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piastriprincess · 6 days ago

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someone to hold me down ¹ ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring lando norris , love island au , strangers to friends to lovers , slow burn tw cheating (in the love island sense) , slight carlos sainz slander for the plot word count 17.8k (part one) author’s note yeah once again i have literally no excuse for this one . probably THEEE most self indulgent fic i’ve ever written as i am proudly the world’s biggest love island fan . during my catchup on love island uk this year , i started thinking about this interview and then the idea of lando on love island just burrowed into my brain and refused to leave me alone . this is part one of two and since i've made you all wait so long part two will be coming tomorrow, monday august 25 !! as always let me know what you think , and my 1k celebration is still open , so if you liked this please feel free to send in a request !! title is from came here for love by sigala ! playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !

You’ve officially been a Love Island contestant for about five minutes, and you’re already questioning every life decision that led you here.

You didn’t even sign up for this. No, that was the work of your friends back home, a completely twisted group response to your bad breakup cooked up over one too many mimosas at a brunch you’d missed because you were crying too hard. When they told you they submitted an application for you, you laughed. You had a real job, one that involved spreadsheets and quarterly reports and tasteful business casual sets. You’d spent most of your adult life trying to avoid situations involving tequila-fueled meltdowns and catfights over semi-pro footballers with clockable hair transplants. You didn’t even watch the show.

And yet here you are, standing outside a Mallorcan villa in your nicest bikini with a mic pack strapped to your ass and your heart pounding in your throat.

“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house.

You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”

She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”

“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle.

The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.

In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.

“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again.

Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years.

And then there’s the smile.

It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.

“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.

“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”

“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go.

“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has.

“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”

You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”

“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”

“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.

He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”

He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore.

You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads.

“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”

“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest.

He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”

The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.

“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”

Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.

“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”

She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.

“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.

“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.

“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.

“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you.

You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry.

“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.

“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”

She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”

You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”

“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”

When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”

He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles.

“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile.

“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”

“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”

“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”

“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.

“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”

He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”

“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.

You think.

About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.

It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago.

Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there.

But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most.

You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long.

Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.

Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.

“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water.

“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.”

“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”

You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.

“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.

Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end.

“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”

Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them.

“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia.

Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”

“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”

Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets.

“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”

“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”

He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.

“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms.

“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.

“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”

Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”

She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.

“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by.

You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious.

Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact.

“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists.

Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”

“Most people here are.”

“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh.

To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“You okay, hun?” you ask softly.

She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”

“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches.

“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”

“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.

“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”

You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.

The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.

“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.

“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.

You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.

The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.

He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears.

You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you.

You’re not expecting a second kiss.

There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.

It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time.

You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.

When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”

“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”

She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking.

“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod.

The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her.

Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.

“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”

“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”

“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”

“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.

“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”

There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?

“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.

“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”

“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”

Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head.

“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara.

“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.

Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.

As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”

You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit.

You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.

“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.

“It was alright,” you reply coyly.

“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”

“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice.

“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie?

Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”

“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach.

“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur.

“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —

You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.

This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.

When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks.

You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”

“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”

You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is.

If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.

When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.

You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently.

He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”

You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”

“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”

You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”

“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”

“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.

Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”

You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”

“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”

“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”

Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean, convenient?”

“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”

“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.

He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.”

His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”

There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”

“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”

“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”

You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos.

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door.

By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else.

The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.

She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”

The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”

Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing.

“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.

“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”

When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders.

“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand.

You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.”

“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.

Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek.

Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.

“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season.

Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”

Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.

“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently.

The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.

“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.

“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”

The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here.

“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”

You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.

The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder.

You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.

“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.

“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.

The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”

Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”

“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.

Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”

“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above.

Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”

Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”

“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”

You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters.

“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real.

He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”

“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.

“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”

Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.”

She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.

“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.

“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.

After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit.

Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely.

“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”

You blink hard. “What?”

“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”

Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”

“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?

“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.

You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!”

Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind.

“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”

Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily.

“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it.

“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”

Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”

“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”

Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.

The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.

“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat.

“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead.

Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil.

“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”

You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.

Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession.

He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.

“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.

“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently.

Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work.

He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves.

He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.

The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks.

“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily.

“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television.

For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss.

“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally.

The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat.

He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.

Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy.

When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.

Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen.

“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”

The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.

You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085.

“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out.

He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”

You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.

The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.

He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.

“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack.

Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.

Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?

“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked.

You can do that. You think.

You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”

Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you.

Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise.

Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.

You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”

The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked.

You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”

You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.”

The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek.

When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten.

“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him.

“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”

The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.

“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.

Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.

“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”

“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in.

“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you.

Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.

Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side.

George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.

“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin.

Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando.

“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face.

“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.

Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you.

Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck.

It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos.

“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens.

Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.”

Wait. What the fuck?

By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide.

“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.

You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”

“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you.

“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”

You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa.

It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”

You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”

“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow.

“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.”

You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.

“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.”

“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”

He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips.

“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss.

He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”

“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil.

“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen.

He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”

He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”

“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.

He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”

“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”

You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles.

“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”

“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”

“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.

“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”

“You think?”

“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”

Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?”

“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”

There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”

He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet.

“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink.

He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”

When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.

You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.

It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him.

Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means.

Casa Amor has arrived.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days.

You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.

Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.

Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere.

i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L

You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone.

You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.

You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too.

Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.

You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”

“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”

“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.

“What about him?”

You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”

She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”

“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”

Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”

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

She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”

Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened.

The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again.

The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.

Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds.

Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.

Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week.

A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock.

“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.

Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa.

And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”

The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —

He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.

She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie.

The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down.

“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine.

You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again.

And then your phone buzzes in your lap.

You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”

You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando.

“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.”

Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”

You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”

The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.

“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”

The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.

And then he smiles.

“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”

There’s not much anyone can say after that.

The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.

You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.”

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”

You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.

“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”

You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.

“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.

“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”

Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved.

“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”

“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”

Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out.

He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”

Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.

The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”

You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.

He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right.

They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.

Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.

The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”

You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”

“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”

You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”

Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”

“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.”

The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”

You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”

Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”

You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”

His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”

His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot.

But you’re also not alone.

#f1 #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #lando norris #f1 imagine #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #❀ my work .

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verstappenverse · 2 days ago

Note

max verstappen x fem!reader , and she starts bleeding during like sex and she starts freaking out

You’re Alright, I Promise

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: During sex you bleed unexpectedly. There’s a moment of panic, but Max remains calm and gentle, staying with you through it. (Requested)

1.4k words / Masterlist

It’s not rough. It’s not even frantic. It’s slow, steady, warm.

Max’s forehead is inches from yours, lips parted with heavy breath, his hands roaming like he’s still learning every inch of you. Even after all this time he acts like every touch is brand new.

You’re so lost in him, in the way his hips roll against yours, in the sound of his low moans, in the heat pooling deep in your stomach that you don’t notice it right away.

Not until he pulls out slightly, shifts your leg higher on his waist, and stills.

His brows furrow.

“What?” you murmur, breathless, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

But he doesn’t answer. Just looks down between your bodies then back at you.

Your stomach twists. “Max?”

Then he’s pulling out completely, sitting back on his knees, eyes wide and searching.

And that’s when you see it.

Blood.

It’s smeared on his skin, on the sheets, on you.

“What—what the fuck?” you say, scrambling up, your chest heaving, heat rushing to your face for all the wrong reasons now. “What—why am I—?”

You can’t even finish the question. You throw the covers back trying to get a better look at yourself, but it only makes it worse. There’s more. On your thighs. A deep red smear. It’s not gushing, but it’s there, and it’s enough, and it’s feels wrong.

“I’m bleeding,” you choke out. “Oh my god, I’m actually bleeding—what the fuck?”

“Hey, hey—wait.” Max’s voice is shaky, not as steady as he wants it to be. He fumbles for something to help clean you, his hands clumsy. “Just hold on. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

But you push his hands away, frantic, climbing off the bed, trying to make it to the bathroom on shaking legs.

Max follows.

“Baby, stop—please. Just—” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly panicking but trying to hold it together. “You’re okay. I mean—you’re… I don’t know what this is but you’ll be okay.”

“It’s not my period,” you say sharply. “It’s not due for another week. And I was fine earlier. I wasn’t—there was nothing—and now—”

“Hey. Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Your hands are shaking, arms wrapped around your bare chest like they might keep your heart from pounding out of it.

Max swallows hard, takes a step closer. He looks scared himself but determined.

“You’re not—fuck, I don’t even know what to say—but you’re not broken. You didn’t… you didn’t do anything wrong. Just breathe.”

Your eyes blur.

“I don’t know what’s happening.”

He grabs a towel clumsily, wraps it around you even though his hands are shaking. “Come sit. Please. Just… sit with me for a second.”

And you do, trembling as he leads you back to the bed, not caring about the stained sheets now. He sits beside you rubbing circles into your back.

“I—” He hesitates, fumbling. “I don’t know why this happens. I don’t get it but it doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you. Bodies just… do weird shit sometimes right? We’ll call your doctor tomorrow. Or now. Whatever you want.”

You look at your hands. “Do you think I need to go to a hospital?”

Max’s jaw tightens. His first instinct is to say yes, but he stops himself, fumbling. “I don’t think—I mean, it’s not like you’re, you know bleeding out… but if you want to go I’ll take you. Right now. Just say the word.”

Your throat works around a lump. “You’re not…grossed out?”

Max blinks, caught off guard. “Grossed—what? No. No, god, are you kidding?”

Your cheeks burn. “We were literally in the middle of—of everything, and then…”

“And then something happened that you couldn’t control.” He tilts your chin toward him, eyes a little frantic but steady on yours. “You really think this makes me… look at you different?”

You open your mouth but no sound comes out. You just stare at him.

“I love you,” Max blurts, almost too fast, like he needs you to hear it right now. “That’s the only thing I always know for sure. This doesn’t change that. Not even a little.”

You let out a shaky breath and lean into him, pressing your face into his shoulder. You hate how your voice wobbles when you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His lips brush your temple, clumsy but tender. “Please don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, towel and all, and just holds you there on the edge of the bed, like the moment wasn’t interrupted, like everything’s still safe and warm.

Eventually he murmurs, “Do you… want me to help you clean up?”

You nod, embarrassed but grateful.

Max helps you up gently, guides you into the bathroom. He turns on the warm water, makes you sit while he dampens a cloth and kneels in front of you.

You tense when he touches your thigh, but his voice is low and careful. “Tell me if it hurts yeah?”

“It doesn’t,” you say quietly.

He’s clumsy at first, but careful. Tender. Like you’re glass and gold and none of this has changed the way he sees you.

When he’s done he dries you off and presses a soft kiss to your knee.

“You’re still perfect,” he says.

You smile, wet-eyed. “Even if my uterus decided to have a meltdown in the middle of sex?”

He laughs, nervous but genuine. “Yeah. Even then.”

You laugh too weak but real and he helps you into clean underwear and hands you one of his old soft shirts

“Take your time,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here.”

You nod and close the door behind you, when you come back out. Max sets his phone down fast. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod slowly, sitting beside him on the bed.

“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck, hesitating. “I looked some stuff up. While you were in there. I didn’t know what it was and you looked so scared. I just wanted to… maybe figure something out.”

He shifts, picking the phone back up. “It said it could be like breakthrough bleeding. Or maybe irritation from, you know… us. Sometimes that happens apparently. Or stress, which kind of tracks? You’ve been travelling so much lately and your stomach’s been acting weird.”

He’s rambling yet careful with the words, nervous, like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“I’m not trying to diagnose you or anything. I just didn’t want to sit here doing nothing. I thought—maybe it’s not as scary as it feels.”

You exhale, your shoulders loosening just a little. “Thank you,” you say softly.

Max relaxes just slightly, like your reaction gave him permission to breathe again.

Then more quietly he adds, “We’ll still call your doctor. Just to be sure.”

You look at him, how nervous he is, how hard he’s trying to stay calm for your sake, and for the first time all night, your chest loosens just a little.

Max strips the bed and replaces the sheets, fluffs the pillows without being asked. When you crawl back in he tucks you in like it’s any other night.

Later when you’re curled up beside him, silence filling the room, he shifts closer. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you gently into him until your head rests on his chest. You can feel his heart still beating a little too fast beneath your cheek.

“You scared me a little there” he admits quietly, voice rough in the dark. “I didn’t know what to do. Still don’t really.”

You tilt your head up. His eyes meet yours wide, honest, still nervous.

“You did enough,” you whisper.

Something flickers across his face relief maybe, but also something needier. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your skin and then he leans in. The kiss is gentle at first, tentative, but it deepens quickly.

You breathe into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. The world narrows to the warmth of his mouth, the steady press of him against you, and the way his breath hitches like he’s just as desperate for this closeness as you are.

Eventually he tucks you in closer, your legs tangled beneath the covers, his hand resting on your side like he’s not planning to move for a while.

Your eyes drift shut and just before you fall asleep you hear him exhale against your hair.

“Love you. Always.”

And wrapped up in him, you believe it.

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charlesollielandooscararthur · 19 hours ago

Text

A Real Argument

BF! Charles Leclerc x GF! Reader x Best friend! Arthur Leclerc

Summary: During a family dinner at the Leclercs, Y/n and Arthur find themselves in one of their rare serious arguments, leaving the atmosphere tense and everyone else caught in the middle.

Arguments between Arthur and me were usually ridiculous—stupid little spats that barely lasted five minutes before we’d end up laughing, bumping shoulders, and moving on.

But not this time.

This time, the fight had teeth.

It started in the Leclerc house, just before dinner. Pascale was flitting around the dining room, setting the table with her usual gentle precision, humming softly under her breath. Charles and Lorenzo were in the kitchen, helping bring out the food, while Arthur and I were in the living room—where everything went downhill.

And the worst part? I couldn’t even tell you how it started. Maybe it was the way Arthur said something, maybe it was my tone, or maybe we were just overdue for a blow-up. But before I knew it, our voices were raised, echoing through the house.

“Are you serious right now?” I scoffed, standing with my arms crossed in the living room while Arthur glared at me from across the rug.

“Obviously, Y/n,” he shot back, his jaw tense. “Or do you think I’m joking?”

“I hope you’re joking because you sound ridiculous.”

Arthur let out a humorless laugh, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’m ridiculous? That’s rich, coming from you.”

My head snapped up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You always act like you know better than everyone else!” Arthur’s voice was sharp, louder than I’d ever heard him speak to me. “Like you can just say whatever and it doesn’t matter because people will let you get away with it.”

I froze.

That stung. Arthur never talked to me like that.

“Right, because you’re so innocent,” I said, my tone icy. “You never say stupid things, right? Never do stupid things? I should just let you talk out of your ass 24/7, then?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. “Oh my God, Y/n—”

“Can you two not?” Charles’s voice cut in as he walked out of the kitchen, balancing a stack of plates in his hands. He looked between us, frowning. “What is this even about?”

Neither of us answered.

Arthur jabbed his finger in my direction. “Why do you always have to push everything?!”

“And why do you always have to be such a child?” I shot back instantly.

Arthur let out a bitter laugh. “You’re calling me a child? You’re unbelievable.”

I raised my chin. “If the shoe fits—”

“Alright, ENOUGH,” Lorenzo barked, stepping forward with all the authority of the eldest brother. He moved between us, towering just enough to make us feel caught. “We’re eating dinner. Whatever this is, you’re solving it later.”

Arthur and I glared at each other from opposite ends of the room, neither of us backing down, both too stubborn for our own good.

Then Pascale’s gentle voice rang out from the dining room.

“À table!”

We didn’t have a choice.

Dinner started with Arthur and me sitting directly across from each other. Normally, this was where the fun began—stealing food from each other’s plates, whispering jokes, laughing so much Pascale would tell us to stop giggling and eat.

But tonight?

Silence.

Thick, suffocating silence.

Even Pascale noticed. “You two are awfully quiet.”

No one said a word.

Charles exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already over it. Lorenzo just ate in peace, pretending the tension wasn’t slicing through the table like a knife.

Arthur stabbed at his food aggressively, his fork clinking against the plate. “I don’t have anything to say.”

I let out a scoff before I could stop myself. “For once in your life.”

Arthur’s head snapped up. “Do not start.”

“Oh, but you can?” I fired back.

“Oh my God—”

Charles slammed his fork down so hard the table rattled. “Can you both shut up?! Please?” His voice cracked with exasperation. “You two argue more than I race. Just eat your food and fight later.”

Arthur and I both went silent, glaring across the table but saying nothing.

From the far end of the table, Lando—who had been silently watching this circus unfold with poorly-hidden amusement—finally leaned back in his chair and grinned.

Don't even ask me why he was here, because i do not know.

“This is the best family dinner I’ve ever been invited to.”

Pascale sighed, muttering a quiet, “Mon dieu.”

After that, the room settled into a strange kind of quiet—everyone trying to pretend things were normal while Arthur and I silently battled with our utensils. He stabbed his steak like it had personally offended him. I carved into my chicken with so much aggression it was a miracle the plate didn’t crack.

Finally, Lorenzo set his fork down with a tired sigh. “You two are being dramatic.”

Neither of us answered.

Pascale gave us both a look—the kind of disappointed mom look that made you feel five years old instantly. “Arthur. Y/n. Can you please stop this nonsense?”

Arthur pushed back his chair suddenly, his fork clattering against the plate. “I’m full.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course, you are.”

He glared at me but didn’t say anything, scooping up his plate and disappearing into the kitchen.

The moment he left, all eyes turned on me.

Pascale raised her brows. “Y/n.”

I groaned, leaning back in my chair. “What?”

Lando smirked, leaning his chin on his hand. “So… who’s winning this fight?”

I gave him a deadpan look. “I will literally throw you out of the window.”

His grin only widened. “So you’re losing.”

Charles shook his head, dragging a hand over his face. “Just fix it.”

“Why should I fix it?” I argued. “He’s being impossible.”

Lorenzo arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

Pascale sighed softly, collecting my plate. “Go talk to him.”

Groaning, I shoved my chair back and trudged toward the kitchen, muttering under my breath. I hated being the one to back down first, but I also hated this knot in my stomach that came from fighting with Arthur.

When I stepped into the kitchen, Arthur was leaning against the counter, arms crossed tightly, jaw set. He looked up when I entered, expression still stormy.

I mirrored his stance, crossing my arms. “Are we really doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asked flatly.

“Being mad at each other all night?”

He scoffed. “You started it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

Arthur huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know how this got so bad.”

I sighed, leaning against the counter beside him. “Neither do I.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between us.

Then Arthur finally muttered, “I don’t want to fight with you.”

I glanced at him. My voice softened. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Another beat of silence.

“…So, are we good?” he asked quietly.

A smirk tugged at my lips. “Depends.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Depends on what?”

“Say I’m right.”

His jaw dropped. “Absolutely not.”

I grinned. “Then I guess we’re still fighting.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. “And you’re stuck with me.”

Arthur let out a long, exaggerated sigh, but the fight was draining from his features, replaced with reluctant amusement. Finally, he bumped my shoulder back. “Fine. We’re good.”

I threw my arm around him with a triumphant grin. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Arthur groaned. “I regret this already.”

Of course, that’s when Lando poked his head into the kitchen, grinning ear to ear. “So… are we friends again?”

Arthur and I both turned to glare at him.

Lando instantly raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, still tense. Got it.”

From the dining room, Charles’s voice rang out. “ARE THEY STILL FIGHTING?!”

Arthur and I shared a look—then shouted in unison, “NO!”

There was a pause, followed by Charles’s weary sigh. “Finally.”

Arthur and I burst into quiet laughter, and just like that… the dumbest fight we’d ever had was over.

#f1 #f1 imagine #charles leclerc #arthur leclerc #lando norris

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mrsfancyferrari · 2 days ago

Text

Stranger Danger

Summary: What happens when you're being followed by a staff member in McLaren's motorhome on your first day of work and a certain driver saves you. . . .

Song: Noah Cyrus & XXXTENTACION · Again

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 8.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engines was still a distant, theoretical hum in your mind as you stepped out of the paddock’s designated transport, the crisp morning air carrying the faint scent of tire rubber and high-octane fuel.

This was it. Your first day at McLaren Racing. Not just any day, but the start of your senior position as a Sports Scientist – Human Data Science.

The title felt like a perfectly tailored suit, a culmination of years of relentless study and ambition.

You were here, at the pinnacle of motorsport, ready to dive deep into the physiological and biomechanical intricacies of peak human performance.

Your objective for the morning was clear: find Zak Brown. You’d been given a rough map of the McLaren motorhome – a sprawling, two-story edifice of orange and black, a mobile fortress of innovation – but maps, you quickly discovered, were notoriously unhelpful when faced with a labyrinth of identical corridors, bustling crew members, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of it all.

You clutched your brief, official-looking folder a little tighter, a nervous smile plastered on your face as you tried to project an air of confident competence.

Inside, however, your stomach was doing more laps than the MCL38. The motorhome was a hive of activity, a vibrant ecosystem of engineers hunched over screens, mechanics meticulously polishing components, and media personnel weaving through the throng with cameras poised.

You tried to blend in, to look purposeful as you navigated what felt like an endless series of identical doors.

“Excuse me, are you lost?”

The voice, a little too close to your ear, made you jump. You turned to find a man standing there, perhaps in his late forties, early fifties, dressed in a standard McLaren team polo.

He had a tight, almost forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which seemed to linger a little too long.

“Oh, no, thank you,” you replied, injecting as much politeness as possible into your tone. “Just trying to find my way to Zak Brown’s office. I think I’m almost there.”

You gestured vaguely down a corridor you were sure led to a dead end.

“I can show you,” he insisted, taking a step closer. His hand reached out, then dropped, as if he’d thought better of touching your arm.

“That’s very kind, but I think I’ve got it,” you said, forcing another smile.

You really, really didn’t want to be led around like a child on your first day. You were a Senior Sports Scientist, for crying out loud.

You started walking, a little faster, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t. Instead, his footsteps matched yours, falling into an unnervingly synchronised rhythm.

“It’s easy to get turned around here on your first day,” he continued, his voice still too close. “Especially with all the unfamiliar faces. You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yes, it’s my first day,” you confirmed, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m the new Senior Sports Scientist.” You thought mentioning your position might deter him, establishing some professional distance. It didn’t.

“Ah, a scientist,” he mused, his smile widening unnaturally. “Very interesting. My name’s Mark. Anything I can help you with, you just let me know.”

You swallowed, your pace quickening. You had tried polite, you had tried firm, and now a prickle of unease was starting to bloom in your chest.

His presence felt… oppressive. His gaze felt like it was tracing your back, even when you weren't looking.

“Thank you, Mark, but I really am fine,” you said, pushing open a door that led into a bustling, open-plan area filled with engineers and their monitors. You hoped the crowd would be a deterrent.

It wasn't. He followed you in, a shadow clinging to your heels. You could feel the eyes of other staff members glancing your way, curious about the impromptu procession.

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and growing anxiety. This was not how you wanted to make your first impression.

You ducked around a large screen displaying complex telemetry data, trying to put a physical barrier between you and him.

"Honestly, I need to focus on finding my way,” you explained, finally allowing a hint of exasperation to creep into your voice. “I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Zak Brown can wait,” he chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “I’m sure he’ll understand. A pretty face like yours shouldn’t be wandering lost.”

The compliment landed like a cold, wet cloth. Your breath hitched. Pretty face? The unease solidified into a knot of genuine fear.

This wasn't helpfulness; this was something else. You were alone, a stranger in a strange place, and this man was making you feel distinctly unsafe.

You debated whether to just turn and confront him, or find the nearest person in authority and demand he leave you alone.

But you were new, you didn't want to cause a scene. You just wanted to disappear.

Just as you were about to turn a corner, desperately looking for an exit or a friendly face, a voice, calm and clear, cut through the tension.

“Mark, everything alright here?”

You almost sagged in relief at the sound, spinning around to see who had spoken. Standing there, leaning casually against a doorframe, was Oscar Piastri.

He was dressed in a team polo and track pants, looking effortlessly composed, a slight frown creasing his brow. His presence commanded attention, and the air around you suddenly felt a little less suffocating.

Mark, the creepy staff member, visibly stiffened. His forced smile faltered, replaced by a look of wary deference. “Oh, Oscar. Yes, everything’s fine. I was just helping our new colleague find her way. She’s a little lost.” He gestured to you, his hand a little too close, a little too possessive.

Oscar’s gaze flickered to your face, and he seemed to pick up on the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way you unconsciously recoiled from Mark’s gesture.

His eyes, a striking brown, held yours for a moment, a silent question passing between you. You managed a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head, a plea for help.

“Is that right?” Oscar asked, his tone still even, but with an underlying steel that was unmistakable. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a step towards you both. “And have you introduced yourselves properly?”

“Of course,” Mark chimed in, too quickly. “I’m Mark, I help with…”

“She’s the new Senior Sports Scientist, isn’t she?” Oscar interrupted, his gaze still fixed on you. “I heard you were starting today. Welcome to McLaren.” He extended a hand towards you. “Oscar Piastri. Nice to meet you.”

His hand was warm, firm, and you grasped it like a lifeline. “Thank you,” you breathed, your voice a little shaky. “Yes, I’m… I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, to be honest.”

Oscar’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “It happens. The motorhome can be a maze. Who are you looking for, specifically?”

“Zak Brown,” you managed, feeling a surge of gratitude for his intervention.

Oscar nodded, then turned his gaze to Mark. “Mark, could you actually go and check on the telemetry readings for turn four? Lando was mentioning something about a slight anomaly this morning. It’s urgent.”

Mark’s face tightened. “But I was just…”

“It’s fine, Mark. She’s with me now,” Oscar stated, his voice polite but unwavering. “I’ll make sure she finds Zak. You go sort out that telemetry.”

There was no arguing with the young driver. Mark’s shoulders slumped, and he gave you one last, lingering look that made your skin crawl, before he mumbled, “Right. Telemetry. Of course,” and shuffled away, disappearing around the corner.

You let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you so potent it almost made your knees buckle.

“Thank you,” you said again, looking at Oscar, your gratitude radiating from you. “Truly. He was… he was making me quite uncomfortable.”

Oscar’s smile softened. “I gathered. He can be a bit… persistent. Are you alright?”

“Yes, much better now,” you confirmed, feeling a blush creep up your neck. You, a senior professional, almost reduced to tears on your first day. “I was just trying to get to Zak’s office, but I keep getting lost. I tried telling him I was fine, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Standard procedure for the McLaren motorhome,” Oscar said with a light chuckle. “It’s a labyrinth, especially on your first day. Come on, I’ll walk you to Zak’s. It’s on my way to the gym anyway.”

He started walking, a comfortable, unhurried pace, and you fell into step beside him. He wasn't overtly charismatic in the way some drivers were, but there was an easy confidence about him, a quiet strength that was immensely appealing.

You noticed the subtle details – the way his hair fell across his forehead, the lean musculature of his arms, the focused intensity in his eyes. He wasn't just a driver; he was a presence.

“So, Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, that’s a mouthful,” he said, glancing at you with an amused expression. “Sounds important.”

You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound this time. “It is, I hope. I’ll be working on optimising driver performance through physiological data analysis, biomechanics, recovery strategies… The whole spectrum.”

“So, you’ll be making me faster, then?” he quipped, a playful glint in his eye.

“That’s the goal,” you affirmed, feeling a spark of professional enthusiasm ignite. “Working with you, Lando, and the rest of the team to ensure you’re all in peak condition, both physically and mentally.”

“Good luck with that last part,” he murmured, a wry smile touching his lips. “Especially on race weekends.”

You found Zak’s office without further incident, thanks to Oscar’s escort. He waited patiently while you knocked, then offered a reassuring smile as Zak’s assistant waved you in.

“Good luck with the new role,” he said, just before you stepped through the door. “And if you get lost again, just shout. Or find me in the gym.” He gave a slight nod, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the motorhome’s bustling corridors.

You met Zak, the discussion was engaging and inspiring, but a part of your mind kept replaying the earlier encounter. Oscar Piastri.

The name now carried a different weight, a personal resonance beyond his public image.

He wasn’t just a rising star; he was the person who had saved you from a profoundly uncomfortable situation on your first day.

The meeting with Zak Brown was, thankfully, a much calmer affair. He’d greeted you with genuine warmth, his expansive office a stark contrast to the labyrinthine corridors outside.

The conversation flowed easily, covering your impressive credentials, your vision for the Senior Sports Scientist role, and the exciting challenges that lay ahead at McLaren.

You felt a wave of professional satisfaction wash over you, the earlier unpleasantness with Mark receding to a faint, irritating hum in the background.

When your initial discussions concluded, Zak leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile on his face. "Well, Y/N, it's clear we've found exactly who we were looking for. Welcome to the team."

He stood, extending a hand, and you shook it, a thrill of accomplishment running through you. "Now, I imagine you'd like to meet some of the key players. And perhaps get a proper feel for our bustling motorhome. It's quite the hive, as you've no doubt discovered."

You chuckled, a genuine smile replacing the polite ones you’d been forcing earlier. "I'd appreciate that, Zak. It certainly is quite a place."

He led you from his office, not back into the main thoroughfare, but through a series of discreet doors that opened into a larger, more informal gathering area.

It was less a meeting room and more a vibrant lounge, dotted with comfortable couches, high-tech screens displaying various data streams, and small groups of people in team gear engaged in animated discussions.

This was clearly where the magic happened, where ideas were sparked and strategies honed.

As you entered, a hush fell, and several heads turned. Zak, ever the showman, clapped his hands together. "Alright, everyone, listen up! I'd like you all to give a massive McLaren welcome to our newest member of staff. This is Y/N, our new Senior Sports Scientist."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, followed by a chorus of warm greetings. You felt a familiar professional composure settle over you, pushing down the last lingering traces of your earlier anxiety.

This was your element – meeting colleagues, discussing your work, becoming part of a high-performance team.

You stood beside Zak as he introduced you to a succession of senior personnel: Andrea Stella, the calm and focused Team Principal; Mark Temple, the Head of Performance; Piers Thynne, the Chief Operating Officer.

Each introduction was met with a firm handshake and an intelligent, probing question about your area of expertise.

You found yourself drawn into conversations about data analytics, biofeedback, and the nuances of driver conditioning, feeling a surge of excitement at the intellectual challenge.

As you engaged with various team members, a subtle awareness began to prickle at the back of your mind. It was a familiar presence, a quiet anchor amidst the bustling energy of the room.

Without directly looking, you knew Oscar was there. You could feel his eyes on you, not in the intrusive, unsettling way Mark’s had been, but with a steady, almost curious warmth.

He wasn’t at the forefront, or even in the immediate circle, but rather lingered slightly to the back, leaning against a pillar, a casual observer.

You caught his gaze once, fleetingly, as you explained a complex physiological concept to the Head of Human Performance.

He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a hint of a smile touching his lips, and a wave of unexpected warmth spread through your chest.

It was a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding that made you feel a little less like an outsider, a little more… seen.

The introductions continued for another twenty minutes, your hand growing tired from the numerous shakes, your voice a little hoarse from enthusiastic explanations.

You met engineers, strategists, PR managers – a diverse tapestry of talent that made up the McLaren family. Everyone was welcoming, genuinely interested in the new perspective you brought.

Finally, Zak clapped his hands again, drawing the attention of the now fragmented groups. "Alright, I think Y/N has met enough of you for one morning! She needs to get her bearings. Does anyone want to give Ms. Y/N a proper tour of the motorhome and help her settle into her office?"

Before the words had even fully left Zak’s lips, a hand shot up from the back of the room. It was Oscar. He pushed off the pillar he'd been leaning against, his movement fluid and deliberate, and began to walk towards you both. His gaze, once again, was fixed on you, a clear, unwavering intensity in his brown eyes.

"I can do it," Oscar suggested, his voice clear and confident as he approached, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Almost immediately, another voice cut in, sharp with a hint of exasperation. "Oscar, you literally have a simulator session in ten minutes. Tom’s got the whole team waiting." It was Tom, Oscar Piastri’s race engineer, emerging from a nearby doorway, a tablet tucked under his arm. He looked at Oscar, then at you, a knowing smirk on his face.

Oscar didn't even break eye contact with you. "I can finish it before then," he persisted, his tone firm, a challenge in his voice that was utterly charming. He was making it clear, without having to say the words, that this was important to him.

A blush crept up your neck. You knew, with a certainty that made your heart flutter, that his offer wasn't just about being helpful. It was about you.

Zak looked from Oscar to Tom, then back to you, a shrewd glint in his eyes. He seemed to assess the situation instantly, a quiet amusement playing on his face. "Well, Tom, I'm sure a few minutes won't hurt. Our new Senior Sports Scientist does need a proper introduction to her new domain, after all. And who better than one of our star drivers to show her the ropes?" He winked, a barely perceptible gesture, at Oscar.

Tom sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Fine, but if you're late, Oscar, there will be consequences. Consequences involving Lando and a very large bucket of water."

Oscar merely grinned, unperturbed. "Understood, Tom. I’ll be there." He turned his full attention to you, his expression softening. "Ready to see the real McLaren?"

You nodded, a genuine smile blossoming on your face, your earlier apprehension dissolving completely. "Lead the way, Oscar."

As you walked out of the lounge, leaving behind the bustling team and Tom's grumbling, a sense of lightness filled you. Oscar led you down a wide corridor, quieter than the one you'd been lost in earlier, and the air around him felt different now, more open, less guarded. He walked with a relaxed confidence, occasionally glancing at you, his eyes twinkling with a shared secret.

"So, what kind of trouble did you manage to get into this morning before I rescued you?" he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You laughed, the sound easy and unforced. "Nothing I couldn't handle, eventually. You just… expedited the process." You chose your words carefully, not wanting to dwell on Mark, but not wanting to dismiss Oscar’s intervention either.

He seemed to understand, his smile a little more genuine. "Good to know. But seriously, this place is a maze. It took me weeks to figure out where everything was." He gestured down a brightly lit hallway. "This is one of our engineering bays. You'll probably be spending a lot of time in here, or the one next door, collaborating with the performance engineers."

He opened a door, revealing a cavernous space filled with the hum of computers and focused individuals. The walls were plastered with schematics, graphs, and intricate diagrams. You felt a thrill of professional excitement. "This is incredible," you murmured, stepping inside.

"It is," Oscar agreed, watching your reaction. "It’s where all the data comes to life. And speaking of data, that's where you come in, isn't it? Making sense of all the numbers from, well, us." He gestured vaguely at himself.

"Precisely," you confirmed, your gaze scanning the impressive setup. "My job is to translate those numbers into actionable insights to improve performance, prevent injury, and optimize recovery."

"Sounds like you'll have your work cut out for you with Lando," Oscar quipped, a playful dig at his teammate.

You chuckled. "I'm sure he'll be a fascinating subject."

He led you through several more areas – the impressive simulation room (where Tom was no doubt drumming his fingers), the state-of-the-art gym, which was blessedly empty at the moment, and even a small, surprisingly peaceful garden area tucked away between two buildings. With each step, the conversation flowed more easily. You asked him about his training regimen, his typical race weekend routine, and the mental demands of Formula 1. He, in turn, asked about your previous research, what excited you most about this new role, and even a few personal questions about where you were from and what you liked to do outside of work.

It struck you that this was a side of Oscar Piastri the public rarely saw. He wasn’t just the fiercely determined, articulate driver from interviews. He was thoughtful, genuinely curious, and possessed a dry wit that perfectly matched his quiet confidence. He made you feel comfortable, truly at ease, in a way you hadn’t expected to feel on your chaotic first day.

As he showed you to a sleek, modern office designated as yours, strategically located near the performance analysis hub, you felt a pang of disappointment that the tour was ending. "Thank you, Oscar," you said, turning to face him, your voice imbued with sincere gratitude. "That was… invaluable. And much appreciated."

He leaned against the doorframe, a familiar pose, but this time it felt relaxed, inviting. "Anytime, Y/N. Like I said, it’s a maze. And I wouldn't want you to get lost again and end up with… another Mark situation." His tone was light, but his eyes held a subtle seriousness, a comforting undertone of protection.

You looked down, a small smile playing on your lips. "No, definitely not another Mark situation." You met his gaze again, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I think I’m officially un-lost now, thanks to you."

He pushed off the doorframe, checking his watch. "Looks like I’ve got about two minutes before Tom sends a search party. So, I’d better make a dash for the simulator." He paused, a slight hesitation in his movement. "But if you ever need anything else, or just want to grab a coffee, you know where to find me. Or, well, you know where most of my day is spent." He gestured vaguely towards the gym.

You laughed. "I’ll keep that in mind. And good luck with the simulator session."

"Thanks," he said, a genuine, easy smile lighting up his face. "Welcome again, Y/N. Really glad to have you on the team."

With a final, lingering look, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving you standing in your new, pristine office. The hum of the motorhome was still present, but now it sounded less overwhelming, more like a gentle background melody. You looked around your space, then out into the bustling corridor, a sense of belonging blooming in your chest.

Your first day at McLaren had been a roller coaster, starting with unease and ending with an unexpected connection. Oscar Piastri, the quiet, formidable driver, had not only salvaged your day but had also left an indelible impression on your heart. You had come to optimize driver performance, but it seemed you might just find a performance of a different kind unfolding in your new life here – one with a very promising co-star.

You unpacked your bag, a new sense of anticipation bubbling within you. The labyrinthine motorhome no longer seemed daunting. With Oscar showing you the way, perhaps finding your path here, both professionally and personally, wouldn’t be so hard after all. You wondered if he really would be in the gym later. You might just have to "get lost" looking for a coffee, just to see.

The fluorescent hum of the McLaren Technology Centre had once felt like a sterile, intimidating presence, a stark contrast to the lively, chaotic energy of race weekends. But now, as the senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, you’d carved out your niche, the hum becoming a comforting thrum beneath your skin. You were part of the machine, a crucial cog in the relentless pursuit of speed and human optimisation. You understood the data, the intricate dance between physiology and peak performance, but sometimes, the humans behind the numbers were a little less predictable.

You found yourself fitting into the McLaren team better than you ever thought possible. The initial awkwardness of being a "data person" amongst the high-octane personalities of Formula 1 had dissolved. You learned to navigate the complex ecosystem of engineers, mechanics, and drivers, each with their own unique demands and idiosyncrasies. You were part of the family, and a part of that family now included a quiet, watchful gratitude towards Oscar.

You started seeing him more often, naturally, in the course of your work. But also, just around. Most of the time, he was with Lando, their contrasting energies a delightful spectacle. Lando, all boisterous charm and cheeky grins, would inevitably nudge Oscar, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, muttering something you couldn’t quite decipher but always ended with a burst of laughter from Lando. Oscar, in turn, would push him back, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips twisted into a pout that struggled to hide a playful smile. They’d walk away, still bickering and laughing, a constant, comforting presence in the background of your days. You’d find yourself watching them, a soft smile forming on your lips.

Your job, though, was less about watching and more about scrutinising. As the senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, your world revolved around the numbers, the physiological metrics that dictated performance, recovery, and potential. You dealt with terabytes of information: heart rate variability, sleep cycles, muscular output, cognitive load, hydration levels, biometrics sensors, even eye-tracking data. And yes, a significant portion of that data belonged to Oscar and Lando.

You’d spend hours poring over their readouts, looking for patterns, anomalies, areas of improvement, or potential strain. You knew Oscar’s resting heart rate, his peak VO2 max, his optimal sleep duration, the slight asymmetry in his muscular output after a particularly demanding race. You knew how his mental fatigue correlated with his reaction times during simulator sessions. You knew Lando’s tendency to run a little hotter, his unique recovery profile, the subtle indicators in his data when he was fighting off a cold. You knew them, in a way, more intimately than almost anyone else, a purely scientific, data-driven intimacy.

This unique insight made you a go-to person for Lando, especially when it came to Oscar. Lando, bless his energetic soul, had adopted you as Oscar’s unofficial medical proxy. Whenever Oscar had a bad result, a frustrating practice session, or a particularly gruelling physical training day, Lando would materialise at your office door, leaning against the frame with a worried frown.

“He’s a bit down today, you know,” Lando would announce, as if you hadn’t already seen the dip in Oscar’s cognitive load metrics and the slightly elevated cortisol levels reported by the smart patch. “His lap times were… not great. Is he, like, okay? Physically? Mentally?”

You’d nod, pulling up Oscar’s latest data. “His recovery from last week’s race was a little slower than usual, Lando. We’re working on adjusting his cool-down protocols. And he had a slightly interrupted sleep cycle last night, which could affect focus.” You’d carefully explain the science, your voice calm and reassuring, knowing that Lando, for all his japes, genuinely cared about his teammate.

Another time, after a particularly punishing triple-header, Lando found you in the cafeteria, looking utterly dejected. “Oi, Data Queen, you seen Oscar? He’s been quiet, not his usual quiet, but like, really quiet. And he keeps rubbing his neck.”

You’d already noted the slight increase in muscle tension activity around Oscar’s cervical spine in the previous day’s sensor data. “He’s experiencing some mild neck strain, likely from the high G-forces and extended track time. We’ve scheduled a physiotherapy session for him this afternoon, and I’ve recommended some targeted stretches. He’s probably just a bit sore.”

Lando would visibly relax, a grateful smile spreading across his face. “Right, okay. Good. So he’s not, like, actually broken then?”

You’d roll your eyes playfully. “Not yet, Lando. My job is to make sure he doesn’t get there.”

It was clear that Lando saw you as Oscar’s de facto doctor, capable of fixing any physical or mental ailment simply by consulting your screens. And in a way, you were. You were Oscar’s early warning system, his performance guardian.

One crisp morning, you were out on the MTC track, following Oscar and his personal trainer during one of their "big training sessions." These weren't just gym workouts; they were intense, multi-disciplinary sessions designed to simulate race conditions, pushing the drivers to their absolute limits. Oscar was a machine, his focus unwavering, his movements efficient and powerful. He powered through interval runs, then seamlessly transitioned to a series of high-intensity circuit training exercises, sweat beading on his forehead, his breath coming in controlled gasps.

You were there with your tablet, monitoring real-time data streaming from his multiple sensors. You watched his heart rate climb, his oxygen saturation remain steady, his power output consistent. He was performing exceptionally.

After a particularly gruelling sprint, his trainer called for a brief pause. “Okay, Oscar, let’s get a quick heart rate check. Stand still for a moment.”

The trainer placed a manual sensor on Oscar’s wrist, waiting for a stable reading. Oscar, still catching his breath, his chest heaving under his training gear, happened to look up. His eyes, usually sharp and concentrated during these sessions, found yours across the small expanse of the track.

You were just standing there, observing, your pen poised over your tablet, a professional, objective presence. But the moment his gaze met yours, something shifted. A spark, a recognition, passed between you. His lips, slightly parted from exertion, curved just a fraction upwards.

And then, the trainer’s voice broke the silence, a note of surprise in it. “Hmm. That’s an interesting spike.” He gave Oscar a questioning look. “Heart rate just jumped a good ten beats there, mate. Did you just get a sudden burst of adrenaline?”

Oscar’s eyes, still locked with yours, widened almost imperceptibly. A faint blush began to creep up his neck, just like the times Lando nudged him. He quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, probably,” he mumbled, his voice a little rougher than before. “Just… thinking about the next set.”

You felt a blush of your own rising, mirroring his. You knew exactly what had caused that spike. It wasn’t adrenaline from the next set. It was you.

The air between you, which had always been purely professional, suddenly crackled with a new, unspoken awareness. The data, the numbers you meticulously analysed, had just proved something undeniably human, undeniably romantic. Your presence, your gaze, had elicited a measurable, physiological response in him.

From that moment on, every interaction felt charged. The casual greetings held a little more weight. His glances, once fleeting, now lingered a moment longer. You found yourself catching his eye across the garage, or in the paddock, and a silent, knowing smile would pass between you. The data in your endless spreadsheets suddenly had a face, and that face was Oscar Piastri’s, now etched not just in numbers, but in the burgeoning hope of a connection that felt as thrilling and unpredictable as a perfect lap. You were no longer just the Sports Scientist, and he was no longer just the data for you. He was the man who saved you, and the man whose heart, even just for a moment, had quickened at the sight of you. And that, you realised, was a data point even you hadn't anticipated. . . .

The fluorescent hum of the McLaren Technology Centre was a familiar lullaby by the time most people had long since clocked out. For you, the Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, it was usually just the beginning of the quiet, deeply focused hours. Months had blurred into a rhythm since your first day here, a challenging but exhilarating dance with algorithms and athlete biometrics. Your office, a sleek testament to innovation, often felt like a second home, especially when the data decided to whisper its secrets only after sundown.

Tonight was no different. You were deep in the intricate patterns of a driver’s recovery metrics, a complex tapestry of heart rate variability, sleep quality, and muscle activation data. The screens glowed, painting your face in cool blues and greens as your mind mapped out potential improvements, strategies for peak performance. It was a world you loved, a world where numbers told stories of human potential. The clock on your monitor read past 10 PM. A sigh escaped your lips – a mix of satisfaction and exhaustion. The last few lines of code clicked into place, a new model ready for testing. You leaned back, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying pop of your spine.

The building, usually a hive of activity, was eerily silent now. The only sounds were the distant whir of the server rooms and the soft hum of power. You gathered your things, a stack of printouts, your laptop, and various notebooks, the weight of a productive day settling in your hands. The empty corridors stretched before you, polished floors reflecting the overhead lights like a modern art installation. You were one of the last, as usual, a solitary figure moving through an architectural marvel. It was a testament to your dedication, perhaps, but tonight, a tremor of unease brushed against you. The silence felt heavier than usual.

You reached the main entrance, the glass doors gleaming. The cool night air beckoned, promising relief from the artificial climate within. You pushed through the revolving door, stepping out into the hushed darkness of the McLaren campus. The parking lot was mostly empty, a vast expanse punctuated by a few lone cars. Your own, a modest electric vehicle, was a comforting beacon in the distance.

You were halfway across the plaza, the gentle breeze rustling the papers in your hand, when you felt it – a sudden, jarring grip on your wrist. Your heart leaped into your throat, a primal instinct flaring through your veins. You spun around, your breath catching in your lungs, to come face to face with Mark.

Mark. The name was a ghost from your first week, a memory you’d carefully filed away and tried to forget. You hadn't seen him since then, not a glimpse in the corridors, not a whisper in the staff room. He wasn't in his crisp McLaren uniform now. His clothes were rumpled, his hair dishehevelled, and his eyes, bloodshot and narrowed, held an anger that made your stomach churn. The smell of stale alcohol hung around him like a toxic cloud.

"You!" he snarled, his voice thick and slurred, but laced with a venom that cut through the quiet night. "You were the reason I lost my job, weren't you?"

His grip tightened, his fingers digging uncomfortably into your skin. Shock rooted you to the spot. Your papers, clutched loosely, slipped from your grasp, scattering across the paved ground like fallen leaves. Your carefully plotted graphs and insightful analyses lay vulnerable beneath the lamplight.

"Mark, I— I'm sorry if I got you in trouble," you stammered, the words barely escaping your parched throat. You tried to pull your wrist free, but his hold was iron-strong. His accusation, though vaguely understood, hit you with the force of a physical blow. You remembered the HR meeting, the hushed questions about a "misunderstanding" on your first day. You hadn't explicitly reported him, but you hadn't denied the 'harassment' either. Your discomfort had been obvious enough to someone.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" he roared, his voice echoing in the stillness. He started pulling you, roughly, towards the parking lot where a few dimly lit cars sat. "You ruined my life! My career! My everything!"

Panic, cold and sharp, coiled in your gut. There was no one around. The security office might be occupied, but it was too far, too out of sight. The vastness of the McLaren campus, usually a point of pride, now felt like an endless, desolate expanse. You kept apologizing, a desperate, automatic response, your voice small and trembling. Each step he forced upon you was a testament to your powerlessness. Your mind raced, searching for an escape, an explanation, anything to de-escalate the situation, but Mark was beyond reason, his eyes burning with a drunken fury that terrified you.

He dragged you past the manicured lawns, past the gleaming water feature, towards the employee parking lot. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. This was it, you thought, a horrifying, sickening realization. This was how it ended, here, in the dark.

Just as the shadowy outlines of cars grew clearer, a new voice, calm and steady, cut through the tension.

"Mark, I think you should let her go."

Your head snapped up, your eyes frantically scanning the darkness. From the shadows between two parked cars, a figure emerged, tall and composed. Relief, so potent it was almost painful, flooded through you. It was Oscar Piastri. He stood there, not in his racing gear, but in a simple t-shirt and jeans, looking surprisingly normal, but his presence was anything but. In his hand, neatly gathered, were the papers you had dropped.

Mark, startled, loosened his grip for a fraction of a second, just enough for you to wrench your arm free. You stumbled back, clutching your wrist, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Mind your own business, Piastri!" Mark slurred, turning his rage towards the new arrival. "She got me fired! She ruined my life!"

Oscar didn't flinch. His gaze was unwavering, a quiet intensity in his eyes that seemed to absorb Mark’s drunken tirade. "Your actions got you fired, Mark. Not hers." His voice, though soft, carried an undeniable authority. "Now, I suggest you leave. Before things get worse for you."

Mark continued to yell, a torrent of accusations and self-pity, but the fight had visibly drained from him. The presence of a McLaren driver, even off-track, seemed to sober him just enough to realize the precariousness of his position. He cursed, glared, and then, with a final, pathetic snarl, he stumbled away, disappearing back into the deeper shadows of the parking lot.

The sudden silence was deafening. You stood there, trembling, the adrenaline crash hitting you like a physical wave. Your legs gave out, and you sank to the ground, a choked sob escaping your lips. The cool pavement felt rough against your palms as you braced yourself. Your entire body shook, the fear still coursing through you.

Oscar was instantly by your side, kneeling down, his presence a warm anchor in the chaos of your mind. He didn't touch you, but his gaze was soft, concerned. He extended the papers to you, a neat stack. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

You couldn't speak, only shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

He waited patiently, then, "Would you like me to drive you home?"

You looked up at him, your vision blurry with unshed tears. His face was etched with genuine concern, a hint of something more, something protective. You managed a small, shaky nod. The thought of being alone, of driving yourself, felt utterly impossible.

Oscar helped you to your feet, a steadying hand on your arm. His touch was light, respectful, yet firm enough to convey support. He didn't pry; he just led you to his car, a sleek McLaren Artura, parked a little distance away. The vehicle was a blur of smooth lines and power, a stark contrast to the quiet, vulnerable person you felt like right now. He opened the passenger door for you with a silent grace, and you slid inside, sinking into the plush leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of new car and something subtly masculine – a clean, fresh scent.

The drive was initially silent, punctuated only by the soft hum of the hybrid engine. The darkness outside mirrored the hollow silence within you. You stared out the window, watching the familiar roads pass by, yet feeling utterly disconnected from them. Your hands were still trembling, clasped tightly in your lap.

"I… I didn't know you were still here," you finally managed to whisper, your voice hoarse.

Oscar glanced at you briefly, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. "I was just doing some simulator work. Went longer than I expected. Saw Mark on my way out, looking agitated. Then I saw him grab you." He paused. "I'm glad I did."

A wave of embarrassment washed over you. You, the Senior Sports Scientist, reduced to a trembling mess in front of one of McLaren's star drivers. "Thank you," you said, the words barely audible. "You… you really saved me."

"He shouldn't have been there," Oscar stated, his voice firm, a hint of steel beneath the gentleness. "And he definitely shouldn't have touched you."

You swallowed, remembering Mark’s accusations. "I think… I think someone reported him after our first day. He was… quite inappropriate. I didn't mean for him to lose his job, but I guess my discomfort was clear."

Oscar nodded slowly. "Actions have consequences. You have every right to feel safe at your workplace. And anywhere, for that matter." His words were a balm, a quiet validation that eased a sliver of the lingering shame.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy or awkward, but comfortable, punctuated by the soft purr of the engine and the quiet rhythm of your breathing. You found yourself stealing glances at him – the strong line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes as he navigated the road, the way his hands rested easily on the steering wheel. He was calm, collected, and strikingly handsome. A different kind of warmth, soft and unfamiliar, began to bloom in your chest, slowly pushing away the lingering fear.

"You dropped these," he said suddenly, looking over at you. He reached across the console, handing you the neatly stacked papers. Your fingers brushed as you took them, and a jolt, subtle but undeniable, shot through you. His skin was warm, firm. For a moment, your eyes met, and in that brief exchange, something unspoken passed between you – a shared moment of intensity, a recognition. It was more than just gratitude; it was an awareness, a spark.

"Thank you," you murmured again, suddenly shy. You tucked the papers into your bag, your heart doing a strange little flutter.

The car pulled up to your apartment building, its sleek form looking almost out of place on the quiet residential street. He turned off the engine, plunging the interior into a deeper, more intimate silence. The streetlights cast long shadows through the windows.

"Are you sure you'll be alright tonight?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching yours. The concern was still there, but now, mixed with something else, something softer, perhaps a touch of curiosity.

You took a deep breath. The trembling had subsided, replaced by a lingering exhaustion and a surprising sense of calm, largely due to his presence. "Yes," you said, finding your voice. "I think so. Thank you, Oscar. Truly. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there."

He gave a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. Just glad I was." He paused, then, "Perhaps… we could grab coffee sometime? Properly, I mean. Not under quite such… dramatic circumstances."

Your heart skipped a beat. A genuine smile, radiant and unforced, finally graced your lips. "I'd like that very much, Oscar."

He nodded, a hint of relief in his expression. "Good. Get some rest. And if you need anything, don't hesitate to call security. Or… me." He offered a hesitant, almost shy small smile then.

You felt a blush creep up your neck. "Thank you," you repeated, your voice softer now, tinged with a new, unexpected emotion. You reached for the door handle, but hesitated, turning back to him. "You know, for someone who avoids attention, you're pretty good at being a hero."

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your knees feel a little weak. "Just being in the right place at the right time. Or perhaps, the wrong place at the right time for Mark."

You stepped out of the car, the cool night air feeling less menacing now. He waited until you were safely inside the building, watching from his car, before his taillights flared and the McLaren Artura glided away into the night.

You walked into your apartment, the silence here feeling different now, no longer empty but filled with the echo of a brave voice, a kind gaze, and the unexpected promise of a future you hadn't dared to imagine just hours ago. The fear hadn't completely vanished, but it was overshadowed by a new, hopeful warmth. Your wrist would likely bruise, but the memory of Mark’s grip was already fading, replaced by the memory of Oscar’s steadying hand, his quiet strength, and the unexpected tenderness in his offer of a ride home. And that invitation for coffee… a surprising, delightful thought that settled gently into your heart, turning a terrifying night into the most unlikely of new beginnings.

The hum of the McLaren Technology Centre had become your second heartbeat over the past two months. As a Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, you’d been thrown headfirst into the high-octane world of Formula 1, and you loved every nanosecond of it. Your expertise lay in deciphering the subtle language of the human body under extreme pressure, transforming raw biometric and performance data into actionable insights. It was a demanding, exhilarating role, and you’d quickly endeared yourself to the team, finding an easy camaraderie with everyone, including the two young stars, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri.

But this weekend was different. This was your first race week, and a fizzing excitement had taken root deep in your gut. You couldn't wait to see the data stream in real-time, to witness the tangible impact of your work.

The initial buzz, however, quickly met the harsh reality of the circuit. Free Practice unfolded like a cruel joke for Oscar. Session after session, his name stubbornly clung to the lower half of the top ten, never quite breaking through. Tenth, eleventh, ninth – consistently out of reach of the front-runners. You watched the telemetry, the subtle shifts in his heart rate, the minute adjustments to his steering input, trying to pinpoint the elusive issue. Meanwhile, Lando, a vibrant splash of orange against the track, dominated, consistently placing in the top three. The contrast was stark, almost painful to observe.

Then came Qualifying. The tension in the garage was palpable, a thick, suffocating blanket. Your eyes were glued to Oscar’s monitor as Q1 passed, a relief, but then Q2 began. He pushed, you could feel it through the data, a desperate surge of effort. Then, a sudden, sickening halt. Engine failure. The words echoed through the comms, cold and final.

Silence descended, broken only by the whirring of cooling fans and the distant roar of other cars. You saw Oscar’s car being marshalled off the track on the big screens. When he eventually returned to the garage, his helmet was still on, but even through the visor, you could sense the rigid frustration emanating from him. He removed it, his jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, avoiding everyone’s gaze. He didn't shout, didn't punch anything; he simply exuded a quiet, intense disappointment that was far more unsettling than any outburst. You watched him disappear into his room, a knot forming in your stomach.

Lando, meanwhile, oblivious to everything but his rhythm, delivered a superb lap, snatching pole position. The team erupted in cheers, a bittersweet cacophony that felt jarring against the scene of Oscar’s quiet defeat.

After the debrief, a subdued affair where Oscar offered only curt, clipped responses, he vanished, the lock on his driver’s room clicking shut with an almost audible finality. A few minutes later, the familiar, lanky figure of Lando appeared in your office doorway, then slumped into one of your visitor chairs.

He ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. "He hasn't spoken to me since the debrief. He never does that! He always talks to me afterwards, even when things are bad." Lando’s voice was laced with a frustration born of worry. "I just... I don't know what to do."

You leaned back in your chair, your fingers still hovering over your keyboard. "Maybe he needs some time alone to think of how he can improve himself, Lando. Give him some time." You offered, hoping it was true, yet feeling a pang of unease yourself.

Lando sighed, then looked at you, a familiar, mischievous grin slowly spreading across his face. "Sure, maybe… or maybe you can speak to him?"

You looked up, genuinely confused. "Why me?"

"You two look close," Lando suggested, his grin widening. "Maybe he might listen to you."

You paused, processing his words. Close. You and Oscar had indeed found an easy rhythm. Your daily data check-ins often morphed into longer chats about anything and everything. He always had a ready smile for you, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that had become surprisingly endearing. He’d even started asking you questions about your work, genuinely curious, which was a refreshing change from some of the more technical heads you usually dealt with. Yes, you supposed you were close friends.

"Okay," you finally conceded, pushing away from your desk. "I'll talk to him after the race tomorrow."

Lando’s face lit up. "Great! See you, Y/N!" He sprang up, clearly relieved, and headed for the door.

"Bye, Lando," you called after him, a small smile touching your lips. "And great job on pole position."

The next day, a nervous energy pulsed through the paddock. You kept a watchful eye on Oscar. He looked a little better, his usual composed demeanor mostly restored, if a touch more reserved.

Out on track for the warm-up, he managed to clock a respectable tenth, a small glimmer of hope.

The grid formed, engines roared, and the lights went out. The race began. Oscar, starting further back, drove with a quiet determination. You watched his telemetry, saw his focus, his precision.

He was gaining positions, slowly but steadily climbing. Tenth, then ninth, then eighth. Hope flickered, tangible and warm.

Then, the world seemed to freeze.

A blur of red and orange. A sudden, sickening lurch on the screen. Charles Leclerc’s Ferrari, unseen, clipped Oscar’s rear wheel.

In a horrifying, slow-motion ballet of twisted metal and flying carbon fibre, Oscar’s car was sent spinning, then flipped into the wall, a violent, deafening crunch that reverberated through the very foundations of the garage.

Silence.

Not the quiet, tense silence of frustration, but a profound, chilling void. The commentary died, the cheers from spectators faded into a distant murmur.

Everyone’s breath hitched. Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

The marshals sprinted, a flurry of orange vests against the smoking wreckage. Medical teams were already on their way. You couldn’t do anything. Absolutely nothing.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms as you stared at the shattered image on the screen, a cold dread seeping into your bones. The data stream from his car flatlined.

The minutes that followed felt like an eternity. Your eyes flitted between the screens, searching for any sign of movement from the car, any update from the race control.

Lando, who had been leading the race, was now behind the safety car, his car a blur in your peripheral vision, but you knew his focus was also on that mangled orange machine.

Finally, word filtered through, hushed and urgent. Oscar was conscious. He was being extracted.

A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled your knees, washed over you, followed by another surge of fear. Conscious wasn’t the same as uninjured.

The team erupted into a storm of activity, preparing for the hospital, for the debriefs, for the endless questions. But your world had narrowed to a single point: Oscar.

The professional distance, the analytical approach you cultivated, shattered. All that remained was an overwhelming, unqualified worry. This wasn’t just about data anymore.

Hours later, the paddock emptied, the roar of engines replaced by the distant hum of generators. You found yourself in a sterile, brightly lit hospital waiting room with Zak, Andrea, and Lando.

Time stretched, elastic and slow. Lando paced, his usual ebullience replaced by a an anxious quiet. He kept glancing at the door, then at you, as if searching for reassurance you couldn't give.

Finally, a doctor emerged, grave but with a hint of relief in his eyes. "He's stable," he said, and the collective sigh of the team was almost an audible thing. "Fractured wrist, some bruising, and a significant concussion. But he's going to be okay. He's awake, a little disoriented, but asking for... well, he's asking for a few people. We're keeping him overnight for observation."

"Can we see him?" Lando asked immediately, his voice hoarse.

"Briefly," the doctor conceded. "One at a time, for now. He needs rest."

Lando volunteered first, disappearing down the corridor. You sat, still trembling slightly, trying to process the relief that warred with the lingering shock.

When Lando returned, his expression was a mix of relief and lingering sadness. He gave you a small, encouraging nod. “He’s pretty out of it, but… he asked for you, actually.”

Your breath hitched. He asked for you.

Your turn. You walked down the quiet corridor, your heart thudding a new, anxious rhythm. The door opened to a small, private room. Oscar lay in the bed, pale against the crisp white sheets.

His right arm was in a cast, suspended in a sling. His eyes, usually so sharp and observant, were a little hazy, but they focused on you as you stepped inside.

"Hey, Oscar," you said softly, your voice surprisingly steady. You moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down gently.

He managed a weak smile, a shadow of his usual charming grin. "Y/N," he rasped, his voice rough. "You're… here."

"Of course I am," you replied, a small, genuine smile curving your lips. "Are you in much pain?"

He shook his head slightly, wincing. "Just… my head. And my wrist. Feels like I went a few rounds with a heavyweight." He chuckled, a dry, painful sound.

You watched him, the raw vulnerability in his eyes a stark contrast to the composed, almost stoic young man you usually saw.

His competitive fire, usually so tightly contained, had been almost extinguished by the crash, leaving behind a fragility that tugged at something deep inside you.

"That was quite a hit," you said, your voice gentle. "Everyone was really worried."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah. Engine failure yesterday. This today." He took a shaky breath. "It's been a hell of a weekend." The anger, the frustration from yesterday, was still there, but now it was layered with a profound weariness. "I just wanted to… I wanted to prove myself. To get some points. And then… this."

You reached out, covering his uninjured hand with yours. His skin was cool, a little clammy. "You were doing brilliantly out there, Oscar. You were climbing through the field. That crash… it wasn't your fault. Charles has already accepted responsibility."

He opened his eyes, looking at your hand on his, then back up at you. His gaze was searching, vulnerable. "It still feels like… like I let everyone down. Like I can't catch a break."

"No one thinks that, Oscar," you insisted, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. "We all saw how hard you were fighting. That's what matters. You were incredible." You squeezed his hand. "And we're just relieved you're okay. That's the most important thing."

A genuine, albeit tired, smile finally touched his lips, and a spark, a faint echo of his usual warmth, returned to his eyes. He squeezed your hand back, a weak but definite pressure. "Thanks, Y/N." His gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, the sterile hospital room faded away.

The spell was broken by a soft knock on the door. A nurse peered in, her smile apologetic. "Just checking in, Mr. Piastri. Time for a little more rest."

You took your cue, gently withdrawing your hand. "I should let you get some sleep, Oscar." You stood, the chair scraping softly against the linoleum.

He frowned slightly, the corners of his mouth dipping. "Already?" he rasped, a hint of genuine disappointment in his voice.

You smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached your eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise. Get some rest." You gave him a small, reassuring nod, then turned and left the room, the image of his pale face and that fragile, hopeful look imprinted on your mind.

Walking back down the corridor, the hospital air felt heavy, yet exhilarating. The raw fear of the crash had finally begun to recede, replaced by a profound relief, and something else – a soft, insistent warmth centered around your heart.

Your professional distance had been shattered by the sight of that mangled car, by the flatlined telemetry, by the terrifying silence. But visiting Oscar, seeing him so vulnerable, so human, had awakened something deeper. This wasn't just about his recovery data anymore. This was about him.

The next few weeks were a blur of recovery, strategy, and an unexpected intimacy that grew between you and Oscar. Your role as Sports Scientist – Human Data Science naturally brought you into his recovery process.

You were tasked with monitoring his initial cognitive function, assessing his physical rehabilitation progress, and ensuring his mental well-being was accounted for alongside the physiological markers.

It was a perfect, professional excuse to see him, to be there for him.

He was discharged a few days later, still sporting the cast on his right arm and a lingering headache from the concussion, but infinitely more comfortable in the privacy of his apartment than in a hospital bed.

McLaren had set up a robust recovery plan, with physical therapists, neurologists, and sports psychologists all on standby. And you.

You'd bring work files, debrief notes, and data simulations to his apartment, ostensibly to keep him engaged and informed, but often staying longer, talking about anything and everything. He was a restless patient, often frustrated by the forced inactivity.

The competitive fire, though subdued, still flickered, making him chafe at being benched. You saw past the frustration to the fear beneath, the worry that this crash might set him back, that he might never quite regain his edge.

"It's like my body knows what it wants to do, but my brain's a step behind," he’d sigh, running his uninjured hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. "And this cast… it's really cramping my style for sim racing."

You'd chuckle, "Give yourself a break, Oscar. Your brain just took a pretty big hit. It needs time to defrag. And your wrist needs to knit back together." You'd set down a tablet with some updated telemetry from the previous race. "Lando drove a brilliant race, by the way. He really dedicated it to you."

He'd nod, a small, genuine smile forming. "Yeah, I saw. He messaged me. Said he missed having me there to complain about."

Your conversations flowed easily, often drifting from F1 to mundane life, to shared jokes, to surprisingly deep discussions about his childhood, your career path, the pressures of the sport.

You found yourself looking forward to these visits with an eagerness that surprised you. He, in turn, started calling you, not just for work-related questions, but for company, for a distraction.

"Hey, Y/N, you busy? Just wondering if you know if the new Xbox game came out yet," he'd text, or, "Fancy getting a coffee? I'm craving a decent flat white and I'm not allowed to drive yet."

Lando, ever observant, didn't miss a beat. During one of your visits to the MTC, when Oscar was allowed to come in for some light gym work, Lando cornered you by the coffee machine.

"So, you're practically his personal nurse now, are you?" Lando teased, a playful glint in his eye.

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "I'm his Sports Scientist, Lando. It's my job to ensure his recovery is optimal."

"Right, right," Lando said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Just, you know, 'optimal' often involves less, uh, giggling over bad Netflix shows and more, uh, electrodes and data. Not that I'm complaining. He seems a lot less grumpy when you're around." He winked conspiratorially. "Just saying. Don't let him charm you too much. He's got a reputation, you know."

You scoffed good-naturedly, but a warmth spread through you. Lando saw it too. Everyone did. The connection wasn't just unspoken anymore; it was practically visible.

As the weeks turned into a little over a month, Oscar’s physical recovery was progressing remarkably well. The cast was off, replaced by a brace he wore occasionally.

He was back in the simulator, though cautiously, and gradually increasing his training. His concussion symptoms had mostly abated, though the team was still cautious.

He was set to return to the paddock for the next race, not to drive, but to be with the team, to observe, to feel the familiar thrum of the racing world.

One late afternoon, you were at his apartment. You’d been reviewing some simulated race data for him, comparing it to his pre-crash baseline. He was sitting on the sofa, nursing a mug of herbal tea, watching you.

The setting sun cast a warm, golden glow through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The usual professional banter had died down, replaced by a comfortable silence.

You finished making a note on your tablet and looked up, meeting his eyes. He wasn't smiling, but his gaze was soft, intense. He looked nervous, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

"Oscar? Everything okay?" you asked, a touch of concern in your voice.

He cleared his throat, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink. He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together. "Yeah, uh… yeah, it is. It's just…" He trailed off, looking away for a moment, then back at you, his brown eyes searching. "I've been thinking."

Your heart gave a little lurch. This felt different.

"About… the data?" you prompted gently, trying to keep your voice neutral.

He gave a short, humourless laugh. "No, not the data. Well, maybe a little. But mostly… about us. About you and me."

Your breath hitched. You waited, a knot forming in your stomach, a mix of apprehension and eager anticipation.

He took a shaky breath, his gaze fixed on some point just past your shoulder, then he forced himself to meet your eyes again. "Y/N, ever since… well, ever since that weekend, and with everything that's happened, and you being here almost every day…"

He paused, visibly gathering his thoughts, his usual composure completely gone. He was rambling, something you rarely saw from the usually meticulous Oscar. "I just really enjoy spending time with you and you really have become someone very special to me and-"

"Hey... calm down, it's okay," you interrupted softly, a gentle smile blooming on your face. You reached out, placing your hand over his clasped ones. His skin was warm, a little sweaty. "Breathe."

He visibly relaxed under your touch, taking a deeper breath. His eyes, still wide with a mix of fear and hope, were now solely on you.

"Sorry," he mumbled, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I'm not usually this… eloquent." He tried a small, self-deprecating smile.

You squeezed his hand. "You're doing fine. What were you trying to say, Oscar?"

He swallowed, his gaze darting to your lips for a fleeting moment before returning to your eyes. "I… I really like you, Y/N. More than just a colleague, or even a friend. I know it's probably crazy, with everything going on, and the team, and my recovery, but… I can't stop thinking about you."

He cleared his throat again. "And I was wondering… if after everything, and when I'm properly back on my feet, if you'd… if you'd consider going on a date with me? A proper one. Outside of this apartment, outside of McLaren."

The world seemed to hold its breath. This was it. The silent understanding that had been building for weeks, now laid bare, vulnerable.

An answering warmth bloomed in your chest, blossoming into undeniable joy. You had suspected, you had hoped, but to hear him say it, to see the raw honesty in his eyes, was something else entirely.

You found yourself grinning, a wide, genuine smile that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oscar Piastri, are you asking me out?" you teased gently, your thumb caressing the back of his hand.

He let out a shaky laugh, a wave of relief washing over his features. "I… I believe I am, yes."

"And you're worried about what the team will say?"

"A little," he admitted, his gaze softening. "But mostly I was worried you'd say no."

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a soft murmur. "Well, you don't have to worry about that." Your smile widened. "I'd love to go on a date with you, Oscar. A proper one."

A genuine, radiant smile finally broke through the nervous tension on his face. It was the first time you'd seen him completely free of the shadows of the crash, completely himself, in weeks.

His grip on your hand tightened, a confident, hopeful pressure. "Really?"

"Really," you confirmed, your eyes twinkling. You felt a lightness in your chest, a sense of rightness. This was a new adventure, one you hadn't planned for when you joined McLaren, but one you were incredibly excited to embark on.

He leaned in slowly, his eyes still fixed on yours, a question forming in their depths. You didn't pull away. Instead, you mirrored his movement, closing the small gap between you.

His lips were soft, hesitant at first, then more confident as you responded. It was a gentle kiss, a promise of something new and beautiful, full of the unspoken feelings that had simmered for weeks.

When you pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your cheek.

"Wow," he whispered, a small, breathless laugh escaping him.

You chuckled, your heart soaring. "Yeah. Wow."

The sun had finally set, bathing the room in soft twilight. The Mclaren data could wait. For now, there was just this, this new, exhilarating connection, forged in the crucible of a terrifying crash and nurtured in the quiet moments of recovery.

This wasn't just about human data science anymore. This was just human. And it was wonderful. . . .

515 notes · View notes

pucksandpower · 1 day ago

Text

Fallen Angel

⟡ Chapter 32

⟡ Oscar Piastri x Sainz!Reader

You were supposed to be a good girl, a quiet wife, a family secret. Instead, you ran straight into the arms of the one man they loathe — and he’s not letting you go.

Warnings: religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, purity culture, and possessive behavior

Series Masterlist

The bridal suite in the cathedral is colder than it should be.

There’s a thick carpet underfoot, a gilded mirror on the wall, soft blush drapes framing arched stained-glass windows. Someone has arranged ivory roses in vases by the sink. Someone else has laid out a lace handkerchief monogrammed with your new initials.

There is no music. No laughter. No light.

You sit still in the high-backed chair like a mannequin as the makeup artist paints your face with expert hands.

It feels like someone else’s skin.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” the woman says softly. You do.

You hear the whisper of a brush against your lid. Powder. Setting spray. Lip color. Something peachy and innocent, something befitting the docile bride of a businessman twice your age.

Your dress is hanging behind you. A sheath of antique white. High-necked. Long-sleeved. Virgin silk and embroidered lace and a buttoned-up silence stitched into every seam.

You haven’t looked at it once.

The stylist hums as she pins the final strands of your hair into a tight, gleaming twist. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride Madrid has ever seen.”

You don’t answer.

A knock comes at the door.

Your eyes stay shut.

“Señor Carlos,” says the stylist. “Come in.”

The makeup artist and the stylist both rise when he enters. He tells them warmly, “Could we have a moment?”

They smile. They bow their heads. They leave.

He waits until the door clicks shut before speaking.

You don’t look at him.

He kneels beside the chair like he did when you were seven and scraped your knee on the tile.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flicker open.

He searches your face. His are tired — ringed dark, the shadow of something resembling guilt tugging at the corners of his mouth. But he forces a smile anyway. “You look like Mamá on her wedding day.”

You don’t reply.

“Everything’s ready,” he says. “Álvaro’s family is seated. Sponsors are thrilled. It’s … it’s going to be beautiful.”

You let your eyes drift away from his.

Out the window, the sky is too bright.

Too cruel.

Carlos swallows. “I know this wasn’t what you planned. Or … wanted, maybe. But this is what’s right. It’s what will fix everything.”

You barely move. Your hands rest still in your lap, a rosary curled between your fingers.

Carlos reaches for one of them. His grip is gentle. Brotherly. “This is your way back,” he says. “Back to God. Back to us.”

You turn toward him, just slightly.

There is no life behind your gaze.

“You lied,” you whisper.

Carlos’s smile falters. “We’ve talked about this. I-”

“You lied to the whole world. About me.”

Carlos sighs. “I was trying to protect you.”

“No,” you say softly. “You were trying to control me.”

The words hang in the room like smoke.

He lets go of your hand.

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

Just say, “I died the day you told the world I was a whore.”

Carlos straightens, stung.

“You weren’t listening,” he says, harsher now. “You were running. With him. You don’t understand what it was like for us. The press. The sponsors. Papá.”

“I was scared,” you say. “And you made it worse.”

Carlos walks to the window, runs a hand through his hair. His suit is perfectly tailored. His tie is wine-colored silk. He looks like the kind of man who always wins.

“You’re about to have everything,” he says. “Stability. Security. A husband who respects you. Who won’t make a spectacle of you.”

You don’t say it out loud, but the words form in your mind with brutal clarity.

Oscar never made a spectacle of me. He made me feel real.

Carlos turns back to you, arms folded.

“You’re not a little girl anymore,” he says. “It’s time to grow up.”

You look down at your lap. The rosary has left a faint red imprint on your palm.

“I don’t feel anything,” you say.

He blinks. “What?”

You lift your chin slowly. Your voice doesn’t tremble.

“I don’t feel God. I don’t feel peace. I don’t feel joy.”

Carlos walks back toward you. “It’ll come. After the vows, after the sacraments-”

“I don’t feel me.” The confession breaks from your throat like a prayer. Or a scream. But your face remains unreadable. “You brought me back from Monaco. But I never came home.”

Carlos stares at you.

And you realize — he thought you’d already surrendered. That today would be a celebration of your obedience.

Not a burial.

The door opens.

It’s your mother. “Time to dress, mi amor,” she says brightly, unaware of the tension, carrying the gown as if it weighs nothing at all.

You rise because you’re told to.

Because you’ve always been good at that.

Because somewhere deep inside, you still don’t know how to say no.

You stand in front of the mirror as they unzip the garment bag.

And for a second, just one-

You imagine Oscar.

You imagine him standing at the door, not Carlos.

Imagine him saying, Don’t do this. Run. Come back to me.

But no one comes.

Only the silence.

Only the dress.

Only the girl in the mirror who doesn’t even blink when they begin to button her into it.

***

The cathedral smells of incense and roses.

You walk down the aisle in silence, your arm looped through your father’s, the train of your gown trailing behind you like a burial shroud. The choir sings something sacred and hollow. You don’t hear it. You don’t hear anything.

Only your heartbeat. Slow and dull. Distant.

The pews are full — every seat taken. Sponsors. Executives. Family friends. They smile when they see you, but it’s the kind of smile people give at funerals.

Álvaro waits at the altar.

He looks the same as always — composed, cold, pressed into his designer tuxedo like he’s being fitted for a billboard. He gives you a small, controlled smile. You try to return it. Your lips won’t move.

You reach the altar. Your father lifts your veil. Kisses your cheek. Whispers, “You’ve made us so proud.”

You want to scream.

But you nod instead.

The priest begins.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit …”

You cross yourself automatically.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God …”

Your eyes remain on the crucifix hanging above the altar. You try to imagine Christ looking down at you with love.

But He’s made of wood.

Painted gold.

Just like you.

Everything is said in Spanish. The prayers. The rites. The blessings. You say your lines when prompted. You kneel when told. You rise with the crowd.

Your hands are folded neatly at your waist, hiding the fact that your nails are digging into your palms.

When the priest begins the vows, Álvaro steps forward.

He speaks his lines perfectly. Promises to honor and protect you. To love you in sickness and health. To be faithful and strong.

You hear none of it.

The cathedral is too quiet. Too still.

“And now,” the priest says in his solemn, practiced voice, “before we proceed, if there is anyone here who knows of a reason why these two should not be joined in Holy Matrimony, speak now-”

The doors slam open.

It’s not subtle.

It’s not gentle.

It is thunder in a holy place.

Every head whips around. The priest falters. Your heart stops.

Because it’s him.

Oscar.

Panting. Dressed in black. Hair a little messy, like he ran here.

There’s a moment of pure, stunned silence.

Then-

“No,” he says.

Just that. One word. Firm. Broken. Unshakable.

“No.”

You don’t breathe.

The priest blinks. “Excuse me?”

Oscar walks forward, steps echoing off marble.

“I object,” he says, louder now. “On the grounds that she doesn’t love him.”

Your hands fall to your sides.

Álvaro mutters something under his breath — profanity, maybe. Your father starts to rise. Carlos grabs his arm.

Oscar’s voice is shaking, but strong.

“She loves me,” he says. “And I love her. And I was a coward, and I let her go, and I thought maybe she’d come back when she was ready. But I waited too long.”

The priest tries to interrupt. “This is not-”

“I know this isn’t the right place,” Oscar says. “Or the right time. But none of this should be happening in the first place.”

He turns to you now. Just you.

And you forget how to stand.

“You told me once that you couldn’t breathe near me,” he says. “But I can’t breathe without you.”

Your lip trembles.

“I thought I was giving you space,” he says. “I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go. But that wasn’t noble. That was fear.”

Your veil slips back off your head.

He keeps going.

“I wake up every day thinking maybe I’ll forget your voice. Or how you laugh. Or how you taste when you kiss me with your eyes closed like the world’s ending. But I never forget.”

Your knees feel weak.

“Maybe this makes me selfish. But I’m not here to stop you because I want you for me. I’m here to stop you because I know this isn’t you.”

He gestures to the altar. The dress. Álvaro.

“This isn’t the girl who lit three candles in a mountain chapel,” he says. “This isn’t the girl who made tea with too much honey, who sleeps with her wrists tucked under her chin, who wore my hoodie and called it armor.”

Everyone is staring.

No one breathes.

Oscar’s voice softens.

“The girl I loved … loves. Still loves. I think.”

A long silence follows.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, you let yourself feel it:

Hope.

It starts like a tremor in your chest. Then your hand moves. Then your foot.

You take a step down from the altar.

“Y/N,” Álvaro hisses under his breath. “Don’t you dare.”

You take another step.

Carlos rises. “Y/N-”

You don’t look at him.

You walk past the pews. Down the aisle. Past the stunned crowd.

Toward him.

Toward Oscar.

He looks like he’s holding his breath.

You stop right in front of him. Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“You came.”

“I’d die before letting you marry him.”

A pause.

Then you slap him across the chest with both hands.

Hard.

“You waited,” you choke out. “You idiot.”

Oscar grabs your wrists, presses them to his chest.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“You-” you hit him again, weaker now. “You left me there.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But I’m here now. I’m here. And Lando’s outside.”

You blink. “What?”

“Getaway car.” He grins, breathless. “McLaren. Fully fueled. He’s even wearing sunglasses like it’s Ocean’s Eleven.”

You stare at him.

Then you laugh.

It comes out wild and cracked and gasping, but it’s a laugh.

You turn. Your mother is crying. Your father is furious. Álvaro is shouting at someone. The priest has sat down.

Carlos is standing in the aisle, shaking his head.

He whispers, “Don’t.”

You whisper back, “I already did.”

You grab Oscar’s hand.

And together, you run.

Out of the cathedral. Down the steps. Past the stunned photographers. Toward the orange McLaren parked at the curb like it owns the world.

Lando revs the engine. “Let’s go, lovebirds!”

Oscar yanks the door open. You dive into the backseat, veil flying.

As the car speeds away — tires screeching, horns honking, chaos in your wake — you look at him.

Oscar. Jaw set. Hands steady.

And for the first time in months, you breathe.

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verstappenf1lecccc · 2 days ago

Text

You are mine, even if you don’t understand it yet.

okay sooo this is the shorter version of what was going to be my 20K mafia carlos smut fic hahaha I’ll see when I can post the whole thing anyways babes enjoy!! let me know what you guys wanna see.

The first time you saw Carlos Sainz, you didn’t think husband.

You thought enemy.

The church was heavy with incense and the murmurs of your family’s whispers, old-money pride masking the truth: your father had sold you. Not to poverty, but to power. Not to ruin, but to a man whose last name carried blood on its tongue.

Sainz. The Spanish mafia’s golden heir.

He sat there in his immaculate suit, jaw cut sharp as if sculpted by knives, his gaze fixed on you with a weight that made your lungs seize. He did not smile. He didn’t even blink. He looked at you the way men look at territory they are about to conquer not love, not tenderness, but possession.

Your hands trembled as you signed the marriage papers. His did not.

The mansion he brought you to in Madrid was beautiful and brutal all at once. Marble floors, chandeliers, armed men at every corner. A palace built on fear.

You hated him in silence.

And worse he seemed to enjoy your hatred.

“Eat,” he ordered at dinner, when you pushed the plate away. His Spanish lilt turned commands into velvet threats.

“I’m not hungry,” you snapped.

He leaned back in his chair, dark eyes tracing every flicker of your defiance. “You will eat. Even if I have to feed you myself.”

It was always like this tension sparking between you, words cutting deeper than knives.

You weren’t his wife; you were his captive. And yet, every time danger brushed too close, Carlos turned into something else entirely.

The first time a gun was pointed at you, you saw it.

The rage. The feral violence.

He broke the man’s wrist before you could even scream, slammed his head into the marble so hard the floor cracked. Blood sprayed, and Carlos turned to you with wild eyes, chest heaving.

“Estás bien?” Are you okay?

You should have recoiled. Instead, you froze, because you had never heard that tone from him before frantic, terrified, as if your pain would destroy him.

But love does not bloom easily in a house built on silence.

You misunderstood him.

He misunderstood you.

He stayed out all night on business, and you thought it was women. He saw you speak to one of his men, and he thought it was betrayal.

The fight that followed shattered the fragile truce between you.

“You think I wanted this marriage?” you screamed, fists balled at your sides.

“You think I asked to be chained to a man who treats me like property?”

Carlos slammed his glass down, shattering it, red wine bleeding into the marble like blood.

“Propiedad?” His voice was fire. “You are not property. You are mine. Mía. That is not the same thing.”

Tears stung your eyes. “There’s no difference!”

His chest rose and fell, fury and desperation warring in his gaze. “The difference is that property I can replace. You, no.”

Silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating. You turned away before he could see the way your lips trembled.

The yearning came slowly, painfully.

In the way he draped his jacket over your shoulders when you shivered.

In the way his hand lingered a second too long when he brushed past you.

In the way Spanish spilled from his lips when he thought you couldn’t hear: Mi esposa, mi vida… My wife, my life.

But neither of you said the words. Pride strangled them in your throats.

Until the night the cartel tried to take you.

You woke to the crash of glass, masked men dragging you from your bed. Your screams were muffled, your body thrown into the back of a van. And then chaos.

Gunfire. Shouting.

And Carlos.

He ripped the door open, blood on his shirt, eyes blazing like a man possessed. He pulled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if to reassure himself you were whole.

“Nunca más,” he rasped. Never again. “I will kill every man who touches you.”

You clung to him, trembling, something inside you breaking open. “Why do you care?”

His hands cupped your face, rough and shaking. “Because without you, I am already dead.”

The kiss was inevitable.

Voices raw with pain and love you both refused to name. He grabbed your wrist to stop you from walking away, you shoved him back, he caught you again, and then his mouth was on yours bruising, desperate, claiming.

“Eres mía,” he growled against your lips. “Siempre.” Always.

And when he finally took you to bed, it was not gentle.

It was not soft.

It was everything that had burned between you, igniting into fire.

His hands pinning yours above your head.

His breath hot against your neck as he whispered in Spanish, words filthy and tender at once.

Your body arching into his as he worshiped and punished in equal measure, proving his possession with every thrust.

You gasped his name like a prayer and a curse, and Carlos broke apart against you, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering over and over, “Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero…” I love you.

The morning after, you woke tangled in his arms, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek.

For the first time, you realized he was not the monster you had feared.

He was a man drowning in blood and violence, yes.

But he was also the man who would burn the world to keep you safe.

Your husband.

Your enemy.

Your love.

Carlos stirred, pulling you closer even in sleep, murmuring in Spanish against your hair:

“Nunca escaparás de mí, cariño. Porque yo tampoco escaparé de ti.”

You will never escape me, darling. Because I will never escape you.

And for the first time, you didn’t want to run.

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haniette · 1 day ago

Text

forbidden taste.² // ln4

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, smut, fluff, fewtrell!reader, brother’s bestfriend au, friends to lovers, kinda forbidden love??, slowburn, hurt-comfort

word count | 15.4k (part two)

warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, soft sex, p i v, oral (m, f), hair pulling, edging, dirty talk, praise kink, virginity loss, slight voyeurism, aftercare), forced proximity, makeout scenes, pet names (sunshine, baby), secret relationship, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.

music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy

summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.

a/n: read part one here <3 hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡

The next morning, the villa seemed to hold its breath. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, heavy with the scent of saltwater and jasmine, and already the weight of the morning was thick with unspoken things. The kind of silence where you could almost hear the thoughts racing, the weight of the air pressing in as though something was about to break.

You sat at the end of the dining table, one leg tucked beneath you, a loose hoodie slipping off your shoulder. You stared down at your cereal, which already started to become mushy, your spoon abandoned in the bowl. You weren’t really eating—you were just there, staring down at the swirls of milk and flakes while your thoughts looped back to last night.

Your thighs still tingled. Your skin still remembered the brush of his fingers, the way he whispered praise into your ear with a voice so low it made your lungs forget how to breathe.

And then he just left.

You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. You just stared at the ceiling until the sun started spilling across your sheets, your lips curving without your permission, heat blooming across your cheeks.

Footsteps padded across the tile—not rushed, not hesitant. Just calm, and easy. You knew it was him before he even came into view, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t move, yet your breath still caught anyway. You hid the smile quickly, biting the inside of your cheek as though that could erase the evidence.

He walked into the kitchen without pause. Hair tousled, his curls messy and falling over his forehead. A simple black t-shirt stretched across his torso, sleeves tight against his arms. Navy shorts hung low on his hips. He didn’t look like someone haunted by the night before. He looked… effortless. Like this was just another morning.

Your heartbeat was a slow, steady thud in your ears. He hadn’t said anything after last night. Not when he left with your name still clinging to his lips. And now, he was here, barefoot and relaxed, as if the memory of his fingers deep inside you wasn’t still thick in the air between you.

He reached for the orange juice in the fridge, the sound of the cap twisting echoing in the silence. You wondered if it was too loud, but to you everything felt too loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant swoosh of the waves from the ocean, and the shuffle of his feet on the floor. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He poured himself a glass, the golden liquid cascading smoothly into the cup, the way his fingers curled around the glass—so strong, yet effortlessly delicate.

He never once acknowledged you, but somehow you could feel his awareness. He knew you were there.

Lando leaned against the counter, still not looking at you. But you looked, you couldn’t stop yourself. The curve of his throat, the faint red mark on his collarbone—had you done that? Or was it a different girl? Your eyes dropped lower, to the veins in his forearm, to the way his fingers flexed around the glass with tension he probably didn’t realize he was holding.

The seconds ticked by like hours, stretching the air between you until it vibrated with unspoken words. And then, as if finally deciding to break the stillness, he looked at you. But it wasn’t just a look or a small glance. Lando watched you, his eyes locked on yours, sharp and knowing, and then that damn smirk tugged at his mouth. Slow. Crooked. As if he was letting you know—without words—that he remembered everything.

Your stomach flipped. You should have looked away, pretended to be too busy with your cereal. But instead, you smirked right back. A tiny one, more playful than defiant, like you’d just agreed to play along in this silent game. You remembered the way he looked at you last night—right before he slid his fingers between your thighs—with reverence, like he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it.

The tension wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was charged. Like teenagers daring each other not to break first. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to your mouth, before flicking back up. He took a slow sip of juice, as though he wasn’t caught, but his eyes never left yours.

You leaned your chin on your palm, tilting your head at him. “Morning, Lan.” You said, casual, but your voice carried more than that—like you were testing how much he’d give away.

His smirk deepened, one eyebrow ticking up. “Morning, Sunshine.” He echoed, smooth, easy, but his eyes sparkled with something far less innocent.

The air between you thrummed, like the universe had reduced itself to nothing but glances and smirks across a breakfast table.

Suddenly, Max’s voice broke through the air like a slap, loud and oblivious as he stomped in, “Where the fuck is my charger?” He muttered while ruffling his hair, already half-complaining.

You jumped slightly at the sudden interruption, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He was still a bit drunk from the night before, his words slurring together as he dug through the drawers, looking for his charger.

Lando shifted immediately, the tension vanishing like it had never existed. You, on the other hand, were still frozen, while your heart was beating too fast. Your palms suddenly went cold as you clenched the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, that wasn’t the pull of his gaze.

“Hey, are you seriously still looking at your cereal?” Max’s laugh was grating, but it was easy to let it wash over you, pushing away the tension that was still hanging in the air like fog.

Lando, however, didn’t break. He didn’t let the interruption completely pull him away from whatever had been between you. He just bit his bottom lip, eyes darting from Max to you in the span of a heartbeat. The smirk remained, like a secret only the two of you shared.

The moment stretched long as Max rambled something uncomprehendable under his breath, as Lando’s attention remained fixed. His eyes flicked from Max to you, and back again. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that held you captive in place, even as the noise from Max’s antics continued in the background.

You tried to breathe, but it felt like you were suffocating. The space between you and Lando seemed infinite and too close all at once. Every time your eyes met his, there was an undeniable, magnetic pull. And yet, he didn’t break the silence. He didn’t rush forward to fill it. He just watched—eyes gleaming, smirk softer now, but just as dangerous.

Max continued his tirade about his charger, finally locating it under the couch, and tossing it carelessly onto the table. Then finally, Lando placed his glass in the sink and moved toward the hall. But as he passed behind your chair, something happened. His hand brushed your shoulder. Barely. Like the memory of the touch from the night before. But your body flinched anyway—every nerve sparking to life, your skin burning beneath where his fingers had grazed. He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t stop his tracks. But you felt it.

Max was wandering across the room, completely unaware of the situation between Lando and you. But you knew better.

Everything between you two had changed, and though the world seemed to spin on, indifferent to the storm brewing inside, you both knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

────୨ৎ────

Laughter was bouncing off the walls in the villa, and music was thumping through the thick summer air as the glasses clinked in careless celebration. Only a few days have left in Ibiza.

It was too loud, and too hot. Too crowded with people who had no idea what had passed between you two just a few nights ago. No one knew that Lando had had his fingers buried deep inside you while your breath hitched, gasping his name like it was the only thing tethering you to life.

Now, here you were, both pretending that night had never happened. Well, sort of.

Lando lounged across the pool, sunk into one of those overstuffed chairs with a glass of something cold in his hand. His curls were messier than usual, dark and wild, shadows playing over his jawline that was clenched tighter than anyone pretending to be relaxed should be. He wasn’t looking at you—at least, not openly—but you could feel him. Like a pulse beneath your skin, drawing your eyes back to him, again and again.

Finally, your gaze caught his. It was slow, deliberate. Neither of you willing to look away first. Your eyes locked like some silent challenge, electric and heavy. You didn’t smile, and neither did he. But the tension between you snapped into place like a taut wire, humming with everything you weren’t saying, everything simmering just beneath the surface.

Then, without a word, Lando stood up. He wasn’t in a rush, no sudden moves. Just smooth, deliberate steps, passing close enough that his fingers brushed your hip—light as a feather, but you knew better. It was never accidental.

He disappeared inside the villa, footsteps fading down the hallway until a door clicked open, but it didn’t close. You knew exactly what that meant. You waited, heart pounding loud in your ears, counting the seconds-ten, fifteen-before you followed, steady and sure.

The bathroom was dim, bathed in the soft golden glow leaking from the hallway lights. The bass of the party thudded muffled beyond the door, but here, time slowed.

Lando was already there, leaning against the sink like he had all the time in the world-like he hadn't been eyeing you from across the room all night, like he hadn't traced your every step in that little sundress that barely brushed your thighs.

He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at you-dark, unreadable, jaw tight, a slow smirk pulling at the corner of his lips like he was already winning. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his shorts like he didn't trust himself to touch you again.

“Took you long enough.” He finally murmured, voice low and smug.

“You didn’t exactly rush me, Norris.”

“Didn’t need to, Fewtrell.” His eyes roamed over you with a dark heat, each slow sweep like a silent claim.

You moved first—one step, then two, until you were close enough to feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath against your face.

“Sunshine…” He said finally, almost like a warning.

Your nickname—tender and teasing—the one he always used when he wanted to sound playful. But now it was tight in his throat. It made your stomach twist because he never said it like that. Not with his mouth this dry, and his eyes already glued to your lips.

“This is a bad fucking idea.”

You tilted your head. “You think I don’t know that?”

He sighed, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek as he looked you over again—really looked at you. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your bare legs, and the shine of want in your eyes that matched the one in his.

And he cracked. Again.

“Fucking hell…” He muttered, hand dragging over his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You stepped closer, one slow, deliberate movement at a time, until you were standing between his legs. You didn’t touch him yet—just looked up at him through your lashes, voice soft.

“You didn’t stop me that night,” He leaned forward slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “But I should have. You’re—”

“Max’s little sister?” You cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m also the one you’ve been thinking about every time someone walks into the room.”

The look on his face—God. It was like you’d cracked something open.

His expression faltered for a second, just a flicker, but enough to see it all pour through. First came surprise—barely there, just a flick of his brows. Then irritation, not at you, but at himself—for being so obvious. For letting you see how tightly you’d wrapped yourself around his every thought.

His jaw tightened. His lips parted slightly like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knew you were right.

Then came the worst part, the one he tried to bury beneath a half-lidded stare—the longing, plain and aching. It flickered behind his eyes, heavy and unspoken, curling in the corners of his mouth that wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite get there. Like he hated how much he wanted you. Like he was two seconds away from either kissing you stupid or walking away before he could ruin everything. But he didn’t walk away, and that silence, thick and electric, was answer enough.

You didn’t give him time to argue again. You dropped to your knees in front of him— slow, controlled—watching the way his eyes went wide, then half-lidded with lust all over again.

“Fuck, wait—” His voice caught in his throat as your hands slid up his thighs, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of his shorts.

He reached down like he might stop you, but his touch faltered the second your fingers looped into his waistband. “I’m serious,” He said, though there was no heat in it. “We can still walk away from this, and forget it all.”

You looked up at him with a smirk, easing his shorts down. “Then go.”

Lando didn’t move. He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek, torn between guilt and desire. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained somewhere on the ceiling, like if he didn’t see you, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. That you weren’t happening.

Because fuck, you were Max’s little sister. You were off-limits for him, and he had no business in being this close to you, especially not like this—seconds away from crumbling for you, with your hands on his thighs while kneeling in front of him like this. So damn tempting, and so utterly unfair.

It was wrong. It was reckless. But it was inevitable.

His fingers flexed against the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going white. He was using every last bit of restraint he had left—every warning, every memory of Max’s voice in his head—to stop himself from losing control. But you were there, looking up at him with those fucking eyes, and a mouth he had no right to want on him as badly as he did. All he could think about was how you’d felt the other night—how warm, how wet, how desperate you’d been beneath his fingers. How badly he wanted more.

A slow smirk curled on your lips, while observing his silent struggle. “That’s what I thought, Lan.”

And then you began—your secret, sweet mission, practiced in the quiet dark for months, now brought to life with every touch, every breath, every pulse between you.

You didn’t rush, not yet. You let your lips skim along the edge of his waistband, hot breath ghosting over the fabric as your hands tugged his shorts down slowly. Your fingers grazed along the hard line of him through his boxers, and the way he was already so hard it made your mouth water.

His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking, and you gave it a single, deliberate stroke, letting your thumb swirl over the head and smear the precum. He groaned, biting down on his knuckle to muffle it.

“Don’t fucking tease me, sunshine.” Lando warned, but his voice was strained, betraying him. He liked it. Liked the way you looked on your knees, like sin wrapped in summer heat and lipstick, ready to make him break.

“You didn’t mind teasing me the other night,” You murmured, voice silk. “Thought it’s only fair this way.”

That earned you a quiet, desperate laugh through his nose, but it was cut off the moment you fully wrapped your fingers around him—finally. Warm skin, heavy in your hand, already aching for you. You stroked him slow, deliberate, thumb swiping over the slick at his tip.

He hissed, eyes fluttering shut, jaw flexing like he was biting back a groan.

“Keep quiet, Lan,” You teased, tongue flicking out just enough to briefly taste him. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?”

Lando didn’t answer, though. He just stared down at you like you were unreal, his hand tightening in your hair as you moaned softly—needy, and breathless.

“Holy shit,” He groaned, his hand tangling tight in your hair. “You’re unbelievable— fuck, Sunshine…”

You looked up through your lashes, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. “Just for you, Lan.”

When your lips finally closed around him, the tension cracked. His hips jerked forward, breath hitching as you took him slowly and deliberately, desperate to feel every inch of his cock. His fingers tangled in your hair as he tried to steady himself, but every moan caught in his throat betrayed him.

“F-fuck—” His free hand flew over to his mouth, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “Don’t do that— d-don’t fucking look at me like that.”

Like what?

Like you were proud of this.

Like you wanted to ruin him.

Like you could anything to him in that moment.

You sucked him deeper, letting your lips glide down until the head bumped the back of your throat, and he made a broken sound that sounded too close to a moan for comfort. He gripped the counter hard as the hand from his mouth travelled down, trying to keep still—trying not to fuck your pretty little mouth with his dick, even though every part of him wanted to.

Oh, but you weren’t done, not yet.

You set a rhythm, letting him slide deeper and deeper each time, your spit slicking down his length. You hollowed your cheeks, and slid up just to swirl your tongue around the tip, making Lando choke out your name.

When you finally pulled back just to stroke him, spit trailing between your lips and his tip, he looked down at you like he was going to fall apart.

“Where the hell—” He groaned, hips twitching involuntarily. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” You just smiled around him, refusing to answer.

And fuck, if only he knew. If only he knew that you had spent months sneaking quiet moments at night while trying to keep quiet from your parents’ and Max. Earphones in, watching soft porn and imagining it was him, and not the actors, not the fantasy.

You’d watched girls do this a hundred, even thousand times—perfect mouths, heavy eyes, desperate to please. Every single time you imagined it was him. Imagined you, on your knees, giving him what he deserved. Imagined his hands in your hair, voice ruined and strained whispering your name like a fucking prayer.

And now? Now it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. He was moaning for real, for you, trying so hard to keep quiet but failing more with every swirl of your tongue, every slow suck that made his knees threaten to give out.

“Sunshine— fuck, you know I can’t be loud,” He whispered, biting down on the back of his hand as your mouth moved expertly on him—tight, messy, and hungry. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not now.

Lando whimpered your name like a prayer, “Yes, fucking amazing. What did I do to deserve you?” You moaned around him, sucking harder as he twitched on your tongue.

He was holding on by a thread—hips barely jerking, knees wobbling, knuckles white where he gripped the counter behind him.

“Shit, baby—” He whimpered again, wrecked and desperate. “I’m gonna— fuck, if you don’t stop, I’m not gonna last long.”

You moaned in response, sending vibrations down his length that made him stutter and curse again.

His hand tightened in your hair. “Fuck— you’re gonna make me—” Lando breathed, eyes glassy now, chest rising fast. “You keep going like that and I’ll come in two seconds, I swear to god...”

You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him with your hand, spit shining down his length. “That bad, huh?”

“That good,” He corrected through clenched teeth. “That fucking good.”

And then you ducked back down, this time even more eager, letting him sink into your mouth again—deeper, messier, your fingers sliding to cup his balls, teasing lightly while your tongue worked him in every way you knew he liked. His thighs flexed under your touch. His hips rolled forward just enough to chase it—desperate now, so close it made your own thighs clench in sympathy.

The tension in his whole body wound tighter and tighter, until finally he groaned, raw and broken, “Shit, I’m gonna come, baby— I can’t hold it—”

And then you felt it—the twitch of him in your mouth, the sudden shaky breath he sucked in, the grip of his hand in your hair going rigid as his orgasm hit him hard. He spilled down your throat with a muffled groan, head dropping forward, eyes half-lidded and stunned, like you’d just taken every last bit of control he had left.

He bit back all the sounds, biting his knuckle, the other hand gripping your shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring him. His body was trembling from the pleasure you just gave him, head falling backwards, both of you lost in the moment.

You swallowed every single drop of his release, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him—eyes dazed, smug, and soft.

When you stood up, fixing your hair, Lando’s eyes were still hazy—dazed with pleasure, lips parted in disbelief. He stared at you like you’d just ruined him, only sending you a smirk.

“If your brother knew about this, he would literally kill us, Sunshine.”

────୨ৎ────

The last day in Ibiza had arrived far too quickly, though the memories of the week already felt heavy and golden, threaded into your skin like sunlight.

The trip hadn’t only been about hazy nights and crowded clubs pulsing with music—you had filled the in-betweens with memories that felt softer, and golden.

Afternoons spent on being stretched out beneath the sun, skin sticky with salt, laughter echoing between you as you shared fruit and drinks that tasted like summer. Hours wandering through local markets, fingers grazing over handmade jewelry, colorful scarves, jars of honey that glowed amber in the light. A boat trip that left your hair wild with sea air, the water glittering endlessly around you as you couldn’t help but smile and laugh.

Countless evenings were spent by the shoreline, your toes buried in cool sand while the whole group was trading funny stories, jokes and secrets, the waves softly rolling in and out in the background, as if the ocean itself was keeping you company. The sky turned from bruised purple to inky black, the stars pinpricking the quiet above you.

Every day had been eventful, and every night was brimming with restless energy. But this specific morning, you wanted something different. Something quieter, and something that belonged to just the two of you. You felt bold and you knew this idea was the best way of spending your last, normal morning on Ibiza during this trip.

The villa was hushed when you slipped out of your room, the air cooler in the early hour, scented faintly of salt drifting through open windows. The tiled floor was cool against your bare feet as you padded down the hallway, the silence broken only by the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant whoosh of waves hitting the shore. Outside, the world was only just beginning to wake, the sky brushed with the soft blues with the moon still proudly shining on top of the sky.

Behind the closed doors you passed, everyone was still wrapped in their sleep, their breathing heavy and unbothered after another long night. Everyone, except you.

Your heart beat faster the closer you got, until it was pounding in your chest as you stopped outside his door. You hesitated, just for a moment, fingers grazing the wood. He was in there, sleeping soundly, completely unaware. And you—dressed in your two-piece swimsuit, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders, nerves buzzing in every vein—were about to wake him up.The thought alone sent heat blooming low in your chest.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the flutter of anticipation rising in your chest, and finally pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked faintly, though the sound was swallowed in the hush of the room.

It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, but not enough to block the soft seep of the early morning light. The air smelled faintly of him—clean, and warm, the trace of his perfume and suncream that clung to his skin all week.

Your gaze found him instantly. Lando lay diagonally sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted loosely around his waist. One arm was thrown lazily across his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His dark curls were mussed and flat on one side, his lips parted slightly as he slept.

In the dim light, he looked impossibly young and yet unfairly beautiful, softened and peaceful in a way you rarely saw when he was awake and grinning or teasing.

You crept closer, each step careful, until you were crouched by the side of the bed. For a moment, you just looked at him, letting yourself take him in. His lashes curled against his cheeks, longer than they had any right to be. His skin was bronzed from the week spent beneath the Ibiza sun, golden and warm, dotted here and there with soft freckles.

He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache, unfairly so, and something inside you whispered that you shouldn’t be staring at him like this—but you didn’t stop.

Tentatively, you lifted a hand. Your fingers hovered in the air for a beat—heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears—before you finally let them brush against his cheek. His skin was warm, smooth, and under your fingertips you felt the faintest twitch of muscle as he stirred.

“Lan…” You whispered, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt to say his name like that, soft and tender.

Lando stirred in his sleep, a small crease forming between his brows. His lips twitched, his breathing hitched just slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes opened. At first his gaze was unfocused, glazed with sleep. But the moment they found yours, recognition bloomed across his face, and with it came a slow, lazy smile that curled across his mouth, soft and genuine. It made something in your chest twist.

“Morning, Sunshine.” He muttered, voice low and rough, thick with sleep. It was the kind of sound that slid down your spine and made your stomach flip.

Before you could even think, his hand lifted from where it rested against the sheets. He covered yours, still cupping his cheek, with his own. His palm was broad and hot, enveloping you in his warmth as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed faintly against your knuckles, a fleeting unconscious gesture that made your stomach twist with happiness.

Your lips curved as you leaned in slightly, your voice soft, hopeful. “Everyone’s still asleep,” You whispered, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “Are you up for a morning swim with me?”

His lashes blinked heavy, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he pushed himself up onto an elbow. His curls fell over his forehead, messy and boyish, and he squinted as if trying to process your words.

“Wait, what time is it?” He rasped, but there was a spark of curiosity there.

“Four fifty-five.” You admitted, unable to keep the grin from tugging at your mouth.

He groaned again, this time louder, more dramatic, and flopped back onto the pillow like the world around him had just ended. “Woman, you’re fucking insane.” He muttered, voice muffled from the pillow.

You couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of you, shaking your head. “Maybe,” You teased, eyes glinting. “But you’re coming with me. Besides, the sunrise is in a couple of minutes. Are you really going to miss that… with me?”

You let the words hang between you, teasing, daring. And when he peeked out at you from beneath his arm—eyes sleepy but glinting—you already knew.

He was coming. Because Lando Norris could never say no to you.

The villa was still asleep, every room sunk deep in silence, but the two of you moved through it like teenagers sneaking out past curfew. You held your phone in one hand, flashlight glowing faintly to guide the way over the uneven tiles. Behind you, Lando trailed like a reluctant shadow, his hair a wild mess of curls flattened on one side, hoodie thrown lazily over his shoulders, swim shorts hanging low on his hips. He was barely awake, dragging his feet dramatically, muttering under his breath.

“This should be illegal to wake up at such an hour,” He whispered, voice rough and still thick with sleep. “Five in the fucking morning. The moon is literally still out!”

“Shh!” You hissed over your shoulder, though your lips already twitched with a smile.

“You’re fucking insane. Go and seek help.” He groaned, louder this time.

You spun on your heel, nearly crashing into him. “Shut up, Lando. You’ll wake them up!”

That made him grin, teeth flashing in the dim glow of your flashlight. “You’re acting like we’re robbing the place.”

“We kind of are,” You whispered, pushing at his chest with your free hand. “Now move!”

He stumbled backward dramatically, accidentally bumping into a small table. A glass vase with fresh flowers in it wobbled on its edges, making both of you freeze in your movements, eyes wide, until it settled with a soft clink. For a moment, neither of you dared to breathe. Then you slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to mute your laugh in your palm. Lando was doubling over, muffling his chuckle into the sleeve of his hoodie.

“See?” You wheezed between your own quiet giggles. “This is exactly why I told you to be quiet.”

“The fuck? But you’re worse than me, Sunshine!” He shot back, grinning. “You look like a cartoon villain with that flashlight.” You rolled your eyes, swatting at him, but your laughter betrayed you.

The two of you stumbled down the hallway, shoulders bumping, your combined giggles echoing faintly. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a gunshot, but instead of worrying, you only laughed harder, hearts pounding with the reckless thrill of sneaking around. It felt like being a teenager again, sneaking out, except this time the stakes weren’t your parents catching you.

Finally, you slipped out the back door. The air hit you instantly, cool and crisp, smelling faintly of salt and jasmine from the villa’s garden.

The world was suspended between night and morning. The sky was lika a shifting canvas—inky indigo at its highest point, softening into deep navy streaked with pale blue closer to the horizon. The moon still hung above the water, pale and luminous, while a faint wash of silvery light spread across the sand. The stars, dimmer now, still blinked stubbornly against the glow of dawn.

You hugged yourself against the early morning chill before glancing at him. Lando was watching you with that crooked, sleepy grin, shaking his head.

“We’re actually insane for doing this.” He repeated, but his voice was lighter now, filled with amusement instead of complaint.

“Maybe,” You said softly, catching his hand and tugging him toward the beach. “But trust me. In the end, you’ll thank me.”

The beach was completely empty, untouched, just the two of you, the ocean, and the endless stretch of sky preparing for the sunrise.

You dropped your hoodie—which Lando insisted on you wearing—and the towel in the sand, shooting him a daring grin. “Race you!”

Before he could react, you bolted away. Your laughter split the quiet, the sand flying behind you as you sprinted toward the water.

“What the— hey, that’s cheating!” Lando shouted, his voice cracking with amusement as he tore right after you.

You squealed, pumping your legs harder, but the sand dragged at your ankles and the water’s edge loomed. You hit the shallows first, the icy shock biting into your calves and thighs, and you gasped, stumbling forward with a squeak. The next second, he barreled in behind you, sending water splashing high into the air.

“Fucking hell, it’s freezing!” He yelled, laughing through his shiver.

“Nah, you’re just dramatic!” You shot back, splashing him with both hands.

He retaliated instantly, water slapping against your face, your hair plastering against your cheeks. You shrieked, diving sideways to escape, only for him to lunge, grabbing at your ankle. You kicked free, giggling so hard you could barely breathe, then shot a wave of water straight at his chest.

“Alright, that’s it.” He grinned wickedly, charging at you with both arms open.

You screamed, laughing, trying to swim backward, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly out of the water before dunking you under with a triumphant cheer.

You surfaced, coughing, hair plastered everywhere. “Are you insane?!” You spluttered, wiping the salty water out of your eyes.

He coughed, laughing so hard he could barely stand. “Absolutely.”

And just like that, it devolved. You chased each other in circles, splashing, squealing, darting beneath the waves only to pop up on the other side. At one point, you tried to sneak up and launch yourself onto his back, and he staggered, carrying you a few steps before flipping you both under the surface. The ocean became your playground, each wave rocking you into new fits of laughter.

When you surfaced, gasping and dripping, he was already there—hands finding your waist without even thinking, grounding you as the water tugged at your bodies. You looped your arms lazily around his shoulders, both of you breathless, grinning like idiots.

The chill of the water barely registered anymore. He was warm against you, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The playfulness between you softened, and the world around you seemed to exhale.

The horizon was shifting—the blues started to bleed into pastel pinks and soft oranges. The moon still glowed faintly in the sky above, but already the light of day was spilling over it, chasing the shadows away.

Lando tilted his head back, watching the light spill across the waves. His curls dripped, droplets sliding down his temples, his skin glowing with the first trace of sunlight. Then his eyes dropped to yours, instantly softening, as if the sunrise had nothing on you. And for him, it clearly hadn’t.

“Okay, I have to admit it,” Lando murmured, voice low, reverent, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “It was totally worth it.”

Your chest tightened. Maybe it was the sunrise. Maybe it was the way his arms held you steady, as if he wasn’t letting go of you. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time all week, it felt like the world only revolved around the two of you.

And as the sun climbed higher, painting the ocean in colors you couldn’t name, you stayed there in his arms—warm against the chill, held steady against the tide. Time slowed, stretched, until it felt like the sunrise belonged only to the two of you.

By the time you both finally trudged out of the sea, your bodies were heavy with the weight of saltwater and laughter. The horizon had shifted completely—what had been a watercolor wash of pinks and silvers earlier was now painted in golds and pale blues, the sun climbing steadily higher, its reflection glittering across the ocean’s surface like a trail of fire. Droplets rolled down your skin, catching the morning light, making you shimmer as you padded barefoot over the sand.

The chill of the water still clung to your body, but the warmth of the sun kissed your shoulders, drying you slowly. You each grabbed a towel from the spot you’d left them, wrapping yourselves up, though your hair clung stubbornly in damp strands, salt-stiff and wild. You laughed at the sight of Lando trying to shake his curls into submission, and he rolled his eyes, shooting a playful glare before flopping dramatically onto the sand.

You followed, spreading your towel beside his, lying back so the sunlight could soak into you. The sand was warm beneath the thin fabric, grounding you, while the air smelled like salt and wildflowers carried from somewhere inland.

Around you, the beach was still deserted—just the hush of the waves, the occasional cry of a distant gull, and the gentle rhythm of his breathing beside you.

You started talking then, softly at first. Nothing important—just observations, half-formed thoughts, silly jokes about how insane you both were for being up at this hour. He teased you for dragging him out of bed, and you teased him for pretending he hadn’t enjoyed it. But slowly, the conversation meandered, stretching out like the sunlight itself.

His voice was lower in the morning, still rough with sleep, and it blended with the rhythm of the waves until you weren’t sure where his words ended and the ocean began.

You talked about places you wanted to see, about old memories from home, about things that didn’t matter and yet felt like everything in that moment. At some point, you caught yourself watching his mouth as he spoke, the curve of his lips when he smiled, the way he bit down on the edge of his towel to wipe at his face.

And there, wrapped in warmth and salt air, you realized this was true happiness. Not the wild nights, not the crowds or flashing lights, but this. Slow, golden, stretched out like time had stopped just for the two of you.

The air was thick with salt and warmth, carrying the cries of seabirds and the slow hush of waves rolling in and out. For a while, you both just lay there, listening, breathing, existing.

It was you who broke the silence, your voice hushed as though you might disturb the spell. “Do you realize that we might be the only people in the world who saw that sunrise from the water today?”

Lando cracked one eye open, turning his head lazily toward you. “Deep thoughts this early?” His lips curled into a teasing smile, but his voice was soft, as though he didn’t really want to ruin the quiet.

“I’m serious,” You protested, rolling onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “It felt like… like it was just for us.”

He gave a small hum, closing his eyes again. “Mhm. Don’t get used to it though. I’m never letting you wake me up before five again.”

You laughed, tossing a bit of sand at his arm. He flinched dramatically, brushing it off like it had been an attack, then retaliated by flicking his damp towel at your legs. That started a brief, ridiculous back-and-forth, both of you muffling your laughter, trying not to disturb the tranquility of the empty beach.

When you both settled again, breathless from laughter, he turned his head toward you once more. This time, his expression was softer, more open. “Still… it was worth it.”

The way he said it—quiet, almost shy—made your chest tighten. You wanted to bottle this moment, keep it safe forever.

It was nearly eight when you finally gathered yourselves, towels draped loosely over your shoulders as you made your way back to the villa. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the beach had begun to change—the distant figures of early walkers appearing further down the shore, the hum of a boat engine carrying faintly over the water.

Inside, the house was stirring. Doors slowly started to creak open, sleepy voices filled the hallways, footsteps padded toward the kitchen. People emerged, hair mussed, eyes heavy, yawns stretching their faces as they shuffled toward coffee and food.

No one asked where you’d been. No one looked at you too closely, or noticed the way your hair was still damp at the ends, or how faint grains of sand clung stubbornly to your legs. The secret of the morning swim was yours to keep—tucked quietly between you, something fragile and precious that belonged to no one else.

As you moved through the room, you caught Lando’s gaze across the table. His curls were still a bit damp, darker where they clung to his forehead, his cheeks faintly flushed from the sun and sea. His lips curved just slightly, subtle, private—as if he were remembering it too.

And in that moment, with everyone around and yet no one noticing, you knew you were both carrying the sunrise with you.

────୨ৎ────

The last evening in Ibiza had a softness to it, the kind that clung to the air when you knew something was ending.

The villa was buzzing with chatter and laughter, the group still gathered around the long dining table, the remains of dinner scattered between half-drunk bottles of wine, cocktail glasses, and plates smudged with sauce. Someone was telling a story, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing off the stone walls, but you slipped out quietly, your glass of wine in hand.

The terrace greeted you with the cool kiss of evening air. The heat of the day had softened, and a light breeze carried the faint tang of the ocean. You lowered yourself into one of the chairs, tucking your legs up beneath you, the glass cradled loosely between your fingers.

The view before you stole your breath. The sky was painted in layers—gold bleeding into pink, pink fading into lavender, and all of it slowly surrendering to the deepening blue of night. The sun hovered at the horizon, its last light shimmering across the water like molten copper. Already, the moon was visible, pale and patient, waiting for its turn to rule the sky. The waves rolled gently against the shore in the distance, the sound a low, steady rhythm beneath the hum of voices inside.

You sighed, the sound soft and almost wistful.

Last night in Ibiza.

It had been more than just a holiday. More than just chaos and late nights. It had been a chapter, one you weren’t quite ready to close.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

The voice made you glance over your shoulder. Lando stepped out onto the terrace, curls backlit by the glow of the villa, a drink in his hand. His white shirt hung loosely over him, the sleeves rolled up, and there was an ease about him that almost made your chest ache.

He leaned against the doorframe first, looking at you with a small, crooked smile. “Hiding?”

You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward. “I’m not hiding, just watching the sunset.” You tilted your chin toward the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was melting away. “Can’t believe it’s our last night here.”

He let out a hum, his gaze following yours toward the view. Then he pushed himself away from the doorframe and dropped into the chair beside you. His knee bumped yours as he sat, and neither of you moved away.

“Yeah,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “Feels like it went by in a blink.”

You laughed quietly, swirling the wine in your glass. “Probably because you all made me drink so much tequila I lost track of time.”

That earned you his laugh—the real one, unrestrained, warm enough to seep straight into your bones. He shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who tried to keep up with Max.”

At your brother’s name, you groaned dramatically, hiding your face in one hand. Lando’s laugh grew louder, and soon enough, you were laughing with him, the two of you caught in a bubble of your own amusement while the voices inside blurred into background noise.

The laughter ebbed into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, and easy. The kind of silence you wanted to linger in. Your gaze drifted to him again. The last of the sunset light traced across his features, softening the sharp lines, making him look almost boyish while painting his skin in gold and rose. His lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was curved in that faint, unreadable smile.

He caught you staring. His eyes met yours, steady, curious, holding you in place. And suddenly, it felt like the air between you shifted, heavier, charged.

Your heart thudded—brave, and reckless. That spark inside you flared to life. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in. Just a little at first, testing, your breath mingling with his. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and that was all the courage you needed.

Your lips gently brushed his. It was soft, barely a touch, the kind of kiss that could almost be passed off as nothing if you wanted it to be. But it was enough to send a jolt through your chest, enough to make the world tilt for just a heartbeat.

When you pulled back, Lando was frozen, wide-eyed, his lips parted as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

A grin tugged at your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t let Max know about this.”

For a beat, he just stared at you. Then a laugh broke out of him—quiet at first, then fuller and warmer, filling the night air. He shook his head, curls bouncing, his hand coming up to rub across his mouth as if he could hide the smile tugging at it.

“You’re insane, Sunshine.” He muttered, though his voice was laced with amusement. And something else. Something that made your stomach flip.

You laughed too, your cheeks flushed, giddy with the thrill of what you’d just done. “Maybe,” you teased, raising your brows. “But you didn’t exactly stop me.”

His eyes softened, his grin tilting crooked. “Didn’t want to.” He said, quiet but certain.

Your laughter tangled together again, mingling with the distant murmur of waves and the soft hum of cicadas in the garden. The villa’s noise carried faintly through the open doors, but out here, it felt like you were in your own little world.

Side by side, shoulders brushing, hearts a little too fast, you sat beneath the indigo sky as the first stars bloomed above. A secret smile pulled at your lips, mirrored by his.

Without saying it, you both knew—this trip wasn’t something either of you would forget.

────୨ৎ────

Later that night, when everyone finally decided to call it a day and went to their room, the villa had finally gone quiet. Somewhere down the hall a door creaked as someone went for painkillers and a glass of water, but otherwise the only sound was the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant, lazy crash of waves on the shore.

You sat propped up in bed, hair damp from your shower, skin still warm and sweet-smelling from the lotion you’d rubbed in. Lando’s oversized t-shirt slipped down one shoulder, brushing your bare thigh where your pajama shorts ended.

Your phone screen glowed faint blue in the dimmed room, but you weren’t really scrolling anymore—just staring, looking at the same posts without taking them in. Your chest felt tight, restless, like there was something waiting, pressing against your ribs.

The sudden knocks on the door came so soft you almost thought you’d imagined it. Four gentle taps, hesitant but still deliberate. Your brows furrowed, having in mind that everyone should already be asleep. You slid out of bed, heart already beating faster, and padded across the room on bare feet.

When you cracked the door open, the sight on the other side knocked the air from your lungs. Lando. He leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t thought this through. His curls were mussed, eyes burning with something raw and urgent. A plain black tee clung to his shoulders, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, like he’d pulled them on in a rush.

You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, he spoke—his voice low, rough, like he’d been chewing on it all night. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” He whispered, jaw flexing as his fingers drummed against the doorframe. “I know I tried to stay away, but I can’t do this anymore.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. His chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—permission, rejection, maybe salvation.

You gripped the edge of the door tighter, your pulse loud in your ears. “Lando…” You breathed, but he cut you off, stepping inside the room, the door slipping shut behind him with a soft click.

He raked a hand through his curls, pacing a step before turning back to you, desperation in every line of him. “Every time you laugh, every time you look at me— it’s fucking torture,” He said, his voice breaking around the words. “I’ve been trying, I swear I’ve been trying to be good, to respect all the boundaries Max had set, and to not cross a line I can’t uncross. But fuck…” His eyes found yours again, blazing. “I can’t. Not anymore.”

For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at each other. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing and the muffled crash of waves outside. His confession still vibrated in the air, still in your chest.

Lando looked at you like he’d just confessed to a crime—like he was waiting for you to push him back out the door, to slam it shut and lock it forever. His fists were clenched now at his sides, his jaw tight, but his eyes were full of yearn.

And maybe you should have thought about it. Maybe you should have told him to leave. But instead, a slow smile curled at the edge of your lips.

“You know…” Your voice was soft, teasing, cutting through the tension like a spark in dry grass. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this forever.”

Before Lando could process your words, and before he could speak again, you stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled him down to you.

Your lips crashed together, desperate and hot, the kiss messy in the way it only could be when both of you had been holding back for far too long. His breath hitched against your lips, like you’d stolen it straight out of him, and for a split second Lando didn’t move. His body went rigid, every muscle taut, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away.

It was wrong—so fucking wrong. He wasn’t supposed to want you nor need you. But then your fingers tightened in his shirt, keeping him close, and he felt the way you trembled against his mouth. That hesitation, that thin thread of resistance he’d been clinging to—it snapped.

Lando groaned into the kiss, low and guttural, like he’d been starved for this and suddenly couldn’t breathe without it. His body melted against yours in an instant, the hand that had been frozen now instinctively sliding to your waist, gripping hard, and pulling you into him as if he was afraid you’d disappear any second.

When you finally broke away, gasping for air, his pupils were blown wide, his lips wet and parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a race. He looked utterly wrecked already, the last of his restraint gone.

“Fuck,” Lando whispered, his voice ragged, forehead leaning against yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

And you couldn’t help it—you grinned, wicked and playful. “Can you finally fuck me now, Lan?” You whispered, throwing his own restraint back at him like gasoline on a flame.

He groaned at your words, low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through you. Your laugh came out breathless, shaky, because you weren’t sure how much longer your knees could hold you up. His touch was fire, his words molten, and you knew with every nerve in your body, that this was only the beginning.

Lando’s lips found yours again, harder this time, hungrier. His hands were everywhere at once—sliding under his your shirt, skimming along the curve of your waist, and up your ribs. His touch was greedy, rough like he was making up for every single time he’d held himself back.

You gasped against his lips when he lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as he carried you the few stumbling steps toward your bed.

“You think it’s funny?” He growled against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He pressed you down into the mattress, caging you with his body, curls falling into his eyes. “Smiling at me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me?”

His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were already aching for him. You arched into his touch, your laugh breaking into a shaky breath. “What if I did know?” You whispered, eyes locked on him.

Lando smirked, dangerous and devastating. And he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just kissed you again, slower and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you writhed beneath him. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, then lower, sliding past the waistband of your shorts, fingers teasing along your heat without giving in just yet.

“Lan—” Your voice cracked on his name, half-plea, and half-warning.

“God, you sound just like I remembered,” He murmured, lips dragging along your throat, nipping lightly at your skin. “Drove me fucking insane every night, replaying it over and over.” His fingers finally slipped where you needed him most, drawing a startled moan from your lips. “But this time, you’re not just in my head. You’re finally mine.”

Your hips bucked up into his hand instinctively, chasing more, but Lando only chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck. “This desperate already, Sunshine? Haven’t even touched you properly yet.” His voice was rough, the restraint barely hanging on by a thread.

Lando slid one finger through your slickness, teasing, spreading it over you before pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “Fucking hell… you’re soaked. And all of that for me?”

Your answer came out in a gasp. “Always for you.”

That completely shattered him. His mouth crashed into yours again, desperate and messy, his teeth clashing against your lips like he couldn’t get close enough. His fingers pressed harder, stroking you until your thighs trembled. Then suddenly he pulled back, leaving you panting and wide-eyed on the bed. You nearly whined at the loss, but the sight of him tugging his shirt over his head shut you up fast. His sun-kissed skin glowed in the dim lamplight, golden and flushed, the lines of muscle shifting as he leaned over you again.

“That one night in the bar, when you leaned across the counter in that little dress, and asked me that ridiculous question… fuck, I almost lost it. Almost took you right there in front of everyone.” Lando said, voice husky, catching your chin between his fingers so you had to look up at him.

Your laugh came out breathless, nervous, but playful all the same. “Maybe you should’ve.”

The look in his eyes darkened. “Don’t test me.”

Your body lit up under his touch as he stripped you out of your pajama shorts and underwear in one smooth tug, tossing them carelessly aside. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and for a heartbeat, Lando just looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Your breath caught as he leaned towards you, his mouth ghosting down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly against your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His voice was rough, low, vibrating right into you. “You have no fucking idea how much I wanted to do this after I caught you, moaning my name.” He murmured, his eyes flicking up to yours, pupils blown wide with hunger. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, right where your pulse hammered. “I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing it. For just walking away.”

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, your mouth opening but no sound coming out. You could only watch him—how he looked at you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could fix him.

“But I’m not going to keep myself away from it now.” His lips brushed your hipbone, soft, hot, and teasing.

The words struck through you, your whole body tightening in anticipation. You barely had a chance to inhale before his mouth was finally on you, his tongue sliding hot and eager against your slick folds, and every thought shattered. A broken gasp tore out of you, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you could stop yourself. His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his grip firming on your thighs as if to say, don’t run from this.

“Fuck, Lando—” Your voice cracked, desperate, still trying not to be too loud.

He lifted his head just enough to smirk at you, lips glistening with your wetness. “That’s right, baby. Say only my name.” Then his mouth was back on you, his tongue circling, teasing, dipping inside until your thighs trembled uncontrollably.

Every flick, every groan from him felt like it was unraveling you one string at a time. And you could feel it in the way he moved—this wasn’t just about making you fall apart. This was about making up for every second he’d denied himself, every second he’d forced the distance between you. But there was no denying that he wanted it just as much as you did. Maybe even more.

His grip on your thighs tightened as if he feared you’d slip away, holding you open for him like he’d been dreaming of it for weeks—maybe months. His mouth was merciless, tongue working you with a hunger that made your whole body quake. You tangled your fingers in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, the vibration rolling through your core until your back arched off the bed.

“Holy shit—” The words came out high, almost a sob.

He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening as he dragged his tongue slowly up your folds before circling your clit with deliberate, devastating precision.

“Fuck, you taste just as sweet as I remember, Sunshine.” He rasped, the words muffled against your skin.

Your hips bucked at his confession, and he pinned you down harder, his thumb sliding in to press right where his tongue wasn’t, overwhelming you with sensation. Every movement of his mouth was calculated—slow enough to tease, fast enough to destroy. He pulled back just slightly, his breath hot against your swollen, aching clit.

“You gonna come for me now?” He murmured, his voice low, hoarse with need. He nipped lightly at your inner thigh before flattening his tongue against you again, harder this time. “Right on my tongue? Let me have it, baby.”

Your whole body convulsed at his words, heat spreading so quickly you barely had time to gasp his name before it tore through you. The orgasm hit hard, sharp, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as you cried out, tugging his hair, desperate and raw.

But he didn’t stop. Even as your body writhed and your hips jerked, he lapped at you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was desperate to drink down every sound, every shudder. His moan vibrated through your core, drawing out the high until you collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin.

“Shit— Lando, I can’t—” You whimpered, your whole body still quivering, every nerve raw.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, slick with your cum, his curls mussed from your fingers tugging at them. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, then leaned forward to press his tongue flat against your clit one last time.

The shock of it made you jolt, your thighs trembling against his grip. “Lando— please…” You gasped, but he only smiled against you.

“You think one orgasm’s enough for me?” Lando said, his voice wrecked, low. His index finger slid through your folds, circling slowly, dragging your sensitivity to the edge of unbearable. “Not when I’ve waited this fucking long.” He pressed two fingers inside you again, curling them just right, making your back arch off the bed. “I told you, Sunshine,” He muttered, eyes fixed on your face, “I’m not keeping myself from this anymore. Not from you.”

You squirmed under him, your hands clutching at the sheets, your breath breaking apart into desperate whimpers. Every time you were close, every time the heat coiled too tight, he slowed down, pulled away, forcing you to the edge but never letting you fall.

“Lan— fuck, please… I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, Sunshine.” He cut you off, his tone sharp but dark with desire. His lips brushed your inner thigh before he bit it lightly, sucking just enough to leave a mark.

You tried to grind against his fingers, desperate, but his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, holding you down. His smirk grew when you let out a frustrated whine.

“Look at you,” He whispered, watching the way you squirmed. “So needy… you want my cock that bad?” He flicked his tongue over your clit, quick and precise, just enough to make your body convulse. “Beg me for it, Sunshine. Let me hear you.”

Your pride tried to resist, but the ache inside you was unbearable, your body trembling with denied release. Your nails dug into the sheets, your voice breaking as you finally gave in. “Please, Lan… fuck me already, I need you—”

He whimpered like the words alone had undone him, his lips parting as if the sound was too good, too addictive. Lando dragged his fingers out of you slowly, sucking them into his mouth with a moan before leaning over you.

His lips brushed yours, teasing, so close but not giving you the kiss you craved. “Say it again.” He demanded softly, his breath hot against your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered shut, desperation spilling out of you. “Just fuck me, Lando. I’m begging you.”

That was all it took. He crashed his mouth back onto yours, hungry and rough, his body sliding against yours with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. His hands roamed around your waist, your thighs, and your breasts—touching you like he was making up for lost time.

You could barely breathe when you felt him grind against you, the hard line of his cock straining through his sweatpants brushing your slick folds through the thin barrier of his pants. The friction sent a desperate whimper tumbling out of you, and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.

“F-fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, his voice jagged with restraint. His hips rolled once, slow, making your body jolt beneath him. His forehead pressed against yours, curls damp against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me, Sunshine. I can’t—”

His words broke off into a groan as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest rising hard against yours. Then, with hands trembling more from need than hesitation, he gripped the hem of your top and peeled it upward. The cool air kissed your heated skin, and his gaze followed every new inch revealed. His jaw clenched, his breath catching.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, like the sight of you had gutted him. His palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling slowly over your nipples until your back arched. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your fingers tugged impatiently at the waistband of his pants, and he gave a broken laugh, shaking his head as if you were undoing him with every tiny move. “Yeah, fuck— don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

In a rush of clumsy urgency, he yanked his pants down, tossing it blindly across the room. His cock sprung free, heavy and flushed, and your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and hard, precum glistening at the tip.

He noticed your stare and smirked, leaning down to kiss your neck, his voice husky against your skin. “Like you see something you like, huh?” He teased, his voice husky and wrecked, the cockiness in his tone making your cheeks burn.

Your laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere between breathless and needy, and the sound only made his grin widen against your skin. He didn’t give you a chance to answer—his touch lingered over your hip, firm yet reverent, before he leaned over to fumble in the drawer, cursing low under his breath until he finally pulled out a condom and tore it open with his teeth.

He sat back on his knees, chest rising and falling fast, the muscles in his arms flexing as he rolled the condom down over himself. The sight alone made your thighs press together, your body begging for him.

When Lando’s eyes met yours again, they were full of hunger, but also something softer. He bent down, his lips brushing yours in a whisper of a kiss. “You ready, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice low, wrecked with both restraint and need, searching your eyes for any hesitation or restraint.

And then—just as he slid the tip of himself against your entrance, your breath caught, panic flickering in your chest. “Lando— wait.”

Immediately, he froze. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. His hands stayed steady on your hips, not forcing, not moving. “What’s wrong, Sunshine? Talk to me.”

Your throat felt tight, your lips trembling, but you forced the words out. “I…” Your voice broke. You shut your eyes, cheeks burning before finally admitting, “Fuck, I’ve never done this before.”

Silence.

When you dared to look, his expression was stunned, caught between disbelief and something achingly soft. His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle, grounding. “You mean…?” He swallowed, searching your eyes. “You’re still a virgin?”

You nodded, barely breathing, every nerve in your body screaming with fear that this would change everything.

For a long moment, Lando just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then he shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just trusted him with. “Fucking hell, I didn’t know… I thought you—” His voice was wrecked, almost breaking. “And you— you’d give that to me?”

You lifted a hand to his face, brushing your thumb over his lip, steady despite your trembling. “There��s no one else I’d ever want to. Just you. Only you.”

His breath left him in a rough exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and head hanging low as if the words undid him more than anything else ever could. When he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen, raw and burning just for you.

“Are you sure?” He whispered, his forehead pressing to yours again. “Tell me right now if you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop.”

“I’m sure,” You whispered, your voice trembling but true. “Please, Lan. I want you.”

He kissed you then—not rough, not hungry, but slow and reverent, as if he was sealing a promise. His hand gently cupped your cheek, the other tracing slow, grounding circles on your thigh.

When he finally slid down, lining himself up with you, he did it with infinite patience. He pressed the tip against you, watching your face the whole time.

“This might hurt a bit, Sunshine,” He murmured against your lips, voice thick with restraint. “But I’ll go slow. So fucking slow. Just hold onto me, and tell me if you need a break.”

You nodded in response, and that was a green light for him. Lando pushed in, inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight as he held himself back, his breath ragged against your cheek. You gasped at the stretch, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he immediately froze, cupping your face.

“Hey— look at me. You okay?”

You nodded quickly, even though your eyes watered, your chest heaving. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Just… don’t stop.”

His face crumpled with something between agony and devotion. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth, whispering against your skin. “Good girl. You’re so perfect. Taking me so well…”

And when he finally sank fully into you, he held still, buried deep, his whole body shaking with the effort not to move too fast. “F-fuck,” He groaned into your neck, voice breaking. “You feel like heaven, sunshine. Absolute fucking heaven.”

He stayed like that, kissing away your nerves, whispering sweet nothing until the pain dulled, until you shifted beneath him and whispered the words that tipped him over the edge of restraint. “Move, Lando. Please.”

He groaned like the sound alone shattered him, burying his face in your neck as his hips finally shifted. The first drag of him moving inside you was slow, his cock filling you in a way that made your chest tighten and your thighs tremble.

“Holy shit,” He breathed, his voice guttural, shaky with restraint. “You’re so tight—”

Each movement was careful, his hand gripping your thigh, the other stroking your cheek as if to remind you he was there, that you weren’t alone in this. He pressed kisses across your jaw, down your neck, his words tumbling out against your skin. It still hurt a little, but beneath it there was heat—sweet, dizzying sparks that curled low in your stomach.

“Lando…” You gasped, nails digging into his back. “Don’t hold back— please.”

He pulled back then, just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide, but the softness was still there—woven deep into the hunger. “You sure?”

“Yes,” You breathed. “I want all of you.”

The groan that tore from him was broken, and desperate. His forehead dropped to yours, curls damp from sweat against your skin, before his hips snapped forward in a deeper thrust. You cried out, clinging to him, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound. His rhythm built, still controlled but heavier now, deeper, until every roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth. His hands gripped your body like he never wanted to let go—one on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as if he needed you closer, always closer.

The heat inside you coiled tighter with every movement, your body matching his rhythm instinctively. You dragged your nails down his back, gasping his name like it was the only word you knew. “Lan— I think—”

“I know, baby, I know,” He panted, his lips crashing into yours again, hot and desperate. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And when it hit you—when your body clenched around him, your cry muffled against his mouth—he lost himself too. His thrusts stuttered, his hips pressing deep as he groaned your name, spilling into the condom with a shudder that rattled through his whole body.

The world had gone quiet again, save for the sound of the air conditioning and both of your uneven breaths slowly settling into rhythm. Lando was still inside you, his body heavy and warm on top of yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips pressed absent, feather-light kisses along your collarbone like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Finally, after a long moment, he shifted with a soft groan, careful as he pulled himself out, and took the used condom off, throwing it away to the bin next to your bed.

Then, he came back to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “You okay?” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion, but so gentle it made your chest ache.

You nodded, brushing his messy curls from his forehead with shaky fingers. “I’m more than okay, Lan.”

His mouth curved into a tired, crooked grin before he leaned down to kiss you—slower this time, sweet and lingering. He pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders, then gathered you against his chest like you were something fragile.

“You’re amazing, Sunshine,” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “Didn’t hurt too much, did it?”

You shook your head against him, smiling softly. “Only at first. But then it was perfect.”

He tightened his arms around you, his chin resting in your hair. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, your leg hooked over his, his thumb tracing mindless patterns across your arm. The room smelled faintly of your shower gel and his cologne, mixed with the salt from the sea still clinging to his skin.

When you finally broke the silence, your voice was hushed, almost shy. “I meant it, you know. About not wanting anyone else. I’d only ever want you.”

Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his aquamarine eyes glassy with something that wasn’t just exhaustion. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he kissed you again, slow and deep, as if words couldn’t come close to what he felt.

He whispered your name softly when he finally pulled away. “You’ll ruin me, you know that?” You giggled softly, snuggling closer, hiding your face in his chest. He chuckled quietly too, his hand smoothing down your back, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

After a long silence, you exhaled shakily. “Can I tell you something?”

He hummed, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Always.”

“I was… scared to tell you it was my first time.” Your voice was so small it almost vanished into the space between you. “Scared you’d think I was… I don’t know. Less attractive or boring. Or—”

“Hey.” Lando’s hand stilled against your back. He tipped your chin up gently, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze was sharp, almost offended, but softened with warmth. “Sunshine, you’re insane for thinking that.” Your breath caught as his thumb brushed your cheek.

“None of it made you less attractive. Do you have any idea how much it meant to me that you wanted it to be me? That you trusted me like that?” His voice dropped lower, softer.

Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes, but you smiled anyway, trying to shake the heaviness. “Still… I probably sucked at this, and looked clueless.”

Lando’s lips curved into a slow grin, his tone slipping into a teasing drawl. “Clueless? You? Oh, please.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “You didn’t look like someone inexperienced in that bathroom, kneeling in front of me on the floor the other night…”

Your face burned instantly, and you swatted his chest, giggling despite yourself. “Lando!”

He laughed with you, the sound low and husky, wrapping you up in it as much as his arms. “I’m just saying,” He teased, his grin smug. “Pretty sure virgins aren’t supposed to look that sexy while also begging for me to fuck them.”

“Shut up.” You muttered, burying your face against him, but your laughter betrayed you.

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head, still holding you tight. “Never shut up about it. Not when it’s you.”

The night blurred into warmth, into shared kisses, and into the slow weight of Lando’s breathing evening out beside you. You had never felt so safe, so full, and so undone yet held together all at once.

Eventually, exhaustion won, and you drifted to sleep in his arms. His chin was gently tucked against your hair, his thumb still brushing your skin like he couldn’t bear to let you go, even unconscious.

When the faintest pale light crept through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and lavender, you stirred. Lando was still there, one arm heavy around your waist, his curls messy, his lips parted in the softest, almost boyish way. For a moment, you just watched him, memorizing him like this—unguarded, and all yours.

But then he shifted, blinking awake slowly. His gaze found yours, sleepy but softened by a small smile. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Morning, Sunshine.” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You wanted to keep him there forever. But you both knew you couldn’t.

With a reluctant sigh, he pulled away, sitting up. “I think I should…” He glanced toward the door. “Before anyone notices.”

Your chest squeezed, but you only nodded, fingers catching his wrist before he could pull away. He looked back at you, and leaned back down. But this time, the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, like he wanted it branded into both of you.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, breath warm, “Love you.”

When he whispered those two words, something inside you cracked open, soft and trembling, like you’d been waiting years just to hear those two words in his voice.

For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe. Because how could this be real? How could it be that the same boy you’d been hopelessly in love with since you were fourteen—the boy you used to watch from across crowded rooms, the boy who smiled at you like you were just Max’s little sister—was now in your bed, skin still warm against yours, telling you he loved you?

It felt impossible. Unreal. Like a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.

You smiled through the sting in your eyes, tugging him close for one more kiss. “Love you too, Lan.” The words slipped out with ease, though your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs.

When he pulled away, forehead resting gently against yours like neither of you wanted to let go, you closed your eyes just to memorize the moment. His breath mixed with yours, his fingers brushed your cheek, and his love wrapped around you like it had always been meant to.

Then he finally pulled back, quiet as he dressed, careful with every movement. Before going, he mouthed one last goodbye paired with a soft grin that made your heart ache. “I’ll see you in a bit, Sunshine.”

And finally, the door clicked softly behind him.

Moments later, the sheets were still cooling from his absence as you lay there, staring at the ceiling with your heart aching in the sweetest, sharpest way. Because you were still that fourteen-year-old girl somewhere deep inside—still the girl who doodled his name in margins, who blushed when he looked your way, who whispered your feelings into the dark where no one would ever hear them.

And now… now he had finally said them back.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue of dawn slipping through the villa windows. Lando padded barefoot toward his room, every step quiet and careful—until he froze.

Max was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and hair wild, clearly just woken up. His eyes narrowed immediately, flicking from Lando’s disheveled curls to the wrinkled tshirt, then back to the door he’d just slipped out of.

Lando’s chest tightened, his heart dropping. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—but Max just tilted his head, expression unreadable. His gaze lingered one second longer, sharp, suspicious, then without a word, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the kitchen. Lando exhaled silently, forcing his legs to move again. He ducked quickly into his own room, shutting the door with a quiet thud.

The storm hadn’t come yet, but the air in the villa was already heavy, humming with the weight of what Max had seen, and chosen not to say.

────୨ৎ────

21 & 25

The football match had ended hours ago, but neither Max nor Lando seemed ready to call it a night. They were sprawled across the couch in Lando’s apartment, an empty pizza box on the coffee table between them, cans of beer lined up like trophies from a war well fought. The city glowed faintly beyond the tall windows, muted in the haze of late evening.

Max leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied sigh. “You know what’s still the wildest thing to me?”

Lando arched a brow, sipping his drink. “What?”

“That you—” Max jabbed a finger at him, grinning like he’d caught him in some grand hypocrisy. “‘Mr. I’m not interested in dating’ actually managed to get yourself a girlfriend. Like, a real one. Not just a fling as you used to.”

The words made Lando’s heart skip, but he schooled his expression into something casual, even amused. He chuckled lowly, swirling the can in his hand. “Yeah, well… stranger things have happened, mate.”

Max laughed, shaking his head. “No, seriously. Never thought I’d see the day.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So… who’s the unlucky girl dating you, huh?”

For a split second, Lando froze. His mind flashed with the truth—the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the way you whispered his name in the dark when you both lay in his bed late at night.

“Well— about that...” Lando started hesitantly, scratching his neck.

It’s your little sister—he wanted to say.

But his composure held. He smirked faintly, masking the way his pulse had spiked. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you nosy bastard.”

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that. You finally settle down with someone and you won’t even tell me who she is? What’s her name, at least?”

Lando only shrugged, leaning back lazily into the couch, as if the subject bored him. “She’s shy, and we’re taking things slowly. So some things aren’t for public knowledge yet.”

Max rolled his eyes, grabbing another can of beer from the table. “You’re fucking impossible. But fine, keep your little secret.” He smirked, lifting the can toward Lando in mock salute, “However. I can’t wait to finally meet her. Hopefully, you’ll introduce me soon.”

Oh, but he didn’t have to introduce you two to each other.

Lando’s lips quirked, a laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah… maybe one day.”

Before Max could press further, Lando pushed himself off the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. “Speaking of introductions, I’m introducing myself to whatever snacks are left in the kitchen. You want anything?”

“Sure.” Max muttered, distracted by the match highlights flickering on the TV.

Lando padded into the kitchen, his heart still racing from the conversation. His apartment was dim, the only light coming from Monaco's skyline outside, bathing the living room in a muted orange glow. The hum of the fridge and the regular tick of the kitchen clock were the only sounds, except for Lando’s muffled cursing as he dug through the kitchen cupboards.

“I swear to God, I need to fire whoever stocks my pantry,” Lando called, his voice light, oblivious. “Where the fuck are my tortilla chips and Kinder chocolates?”

Max chuckled dryly from his spot on the couch, lounging lazily, one ankle perched on his knee. “Maybe you should stock your bloody kitchen by yourself, mate.”

“Not when I’ve got friends like you bringing me beer and all the goodies.” Lando shot back with a grin, still hidden from view.

Max shook his head, grabbing his own beer from the table. His fingers tapped absent-mindely against the can, eyes drifting over the clutter in front of him—controllers, half-empty takeout boxes, and Lando’s phone buzzing lazily against a coaster. He didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But the screen flashed again, bright and insistent in the dim light.

And as he leaned to see who texted him, the name on the notification twisted his stomach into a knot.

Sunshine:

see you later, Lan <3

His blood turned cold. For a second, Max thought maybe it was the beer messing with him, maybe his mind was playing tricks. But the way his chest clenched, sharp and suffocating, told him otherwise. He furrowed his brows, blinking once, twice. His brain stuttered over the words. The casual familiarity of the message—the nickname—clung to his mind like a hook.

Lan.

His stomach twisted. He swiped his tongue across his teeth, blinking as if to reset his thoughts. He let out a slow, measured exhale through his nose, the weight of that message sinking deeper than it should have. His fingers tightened slightly around the can as the pieces began to stir, forming a puzzle he had been too blind—or too unwilling—to solve.

The first day you met him. You always being somewhere around them. Ice skating. The whole Ibiza trip. You in Lando’s shirt as a pajama. That one morning when Lando walked out of your room, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. The way you always laughed a little too loud at his jokes. The way Lando’s gaze had started to linger on you—longer and softer, like you were the only person in the room. The gentle touches. The way you had always hovered near him, always watching, always… there.

He had been a fucking idiot. He had been blind. Or worse—he had ignored it.

But this? This message? This felt like a punch to the gut. His little sister, and his best mate. Holy fucking shit. Max felt the sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins, ready to kill both of you.

How could you do this to him?

The sound of footsteps on tile jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Lando returned, snack bag in hand, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, no tortilla chips but I found pretzels and those spicy peanuts you—”

“Lando.” Max’s voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp, lethal in its stillness.

Lando froze mid-step, bags of snacks dangling from his hand. He glanced up, casual smile still lingering—but faltering the moment his eyes met Max’s. “What?”

Max’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. His gaze was sharp, dripping in a cold fury that had Lando’s throat tightening instantly. He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, beer can hanging loose from his fingers, but his body was coiled, electric with tension.

“We need to talk.”

A moment of silence stretched, the weight of those words suffocating.

“About what, man?” Lando asked, his tone light, attempting casual, but his body betrayed him—shoulders stiffening, grip tightening on the snack bag as if it could shield him.

Max smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t fuck with me, Lando.”

Lando’s mouth opened, ready to toss a joke, deflect, anything—but the weight of Max’s stare pinned him in place.

“Was it nice to play behind my back?” Max continued, tone low, dangerous. “You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Lando’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Max, it’s—”

“It’s what?” Max snapped, cutting him off. “It’s nothing? You gonna tell me that text was nothing too?”

Lando’s stomach dropped. So, that’s what this was about. He cursed internally as his pulse was racing. His first instinct was to joke, to deflect, but the weight of Max’s glare pinned him to the floor. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice was quieter now, threaded with truth. “It just… happened.”

Max’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as his fists curled at his sides. “You think that makes it better? You sneaking behind my back? You sneaking into her fucking bed, Lando?”

Lando stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture. “Max, look at me. I didn’t sneak, and I didn’t manipulate her. I didn’t— she’s not a kid anymore, mate!”

Max scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I know.” His voice dropped, a deadly whisper now. “You were supposed to be her friend.”

“I am!” Lando said firmly, standing his ground now, eyes burning. “I am her friend. But I’m also in love with her.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. The truth, raw and unavoidable, hung in the charged silence that followed. It made Max’s chest ache in a way that wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, confusion, and protectiveness, all tangled in a knot he couldn’t untangle fast enough.

Max scoffed, dark and bitter. “You fell for her? Christ, Lando. What the fuck!”

Lando didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I fucking did. And if you’d open your eyes, you’d see this a long time ago, and not only now.” Max’s breath hitched. Because deep down, some part of him knew. He had always known that despite how much he had tried, it was inevitable.

But knowing and facing it—those were two very different things.

Max didn’t even realize how hard his fists had clenched until his nails dug into his palms, a sharp sting that barely registered. His breathing was shallow. Every time he tried to speak, the words just burned his throat. “You—” He started, but it fizzled into nothing.

His thoughts were a mess, tangled between anger and something deeper. Betrayal? Guilt? Loss? He didn’t know.

The words hung heavy in the air, the room suddenly too small to contain it. “You don’t get it,” Max’s voice was low, dangerous. “She’s not just someone you can fall for. She’s my little sister.” He growled, his voice dropping. “You know she’s always been off-limits for you.”

Across from him, Lando wasn’t fidgeting anymore. He stood still, but his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking. His eyes weren’t apologetic, they were certain.

“Max…” Lando’s voice was quieter now, not as defensive, not cocky. Just real. “I’ve loved her for a long time. You just never wanted to see it.”

And that—that hit.

“You think this is about me not seeing it?!” Max snapped, his voice louder now, shattering through the apartment. “You think this is about me pretending? You’re my fucking best friend, Lando. And she’s my little sister. You’re both all I’ve got.”

The air was thick, suffocating. The room felt too small for the both of them, as if the walls themselves were bracing for impact. Max’s fists trembled at his sides, and for a second, Lando wondered if this was it—if the fistfight was about to happen, if years of their deeply-rooted friendship were about to shatter right here, right now. But Max didn’t move. He just stood there, shaking his head slightly, lips pressed into a razor-thin line.

Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and ragged. “I can’t deal with this shit right now.”

The words dropped heavy between them. Max turned abruptly, his footsteps sharp against the floor as he stalked toward the door. Lando flinched at the slam of the front door rattling the frame. And then—silence.

Lando’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want it to be like this. Not with Max. Not with you. You both had wanted to tell Max, together, carefully. Not… like this.

Outside, the city lights flickered against the night sky, but inside the apartment, the air crackled with unspoken truths and the weight of inevitable consequences.

And Lando knew—he was fucked. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

But now, the secret was finally out. The lines were blurred, and rules were broken. She was off-limits from the very beginning, and he knew it. She knew it. Yet what’s forbidden always tempts the most, and they had been tasting it for far too long.

After all, the forbidden taste is always the sweetest, and it’s just impossible to resist it.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

@norristrii <3 xx

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smokebombsandspotlights · 22 hours ago

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hi! would you be able to do another driver’s baby sister (she’s around two or three, maybe oscar’s or charles’?) who’s just totally obsessed with ollie. he seems like he’d be so good with kids 🥹🥹🥹

tiny leclerc menace™

(platonic!f1 grid x toddler!reader, toddler!sister of charles, obsessed with ollie)

The Ferrari garage is buzzing. Usual pre-race nerves, mechanics scuttling around, Charles chewing his lip in the corner while pretending he’s relaxed, and then—

There you are.

Two and a half years old, curls sticking out from under a Ferrari cap that’s too big for your head, proudly stomping into the garage like you own the place.

Because honestly? You kinda do.

Arthur’s following behind, carrying a very pink Peppa Pig backpack because you made him. Lorenzo’s on the phone, pretending not to be involved in the chaos, and Charles—oh, poor Charles—is already stressed.

Because you, the youngest Leclerc, have one mission today.

Find Ollie Bearman.

And once you find him, you are not letting go.

phase 1: the hunt 🕵️‍♀️

“Chaaaar.” You tug on your brother’s race suit, stretching the vowels like you always do when you’re annoyed. “Ollie??”

Charles, who would rather focus on his upcoming quali run, bends down to your height and sighs. “Mon chou, Ollie is busy, hm? Maybe later—”

But you? You hear none of it.

You squirm free from his hand, Ferrari cap bobbing as you waddle out of the garage, Arthur jogging behind yelling, “She’s faster than she looks!”

It’s true. Baby legs but dedication.

Because the moment you see that familiar tall figure in the Haas garage, adjusting his helmet—

“OLLIEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Everyone jumps. Ollie turns just in time for you to throw yourself at him, and because Ollie Bearman is Ollie Bearman, he drops everything to catch you mid-run.

“Hey, trouble!” he laughs, scooping you up. You immediately bury your face in his neck like you’ve found home. “You found me again, huh?”

The Haas engineers are watching this unfold with pure delight.

One whispers, “She likes him more than Charles.”

Another: “Don’t let her brother hear that.”

Too late. Because Charles storms in, Arthur trailing behind, breathless.

“Mon dieu, Y/N, you cannot just run away like this!”

But you’re already giggling in Ollie’s arms, patting his cheeks like he’s your favorite toy.

“Cha, look!! Ollie!! Mine!!”

Cue Charles.exe has stopped working.

phase 2: the obsession deepens

The grid loves it. Absolutely eats up the way you’ve decided Ollie is your emotional support driver.

Max? He’s already sending memes in the groupchat.

maxverstappen1: little leclerc has spoken. ollie is #1 leclerc brother now.

Lando keeps teasing Charles during interviews. “So, uh, Charles—feeling threatened that your sister’s swapped you out for Ollie?”

Charles: glare of death Y/N from the background: “OLLIEEEE 🥰”

Carlos? He thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. “She has taste, eh? Don’t worry, hermano, maybe you are her second favorite.”

Even Toto has chimed in after catching you in the Mercedes hospitality once, holding Ollie’s hand while sipping juice. “Seems like Ferrari is losing one of their most loyal fans.”

Charles is two seconds from banning Ollie from family dinners.

phase 3: grid babysitters

Here’s the thing: Ollie is genuinely so good with you.

Like, scarily good.

He carries you around the paddock like it’s the most natural thing. Lets you wear his cap (which basically covers your entire face). Holds your hand when you toddle through hospitality. Always crouches to your level when you demand attention.

One time, you insisted he color with you in the Ferrari motorhome. Ollie spent 45 minutes on the floor, helping you draw crooked race cars while Arthur recorded the whole thing.

Another time, you fell asleep on his chest in the Haas garage, and he just… kept working on notes with an engineer while patting your back like it was nothing.

Every other driver is floored.

George: “I mean, she usually bites my shoelaces.” Oscar: “She threw juice at me last week.” Lewis: “I think I’m the only one she hasn’t assaulted yet.”

But with Ollie? Sunshine. Pure adoration.

You’ve imprinted on him like a baby duck.

phase 4: charles’ downfall

The breaking point comes in Monza.

Charles is hyped—Ferrari crowd, his family in the stands, his baby sister in her little Ferrari shirt.

Until post-race, when you’re asked by F1TV (because the media has caught on to your Ollie obsession) who your favorite driver is.

Microphone shoved in your face. Big grin. No hesitation.

“OLLIEEEEEE!!!”

The clip goes viral in 0.3 seconds.

Arthur? Crying laughing. Lorenzo? Using it as blackmail material. Carlos? Keeps showing it to Charles every 5 minutes. The grid? Already making edits.

And Charles? Charles is spiraling.

“I am her brother! Her favorite brother! This is betrayal, Arthur!”

Arthur, unhelpful: “Well, she did say Ollie first…”

You? You’re too busy clinging to Ollie’s leg to notice the meltdown.

phase 5: family-approved

Eventually, even Maman Leclerc has to admit—Ollie is basically your babysitter now.

He comes to family dinners, always ending up next to you because you refuse to sit by anyone else. He helps feed you pasta, carries you upstairs when you’re sleepy, and lets you play with his phone (only Cocomelon, though).

Charles sulks through all of it.

But then he catches you one night, snuggled against Ollie’s shoulder, whispering, “My best friend,” before falling asleep.

And even he has to admit… maybe it’s okay.

As long as you don’t forget who your real brother is.

End.

Taglist: :@moonlightphilosopher, @karinari1 , @jessk23 , @bunnisplayground , @thisdoesntexsist-cherry , @bookworm-weirdofor-life , @skzlover24 , @lottie810 , @josephinel83 , @hades-favourite-daughter , @princess3055 , @rosiel-leclerc04 , @nikfigueiredo , @anoukformula1 , @queen-aria-things , @pookynknowntranger , @bia-n-t-d , @hellsingalucard18 , @omgsuperstarg , @elvy16 , @lagrandeourse , @devilacot , @obsessed-fan-alert , @bestillmystuckyheart , @anamiad00msday ,

549 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 3 days ago

Note

Hi! I have an idea — what if Lewis has been in a relationship with the Princess of Wales for years, and they got engaged a few months ago? I’d love to see the others’ reactions when they find out.💗💗

royaltea — lh44

smau + written blurbs

lewis hamilton x !princess of wales reader

it all began in 2021, when lewis hamilton knelt before the prince of wales to be knighted. what no one knew then was that it was also the moment you first met — a meeting that quietly changed everything.

for years, your love stayed hidden behind palace walls and away from the spotlight, protected from cameras and speculation. but now, with an engagement ring on your finger and an official announcement from the crown, the secret is finally out.

the world is stunned. the grid is in chaos. and soon, you’ll be marrying the man who stole your heart.

fc : random pinterest gals

(a/n) : this idea was so so cute I LOVE. i wanted to do it justice so it took me a while. love you love you love you and i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

theroyalfamily

liked by lando, georgerussell63, charles_leclerc and 25,000,000 others.

theroyalfamily : Kensington Palace Official Statement.

“Their Royal Highnesses are delighted to announce the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales to Sir Lewis Hamilton. The couple became engaged earlier this year during a private holiday abroad, and both families are said to be overjoyed. The wedding will take place in London in the coming months, with further details to be released in due course.”

tagged : princessofwales and lewishamilton

—

view 4,500,000 other comments.

lando : bro. what.

↳ lando : WHAT IS HAPPENING

↳ lando : DO I GET TO MEET THE PRINCESS

↳ lando : INVITE TO THE ROYAL WEDDING??!!

↳ oscarpiastri : not if you keep behaving like a threat

username00 : he went from knighted to ENGAGED TO A PRINCESS… sir lewis the overachiever.

georgerussell63 : SIR lewis hamilton and the princess of wales?? hold on. i need a moment to breathe and process. i will be back.

charles_leclerc : I WAS NOT READY FOR THIS INFORMATION TODAY. OR EVER. Congratulations to both! ❤️

isackhadjar : excuse me. PRINCESS?? like… actual royal family?? AND I DIDN’T KNOW????

olliebearman : nahhhh there’s no way this is real. they are trolling us. RIGHT⁉️

kimi.antonelli : bro i thought he was joking when he said he was busy with “family stuff” 💀

gabrielbortoleto_ : HOW did he keep this secret?? i can’t even keep it quiet when i buy new shoes.

kimi.antonelli : WAIT IM CIRCLING BACK. does lewis have to wear a crown now???

↳ olliebearman : lowkey idek but imagine asking “what do your in laws do?” and the answer is “rule the country.”

↳ isackhadjar : and he is already a 7 time world champion

username75 : safe to say the grid did not know

username55 : the grid rn trying to figure out how to curtsy.

↳ isackhadjar : i will not lie. we are all panicking.

↳ carlossainz55 : group chat is up in FLAMES

badgalriri : omg yes this is iconic. I LOVE.

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

serenawilliams : i KNEW something was going on 👏🏽 congrats friends!

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

zendaya : a fairytale couple if i’ve ever seen one. congratulations to you both!!

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

carmenmmundt : congratulations!! absolutely beautiful news 💕

liked by lewishamilton

f1 : congratulations to sir lewis hamilton and her royal highness the princess of wales on their engagement 💍👑

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

mercedesamgf1 : once part of the family, always part of the family. congratulations lewis & hrh on your engagement 💙

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

scuderiaferrari : the whole team sends their warmest congratulations to our lewis and the princess on this incredible news ❤️

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

sebastianvettel : incredible news. wishing you both all the happiness in the world.

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

jensonbutton : wow. didn’t see this one coming — huge congratulations lewis 👏🏻

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

georgerussell63 : ok im back after my meltdown and the post is still up so it HAS to be real.

↳ lando : no bc HOW did we not know. like he kept THIS from us??

↳ charles_leclerc : i feel betrayed ngl.

↳ pierregasly : bro you can’t even keep your own relationship secret for 2 weeks.

↳ charles_leclerc : at least i tried.

↳ isackhadjar : IM STILL PROCESSING THIS.

↳ olliebearman: bro same. imagine calling him “your royal highness.”

↳ kimi.antonelli : i’m practicing my bow already.

↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : where is netflix

↳ danielricciardo : all i know is im making a toast at this wedding whether they ask me or not 🥂

↳ lewishamilton : no you’re not.

↳ danielricciardo: try and stop me prince charming.

↳ maxverstappen1 : still processing how im going to explain to my kids that i raced with a royal

liked by lewishamilton

raye : so when’s the wedding and can i sing? congratulations my beautiful friends!

liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales

↳ princessofwales : absolutely! we would love that ❤️

liked by raye and lewishamilton

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

flashback

You’d stood at countless ceremonies before, posture perfected, smile practiced, the weight of the crown a constant companion. But this one felt… different.

The grand hall was hushed, the scent of polished wood and centuries-old stone lingering in the air. The Prince of Wales moved through the ritual with his usual dignity, the ancient words rolling off his tongue as another deserving recipient knelt before him. You stood just off to the side, where you always did, your presence ceremonial, supportive, expected.

And then it was his turn.

“Sir Lewis Hamilton,” your father announced.

The name echoed through the hall, heavy with its own kind of history. You’d heard it before, of course—on televisions, in newspaper headlines, spoken in admiration at dinner tables. The man who had rewritten the record books of Formula 1. The man who carried himself with a kind of quiet pride, never just an athlete, but a symbol.

When he stepped forward, the air shifted.

He moved with that same unmistakable presence, though there was humility in the way he bowed his head, in the way he knelt on the crimson cushion. For a moment, he looked every bit the knight in waiting, and something in your chest tightened.

You told yourself it was the ceremony—the grandeur, the tradition—but then his eyes lifted.

And they met yours.

The world seemed to still.

It was just a glance, a heartbeat, the space of a breath—but it was enough. His gaze was warm, searching, almost startled, as if he hadn’t expected to find you there either. And in that instant, there was a recognition neither of you could name, an unspoken pull that felt both new and impossibly familiar.

You smiled before you realized you had. Not the polite curve of lips you reserved for public duty, but something softer, something real. His eyes flickered, and he smiled back, the kind of smile that carried secrets.

The sword was laid on his shoulder, the words of honor spoken, the applause rising around you. Yet, all you could hear was the echo of your own heartbeat, all you could see was the way he stood again, taller somehow, though still looking at you as if the entire hall had disappeared.

And you knew, as surely as you knew your own name, that this moment was the beginning of something you would never be able to hide.

The reception that followed the ceremony was filled with the usual grandeur—crystal chandeliers glowing above, champagne glasses clinking softly, polite laughter weaving through the hall. You’d been through so many of these evenings that they often blurred together: the endless pleasantries, the conversations that skimmed the surface but never reached the depths.

But tonight, your attention wandered—no, anchored—to one person.

Lewis Hamilton.

He was surrounded at first, of course—dignitaries, officials, admirers eager to congratulate the freshly knighted champion. Yet even from across the room, you could feel it: his eyes found yours whenever he could, lingering just long enough to send a rush through you before the crowd pulled him back.

It was almost ridiculous, the way you felt like a teenager stealing glances. But then, fate—or perhaps courage—brought him closer.

“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted softly when there was finally no one between you. His voice was low, steady, but you could hear the slightest edge of nerves beneath it.

You smiled, feeling something loosen in your chest. “Sir Lewis.”

His lips curved into the smallest grin. “That still feels strange to hear.”

“And yet you wear it well,” you teased gently.

There was a pause, one of those silences that wasn’t uncomfortable at all, but charged, full of meaning. His eyes searched yours as though he were memorizing every detail, and you wondered if anyone had ever looked at you quite like that—unfazed by titles, by duty, by the world that always seemed to stand between you and anyone else.

“You know,” he said finally, voice soft enough that only you could hear, “I didn’t expect today to change my life quite like this.”

Your heart skipped. “And how has it changed?”

Lewis leaned just slightly closer, careful—always respectful, but honest. “I met you.”

The words landed with a weight you hadn’t expected, simple yet profound. And instead of brushing it off, instead of hiding behind formality, you let yourself meet his gaze fully, your voice steady but warm.

“Then perhaps,” you whispered, “today has changed mine too.”

It was the first secret you shared together—unspoken, hidden in plain sight, but undeniable. A promise wrapped in the quiet of a crowded room, the beginning of something neither of you would ever truly be able to walk away from.

—

It didn’t take long. A handful of days after the knighthood, a quiet message reached you through trusted channels: a discreet invitation, phrased carefully, but its intent clear. Lewis wanted to see you—not at a palace, not in public, but somewhere away from the endless eyes.

You’d never broken protocol before. Not like this. But something about him made you braver, softer all at once.

So you agreed.

It was a small café tucked away in a quiet London street, the kind of place that smelled of coffee beans and old books, where the hum of conversation was gentle enough to disguise anything. Lewis was already there when you arrived, cap pulled low, hoodie simple, but nothing could dim that presence.

When he looked up and saw you, the smile that spread across his face wasn’t one of practiced charm or polite courtesy. It was pure, unguarded happiness.

“You came,” he said, standing as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Of course I did.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but there was no hiding the warmth in it.

The table between you was small, intimate. You sat, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t the Princess of Wales. You were just… yourself. And he treated you that way—asking about your favorite books stacked on the café shelves, laughing when you admitted you hated tea but drank it anyway at royal functions, listening intently to every detail like each word mattered.

And you listened to him. Really listened. To the way he spoke about racing, not as fame or glory, but as freedom. To the loneliness behind his achievements, the sacrifices no headline ever truly captured. To the quiet dreams he carried, ones far beyond the track.

Hours passed unnoticed. At one point, your hands brushed on the table, an accidental touch that lingered just a second too long. Neither of you pulled away.

By the time you left, slipping back into the anonymity of the night, there was no denying it anymore.

Something had begun. Not a duty, not a performance, but something real. The kind of connection you’d never been allowed to hope for. The kind of love you’d spend years protecting.

—

It was late, the kind of late where London was quiet and the streets were washed in the soft glow of lamplight. You’d slipped away together after another carefully arranged meeting, one more evening stolen from the world.

You walked side by side, his hoodie pulled up, your coat wrapped tight around you. There were no titles here, no cameras. Just two people.

Lewis stopped suddenly, turning to face you. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, yet burning with something that made your heart race.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

“Of course.”

He hesitated—just for a breath—then smiled that rare, unguarded smile. “Be mine.”

It was simple, stripped of grandeur or ceremony. No practiced lines, no polished gestures. Just Lewis, standing on a quiet street, asking you for the one thing that mattered most.

Your chest tightened with an ache so sweet it almost hurt. “Lewis…”

You wanted it. More than anything, you wanted it. But reality pressed in, cold and unrelenting. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“I want to,” you whispered. “More than I can say. But if we do this… it has to stay ours. Private. Hidden. For now. The world wouldn’t understand, and the palace—” You broke off, shaking your head. “It wouldn’t be easy.”

For a moment, you feared you’d see doubt flicker across his face. But instead, Lewis only stepped closer, closing the space between you until his presence wrapped around you like warmth.

“I don’t care,” he said quietly. “Not about the press, not about the rules, not about any of it. I just care about you. If keeping us private is what it takes, then that’s what we’ll do. No hesitation.”

Your breath caught.

“You’d really do that?”

His hand brushed against yours, fingertips grazing, a touch so delicate it felt reverent. “I’d wait a lifetime if it meant I got to call you mine.”

And just like that, every wall you’d built crumbled.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word carrying more weight than any vow you’d ever spoken. “I’ll be yours.”

His smile was small, almost disbelieving, but when he leaned in and pressed his forehead against yours, the world around you seemed to disappear.

It didn’t matter that you’d have to hide. It didn’t matter that duty and expectation loomed like shadows. Because in that moment, it was just you and Lewis. And the quiet, unshakable promise that you belonged to each other.

—

It happened quietly, just as your love had always been. No palace ballroom, no flashing cameras. Just the two of you on a sun-drenched hillside in Italy, where Lewis had taken you under the guise of a short holiday.

You were walking together through the olive groves when he slowed, his hand tightening around yours. When you turned, he was already looking at you with that steady, soul-deep gaze you knew so well.

“Do you remember that night in London,” he said softly, “when I asked you to be mine?”

You smiled, your heart skipping. “Of course I do.”

“Well…” He exhaled, a nervous laugh escaping. “I don’t want to keep you hidden anymore. I don’t want to just call you mine in secret. I want the world to know. I want forever.”

And then—before you could even catch your breath—he was kneeling again, not on a crimson cushion this time, not under the eye of tradition, but on soft earth, sunlight catching in his hair.

He opened the small velvet box, the ring gleaming inside.

“Will you marry me?”

The tears came before the words did, your hands flying to your mouth as your chest ached with joy. You’d imagined this moment, dreamt of it, but nothing compared to the way it felt, raw and real, right here in his eyes.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking with laughter and tears all at once. “Yes, Lewis. A thousand times, yes.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger, and when he stood, you were already falling into his arms, both of you laughing, kissing, holding on as though the world could fall away and you wouldn’t notice.

For the first time, forever felt possible.

Sharing the news with your family was nothing short of terrifying. Not because you doubted them, but because it made everything real in a way hiding never had.

You sat together in a private drawing room, your fingers twined with Lewis’s. The ring glimmered on your hand, impossible to miss.

The silence lasted only a beat.

And then your mother gasped, your father broke into the warmest grin, and suddenly you were wrapped in embraces, kisses on your hair, words of congratulations tumbling out all at once.

“They’ll adore you,” your brother told Lewis with a clap on the shoulder, voice thick with emotion. “We already do.”

Lewis, who had faced down rivalries and podiums and a lifetime under the harshest spotlight, looked more overwhelmed than you’d ever seen him. His eyes were bright as he held your hand tighter, his voice quiet but steady.

“Thank you. For trusting me with her. She’s my everything.”

And in that room, surrounded by love and laughter, it finally sank in: this wasn’t just a secret anymore.

This was the beginning of forever.

—

The decision to tell your family had been daunting, but meeting Lewis’s parents? Somehow, that felt even more real.

You’d seen them before, of course—photographs, stories, the occasional glimpse from afar at a race. But never like this. Never as you, not the Princess of Wales, not the symbol the world saw, but as the woman their son loved.

Lewis was nervous. You could tell by the way his hand never left yours, the way he kept adjusting his cap and glancing at you as though to reassure himself you were truly there.

“They’re going to love you,” he promised, though his voice carried the same tremor as yours did when you spoke of introducing him to your family. “But, uh… just to warn you, Mum’s going to cry.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The moment you stepped into the cozy warmth of his mother’s home, she froze in the doorway. For the briefest second, she was every bit the picture of composure, but then her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh my goodness,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s really you.”

You barely had time to smile before she was reaching for you, pulling you into the kind of hug that was all warmth and home and unconditional love. You melted into it, the formality of your upbringing stripped away in a heartbeat.

When she finally pulled back, she cupped your face gently as though she still couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re even lovelier in person,” she said through a watery laugh. “Lewis, you didn’t tell me…”

“Mum,” Lewis groaned softly, but he was smiling, his cheeks pink.

Across the room, his father watched in silence at first, his eyes wide, his expression somewhere between shock and awe. You could see him searching for words, see the way his chest rose and fell as he tried to make sense of the moment.

Finally, he shook his head with a quiet chuckle. “My son,” he said, his voice thick with pride, “you’ve always surprised me. But this…” He looked between you and Lewis, his eyes softening. “This is something else.”

He extended a hand, formal at first, but when you took it, his grip lingered. There was no hesitation, no distance. Just warmth. “Welcome,” he said simply. “Truly.”

The evening unfolded gently from there. Over dinner, Lewis’s mother asked you every question under the sun—what you liked to read, your favorite food, whether you had a sweet tooth (she insisted on sending you home with a tin of her biscuits, regardless of the answer). His father listened more than he spoke, but his quiet glances of approval, the occasional smile when Lewis reached for your hand, spoke volumes.

At one point, you excused yourself briefly, and when you returned, you caught Lewis in the kitchen with his mum.

“She’s the one,” he was saying softly, his back to you, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that sent shivers down your spine. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His mum sniffled and laughed at once. “I can see it. You glow when she’s in the room, Lewis. You always wanted to make history… but I think this is the part that matters most.”

Your heart ached in the best way. And when you walked back in, pretending you hadn’t heard, Lewis’s smile found you instantly, his hand reaching for yours like it was second nature.

By the end of the night, when his mother hugged you again at the door and whispered, take care of my boy, he deserves every bit of happiness, you realized something:

You weren’t just stepping into Lewis’s world. You were becoming part of his family. And in their warmth and wonder and quiet pride, you felt more at home than you’d ever imagined.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

present day

theroyaltea

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 and 15,000,000 others.

theroyaltea : the Princess of Wales making her first public appearance since the Palace confirmed her engagement to Sir Lewis Hamilton. and in true fairytale fashion, she chose an all white ensemble. understated. classic. and yet impossibly regal. but let’s talk about what everyone is whispering about: the ring. 💍✨ sources confirm it was custom designed by Shaun Leane in collaboration with Cartier (yes… you read that right—two houses working together for the first time in history). the stone? a flawless 15-carat, sustainably sourced diamond from Botswana—where lewis has often spoken about his ties and passion for conservation. the setting? whispers say it incorporates subtle motifs of wings to honor both lewis’s racing career and the princess’s family crest.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

The announcement had gone live just hours ago, and the world had officially lost its mind. Your phone buzzed endlessly, a chorus of notifications that seemed to vibrate in time with your heartbeat. Paparazzi lenses flashed outside the window, social media feeds exploded with every detail of your engagement, and news channels ran endless coverage, dissecting every possible angle.

But none of that mattered—not really.

Lewis pulled you close on the couch in the quiet corner of the penthouse you had claimed as yours for the night. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you like you were the only person in the world, and you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

“Can you believe it?” you murmured into the fabric of his hoodie.

“Believe it?” he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I think the world is about to implode before we even make it to the wedding.”

Even as he said it, the buzzing of his phone grew louder. He finally gave in and glanced down. His F1 group chat was going absolutely insane.

Lewis let out a low laugh, the sound vibrating through you as his thumb scrolled over the messages. He shook his head, exasperated but grinning. “They’re ridiculous,” he said.

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “And yet you love them.”

“I do,” he admitted, voice muffled against your hair. “Even when they’re losing their minds because I’m marrying a princess.”

Your laugh was quiet, a bubble of warmth in the middle of the chaos. “It’s… a lot. They’re all freaking out. The fans, the drivers, the internet—it’s everywhere.”

“Exactly why we stay right here,” he said firmly, tightening his hold. “All the noise, all the flashing cameras, all the chaos… it doesn’t touch us here.”

You nuzzled closer, savoring the safety of the moment. Outside, the world was spiraling, with tweets and articles dissecting your every move, memes flooding every corner of the internet, and his phone still buzzing nonstop with group chat notifications. Inside, you were tucked against him like nothing could reach you.

Lewis pressed his lips to your forehead, soft and grounding. “They’re excited,” he murmured. “But this—us—it’s ours first. And that’s what matters.”

You smiled against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of him, and whispered, “I like it here, with you. Away from everything. Just us.”

He grinned, a playful lift at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me, whether the internet likes it or not.”

You laughed, soft and warm, and let yourself melt further into his arms. Outside, the world could scream, the grid could freak out, and the press could chase every detail—none of it mattered in this bubble.

Here, in his arms, time slowed. Here, you were just you and Lewis. Just love, quiet and steady, against a world that had suddenly gone completely, wonderfully insane.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

The London sky was a soft gray outside the window, rain pattering faintly against the glass, but inside the flat it was warm and still. You sat curled up in Lewis’ lap on the sofa, his hoodie swallowing you whole while his fingers absentmindedly traced shapes on your knee. The engagement whirlwind had finally settled into a manageable hum—still noisy, still everywhere, but quieter now that you’d both spent a few days hiding away.

“Mm,” you murmured, leaning back to look at him, “Silverstone’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”

His brows lifted, just a flicker, and his hand stilled on your leg. “Yeah. Two weeks.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “So… maybe I could come with you this time?”

Lewis blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Come with me? To the race?”

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yes. To support you. And to meet everyone. You’re always coming into my world—family dinners, palace obligations, charity galas. But I’ve never stepped into yours like that. I want to see it. I want to see you there.”

For a long moment, he was quiet, his thumb brushing over your hand like he was buying time. “It’s… Silverstone, love. It’s a madhouse at the best of times. And now with the engagement out, it’ll be…” He trailed off, exhaling a little laugh that held more nerves than amusement. “It’ll be another level.”

You squeezed his hand, tilting closer. “Then let me be there with you through it. Let me take some of that weight off. I don’t want you facing all of it alone.”

His gaze softened, though you could see the hesitation still flickering in his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want you there. God knows I’d love nothing more than to look over and see you in the garage. But…” He paused, searching your face. “I don’t want it to overwhelm you. The press, the paddock, the chaos of a home race—”

You cut him off with a grin, brushing your nose against his. “Lewis Hamilton, I was raised with palace press packs, royal protocol, and entire countries watching my every move. You think I can’t handle a few overexcited fans and some nosy journalists?”

That finally earned you a laugh—low, warm, and utterly fond. He shook his head, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love it,” you teased.

“I do,” he admitted without hesitation, pulling you tighter against his chest.

“So it’s settled then,” you said, smug and final. “I’ll come with you. I’ll sit in your garage, I’ll cheer for you, and I’ll finally meet all these friends of yours that keep blowing up your group chat.”

He groaned softly, resting his forehead against yours. “God, they’re going to lose their minds.”

“Good,” you whispered, smiling as you kissed him. “Let them. I want them to know how much I adore you.”

Lewis melted into the kiss, the last of his resistance slipping away. When he pulled back, his smile was boyish, almost shy, but his eyes sparkled with something brighter. “Alright then. Silverstone, you and me.”

“Silverstone,” you echoed, curling into him again with a happy sigh. The world could spin as wildly as it wanted—soon you’d be by his side, not just in private but in the heart of his universe.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

princessofwales

liked by lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, lando and 18,000,000 others.

princessofwales : such an incredible experience getting to support the love of my life this weekend<3 you did incredible, lew. love you always

tagged : lewishamilton and roscoelovescoco

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⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

The private jet hummed softly beneath you as you sank into the plush seat, Roscoe—the ever-opinionated bulldog—curled up comfortably in your lap. You had a small plate of fresh fruit balanced on the armrest, carefully feeding him tiny bites while Lewis lounged opposite you, one hand propped under his chin, watching with amusement.

“Careful,” Lewis said with a mock-serious tone, his brows raised. “I think he might be judging your plating technique.”

Roscoe let out a contented snort, chomping gently on a piece of strawberry. You laughed, tickling his belly with one hand while offering the next bite.

“Judging my fruit?” you said, smirking. “I think he likes it.”

Lewis grinned, leaning forward slightly. “Or he’s giving you the side-eye because he knows what this trip really means. You know, paddock chaos, shouting mechanics, drivers losing their minds…”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “I’m excited, Lewis. Absolutely. Besides, Roscoe’s here to keep me safe.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “It’s not too late, you know. You could still—”

“Oh, don’t even start,” you interrupted, waving a finger with exaggerated mock-seriousness. “I am coming. I’m very excited to meet all your friends, your colleagues, your team. And yes, even Lando.”

Lewis chuckled, pretending to groan. “I should’ve seen this coming. The princess of Wales, terrified of nothing, marching straight into the paddock. You’re braver than I thought.”

“Or maybe I’m just hungry,” you teased, holding up the slice of kiwi as Roscoe snuffled eagerly.

He laughed again, reaching over to scratch behind Roscoe’s ears. “Fair enough. But I swear, if you steal his attention the way you’ve stolen mine…”

“Lewis,” you said with a grin, leaning closer so your head rested against his shoulder. “You’ve already lost him. I think we can safely say that battle’s over.”

He kissed the top of your head, his laughter soft against your hair. “You’re impossible. But I love it.”

Roscoe snorted again, as if to punctuate the sentiment, and you laughed, offering him another bite of fruit. Outside the small window, the clouds blurred by as the jet carried you toward Silverstone. Inside, though, it felt like a world unto itself: warm, safe, and filled with quiet excitement for the adventure that awaited—and the inevitable chaos you’d encounter together.

“You ready for the circus?” Lewis whispered.

You laughed, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Completely. Let them freak out. I’m ready to meet everyone—and I have Roscoe on my side.”

He pulled you closer, kissing your temple. “Then I guess we’re really doing this.”

“Absolutely,” you said, smiling down at the little bulldog, who seemed to nod in solemn agreement.

And with that, the jet soared on, carrying the two of you—and Roscoe—straight into the chaos and joy of Silverstone.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

You step into the Ferrari garage with Lewis, Roscoe trotting happily at your side, and you instantly feel the atmosphere shift. It’s as if the entire room collectively inhaled at once and then forgot how to exhale.

The first person you lock eyes with is Charles Leclerc. Usually Mr. Cool-Charisma, he’s standing stiff as a statue, a coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips. His hazel-green eyes are wide, his brain clearly buffering.

“Charles,” Lewis says smoothly, as if introducing you to an old friend and not the man currently malfunctioning in front of him. “This is YN.”

Charles just blinks. Then blinks again. Finally, he blurts, “You’re… real?”

You laugh, extending your hand warmly. “Last time I checked, yes. Lovely to meet you.”

Charles stares at your hand for a second too long before practically launching his own forward, nearly spilling his coffee in the process. “Sorry, sorry—yes—bonjour, hello—uh, hi!” His words trip over themselves like dominoes, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling.

Behind him, Alexandra Saint Mleux is standing with a notebook tucked under her arm, eyes wide in awe. She’s clearly trying to stay composed, but when you smile at her, she flushes bright pink.

“And this is Alexandra,” Charles says quickly, motioning like a magician’s assistant presenting his co-star. “My… girlfriend.”

You offer Alexandra a genuine smile and lean in slightly. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

Alexandra squeaks—literally squeaks—before quickly covering her mouth. “Oh my god, sorry. I don’t usually… squeak. I mean—hi! You’re beautiful. And I love your… shoes?”

You glance down at your very normal shoes, then back up with a soft laugh. “Thank you. Roscoe picked them out.”

Roscoe snorts loudly, almost on cue, and Alexandra giggles like she’s just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Meanwhile, a cluster of Ferrari engineers—men and women you recognize from TV—are hovering awkwardly nearby, whispering frantically in Italian. One of them, braver than the rest, steps forward and bows. Actually bows.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “It is… uh… honor for Ferrari to… meet.”

You immediately wave your hand, smiling warmly. “Please, none of that. Just YN, really. I promise I don’t bite.”

Another engineer, flustered, blurts, “But you are… a princess!” like it’s a contagious condition they’re not sure how to handle.

You laugh, reaching down to scratch Roscoe behind the ears. “Yes, but also someone who loves dogs, coffee, and Italian food. Which means I think we’ll get along just fine.”

That cracks the tension. Half the group chuckles nervously, and the other half looks as though they’re trying to memorize every single word you say.

Charles, finally regaining some composure, sets his coffee down before it can do more damage. “Lewis, mon dieu, you could have warned us,” he mutters under his breath, though not quietly enough.

Lewis smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Alexandra, now more relaxed, edges closer to you. “Can I just say… you are so calm. I really respect you for it.”

You tilt your head with a small smile. “Oh, believe me, I’m nervous too. But if I can survive meeting the Ferrari team, I can survive anything, right?”

Charles laughs finally, the tension breaking fully. “She’s good,” he says to Lewis, shaking his head in disbelief. “Really good. You’re lucky.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lewis murmurs, slipping an arm around your waist.

That, of course, sets off another round of chaos—the engineers whispering again, Alexandra hiding a lovestruck smile behind her notebook, and Charles sighing dramatically like he’s just witnessed the greatest power couple of all time.

You lean down to give Roscoe a blueberry from the snack plate someone nervously shoved in your direction, and he happily chomps away, tail wagging. “See?” you grin at the group. “Roscoe approves. And that’s all that really matters.”

Everyone laughs this time, genuinely. And just like that, the Ferrari team isn’t staring at a princess anymore—they’re staring at you.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

You barely make it two steps into the Mercedes motorhome before chaos begins.

George Russell, all six feet and then some of nerves and enthusiasm, spots you instantly. He goes stiff, blinks once, twice, and then, in a voice about three octaves higher than normal, blurts:

“NO. BLOODY. WAY.”

Half the hospitality area turns to stare. George, already regretting the volume, waves his arms like he’s shooing invisible bees. “SORRY, EVERYONE, nothing to see here, carry on! Just—just a princess in the room, that’s all!”

You can feel Lewis pinching the bridge of his nose beside you. “George.”

George spins toward him, wide-eyed, hands flapping helplessly. “Mate, you didn’t tell me! You—you can’t just—this is—oh my god, I’m sweating, am I sweating? I’m sweating.”

You smile kindly, offering your hand. “Hi, you must be George.”

Instead of shaking your hand like a normal person, George bows at the waist. Actually bows. Then realizes what he’s doing and jerks back upright, smacking his knee on the coffee table in the process. “OW—yep, no, normal handshake, yes, of course—” He grabs your hand with the desperation of a man clinging to a life raft.

Behind him, a teenage-shaped bundle of nerves is hovering. Kimi Antonelli, clearly torn between bolting and trying to behave, shuffles forward like he’s being led to execution. He opens his mouth, shuts it, tries again—then abruptly bends his knees and attempts… a curtsy.

An actual curtsy.

You blink in surprise before bursting into laughter, clutching Lewis’ arm for balance. “Oh my goodness, that’s adorable.”

Kimi goes scarlet, springing back up like he’s been burned. “I—I didn’t know if you bow, or shake hands, or—or if I should call you ‘Your Majesty,’ or—oh god—”

You crouch slightly to soften your voice, smiling warmly at him. “Kimi, you can just call me YN. And I promise I don’t bite.”

He blinks at you, stunned, then glances helplessly at Lewis. “Are you sure?”

Lewis chuckles, patting the boy on the back. “Pretty sure, mate. She’s survived me this long.”

Before you can say more, Toto Wolff strides into the room, tall and commanding as ever. He takes in the scene—the red-faced George, the mortified Kimi, you scratching Roscoe’s ears like this is the most normal day of your life—and exhales slowly, like he already has a migraine.

“George,” he says sternly, “stop shouting. Kimi, stop curtsying. Everyone, for the love of god, breathe.”

Then he turns to you, softening instantly. “YN. Welcome. I apologize for… this circus.”

“It’s charming, really,” you assure him, lips twitching. “I think I like Mercedes already.”

Kimi, still jittering, blurts, “You’re like, even prettier in real life, and I didn’t think that was possible, no offense to the internet, but it doesn’t do you justice—”

“KIMI!” Toto barks, as if redirecting attention will help. “Say something normal.”

Kimi, eyes wide as saucers, blurts the first thing that comes to mind: “Do princesses like… pizza?”

There’s a beat of silence before you grin. “Only if it has extra cheese.”

George lets out a strangled laugh, Kimi looks like he might actually faint, and Toto just mutters under his breath in German. Lewis squeezes your hand, clearly amused.

“See?” you say, scratching Roscoe’s head again as he wags his tail. “This wasn’t so bad.”

George groans dramatically. “Not bad? This was a disaster! I curtsied with my words, he curtsied with his knees, Toto’s blood pressure spiked—this is the worst first impression in the history of first impressions!”

“Don’t worry. You’re all unforgettable. And that’s the best kind of first impression.”

Lewis shakes his head, grinning down at you. “Told you she’d handle it better than all of you combined.”

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

You and Lewis are strolling through the paddock when you hear the loud, unmistakable voice of Lando Norris cutting through the hum of engines and chatter.

“LEWIS HAMILTON! Oi—Lewis!”

You both turn just in time to see Lando jogging toward you, his curly hair a mess under his cap, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. Behind him trail three rookies—Ollie Bearman, Isack Hadjar, and Gabriel Bortoleto—like ducklings who’ve just realized they’re about to walk straight into chaos.

Lando skids to a stop, hands on his knees, panting dramatically. Then he looks up—and sees you.

His jaw drops.

“NO. WAY.”

The three rookies nearly pile into the back of him, stumbling as they try not to trip over each other. Ollie, the tallest, blinks once, twice, like his brain’s rebooting. Gabriel smacks Isack’s arm hard enough to make him yelp, hissing, “That’s her, that’s the princess, oh my god, that’s actually her!”

You smile, amused, giving a little wave. “Hi.”

It’s like dropping a bomb in the middle of them.

Isack, usually quick-witted, makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a cough. Gabriel starts speaking rapid fire Portuguese to no one in particular. Ollie just stares, face flushed, as though words have completely abandoned him.

Lando, of course, recovers first. He straightens, throws his arms out theatrically, and declares, “Lewis, mate, you’ve been hiding a literal princess from us? This is betrayal of the highest order.”

Lewis groans. “Lando…”

“No, don’t ‘Lando’ me!” he says, spinning dramatically to face the rookies. “Do you lot understand what’s happening? That’s an actual royal person. Here. Standing. With Lewis. Casual as you like.”

Isack nods dumbly, still starstruck. “I—I thought she’d have bodyguards. Or, like… a tiara?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry to disappoint. The tiara’s at home.”

Ollie finally finds his voice, though it comes out in a strangled rush. “It’s—it’s a huge honor to meet you, Your—Your Highness—Your—Ma’am?—Princess?—what do we—what do we say?!”

Gabriel smacks the back of his head lightly. “Shut up before you call her something dumb and we all get executed.”

You giggle, covering your mouth. “Relax. I’m just YN. No titles needed.”

Roscoe chooses that moment to flop dramatically onto Ollie’s shoes, tail wagging. Ollie goes rigid, then slowly crouches down, as though touching Lewis Hamilton’s dog and a princess in the same day might be too much for his heart to take.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, stroking Roscoe’s head. “He’s real. He’s actually real.”

You grin. “He’s very real. And very spoiled.”

Lando claps his hands like a proud teacher. “Alright, boys, lesson of the day: princesses are present, Roscoe is royalty, and Lewis is officially the luckiest bastard alive.”

The rookies glance between you and Lewis, clearly still processing. Gabriel blurts out, “Wait—so you’re engaged to him?!”

The way he says it—like it’s the plot twist of the century—makes you laugh so hard you nearly double over. “Surprise?”

Lando groans, ruffling his hair. “This is insane. I can’t believe this. Silverstone hasn’t even started and already the paddock’s biggest headline is you two.”

You shrug playfully. “At least it’s entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” Ollie echoes faintly, still petting Roscoe like his life depends on it. “This is history.”

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹ Lewis’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, the screen lighting up.

“Do I even want to know?” he mutters, glancing at you where you’re curled up on the sofa with Roscoe’s head in your lap.

You lean over to peek. “Who is it?”

He sighs. “Ollie, Kimi, Isack AND Gabriel.”

You grin. “Oh, I definitely want to see this.”

Against his better judgment, Lewis swipes to accept, and immediately his screen fills with four tiny squares of very excited, very loud rookies.

“LEWIS!” Ollie practically shouts, hair sticking up like he’s just sprinted a mile. “Finally! We’ve been waiting for hours!”

“Put her on the phone,” Isack demands, waving frantically. “We need to speak to the princess. Urgently.”

Lewis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

“Royal. Wedding. Protocol.” Gabriel enunciates each word like it’s life or death. “We’re not about to embarrass ourselves in front of an entire kingdom.”

Kimi, normally the quiet one, pipes up in a nervous rush, “I googled it, but the internet said something about tails and medals and hats and I don’t own any of those—”

“Relax,” you laugh, already leaning over and snatching the phone from Lewis before he can protest. “Hi, boys.”

The effect is immediate—four rookies freeze, eyes wide, as if you’ve just materialized out of Buckingham Palace itself. Then all hell breaks loose.

“YOUR HIGH—uh—YN!” Ollie stammers, cheeks flushing crimson. “We—we didn’t mean to bother you, we just—”

“Do we need top hats?” Isack blurts, eyes wide. “Because I’ll get one. I’ll wear it on the plane. I don’t care.”

“Do we bow before we sit down?” Gabriel asks, deadly serious. “Because if I bow, I’m dragging Ollie down with me. He’s tall enough to block the entire ceremony.”

Kimi frowns at his friends, then blurts nervously, “Can I just curtsy again? Because that worked last time.”

At that, you can’t help it—you throw your head back and laugh. “Oh my god, you four are adorable.”

Lewis groans in the background. “Don’t encourage them.”

But you’re already leaning closer to the camera, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Okay. Step one: no bowing. No curtsying. No hats with feathers. Unless you really, really want to, in which case I’ll support it.”

Kimi exhales in visible relief, though Ollie mutters, “Kinda wanted the top hat…”

“Step two,” you continue, “you just wear something nice. Suit, tie, shoes that aren’t sneakers. That’s it. That’s all the protocol.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Gabriel looks betrayed. “But I was ready to rent a whole morning coat!”

“You can if you want,” you say warmly, “but I promise, no one’s going to judge you if you just look clean and respectable.”

Isack narrows his eyes, like he doesn’t quite trust how simple this sounds. “So no gold trimmed capes? No ceremonial swords?”

Lewis finally cuts in, exasperated. “It’s a wedding, not a Marvel premiere.”

“Speak for yourself,” you tease, shooting him a grin.

The rookies all break into laughter, but Ollie sobers enough to lean forward, his face filling the screen. “Okay, but, um—just so you know—we’re really, really honored to be invited. Like… really.”

The other three nod furiously, suddenly shy, their earlier chaos softening into something much sweeter.

Your heart melts a little. “I’m really honored you want to come. Honestly, having you all there will make the day even more special.”

Kimi, still red in the face, blurts, “We’ll be on our best behavior. Promise.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gabriel mutters, though he’s grinning.

You chuckle. “Don’t worry. You already passed the test. Asking about top hats? That’s peak royal wedding enthusiasm. I think you’re more prepared than half my cousins.”

They all beam like you’ve just knighted them, and Lewis mutters beside you, “I’ve lost control of this entirely.”

“Correct,” you tell him, handing the phone back. “They’re mine now.”

The rookies cheer at that, and Lewis can only shake his head while you and Roscoe sit there giggling like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

f1gossipgirls

14,700,000 likes. f1gossipgirls : In a crossover none of us had on our 2025 bingo cards, the F1 grid has officially traded helmets for suits at the royal wedding of the year! From tuxedos to tails (and a few questionable tie choices 👀), current drivers were spotted arriving together, with the rookies buzzing like schoolboys on their first field trip. Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux looked picture-perfect, while George Russell (unsurprisingly) seemed to be taking the event as seriously as a Grand Prix. Not just the current grid either—several legends have been seen slipping through the grand cathedral doors, including Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, and even Nico Rosberg (!!), who was caught smiling for cameras. A true timeline reset moment.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

The cathedral was alive with quiet anticipation, the kind that hummed in the bones rather than rang in the ears. Morning light poured through the stained glass, spilling jewel tones across polished stone and carved pews lined with guests who were still struggling to believe what they were witnessing. Royals and dignitaries sat beside racing drivers, engineers, and old friends, the unlikely combination creating a sense of wonder that matched the occasion.

At the front of the aisle, Lewis stood tall in his bespoke black morning suit, the silver embroidery of subtle Hamilton family crest details glimmering in the light. His nerves weren’t for the cameras or the countless sets of eyes staring—he had been under bright lights for two decades. His hands flexed slightly at his sides as though he was waiting to grip the steering wheel of his car, except this time, it was the moment before his life changed forever.

Roscoe, wearing a tiny velvet bowtie, was curled quietly beside his feet, almost as if he understood the magnitude of what was about to happen. Then, the music shifted.

The organ swelled into something rich and timeless, and the cathedral rose to its feet. Every head turned, a hush falling so quickly it was almost holy. And there you were.

Walking down the long aisle, every step measured and poised, but your smile gave you away—it was radiant, soft, completely unguarded. You wore white that gleamed under the light, a gown with a modern silhouette threaded with the faintest touch of heritage, a nod to the history you carried on your shoulders. The diamond tiara perched delicately on your head was understated compared to others in your family’s vault, chosen purposefully, because today wasn’t about opulence. It was about love.

Lewis’ chest rose sharply the second he saw you. He had rehearsed not crying, but the tears threatened anyway, blurring the edges of his vision as you came closer. He wasn’t just marrying a princess—he was marrying the woman who had been his best-kept secret, the love that carried him through heartbreak, losses, wins, and long nights.

As you reached the altar, your eyes met his. Everything else—the cathedral, the guests, the pageantry—melted away. The officiant’s voice was calm and clear, but to Lewis, it was background noise until he heard the words, “Do you take this woman…”

“I do,” he said, his voice steady, certain, the same tone he used when he knew he had a race in the bag.

When it was your turn, you didn’t even let the officiant finish the question before answering, “I do,” with a smile that broke him open completely.

The rings were presented, and there was a murmur through the cathedral when yours caught the light—a custom design, a band of platinum wrapped around with rare yellow diamonds, symbolic of warmth, light, and the sun he always called you. On the inside, engraved so only you and Lewis knew, were the coordinates of the place you first met.

As he slid the band onto your finger, his hands trembled, not from nerves, but from the overwhelming need to be gentle with something so precious. Then came the vows.

You spoke first, voice steady though your eyes were misting:

“You were the only secret I ever wanted to keep. And now, you’re the only truth I’ll ever need. You’ve been my anchor, my safe place, and my best friend. Today, I give you my hand, my heart, and everything in between—for this life and whatever comes after.”

Lewis blinked hard, a tear rolling down his cheek before he laughed softly, shaking his head in disbelief at how lucky he felt. He took a breath, then said:

“I’ve raced all over the world, and I’ve been told I’m relentless. But you—you stopped me in my tracks. You taught me that slowing down doesn’t mean losing, it means living. I promise to love you fiercely, to protect you, and to stand beside you through every finish line and every storm. You are my greatest win.”

The silence after his words was thick with emotion. Even some of the stoic royals looked teary-eyed, and the F1 drivers—especially the rookies—were openly sniffling in the pews.

The officiant gave a small smile, his voice carrying: “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss—”

Lewis didn’t wait. He pulled you close, cupping your face with both hands, and kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t a restrained, royal kiss meant for tradition—it was real, tender, full of years of hidden love bursting into the open. The cathedral erupted into applause, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceilings.

Somewhere in the chaos, you heard Lando whistle obnoxiously, George clapping too aggressively, and the rookies cheering like schoolboys at a football match. A few engineers cried into tissues, and even Toto Wolff was seen wiping his eye before quickly pretending otherwise.

When you and Lewis finally pulled apart, grinning at each other like you were the only two people in the world, you realized it didn’t matter how loud the world outside was. You had each other, forever.

And as the choir sang, you took his hand, and together, you walked down the aisle, not as a secret, not as just two people in love—but as husband and wife.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

The palace ballroom glowed with golden light, every chandelier sparkling as though it had been polished just for tonight. Round tables gleamed with fine china and crystal glasses, but the real magic came from the way the room pulsed with warmth. Royalty in elegant gowns sat side by side with drivers in crisp suits, engineers whispering wide-eyed at their table settings, and somewhere near the back, Roscoe lay sprawled on a velvet cushion as though he too had been formally invited.

At the far end of the hall, a stage had been set. Raye, elegant in satin, was already singing a slowed-down version of Worth It blended into something soft and jazzy, her voice floating above the low hum of conversation. It wasn’t the booming, headline performance of a festival — it was intimate, deliberately understated, meant to let the night breathe.

You and Lewis entered hand in hand to a round of applause that felt more like the cheer of a family than a formal salute. The rookies were the loudest — Ollie let out an almost football-chant “LEWWWWISSS” before Isack elbowed him and hissed, “Mate, you’re literally in a royal ballroom.” Gabriel still clapped far too loudly, while Kimi Antonelli just sort of… stood there, frozen, trying not to breathe too much in case he did something wrong.

Dinner passed with speeches — Toto gave a surprisingly sentimental toast, Charles stood and delivered a heartfelt little note about love being a race worth losing, and even George managed to avoid being overly dramatic.

But then, the chaos began. The rookies had decided they needed to make sure you had the “proper rookie initiation” into marriage. Which, apparently, meant demanding your first dance… with them.

Lewis had barely led you into the center of the ballroom when Ollie appeared at his side, tapping him on the shoulder with mock seriousness.

“Excuse me, Sir Hamilton,” Ollie said, bowing dramatically. “Tradition dictates the rookies dance with the bride.”

Lewis gave him a flat look, half amused, half protective. “Tradition where?”

“Er—rookie handbook,” Isack chimed in, already halfway out of his chair. “Page six.”

Gabriel was worse. He literally tried to slide in between you and Lewis, grinning ear to ear, and said, “C’mon, boss, share the love!”

You were laughing so hard you could barely stand straight. The image of four boys — barely out of their teens — earnestly trying to steal you from your new husband in front of royalty was so ridiculous that you let them pull you into their little circle.

Kimi, shy and red-faced, didn’t say a word but awkwardly shuffled up behind Ollie, clearly peer-pressured into this. The second you caught his eye and asked, “Kimi, would you like to dance with me?” he nearly combusted, nodding so quickly his curls bounced.

Lewis threw his head back with a groan, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine,” he muttered, stepping back toward Jenson Button, who had been watching the entire display with raised eyebrows and a smug smile.

The four of them tried to coordinate, but it was immediately clear none of them had any idea what ballroom dancing entailed. Ollie tried to lead, Gabriel attempted a twirl that nearly sent Isack into a waiter carrying champagne, and poor Kimi was so stiff you had to gently coax him into moving at all.

“Relax!” you giggled, holding their hands one by one, showing them the simple sway of the music. “It’s just one-two, one-two.”

“But what if I step on your dress?” Isack asked, horrified, staring down at the sweeping train.

“Then we’ll call it intentional,” you teased.

At some point, Charles and Alexandra had joined in, rescuing the rookies with practiced ease, and soon half the Ferrari table was out on the floor. Alexandra pulled Gabriel away before he elbowed another guest, while Charles twirled you gently back toward Lewis — who was watching, arms folded, from the edge of the dance floor, pretending to be annoyed but clearly charmed.

As the chaos unfolded, Nico sidled up to Lewis, champagne glass in hand. “So… married man now,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Lewis chuckled, eyes still on you. “Guess so.”

For a moment, there was silence — not awkward, but loaded with the kind of history only the two of them understood. They’d gone from teammates to rivals, to enemies, and now, here they were, standing in a palace watching rookies nearly trip over royalty.

“You know,” Nico said finally, softer now, “I didn’t think I’d see the day. But I’m glad I did. She suits you.”

Lewis turned, surprised at the sincerity. The two clinked glasses, the old competitive spark replaced with something warmer, like two veterans who had finally laid down their swords.

“Thanks, man,” Lewis said, and Nico nodded once, satisfied.

Meanwhile, Raye’s velvet voice had shifted into something more upbeat. Guests began filling the floor — George had convinced half the Mercedes garage to attempt a waltz, though it ended up looking more like synchronized chaos. Lando, of course, had already snuck behind the DJ booth to “help” with the playlist after Raye’s set, nearly causing a feedback squeal before being dragged away by Max, who muttered something about “don’t embarrass me in front of the crown.”

At one point, you caught sight of Ollie trying to ask Alexandra for a dance, Charles dramatically pretending to scold him like a protective older brother. Isack was explaining to a very confused minor royal how DRS worked, and Gabriel was eating cake directly with his hands because “no one told me there’d be three forks.”

Through it all, Lewis finally got you back in his arms. The two of you swayed slowly as Raye’s last song — soft, dreamy, almost lullaby-like — wrapped around the room. For a moment, it felt like you were the only two there.

“Worth the wait?” you whispered.

Lewis smiled, pressing his forehead against yours. “Every second.”

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

By the time the last song faded and the ballroom emptied, the world outside had gone still. The rookies had finally stumbled off to their rooms, still buzzing with adrenaline and sugar, George had tearfully declared himself the “guardian of love” before being dragged away by Carmen, and even Roscoe had been carried upstairs, snoring softly.

Now it was just you and Lewis. The two of you slipped away down one of the long palace corridors, the kind that stretched endlessly, lined with portraits and gilded sconces. The silence was strange after hours of music and laughter, but it wasn’t empty. It was heavy with comfort, with the warmth of knowing you were alone, together.

Lewis led you into a smaller drawing room, the kind of space that had been lit for centuries with candles and whispers. Tonight, only a single lamp glowed, throwing soft golden light across the antique furniture. He closed the door gently behind you, shutting out the rest of the world.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, the weight of the day finally settling into your bones. The vows, the ceremony, the chaos — it all seemed to drift into something hazy and dreamlike now.

Lewis crossed the room slowly, undoing the top button of his shirt, bowtie long discarded. He stopped in front of you, his hands brushing down your arms until they found your waist.

“Finally,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough, “I get you to myself.”

You smiled, fingers reaching up to smooth the curl that had fallen over his forehead. “Was it everything you imagined?”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Better. You looked… unreal tonight. But it wasn’t just that. Seeing you laugh with everyone, dance with those crazy rookies, light up the room—” He broke off with a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “I kept thinking, that’s my wife.”

The word sent a shiver through you, grounding the night into reality. Your wife. His wife.

You slid your hands around the back of his neck, drawing him closer until his lips brushed yours in a kiss that was unhurried, sweet, full of all the tenderness that the night’s chaos hadn’t allowed. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles at your waist, steady and grounding, as if he needed the reassurance that you were really here, really his.

When you pulled back slightly, your eyes caught the glimmer of his wedding band. It was so simple, yet it felt like the most precious thing you’d ever seen. You traced it lightly with your fingertip.

“Lewis,” you whispered, voice soft, “I’m so happy.”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him. “Me too, love. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

The two of you sank onto the couch, still wrapped around each other, the glow of the lamplight wrapping the room in a cocoon of warmth. Outside, the palace stood grand and eternal, but here, in this small, quiet corner, time seemed to pause — just for the two of you. For the first time all day, there was no audience, no laughter, no chaos. Just you and him, tangled together, whispering promises you didn’t need to speak out loud anymore. Because tonight, everything had already been said.

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

theroyalfamily

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 and 37,000,000 others. theroyalfamily : It is with great joy that we share that Her Royal Highness Princess of Wales and Sir Lewis Hamilton were married yesterday in a ceremony surrounded by family and close friends. The couple exchanged vows in an intimate service filled with love, laughter, and music, followed by a celebration that brought together loved ones from around the world.

“We are deeply grateful for the outpouring of love and support we’ve received,” the newlyweds shared. “Our wedding day was everything we dreamed of and more — a day full of joy, family, and the beginning of the rest of our lives together.”

HRH wore a custom gown designed by Maison Aurelia, while the groom wore a classic tailored tuxedo.

We are delighted to share a few moments from their special day with you.

tagged : lewishamilton and princessofwales

—

user has disabled comments on this post. —

⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹

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formulaaddict14 · 2 days ago

Text

Outrage ( SMAU )

Oscar Piastri x Reader / Fernando Alonso x ( !daughter ) reader

Summary : People have always known that Oscar is dating Reader, but what they didn’t know is that another driver was her father and definitely not a good one.

Warnings : Absent parent, emotional neglect, swearing, public outrage, outrageously bad google translate ( this is all purely fictional )

Author’s note : I’m slowly getting through these requests but feel free to request more! ( it might take me a week ) Anyway, for the unlucky driver, I chose Fernando lmao

based on this request!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

yourusername just posted :

Liked by oscarpiastri, urbsf and 189,028 others

Finally home 😍🇪🇸

user : She looks GORGEOUS ❤️

urbsf : Girl, we NEED to meet up rn 😩

| yourusername : train ticket is booked 💋

user : make up tut is a need

user : THE wag

oscarpiastri : ❤️ liked by creator

user : I need that top

yourfriend1 : Glowing 😚 liked by creator

user : i need her AND her closet

yourusername🔒 just posted :

Liked by oscarpiastri, yourfriend1 and 39 others

Look who remembered he had a daughter! 🤩👏

yourfriend : Father of the year truly

| yourusername : literally, like thanks for taking me out to dinner then forgetting me for the next 365 days!

urbsf : Girl block him atp 😭

| yourusername : debating that tbh

oscarpiastri : I feel like I see him more than you 😓

| yourusername : you’d quite literally be correct

fernandoalonsoofficial just posted :

Liked by maxverstappen1 and 901,727 others

Feliz cumpleaños mi dulce hija, ya cumple 22 años! 😍❤️ ( happy birthday my sweet daughter, 22 already! )

user : DAUGHTER??

user : isn’t that Oscars gf?

user : I screamed. 😨

user : WDYM HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY SWEET DAUGHTER??

user : Is this the first time he’s posted her or even talked about her?

user : Sooo that explains Oscars dirty looks at Fernando 😃

user : she’s gorgeous, but what is going on…

user : I need more info tf??

user : That is literally Oscar’s gf and now Alonso’s daughter??

user : I’m shocked…?

yourusername just posted :

Liked by oscarpiastri, urbsf and 406,828 others

Congrats dad! You’ve shown up this year a total of two times, two more times than last year! 🥳💕

user : GIRL TWITTER IS GOING INSANE

user : brb throwing away all my Alonso merch

user : WHAT.

user : Literally every person I like ends up being problematic or straight up evil 😭

urbsf : ily, your so strong 💗

user : I’m… flabbergasted 😧

user : Wtf??!

user : There goes all my respect!

user : remind me why people like him must exist?

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172 notes · View notes

leclerc-hs · 17 hours ago

Text

unmuted desire - cl16 (pt.1)

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!race engineer/camgirl!reader summary: in which charles’ race engineer has a secret OR you’re a cam girl and charles happens to stumble across your page. warnings: language, smut, 18+, not proofread (will make edits overtime!) word count: 6.6k author's note: HELLO, sorry this was supposed to be out earlier today...totally forgot. I had so so so many requests on p*rnstar au but that felt harder for me to write for some reason...so we're trying out cam girl...and maybe, maybe I can do a p*rnstar au in future...but here you go!! this is only part one, there is another part that will be coming out on september 12! happy readying xoxo

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The garage was quieter than usual today. It was that strange, in-between, time at the end of a very long day. The time of day when most of the team have packed up but no one had actually left yet.

The sun sat relatively low in the sky, streaming through the some of the windows at Fiorano. Charles sat on the edge of the pit wall bench. Suit peeled halfway down. White fireproofs clinging to him. Hair flattened from the helmet. He looked like hell but didn’t care. Barely even noticed. His eyes were too focused on the telemetry screen, watching the line stutter through sector three.

You stood beside him. Almost always did. Same posture…arms crossed, leaning onto one leg, headset hanging around your neck.

Your hair was pulled back with something makeshift…like a pen or a cable tie. Your usual hair tie was forgotten…you aren’t sure where. But if you had to guess, it was probably your bedroom floor. Lost somewhere in the mess after you spent half the morning playing with your roommate’s cat. A little white fluff he dramatically named Mozzarella.

You still had a faint scratch near your wrist from where the thing tried to paw at the hair tie. A fading red mark now, hidden under a rolled up sleeve and a mark of grease that smudged on your forearm from one of the mechanics.

Charles noticed. Caught himself glancing at it earlier. And again, just now.

You weren’t looking at him. Your eyes were fixed on the telemetry. Head slightly tilted in concentration. Your face slightly flushed. And not in the delicate way. More in the way that said you’ve been running around since six this morning and we’re probably dehydrated. Probably hadn’t eaten a proper meal either.

Charles tilts his head a bit, watching the way tap on the screen with the knuckle of your pointer finger. Muttering something in Italian under your breath. Too quiet for him to fully hear. Probably something insulting if he had to guess.

“You’re late on throttle in turn 9,” you said finally. Not looking at him.

“It felt clean,” he shrugged.

You let out a small laugh, “Era pigro.” Lazy.

“It was controlled,” he corrects. Running a hand over his unshaven jaw. “There’s a difference.”

You finally glance up at him. The light of the screen lighting your face up a bit. “No, Charles. There’s a difference when you’re not hemorrhaging time.”

He scoffs. “Hemorrhaging is dramatic.”

You raise your brows. “Okay, perdi mezzo secondo e ne parliamo.” Lose half a second and we’ll talk.

Charles shakes his head with a smirk. “You’re so aggressive today.”

You shrug a shoulder. “Blame the sun…or the fact you keep pretending throttle lag is a choice.”

He leans back onto his elbows. The corners of his lips curled up in amusement at the way your mouth twists when you’re trying to hold back. Trying not to say something too mean. The way you chew the inside of your cheek when the data’s pissing you off.

“Y’know,” he says casually, “you’re way nicer on the radio.”

You snort. “That’s cause I can mute myself when I insult you.”

Charles laughs. “Remind me again why it is that you do this?”

Your eyes are back on the screen. You don’t look up. “Who knows….sadism probably.”

He hums. “So you’re in it for the suffering?”

“No,” you say. “I’m in it for the joy of watching you pretend the car is the whole issue when really it’s just you being shy with your right foot today.”

He groans.

“It’s true,” you shrug.

He eyes you for a moment. Not annoyed. Maybe a little bit, but not at you. You’re one of the few people who he lets speak to him like that. One of the few who can, and it won’t trigger his pride. Because you always know where the line is. And you’ve never once stepped over it.

And when he looks at you for a second longer…something feels…different.

Maybe its the way your voice dipped when you said it. Or the flick of your lashes when you smiled. Maybe its just the heat. Or the fact that two years in, he still doesn’t know what you do after you leave the garage.

He clears his throat. “D’ya keep all your insults in an app or somethin’?”

You flash him a grin. “Nope…make them up on the spot. Just for you.”

And there’s something too easy in that smile. Something he thinks he should’ve noticed earlier. But didn’t. Because until now, you were just you. Someone who always knew when his rear tires were about to go. Someone who never let him get away with his bullshit. Who never once looked at him like…

He stands up a little too quickly. Brushing the palms of his hands on the race suit by his knees. “Alright, m’starving. And apparently…timid-footed.”

You raise a brow. “There’s a protein bar in my purse.” You tilt your head towards it.

“I’d rather chew dirt.”

You roll your eyes. Tossing him a look over your shoulder as you begin to walk toward the back of the garage.

“Che testardo,” you mutter. So stubborn.

Charles shoved his gloves onto the plastic folding chair a little harder than necessary. They landed on the plastic with a louder slap than he intended. But he didn’t care. His jaw was locked, hair slightly damp under the headset. Suit clung to his skin.

“You changed the brake migration without telling me,” he snapped. Not bothering to look up. “In the middle of a session.”

Across the table, you didn’t even so much as flinch. Just kept swiping through the telemetry like his irritation was nothing. “Because you kept locking up.”

“I was adapting to the shifts in the balance.”

“You were overdriving in a corner that hasn’t changed.”

Charles huffs. Lets out a laugh that’s more humorless than anything. “Right, of course. Because the issue can’t possibly be somethin’ mechanical, yeah?”

You don’t bother to look up still. “The issue is you not listening. Again.”

His eyes flick toward you now.

You were half-slouched in the chair. A leg hooked over your opposite knee, headset wrapped around your head. Hair pulled back but a few stands had fallen loose.

You looked like the end of a long day.

But somehow, you still looked good. Even with flushed cheeks, sweat slicked skin, and tired eyes. The kind of pretty that crept up without warning. The kind that made you look twice…but get annoyed that you did.

Charles blinked. Looked away.

Dragged the palm of his hand over his face. Dragged it to the back of his neck.

“And you didn’t think to tell me first?” His voice was tight. “You just make changes mid run and what? Expect me to trust you…blindly?”

Now you looked up. Brows slightly lifted. But you looked calm.

“Of course I expect you to trust me,” you say. “because you’ve been driving like an absolute dick all day and someone had to do something about it.”

Charles blinked once.

“You locked up almost three laps in a row,” you continue on. As if you were reading a weather report to him. “You oversteered on the entry for no reason. Ignored my suggestion to lift in turn 7.”

He crossed his arms. “I know the car.”

You lean back into your chair, back straightened. “Clearly not this version.”

There’s a pause that stretches nearly too long.

The kind that presses between your shoulders. Or under your ribs. No one nearby to ease it. No engine in the background. Just you and him.

You were staring at him. And he was staring right back. Arms folded across his chest. A line of sweat barely visible on the column of his throat. Jaw locked tight. And he hated when you stared at him like that. Like you were studying him.

“You’re moody today,” you said finally, voice soft. “Snappy.”

Charles brow furrows. Shoulders slightly tense. “M’not moody.”

You blink once. “Okay.”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s not a response.”

You tilt your head, mouth twitching.

“Fine,” you say. Voice dropping a little bit lower. Careful. “Y’want an answer?”

Charles doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head a little more. Something curious gleaming in his eyes.

You lean forward, resting an arm on the table in front of you. Other hand still loosely gripping the tablet.

“Ti serve una scopata.”

It lands like a slap.

Chalres blinks once….twice.

Like he wasn’t sure if he actually heard you right. Or the fact that he did. And that was the problem

“What?” He says. Voice tight.

“I said you need a nap.” You shrug your shoulders. Leaning back in your chair.

Charles jaw twitches. “That is not what you said, capo.”

You hold his stare.

And Charles hates…hates…how warm his skin suddenly felt under the fireproofs. How his hands had gotten warm. How aware he suddenly felt.

His spine straightens.

And you didn’t even care.

Just looked back down at the telemetry. Focusing back on the data.

But Charles couldn’t stop hearing it.

You need to get fucked.

Charles paces around his apartment like it might help the frustration simmering in his veins.

He’s barefoot on the cool tile. Wearing nothing but a faded t-shirt and a pair of sweats. Waistband sitting low on his hips. Hair sticking to his forehead and the nape of his neck from a recent shower. A shower that did absolutely fuckin’ nothing to calm him down.

He’s still tense. Wound up. Shoulders slightly aching. And his hands twitch by his sides like they’re waiting to grip something. Like his wheel. Or maybe a throat.

He’s not sure what’s pissing him off more. The shit he got from you today. Or just you.

Or maybe not you, exactly. Just what you said.

The way you said it.

Like you weren’t even trying to get under his skin. Just resting against the table, hair straying around your face, headset on, looking him dead in the eye.

Like some fact.

And the words have been echoing in his head all fucking day.

He swears under his breath as he opens the fridge, staring at the minimal food in it like it might knock him out. But nothing cold enough to ease the burn weaving in his veins.

Eventually, he ends up on the couch. Sprawled out and restless. Reaching for his phone. His thumb swiping mindlessly over it. Messages. Some shitty meme’s from Pierre. Scrolls on Instagram for a few moments.

But nothing seems interesting. Everything in him itches.

And then his finger hovers over a little discreet icon. Hidden in folder on his phone. Almost forgotten.

The cam site.

The only one he bothers to use…which isn’t often. But enough that he has it saved. He likes this one. Clean interface. No random pop-ups. Quiet…easy.

And he opens it without really thinking.

It loads slowly…shitty wi-fi. And scrolls through the grid of thumbnails. Blurred faces. Weird usernames. Too many fake bodies.

And he’s about to close it.

But then one thumbnail catches his eye.

Not cause it’s flashy or anything. In fact, it’s the opposite.

The girl on the screen is sitting casually. More like lounging. A loose sweater falling off one shoulder. Headphones around her neck. Smiling at something offscreen. Only the smile and down seen. But she seems at ease. Relaxed.

And….familiar?

He freezes. Like fully freezes. Phone almost slips out of his hand. His heart kicks against his ribs. Just once.

Because he knows that smile.

And the laugh that was in the beginning of the video. It was yours.

And now that he thinks about it…that’s definitely your sweater. The same one you wore under your team jacket the other week. And the background, it’s not sterile. It’s lived in. A record player on the shelf, a mug (probably that shitty tea you swear by) sits on the windowsill.

The same you at snapped at him all morning for his driving. The same you who took half of his protein bar without an apology.

The same you who told him to go get fucked.

He blinks once. Then again. Seeing if his mind is playing tricks on him.

But, you’re still there.

Still smiling softly at the camera. Still talking, though he can’t process what you’re even saying because his ears are now ringing. And his blood is rushing because what the fuck.

He swipes down instinctively. Scrolls through all the thumbnails like confirmation. And there’s more. So many more.

A clip of you in silk. Legs stretched out. One with you in a lacy bra, fingertips brushing your collarbone.

Another where your eyes are paused on the lens (but blurred), smiling like you’re daring someone to click on it. Faint red marks on your wrist.

The same ones he noticed on your wrist.

He swallows. Hard.

And Charles can’t stop himself.

Just a single tap. Just a few seconds he tells himself.

The video opens. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor now, the sweater barely covering your chest at this point. Radiant.

“Oh, you guys are terrible,” you laugh, scrolling through the chat. “No, m’not gonna do that on thursday. You’ll have to try harder.”

Your voice is exactly the same. But something different about it. Because there’s no pressure. No work headset around your neck. No data. Just you. Comfortable. In control.

He watches as you shift forward. Resting an elbow on your knee. “What’s with all the ‘show us more’ energy today, hm? You guys didn’t behave the other day either…”

There’s a pause as you look toward the chat again. And you laugh. “No. Not taking the sweater off yet.”

Yet.

His stomach clenches.

You keep talking. Lazy. Teasing. Fingers trailing over your skin like you don’t even know you’re doing it.

And Charles eyes clock the movement without even meaning to.

He feels it. The way his blood stirs in his gut. The way his palms warm. How tight his chest feels. The ache building between his legs from a voice that he hears every fucking day.

Then it happens.

A user types something in all caps in the chat and Charles can’t look away fast enough.

You read it out loud. Laughing. “He says, bet you won’t sit on your hands. Cheeky, hm?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. Like you’re considering it. And your sweater falls down your shoulder a little more.

“Bet I will.”

Charles jolts.

Nope.

No. He can’t do this.

He fumbles for the volume button on his phone, thumb swiping agains the screen too fast. The camera angle shifting just a little bit…and that’s all it takes. A slightly different view. More leg. A flash of black lacy fabric beneath the sweater.

And he exits it like he’s been burned.

Locks his phone. Tosses it to the other end of the couch like he’s been caught red handed.

He rubs both palms down his face.

She’s your race engineer. She’s your race engineer. You fight about tire temperatures for crying’ out loud.

You call him names in Italian and steal his food.

He’s not supposed to feel like this.

It’s just one video. A few seconds.

But it’s too much.

Because now he can’t unsee it.

And even worse…he wants more.

You’re standing just a little too close. Not in a weird way. Just in the way you always do. Head tilted, mouth slightly parted, fingers trailing the data on the screen. Explaining something about the data…nothing you haven’t done a thousand times prior.

But Charles can’t hear a fucking word.

Because he’s looking at your mouth. And all he can think about is what it looked like in the thumbnail of one of your videos.

Soft lips wrapped around a lollipop. Wet. Glossy. Shirt falling down your shoulder like it had been tugged that way. Like someone already touched you.

And he only saw a glimpse of it. Just long enough to register your username, the curve of your smile, the tone of your voice. Before he swiped the app closed and tossed his phone as if he’d been caught with his hand in a fucking cookie jar.

He didn’t expect you.

But here you are, leaning over the console in the same fitted polo and jeans. Same headset wrapped around your neck. Same pony tail, strands falling loosely. Like always.

And now his brain won’t shut the fuck up.

Do you know how many people watch you? Do they pay to see more? They’re innocent questions at first. But then they stir a little….filthier.

Do you touch yourself slow or rough? Do you fake the sounds or do they tear out of your throat?

You shift a bit closer, trying to get a better look at the screen. And he swears he can smell your shampoo. Strawberry…or something fruity. Definitely a berry.

And his mind is gone. Nowhere near the room you’re both currently seated in.

Cause all he can think about is what your skin looks like beneath your polo. Whether you sit there with your legs spread.

And he doesn’t know. And it’s driving him crazy.

He doesn’t know if you use your fingers. Or if you sit all pretty with a vibrator against your clit. Doesn’t know if you come quick or hold out.

Doesn’t know if you think about anyone specific when you close your eyes.

Doesn’t know if you’ve ever thought about him.

His jaw clenches.

Your voice cuts in. Patient. “Charles, are you even listening to me?”

He blinks. Clears his throat.

“Uh…yeah. Sorry…long day.”

You raise your brows, glancing at him. “Yeah.”

And then, like a fucking wound, you smile at him.

A little amused. A little like you know something.

And it makes him want to slam his head into the table. Or kiss you.

Maybe both.

It’s a slow, humid afternoon in Maranello. Ad Charles has barely touched his food. His iced drink has practically melted, soaking the napkin under it. The lemon slice sliding around the glass with every tap of his finger.

Seated outside one of the nearby cafes, Joris is nursing a coffee. His sunglasses pushed into his hair. Watching Charles like he’s trying to read a book.

“You’re weird today,” Joris says. Blunt.

Charles doesn’t look up. Just stirs his drink like he has some personal vendetta against it.

“M’always weird.”

“No…you’re weird, like, in a different way.” Joris pauses. “Like….twitchy.”

Charles scowls. Looking up. “M’not twitchy.”

“You are twitchy.” Joris grins. “Been fidgeting since we sat down.”

“Je réfléchis, c’est tout,” He sighs. M’just thinking, that’s all

“You’re brooding.”

“Same thing.”

Joris grins.

“No, thinking is when you try to solve a problem.” He snorts. “Brooding is what you do when a girl calls you out in front of a bunch of engineers and you’re too horny to even yell back.”

Charles shifts in his seat, posture stiffer than normal. The table wobbles slightly under his elbow.

“You’re so annoying,” he mutters, eyes not looking at Joris but over his shoulder.

Joris just grins. Stirring his espresso. “But I’m right?”

Charles exhales through his knows. The kind of breath that says yes but fuck you for knowing.

Joris leans forward, elbows on the table. His grin wide. “So…it is about her.”

And Charles doesn’t bother to deny it. But doesn’t confirm it either. Just flips his phone over to glance at the clock.

“What, she yell at you or somethin’?” Joris pushes. “Tell you you’re acting like a toddler who didn’t get what they wanted?”

Charles jaw tightens.

“She said I need to get laid.”

Joris freezes mid-sip. Chokes. Coughs. Then slams the cup down a little harder than intended onto the table. “Quoi?!” He half-shouts.

Charles sits there, unreadable. All while Joris is grabbing napkins to wipe his mouth.

“She said that? Like…actually said that?”

Charles nods once. Slow. “Ti serve una scopata. Right to my face.”

Joris laughs. The kind of laugh that has his shoulders bouncing. “That’s…that’s fuckin’ incredible.”

“It’s not.”

“No, c’mon…it is.” Joris is practically wheezing at this point. “That’s so much worse than English. Italian makes it sound like some curse.”

Charles drags a hand over his face. “Can you just…just be serious?”

Joris narrows his eyes. “There’s more.”

“No,” Charles shoot back. Almost too quick.

“Cha, yes there is. I’ve known you for forever. Your head’’s somewhere else.”

Charles hesitates. Because its not his business to tell. But its also eating at him.

“Y’ever just like…find something you weren’t supposed to?”

Joris raises both brows. “What, like she’s dating someone?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

“She is dating someone?”

“No.” But he answers that quick too. “I don’t…I don’t think so.”

“You’re being cryptic…and I hate it.” Joris leans back in his chair. “Let me guess…it’s one of those things that…once you see it, you can’t unsee?”

Charles tenses.

Joris notices. Grins a little. “Y’know what I do when that happens?”

Charles lifts his head. Wary. “What.”

“Just go back. Look at it again. Stare at it til it’s boring.”

Charles squints. “That doesn’t work.”

“It does,” Joris insists. “Y’only spiral when something’s unknown.”

“M’not spiraling.”

“You’re spiraling.” Joris says flatly. “Bouncing’ your fuckin knee the entire time we’re here like you’re waiting for results from the doctor.”

Charles groans, falling back deeper in to his chair. Dragging his hands down his face. “It’s just….it’s complicated.”

“Is it though?” Joris shrugs. Focusing back on picking up his espresso. “Either you ignore it and let it eat at you. Or you take it head-on and get it out of your system.”

Charles has been pacing for twenty-eight minutes.

Back and forth. Kitchen to couch. Couch to kitchen again.

And he’s tried everything to ignore the itch under his skin. He’s washed dishes that were already clean. Opened and closed the fridge four times. Played the piano, closed the piano, then opened it again. Spent five whole minutes trying to watch a re-run of his favorite show, only to groan in agony.

He’s nothing thinking straight. In fact, he’s trying not to think at all.

But that’s the whole problem.

Because not thinking leads to feeling. And all he feels is this…itch. A pressure beneath his skin that refuses to ease.

And it’s you.

His phone lights up on the armrest of the couch. Mocking him. An unread notification on the screen.

Charles exhales. Frustrated.

He hasn’t watched a single video. Not since that glimpse.

And it pisses him the fuck off. How badly he wants it. How your voice keeps looping in his head. And its not even you moaning or saying anything filthy. Just the sound of you laughing.

It’s not fair.

You show up to work in jeans, team polos, and scuffed up sneakers. Grease always somewhere wiped on your skin. And now he’s wondering what you wear under them.

If you prop your phone up on a tripod, or if you hold it. If your fingers are slow or fast.

Do you make them wait? Do you tease them?

Charles drags a palm of his face as he falls to the couch. Head resting on the back of the couch cushion.

He’s hard. Of course he is.

Because his cock doesn’t understand logic.

All it understands is that you wear his (also your) team shirt. That your thighs looked warm and fucking soft.

That all he got was a glimpse, but it was enough to brand him.

Do you arch when you’re close?

Do you whisper things in Italian when you come? Or do you just moan…soft and slow like you do when you’re pissed but trying to hold it together at the track?

He groans.

He’s so fucking gone.

He reaches for his phone. Just a look he swears.

He unlocks the screen. And the app is already there. Because he’s hovered over it too many times to count.

He taps it open.

And he feels his grip tighten on the phone when he see’s it.

LIVE.

Bright red. Unavoidable.

It takes a few seconds to load, but when it does…you’re perched on your bed, thighs tucked beneath you with an oversized Ferrari shirt. And even though the camera never pans above your mouth, it’s without a doubt you. He’d know your voice anywhere.

Twirling the cord of your headphones between two fingers, smiling as you talk to the stream.

milanopapi: back again, tesoro…miss me?

redzone: isn’t that the same shirt from last week?

luckystrike01: nah, she’s teasin’ tonight…slow start.

User44nut: imagine her riding you in that

You laugh. Soft and warm. And Charles feel his fingers curl a bit harder around his phone.

“Y’guys are so impatient,” you drag your thumb across the side of your neck. “Always begging.”

Charles shifts on the couch, hand resting agains this stomach. His cock swelling in his pants.

You lean back, spreading your legs a bit further. Not fully open…but enough to show a glimpse of the black lace.

milanopapi: knew you’d be in the little black ones…bet they’re already soaked

user34six: can we make her edge again tonight?

You glance at the chat. Then shift again. Fingers trailing down your belly, reaching just under the hem of your shirt.

“I don’t know…” you say. Dragging it out. “Should I edge for you tonight?”

That chat explodes.

milanopapi: baby please no

italianstallion112: touch ur clit…slow. pls.

And then a few moments later:

milanopapi tipped $100: be a good girl and show us. do that thing with ur fingers u like so much

You chuckle, breath hitching. “Mmm, you’re so impatient, tesoro.” Your hand slips lower.

And Charles sees red.

His cock twitches, his fist wrapping around it. Stroking himself once. A little rough. Biting back a groan as you slide your fingers over the lace.

He can’t take it. Not the way you tease the camera. Not the way these strangers tip you like you belong to them.

Not when all he can think about is how he knows your voice better than anyone.

And it’s as if he blacks out. Thumb hovering over the keyboard.

bawseven tipped $500: don’t tease. spread those legs and rub that pretty clit just how you like it

You freeze for a second.

Not dramatically. But your breath catches just for a little.

“Big spender,” you mutter. And your smile is breathless. “Bossy too.”

Charles strokes himself harder now. Wrist flicking with each stroke. And the shame only makes it worse. Makes it hotter.

You don’t know the man that you sit beside in race briefings is now panting over you. Desperate for a better look between your thighs.

You obey. Shift back on the bed. Spread your legs just enough for the lace to move over your cunt, glistening. And then you slip your fingers under.

One slow, circle.

Then another.

And another.

And your voice breaks into a soft, needy moan.

“Just like that?” You ask the chat. “Want me to make a mess just for you?”

Charles grunts low in his throat, eyes locked on the screen. Hips bucking into his own fist. The heat curling under his skin.

Your moans are getting louder. Legs trembling slightly.

And all Charles can think…all he can feel…is how badly he wants it to be himmaking you whimper like that.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until your hand falters. Not until your panting and drooling.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Almost…M’almost there…”

And Charles comes with a loud groan, spilling hot into his hand. Vision going white.

He doesn’t breathe for a second.

Just listens as your voice trembles. Asking if you should go again.

Charles swallows.

bawseven tipped $900: again…slower.

The garage is buzzing with its usual rhythms. Drills, muttered conversations, the low sound of power units warming up.

You barely hear any of it.

Because Charles is pacing again.

You pretend to focus on the numbers scattered around the tablet’s screen in your hand. But your eyes keep flicking up. Watching him.

His helmet tucked into the space beneath an arm. Fireproofs hugging him. Hair messy. Jaw tight….always tight lately.

And he’s circling the car like its personally offended him. He’s restless. Twitchy. And okay, yeah…Charles can be intense sometimes. But this is…different.

You hold back a smile. Adjust the headset around your neck. “You okay?”

He pauses mid-step. Doesn’t bother to look at you.

“M’fine.”

You hum, tapping through the data. “Right…because you look totally relaxed and not at all freaked out.”

His brow twitches, just a bit. “M’not freaked out.”

“No,” you glance at him again. “But you are hovering.”

“M’waiting.”

You tilt your head. And he’s standing close now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin.

“For what?”

“For you to finish whatever it is you’re doin,” he mutters. Voice tight. “And for you to stop eating your pen cap.”

You blink. Caught off guard. And then glance down at the pen resting between your teeth. You didn’t even notice. Call it a…habit.

“Oh. Sorry…” You pull it out of your mouth. “Didn’t realize it was so bothersome.”

“S’not…” He lies through his teeth.

You study him for a moment. Stomach fluttering.

There’s a flush to his neck. And his gaze is flickering everywhere but your mouth.

You’ve worked with Charles for nearly two years now. And you thought you knew every version of him.

But this version? You don’t know this one.

Sharper. Like he’s definitely distracted but trying to pretend he isn’t.

You hold out the tablet. Shaking it off. “here. Look at this.”

He reaches for the tablet without another word. Fingers brushing against yours. And you try not to notice how warm they are. Or how big his hands are. Or how tight his jaw is clenched as he reads the data.

Christ, he’s pretty.

You’re not blind. He’s always been hot. But he’s also always been Charles. The man who makes dumb jokes and calls you capo whenever he wants something from you. Who throws his gloves at your chair whenever he’s annoyed or frustrated. Who then pouts when you ignore him.

So yeah, you knew he was hot. But you never looked.

“Throttle trace looks pretty good,” you glance at your notes. “And I adjusted the diff for turns 6 and 7. Hopefully it feels a lot smoother.”

“Grazie.” He says. Still sounding distracted.

You roll your eyes.

He hands you back the tablet. “You’re good at this, y’know?”

You smile. A small laugh. “I know.”

And Charles just stares at you for a few moments too long before he glances at the car. Long enough that you feel your skin prickle.

You glance around the garage. “They’re probably gonna start wondering why we’re just standing here eye-fucking each other.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes widening. “We’re n…”

You cut him off with a grin. “Relax…It’s called a joke, Leclerc.”

He groans. “You’re impossible.”

“And you…” You start, stepping around him. “Are late on your start lap.”

Charles doesn’t move at first. Just watches you walk away. The tablet tucked beneath your arm, ponytail swaying.

He swallows…hard.

Because he knows the second his gloves are off…the second his front door closes tonight… It’s going to be your voice in his thoughts.

And your hands.

And that fucking pen between your teeth.

Charles doesn’t even bother to pretend that he’s not going to watch you tonight. He doesn’t hover over the app. Doesn’t pace his apartment.

He’s sprawled on his bed, shirtless. Chest still slightly flushed red from his recent shower. Hair a bit damp. Didn’t even bother to put on boxers beneath his sweats.

You’re lounging on your bed, a different worn Ferrari shirt slipping off your shoulder. Mouth barely in the frame. Lips shiny…from lip gloss or spit, he can’t tell. But it doesn’t matter cause his cock stirs just at the sight of them.

The chat is already alive.

papazone4: another ferrari shirt?

fredburnz: show us what that mouth can do

And

milanopapi: tesoro, you kill me

milanopapi tipped $100: open wider, bella.

Charles bites his cheek. Milanopapi. The same fucking handle every time. Tipping early.

Charles’s cock stirs beneath his sweats. His hand slips down.

“Hi…” You mutter, half-laughing. “Miss me?”

The chat blows up again.

milanopapi: every fuckin night

user44_jack: don’t play dumb with us

papazone4: fuck….look at her mouth guys. u just know she sucks dick slow

Charles strokes himself once. Twice… And he’s already leaking

And the worst part about it is that you haven’t even touched yourself yet. You’re just sitting there fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

Watches as your hand trails up your belly. High enough that it disappears under the cotton shirt.

And then:

Milanopapi tipped $100: c’mon, tesoro…be a good girl

You smile. Just a bit. The kind of smile that Charles recognizes from meetings. The one when you’re trying not to roll your eyes.

“So impatient…” Your hand still trailing your skin. “Didn’t even say please.”

That earns a flood of begging in the chat. More tipping. More dirty demands.

Charles grits his teeth. Hand tightening around his phone in frustration.

He opens the tipping screen. Types without even thinking.

bawseven tipped $1500: don’t listen to them. take them off slow. show me how wet you are, yeah?….don’t come til i say

You freeze. Not too noticeable. But he sees it. The sharp intake of breath. The shift of your thighs.

“Bossy tonight,” You tease. But your voice has gone softer…almost throatier. “Y’always want so much from me.”

Charles strokes himself faster. His thumb swiping over the tip, collecting precum. Dragging it down the length of his cock.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties. Pull the lace down slow. SO slow that Charles cock twitches in his palm

And when they finally slip down your thighs, you part your legs just a little.

Fuck.

milanopapi: never gets old

milanopapi tipped $150: rub it for me….wanna see that cunt drip

Charles sees red.

Thumb flying.

bawseven tipped $2500: she’s dripping for me. circle ur clit with two fingers. now.

You bite your lip. Obey.

Fingers dragging in small, tight circles. Just enough pressure that your hips twitch against the mattress.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Like that?”

Charles groans. Loud. Hips bucking into his fist now. Frantic and furious.

It’s honestly pathetic how close he is already.

And you don’t stop.

Your other hand lifts…slipping under your shirt. Cupping your breast as your thumb brushes over your nipple.

“Can’t believe how wet….” You moan out. “Feels…feels so good.”

Your back arches as your cunt begs for a release.

“M’almost….” You whisper, voice cracking. “I…can’t…”

bawseven: no. be good for me…stay right there.

And you try.

You keep your fingers moving just like he asked.

Soft. Controlled. Frustrating.

Your lips are parted, gloss smeared. And you can barely keep your thighs open.

The chat is feral.

user44_jack: fuck…

papazone4: she’s twitching already???

milanopapi tipped $100: c’mon. let go

bawseven tipped $800: don’t you fuckin dare

You cry out.

The pressure is nearly unbearable. Your head tips back, mouth leaving frame to just show the column of your throat.

Voice high and breathless as you rub harder.

bawseven: yes right there….show me how good you are

You groan, grinding harder against your fingers. You’re soaked.

“M’so close….” You choke out.

bawseven: no. u have to beg for it

Your other hand grips the sheets. “Please,” you breathe. “Please…please..I’ll be good, I’ll do…whatever. Just let me…fuck. Please…”

Your voice is cracking.

“Want to be good…”

bawseven tipped $3000: go on…make a mess. let them see who you belong to

And that’s all it takes.

You come with a loud moan. Body arching, thighs trembling that the angle of the camera changed from the movement. But your fingers don’t stop.

user123abc: holy fuck

milanipapi: m’gonna explode

italianstallion112: who the fuck is bawseven

papazone4: that was so fuckin hot

And on the other end…Charles is coming too. Hand pumping hard. Hips bucking. Come spilling all over his fist and stomach as he chokes out as groan.

It’s brutal and filthy.

bawseven: good fuckin girl

The team dinner tonight is louder than usual.

Laughter is bouncing and echoing off the restaurant’s walls. Plates being passed around. Silverware clattering. Bottles of wine being poured.

And Charles is glued to your side.

He wasn’t supposed to be beside you. In fact, his name card was across from yours. But he traded with someone. Didn’t explain why.

Just slid in beside you like it was the most natural thing.

And now his thigh is warm against yours.

He hasn’t moved it. And you haven’t either.

“Food’s good, yeah?” He mutters, voice low and near your ear.

“Mmm,” you say. Taking a small sip of your wine.

“You wore your hair down,” he says. Voice casual.

You blink. “Hm?”

He leans in a tad closer. “Y’never wear it down in the garage.”

“Cause it’s hot. And greasy in there.”

“Still….I noticed.”

You pause for a moment. Cheeks reddening a bit. “What else have you noticed, hm?”

He grins. Like a full blown grin. Teeth and all. The kind that makes you feel a little breathless if you look at it for too long.

“That you have two different laughs. One for when you’re makin fun and teasin me…Another for when you aren’t.”

You swirl your wine. “Bold of you to assume there’s a time where m’not teasin…”

Charles laughs. And it sinks beneath your skin like heat. “Yeah, well…you’ve got a nice laugh.”

You glance at him, trying to play it cool. Trying to ignore the way his knee keeps pressing into yours. The way his voice lowers when he’s only talking to you. The way he watches your mouth like he knows its something he shouldn’t be staring at…but does it anyway.

“You’re observant tonight,” you say lightly.

Charles hums. “Always am.”

You narrow your eyes.

“You’re kinda hard to ignore,” he adds on. Says it casually. Like its nothing.

“I am?” You blink once.

“Mhm.” He nods, looking at you. “Even when m’trying to think about other shit…y'just show up in my head.”

And he says it so lightly. So casually.

And you know he’s not kidding. Not when his eyes flick to your mouth and linger a second too long.

“You’re in my head too much lately.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance. He just refills your wine glass, leans back.

“Drink up,” his lips twitch. “Tomorrow’s a long day.”

And then he’s turning towards a mechanic on the other side of him, joining in on the conversation like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just undo you with one line.

next part

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader #charles leclerc #f1 imagine #f1 imagines #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #cl16 x you #cl16 x reader #cl16 x y/n #cl16 x female reader

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formulafanfics13 · 2 days ago

Text

Little did you know - LN4 (part 4)

Masterlist || Part 1 || Part 2 ||

Summary: You never wanted attention, money, or headlines... just a quiet, normal life. But one night changes everything when a fling with Lando Norris leads to an unexpected pregnancy. With Oscar Piastri, Edie, and Nicole at your side, and Lando determined to step up as a father, you’re pulled into a world you never asked for, the grid, the media, the chaos of Formula 1.

Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, discussions of family estrangement, pregnancy medical details, protective/paternal Toto energy, paddock gossip, group chat chaos, emotional vulnerability, soft domesticity, eventual fluff

By the time Monaco’s mornings started to feel heavy with the weight of August, you were huge. Not in a way that made you self-conscious, you’d long accepted the bump, the ache in your back, the endless roll-overs at night that Lando always pretended not to notice when you grumbled about them, but in the way that made people soften around you. Waiters pulled out chairs before you could touch them. Strangers offered to carry grocery bags. Nicole insisted on holding your elbow as you waddled the short walk from the café door to your table. “You’re glowing,” she said, sliding into the seat opposite you and ordering her coffee without looking at the menu, clearly a regular.

You snorted, easing into your chair with the grace of a whale. “I’m sweating.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Glowing. Trust me, darling, I’ve had four, I know the difference.”

Breakfast was soft and slow, Nicole telling stories about all of your teenage years, while you toyed with fruit and toast, grateful for her calm presence.

Back at Lando’s, though, things weren’t nearly as calm. The living room table was a disaster zone of half-scribbled lists, pastel-coloured decorations strewn everywhere, and three different voices talking over each other. “Balloons or no balloons?” Edie was holding up a packet of baby-blue helium ones, eyebrow raised.

“Balloons,” Oscar muttered, hunched over a notebook. “We’re not having a funeral, we’re having a shower.”

“It’s not just about balloons,” Lando said, running a hand through his curls and groaning. “We’ve got, what, you, me, Edie, Hattie, Mae, your parents, my parents, my siblings-”

“And that’s already twelve people,” Edie cut in.

“Which is nice, small, family,” Oscar reasoned, scribbling. “But then-”

“Then we thought,” Lando interrupted, looking between them like he already hated what he was about to say, “maybe we should… invite the grid.”

That stopped the room cold. “Invite the grid?” Edie repeated, as though she’d misheard.

Oscar looked up. “Like… all of them?”

“Not all,” Lando said quickly, cheeks colouring. “Just- I don’t know. The drivers. Some team principals. The ones that matter.”

Edie crossed her arms. “Why.”

“Because,” Lando groaned, “Zak and Andrea keep saying it’d be… good optics. Like, it shows we’re not hiding. That the team’s united. It’s not a scandal, it’s a celebration. Family.”

Oscar tilted his head. “And you actually agree with them?”

“I don’t disagree,” Lando said, defensive now. “Look, she’s due in three weeks. People are going to know anyway. Wouldn’t it be better if they saw it like- like this? Happy. Normal. Supportive.”

Edie glanced at him, then at Oscar, then back again. “I’ll ask her first. She deserves the choice.”

Lando exhaled, relief softening his shoulders. “Fair.”

Still, the debate carried into the next day, when Zak and Andrea themselves sat at the head of a conference table, listening to Lando, Oscar, and Edie lay out the idea.

Andrea was the first to nod. “Honestly? I think it works. You keep it controlled. No media, just people inside the paddock. Drivers, principals, a few WAGs. It becomes part of the narrative — not gossip, not scandal. Just family.”

Zak folded his arms, considering. “Sponsors will eat that up. Mercedes already frame their team as a family unit, but if McLaren leans into it now, support, fatherhood, stability, it’s a goldmine.”

Lando grimaced. “It’s not about sponsors.”

“No,” Andrea said gently, “but the fact it helps with them means you’ll have more backing, more protection. And that matters.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “So you think we should do it.”

Zak smirked. “Kid, I think you’ll have half the grid in tears. Which is good TV, even if no cameras are there.”

GRID 2025

Lando Norris: hi everyone, completely random and bit of a shock to you all (except osc zak and andrea) but im having a baby shower next tuesday 11am at oscars monaco apartment. you dont know the baby mum, but shes such a nice girl, before you ask, no we're not together, but we will be coparenting. shes oscars sister's childhood friend and we will be keeping it private so please dont take photos or say anything publicly. anyway i want you all to meet her and it'd be lovely to see you all there. wags are invited too.

Max Verstappen: wait. wait wait wait. you’re HAVING A BABY?

George Russell: Jesus Christ Lando, you can’t just drop that in a group chat at 11pm.

Lewis Hamilton: First of all, congratulations. Second of all, what the hell.

Carlos Sainz: I thought this was about golf or dinner plans. Baby shower??

Pierre Gasly: bro this group is not normal. last week it was memes about kimi’s driving test, now it’s “hi I’m having a child.”

Kimi Antonelli: he’s only slightly older than me and he’s having a kid. I feel sick.

Frédéric Vasseur: …this is real? not one of your jokes, Lando?

Andrea Stella: it’s real.

Zak Brown: very real.

Christian Horner: oh my god. Geri is screaming next to me.

Lance Stroll: does the baby get a papaya onesie or are we going neutral colours

Yuki Tsunoda: neutral. papaya is ugly.

Lando Norris: yuki mate i can mute you anytime

Alex Albon: who’s the mum 👀

Lando Norris: already said you don’t know her.

Charles Leclerc: is she coming to the shower?

Lando Norris: yes charles that’s kind of the point.

Lewis Hamilton: you realise “she’s a nice girl” tells us nothing right

Liam Lawson: is she at least ready for this circus to descend on her life?

Oscar Piastri: she’s tougher than all of you combined.

Esteban Ocon: does she watch F1?

Oscar Piastri: not really.

Nico Hülkenberg: best decision she’ll ever make.

Fernando Alonso: I’ll come if there’s food.

Andy Cowell: congratulations, Lando. unexpected news, but proud of you.

Toto Wolff: We will be there. Susie sends her congratulations as well.

Lando Norris: thanks toto ❤️

George Russell: are we allowed to bring gifts or is this like… just vibes?

Oscar Piastri: don't bring anything stupid, edie will kill you.

Max Verstappen: edie’s involved?? oh god it really is real.

Oliver Bearman: do we need to wear smart clothes or casual?

Lando Norris: casual.

Yuki Tsunoda: I’m wearing a suit.

Carlos Sainz: I’ll bring wine.

Lewis Hamilton: no alcohol.

Lando Norris: yeah please no booze it’s not that kind of party.

Pierre Gasly: so not a party.

Andrea Stella: it’s a baby shower, Pierre.

Frédéric Vasseur: I’ve seen enough. I’ll be there.

Lance Stroll: same.

Charles Leclerc: me too.

Lewis Hamilton: count me in.

George Russell: fine, I’ll come.

Max Verstappen: I swear to god Lando if this is some elaborate prank I’ll run you into the barriers.

Lando Norris: not a prank.

Oscar Piastri: definitely not a prank.

Zak Brown: see you all Tuesday.

Oscar’s apartment in Monaco didn’t look like it usually did. It wasn’t the sleek, sterile driver’s pad you’d seen a hundred times when you came by with Edie, feet kicked up on his sofa, champagne flutes balanced dangerously on the glass coffee table. Today, it looked like someone’s home. Nicole had insisted. Balloons in muted neutrals were tied to the backs of chairs. A long dining table was pushed to the side and covered in pastel cupcakes and trays of food she and Edie had fussed over all morning. Mae and Hattie had been darting around like event planners, moving cushions, lighting candles, filling jugs of iced water with lemon slices.

You were perched on the sofa, oversized jumper tucked over your bump, a hand absentmindedly pressed against the swell of your stomach. Lando hadn’t strayed far all morning, floating between helping Oscar’s dad carry drinks in from the kitchen and sinking down beside you every few minutes, his knee brushing yours like he needed to remind himself you were still there.

The front door buzzed. A chorus of voices carried in from the hall. Lando’s shoulders went up immediately, nerves and excitement in equal measure. He smoothed down the front of his hoodie, looked at you, then at Nicole as if for reassurance. She just smiled knowingly and ushered him toward the door. When it opened, his family spilled in like a wave. Adam first, tall and easy-going, arms loaded with gift bags. Behind him, Cisca with her soft, motherly fussing energy, kissing Lando’s cheek and then immediately scanning the room for you. Flo and Cisca Jr trailed behind, both grinning, both already carrying more pastel-wrapped boxes than seemed fair. And Oliver, trying to look composed but clearly just as thrown as the rest of them.

“Hi, Mum,” Lando said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. He leaned down for a hug, let her smooth his curls back, then gestured toward you like he was presenting the most fragile, most important thing in the world. “This is her.”

It was clumsy but honest. His hand hovered at the small of your back, not quite touching, before he pulled you to your feet. “Everyone, this is…” His eyes flicked to yours, asking silently if you wanted the label, if you wanted your name first. You nodded. “This is Y/N.” His chest expanded with the words, like saying it out loud to his family made everything heavier and more real. “The baby’s mum.”

Cisca crossed the room before you had time to process, arms wrapping around you in the kind of hug that smelled like expensive perfume and comfort. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, pulling back only to look at your face. “Thank you for letting us be here. For letting us be part of this.”

Adam shook your hand warmly, promising you had his full support in whatever you needed. Flo made a beeline for Edie, squealing like they’d known each other forever. Cisca Jr came straight to you, her eyes darting between you and the little curve under your jumper, and she whispered, “He’s been so nervous. About this. About you meeting us. But don’t tell him I told you.”

Lando stood a step back, watching his worlds collide. You noticed the way his jaw unclenched when his mum slipped her hand over yours, the way his shoulders dropped when his dad chuckled about how he already had grandad duties lined up. He didn’t look like a driver, or a public figure, or someone under constant scrutiny. He just looked like a boy, relieved.

Nicole came over then, resting a hand on your arm. “Shall we get everyone some drinks?” she asked brightly, already ushering Lando’s sisters toward the kitchen. The room was buzzing with overlapping chatter, introductions spilling over, gifts stacked higher in the corner.

And when you finally sank back onto the sofa, Lando dropped down beside you again, his knee pressed firm against yours this time. His hand landed gently on your bump, almost without thinking.

You exhaled, and for the first time that day, you felt settled. The room finally calmed after the initial flurry of greetings. Nicole, Mae and Hattie ferried drinks out from the kitchen, lining the coffee table with glasses of juice, tea, and a discreetly hidden bottle of prosecco for the non-pregnant half of the party. The hum of conversation settled into something warmer, more intimate.

Cisca sat beside you on the sofa like it was the most natural thing in the world, gently tucking a throw blanket around your lap even though the apartment was already comfortably warm. “You must let me know if you need anything,” she said, voice steady, but her eyes betraying the soft shine of a woman already imagining herself as a grandmother. “Anything at all. If you want space, if you want company, if you want to fly somewhere, I’ll be there.”

It was overwhelming, but not in the way you feared. Her words didn’t feel like a performance, didn’t feel rehearsed for anyone’s benefit. They felt like a promise.

Adam perched on the armchair opposite, arms folded comfortably across his chest. “You’ve probably gathered by now,” he said with a wry grin, “but we don’t bite. Lando makes us sound scarier than we are.”

That pulled a quiet laugh out of you. “He has mentioned he was nervous,” you admitted, glancing sideways at Lando. He tried to feign innocence, but the pink dusting across his cheekbones gave him away.

Oliver, awkward in the way only a big brother could be, hovered at first. Then, in a burst of courage, he dropped onto the other end of the sofa, leaning forward on his knees. “So…do you know if it’s a boy or girl yet?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly in the middle of the sentence.

You shook your head, smiling at his curiosity. “No. We decided not to find out. Makes it more of a surprise.”

Flo gasped dramatically from across the room. “That’s torture. How are we meant to buy presents if we don’t know?”

Nicole, ever the steady one, cut in. “You buy things that work for both, darling. Babies don’t care what colour their socks are.” She gave you a small smile then, one that felt like solidarity.

The chatter swelled from there, each family member taking turns pulling you into their orbit. Cisca Jr sat cross-legged on the floor by your feet, asking if you’d thought of names. Oliver offered to teach the baby how to kart one day, earning a sharp elbow from Lando and a round of laughter from everyone else. Adam leaned back in his chair, watching the scene with a kind of quiet pride that made your chest ache.

At one point, Nicole slipped into the seat on your other side, her hand brushing yours. She didn’t say anything immediately, just gave you the kind of look that spoke volumes: you’re not alone in this, not ever. When she finally did speak, it was soft, meant just for you. “They’ll look after you, you know. His family. Just like we will.”

It was too much and not enough all at once, this overwhelming flood of acceptance, of people slotting themselves into the story of your baby’s life without hesitation. You’d braced for judgement, for awkward silences, for pity. Instead, you were met with open arms and inside jokes and warm promises.

The doorbell rang once, twice, and then it was a blur. First came the deep rumble of voices down the hall, a cluster of men in team jackets and crisp linen shirts filtering in like a corporate army. Zak and Andrea led the way, smiling too brightly, their hands clasping yours in a kind of firm reassurance that almost felt like See, this isn’t so bad, right?

Behind them, Toto ducked through the doorframe with Susie at his side. She carried a bouquet of pale yellow tulips, and he carried nothing but his usual commanding presence, scanning the apartment with an almost protective sweep. “Where’s the mother-to-be?” Susie asked warmly before you could even answer, already crossing the room to press the flowers into your hands and kiss your cheek.

Then came Fred, cheerful and loud, sweeping you into a hug like you were already one of his own. Christian and Geri trailed in behind him, her sequined jacket catching the light, her eyes darting around the apartment like she was cataloguing gossip for later.

The pace quickened, James and Rachel carrying a gift bag, Ayao Komatsu smiling politely, Jonathan Wheatley shaking hands, Andy Cowell greeting Oscar like an old friend. Laurent Mekies kissed both of your cheeks with easy French charm before slipping away to find a drink.

And then the drivers. Max arrived with Kelly and little Penelope perched on her hip, the kid instantly drawing everyone’s attention as she talked and pointed at the balloons. Kelly gave you a warm smile, her hand briefly squeezing your arm as if to say you’re doing fine. Liam slipped in behind them, Hannah glued to his side, his grin wide and boyish as he offered congratulations.

Charles walked in with Alexandra on his arm, both impossibly polished. His eyes lingered on you a beat longer than necessary before he kissed your cheek. Alexandra, radiant in a soft silk dress, offered a gift box tied with a perfect bow.

Lewis followed, alone but radiant, a soft grin curving as he hugged you gently, whispering, “Proud of you, both of you.” George and Carmen trailed behind, Carmen immediately fussing over the tulips Susie had brought, rearranging them in a vase as George bent down to murmur a cheeky “you holding up okay?” into your ear.

Kimi Antonelli entered with Eli at his side both impossibly young, impossibly golden. Alex and Lily, Carlos and Rebecca, each came with easy smiles and quick congratulations, the women instantly gravitating toward you with curious warmth.

Then Lance, hands buried in his pockets, followed by Fernando with the kind of half-smile that made you feel like you’d just joined some secret society. Nico and Egle, Gabriel and Isabella, all layered in soon after, each hug and handshake adding to the blur.

Yuki bounded in, small gift bag swinging, his laugh booming as he shouted congratulations across the room. Isack was quieter but no less warm, Esteban and Flavy offered polite kisses to both cheeks, Oliver Bearman shuffled in with a shy smile, Pierre and Kika radiated charisma, and Franco, still boyish, still wide-eyed, seemed stunned by the sheer scale of it all.

The apartment swelled with voices, with perfume and aftershave, with laughter and champagne corks popping in the kitchen. What had been a family gathering just moments ago now felt like the paddock transplanted into Oscar’s living room, a microcosm of Formula 1 itself, buzzing and chaotic and far too loud.

Through it all, Lando hovered close. Not clinging, but there, always there. A hand brushing your lower back when too many people swarmed you at once, a steady look when your nerves threatened to creep back in.

It was chaos, yes. But not hostile. Not sharp. They were here, all of them, and for once the spotlight wasn’t burning you, it was wrapping you in warmth.

The moment the door closed behind the last arrival, you felt yourself shrink back a little — the room was packed, the buzz of voices almost overwhelming. Before you could even think of how to blend into the background, Lando slipped closer, his hand brushing over the small of your back.

“Come on,” he murmured softly, the warmth in his voice cutting through the noise. “I’ll take you round properly.”

It wasn’t a show. It wasn’t for them. He guided you with quiet confidence, like he was drawing a protective circle around you, making sure you weren’t swallowed whole by the crowd.

First stop was Toto and Susie. "Toto, Susie, this is…” His eyes softened on you. “The mum of my kid.”

Susie hugged you again, less formal this time, and Toto’s hand lingered protectively on your shoulder when he shook your hand. Lando smiled at the exchange before gently tugging you along.

“Fred,” he said, steering you to where the Ferrari principal was pouring himself a drink. “This is her.” Fred grinned and kissed your cheeks, congratulating you in his booming voice. From there it was Zak and Andrea, familiar, now comforting faces, before moving into the drivers.

Lando started with the easiest. Oscar, grinning proudly, pulled you and Edie into his orbit with his usual calm warmth. Hattie and Mae hovered nearby, their chatter making you feel instantly at home. Then Charles. His smile was soft, almost shy, but his hand was steady when he shook yours. “Nice to finally meet properly,” he said in his lilting accent, Alexandra adding a sweet “congratulations” before looping her arm around his.

Lewis hugged you like an old friend, grounding and warm. George’s teasing whisper earned him a playful swat from Lando. Alex and Lily were kind, Rebecca gorgeous and beaming at your belly, Carmen hugging you gently as if she’d known you for years.

Each introduction came with Lando’s hand at your back, his voice easing you through, his jokes cutting tension when you faltered. He didn’t let anyone overwhelm you. When Christian leaned in a little too sharply with a curious, “So, when did you two decide-” Lando simply laughed, cutting him off with, “No interviews today, mate.” When Max’s smirk stretched too wide, Lando’s arm curled closer around your waist until the teasing softened into something more genuine.

By the time you’d been round the room, it didn’t feel like a wall of strangers anymore. It felt smaller. Safer. Each handshake, each kiss on the cheek, filtered through the ease Lando carried with him. When he finally guided you back to the sofa, pressing a glass of water into your hand, he crouched down in front of you with a grin. “See? Not that scary, was it?”

Your nerves weren’t gone completely, but with him sitting close, knee brushing yours, it almost felt like you belonged. He stayed close, always within reach, but gave you space to breathe now that the hard part was done.

Susie was the first to drift over again, sliding onto the sofa beside you with that motherly energy that somehow quieted the whole room. She fussed gently over your blanket, adjusted your glass onto a coaster, and leaned in. “You’re family now,” she said simply, no drama in it, just truth. The words sank deeper than you expected, and before you could find the right reply, she squeezed your hand like she’d said enough.

George couldn’t help himself. He leaned over the back of the sofa with a smirk, whispering, “I promise I won’t tell Toto what colour nursery you pick.” When you rolled your eyes and swatted at him, his laugh echoed, loud enough for Lando to glance over, shake his head, and mutter, “You’re insufferable, mate.”

Charles lingered more subtly, hanging back near Alexandra but always watching. At one point, when the room erupted in laughter at one of Max’s jokes, he leaned down just enough for you to hear. “You look… happy.” His smile was small but sincere, and when you thanked him, he ducked away like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Meanwhile, Oscar’s mum, Nicole, made herself entirely at home beside you, passing you little plates of food she insisted you try, asking soft questions about how you were feeling, never prying too far but never letting you go without being cared for. It felt like being folded into her family all over again, just as she had when you were younger.

Even Toto came by again, his presence always tall, steady. He crouched down to eye level and asked quietly if you were comfortable, if anyone was making you uneasy. When you assured him you were fine, he gave a short nod, like he was filing it away as something to personally ensure.

The chaos of the room never really stopped, Max loudly bickering with Pierre over cake slices, Kelly trying to wrangle Penelope, Christian’s booming laugh across the room, but somehow, you stayed cocooned. Every so often Lando would return to press a snack into your hand, or rest his arm along the back of the sofa just close enough to remind you he was there.

It wasn’t just a shower anymore. It was a slow weaving, family and grid, bosses and rivals, friends and strangers, all of them orbiting around you, but never breaking through that soft circle Lando had made sure surrounded you from the moment you walked in.

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