swiftiethatlovesf1

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Mistaken Identity, Perfect Match

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max x reader one-shot.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my general masterlist.

Living in Monaco had its perks—glamour, ocean views, fast cars—but love wasn't one of them. Between running your multimillion-dollar tech company and navigating the egos that came with fortune, dating had become a disheartening game of missed connections and shallow intentions. That’s why, when you were venting over drinks with Charles about how every guy either wanted your money, your mind, or a photo with your car, he’d raised his eyebrows and said, “I might know someone.”

You had squinted at him. “If this is a setup, Charles…”

He’d only smirked. “Just trust me. He’s decent. A bit… intense. But you might like that.”

That was three days ago. Now, you were standing in front of a small, quiet restaurant tucked into the hills, one of Charles’ favorites. Your black silk dress fluttered slightly in the warm coastal breeze as you checked the time again. You weren’t nervous. You didn’t get nervous. You were just… curious.

A flicker of movement caught your eye—a tall man walking toward the restaurant. Blond hair and blue eyes.

You’d seen him before. In the paddock. Interviews. On podiums. Max Verstappen.

He was Charles’ friend?

You stepped forward as he reached the entrance. “Excuse me—Max?”

He paused, jaw tight. “Can we not do this right now?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m just here to have a quiet dinner. I get you’re a fan, but can we keep this respectful?”

You were stunned. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he continued, exasperated. “I just want some privacy tonight.”

You stared at him, bewildered. “I’m not—” But he had already walked past you into the restaurant.

Your mouth hung slightly open before you pulled out your phone and called Charles.

“Hey, is your friend here?” you asked, still trying to recover.

“Yeah, he just arrived,” Charles said. “He should be at the table now. Far corner, near the window.”

You lowered your phone slowly and turned to follow the same path Max had taken. You walked in, scanned the tables, and froze.

There he was. Max. Sitting at a table for two, phone to his ear, clearly in the middle of a conversation.

His eyes met yours. For a second, confusion danced across his face—until, slowly, as if the pieces were clicking into place, his expression changed.

You didn’t need to hear the call to know exactly what Charles was saying on the other end.

Max was your date.

His mouth parted slightly as he stood up, still holding the phone, lowering it slowly. You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms as you reached the table.

“Well,” you said, unimpressed. “Are you always this charming, or did I just catch you on an off day?”

He winced, slipping his phone into his pocket and rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. I… might owe you a massive apology.”

You sat down, cool and composed. “You might?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “I thought you were a fan.”

“I was trying to be polite,” you said. “Now I’m just curious why Charles thought this would be a good idea.”

Max let out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “Yesterday, after the race, I had a really bad encounter with this woman who followed me into the hotel lobby, tried to grab my arm for a selfie, and when I told her to stop, she screamed and told security I pushed her.” He shook his head. “I’ve just been… on edge. It’s not an excuse. I just… I guess I reacted without thinking.”

You watched him. He looked genuinely remorseful. Not the arrogant persona people always complained about online.

“Well, Charles wasn't wrong about the intense part,” you muttered, and he laughed—quiet, but real.

“Can we start over?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Hi, I’m Max. I was a massive jerk five minutes ago, but I’m trying to be better.”

You tilted your head. “I’m Y/N. I’m not a fan. I’m a CEO.”

That made him smile. “Now I’m intimidated.”

You smirked. “Good.”

The tension eased a little as you ordered food, the conversation gradually flowing into safer territory—Charles’ terrible matchmaking track record, your ridiculous schedules, your mutual love for sushi.

Max was sharp, surprisingly funny, and attentive. He asked about your company with genuine interest, and when you teased him about being grumpy, he actually took it with grace.

You sip your wine as the tension between you and Max begins to thin, your mutual sarcasm slowly giving way to something warmer. There’s a brief lull in conversation as the waiter sets down your dinner: fresh pasta with truffle for you, a steak for him.

“So,” you say, twirling your fork, “besides offending innocent women at restaurants, what else do you do in your free time?”

He chuckles, dropping his knife for a second. “Mostly racing. Some sim racing. A lot of travel. Honestly, it’s not that exciting outside the paddock.”

You raise a brow. “No hobbies? No scandalous side projects?”

Max leans back, crossing his arms. “I actually spend most of my free time at home with my cats.”

You blink. “You have cats?”

He nods, suddenly looking… almost proud.

“No way.” You grin. “I have two.”

His eyes light up a little. “Seriously?”

You nod. “One’s a Russian Blue named Nero. The other is a street rescue. A total diva. Her name’s Cleo.”

Max’s smile softens. “I have three. Sassy’s the boss, obviously.”

You laugh. “Cleo once locked me out of my own office by lying across the biometric scanner. I had to call tech support to override it.”

Max snorts. “I had to cancel a video interview once because Minoes decided to take a nap on my laptop and overheated the whole thing. The PR guy was not amused.”

“Finally, someone who understands the struggles of working under feline dictatorship,” you say, grinning.

He leans forward a little, playful now. “Do yours do that thing where they ignore you all day but decide to scream into the void at 3 a.m.?”

“Every night,” you say. “I think mine are plotting something. Like a slow coup.”

“Same,” Max agrees. “It’s definitely a coup.”

For the first time since you sat down, the conversation flows effortlessly. You talk about the weird places your cats like to sleep (his: on the kitchen counter; yours: inside your gym bag), share stories about your worst vet visits, and discover you both have the same obsession with those ridiculous cat treat-dispensing puzzles that never actually work.

“You know,” you say, sipping the last of your wine, “this date got significantly better once we started talking about cats.”

Max smiles, a bit softer now. “Yeah. I think that’s when I officially stopped being an asshole.”

You laugh. “There was a brief window before that too. Right after you didn’t run away screaming.”

“I considered it,” he teases. “But then you sat down like you owned the restaurant, and I was too scared to move.”

You tilt your head, feigning modesty. “It’s the CEO energy.”

He leans back in his chair, relaxed now. “It’s working.”

You glance at him, his eyes no longer hidden behind defensiveness. And just like that, the earlier awkwardness feels far away—like a bad prelude to something surprisingly enjoyable.

As dessert arrives, Max picks up his spoon and glances at you.

“Thanks for staying,” he says quietly. “After the way I acted… you really didn’t have to.”

You pause. “I almost didn’t. But then I remembered Charles has terrible taste in wine, not people. So I figured I’d give it one course.”

He smirks. “And now we’re at dessert.”

“Guess you passed the test,” you tease, stabbing a spoonful of tiramisu.

He pretends to sigh in relief. “I’ll alert the cats that the mission was a success.”

Maybe, just maybe, Charles had been right after all.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Comforting time

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Charles one-shot, let me know what you think :)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

Yesterday, Charles had looked invincible. The whole paddock had felt his joy, his fire — the glint in his eyes after clinching pole position at the Hungaroring. You had been there in the garage, arms around him the second he climbed out of the car, his grin unstoppable, his helmet still warm against your chest as he hugged you like he never wanted to let go.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, that same man sat on the floor of your shared hotel room in Budapest, back against the bed, staring blankly ahead with his hands tangled in his hair.

You stood by the bathroom door, towel wrapped around your hair, having just come out of the shower. You watched him in silence for a moment, your heart aching at how still he was. No words. No movement. Just disappointment, weighing heavy like the humid Hungarian air outside.

“Charles?” you asked gently.

He didn’t move.

You padded over in your bare feet and sat cross-legged in front of him. “You haven’t said anything since we left the paddock.”

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh, but close. “What is there to say?” he murmured, his voice low, almost bitter. “I had pole. I finished fourth. Again.”

You tilted your head. “It was still a good race.”

“It wasn’t good enough.”

You reached for his hand, untangling his fingers from his hair and lacing them with yours. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t squeeze back either. His eyes were on the floor, dark and tired.

“I felt so good yesterday,” he said. “I thought… this is it. We’ve got the car, the pace, the strategy. And then today…” His jaw tightened. “Wrong strategy. No grip. Just… wasted.”

You nodded slowly, giving him space to vent. You knew him well enough to let him unravel at his own pace.

“Everyone thinks I choke,” he said suddenly, his voice cracking a little. “Every time I’m in a good position. Something always happens. Me. The team. The car. It doesn’t matter. I’m never the one on the top step.”

“It’s not just about the result, you know,” you said softly.

“Feels like it is,” he muttered.

“Well, it isn’t for me,” you said. “I was proud of you yesterday when you got pole. But I’m even prouder now.”

He looked up at you with a puzzled frown. “Why?”

“Because today was hard. And you kept going. You didn’t give up, even when the strategy failed. Even when others passed you. You kept your head down and fought until the end. That takes more strength than people realize.”

Charles didn’t reply immediately. But he nestled closer, his hand gripping yours tightly.

“You’re always like this,” he said after a while.

“Like what?”

“So calm. So kind. It makes it harder to be angry.”

You smiled, resting your chin on the top of his head. “I’m not trying to make it harder. I’m just trying to remind you that this doesn’t define you.”

He was quiet again, but you felt his breathing slow, his body finally beginning to relax in your arms.

After a moment, you whispered, “You’re still my champion.”

He chuckled, low and tired, and tilted his head up to kiss your cheek. “You always know what to say.”

“I’ve had practice.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. “What would I do without you?”

“Crash and burn dramatically,” you teased, grinning.

Charles laughed, a real laugh this time, and you felt some of the heaviness in the air lift.

“Fourth place isn’t so bad,” he murmured.

“It’s really not. Especially when you look that good in red.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me.”

“I do,” he said, softly and with certainty, brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that was warm and lingering — not rushed or fiery like when he won, but deep and grateful. The kind of kiss that said thank you.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again. “Can we just stay here tonight? Like this?”

“Of course,” you said.

The sky outside was starting to shift into dusk, the golden light softening the world. You held him close, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you now, his heartbeat slowing against your chest.

And even though the trophy hadn’t come home today, Charles had. With you.

And that was more than enough.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.31

Hi guys, here's a new part of the story, if you've missed part 30, here it is :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

Oscar smacked his elbow on the doorframe as he entered, muttering a quiet “shit” under his breath.

You couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of you. “Are you okay?” you asked between giggles, watching him rub the spot like it was going to bruise.

He gave you a sheepish look, cheeks tinged pink. “Just sacrificing my body for the mood, apparently.”

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “Well, if you were trying to break the tension, it worked.”

Oscar laughed lightly and finally closed the door behind him, knocking over a water bottle in the process. It rolled dramatically across the small room, and the two of you just stared at it before bursting into quiet laughter again.

Then… silence.

It wasn't a bad silence. But it was loaded. Like both of you had finally run out of excuses and were left standing in the middle of something real that neither of you fully knew what to do with.

Oscar sat down on the small couch across from you, arms resting on his knees, eyes flicking between you and the floor. You crossed your legs, unsure where to look or what to say.

And then—both of you spoke at once.

“I—” “Did you—”

You both laughed, but it was quieter this time, tinged with nerves and something unsaid. You looked down at your hands in your lap. Oscar scratched the back of his neck, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to smile or bolt.

“Sorry,” you said, your voice soft, barely above a breath. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, then met his gaze. “You go first.”

He hesitated, his mouth twitching like he was still deciding whether or not to take the leap. His fingers drummed once against his thigh before curling into a fist, like he was trying to ground himself.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m just gonna say it.”

You held your breath. The whole world seemed to hold it with you.

“I really…” he paused, then exhaled slowly, looking down as if the words would come easier if he didn’t look at you. “Really like you.”

Your heart stuttered.

He looked up now, eyes serious but kind, and the way he was watching you made something flutter deep in your chest. “And not just in a 'you’re cool to hang out with' kind of way,” he continued, his words unhurried, careful. “Not even in the way that everyone assumes because of the PR stuff.”

You blinked, lips parting, but no sound came out.

“I mean in the way that I’ve been thinking about you constantly,” he said, his voice dipping a little, quieter. “In the way that I smile like an idiot when your name pops up on my phone. In the way that even when we’re not together, I find myself hoping you’ll text. Or that I’ll run into you. Or that I’ll hear your laugh from the other room.”

You swallowed hard.

He glanced down again, a little embarrassed now. “Sorry. That sounded… a bit much.”

You shook your head. “No. No, it didn’t.”

There was a beat of silence. Not heavy — just full of everything hanging between you.

“I like you too,” you said softly. “So much, it actually kind of scares me.”

Oscar looked up, startled. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just didn’t want to misread anything. I didn’t want to assume that just because we’re… doing this fake dating thing… that you felt something more. And after everything I’ve been through, I guess it’s been easier to doubt things than to believe they’re real.”

He was still watching you like you’d just rewritten gravity.

“But being around you?” you continued, your voice a little steadier now. “It makes things feel lighter. Easier. I feel like I can actually breathe when I’m with you.”

Oscar gave you the smallest smile — the kind that made your stomach twist — and his voice was so soft you almost didn’t hear it: “That’s exactly how I feel.”

The air between you seemed to pulse gently, a low hum you could almost hear.

“I kept trying to convince myself that I didn’t like you,” you said. “That this was just a work thing, or a PR stunt, or that I was just… grateful for your kindness after the breakup. But I knew it wasn’t that. I knew it every time we stayed up late talking about the dumbest things. Every time you asked if I’d eaten. Every time you didn’t say anything, but stayed close.”

Oscar’s eyes flickered — not away, but deeper somehow. Like he was letting himself believe it, even if just for this moment.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, slowly. “So many times. But I didn’t want to push. I knew how badly your last relationship hurt you, and I didn’t want to be the next reason you were scared to trust someone again.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re the reason I’m not scared anymore.”

He drew in a breath, and you could see his chest rise and fall, like he needed to steady himself.

You glanced down at your intertwined hands, unsure when they’d gotten so close. Your pinkies brushed.

“I know we haven’t defined anything,” Oscar said after a pause, “and I don’t want to rush you. I’m okay with… whatever this is. As long as it’s real.”

You looked up, and your eyes met his — warm, cautious, but filled with something that made your heart ache in the best way.

“I think it is,” you said. “Whatever it is, I think it’s real.”

He let out a breath he’d been holding, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Then let’s start there,” he said.

And you nodded, heart thudding softly in your chest. The air between you felt charged, but not in the way it had before; it wasn’t awkward or unsure. It was quiet, warm, almost reverent. Like neither of you wanted to ruin the moment.

You were still close, your knees touching, your fingers brushing lightly. You didn’t even realise you were holding your breath until Oscar looked at you again, really looked at you, and asked, just barely above a whisper, “Can I…?”

You nodded before he finished the sentence, a soft, barely-there movement, but enough.

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him if you needed to. And you didn’t. Not even a little.

His hand brushed against your cheek, tentative, warm, and you tilted your face toward him, your eyes fluttering shut as your foreheads touched for a second, like a promise.

And then his lips met yours.

It was shy and soft, the kind of kiss that didn’t try to prove anything, just feel. It wasn’t perfect or polished. It was a little hesitant. A little breathless. The kind of kiss you remembered because it felt like home.

He pulled back first, just an inch, his nose brushing yours. You both opened your eyes at the same time, blinking like you were waking from the same dream.

And then, almost at the same moment, you smiled. Wide, a little dazed. A little giddy.

“Hi,” you whispered, unable to help it.

He chuckled, eyes crinkling with something softer than happiness, something closer to relief. “Hi.”

You stayed like that, forehead against his, both of you smiling like idiots, and for once, neither of you felt the need to say anything more.

You didn’t need to define it. You didn’t need to rush it.

Because whatever it was… It had started. And it was real.

@justaf1girl, @bm571158, @raweceekk

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Chasing the Rookie

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this one-shot of Kimi x reader.

If you want to read more stories of mine, here's my masterlist.

There were few things in life that surprised Max Verstappen. He could read a racetrack like a book, outmaneuver champions without blinking, and maintain ice-cold composure even when chaos erupted on the radio. But there was one thing he hadn’t prepared for—me setting my eyes on Kimi Antonelli.

The new golden boy from Italy. All wide eyes, soft curls, and that shy energy that made me feel like I’d just unwrapped a gift every time he stammered in my direction.

It all started at the Red Bull motorhome in Bahrain.

Max had invited me for the weekend, under the sweet illusion that I’d just quietly sit through free practice and sip my iced coffee in the hospitality suite like the "well-behaved little sister" he thought I was. Instead, I was scrolling through Instagram when I noticed a tall, nervous boy, fiddling with the cuff of his race suit, nodding like he was trying to memorise everything Max was saying. Helmet under one arm, eyes down, and posture like he wanted to disappear into the ground. Rookie energy. Shy energy.

Max waved me over.

“Hey, come meet Kimi. He’s new. ”

I tucked my sunglasses into my hair, stood up, and made my way down the steps. My heels clicked with purpose, hips swaying slightly—yes, I played the part well.

When I reached them, Kimi looked up. Soft features. Pink cheeks that flushed immediately when I smiled.

Hooked.

I held out my hand. “So, you're the famous Kimi everyone's whispering about.”

He swallowed and took it gently. “I—uh, I don’t think people are whispering.”

“Trust me, they are,” I purred. “It’s the shy ones who get talked about the most.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Ignore her. She’s a menace.”

Kimi blushed deeper. “I, uh, I don’t think she is.”

I smirked.

Game on.

Over the next few races, I made sure I was always around. Not in an obvious way. I wasn’t going to spook him. But I was there in the paddock, sunglasses on, perfectly styled hair, a look of innocent curiosity that Max couldn’t quite decode. Every time Kimi walked past, I’d catch his eye, smile just a little too long, maybe brush his arm “accidentally” as I squeezed past in tight corridors.

Max once caught me winking at Kimi across the media pen. He muttered, “You’re a menace.”

And I was. Especially when I realized Kimi liked it. He just didn’t know how to handle it.

He’d flush pink when I touched his arm, fumble with his sentences when I sat too close, and once — when I complimented his hair — he dropped his phone on his own foot.

“I think you enjoy making me nervous,” he said once, almost accusingly.

I leaned in, whispered, “Only because you’re cute when you blush.”

His face turned bright red.

At one point, I leaned against the Red Bull garage wall after qualifying and said, “If I were in your place, I’d be focusing less on corner entry and more on how good I looked in this dress. Don’t you agree?”

He had sputtered, eyes wide. “I—y-you look… good. I mean, very good. But I—I was focusing! I—”

I just laughed and winked. “Relax. I like it when you stammer.”

Kimi didn’t stand a chance.

Max, oblivious to most of it, thought I was just being my usual chaotic self. But Kimi? Kimi saw me. Every time. His eyes would flick to mine in team briefings. His shoulders tensed whenever I entered the room. His hands trembled when I passed him a coffee—because I always passed him a coffee. Black, two sugars. Just how he liked it.

One night, after the Barcelona race, the drivers gathered for a low-key dinner at a rooftop bar. Max had gone to take a call. I found Kimi leaning against the balcony railing, looking out at the city lights.

“Beautiful view,” I said, stepping beside him.

He nodded, not looking at me. “Yeah. It’s… peaceful.”

I tilted my head toward him. “I wasn’t talking about the skyline.”

He glanced at me, clearly flustered. “Y-you… always do that.”

“Do what?” I asked innocently.

“Say things that make me—make me feel like I’m the only one in the room.”

I leaned in, close enough that our shoulders touched. “You are the only one in the room, Kimi.”

He turned to face me fully, nervous and soft and real. “Why me?”

I smiled, fingers brushing his. “Because you blush when I tease you. Because you try to hide how kind you are. Because you don’t realize how magnetic you are, and I find that… utterly addictive.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how.

So I helped him out.

I kissed him.

Slow and deliberate, lips lingering just enough for the electricity to sink in. When I pulled back, his breath hitched.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since Bahrain,” I whispered.

“You—you did?”

“Mm-hm,” I said, biting my lip. “You’re mine now, Kimi. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

He blinked, stunned, then—finally—smiled.

We kept it quiet. Mostly because Max would freak out. He still thought Kimi was a sweet kid who needed protecting from the media — not from me.

But the more time I spent with Kimi, the more I started letting my guard down.

He wasn’t just adorable and awkward.

He was smart. Loyal. Funny in that understated, dry way. He sent me silly texts after press conferences and remembered how I took my coffee. He wasn’t flashy — but he meant every word he said.

And for someone like me, who was used to running circles around boys who only wanted one thing, Kimi was… refreshing.

He wanted me. All of me. And he didn’t try to tame me. He just held on.

Max found out at Silverstone.

He walked into the Red Bull motorhome and found us kissing behind the team truck. (Rookie mistake.)

He shouted.

Kimi froze like he’d been caught stealing the Mona Lisa.

I just smiled. “Max, you remember Kimi.”

Max turned purple. “Are you kidding me?”

Kimi straightened, trying to be brave. “I care about her. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. I’m not messing around.”

Max stared him down for what felt like ten years.

Then, with a long sigh, he muttered, “You better not screw this up. Or I’ll end your entire career.”

Kimi nodded. “Understood.”

Later that night, I climbed into Kimi’s car and kissed him like the world was ending.

“I can’t believe you stood up to Max.”

“I was more afraid of losing you.”

I stared at him, heart thudding. “You won’t.”

Now, whenever Kimi walks into a room, he looks for me first.

He still blushes. Still stammers sometimes.

I had him.

But more importantly?

He had me.

And for once, I didn’t mind playing by someone else’s rules.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

A race for love p.39

Hii guyss, I hope you enjoy this part. If you've missed part 38 or the other parts you can find them on my masterlist :)

Formula 1 is all about speed, but in this story, the real race isn't just on the track. Read on to find out who will win the ultimate race for your heart

You found him near the back of the F2 paddock, sitting on a folding chair outside the team truck, still in his race suit, arms crossed and jaw clenched. His helmet sat discarded by his feet, the visor slightly cracked open as if even it had been thrown down in frustration.

You approached slowly, trying to gauge the weight of the storm he was clearly holding in.

"Hey," you said softly, crouching beside him. "I saw the race... I'm sorry, I know it didn't go the way you wanted."

He didn't look at you right away. His eyes were locked on the gravel beneath his boots, brows pulled tight, lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, "doesn't matter now."

You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his knee. "Franco... one race doesn't define anything. You're insanely talented. You'll bounce back, I know it."

He finally looked at you, but his eyes weren't soft. They were sharp, defensive. "You don't get it," he said coldly. "It's not just one race. Every time I mess up, it's a missed chance. One step closer to people forgetting my name."

You blinked, taken aback by his tone, but tried to stay grounded. "Okay... then prove them wrong. You still have a whole season. This doesn't—"

"Can we not do this right now?" he cut in, shaking his head. "I really don't need a pep talk."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, letting your hand fall away from him.

"Right," you said, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. "I just... I thought you'd want me here."

Franco didn't say anything. He didn't look at you again. Just ran his hands through his damp curls and muttered something under his breath that you didn't catch.

You stared at him for a few seconds longer, heart heavy. This wasn't the Franco you knew—the one who'd sneak you away for kisses behind the garages or whisper ridiculous things in your ear to make you laugh. This Franco had walls up so high you couldn't even see where they ended.

You stood. "I'll... I'll go. F1 race is about to start. Good luck with the debrief or... whatever comes next."

Still, nothing from him.

You turned away and walked off, refusing to let your chest cave in until you were well out of his sight. Each step away felt heavier than the last, like something had cracked open inside you and you were too afraid to look at what was spilling out.

By the time you reached the McLaren motorhome, the energy was buzzing. Crew members were running around with checklists and comms, the boys were getting ready to head to the grid, and your dad waved you over with a quick smile. You tried to return it. You really did.

You were back in the world where everything made sense—pit strategies and tire choices and post-race briefings—but Franco's silence still echoed louder than any engine.

And you had no idea what it meant.

The McLaren motorhome was alive with celebration. Orange shirts everywhere, champagne already flowing, and Oscar beaming from ear to ear as he tried to downplay the significance of his podium finish, even though his eyes betrayed just how proud—and emotional—he really felt.

You stood by the side, heart swelling with pride for him and for the team. It was one of those moments you knew you'd remember years from now. The scent of champagne, the shouts of laughter, the music playing low in the background—it all felt warm. Earned.

Lando wrapped an arm around Oscar's shoulder and shouted, "Alright, you can be insufferable for one whole day, mate. That's the reward."

Oscar rolled his eyes but chuckled, cheeks still pink from the attention.

You glanced at the screen mounted above the hospitality area, where they were replaying the final laps. And there he was—Charles, crossing the line in first, just a few seconds ahead of Oscar. The roar of the crowd from Monaco, even filtered through the TV, was deafening. You didn't know him, not really, but something about seeing a driver win at home tugged at something in your chest.

It was a rare kind of magic. And you were happy for him.

You stayed with the team as they toasted to the success, your dad grinning like a kid again, the way he always did when the cars performed well. He had a glass of wine in one hand and your hand gently resting on his shoulder. For now, everything felt right.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, expecting some media update or a group message.

It was Franco.

I'm sorry about before. I was a dick. You didn't deserve that. Congrats to Oscar. And your team. I know this day matters to you. Can we talk tonight? Please?

You stared at the message for a long moment, rereading it, processing the tone. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't full of excuses. It was just... honest.

You exhaled and typed back:

Thanks for the message. I appreciate it. We'll talk later at the hotel, okay? I'm going to dinner with my dad and the team now.

You didn't wait for a reply. You tucked your phone back into your pocket and joined the others again, linking your arm with your dad's as the group made plans to eat together.

Tonight had been full of highs—and some lows—but this moment, surrounded by people you cared about, felt safe. And later, you'd face whatever needed to be faced with Franco.

One thing at a time.

Tag list: @hs2016, @a-beaverhausen, @hhhs7, @destinyg237

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Romeo and Juliet

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Charles one-shot, let me know what you think :)

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

To the world, I was the Red Bull princess, Max Verstappen’s little sister, the girl who grew up in the paddock with motor oil in her veins and a pit lane for a playground. I was the one who knew every member of the Red Bull crew by name, who high-fived Daniel Ricciardo after every win, and who celebrated each of Max’s victories with pride beaming in my chest. I was untouchable. Off-limits. Especially to anyone from Ferrari.

And then came Charles.

He was everything I wasn’t supposed to want, Ferrari’s golden boy, all charm and sharp cheekbones, that Monegasque accent dripping like honey, and a smile that had girls tripping over themselves. To Red Bull, he was the enemy. To Max, he was the rival. To me?

He was everything.

It started during the Monaco Grand Prix. The air was hot, the energy electric. I had slipped away from the Red Bull motorhome to catch some fresh air and clear my head from the usual team banter. That’s when I bumped into him—literally. He’d been coming out of the Ferrari garage, helmet in hand, his race suit half-zipped, revealing the edge of a Ferrari-red undershirt.

“Careful, amour,” he said with a grin, steadying me. “Red Bull shouldn’t be wandering into enemy territory.”

I should’ve walked away.

Instead, I smiled. “Maybe I like danger.”

From that moment on, it was like gravity. We were pulled together in stolen glances and late-night texts. I’d sneak out of the Red Bull motorhome and meet him by the marina. He’d bring me a chocolate croissant and coffee when the mornings were early. I’d steal his hoodies and he’d tuck notes into my bag before press conferences. It was secret. It was thrilling. It was forbidden.

Max would’ve lost it.

He was fiercely protective, always had been. After our childhood—everything we endured with our dad, the pressure, the noise—Max had sworn to keep me safe. But safety to him meant control. It meant rules. No dating drivers. No distractions. And definitely no Ferraris.

“You don’t know what they’re like,” he’d warned me one night, the TV playing highlights from the race. “They’ll use you to get to me.”

I smiled, heart twisting with guilt. “I’m not stupid, Max.”

“Then act like it,” he snapped. “Stay away from them.”

But I couldn’t. Not when Charles looked at me like I was more than Max’s sister. Not when he kissed me like the world could burn around us and he’d still hold me close.

Still, the secrecy was wearing us down.

During the Italian GP in Monza, everything started to unravel. Ferrari’s PR team began pushing for Charles to attend events with a young model, an influencer with millions of followers and the perfect “Ferrari girlfriend” aesthetic. It wasn’t official, but the rumors were loud, and Charles was furious.

“I don’t want a PR girlfriend,” he told me as we stood behind the paddock, hidden from cameras. “I want you. Just you.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But they won’t let us.”

“Then let’s make them.”

I smiled through the ache. “You’re talking like we’re Romeo and Juliet.”

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, eyes intense. “Maybe we are. But I refuse to let this end in tragedy.”

The pressure exploded in Singapore. Max caught us.

It was after the race, and Charles had taken a brutal P2 behind Max. We found each other in the shadows behind the hospitality tents. I kissed him, hands tangled in his hair, and when I pulled away—Max was standing there. Jaw clenched. Eyes cold.

“What the hell is this?” he growled.

“Max—”

“No.” He stepped forward, shoving Charles. “You stay the hell away from her.”

Charles didn’t flinch. “I love her.”

That stopped him cold.

“You’re not serious,” Max muttered. “He’s Ferrari. He’s not family.”

“I decide who my family is, Max,” I said quietly. “And I love him too.”

It didn’t end well. Max didn’t speak to me for a week. Red Bull tried to keep me away from the next few races. Ferrari amped up their efforts to replace me in Charles’s life, flooding social media with paparazzi shots of him next to the model girl. I cried. A lot. Charles nearly punched his press agent.

And yet—we didn’t break.

One night in Suzuka, I climbed the fence behind the paddock and found Charles waiting with his arms open.

“I’m done hiding,” he whispered. “If the world wants to fight, let them.”

So, we went public.

An Instagram post. Just one photo, Charles kissing me on the cheek, both of us in casual clothes, Red Bull hoodie on my shoulders, his Ferrari cap backward on my head. No caption.

The internet exploded. Team bosses had meltdowns. Max showed up at my hotel room and yelled for twenty minutes straight before collapsing onto the bed and mumbling, “He better not break your heart.”

Charles got fined for breaching media protocol. I got dozens of angry emails. But in the end—nothing stopped us.

Because love isn’t a team sport.

It’s not red or blue. It’s not about contracts or championships or legacy. It’s about 3 a.m. phone calls and coffee shared in silence. It’s about sneaking glances across the paddock and seeing home. It’s about the boy I wasn’t supposed to love—and choosing him anyway.

Romeo and Juliet died for their love.

But we?

We lived. And we loved. And we won.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.30

Hi guys, here's a new part of the story, if you've missed part 29, here it is :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

You try not to let yourself spiral—but you’re giddy.

You’re standing off to the side of the paddock, pretending to scroll through your phone, but you haven’t actually read a single word. You just keep replaying the moment in your head. Oscar, leaning in close. His voice, softer than usual. The heat that sparked between you.

"Can we talk later?"

You can still feel the ghost of his breath near your cheek.

And the look in his eyes—it wasn’t friendly. Well, it was. But not just that. It was something else entirely. Something careful. Something new. Something he hadn’t let himself say yet.

You chew the inside of your cheek, trying to keep yourself grounded. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. You know how that ends. You've lived how that ends.

Because the last time you thought someone was really looking at you—really seeing you—they’d turned around and lied. Cheated. Smiled through it like it meant nothing.

And that messed with your wiring more than you like to admit.

So now you’re here, fingers slightly trembling around your phone, trying to stop yourself from building entire stories around a single moment. But it’s hard not to. Oscar’s never looked at you like that before. Never said something like that. Never made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t crazy for feeling the pull between you two.

Maybe he felt it too.

Your chest flutters and sinks all at once.

Because if he does… if this isn’t just you catching feelings alone in the dark… that’s terrifying. Hope is terrifying.

You fold your arms across your chest and glance back toward the garage. You haven’t seen him yet. The longer you wait, the more your thoughts try to convince you you misread it all.

What if he didn’t mean it like that? What if you’re making something out of nothing? What if he’s just too nice to say no?

You close your eyes for a moment and exhale through your nose. You’re not that girl. Not anymore. You promised yourself you’d stop doubting your gut all the time. You’d stop apologizing for your feelings. And deep down, if you’re honest… Oscar has never once made you feel like too much. He’s always made space. Always made you feel safe. Wanted.

That has to count for something, right?

You open your eyes again and spot movement near the garage. The team’s still buzzing around, but you see a flash of his race suit—Oscar slipping between mechanics, laughing softly at something someone says. His hair’s still a little messy from the helmet. His smile is wide, his eyes crinkled in that way that makes your stomach flip.

And then—for a second—he looks around, searching. Looking.

Looking for you?

You bite your lip, heart skipping.

Maybe… maybe this is actually something. Maybe this time you’re not going to be the one left wondering what you did wrong.

You hug your arms tighter around yourself and glance at your reflection in the glass wall beside you. You don’t look as calm as you want to. Your cheeks are still a little flushed, and your eyes are too bright. Like you’re a little girl again, believing in fairy tales.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe you’re allowed to hope this time. Maybe he does want to talk. Maybe this is the beginning of something that won’t break you.

So you wait. Quietly. Anxiously. Hopefully.

And your heart beats just a little louder every second that passes.

Oscar's POV

Oscar hadn’t taken more than ten steps away from her before he felt like he was going to combust.

"Later," he had said. So casual. So cool. And then—bam—he was swallowed whole by the media pen.

He gave the most robotic answers of his life, probably sounded like he had only two brain cells left (and one of them was buffering). He kept thinking about the way she had nodded. The way her eyes had softened just a little. The way her lips parted like she was going to say something else before her PR person whisked her away.

By the time he finally escaped the cameras, he spotted Lando leaning against a wall with a smug expression that screamed I know something you don’t want me to know but I’m going to say it anyway.

“Tell me you’re not still spiraling,” Lando said, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside him.

“I’m not spiraling,” Oscar said immediately. Which is exactly what someone spiraling would say.

Lando raised an eyebrow. “So what’s your pulse rate right now, like 180? You look like you just saw a ghost. Or like… confessed your feelings to your long-time secret crush and are now regretting every choice you’ve ever made.”

Oscar gave him a look. “I didn’t confess. I just said I wanted to talk to her later.”

“Oh.” Lando grinned. “So basically the most Oscar Piastri way of saying you’re in love with her.”

Oscar groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“She likes you back,” Lando said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Literally everyone knows it. Except maybe you. And even that’s debatable.”

Oscar hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Lando blinked. “Mate. You could trip, fall into a garbage bin, set it on fire, and she’d still look at you like you hung the stars.”

“That’s very specific.”

“Because I’ve seen that look. Multiple times. It’s honestly annoying. You guys are like… a romance novel with no plot. It’s time. Be confident. Be normal. Be—”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m helping so much.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. Okay. Okay, he could do this. He wasn’t great at feelings, or... talking, or... making decisions that required actual courage. But he was decent at walking. And she was somewhere out there. Probably still waiting. Probably wondering if he was going to flake like a moron.

Time to prove he wasn’t a moron. (Just... a semi-functional human.)

He scanned the paddock and finally spotted her by herself near the hospitality tent. She was staring at her phone like it owed her answers to the universe, arms wrapped tightly around herself, hair a little windblown.

She looked nervous.

Which meant he wasn’t the only one freaking out.

Oscar smiled, nerves still tangling in his chest, and walked up to her.

“Hey,” he said, standing close enough to get her attention but not close enough to invade.

She looked up, startled at first, then smiled—soft and unsure and everything that made his heart stutter like a broken radio.

“You free now?” he asked, and then added, a little awkwardly, “To talk, I mean. My driver’s room’s... private. Quieter.”

She nodded immediately, clutching her phone a little tighter, and followed him through the hallway.

Neither of them said much on the way there. Mostly because Oscar was internally screaming.

Once inside the driver's room, he stepped aside to let her in, then paused at the door.

He glanced back at her, already sitting at the edge of the little bench like this was the most high-stakes conversation in history.

Oscar hesitated.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “Just be cool. Be confident. Be... Lando-level confident but with fewer bad jokes.”

Then he promptly smacked his elbow against the doorframe, said “ow” way too loudly, and knocked over a water bottle as he tried to close the door behind him.

Smooth.

Absolutely smooth.

But she laughed—a real laugh—and that made all the embarrassment melt just a little.

He shut the door with a soft click and turned to face her.

Time to talk. Time to maybe finally admit it. Time to be brave.

Or... you know... crash and burn in the most Oscar way possible.

@justaf1girl, @bm571158, @raweceekk

Next part

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Kimi Antonelli masterlist

Summer reunion

Chasing the rookie

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Esteban Ocon masterlist

Surprise date

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Alex Albon masterlist

Their little sunshine p.1

Their little sunshine p.2

Their little sunshine p.3

Their little sunshine p.4

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Skin care routine

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this George x reader one-shot. I hope you enjoy it.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my general masterlist.

You had been plotting this for weeks, ever since you caught George stealing glances at your glow serum like it was some kind of alien technology. You knew he was curious. He just needed a little push.

So, on a quiet Friday night, while the rain pattered softly against the windows and your cozy apartment smelled like clean laundry and vanilla candles, you made your move.

You walked into the living room, holding a soft headband, two face towels, and a bottle of cucumber mist like a skincare warrior ready for battle.

George, lounging on the couch in sweatpants and one of his ridiculously oversized hoodies, raised an eyebrow. "What’s all that?"

You plopped down beside him, wiggling your eyebrows dramatically. “It’s spa night. For both of us.”

He blinked. “Spa night?”

“Mhm.” You handed him the headband. “Put this on. I’ve already steamed your face towel.”

“Is this one of those things you’re going to pretend is optional, but if I say no, you’ll guilt-trip me with your sad puppy eyes and make me feel like I’ve broken your heart?”

You grinned. “Absolutely.”

He groaned dramatically but took the headband and wrapped it around his curls with a sigh. “Alright, but if I end up looking like the Hulk, you’re explaining it to Toto.”

Ten minutes later, you had him seated on the bathroom counter, feet swinging slightly, eyes closed as you applied the green clay face mask to his skin. He kept squirming every time the brush touched his face.

“Hold still, George,” you scolded, laughing.

“This feels… weird. Cold.” He peeked one eye open. “Are you sure this stuff is safe? What if my face falls off?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s from Sephora, not a radioactive lab. You’ll be fine.”

He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a whine. “I race cars at 300km/h, but this—this is what truly tests my courage.”

You giggled, wiping your hands on a towel. “You look adorable.”

He opened both eyes now, giving you a look that was supposed to be skeptical, but was ruined by the bright green mask and the pink fluffy headband now holding his hair back.

“Adorable? This is sabotage.”

You leaned in and kissed his nose carefully, avoiding the mask. “You’ll thank me when your skin is glowing.”

“Oh, I’m glowing already. With shame.”

Still, he didn’t complain when you set up your Netflix show and handed him a matcha face roller. He even let out a satisfied little hum when you pressed the cool stone to his cheeks and began gently massaging in upward strokes.

“This actually feels kind of… nice,” he admitted softly.

“Told you.”

Thirty minutes later, after both your masks had dried and you'd rinsed off in the sink side by side—George grimacing at the tightness on his face like he was shedding a lizard skin—you handed him a microfiber towel.

“Pat, don’t rub,” you instructed.

He followed your lead, dabbing at his face like he was afraid it would crack. Then he looked up at you with wide eyes. “Wait. Feel this.” He took your hand and placed it on his cheek.

You gasped. “George! You’re smooth like a baby seal.”

He smirked. “I am rather luxurious now, aren’t I?”

You both dissolved into laughter, collapsing onto the bed with your skin clean, your limbs tangled, and your hearts full.

A week passed, busy and chaotic, with back-to-back meetings for George and a hectic deadline for you. On Thursday, you texted him that you'd be home late and to eat dinner without you.

You were exhausted by the time you finally walked through the door that evening. Your laptop was heavy, your eyes dry, and all you wanted was a hot shower and sleep.

Then, you smelled eucalyptus.

Confused, you followed the scent to the bathroom—and there, you nearly dropped your bag.

George Russell was standing in front of the mirror. Pink spa headband in place. Shirtless. Green face mask perfectly applied. Cucumber mist in one hand, jade roller in the other.

He met your stunned gaze in the mirror.

“…Don’t judge me,” he said slowly.

You blinked. “Are you doing your skincare routine?”

“I may or may not have Googled what order to apply toner and serum.” He turned around. “Also, you forgot your retinol on the bottom shelf. I moved it next to your moisturizer.”

You couldn’t stop laughing. Your stomach hurt as you dropped your bag and leaned against the doorframe. “George, you’re a skincare king.”

He sniffed dramatically. “Please. I’m a glowing icon.”

Then he winked.

You walked toward him and cupped his face gently. “I’m so proud of you.”

He tilted his head. “Should I start a YouTube channel? ‘F1 Driver by Day, Glowy Boyfriend by Night’?”

You snorted. “You’d go viral.”

He leaned in carefully so as not to ruin the mask. “I only do it because you said my cheek felt like a seal.”

“And now?”

He beamed. “Now I’m addicted to feeling this smooth.”

You kissed the side of his temple. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” He smiled, wide and beautiful. “But admit it… I’m the cutest face mask model you’ve ever seen.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his chest.

“Without a doubt.”

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Streaming accident

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Lando x reader one-shot. I hope you enjoy it.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my general masterlist.

The low hum of Lando’s voice drifted from his streaming room, punctuated by the occasional laugh or shout. You leaned out of the kitchen, eyeing the top shelf where the new pack of tea bags sat stubbornly out of reach. You could’ve used a chair, maybe, but Lando was just down the hall.

“Lando?” you called, balancing on your tiptoes.

His voice carried through the door. “Yeah, babe?”

“Can you help me get something from the top shelf? The tea’s up there.”

“Yeah, gimme like two minutes, I’m just finishing up this match.”

You smiled, nodding even though he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”

Two minutes passed. Then five. Then ten. You heard him talking to his chat again, laughing, completely absorbed. The kettle had already boiled and now sat cooling on the counter. You glanced at the clock, then back at the shelf.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, rolling up your sleeves. “I got this.”

You dragged the wooden table closer to the cupboards, its legs scraping gently across the tile. Climbing up, you balanced carefully on your knees, reaching for the shelf. Your fingers just grazed the box—

—and then your foot slipped.

The table wobbled sharply beneath you, sending a stack of magazines tumbling from the edge. You flailed to catch yourself, but your palm knocked over a glass jar of pasta. It shattered against the floor, the sound like a gunshot echoing through the apartment.

Then gravity won.

You crashed to the ground with a yelp, landing hard on your hip and elbow. A sharp sting flared in your side. You lay there stunned, surrounded by broken glass, a scattering of penne, and your own breath catching painfully in your chest.

The sudden silence was immediately broken by the thud of Lando’s chair being pushed back and footsteps pounding down the hall.

“Y/N?” he called, panicked. “What the hell—are you okay?”

You heard the door fly open and then he was skidding into the kitchen, his eyes wide, still wearing his headset around his neck.

“Oh my god.”

He was at your side in seconds, crouching beside you without a second thought for the glass. His hands hovered over your arms and waist, unsure where to touch.

“What happened? Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?”

You tried to sit up, wincing. “I just… I was trying to get the tea.”

Lando exhaled sharply, brushing your hair back with trembling fingers. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“I did,” you said, and the quiet in your voice made him pause. “You said two minutes. That was fifteen ago.”

His expression crumpled. “Shit.”

You watched as guilt washed over him, settling heavy in his shoulders. He looked down at the mess, then back at you, inspecting your arms for cuts.

“I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t think—God, I should’ve come right away.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered, suddenly blinking back tears you hadn’t realized were building. “You were laughing. I figured I could do it myself.”

He gently cupped your cheek, his palm warm against your skin. “You never bother me. Streaming or not, I’d drop anything for you. I should’ve just gotten up.”

You gave a shaky laugh. “Well, I dropped everything for you, literally.”

Lando cracked a smile, but it vanished almost immediately as he helped you stand. His arm slipped around your waist protectively, guiding you to the couch.

“Sit. Don’t move. I’ll clean up everything and grab the first aid kit. You hit your elbow pretty hard.”

“Lando—”

“Nope,” he said firmly. “Not a word. Just—just sit there and look cute while I freak out internally about how badly I screwed up.”

You watched him disappear into the hallway, muttering under his breath.

When he returned, he cleaned your arm gently, pressing a kiss to your temple every time you winced. His eyes stayed fixed on you, like he needed to confirm every second that you were still okay.

Once the worst was over, he pulled a blanket over your lap and settled beside you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and burying his face in your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll get you tea every day for the next year. No more reaching shelves alone. Just… don’t scare me like that again, alright?”

You leaned into him, letting his warmth and worry melt your frustration.

“Okay,” you murmured. “But next time, if you say two minutes, I’m starting a timer.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against your skin. “Fair. But next time, I won’t need one.”

And somehow, wrapped in his arms, with the chaos of broken pasta and forgotten streams behind you, you knew he meant it.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

A race for love p.38

Hii guyss, I hope you enjoy this part. If you've missed part 37 or the other parts you can find them on my masterlist :)

Formula 1 is all about speed, but in this story, the real race isn't just on the track. Read on to find out who will win the ultimate race for your heart

You woke up to the soft hum of excitement running through your veins. Race day. The energy around the paddock was always different on days like this—buzzing, tense, electric.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you smiled as you typed out a quick message to Franco:

"Morning! I'm going to grab breakfast with the team and then head to the motorhome. I can stop by the F2 paddock to wish you luck before the race! :)"

You hit send and jumped out of bed, pulling on your lucky McLaren shirt, worn from so many weekends of cheering from the sidelines.

Breakfast was lively. You sat with your dad, Lando, and Oscar, the boys already teasing each other about their qualifying positions and who was going to make the biggest mistake today.

"You're the one who nearly tripped over your own foot yesterday," Oscar pointed out with a smirk.

"That was tactical," Lando said, deadpan. "You wouldn't understand strategy."

You laughed as you ate, feeling lighter than you had in days. It was good to be around people who made you forget about everything else for a while.

After eating, you walked toward the F1 paddock with them, the sun already hot above your heads.

"I'll catch you guys before the race," you promised as you waved goodbye. Oscar gave you a playful salute while Lando dramatically wiped a fake tear from his cheek.

Smiling to yourself, you made your way to the F2 side, weaving through engineers and team members, and your heart skipped when you spotted Franco near his car, talking to a few people.

He looked good—focused, but there was something a little off about him today.

You waited until he was done, then approached him with a bright smile.

"Hey, you," you said, nudging his arm lightly. "How did the meeting go yesterday?"

For a second, a flicker of confusion crossed his face, but he recovered quickly, flashing you a smile.

"Oh, it went fine," he said. "Nothing special. Just... strategy talks and all that boring stuff."

You tilted your head at him, studying him. "You sure? You seem a little off."

Franco sighed quietly, almost as if he hadn't realized he was showing it. "Just... race day nerves, maybe."

You smiled and took a step closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear.

"Well, you know what helps with nerves?" you teased, leaning in just a little. "A motivation...  maybe some private celebrating tonight."

Franco's lips quirked into a real smile this time, a mischievous glint lighting up his dark eyes.

"Oh yeah?" he said, his voice dropping into that soft, teasing tone that always made your stomach flip. "What kind of celebrating are we talking about?"

You chuckled and gave him a playful shove. "Get your head out of the gutter, Franco."

"No promises," he said, smirking as he caught your hand mid-shove and squeezed it gently. "But now you've got me really motivated to race."

You laughed and pulled your hand back, feeling your cheeks warm. "Good. Go out there and kick ass, then we'll talk about the prize."

Franco laughed under his breath and leaned in, brushing a quick kiss against your temple. "Deal. And you—don't go running off with those McLaren boys while I'm gone, alright?"

"I'll try not to break any hearts," you joked, giving him a wink.

He shook his head, amused, before his name was called by one of his mechanics.

"I gotta go," he said reluctantly.

"Good luck," you told him, giving him a small wave as he jogged toward his team. "You're gonna do great!"

He gave you a little salute over his shoulder, and you grinned, turning to head back toward the F1 paddock.

You had just started walking when you heard someone call your name over the noise of the paddock, and as you turn around, you see Estelle waving at you.

You gave a friendly smile back at Estelle, surprised but genuinely happy that she was coming over. You liked her—she was funny, easy to talk to, and there was something comforting about having someone your age around here.

Estelle reached you in a few quick steps, her blonde hair shining under the sun. "Hey! I was wondering... would you wanna watch the F2 race together?" she asked, a hopeful little smile on her face.

"Yeah, I'd love to," you said brightly, feeling glad not to be alone.

You both made your way up the stands, finding a spot where the view was good but the crowd wasn't too overwhelming. The engines roared below as the race was about to start, but Estelle turned to you, pulling her sunglasses down slightly to meet your eyes.

"So..." she said, a mischievous glint in her tone, "how did you and Franco meet?"

You chuckled softly, a little shy about it. "It was kind of random, actually. I met him through McLaren—he was hanging around the paddock one day, and we started talking. It was... easy with him, you know? Like it just clicked."

Estelle smiled, nodding like she understood. "Yeah... he's got that thing about him. He makes you feel like you're the only one in the room."

You blushed a little but smiled wider. "Yeah. Exactly."

You tilted your head, curious. "And you and Ollie? How did you two meet?"

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear casually. "Through social media, actually. He followed me first," she said with a little laugh. "We started messaging, and... well, here we are."

"That's cute," you said honestly.

The race kicked off, and for a while, you both watched, shouting and cheering with the rest of the crowd. Somewhere between overtakes and pit stops, you started talking again, this time about school and future plans.

"I'm actually studying law," Estelle said proudly, tapping her manicured fingers against her knee. "Family law, maybe criminal... not sure yet."

"That's impressive," you said, genuinely impressed. "I'm really happy with my degree, but it's hard to manage everything," you admitted with a sheepish grin. 

Estelle smiled kindly. "I completely understand."

You were about to say something else when your eyes flicked back to the race... and your heart sank a little. Franco was sitting at P13. You could tell from the way his car was moving that he was struggling to find pace, maybe even battling some car issues.

Meanwhile, Ollie was holding strong in fourth, looking sharp and confident.

You turned back to Estelle, forcing a smile. "Hey, when you see Ollie, tell him congratulations from me, alright? He's doing amazing."

She beamed. "Of course! He'll be so happy."

You stood up, brushing your jeans off. "I'm gonna go find Franco. I'll catch you later?"

"Definitely," Estelle said warmly, waving you off.

As you made your way back down the stands, your heart thudded a little heavier in your chest. You hated seeing Franco struggle. You just hoped he was okay—and that he wasn't beating himself up more than he had to.

You picked up your pace, weaving through the crowds, heading straight for the paddock where you knew Franco would be soon.

Tag list: @hs2016, @a-beaverhausen, @hhhs7, @destinyg237

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[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Victory tension p.2

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max x reader x George story. If you've missed p1, here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my general masterlist.

The briefing room was buzzing with idle chatter and the occasional nervous laugh as all the drivers gathered for the FIA’s pre-race meeting. Everyone was in casual gear, a sea of caps, paddock passes, and branded T-shirts. Most of us were lounging around, waiting for the officials to show up and inevitably delay things further.

I was leaning against the wall near the snack table, sipping my coffee, when Lando plopped down beside me with a smirk that told me he had gossip.

“You heard the new rumour?” he asked, voice low but eyes gleaming.

I raised a brow, amused. “Which one? That Alonso’s retiring to start a wine brand? Or that Charles is dating his ex's best friend?”

Lando shook his head, scoffing. “No, no. The good one. About Max.”

That got my attention.

“What about him?”

He leaned closer. “That he might be going to Mercedes next year.”

I blinked. “Mercedes? As in, George’s team?”

Lando nodded, grinning now. “Yeah. Either to replace him, or as his teammate.”

I stared at him for a beat, then snorted. “I genuinely don’t know which is the worse option.”

Lando laughed, almost spitting out the piece of gum he was chewing. “Right? Either they fight for dominance like alpha wolves, or George spontaneously combusts.”

I took another sip of coffee, eyeing the other side of the room where Max and George stood on opposite ends, very purposefully not interacting. “I swear, if this rumour turns out to be true, someone needs to install panic buttons in the Mercedes garage.”

“Or bodyguards,” Lando added.

We were both mid-laugh when a familiar voice interrupted.

“What are you two laughing about?”

I turned my head slowly, already grinning before I saw him.

Max Verstappen stood there, arms crossed, brow raised, that usual suspicious glint in his eye like he already knew we were talking about him.

I didn’t miss the way Lando straightened slightly beside me. “Nothing,” he offered unconvincingly, “just, uh, garage politics.”

I tilted my head and smiled sweetly. “Actually, Max, we were talking about you.”

His eyebrows lifted, clearly not expecting that level of honesty. “Should I be worried?”

I shrugged. “Only if the rumour mill is right and you’re moving to Mercedes.”

There was a pause. Max blinked. Lando turned to me, frowning. “Wait—you’re telling him about the rumour?”

I grinned wider. “Why not? He’s the star of the show.”

Max gave me a long look. “Where did you hear that?”

“Lando,” I replied, shamelessly throwing him under the bus. “He’s the designated rumour hub of the grid.”

“Thanks,” Lando muttered.

I leaned in a little closer to Max, lowering my voice to a mock-conspiratorial tone. “I just didn’t think our little bonding session last time would actually inspire you to get closer to George.”

Max’s expression faltered. His face flushed immediately — a deep, unmistakable pink that spread all the way to the tips of his ears.

Lando blinked. “Wait—what? What bonding session?”

I turned back to Lando, smiling innocently. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I helped both of them after the last race, to relax.”

Lando stared at me like I’d just said I was secretly a shapeshifter.

“You what?”

I nodded casually. “Max wouldn’t stop fighting with George. So I intervened. It worked.”

Lando was still staring at me like I’d just handed him the juiciest piece of gossip in the paddock. I could see it in his eyes—his brain was connecting dots that didn’t even exist yet.

“And what exactly did you do?” he asked, slowly, like he needed me to confirm what he was thinking.

I opened my mouth, ready to say something — not confirm or deny, just tease him a little — when suddenly a warm hand clamped over my lips.

“What the hell—” I tried to speak, but all that came out was a muffled protest.

Max.

He appeared out of nowhere, with his hand firmly over my mouth and a look on his face that screamed I know exactly what you're about to say and no, we're not doing this here.

“Lando,” Max said coolly, as if he wasn’t currently half-dragging me away by the face, “we’ll catch up later.”

And just like that, he tugged me down the hallway, away from the driver crowd and into one of those barely-lit corners behind a partition wall. A broom closet’s shadow away from being suspicious.

The second he let go of me, I burst out laughing.

“Max!” I said, breathless from the surprise and amusement. “What was that?”

He gave me a look that was half stern, half flushed. “What were you doing?”

“I was just going to tell Lando—”

“I know what you were going to tell Lando,” he cut in quickly. “Do you have any idea how fast that story would spread? Half the paddock would think we’re in a three-way relationship by lights out tomorrow.”

“Hmm.” I tapped my chin, smiling. “That’d spice up the press conferences.”

Max groaned and ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall. “God, you’re impossible.”

I crossed my arms, still smiling. “So. Are the rumours true?”

He looked at me from the corner of his eye, wary, then sighed. “I don’t know.”

I blinked. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either,” he said carefully. “Red Bull’s being difficult lately. And Mercedes…” He paused, smirking slightly. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind seeing George squirm a little. Sitting in that seat, knowing he could lose it. Being Toto’s golden boy doesn’t mean much if I’m across the garage.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “You’re evil.”

“I’m honest,” he said with a shrug.

I tilted my head. “So if you do end up in Mercedes, what happens when you and George can’t stop bickering every race?”

Max arched a brow. “You planning to kiss us both again?”

I gave him a flat look. “Please. One kiss won’t be enough to shut you two up if you’re sharing a garage.”

He pushed off the wall slightly, stepping closer with that dangerous gleam in his eye, the one he wore right before an overtake or a bold move in the paddock.

“Oh?” he said, voice low. “Why? Are you offering more?”

I didn’t flinch. Just met his gaze and stepped in close enough that there was barely any space between us. I could feel the tension humming in the air again, like it had back in that cool-down room, except this time it wasn’t born from rivalry.

It was something else entirely.

I smiled, soft and slow.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Max’s eyes darkened slightly, and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip.

“God, you’re trouble.”

I shrugged. “You started it.”

He stared at me for a moment longer, like he was considering something. Then he leaned just a little closer, voice almost teasing.

“If I do go to Mercedes…”

I raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“You might have to personally handle all conflict resolution.”

I grinned. “I’ll add it to my contract. Right after ‘unofficial chaos coordinator.’”

From down the hallway, a voice called out, “Briefing’s starting!”

Max sighed and stepped back. “Saved by the bell.”

I winked. “For now.”

We walked back to the group like nothing had happened — but from the look Lando shot me the moment we reappeared, I could tell he knew something had. And by the way Max’s shoulder brushed against mine, I knew something would again.

@mydearmoonyy, @equine007

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Unspoken Melody p.29

Hi guys, here's a new part of the story, if you've missed part 28, here it is :) If you want to read more of my stories, here's my masterlist.

Two drivers, one unforgettable concert, and a chance encounter with a pop sensation that leaves Oscar questioning everything he thought about music—and maybe even himself.

The race was pure chaos. From the moment the lights went out, your heart was in your throat. You sat in the VIP section, eyes trained on the screen, hands clutching the railing every time the camera cut to Oscar. His overtakes were clean, bold, and calculated, and somehow, he clawed his way up from ninth to third. A podium.

You were still catching your breath when your PR manager leaned over and tapped your shoulder. “Let’s go. You need to be near the podium for photos. Make it good—sell it.”

You blinked. “Sell what exactly?” She gave you a pointed look. “The moment. You're part of this team now, and Oscar just got a podium. Smile. Look proud. Look like you care.” You almost laughed. “I do care.” But you didn’t say it out loud.

As the Mclaren staff helped part the crowd so you could get through, you tried to compose yourself, smoothing down your dress and fixing your hair as you took your spot near the edge of the team zone, just off to the side where the drivers would come through. The ceremony hadn’t even started, but you were already buzzing with nerves and—okay—something a little giddy.

And then he appeared.

Oscar.

He was flushed, breathless, a bottle of water in one hand, helmet under his arm. His race suit was half unzipped, revealing the fireproof shirt underneath, damp with sweat and adrenaline. But it was his smile—he tried to hide it the second he saw you, but you caught it.

He saw you. And smiled.

You smiled back, unable to help it. Just before he turned to face the crowd and climb onto the podium, you caught him glancing over his shoulder again. Was that for you?

The ceremony was loud, cheering, with music, and champagne popping. You clapped with the rest of the team, eyes never leaving him. When it was over and he finally came back down, the first place he headed wasn’t his engineers. It was straight to you.

As he approaches, the cheers and music fade into the background, becoming nothing but a distant echo.

“You were incredible,” you say the second he’s close enough to hear, your voice breathless. You smile, wide and proud. “Honestly… that was one of the best things I’ve ever seen.”

Oscar laughs gently, eyes dropping to the ground like he’s trying to stay humble, but when he looks back up at you, there's something else—something raw and electric. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you answer, stepping closer so you don’t have to shout. There’s barely a sliver of space between you now. “You climbed from ninth to third, Oscar. That’s not luck—that’s talent.”

He exhales slowly. The sound sends shivers down your spine. His hair’s still damp from the champagne, strands sticking to his forehead. His suit clings to his skin, slightly unzipped at the collar, revealing the rise and fall of his chest. You’ve never seen him like this—flushed, triumphant, and suddenly so incredibly close.

“I kept thinking about what you said,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Before the race. That I could do it. That you believe in me.”

You feel your heart beat louder against your ribs. “I meant it,” you whisper. “Every word.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth, and then back up again. The noise around you stills. Time slows. Your pulse races.

“I—I don’t know how to explain it,” he continues, his voice quieter, more vulnerable. “But when I was out there… I kept seeing your face. Hearing your voice. It helped me focus.”

You’re silent for a beat too long. He shifts his weight, suddenly shy, like he’s worried he’s said too much.

“You were in my head too,” you admit softly. “During the whole race. I didn’t even know I was holding my breath until you crossed the line.”

Oscar blinks, startled. “Really?”

You nod. “I wanted it for you. So badly. And I was so nervous, but you—you made it look effortless.”

A pause. Neither of you moves. Your faces are inches apart now. The tension is undeniable. You could lean in just a little and—

He smiles again, bashfully, and his voice drops just above a whisper. “You being here… it changes everything.”

Your breath catches.

Oscar leans in a little more, the space between you barely there, his eyes flickering down to your lips before he quickly looks away. Like he’s caught himself doing something he shouldn't. His hand brushes lightly against your arm—intentional, maybe, or maybe accidental—but it sends warmth spreading across your skin.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you like he’s trying to find the right words, like there’s something he wants to share but isn’t sure if he should.

You tilt your head slightly. “What is it?”

He exhales, soft and quiet. “Nothing. I'm just glad you're here.” His voice is low, almost lost beneath the noise of the team cheering behind him.

Your heart jumps a little. You hadn’t even realized how much his words would mean until now.

You open your mouth to respond, but then someone bumps into him—one of the engineers, tugging him by the shoulder to pull him back into the celebration.

He doesn’t move right away. Just looks at you again, eyes searching, a question lingering between you.

“Can we… talk later?” he asks, voice barely audible over the noise, but you hear it anyway.

You nod, your breath still caught somewhere in your chest. “Yeah. Of course.”

Before he’s pulled away completely, he gives you the smallest smile—one of those quiet, private smiles meant only for you.

And then he's gone, swallowed by the orange blur of his team.

Before you can even gather your thoughts, your PR manager touches your arm, tugging you gently away. “Come on, they want photos near the garage.”

You go, but your mind stays behind, caught in that almost-moment, in the way he’d looked at you like you were something he wasn’t quite ready to lose.

Not yet.

@justaf1girl, @bm571158, @raweceekk

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Surfing date

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Lando one-shot (inspired by today's video), let me know what you think:) If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

You had been talking about your hometown since the day you met Lando. The sleepy little coastal town with pastel-colored houses, winding cobblestone streets, and the kind of beach that looked like it belonged on a postcard. Every time you mentioned it, your eyes lit up, and Lando would smile, already enchanted by the place just through your words.

So when summer break finally rolled around and the F1 calendar allowed for more than just a fleeting weekend off, you didn’t hesitate.

“You’re coming home with me,” you told him one night while curled up together on the couch.

Lando grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “To meet your parents?”

You laughed. “Yes, and to teach you how to surf.”

That’s how you ended up standing at the edge of the water a week later, a surfboard tucked under your arm, the scent of salt and sunscreen in the air. The beach was quiet this morning, just how you liked it, just the hum of waves rolling in and a few early risers jogging along the shore.

Lando stood beside you, squinting at the sea with skepticism. “I thought you meant like… boogie boarding.”

You turned to him, horrified. “Boogie boarding? Lando, please. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Ah, so this is serious,” he teased, taking the board you handed him and eyeing it like it might bite him. “This thing is heavier than it looks.”

You grinned, stepping closer to him and tugging at the sleeve of his wetsuit. “Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you. For now.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully, and you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered. Being home made everything feel brighter, lighter. And having him here, on your turf, just made it better.

“Okay,” you said, dropping your board into the sand and kneeling down to demonstrate. “First, we practice the basics. You lie down, paddle, pop up. Easy.”

Lando gave you a flat look. “You realize I drive cars for a living, not balance on glorified planks in the ocean.”

You laughed. “So now you’re afraid of a little wave?”

“I’m not afraid!” he insisted, already dropping to mimic your movements. “I just think it’s a bit suspicious that you want me in the water where I could… die.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll be fine. Now paddle.”

He did, awkwardly, elbows flailing like a baby seal, and you had to bite back laughter. “You’re not going to survive out there.”

Lando sat up, sand stuck to his cheek. “I’m starting to feel like this is a trap.”

It was a disaster.

Within fifteen minutes of being in the water, Lando had wiped out five times, lost his balance every single time he tried to stand, and somehow managed to hit himself in the shin with the board. You, meanwhile, were doubled over laughing, arms wrapped around your stomach on top of your board.

“This is not funny,” he groaned as another wave knocked him clean off.

You giggled uncontrollably, bobbing beside him in the water. “It’s so funny. You look like a newborn giraffe.”

Lando narrowed his eyes, spitting out a mouthful of seawater. “You know what? Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

He swam toward you with a grin that could only mean trouble, and before you could swim away, he grabbed your waist and pulled you under with him.

You came up sputtering and shrieking. “Lando!”

He was laughing, water streaming down his face, dimples out in full force. “Not so graceful now, are you?”

You splashed him, but you were still laughing. The sun broke through the clouds then, casting golden light across the water, and the two of you floated there for a while, side by side, your fingers brushing beneath the surface.

“You know,” you said softly, brushing wet hair from your eyes, “this is kind of perfect.”

Lando looked at you, eyes full of something warm and unspoken. “It is. I think I get why you love this place so much.”

“It’s always been my escape,” you said. “Now I get to share it with you.”

His smile softened. “I’m really glad you brought me here.”

You spent the next hour going back and forth from water to shore, taking breaks to warm up on the sand, eating strawberries from your beach bag, and laughing at Lando’s increasingly dramatic commentary every time he failed again.

But then, toward the end of the morning, just as you were about to call it a day, something changed.

You watched as Lando paddled out a little further than before, caught a wave, and—miraculously—stood up. Not for long. Maybe five seconds, tops. But he was up, wobbly and wide-eyed, riding it like a champion. He came tumbling down after, a graceless splash, but when he surfaced, his grin was blinding.

“Did you see that?!”

You clapped from where you were floating. “I saw it! You did it!”

He swam toward you again, this time lifting you up into a salty, soaking hug, spinning you around in the water while you laughed breathlessly.

“I did it!” he kept repeating. “I surfed!”

You cupped his face with wet hands and kissed him, right there in the ocean, the sun on your skin and your hometown behind you. “You did,” you whispered. “I’m so proud.”

“Now,” he said between kisses, “I’m never doing it again.”

You both broke into laughter, clinging to each other in the waves, not caring how tangled your hair was or how cold the water had gotten.

It didn’t matter.

Because for that moment, everything was perfect.

And Lando? He was finally part of your world.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Their little sunshine p.4

Heyy guys, I didn't forget about this story; I just didn't know how to continue, so let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy this Alex x reader x Lily story. Here's part 3.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

You found Carlos exactly where you expected—leaning against the pit wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp as always, looking like he was already mentally halfway through the first lap.

“Carlos!” you called, weaving through a couple of engineers until you were standing in front of him, bright smile already plastered on your face. “Don’t think I’d let you race without your good luck moment.”

Carlos smirked, unfolding his arms. “Wouldn’t dare start without it.”

You stepped closer, gently straightening a crease on the sleeve of his suit. “You’re going to do great. Stay focused, trust the car, and remember to breathe. I’ll see you after the race.”

Carlos leaned in slightly, his tone teasing. “I’ll know where to find you.”

You raised a brow, smiling. “Of course. I’ve got a whole corner reserved in the garage for emotional support cheering.”

He chuckled. “Don’t go giving all your best encouragement to Albon, eh?”

“Don’t worry,” you said, already backing away with a wink. “I’ve got enough luck for both of you.”

Back at Alex's side of the garage, the energy was mounting. Mechanics were making final checks, screens flashed with telemetry and track data, and the buzz of race anticipation filled the air.

You spotted Lily near the back of the garage, perched on a small stool with two sets of headphones dangling around her neck. She beamed as you approached.

“There you are,” she said, handing you one of the spare headphones. “All done spreading good luck to your second-favourite boy?”

“Don’t make me choose,” you giggled, slipping on the headset and settling beside her. “But yes. Carlos is covered.”

“Good,” Lily said, leaning into your shoulder. “Because this one’s going to need all the good energy he can get today.”

You turned your eyes to the screen just in time to catch Alex climbing into his car, the helmet already on, the mechanics working with swift, careful hands.

The formation lap was moments away.

The garage wasn’t as flashy or loud as Ferrari or Red Bull, but there was something about Williams during race time—quiet intensity, focused loyalty—that always gave you chills. You could feel it pulsing in the floor beneath your feet.

Lily shifted beside you, eyes on the monitor. “You think he’s nervous?”

“Always,” you said softly. “But the good kind. The kind that keeps him sharp.”

“God, you sound like his second therapist,” she joked.

You bumped her gently with your shoulder. “Hey, between you and me, I give better pep talks.”

The light turned green on the track. Engines roared.

And just like that, the race had begun.

You and Lily leaned in, hearts in sync with the opening lap, watching your favourite boy push himself to the limit on the screen, knowing that later, he’d come back to find both of you waiting, sunshine and calm, exactly where he needed you most.

It hadn’t been a podium—not even close—but it had been a good race. One of those races where both drivers stayed clean, kept their heads, and brought the cars home in the points.

Carlos had crossed the line in P8 after a tough but clean battle with one of the Red bulls in the final laps, and Alex—Alex had clawed his way up to P9, making every overtaking manoeuvre count, every pit strategy stick, and every second behind the wheel matter.

It wasn’t a win. But it felt like one.

Back in the Williams garage, you and Lily were on your feet before the cooldown lap had even finished, hands in the air, high-fiving one of the mechanics beside you as the team’s small section of the pit wall burst into cheers.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” you shouted, practically bouncing with adrenaline.

Lily had tears in her eyes, half from laughing at your excitement, half from the relief of watching Alex fight hard and finish strong. “God, I love seeing him like this.”

When Alex finally rolled into the garage and climbed out of the car, sweaty, helmet tucked under one arm, the grin on his face said it all. He didn’t need to win to feel proud. He knew he’d done well.

He didn’t even get both gloves off before Lily launched herself at him.

"You were amazing!" she beamed, arms wrapping around his neck.

He caught her easily, squeezing her tightly against him, eyes briefly closing like the weight of the race finally settled off his shoulders.

When she pulled back, you were already next in line, bouncing on the balls of your feet, the kind of sunshine that only got brighter after a good day.

Without hesitation, Alex pulled you into a hug—one of those full-body, endorphin-fueled hugs where his hands were still slightly shaking from the adrenaline and your heart was pounding from how hard you’d been rooting for him.

"You did it!" you grinned as you pulled back just enough to see his face. "Points! Both cars! That was so—Alex, I’m so proud of you!"

He was still catching his breath, but your joy seemed to fuel his. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair and laughed. “Thanks. I needed that today.”

“You earned that today,” you said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m already thinking about how to celebrate. I’ve got some ideas for your birthday decorations, by the way…”

He froze mid-sip of water. “Wait—what?”

“Oh, yeah,” you continued, already mentally rummaging through Pinterest boards. “I was thinking streamers, balloons, maybe a banner? Definitely one of those giant shiny number balloons, and I saw these adorable cupcake toppers shaped like helmets...”

“Please don’t go overboard,” Alex said, half-laughing, half-pleading.

You stared at him with an expression that was pure disbelief. “Alex.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know me?”

Lily snorted, trying to hide her laughter.

Alex groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s exactly why I said it.”

You beamed. “Too late. The glitter cannons are basically already ordered.”

“No glitter!” Alex shouted after you as you turned to grab your phone.

Lily leaned into his side, giggling, eyes shining. “You’re not actually going to stop her, are you?”

He gave her a look, equal parts fond and exasperated. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She grinned, hooking her arm through his. “Good. Because deep down, you love it.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Yeah,” he murmured, watching you already chatting up someone from logistics, already on a different topic. “Yeah, I do.”

And just like that, the day closed on a high. Not because of trophies or champagne, but because of points, progress, and the people waiting with open arms and too many balloons.