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coolemmasulivan2 · 3 days ago

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A Beautiful Mess | 3

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Two neighbors who can’t stand each other, until an accidental kiss changes everything.

Word count: 3049

You can read part 1 here and part 2 here.

Right now, I'm shameless Screamin' my lungs out for ya Not afraid to face it I need you more than I want to

The first thing you registered as you woke up was the pounding in your head, like someone was smashing a drum inside your skull. The second was the blinding light hitting your face. You never slept with the curtains open.

"Ugh, my head." You groaned, pressing a hand to your head.

Blinking against the brightness, you forced your eyes open, only to realise, very quickly, that you were not in your bedroom. Your heart stopped and your eyes widened.

You looked around the unknown bedroom. The other side of the bed was unmade and there were clothes scattered on the floor. A pair of pants. A shirt. A man's shirt.

The bedroom door was open, and the distant sound of running water caught your attention.

"Oh my god. No, no, no." You lifted the covers. You were wearing your underwear and that was all you had on. "Noooo!" You groaned, dropping your head into your hands.

What did I do? You questioned yourself. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to piece together the night before. You remembered drinking. Dancing. Meeting a guy at the bar. Eric, right? Had you slept with Eric?

The sound of a door opening, made you open your eyes. You looked up, but you wished you hadn't.

Appearing at the doorway, drying his damp curls with a white towel, was none other than Lando Norris.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He had another towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his skin, his toned chest on full display. It could only be a nightmare. Right? Right?

Lando smirked, breaking the silence. "Look who finally decided to wake up. Thought you were dead for a second." You stared, completely frozen. "What? Cat got your tongue?" That snapped you out of your trance.

You jumped out of bed, immediately regretting it when a wave of nausea hit you. "What the hell am I doing here?"

Lando's smirk deepened. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, enjoying your state too much.

"You don't remember?" He asked you, looking you up and down.

You followed his gaze and realised you were basically naked. Yanking the bed covers up to your chest, you shot him a glare.

"Don't need to cover up." He chuckled. "I already saw everything last night." A shiver running down your spine.

"I was drunk!"

"So was I."

Your grip on the sheets tightened. "What happened?" You asked him, not really wanting to hear the answer.

Lando dragged his tongue over his teeth, eyes glinting with amusement. "Come on, you're not that naive."

Your heart nearly stopped. "No."

"Yes."

"No, wa-- Oh my god!" To your absolute horror, Lando dropped the towel that was around his hips. You turned around and squeezed your eyes shut. "What the fuck are you doing, Norris?"

Lando laughed, completely unbothered. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

"I HAVEN'T!"

"You sure? Because that's not what you were screaming last night."

"Shut up!" You turned back around, cautiously peeking through your fingers, but thankfully, he was already wearing pants. Your mind was a chaotic mess. This couldn't have happened. Even drunk, you would never sleep with Lando. "If you tell anyone about this, I swear I will kill you."

Lando chuckled. "Oh, don't worry. No need to tell anyone, I'm pretty sure the whole building heard you last night. Hell, probably all of Monaco."

Your jaw dropped. "You're disgusting."

"A disgusting man you slept with." You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his face. He caught it effortlessly, smirking. Spotting your dress and purse draped over an armchair, you made a beeline for them, grabbing them quickly. "Not staying for breakfast?" Lando teased.

"Go fuck yourself." Tightening the sheet around your body, you stormed out of the bedroom.

"Hey! That's my sheet!" He shouted, standing up from the bed. You didn't stop. "Y/n?" Before he could say anything else, you slammed it shut behind you, making the frames on the wall tremble.

He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. Messing with you was way too much fun.

Lando lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. The room was dimly lit by the city lights outside, casting soft shadows across the walls. The only sound was your slow, steady breathing beside him.

He had told himself he'd leave once you were asleep. That had been the plan. Carry you to bed, stay until you dozed off, and then head to the other room. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to move.

Maybe it was the way you looked so peaceful, completely different from the stubborn woman who drove him insane daily. Or maybe it was the way your face changed every few minutes, like you were dreaming about something.

Lando let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. Just as he was debating finally getting up, you stirred beside him.

You shifting under the covers, eyes barely open, still very much drunk. Then, without warning, you reached for the hem of your dress and started pulling it over your head.

Lando shot upright. "What the hell are you doing?"

You huffed in frustration, your dress halfway off. "It's hot."

"So?"

With absolutely zero hesitation, you stripped the dress off completely, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Now, you were left in nothing but your underwear in his bed, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Lando swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his curls. This cannot be happening.

"Jesus, Y/n." He averted his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can't just--" He sighed. "For fuck's sake." Muttering to himself, he grabbed one of his t-shirts from the closet and turned back toward you. "Put this on!" He said, holding it out.

You made a sleepy noise, barely cracking one eye open. "No."

"Yes."

You groaned and lazily swatted his hand away, turning over so your back was to him. "Too hot." You mumbled.

Lando sat there, t-shirt still in his hand, staring at you. "Unbelievable." He muttered under his breath. Then and idea hit him.

Oh, she was going to lose her mind.

You stumbled into your apartment, slamming the door shut behind you, your breath uneven and your cheeks burning from the humiliation.

Sleeping with Lando Norris was the last thing that should have happened. He was a womanizer, a nightmare and a insufferable idiot.

You groaned loudly, collapsing onto the couch and burying your face in a cushion. "Why did this happen?" You mumbled against the fabric before letting out a muffled scream of frustration. "I hate him. I hate him. I hate him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that when you opened them, the last twelve hours would magically rewrite themselves. But the image of him, half-naked, smirking, teasing, was burned into your mind like a bad tattoo.

Kill me now. You thought to yourself.

With a deep breath, you forced yourself up and pulled your phone from your purse. Six missed calls. Eleven messages. You called the first person on the list, already heading to the bathroom. You needed a shower. A long, scalding shower to wash away the disaster that was last night.

"Where the hell have you been? We've been trying to call you all night!" She practically shouted into the phone, the second she picked up.

You winced. "Sorry, I drank too much and... passed out." You rubbed your forehead, catching sight of your reflection in the mirror. Mascara smudged under your eyes. Hair an absolute mess. "I need to ask you--"

"Passed out where? And why did you leave with Norris?" Your friend interrupted.

You froze. Your brain scrambled to piece together her words. You remembered being outside with Eric and Lando. But just the two of them.

"Wait-- you guys let me leave with Lando?" Your voice rose, panic creeping in. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"Y/n, we didn't know you left with him!"

You frowned. "But—how do you—?"

"There are photos and videos of you leaving with him." She said bluntly. "In his car. They're everywhere." A cold shiver ran down your spine. You felt your legs go weak as you gripped the bathroom counter for support. "I thought you were hitting it off with that other guy." Your friend continued. "How the hell did you end up with Lando?"

You ran a hand through your tangled hair, your mind racing. "I-- I don't know." You admitted, panic settling in. "I don't remember! But we—" You stopped yourself just in time, biting your lip. No way in hell were you telling anyone about what may or may not have happened last night. "I'm never drinking again. This was a terrible idea."

Monday had rolled around again, far sooner than you would've liked. You hadn't seen Lando since you stormed out of his apartment wrapped in his bedsheet, and you had no intention of crossing paths with him anytime soon.

But somehow, his fans had found your Instagram account and the follow requests had been insane.

You'd seen the photos and the videos. And, yeah, it looked bad. Really bad. His hand around your waist, your head resting against his chest. The way he leaned in close, like he actually cared. Anyone looking at those pictures would think there was something more than just hatred between you two.

And then there was that picture. That one that made you blush like a tomato.

Your head rested against his chest, looking up at him, while he brushed a stray piece of hair from your face. He had this soft look, like you were the only person in the world.

You could easily pass off as a pair of lovebirds, but that was far from the truth.

"Miss Y/n?" A small voice interrupted your thoughts.

You blinked and looked down to see Clare, one of the little girls from your class, staring up at you with big and curious eyes.

"Yes, Clare?" You asked, forcing a smile as the rest of the kids ran out for playtime.

She motioned for you to come closer, so you bent down.

"You and your boyfriend look cute together!" She whispered in your ear. Your breath hitched. "My mommy showed me the pictures. She said he looks at you like my daddy looks at her."

The innocent compliment made your cheeks burn and for a split second, your heart fluttered, before the reality of it all came crashing back. Before you could respond, Clare giggled and ran off to join her friends, leaving you absolutely stunned.

Lando leaned back in his chair, headset on, fingers flying across the keyboard as he played. The glow of the screen illuminated his focused expression.

"Mate, you're actually terrible." Max groaned as Lando missed another shot in the game.

"Shut up!" Lando shot back, laughing.

There was a brief silence as they played, until Max broke it with a teasing voice.

"So… you and Y/n, huh?"

Lando's fingers froze for half a second before he recovered. "What?"

Max chuckled. "Oh, don't play dumb. I saw the pictures. The whole world saw the pictures."

Lando sighed, already knowing where the conversation was going. "There's nothing going on and you know it."

"Uh-huh." Max said, clearly enjoying himself. "You looked pretty cozy. Hand in her hair, staring at her like she was the last slice of pizza…"

"I was just helping her." Lando muttered, trying to focus on the game. "She was drunk. I wasn't going to let her walk home. I'm not a piece of shit."

"And the part where you like her?"

Lando's character nearly got shot in the game. "I don't!"

Max laughed. "Yeah, yeah, sure. You hate her. That's why you haven't stopped talking about her since that night, right?"

"You're the one that brought her up." Lando groaned. "And if I talk about her because it's because she's annoying!"

Max hummed. "Right, but remind me again, why did you stay in bed with her until she fell asleep?"

Lando gritted his teeth. "Because she was drunk, and I didn’t want her to choke on her own vomit. I'm already regretting telling you that."

Max snorted. "Sure, sure. And the fact that you haven't been with anyone else since that night has nothing to do with her, right?"

"Shut up and play the game."

"I'll shut up when you admit you like her."

"That's never gonna happen."

"Okay, then. Guess I'll just keep sending you those cute photos the fans keep posting."

"Maxxxx!"

You were exhausted. Work had drained every last bit of energy from you, and to make things worse, dinner with your parents had been nothing short of an interrogation.

"So, who is this Lando?"

"Are you dating him?"

"You two look very close in those photos!"

Your mother had shown you the pictures as if you hadn't already seen them a thousand times. Your father, usually indifferent to your personal life, had even said: "He's a race car driver, right? Those guys are trouble."

No matter how many times you insisted that nothing was going on, they wouldn't let up. By the time you finally left, your head was pounding.

All you wanted was to get home, take a shower, and sleep for the next ten hours.

As you pulled into the underground garage of your building, your eyes immediately locked onto your parking spot and the sight of Lando's McLaren sitting right in it. Again.

Your blood boiled instantly. "That prick! He does it on porpuse." You smacked the steering wheel in frustration.

You sat there for a moment, until an idea formed in your mind. With a smirk, you pulled up right behind his car, blocking him in.

Getting out, you slammed the door shut, crossed your arms, and admired your handiwork. Let's see him try to pull out now.

Before you could take three steps, you heard footsteps. Lando appeared, dressed in all black, keys in hand, clearly about to go out. The moment he saw your car blocking his, his expression changed.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He snapped, walking toward you.

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think my parking spot was yours?"

Lando exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. "I was only going to grab my phone. I left it upstairs. Relax."

You let out a dry laugh. "Relax?" You gestured to his car. "How about you stop acting like you own the damn building?"

His jaw clenched. "Y/n, move your car. I'm in a hurry."

You tilted your head. "Why should I? Pick another one. It's not like you only own one car."

His frustration was evident, just as much as yours. "I swear it's the last time I park in your spot."

"I don't believe you."

"Move!"

"I don't want to."

Lando stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're impossible."

"And you're an idiot. Stop thinking you're above everybody."

"For a kindergarten teacher, you sure are a nightmare."

"For an F1 driver, you sure are slow."

Lando opened his mouth and let out a sarcastic chuckle. And then, before you could process what was happening, his hands were on your face, and his lips crashed against yours.

You gasped, your body instinctively responding as his mouth moved against yours, rough and urgent. His hands cupped your face, pressing you back against your car as if he was trying to prove something.

And for a second, you let him. Because despite everything, it felt good. Too good.

But then, reality hit you like a truck. You shoved him away hard, breathing heavily. And before you could stop yourself, your hand flew up, slapping him across the face. The sharp crack echoed in the garage. Lando's head snapped to the side, his jaw tightening.

"You asshole." You spat, your heart pounding.

Lando exhaled sharply, his tongue running over his bottom lip. He didn’t say a word. He just stared at you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, without another word, you turned on your heel, stormed to your car, and pulled out of the garage, leaving him standing there.

You drove out of the garage like a maniac, the tires screeching against the pavement. Reckless. Impulsive. Exactly how Lando drove.

And then, out of nowhere, tears started spilling down your cheeks.

You didn't remember the last time you had cried, but now the sobs came fast and uncontrollable, a lump forming in your throat so tight it felt like you couldn't breathe. Your vision blurred, and your hands trembled against the wheel.

With shaking fingers, you pulled over and leaned your forehead against the steering wheel, trying to suppress the pain that had crept up without warning.

You couldn't believe. All of this for a selfish prick like Lando?

Lando had canceled his plans. He had barely made it through the elevator doors before frustration consumed him, his feet carrying him straight to his apartment. The moment he stepped inside, he let out a sharp exhale and dropped his keys onto the counter, running a hand through his curls.

His whole body was buzzing with anger, confusion and something else. Something he didn't want to name.

He didn't know why he had kissed you. No. That was a lie.

He knew. Deep down, he fucking knew. He had wanted to kiss you since the first day he saw you, since the moment he moved into the building. But now that feeling he had buried and denied, had come crashing back to life because of that stupid accidental kiss at the school.

Lando groaned, gripping his face as he collapsed onto the couch. "Fuckkk!!!" His voice echoed through the empty apartment. He tilted his head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. "You don't like her, Lando!" He muttered to himself. "It's just a stupid… crush. Sexual tension. That's all it is." His jaw clenched. "She's never going to like you like that. She hates you."

But, don't you hate her back? A voice whispered at the back of his mind.

Lando swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. And for the first time, he admitted the truth. "I don't!"

Tags:

@lilorose25 @downsideup1989 @anayaverse @ln4-cl16-world @chlmtfilms @444-leqz @joannaln4 @notarshia @willowsnook @goossha-blog @wakasays @linnygirl09 @green--beanie @whisperofthewild @n3versatisfied @rbv3rstappen @guaaafiiburg @fat-meh @freyathehuntress

#lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando imagine #lando x you #lando x reader #ln4 #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine

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no-144444 · 2 days ago

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dive- c.sainz

summary: f175 is a new experience, and a confession is shared.

pairing: carlos sainz x fem! singer! reader

(inspo from the song dive by olivia dean!)

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“It isn’t workin’, I’m a tidal wave of question marks and you’re just surfin’.”

Carlos weaved through the expensive-looking crowd as he heard your angelic voice over the speakers. Charles sent him a knowing glance, a smug smile that said everything he needed it to; “you’re whipped.”

And he was right. Carlos had been waiting for this for a month. His busy schedule meant he’d never seen you perform live, and he was desperate. He felt cheated out of it when he found out that you’d be performing straight after the Williams showcase, so he rushed out. He couldn’t see you, not quite there, but he knew he would, and that was enough.

“Leanin’ into me like it’s an art.”

“You look smart,” Lando smirked beside him. He noticed everything, it was weird. “Put on a bit of extra cologne?” he teased.

He rolled his eyes, a playful smile. “Is it a crime to love a woman?”

Lando pushed his shoulder, his jaw dropping. “It’s love now, is it?”

“Yes, it is,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I’d appreciate it if you would leave me, so I can go see her.”

“Does she know that?” he teased, pulling on Carlos’s tie.

“She will,” he shook his head. “She does.”

“It’s so crazy lately. You just understand my feelings make me see I’m capable, I’m fine,”

“Have you told her?” he asked, stepping closer as the area they were in became increasingly crowded.

“I plan on,” he offered with a half-smile/ half-grimace. “I just need-”

“The right moment?” Lando shouted over the music. “Trust me mate, there’s never a ‘right moment’ for that,” Why the fuck was he listening to relationship advice from Lando ‘man-whore’ Norris? “ Just talk to her. And soon. I heard she was Henry Cavill’s celebrity crush.”

And on that note, Lando moved on, leaving Carlos with a few more insecurities than before. He again fought his way through a sea of people, all wearing expensive perfume and clothes, all complaining about something or other, all trying to get a peek in at the drivers. He didn’t care. He had to see you.

“And I’m feelin’ beautified tonight, and I’m ready to dive-”

He finally got a look at you and, wow. Your flowing navy dress (a subtle ode to him, he hoped), your perfectly styled hair, your bright smile, your voice. All of you. To be honest, if he wasn’t totally transfixed by you, it would’ve knocked him on his ass, how beautiful you were. He smiled as you danced to your own song, your band joining you. Your voice was perfect, gentle and sweet, the voice he’d fallen in love with. The voice he woke up with, the voice he heard throughout his apartment when you’d come to stay, the voice he loved.

“Maybe it’s the lovin’ in your eyes!”

You met his eyes and offered him an enthusiastic wave, making his heart ache in this hopeless way, because he knew without a doubt, he was in love with you. He just wasn’t so sure you were in love with him.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

You smiled as you sat beside him for the remainder of the night, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. You easily spoke with everyone, meeting his teammates (past and present), and even dealing with what he called a ‘Lando situation’, aka Lando doing something stupid and you having to deal with it. This time it was nearly stabbing Zak Brown with a fork, and while Carlos wouldn’t much mind if he did, he didn’t condone public violence.

“You were radiant tonight,” he murmured as he buried his head in the crook of your neck during a break in the show.

“Thank you baby,” you smiled back, your hand going up to run through his hair. “You looked pretty good yourself.”

“Oh yeah?” he smirked.

You nodded, a bright smile on your lips. “Oh yeah.”

He chuckled against you. “Mi vida, you’re perfect.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re wonderful.”

“I love you,” he whispered. “So much.”

You turned your head, your eyes wide and almost… confused? Were you confused? Had he read your relationship wrong? Oh fuck-

“I love you too,” you smiled, and surged forward, pressing your lips against his.

He breathed out a little laugh as you kissed him, noticing how Lando was filming the two of you. He didn’t care.

"I thought you were going to say no," he admitted with a light laugh.

You stared at him, shocked for a moment. "Did you listen to the lyrics?"

He shrugged. "You're very pretty?"

You playfully hit his arm. "I'm ready to dive. Maybe it's the loving in your eyes? Maybe it's the magic in the wine? Maybe it's the fact that every time I fall I loose it all, but you've got me from my head to my feet, and I'm ready to dive," you chuckled at his stupidity.

He sighed as he placed his head in his hands. "I am stupid."

"That's my line!" Charles barked from the table behind the two of you, sending all three of you into a fit of laughter.

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williams & merc masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

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verstappenverse · 2 days ago

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No Strings, No Feelings, No Problem

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Friends with benefits was easy, lying to yourself is the real challenge.

555 words / Masterlist

You’re not in love with Max Verstappen.

You’re not.

It’s a casual thing. Always has been. You’re just two friends who, on occasion, happen to find yourselves tangled in his sheets, skin damp, and hearts racing, but it doesn’t mean anything.

There are rules. Or at least, there were.

1. No staying over.

2. No jealousy.

3. No talking about it outside the bedroom.

Simple. Effective. Foolproof.

Until you break rule number one… again.

You wake up with sunlight filtering through the windows of Max’s Monaco apartment casting warm streaks across the sheets. Your leg is slotted between his, one of his arms thrown lazily around your waist.

You don’t move at first, thinking that maybe if you stay perfectly still it won’t count.

Then his fingers flex against your hip. You freeze.

“Good morning,” Max murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

Shit.

You sit up so fast that his arm slips off your waist. “I have to go.”

Max hums, stretching out like he has all the time in the world. His bare chest rises and falls, golden skin kissed by the morning light and it’s infuriating how effortlessly good he looks this early. His eyes flicker open blue, sharp, amused.

“You stayed over.” His smirk is slow, knowing.

You scoff, throwing the covers off and reaching for your shirt. “I didn’t mean to.”

He props himself up on an elbow, watching you. “That’s the second time this month.”

You pull the fabric over your head. “It’s nothing.”

Max tilts his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say immediately.

He laughs, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “Because if I didn’t know any better I’d think you like waking up next to me.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Max just grins. He always does this, pushes, prods, tests how far you can go before cracking.

“It’s fine,” he muses, stretching again, all casual confidence. “I know you like me.”

You freeze. “I don’t.”

His smirk widens. “No?”

“No.”

Max sits up fully now, looking far too entertained. “Then why do you only end up here with me?”

You don’t answer.

“Why haven’t you been with anyone else in months?” He leans in slightly, voice softer, more certain. “Is it because I’m the only one who knows what you like?” His fingers ghost along your lower back.

Your stomach tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

Max chuckles. “You’re avoiding the question.”

You glare at him, snatching your jeans off the floor. “I just don’t have time for anyone else.”

He clicks his tongue, standing now, his presence looming. “Not even that guy who was flirting with you last night?”

Your fingers tighten around your belt. “That was nothing.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Max says, stepping closer. “You weren’t interested. You didn’t want him to touch you.”

You swallow. “And?”

“And,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, “I think you only want me.”

Your pulse stumbles. You shake your head. “We’re just friends, Max.”

His gaze darkens, but the smirk never leaves. “Sure we are.”

You ignore the way your heart pounds. Ignore the heat that lingers where his fingers brushed against your skin. Ignore the little voice in the back of your head that tells you to crawl back into his bed as you head for the door.

Because it doesn’t mean anything.

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helvegen-s · 1 day ago

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ten millimeters

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: for ten years, they were rivals—pushing, challenging, never backing down. But one night, after a race that changed everything, the line between them finally shatters. Now, with nothing left to hide behind, they’re forced to face the truth. Because this was never just about racing—it was always about them.

Word count: 12k (patience, my friends, patience)

TW: car crash, strong language, sexual content

A/N: enjoy this because I’ve pulled out all my hair trying to write something, and this is what came out. I wanted to be consistent with my updates, but my peanut brain doesn’t seem to agree… I LOVE OSCAR WITH ALL MY HEART

other drivers content will be coming soon...

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

masterlist

Lena Bauer had learned to navigate a world that had always seemed determined to challenge her. For as long as she could remember, her life had revolved around a single purpose: winning. Not for recognition, not for glory, but because victory was the only language she understood. She grew up on the circuits, under the scorching sun of karting tracks, with grease-covered hands and her heart pounding in her throat every time she put on her helmet. She never knew how to be anything other than a racer. And she never wanted to be.

Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, was the kind of driver who made speed look effortless, who turned precision into an art form. Always methodical, always analytical. His talent wasn’t explosive but constant, like a sharpened blade that, over time, became a lethal sword. While Lena raced with fire in her eyes and fury in every maneuver, Oscar was all calculation and patience. He was the cold storm that swept through without ever raising its voice.

They met as children, on a karting podium where Lena, holding her trophy high with a fierce smile of satisfaction, turned to find him watching her. The second-place finish didn’t seem to bother him. There was no anger, no envy in his expression—only a silent acknowledgment: she had been better this time. Only this time.

From that moment on, their paths became intertwined with the inevitability of a storm and the certainty of an impending collision. They grew up together, chased each other through every category, overtook one another in championships that carried them across continents. And when they finally reached Formula 2, their rivalry became something heavier, sharper. There was no room for two drivers like them. Not when both were willing to risk everything to win.

That season, the incident happened. Silverstone. Final laps. They were fighting for victory in a battle anyone else would have called suicidal. But neither Lena nor Oscar were the kind to back down. She forced him to the limit, leaving barely ten millimeters between his car and the barrier. Ten millimeters that decided a race, a championship… and a wound that never quite healed.

Oscar was out. She won.

And when she stepped out of the car, she didn’t look for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew what she would find: the icy fury of someone who never forgets.

Now, in Formula 1, the world celebrated her arrival. The first woman in decades on the grid. Red Bull’s great promise. The one person Oscar Piastri couldn’t simply ignore. And when they faced each other again at the pre-season press conference, he knew nothing had changed.

Lena smiled, tilting her head slightly, radiating that overwhelming confidence that challenged him without the need for words. Oscar held her gaze, impassive, but Lena saw what others couldn’t: the spark of defiance in his eyes, the shadow of Silverstone still lingering in his expression.

They weren’t done. Not even close.

The calendar marked the beginning of a new season. And with it, the restart of a war that had never truly ended.

Oscar had been through enough qualifying sessions to know that the real battle was never against the stopwatch, but against one’s own limits. But that Saturday, as he adjusted his gloves inside the cockpit and his engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, he knew his fight went beyond that.

His fight had a name. Lena Bauer.

The engines roared with the restrained aggression of caged predators as the cars rolled out onto the track. Bahrain was always treacherous in qualifying—the temperature dropped at night, the wind carried sand onto the asphalt, and finding the perfect balance between speed and control was a game of absolute precision. But Oscar wasn’t worried about that. His focus was on the Red Bull number 95.

From the first flying lap, he knew. She was there.

He didn’t need to check the times to understand it. He felt it in every corner, in every fraction of a second flashing on his lap delta. The way his McLaren glided over the asphalt with surgical precision, chasing a shadow that always seemed just out of reach.

Lena.

She had always been like this. Infuriating in her brilliance. Relentless in her determination. She never raced to be among the best, never to collect points or secure a decent result. She raced to win. And that, though he would never admit it out loud, was what drove him insane.

In Q2, as the sun fully set and the track reached its peak, the battle became a silent duel. Red Bull versus McLaren. Lena versus Oscar. Just like so many times before.

On his final attempt, he gave it everything. Every apex traced with a surgeon’s precision, every gear shift perfectly timed. The car danced on the asphalt, the engine roared in his ears, and for a few fleeting seconds, he thought it was enough. That this time, finally, he had been faster.

Until he saw the screen.

Lena Bauer – P1 – 1:29.771Oscar Piastri – P2 – 1:29.784

Thirteen milliseconds.

He let out a bitter laugh inside his helmet—a mix of disbelief and resignation. Lena wasn’t just fast. She was ruthless.

When he stepped out of the car and walked toward the media pen, he saw her.

Lena removed her helmet with that effortless ease that always got under his skin, golden strands of hair falling onto her forehead, a lopsided grin that spoke of victory without a single word. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Oscar felt a rush of frustration and adrenaline pulse through his chest.

"Almost, Piastri."

Her voice carried that teasing lilt that had haunted him since karting—provocation wrapped in feigned lightness.

Oscar shook his head, running a hand over the back of his neck, suppressing the smirk threatening to surface.

"Keep an eye on your mirrors tomorrow, Bauer."

Lena arched an amused brow.

"For you? Doubt it."

She turned before he could reply, leaving him with the retort stuck in his throat and a certainty seared into his skin.

The race hadn’t even begun. The season had only just started.

But his war with Lena Bauer had been going on for years.

Sunday morning.

The Bahrain paddock had been awake since early, humming with the charged energy of the season’s first race day. The desert breeze carried the distant roar of engines in warm-up, the ceaseless chatter of engineers fine-tuning strategies, and the omnipresent presence of cameras, ready to capture every moment.

Lena Bauer walked with the natural confidence of someone who belonged in this world. Dressed in her Red Bull race suit, the sleeves tied around her waist, the team’s logo gleaming under the sun, she looked exactly like what she was—the pole sitter for the first race of the year.

Everyone greeted her as she passed. Mechanics, engineers, members of other teams. The other drivers, gathered near the interview area, welcomed her with grins and playful remarks. Charles Leclerc said something to her in French that made her laugh, Lando Norris held up a hand for a high-five that she returned without hesitation, and even Fernando Alonso gave her an approving glance.

But not everyone seemed thrilled about her presence.

Oscar Piastri watched her from across the group, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tight. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t greet her.

And she, as always, noticed.

Lena loved it. The way he was the only one who didn’t smile, the only one who didn’t treat her with that easy camaraderie she shared with the others. The way he seemed incapable of ignoring her, no matter how hard he tried.

Before she could tempt him any further, someone approached with a microphone.

"Lena, no one expected you to take pole in your first-ever F1 qualifying. Did you?"

She smiled, tilting her head with an almost insolent ease.

"Yes."

The journalist hesitated, as if expecting a more modest answer—something more typical of a rookie in the category. But Lena saw no need to fake false humility. Why should she?

"So, did you have a perfect lap last night?"

"No," she replied naturally. "It was a good lap, but not perfect. I can find more pace."

The journalist's eyes widened in disbelief, and out of the corner of her eye, Lena caught Piastri's movement. He had heard her. And even though she couldn't see his expression, she could imagine the tension in his jaw, the irritated disbelief in his eyes.

She didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet.

"And how are you approaching today's race? You'll be starting from pole, but Red Bull and McLaren have been pretty evenly matched all weekend."

Lena tilted her head, letting the question hang in the air just a second longer than necessary. Then, she smiled with the same unwavering confidence.

"The good thing about starting from pole is that I don’t have to worry about what’s happening behind me. I just have to be the fastest. And I already am."

She felt Oscar's gaze on her profile like a sharp knife.

Oh, how she loved this.

The starting grid was a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Engineers and mechanics moved around the cars in their final preparations, photographers captured every expression on the drivers' faces, and the air buzzed with the anticipation of the first race of the season.

Lena was at the center of it all.

Standing next to her Red Bull, her helmet still tucked under her arm and sunglasses covering her eyes, she radiated absolute calm. While everyone around her talked, gave instructions, or checked data on screens, she remained still, unaffected by the noise. Only when Helmut Marko approached to say something in a low voice did she nod slightly—but even then, her expression barely changed.

A few meters away, Oscar Piastri watched her.

Unlike her, he wasn’t still. He rolled his gloves between his hands, rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. Not because he was nervous, but because his body had felt ready for battle from the moment he stepped out of the car after qualifying.

He knew he shouldn’t be looking at her. He knew he should be focusing on his own race. But he couldn’t help it.

He saw her shake Christian Horner’s hand, smile at someone from the FIA, wave Lando off as he passed by. All of it with that infuriating ease, as if this wasn’t the first race of her life in Formula 1, but just another Sunday.

The contrast to his own energy was suffocating.

Oscar was tense, alert, his pulse already racing before even getting in the car. Lena, on the other hand, seemed immune to everything. As if the pressure didn’t affect her. As if starting from pole on her debut meant absolutely nothing.

And the worst part was that he knew it wasn’t empty arrogance. He knew she meant it.

By the time he realized he had been staring at her for too long, he quickly shifted his focus back to his McLaren, trying to regain his composure. But just then, Lena turned around.

She found him instantly.

With a lazy movement, she pulled off her sunglasses—just enough for him to catch the playful spark in her eyes.

"Nice view, isn’t it?" she said casually, tilting her head toward her own car. With her sunglasses in hand, she pointed to the number 95 engraved on the Red Bull’s carbon fiber. "I hope you dream about it tonight."

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"And I hope you enjoy the scenery while it lasts. In a few laps, the 81 is all you’ll be seeing."

Lena smiled, and it was worse than any verbal provocation.

"Oh, I will enjoy it."

And with that, she turned away, handed her sunglasses to an engineer, and put on her helmet with the ease of someone who had no doubt she would still be there when it was all over.

Oscar, for his part, couldn’t remember ever wanting the starting lights to go out this badly in his entire life.

The lights went out.

The force of his McLaren propelled him forward, reacting on instinct, every fiber of his body focused on the first corner. He knew that if he wanted to win, if he wanted to snatch victory from Lena Bauer, he had to do it now.

He saw her move quickly, shutting the inside line with relentless determination. But Oscar wasn’t a rookie. He knew she expected him to back off, to take the corner from the outside and settle for second place.

He didn’t.

He planted his foot on the throttle, keeping his car glued to hers until the very last millimeter before braking. He downshifted at the exact right moment, slid his car to the absolute limit, and emerged from the corner with his front wing just inches ahead of hers.

For a second, he thought Lena would squeeze him out, that she’d return the favor at the next turn. But she didn’t.

His engineer was shouting something over the radio, but Oscar barely heard it. All he saw in his mirrors was the Red Bull clinging to him, Lena refusing to give up even a fraction more than necessary.

The race was a war of attrition.

Lena was never too far. She kept the pressure on at all times, making him fight for every tenth of a second, every corner, every lap. When McLaren told him to manage his tires, he barely held back a disbelieving laugh.

Managing tires with Lena Bauer breathing down his diffuser was like asking a lion to share its prey.

But he did it.

Against all odds, against everything he feared, against the constant threat of her presence in his mirrors—he crossed the finish line first.

He won.

The victory cry he let out over the radio was pure relief.

When he returned to the pit lane, when he jumped out of the car and let himself be swept away by the adrenaline of the moment, he felt that all the effort, all the anger, all the desperate need to beat her had been worth it.

Until he saw her.

Lena was already out of her car, pulling off her gloves with an expression that was…

Happy.

No frustration. No anger. No trace of the bitter sting of defeat he knew so well.

She was smiling, radiant, as if finishing second had been exactly what she wanted. As if the fact that he had beaten her didn’t bother her in the slightest.

And that, more than anything else, infuriated him.

Because if it had been the other way around—if he had finished second—the poison of defeat would have eaten him alive. He would have replayed every tenth he lost, every mistake, every moment where the race slipped through his fingers. He would have obsessed over it until he could fix it.

But Lena Bauer didn’t.

Lena Bauer was celebrating.

Lena Bauer was laughing with her team, joking with Verstappen, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameras.

When she stepped onto the podium, when she shook his hand with exasperating ease, when she offered him a casual "Good job" with not a hint of resentment, Oscar felt victory crumble in his hands.

Because if she didn’t care about losing…

Then how the hell was he supposed to defeat her?

Melbourne, on a thursday night.

Oscar hated these kinds of events.

It wasn’t just the formality, the uncomfortable suits, or the forced smiles. It was the feeling of being trapped in a place where performance didn’t matter, where it didn’t matter how fast you were on track if you didn’t know how to play the other game—the one of image, politics, public relations.

And Lena Bauer knew exactly how to play it.

Since she had arrived, he had watched her move through the guests with an irritating ease. She greeted journalists by name, laughed with other drivers, answered questions with that mix of boldness and charisma that made her impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, Oscar stuck to the bare minimum—interviews, sponsor photos, the occasional neutral comment. But he couldn't help feeling like a shadow in comparison.

Of course, the press wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to put them together.

“Oscar! Lena!” A journalist called out. “Can we ask you a few questions together?”

It was inevitable. Ever since Lena had joined F1, their rivalry had been exploited to exhaustion. It wasn’t just that they had both been rookies at the time—it was the fact that they had competed against each other since they were kids, that they had clashed in every category they had raced in. The narrative wrote itself: two exceptionally talented drivers, destined to fight side by side for their entire careers.

People loved it. Oscar… not so much.

“Of course,” Lena replied without hesitation, smiling with exasperating ease.

Oscar had no choice. He stepped up beside her, adopting the neutral expression he usually wore in these situations.

“It’s been a few races since Lena made her F1 debut, and it seems like the story remains the same between you two—always fighting each other. What’s it like to meet again in the top category after so many years of competing together?”

“Fun,” Lena said with a grin.

Oscar let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Oh, absolutely thrilling.”

Lena shot him a quick glance before continuing.

“Actually, it is,” she insisted, turning back to the journalist. “We’ve always pushed each other to the limit. I expected nothing less from Oscar in F1.”

“Would you say your rivalry is the most intense on the grid right now?”

Oscar was about to give a diplomatic answer, but Lena beat him to it.

“Oh, without a doubt. Don’t you think so, Piastri?”

Oscar looked at her. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eyes he couldn’t quite decipher. Was she enjoying the moment, the attention, the story the media kept feeding? Or was she enjoying how much it annoyed him?

“If by intense you mean the most annoying, then yes,” he muttered, earning laughter from the journalists.

Lena placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense.

“How cruel. And here I thought we were almost friends.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

The interview continued with the same dynamic—Lena allowing herself bold answers, comments that bordered on provocation, while Oscar remained more reserved, letting her take the spotlight. It wasn’t that it bothered him exactly. It was more that he found it frustrating how effortlessly she navigated this world, as if she had been born to be in the spotlight.

“And what about this weekend’s race?” another journalist asked. “Will it be another wheel-to-wheel battle between you two?”

“If Piastri can keep up, maybe,” Lena replied with absolute ease.

Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his eyes on her.

“I’d be more worried about myself if I were you.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, her smile feigning innocence. “That’s why I enjoy it so much.”

Before Oscar could respond, he felt something on his arm.

Lena had linked her arm through his with the utmost ease, as if she had been doing it her whole life. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, but the sensation of her touch hit Oscar like an unexpected blow.

It unsettled him how easily she invaded his personal space without warning. But what truly caught him off guard was his own reaction—because instead of pulling away, instead of tensing up like he usually did in these situations, Oscar felt his body lean, almost imperceptibly, toward her.

It wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t even aware of it until it happened. But when he realized, his first instinct was to tense, to regain his composure.

However, before he could, Lena shifted slightly toward him, and Oscar felt the light tug of her grip, the way her thumb brushed against the fabric of his sleeve. There was no ulterior motive in her gesture—at least, not one Oscar could identify with certainty. Just a bold confidence, a way of reminding him—with the simplest action—that she had no problem getting close, erasing the lines between them whenever she felt like it.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The journalists, of course, didn’t let the gesture go unnoticed.

“Well, it seems like your relationship isn’t just about rivalry,” one of them commented lightly. “Clearly, you’ve known each other for years.”

Lena shrugged, as if the question was unnecessary.

“Of course. Piastri and I have been fighting on track since we were kids.”

“And we still are,” Oscar added, dismissively.

The journalists nodded, satisfied with the response. From the outside, their relationship looked exactly as it was supposed to: two rivals with years of history, who understood the dynamic between them perfectly. Friends, perhaps. Or at least, competitors who respected each other and enjoyed the challenge.

That was what everyone saw.

But Oscar… Oscar felt something else.

The light weight of Lena’s hand on his arm. The brush of her thumb against the fabric of his sleeve. The way she leaned slightly toward him when she spoke, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was nothing strange about the gesture. It wasn’t flirting. It didn’t have some hidden intention.

And yet, something inside Oscar clicked.

It was sudden and unsettling, a strange sensation slipping into his chest before he could block it out. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly. It was more like recognition, a realization that Lena could cross certain boundaries with him without his body reacting with the automatic rejection he usually had toward anyone who got too close.

She did it without thinking, with exasperating ease. And the worst part was that he didn’t think about pulling away either.

There was no logical reason for it.

The cameras were still rolling, the journalists were still asking questions, the fans who would watch the interview later would interpret it as just another amusing moment between two lifelong rivals. No one would notice anything unusual.

No one except Oscar.

And that was what irritated him the most.

The atmosphere in Melbourne was different.

Oscar felt it in every corner of the paddock, in every fan chanting his name, in every Australian flag waving in the grandstands. He had imagined this moment countless times, but living it surpassed all expectations.

P3 in qualifying. It wasn’t pole, but it was a solid position. He was ready. He knew exactly what he had to do.

As he walked through the paddock corridors, his mind was focused on strategy, on the start, on every detail that could make the difference. And then, as he turned a corner, he saw her.

Lena was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze distant. It looked like she was waiting for him, though with her, one could never be sure.

"Ready for the big day, huh, Piastri?" she said in her usual tone, one that hovered between provocation and amusement.

"Always," he replied without hesitation.

She nodded, sizing him up for a moment that felt longer than necessary. Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted.

"You’re going to have a great race," she said, without a trace of irony. "This is your home. Make sure you take a good memory from here."

Oscar blinked, caught off guard.

It wasn’t the comment itself that surprised him, but the way she said it. Without that ever-present edge of defiance. Without the sharpness of their eternal rivalry.

She seemed… sincere.

Before he could find a response, Lena continued, her voice carrying a casualness that didn’t quite match what she had just said.

"And well, it’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?" she added. "We went from fighting in karts on forgotten tracks in the middle of nowhere to this. You, at your home race. P3. In front of thousands of people cheering for you."

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue. But then she gave the smallest of smiles, briefly lowering her gaze.

"I’m proud of you, Piastri."

The air grew heavier in Oscar’s lungs.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—her sincerity, the fact that it was coming from her, or the way his chest tightened slightly at her words.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it.

It was Lena.

And for some reason, that affected him more than he was willing to admit.

Oscar felt his throat close up for a fraction of a second.

Lena was already straightening up, ready to leave as if she hadn’t just knocked him off balance with those words. As if she hadn’t just said something that would stay in his head for who knew how long.

He couldn’t let it end just like that.

"Lena."

She stopped, turning her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in question.

Oscar swallowed. He wasn’t good at these things, but he couldn’t let her be the only one to speak.

"You’re going to have a great race too."

His voice was steadier than he expected, though inside, he was still trying to regain balance from the whirlwind Lena had just left behind.

She blinked, surprised. For a moment, Oscar thought she would mock him, throw a sarcastic remark to break the tension. But she didn’t.

Instead, Lena smiled. Barely—a flicker of a smile, quick and almost imperceptible, but genuine.

"I know," she replied, with the certainty of someone who had never doubted herself.

And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Oscar remained there a moment longer, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears, an unfamiliar sensation settling in his chest.

It wasn’t exactly confusion. It wasn’t just surprise.

It was something deeper. Something more unsettling. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

And the worst part was that no matter how much he tried to analyze it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake it off when he pulled his visor down and lined up on the grid.

The lights went out, and Oscar reacted on instinct.

The McLaren catapulted toward the first corner, the roar of the engines around him creating a deafening symphony. He held firm in P3, protecting the inside as Verstappen and Leclerc fought ahead.

But there was no time to relax.

Lena was there.

Almost glued to his rear wing, waiting for the slightest mistake to strike.

Ten millimeters.

That was the space Oscar left her in every corner. Just enough not to crash—but no more than that. If she wanted the position, she was going to have to take it by force.

The pressure was relentless. Lap after lap, Lena attacked. She tested the outside at Turn 5, then the inside at Turn 9. She threw herself into every braking zone, making sure he felt her presence like an unyielding shadow.

On lap 23, McLaren called him into the pits. The stop was fast, flawless. He came out just ahead of Lena, who had stopped a lap earlier.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Turn 3.

Oscar saw the Red Bull in his mirrors before she even made the move.

Lena dived down the inside with surgical precision, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they could push.

He reacted instantly.

Defended aggressively, leaving precisely ten millimeters between their wheels. Ten millimeters between keeping the position and losing it. Ten millimeters between personal victory and defeat.

The crowd was on their feet.

Side by side, they accelerated toward Turn 4.

Oscar held the line. Barely.

Ten millimeters more, and she would have been the one emerging ahead.

Ten millimeters more, and it could have ended in disaster.

But it didn’t.

Oscar kept the position.

When he crossed the finish line in second place, the radio exploded with his team’s cheers.

"Well done, Oscar! P2 at home, incredible race!"

He let out a shaky breath, a laugh escaping his lips. It wasn’t a win, but it was a solid podium—a result any driver would dream of achieving at their home race.

As he climbed out of the car, the roar of the Australian crowd engulfed him. People chanted his name, a wave of applause that sent chills down his spine as he raised his arms in gratitude.

But then, before he could fully process it, he felt an impact against his side.

Lena.

She had walked up with a grin stretching from ear to ear and, without warning, threw her arms around him. A spontaneous, unrestrained gesture, with no trace of their usual hostility.

Oscar froze completely for a second.

He could feel the fabric of her race suit against his, her arm firmly wrapped around his back.

The cameras caught everything.

Photographers fired away, the images already circulating online, ready to send fans into a frenzy.

And the worst—or maybe the best—part was that Oscar didn’t react with his usual stiffness.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t try to escape.

Almost without realizing it, he returned the embrace.

Ten millimeters.

That was what separated them on track.

But here, there wasn’t a single one.

A couple of hours later, Oscar settled into his airplane seat, resting his head against the window and staring into the darkness of the night sky. The muffled roar of the engines and the dim cabin lighting gave everything an unreal feel, as if he were suspended in a limbo between two worlds.

He should be exhausted. He should be enjoying the moment. P2 at his home race, the crowd chanting his name, champagne spilling over the podium.

And yet, the only thing occupying his mind was the feeling of Lena’s embrace.

It was absurd.

He had raced past her so many times on track—always on the edge, always brushing against each other with surgical precision. Always breaking each other down, searching for every tiny advantage, pushing to the limit.

But he had never felt her like this.

Close. Present.

No helmet. No barriers.

A few minutes earlier, as he boarded the private jet with Lando, he had barely exchanged any words with him. He knew his teammate was probably waiting for him to comment on the race, the podium, something. But Oscar had said nothing.

And Lando, being Lando, wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to figure it out myself?"

Oscar blinked and turned his head, meeting his teammate’s curious expression. Lando was watching him from the seat next to him, one eyebrow raised.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, sure," Lando scoffed, crossing his arms. "I know you well enough to tell when something’s eating you up. You haven’t said a word in two hours, and you just finished on the podium at home."

Oscar sighed. Lando wasn’t going to drop it easily.

"I’m tired," he tried to dismiss.

Lando clicked his tongue, clearly not buying it.

"So it’s Lena."

Oscar felt a jolt of discomfort run down his spine.

"What?"

"Come on, mate." Lando turned fully in his seat, resting an arm on the backrest. "I saw it. We all saw it. Since when do you and Lena Bauer hug like you’re best friends?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"It was just… the moment. You know how she is."

Lando studied him, as if trying to unravel something beyond his words.

"Yeah, I do. But you didn’t react the way you usually do."

Oscar looked away, uneasy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Lando smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, I think you do."

Oscar didn’t respond. He just stared at his reflection in the window, barely visible against the darkness of the sky.

Lando was right. He knew.

But admitting it out loud was another thing entirely.

Because if he acknowledged what he felt—if he put it into words—then he would have to face it.

And Oscar wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The problem with Lena Bauer was that she had always been there. Always by his side, always in his way. From karting to Formula 2, and now at the pinnacle of motorsport. Always ten millimeters from him.

Always too close.

And yet, never as much as now.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling in frustration.

"It’s nothing," he muttered at last, more to himself than to Lando.

His teammate didn’t even look up from his phone.

"Whatever you say."

The cabin fell into silence again. The hum of the engine, the flickering overhead lights, the gentle sway of the plane cutting through the night.

Oscar closed his eyes.

But in his mind, he didn’t see the race. Or the podium. Or the crowd chanting his name.

He only saw Lena.

Her smile.

The warmth of her embrace.

The sound of her laughter, echoing in his chest like an unfamiliar vibration.

The way she looked at him, seconds before letting go, that mischievous glint in her eyes—like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Like she knew what she was doing to him.

And maybe she did.

Maybe Lena Bauer had always known.

Oscar arrived at his Monaco apartment with the deep relief of someone who, after weeks of traveling, noise, and adrenaline, finally had a couple of days to himself.

He dropped his suitcase by the door, kicked off his shoes without much care, and exhaled slowly as he scanned the space. His apartment was exactly as he had left it—neat, quiet, welcoming.

Peace.

That was what he needed.

He had planned these days with precision: sleep in without worrying about schedules, cook something decent instead of relying on paddock catering or airport food, and maybe, if he felt like it, go for a walk along the harbor. But most of all, rest.

He collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling mindlessly. Messages from his team, social media notifications exploding with podium photos from Australia, a couple of texts from Lando sending him ridiculous memes. Nothing urgent.

He was about to put his phone down when a new notification popped up on the screen.

Lena Bauer.

He frowned.

It wasn’t like they never talked outside of race weekends—well, actually, they didn’t much—but if Lena was texting him directly, it had to be something important.

He swiped to open the message, and what he found made him blink a couple of times.

Lena: "pastri pls i need help, im movin and the fookin couch dosnt fit in the elevator. i swer i tried with max, charls, even russel but aparntly evryone decidid to disapear at the same time. so now im stuk and if i try to do this alone ill eithr break my spine or end up trapd under it n die. u dont want that on ur consiense do u?? pls be a decnt human bein n help me, ill buy u a bier or idk a whole pizza if thats wht it takes 😭🙏 also if u say no i will haunt u 4ever just so u kno."

He blinked again, trying to process the grammatical crime he had just read.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. After all, he had spent weeks traveling, racing, training. All he wanted was to sleep in his own bed, eat something decent, and not move a single muscle for the next forty-eight hours.

But then he pictured Lena, somehow attempting to haul a couch up the stairs, probably cursing in three different languages, and with a ninety percent chance of actually managing it out of sheer stubbornness.

He sighed.

Oscar: "Give me 15 minutes."

His phone vibrated almost instantly.

Lena: "thankiu ily"

Oscar let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. But as he put his shoes back on and grabbed his keys, he couldn’t ignore the strange warmth that settled in his chest at those three little letters.

No.

Lena Bauer definitely had no idea what she was doing to him.

Oscar arrived at Lena’s building with the address she had sent him in a message. He didn’t need to call her or let her know he was there; the commotion in the stairwell was already guiding him straight to his target.

There she was, locked in battle with a couch.

The piece of furniture was stuck on the first landing, wedged at an angle that defied all logic. Lena, sweating and with the sleeves of her T-shirt rolled up to her shoulders, was pushing with all her strength, muttering German curses under her breath. Every time she tried to turn it, the couch got even more stuck.

Oscar stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching in silence for a few seconds.

"Are you winning?" he finally asked, the calm tone of someone arriving at a crime scene after the disaster had already happened.

Lena let out a frustrated huff and rested a hand on her hip, momentarily conceding defeat.

"Too late. It’s already knocked me out."

Oscar stepped closer, analyzing the situation with a critical eye. He crouched down, measuring the space, and within seconds, he was already formulating a plan to get the couch out without demolishing the building in the process.

"You tried lifting it sideways, didn’t you?"

"Of course I did," Lena shot back, rolling her eyes. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"

Oscar didn’t respond to that. In his mind, the scene spoke for itself.

"Alright," he said simply. "Then we’re doing this another way."

He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, getting ready for the task.

"What’s the plan, genius?" Lena asked, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed.

"First, we’re going to rotate it. But instead of pushing, we tilt it upward and slide it at an angle."

Lena eyed him skeptically.

"That sounds exactly like what I already tried."

"Yeah, but I’m not going to let the couch win."

Just before getting to work, Oscar couldn’t resist.

He pulled out his phone, and with the ease of someone who already knew exactly what they were going to do, opened the camera and pointed it at Lena.

She, standing there with her arms crossed, brows furrowed, and the couch hopelessly wedged in the stairs, looked like a live-action meme.

"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhere between suspicion and exasperation, hearing the shutter click.

"Documenting the moment," Oscar replied with a smirk, not even glancing up from his phone as he typed a caption.

Lena immediately straightened, trying to snatch the phone from him.

"Don’t you dare."

But it was already too late.

Oscar turned the screen toward her with a triumphant look before posting the photo to his Instagram story. In the image, she was in all her glory—sweat on her forehead, absolute frustration on her face, and the couch putting up a fight.

The caption read:

"The pole position never resists her, but feng shui is a different story."

Lena let out an outraged groan.

"Delete that. Right now."

"It already has likes."

"How long has it even been!?"

"Twenty seconds."

Lena shot him a deadly glare, but Oscar, unfazed, slid his phone back into his pocket, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Alright. Now, let’s deal with the couch."

Lena muttered something in German that probably wasn’t a compliment but gave in.

They worked together, though "worked together" was a generous way to put it. Oscar directed the operation with methodical patience, while Lena tried to brute-force her way through at every opportunity.

"Stop, stop, stop," Oscar said, halting when she attempted to push with her shoulder. "If you do that, you’ll just jam it even more."

"Or I’ll shove it through once and for all," Lena countered, trying again.

Oscar let out an exasperated sigh.

"Lena, please."

She huffed but eventually relented and followed his instructions. With a bit of coordination—and a lot of corrections from Oscar—they finally managed to get the couch past the first flight of stairs.

Once they set it down on the next landing, Lena collapsed onto one of the cushions with a dramatic sigh.

"I am never moving again," she declared, staring at the ceiling. "I’ll die in this apartment."

Oscar leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.

"Could’ve been worse."

Lena turned her head to look at him in disbelief.

"Worse? How? With the couch tumbling down the stairs and taking someone out with it?"

"For example."

Lena let out a breathless laugh.

"Give me five minutes, and we’ll keep going."

Oscar nodded, though deep down, he knew this was going to take longer than expected.

When they finally managed to squeeze the sofa through the apartment door, Oscar collapsed onto it with a heavy sigh, feeling the exhaustion take over his arms.

“I thought lifting weights at the gym had prepared me for anything,” he muttered, massaging his forearm.

Lena, leaning against the wall as she tried to catch her breath, let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, well, two-meter sofas have their own agenda.”

For a few moments, only their labored breathing filled the space, along with the distant hum of the city drifting in through the open balcony. Now that the sofa was in place, the frantic energy of the moment faded, leaving behind something else entirely.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, feeling his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You said there was beer.”

Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Are you implying I don’t keep my promises, Piastri?”

Pushing off the doorframe, she disappeared into the kitchen. Oscar took the opportunity to glance around the apartment. It was practically empty, save for a few stacked boxes in the corner and the sofa they had just hauled up by sheer force.

There were no paintings on the walls, no decorations—just the space in its purest form. He didn’t know why, but it suited Lena. Practical. Functional. Nothing that wasn’t strictly necessary.

She returned with two beers in hand, tossing one at him without warning. Oscar caught it on reflex, shooting her a pointed look, but she only smirked before dropping onto the sofa beside him.

“Don’t look at me like that. If you’d dropped it, that would’ve been on you.”

Oscar shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

Silence settled between them again as their bottles popped open. They drank in sync, both gazing out at the balcony, where Monaco’s lights shimmered against the night sky.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

It was that strange middle ground, where their usual dynamic wavered between familiarity and something Oscar hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I didn’t think you’d move here,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

Lena turned the bottle in her hands.

“Neither did I, until I didn’t have much of a choice. Monaco is convenient. No taxes and all that.”

“Yeah, that’s why we all end up here.”

She shot him a lazy smile.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m still not sold on it. I prefer places with more soul.”

Oscar took another sip, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“And where has more soul, in your opinion?”

Lena leaned her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the answer was written somewhere in the empty room.

“Berlin. Maybe London. Maybe somewhere where no one knows who I am, where I can disappear for a while.”

Oscar nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he entirely understood. He had never felt the need to disappear.

“So why didn’t you go to one of those places?”

Lena turned to look at him, studying him for a moment before shrugging.

“I guess, in the end, I like having a little bit of chaos nearby.”

The way she said it, without thinking, made Oscar pause for a second longer than necessary.

Because she said it while looking at him.

He held her gaze for a beat longer, sensing something in her words that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.

Lena was the first to look away, refocusing on her bottle, drumming her fingers lightly against the glass.

“Anyway, thanks for the help.” Her tone was back to its usual lightness, as if the last few minutes of conversation hadn’t happened at all. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. Probably left the sofa downstairs and used boxes as chairs.”

Oscar let out a quiet snort.

“That could’ve been a creative solution.”

“Nah. I want this place to at least somewhat resemble a home.”

He frowned slightly, something about the way she said “home” not quite sitting right with him. Like the word felt foreign to her.

“Isn’t it?”

Lena turned to him again, eyes sharp, as if seeing more than she let on. Then she smiled, but it was one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Not yet.”

Silence returned between them, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Oscar took another sip of his beer, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat as he tried not to overthink everything they had just said.

Outside, Monaco continued to glow like a movie set. Inside, Lena shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under the other as she turned toward him.

“By the way, how long are you staying before you have to travel again?”

Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of topic but decided to play along.

“A couple of days. Why?”

“Because now that you’ve helped me with the sofa, it’d be a waste not to take advantage of your handyman skills.”

Oscar eyed her suspiciously.

“Lena…”

She held up her hands in mock innocence.

“Nothing complicated. Just a few more things. A table. A couple of chairs. Maybe a bookshelf.”

“You want me to do your entire move?”

“No, I want you to help. Not the same thing.”

Oscar sighed, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching slightly.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Lena tapped his arm with her bottle, as if sealing a deal.

“We’ll see.”

The following days tested Oscar’s patience.

What initially seemed like a simple favor—helping with a few pieces of furniture—quickly spiraled into something much more chaotic. Lena had absolutely nothing organized. Her boxes were stacked haphazardly in the living room, some half-open, others sealed with an absurd amount of tape.

“Why do you have so many boxes when you basically live in a paddock all year?” Oscar asked the day she dragged him back to her apartment under the pretense of “just helping me move one thing.”

“I don’t know, most of them are books.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“You read?”

Lena shot him an offended look.

"Why do you say that like it’s some kind of miracle?"

"I don’t know. Do you see how you write in your phone? I just never pictured you sitting still long enough to read."

"I have my quiet moments, Piastri. Few, but they exist."

He wasn’t entirely convinced of that—until he saw the stacks of novels, biographies, and even a few technical essays in Lena’s moving boxes. It was a chaotic mix of genres, ranging from thrillers to books on applied F1 mechanics.

"You actually read all of this?" he asked, pulling out a book on aerodynamics with pages filled with handwritten notes in the margins.

"Most of them. Some were gifts I never got around to reading."

Oscar shook his head in disbelief before opening another box. That was how they spent the afternoon—drifting from one conversation to another, moving furniture back and forth, and pausing every now and then when Oscar, with infinite patience, had to explain the correct way to use a power screwdriver.

"Give me that. You’re making me nervous," he muttered at one point, taking the tool from her hands before she could drill straight through the table they were working on.

"You’re such a control freak," she shot back, crossing her arms.

"I’m efficient."

By the end of the day, Lena’s apartment was still far from organized, but at least she had a table, chairs, and a bookshelf that wouldn’t collapse at any second.

They both collapsed onto the couch with a tired sigh.

"Tell me that’s the last of it," Oscar mumbled, eyes closed.

Lena elbowed him.

"Almost."

He groaned.

"I knew you were lying to me."

"Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. Besides, I gave you beer and free food—what more do you want?"

Oscar cracked one eye open, amused.

"A written contract guaranteeing you won’t drag me into this again."

Lena stuck out her tongue.

And for some reason, Oscar realized he wouldn’t mind coming back.

The next few days in Monaco passed far too quickly. Before he could even process it, he was back to his usual routine—simulator sessions, meetings with engineers, workouts, flights to the next circuit.

But something had changed.

It was subtle, like background noise he couldn’t quite tune out. A recurring thought creeping in at the most unexpected moments—while reviewing telemetry data, while pulling on his gloves before heading out on track, while trying to fall asleep in yet another uncomfortable hotel bed.

Lena.

Not because he was analyzing her as a rival. Not because he was trying to figure out how to beat her on track.

Just because she was there.

Because every time he scrolled through Instagram, he stumbled upon clips of their interview together, the comments flooded with people loving their dynamic. Because every time he opened WhatsApp, their chat was never too far down the list. Because every time someone mentioned her name in a conversation, he felt something close to… anticipation.

And now, when he arrived at the paddock, he found himself looking for her without even realizing it.

The next Grand Prix was a brutal reminder of why he couldn’t afford distractions.

From the first practice sessions, it was clear that the margins were razor-thin. Red Bull had the edge, sure, but McLaren and Ferrari were right behind, waiting for any opportunity. And amid all the tension, there was Lena—with that infuriatingly relaxed attitude that somehow managed to get under his skin.

"Ready to lose again, Piastri?" she teased with a smirk when they crossed paths near the hospitality area before qualifying.

"I’m not losing today," he shot back, folding his arms.

"We’ll see about that."

And they did.

Qualifying was chaos. Session after session, the times tightened until there was barely any room for error. In the final moments of Q3, Lena put in a blistering lap, claiming provisional pole. Oscar was still on his flyer, pushing the limits of the track with every turn.

When he crossed the line and saw his time flash on the board, adrenaline surged through him.

P1.

On race day, the tension on the grid was almost tangible.

Oscar was on pole, Lena right beside him in P2. From inside his cockpit, he could see her through the visor of her helmet—leaning slightly forward, hands resting on the wheel, fingers barely perceptibly tightening around the grips.

He knew her too well. He could tell she was planning something.

He also knew she wouldn’t give him a single inch.

When the lights went out, the world shrank to the sound of his own heartbeat and the deafening roar of the engines.

His start was good. Hers was better.

They went wheel to wheel into the first corner, neither backing down, neither willing to be the first to yield.

The battle raged on for lap after lap. Every overtake was met with an immediate counterattack. Every attempt to pull away was thwarted by the other’s relentless defense.

And then—it happened.

It wasn’t a major mistake. It wasn’t a desperate move.

It was a matter of… ten millimeters.

Oscar tried to close the door in a high-speed corner, expecting Lena to back out. But Lena never backed out.

Their rear wheels touched.

And in the blink of an eye, both cars were out of control.

The world spun in a blur of radio static, gravel, and the sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting the barriers.

The impact was brutal. Not in sheer force, but in the inevitability of it.

Their cars—now little more than shattered debris scattered across the runoff—were the culmination of something that had been brewing for years.

When Oscar tore off his steering wheel and sat up in his seat, the deafening roar of the crowd was muted by the blood pounding in his ears. His hands, still shaking with adrenaline, unfastened the harnesses with a sharp tug.

He jumped out of the car.

And there she was.

Lena had already climbed out of her Red Bull, brushing dust off her fireproof suit as if the crash hadn’t fazed her at all. But Oscar knew better. He saw the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled into fists, the tight clench of her jaw as she swallowed down barely contained frustration.

They locked eyes in silence, their breathing still ragged, the echoes of the crash still hanging between them.

Around them, track marshals rushed in, ensuring they were both unharmed, stepping between them before either could do something they might regret.

There was no need for words.

What had just happened wasn’t a mistake.

It was the result of every on-track clash, every maneuver pushed to the limit, every time one had tried to prove they could beat the other.

It was the inevitable outcome of ten years of war.

When they were taken back to the paddock, the tension between them was so thick that even the FIA officials seemed to want to stay out of it. Their team principals were too busy analyzing replays of the crash, debating over the radio, searching for arguments to either defend or condemn what had happened.

So they were left in a room. Alone.

The silence was suffocating.

The only sound was their breathing—still ragged, still laced with fury.

Oscar ran his hands through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to steady the storm of emotions tearing through him.

But when he looked up and saw her standing there, arms crossed, eyes burning, brows furrowed in pure defiance…

He knew.

This wasn’t about the race.

It had never been just about the track.

And then, the storm broke.

The door shut behind them with a sharp thud.

Silence.

Heavy, stifling, ready to shatter.

Lena ran a hand over her neck, clenching her jaw, her breath still unsteady. She didn’t know if it was from the crash, the anger, or the lethal combination of both.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, her voice rough.

Oscar, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, turned his head toward her like he’d been waiting for the first shot to be fired.

"What’s wrong with me?" He let out a dry, incredulous laugh—a sharp, cutting sound. "Are you fucking kidding me? You shoved me into the wall, Lena."

"Oh, fuck off. You left me with no space first."

"There was no more space to give you."

"There’s always space, Piastri, but of course, if you're the one who has to yield, suddenly it becomes fucking nonexistent."

Oscar took a step toward her.

"Oh, I’m sorry—should I applaud you? Should I fucking bow for your sacrifice? If you want to win, maybe try not launching yourself like a goddamn kamikaze."

"And maybe you should try driving like you don’t have a stick up your ass!"

The air crackled between them.

The crash, the scrape of tires, the sound of shattered carbon fiber—it didn’t matter.

What mattered was everything behind it.

Years and years of pushing each other to the edge. Of locking eyes and knowing neither of them would ever back down. Of a rivalry so deeply poisoned that they no longer knew whether they wanted to beat each other or destroy each other.

Oscar took another step.

Lena didn’t move an inch.

"You always do this," he muttered, voice lower now but no less intense.

"Do what?"

"Put me in this fucking situation."

Lena tilted her head, a razor-sharp smile curling her lips.

"Don’t play the victim. It’s not just me."

"Oh, no?"

"You know it’s not."

Oscar clenched his jaw. Lena saw the tic in his temple, the way his fists tightened and relaxed, like he was holding something back—something he had no fucking idea how to deal with.

"Admit it pisses you off," she murmured.

"What pisses me off?"

"That I have you so figured out I know what you're feeling before you do."

Oscar let out a tense, fractured laugh.

"You have no idea what I’m feeling."

Lena stepped closer.

A single damn millimeter.

"Of course I do."

A flicker in his jaw.

"No. You don’t."

"I know it’s not about the race."

Oscar swallowed.

"Shut up."

"I know it’s not about the fucking crash."

"Lena."

"I know you want to kiss me."

Oscar felt something drop in his stomach—an unfamiliar, furious vertigo.

"Shut up."

Lena laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Only a blade, only the undeniable certainty that she was right.

"Why? Because it pisses you off to hear it out loud?"

Oscar gritted his teeth.

"Because it’s bullshit."

"No, it’s not."

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, really? Then why—"

She leaned in just a fraction more, pushing him without even touching him.

"Why do you look at me like that every time we’re on track?"

"I don’t look at you in any way."

"Why do you pick fights over stupid shit, but never over what actually gets to you?"

"Because you’re unbearable."

Lena clicked her tongue.

"Liar."

Oscar felt something in his chest pull impossibly tight.

"Drop it."

But she didn’t.

"Why can't you stand it when others congratulate me? When someone else says I did well?"

Oscar didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the answer was there, lodged in his throat, so obvious it almost made him sick.

Because the truth was spilling through the cracks of his denial, seeping into the fractures of his damned mind until everything fell into place.

It wasn’t competitiveness.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t that she won.

It was that she was there, always, messing up his existence since they were kids.

It was that every time he saw her passing him, he felt something that made no sense.

It was that when she laughed, with that smile that was so unmistakably hers, his chest tightened.

It was that he had spent years convincing himself that all he wanted was to beat her, when what he really wanted was to touch her.

And she knew it.

Lena saw the shift in his face, in his dark, glinting eyes, in the way his breathing turned just a little deeper.

"See?" she whispered.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, his fists clenched, his pulse pounding at his temples.

"No," he said.

But it sounded like what it was—a lie.

Lena smiled, but it wasn’t mocking. It was something heavier, more dangerous. Something that sent Oscar’s pulse racing.

"Yes," she whispered. "You see it."

Oscar didn’t move, but he didn’t step back when she leaned in closer. Ten millimeters less.

"Shut up."

His voice came out rough, ragged, completely useless.

"Make me."

Oscar swallowed hard.

The air between them was thick, suffocating. No space. No escape.

They had spent years fighting. Years pushing each other to the limit. Years forcing themselves to believe that all they felt was anger, rivalry, fury.

But fury didn’t burn like this.

Fury didn’t make his hands tingle with the urge to grab her.

Fury didn’t leave him like this, with his jaw clenched and his thoughts in complete chaos because Lena was so close, because he could feel her breath, because he knew—he knew—this was inevitable.

"Say you don’t want this."

Lena’s voice was a challenge, a provocation that curled down his spine.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

If he said it, maybe they could pretend this never happened.

That none of this existed.

That they could keep waging their damn war on the track without the truth tearing them apart.

But when he opened his eyes, when he saw the way Lena was looking at him, something inside him just… gave in.

The last barrier shattered.

The final ten millimeters disappeared.

And Oscar kissed her.

The impact was brutal.

No hesitation, no second-guessing, no restraint. Just pure momentum, an inevitable collision that trapped them in a fierce, definitive moment.

Lena gasped against his mouth, startled but not resisting, because her fingers clenched in the fabric of his race suit, pulling him in, seeking more, seeking everything. Oscar didn’t think. He couldn’t. His body reacted before his mind could process it, before he could remember that just minutes ago, he had been shouting at her.

That they had been arguing, that they had been furious, that they had spent years hating each other.

But had they really?

His back hit the wall, and he barely had time to catch his breath before Lena kissed him again—deeper, hungrier, as if they had just crossed a line they would never be able to step back from.

"Son of a bitch…" she murmured against his lips, but she didn’t sound angry. She sounded defeated.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to something, to any rational thought that could pull him out of this whirlwind.

But everything was Lena.

Her breath, her scent mixed with the adrenaline of the race, the feel of her hands gripping his neck.

He wanted her with an intensity that terrified him.

His entire world narrowed down to this moment, to this kiss, to the small, shaky exhales slipping from her mouth when he deepened it.

Lena laughed, barely a whisper against his skin.

"I knew I was right."

Oscar clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around her waist on instinct.

"Don’t ruin it," he growled.

But she did anyway.

"I always knew you’d break one day," she whispered, with a shameless confidence that should have infuriated him.

But there was no anger left in him.

Only this.

This vertigo, this need.

This something that had been pushing him for years—something that, now he understood, had never been hatred.

Lena pulled back just a fraction, her gaze locked on his. The last traces of defiance were still in her expression, but something else had seeped through the cracks.

"And now what, Piastri?" she asked, her voice lower than usual.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, still trapped in the spiral of what had just happened.

He looked into her eyes, at her swollen lips, at the shadow of a smile threatening to return.

And then he knew.

"I have no fucking idea."

Lena laughed, and Oscar kissed her again.

The door creaked open.

Oscar and Lena pulled apart at the last second, his pulse still hammering in his ears. Lena recovered faster—she lifted her chin, ran her fingers along the collar of her race suit, and slipped into her usual mask of arrogant indifference, as if they hadn’t just been pressed against the wall, devouring each other with the urgency of people who had waited too long.

The FIA steward entered, oblivious, an iPad in hand and the frown of someone who had spent too much time analyzing replays.

"Alright, both of you need to give your statements on the on-track incident. Bauer, you first. Piastri, wait here."

Lena cast a quick glance at Oscar before moving.

A fleeting look, barely a couple of seconds. But enough.

He held her gaze, trying to read what wasn’t being said.

No regret. No hesitation. Just something sharp, expectant.

When Lena turned and walked out of the room, her scent still lingered in the air.

Oscar ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, as if that could restore control over something he had lost a long time ago.

Ten millimeters.

They had crossed them.

And there was no turning back.

Oscar was still pulling off his gloves when Andrea intercepted him in the hallway.

"Doctor. Now."

"I'm fine."

"Doctor. Now."

Stella’s look left no room for argument, so Oscar let out a frustrated sigh and nodded, peeling off the top half of his race suit as he followed.

But his mind wasn’t on the medical check-up.

She had slipped away.

Lena was already gone when he finished his statement, and no matter how much he searched for her among the crowd of mechanics, team principals, and paddock staff, she was nowhere to be found.

And the scene in that room—the heat of her breath, her lips mere millimeters from his, the echo of her voice tearing apart every excuse he had tried to hide behind—kept replaying in his head like a damn broken record.

"Piastri."

Oscar blinked, realizing he was already in the medical room. A doctor stood in front of him, pointing at the examination table.

"Sit down."

"Is Lena here?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Bauer? No, she already came through. She’s fine."

Oscar pressed his tongue against his palate, frustrated.

Where the hell had she gone?

He climbed onto the table without complaint and let them check his blood pressure and reflexes, but he barely paid attention. His mind was still trapped in that room, in the way Lena had looked at him before walking out.

Because now he knew.

She had been right.

And that pissed him off. It pissed him off so much.

But what pissed him off the most was that, despite everything—he wanted to see her again.

The flight back to Monaco was a blur.

He didn’t remember packing, leaving the circuit, or walking through the airport with the team. His body moved on autopilot, repeating mechanical gestures, nodding at the right moments when someone spoke to him. But his mind was elsewhere.

The corner. The impact. The fire in his chest when he saw Lena’s helmet move inside the car, when he saw her climb out unscathed.

The room in the paddock.

Her sharp voice. The way she had stepped closer. The way she had disarmed him effortlessly, ripping a truth from him that even he hadn’t realized.

By the time he landed in Nice, his jaw was so tense it ached.

He got into the waiting car without bothering to say anything. The radio played in the background, a mix of music and news, but he didn’t listen. His own silence was louder.

He got out at his building and took the elevator up with the same inertia that had carried him through the last few hours. When the doors opened, he walked to his apartment, disabled the alarm, and stepped into the dimly lit space.

The room was silent except for the faint murmur of the sea in the distance.

Oscar dropped his suitcase by the door and stood still in the middle of the living room.

The weight of everything crashed into him all at once.

He exhaled, running a hand down his face.

He knew sleep would be impossible.

He didn’t even think. He just pulled out his phone, opened their chat, and sent his location.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Seen.

Nothing else.

No message. No reaction.

Just the damn double blue check marks, glowing on the screen like a reminder of how much of an idiot he was.

Oscar clenched his jaw and tossed the phone onto the table. He sank onto the couch, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

It had been a bad idea.

No, it had been a fucking terrible idea.

What the hell was he thinking?

He shut his eyes. The crash. The fight. The kiss.

Everything they had held back for years had exploded in that room. But now, after the frenzy of the race, after the adrenaline and the rage, all that was left was the emptiness.

The hum in his chest wouldn’t quiet.

And then the doorbell ringed.

Oscar opened his eyes.

He froze.

Didn’t move at first, as if his brain needed a few extra seconds to process it.

Doorbell. Again.

This time, he got up. Walked to the door, feeling his own pulse in his fingertips.

He opened it.

Lena.

Standing in the doorway, that same unreadable glint in her eyes.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.

And then, everything unraveled.

The moment the door clicked shut, the silence between them became unbearable.

Lena didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. She reached for him first, hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him down into a kiss that was anything but soft. It was raw, demanding—filled with every word they hadn’t said, every feeling they had swallowed for years. Oscar barely had time to react before instinct took over. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, as if the space between them was something offensive, something that needed to be erased.

She tasted like adrenaline and defiance, like the echoes of their fight still lingered between their teeth. He could feel her pulse hammering against his fingertips, mirroring his own. Every inch of his body was wound tight, coiled with tension that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with her.

Lena backed him into the living room, their steps clumsy, uncoordinated in a way that betrayed just how frayed their control was. They hit the edge of the couch, and Oscar barely managed to turn them, pressing her back against the armrest as his weight settled over her. She didn’t protest. If anything, she arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

A shiver ran down his spine at the sensation, sharp and electric. It made him want more.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. Her lips were swollen, parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. There was something wild in her eyes, something reckless and unguarded, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Lena smirked, tilting her head just slightly. “Are you going to overthink this, Piastri?”

Oscar exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh escaping him. “Shut up.”

She did. But only because his mouth was on hers again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over the familiar lines of her body with a newfound urgency. The couch wasn’t enough. The room wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed all of her.

Without breaking contact, he lifted her, ignoring the way she gasped in surprise before her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried her through the dimly lit apartment, only stopping when her back hit the bedroom door. The impact made it rattle, but neither of them cared.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”

Lena’s fingers traced the edge of his jaw, her touch softer now, more deliberate. Her voice was quieter when she answered. “I won’t.”

That was all he needed.

The door gave way behind them, and they stumbled inside.

And then, everything really unraveled.

Clothes hit the floor in a messy, frantic rhythm. Hands moved with the kind of desperation that only years of restraint could create. Oscar traced the curve of her spine with his fingertips, committing every detail to memory. Lena’s breath hitched when his lips found the sensitive skin of her collarbone, her fingers tightening around his shoulders.

The night stretched on, filled with whispered names and stolen breaths. Every touch, every movement was a conversation in itself, a language they had long denied speaking. And when they finally collapsed together, bodies tangled in the sheets, neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because for once, there was nothing left to say.

The room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic sound of their breathing and the distant murmur of the sea drifting through the open window. A soft breeze ghosted over their damp skin, cooling the lingering heat between them.

Oscar lay on his side, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Lena’s bare waist. He watched as goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, fascinated by the way her body reacted to him even now. She didn’t move, only observed him in silence, her dark eyes half-lidded, unreadable in the dim light.

He followed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, moving slowly, deliberately. There was something intoxicating about it—about this rare, quiet moment where neither of them had to fight or prove anything. Here, in the sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breaths, they were just themselves.

Lena exhaled softly, shifting slightly under his touch. ““How long?” she finally asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Oscar knew exactly what she was asking. He exhaled slowly, his fingers stilling against her skin.

“Always.”

Lena’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Oscar turned on his side to face her fully, his eyes scanning hers for any sign of hesitation.

“Since the first race. Since before I even knew what this was,” he admitted, voice rough. “I thought it was competition. I thought it was rivalry. I told myself that wanting to beat you was all there was. But it was more than that. It was always more.”

She held his gaze, unreadable for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. “I hated you for so long,” she murmured. “Or at least, I wanted to.”

His lips twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that?”

She huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. “I told myself it was just about winning. About proving I was better. But then, when you weren’t there, when you moved up first, it felt… wrong. Like something was missing.”

Oscar’s fingers curled around her wrist, thumb brushing against her pulse. “I felt it too.”

Lena swallowed, then shifted closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted. “I’ve spent so long pushing it down, convincing myself it didn’t matter.”

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly. “Then don’t push it down anymore.”

A beat of silence.

“And if it ruins everything?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar inhaled sharply, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Then at least it was real.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if letting the words settle. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted. Resolved. Certain.

“No more running,” she said.

His fingers tangled with hers beneath the sheets. “No more running.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it was slow. Certain. Like something inevitable finally falling into place.

A few moments passed before Lena broke the silence again, a smirk playing at her lips. “I have to say, for all that tension, you weren’t half bad.”

Oscar scoffed, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist. “Not half bad? That’s all I get?”

She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “I don’t know… I might need another round of evidence before I make my final judgment.”

Oscar groaned, burying his face in her neck, his laugh muffled against her skin. “You’re impossible.”

“You like that about me,” she teased.

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze with something softer now, amusement and something deeper mixing together. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

She sighed, stretching out beneath him. “God, I can’t believe it took us this long.”

Oscar leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder. “Guess we were too busy trying to destroy each other.”

“Healthy,” she deadpanned.

He chuckled. “Extremely.”

Another pause, comfortable now, before Lena turned her head to look at him again. “So… what now?”

Oscar traced a lazy circle on her hip. “I guess we figure it out.”

She snorted. “That sounds dangerously close to a plan.”

“I can be responsible sometimes.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “You literally just sent me your location instead of saying actual words.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “Fine. Not my best moment.”

She grinned. “But it worked.”

He smirked. “Yeah. It did.”

And as the night stretched on, tangled together in the quiet of the room, the weight of ten years finally felt lighter.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog

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checkeredflagggs · 1 day ago

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Febuwhump Day 25: Bound and Gagged

pairings: gen

summary: a story about y/n, Redbull’s new second driver, told in non-sequential order

a/n: I love febuwhump and have participated before for other fandoms but this is a first for me — attempting to compete it via smau only. Hopefully I can write a complete story eventually and I will be posting it on its own masterlist in the correct order to read but it’ll be written based on the febuwhump prompt list! @febuwhump

a/n2: based on the 2024 year; sorry checo but you got replaced earlier!

Masterlist | Taglist

Private Messages, The Grid (Unserious)

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, the Grid (Unserious)

Private Messages, the Grid (Unserious) [1 Day Later]

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @msimpala-67 @Americanvenom13 @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @yawn-zi

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vivwritesfics · 2 days ago

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Rev My Engine

Handsome. Mysterious. Gentleman. Bike owner. He was incredibly sexy and you were fucked.

Biker!Carlos

A/n: yeah, I'm back. Send in some blurb requests, I'm feelin' funkyyyyy

There he was, looking like a Knight atop his valiant steed. Except his steed was had a motor and wheels.

Even before he pulled off his helmet, you were watching him. He could have been a wrinkly old man with a whispy, grey moustache for all you knew.

But then he pulled that helmet off.

Oh shit, he was gorgeous.

Dark hair, dark eyes and pillowy lips you wanted to kiss. You pulled your lip between your teeth, sucked in a breath and continued to watch him. Swinging his leg over the back of the bike, he climbed off.

It had been weeks of this. Weeks of you sitting in the cafe across the road, watching him. Your friends knew all about "biker guy", about how much time you spent watching him from the cafe across where he parked his bike for work.

You had a whole fantasy mapped out around him. He had a fancy job; stock market... guy, someone who knew something about finance. You couldn't decide on what the job actually was. He loved it, whatever it was, but he loved you more.

You'd wait in the cafe for him, eating sweet treats and drinking caffeinated drinks. Before ge climbed onto his bike, he would stride over to you, pass you his spare helmet, and sweep you off your feet.

A thrilled shriek would leave your lips every time he helped you onto that bike. You would tighten your grip around him and he would love it. When he helped you off of his bike, he would kiss you and take you to his bed.

But that was just your fantasy of him, the image your mind cooked up whenever you saw that bike.

He never saw you, though. Never glanced your way, never even looked towards the cafe. You were waiting for the day he turned up with pretty girl on the back of his bike.

But that day never came. You sat there, drinking your coffee, watching him get off of his bike. The next day you sat there, drinking his coffee and watching him get off of his bike. And the next day. And the next. And the next, until he looked at you.

At first, you couldn't tell he was looking at you. Helmet on his head, visor down, he was looking in your direction. But you couldn't tell he was staring, not until he took off his helmet.

Hair perfect, but he was staring at you.

Your eyes went wide and you did everything you could to look away, to try and act nonchalant. You weren't being a creepy stalker.

But then he strode towards you. You, just drinking your coffee.

His smile was pretty as he stared at you. At his stalker. Not, not stalker, you were merely an observer.

"Like what you see?"

You weren't expecting the accent. Shit, you began getting hot, resisted the urge to fan yourself.

But his smile. Was it flirty?

You decided to test the waters.

"Maybe I do," you challenged and placed your empty coffee cup down on your table.

His flirty smile turned into a grin. Pulling off his gloves, he tapped your table twice. "Good," he said and stepped away. "I'll see you tomorrow, beautiful."

He walked away, his mouth open to make you look a little like a fish.

***

He climbed off of his bike and strode over to you. Tucking his helmet under hair arm, he ran his fingers through his hair and walked to the cafe.

As soon as he reached you, he pulled out a chair and slipped into it. Effortlessly handsome, but you knew that already.

For a moment, you stared. You'd dressed a little over the top today, a nicer top than usual, nicer jeans than usual. The cleanest shoes you owned on your feet. He drank you all in as you did the same to him.

"I've been watching you watching me," he said.

His voice! You suppressed a shiver.

"Every day for weeks. I always wonder, what is going on in that pretty head of yours."

You swallowed. "Mostly, I wonder what your name is."

His fingers brushed over your own as you leaned forward.

His fingers touched your jaw, dancing towards your chin. He held your chin, used his thumb to wipe away your smudged lipstick.

"Carlos," he answered. "My name is Carlos."

"Carlos." The way it dripped from your tongue like honey, you loved it, could have said it forever.

Carlos settled his hand over your own. "Now, beautiful. What's your name?"

You gave him your name. Picking up your hand, he kissed the back of it. "Unfortunately, I have to get going," he said and stood up.

You watched as he pulled his gloves onto his hands. Everything he did was effortlessly sexy; it seemed almost unfair. "Until tomorrow." He took your hand and kissed the back of it.

Handsome. Mysterious. Gentleman. Bike owner. He was incredibly sexy and you were fucked.

#f1 #formula one #formula 1 #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #carlos sainz #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz x you #cs55 #cs55 imagine #cs55 x reader

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missydior · 16 hours ago

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dating oscar piastri…

notes: oscar piastri x f!reader, relationship headcanons, as requested by anon!

a/n: love this aussie pastry so much

౨ৎ

‧ when possible, oscar will always try and make you breakfast

‧ shared wired earphones—one each

‧ cozy movie nights that include him always letting you pick the film

‧ he’ll send random selfies of himself to you when he’s away because he knows you love them, even if the angles are a little off sometimes

‧ he got you the croissant jellycat for your birthday

‧ there is always a stash of your favourite sweets in the car’s glove compartment

‧ he always says “i’m lucky to have you”

‧ dinner dates at candlelight, albeit in quieter restaurants

‧ he is not vocal about jealousy and hardly shows it at all but he will give someone a certain look if they go too far

‧ once at the beginning of the relationship, he left flowers at your doorstep that got drenched in the rain but you could still make out his ink-smudged initial it’s the thought that counts

‧ stealing kisses in the back of the garage between practice sessions

‧ the both of you have a road-trip bucket list

‧ he always knows exactly what you need during that time of the month: your favourite sweet treat, tea or coffee, a heat pad, cuddles or alone time thanks to growing up with multiple sisters

‧ he won’t shout in disagreements, and he is always first to break the silence after an argument or fall-out

‧ early morning jogs together against the sunrise

‧ tracing one another’s freckles & moles

‧ he is an orange peel theory kind of man

‧ he’ll wash your hair for you on days you don’t feel like it, with extra bath essential oils & a candle of your favourite scent

#౨ৎ works #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #f1 x female reader #f1 headcanons #f1 fluff #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula one x reader #formula one imagine

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andcars · 3 days ago

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[ 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗙𝗨𝗟 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 ] Mondays in Monaco

premise. being carlos' girlfriend means getting dragged along the limelight. you're invited to a sponsor's event and the two of you split for a moment. a moment is a long enough of a time for his jealousy to strike up

tags #ㅤjealousy, making out, posessiveness, semi-public display of affection wc #ㅤ 1.1k

ㅤㅤFEEL FREE TO INBOX ME FOR THOUGHTS OR REQUESTS !

| MASTERLIST⠀TAGLIST⠀PATREON GUIDE⠀MONDAYS IN MONACO

The hum of the crowd buzzed in your ears. It was a busy night for both you and Carlos, needing to nurse in some sponsors for the season. You stand near the open bar, a completely full glass of red wine in hand. You’re used to these functions by now, tonight was nothing different. Almost so, anyway.

Carlos is rather busy. The lights catch the glint of Carlos’s eyes every time he glances your way. You'd think it was worrying about your boredom but it was something else. Perhaps it’s the persistent man who had been hovering at your side for the past twenty minutes, his charm falling just short of genuine.

“So, you’re not interested in Formula 1 at all?” he asks, leaning in a little too close, his breath tinged with whiskey.

You forced a polite smile. Not everyone gets it, you reminded yourself. In fact, more people have just assumed you know nothing of the sports. “Not my favourite sport,” you replied, “much more of a basketball person or wrestling. Carlos has made me deepen my love for F1, though.”

Your gaze drifts over his shoulder to where Carlos was deep in conversation with a group of sponsors. He looks back and a laughs fall short on him. “Ah, Sainz. Lucky guy.” He takes a sip of his drink, his eyes locking back on yours. There's a strange confidence glowing from him, it's terrible. “But sometimes, it’s nice to get a little attention of your own, isn’t it?”

Whatever that meant.

“I’m good, actually,” you told him. Your drink suddenly seems even more unappetising than it was earlier. He doesn't seem to get the point that you're not interested in this conversation. “You’re from HP, right? That's nice. Must have more important things than listening to the WAG talk about the wrong sports.”

He laughs. It sounds like grazing. “Nothing more important, don't worry, girl,” oh God, “You think you’re up to some drinking?”

Before you could respond (an insult was on your tongue), a familiar presence materialised at your side. Carlos’s arm slid around your waist, his touch warm but almost too tight when it should be soft. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, his voice smooth with an edge that made your heart flutter. You can almost tell what's going to happen next. “But I need to steal her for a moment.”

The man’s confidence falters. His expression neutralizes as he straightens himself, trying to compose himself. Maybe the act of literally hitting on your client’s girlfriend was embarrassing to an audience. “Of course,” he mutters, stepping back.

Carlos doesn't wait for a reply. He leads you away with a firm but gentle grip. His strides were almost rushed, weaving through the crowd until you both reach a secluded corner. The noise of the event fades into a distant white noise. You're far enough to be hidden with some walls but the chatter of people is still present. The moment you two become alone, he turns to face you, his eyes dark with something that sends a gleeful shiver down your spine.

“That guy,” he began, his voice playing with shallow water, “has been talking to you for way too long.”

The excuse is laughable. You raise an eyebrow, trying to play it cool despite knowing Carlos’ pattern already. “Jealous?”

His lips twitched, but there was no humour in his expression. You try to stop a smile. “Yes. And you should be flattered by that.” He steps closer, crowding you against the wall. His hands rest on your waist, body softly crashing into yours to kill the distance..

Your breath hitches as his gaze drops to your lips. You can feel his breath against your face as his fingers twitch to have a hold on you. You start, “Carlos—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His mouth crashes into yours, his kiss demanding and relentless. You feel your body respond in tone with his. Carlos’ tongue swipes past your lips, pushing in for entrance to further claim you. He wants to taste your entire being because it's the way he wants to own you. You melt into him, your hands gripping his blazer as both of you disappear from the world.

Carlos is touchy. One of his hands strokes up and down on your side as the other wraps around. You return the favour by swinging a hand around his neck, feeling that thick neck in your skinnier arms. He loves it. A small gasp leaves him as his tongue directly kisses yours. The feeling of it is dizzying and heartwarming. You're fucking addicted to it.

When he pulls back, you’ve become breathless, your lips swollen and tingling. In his eyes, you can tell that the two of you separated not out of his own choice. It's from the need to breathe. You know that if both of you didn't need air, he would be kissing you for days.

“You’re mine, cariño. Don’t forget that.”

A teasing phrase was about to drop from your tongue. It doesn't reach his ears when a cough interrupts you. Both of your attention move to the man—yes, that man—who stands there awkwardly. “I, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt,” he stammers, his eyes darting between you and Carlos. “Just wanted to reach the bathroom, mate.”

Carlos doesn’t move, his arm still around your waist as he fixes the man with an unbothered look. It's as if he hadn't just kissed you like a starved man just for him talking with you. “You weren’t,” he said coldly. “In fact, I was just showing her how much she means to me.”

The man’s face flushed as he mumbled an apology and passed by the two of you, his footsteps a fading noise. Carlos turns back to you, his lips curling into a smug smile. “Now, where were we?”

“Come on, Carlos,” you try to remind him, “you have a lot of people to attend to. I can just hang around for a while.”

“Hm…” he fauxes thinking as he hugs your frame. “Are they so important to me as you are?”

Your cheeks flush but you laugh at his ridiculousness. “I'm being serious. Go out there and entertain them like monkeys.”

He huffs. “Okay,” Carlos starts to pull away and you're smiling—

The ridiculous man turns around and returns with another kiss, this one slower but no less consuming. Immediately, he wraps himself around you in a warm embrace. You unexpectedly lean against him, putting your weight to his. He's loving the way you have to depend on him. Open-mouthed kisses come to your mouth and he breathes out,, “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you moan out. You feed his possessiveness and he is receiving it gleefully.

He mumbles the same thing over and over and you gladfully tell him the same. He's yours, you're his. He doesn't put your lips to rest and it's like the event doesn't matter. You don't push him away because you don't really want him to leave either. You're utterly whipped. Carlos smiles against the kiss and doesn't let you go the rest of the night.

@Delululeclerc @hiireadstuff @rtorresblog @Jamie2305 @yourmommyagone22 @nichmeddar @vannylen2144

FOOTNOTE ────── I WANT HIMMMMM i found that front pic of carlos and i just WANT HIMMMMM pls lord one chance... one... one chance....

#( 🚢 ) MONDAYS IN MONACO #🔖 . OP55 #: 🔗 above 1k #: 🔗 fic #carlos sainz #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainzfanfic #carlos sainz fic #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 scenarios #formula one imagine

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incomplete-leclerc · 11 hours ago

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　𝗣𝗨𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗬 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗡𝗜𝗖.　andrea kimi antonelli · #12

　　　cuddling with your best friend isn't weird, right?

genres : fluff ... best friend to lovers ... kimi x fem!reader.　 request : anon for kimi + “just never figured you for a little spoon.” for the 100 event.　word count : 0.6k.　warnings : none.　 note : okay we are so back 💪💪 (kinda i hope, pls let me not disappear for a month after this).　　　( masterlist )　( taglist )

You knew Kimi like the back of your hand. Being best friends for too many years to count meant picking up on all the little things that others would have to dig deep to find out. Kimi was the one person who never took you by surprise, who you could read like an open book.

But on the rare occasion, he still managed to catch you off guard.

“You want me to cuddle you?” you echoed the words that had left the boy’s mouth seconds ago, frozen in slight shock.

It wasn’t the cuddling that particularly surprised you. Kimi was affectionate and so were you. Cuddling wasn’t foreign for you two— platonic cuddling, of course. But in terms of who was the big or little spoon, there were always silent set rules. Kimi seemed to always be the one spooning you whenever hugs turned into cuddles. His request to be the recipient was uncharacteristic for him.

“Yes. Is that weird?” His tentative and slightly confused voice at your reaction made a smile start to form on your lips. Your best friend was adorable. Always clarifying and questioning as if the world was spinning too fast for him. It wasn’t that he was slow or unable to pick up on things, but rather he prioritized your comfort more than anything. Even if he knew what all your expressions and inflections meant in his head, sometimes he wondered if one day he would misjudge. It was always safer to just ask.

“For you? Maybe. Just never figured you for a little spoon,” you replied, your smile now growing into a grin, one that teased Kimi without words.

“Well, when you put it like that—“

You grabbed his arm and pulled quickly, yanking you both down onto your bed.

“What are you doing?” Kimi pried, rushed words falling from his lips as your arms quickly encircled around his torso.

“Cuddling you. Just like you wanted.”

The smile that you gave Kimi— that self satisfactory mischievous one that he didn’t like to admit he adored so much— made his heart drop to his stomach.

Hugs with you were never weird. Cuddles with you were never weird. Always in a platonic, best friend kind of way, naturally. Except, this suddenly didn’t feel like something best friends did.

Heat crawled up Kimi’s neck as he tried desperately to ground himself to something before he made things weird. It was a classic cliche— that boys could never just stay friends with a girl. He had always joked about it with you in the past, proudly boasting how you both defied the odds. He remembered saying how he would never be able to see you in a romantic light.

That was almost 5 years ago now, and the Kimi back then felt very different from the Kimi now. The one that you were holding in your arms, way too close for him to focus on anything else in the room except for you, you, you.

Your gaze drifted over his look of surprise and the slight flush on his cheeks. You noticed him slowly start to relax in your hold after a few seconds, slow blinks of his brown eyes staring into yours. You couldn’t help but find it comforting, how he fit so well in your arms, curled up so close.

Kimi was the one person that you could read like an open book, and right now your eyes were skipping over the words, putting together the sentences in your brain, the understanding clear as day.

Maybe what you had with Kimi wasn’t as platonic as you had thought.

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whatifitis · 3 days ago

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♡ two people can change - LN 4 ♡

Summary: A year after your relationship went up into ashes, you're forced to make a decision on what path to follow. Do you allow yourself to fall again for your first love? or do you follow a new path on your own? Can two people change?

Author's Note: Hi lovelies!!! Here is the 4th and final part of 'i wish you would've stayed'. I wanted to say a big thank you to those who have been following the series and showing it so much love. I hope y'all enjoy this part 😋

WC: 3770

CW: angst, brief mention of cheating, I think that’s it?

How did you always end up in the same spot? Over and over again? You’re always sitting around and thinking about the same person. Maybe because you didn't want to heal. The pain you’ve been trapped in is the last bond you have with him. It’s the last part of him that you know.

It’s been almost a year since you’d found the person you loved with a woman on top of him. You’ll never forget how the auburn flames came alive, destroying your last chance at a happily ever after.

You still don’t understand any of it. You thought you and Gabe were happy. You thought it was finally your turn at something good. So how did it end? You felt how everything slipped away. How it all slipped through your hands like water. As much as you tried to hold it all together, it was no use. It felt like your soul was leaving and your dreams were deflating right before your eyes.

You still mourn your relationship after all this time. Gabe really made you feel loved. He’s tried reaching out since it happened. He asks you how you are, if you’re okay, if you two can meet and talk. You don’t respond though. You don’t think you can face him again. You’re afraid that you’ll end up crawling back to him, just because it meant you wouldn’t be alone anymore. Like maybe you can have a husband and a house and a life again. But you know you deserve better, even if you end up alone.

Lando has been kind through this process. He understands that you have had a lot on your plate already and he doesn’t want to push you when you’re not ready. He’s there for you when you need him and he gives you space when you ask for it. He frequently checks on you, even if he’s out of town for a race. He listens to your rants, even when it’s 4 am for him.

He does so much for you, even when you tell him you don’t want a relationship any time soon. When you two spoke in the cafe a year ago, you told him you’d be willing to let him into your life very slowly. You missed him a lot, mostly as a friend. Before feelings got in the way, you two were the best of friends and you truly missed that part the most.

You aren’t even sure if you want to date Lando when you’re ready to get back out there. Even though he’s here now, it doesn’t mean he will be here later. And he really hurt you all that time ago. It all feels complicated, but yet so simple.

Maybe you need to stop bed rotting and get out for a walk. You get up and stretch, walk to the bathroom of your new apartment and brush your teeth. When you walked back to the bedroom, you picked your phone off the bed and checked the time, but you’re met with a new text message from Lando, ‘Hey! I have Max’s dog for the day and wanted to know if you wanted to join us for a walk. :D’

Creepy he offered a walk when you were about to go on one…

You stop and think if you wanna see him today. Maybe you can talk to him later and possibly discuss trying again? You still love him, even after everything. So why not?

You shoot back a text to let him know that you’re joining and you change your clothes.

As you put your shoes on, Lando texted you to let you know that he was downstairs with Theo, Max’s dog.

You spot Lando and Theo outside the door of your building and Theo is eager to greet you today. When Max and Pietra first adopted Theo, you were quick to befriend the dog since he took a liking to you. Maybe it was because he sensed your sadness but it’s okay. You’re just happy you’re one of the chosen ones.

Theo is jumping and grabbing at you until you’re knelt before him, letting him give you some kisses and you pet him and give him some belly scratches.

“Damn, do I get a greeting like that? I want belly scratches as well.” Lando says, giggling to himself.

“Don’t be jealous, Norris. It’s not a good color on you.” you joke.

“Every color is good on me, actually. Do you want to grab a coffee or something before we get to the park?”

“Nah. Maybe we can get some after?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

The two of you make simple conversation as you make your way to the park. It’s nice outside today. The sun is shining and providing some warmth to those who are out in the park today. It was like being held in the sun’s arms, the kind of warmth you haven’t felt in a long time.

You and Lando arrive at the park and walk around and try to find a nice spot in the grass to relax and play with Theo. It’d be nice to sit outside and breathe in some fresh air and just chill. Most days, you find yourself either stuck in your office at work or in your bed at home rotting.

Lando spots a nice area with plenty of space to chill in so the two of you make your way there. But as you two do, you pass a bench with an old woman, likely in her 70s, sitting on the bench. She spots the two of you and tells you “You two are a cute couple.”

You almost freeze in place. Trying to get your brain and body to cooperate, to reply kindly to the woman. But what were you supposed to say? Things are still complicated with Lando and if you said ‘Thanks’ then Lando could take it the wrong way and if you said ‘Oh, we’re not together’ then Lando could still take it the wrong way. Maybe there was a middle ground answer you could think of. Maybe you’re just seriously overthinking it.

“Oh! We’re not- It’s- I mean I wouldn’t mind- I really do-” Lando stammers, trying to find an answer as well.

“Ah. I see. Young lady, would you mind keeping me company for a minute?”

You look at Lando, to let him know you’ll sit with the woman for a bit and that he can go play with Theo. He nods silently and kisses your forehead before walking onto the grass field.

Damn him and his forehead kisses. You practically melted into it.

You sit down on the bench next to the woman and introduce yourself.

“Y/n. That’s a beautiful name, darling. I’m Margareth.”

“Hi, Margareth. How are you doing today?” you ask.

“I’m quite alright. Thank you for asking. How are you on this fine day?”

“I’m doing quite okay.”

“I’m sorry if my comment made you uncomfortable, darling. I noticed you sort of freeze. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize. It’s just a bit complicated and I wasn’t sure how to respond.” you try and laugh it off.

“I understand. Tell me what about it has got you all mixed up?”

“Oh it’s a long story and I don’t want to bore you and trauma dump on you.”

“Darling, please. I’m an old lady. I barely get any good gossip nowadays. Please give me something juicy to report to my grandchildren.”

You laugh a little and decide there’s no harm in telling her. Maybe she could help you in the end. “Well, for years, Lando, the boy with the dog over there, and I were best friends. We were literally inseparable and we honestly just had such good times together. After some time, I caught feelings and told him and he said he’d felt the same way. We didn’t start dating though, he said he wanted to take things slow and make sure we weren’t really pressured. He’s also got a very busy career so I agreed to taking things slow and seeing where it went. But after some time, he pushed me away and said he wasn’t able to maintain any relationships, especially a romantic one. So I said okay and we stopped talking.”

“I see how that would have hurt you, darling. You seem like the person who wears their heart on their sleeve so I can only imagine how you felt.”

“Oh, that wasn’t even the worst part. So a few weeks after that or something, he started dating this girl.”

Margareth’s jaw drops and she’s practically gasping at this information, “No!”

“Yes! They were “official”. So I went through this whole crisis of ‘was it all fake?’, ‘was i the problem?’. And then we ended up in the same club and he was there with his girlfriend at the time. Somehow, we ended up on a quite balcony alone and he was telling me how great she was and that she’d “stayed”. So I was like ‘bitch, what the fuck? I stayed’. I mean I didn’t say it outloud, just in my head. Outloud I said congrats and I was happy for him yada yada yada.”

“Sounds like a right prick, love. So how did you two end up here together, today? Does he still have that girlfriend?” Margareth asks while side-eyeing Lando who is running around with Theo.

“No. They ended up breaking up. And I started seeing someone who I really loved and who I thought loved me.”

“Lord, please help me. What do you mean ‘loved’?”

“Uhm, a year ago, we were engaged and preparing for the wedding when I caught him in our bed with my cousin.”

“Shut up!” Margareth nearly falls off the bench from shock.

“I’m not kidding.” you laugh, her reactions are making you laugh so much, you want her to be your best friend now.

“What is wrong with men these days? They have everything and are so ready to just drop it all for what? Pussy? That probably isn’t even that good? And with your cousin of all people, fucks sake.”

“Margareth! Language, please. There are probably children around.” you laugh as you look around to make sure no young ears are within range.

“I’m sorry but I’m right. You’ll learn that soon.” she says as she pats your leg, “So, what happened after your ex man cheated?’’

“Uhm, I moved out. He gave me his cat cause she kept shitting in his shoes. And Lando found me in a coffee shop and apologized for everything and said he fucked up and wanted another chance. I told him my side of everything. Now it’s been a year and we’re just friends.”

“Do you want to be more?”

You sit there and think for a minute. You’ve been asking yourself this question for ages but you can never seem to get an answer. You want to be more with Lando, but you just can’t seem to push forward for some reason.

“I don’t know, honestly. So much of me says yes but there’s just something in my body saying no. That one little thing is the reason I haven’t run into his arms yet.”

“Well, darling, I want you to listen to me when I say this. You’re too full of life to be someone’s maybe. I know I just met you today, but I already know you. You were me when I was younger. A sort of quiet, reserved girl. You always dreamed of a happily ever after. Dreamed of meeting the one. Then mistake after mistake, you question if it’s right for you. But let me tell you this. Love is meant for you. You deserve so much more than what this world has handed to you so far.”

You look at her and take in her words. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you need to stop falling into the same cycles over and over again. Maybe it’s time to make your decision and figure shit out.

“Did you ever find ‘the one’?” you ask, genuinely curious, sort of making sure she’s not bullshitting you.

“I’m not bullshitting you, darling. I did find her. And she was magnificent. Worth all the heartbreak I’d ever endured. Worth every moment of sadness and despair. She was the best person I’d known. She made everyday bright and warm. It was like holding the world in my arms.”

“You say ‘was’. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“She passed away a few years ago.” she says, giving you a smile.

“I’m so sorry, Margareth.”

“It’s alright. We lived everyday to the fullest. She left the world with no regrets. As much as I wish she were still alive, I know she still lives here in my heart. And I know she watches over me because on her deathbed, she threatened to haunt me if I moved on with a man.” the woman laughs. You join her in it.

“I’m glad you can laugh about it. And that you can cherish her and your memories together so nicely.”

“It took some time. I’m just glad I was allowed to have known her in this lifetime. Even if the time was short.”

You and Margareth just sit in silence. You think about everything you’d just learned and watch the view in front of you. Lando is being pushed to the ground by Theo. He’s laughing so hard as Theo is jumping all over him.

You’re smiling at the scene and imagining what a life with Lando would be like. Would things work out? Is it a life you’d always dreamed of? Would you be happy?

You’re brought out of your daydream as Lando walks over and asks you if you’re ready to go. You nod and stand, turning to say goodbye to Margareth but when you look to where she was sitting, no one was there.

Damn, where’d the bitch go? You look around but can’t seem to spot her. Maybe She’d said goodbye when you were in the middle of your daydreaming.

Lando and Theo walk you back to your apartment as Lando asks you what you spoke to Margareth about. You tell him it was just small talk and that she had the dirtiest mouth you’d ever come across.

“No fucking way. You’re saying that old woman was worse at cussing than Max V?”

“Yes! It was insane. It was like Max V in 50 years. It was hilarious.”

“I bet it was.” he lets out a soft laugh.

The two of you keep talking until you arrive at your apartment building when Lando offers to walk you up to your door. You agree and tell him that he can hang around for a bit and let Theo get some water and relax after such a nice day outside. This would also be the perfect time to talk to him about everything going on in your head.

The 3 of you make your way into your apartment and settle in with some ice cold glasses of water and some fruit. You and Lando are sitting at your dining table while Theo lies on your floor after chugging down a bowl of water.

You’re sitting there watching Lando, trying to find a way to start this conversation.

“Hey, Lan. We need to talk.”

“Oh, yeah. What’s up?” he asks hesitantly.

“I think I know what I want now. With life and everything.”

“Alright. What is it that you want?” he’s still hesitant, almost afraid of what you’re gonna say. His leg looks like it’s trying not to bounce and he’s fidgeting his hands.

“I think I need to be alone for a while.”

“Oh, I understand. So what does that mean? Exactly?” You can tell he’s disappointed.

“It means that we can’t hang out like this anymore and we can’t text every night and stuff. If we see each other when we’re out and about, then I’ll be friendly and say hi. But we can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. Whatever ‘this’ is. So much has happened between us these past few years and I think it’s fucking us up as individuals and as a ‘couple’ or whatever it is we are. We haven’t the time or opportunity to heal from all this shit. It’s not healthy, Lan.”

“But, I don’t understand why we can’t work through it together. I’m not saying I disagree with you and that I’m forcing you to be with me or something. I just genuinely want to understand and it might make it easier for me to move forward.” he looks at you softly, genuinely lost in this whirlwind.

“I get it. I think we each need to figure out who we are without being near each other. I think we’ve sort of been trying so hard to make things work that we’re not being true to ourselves anymore. I mean, we also have baggage that we still have to work through. I’m still fucked up over the whole Gabe thing and I’m still hurt over what you did when we were younger.”

To this, he flinches. You knew he was regretful of those things and he really tried making it up to you. But you had to be honest. Lando has to figure out why he did it in the first place and how he can work to improve his mental health more. He still can let his mind get fucked up and it’s hurting him.

“I really am sorry for the things I did.” he says as tears glass over his eyes.

“I know. And I’m sorry for having led you on.” you say, getting emotional yourself. Feeling your nose itch and your eyes sting.

“It’s okay. But, do you think one day, when we’re both better, we can try again? I really do love you, Y/n. I want to make this work. If you need real space and time, then you can have it. I’ll wait for you, Y/n. I will wait for you for 500 years. For a million life times. Even if it’s for just one moment.” tears are sliding down his face.

You reach for his hands and hold them tightly in yours, “I don’t want you to wait, Lan. I want you to go out and live. I want you to get better and learn to love people. I want you to find someone who can love you nearly as much as I do. I don’t want to stop you from finding the love of your life.” tears are sliding down your own face now, painting streaks.

“You won’t stop me from finding my love. You’re my love, Y/n. I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

“Listen to me, Lan. I loved you so hard for a time and I still do. And I wish I could forget all the ways that we’re broken, but I can’t. I don’t want us to destroy each other and hurt each other. It’s not fair to either of us. I’m closing the door. But I’m never going to lock it.”

Lando is on the verge of sobbing. He can’t believe this is how it ends, “For the longest time, I thought I was gonna be the one that got to marry you. It might be stupid and mean to say but I’m afraid if I get married to someone who isn’t you, my vows will be about you and not the person standing in front of me.” his voice breaks.

“I’m afraid that if I marry someone who isn’t you, that I’ll miss you while wearing my wedding dress.” you sit there for a second in silence with Lando. You can’t believe that this is happening. You really don’t want it to happen, “Maybe, one day. I’m not saying we’re not possible. Because maybe one day, it will be us. It’ll be us living the life we’d always wanted and dreamed of. Maybe it’ll be us that gets to live happily ever after. But I can’t promise it will be.”

“So, is this it? Is this the last time I get to see you?” he asks, desperate for you to say you’ll see him again and that he won’t have to wait long.

“For now, yes. I’m sure I’ll see you around though. Max and Pietra might push us into the same room for a while.” you laugh, watching as you were able to pull a smile from the man in front of you. The man you wish you didn’t have to let go of.

“I hope so.”

The two of you weren’t able to say the actual words ‘goodbye’, so you just hugged each other and held on for a while. The best place on earth was in each other's arms, and this was the last time you were gonna feel this safe.

Eventually, you had to let go. You watched as Lando grabbed Theo’s leash and got the dog ready to go home. The three of you walked to your apartment door and you watched as the two walked down the hall, about to turn a corner.

You watched as Lando looked back at you, one last time. He just wanted to savor the moment really, knowing he didn’t know when he would see you again. He wanted to memorize your outline and every detail of your being. Looking back at the person he loves the most in the world.

The two turn the corner til they’re out of view and you close your door and take a breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. The sound of soft paws running down the hall grasp your attention as Olive pops into your view. You smile at the cat and pick her up in your arms as you go to sit on the ledge of your apartment window.

You look out at the world that keeps moving despite your own world feeling like it ended. You can’t believe that he’s gone. You can’t believe you did that. But it’s for the better, right?

Olive meows and you’re pulled out of your thoughts when you spot Lando and Theo walking out of your apartment building. Lando’s head is hanging down, walking away for what feels like forever. It looks like he wants to look back, but he doesn’t give in, just turning enough for you to see his side profile a bit.

You look at Olive and give the sweet girl a kiss on the head, “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

Tags for this chapter: @f1fantasys @htpssgavi @ushygushybaby @f1girly2004x

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gguk-n · 2 days ago

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She's Not Afraid (Lando Norris x Reader)

Series Masterlist

When Lando had first shown interest in Y/N, all his friends had told him she wasn't the one for him. Lando didn't have the best image as is, and trying to date someone who didn't want to be tied down was rough. He soon realised he was head over heels for her and she would barely even hold his hand in public. At first Lando didn't think much of it and jotted it down to her being more reserved and probably needing more time. But as time passed by, Lando realised she would do anything but be romantically associated with him.

It hurt Lando watching her treat anyone and everyone the same way she treated him when they were out; when Lando was bending over backwards for her. It wasn't only his friends and family who had noticed but the fans had started to notice as well. People had started sending her hate as usual which pushed her away further.

The only time she was even remotely affectionate was in the bedroom and that too had gone down since they barely saw each other. It was gnawing at Lando's mind and heart; he couldn't bare this. His thoughts were completely occupied by thoughts of her. He spent most of his time either trying to get in touch with her or thinking of her. The only time he would know what she was up to was through friends.

Lando thought he was bad when it came to commitment, turns out he hadn't even seen the worst. If he was lucky, he would sometimes run into her at the club, drinking and dancing. Only while inebriated would she let Lando near her in public, even going as far as to show him affection. This would send him into a spiral, thinking about the what ifs and at first he thought she was finally ready to commit and than she'd ignore him like last night never happened. He was losing his mind; he couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't think. She had stopped showing up to races which was the one place he got to see her without her trying to run away.

Months of thinking and breaking his heart over all the possibilities, he decided to set the record straight. He had tried to get her to come over a few times before she agreed. When Y/N reached, Lando had ordered take out. They sat down and ate their meal in quite; while Lando's heart was beating out of his chest thinking about what he would say to her. He had thought of all the possibilities on how he'd start the conversation. He did however not imagine blurting out, "Do you hate me?" He almost comically slammed a hand on his mouth. She looked at him bemused.

He took a moment to collect himself, " Why won't you officially date me?" he asked. She sighed, "I don't do well with relationships" she stated. "But I like you...no I love you" Lando said. "I know, that's what scares me" she muttered. "It shouldn't" he said taking her hand in his. "It's a good thing" he continued. "I know. But I've been hurt before and I can't imagine giving my heart to some one like" she trailed off. "Like what?" he asked. "Someone who goes places and sees people. I don't want you to feel tied or bound." she explained. "I want to be bound by you, in more ways than one" he chuckled. Y/N hit his shoulder. "Muppet" she mumbled. "Please let me in. I want to know what it is to love you and be loved by you" Lando said. Her shoulders slumped, "I want to know too" she replied, looking him in the eye. Lando closed the gap between, holding her face in his hands. "can I?" he asked. She nodded and the pair kissed. When Lando pulled away, "Will you be my girlfriend?" he asked. "Yeah" she smiled at him, "But if I start acting strange, cut me some slack" she spoke. "Noted" Lando said making a note to himself.

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smoooothoperator · 2 days ago

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Rewrite The Stars

03: Getway Car

Lando Norris x surgeon!OC (Lyra Montgomery)

runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn

Words: 2k

Warnings: Lyra POV, anxiety

Masterlist

previous part

a/n: Are you guys excited to read what comes next? I was going to post yesterday but I was busy with work🥹

If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

🩺

The moment my heels hit the pavement outside the hotel, I didn't stop.

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t think.

The only thing I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat, loud and insistent, drowning out the panicked voices calling after me. My dress is heavy, the fabric moving slowly behind me as I lift it with shaking fingers, my breath ragged as I run away from everything, away from the altar.

My hands shake as I reach for the pocket of my dress, fingers closing around the cool metal of the keys Lando gave me.

For a split second, I hesitate.

And then I grip them tighter and press the button, the familiar sound of a car unlocking cutting through the silence.

Lando’s car.

The McLaren sits there, waiting. It feels surreal, slipping into the driver’s seat in a wedding dress. The scent of him lingers in the leather, something familiar and grounding, and I take a shaky breath as I push the key into the ignition after taking off the heels and throwing them to the seat next to me.

For a brief second, I just sit there.

I grip the steering wheel, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. My wedding dress feels suffocating, too tight against my chest, the fabric pooling around me like it’s trying to trap me here.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be walking down the aisle, saying my vows, smiling for the cameras, doing what everyone expects of me.

Instead, I shove the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, smooth and powerful beneath my hands.

And then, I’m gone.

People stare in shock as I speed past, because how could they not? A woman in a white silk wedding dress, hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, driving a McLaren like she’s being chased by the devil himself.

And maybe I am chased. By expectations, by guilt, by the weight of a future that feels overwhelming and suffocating.

The second I pull up in front of Lando’s building, I stop the car into park and shut off the engine, my hands still trembling as I press my forehead against the steering wheel.

Breathe, Lyra.

I exhale slowly, my chest tight as I finally force myself to move, stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind me, locking it with the key.

The lobby is quiet when I step inside, the only sound is the soft hum of the elevator as it takes me up to his floor. My pulse is still racing by the time I push open the door to his apartment.

It’s dark, but not unwelcoming.

The air smells like him: clean, familiar, with the faintest hint of something musky, like expensive cologne and memories I tried too hard to forget.

I breathe shakily, walking further inside, my dress whispering against the floor as I move. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t need to. I’ve been here enough times to know where everything is, even after all this time.

The silence is loud.

I left behind hundreds of people, an entire wedding, a future that was already set in stone, and now there’s just this.

Just me.

Alone, in Lando’s apartment, standing in the middle of his living room in a wedding dress that no longer feels like it belongs to me.

My stomach twists, the weight of everything finally pressing down on me.

I need something. Anything.

Without thinking, I make my way to the kitchen.

The fridge hums softly as I pull it open, the cool air hitting my skin. My fingers wrap around the first thing I see: a half-empty container of sausages, the ones Lando always keeps in stock because he eats them like candy.

I set them on the counter, grabbing a can of Monster. The first sip is too cold, shocking against my throat, but it helps.

I exhale, pressing my free hand against the counter, trying to steady myself.

I don’t know how much time passes as I stand there, but it feels like an eternity.

And for the first time all day, I finally let myself breathe.

The door opens just as Meredith Grey starts narrating about how life is unpredictable, how sometimes the choices we make define us in ways we never expect.

I don’t look.

I already know who it is.

Lando walks in, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps slow and deliberate. I can feel his eyes on me as I sit curled up on his couch, still in my wedding dress, a half-empty can of Monster Mango-Loco in one hand and the TV remote in the other.

Grey’s Anatomy plays on the screen in front of me, the blue light flickering across the room, the sound of heart monitors beeping in the background. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I take a sip of the soda and look at him for a few seconds before looking back at the screen.

Lando doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, watching me like he’s waiting for something, for me to break down, for me to cry, for me to do something that makes sense after what I just did.

But I don’t.

I just press the can to my lips again and let out a breath inside the can, staring at the screen like it holds all the answers.

Finally, he speaks.

"Are you okay?"

That simple, stupid question.

A question that makes me laugh.

Not the kind of laugh that’s pretty or controlled, but the kind that comes out uncontrollably, the kind that shakes my shoulders and makes my chest tighten. The kind that isn’t really laughter at all, but something dangerously close to hysteria.

Lando doesn’t move. He just watches me, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And when I finally manage to breathe again, I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye and turn my head to look at him.

“I think I just did something worthy of a Grey’s Anatomy episode” I said, feeling how my own voice breaks as I speak, betraying me.

His brows raise, but there’s something else in his expression. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m about to fall apart.

“Lyra” his voice is quieter now, more careful. “Why did you do it?”

I stare at the TV for a second longer, watching as Meredith Grey pulls off her surgical mask, looking devastated over whatever impossible situation she’s dealing with that probably is not as complicated as mine.

Then, finally, I glance at Lando.

Why did I run?

I should have an answer, right? I should be able to say something that makes sense. Because brides that run away from their own weddings have their reasons.

“Because…” I start, but my voice feels weak. I lick my lips, taking a breath through my nose before trying again. “Because I couldn’t do it.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head, waiting for me to go on while he leans on the table of the living room.

I shake my head, my curls brushing against my shoulders as I let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“I don’t know, Lando. I was standing there, holding my dad’s arm, walking toward Edward, and everything in me just�� Just froze” I gesture vaguely, hugging my legs tighter against my chest. “It was like my body literally couldn’t take another step.”

Lando doesn’t interrupt.

He just lets me talk. Like always.

So I do.

“I kept seeing these stupid signs, you know?” I continue, my laugh turning breathless. “A rose from my bouquet broke. A pigeon literally shit right in front of me. My dad stepped on my dress. It was like the universe was screaming at me to stop.”

I shake my head again, pressing my fingers to my temples, pressing my perfect painted nails in my skin, to feel something.

“And then I saw you.”

Lando’s posture changes slightly, his shoulders tensing, but he doesn’t speak.

“I don’t know why I was looking for you,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “but I was. And when I finally found you, you just… You nodded, like you were telling me to go.”

“I wasn’t telling you to run.” he sighed, running his fingers through his curls.

“I know.” I look down at my lap, at the white fabric of my wedding dress. “But I still did.”

He stays quiet for a long moment, like trying to understand everything and trying to figure out everything.

And then he asks:

“Do you regret it?”

I think about it.

I really think about it.

“That’s the thing” I whisper. “I do, but I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back, because if I do I will have to face my family, his family and him”

“Well… Shit” he sighed.

“Yeah” I nodded. “Shit”

The wedding dress lies across the bed like a ghost of the life I almost stepped into. It looks almost untouched, almost perfect. Like I never ran out of that hotel, like I never bolted before saying “I do”

But I did.

My eyes can’t stop looking at the piece of material my own father broke, and even if it was only a few centimeters, for me it looked like more.

I stand in the doorway of Lando’s guest room, barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants that I borrowed from his closet minutes ago. The fabric hangs loosely on me, warm and soft, smelling faintly like his detergent, like something familiar. My fingers toy with the hem of the shirt as I stare at the dress, my stomach twisting with guilt.

I should call Edward.

I need to call Edward.

But I don’t have my phone. It’s probably still somewhere in that hotel suite, buzzing with missed calls, texts, voicemails from my mother, my sisters, Edward himself.

The thought makes my chest tighten, my breath catching in my throat.

I should’ve thought this through. I should’ve had a plan.

Instead, I just ran.

A quiet sigh escapes my lips as I force my feet to move, stepping out of the doorway walking across the corridor to the living room. The TV is still on, playing the next episode of Grey’s Anatomy, but Lando isn’t watching.

He’s sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, scrolling through his phone. When he hears me approach, he glances up, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.

I hesitate for a second before finally speaking.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked, looking away from him.

“Who are you calling?” he sighed.

“Edward”

He exhales through his nose, something tense flickering across his face, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he just leans forward, pressing a few buttons before handing me the phone.

I stare at it in my hands, my fingers gripping the cool edges of the device.

Just call him.

My thumb hovers over the screen, unmoving.

I try to type his number from memory, but suddenly, my mind blanks. I know the numbers, I do, but somehow now those numbers don’t come to my mind.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply.

Lando shifts slightly, waiting. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t press, but I can feel his eyes on me, patient, quiet, curious.

I open my eyes again, staring at the blank screen.

And then, before I can stop myself, I lock the phone and hand it back to him.

Lando doesn’t take it right away, his gaze flicking from my face to the phone, then back again, shocked.

“I don’t even know what I would say” I sighed, shaking my head, forcing a laugh.

He doesn’t push, just leans back against the couch. For a few seconds he studies me with his eyes, and then he smiles nodding.

“You don’t have to say anything tonight” he sighed, patting the empty space of the couch. “The guests room is yours, as always”

I exhale, nodding slightly.

I don’t have to call now.

Not tonight.

Maybe tomorrow.

Or maybe… not at all.

taglist

@alltoomaples @helvegen-s @leptitlu @mendes-bae @cmleitora @elisysd @mellowluka @a-beaverhausen @lazybot @charlesgirl16

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ham1lton · 3 months ago

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X MARKS THE SPOT!

pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.

faceclaim: jessica alba.

summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.

warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3

author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D

now part of a trilogy!

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liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others

yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!

view all 298,727 comments

user1: MOTHERRR

user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!

-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

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“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

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EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

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r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

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u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

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liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

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‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

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view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

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[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.

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liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir! with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’

mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘trailblazer’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

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— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)

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