed instantly. She lowered her gaze to the folded fabric in her hands. “I meant— I was going to return it sooner, I just… you were busy. After qualifying, after the race, today especially…”

“Yeah. It’s been a bit mad.” He glanced at the jacket, then back at her. “You stayed dry, though?”

She nodded. “It helped. A lot.”

He gave a small smile, hands sliding into his pockets. “I’m glad.”

For a second, neither of them said anything.

The breeze pulled softly at the ends of her sleeves, the hem of her shirt. His hoodie rustled against the wind, the remnants of race day trailing off into something quieter.

She cleared her throat, still not quite meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you. Properly.”

“You already did,” he said. “I heard it.”

“Yeah, i guess you're right."

Oscar’s head tilted again, just barely. There was something thoughtful in his expression now. Like he was trying to memorize how she looked in that moment — the way her voice dipped, the way she fidgeted with the sleeve of the jacket she still hadn’t let go of.

“Can I ask something?” he said gently.

She glanced up. “Sure.”

“Why were you out in the rain like that in the first place?”

There was a beat.

Then she gave the tiniest, half-embarrassed shrug. “I didn’t want to miss a delivery. I was supposed to sign off on some updated logistics forms for Ferrari. It was time-sensitive.”

Oscar blinked. “You stayed outside in a thunderstorm… for Ferrari?”

“I take my job seriously,” she replied, almost defensively — then added under her breath, “Even if they never said thank you.”

His smile widened, honest and amused.

She glanced down again, finally extending the jacket fully.

He reached for it, but instead of pulling it away, his fingers brushed hers — deliberately, lightly, like he was testing something.

She didn’t move.

“…You sure you don’t want to keep it?” he asked, voice quiet.

She looked up at him, something unreadable in her eyes.

And then, without answering, she gently let go of the jacket.

But she was still smiling.

...

The next time he saw her, she was alone.

It was Saturday, late afternoon. Most of the garages had gone quiet — the kind of hush that settles over the paddock when everything’s temporarily under control. The sun was finally out, warming the pavement and making the air feel thick and slow.

Oscar had wandered from the debrief, one hand curled around a half-empty bottle of water, half-tuned out of his surroundings. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows. He didn’t know exactly where he was going — just away from the fluorescent lights and the tension and the lingering buzz of mechanics still swapping theories.

That’s when he saw her.

She was sitting on a low concrete bench near the back of the McLaren garage, tucked just far enough away that most people wouldn’t notice her. A small paper bento box rested on her lap. She was eating with wooden chopsticks, carefully picking at rice and vegetables while reading something off her phone with an expression of focus that was almost… endearing.

Her jacket was off today. Hair tied messily back. The same soft quietness as before, but somehow more at ease in the sun.

Oscar didn’t think. He just stopped walking.

And then, cautiously, stepped toward her.

“Hey,” he said, slower this time. Not startling — just a gentle greeting.

She looked up, eyes blinking once in recognition. “Oh.”

He smiled. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated, then shifted slightly to the side — not exactly an invitation, but not a no either. He took that as a yes.

He dropped onto the bench beside her, not too close, not too far. Close enough to smell the soy sauce from her bento. Close enough to hear the faint little crunch when she bit into a piece of tempura.

“You always eat here?” he asked, looking ahead instead of at her.

She shrugged. “It’s quiet. Nobody bothers me.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t like being bothered?”

Another bite. She chewed slowly. Then: “Depends on who’s doing the bothering.”

Oscar laughed, caught off guard. “Fair.”

Silence again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The breeze carried the hum of distant voices, tires being stacked, the occasional crackle of a team radio. A bird landed near the tire barrier. She flicked a grain of rice off her chopsticks toward it.

“What’s in that?” he asked, nodding to the bento.

“Vegetarian,” she said. “Not by choice. They ran out of everything else.”

He made a face. “Tragic.”

She looked sideways at him, dry as anything. “I can offer you one lonely carrot stick and half a dumpling.”

“Tempting.”

“You’re not getting the dumpling,” she deadpanned.

Oscar chuckled again, shaking his head. She wasn’t chatty, but she had timing. That quiet kind of funny — the kind you didn’t expect until it hit you sideways.

“I don’t think I caught your name last time,” he said after a moment.

She looked up again, finally meeting his gaze properly. A pause, then:

“Yn. Logistics.” She gestured vaguely toward the garage. “I do the boring parts so you lot can play with fast cars.”

He grinned. “Well, you’re very good at it. Even Ferrari got their papers on time.”

She huffed — almost a laugh — and returned to her lunch. “Barely.”

He didn’t leave right away. He stayed while she finished eating, talking here and there, mostly just sharing quiet space. It wasn’t anything big. Just enough.

Later, when she stood up to throw away the empty bento box, she glanced back at him and said, “You don’t need to be nice, you know.”

He looked at her, surprised. “I’m not being nice. I’m being curious.”

She raised a brow, half-skeptical.

“I mean it,” he added, softer now. “I… like talking to you.”

For a second, she didn’t move.

Then she nodded, barely, like she hadn’t expected that answer—but maybe didn’t mind it.

Then she was gone.

Oscar sat back on the bench and looked at the empty spot beside him.

And smiled.

She didn’t look back after she walked away from the bench.

Didn’t let herself.

Not even a quick glance. Not even a little over-the-shoulder peek to see if he was still sitting there. (Even though she knew he was. She could feel it. That light weight of attention that lingered in the air, warm like sunlight.)

Instead, she tossed the bento box into the bin, tucked her hands into the sleeves of her crew jacket, and kept walking until she was behind the nearest tent.

Then she exhaled.

Her heart was beating too fast. Ridiculously fast. Like she’d just sprinted through pit lane, not sat still for twenty minutes making dry little jokes about carrots and soy sauce.

What the hell was he doing?

She wasn’t stupid. She’d worked enough seasons to know how drivers were. Polite in passing. Some flirty. Some dismissive. Most didn’t even look up when you handed them a clipboard. They were in their own world. Tightly wound routines, PR-trained smiles, and eyes that were always somewhere else.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t like that. Not exactly. He was quiet too — but in a steady, watchful kind of way. Thoughtful. Grounded. And apparently, for some godforsaken reason… interested in her?

That thought alone made her stop walking again.

She frowned, staring at her boots for a second.

It had been easy to brush off the jacket thing. People did nice things sometimes. Especially if there were cameras nearby (there weren’t). Especially if it was raining (it was). And especially if they didn’t expect to see you again afterward (he definitely hadn’t, right?).

Except now he had seen her again.

And asked to sit with her.

And laughed at her dumb comments.

And told her, I like talking to you.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like him — how could you not? He was calm, kind, absurdly good at what he did, and had a smile like it could make bad days fall apart at the edges. But still, it didn’t make sense.

Her fingers curled inside her sleeves, pressing into her palms.

It wasn’t a crush. It couldn’t be. She didn’t even know him. She just…

She liked the way he looked at her. Like she wasn’t invisible.

And maybe the scariest part?

She was starting to want him to look at her again.

...

It started small.

Little things.

On Sunday morning, she was checking inventory near the back of the McLaren hospitality tent — sleeves rolled up, hair already a mess from rushing around — when she looked up to find Oscar standing just outside the flap.

He wasn’t wearing his race suit yet. Hoodie again, cap pulled low. Hands tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t doing anything in particular.

“Oh,” she said, startled.

“Hey,” he said easily, like they bumped into each other like this all the time.

She blinked. “…Do you need something?”

“Just checking if breakfast is still open,” he said, nodding vaguely toward the garage entrance.

“It is,” she said. “The buffet’s still running.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

But he didn’t move.

She raised a brow. “You’re… waiting for someone?”

He shrugged. “Nah. Just killing time.”

And then he asked how her morning was. Just like that. Like it was normal. Like he always did that.

She answered — stiffly, carefully — because part of her was still convinced she was imagining this. But he kept going. Tossed her a soft joke about the weather. Commented on the energy drinks someone had stacked like an unstable tower behind her. She found herself smiling, before she even realized it.

He left after a few minutes, walking toward the buffet like that was his original plan all along.

But fifteen minutes later, when she passed through the side corridor between the garage and media tent, she found him again — leaning against the wall, sipping coffee.

“Twice in one morning,” he said, like it was some cosmic coincidence.

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for the media run,” he said, gesturing toward the building. “They’re running behind.”

She didn’t believe him. Not really. But she didn’t call him out, either.

Instead, she just shook her head and walked past.

He followed, casually.

It kept happening.

During setup in Hungary, he appeared beside her while she was bent over a laptop near the freight containers. “Need a hand?” he asked, like he had any idea what she was doing.

In Belgium, he held the door open for her even though she was a good twenty steps away. “Timed it perfectly,” he grinned, and she rolled her eyes but said thank you anyway.

In Zandvoort, he brought her a croissant.

He didn’t say anything when he handed it over. Just pressed the paper napkin into her palm with a quiet “thought you might’ve missed breakfast,” then turned to leave like it was nothing.

It was never pushy. Never loud. Always just enough.

Little breadcrumbs.

And she followed them, even if she pretended not to.

One day, while walking past the driver’s lounge, she heard someone — one of the mechanics, maybe — murmur under their breath, “Piastri’s little logistics crush again?”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back.

But her ears burned for an hour.

It happened in Monza.

She’d been helping one of the hospitality interns unload supply boxes behind the garage when she saw him coming. Oscar, hands in his pockets, walking casually like always — except this time she didn’t pretend not to notice.

She straightened. Waited.

And when he got close enough, she said it plainly.

“Why do you keep finding me?”

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. But it stopped him in his tracks.

Oscar blinked, just once, like he hadn’t expected the question — or maybe like he had, and just didn’t know when it would finally come.

For a moment, all the usual ease dropped from his face. No teasing. No polite smile. Just the softest trace of honesty behind his eyes.

“Because I want to.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Why?”

He shrugged slowly, hands still deep in his hoodie pockets. “Because you’re… interesting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, gently. Like it wasn’t up for debate. “You say weird things sometimes. And you’re quiet, but not in the way that makes things awkward. You just… notice everything.”

She stared at him.

“You don’t try to be liked,” he added. “And I think that’s rare around here.”

The breeze lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear out of habit, still holding his gaze. She wasn’t used to this. Attention like this — soft, specific, undeserved. Or maybe just unfamiliar.

“I thought you were just being polite,” she said eventually.

“I don’t talk to people I’m not interested in.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“You barely know me.”

“I’m trying to fix that.”

Silence.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She looked away, then back, her voice quieter now. “It’s… a little hard to believe.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I’m not the girl you’re supposed to notice.”

That made him smile — not teasing, not sarcastic. Just gentle.

“I don’t really care what I’m supposed to do.”

She didn’t say anything.

He stepped just a little closer, not invading, not pushing. “Can I walk with you?”

Her lips twitched, a breath caught in her chest. Then, after a long pause:

“…Sure.”

And just like that, they fell into step — not as logistics girl and driver, not as opposites in different worlds — but as something new. Something slow. Something real.

Oscar walked beside her in comfortable silence for a few steps. She glanced at him once, unsure if he was just being polite again — if maybe she’d misunderstood everything, if maybe this was nothing.

But then he spoke.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite looking at her. “Are you free after everything today?”

She blinked. “Why?”

He smiled, but there was something more serious underneath. “There’s a place in town. Nothing fancy, just coffee. I thought maybe…” He paused, then finally looked at her, steady. “I’d like to take you.”

She stopped walking, surprised — not because she didn’t want to say yes, but because it felt so deliberate. So clear. Like he wasn’t hiding behind jokes or polite small talk anymore.

“You mean like a—”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Like that.”

She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She tried not to overthink it, but the silence stretched a little too long.

“I mean—only if you want to,” Oscar added quickly. “No pressure.”

“I do,” she said before she could talk herself out of it. Then, quieter: “I want to.”

He gave a small, honest smile, the kind that made her stomach twist. “Okay. After press, I’ll find you.”

“You always do.”

His smile widened just slightly. “Yeah. I do.”

And then they kept walking — her heartbeat unsteady, his hands still in his hoodie pockets — something unspoken hanging between them, charged and careful and impossibly soft.

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