#formula 1 fanfic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zombryz · 22 hours ago

Text

Racing hearts ♡ OP81

Ex-boyfriend!Oscar x fem!reader

You both loved each other, but you were too young to handle the pressure of his rising career and your own life path. The breakup was almost mutual, but neither of you really wanted it.

word count: 7k ~ one shot

pairings: oscar piastri x reader, slight!lando x reader mentioned for plot

tags: childhood friends to lovers to exes to lovers again?, kinda fast paced, second person POV, reader POV, STORY ENDS WITH SMUT, P in V, AFAB reader, porn with plot, slightsub!oscar (he's just kind of whiny), slightdom!reader, mature themes overall, work environments but not really professional... lol, also not really proofread

warnings: use of y/n, pet names (baby), smut (18+), talking through it, unprotected sex, unprofessional... almost sex at work, car sex, mentions of virginity loss

The first time you see him again, you’re in papaya orange.

You hadn’t expected the weight of it all—the jacket snug across your shoulders, the lanyard heavy around your neck, the logo bold over your chest. It should’ve just been another job, another team, another driver to manage. But McLaren wasn’t just another team. And Oscar Piastri wasn’t just another driver.

You told Zak and the others the truth during on-boarding. That you and Oscar had history, that it was a lifetime ago, that you were prepared to be professional. They’d waved it off with easy smiles. Teenage dating doesn’t count in F1, someone had joked.

Maybe. But standing here now, camera in hand, the buzz of the paddock in your ears, you realized how naïve you’d been to think it wouldn’t still sting—at least a little.

Oscar walked in, fireproofs rolled down, posture looser than you remembered but his expression sharper. Colder. He looked straight past you, not even a flicker of recognition, before heading to the garage.

Professional, you reminded yourself. You weren’t here for him. You had an entire career that you built for yourself from the ground up. “First day nerves?” Lando grinned at you, leaning casually against the wall, eyeing your McLaren polo. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to go easy on you.”

You laughed despite yourself, the ease of his banter cutting through your nerves. And of course, because the universe was cruel, that was the exact moment Oscar glanced back across the garage.

His eyes flicked to Lando. To you. Back to Lando. And for the first time all day, his jaw tightened. You almost wished you had been invisible, it would be so much easier and way less awkward.

Later in the day, you found him alone near the McLaren hospitality, hands shoved in his pockets like he was waiting for something—or maybe someone. For a split second, it felt like muscle memory, like you were walking up to the boy you used to know. The boy who always waited for you after heats, helmet hair sticking up in every direction, grin soft just for you.

But this wasn’t that boy.

“Hey,” you started carefully, professional tone slipping despite your best effort. “I just wanted to—look, Oscar, this doesn’t have to be complicated. What happened back then… we were practically kids. I’m here to do my job, that’s it.”

His gaze flicked up at you, unreadable, sharp in a way that made your stomach twist. For a beat, you thought he might ease, might give you even a fraction of the boy you once knew. Instead, his mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I would hope so.”

That was it. He brushed past you, leaving only the faintest trace of his cologne in the air. You stood there longer than you should’ve, the words echoing like a door slammed shut.

It had never been simple with Oscar. Not from the very start. You’d met him in karting, two kids with helmets too big for your heads and dreams even bigger. At first, he was just another name on the entry sheet, another rival to chase down the straights. But somewhere between the long weekends spent at the track and the hours waiting for heats, rivalry melted into something softer.

You remembered one weekend in particular—Wackersdorf, sticky-hot summer, your palms raw from clutching the wheel. You’d been furious after a messy heat, convinced the crash in turn two had ruined your weekend. Everyone else brushed past you in the paddock, but Oscar lingered.

“You drive like you want to kill someone ya know,” he’d said, eyes wide with mock seriousness.

You’d snapped back, “Well, maybe I do.”

But then he’d grinned—that lopsided grin you came to know so well—and pressed a bottle of water into your hand. “Good. Keep it up. Finally some good competition.”

That was the thing about Oscar. He could be quiet, reserved, even aloof—but with you, he let something else slip through. The dry humor, the flashes of warmth. You found yourself looking for him more and more, in the spaces between races, in the quiet corners of crowded paddocks. Somewhere along the line, “rival” shifted into “friend,” and “friend” turned into the crush you never admitted out loud.

Until he admitted it for you.

It wasn’t grand—Oscar wasn’t the grand-gesture type. It was late, both of you stretched out on the roof of your dad’s van, the stars faint above the track lights. You’d been teasing him about the way he chewed his straw wrappers when he blurted, “I like you, you know.” You’d laughed at first, convinced he was joking. But then he turned his head toward you, expression unreadable but eyes steady, waiting. And suddenly your world shifted on its axis.

After that, it was inevitable.

You never called it a relationship, not at first. It was inside jokes and secret looks, his hand brushing yours when no one was watching, sneaking away between heats just to sit in silence together. But eventually, words caught up with what you already were.

He was your first everything.

And you loved him—deeply, fiercely, with the kind of devotion only teenagers can manage. Throughout the years you both worked your way up to F3. Then, when your own racing ended after the crash, when fear wormed its way into your chest and made every lap feel like a countdown, you didn’t resent him. You stood in his corner instead. You cheered the loudest, you believed the hardest, you told him he was meant for more. Your dad never forgave you for walking away, but in your heart it was the choice you’d always make, in every lifetime— you’d rather cheer for Oscar than compete against him.

Looking back, it was almost laughably innocent.

But for a while, it worked. You built your own life around his, a balance that somehow made sense. Until it didn’t.

By the time he reached F2, Oscar was already half gone—physically, emotionally, his head always in the next session, the next race, the next championship. Phone calls turned into voicemails, visits turned into promises, promises turned into arguments.

You remembered one fight clearer than the rest. You’d been sitting cross-legged on your dorm floor, phone pressed to your ear, his voice tinny with bad reception.

“You don’t get it,” he’d said, frustration sharp enough to cut. “This isn’t just a hobby, it’s my career.”

“And I’m not asking you to give it up!” you’d snapped back, tears threatening but stubbornly unshed. “I just—I need to feel like I still matter in it.”

Silence. Too long, too heavy. Then a flat: “Maybe we’re not on the same path anymore.”

That was the night you both stopped pretending.

You let him go. He didn’t fight you on it. And in the strange, cruel way of growing up, life moved on.

You buried yourself in school, in sports media, in carving out your own career in the only thing you’d ever know but far from the circuits that reminded you of him. NASCAR gave you a clean slate, America gave you space, and for the first time in years you felt steady again.

You didn’t stalk his results, didn’t scroll his socials late at night. You knew he was in F1—of course you did. But you never let yourself linger on the thought. He had his path. You had yours.

Back then it seemed like devotion. Looking back, it was nothing but the innocence of youth.

And yet, here you were again, older, wiser, standing in papaya orange. Back in his orbit.

Day to day, the job became routine. Lando made it easy. He was endlessly chatty, always finding ways to make you laugh even on the busiest days, and he never seemed to mind the camera in his face.

Filming him for content felt less like work and more like banter between friends—he’d mug for the lens, crack inside jokes, drag you into the occasional frame when the crew wasn’t looking.

Oscar was the opposite.

He didn’t go out of his way to make your life harder—he just didn’t go out of his way for you at all. If you happened to cross paths in the garage, he’d look through you, polite enough to avoid rudeness but distant enough to sting. It was easier to stay out of his orbit entirely, and you told yourself that was fine. That was professional.

Except the paddock wasn’t that big.

One Friday, his usual media person was out sick, and before you could make an excuse, you were handed the camera and told to get a quick clip of Oscar for socials.

You braced yourself for pushback, but he didn’t argue. He just stood there in his race suit, fireproofs peeking at his collar, expression blank as you lined up the shot. It should’ve been simple.

“Just a smile, maybe a quick ‘ready for quali,’” you suggested, keeping your tone brisk, professional.

Oscar nodded once, delivered the line, and you hit stop. No drama, no issues. Just a short, forgettable clip.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Hours later, someone from the Mclaren team was shoving a phone in your face between meetings, laughing.

“Have you seen this? The comments are losing it.”

You blinked at the screen. The clip of Oscar had blown up, fans dissecting the way his eyes flickered at the camera, the way his expression shifted ever so slightly.

The way he looks at admin?? Hello?? This is not his PR girl why is he staring like THAT.

“I don’t get it,” you said honestly, handing the phone back. “It’s just Oscar. He barely looked at me.”

Your coworker smirked. “Barely, huh? Well, the internet thinks otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes. You didn’t have the time—or the energy—to spiral down the rabbit hole of Oscar’s fans and their theories. You had plenty to juggle with Lando’s own schedule, and Oscar… well. He’d made it perfectly clear you were no one to him now.

In fact, if anything, it felt like a burden. Whenever you crossed paths, his silence weighed heavier than words ever could. It was easier to focus on the things you could control—cameras, content calendars, Lando’s relentless charm—than to wonder why Oscar still looked at you like you were the problem.

The weeks blurred together in a rhythm you quickly learned to live by. Media day chaos, practice sessions, late nights editing clips in hotel rooms that all looked the same.

With Lando, it was easy. Too easy. He made the work light, even when you were running on fumes. One weekend, he convinced you to let him film a “behind the scenes” bit with you in frame—nothing major, just him draping an arm over your shoulders while joking about you being the “real boss” at McLaren. You rolled your eyes, shoved him off, but the fans loved it.

Oscar barely reacted.

If he’d seen the clip, he gave no sign. He didn’t comment when Lando teased you at press conferences or pulled you into TikToks. He didn’t say a word when Lando sat beside you in the garage, showing you memes instead of watching the monitors. He just carried on, stone-faced and untouchable, as though none of it concerned him.

Except sometimes, you caught it—the flicker of his gaze across the room, the way his jaw tightened when you laughed too hard at something Lando had said. Quick, sharp glances, gone before you could even register them.

You told yourself it was nothing.

It wasn’t until Spain that you had to work with him again. His media rep got pulled to help with a logistical issue, and you were handed a mic at the last second with no time to protest.

Oscar gave the bare minimum—short answers, monotone delivery. You tried to coax more out of him, because that was your job, but it was like pulling teeth. Still, you smiled, nodded, and wrapped it up cleanly for the cameras.

When the clip went live later, the comments exploded again.

Oscar answering like he’s in love but fighting it?? “Yeah… it was fine.” Sir, you sound like you’re on the verge of tears?? The way he looks at admin is insane. Tell me I’m not imagining this.

You laughed it off when one of the interns showed you. It was easier to believe the internet was inventing things than to accept any other possibility. Because the Oscar you saw in real life—the one who barely looked at you, who brushed past you in the paddock without a word—wasn’t the boy from your memories. He wasn’t anything close.

You didn’t know him anymore.

In Austria, Lando was fighting for a podium. You’d been glued to the screens all race, headset pressed tight, adrenaline coursing even though you weren’t the one in the car. When the checkered flag waved, you were already sprinting to capture his reaction.

He leapt out of the car grinning, and before you could even frame the shot, he pulled you into a hug, sweaty fireproofs and all. Cameras caught it from every angle. Your laugh, his arm locked around your shoulders, the easy comfort between you.

You didn’t notice Oscar until later.

He was in the background of one of the photos—helmet still on, visor cracked just enough to show his eyes. Looking directly at you. Not at Lando. At you.

You skipped past it quickly, heart unsettled, throat dry.

By Hungary, you’d stopped trying to analyze it. Oscar’s silence was a wall you couldn’t scale, and his rare flickers of attention felt like tricks of the light. It was easier to stay focused on Lando, on the work, on everything else but him.

But if Oscar noticed your avoidance, he didn’t let it show. If anything, he doubled down—cold shoulders, clipped answers, brushing past you without pause.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain, that cut deeper than any argument ever could.

The next race was busier than you expected. The home crowd buzzed like static in the air, the garage overflowing with sponsors, cameras, fans pressing against barricades.

You were supposed to be focused on Lando, your driver, but every so often your gaze strayed.

To Oscar.

He hadn’t been that boy from karting for a long time—his shoulders had broadened, his features sharpened into something that still startled you if you looked too long. He carried himself differently now too—confidence edged with arrogance, posture taut in fireproofs still clinging damp from the race.

You caught yourself staring once, twice—long enough that your chest fluttered, long enough that you had to wrench your eyes back to the camera before anyone noticed.

Professional. You were professional.

But when you finally glanced up again, Oscar’s eyes were already on you.

A flicker of something unreadable passed between you before he looked away, jaw tight, expression carved in stone.

It only made the cold shoulder worse.

He barely acknowledged you around the garage, his words clipped whenever you tried, his back already turned when you offered a polite “good luck” before quali. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that it was easier this way—but the heaviness in your chest lingered.

Until after the race.

McLaren was celebrating Lando’s podium, staff flooding the pit wall, champagne spraying in the air. You caught it all on camera, laughter spilling over as Lando mugged for the lens, but your attention slipped into habit.

You cupped your hands around your mouth, leaning slightly forward over the barrier, fingers pressed together as you shouted encouragement—something you had always done for Oscar in the karting days, without thinking, without noticing the way it made him look.

Later, slipping down the quieter corridor with your equipment, you nearly collided with him.

He didn’t move aside. Just stood there, damp hair curling against his forehead, eyes sharp, unreadable.

“You still do that,” he said flatly.

You frowned. “Do what?”

“That thing with your hands,” he said, voice low but tight. “Cupping them like that, leaning over, shouting. You used to do it for me.”

Your chest tightened. “I—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, voice sharper now. “Just… don’t do it for him.”

The words landed heavier than anything he’d said in years. You opened your mouth, but no reply came. He shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and walked past you, leaving a charged quiet in his wake.

The hallway felt impossibly small, and suddenly you were hyper-aware of the way your own hands flexed at your sides, remembering that small gesture that had once meant nothing… and now meant far too much.

At Silverstone, just before the post-practice interview, Lando struggled with his jacket, and you leaned in, smoothing the collar and flashing a grin. One of the interviewers gave you a disapproving look, clearly annoyed that you’d wandered into the shot. You rolled your eyes, snapping back, “Relax. He’s my driver,” letting just the right amount of exasperation slip through.

Oscar, standing a few feet away, stopped in his tracks. His expression darkened. When you turned around you were practically inches away from his chest.

“My driver?” he repeated, voice sharp, almost incredulous.

“Yes,” you said firmly, holding your ground.

He exhaled through his nose, teeth grinding, then muttered, “Yeah, well… I’m your—”

And then he cut himself off, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked away quickly, betraying whatever he had meant—boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? Something else entirely?

You didn’t comment, just focused on Lando, but the tension lingered like static.

Later that evening, you had slipped off to handle a few post-practice clips in the media room, headphones on, focused entirely on your work. You didn’t notice Lando lingering nearby—or Oscar stepping in—leaving the two of them alone for a conversation that would have left your cheeks hot if you’d heard it.

Lando leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, voice low so no one else could hear, “the fans are really shipping me with Y/N. They’ve even made a few… creative edits.”

Oscar, standing across the room, raised an eyebrow. “Have they?” Lando smirked, shrugging. “Apparently. According to the internet, I’m her boyfriend now.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. His arms crossed over his chest as he stepped closer, voice calm but laced with steel. “She’s not… yours. She’s off-limits. She’s my ex, and no one gets to flirt with her. Not you, not anyone.”

Lando laughed nervously, holding up his hands. “Whoa, easy there. I’m just saying, fans are shipping. It’s not like I—”

“Don’t say things like that,” Oscar interrupted, sharp, eyes narrowing. “Not about her. You don’t get to make her a joke. She’s off-limits. Got it?”

Lando swallowed, smirk faltering. Hands up in surrender. “Got it… yeah. Didn’t realize there was… history there. Sorry Mate.”

Oscar’s eyes didn’t leave him until Lando nodded. The unspoken warning was clear: cross the line, and there would be consequences.

As soon as Lando left, Oscar exhaled slowly, hands unclenching, jaw loosening slightly. He wasn’t done thinking about you—not by a long shot—but at least now he knew where the line was, and that he would do whatever it took to keep it intact. You were off limits to anyone at Mclaren.

In Monaco, you crouched near the pit wall, adjusting the camera angle to catch Lando exiting the garage. The sun was high, glare reflecting off the tarmac, and the air smelled faintly of fuel and hot tires.

Oscar drifted nearby, ostensibly reviewing data on his tablet, but his presence was unmistakable. When a couple of staff members started hovering too close to you, his arm brushed yours, guiding you subtly out of their path.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. “You don’t want to get in the way.”

You glanced at him, eyebrow raised, lips pressed together. “I can handle it,” you said coolly, though your chest fluttered.

He didn’t press, but the weird protective tension lingered like static in the air between you.

Later that week, an intern nervously approached you, asking if you might want to grab a drink after the day’s work. Oscar jumped in to answer for you, some excuse he came up with about you helping him with his socials. You excused yourself politely and pulled Oscar by his arm a few steps down the corridor. You recently learned from Lando that Oscar practically branded you as off limits and threatened him when he had made a joke about the two of you being shipped by fans.

“Hey… can we talk?” you asked, voice low and controlled.

He nodded, expression tight but curious.

“I know you care,” you began carefully, “and I get it. But you need to remember—I’m not your girlfriend. I can make my own decisions. That includes saying yes—or no—to someone asking me out.”

His jaw flexed, hands clenching at his sides. He exhaled slowly. “I know,” he murmured, voice low, almost grudging. “I just… I forget sometimes.”

“Then remember,” you said, tone firm, giving him a small nod before returning to your work. The tension between you didn’t dissipate—it only simmered quietly, like a storm waiting to break.

The garage at Monza was quieter than usual, most of the team gone for lunch, leaving only the faint hum of machinery and the scent of burnt tires. You were bent over your laptop, headphones on, reviewing clips, when a shadow fell across your desk.

Oscar.

He leaned slightly closer than necessary, his hand brushing yours as he reached to point at something on the screen. The contact was fleeting, almost accidental—but it sent a jolt up your arm. “Hey. You’re ignoring yourself again, aren’t you?” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. His eyes locking onto yours. His voice was soft, familiar.

You glanced at him, trying to keep your voice steady. “No. I-I’m fine. I’m just… working.”

“No,” he interrupted, and this time his hand lingered on your shoulder as he straightened behind you. The warmth, the slight pressure—it was intimate, grounding. He spun your chair around so that you were facing him now. “You’re not fine. I can’t—can’t keep standing by, watching you throw yourself into everything and everyone.”

Your chest tightened. “Watching me? Oscar… what are you talking about?”

He shifted slightly, hand running through his hair as if he was frustrated with the conversation. “I’ve been holding back… holding back for months. Pretending I don’t care. Pretending that our breakup didn’t hurt. Pretending I could stay away while you worked, while you laughed… but god, you make it impossible!” His sudden movements towards you cause you to stand, the back of your thighs pushed into the corner of your desk.

Your hands gripped the edge of the desk. “Oscar…” you whispered, voice shaking slightly. Your eyes flickering to his lips and back up to his eyes. “If you cared, why didn’t you… why didn’t you ever say anything? Why’d you give me such a cold shoulder?”

His hand moved again, fingertips lightly brushing your arm as he stepped closer. “Because I was scared. Scared of messing this up again. Scared of ruining everything. But seeing you here… seeing you with Lando, seeing you do your job…cheering for him and not me… I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t ignore it. I’ve been trying to stay away, but I can’t.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his presence and the soft warmth of his touch. His fingers hovering over your arms, moving up slowly until they’re brushing your collarbone. “So… all those little glances, the way you hover—”

“Not games,” he said, voice firm but husky. He let his hand rest just briefly under your chin, caressing your jaw and lingering long enough that your chest started fluttering. “None of it was games. I never stopped caring. I never stopped thinking about you, about us. And now… I can’t hold it in anymore. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of watching you and not being able to say it.”

The air between you was electric, charged with months of restraint, unspoken feelings, and the gentle, tantalizing brush of his hands against yours. You realized just how much he had hurt—and how much you still cared—while he stood inches away, finally raw, finally honest.

You take a step back, just enough to catch your breath, but not enough to put distance between you. His hands still linger subtly on your arms and shoulders, warm and grounding, and your chest tightens at the reminder of how close you used to be.

“You’ve been… holding all that in?” you ask quietly, voice low, almost a whisper. “For months? Watching me and… not saying a word?” He shifts, thumb brushing lightly across your forearm as if it were instinct, not intention. “I thought I could handle it. Thought I could stay away, thought it would make it easier for both of us. But I was wrong. Seeing you… here… now… it’s impossible to ignore.”

Your heart hammers, part of you furious that he left you in limbo all this time, part of you aching because he’s right—you’ve missed him.

“And now what? We just continue like we never broke up?”

He swallows hard, eyes dark, serious. “I don’t know… I just—I want you. I miss you.”

You feel your chest tighten, hands clenching slightly as he steps even closer, brushing your hair back gently as if to memorize every detail of your face. “Oscar… I—”

He cuts you off softly, pressing his forehead against yours for a brief second. “I never stopped caring. I never stopped wanting you. And I’m done pretending I don’t. You’re not just my ex—you’re… everything I’ve been trying not to think about, and it’s killing me.”

The raw honesty, the closeness, the way his touch lingers on your arms and shoulders—it all threatens to shatter the professional walls you’ve built around yourself. Your breath catches, and suddenly the question you’ve been holding back for months escapes in a whisper:

“So… why now? Why tell me this now, after everything? What’s different from two years ago when you broke it off?”

He leans back slightly, just enough to look at you fully, eyes soft but intense. “Because I can’t anymore. I can’t watch you, can’t keep my hands off you, can’t keep pretending you’re not the person I’ve been missing. I don’t want to wait another day to tell you. I don’t care about timing, or appearances, or anything else. I just… I need you to know. It’s always been you. I still love you. I think I always will.”

And there it is—the confession, raw and unfiltered, accompanied by touches that speak louder than words. You realize that all the subtle tension over the past races, all the soft brushes and lingering glances, was leading here. To this. To him.

You close the last sliver of distance, your hands finding his as if they’ve always known where to go. “Oscar…” you murmur, your voice trembling slightly. “I… still love you.”

He smiles, just a little, tugging you gently closer. “I’m not letting you go again. Not like before.”

The tension in the garage melts into something warmer, something dangerous in the way your bodies are drawn together, your hands brushing, foreheads leaning close. The slow burn that’s been building for months is finally igniting. His hands remain lightly on your arms, brushing against your shoulders and down the curve of your forearms, deliberate yet gentle, as if memorizing you.

“God, I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, letting his forehead rest briefly against yours. You can feel his breath, warm, mixing with the faint smell of tires and engine oil that clings to him.

“I’ve wanted you to know, to feel this… to know I’ve never stopped.” Your chest tightens, heart pounding in your ears. Without thinking, your hands slide to rest on his chest, feeling the warmth and strength beneath the fabric of his shirt. The faint rise and fall of his breathing under your palms makes something coil in your stomach, and suddenly all the professional boundaries feel like they’ve been swept away by months of tension.

You lean in just slightly, testing the space between you. His eyes darken, locking on yours, and he lets a hand slide gently from your shoulder to the small of your back, pressing you closer. Your stomach flips, breath catching at the intimacy, the electricity in the air, the way his fingers rest lightly but deliberately.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” His lips hover just inches from yours, warm, soft, teasing, and the tension between you explodes in a quiet, electric moment.

You don’t. Every nerve in your body is alight. Your hands tighten on his chest, leaning closer, and he responds instantly, one hand moving to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it makes your knees weak.

You close the last distance, letting your lips brush his in a soft, tentative kiss, just enough to test the waters. His hands move to hold you gently, but with purpose, pressing you closer until the world shrinks to just the two of you.

Every soft touch—the brush of his thumb along your cheek, the warm weight of his hands on your back, the subtle pressure of his body against yours—sends heat spreading through your veins. The months of tension, longing, and unspoken words finally erupt in this one intimate, shared moment.

You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his, breath mingling. “Oscar…” you murmur, voice trembling.

His lips brush yours again, this time firmer, more insistent, as if reassuring you, reminding you, claiming you without words. “I know, baby” he says, voice rough and filled with something more now.

The garage fades entirely now, all you can feel is him, the warmth of his body, the softness of his touch, the intensity of his gaze. And for the first time since he left, you realize—you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

His lips find yours again, firmer this time, a heated brush that sends shivers down your spine. The subtle teasing of the first kiss melts into something urgent, almost desperate, as if he’s been holding back for months and just can’t contain it any longer.

Your hands press against his chest, feeling the hard planes beneath the fabric, and he responds instantly, fingers sliding along your back, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush. Every brush of skin, every warm touch, sends sparks through you, igniting a fire that’s been smoldering for far too long.

“God, you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, breathy. His hands cup your face now, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, drawing your eyes to his. “Every time I see you, every time I think about you… It’s like I’m aching. I’m— so hard for you.”

You can feel it too— the need growing in his pants, the dirty thoughts flooding your mind, making your knees week. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, eliciting a low groan that vibrates against your lips, and it makes your heart hammer faster.

He leans you back just slightly, enough that you can feel the weight of him against you, the warmth of his chest pressing against yours.

Every subtle brush—his hands along your sides, the feather-light touches along your arms—feels intentional, claiming, intimate. You remember it all. Just like the first time. When Oscar had taken your virginity when you both were younger.

“I need you,” he whispers, voice almost desperate now, as if saying it aloud makes up for lost time. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”

You respond instinctively, pressing closer, lips finding his again, slower this time, savoring the feel of him. “Neither have I.” You groan into his mouth.

His hands move lower, tracing your sides, pulling you impossibly close. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, and you suddenly remember where you are.

“Osc, not here…” You moan into him, rubbing your thighs together in need. He kisses down your neck, completely ignoring what you just said.

He whispers your name again, low and intimate, and you think about fucking him right here in the garage.

Then, almost instinctively, he steps back just enough to take your hand. His fingers lace with yours, warm and steady, and he gives the faintest tug, guiding you toward the parking area.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice low, urgent, yet teasing.

You follow, your pulse racing as he leads you past the remaining crew, past the distant sounds of engines, until you’re finally at his personal car. The engine is off, the windows completely tinted, the interior dimly lit, the leather warm from the sun. He opens the door for you, not breaking contact with your eyes, and the subtle brush of your hands as you step inside sends another spark through you.

Once you’re both inside, the space is tight, confined, but it makes the air between you even hotter. His hands find your waist almost immediately, pulling you on top of him, lips finding yours again with a ferocity that leaves no room for doubt.

Your hands drift along his arms, feeling the tension there, the strength and warmth. He leans in closer, tilting your head gently, and you let yourself melt into the pressure of him, every touch deliberate, every kiss claiming.

“This reminds me of when we had to sneak away after our races,” he whispers against your lips, breath warm and slightly ragged.

“Oh yeah, when you first got your license.” You giggle, the memories flooding in. You respond instinctively, pressing closer, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him just a fraction nearer. His hands move from your waist, tracing down your back, holding you in place, grounding you, sending shivers through every nerve.

The confined space makes every movement, every brush of skin, feel amplified. Your foreheads touch, breaths coming fast and shallow, hearts pounding in sync.

He whispers your name again, low, intimate, and you can feel it reverberate through your chest. You press closer instinctively, lips meeting his. He responds instantly, tilting your head, deepening the kiss just enough to take your breath away. His hands move lower, cupping your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You let yourself sink into him— then as if you couldn’t wait any longer—theres a sudden sense of urgency. Oscar’s hands are running through your hair as you kiss him fiercely. You steady yourself, hands on his chest as you grind against him, feeling his aching length through his pants.

“Fuck—I could cum like this.” Oscar moans into your mouth biting your lip as he grips the sides of your face, rubbing tiny circles on your cheeks.

“That needy, huh?” You smirk, bottom lip gently being tugged away by his teeth. He nibbles your lip and smiles back, breathing heavily.

“Only for you.”

That was enough for you, you needed him right here. Right now. You rip your shirt off and over your head, tugging at his sides until he does that same. You find yourself grinding your hips against him, Oscar’s eyes flicker from yours to your chest where you’re now just in your t-shirt bra. His hands move from your hips to brush over your chest. Your breath hitches in your throat as he fully cups one of your breasts, massaging gently. His other hand moves between them to grip your throat, quickly tugging you back down to him. His lips meet yours once more and he lets go of your breast to reach around your back, unclasping your bra. A chill spreads across your skin as he lightly pulls your straps down, leaving you completely topless.

“You’re so beautiful.” He’s staring now and you’re suddenly shy under his gaze.

“Osc—!” You moan his name when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking lightly as his other hand massages you roughly. He hums as he bucks his hips up into yours. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you grind even harder against him, feeling his car slowly rock beneath you.

As the windows begin to fog, Oscar’s hand lazily drifts to your pants. Unbuttoning the top and unzipping them slightly. He adjusts you carefully so that he can comfortably angle his hand just enough to circle around—

“Oscar!” You gasp into his mouth, groaning again, only this time the car is filled with obscene, wet noises. His fingers fucking into you sloppily while his other hand circles your clit. His fingers finding the spots he’s had memorized for years.

“Baby, you’re dripping for me.” Oscar stares up at you, a lustful smile plastered across his face. He was enjoying this way too much.

Eyes closed and on cloud nine, you were about to cum. You hadn’t been touched like this in forever. No one could do it like Oscar could. His fingers were the perfect size and he knew exactly where to touch you. It’s not like you hadn’t tried yourself, or even that one time you made out with a guy at a bar at university—he fingered you, trying so hard to get you to cum. He didn’t— you faked it— and told him you had to go home, not even returning the favor. That was the closest you got to moving on from Oscar. It just wasn’t the same.

“Oscar, I’m going to cum.” You threw your head back, a sweet cry escaping your lips as you continue to bounce on his fingers. Your hand was wrapped around the back of his neck, tugging at the strands of his hair while his tongue flicked at your nipple, sucking gently.

You came quickly, breathing heavily. His eyes meet yours and your entire face went red. You collapsed on his chest as he pulled his hand out from your pants. A huge, goofy smile across his face as he desperately licked at his fingers.

He then kissed your forehead as your breathing began to shallow. “I don’t know how I went so long without that.”

You were smiling now, shifting yourself to look up at him. Lips meeting his you kissed him softly before rolling over into the passenger seat. You looped your fingers around your work pants and pulled them all the way down, along with your undies, tossing them into the back of the car.

Oscar watched you, his expression still lustful but mixed with something else. Once you were stripped completely naked, you straddled him again. This time you reached beneath you, grabbing at the growing bulge in his pants. Oscar throws his head back, biting back a moan as soon as you release his hard, aching cock. His brows scrunched together and he was trembling beneath you.

“Is this okay?” You ask, pumping him softly. Oscar nods rapidly, desperate to fill you up. You giggle a little lifting yourself off his lap to line him up with your entrance. Slowly, you begin to sink down on him. Never breaking eye contact with Oscar as you do. He is looking up at you, practically drooling now. A small whine escapes his lips.

“God, I am already so close.” His eyes roll back. He was so hot, you were on the verge of coming again yourself.

After adjusting yourself, you begin to rock your hips. He gestures for you to go slow because he’s already so close. Of course, you don’t listen.

You ride him like you’d never get the chance to again. His grip on your thighs tighten as you lift and lower yourself onto him over and over. The filthy sounds filling his car.

“Y/N—I’m serious, I will cum.” He is pleading with you now, the look in his eyes practically begging. His whines were too much for you at this point.

“Good. Cum for me baby.” You kiss his cheek and place both hands on his shoulder to give yourself that extra bit to push down on him even harder, swallowing him whole.

Oscar bites back a whimper and you can feel yourself soaking him, his pants, and probably the seat beneath him.

“W-Where do you want me to—“ Oscar tries to get out, his breathing was ragged now.

“In me, fuck—in me, Oscar.” You scream, so close yourself.

And he does, with a groan Oscar shoots ropes inside you. His face falling to your chest as you ride out your own high. Using him like a toy, he’s sensitive and you grip him even tighter. He pulls you into a tight hug until you cum and you collapse on his chest.

You both sit there for a moment, unmoving and wrapped up in each other. He kisses your shoulder gently and runs a hand through your hair. You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his, breaths mingling, chest rising and falling in sync. The warmth of his hands on your back, the lingering pressure of his lips on yours, the quiet intensity in his gaze—it all presses into you, leaving no room for doubt about what’s real.

“So…” he murmurs, voice low, rough with emotion, a tinge of hope lacing every word. “Does this mean we’re back together?” You meet his eyes, heart hammering in your chest, and for the first time in months, maybe years, you feel the tension between you release—like a dam finally breaking. A small, soft smile tugs at your lips as you tuck your hand into his, fingers interlacing.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling slightly but sure. “I think so.”

He grins, a mixture of relief, disbelief, and something uncontainable shining in his eyes. He pulls you in for one last lingering kiss, gentle and affirming, sealing the moment, before letting you rest against him, both of you breathing in the quiet aftermath, hearts still racing.

For once, everything feels aligned—the past, the present, and now, the promise of what’s to come. And as you sit there together, pressed close, it’s clear: You’re both finally exactly where you’re supposed to be.

#formula 1 #formula one #bryannawrites #smut #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #formula 1 fanfic #ex boyfriend

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piastriprincess · 2 days ago

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someone to hold me down ² ⸻ lando norris x reader .

read part one here !

featuring lando norris , love island au , strangers to friends to lovers , slow burn word count 20.3k (part two) author’s note sorry i'm late ... do you guys still love me be honest 🥺👉👈 don't blame me !! i wanted it to be perfect for yall !! i'm so endlessly grateful for all the love on this silly silly fic . i truly wrote this one for me , and the reception is completely unexpected and totally incredible so i want to thank you all so much for your patience and for coming along for the ride . you make me so so happy to be able to share my writing with you all <3 and on god lando norris will be getting at least one win this weekend (his girl!!!!) as always let me know what you think !! title is from came here for love by sigala ! playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !

“Stop looking.”

“I’m not,” you lie, pushing your sunglasses up your nose as you watch Carlos trace circles on Emma’s bare arm by the pool.

“Oh, so your jaw’s just doing that clenchy thing all on its own?” Lando raises his eyebrows at you. “Might need Camilla to check you for TMJ, then.”

You force yourself to relax your face, turning over on the daybed to face him. “See? Perfectly chill. No medical intervention needed.”

“Right, because chill people definitely need to announce how chill they are,” he snorts, but his smile is soft, understanding. It’s the same smile you’ve been giving each other for the past week as you’ve leaned on each other to heal the pieces of your broken hearts. “Want me to go spill my smoothie on him?”

“Tempting,” you sigh. “But Emma borrowed Nicole’s bikini, and it doesn’t deserve to get caught in the crossfire.” You pretend to adjust your top casually, stealing another glance across the pool. Carlos is massaging her shoulders now. You let your jaw tick, just once. “Besides, we’re above petty revenge plots.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve been perfecting my accidental shoulder-check technique all week just in case you ask.”

This is what you love about Lando — even when everything feels like it’s crumbling, he still manages to make you laugh. The two of you chose each other again at last night’s recoupling, both too emotionally bruised to put yourselves out there with anyone new just yet. Plus, it’s been easy being coupled up: no expectations, no pressure, just the two of you. Helping each other until your real perfect match hopefully walks through the doors.

Georgia’s laugh rings out from the kitchen, bright and performative as Jack whispers something in her ear, and Lando tenses. Just slightly; probably no one else would notice it. But spending practically every second of the last week with your best friend means you can read him better than most.

“That’s it,” you say, hauling yourself up and grabbing his hand. “Emergency best friend intervention. We’re going to the gym to bother Oscar and Lily because we’re too cool to care about our exes.”

“Are we too cool to care?” he questions, but he lets you pull him to his feet.

“Nah,” you say, grinning. “But we’re pretty good at pretending.”

When you get to the gym, Oscar drops down from the pull-up bar, immediately engaging Lando in the complicated handshake they’d spent the entire afternoon yesterday creating.

“Your afternoon entertainment has arrived,” you say dryly, sitting on one of the benches with Lily as you watch the two of them. “AKA, we’re avoiding Carlos and Georgia.”

She scoots over, making room for you. “Understandable. How are you two doing today?”

“Better than expected,” Lando says cheerfully, snapping Oscar’s towel at his thigh. “Got my girl here, got you guys. Trying not to pay attention to the rest.”

“Shocking,” Oscar deadpans, snark made slightly less effective by the fact that he has to jump away from the towel. “Who could have predicted that surrounding yourself with decent people would make your experience better than… whatever that mess was.”

“Hey, we learned from our mistakes,” you protest, smiling. “Even if we were kind of forced to.”

“Sometimes people need a push to realize what’s right in front of them,” Lily says, and there’s something pointed in it you can’t quite figure out.

“I’m just happy I don’t have to pretend to like Carlos anymore,” Oscar says matter-of-factly as he picks up a pair of free weights, sitting on the bench opposite you.

“You didn’t like him?” you ask, surprised.

He shrugs, starting his reps. “He wasn’t good enough for you.” A rush of warmth swells in your chest at the brusque sincerity of his voice.

“Agreed,” Lando says quickly, poking at Oscar’s shoulder to mess with his form.

Oscar pauses mid-bicep curl, swatting at the other boy. “Oi. Can you not?”

“Aw, but it’s so fun to wind you up, Osc,” Lando grins unrepentantly, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

Oscar raises an eyebrow like he can’t believe you find his antics amusing. “Christ, you two really are made for each other,” he mutters, and Lando kicks viciously at his shin under the bench, cheeks pink.

You glance at Lily, and she shrugs a little too innocently. Before you can demand an explanation for why everyone’s acting like they’re in on a joke you know nothing about, George’s voice booms across the lawn.

“I got a text!” he bellows, and your heart sinks. You should have known there’d be a challenge coming; the recoupling was too chill. The audience could have seen George and Gemma getting back together from a mile away, and even though Max and Charles switched between Chloe and Camilla, they’d only been together a little over a week, so there was barely any drama to it. If the best footage they got was you and Lando’s extended post-recoupling bit about the four of them being swingers, they’ll definitely need some more content to spice things up.

George unfolds all six-foot-one of himself, towering over the beanbags as he reads. “Islanders, it’s time to find out how well you really know each other in today’s challenge, Knowing Me Knowing You. Answer questions about your partner to win points, and the couple with the most points will win a special prize. Hashtag couple goals, hashtag brains over bants.”

“I think we’ve got a proper shot at this,” Lando says, ever-competitive, slinging his arm around your shoulders as you walk to the firepit. “There’s Osc and Lily, but other than that everyone’s only been in a couple for, like, three days. We know each other.”

“Anything’s possible,” you say neutrally. But he’s right — you do know Lando. You know so much about his family and his close friends they practically feel like yours, know he hums when he’s happy and rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous. You know he likes to fall asleep listening to Bob Dylan and that he tells people his favorite movie is Fight Club, but it’s actually How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. You know the way his eyes twinkle when he’s being sarcastic and the wrinkle that pops up on his forehead when he’s concentrating. You could teach a class in Lando Norris at this point, if you wouldn’t be the only one interested in taking it.

“We’ve got this, cariño,” Carlos says, and your head snaps up on instinct. He’s ostensibly talking to Emma, but he’s looking straight at you with a smug smirk on his face, like even after he got everything he wanted, he can’t resist twisting the knife a little further. You know he intends it to be vicious, but if you’re being honest, it actually feels sort of pathetic.

Lando squeezes your shoulder tight, and when you look at him you can see the muscle in his jaw working, like he’s angry again on your behalf. But you just smile, grabbing two of the heart-shaped chalkboards from the pile on the firepit and handing one to him. “Bring it on,” you say, tapping your board against his, and he beams.

George and Gemma play emcees for the afternoon, standing on the other side of the firepit with a stack of question cards. They explain the format, which seems simple enough: they ask a question about one of you, and you both answer it. If you match, you get a point. George taps the cards against his hands like he’s trying to even a stack of papers, and you think absentmindedly that he was kind of born to be a game show host.

“Right,” Gemma says, squinting as she reads off the card. “First question is for the boys. What is your partner’s biggest green flag in a relationship?”

You tap the chalk against your board, thinking, but Lando’s already scribbling as if he knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Someone who remembers the little things, you write finally, immediately wondering if it’s too complicated to get.

“Alright, let’s see those answers,” George says plummily. One by one, the couples reveal their boards. Oscar and Lily go word-for-word perfect; Georgia and Jack are laughably off; Molly and Yuki match with nice butt and air high-five across the firepit.

You’re last, and you find yourself holding your breath as Lando turns his board around. “I said attention to detail-slash-the little things,” he reads off his board. When you turn yours around to show the same answer, the grin he gives you is blinding. We got this, he mouths exaggeratedly, pointing between the two of you. You roll your eyes in return, but you’re smiling back.

The game rolls on, some couples doing better than others. By the third round, Emma’s rolling her eyes so hard at Carlos’ wrong answers you think they might stick that way. You try not to take too much pleasure in watching them crash and burn. Georgia and Jack don’t fare much better, although they actually seem to have had at least one conversation; Jack just keeps overthinking his answers, his chalkboard a mess of smudged white marks every time he flips it around. Charles and Camilla do fine, while Max and Chloe scrape through with a few lucky matches. You catch Lando’s eye, and when he grins back at you mischievously, you know he’s wondering whether they would have done better with their original partners too.

Franco and Nicole and Molly and Yuki do surprisingly well, holding their own, and George and Gemma sail through along with them. But the challenge really comes down to Oscar and Lily against you and Lando.

Question after question, you’re in perfect sync. When the girls have to guess their boy’s favorite place, you match Lando’s answer of mum and dad’s for sunday roast perfectly. On the next question, he nails what you think your worst personality trait is (laughing at inappropriate moments, which is immediately proven when Carlos and Emma miss their fifth straight answer and you burst into giggles).

“Last question,” George says, and you can tell he loves stretching out the moment of suspense. “What is your boy’s biggest fear?”

You don’t know how you know the answer — a gut feeling, maybe, or just the instinctual way you understand him. But you know it as soon as you hear the question. You scribble your answer hurriedly, looking up for a moment to watch Lando write, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth.

When it’s time to hear your answers, Oscar says letting people down while Lily writes hornets (which was a good guess, to be fair; he’s told you the story of his harrowing escape from the wasps in his bathroom at least twice in the past month.) But they miss all the same, and that means it all comes down to this answer, to you and Lando.

“I said never being taken seriously,” you say, flipping your board.

Lando blinks, staring at the board and then you like you’ve peeled back a layer of his skin. Suddenly, your body floods with panic that it’s too much, too raw and real of an answer for a stupid villa challenge.

He turns his board around, and you read the messy scrawl: not being taken seriously by the people i care about.

“And with that… perfect score! You and Lando are our winners,” Gemma grins.

“Get in,” Lando cheers, smile megawatt-bright as he tosses his chalkboard into the air. Before you can really process it, he darts across the deck, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground. He spins you in a circle, and for a moment you’re weightless, forgetting everything except how lovely it feels to really and truly know someone and be known in return.

“Oi, put me down, you maniac,” you giggle, breathless, and he obliges, setting you down on the deck. His hands rest warm on your waist, and when you look up at him the light catches in his eyes, that same indescribable color you’ve been studying for weeks.

They’re everything, you think suddenly. The ocean, the grass, the entire sky.

Your laughter dies in your throat. In your chest, something clicks into place.

Oh. Oh no. This cannot be happening. You cannot be feeling what you just unmistakably felt for your best friend.

“Mate, your phone’s buzzing,” Oscar points out, clearing his throat, and you don’t know how long you just stared into Lando’s eyes. It could have been seconds, and just as easily could have been years.

Lando blinks hard, stepping back from you just slightly as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Congrats,” he reads, voice rough. “As the winners of today’s challenge, you’ll be spending the night in the Hideaway.”

That’s when you know production wasn’t expecting you two to sweep the way you did. They’re sending you to the Hideaway. As in, the only separate bedroom in the villa, where established couples get to go once they’ve proven their commitment to each other, or whatever bullshit you remember them saying so that they could finally spend a night alone. The Hideaway is where things happen. And you’re headed there, in a platonic couple with the guy you’ve just realized you do not have platonic feelings for.

You feel your cheeks flame as everyone cheers. Lando grins, playing into it as he grabs your hand. “Right, see you all tomorrow morning then,” he jokes, like he can pull you across the lawn and through the picket-fence gate right now. You force a laugh, hoping it sounds lighter than the thundering heartbeat in your chest.

“Not so fast,” Gemma says, looping her arm through yours, and you glance over at her unsurely. “We’ve got to get our girl ready.”

You’re not sure you even want to know what she means.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter into your hands an hour later. You’ve been sitting in the bedroom having the same argument for nearly the entire time, and you’re starting to feel like you’re losing ground. “We’re not even a proper couple.”

“Sorry, hun, but they’re not budging on this,” the producer shrugs. “Love Island tradition. You go to the Hideaway, you wear something nice.”

“As in nice pajamas?” you ask hopefully, and the stare she gives you in return is withering.

Lily and Gemma are sitting by your feet, already rifling through your suitcase. “Oh, your friends from home prepped you well. This one is perfect,” Gemma says, holding up a pink satin bustier you didn’t even know you owned.

You shake your head. “Absolutely not. I can’t show up in that.” You look pleadingly at the producer. “We’re friends.”

“C’mon,” Lily coaxes, pulling out a lacy black bodysuit. “What about this? It’s classy.”

“It’s see-through!”

“Only a little bit,” Gemma adds, entirely unhelpfully.

The producer checks her phone. “Look, everyone is waiting downstairs. You need to be ready to go in fifteen minutes. Try to get her in something that isn’t so… sleepover with your nan,” she says imperiously to Gemma and Lily, promptly bustling out of the room.

You immediately flop back onto the bed, pressing your forearm over your eyes. “Is it possible to die from lingerie-inflicted mortification?”

“Probably not, but we’re about to find out if someone can die from stubbornness,” Gemma singsongs cheerfully. “Just try something on, at least? If you hate it, you’ve got about… five hundred more options in here.” She looks up, slightly stunned. “Your friends actually might have gone a bit overboard. DId they even pack you anything else?”

“These are all too much,” you groan, sitting up and letting your fingers slide over the soft fabrics. “It’s already going to be awkward enough.”

Lily raises an eyebrow. “You and Lando are practically attached at the hip in here. Since when is hanging out with him awkward?”

Since about an hour ago when I realized I might be falling for him, Lily, you think and think and think and do not say.

“Is it because it’s the Hideaway?” Gemma asks sympathetically. “I mean, he knows they’re making you dress like this. Lando’s a good guy. I’m sure he’s not, like, expecting anything because of it.”

“Everyone else is,” you mumble, fidgeting with the edge of a silky orange babydoll set that’s more sophisticated than overtly sexy.

“So? You know the truth of your relationship,” Lily says, and you are way too overwhelmed to parse the careful implication of her tone. “That’s what matters.”

“He’s your best mate,” Gemma adds. “He’s not going to care what you’re wearing.”

That’s the problem. You want him to care. You want him to look at you and feel the air shift around him, knocking him breathless. You want this to matter to him the way you’re realizing it matters to you.

You sigh, holding up the babydoll. “This one’s okay,” you say tentatively, and Lily claps like you’ve just told her you’re giving her a million dollars and Oscar on a silver platter.

You let the two of them apply your makeup, tame your frizz, and for a moment it feels like home, like going out with your girls on a Friday night. The ritual is soothing, even if it’s the furthest thing from real life. Exactly fifteen minutes later, you’re ready to go, and if you have to do this, at least you know you look good. The babydoll floats around your hips, and Gemma worked magic with your hair, wrangling it into voluminous, tousled curls that tumble around your face.

“You look incredible,” Lily squeals, bouncing on her tiptoes as she looks at you in the mirror.

Gemma nods approvingly, fluffing your curls and admiring her handiwork. “Lando’s not going to know what hit him.”

“Friends, Gem,” you remind her halfheartedly as you walk to the door. When you peek through the crack, you can see everyone gathered at the bottom of the steps, and your heart begins to hammer against your ribcage.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Gemma says idly, noticing the anxiety you’re sure is written all over your face. For a moment, you’re worried she’s going to try to calm you, but she grins wickedly instead; you should’ve known she’s not the sentimental type. “Although hopefully tonight you won’t be sleeping much.”

“To be clear,” you reply dryly, “on your first night back in the same bed with George, you’re hoping that I get some?”

“What can I say?” she shrugs. “A win for you is a win for me.”

You exhale, half laugh, half steadying breath. “Jesus. Okay. Let’s go before I lose my nerve, yeah?”

You walk down the stairs on wobbly legs, and the cheer that goes up from the group is deafening. Franco is whistling with his fingers in his mouth like he’s trying to hail a taxi. Carlos’ jaw is tight, but fuck it. You’re not here for him. There is exactly one person you want to see at the bottom of that staircase, and he’s already looking at you.

When your eyes find Lando, he’s shirtless. You really should be used to it at this point, inoculated against it from sleeping in a bed with him every night, but it’s genuinely distressing how fit he is — the long lines of his torso, waistband of his boxers slung low over the sharp cut of his hips. His ears are pink, and you watch his eyes drop from your face to your bare legs and sweep back up again.

“What, nothing to say?” you ask when you get to the bottom of the stairs. Banter you can do. Banter is safe. Safer than the way he’s looking at you, gaze making you unsteady on your feet.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales shakily, like he can’t keep the words in, and your blood positively shimmers in your veins.

“You look nice, too,” you say, only a little breathless, and he slings his arm around your waist, squeezing your hip reassuringly. His hand stays there through the goodbyes, through your walk across the lawn to the picket-fenced house; it’s warm through the thin fabric of the babydoll, and you really need to stop noticing how big it is if you want to keep the small shred of sanity you have left.

As soon as you walk through the gate, the noise of the main villa disappearing behind you, you know the Hideaway is going to be exactly as ridiculous as you feared it would be. There’s a goddamn heart-shaped hot tub tucked into the garden outside, as if anyone in their right mind would want to sit in boiling water when it’s already hot enough outside to fry an egg on the pool deck. When Lando pushes the door to the main room open, the first thing you see as you duck under his arm is the massive bed, scattered with rose petals. Then the champagne, sweating in an ice bucket that matches your water bottles, two sleek crystal flutes and a plate of melted chocolate strawberries sitting beside it. Then the candles, flickering low around the room. It’s like they designed the entire thing specifically to make two people fall in love in the cheesiest way possible, which is wildly inconvenient considering you’ve just realized you’re already halfway there.

The two of you hover just inside the threshold like you’re both afraid to take a step. For the first time since you’ve been coupled up, silence actually feels awkward; usually, you can talk about anything, make each other laugh without even trying, but the weight of what this room is supposed to mean seems to be dragging the conversation down.

Finally, Lando clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. At least they didn’t cheap out on us.”

“Right,” you snort, dropping onto the edge of the bed like you’re testing it. “Because nothing says luxury like room-temperature Prosecco and fake rose petals.”

He presses a hand to his heart teasingly, joining you on the bed, and the tension loosens just slightly in your chest. “I always knew you were a romantic.”

The mattress is massive enough to comfortably fit at least three more people on it, but somehow he ends up close enough to you that your knees bump against each other. “At least the bed’s comfy. And we don’t have to listen to Max snore tonight,” you say. “I might just go to sleep and leave you to the champagne and strawberries.”

“Not a chance,” he replies tartly, stretching catlike to reach the bottle behind him, and your mouth goes dry at the way his muscles twitch under his skin. “We’re making the most of this. When else will we get to have more than one watered-down drink a night in here?”

He wrestles the cork free, and it pops with a bang that makes him yelp and you double over with laughter when he looks at you with a sheepish grin. Champagne spills pale-gold over his fingers, curled around the neck of the bottle, and your brain goes blank at the image for just a moment until he hisses, swinging the bottle away from the duvet because he knows you hate sleeping in a messy bed. “Shit, get the glasses —”

You’re already reaching, holding a flute against his hand to catch the runoff. Once the drink calms, he pours two messy drinks, more foam than anything else.

“Cheers. To absolutely smashing everyone today because we’re just that good,” you say, raising your glass once you’ve finished properly roasting him for his atrocious technique and refilling both flutes.

His eyes are warm as he tips his glass against yours. “To knowing each other better than anyone else.”

The bubbles burn down your throat, fizzing somewhere just under your skin. It doesn’t take long before you abandon the flutes entirely, easy banter progressively returning as you pass the bottle between you. You’re usually not much of a drinker, but the liquor makes it easier, somehow — more possible to pretend there’s a universe where this could be real, where Lando could see you as something more than the best friend you know you are to him.

“I still can’t believe we won,” you giggle later, tipsy as you slug from the bottle and pass it back to him, settling clumsily against the mountainous pile of heart-shaped pillows. “I mean, did you see Carlos’ face?”

The candlelight flickers against Lando’s expression as he takes it from you, swigging and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You still thinking about him?”

You shake your head, surprised to realize the answer’s no. “Not the way I used to, at least,” you say, trying to think when the warm brown eyes in your dreams got replaced with blue-green. The answer, much earlier than you thought, makes you slightly nauseous.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says as he flops next to you, loose-limbed, and props the bottle between the two of you. “What did you ever see in him?”

The question unbalances you, champagne making your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. “Jesus. Straight to the point, Lan. Where did that come from?”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Thinkin’ about what Osc said earlier. He was right, you know. I watched the two of you for weeks and I kept thinking — he doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were still friends with him,” you say softly.

He props himself up on his elbows. “Yes, I would,” he insists, voice stubborn even as his words blur at the edges. “You dimmed yourself down for him. Held back jokes, pretended you weren’t as brilliant as you are. It was like… I dunno, like you were fitting yourself into a box of who he wanted you to be, not who you actually are.”

You curl your knees into your chest; your turn, now, to feel like you’re being flayed open by how easily Lando sees you. Your voice is small when you finally respond. “Maybe that’s how people like me best.”

“Not me,” he says fiercely, cheeks flushed hot, probably from the alcohol. “I hated watching it. You shouldn’t —” he breaks off, running a hand through his curls. “You’re not meant to make yourself smaller. You deserve someone who wants all of you.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. The champagne makes everything feel golden around the edges, bathed in a soft, glowing light. It’s blinding you; you can’t quite tell if the way he’s looking at you, wide-eyed and painfully earnest, is real or just wishful thinking.

“So do you,” you whisper, so close now that you can see the tiny scar on the bridge of his nose: a miniscule slice of white against tan skin, imperfection that only makes him annoyingly more beautiful. His stupidly long lashes flutter, head tipping towards yours, and for a second, you think his eyes drop to your lips.

You could do it: lean forward and kiss him right now. It wouldn’t even be a movement, really. More like gravity, like some unstoppable force beyond yourself. You can almost swear Lando’s leaning in too, just slightly, breath catching —

Then he blinks, swallows hard, and reaches for the bottle between you instead. “We really did drink the whole thing, didn’t we?” he says, voice too light, carefully casual as he places it on the nightstand. “Should get some rest, or it’s gonna be rough tomorrow.”

It’s sobering; the moment dissolves like champagne bubbles over your tongue, leaving no trace it was even there at all if it weren’t for the way your lips are still tingling with a phantom kind of ache. You yank the duvet over your bare legs, suddenly cold.

“Right, yeah, bed,” you stutter out, cheeks burning as you roll onto your side, practically on the edge. Ridiculous, you are. Reading too far into a look, a couple of friendly, half-drunk compliments. You should know better. You have to know better, or you’ll lose him for good.

He climbs in on the other side, and for a moment you’re sure he’s going to stay where he is, space stretching like an ocean between you on this far-too-big bed. But then the mattress dips, and an arm slides carefully around your waist, the same way he holds you every night.

“Night,” he mumbles into your hair, lips brushing unmistakably against your temple as he pulls your body tight to his.

“Night,” you whisper back and don’t go to sleep, face buried into the pillow praying he can’t feel how fast your heart is beating. It doesn’t mean anything, the familiar warm press of his chest against your spine, the curl of his arm around your waist. You’re tired and tipsy and you misread things. You didn’t even want to kiss Lando; it was a trick of the Hideaway, making your feelings more overwhelming than they will be tomorrow.

By the time you let your eyes close, you’ve almost told yourself enough lies to convince yourself you imagined the whole thing.

Almost.

It’s been a week since the Hideaway, and you think you might genuinely be going insane.

For someone who’s made a living off reading people’s wants and needs, you’re finding that you’re woefully unprepared to understand your own desires. You’ve spent the past seven days in a perpetual state of unraveling, caught between wanting to act like nothing has changed and wanting to grab Lando by his annoyingly perfect face, demanding to know whether what you thought you felt was real. If anything, you’ve settled for overcorrecting — going louder, sillier, like nothing happened between the two of you even as you lie awake every night staring at the ceiling cataloguing the smiles he gives you. You don’t sleep much, which isn’t ideal considering it’s absolutely exhausting to spend every second of every day pretending you’re not head over heels for your best friend.

The recouplings are happening with increasing speed now; you can’t tell if it’s just how the show works as summer stretches on, or if the producers are trying to hack the system, to force you and Lando out of the friendship couple you keep wishing was more. Last night, Franco shocked everyone by picking Georgia at the firepit, sending Nicole and Jack packing in what felt like the first truly unexpected dumping of the season. You cried, of course, even if Nicole could be prickly sometimes. For the past month and a half, you’d been family; home smelled like her designer perfume in the morning, the one that always made Oscar sneeze when she sprayed it. You honestly didn’t realize how much you would miss them both.

It only makes sense, then, that tonight is the first public vote. The news earlier that the audience had been choosing their favorite couples sent the villa into a tizzy; finally, after weeks, you get to hear what the country really thinks of you.

“I feel absolutely vomitrocious, babes,” Gemma says in typical dramatic fashion as you all get ready, applying her mascara with shaking hands. “What if Georgie and I are in the bottom?”

“You won’t be, Gem. You two are funny, they’ll like that,” you reply soothingly, trying to ignore the pit in your stomach. You had no idea where you and Lando stood with the public. How could you even begin to guess how best friends where one is hopelessly in love with the other would read to the entirety of the UK?

Lily paces around the glam room, hands fiddling with the hem of her dress. “What if they hate me and Osc?”

Georgia raises an eyebrow from the other side of the room, arms folded across her chest in a state of preternatural calm; as the newest couple, she and Franco have immunity from getting dumped. If you were a less charitable person, you’d wonder if she knew the vote was coming, somehow. “Oh, be fucking for real, Lils,” she says evenly, gaze flicking over to you. “Some people have got real problems.”

You all file out to stand in front of the firepit together, and you try not to think about how every time you do it, it feels more and more like you’re lining up for an execution. Lando slips his hand into yours as soon as you settle next to him, squeezing it tightly, and you let yourself cling to the small comfort even as Georgia’s words pulse grimly in the back of your mind. Some people have got real problems. No one wants to watch someone pine after their best friend all summer.

It’s quick, efficient, bloodless: the production team’s cameras go up, and the host steps in, clearly meaning business in near-blinding glam that even in your nicest dress makes you feel like the last girl left on the bleachers at a school dance.

“In no particular order, our top four couples,” she says, and you brace yourself for impact.

Lily and Oscar, receiving the news with gracious, relieved smiles. Gemma and George, who hug each other as tightly as they can, nearly toppling over in a futile attempt to not let go. Molly and Yuki, who look at each other with a pleased sort of surprise on their faces as they sit. You and Lando.

You and Lando.

“Holy shit,” you breathe as Lando immediately sweeps you into a hug, fingers burying into your hair as he crushes you against him.

You can feel the shaky laugh in his chest before you hear it, low and warm in your ear. “Didn’t think we had a chance,” he whispers, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Me neither.” You don’t pull back, don’t even try; you’ll take the feeling of him as long as you can get it.

There’s a pause, then, and when he speaks again it’s almost wistful. “Guess they’re seeing something we’re not.”

The two of you make your way to the couches, numb, Lando’s hand still intertwined with yours like a lifeline. “Not so fast. The night isn’t over yet,” the host says, smiling toothy, almost sharklike. “As the top four couples, you have to decide which of the bottom three couples you’d like to dump from the island.”

You stare at the pairs left on the other side of the firepit — Charles and Camilla, Max and Chloe, Carlos and Emma — and the floor falls out from under you.

“This is fucking awful,” Oscar mutters as the eight of you close rank to deliberate, rubbing a hand over his face. “How are we meant to choose?”

“It can’t be Charles and Camilla,” George replies. “I mean, I’m biased, I know, he’s my best mate in here, but they’re a strong couple. Have been since they got together.”

“If I’m being honest, I love Max, and I came in with him and all, but… he and Chloe aren’t exactly setting the villa on fire,” Molly says, picking at her cuticles nervously.

“Harsh,” Yuki grins, and inexplicably, you think he might be kind of loving this. “But true.”

“We could do Carlos and Emma,” Lando says, voice low. “It’d make things easier.”

There’s a suspiciously absent postscript, you think. A missing for you that should be tacked onto the end of his sentence. After all this time, he still wants to shield you from having to watch Carlos with someone else, as if you’ve thought about anyone not named Lando Norris for weeks.

“No,” you say, and seven heads swivel towards you. “Not them.”

Lily touches your hand gently. “No one would blame you. Not after everything he put you through.”

You shake your head. “Look at him.” You jut your chin towards Carlos, who has his arm wrapped protectively around Emma’s shoulders, speaking low and soft into her ear as she takes deep breaths. Two weeks ago, the sight would have splintered you, but now the ache feels distant, like it happened to a character in a novel you’re reading. “He’s moved on, and so have I. I don’t want to punish him for finding someone. Not when it doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

Saying it feels like setting down a weight you’ve been carrying since Casa Amor. Lando goes very still beside you, looking at you with something unreadable in his eyes, and you try in vain to tamp down the all-too-familiar flutter in your chest.

Gemma clears her throat. “Max and Chloe, then?”

Everyone nods, subdued, the decision landing weighty and final in the middle of your little circle. When Oscar speaks the words, Charles and Camilla fall into each other, and Emma jumps into Carlos’ arms, sobbing her thanks over and over. He holds her gently, catching your eye over her shoulder with a strange cocktail of gratitude and shame warring in his expression.

You give him a small nod of acknowledgement, and it doesn’t sting as much as you thought it might. For the first time in the villa, Carlos’ happiness doesn’t cost you a thing.

Lando finds you in the bathroom later, after you’ve all said your goodbyes and shed your tears over Max and Chloe’s departure. You’re brushing your teeth, scrolling through photos you’d taken earlier of Oscar and Lily posing in front of the sunset.

“That was really kind of you,” he says as he walks in, no preamble. “With Carlos. I don’t think I could have done it.”

You spit, catching his eye in the mirror. “It wasn’t about him, really,” you reply, voice soft. “I did it for me. To prove to myself I’m not stuck in all that hurt anymore.”

His shoulders relax as he watches you wash your toothbrush in the sink. “Proud of you,” he says simply, and it does something stupid to your heart.

“Proud of us,” you say, trying to make it sound light. “Top four. Not bad for a friendship couple.” The words feel like gravel in your throat.

His smile falters just slightly. “Right. Best friends. Come to bed when you’re ready? Think I need a cuddle after tonight.”

You trail into the bedroom not long after him, and he’s already waiting — duvet flung back, arm outstretched just for you. When you slip under the covers, you immediately melt into his side, and he tucks his face into your hair, breathing you in like he’s trying to center himself.

“Better,” he murmurs, half-asleep and so sweet that you wish you could bottle it.

You let yourself sink into the safety of his hold, the feel of his arms heavy and anchoring around your waist, and tell yourself you’re okay with just this. That you can keep pretending, at least for one more day, that this is enough.

When you wake up, it’s to Lando’s arms still around you and a telltale, heart-stopping ding!

He groans, stirring behind you. “Yours or mine?” he mumbles blearily, and you pointedly ignore the way your heart kicks at the sound of his sleepy voice.

Wriggling out of his grip, you sit up, glancing at the nightstand where your phone glows in the darkness. You unlock it, flipping over to face him and squinting against the bright glare.

“Alex is waiting outside the villa to take you on a date. Hashtag double trouble, hashtag summer of love,” you whisper, hands trembling.

Lando sits bolt upright. “New bombshell?”

“Guess so,” you say, trying not to let panic creep into your voice. “What do you think they mean, double trouble? Is he, like, a twin or something?”

Like clockwork, Lando’s phone buzzes on his nightstand, and with a sinking feeling you realize exactly what the producers meant with their stupid, unclever little hashtag.

“Olivia is waiting outside the villa to take you on a date,” he reads, eyes scanning the screen and voice carefully light, like this is just another delightful twist in your summers. “Hashtag double trouble. Hashtag summer of love.”

You laugh, and it comes out all wrong, high-pitched and raw around the edges. “Well. Makes sense, doesn’t it? We’re the only friendship couple, and if we made it to the top four like that, we must be fan favorites.” You hug your knees to your chest like they can protect you from this latest emotional blow, the fact that you are literally going to have to sit there and watch some other girl sweep him off his feet. “They’re trying to give us the fairytale ending.”

Lando flops back onto his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “Right,” he says dully. “Exactly what everyone wants.”

The quiet stretches between you two for a moment, heavy with everything you can’t say. You’re grateful, at least, for the darkness of the bedroom; there’s a small kindness in the fact that you don’t have to look at Lando right now, don’t have to hold yourself back from admitting that you wish you were going on a date with him instead the second you see his face.

“Well,” you say into the silence, artificially chipper, “better get ready, then. Don’t want to keep our perfect matches waiting.”

He’s the one to get up first, and you watch him get ready like watching a car crash, unable to tear your eyes away even as you try not to look. He’s rifling through the hangers in his wardrobe, curls still messy from sleep, t-shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of skin at his waist as he reaches for something tucked deep into the closet. Your mouth goes traitorously dry at the sight.

“What do you think?” he whispers, holding up the white knit button-up that stands out against his tan and makes his shoulders look unfairly broad.

You think Olivia, whoever she is, will be lucky if she doesn’t melt into a puddle on the front lawn from the sheer force of his hotness.

“Yeah, looks nice,” you manage instead, as casually as you can. “I like that shirt.”

He flushes crimson, turning back to his closet to look for shorts, and you can feel your stomach churn. Every careful choice feels like evidence he’s excited for the date, excited for someone who’s exactly what he’s looking for. Excited to leave you behind.

You flip through your clothes with unnecessary intensity, fingers closing around a dress and pulling it out without looking. You go to the bathroom to change, and it’s halfway over your head before you realize it’s the soft blue one Lando complimented weeks ago, hyping you up before the first full evening you’d had to share with Carlos and Emma.

You shake the thought off, pulling the door open, and Lando gapes, eyes sweeping over you quick and almost desperate. “You’re wearing that?”

“What’s wrong with it?” you say, tugging at the hem self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, buttoning his shirt with shaking fingers. “Nothing, you look —” he cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Alex will love it.”

Right. Alex. Because God forbid you forget who all your effort this morning is supposedly for.

“We should go,” you say, and it sounds hollow. “Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

When you emerge from the villa doors for the first time in five weeks, Lando’s beside you, arm around your shoulders, and for a moment you think you could pretend this is a date just for you. Until you see the two tiny wrought-iron breakfast tables sitting cruelly close together on the front lawn, one bombshell for each of you sitting like prettily wrapped presents behind them.

The guy — Alex, you remind yourself internally — breaks into a smile, standing up to greet you. He’s tall, almost gangly, with a warm smile and a boy-next-door type of charm. “Lovely to meet you,” he says as he extends his hand to you for a handshake; you can tell he really means it, which makes you feel about a hundred times worse that all you can do is compare him in your head to the boy standing by your side.

Lando practically hip-checks you out of the way to get to Alex first, shaking his hand with a grip that makes the taller boy wince. “Nice to meet you, mate,” he says, voice pitched deeper than normal, and you hate the way it’s definitely for the bombshells’ benefit. He launches into a rambling introduction that gives you time to turn to the unfortunately unbelievably stunning girl next to you. She’s all caramel skin, whiplash curves, doe eyes, a Splenda-sweet smile on perfectly glossed lips.

“You must be Olivia,” you say, hoping your smile doesn’t look as fake as it feels.

“Oh, please, call me Liv. It’s so nice to meet you, babe,” she gushes, wrapping you into a hug that you have no time to refuse. “Honestly, I’m really glad Alex chose you so I got to meet you first. I’ve been absolutely addicted to the series this year — I watch at the animal shelter I volunteer for on the weekends, and every time I saw you on TV I just thought we would be such good friends.”

So she’s sunshine in human form. Mother Teresa in a bikini. You hate her immediately.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Alex says, tapping your shoulder and gesturing towards the tables with a crooked smile, “but should we…?”

“Oh, definitely,” Olivia says, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Lando’s arm and pulling him towards her table. He turns for just a second, catching your eye the way he does when he has something he wants to tell you. But then he shakes his head, turning back to Olivia, and you let Alex lead you away.

You try to pay attention as he pours you a cup of orange juice, you really do, letting the get-to-know-you chat filter through the lovesick haze in your mind. Alex is a vet from Suffolk who has about a hundred pets. Alex is the oldest of five siblings, three sisters and one brother. Alex likes Wes Anderson movies and cooks Thai curry on the weekends. Alex laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny.

Alex is not, by any stretch of the imagination, only good enough to be second best in your heart.

But no matter how hard you try, your focus keeps drifting to the table across the lawn. Alex is telling you a story about the time he had to perform an emergency appendectomy on someone’s pet porcupine, and you’re nodding and making the appropriate reaction sounds at the appropriate times, but all you can think about is whether Lando is enjoying the date, whether the split second he looked at you like he had something important to say was real or your mind playing tricks on you again.

You steal a glance over at the other table, where Lando is staring determinedly at Olivia and definitely not at you. She’s telling some story, probably about how she singlehandedly saved a family of four from a burning building without messing up her eyeliner or something; he’s nodding along, but you know him too well not to notice the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s performing what he thinks a good first date should look like.

Still, when she reaches across the table to touch his hand, he doesn’t pull away, and your heart twists helplessly in your chest.

“What do you think?” Alex says, and something in his voice makes you snap back to attention. “Good enough for him?”

Your cheeks color. “What?”

He refills your glass, and his smile is easy, assured. “C’mon. I can see you looking over there. It’s your best mate, obviously you’d be protective. Two new bombshells coming in at the last minute and all.”

“Right, yeah. Gotta look out for each other,” you say, because it’s easier than explaining that every time Lando smiles at someone else you feel like you’re drowning. “Liv seems really sweet, though.”

Alex leans forward, and there’s a mischievous kind of glint in his warm brown eyes. “What about me?” he asks lowly. “‘Cause I’ll have you know, I’m coming here with the worst of intentions.”

It’s so funny coming from the nicest guy you think you’ve ever met that you have to laugh, bright and unguarded; over Alex’s shoulder, Lando’s head swivels so fast towards your table that he nearly falls off his chair. “Yeah, I clocked that from the beginning,” you say teasingly. “You’ve got a real bad boy vibe to you.”

Alex grins, clearly pleased that you’ve played along. “Okay, yeah, I don’t think I could pull that off if I tried,” he admits. “But you do seem really cool. And I’d like to get to know you better, if you don’t already think I’m completely hopeless.”

He’s so sincere it makes your chest ache. It would probably be sort of appealing, if your heart didn’t have a Lando-shaped hole down to its very center. Still, you could say yes. You should say yes.

You smile, because you don’t know what else to do. “I don’t think you’re hopeless.”

All you hear is Lando’s laugh, too loud and too sharp, from the other side of the garden.

It’s chaos when you finally step back in the villa; it always is, with new blood. The second you walk through the doors, everyone swarms. It turns out George and Alex know each other from uni, and they immediately fall into a long discussion that’s entirely incomprehensible to the other boys while Oscar sizes up Alex quietly from the kitchen. Meanwhile, Olivia gets absorbed into the group of girls with a frightening level of efficiency. Georgia’s holding court, fawning over her bikini, and Camilla peppers her with rapid-fire questions about her PhD research that she answers with a sweet smile and the patience of a saint.

“You’re back!” Lily squeals, hugging you.

Gemma’s rushing towards you next. “We were so worried when we woke up and you weren’t there!” she cries, throwing her arms around you. “But Lils figured out you must have been on a date. How was it? How is he?”

“I’ll tell you later, yeah?” you say, tilting your head subtly towards where Alex stands like you’re trying to imply something. It’s a non-answer, one that you can let them read into while you try to remember anything about the date that doesn’t relate to Lando.

Gemma’s eyes light up. “I knew it. Alex is proper fit, isn’t he? And such a nice boy,” she grins, and it makes your stomach twist rollercoaster-sickeningly. “If you end up together, you can double date with me and Georgie!”

“Relax, Gem, she only met him an hour ago,” Lily says calmly, eyes flicking between the two of you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she’s missing a piece for. “He does seem nice, though.”

“He is,” you agree, and it’s the first entirely true thing you’ve said all day.

She glances across the lawn to where Lando is introducing Olivia to Oscar. “They seem like they had a nice time too,” she says neutrally, but there’s a strange emphasis to her words, like she wants to test your reaction as she says them.

Your chest tightens. “Looked like it.”

Alex scans the lawn, and you realize too late he’s looking for you. When he spots your little trio, he lopes over, introducing himself to Gemma and Lily before his gaze turns to you again. “I want to chat to everyone, get settled in. But come find me later?” he asks, ducking his head closer to you almost shyly. Across the lawn, your eyes fall on Lando watching the two of you as he sips from his water bottle, gripping it so tightly his knuckles are going white.

Gemma pinches the back of your arm, and you know you’ve been quiet for far too long. You straighten up, dragging your eyes away from Lando with what feels like considerable effort and forcing a polite smile. “Definitely,” you blurt, even though it’s the last thing you want to say, and Alex beams at you like you’ve made his week.

In the kitchen, Lando turns away, and you feel even worse than you did before.

Morning stretches into afternoon, everyone scattering across the villa to nap or soak up the summer sun or (in your case) stare at Lando and Olivia and spiral. When Lily asks you if you want to paint your nails while Oscar makes you smoothies, you agree immediately, if only to have something else to do. But she pulls you to one of the couches on the terrace, where you have a perfect view of the two of them chatting on the beanbags while Lily files her nails and waffles between lilac and coral.

“What do you think?” she asks, and you’re only distantly aware of it.

“They’ll both look pretty on you,” you say, not looking away. Olivia is laughing at something Lando’s said, silvery and musical, sun catching in her hair like she’s starring in a L’Oreal commercial or maybe your worst nightmare.

Lily bumps your shoulder, pulling your focus. “I asked if you want me to do yours, too,” she says dryly.

Heat floods your face, caught out. “I’m sorry,” you say, flopping back against the pillows, staring up at the sky. “Just… distracted. Eventful day, I guess.”

“Obviously. I mean, they basically sent in a bombshell just for you. How is Alex?” she asks, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip, worrying it in between your teeth.

Alex is perfect. Alex is completely wrong. Alex is — well, Alex isn’t him.

“Lils,” you say softly, “I think I might be in trouble.”

She caps the nail polish, carefully pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. “What kind of trouble?”

You wince, close your eyes, take a deep breath for the first time you’re going to say the awful truth out loud. “The Lando kind.”

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” she blurts at a volume that has you nearly clapping a hand over her mouth and looking frantically over the railing to make sure no one heard. “First of all, finally, I’ve been trying to get you two together for ages, but better late than never, I guess.” She pauses for a deep breath, eyes wide. “Second of all, since when?”

You sigh, pressing your palms against your eyes. “I don’t know. The whole time, I think, a little bit? But definitely since the challenge last week.”

“Hideaway?” she asks eagerly.

You nod miserably in return. “Fucking Hideaway.”

“I knew it. You’ve been different since you got back,” she squeals. You might be imagining it, but you can swear she’s actually bouncing on the couch. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you say a little too quickly, and she raises an eyebrow. “Well, not nothing. We just talked, and…” you trail off. “It’s stupid. I thought there was, like, a moment, but clearly the champagne went to my head.”

She grabs your arm. “What do you mean, a moment?”

You close your eyes, cheeks burning. “He told me I deserved better than Carlos, and then we were so close to each other, Lils, and he was looking at me like I was — I dunno, like I was the only person in the world or something. And I thought he was going to kiss me, but then he just pulled away like nothing happened.”

“Maybe he was scared?” she questions.

“Or maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see.”

“So. You don’t see him as a friend?” she asks, unable to keep the bright, knowing smile off her face.

“‘Course I do. He’s my best friend,” you reply softly. “I just want the rest of him, too.”

“Have you thought of telling him that?”

It’s as if she’s asked you if you’ve thought of jumping off the rooftop terrace. “Are you mental?”

“No,” she says carefully. “And I’m also not blind.”

“It was always going to be temporary, this coupling up thing,” you sigh. “I’ve been lucky to be with him as long as I have. And he clearly doesn’t feel the same way, so… having him as a friend’s better than not having him at all.”

You wish it sounded more convincing even to your own ears.

Before Lily can say anything back, Oscar pops his head through the door, balancing two smoothies and various crisp bags in his hands like he’s auditioning for the next season of The Bear. “Somebody call for snacks?”

“Thank you, baby,” Lily says, face going completely soft. Ever since he’d asked her to officially be his girlfriend a few days before, she’s been reaching heretofore unseen levels of moony-eyed over him.

Serious, logical Oscar giggles — actually giggles — as he hands you both the drinks, tossing the crisp bags on the couch between the two of you. “Let me know if you need anything else, I’m just going to be down by the pool with Lando.”

“No, wait, stay,” Lily says urgently, catching his wrist. Oscar pretends to hesitate for all of half a second before sinking into the cushion beside her, tucking his arm around her like it’s second nature. When you glance over, she’s giving him a meaningful look, some silent significant-other communication passing between them. As happy as you are for your friends that they found each other, there’s something about it that makes your chest ache, something that hurts to watch when your own love life is so obviously going to shit.

“Actually, Osc, you can have my smoothie,” you say, standing up and handing it back to him. He takes it with a confused look on his face, glancing over at Lily. “Think I’m just gonna go lie down, or something. I’ll see you guys at dinner, yeah?”

You’re not even out the door before they start whispering, hushed and conspiratorial, heads tilted close together. Once you’re in the bedroom, you flop down face-first pull a pillow over your head to drown them out until everyone starts filing in to get ready for the evening.

Dinner is, predictably, torture.

You’re sandwiched in between Alex and Lily, who’s in her own little world with Oscar, whispering and giggling about whatever they started scheming up on the terrace. Olivia’s slotted herself in next to Lando on the other side of the table, and she’s somehow even more radiant in the golden hour light streaming through the outdoor dining area. The conversation breaks up like it always does, into little pockets, and you already know you’ll be spending your evening paying attention to the wrong one.

“The stars are probably incredible here,” Alex says, cutting into his chicken. “Back home, you can barely see them with all the light pollution, but there’s nothing else for miles here. You might even be able to see the Milky Way.”

You take a sip of your water, eyes glued to the way Olivia is hanging on to Lando’s story about the time he accidentally crashed a sports car in Las Vegas like he’s the most interesting person in the entire world. “That sounds lovely.”

“Maybe we could go up to the terrace later and I could show you,” Alex says. You’d call it a cheesy line if you couldn’t see the heartbreaking amount of hope in his eyes.

“Sure, yeah, that’d be nice,” you say, smiling vacantly, and Lando’s fork clatters against his plate so loud that for a second you think he’s broken the dish.

“Are you okay?” Olivia asks him, genuine concern in her voice, and when she places a steadying hand on his arm you clench your fists so hard under the table that your nails leave little crescents in your palms.

“M’fine,” he mumbles back, and you take a sip of water to calm yourself. “Just tired, I think.”

“Maybe after dinner we could find somewhere quiet to relax,” Olivia says sweetly. “I’d love to hear some more of your travel stories.”

Your glass hits the table harder than intended, liquid sloshing over the side, and Lily shoots you the world’s most loaded glance. “Shit, sorry,” you mutter, faking a smile as heat starts flooding into your cheeks. “Butterfingers.”

Lando’s eyes meet yours across the table, unreadable and dark like a summer storm. He hands you a napkin wordlessly, and when your fingers brush as you take it, everything else fades away.

After dinner, you go up to the terrace with Alex to look at the stars, just like you promised. He wasn’t wrong; the night sky looks incredible, stars like diamonds spilling across plush black velvet. “Wow,” you breathe, staring up into the sky. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and for a minute the drama of the villa feels insignificant in comparison.

“Told you it was worth it,” Alex says, moving to stand beside you at the railing.

You’re both quiet for a moment, watching the stars, and it’s almost nice until he breaks the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” you say, heart hammering against your ribs for all the wrong reasons.

He smiles, soft and knowing. “What’s going on with you and Lando?”

“Nothing,” you reply too quickly. “Why? What makes you say that?”

Alex turns to face you properly. “I’ve been looking at you all day,” he says, not unkindly, but in a way that makes your heart twist all the same. “And you’ve been looking at him like there’s nobody else in this villa.”

You want to deny everything. You want to insist you’re happy as friends. You want to tell Alex he’s reading too much into something he doesn’t understand and he should keep his perfect ski-slope nose out of it. But the words keep dying halfway up your throat.

Instead, you stare down at your hands, curled tightly around the railing. “It’s complicated.”

“Most good things are,” he says gently. “Look, I like you. You’re smart and funny and beautiful, but I don’t want to be who you settle for because you think you can’t have what you want.”

You sigh, shoulders slumping even as relief and guilt swirl in your stomach. “I’m so sorry, Alex. You’re a really lovely guy, I just —”

“Don’t apologize for how you feel,” he says, and surprisingly, he sounds like he means it. “Just maybe do something about it? Love Island’s too short to not go after what you want. And if it doesn’t work out, then hopefully I’ll still be here,” he teases.

You laugh, though the thought sort of makes you want to throw up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He places his hand on top of yours, gingerly, like you’re a scared animal he’s trying not to spook. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think I have a shot in hell,” he says, with a smile that’s almost rueful. “He looks at you, too. All the time. Like you hung the stars up there.”

It’s a kindness you don’t deserve; it’s one more half-truth you’ll hang your life on. “Thanks, Alex,” you breathe, throat tight, and he squeezes your hand comfortingly.

Then the door slides open, and Lando steps into the scene with all the grace of a live hand grenade.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, eyes zeroing in on Alex’s hand around yours and not looking particularly sorry at all. “Just, uh, needed a bit of air before bed.”

“That’s alright,” Alex says easily, pulling his hand away and stepping aside to let Lando through, and for a moment you despise how nice, how fundamentally good he is. He turns back to you, soft smile on his face. “I should go to bed anyway, it’s been a long day. But I’d love to chat to you tomorrow?”

“That sounds great,” you manage, which is harder than you expect when Lando’s eyes feel like they’re burning a hole in the side of your head. “Night, Alex.” He waves as he disappears into the villa, door sliding shut softly behind him.

It’s just you and Lando, then, and the air simmers. You can feel the tension radiating off him, coiling dark and restless underneath your skin and making a home next to the jealousy you’ve sat with all evening.

“Having fun?” he says, and his voice is so casual it nearly gives you whiplash.

You glance over at him. You weren’t wrong, after all — there’s something wild and uncontained in the set of his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides. “What?”

“With Alex,” he says, smile tight. “You two looked cozy.”

“We were just talking,” you reply. “Like you and Liv have been doing all day.”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?” you ask.

He rakes a hand through his already-messy curls. “Just is,” he mumbles, staring past you down to the lawn.

“Right, because she’s gorgeous and perfect and exactly your type,” you say, and you hate the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, high-pitched and unsteady and blatantly jealous.

Lando blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it,” you sigh. You try to push past him, but his fingers catch around your wrist.

“Don’t do that. Don’t just walk away right now,” he says lowly.

You spin on your heel, and all of a sudden you can’t keep it in anymore. “What do you want me to say, Lan? That I’m thrilled you found someone? That I love watching Liv hang all over you while you completely forget I exist?”

“She wasn’t hanging all over me,” he mutters, color rising in his cheeks.

“Please,” you laugh, short and derisive. “She was practically sitting in your lap at dinner.”

His eyes flash, sharp. “Yeah? And Alex wasn’t eating out of your hand the whole night? Didn’t exactly see you telling him to back down.”

“I was being polite, because they’re obviously here for us and we’re supposed to get to know them,” you bristle. “What did you want me to do? Act like a total bitch and blow him off?”

“Maybe, yeah!” Lando spits, voice raised as he takes a step closer to you. His hand is still curled around your wrist, thumb pressing against your pulse point. “Maybe I wanted you to tell him you weren’t interested so I didn’t have to sit there and watch his pathetic arse light up for you all night every time you gave him a scrap of attention.”

“Why do you even care?” you fire back, and now you’re shouting too. “You got Liv, she’s perfect for you, you’ve got exactly what you wanted —”

“I don’t fucking want her, I want you!” he snaps, words tearing out of his throat raw and desperate, and the whole villa seems to shake with the sound of it.

The words hang between you, air unnaturally still. The only movement is the rise and fall of Lando’s chest, hard and erratic like he can’t get enough oxygen in his lungs. He looks as wrecked as you feel. “What?” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Shit,” he breathes, dropping your wrist like it’s burned him and tugging at his curls. “I didn’t — that’s not what I meant to say.”

Your heart does something complicated in your chest that makes you wonder if you might be having a heart attack. It’s not out of the realm of possibility; you don’t think your organs could handle having him and losing him in thirty seconds. “Then what did you mean?”

He blinks at you, like your very reasonable question is not one he was expecting to hear. “I don’t know,” he says helplessly, and then his shoulders sag slightly as he shakes his head, something breaking open in his expression. “Fuck. I’m sorry. That’s a lie. It’s exactly what I meant.”

You’re crackling, a live wire, every nerve ending sparking beneath your skin. “Lan —”

“I don’t want her,” he says again, quieter now, like it might cost him everything. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it feels like not to. And it’s driving me mental to pretend I don’t, but I’ve been so fucking scared to risk it and lose you completely when I know you don’t feel the same way and —”

“Lando,” you say, louder this time, and grab his wrist, your fingers looping around his. He looks at you with wild eyes, vulnerable and aching, like you hold his heart in the palm of your hands.

Which, you’re realizing, you just might.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up for a second?” you breathe, pulling him towards you and finally, finally kissing him.

The world does not screech to a halt. No, it blooms, springs to life around you like you weren’t quite alive until your lips touched his. His mouth moves against yours, desperate and hungry, all the pent-up longing poured into one perfect moment. When you part your lips for him, he slots his tongue against yours immediately as he sighs against your mouth, and the sound nearly makes your knees buckle. You’ve been kissed before, you think as he tangles his hands into your hair, but never like this. Well, except —

“You,” you gasp as you break the kiss, staring at Lando.

He stares back, a dazed, radiant sort of smile on his face, like he just won a prize he hadn’t even dared to hope for. “Me?”

“The Kiss,” you say, breathless. “That stupid challenge, with the blindfolds.” You press your fingers against your lips, memorizing the feel of it under your skin. “It was you.”

He flushes, looking adorably flustered, and doesn’t deny a thing.

“I can’t believe you,” you say as you pull him closer, marveling at the fact that you get to touch him like this now. “I was losing my mind over that kiss, Lan. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted to,” he hums, hands landing on your waist. “Drove me mad that you didn’t know it was me. But it just never felt like the right time. You were with Carlos, and then you were heartbroken over Carlos, and the second you said you were really over it, you were calling us a friendship couple, and then the bombshells came in.”

“You’re so annoying, you know that?” you say, and you’re smiling so hard your cheeks ache. “Could have saved me weeks of pining if you just told me it was you.” You pause, softer this time. “The whole time in here, it’s been you.”

“Not the whole time,” he corrects, and you think Alex might have been right about one thing. He does look at you like you’re all the stars in the sky, awestruck and tender. “There were a couple days at the beginning where I wasn’t completely gone for you.”

“Completely gone, huh?” you say, raising an eyebrow, giddy.

He blushes again, pink to the tips of his ears. “Don’t get a big head about it.”

“Too late,” you say, and when you lean in to kiss him again, slow and soft, you swear you can taste the smile on his lips.

For once, the fluorescent lights don’t wake you up. It’s the weight of his gaze on you, the proximity that still makes your pulse jump even though you’ve been sleeping in a bed with him for weeks.

“You’re staring,” you mumble without even opening your eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” Lando responds immediately, like it still thrills him to get to say it.

You snort, opening your eyes as your heart kicks wildly in your chest. “That’s your line? A week of being coupled up and that’s all you’ve got for me?”

“Thought I’d save the big guns for after breakfast,” he grins, dimples cutting into tan cheeks. “Proper sweep you off your feet then.”

You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You just want me to say you’ve already done that.”

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “Obviously.”

“Can you two stop being disgusting? I’ve barely woken up,” Gemma says, throwing a pillow at you, as if she didn’t scream so loud when you told her about the terrace kiss that production nearly sent emergency services in for a wellness check.

“No way. You lot made your beds trying to get us together, now lie in them,” Lando snarks as he rolls to his back, batting the pillow away with one hand and dragging you closer with the other, warm and lazy against your thigh.

“Yeah,” you yawn, flinging your leg over his waist, half on top of him. “Reap what you sow, and all that.”

Franco groans from across the room. “I miss when you two were just obsessed with each other quietly and not making it everyone else’s problem.”

“They were literally never quiet about it,” Oscar snorts. “At least, Lando wasn’t. ‘Osc, she’s so perfect. Osc, when is she going to notice me? Osc, how do I stop smiling like an idiot every time she talks to me?’”

You turn back to Lando, delighted grin on your face. “You said that? Wow. Embarrassing. I was way cooler about it than that.”

“You absolutely were not,” Lily says fondly, pushing Oscar’s hair off his forehead with her fingers as he lets out a contented little sigh. “You were practically in fits when Liv came in.”

You laugh, but the mention of the departed bombshells seems to cast a sentimental stillness over the bedroom. It feels quieter and emptier every night you stay, like the walls are slowly closing in. Alex and Olivia had barely warmed their beds before they were gone; really, they never stood a chance after you and Lando stopped being idiots. Charles and Camilla went the same night as them in the public vote, Molly and Yuki a few nights later. You thought it’d get easier with less people around, but the silence where their voices used to be rings louder and louder every day, a glaring reminder that your days in the villa are numbered.

“I can’t believe it’s nearly over,” Emma says quietly. “I feel like I just got here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gemma mutters. “It’s been a lifetime. I can’t wait to get a proper iced latte and sleep in a bed that isn’t surrounded by six other people.” Beside her, George goes noticeably pink at the thought.

“It’s going to be weird leaving, though,” Lily says thoughtfully. “Like, I’ve gotten so used to this. And we’ll never really get it back.”

You toy with the edge of the duvet, trying not to let the fear dancing at the edges of your brain fully creep in. The truth is, the villa’s a strange, sun-soaked limbo where you and Lando have had all the time in the world to figure things out. But on the outside, when you’re not in the Love Island bubble anymore, things will be different. On the outside, there’s jobs and friends and lives that can’t revolve around each other twenty-four hours a day.

You don’t know what you and Lando will be when summer’s over. What if this perfect, magic thing between the two of you can’t survive?

Before you let yourself spiral, Georgia’s phone dings on her nightstand, and everyone freezes.

She snatches it up, eyes flying across the screen. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Franco says, snaking his arm around her waist and tucking his chin over her shoulder like he’s trying to read it before she can. “New bombshells? What is it?”

Georgia clears her throat dramatically. “Islanders,” she reads, an excited smile making its way to her lips, “today you’ll be receiving some very special visitors. Please get ready to welcome your families to the villa! Hashtag, meet the parents, hashtag family matters.”

The room erupts. Carlos starts jumping on his bed, Emma squealing with excitement as she tries to avoid his long limbs. George practically cartwheels down the length of the bedroom, knocking over several water bottles in the process and beating at his chest when he gets to the other end. Even Oscar’s mouth is hanging open wider than you’ve ever seen it, jaw slack with a quieter kind of disbelief.

“Oh my god,” Lando says, voice cracking at the edges. “I get to see my mum and dad?”

And then he’s crying, tears streaming down his cheeks like eight weeks of being completely cut off from the outside world has just hit him all at once.

“Baby,” you sigh, crawling into his lap and wrapping your arms around him, and he buries his face into your neck.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles against your skin wetly, breath hitching. “Dunno why I’m crying, really. I just — I miss them so much. Never gone this long without talking to them. Not ever.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say, weaving your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck and pressing a kiss to his temple. “I get it. I’m going to be a complete mess when my mum and dad come in.”

Lando pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes, the lashes gone spiky with tears. “Fuck. Forgot I’d get to meet your parents too. D’you think they’ll like me?”

“Are you joking?” you laugh. “My mum’s probably planning our wedding already. I’m more worried your parents will hate me for taking so long to realize you were right in front of me.”

“They won’t hate you,” he says with utter certainty. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

It happens just like that: your heart, falling off the edge of a cliff with no parachute and no fear, and you know.

You are wildly, catastrophically in love with him.

“Careful,” you murmur, voice light, even as your teeth ache with the effort of holding those three little words back. “Keep saying stuff like that and I’ll never let you go.”

His lips curl upward, and in the catalogue of Lando Norris smiles, this one is unquestionably your favorite. “Promise?”

Once you’re all ready in parent-appropriate attire, the producers herd you down to the lawn, and the families arrive one by one, a parade of tears and laughter and bone-crushing hugs. It’s Oscar’s parents first, his mum effusively treating you all like she’s just adopted nine new children and his dad clapping Lando on the back so hard he jumps. Oscar looks as stoic as usual, but when Lily’s parents come in, as posh and put-together as she is, you can see his hands shaking from halfway across the lawn.

Franco’s parents are exactly as dramatic as he is, peppering his face with kisses and fussing over how skinny he’s gotten. Then it’s Georgia’s mum and her older sister, who immediately tells her she needs to get out of the sun because her forehead looks “absolutely criminal.”

“Oh my god,” Lando giggles as you watch Georgia scowl like a teenager. “G’s got her own G.”

George maintains his laddish composure for all of thirty seconds before he starts crying when his dad pulls him into a bear hug that lifts him clean off the ground. Gemma teases him at first, but when her dad and best friend walk in she sobs all the way across the lawn, clinging to them tightly. Each little reunion makes your chest tighter and tighter with anticipation.

“D’you think it’ll be us or Carlos and Emma, then?” you ask Lando absently, fiddling with the hem of your dress as you watch George and Gemma bicker about whose parents liked who more. But he’s already sitting up, gripping your hand tightly as the doors open again.

You don’t recognize the couple, but Lando does. “It’s them,” he blurts, practically tripping over his feet to get up and sprint across the lawn, throwing himself into their arms in a crashing collision.

You hang back just slightly, letting them have their moment as you take in the scene. His dad is tall, rail-thin, with the same bright smile; his mum petite and elegant, glasses accentuating kind eyes that crinkle at the corners the same way her son’s do.

“There’s our boy,” his dad says, tears in his eyes and voice warm with pride as he wraps his arms around his son.

His mum looks over Lando’s shoulder, and her face brightens even more. “And you must be our girl,” she says, waving you over without hesitation.

Our girl. Your heart does something very complicated in your chest at the thought.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Norris,” you start politely, but his mum’s already waving the formality away.

“Please,” she says, and there’s a hint of an accent you can’t quite place as she pulls you in for a hug of your own. She smells like vanilla, warm and motherly and safe. “Adam and Cisca. We’ve been dying to meet you properly.”

“Honestly, though, we feel like we know you already,” his dad — Adam — says. “We’ve been watching every single night.”

“Oh god,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “Please tell me you fast-forwarded through all the embarrassing bits.”

He laughs, and it’s so familiar, so like Lando’s, that you feel instantly at ease. “Those were the best parts. Though I did want to reach through the screen and shake you both a few times.” He turns to Lando, grinning. “Should’ve kissed her in the Hideaway, darling.”

Lando goes scarlet as you burst into giggles. “Thanks, Dad. Proper roasting me on national television.”

Before you can tease him any further, the doors creak open again, and when you glance up you catch the familiar floral print of the dress your mum always wears for special occasions.

“Mum,” you shriek, bolting for the door before you’re even sure if your legs will carry you that far.

She catches you, arms wrapping around you in the same fierce hug that’s fixed every scraped knee and broken heart since you were five years old, and you’re crying into her shoulder almost immediately.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” she soothes, and you can hear the emotion in her voice, too. “We’re so proud of you.”

When you pull back, your dad’s choked up, too. “Hay fever,” he manages, pulling you into a hug of his own, tight enough to crack your ribs.

“Look at you. You’re glowing,” your mum says when he finally lets you go, holding your face in her hands gently. “You look so happy. And so tan!”

“I am happy,” you grin, wiping away the last of the tears. “Really, really happy.”

Your mum beams — not at you, sort of over your shoulder. “I can see why.”

When you turn, Lando’s hovering a few steps away with his family, tugging at the hem of his shirt like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He looks more nervous than he did to see his own family. The thought makes your heart swell with affection.

“Come here, you,” you grin, tugging him forward by the wrist, and the second you intertwine your fingers with his, the tension in his shoulders relaxes. “Mum, dad, this is Lando.”

“We know,” your mum says, wrapping him into a hug before he can get a word in edgewise. “It’s so lovely to finally meet the boy she’s been smitten over all summer.”

“It wasn’t all summer,” you hiss, cheeks pink.

“You didn’t see yourself on the telly, sweetheart,” she replies primly. “I knew you fancied him from day dot.”

Lando’s already melting under her maternal approval, eyes wide when he looks back at you like he wasn’t expecting to be accepted so fast. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” he says warmly. “Thank you for raising such an incredible girl.”

Your dad appraises him gruffly. “Smooth talker,” he says flatly, like he’s passed judgment on his worthiness in five seconds. Lando goes completely pale before your dad breaks into the smile that’s been making you feel safe since you were small and claps him on the back. “Only joking. Took you long enough to make a move, kid.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” he laughs, shaking your dad’s hand with a firm grip and slinging his other arm around your waist.

“Because it’s true,” your mum says, squeezing his arm gently as she takes it in — the way he won’t let go of you even for a minute, how he keeps glancing at you like he can’t help himself but to look. “But sometimes the best things are worth waiting for.”

“Why don’t we all sit together?” you suggest. “I want you to meet Lando’s parents, too.”

“That would be lovely,” Cisca says, stepping up behind you. “We’ve been so excited to meet you all.”

The next twenty minutes pass in a blur, the six of you falling into easy conversation about your journey in the villa, your parents swapping embarrassing childhood stories that make you and Lando groan in mortification.

“She was such a determined little thing,” your mum tells Adam at the end of a particularly gruesome story about the time you were seven and thought you could cut your own fringe. “Always knew exactly what she wanted.”

“Sounds familiar,” Adam chuckles, glancing at his son. “Once Lando set his mind on something, that was it. No stopping him.”

“Still like that,” you grin, bumping your shoulder against his. “Persistent.”

He wraps his arm around you, tugging you into his side with a smile that makes your heart swoop in your chest. “Got me you, didn’t it?”

Your families slot together so easily, your mum offering Cisca her famous lemon cake recipe immediately just in case you go to theirs for a holiday, your dad and Adam bonding over football and planning to meet up for a match when you’re all back home. Something warm and entirely overwhelming settles in your chest; this is what it’s supposed to feel like when someone fits into your life completely, not just with you, but with everyone that matters to you.

“They love you,” you say into Lando’s ear, low enough so that only he can hear.

He turns to you, something pleased in his expression. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you giggle, pressing yourself against his side. “Look at them. My mum’s, like, seconds away from breaking out the baby photos and my dad keeps looking over here like he’s thrilled he’ll finally have someone to talk about Man U with.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just looks at you with those eyes that feel like they cut to the very core of you, thumb tracing across your knuckles. “Your family’s amazing,” he mumbles, almost shy. “They make me feel like… I dunno, like I already belong.”

“You do belong,” you tell him without hesitation. The words come out with more weight than you were expecting, and there’s that feeling again, those three little words heavy and inevitable on your tongue.

You’re so close to just saying it, to telling him exactly how much he belongs in every corner of your life, when the producers give you the two-minute warning, telling you to wrap things up so that Carlos and Emma’s families can come in.

“So soon?” your mum protests. “I had baby pictures to show Cisca!”

The goodbyes are rushed, tearful, overlapping; you promise your dad you’ll call as soon as you’re out, and your mom refuses to leave without another hug.

“I love you, sweetheart. And I love him for you,” she murmurs against your hair. “Don’t let him go.”

“Love you too, mum,” you whisper back. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on it.”

“Take care of our girl,” your dad is saying to Lando as you break from your mum’s embrace. “She’s our whole world, that one.”

“Mine too,” Lando replies without even blinking, and your dad beams.

Cisca pulls you into a hug next, cupping your face in her hands the way your own mother would. “You’ll come visit us when you’re both home, yes? Sunday dinner?”

“I’d love that,” you manage, chest tight at how easily they’ve welcomed you in.

She nods resolutely. “Good. Because you’re family now. You’re always welcome, okay?”

The words hit you square in the chest, and you find yourself nodding through tears as they all start moving toward the villa doors. Lando’s hand finds yours again, squeezing tight as you watch your parents and his walking out together, already deep in conversation about flights home and phone numbers.

“Family,” you whisper to yourself, smiling.

“Yeah,” Lando grins softly, bringing your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles. “Family.”

The high carries you through the rest of the afternoon. You’re absolutely buzzing, but everyone’s floating around the villa with matching massive grins, comparing notes on what their families thought of everyone else. It’s only when you’re all gathered around for dinner and they seat you in couples, one across from each other, that you realize something’s different — the throng of producers still hanging around in the kitchen even after you start eating, the pretty silver cloches sitting ominously between each couple.

“This is weird, right?” you whisper, tapping your nails against the cloche between you and Lando.

“Yeah. When’s the last time they filmed dinner?” Oscar mutters, next to Lando, who is shoving the seafood paella around his plate with a disgusted look on his face. “Normally they turn the cameras off and leave us alone for the hour.”

“Something’s not right,” Emma says softly on the other side of you, just as Carlos’ phone buzzes.

Nine sets of eyes turn towards him, and his face blanches as he reads. “Islanders, one more couple must be dumped before the finale, but the choice is not up to you. The public have been voting, and they have special surprises for you. If you receive a rose, you’re through to the finale. If your plate is empty, you’ll be leaving the villa tonight. Hashtag, final countdown. Hashtag, time to say goodbye.”

The silence that follows is deafening, everyone staring at their dishes like they hide a ticking time bomb beneath. You look around the table, at the people who have become your surrogate family over the past eight weeks, and the thought of losing any of them makes your heart ache.

“I’m not doing it,” Gemma declares theatrically. “It’s not fair. We’ve come so far together. I don’t want anyone to go.”

“We’ve got to open them,” Georgia counters, running a hand through her hair. “They’ll just make whoever came in last in the vote leave. We’re just delaying the inevitable.”

“One by one, then?” Lily says. “Make it a little less scary?”

George nods resolutely. “We can go first.” He and Gemma reach to the center of the table with trembling hands, lifting the cloche together. There’s a rose sitting beneath, and Gemma lets out a sob of relief before intertwining her hand with George’s.

Franco and Georgia go next, and her sharp intake of breath tells you everything before the dish is even out of the way. She picks up the red rose, showing it to the table with a bright smile on her face.

Oscar’s jaw is clenched tight as he and Lily lift theirs together, but you know in the deepest part of your heart that there’ll be a rose underneath before they even touch the cloche. Sure enough, the flower practically glows crimson against the white porcelain.

Which leaves you and Lando, and Carlos and Emma.

You risk a glance next to you; Emma is so pale she looks like she might pass out, and Carlos is staring fixedly at the cloche like he can will it to have the rose underneath. Your heart is pounding so hard you wonder if the mic pack is picking it up.

“Together?” Lando asks quietly, and you nod without thinking about it. The four of you count down — three, two, one, and lift the cloches at the same time.

Underneath yours, unmistakably, is one red rose.

The silence is instant and sharp, like the breath’s been taken out of all of you. Emma’s face falls immediately, tears welling in her big blue eyes when she looks down at nothing but a plate of blank white porcelain. Carlos swears under his breath in Spanish, pushing his chair back with a piercing scrape.

“I’m sorry,” Emma whispers, voice breaking as she reaches for his hand, but he’s already standing, muttering something about packing. The producers step in then, ushering them unceremoniously inside. No one says a word, but the lawn already feels emptier.

“Fuck. That’s brutal,” George whistles lowly, shaking his head. Lando’s hand finds yours under the table and doesn’t let go.

“Right,” one of the producers says, artificially cheery in a way that’s designed to smooth things over and does anything but. “Guess that’s dinner, then. You all can go, if you’d like. Can’t really get footage without them.”

Franco frowns down at his plate as you all start getting up, slowly but surely. “No dessert?”

You wander to the swing in the corner of the garden with Lando, string lights crisscrossing in the air above you as he tugs you down beside him. The chains creak as you settle in, tucking yourself into his side. His fingers trace up and down your arm gently, instinctively, like someone is going to ask him to draw the curve of your elbow from memory and he wants to make sure he passes.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, careful. “You alright?”

You nod, turning to him. “Why?”

“Dunno,” he mumbles, and there’s something fragile in his expression, achingly vulnerable. “Thought you might be upset about Carlos.”

“Think he was upset enough for the both of us,” you say, tilting your head up and pressing the tiniest kiss to his jaw.

Lando watches you, lips quirking like he wants to smile but he’s not quite sure it’s allowed. “Still. You two had history.”

“We did,” you agree. “But the great thing about history is it stays in the past.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thumb brushing down your arm to your wrist where your pulse speeds under his touch. “I just don’t want you to have any regrets, you know? About how things ended, or —” he stops himself, jaw working like he’s trying to swallow the words down.

“Or what?”

“Or about us,” he says, so softly you almost can’t hear it. “I don’t want you looking back and thinking I pushed you into something before you were ready.”

The swing sways gently in the evening air, and you can hear Georgia laughing from across the lawn, distant and warm. You turn to face Lando properly, one leg tucking beneath you.

“Lando,” you say, and it feels different in your mouth now, weighted with everything you’ve learned in eight weeks about yourself, about him, about the difference between being wanted and being chosen. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing about this has ever felt pushed. You give me space until I trip over my feet trying to catch up to you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I try.”

“He’s the past, but you’re my future,” you say, slipping your hand into his, and he smiles shakily. “I’m with you because I want to be. No regrets.”

When he leans in to kiss you, it’s slow, unhurried, a promise. You’re just starting to relax into it when someone clears their throat.

You break away, and Carlos is standing in front of you, toe dragging on the lawn like he can’t quite decide if he’s actually going to go through with it. You still haven’t really spoken to him, not since Casa. You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d be lucky enough to never have to, that he’d fade into the background like all of your past mistakes.

“Do you think we could talk?” he says softly. Lando’s arm tightens around you on instinct, and he stiffens like he’s bracing for impact. But when you glance towards him, searching his face, you can read it like a book: he hates this. But he trusts you.

“Yeah, okay,” you say, squeezing Lando’s hand reassuringly as you get up from the swing.

You and Carlos walk slow and ambling like parallel lines, never touching, all the way to the daybeds. When you sit, he hovers awkwardly until you pat the mattress next to you. Even then, it’s stiff, wooden, silent.

“I am sorry,” he says finally. “For the way I treated you.”

You sigh, looking out towards the water. “Yeah, it was pretty shit, mate.”

“I know,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I just — I had to say it, before I go. I have been thinking about it, watching you and Lando this week.”

“What do you mean?”

He runs a hand through his hair, and it flops into his eyes gently. “I knew it was not right between us from the start. I think I did not want to believe it, because on paper we made sense together. But I was working so hard, and it still was not there.” He laughs, humorless. “And then I would see you with Lando, talking about nonsense, and it was so easy, so natural, that it killed me. I felt like I was losing you to someone who was not even trying to take you away from me.”

“I was trying really hard with you,” you say, defensive. “I wanted us to work, too. You’re the one who switched at Casa.”

He winces. “I know. That made everything worse. When you two coupled up and stayed friends, I was so angry. Not at you, at myself, because I lost you over something that was all in my head.”

You swallow, throat tight. It wasn’t, and it was.

“But I see you two together now, and I think maybe I was not wrong. Always, there was a part of your heart that was just for him,” he says, so simple that it knocks the breath out of you.

You’re silent for a moment. “I really didn’t know, then, Carlos,” you whisper. “Not until after Casa.”

Carlos smiles, and there’s no bitterness to it. “I know. That’s how I know he is your person. He never stopped believing you would figure it out eventually.” He pauses, like he’s searching for the right words. “I never had that kind of faith.”

You both look over at the swing, where Lando is doing a spectacularly miserable job of pretending he’s not watching the entire conversation. You wave, teasing grin on your face, and he goes scarlet, fumbling for his phone like you didn’t just catch him in 4K.

You shake your head fondly, turning back to Carlos. “He really never gives up on me, does he?”

“That’s the difference,” he answers, soft and sure. “I wanted what I thought we should be. He wants you exactly the way you are.”

“I hope you and Emma are that for each other,” you say, and despite everything, you’re surprised to find you really do mean it.

He nods. “I think we will be. Outside maybe we can figure out what we are supposed to be, without all this hanging around us.”

When you hug him goodbye, it feels like closing a chapter.

The next morning, light spills into the villa softer than usual, as if even the sun knows you’re all living on borrowed time. It’s final dates day, and once you get the text from the producers in the morning, the conversation lingers over breakfast, all wild speculation about what you’ll be doing for the afternoon — jet skis, candlelit dinners, hot air balloons. Everyone’s pretending not to be desperate for something over-the-top romantic, and clearly secretly hoping for it anyway.

Gemma and George are first, whisked away for what turns out to be a private sailboat ride around the island. They come back with sea-slick hair and windbitten cheeks raving about the scenery, George insisting to everyone that he was “basically the captain” while Gemma mutters that the crew did all the work. They’re arguing so much about it that it’s nearly time for the next date before they remember to mention that they’re now officially boyfriend and girlfriend.

Franco and Georgia go next. When they come back, Georgia’s hair, usually perfectly styled, is completely soaked; it takes at least five minutes for Franco to stop laughing long enough to explain she fell off her paddleboard on the way to the beach. Still, they seem happy, and their seaside picnic was pretty enough that Georgia doesn’t even seem to mind her wet hair.

You and Lando are next, and the text from the producers sends you into a frenzy. Luckily, you have the girls to help you get ready, otherwise you’re sure you’d be overcome with choice paralysis and never make it to the final date at all.

“Do you think red or pink?” Gemma says, dragging lipsticks across your wrist and holding the swatches up to Lily.

“Pink,” Lily says decidedly, getting ready for her own date, and Georgia frowns from across the room. “It’s more her.”

“Gem, be careful, please,” you mutter, eyeliner going haywire. You sigh, grabbing a Q-Tip and carefully wiping it off for the third time. When you go again, your hands shake around the pencil so badly that you nearly poke your own eye out.

“God, I can’t watch this,” Georgia rolls her eyes, strutting over to you and hip-checking Gemma out of the way, swiveling your chair so you’re facing her. “Close your eyes.”

You do as she says, and she starts to apply the eyeliner across your lids with a steady hand. “Thanks, G,” you say in a small voice.

Your thanks go ignored. “Stop twitching,” she snaps, tilting your head. “Why are you so nervous?”

“It’s the final date,” you say, trying to shrug your shoulders without moving your face at all. “You and Gem both had these big epic things. What if they just give us, like, a Tesco meal deal in the garden? Like, congrats on being together a week, idiots, here’s a ham sandwich.”

“Jesus,” she sniffs, dusting a blush brush over your cheeks. “One, I know you don’t watch the show or whatever, but the producers are good at their jobs, so that’s not happening. And two, who cares? They could sit you two in a cardboard box on the side of the highway and you’d still find a way to make it nauseatingly romantic.”

You open your eyes as she dabs highlighter on your cheekbones, expertly blending it out. “You really think so?”

“Have I ever lied to any of you?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow as she paints the red lipstick onto the contours of your mouth.

“No,” you admit, lips still puckered. “You always kept it real. Even if we didn’t want to hear it.”

“Exactly,” she says breezily, turning you back toward the mirror, and her handiwork is better than anything you could have ever hoped to produce yourself. “Besides, you wouldn’t even be on this date without me.”

“What do you mean?” you say, wrinkling your nose as you glance at her through the mirror.

Her lips twitch into a smirk. “What do you think I was talking about honesty in Casa for? Babe, he was always yours. And you were clearly his, you just didn’t know it yet. I just had to step out of the way and give you a little push.”

Your heart swells with affection for her and all her sharp edges, and you’re hugging her before you can stop yourself. She stiffens in surprise, then relaxes in your arms. “Do not get weepy on me now,” she warns. “You’ll ruin my masterpiece, and it’s very unchic.”

You squeeze her tighter for just a second before you let go. “Love you, G.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too,” she grumbles, but she’s got a soft smile on her face. “Now go get your man.”

Lando’s already waiting for you outside the villa, hands shoved in his pockets, but the second you open the door and his eyes land on you, his jaw drops. Literally — you’re pretty sure you can see all his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he beams, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks as he holds out his hand for you. When you take it, he spins you, the skirt of your dress flaring as you turn. “You are so fit. Don’t know what mistake the universe made to give me this, but I am not complaining.”

“Stop it. Haven’t even left yet and you’re already laying it on thick,” you snort, cheeks hot as he walks you to the car idling in the driveway.

“Not laying it on thick if it’s true,” he says easily, opening the door for you and sliding in behind you. “And objectively, you are the most stunning girl in the entire world, so I’m not shutting up about it."

Your nerves buzz in your stomach the entire drive, Lando’s knee bouncing so hard it shakes the seats. He keeps fiddling with your hand, twisting your fingers together and sweeping his thumb over your knuckles like he can’t decide whether or not to be nervous or excited.

“Reckon it’s a vineyard,” he whispers to you so the producers don’t hear as the car winds down a narrow dirt road in the midst of a forest. “Or a picnic? But that’s probably too close to Franco and G’s date. Horseback riding, maybe?”

You hum noncommittally, even though your heart’s racing. “As long as it’s not a helicopter ride,” you whisper back. “Those ones they rent always look a bit dodgy.”

He laughs and squeezes your hand tightly as the car slows to a stop, headlights cutting through the trees as you reach a small clearing. When you get out of the car, you gasp.

There’s string lights draping from tree to tree above you at every angle, lighting the entire clearing a soft, glowing gold. A vintage pickup truck is parked dead center, bed piled high with pillows and blankets, and across the grass a massive projector screen stands ready and waiting.

“Whoa,” Lando breathes, awestruck look on his face. “This is mint.”

You grin, pulling him into the clearing. “Our first movie night?”

He helps you up into the truck bed, and you settle against the pillows as he hops in, pressing himself beside you from your shoulders to the tips of your toes like it’s second nature. There’s popcorn and candy next to you; you toss him the Kinder without thinking, and he rips it open with an appalling level of gusto.

“What movie do you think they picked for us?” you say, tossing a piece of popcorn into the air and catching it in your mouth.

“Dunno,” he responds, digging into your popcorn as the projector flickers to life, and you smack his hand away as he giggles. Those old-fashioned countdown numbers flash before it goes dark again, and your names get written across the screen in flowing silvery script.

“What is this?” Lando whispers, and when it cuts again, it’s him, wearing those same ridiculous fluro swim trunks he’d worn on the very first day, talking to George.

“Dunno, mate, I’m just looking for something serious. Something real,” past-Lando says on screen.

And then, like clockwork, or maybe something more like fate, you and Lily walk through the doors.

You squeeze his hand tight, smile already wobbly. “It’s us.”

The producers clearly scrounged up every second of footage they had of the two of you interacting, because it’s your first conversation next, before the coupling ceremony even began. You can see the spark in your eyes, can hear the way the conversation flows effortlessly from the first word.

“Look at us,” you snort as the clip switches to another moment of you and Lando, on the terrace this time. “We were so obvious.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” he grins, tucking you closer under his arm. “I was the picture of restraint.”

On screen, past-Lando is practically staring at your lips as you talk, hanging on to your every word with the softest smile on his face.

“Very restrained,” you say dryly. “You’re, like, radiating heart eyes at me.”

He pokes you in the side. “Oi. You didn’t notice, did you? Subtlety is my middle name.”

The film continues chronologically through your journey in the villa, moments you remember and moments you’ve already forgotten. There’s you and Lando bantering on the daybeds. You and Lando kissing, the awestruck look on your face clear even under the eye mask. You and Lando tossing fruits in each other’s mouth in an elaborate game you’d made up to keep yourselves from getting too bored one day.

“Oh god,” you mumble, burying your face in his neck when the heart rate challenge footage comes on. “Don’t need to relive this one.”

“Fuck, you looked unreal,” Lando breathes, and you don’t even need to look up to know he has a delighted smile on his face. “I literally thought my heart was going to explode.”

Your cheeks go crimson. “Lando Norris.”

“I’m serious,” he continues blithely, shrugging his shoulders. “D’you think the producers will let me have a copy?”

The footage cuts again to something you haven’t seen, a house that looks just the slightest bit different than the villa — Casa Amor. Past-Lando and past-Carlos are arguing, Carlos red in the face as Oscar holds Lando back from lunging at him. A second later, it cuts to your conversation with Georgia, looking worried sick as you defend him the same way. The Casa recoupling is next; it still makes your chest ache to watch, but not in the same way it did to live through. Now, you see Lando’s knee brushing against yours, his eyes on you when Carlos walks back in with Emma, half agony seeing you upset and half hope at the thought he might still have a chance.

Your challenge win comes next: Lando, picking you up and twirling you effortlessly through the air; you, looking like you’ve been hit with a lightning bolt.

You point at the screen fondly. “That was the moment I knew I was fucked.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It took you that long?”

The footage jumps again to the Hideaway and the almost-kiss you thought you imagined, but is immortalized forever on film and in the warm blush of Lando’s embarrassment next to you at not making a move; the date with Alex and Olivia, where the two of you both look murderously jealous of each other; your fight on the terrace and the confession.

The last clip is recent, from after you two officially got together. You’re cutting fruit barefoot in the kitchen, Lando with his hip pressed to yours as he hums under his breath, off-key but earnest. Onscreen, he holds out his palm. “Dance with me?”

You giggle, take his hand anyway. “In the kitchen?”

“Where else?” he grins, pulling you close, and the two of you sway slowly between the counters as he keeps humming his song against your hair. The camera lingers on your faces as you turn: both of you look lit from within, incandescent with happiness. With something that you could build forever on.

As the screen fades to black, you curl tightly into Lando’s side, heart full to bursting. You’ve never really been a fan of reality TV, never thought much of the misleading editing and dramatic pauses. But this — your story — you’d watch over and over again.

“We really went through it,” you say, laughing shakily as the fairy lights glow back to life above you. “That was, like, ten summers worth of drama shoved into one.”

“Worth it, though,” Lando replies.

“You think?” you say, raising an eyebrow.

His expression is almost achingly tender. “Like I said earlier. Got you out of it, didn’t I?”

You’re quiet for a moment, watching the stars start to peek through the canopy of lights above you. “What do you think it’s going to be like?” you ask suddenly. “Outside, I mean. When this is all over.”

He shifts, facing you. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno,” you say, voice smaller than you intended. “It’s been so easy in here, but it’s not real life. I know we’re both going back to London and we don’t have to do long distance, but we’re both busy people, and it’s just going to be harder and messier and more complicated. What if you —” you cut yourself off, staring down at your hands. “I’m scared you’re going to wake up and realize I’m not worth the effort.”

He bumps your shoulder. “Look at me, yeah?”

When you turn your head, his expression is so certain that it takes your breath away.

“You want to know what I think?” he says softly. “I think you’re scared because this matters. Because this is the first time you’ve found something worth being terrified of losing.”

Your eyes sting, and you blink hard to clear them of the tears threatening to spill over. “Are you scared?”

“Bricking it, obviously, ” he admits, grinning. “I know it’s going to be different out there. We’ve got lives we’ve got to figure out how to intertwine and we’re not going to spend every second together like we do in here. But that doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the thought of not having you in my life at all. I don’t care if we’re in Mallorca or Manchester or — or frickin’ Mars, as long as I’m with you I’m going to be happy. You’re it for me, okay?”

You manage a weak laugh. “You make it sound so simple, but what if —”

“No what-ifs,” he says firmly. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together. That’s what people do when they…” he trails off, hand shaking just slightly in yours, and takes a deep breath like he’s steeling himself for something. “When they love each other.”

Your heart stops completely.

“I love you,” he says, softer this time, like he’s testing how the words feel on his tongue. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“You love me?” you say, throat tight, and his lips twitch into the smallest, most anxious grin you’ve ever seen on him.

“Well, yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s you, so. Kind of hard not to.”

His nervousness knocks a laugh out of you, shaky and incredulous, because of course he’s managed to make something that might be the most pivotal moment of your entire life into the most adorable thing in the world. “You’re ridiculous.”

There’s a tremor in his voice when he talks next. “But you love me anyway, right?”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “Yeah. I really, really do.”

The relief on his face is instant, the first sip of water on the hottest day of the year. “Knew it,” he grins smugly, and it should be a public health hazard with how uncontainable and completely contagious it is. “You’re stuck with me now, mate.”

“God help me,” you deadpan, cheeks hurting from how hard you’re smiling.

When he pulls you in and laughs, loud and riotously joyful, the sound makes you think maybe the outside world won’t be so scary after all.

The villa feels different on the last day. Maybe it’s the swirl of activity, the sounds of construction of a full-sized stage outside in the garden as you get ready for what feels like hours. They’ve brought in an actual glam team for the eight of you, racks full of designer dresses and suits. Maybe it’s the way everyone’s dressed to the nines, girls in full-length gowns and boys in proper suits like you’ve all just stepped off a red carpet. Mostly, though, you think it’s the cameras. After weeks of being hidden, you’d nearly forgotten they were there, but suddenly they’re all out in the open, camera guys crawling all over the lawn, big black eyes trained directly on you.

You can tell everyone is feeling it. There’s a lot more fidgeting than usual as you stand on the heart-shaped platforms, one for each couple, waiting for the host to come in for the very last time. George can’t stop adjusting his bowtie, and Lily keeps wiping her hands on her dress like her palms are clamming up. Lando, looking unfairly good in a simple navy blue suit, is bouncing on his toes next to you; you take a deep breath before you slip your hand into his.

Whatever happens next, you know you’ve got him.

The host slinks onto the lawn, radiant smile on her face as she begins. “Islanders, what a summer it’s been. But it all ends tonight.”

Every word she speaks feels like a countdown. It has your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

“I can now reveal,” she continues, dragging the words out like she’s savoring the taste of them, “that the couple in fourth place is… Franco and Georgia.”

The six of you clap politely. Georgia’s face crumples for exactly half a second before she pastes on a smile that could win beauty pageants and throws her arms around Franco. “We did it, babe,” she proclaims, loud enough for the cameras to hear, and you can hear the strain of disappointment in her voice. Franco looks more relieved than anything as he offers his arm to her, escorting her off the platform.

“In third place… George and Gemma!” she says.

George dips Gemma into a kiss before the host is even done saying their names, and when they break apart they’re both beaming at each other. They seem thrilled with their placement, joining Georgia and Franco by the table and immediately breaking into heated whispers, probably bickering about who they think will win.

“The country has chosen you as the final two couples,” the host says, looking between you and Lando and Oscar and Lily; you fidget just slightly under her unyielding gaze. “We’ve followed every step of your journeys to find love this summer. The ups, the downs, the slowest of slow burns.”

Lily catches your eye from her platform, grinning and pointing at you like she’s calling it. You shake your head and point right back at her, heart swelling with affection for the girl who’s practically become your sister in here. Oscar shoots you a lopsided grin, and you can see the hope sparking in his eyes.

“And now the waiting is finally over.”

Lando’s thumb traces steady, grounding circles on the back of your hand, squeezing it tightly. When you look up at him, he’s not nervous at all. He’s got that smile that mesmerized you on the first day on his face again — dazzlingly, blindingly happy, and entirely yours.

“The winners of Love Island 2025 are…” she says, and the butterflies kick in your stomach like they’re trying to start a hurricane halfway around the world. The silence stretches, and you really wish she’d just get on with it, because you can’t hold your breath for much longer and you might pass out if she keeps dragging this on.

“Oscar and Lily!”

As the confetti cannons go off and fireworks paint the sky silver and gold, the words hit you like a physical thing. Before you know it, you’re crying; not sad tears, but something bigger, more complex. Relief, pride, love, everything you’ve been carrying in your heart all summer rising at once until it spills noisily over your cheeks.

“You upset?” Lando asks, concern creeping into his voice as he wraps his arms around you, shielding you from the cameras.

“Not even a little,” you say, sniffling, and you mean it completely. Watching Oscar and Lily together, how could you feel anything but pure joy? “You?”

He shrugs, grin tugging at the corner of that heart-shaped mouth as he looks at you. “I already won.”

You laugh wetly, heart skipping a beat in your chest. “Cornball.”

“You love it,” he retorts.

“I love you,” you correct, and his eyes sparkle. “Could take or leave the terrible jokes.”

He grins all too angelically, gaze flicking towards the pool behind you, then back to your face. “See, this is awkward, because my love for you is unconditional and my jokes are fantastic. So you’re going to have to pay for that.”

“Lando, don’t you dare,” you start to warn, but he’s already scooping you into his arms and running full speed towards the pool, launching you both into the air until you land with a spectacular splash.

The water is all-encompassing, dress billowing around you and dragging you down before you burst back to the surface, gasping through your giggles. Franco cannonballs in next, and Georgia follows, sliding in carefully from the shallow side — you know she’d die before getting her hair wet, but she’d never miss this moment. Gemma goes in on George’s back, arms wrapped around his neck as he paddles towards the rest of you. Lily and Oscar are last, whooping as they jump into the deep end, hands intertwined. It’s messy and ridiculous and absolutely perfect.

Lando hoists you up easily, your legs locking around his waist as he tucks a strand of wet hair behind your ear. His hands are steady, curls dripping into his eyes, and you think he must be the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen. “Thanks,” you say suddenly, chest tight.

He tilts his head, confused. “For the hair?”

“No, I just — I didn’t know it was possible to be this happy,” you say, voice breaking around the simple truth of it.

His expression softens. “Get used to it,” he says, thumb tracing along your thigh, and your skin erupts in goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cool water. “I plan on making you this happy for a pretty long time.”

You raise an eyebrow, aiming for teasing despite your heart hammering against your ribs. “How long are we talking?”

“Dunno,” he hums happily, pretending to think about it, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners gives him away. “How does forever sound?”

You kiss him then, with the fireworks still going off above your heads like the entire universe is celebrating along with you, and his hands tighten around your thighs like he never wants to let you go. When you finally break apart, you rest your forehead against his and smile.

“Forever sounds like a pretty good start.”

#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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formulafanfics13 · 2 days ago

Note

please more mad max with size kink !!!!!!!!

I love your writinggg. I feel represented as short girlyyyyyyyy. Like nooo not all of are like 5’10 😭😭😭😭😭

Too Much Or Never Enough - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: Max Verstappen is obsessed with how small you are under him, how tight you feel around him, how much you struggle to take him. And the more you whimper about his size, the more feral he gets.

Warnings: 18+, smut, size kink, size difference, praise/degradation, rough sex, overstimulation, mirror sex.

“Relax,” Max muttered, though the smirk on his face said he loved watching you squirm.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your thighs trembling around his hips as the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance. He was so big it already burned, the stretch overwhelming even before he’d pushed all the way in. “Max, it’s too much-”

“Shhh.” His lips brushed your ear, his hand holding your jaw steady. “You can take it. You always do.” And with one sharp thrust, he bottomed out, your cry muffled against his chest. He groaned, his fingers gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. “Fuck,” he growled. “So tight. Every time. Like you’re made for me.”

You whimpered, body shaking, the fullness almost unbearable. “You’re too big-”

He chuckled darkly, pulling back just enough to slam into you again. “Say it again.”

“You’re-” your voice broke as he hit deep, “you’re too big, Max-”

“God, I love when you say that,” he snarled, fucking you harder now, every thrust making the bedframe creak. “Look at you. Can barely take me. Stretching you so wide. My perfect little toy.”

Your head fell back, tears pricking your eyes, the pleasure blinding as his cock dragged against every nerve inside you.

“Mine,” he grunted, his hand sliding down to press against your lower stomach. “You feel that? That’s me. All the way in. Filling you up so deep.” The pressure made you cry out, your orgasm ripping through you suddenly, violently. Max groaned at the way you clenched around him, his thrusts turning sloppy as he chased his own release.

“Gonna fill you,” he gasped, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his whole body shuddering. “Fuck. You take me so good.”

He collapsed over you, his weight heavy, his breath hot against your neck. After a moment, he tilted your chin up, his grin wicked even as his eyes softened. “Too big, huh?” he murmured, still buried inside you. “Good. Means you’ll never forget me.” His grin was dangerous, that wicked gleam in his eyes back in full force. “You think I’m too big,” he murmured, brushing damp hair from your face. “You should see how it looks.”

Before you could protest, he was pulling you up, manhandling you with ease. Your legs barely worked, but he hauled you across the room, your body pressed tight to his chest, his cock never slipping out. The mirror loomed ahead.

He spun you so you were facing it, your body flush against his, his arm tight around your waist. “Look,” he ordered, his voice low and rough.

Your eyes flicked up, and the sight made your stomach drop. You looked ruined. Flushed, hair tangled, your lips swollen from his kisses. And between your thighs? Max, so much bigger than you, his cock stretching you impossibly wide. You could see the outline of him every time he thrust, his hand pressing to your lower stomach again so you could feel just how deep he was. “See that?” he growled in your ear, rolling his hips deliberately. “That’s me. All of me. Filling you so deep I can see it.”

You whimpered, trying to look away, but he caught your chin, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. “Don’t hide. Watch.”

He started moving again, slow at first, making you watch every inch slide in and out of you. The stretch looked obscene in the reflection, his cock glistening with your slick, your cunt struggling to take him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “So small. So tight. Barely fitting around me, and you love it.”

Your moans echoed, high and desperate, your body trembling as he picked up the pace, his thrusts sharp, bruising. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, your reflection bouncing in the mirror with every movement.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his hand snaking up to your throat, squeezing lightly. “Whose are you?”

“Yours,” you gasped, tears spilling.

“Say it again.”

“Yours, Max! I’m yours!”

He groaned, his eyes locked on the mirror as he fucked you harder, the sight of your smaller body taking him making him feral. “Good girl. My perfect little toy. Taking my cock like you’re made for it.”

Your orgasm hit violently, your scream echoing as you convulsed around him, clenching so tight he swore. He chased his release with a guttural moan, spilling inside you again, his cum dripping down your thighs, but his cock still grinding deep, trying to push it all back in. Your legs barely held you up, your body trembling. He kissed your shoulder, his grip still iron around your waist, his eyes glued to the mirror. “Look at you,” he whispered, softer now but no less intense. “Small, ruined, full of me. Exactly how I want you.”

And in the mirror, you could only nod, because there was no denying it. You were his.

#f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 smut #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #mv1 x you #mv1 x reader #mv1 fic #mv1 imagine #mv1 smut #mv33 #max verstappen

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verstappenverse · 7 days ago

Text

Six Rookies and a Baby

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Saint-Tropez: one yacht, six rookies, and a baby on the way. What could possibly go wrong? (Requested)

1.8k words / Masterlist

You’re not even sure who first dubbed you and Max the “grid parents,” but the nickname stuck harder than your maternity leggings on a humid Monaco afternoon. Probably Ollie, with his perpetually cheeky grin and habit of saying “Thanks, Mum” every time you handed him a protein bar or reminded him to hydrate. It started off as harmless teasing, Kimi trailing behind Max on media days like a duckling in team gear, peppering him with tyre pressure questions, while Gabriel respectfully offered you his seat even when you weren’t all that tired.

But now? Now it’s a thing.

You’re seven months pregnant and very much not glowing, Max is glued to your side like a protective dutch bulldog, and you’re floating somewhere off the coast of Saint-Tropez on a superyacht with six boys under the age of 24 who have, apparently, decided to spend their break under your swollen-ankled, lemonade-sipping supervision. They treat you like you’re carrying their future sibling and act like Max is some terrifying but soft-edged patriarch.

You kind of love it.

Max, of course, pretends it was your idea.

“You need a break,” he’d said, rubbing your feet one night while you groan about swelling in places you didn’t even know could swell. “Sun, sea, no reporters. And if we bring the rookies they’ll owe us for life.”

What he really meant, though he’d never say it out loud, was that he liked having them close. Liked the way Kimi looked up to him with those serious, eager eyes. Liked the way Gabriel asked him for advice. Liked how Franco cracked up at his silly jokes like they were stand-up gold. Liked that Isack and Ollie bickered over who got to sit next to you at dinner and asked a million questions about the baby’s name, and liked that Liam always offered to carry anything remotely heavy before Max even had to glance your way.

Max used to be the one people warned the rookies about, but they couldn't of been more wrong, he was the one they spoke to when something felt off with the car or their contract or their headspace. Now he was the one they trusted. The one who steadied the room.

You catch him watching them sometimes when they’re not looking, eyes softened, beer forgotten in his hand, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s only just realising how much things have changed. How much he’s changed.

From grid terror to mentor. From lone lion to leader.

From world champion to dad-in-waiting.

And even though your back aches and your feet are twice their usual size and one of the boys just accidentally spilled guacamole on your sarong, you glance over at Max sitting with Kimi, animatedly talking through race lines with toothpick gestures and your heart squeezes.

So here you are, towel draped over your bump, wearing Max’s linen shirt unbuttoned over your bikini, toes dangling in the water from the back deck while the rookies argue over who has to paddle board back to the boat with the beer.

“Rock-paper-scissors doesn’t count if Liam cheats every time!” Franco shouts, splashing water at Liam, who retaliates with a dramatic belly flop off the float.

The float shakes with the aftermath of his impact, nearly capsizing Gabriel, who shrieks and clutches the sides.

“I don’t cheat,” Liam calls, surfacing. “I just read you like a book mate.”

From below deck Max emerges barefoot, relaxed, and tanned in that smug, infuriatingly beautiful way only men on holiday seem to manage. He’s got two bottles of water in his hands and that soft, lazy grin that always melts you. But his eyes? They go straight to you the second he steps into the sunlight.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice low like always when it’s just for you.

You nod toward the chaos. “They’re arguing about who’s the most annoying,” you report dryly. “Frankly? I’d disqualify the lot of them.”

He chuckles, handing you a bottle and crouching down beside your deck chair. His hand rests on your bump automatically, without ceremony it’s just second nature now. You realise how new that is. Not the act, but the ease of it. The casual certainty.

“I swear I saw Kimi trying to butter you up earlier, calling you beautiful.” he says, eyes still scanning your face as if checking for signs of fatigue.

You grin. “He did. Right before asking if he could race the jet skis later.”

Max groans. “He’s banned.”

“Max.”

“I’m serious, do you not remember last time?” he says, rubbing his hand over his face. “One of them’s going to try something stupid and I’ll end up explaining to the FIA why our rookie class is now down to five.”

You hum as Max leans in, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before whispering, “I’m putting a ban on anyone who makes you laugh too hard and starts contractions early.”

You burst into a snort-laugh so intense your belly jiggles and Max instinctively puts a hand on it like he's bracing for a kick. The timing is impeccable, Ollie suddenly reappears like a wet, apologetic tornado, holding a half-deflated flamingo float.

“Hey, uh, Max?” Ollie says, soaked to the bone and blinking salt from his eyes. “We may have…accidentally lost the jet ski key.”

Max exhales, standing up like a man preparing for war. “I give them two hours of free time.”

You grin. “You love them really.”

“They’re idiots.”

“You’re protective of them.”

“You’re worse.”

“I’m nurturing.”

“You bribed Isack with tiramisu to wear sunscreen.”

“That's effective nurturing,” you say, smug.

Max grumbles something in Dutch under his breath that you’re pretty sure translates to “married a menace,” then stomps toward the edge of the deck like a reluctant camp counsellor.

He shoots you a look but you catch the smile tugging at his lips as he stomps toward the edge of the deck, where a sunburnt Liam is already holding up his hands like he’s pleading innocence. “Mate! Before you say anything—”

Max turns to you, gesturing wildly. “I’m going to need a holiday from the holiday.”

You just stretch out your legs and smirk. He glares at you half-heartedly before turning back to his brood of soggy, sunburnt children as you lean back, heart full.

Later that evening the sun slips below the horizon in a smear of honeyed gold and dusky violet. The chaos of the day has finally ebbed, the rookies all sunburnt shoulders and sore muscles have finally exhausted themselves after spending an hour trying to outdo one another’s flips off the top deck

Now peace has settled over the yacht like a warm blanket. You and Max are curled up together on the wide cushioned sun bed at the stern, wrapped in the gentle sway of the sea. The soft hum of an old playlist drifts through the speakers, something acoustic and nostalgic, and below deck the faintest trace of laughter rises. Gabi you’re sure is trying to convince Franco to microwave instant noodles without reading the instructions.

You shift, discomfort blooming beneath your ribs, and Max responds before you even ask, his hands guiding your body with practiced gentleness, adjusting the pillows and settling you against him until you exhale in relief. His chest is warm against your back, arm around your shoulders, and one hand resting protectively across the spot where your baby has spent the last half hour attempting to audition for a football team.

“They really appreciate you, you know,” you murmur, voice barely louder than the lapping of the waves.

Max hums. “Because I yell at them less than their engineers?”

You turn your head just enough to glance up at him. “No. Because you care and because they know you’ll be there if need someone.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead his eyes drift to the open water, watching the shimmering lights of another boat in the distance flicker across the black waves like tiny beacons. The sky overhead is velvet now, peppered with stars that haven’t looked this bright in years.

“You think I’ll be good at this?” he asks quietly, voice low and uncertain, that rare vulnerability that slips out only when it’s just you and him and the dark.

You blink, surprised by the question. “Good at what?”

He shifts slightly behind you. “Being a dad.”

Your heart tightens that quiet, aching kind of squeeze that comes when love and sadness meet. You reach for his hand where it rests over your bump, threading your fingers through his.

“You already are,” you whisper.

His eyes flick down to your stomach, then back toward the open door where, just moments ago, Kimi had peeked out, clocked your intertwined limbs and whispered conversation, and silently ducked back in. The rookies had learned quickly that when Max was with you like this, he wasn’t to be disturbed unless something was on fire.

“I just… worry,” he admits. “That I won’t know how to protect them. Or that I’ll be too hard. Or not hard enough. That I’ll screw it up without meaning to.”

You reach up and cup his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of stubble there. He closes his eyes at the touch, like it anchors him.

“Max,” you murmur, “you’ve basically raised six grown toddlers this season without even trying. You’re gentle with Kimi when he’s too proud to ask for help. You talk Gabriel through his imposter syndrome. You let Isack rant about strategy and actually listen. You’ll be great with one baby who’s already biologically programmed to think you’re a god.”

“I just want to do it right,” he breathes.

“You will,” you promise. “You already are.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s soft, filled with the sound of waves lapping against the hull, the distant laughter of boys who haven’t yet set the kitchen on fire, and the quiet hum of two hearts leaning into the future together.

And then—

“GUYS,” Ollie voice cuts through the serenity like a siren, “IS THE OVEN SUPPOSED TO BE SMOKING?!”

Max lets out a long, suffering groan, tilting his head back like he’s praying for strength. “I’m getting a babysitter clause in the next contract.”

You laugh, bright and unfiltered, and the baby kicks again, like they’re in on the joke.

Max glances down at your stomach, then at you, and tightens his arm around you just a little more. You don’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. You can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he kisses your temple and slowly starts rising, mumbling something about “adult supervision” and “setting a minimum IQ requirement for future vacations.”

Still even as he stomps downstairs to save the kitchen from whatever culinary war is unfolding you feel it in your bones.

He’s going to be the best dad in the world.

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caradecema · 2 days ago

Text

The Ace // Formula 1 (2)

PART 9

SUMMARY-

Esme, a rising F2 rookie, struggles under the strict control of her father Luis, hiding exhaustion and bruises. Max Verstappen notices, quietly watching over her while Checo and Yuki try to bring her into the team. Tension builds as Max grows determined to protect her, whether she admits needing help or not.

WARNING: IDK shit about F1 or 2. I just did a quick google search and went from there.

WARNING: CHILD ABUSE!!!

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

The next race weekend arrived with the kind of energy that Esme used to live for — the smell of rubber on tarmac, the hum of engines, the buzz of anticipation in the air. But now, it felt different. Every time she pulled into the paddock, the crowds didn't just cheer for her, they screamed her name, waved Mexican flags, and shoved phones in her face. She was no longer just a driver; she was the story. The girl making history. The daughter of Luis Castro.

Reporters swarmed her like bees to honey, microphones pushing closer and closer:

"Esme, how does it feel to be rewriting Formula 2 history?"

"Do you think you're destined for F1?"

"Esme, can you talk about how it feels to carry the Mexican flag on your shoulders?"

"Do you think you can keep this momentum all season?"

She smiled through it, because she had to, giving polished little soundbites her father would approve of. Inside, though, every question felt like a reminder that she wasn't her own person anymore. She was a brand, a product, a story to be sold.

And then came the celebrities.

At first, she thought maybe it was just one or two faces. A singer she'd heard on the radio. An actor from Netflix. But as her winning streak stretched on, they started arriving in droves. Whole entourages crowded the F2 paddock just to see her.

"Mexico's pride!"

"The future of Formula One!"

"She's going to be the next Checo Pérez!"

Flashbulbs popped as she shook hands with men and women who smiled wide for photos but didn't even know her last name unless it was tied to her father. They wanted to be part of her glow, her momentum. Luis basked in it, his arm always on her shoulder, his voice always chiming in for the cameras: our victory, our hard work, our future.

But to Esme, it didn't feel like celebration. It felt like a circus.

Every time she stood there while Luis paraded her around, she felt like an animal trapped behind glass. They weren't looking at her. They were gawking, pointing, clapping, like she was some rare species they'd never seen before. And the worst part? She couldn't escape it.

In the garage, though, there was still a little light.

Yuki caught her before quali, his goofy grin cutting through the noise. "So, P1 again, huh?" he teased, nudging her shoulder.

She rolled her eyes. "Maybe I'll let you have it this time."

Oscar, passing by with his own engineers, smirked. "Yeah, sure. I'll believe that when I see it."

It wasn't much, but joking with them — even briefly — was the only time she felt like herself. The Esme who was just a driver. The Esme who could laugh.

But the moment Luis returned, barking about split times and strategy, the air shifted. He leaned close, his voice low but sharp: "You need to keep winning. P1. P2 at worst. No excuses. Do you understand?"

She nodded because what else could she do?

The pressure mounted with every lap. She drove flawlessly, her rhythm smooth, her overtakes clean. The commentators were shouting about her once-in-a-generation talent. Fans were on their feet waving flags. Celebrities clapped from VIP boxes.

And yet, inside the car, all she could think was how hollow it felt.

Crossing the line in P2, she heard the cheers roar. She forced a smile in the cooldown lap, waved at the cameras, but her chest was tight. She parked in parc fermé, pulled off her helmet, and the photographers went wild. Luis was there instantly, clapping her on the back like she was a prized horse.

"She's unstoppable!" he bragged into a microphone, beaming as though he had driven every lap.

Esme kept her helmet tucked close to her chest, hiding her clenched fists. She thought about the way the celebrities had stared at her earlier, thought about the cameras that never left her face, thought about her father's greedy hand on her shoulder.

And in that moment, more than ever, she felt like an exhibit. Something to be displayed, admired, consumed.

An animal in a zoo.

And the walls of her cage were getting higher every day.

▀▄▀▄▀▄

The hotel room was dim, the curtains drawn against the city lights outside, casting the room in a soft golden haze from the single lamp on the nightstand. Esme sat cross-legged on the bed, hair damp from a shower, shorts and an oversized hoodie hanging loosely on her frame. She had insisted on wearing shorts now whenever she was around Yuki and Oscar—not because she wanted comfort, but because she wanted them to see. To document. Every faint purple mark, every fading bruise, every fresh welt that hadn't had time to heal.

Yuki sat near the foot of the bed, his phone in his hand but his eyes hesitant. He lifted it, then paused.

"You sure?" he asked quietly, almost guilty.

Esme smirked—her trademark smirk, the one that came when she was seconds from biting too deep into her own pain. "Yeah. Take the picture. Evidence, right? Might as well have an entire gallery called 'My Dad the Bastard.'"

Yuki pressed his lips together but took the picture anyway, the shutter click echoing too loud in the stillness.

Oscar, curled into the armchair beside the bed with a pillow hugged to his chest, frowned. "It's messed up, Esme. You shouldn't have to—"

"—live like this? Be scared? Pretend I'm not falling apart?" she cut him off, tone sharp but laced with exhaustion. She leaned back against the headboard, tilting her head until her eyes locked on his. "No shit. But hey, silver lining, right? At least I look badass in shorts." She let out a humorless laugh.

Neither boy laughed with her.

Yuki's jaw tightened, his knuckles white around his phone. Oscar just stared at her, sadness written all over his face. Esme felt their eyes on her and sighed, raising her hands in mock defense.

"Okay, okay. Too dark for you guys. Fine. But if I don't joke about it, I swear to god I'll end up drinking myself into oblivion just to forget who the hell my dad even is." Her voice cracked on the word dad, and she covered it with another forced chuckle. "So, pick your poison. You want me sarcastic and annoying, or blackout drunk and impossible to deal with?"

Neither answered. The silence stung, but Esme pushed through it, because silence had always been her worst enemy. She reached for the remote, putting on a movie she knew neither of them cared about. It wasn't about the film—it was about drowning out the silence, about pretending they were just three normal teenagers hanging out after a long day.

Halfway through the movie, she leaned into Yuki without realizing it, her body moving on instinct. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand clutching his sleeve like a lifeline. Yuki stiffened at first, then relaxed, letting her stay there.

By the end, she was asleep, breathing slow and shallow, clutching Yuki's arm like she was terrified he'd vanish if she let go.

Oscar stood, walked over, and pulled the blanket over her. He hesitated, then leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. His hand lingered for a moment in her hair, gentle in a way that contrasted too painfully with the violence she endured elsewhere.

He climbed back into the chair, curling up again, watching as Yuki adjusted slightly to let her hold him without waking.

The movie credits rolled in the background, forgotten.

In the dim glow of the hotel lamp, it was the three of them against the world:

two boys quietly vowing to protect the girl who had already survived too much.

Esme blinked her eyes open slowly, the soft hum of the hotel's AC filling the quiet room. For a second she thought she was alone—until she shifted and felt the warmth pressed against her. She glanced down, and there he was. Yuki. His messy black hair stuck up in every direction, his face buried half against her shoulder and half against the pillow, breathing steady and calm. She hadn't even realized last night she had curled up so close to him, but now that she was awake... it didn't feel wrong. It felt safe.

Her lips tugged upward at the corners. The first genuine smile she'd had in days. She carefully shifted, not wanting to wake him, and reached for her phone buzzing faintly on the nightstand. The screen lit up, and immediately a flood of notifications popped up from the group chat.

"Padres de Esme" — that was what Checo had named it, with a string of random emojis following the title.

The most recent message was from Checo himself: a meme of a toddler in a toy car that said "Esme heading into Turn 1 like—".

Max had replied with just: "Accurate."

Oscar followed with: "She drives better than this kid tho 🤣."

And finally, a simple thumbs-up emoji from Yuki—though clearly he'd sent it before he passed out.

Esme let out a soft laugh, muffling it behind her hand so she didn't wake him. She scrolled back through the chat, rereading some of the stupid things they'd sent the night before. Checo ranting about Max not eating tortillas the "right" way. Max sending a picture of his cat mid-yawn with the caption "She looks like Oscar when he loses P2." Oscar firing back with a poorly drawn meme of Max and his sim rig.

She hadn't realized when it happened. When this little group of men—her idols, her teammates, her friends—had stopped being just people in her orbit and had become... hers. Her people. Her chosen family.

Her eyes wandered toward the couch across the room. Oscar was sprawled there, dead to the world, one arm dangling off the side, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. He looked young like this, vulnerable even, not the golden boy racer everyone else saw.

Her throat tightened. She thought of her father—how he would never, ever sit like this, relaxed and trusting in someone else's space. How he only ever looked at her as a tool.

And then she looked back down at Yuki, still snuggled into her side, and something inside her cracked. These boys had seen her bruises. They had heard her drunken sobbing. They had pieced together the parts of her she thought she had to hide forever. And instead of turning away, instead of pretending they hadn't seen, they stayed. They stayed.

Her smile softened, but there was sadness in it too. Because it shouldn't have been them. It should have been her dad. It should have been her family. But it wasn't. It would never be.

She sniffled quietly, clutching the phone against her chest.

"Guess this is what family's supposed to feel like, huh?" she whispered under her breath.

Yuki stirred faintly beside her, but didn't wake. He only shifted closer, like even in sleep he could hear her heart breaking and wanted to protect it.

Esme let her head rest back against the pillow, tears slipping silently down her cheeks as she held onto that thought. For the first time in her life, she wasn't alone, she had a family that had chosen her, and chosen to love her.

▀▄▀▄▀▄

The next day was a rare one: a day off before the next race. No briefings, no simulator hours, no endless rounds of sponsor handshakes. Just them.

"Okay," Yuki declared as they walked out of the hotel lobby, sunglasses on and hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket. "Rule for today: no racing talk. Only fun. If anyone breaks it, they buy the rest of us dinner."

"Yes, boss," Oscar said with exaggerated seriousness, giving him a little salute. Yuki shoved him in the shoulder, rolling his eyes.

Esme laughed at the two of them. "So if I say the word 'engine,' does that count as racing talk or regular talk?"

"Racing talk," Yuki said instantly.

"Car?" she pressed.

"Racing talk."

"Wheels?"

"Racing talk!"

"Okay then, genius," she grinned, "what if I say taco truck with wheels?"

Yuki blinked at her, considering this like it was a serious debate. Oscar groaned, "You're both idiots."

They started with ice cream, each picking wildly different flavors. Esme, naturally, went for the messiest option: chocolate piled with sprinkles, fudge sauce dripping down the cone. After one bite she leaned across the table and swiped her spoon across Oscar's cheek, smearing chocolate right under his eye.

"You're such a child," Oscar groaned, trying to wipe it off with a napkin.

"Correction," Esme said proudly, "I'm the fun one."

Before Oscar could retaliate, Yuki calmly leaned over with a napkin, swiping a big streak across Oscar's other cheek. "Now you're symmetrical."

"Are you kidding me?" Oscar spluttered, but both of them were laughing so hard people turned to stare.

"Don't worry, mate," Esme teased, licking her ice cream, "it's an improvement."

An hour later, Esme had somehow convinced Oscar to give her a piggyback ride through the park.

"You're tall, you're basically built for this!" she insisted, climbing onto his back before he could say no.

"You're lucky you weigh less than a feather," Oscar muttered, though he hooked his arms under her knees securely.

"Don't drop me," she warned dramatically, stretching her arms out like airplane wings. "I'm flying! Look at me, Yuki—I'm a plane!"

"You look more like a chicken," Yuki deadpanned, walking alongside them with his hands in his pockets.

"Wow," Esme gasped, smacking Oscar's shoulder, "did you hear that? He just called me a chicken. You better run, Osc, I need to peck him."

Oscar laughed breathlessly. "I am not running with you on my back—"

Esme leaned down, her chin hooked over Oscar's shoulder. "Don't worry. If you drop me, I'll haunt you forever. I'll make sure all your race radios say embarrassing things about you."

"Knowing you," Oscar said, "it would be in song form."

That got a snort out of Yuki, who shook his head. "You two are exhausting."

"Correction," Esme sang, stretching the word, "we're entertaining."

Oscar shifted her weight higher on his back and said dryly, "Entertaining to who? The pigeons?"

"Yes," she said proudly, "and to myself."

She let out a carefree laugh that rang through the park, startling even herself with how genuine it sounded. For the first time in so long, she wasn't thinking about racing, or pressure, or bruises she had to hide. Just sunlight, her friends, and the ridiculous freedom of being carried on Oscar's back like a kid.

They ended up at a crowded arcade tucked into a side street, the kind of place lit by neon signs and filled with the clatter of coins and the electric buzz of machines. Esme's eyes lit up the moment they walked inside.

"This," she announced dramatically, "is my kingdom."

"You've been here for two seconds," Oscar said flatly, though his smile gave him away.

"Doesn't matter," she shot back, already dragging Yuki toward the row of racing simulators.

Her competitive streak came alive instantly. Sliding into the bucket seat, Esme flicked an imaginary visor down and adopted her best Crofty impression: "And here we are, folks, lights out and away we go! The young rookie Esme Castro is flying through sector one—oh no, Yuki Tsunoda's been left in the dust!"

"I'm right behind you!" Yuki shouted, gripping his plastic wheel like it was life or death.

Oscar stood off to the side filming the whole thing, laughing so hard the camera shook. "This is the most intense arcade race I've ever seen."

The screen blinked with the results—Esme won by a single point. She jumped out of her seat, arms raised in triumph. "Yes! Victory is mine! All hail the queen!"

"The machine is broken," Yuki muttered, sulking as he got up.

"It's okay, mate," Oscar teased, still recording. "Esme's just built different."

"Damn right I am," she said, pointing to the scoreboard like she had just won an actual Grand Prix.

From there they bounced around the arcade like pinballs. At skee-ball, Esme leaned so far forward she was practically climbing onto the machine, muttering like it was a prayer every time she rolled a ball.

"You're cheating," Oscar accused.

"Strategy," Esme corrected, sticking her tongue out as her ball landed in the highest ring. "See? That's called skill."

"You're literally breaking the rules," Yuki said, deadpan, and then promptly beat both of them in basketball hoops, sinking shot after shot without even trying.

"Oh, now you're showing off," Esme grumbled, watching the numbers climb on his screen. "This is rigged."

"You said that about skee-ball two minutes ago," Oscar pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'm allowed," she replied, and nearly dropped her ice cream-sticky cup of tokens when she missed her next shot.

They ended up at the whack-a-mole machine, where Esme's face twisted in cartoonish rage as she smacked the plastic moles with all her strength.

"This is therapeutic!" she shouted over the noise, pounding away. "Each one is my father's face!"

Yuki choked on his soda mid-sip. "What the hell—"

Oscar covered his laugh with a cough. "Dark, but fair."

By the time they reached the dance mats, Esme was flushed with laughter and sugar. She threw herself into the routine with zero rhythm but boundless enthusiasm, stomping wildly to the beat. At one point she tripped over her own feet, nearly falling—but Yuki's hand shot out, catching her by the elbow before she could hit the floor.

"Careful," he murmured, steadying her.

It wasn't much—a quiet thing, almost casual—but the small, rare smile he gave her afterward made something in her chest tighten. She grinned back, breathless, and for once it felt easy to laugh at herself instead of break under the weight she always carried.

Of course, people noticed them. A girl in the corner with her phone out tried to be subtle, whispering excitedly to her friend as she snapped a few pictures.

"They're gonna end up on Twitter in, like, five seconds," Oscar said as they left, tugging his cap lower.

He was right. By the time they stepped outside into the cool night air, the photos were already circulating online.

"Esme Castro spotted with Yuki Tsunoda & Oscar Piastri on their day off—look how happy she looks 🥺"

"Protect these three at all costs."

"The F2 trio we didn't know we needed."

Esme didn't see any of it. Her phone was still sitting on her hotel bed, buzzing endlessly. Missed calls stacked one after the other. Dozens of texts piling in. Luis's name filling the screen again and again.

But she was too busy right now, laughing as Oscar carried the plush toy she'd won at skee-ball like it was his child, Yuki shaking his head at both of them as if he weren't secretly enjoying himself too.

For a few precious hours, she let herself forget.

▀▄▀▄▀▄

The hotel elevator dinged softly, and Esme stepped out, still riding the high from the day. Her cheeks were warm from the kisses she'd left on Yuki's and Oscar's faces in thanks, and her chest ached from smiling so much. It had been good. A normal day. A day where she felt her age instead of the weight of the world.

She practically skipped to her room, humming under her breath. The shower steamed around her minutes later, washing off the stickiness of ice cream and arcade dust. For a while, she just stood there, eyes closed, pretending this was her life always—friends, laughter, freedom.

When she stepped out, towel around her shoulders, the dream shattered.

Luis was waiting.

He sat in the chair by the window like a shadow, his face unreadable. Esme froze, every ounce of warmth draining from her skin.

"Papá?" her voice cracked.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence said enough.

He rose, slow and deliberate, until he was standing inches from her. His breath smelled faintly of whiskey. Esme clutched the towel tighter around herself, her throat dry.

The first slap came so fast her head snapped to the side. Her skin burned hot, her ears ringing. She didn't even get a chance to process before the second landed. Then the third.

She staggered back, stunned, but Luis followed, each blow harder than the last, until she crashed into the wall. Her towel slipped, and she barely managed to grab it before he shoved her down.

"Papá, por favor—"

Her plea cut off with the force of his boot driving into her stomach. Pain ripped through her, sharp and white, her breath torn away. She curled instinctively, but it didn't stop him.

When she looked up at him through blurred vision, tears streaking her face, the horror was complete. He raised his fist and slammed it across her cheek. The crack echoed in the room, her body slumping sideways, her lip splitting against her teeth.

The world tilted.

Finally, finally, Luis spoke. His voice was low, cold, almost conversational.

"Ignore me like that again," he said, adjusting the cuff of his shirt as if he hadn't just beaten his daughter bloody, "and I will end you. Entupida, escuincla"

The door clicked shut behind him.

Esme slid to the floor, trembling so hard she couldn't move. Her reflection in the mirror across the room was unrecognizable—her face swollen, her lip bleeding, her eye already darkening.

The laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in her ears, a ghost of the happiness she had clung to for one fragile day.

Now, all she could hear was her father's voice. The door slammed behind him, and silence fell.

Esme stayed on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, towel clutched desperately around her. She couldn't breathe. Every inhale felt jagged, like her ribs were made of glass. Her cheek throbbed. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth onto the hotel carpet.

For a moment, she just shook—her entire body trembling uncontrollably, teeth chattering though the room wasn't cold. Then the first sob ripped out of her, ragged and broken, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than lungs.

She pressed her fists against her forehead and screamed.

"¡Maldito seas, Luis!" Her voice cracked, fury breaking through the pain. "¡Eres un monstruo! ¡Un maldito monstruo!"

Her sobs choked her, but she kept spitting the words through clenched teeth, rage spilling out like fire through the cracks. She slammed her fist against the wall once, twice, until her knuckles stung.

"¡Te juro por mi madre, Luis Castro, que vas a pagar!" Her Spanish was raw, venomous, the sound of someone who had been silenced too long finally daring to bite back.

Tears blurred her vision. She crawled toward the mirror, dragging herself up onto trembling legs. Her reflection made her stomach turn: swollen lip, bruises already blooming across her face, red handprints stark against her skin.

She touched her own cheek, flinched, and let out another scream, collapsing to her knees again.

"Voy a hacerte pagar," she whispered this time, hoarse, almost a vow. "Aunque me destruya, te haré pagar."

The words shook in the quiet, but she meant them. For the first time, she wasn't just crying—she was promising.

Her tears slowed only when exhaustion crushed her into the carpet. She curled up on the floor, clutching herself tight, whispering the same words over and over like a prayer:

"Te haré pagar... te haré pagar... te haré pagar..." (you will pay)

Until her voice gave out, and all that was left was silence and the echo of her vow.

▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰▰

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #checoperez father figure #checoperezfanfictin #max vertsappen father figure #max vertsappen fic #luiscastrocandie #yuki tsunoda #oscar piastri #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 #f1protege #f1 fanfic #protege #child abuse

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444eggnog · 2 months ago

Text

Tell Me You Want It

✍︎: i cannot help but post when i saw that one TikTok of Lando taking a pic with a kid dressed as him and immediately spiraled. hope you enjoy the fluff, the teasing, and the “baby fever in the paddock” vibes. this is 100% my way of avoiding responsibilities lol. also how amazing did lando do on fp2, fp3, and quali?? ♡

masterlist ! ☻

content: baby fever, soft domestic teasing, flirty but sweet, established relationship

warnings: light smut/suggestive content, mild language

pairing: teasing-but-soft bf Lando x gf reader

wc: 1.2k

They were walking through the paddock hand in hand, the morning sun turning the McLaren orange on Lando’s suit almost blinding. Y/N wore one of his team shirts, her hair twisted up in a way that let her sunglasses perch on her head.

She was in the middle of teasing him about the strategy meeting when she spotted it. A tiny boy, maybe three, with a cardboard replica of Lando’s helmet wobbling on his head, a McLaren race suit drowning his limbs. He was hiding behind his mother’s leg, peeking out with big eyes, clearly too shy to approach.

Y/N stopped walking so abruptly Lando nearly tripped over her.

“What?” he asked, exasperated.

She didn’t even answer at first. Just grabbed his wrist and tugged, nodding toward the kid.

“Lando. Look at him.”

He squinted, then his face cracked into a grin.

“Oh my god. That’s actually sick. He’s me.”

“He’s so cute,” she whispered. Her voice had gone warm and floaty in that way he secretly loved. “Go over there. Say hi.”

Lando hesitated, pretending to be put out.

“What if he cries?”

“He’s not gonna cry. Go.”

She gave him the tiniest push and he huffed but obeyed. He crouched down in front of the boy, pulling off his sunglasses so his face was less intimidating.

“Hey, buddy. Is that my helmet you’re wearing?”

The kid just blinked at him, wide-eyed. Then nodded.

Y/N had her phone up immediately. She snapped picture after picture while Lando gently ruffled the kid’s hair and posed with a big grin, even pointing to the helmet like a dork.

When the mom thanked them profusely and they finally walked on, Y/N was grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. She sent Lando one of the photos right away, her fingers tapping rapidly.

“You’re gonna make that kid’s whole year,” she told him.

“Yeah. Future world champ, that one.”

But he caught the way she was still looking at her phone. The soft little smile she didn’t bother hiding.

It wasn’t until just before the race that he really noticed her staring at it again. She was off to the side of the garage, sunglasses perched on her head, biting her lip as she zoomed in on the photo.

He sidled up, voice pitched teasingly low so no one else could hear.

“You want one of those, don’t you.”

Her head jerked up, eyes narrowing.

“What?”

He smirked.

“A mini me. Just saying… you look like you’re planning it already.”

She rolled her eyes so hard he thought they’d get stuck.

“Shut up and focus on your race.”

But her cheeks were pink.

Got her, he thought smugly as he climbed into the car.

─── 🏁

A week later, they were at home. It was raining outside, the steady tap of drops against the windows the only sound for a while. She sat curled on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, legs tucked under her, scrolling aimlessly.

Lando couldn’t get that look on her face at the track out of his head.

He set down his phone and shifted toward her.

“So.”

She didn’t look up. “Hm?”

“About that baby.”

She sighed immediately, shaking her head.

“Don’t start.”

He smiled slowly.

“Oh, I’m definitely starting.”

She kicked off her slippers. He stood, crossing the floor with deliberate slowness until she had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

“Lando…” Her tone was warning.

He didn’t stop. He crowded closer, planting a hand on the back of the couch so he was looming over her. His voice dipped, rough.

“Say it again. Tell me you want one.”

She glared, trying to hold onto her dignity.

“I want one. Someday.”

He hummed, clearly not satisfied.

“Someday’s not good enough.”

He leaned in and kissed her. Hard. She gasped against him, her hands braced on his chest, fingers curling. He pulled back just enough to look in her eyes, smirking.

“Let’s make it sooner.”

She shoved at him lightly.

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

His hands slid to her hips, fingers digging in enough to make her squirm.

“Just saying… whenever you want to start trying for that mini Lando, you let me know.”

Her breath hitched. He saw it. The flicker of real want in her eyes.

He grinned.

“Fuck, you do want it.”

“When we’re ready,” she fired back, defensive but breathless. “When everything’s set up. When we’re not traveling every week and living out of suitcases.”

“I’d give it all up for you.”

That shut her up. Her mouth parted, eyes going soft and stunned.

“I would,” he continued, relentless. “For you. For us.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear.

She shivered. He felt her start to crack.

“Don’t promise that if you don’t mean it,” she whispered, voice almost broken.

He cupped her face with both hands, kissing her softer now.

“I mean every fucking word.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. When they opened, they were dark with something deeper than lust.

“I do want it,” she whispered.

He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Say it again.”

“I want to have your baby.”

He made a guttural sound, lifting her without warning. She squealed, legs wrapping around his waist, kissing him like she’d been starving for it.

They crashed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Clothes came off in frantic, graceless motions. Their mouths barely parted, teeth clashing, breaths ragged.

“Tonight,” he growled between kisses. “Let me put the idea in your head.”

She arched up into him, nails dragging down his back.

“You’re insane,” she gasped.

“Bet you like me this way,” he teased.

He slowed down then, kissing her deeply. His hands roamed everywhere. Waist. Ribs. Thighs. The soft underside of her breast.

“I want to see you all round and glowing,” he rasped. “Want to know you’re mine in every way.”

She whimpered, burying her face in his neck.

“Stop talking like that.”

“Why?”

He pulled back to stare her down, eyes blown wide with hunger and something achingly tender.

“Because it makes you want it more?”

She couldn’t answer. Her breathing was too ragged. He smirked, but there was too much heat in it.

“Fuck, I’d put a baby in you right now if you let me.”

She shuddered. He kissed her jaw. Her collarbone.

“I want it,” she admitted, voice cracking.

He froze, eyes searching hers.

“Now?”

She hesitated, even through the lust, serious.

“When we’re ready. When we’re stable.”

He huffed softly, biting at her skin.

“Let’s practice until then.”

She let out a laugh that turned into a gasp when his mouth slid lower. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, desperate.

After that, words failed them. Just the sound of rain on the roof, the creak of the bed, and their breathless, ragged moans.

Later, the room was dark and quiet except for their breathing. She lay half on top of him, his hand drew idle circles on her hip.

“Just saying…” he murmured, voice lazy and smug. “Whenever you want to start for real… you tell me.”

She closed her eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

“I will.”

He leaned down, voice right in her ear.

“Hope it’s soon.”

She snorted, smacking his chest lightly.

“Horny idiot.”

He just laughed, warm and low, kissing her again and again, until she gave up and kissed him back.

And somewhere between the laughter and the quiet breathing, she let herself imagine it. Them. Someday. A family. And it didn’t seem so far away at all.

#lando norris #ln4 #lando norris x reader #lando norris blurb #lando norris imagines #lando x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #lando norris au #lando x oc #lando x you #lando norris fluff #lando norris smut #lando norris drabble #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #ln4 x reader #ln4 x y/n #444eggnog

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harrysfolklore · 17 days ago

Text

put a ring on it - cl16

summary: charles and his girlfriend have been together for ten years, everyone wonders when is he going to propose

folkie radio: hi guysss, this idea was originally posted for alex on patreon buuut i decided to turn it into a charles fic since it's been sooo long since the last time i wrote for him and i missed it. i hope you like it!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 209,755 others

yourinstagram just like the past nine years and ten months, I'll be cheering for charlie from the garage !! je t'aime plus que tout au monde, mon coeur. Tu es mon bonheur quotidien 🤍 [ i love you more than anything in the world, my heart. you are my daily happiness]

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username1 MY PARENTS

username2 TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY INCOMING LET'S GO

charles_leclerc Mon amour, you are my strength and motivation. I love you infinitely

└ username1 MARRY HER ALREADY

└ username2 she's really the love of his life

lando get married already you two 😂

carmenmmundt The cutest couple in the paddock! ❤️

username3 NINE YEARS?? charles bestie it's time to propose fr fr

username4 the way he looks at her in the garage >>> everyone place your bets on when he's finally gonna propose

username5 how are they the most stable couple in f1 but still not engaged? charles wyd?

username6 living for how lando pressuring him in the comments lmaooo

username7 CHARLES JUST PUT A RING ON IT

username8 the fact that they've been together since before he even got to f1 🥺 truly growing together

iamrebeccad Cuties !! When's the wedding?

└ username2 becca asking the REAL questions

username9 almost ten years and no ring is crazy

username10 if they don’t get married i don’t think i can believe in love anymore

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,196,535 others

charles_leclerc Unlucky day but I’ve tried it all. Next is Monaco, thank you for all the support ❤️ And special thanks to my rock for the last 9 years @/yourinstagram for constantly reminding me that there's always another race. I love you, mon amour.

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username1 FERRARI YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES

username2 always including yn in his captions 🥺

pierregasly Chin up, champ

username3 we'll always be by your side supporting you no matter what

username4 FORZA CHARLES

username5 u know what would give you good luck? proposing to yn

username6 all these beautiful captions and no ring

scuderiaferrari Forza sempre ❤️

lewishamilton Having a good support system makes all better and you have the best support ever, mate. Next race will be better

username7 charles leclerc if you don't marry that woman istg

username8 yn needs to give him a huge hug from us

username9 STILL MY GOAT

yourinstagram you'll always be my champion 🤍 i love you and i'll always be here for you

username10 he's so lucky to have yn 🥺

liked by username1, username2 and 2,946 others

f1updates Charles talked about future plans regarding marriage during new podcast episode:

"I mean... laughs I don't know, we're just enjoying where we are right now. YN and I are happy, that's what matters."

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username1 CHARLES MARC HERVE PERCEVAL LECLERC ARE YOU KIDDING ME RN?? "i don't know" MY BROTHER IN CHRIST IT'S BEEN 10 YEARS 😭

username2 i know my girl yn is TIRED

username3 remember when he couldn't even admit they were dating for the first 6 months

username4 boy better have a ring hidden somewhere because what do you mean "i don't know"

username5 THIS CANT BEREAL

username6 ten years and no ring is just diabolical

username7 charles really said "commitment? in this economy?" sir it's been a DECADE

username8 he's definitely planning something because ain't no way 😭

username9 man's out here acting like they haven't been together since before half the grid even had their super license

username10 ten years and he still gets flustered talking about their relationship in public, honestly kinda cute tho

username11 the way she just KNOWS he's probably got something planned because ain't no way he's this dense after 10 years

username12 charles really said "marriage? i hardly know her" SIR THAT IS YOUR GIRLFRIEND OF 10 YEARS

liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 198,760 others

yourinstagram P2 at home!!! 🇲🇨 so proud of you my love, you fought so hard today! seeing you on the podium in monaco will never get old ❤️ je suis tellement fière de toi mon amour, tu mérites le monde entier [I'm so proud of you my love, you deserve the whole world]

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username1 THESE CUTIESSS

username2 i love them so bad

charles_leclerc Merci d'être toujours là mon coeur ❤️ Coming home to celebrate with you makes every podium even more special 🤍 [thank you for always being there my heart]

└ yourinstagram I love you for ever !

lewishamilton Great drive today Charles! You two are glowing 🙌

└ username1 even lewis roots for them as he should

username3 HOME RACE PODIUM + GORGEOUS GF = PERFECT PROPOSAL OPPORTUNITY HELLO???

username4 the way she still looks at him like a proud girlfriend from his karting days 🥺 charles pls put a ring on it

carmenmmundt Cuties !!!

username5 bro got p2 at his home race with his gf of almost 10 years watching and STILL didn't propose i'm throwing hands

arthur_leclerc The only thing missing from this perfect Monaco weekend was a proposal

└ username1 ARTHUR HAS NO CHILL

└ charles_leclerc ?

└ username2 CHARLES STOP ACTING DENSE

└ yourinstagram arthur you messy minx

username6 not me refreshing their instas every 5 mins hoping to see an engagement announcement 😭

username7 the way every comment is about proposing LMAO we're all thinking it tho

username8 petition for charles to stop being a chicken and propose already, my guy you've been together longer than some marriages

username9 plot twist: he's waiting for a race win to propose 👀

username10 CHARLES JUST PROPOSE FFS

liked by yourinstagram, carlossainz55 and 1,987,937 others

charles_leclerc 10 years with you by my side. From karting to Formula 1, from teenagers to who we are today, you've been my constant. Every victory, every defeat, every moment has been better because I get to share it with you. Joyeux anniversaire mon amour ❤️ Ces dix années ne sont que le début de notre histoire. Tu es l'amour de ma vie, aujourd'hui et pour toujours [happy anniversary my love. these ten years are just the beginning of our story. you are the love of my life, today and forever]

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username1 I JUST SOBBED REALLY LOUDLY

username2 this is absolutely beautiful

leclerc_pascale Beautiful ! Love both of you

yourinstagram je t'aime plus que les mots peuvent l'exprimer ❤️ here's to forever with you my love [I love you more than words can express]

username3 bro wrote a whole love letter but still no ring? 🤔

username4 mans really said "these 10 years are just the beginning" instead of proposing

carlossainz55 You're killing us mate 😭 Beautiful words though!

maxverstappen1 Bro, come on

arthur_leclerc Beautiful words brother, however...

username5 charles writing poetry about their love but refusing to propose is my villain origin story

username6 THE FIRST PHOTO I'M CRYING they literally grew up together 🥺

username7 even max is calling him out i'm deceased 💀 charles the world is waiting!!

username8 10 YEARS AND STILL NO RING?? this man really testing our patience fr

username9 the way he could've made this the perfect proposal post... charles leclerc i'm watching you

username10 taking bets on whether he'll wait for the 15 year anniversary at this point

username11 EVERYONE IS JUST WAITING FOR HIM TO PROPOSE

username12 this man really said "just the beginning" my brother in christ it's been a DECADE

liked by charles_leclerc, kikagomes and 201,875 others

yourinstagram une décennie d'amour, de rires, et de rêves partagés avec toi 🤍 from watching you race in Formula 3 to celebrating podiums in f1, from our tiny first apartment to our home in monaco, from teenagers in love to building our life together. every moment with you has been an adventure. thank you for making these 10 years feel like a fairytale, mon amour. je t'aimerai toujours, mon charles ❤️ [a decade of love, laughter, and shared dreams with you. i will always love you, my charles]

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username1 AWEEE MY HEART

username2 i'm still sobbing

charles_leclerc Ma vie, mon tout ❤️ These 10 years have been the best gift life could give me [my life, my everything]

carmenmmundt The way you two still look at each other like teenagers in love 🥺❤️ Happy anniversary!

pierregasly Charles my friend, this is the perfect moment

username3 that first apartment photo 😭

username4 TEN YEARS OF PURE LOVE AND STILL NO RING?? charles baby what is you doing

lando may this love find me

username5 the way she's been with him through every step of his racing career. ultimate supportive gf

username6 CHARLES JUST PROPOSE

username7 the fact that even pierre is done waiting at this point lmaooo

username8 petition for charles to stop being a coward and propose to this queen already

username9 THE THIRD PHOTO IS LEGENDARY

username10 their love story is literally better than any romance movie and yet MY MAN STILL HASN'T PROPOSED

username11 the way they went from young kids in love to power couple but still look at each other the same way 🥺 charles pls propose we're begging

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

yourinstagram has added to their stories

charles_leclerc has added to their stories

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 13,985 others

c16updates Charles and YN arriving to Lorenzo Leclerc's wedding in Monaco today! YN serving as one of the bridesmaids!

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username1 I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

username2 power couple

username3 not charles watching his brother get married while yn is still waiting for a ring i- 💀

username4 YN YOU BETTER CATCH THAT BOUQUET

username5 seeing yn as a bridesmaid at her bf's BROTHER'S wedding when she should've been a bride years ago... pain.

username6 the second hand embarrassment watching charles dodge marriage questions from relatives all day 🥴

username7 my girl been a bridesmaid at different weddings in the f1 paddock INCLUDING HER BF'S BROTHER now... charles baby what is you doing

username8 the fact that lorenzo met his wife AFTER charles and yn started dating... and got married first... i have no words

username9 yn's fake smile every time someone asks when it's her turn >>>> girl we know you're tired 😭

username10 yn looking absolutely gorgeous as always but imagine her in a WEDDING dress... charles you're fumbling the bag fr fr

username11 the amount of times charles probably heard "you're next!" today... boy you've been next for like 5 years now

username12 someone check on yn cause watching your man at his brother's wedding after 10 years of dating is ROUGH

username13 the way every single guest was probably staring at charles waiting for him to get inspired... we're all tired bestie

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,023,887 others

charles_leclerc Congratulations to my big brother Lorenzo and his beautiful bride Charlotte❤️ What a perfect day celebrating your love. Thank you for showing us all what true love looks like.

view all comments

username1 LECLERC SUPREMACY

username2 you next charlie

lorenzotl Merci petit frère! Now it's your turn... 👀 YN's been part of the family for 10 years already anyway

└ username1 DRAGGED HIM FAIR AND SQUARE

└ username2 HEEELP

└ arthur_leclerc Even I might get married before Charles at this rate 💀

└ username3 ARTHUR IS SO SAVAGE AND FOR WHAT

yourinstagram Such a beautiful day ❤️

username4 CHARLES POSTING ABOUT "TRUE LOVE" WHILE YN IS STILL WAITING FOR A RING IS WILD

username5 not arthur dragging him in the comments i'm deceased 💀

username6 the way yn just commented "beautiful day" instead of joining the roast... queen behavior

username7 charles really posted about his brother's wedding like we wouldn't all come for him in the comments

username8 YN watching both of charles' brothers make marriage jokes while she's been waiting a decade: 🧍‍♀️

username9 everyone in the comments asking "you when??" and charles is probably pretending not to see

username10 lorenzo said "yn's been part of the family for 10 years" EXACTLY SO PUT A RING ON IT

username11 how you gonna post about celebrating true love when you won't propose to YOUR true love?? make it make sense

username12 even his own brothers are tired of waiting omg 😭 charles wake up

username13 CHARLES JUST PUT A RING ON IT FFS

username14 the way yn probably had to dodge "when are you next?" questions all night... girl deserves a medal

username15 charles talking about "true love" my brother in christ YOU'VE HAD TRUE LOVE FOR 10 YEARS NOW PROPOSE

liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 196,589 others

yourinstagram White is always a good idea ✨

📸: @/charles_leclerc

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username1 BEAUTIFULLLL

username2 this is the it girl

carmenmmundt If this isn't a sign I don't know what is

iamrebeccad Looking like a bride already 😍

charles_leclerc La plus belle ❤️

username3 GIRL IS LITERALLY SHOWING HIM WHAT SHE'D LOOK LIKE AS A BRIDE AND HE STILL- 😭

username4 not her having charles take the photo in a WHITE DRESS... the hints are getting less subtle bestie

username5 charles be like "wow my gorgeous girlfriend in white" and not "wow my future wife in white" OPEN YOUR EYES

username6 she's been wearing more and more white lately and this man is still absolutely CLUELESS

username7 CHARLES WAKE TF UP

username8 the way she tagged him as the photographer like YES LOOK AT HER IN WHITE YOU FOOL

username9 this woman could literally wear a wedding dress to dinner and charles would be like "nice outfit babe"

username10 even the other wags are dropping hints in the comments i'm screaming 😭

username11 charles taking pretty pics of her in white instead of proposing to her in white... we're tired

username12 your girl is serving BRIDE and you're serving photographer... charles wake up

username13 THIS IS PAINFUL TO WATCH

liked by username1, username2 and 17,038 others

f1gossip Charles Leclerc gets asked about marriage plans during #F1Premiere red carpet interview 👀

Interviewer: "Your brother just got married, any plans to follow suit soon?" Charles: "Ah you know, we're very happy as we are right now..."

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username1 NOT YN'S FACE WHEN HE SAID "HAPPY AS WE ARE" PLS 💀 girl was fighting demons on that red carpet

username2 the way she's perfected that smile while dying inside... 10 years of practice will do that to you 😭

username3 charles really said "happy as we are" my brother in christ she is NOT happy as you are

username4 everyone catching yn's eye twitch when he said that... we saw it girl

username5 the way every interviewer asks this now bc they know we're all TIRED of waiting

username6 "happy as we are" translation: i'm terrified of commitment even tho i've been committed for 10 years make it make sense

username7 JUST PUT A FCKING RING ON IT

username8 yn standing there like 🧍‍♀️ while this man fumbles for the 500th time... somebody save her

username9 charles dodging marriage questions like he dodges podiums this season

username10 not her having to hear this man say they're "happy as they are" for the 74628th time... girl blink twice if you need help

username11 the second hand embarrassment is real... even the interviewer was like bruh 😭

username12 at this point we need ferrari to add "propose to yn" to his contract requirements

username13 the way every driver in the background was just watching this trainwreck...

username14 petition for yn to start answering these questions instead cause we know she'd say what we're all thinking

liked by username1, username2 and 18,099 others

f1paddocktea🚨 SPOTTED: Charles Leclerc and YN in Lake Como, Italy for a romantic getaway during the summer break! Sources say they're staying at the ultra-exclusive Villa d'Este 👀

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username1 NOT LAKE COMO... THE MOST ROMANTIC PLACE IN ITALY... IS THIS FINALLY IT??!!

username2 my man picked the most proposal-worthy spot in europe this better not be another false alarm 😭

username3 IM GOING TO SCREAM

username4 please let this be it because if he takes her to lake como just for a regular vacation i'm throwing hands

username5 CHARLES IF THAT'S NOT A RING IN THERE I STG

username6 the way we're all invested in this proposal like it's our own

username7 manifesting engagement pics with that lake como view

username8 if this man booked villa d'este just to give her another necklace i'm calling max to fight him

username9 yn probably not even getting her hopes up anymore

username10 the girlies in the paddock about to catch a flight to como if he doesn't do it this time

username11 charles taking yn to the most romantic hotel in italy like "yes perfect spot for a casual vacation"

username12 CHARLES. JUST DO IT

username13 everyone refreshing their feeds every 2 seconds waiting for that ring pic

username14 the pressure on this man rn...

username15 JUST PUT A RING ON IT

username16 if he doesn't propose here where literally THOUSANDS of people have gotten engaged... boy needs help

username17 imagine booking the most famous proposal spot in italy and NOT proposing... charles don't you dare

liked by charles_leclerc, lilyzneimer and 201,003 others

yourinstagram perfect weekend getaway in lake como with my love ❤️ already missing these views...

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username1 she posted these WITHOUT a ring... CHARLES LECLERC I WILL FIGHT YOU

username2 NOT HIM TAKING HER TO THE MOST ROMANTIC PLACE IN ITALY AND STILL- 💀

username3 the way she probably had her nails done just in case... girl we're so sorry

lilymhe cutiesss 🤍🤍

arthur_leclerc I'm going to slap my brother...

username4 ARTHUR IS SO REAL

username5 lakeside dinners? and NO RING??? charles you're actually insane

username6 she's posting these like a normal vacation because she's used to the disappointment at this point i'm crying

username7 the most proposal-worthy location in europe and he did NOTHING... i've lost all hope

iamrebecca Pretty girl !! I would marry you

lando hey can you put charles on the phone real quick ?? just wanna talk

username8 yn is stronger than the military because how are you still posting cute captions after THIS disappointment

username9 everyone who had "lake como proposal" in their 2025 bingo card: 🤡

username10 the way she's probably immune to romantic locations now... girl's been to venice, paris, amalfi coast, santorini, and now como with NO RING

username11 charles really said "let me take her to the #1 proposal spot in italy... to take photos" BRO WHAT

username12 she's so real for not even hinting at her disappointment in the caption... we know you're tired queen

username13 at this point she could wake up to rose petals and candles and would be like "aw nice decoration" because THE TRAUMA

username14 the fact that they probably walked past 17 proposals during this trip while she's still waiting... prison for charles

charles_leclerc Mon amour ❤️

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by charles_leclerc, carmenmmundt and 202,544 others

yourinstagram congratulations marco & sofia! ✨ such a beautiful day celebrating your love! and look what I caught... 😉

view all comments

username1 another wedding thats not her own i might cry

username2 CHARLES ARE YOU BLIND

charles_leclerc You looked so happy catching it ❤️

└ lorenzotl Some would say it's a sign... 👀

└ arthur_leclerc big bro you good? need someone to explain what catching the bouquet means?

└ username1 HIS BROTHERS DRAGGING HIM AGAIN AS THEY SHOULD

└ username2 THIS IS EVIL

iamrebeccad The way you DOVE for that bouquet girl 😂 We all saw that determination

lilymhe now we wait... again...

username3 CHARLES REALLY COMMENTED "you looked happy catching it" LIKE IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING I'M GONNA LOSE IT

username4 not his own brothers and co worker's girlfriends dragging him in the comments 💀

username5 she caught the bouquet in front of him and this man still acting clueless... i've never seen this level of density

username6 at this point he's just playing dumb i feel for my girl yn

username7 THE WAY SHE LITERALLY HAD TO FIGHT THREE OTHER GIRLS FOR THAT BOUQUET... girl is TRYING

username8 charles watching her catch the bouquet like "wow nice flowers" BRO WAKE UP

username9 even his brothers are tired of waiting omg 😭

username10 yn collecting bouquets like infinity stones at this point but charles still not getting the hint

username11 universe is literally screaming at him

username12 someone needs to explain to charles that catching the bouquet means YOU'RE NEXT

username13 PUT. A FUCKING. RING ON IT

username14 "you looked so happy catching it" YES BECAUSE SHE WANTS TO GET MARRIED YOU FOOL

username15 his brothers in the comments trying to knock some sense into him i'm crying

username16 she's caught more bouquets than charles has won races this season... make it make sense

liked by username1, username2 and 10,985 others

f1gossip deuxmoi via stories, maybe charles will finally put a ring on it 😭

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username1 we've been here 500 times before bestie 😭 remember the van cleef "spotting" last year?

username2 deuxmoi girl we love you but this man has been "spotted" at every jewelry store in monaco since 2019 💀

username3 until i see the ring ON HER FINGER i'm not believing anything anymore

username4 "spending time in engagement ring section" yeah probably buying another necklace 🤡

username5 source: trust me bro

username6 deuxmoi posting this like we haven't had 37 "charles spotted at jewelry store" posts before

username7 wake me up when she's actually wearing the ring because...

username8 he was probably looking for a "happy 11th anniversary" gift knowing him 💀

username9 everyone rushing to yn's instagram to check her hands in latest posts... we're so traumatized

username10 this man could be filling out marriage papers and i still wouldn't believe it until the ceremony's over

username11 the way we all got excited about the cartier spotting in 2023... and 2024... never again

username12 deuxmoi bestie we've been hurt too many times... we're not falling for this again

username13 yn probably seeing this like "ah yes another necklace coming my way"

username14 girl's probably got enough jewelry to open her own store but NO RING

username15 at this point he could be down on one knee and we'd be like "probably tying his shoelace"

liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 1,044,388 others

charles_leclerc Coming home to you is the best part of any race weekend, win or lose. You're my constant in this crazy life and I couldn't imagine doing any of this without you. Mon coeur ❤️

view all comments

username1 BABIESSS

username2 these are my parents

yourinstagram Always here for you ❤️ So proud of everything you do x

maxverstappen1 Mate... you know what would make coming home even better? 💍

└ username1 MAX WTFF

└ username2 i love that he can't mind his business

carlossainz55 Amigo... there's a way to make her your permanent "constant" you know... 👀

└ username3 THATS IT DRAG HIM

lewishamilton Beautiful words brother, now put them in some vows 😉

└ username2 THIS IS WAY TOO FUNNY

username4 NOT HIM POSTING ABOUT COMING HOME TO HER WHEN HE WON'T GIVE HER A HOME ADDRESS CHANGE 💀

username5 "my constant in this crazy life" BRO MAKE IT LEGAL THEN

username6 charles writing romantic novels in his captions but can't write proposal speech

username7 this man really said "couldn't imagine doing any of this without you" but won't say "will you marry me"

username8 the drivers in his comments trying to guide this man to a jewelry store

username9 carlos straight up begging his best friend to propose at this point

username10 yn probably reading this like "cool another instagram caption but still no ring"

username11 "coming home to you is the best part" THEN PUT A RING ON IT???

username12 drivers in the comments doing everything except sending him actual ring pics

username13 lewis basically saying "less posting more proposing"

username14 she's been his "constant" for 10 years maybe make her his wife???

username15 the way everyone including his competitors are tired of waiting for this proposal

username16 charles will write poetic captions about their love but won't write marriage vows make it make sense

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, yourinstagram and 4,085,483 others

charles_leclerc She said yes! ❤️ (After asking me what took me so long 😅) Can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you, my love.

view all comments

username1 OH MY FUCKING GODDD

username2 IT HAPPENED

yourinstagram only took 10 years and 16 caught bouquets 😘 je t'aime forever ❤️

lorenzotl FINALLY!!! Welcome officially to the family (though you've been our sister for years anyway) ❤️

arthur_leclerc THE DENSITY IS FINALLY OVER 🎉 So happy for you both!

pierregasly About damn time mate! Kika's already planning the bachelorette party 😂

kikagomes FINALLY WE CAN START WEDDING PLANNING!!! (also yes I'm planning the wildest bachelorette)

lilymhe I'M LITERALLY CRYING!!! The group chat manifesting worked girls 😭❤️

carlossainz55 So happy for you both! (Also I told you that spot would be perfect)

lewishamilton Love wins! Congratulations you beautiful souls ❤️

username3 THE DROUGHT IS OVER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL

username4 "after asking what took me so long" GIRL SPOKE FOR ALL OF US

username5 SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP IT FINALLY HAPPENED

username6 THE WAY I JUST BROKE THE SOUND BARRIER SCREAMING

username7 carlos helped plan the proposal i'm sobbing this friendship 😭

username8 THE GIRLS ALREADY PLANNING THE BACHELORETTE WE LOVE TO SEE IT

username9 "only took 11 years and 16 caught bouquets" I'M DECEASED 💀

username10 THE WAIT IS OVER. THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE

username11 all the drivers commenting like proud parents who watched their dense son finally figure it out 😭

username12 THE ENTIRE F1 COMMUNITY IS CELEBRATING LIKE WE WON A CHAMPIONSHIP

username13 watching this relationship since 2013 i feel like a proud mother 😭

username14 THE WAIT IS OVER. I WAS HERE. WITNESSING HISTORY.

username15 lily confirming the wag group chat manifestation i'm crying 😭

username16 THE LONGEST ENGAGEMENT WATCH IN F1 HISTORY IS FINALLY OVER

liked by charles_leclerc, iamrebeccad and 1,094,738 others

yourinstagram he FINALLY figured out what to do with all those jewelry store visits. from karting girlfriend to fiancée - only took 11 years, 16 bouquets, 43 wedding guest appearances, and approximately 3,947 hints but WE MADE IT 🤍

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username1 I STILL CANT BELIEVE THIS

username2 GIRL YOU DID IT

charles_leclerc To be fair, I was a bit slow on the uptake 😅❤️ Can't wait to marry you mon amour

username3 THE HINT COUNTER IN THE CAPTION 💀 Girl really kept receipts

iamrebeccad Not you counting all the weddings we went to 😭 But we did it bestie!!!

carmenmmundt The group chat can finally rest! So happy for you!!

lorenzotl "3,947 hints" and that's just the ones we counted

arthur_leclerc the most patient woman in motorsport 👏🏼

username4 “approximately 3,947 hints" girl was running STATISTICS

username5 the way she tracked every single wedding they attended together... dedication

username6 "finally figured out what to do with all those jewelry store visits" I'M SCREAMING

username7 charles admitting he was slow on the uptake YEAH WE KNOW 😭

username8 even his brothers confirming the hint count is sending me

username9 SHES GOING TO BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BRIDE EVER

username10 she really said "let me present my thesis on how long this took"

username11 THE DETAILED BREAKDOWN OF THE WAITING PERIOD... she's so real for this

username12 this caption is giving "i've been waiting to post this for 11 years"

username13 the most patient woman in F1 finally getting her ring

username14 HE FINALLY PUT A RING ON IT OMFG

username15 she had this caption in her drafts since 2019 i just know it

3K notes · View notes

formulaaddict14 · 11 hours ago

Text

Helpless ( SMAU )

Oscar Piastri x Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary : A ball that started as a simple celebration, turns into something bigger for two people

Warnings : None!!

Author note : My posting schedule is all over the place but I am trying sorry guys + this is short because school is harassing me!!! 😞

Song : Helpless by Phillipa Soo

Request, here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

oscarpiastri just posted :

Liked by landonorris and 406,827 others

Never thought I’d attend a ball, but everyday can be a first

user : OSCAR IN A SUIT 🤤🤤🤤

user : never needed to be at a ball more tbh…

user : I’m obsessed. 😍

landonorris : and you didn’t invite ME?!

| oscarpiastri : okay sorry??

user : Nothing appropriate to say here!

user : That first pick is just 💋

user : HIS HAIR????

yourusername just posted :

Liked by urbsf and 29,019 others

Everybody's dancin' and the band's top volume 😚🥂

user : Hamilton reference? 👀

| yourusername : Obviously!!! 😍😍😍

user : Never seen a more perfect bun in my life

user : Gorgeous as always 💋

urbsf : I need you biblically.

| yourusername : that’s great…!

user : wait isn’t this the ball that Oscar Piastri is at??

| user : I THINK IT ISSS

user : that dress is everything I need in life

yourusername🔒 just posted :

Liked by urbsf, yourfriend3 and 89 others

No idea who this guys is but I am HELPLESS 🙏

urfriend1 : go get your man queen 💕🥂

urfriend2 : WAIT I SWEAR I’VE SEEN HIM ON TV

| urfriend2 : LIKE A FEW DAYS AGO

| urfriend2 : OH YEAH THAT IS OSCAR PIASTRI

| yourusername : I’M SCARED IS HE FAMOUS???

urbsf : Praying 4 u girl 🙏

urfriend3 : Isn’t he that f1 driver? 😭

urfriend4 : I HAVE FAITH IN U QUEEN 👑

yourusername just posted :

Liked by oscarpiastri, urbsf and 601,830 others

Look into your eyes and the sky’s the limit 🎶🎻

user : Awhh 🥹

user : He looks like Oscar Piastri lmao

| user : WAIT OSCAR IN THE LIKES??

urbsf : taking my advice I see 😉

user : Girl I’d be helpless as well 😭

user : my dream day… cute

oscarpiastri just posted :

Liked by yourusername and 1,092,881 others

Can I say I’m helpless as well?

user : AHH I CALLED ITTT

user : meeting at a ball has to be some love story stuff 😭

yourusername : Hey that’s my line 😾

| oscarpiastri : sorry 💕😙

user : SHE’S GORGEOUS WHATTT

user : Oscar is one lucky man…

user : If I were Oscar I’d be helpless as well 🤷‍♀️

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

110 notes · View notes

redwinelewis · 3 days ago

Text

HOUSE TOUR | LH44

type one shot (no part 2 requests please!)

pairing lewis hamilton x reader

summary after a date, you invited lewis over for a little house tour (spoiler alert: it's not really about the house). inspired by sabrina carpenter's song

warnings 18+. sexual innuendos. implied smut in the end. english is not my first language

author's note had to write something inspired by my gavourite song from man's best friend. thank you miss brina 🙏🏽

masterlist | gif credit

formula 1 is ridiculous.

that has always been your stance ever since your best friend introduced you to the sport. 20 something rich white men in flameproof pajamas driving loud cars in circles for two hours pretending it’s life or death. commentators losing their minds on…. overtakes? explain how this helps the economy again?

you have only ever paid half attention when a race was on TV at a friend’s place, more focused on snacks than the podium.

which is why, when she somehow set you up with lewis hamilton, your first thought was:

“how the fuck?”

second thought was:

“yeah, right. like the seven-time world champion would waste his time with someone who didn’t even know what DRS stood for.”

you were skeptical. the face of formula 1? fashion icon? human rights activist, the sir lewis hamilton? he doesn’t sound like a guy who’d want to grab a casual dinner with someone like you.

your friend frowned, asking 1) how did you know how many championships he has if you never paid attention to the races? and 2) where have you heard the term DRS?

you just shrugged and said that you did pay attention to the tv. sometimes. especially when hamilton’s beautiful face shows up on screen.

but back to the date, you agreed to go for the food. your friend promised to pay if lewis is a no-show. becauseall of this sounded like a bad romantic comedy film. too good to be true. there was absolutely no way he would actually—

he was there.

and then he asked you out. then again. and again. and again.

now, seven (eight?) dates later, you still couldn’t quite believe it. you felt like you had entered an alternate universe. because lewis hamilton liked you. he liked you enough to remember your favorite wine, enough to listen when you rant about work, enough to laugh at your jokes, even the bad ones, especially the stupid ones.

he likes you enough to share little stories between courses that he never told anyone, enough to let vulnerability slip for a split second while talking about a previous race. enough to look at you across the dinner table tonight with that indescribable gaze that made your stomach twist.

lucky. that’s what you were.

which is probably why, when he pulled up his sleek ferrari in front of your building after dinner, you didn’t want the night to end just yet.

he shifted into park, his hands resting casually on the gear and wheel. “you good?”

your teeth caught your lower lip.

you should’ve said yes. the smart thing would’ve been to thank him, say you had a great time and say goodnight. slip out and let him drive off.

instead….

“do you want a house tour?” you blurted, pulse skipping.

lewis blinked at the brick building, then at you, his eyebrow arching. “a house tour?”

“uh-huh,” you nodded quickly, pretending at confidence. “it’s, uh… three floors.”

you lived in a one bedroom apartment.

his mouth curved, dimples threatening to show. you said just enough without saying much. “yeah?”

“yes,” you shot back, already reaching for the door handle. “three floors.”

he chuckled, low, indulgent, and got out of the car without argument. like he already knew he’s going to enjoy this game you’re playing.

in the lobby, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but all you could hear was your heartbeat. he followed you to the elevator, jacket folded neatly in one arm, now only in his black sweater with his famous pearl necklace as the main attraction. the other hand in his black pocket. he was close enough that you caught the faint spice of his cologne. the mirrored wall reflects the two of you: you, fussing with your keys in your purse; him, calm and collected, lips tilted like he already knew you are making this up as you went.

the elevator doors slid open on your floor and you led him down the hall, keys fumbling in your hand because suddenly your fingers felt too clumsy.

“come. let me be your hot tour guide.” you cringed as soon as those words left your mouth. but your ears caught his faint chuckle so that might not be so bad.

“first stop on the tour, the living room.”

the door swung wide and you stepped inside.

lewis followed, his gaze sweeping the space. the thrifted couch you got from facebook marketplace. pillows with mismatched covers. the wooden coffee table left by the previous renter, stained from years of tea mugs and plastic cups of iced latte without coasters. a tv decorated the nearest wall. the plant you kept forgetting to water, barely hanging on to life. a tall cat tree near the window. lewis swore he saw an orange tail peeking out as your cat hid in the tree.

“that's my cat, pete. ignored him. he doesn't like human men.” you said.

lewis’ lips curved again, like he found all of this impossibly endearing.

you then gestured dramatically at the couch.

“couch! real comfy. perfect for movie marathons. afternoon naps. wrestling… if the occasion ever calls for it.

“wrestling, huh?”

he made himself comfortable, sinking into the cushions. legs wide and spread out, one arm stretched lazily across the backrest, jacket still balanced neatly in the crook of his elbow.

it should’ve been harmless, but your gaze betrayed you, flicking down, catching on the way his thighs framed the space between them. heat pooled low in your stomach. all you could think was how easy it would be to straddle him right there—

you dragged your eyes back up instantly, cheeks heating.

“multi-purpose furniture is very… in right now.”

his mouth twitched like he knew exactly where your brain had gone, but he didn’t push it. just leaned back, watching you scramble to move things along.

“next is kitchen!”

it was small but functional, made homier by the clutter. mismatched mugs drying by the sink, fridge plastered with magnets and postcards, your little island in the middle doubling as both prep space and dumping ground. at one corner, there are two bowls filled with kibbles and water for your cat.

“and here we have the chef’s paradise. spacious countertops, occasionally functional oven…. oh! let’s see what we have here….” you swung open the fridge and pulled out a cucumber. why? don't ask.

“firm. long. just look at the girth. perfect for cucumber kimchi. don’t you just love produce with good… structure?”

on the inside, you wanted to slap yourself. why the would you do that

lewis’ chuckle was low, rich. “mm. firm’s good.”

the words, said so casually, made your pulse stuttered even though it was you who started this conversation’s in the first place. you shoved the cucumber back a little too quickly, trying to brush it off. except when you turned, he’d followed you into the space, closer than before.

close enough that his cologne, sharp, expensive, him, wrapped around you. close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.

“yes. umm, a girl’s gotta appreciate produce with good structure.” you shut the fridge too hard, wincing at the slam.

and just for a split second, your brain betrayed you again. you on the island in the morning, perched on the counter, in his shirt, his shirtless body caging you in, tattooed arms in full display, glorious. his mouth stealing lazy kisses while the kettle whistled.

your breath caught audibly.

lewis didn’t touch you, didn’t say a word. just tilted his head slightly, lips curved like he’d read the thought right out of you.

“moving on!” you blurted, nearly tripping over your own feet as you led him down the hall.

“last stop. the pièce de résistance. the only bedroom in this place.”

your bedroom was neither small nor big, just enough for you, softly lit by a lamp on your nightstand. the bed sat in the middle, sheets slightly rumpled, four pillows stacked. your desk was equally messy, somehow a merge between a place where you sit down and do your work from home and also where you did your make up. lewis could tell by the eyeshadow palettes and a bunch of other products he’s not really familiar with, while the chair was filled with unfolded laundry. the room wasn't anything grand, but it was yours.

“please ignore the laundry.” he heard you mumbled and smiled.

“it's fine.”

“yeah, right. so here we are…. the crown jewel of the mansion. queen-sized bed. very versatile. on my stomach, on my back, sometimes right at the edge. supportive mattress, knees never hurt.” you announced, forcing cheer into your voice.

lewis didn’t say anything. just stood there, jacket still hooked under his arm, gaze steady, heavy.

“they say this is where dreams come true. it's true. i’ve had testimonies.” you laughed nervously and rushed on.

“spacious drawers too on both sides.” you patted one of them a little too quickly. “you can fit a lot in there. i like to, uh… play before i sleep, so storage is important.”

silence.

your face burned. you swallowed.

“pillows! four of them. great for forts. sheets are four-hundred thread count. only the best. oh, and the rug, which i definitely didn’t steal from my sister—”

you shouldn’t have said it. the second the words left your mouth, your brain wandered off again, flashing images you had no business entertaining. not with this man right in front of you. him on top of you, pinning your wrists to those pillows. you spread across the mattress, his mouth everywhere at once. him dragging you to the edge, your knees pressed into that rug you’d just bragged about.

your throat went dry. “so… yeah. that’s the whole tour.”

lewis tilted his head, eyes dragging over you, slow and deliberate. his voice, when it came, was lower than it had been all night. “you forgot something.”

your pulse quickened. “w-what?”

his gaze flicked toward the walls. “they thick or thin?”

“why would you—”

“don’t wanna wake your neighbors with your screaming tonight.” he said softly, stepping into your space.

oh.

you froze, heart hammering. stomach dropped, heat flooding every inch of you. a stutter caught in your throat, but before you could spit out a single word, his jacket hit the chair with a soft thud.

his lips crashed into yours, hot and certain, pouring every unvoiced thought straight into you. it wasn’t a tentative brush, it wasn’t cautious. it was like he’d been waiting all night, letting you play your little game, and now he was cashing in.

the jokes you made, the lingering looks, the way you babbled to fill the silence, he answered them all in that kiss. his hand slid to your jaw, tilting your head just how he wanted, and his tongue swept into your mouth like he had something to prove.

you clutched at him instinctively, fists twisting in his shirt, gasping into the kiss. you let him pushed you back until the bedframe pressed against your thighs and you both stumbled onto the bed.

262 notes · View notes

suliigwp · 3 months ago

Note

HIII omg i love your writings!! got this idea while i was in the bathroom blasting alchemy by taylor swift and you were the first writer i thought of that i know would slay this! Reader is a known singer but she doesnt really write love songs which charles is completely fine about. His friends ask and tease him about it and he brushes it off then one night on one of her tours she sings alchemy for the first time while charles is watching from the crowd. His whole world stops and maybe even tears up then he just goes on for days bragging about it. HUMOUR AND FLUFFF WHATEVER U WANT THANK YOU SO MUCH

WHERES THE TROPHY?

Charles Leclerc x Singer! Reader | fluff

SULI: hiii omg you have no idea how much it means remembering me first🥹 thank you soooo much!!!!! — very cool because I actually do have a singer!readers series coming up but none of the love interests is Charles sadly— but I really love singer au's and this was so much fun to write! Thank you so much for requesting, love you, hope you enjoy🫶

I'm absolutely obsessed with this song — stream "The alchemy" now!!!

Warnings: none, short and sweet, Twitter post at the end

Charles liked to think he had you figured out.

At least, the version of you the world didn’t get to see — the quiet one, the tired one after long studio nights, the version that wore his hoodie to bed and snuck kisses onto his shoulder when you thought he was sleeping.

He liked being the silent inspiration, the person behind the curtain. You were his in private — that was more than enough.

"She doesn't write love songs."

That was the line Charles Leclerc had come to know and love. He’d heard it in interviews, read it in headlines, and smiled through every late-night talk show where someone inevitably asked, “So, do you really not write about him?”

The camera would zoom in, the crowd would laugh, and you’d flash that sly little grin. “Don't worry, if I wrote a love song,” you always said, “you’d know it.”

Charles didn’t mind. In fact, he was fine with it.

You were his.

Even if the rest of the world liked to think you belonged to them.

The fans, the cameras, the interviews — they all wanted pieces. But Charles had long made peace with being the part no one else got to hear in the songs.

Because you didn’t write love songs.

Everyone said so.

You said so.

And Charles believed it. Until the night you didn’t.

...

back, first year of dating

“You still haven’t written a song about me,” Charles teased from the couch, bare feet on the floor, one arm lazily slung around your waist. His eyes were half-lidded, lips curled into that soft smile he only gave you when the world was quiet.

You rolled your eyes, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You say that like you’re not already in every other one.”

“Yes, but I want the main character treatment,” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “The standing ovation. The bridge that emotionally ruins people.”

You just laughed, kissed his cheek, and said, “Maybe when you win Monaco.”

He groaned. “Cruel woman.”

...

He hadn't told you he was coming.

You were in the middle of a sold-out run through Europe, and Charles was drowning in simulator sessions and car debriefs. But when he saw the gap in his schedule, he booked the ticket quietly, packed light, and told his engineers he was leaving for “something more important than tyre degradation.”

Barcelona was a quick flight from Monaco. Your show there had been sold out for months, and he knew better than to try and sneak in through backstage. So he did what no one expected:

He lined up like everyone else.

He didn’t tell you. You were always happiest on stage, and he wanted to be just another face in the crowd that night. Just a quiet, anonymous dot in a sea of lights and sweat and noise.

Hood up, cap low, a simple black tee that did nothing to hide how gorgeous he was. He bought a pit wristband from resale (triple the price, but whatever), pushed into the crowd, and waited.

His heart beat harder the closer it got to showtime.

He didn’t know why. He’d seen you perform dozens of times. Hell, he’d watched you rehearse in sweats with a tea bag hanging out of your mouth. He lived with you.

But something about tonight buzzed different.

The lights dimmed.

The crowd erupted.

And then you appeared.

...

You always had a certain way of standing still — calm, rooted, like you didn’t need fireworks to be the most magnetic person in the room. Charles felt the shift the second you stepped up to the mic.

“This one’s new,” you said softly.

The crowd stilled.

“I wasn’t planning to play it live yet, but…”

You paused, and smiled.

“He’s here tonight.”

The girls around Charles screamed.

He went still.

No.

You’re not—

The opening chords were simple, soft. A rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat.

"Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads, Champagne sticking to the floor"

The lyrics felt so close, so personal, Charles swore you were staring right at him, even though you couldn’t see him through the crowd.

"Cheers chanted, cause they said, There was no chance, trying to be The greatest in the league"

And then.

Then.

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.”

Charles’s knees nearly buckled.

The lyric struck him like a punch to the gut.

He didn’t even breathe for a second — chest tight, hands shaking, mouth parted in stunned silence.

You remembered.

Monaco.

That day.

The crowd, the flags, the win — his first home win. The one he had chased like a ghost for years.

He remembered the noise, the champagne, the cameras flashing. But more than anything, he remembered you, standing behind the barrier, tucked to the side — quiet and glowing and waiting.

He hadn’t even thought.

He just ran.

Straight to you. Through the crowd. Past everyone. Helmet barely off.

You caught him in your arms like you’d been waiting there your whole life.

“Where’s the trophy?” the reporter had asked him after.

And he’d smiled before glancing over at you.

...

By the time you hit the final chorus, Charles had completely given up pretending he was okay.

His eyes were glassy. His cheeks were damp.

A teenage girl next to him elbowed her friend and whispered, “That guy is, like, sobbing.”

He didn’t even notice.

When you sang the last line and let the guitar fall quiet, Charles couldn’t move.

The stadium exploded in sound.

You bowed.

The lights went out.

And he just stood there — one hand pressed over his heart, whispering the lyric under his breath like a prayer.

...

Backstage, everything felt like static.

You were mid-change when a tech knocked on the greenroom door.

“Uh… sorry, there’s a guy trying to come back here. He says he’s your boyfriend? Hoodie, cap, extremely beautiful—kind of panicked?”

You laughed, heart already racing.

“Let him in.”

Charles barrelled into the room like a man possessed.

“You—” he said, voice raw.

You turned, makeup still smudged, hair frizzing from sweat, and barely had time to open your arms before he was there — pulling you into him like he hadn’t seen you in years.

“Monaco?” he whispered.

You nodded against his chest.

He pulled back just slightly, hands cupping your face, eyes red-rimmed and earnest. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

“You wrote about it.”

A breathless laugh. “You wrote about me.”

You shrugged playfully, nose brushing his. “Guess you’re the main character now.”

His grin cracked wide and helpless, and then he kissed you. Soft, slow, deep — the kind of kiss that says thank you and I love you and I’m never letting this go.

“You’re screwed now,” he whispered, grinning against your mouth.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to brag about this forever.”

...

And he did.

The next morning:

And for the rest of the season, no matter how many podiums he earned, Charles had one answer to every post-race interview:

“Where’s the trophy, Charles?”

“She’s probably watching from home.”

Taglist, comment to be added;

@angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot

Make sure you can be tagged!

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checkeredflagggs · 3 days ago

Note

sorry if this is too specific but like I realized you like logan and my friend also got me into the logan agenda- HAPPY 2K 🥂

Dialogue 2, 38 with Streamer Nepo Baby Reader 🤪 Was thinking along the lines of reader is used to being kept as a secret girlfriend by someone in the grid before like maybe broke up 2022 or 2023, but then since she doesn't travel as much as before she decided to settle down to stream stuff from cooking, gaming, all sorts of things and met Logan in 2023, then during the announcement that Logan finally got a contract he basically shows off reader... 😝😝😝

I love this request so much? I had a hard time just keeping it short enough for my celebration… and no hate to Sebastian but I needed someone so…

yn_wolff

liked by logansargeant, lewishamilton, oscarpiastri, and 17,924 others

yn_wolff: men ain't shit and I can't believe I wasted 3 years on one - here's to being single again

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user1: girl you were in a relationship??

↳yn_wolff: ugh please don't remind me

↳user1: oops sorry 😞

user2: 3 years???

↳yn_wolff: yeah ☹️🙃🙄

↳user2: and you never mentioned him?

↳yn_wolff: he didn't want his public image to involve me 🖕🖕

↳user2: oh that's a big red flag 🚩

↳yn_wolff: yeah im seeing that now…

user3: men really do suck 👎🏾

user4: uhhh raise your hand if you didn't know miss paddock princess was in a relationship?

↳user5: 🙋‍♂️

↳user6: 🙋🏾‍♀️

↳user7: 🙋🏻‍♂️

↳user8: 🤚

oscarpiastri: we can run him over for you?

↳logansargeant: it would be easy really

↳yn_wolff: don't tempt me

↳user9: the boys rallying around her is gonna be my Roman Empire from now on…

user10: so it was a driver then?

↳user11: I'm guessing so…

lewishamilton: my doors are always open if you want to talk, yn

↳yn_wolff: I'm literally on my way but only because I need Roscoe cuddles

↳lewishamilton: really?

↳yn_wolff: I don't joke about Roscoe

↳user12: that's so real of you

Private Messages, Logan and yn

logansargeant

liked by yn_wolff, oscarpiastri, georgerussell63 and 97,455 others

tagged: yn_wolff

logansargeant: Finished my first official f1 race today and still the only thing I want to do is show you off. i want the whole world to know about us. thanks for the constant support this past year, baby

view all comments

user13: well that's a plot twist I didn't see coming..

yn_wolff: Logan Sargeant, F1 driver does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

↳logansargeant: I don't know…

↳logansargeant: Logan Sargeant, yn's boyfriend sounds even better

↳yn_wolff: you're right — it does

oscarpiastri: it's gonna be a fun ride with you ✊

↳logansargeant: yes it is!

user14: so who had the American dating the paddock princess on their bingo card?

↳yn_wolff: it's called manifestation babe

↳user14: it absolutely is your majesty 👑

user15: I've had them for only a post but if something happened to them…

↳user16: extreme but understandable

172 notes · View notes

hamilton-here · 1 day ago

Note

Heyy :)

I know your requests are closed, but I thought I send my idea to you in case you have time to write it :)

The reader (28) is a part of the Ferrari Crew and she instantly clicks with Charles in a best friend way. Lewis secretly likes her and gets jealous. He gets cold and partly mean with the reader until she breaks.

But Alexandra and Charles talk with him and he wants to apologise.

So they help Lewis Plan something and it gets 🔥 in the end.

This would be great :)

𝐵𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒫𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I’m still kicking, don’t worry. So excited it’s race weekend, fingers crossed for a Ferrari double podium for Monza! Sorry for the quiet lately, my iron levels have tanked again so I’ve been wiped out. Enjoy the requested one-shot I was able to complete. Sending love to you all xx

Summary: Lewis’ jealousy over your bond with Charles leads to coldness until he’s pushed to apologise and it ends in fire.

Warnings: slight angst

Taglist: @piston-cup @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You were twenty-eight when Ferrari hired you, young by paddock standards but already seasoned in the brutal ballet of Formula 1. You’d spent years clawing your way through junior teams and satellite outfits, learning the sport not from glossy press releases but from oil stained spreadsheets and sleepless nights in freight containers.

Your official title was Race Strategy and Operations Coordinator, though that barely scratched the surface of your role. You were the nerve centre of the team’s race day execution by being part tactician, part translator and part crisis manager.

Your job demanded fluency in chaos. You interpreted telemetry in real time, converting raw data into razor sharp decisions. You liaised between engineers, mechanic and pit wall, ensuring that every department moved in lockstep. You built race simulations, forecasted tire degradation curves and orchestrated pit stop sequences with the precision of a conductor guiding a symphony.

You knew the tire compounds like old friends knowing if softs were temperamental but thrilling, hards were stubborn but reliable. You could recite fuel loads in your sleep and had a sixth sense for when a safety car was imminent, often before the yellow flags even waved.

The paddock was unforgiving an ecosystem of egos, pressure and politics wrapped in carbon fibre and adrenaline. You’d seen brilliant engineers burn out under the weight of expectation, drivers buckle after a single bad qualifying session and team principals age a decade in one season. But you thrived in it. You loved the rhythm.

The hum of the garage at 2 a.m. when the world outside was asleep and the team was still chasing tenths, the electric tension of race start, when the lights blinked out and everything blurred into motion, the split-second silence before a pit stop, when the crew held its breath and time seemed to pause and then the eruption of cheers when it went flawlessly. You weren’t just part of the machine, you helped keep it alive.

And then there was Charles.

From your first week in Maranello, he noticed you. Not in the performative way some drivers did those who shook hands for optics and forgot names by the next race. No, Charles was different. He had a quiet magnetism, the kind that didn’t demand attention but earned it effortlessly. He’d wander into strategy briefings not because he had to but because he was curious and genuinely interested in the mechanics of the race.

More so in the minds behind the numbers. He lingered by the espresso machine, asking about your weekend with a soft smile and a teasing glint in his eye. He mocked your habits, stole your coffee when you weren’t looking and once swapped your playlist with his own before a red eye to Singapore with an eclectic mix of French indie, classic rock and the occasional guilty pleasure pop track. You replied with your own and soon it became a ritual. A quiet exchange of music and moods, a way of saying I see you without words.

You clicked instantly. Not romantically, though the paddock loved to speculate but in a way that felt grounding, rare. A platonic spark. He respected your mind, asked thoughtful questions about tire degradation and undercut window and actually listened. You, in turn saw past the media trained charm and glimpsed the thoughtful, sometimes lonely young man beneath the helmet. You became his sounding board, his confidante, his safe space in a sport that demanded perfection and offered little grace.

It wasn’t long before your friendship became part of the rhythm, too. A quiet constant amid the roar of engines and the blur of travel. In a world where everything moved at 300 kilometres per hour, that kind of connection was everything.

He teased you mercilessly in French, his accent lilting with mischief. You teased back in broken phrases that made him laugh until his stomach hurt, clutching his sides in the back of the motorhome.

Alexandra adored you too warm, perceptive and fiercely loyal. She pulled you into conversations, made sure you weren’t just a colleague but a friend. Together, the three of you became inseparable during long hauls by sharing meals in airport lounges, trading stories in hotel lobbies, playing cards in the back of the team bus while the rest of the crew slept.

And if you were honest, you needed that. The job was heavy. The pressure was relentless. You carried the weight of every decision, every miscalculation, every tenth lost in strategy. But their lightness of Charles’s laughter, Alexandra’s warmth, the quiet camaraderie that bloomed between races kept you afloat. They reminded you that beneath the data and deadlines, there was still room for joy.

But then came Lewis.

You’d admired him for years long before your badge bore the prancing horse of Scuderia Ferrari. Back when Formula 1 was still a distant dream, something you consumed through flickering livestreams and grainy replays in your cramped apartment, surrounded by stacks of notebooks filled with strategy breakdowns and pit stop analytics. You’d stay up until dawn watching qualifying sessions from Suzuka or Interlagos, your heart racing with every sector time, your fingers scribbling notes like scripture. And through it all, Lewis stood apart.

It wasn’t just the wins though they were legendary or the records, which seemed to fall like dominoes in his wake. It was the way he moved through the sport. Graceful under pressure. Unapologetically himself. A masterclass in control and charisma. He didn’t just drive; he commanded. You admired his precision, his ability to read a race like a living organism, adapting in real time with the instincts of someone born to do this. He was poetry in motion, wrapped in carbon fibre and fireproof fabric.

And somewhere along the way, admiration blurred into something softer. A quiet crush. Harmless, you told yourself. Fleeting. The kind of thing that lived in the margins between interviews and podium ceremonies, in the way he adjusted his gloves before lights out, or the rare moments he smiled with something unguarded in his eyes. It was never meant to cross into reality. Just a flicker of feeling tucked away behind professionalism and ambition.

Then came the announcement.

The same year you joined Ferrari, Lewis left Mercedes and signed with the team. The news hit like a thunderclap, reverberating through the paddock and shaking the foundations of the sport. You could hardly believe it. You were going to work with him. Not just admire from afar but collaborate. Strategise. Share space. You imagined the first meeting in vivid detail maybe a nod of recognition, a handshake that lingered just a beat too long, a shared laugh over tire strategy or race simulations. You’d be professional, of course. Warm, but composed. Sharp, but approachable. You didn’t expect friendship, but you hoped for respect. Maybe even camaraderie.

Instead, you got frost.

From the moment you met, when Lewis’s eyes met yours and then immediately flicked away, there was a chill to him. No overt hostility. No dramatic confrontation. Just a quiet, persistent coldness that settled over every interaction like fog on a damp morning. He was perfectly cordial in the paddock effortlessly charming with the media, warm and familiar with Charles, unfailingly kind to Alexandra. But with you? He was distant. Detached. His words, when he offered them, were clipped and clinical, stripped of warmth or curiosity. His tone carried an edge subtle, but sharp enough to leave tiny cuts that you only noticed once you were alone, replaying the moment in your head and wondering what you’d done wrong.

Every exchange left you slightly off balance, like stepping onto a moving walkway that suddenly stopped. A curt “morning” delivered without eye contact. A nod in place of a smile, as if acknowledging your presence was a chore. Or worse complete silence. His gaze would skim over you like you were just another piece of equipment in the garage, something functional but unremarkable. You’d stand there, waiting for some flicker of recognition, some sign that he saw you not just your role, but you and receive nothing but the quiet ache of being overlooked.

It wasn’t just indifference. It was precision. As if he’d drawn a line around you and decided, with deliberate intent, not to cross it.

And it made no sense.

You weren’t new to the sport. You’d earned your place in Maranello through grit, precision, and a kind of quiet resilience that didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d weathered the storm of temperamental drivers who snapped under pressure, engineers who guarded their data like dragons hoarding gold, and team principals who could pivot from praise to reprimand in the span of a breath. You knew how to navigate egos, how to hold your ground in rooms thick with tension and testosterone. You didn’t flinch easily.

But this was different.

Lewis wasn’t dismissive in the usual way. He wasn’t arrogant, wasn’t condescending. He didn’t belittle or undermine. No, his silence was sharper than that. It was deliberate. Controlled. A quiet, calculated distance that felt like a wall built brick by brick, each one laid with intention. It wasn’t that he didn’t see you. It was that he refused to.

You tried to brush it off. Told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were here to do a job, not win his approval. You reminded yourself of your credentials, your track record, the respect you’d earned. But the truth was, you cared. You cared more than you wanted to admit, more than you could explain. His rejection didn’t just sting it hollowed you out from the inside, carving space where anticipation used to live. You’d spent years admiring him from afar and now that you were close enough to touch the myth, it turned its back on you.

And then, slowly you began to notice something else.

It started small. The way his jaw would tighten ever so slightly when you laughed with Charles or when your head tilted back and your hand brushed his arm without thinking, the kind of touch born from comfort and ease. The way Lewis’s eyes would flick toward you, then away as if the sight unsettled something he didn’t want to name. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a line when Charles leaned in close during debriefs, his voice low and teasing, his arm slung casually around your shoulders like it belonged there.

There was a flicker in Lewis’s gaze then something dark, something sharp. Not anger, exactly. Not hurt. But something tangled and heavy, like envy wrapped in restraint. He’d walk away mid-conversation if Alexandra looped you into their group, his departure so smooth it almost looked accidental except it wasn’t. You started to recognise the pattern. The way he’d linger just long enough to hear Charles make you laugh, then vanish before you could catch his expression. The way he’d stand across the garage arms folded, watching you with a gaze that burned too long to be casual.

You caught him watching you more often than you should have. Not with curiosity, but with something heavier. His expression unreadable, his posture rigid, as if he were holding himself back from something he didn’t want to feel. You’d glance up from your laptop and find him staring not at your screen, not at your notes, but at you. And then, just as quickly, he’d look away jaw clenched and eyes shuttered.

It was jealousy. You knew it. Felt it in the way his silence grew louder when Charles was near. In the way his indifference sharpened when you smiled at someone else. In the way he seemed to punish you for a closeness he couldn’t claim.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t stop noticing him.

Even when he ignored you. Even when he walked away. Even when he made you feel invisible. You noticed the way he moved, the way he held himself, the way his presence filled a room even when he said nothing. You noticed the tension in his shoulders when Charles made you laugh, the flicker of something raw in his eyes when you leaned into someone else. You noticed him because you couldn’t help it. Because something in you still You had hoped quietly, foolishly that he’d notice you back.

Not in the way the world noticed Lewis Hamilton. Not with flashing cameras or headlines or the reverent hush that followed him through the paddock. You didn’t need grand gestures or declarations. You just wanted something simple. A glance that lingered. A question asked with genuine interest. A moment where you felt seen not as a strategist, not as a colleague, but as yourself.

The breaking point came in Monza.

It had been a brutal week. The kind that blurred at the edges, where time was measured not in hours but in debriefs, deadlines and the relentless churn of preparation. Endless meetings. Back-to-back simulations. Media obligations that stretched into the night. And Charles – sweet and steady was carrying the weight of Ferrari’s home race like it was stitched into his skin. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way he smiled just a little too tightly. Everyone was stretched thin and sleep had become a distant memory.

You were running on fumes. Your nerves frayed, your body aching from days spent hunched over telemetry screens and strategy boards. Your mind was a blur of tire compounds, fuel loads and weather models. You hadn’t eaten properly in two days and the last time you’d laughed felt like a lifetime ago.

It was late, well past midnight and the team had gathered in the hospitality suite for a rare moment of reprieve. The lights were dim, the air thick with exhaustion and the scent of espresso and engine oil. Alexandra cracked a joke something absurd and perfectly timed and Charles doubled over with laughter, his whole body shaking as he leaned into you for support. His arm brushed yours, warm and familiar and you felt the tension in your chest loosen just a little.

You were delirious, exhausted and the sound of his laughter was contagious. You joined in, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, the kind of laugh that came from deep in your chest and made everything feel lighter for a moment. It was the kind of joy that felt stolen brief and precious in a world that rarely allowed softness.

And then you glanced across the room.

Lewis was watching.

No - staring.

Not blankly. Not idly. His gaze was locked onto you with a kind of intensity that made the air feel heavier, like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. His expression was carved from stone unreadable, cold but his eyes…his eyes burned. They were sharp, narrowed, like daggers drawn in silence. There was no warmth in them. No curiosity. Just heat. Just something dark and tangled and barely restrained.

The moment stretched, taut and unbearable. You froze. The joy drained from your face, replaced by confusion, then hurt. You didn’t understand. You hadn’t done anything wrong. You hadn’t asked for this invisible war he seemed determined to wage. You hadn’t provoked him, hadn’t crossed any lines. And yet, there he was watching you like you were a threat. Like your happiness was an offence.

You excused yourself quietly, murmuring something about needing air and slipped out before anyone could stop you. The walk back to your hotel was a blur streets lit by golden lamplight, the distant hum of the city, the echo of your own footsteps on cobblestone. You kept your head down, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to hold in the ache that had cracked open inside you.

When the door shut behind you, the silence was deafening. You stood there for a moment, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest and then you crumpled.

You collapsed onto the bed, curled into yourself and cried until your pillow was damp and your throat ached. It wasn’t fair. You’d spent years building yourself into someone who could survive this world, who could thrive in it. You’d fought for your place, earned your seat at the table, proved yourself again and again. And yet, one look from him had unraveled you. You hated that he had that power. Hated that his silence could hurt more than words ever could.

You hated that you still cared.

The next morning, Charles noticed.

He found you alone in the back corner of the motorhome, hunched over your laptop, trying to lose yourself in tire simulations and fuel load projections. But your fingers moved slowly, your posture slumped, and your usual fire the spark that made you indispensable was missing.

“Chérie,” he murmured, crouching down beside you so his green eyes were level with yours. His voice was soft, careful, like he was afraid you might shatter if he spoke too loudly. “Why do you look like your heart is breaking?”

You tried to brush him off. Offered a weak smile and a vague excuse about being tired, about the stress of the weekend. But he didn’t buy it. He never did.

Alexandra appeared moments later, sliding into the seat beside you with the kind of quiet grace that always made you feel seen. She didn’t speak right away just reached out and laced her fingers through yours, grounding you with her touch. Her presence was steady, anchoring like a lighthouse in a storm.

“It’s Lewis, isn’t it?” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Your silence was enough.

Charles exchanged a look with her one of those silent conversations only couples could have, full of meaning and understanding. Then he turned back to you his expression firm but kind, his hand resting gently on your shoulder.

“Leave it with us,” he said gently. “We’ll handle it.”

And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe that maybe you didn’t have to carry this alone.

They found Lewis that afternoon, tucked away in the far corner of Ferrari hospitality, where the espresso machine hissed rhythmically and the low murmur of conversations created a soft, ambient hum. The suite was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, warm and drowsy, but the moment Charles and Alexandra approached, the atmosphere shifted. The air seemed to tighten, the warmth retreating like a tide pulled back by tension.

Lewis sat alone, hunched slightly over a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. He didn’t notice them at first not until Charles stepped into his line of sight, jaw clenched, eyes burning with restrained fury.

There were no pleasantries. No greetings. Just the truth, delivered like a blow.

“You’re cruel to her,” Charles said, voice low but unwavering. “For no reason. She thinks she did something wrong.”

Lewis looked up, startled by the directness, his eyes flicking between them. His expression hardened almost instantly, the practiced mask sliding into place. He set the tablet down slowly, deliberately, and leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest like a shield.

“I haven’t said anything cruel,” he replied, his tone clipped, defensive. “I’ve kept my distance. That’s not the same.”

Charles stepped closer, his presence commanding, refusing to let Lewis hide behind semantics. “You’ve made her feel invisible. Like she doesn’t matter. And she’s one of the best people on this team. She gives everything to this job, and you’ve made her question herself.”

Lewis bristled, his shoulders stiffening, jaw tightening. He was ready to deflect, to retreat into the armour he wore so well the cool detachment, the silence, the calculated indifference. But Alexandra was already there, sliding into the seat across from him with the kind of quiet grace that always disarmed.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“You like her,” she said simply, her gaze steady and unflinching. “And instead of admitting it, you’re punishing her for being close to Charles. You’re punishing her for something she hasn’t done. And it’s hurting her, Lewis. Deeply.”

Lewis blinked, his mouth parting slightly, as if the words had struck a nerve he hadn’t realised was exposed. The silence that followed was thick and dense with everything unsaid, everything buried.

And then, to their surprise, Lewis exhaled.

Not just a breath, but something deeper. A release. Like he’d been holding it in for months, maybe longer. His shoulders sagged, the tension draining from his frame as if he’d finally surrendered to the truth he’d been avoiding.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out that way,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, raw and frayed. “I just…every time I see them together, it feels like something I missed. Something I wanted but didn’t know how to ask for. And instead of owning up to that, I -” He paused, scrubbing a hand over his face, fingers dragging down with exhaustion and shame. “I made her feel like she was nothing. And that’s the last thing she is to me.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, he looked utterly lost utterly stripped of the poise and polish that usually defined him. Just a man who’d let his fear turn into cruelty.

Alexandra’s expression softened, but her voice remained steady, resolute. “She cried last night, Lewis. Alone. Because she thought she’d done something to deserve your silence. She thought she’d failed you somehow.”

Lewis closed his eyes, jaw clenched, the weight of her words settling like stones in his chest. “I didn’t know,” he murmured. “I thought I was protecting myself. I didn’t realise I was hurting her. I didn’t realise I was being…selfish.”

Charles stepped forward, his voice quieter now, but no less resolute. “Then fix it.”

Lewis looked up, eyes rimmed with guilt and something else hope, maybe. A fragile, flickering thing. He nodded slowly, like the weight of his own actions had finally settled on his shoulders, no longer something he could outrun.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

And for the first time in weeks, the air between them shifted less like a battlefield, more like the beginning of something honest. Something that might, if handled with care, become something real.

Two nights later in Monza, long after curfew had settled over the paddock like a velvet curtain, you received a message from Charles.

Lord Perceval: Need help with something quick. Come down.

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped on your team jacket still faintly scented with rubber and rain and stepped into the quiet corridor, the hush of the hotel pressing in around you. Outside, the streets were nearly deserted, bathed in the soft amber glow of street lamps that flickered against the cobblestones. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of damp asphalt and distant exhaust, and the silence felt sacred like the city itself was holding its breath.

The circuit was a ghost of its daytime self. No roaring engines, no frantic radio chatter, no mechanics darting between garages. Just stillness. The Ferrari garage loomed ahead, half-lit and silent, its usual hum replaced by the low buzz of overhead fluorescents and the occasional metallic clink echoing from deep within.

You stepped inside, expecting Charles.

But it wasn’t Charles waiting.

It was Lewis.

He stood alone near a workbench, bathed in fractured light. Shadows stretched across his face, carving deep lines into his expression. His posture was tense shoulders drawn tight, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. He looked like he’d been pacing, like he’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times and still didn’t know how to begin. The air smelled of fuel and metal and electric, charged with anticipation and fear.

You froze in the doorway, heart thudding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“I asked them to bring you here,” he said quietly, voice rough, like it had been scraped raw. “Because I need to apologise. To you. Properly.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You blinked, stunned, your throat tightening with the weight of everything you’d carried alone. When you tried to speak, your voice cracked.

“Lewis, you’ve been -” you swallowed hard “- awful to me. Cold. Mean. I don’t even know what I did to deserve it.”

His face fell, the mask he wore so effortlessly slipping away. He looked wrecked eyes rimmed with exhaustion; mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Slowly, carefully, he crossed the space between you, each step deliberate like he was afraid you might bolt.

When he stopped, he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes searched yours like he was trying to find a way back from the damage he’d done.

“You did nothing,” he said fiercely, voice trembling. “It was me. I saw you with Charles, how easy it was between you two, how natural and I hated how jealous it made me. I hated that I wasn’t part of that ease. That I didn’t know how to be.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence, your breath shallow, your chest tight.

“I thought if I kept my distance, it would fade,” he continued, voice dropping to a whisper. “But it didn’t. It got worse. Every time I saw you laugh with him, every time you leaned into him like you belonged there, it felt like something I couldn’t have. And instead of dealing with that, I punished you for it. I shut you out. I made you feel small.”

He looked down, ashamed, his voice barely audible now. “And the truth is I’ve been half in love with you since the first time you asked me if I was eating enough on a double-header weekend. No one ever asks me that. Not really. Not like you did.”

Your breath caught. The memory flickered soft, quiet, a moment you hadn’t realised had mattered so much. You remembered the way he’d looked at you then, surprised, almost vulnerable. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But now, it felt like a thread that had been tugging at both of you ever since.

“Lewis…” you whispered, unsure what to do with the ache in your chest, the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

He looked up, eyes glassy, voice breaking. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I know I made you feel like you were nothing, when you’re the one person I couldn’t stop thinking about. But if you let me…I’ll prove to you what you mean to me. I’ll show you that I see you. That I’ve always seen you.”

The silence between you stretched, thick with everything unsaid. You could hear the distant hum of the circuit, the soft creak of metal cooling, the rhythm of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that moment, standing in the half-lit garage with the scent of fuel and regret hanging in the air, something cracked open.

Not just between you and Lewis, but inside you.

Something that had been locked away. Something that had been waiting.

The silence between you stretched, thick with everything unsaid. The garage was quiet, save for the distant hum of the circuit and the soft creak of metal cooling around you. It felt like the whole world had narrowed to this moment just you and Lewis, standing in the half-light, suspended between past hurt and fragile hope.

He stood before you, raw and exposed, his confession hanging in the air like smoke fragile, lingering, impossible to ignore. His eyes searched yours, wide and shimmering, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved to be standing there, as if he expected you to turn and walk away.

You took a breath, steadying yourself against the storm inside your chest. The ache, the anger, the longing it all swirled together, impossible to separate. But beneath it all, there was something else. Something softer. Something that had never stopped beating, even through the silence.

“I forgive you,” you said quietly, the words trembling as they left your lips. “Not because it didn’t hurt. It did. But because I think you mean it. And I think you’re trying.”

Lewis’s breath hitched. His shoulders sagged, the tension draining from him like water from a cracked dam. Relief, gratitude, and something deeper flickered across his face something like awe.

He stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching something sacred. His gaze flickered across your face - your eyes, your mouth, the curve of your jaw like he was memorising you, like he was searching for permission in every breath you took.

His hand lifted, hesitant, and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek with the gentlest touch. His fingers lingered there, trembling slightly, and then he whispered, “May I?”

You nodded.

The kiss came like lightning.

One second you were trembling with emotion, the next his mouth was on yours warm, reverent, aching with everything he hadn’t said. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious, something he’d feared he’d never touch again. You gasped against him, the sound swallowed by the press of his lips and then you reached for him, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself in the heat of him.

He stumbled back against the workbench, metal clanging under the force, but he didn’t let go. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly, as if he could fuse the apology into your skin. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down the curve of your neck, each kiss a silent vow.

“God, I thought I’d lost my chance,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you don’t…” His hands gripped your waist, grounding himself. “I’ll spend every moment showing you how much I wanted this. How much I want you.”

You didn’t tell him to stop.

The garage around you faded no circuits, no curfew, no team. Just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intensity of something that had waited too long to be spoken. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours, and in that closeness, you felt the weight of everything he’d confessed. The fear. The longing. The love.

“No more walls,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Not with you.”

You held him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, your heart pounding against his. And in that moment, it wasn’t about the past or the pain it was about the choice. The choice to let him in. The choice to believe him. The choice to begin again.

Race day in Monza dawned with the kind of theatrical flair only Italy could conjure. The sun spilled over the paddock like liquid gold, warming the asphalt and casting long shadows across the scarlet sea of Ferrari uniforms. Outside the gates, fans were already chanting, waving flags, and singing with operatic passion half of them in red, the other half in chaos. The scent of espresso, engine oil and anticipation hung thick in the air like the whole circuit was caffeinated and holding its breath.

Inside the Ferrari garage, the atmosphere buzzed with quiet intensity. Engineers hunched over laptops, fingers flying across keys as they ran final calibrations. Strategists murmured over weather models, debating cloud cover like it was a matter of national security. Mechanics moved with the grace of dancers and the urgency of surgeons, checking tire pressures and torque settings with laser focus.

Charles was starting fifth. Lewis, tenth.

You were tucked into a corner of the hospitality suite with Charles and Alexandra, the three of you sharing a rare pocket of calm before the storm. Alexandra had just said something wickedly funny about the team’s pre-race playlist something about Charles sneaking in Céline Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” and he was mock defending himself with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely knew all the lyrics.

“I stand by my choices,” Charles declared, gesturing with his croissant like it was a microphone. “That song slaps. You just don’t understand the emotional arc.”

You laughed, head thrown back, the tension of the past few weeks finally loosening its grip. “Emotional arc? Charles, it’s a power ballad. You’re not staging Les Misérables in the pit lane.”

He gasped, clutching his chest. “How dare you. That song got me through my last DNF.” (I’m sorry y’all I had to)

Alexandra snorted into her coffee. “Definitely the dance moves. I saw you trying to moonwalk in the driver’s room last week. You looked like a malfunctioning robot.”

Charles pointed at her, eyes wide. “That was intentional. It was interpretive.”

You were still laughing when Lewis appeared.

He moved with quiet confidence, dressed in his race suit, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt clung to him, the curve of his shoulders and the ink on his forearms catching the light like something out of a slow-motion montage. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t falter. He walked straight up to you and slid his arm around your waist firm, possessive, familiar.

You felt the warmth of him instantly, the press of his palm against your hip, the way his thumb brushed the hem of your shirt like he’d done it a thousand times before. He leaned in, murmuring a soft “Morning,” lips grazing your temple with the kind of casual intimacy that made your heart stutter.

Charles blinked, eyebrows lifting in amused surprise. He exchanged a glance with Alexandra, who was already biting back a grin so wide it threatened to spill her coffee.

“Well,” Charles said, smirking. “That’s new. Did I miss a team memo or are we just casually dating now in front of the espresso machine without telling me?”

You flushed, but Lewis didn’t move. He just looked at Charles with a calm, unapologetic smile. “Figured it was time after you two scolded me,” he said simply.

Charles tilted his head, still grinning. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you were conducting a long-term social experiment in emotional repression.”

Alexandra leaned in, stage-whispering, “We were placing bets. I had ‘Qatar meltdown’ on my bingo card.”

Lewis chuckled, his grip on you tightening slightly. “Guess I’m done holding back.”

You glanced up at him, heart thudding and he met your gaze with something quiet and sure. Something that felt like a promise. Something that said this whatever it was is real.

Charles raised his coffee cup in mock salute. “Well, if you two start making out in the briefing room, I’m switching teams.”

Alexandra patted his arm. “Sweetheart, you are the team.”

And as the crew began to gather for final briefings, the roar of engines starting to echo through the paddock, you realised something had shifted not just between you and Lewis, but in the rhythm of the day. The tension was gone. The walls were down. And for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.

Even if Charles was still humming Céline Dion under his breath.

Soon enough, the grid was alive.

Monza pulsed with energy raw, unfiltered, electric. The grandstands were a sea of red and gold, flags whipping in the breeze like battle standards, fans chanting with operatic fervour that echoed across the circuit. The air was thick with the scent of hot rubber, engine oil and espresso and the sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the pit lane. It turned the scarlet of Ferrari into something molten, something holy.

Mechanics moved like clockwork tight choreography in fireproof suits, checking tire pressures, adjusting wing angles, murmuring final instructions into radios that crackled with urgency. The roar of engines idling was a heartbeat beneath it all, steady and rising.

You stood just behind the barrier, headset slung around your neck, watching the chaos unfold with practiced calm. But your heart wasn’t calm. Not today. Not with everything that had led to this moment.

Charles was already suited up, helmet in hand, bouncing lightly on his heels as he waited for the call to head to the grid. His eyes were sharp, focused, but when he saw you approach, his face softened.

You reached out, weaving through crew and cables, and touched his arm.

“Bonne chance,” you said softly, smiling. “P5’s yours to play with. Make it count.”

He grinned, eyes bright with that familiar fire. “Always do.”

You gave his shoulder a squeeze, and he winked before turning toward his car, already slipping into race mode.

And then you turned and found Lewis waiting.

He stood a few feet away, already in his race suit, the top half zipped and snug, gloves tucked under one arm. His visor was up, revealing eyes that locked onto yours with quiet intensity. He looked like a man standing on the edge of something—not afraid, but aware. Aware of what this moment meant. Aware of you.

You crossed the space between you like gravity had made the decision for you. The noise of the paddock dulled around you, the world narrowing to the few feet of air between your body and his.

He looked nervous. Not about the race. About you.

His fingers twitched slightly, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed. You reached first, brushing your hand against the edge of his glove, grounding him with your touch.

“Listen to me,” you said, voice low but unwavering. “You can do this. Don’t listen to the noise. Not the press. Not the critics. Not the ghosts in your head. You’re stronger than all of it.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. They searched your face like he was trying to memorise it every line, every freckle, every breath. Like he needed your words to anchor him to the ground.

“You’ve been pushing yourself harder than anyone. You’ve been showing up, even when it hurts. You’re getting better every single lap. And today you prove it. Not to them. To you.”

His breath hitched. You saw it, the flicker of doubt, the weight of expectation and then the way your words cut through it like light through fog. His shoulders relaxed, just slightly. His grip on your hand tightened, fingers curling around yours like he was afraid to let go.

“I believe in you,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, forehead nearly touching yours, the world narrowing to the space between you. His breath mingled with yours, warm and uneven. “You always do,” he murmured. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You smiled, eyes stinging. “That’s the thing about love. It doesn’t wait for perfection.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a kiss that unfolded slowly, like a sunrise soft at first, then blooming with heat and certainty. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with reverence, as if he was afraid, you might vanish if he didn’t hold you just right.

His lips were warm, firm and searching. He kissed you like he was trying to speak through it like every press of his mouth against yours was a sentence he hadn’t known how to say. Thank you. I’m sorry. I see you. I need you.

You leaned into him, your hands gripping the front of his suit, anchoring yourself to the moment. The roar of Monza faded. The crowd, the engines, the countdown all of it disappeared. There was only this: the heat of him, the way he trembled slightly against you, the way he kissed you like he was finally letting go of everything he’d been holding back.

When he pulled back, his eyes were steady. Clear. Changed.

“I’ll make you proud,” he said, voice rough with emotion.

“You already do,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw.

He turned, walking toward his car with the kind of quiet determination that made your chest ache. There was no swagger, no theatrics just purpose. A man stripped of pretence, moving like gravity itself had summoned him. The crowd roared around him, a wall of sound and colour, but he moved through it like a man underwater focused, untouchable, his mind already halfway down the straight.

You followed, just far enough to watch him climb in, your steps slow, reverent, as if approaching a sacred ritual. The pit lane shimmered under the late afternoon sun, heat rising in waves from the tarmac, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the scarlet-painted garage.

The Ferrari crew swarmed around him like a well-rehearsed ballet fluid, precise, wordless. One mechanic adjusted the harness with practiced hands, another double-checked tire pressures, while a third leaned in with a final telemetry update, voice low and clipped. Lewis nodded, his responses calm, his tone steady through the radio. He was already disappearing into the zone, that elusive place only drivers knew where the noise faded, the crowd dissolved, and instinct took the wheel.

You stood just behind the barrier, headset slung around your neck, heart pounding like a drumline in your chest. The sun had dipped lower now, casting everything in gold and shadow. His car gleamed like something mythic scarlet and chrome, a machine built for war. The air shimmered with heat and tension, the scent of fuel and scorched rubber thick enough to taste.

And then the camera zoomed in.

His face behind the visor - eyes sharp, focused, transformed. The nerves were gone. The doubt erased. What remained was steel. He reached up slowly, deliberately, and pulled the flap of his helmet down with a final click, sealing himself into the moment. The world outside no longer existed. Not you. Not the crowd. Not the pressure. Just the track. Just the hunt.

You watched from the screen, breath caught in your throat, hands clenched at your sides. The grid was set. The engines rumbled like thunder beneath the surface, restrained but coiled, ready to explode. The lights above the grid blinked red, casting a crimson glow across the starting line.

Five.

The crowd surged, a wave of noise and colour, flags whipping like fire in the wind.

Four.

Your pulse matched the rhythm of the countdown, each second a hammer against your ribs.

Three.

Lewis’s fingers flexed on the wheel, knuckles white beneath his gloves, jaw locked, breath steady.

Two.

The roar of engines climbed, a chorus of fury and precision, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones.

One.

The lights went out.

A split-second of silence.

And then -

Chaos.

Engines screamed to life, a deafening roar that shook the grandstands. Tires screeched against asphalt, smoke curling into the air like battle cries. Twenty cars lunged forward in perfect violence, a blur of colour and speed and raw ambition. The vibration rattled through your chest, through the pit wall, through the sky itself.

And somewhere in that blur of motion and sound, Lewis was gone swallowed by the race, chasing something only he could see.

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