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Inappropriate - Lando Norris x Verstappen!Reader

Masterlist

Warnings: brief smut, sexual references, explicit language, alcohol, mentions of Jos

summary: Max is convinced that his sisters realitionship with Lando is inappropriate. The two of them testing his patience over and over again. But he will soon find out that them being apart isn’t much better. (ft. Pierre Gasly)

Max was in absolute terror. No he wanted to peel his skin off as he tossed and turned in his bed, desperately trying to get it to stop. Even covering his ears with his pillow from time to time, resisting the urge to get up and put and end to this immediately as he knew Kelly would be mad at him if he did so. But this was absolutely inappropriate, no it was disgusting. This was also his house after all. Why did you think it was fine to have sex here? Why did you even have to do it at all? Max cringed at the tought. Even more so because he knew, who was doing you.

The dutch driver had disagreed with his baby sister dating any of his friends from day one, especially not another driver. But along came innocent little Lando, only that he was not so innocent after all. It started kind of secretive, you only telling Max you were going out with someone. Knowing he‘d not be happy with it whatsoever. He had always lectured you about guys and their bad influence. He also never felt like anyone was worthy of you and even if you disagreed, Max felt like he was proved right when you had presented him who exactly you were dating.

„I‘m seeing Lando.“ you told your brother at lunch on the promenade in Monte-Carlo one day. The Red Bull driver, looking up from his menu furrowed his eyebrows. You were fidgeting with your white dress, trying to stay calm as you hoped your brother wouldn’t cause a scene. That was actually part of the reason why you brought him to a public place. You couldn’t exactly see his expression behind his black sunglasses, but you hoped it be a good one. Max's approval was the most important thing to you, even more important than your dads. Having been through everything togehter, you loved your brother with all your heart.

„You’re seeing Lando? Where?“ the dutch driver asked, unsure of what exactly he was hearing. You had to resist the urge to chuckle as you shook your head, was he seriously not getting it? Pressing your lips together you repeated your words „I‘m… I’m seeing him Max.“

Max expression turned stone cold in the matter of seconds, his breathing seemingly louder than normal as he placed down his menu card on the table before muttering under his breath „What?“

You could tell this wasn’t gonna be good but you had to get through this, having promised Lando you’d talk to Max after he wanted to literally do it on his own. Wanting to safe your boyfriend from getting killed you said you‘d take the matter in your own hands and arranged that lunch with your brother. And poor Max had attended it completely oblivious, not at all ready of what was to come.

„Lando. I‘m dat-" you started but where interrupted rather quickly.

„No I understood!“ Max stated rather harshly, taking of his sunglasses and looking around to see if someone was staring. You bit the inside of your mouth seeing his furious expression as Max hissed „You‘re absolutely not gonna see him!“

„I already did-"

„He‘s literally a man whore Y/n!“ Max said his voice extremely squeaky as you sighed. You knew Landos reputation but quite frankly you didn’t care, he was different with you „He hits once and then he drops you.“

You cringed, disgusted with your brothers statement, so naively you blurted out „No he didn’t!“

Max felt like throwing up, hearing you talk in past tense. You were his sister and the thought of you with Lando was enough to make him want to literally scream. So from the get-go, the driver did not agree with the relationship. Whenever he‘d see Lando and you he‘d walk the other way which was hard, considering you travelled everywhere with Max, working as an intern at Red Bull racing. Even your dad agreed with the relationship more than Max but you didn’t ever want his validation anyway. It was Max, who you cared about.

Word spreaded quick and soon enough everyone knew about your relationship with Lando. And you didn’t really care, happy you could finally be together in public without hiding. 

„Baby!“ you squealed, jumping up and down as Lando stepped down the car. The cheers from around you ringing in your ears. The Mclaren driver immediately approached you taking off his helmet as his team cheered him on. You pulled of his revealing his messy curly hair and big smile. Throwing your arms around his neck as Lando smashed his lips onto yours. 

„Congrats!“ you mumbled against his lips, people around you snapping photos of the celebratory kiss. Lando had just gotten P3 in Imola and everyone was happy for him. Well, everyone expect Max. He stepped out his own car, expecting you there at the front line with Kelly and his dad, like you always had been.

„Good job!“ Kelly cheered on Max, hugging him as he ran his hand through his sweaty hair. Looking around, hoping to find you with the team.

„Where’s Y/n?“Max yelled, trying to be louder than the people and music. Kelly eyes travelled somewhere behind him before shooting Max a weak smile. Max turned around, checking what his girlfriend had just seen and when he saw what it was, he wished he never had. His own sister, arms wrapped around Landos neck literally making out in front of everyone, celebrating the younger guys win.

„Is she serious!“ Max hissed looking at Kelly and his dad to see if they saw how inappropriate this was. You were a Verstappen after all but Jos just shrugged, patting his sons shoulder while Kelly had a little more helpful advice to offer „They’re young and in love Max.“

Even though Max understood the being young part, he strongly disagreed with the being in love. You weren't in love, especially not with Lando Norris. The guy literally had the maturity of a twelve year old and god was it testing Max's patience. Fast forward to Miami, the Red Bull driver was super happy to spend time with his family ahead of the race. When going out out for dinner, to which he had invited you his mood would change once again as he saw you enter the restaurant with the Mclaren driver attached to your hip.

„Oh I‘m getting the death stare again.“ Lando whispered as you two walked through the restaurant, passing a couple of familiar faces. You sighed looking at you boyfriend, his curly hair placed ever so perfectly as his white button up revealed his tanned chest. You knew even though Lando was acting like he wasnt bothered, somewhere in his heart it did bother him that Max seemed to dislike him so strongly now. Having always considered the dutch guy as a friend up until dating you. But Daniel, who knew Max quite well, had told Lando that it was understandable for the Red bull driver to act like this. He had went for the one thing that was so clearly off limits. Everybody knew how protective Max was over you and it had worked. Well, until Lando came along.

„It‘s gonna be fine baby.“ you whispered back, placing a soft kiss on his cheek which caused him to smile. Approaching the table where your family was sat along with everyone's partners. You greeted them all with a smile and a wave, giving Kelly a hug as you hadn‘t seen her in a while, having spent all your time here with Lando. The woman complimented you backless black dress and gave you a short heads up about your brother.

„Just so you know.“ Kelly whispered as the table of was too busy catching up with Lando. She looked over at Max as your eyes followed hers, the guy sitting there with his hands intwined, resting them on the table as he watched his father talk to Lando unimpressed „He is mad you brought him as he only invited you.“

„Seriously?“ you rolled your eyes sighing as Kelly shrugged her shoulders, sending you an apologetic smile. She knew Max would always always find a reason to dislike Lando, any inconvenience being used to his favor. You took a deep breath in as Kelly sat down next to Max again, her daughter painting on her high chair next to them. Lando pulled out a chair for you, right opposite Max gesturing you to sit down. So you sat down at the end of the table, Lando taking place right next to you. 

„Hello Max.“ you put on a unamused smile, dissapointed in his behavior. He hadn’t even said hello to Lando, treating him like thin air. The brit could obviously feel the tension between you and your brother, placing his hand on your exposed thigh in order to calm you. He knew you and Max where actually quite similar, both extremely stubborn in wanting things your way. He loved that you were passionate but found it ironic that it was the very thing you disliked about your brother.

„Hello Y/n.“ Max smile was as fake as it could be as he leaned back on the bench with his arms crossed, still not looking at Lando once. It triggered something inside of you. Why could he not see you where happy? So after two glasses of champagne and a rather awkward first course of your dad asking Lando a million questions, you finally got it. Maybe it was the alcohol that made you think it was a good idea, deciding if Max didn’t wanna look at Lando you‘d just make him do so.

Luckily you were sat at the end of the table, out of your dads view and with your sister husband next to Lando who was to busy on his phone anyways. Landos hand still resting on your thigh awfully high you squirmed your legs a little, hoping the brit would notice. And of course Lando did as he looked at you with furrowed brows. Seeing the look on your face and you chewing on your lip immediately ringing his alarm bells. He cleared his throat trying to overplay your moving around, trapping his hand between your legs.

„No absolutely not Y/n!“ Lando whispered in your ear, awfully aware that Max could look any moment as the family was enrolled in some discussion about Mercedes performance this year. You sighed his face dangerously close to yours as you put on a pout. Your hands travelling under the table as they reached for Landos hand, pushing your dress aside and making him travel higher almost touching you. The brit clenched his jaw, cursing himself that this actually turned him on. Leaning over to you you once again he muttered in your ear „We can’t do this Y/n.“

A smirk in your lips, as you placed his hand over your private area only the material of your underwear between you. Lando took a deep breath in as he saw the look on your face, he was actually fucked and he knew it. He applied a little pressure as you whimpered slightly, now actually fully turned on. Completely having forgotten about your plan as you felt Lando slowly push your underwear aside, thanking god for the white cloth on the table, hiding what was happening. The brit leaned over to you, his voice all raspy as he muttered „This is on you baby. Don’t blame me.“

With that Lando started tracing circles on your clit with his fingers, making you clutch on to your chair with your hands overwhelmed by the sensation. Lando just sat there leaning back in his chair as if nothing was happening, continuing to listen to your fathers rant. You only now noticed Max's eyes on you. The Red bull driver looked at you with furrowed brows and a critical look on his face. Yours and Landos secretive whispering having caught his attention. You bit your lip, trying to resist the urge to make any sound as Lando picked up his pace. He was so very aware of Max's eyes on you but this was your idea, so you had to be punished. Lando ignored his own hard on as he felt your hand digging into his thigh.

Kelly had noticed Max tense up next to her as she looked at what was bothering the guy so much. When her eyes landed on you she seemed confused for a second but then seeing you squirm around, biting your lips and Landos arm seemingly somewhere on your side under the table, she immediately chocked on her water. You silently thanked god for it as it made Max turn towards her worried, making sure she was fine. Giving you the chance to turn towards your own boyfriend and mutter in his ear „Lando stop please.“

Lando had a mischievous smirk placed on his lips as his hand stopped moving. Insteading he ran his fingers through your wet folds stoping right above your entrance. And when you could feel his finger start slipping in you immediately pressed your legs together, causing the brit to chuckle „What baby? I thought you wanted this?“

You shook your head, your face flushed as you pressed you lips together sending Lando a serious look „I know but I can‘t.“

Lando chuckled rolling his eyes, he knew you were serious right now. Placing a soft kiss on your cheek before whispering „I know baby, I‘ll stop for now.“

You sighed relieved he was willing to let this go as he was normally quite serious when it came to punishing you. You‘d probably get it later, which was also kind of exciting. Kelly had finally calmed down as Max eyes fell back on you, overwhelmed with the situation. Seeing the Mclaren driver smirk at you as he whispered something which to Max's understanding was something like „You have to let me go though.“

You opened your legs allowing Lando to take his hand away, as he rearranged your panties. Pulling down your dress as his hand was placed on your thigh once again. Leaning back in his chair, like nothing had happened as you ran your hands through your hair, trying to collect yourself. Looking up to see Max look at you once again with his jaw clenched, looking severely pissed off, you innocently raised your eyebrows acting oblivious. 

„That better not have been what it looked like.“

So you see, everybody would understand Max right? No one wanted to see their sister and her boyfriend act like horny teenager 24/7. From making out in front of him, to even hearing you two go at it at night, it was all too much for the dutch driver. And as you were a saint in Max's eyes he soon convinced himself that this was all Landos fault. His bad influence on you clearly evident. The amount of times Max had seen hickeys on your neck became uncountable. But that wasnt even the worst. It seemed like you and Lando had no censor whatsoever no more, which was completely disrespectful in Max's opinion. And then at the Spanish grand prix everything got sort of out of hand.

„Norris how‘s the girlfriend?“ Pierre spoke as he grabbed a water out the fridge of the break room. The guys where doing press today in different groups and of course Max had been thrown in with Lando. Her silently cursed himself, leaning against the wall drinking his Red Bull as he watched Lando sit on the couch surrounded by Charles and Pierre, Daniel still busy wrestling Yuki. The world champion shook his head at the level of immaturity in the room.

„Don’t talk about her Gasly.“ Lando warned Pierre, referencing the time where Pierre had actually tried to hit on you. Pierre was of course super drunk and put in his place by Max rather quickly. Well, he was punched in the face to be completely honest but that’s what he got for throwing himself onto you like that. Pierre chuckled, feeling like it was funny story now. He knew you had forgiven him for it now, you two even joked about it.

„Come on Lando! That was like so long ago!“ Charles laughed, placing himself on the couch next to Lando who was completely unaware of the fact that Max was standing leaning against the wall just a few meters behind them hearing every word they said. If he knew he probably wouldn’t have done and told what was about to come. As Charles wrapped his arm around the younger guy, looking at his phone as Pierre did the same from the other side. 

„Oh, is that her?“ Charles wiggled his eyebrows looking at the picture on the phone which you had just sent Lando. The brit chuckled, opening the picture of you in one of his Mclaren shirts. He thought it was innocent, just you showing off how proud you were of him. 

„Yes, it’s an inside joke look we have a lot of pictures-" the guy started, blissfully opening up his camera roll in order to show the guys what he meant. But the very first picture that appeared made Landos face drop and he went as pale as a ghost as Charles next to him started laughing like crazy causing everybody to look „Jeez Lando! That’s freaky!“

Pierre covering his mouth shocked, still staring at the screen. Lando couldn’t even react, because next thing he knew Max appeared behind him ripping the phone out his hand. The image engraved in his mind forever of his sister sitting on top of Lando in an orange bra and a Mclaren hat. Landos hand literally around her neck. 

Charles laughter immediately stopped as he saw who exactly had just taken Landos phone while Pierre thanked himself for not having commented anything. Having felt first hand what angry Verstappen was like. Max felt nauseous as he turned off the phone, looking at Lando who just looked speechless. Had Max just actually seen that picture of you on top of him half naked? It was clearly evident what was happening in the picture which made everything even worse.

„Max-" Lando started trying to explain that he would have never showed this to anyone on purpose. But Max just shook his head, furious with Lando seemingly treating his sister like some girl he was just fucking. 

Daniel had caught wind of the situation, letting go of Yuki as he approached the younger guys on the couch. Seeing Max look like he was about to kill someone, he knew he had to intervene and that was just right timing because just like that Max grabbed Lando by the collar of his Mclaren polo.

„Max dude!“ Daniel yelled, not condoling the violence while Pierre and Charles pushed Max back a little. Daniel using the chance to hold the dutch driver back. 

„No he‘s a fucking idiot!“ Max yelled, clearly upset about this. Daniel nodded understanding the dutch guy, immediately recognizing that something inappropriate had been on that phone. 

„I understand you're mad but right now‘s not the time man.“ Daniel tried calming his former teammate, while everybody was dead silent. Lando knew he had fucked up now. The chance of Max liking him now neraly zero and that for a valid reason. 

„No honestly!“ Max said his voice nearly trembling as he looked at Daniel shaking his head. He held up Landos phone, which was turned off „That‘s my fucking sister!“

With that Max threw the phone towards Lando. The young guy catching it totally taken aback. Max looked at Lando one last time with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched before shaking his head and walking off, leaving the room evidently pissed off. Daniel sighed looking at the three young guys on the couch, especually Lando who he was disappointed in. He understood that Max felt like this was disrespectful. 

„Seriously guys?"

When Lando had told you what happened you were furious with him. Not only that he was stupid enough to open it in front of Pierre and Charles but also you freaking brother. Knowing you were never gonna hear the end of this. But surprisingly Max didn't ever mention it to you again. Probably also because you had been mad at Lando the whole week and never had talked about him in front of your brother again. But you still felt like Max would normally be the one to lecture you.

„Y/n?“ Lando approached you when you were standing outside the Alpha Tauri hospitality waiting for Pierre as you had agreed to go to lunch with him. Feeling like talking to an old friend would distract you a little from Lando but here he was again. You looked at your boyfriend through your sunglasses, the sun way to hot on the pavement. Lando also sweating his ass of in his racing suit  rearranged his hat „Can we talk?“

„No.“ you crossed your arms, not in the mood to talk to him right now. But Lando didn't give up, he just sighed taking a step towards you. Putting his hands on your waist as he trapped you between himself and the wall a pout on his lips as he saw your still stern expression „Come on baby. You can't seriously still be mad about-"

„Oh, trust me Lando.“ you clenched your jaw looking at your boyfriend and resisting the urge to touch his adorable face „I'm still mad!“

„I didn’t do it on purpose baby!“ Lando whined, throwing his head back his voice extremely high pitched. God, why did he have to be so cute? No! you were still mad at him. He had embarrassed you in front of your friends and your brother.

„No Lando! You should have been more careful. Do you know how embarrassing that is? Especially in front of my friends and my brother-"

„Jesus christ Y/n! It‘s not like Pierre and Charles haven’t seen a naked girl-" Lando hissed but stopped himself, knowing he had just said something incredibly stupid. The expression on the young guys face one of regret. You bit the inside of your lips, swallowing as you felt like you could literally start crying.

„So what I’m just some naked girl to you?“ you whispered, Lando closing his eyes cursing himself for his reckless choice of words. He just wanted you to see that it wasn’t that big a deal and that he didn’t want to do it. Instead he had made everything even worse. The two of you were interrupted by someone clearing their throat next to you as you looked to the right to see Pierre stand there in his white button up and with sunglasses on his head „You ready Y/n?“ 

You put your own ones down again, not wanting Pierre to see your teary eyes as you unwinded yourself from Landos grasp. Removing his hands from your waist as he grabbed your wrist once again. You looked back at his face, seeing he looked actually upset „Wait…Where are you going?“

„I’m going to lunch with Pierre.“ you stated coldly, knowing that Lando was sensitive when it came to you and Pierre being friends. After he had made clear indications he liked you, any boyfriend wouldn’t like it.

„Really Y/n?“ Lando clenched his jaw, feeling like you were doing this on purpose to hurt him. But you just shrugged, ripping your arm from his hold before turning towards Pierre who looked extremely uncomfortable with what he had just walked into. 

„Really Lando.“ you just shrugged walking past Pierre, who pressed his lips together sending Lando an apologetic smile. But Lando wasn't amused as he looked at Pierre with his arms crossed. Disappointed the guy actually would do this. Pierre sighed before walking away backwards „Look mate it’s just lunch.“

Just lunch? The words drove Lando incredibly mad. After a long day of practicing he went back to his place, kicking of his shoes and heading straight to the shower before placing himself on his bed with his hair dripping wet. Turning on his phone to see his wallpaper a picture of you he had taken at the beach in Miami. God he loved your smile so much. Aimlessly scrolling through his instagram, he saw you had posted a series of pictures with the caption "When in Monaco". Mostly just things about your day at work at Red Bull but then the last two slides where the ones that made him wanna throw his phone against the wall. It was a picture of Pierre opposite you at lunch, drinking some orange drink while smiling into the camera and then another one of you at the beach with an Alpha Tauri hat on your head all smiles and giggles and tagged in the picture was none other than the french guy himself.

So much for going out for lunch, Lando thought as he scrolled through your comments. Lando was relieved that people also felt like you and Pierre hanging out was weird, as everyone wondered if you and Lando were fighting. Lando just knew he had to talk to you again but first he‘d need some sleep. The next day would be qualifyings after all.

„Y/n?“ Max knocked on the door of your bedroom, which sou had at his place as you were sat at your makeup table. Getting ready to go out. You looked at your brother, freshly showered standing in the doorway, Kelly behind him eavesdropping. The two of them just had a long discussion on about what was going on between you and Lando. You hadn't talked about the brit or hung out with him in over a week. Which was odd considering you were both in the same town. And your pictures with Gasly made them even more suspicious. Kelly feeling like if you two were fighting was all Max's fault and that he should be there for his sister. Max of course disagreed, telling her he wasn't to blame for the brits immaturity and that you two breaking up would have to come eventually.

„What Max?“ you asked and Max could hear you were upset by the tone of your voice. He walked imto the room as Kelly appeared in the door, seeing Max approach you. The guy put his hand around your shoulder in a comforting manner as he leaned down to her „Is everything okay?“

Kelly thanked the lord Max was seemingly finally doing the right thing she decided to give you some alone time closing the door behind her. You looked at Max, trying to not start crying as you put down your brush. The truth was that you were really not okay. You missed Lando, but you were incredibly dissapionted with what he had said to you.

So you just shook your head „No…“

„Is it Lando?“ Max asked, seemingly serious about his concern for you. You just nodded, wiping the corner of your eyes. It was hard for you to admit that Lando might actually be what Max had told you he was. 

„What did he do?“ Max clenched his jaw, clearly mad at the guy that had made his sister cry. This was exactly what he was afraid of from day one. And he had told everyone, Kelly, his father and even you that it eventually end like this but no one listened to him.

„He just said some things.“ you chocked, your brother getting aggravated even more. He caressed your back, kneeling down next to you „What did he say?“

You shook your head wiping your tears, knowing you shouldn’t tell Max. He would get even more mad at Lando and you were scared he might actually hurt him by now. But Max didn’t let go, he raised his eyebrows continuing „Y/n tell me what he said.“

„He- He…“ you stuttered, trying to collect your thoughts as you looked at the floor. Too ashamed to look into Max's eyes „We were talking about that..that picture you know.“

Max swallowed, as he nodded. He of course knew what picture you were talking about. 

„He didn’t even care about Charles and Pierre seeing it or how embarrassed I feel.“ you continued, trying to get to the point as it was rather awkward „He just said that it‘s not a big deal because the guys have seen plenty of naked girls. So now I understand that I’m just some naked girl to him.“

Max was furious. He had ranted to Kelly all night long on how shit guys were especially at your age. Kelly had told Max she was sure Lando didn’t mean that and that he should let the two of you sort it out.

Qualifying had been cut short, which you were kind of glad about. Knowing race day would be exhausting as it always was in Monaco. You were waiting for Max outside the Red Bull home, having spent the last 24 hour attached to his hip as he didn’t let you out of sight. Wanting to make sure you were fine at all times.  

Max was gonna start P4 and right behind him was Lando, who wasn't doing well at all that day. The only thought on his mind being you and how much he missed you. He knew he should apologize but to mad you had gone out with Pierre. So he decided to keep his distance for now. His heart aching everytime he saw you that day, wanting nothing more than to hold you in his arms. 

„Charles.“ Lando caught up to his friend, who was making his way out the paddock ,fans watching from aside. Charles looked at the Mclaren driver, shooting him a smile „Yes. Lando?

„Wanna get dinner together?“ Lando asked, rearranging his backpack as he ingored the yelling from people all around. The Ferrari driver sent Lando an apologetic smile „I would but I kind of...have plans.“

„Plans?“ Lando asked, scrunching his eyebrows. He knew Charles was hiding something from him. He just had no idea what it could be „What plans?“

„Alright don’t be mad though.“ Charles sighed, pursing his lips. The guy had no idea what had happened between Lando and you, but he knew you two were kind of having a crisis. Lando raised his eyebrows as he shook his head, walking alongside the Ferrari Driver „I won’t be mad I promise.“

„Well…“ Charles shrugged his shoulder, still contemplating whether or not to tell Lando about it but then decided it be the right thing „Pierre Invited Charlotte and me to dinner with him and…with Y/n.“

Lando spent all evening refreshing his instagram page, hoping he'd get to see something. He couldn’t handle the thought of you out with another guy on what seemed like a double date. You were still his girlfriend after all. You two hadn’t broken up so this was wrong. Then finally at around 11 pm a fan account posted a picture showing you next to Pierre at some restaurant. You were clearly wearing Pierres jacket unaware of the photo being taken. All smiles and happy. All the people in the comments asking what the hell was going on. Which Lando also started asking himself.

But Lando wasn’t the only confused one. Max couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked out his window that night. Watching Pierre Gasly drop you off, hugging you goodbye a little too long for his liking. The dutch driver actually felt like he was gonna go mad. Where you ever gonna learn? This was F1 biggest man whore. Even Lando was a better fit for you and that was hard for the dutch driver to admit.

When you entered Max's house he just stood there in the dark hallway with his arms crossed, looking like a literal father. You raised your eyebrows wanting to pass him but he stopped you grabbing your shoulder „Wait up missy.“

Oh god did he just actually call you that? You rolled your eyes, the alcohol in your system giving you quite an attitude. You were tired and wanted to sleep. You couldn‘t take Maxs bullshit now.

„What Max?“ you groaned, as Max scrunched his nose and shook his head.

„How much alcohol did you drink?“  he asked, as you looked at him annoyed. Why did it even matter, you were an adult after all. You unwinded yourself from Max's grasp but he still kept blocking your way. He felt like you owed him an explanation after all you had literally cried to him about your bad decisions just twenty four hours ago. Max who normally tried to keep his cool with you just had enough. As it felt like a switch had been flicked in him „You can not seriously go around the paddock and shag every driver that shows you a little attention. You know what that makes you look like. Like a-"

Max stopped himself as he saw the look in your eyes. He knew he had messed up. He didn't want to be the one to hurt you like this. You shook your head pushing past your brother as you made your way to your bedroom, going to sleep that night with a weird feeling. 

Race day in Monaco was always special. But you feared you‘d remember this one for all the bad reasons. You now not only had to avoid one guy on the paddock but two. It was hard as you of course were working and Max was also there. But you spent most of your time inside, only walking around if really needed. You cursed yourself internally when Horner told you to get him his favorite salad for lunch. But hey, you were the intern so you had to.

Passing Max on your way out, who was too focused on preparations. Never ever letting his private life affect his racing. 

Walking down the paddock, passing all the motor homes when you spotted Pierre. The french guy shooting you a smile as you approached him, embracing you in a friendly hug „Good morning, how are we feeling?“

You smiled, pulling back. Pierre was a great guy and the truth of the matter was that despite what people might have thought you two were really just friends. In fact the french guy had spenr all evening yesterday advicing you on how to work things out with Lando. He could obviously see how much you two loved one another and wanted it to work out for the two of you.  He also agreed that Lando would have to apologize though, even if he didn’t mean what he said.

Talking about Lando. The Mclaren driver felt like he was losing his mind. He had almost not been able to sleep last night, every-time he closed his eyes the image of you snd Pierre engraved in his mind. 

„I‘m fine thank you.“ you chuckled, and out the corner of your eye you could spot none other than your boyfriend. Leaning against a wall next to Daniel who was chatting with the mechanics. Lando looked rough, not like his usual happy and bubbly self. You didn’t even listen to Pierre anymore to focused on the boy who had stolen your heart. Knowing exactly what he was feeling right now, the crossed arms and the frown he was pulling giving him away. Something took over you right there and then as you abruptly interrupted Pierre, apologizing yourself before walking past him and heading straight towards Lando.

Checking the time on your watch, you saw there was enough time for you to go through with your plan. Lando couldn't believe his eyes when he watched you head straight towards him. To baffled and surprised to say anything you grabbed his upper arm, leaning into his ear and whispered „Don't say anything.“

Lando nodded like a puppy obeying your every word as you took his hand and lead him into the building. Leaving behind Daniel, who chuckled knowingly as the mechanics all shook their head. Young people.

In the backroom of the motor home, where no one usually was. You let the door fall close behind you as you turned around facing Lando. The guy too stunned to speak as he wondered what you were gonna do next. And then as you pushed him against the wall, he almost couldn’t believe it. Your lips crashing on his, your hands wrapping around his neck while Lando moaned into the kiss. He wanted to ask so bad what had changed but was scared to ruin the moment.

„I‘m still mad.“ you mumbled against his lips and Lando responded „Me too.“

„But I know you wouldn’t be able to race this worked up.“ you chuckled, feeling his hard on press against you. It was yours and Landos pre race ritual to give one another some kind of release. But this time it was different. You weren’t really here to help Lando out but little did he know. As you eagerly started pulling down his racing suit, hanging from his hips while he entered his tongue in your mouth, exploring every inch of it. Then with one swift motion your hand was in Landos pants touching him as he felt overwhelmed by the sensation.

„Fuck.“ he muttered, causing you too chuckle. Oh god if he couldn’t handle this, god save him from what was about to come. Pulling away as you looked at Landos puffy lips and messy hair. He was so totally at your ease it was endearing. You continued your plan by getting on your knees in front o the young guy. As he watched your every move with a clenched jaw. Soon enough his underwear was down and his hands buried in your hair ad you took his cock in your hand. Ever so slowly you licked his length before taking him into your mouth and then it was just waiting for the right time.

Lando was a moaning and groaning mess, his grip on your hair strong and firm as he let out a short „Fuck baby.“ 

As you watched his moans grow louder and his face scrunching up by every secon while you bobbed your head back and forward you almsot felt bad. Bad for what you were about to do. All so swiftly you pulled back, adding a little force so Lando would loosen his hold of your head which he did having no idea what was going on. He watched you confused as you got up, wiping the corner of your mouth „Glad to see that still works. Talk to me when you're ready to apologize.“

And than with that you left the poor guy behind, too shocked to say anything as he now knew he had to take care of his problem alone.

After a rather long day of racing, considering all the red flags you had agreed to go party with everyone. Knowing how fun these afterpartys could get. You were happy with Red Bulls work today and felt like you all deserved to celebrate. So you put on the shortest dress you owned and got ready with Kelly. All the while your brother tried calling Lando. Max had caught wind of you inviting Pierre with you and was not pleased. Even though most drivers where gonna be there, he felt like you going out your way to make sure Gasly was also there wasn’t a good thing. And even though he didn’t like to admit it, he knew the only person that could keep you from making a bad decision was annoying, childish and stupid Lando. 

„Listen you little..I need you to talk to my sister.“ 

You downed what seemed like your 10th shot with Pierre as Charles cheered the two of you on. The party was in full swings and you were having the time of your life. All the while Max was sitting on the lounge with crossed arms, watching Gasly be way too friendly. He couldn’t believe Lando was actually letting this happen. The brit busy getting drunk in some corner with Daniel and a bunch of random women. Lando had gotten here with the plan to talk to you. But god, he was still so mad on how you had left him today that he just couldn’t do it. Plus he was so disappointed in Pierre and Charles that he went to rant to Daniel, who told him to just get drunk and forget.

When Max watched Pierre drag you to the dance floor and you literally grind your ass against the older guy he decided he had seen enough. Ignoring Kellys calls after him he pushed his way through people and headed straight towards Lando, who was sitting in some swinging chair in the corner with a drink in his hand and some random hat on, looking like he had a decent amount of alcohol in his system. Too wasted to even notice the random girls around him all thirsting over him. 

„You!“ Max yelled over the music, causing everyone to look at him. Well expect Daniel, who was too busy making out with what looked like his girlfriend. Or maybe it wasn’t but Max couldn’t handle everyones problem right now. Lando looked at Max with wide eyes, clearly clueless in what was going on „You’re even worse than I thought!“

„What?“ Lando whined. his voice extremely high pitched. What had he done now? He had not even touched you! Landos drunken mind tried to come up with what Max's problem could be now „Is this about blow job? Because that was your sister-"

„Eww!“ Max scrunched up his face in disgust, hearing Lando talk about you. Lando soon realizing it probably wasn’t about that „Stop no! This is about you having to apologize to my sister now!“

Lando groaned, throwing up his hands in frustration „What? Why do I Have to-„

„Because Pierre is literally about to make out with her on the dance floor.“

That was it. Landos whole demeanor changed. It was like he had just sobered up within seconds as he jumped out his chair, stumbled over the table and pushed straight past Max showing his drink into his chest while doing so. Throwing his hat off as Max rolled his eyes, yelling after Lando to also apologize for him as he hadn't yet done so himself. He still hated Lando but the guy seemed like the lesser of two evils.

As Lando walked up to the dance floor, he could already spot Charles and Charlotte make out at the bar and just a few meters away from them there you were. Gasly's hands literally roaming your body as you were grinding up against him his face buried in your neck. You honestly didn’t even mean to dance with Pierre like this and he did neither probably. You were both just super drunk and not thinking clearly but then when you swiftly opened your eyes to see a pissed off Lando stand there with crossed arms you thought you might have just started having hallucinations. But opening them again for real and seeing your brother appear behind Lando, his usual disappointed stance you knew you weren't.

„Lando.“ you gasped, almost feeling busted. Nothing had really happened but Pierre still continuing to dance didn’t help make it look better as you stood there frozen in place. Lando clenched his jaw seeing where Pierres hand were wandering. Luckily Charles had caught wind of the situation as he ran over to you. The Ferrari Driver pulled his best friend away from you, dragging the stumbling guy away „Not your girl Pierre!“

Pierre didn't even disobey that's how drunk he was. Lando now took a step towards you a sad look on his face "Okay I apologize baby. I'm sorry for what I said"

"So am I." Max yelled behind Lando making you roll your eyes.

"I accept your apology." you chuckled, causing Lando to smile. The brit leaning in towards you and grabbing your upper arm before whispering "Now don't say anything."

You grinned, knowing he had just quoted you as you followed him past Max. Your brother sighing and shaking his head as you waved him goodbye. Not even ten seconds later he could see Lando press you against the wall and smash his lips onto yours. Max cringed at sloppy sight of it ad he turned around making his way back to Kelly, who sat there with a smirk on her face. With raised eyebrows the dutch guy sat down. Rubbing his knees with his hand as he could hear Kelly chuckle before she placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

„What?“ Max asked, having to resist the urge to smile.

„Nothing.“ Kelly giggled, before looking at you and Lando fully making out „You did the right thing Max. I‘m proud of you.“

„Yeah whatever.“ Max shrugged pretending to not care as he also looked at you Lando. Shaking his head ad he groaned „God he doesn't have to eat her up though?"

Streamer Lando Masterlist

Just bc I'm extra gonna make an official master list for streamer Lando fics

She's Pretty Cute

Fan Favourite

Sore Loser

Kill It

Please Never Change

No More Sad Songs for Mr Norris

Never Going Out In Public Again

A Sweetheart Pt 2

Back from Dinner (Date)

Interruptions

Caught In It

It's Autumn Sunset

Yeah That's My Girl

He Knows He's Won

🥰 lando norris masterlist 🥰

personal faves f contains smut(ty parts) s

✨ Series ✨

s KINDA HOT THO ; part one / part two

In which your brother has the most awful new teammate, but you keep finding yourself closer and closer to him. It's only sex - right?

s ROOMMATES (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten

In which you have to live with your brothers best friend who you really don't like, Lando Norris, and his many 'girlfriends' for a while, but there's always a thin line between love and hate.

f & s MORE THAN FRIENDS (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven / part twelve

In which your best friend is going to help you to gain more sexual experience and say goodbye to your insecurities, but he's quick to discover that he never wants to share you and your new experiences with others - the only problem being, him having to confess his feelings.

s HIS TEAMMATE (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven / part twelve / part thirteen

In which you find yourself getting closer to your brothers new teammate who's a total dick.

THE RACE LOSER (finished); part one / part two

In which you see your ex best friend again, after he cut off contact between you to because he needed to focus on racing

f & s MISTAKE(S) (finished); part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine

In which you keep making the same mistake over and over again by fucking the boy you hate the most

INTO IT (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven

In which you really, really dislike your brothers new found best friend - Lando Norris - but you keep finding your way back to him

f&s FWB (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven

In which you decide to become friends with benefits with Lando Norris, that can't be a bad idea right?

THE SISTER (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten

In which your the little sister of Max Verstappen and you meet Lando Norris, who quickly turns in to one of your best friends. But there's a thin line between friends & lovers

f&s BREAKING THE RULES (finished) ; part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven

In which Lando is your brothers rival during the championship, but you can't seem to stay away from him

✨ One shots ✨

s His stripper ; In which Lando his friends take him to a stripclub, where he meets you. He's quick to come back weekly, every Tuesday you're his. But when he comes another day and finds you on the lap of some other guy, something in him snaps.

s Not a chance ; In which Lando thinks he's going to win a race, to which you tell him the chances of you two fucking are as low as him winning a race - so what happens when he wins?

Regret ; In which Lando breaks up with you, but starts to regret it even more when he sees you back on the racetrack. Can he still fix things?

f Fake date ; In which Lando helps you piss of your ex boyfriend by acting like your fake new boyfriend

His masseur ; In which you're Lando his best friend and masseur, but your feelings start to cause a bit of trouble

s Crazy ; in which Lando and you are crazy for each other without knowing it from each other, until Lando loses his temper while seeing you with another

f Date ; in which Lando needs an awful push from his friends to finally ask you out

Afterparty ; in which you and Lando are oblivious idiots & you go to the afterparty with someone else after Lando told you it was no big deal, spoiler: it was a big deal

Little game ; in which you and Lando are fighting, so you decide to test his feelings for you with a little game

White Horse - Chapter 9: November 2023 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, Jos Verstappen for once not being the bad guys.

Part 2 of November.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Isabelle: Hey Vic! Hope you are doing well! 

Isabelle: I have a question:  Do you happen to remember the breeder Max got Sassy and Jimmy from?

Victoria: Hi!! 🐱 I do! Why? Thinking about getting one?

Isabelle: Maybe… I was thinking about surprising Max for Christmas.

Victoria: 🥹🥹🥹

Victoria: That is the cutest thing I’ve heard all day.

Victoria: He’s going to melt.

Isabelle: Please don't tell him 🥺

Victoria:  My lips are sealed!

Victoria:  Also yes, I have the breeder’s number, she’s lovely

Victoria:  She always has litters around winter!

Isabelle: perfect 🥹

Victoria: Max is going to lose his mind. I hope you're ready for him to cry about it and pretend he’s not crying. 

Isabelle: I am emotionally prepared 😂

Victoria: Speaking of surprises

Victoria: I heard you quit your job???

Isabelle: Yeah.

Isabelle:  A couple days ago. I just… couldn’t do it anymore.

Isabelle:  I was miserable. They didn’t take me seriously. 

Victoria: I had no idea, Belle.

Victoria: I’m proud of you.

Isabelle:  Thank you.  I’m kind of… floating now. Max calls it my “trophy wife sabbatical”.  

Victoria: Well, if anybody deserves a Trophy Wife Sabbatical, it’s you 😂 And I bet my brother is thriving in your trophy wife era, don’t let him lie. 

Isabelle:  I love him so much it’s disgusting.

Victoria: You should

Victoria:  He’s a better version of himself with you (Still dramatic, but better)

Isabelle:  He’s been so patient

Isabelle:  Like he never doubts I’ll figure it out

Isabelle:  Even when I do

Victoria:  You’ll figure it out, Belle. I don’t doubt that at all. 

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Isabelle: Hey

Isabelle: Just letting you know I’m coming to Abu Dhabi. 

Isabelle: Got my flight booked and hotel sorted. 

Charles: nice!

Charles: see you there

Arthur: cool

Lorenzo: Safe flight!

***

The hum of the engines was steady, the cabin was dim, and Max was… well, Max.

Lando shifted restlessly in his seat across the aisle, flipping a bottle cap between his fingers., trying not to go completely insane with boredom.

Max, for his part, sat slouched across from him, hoodie pulled low over his face, legs stretched out like he owned the plane. Which he technically did.

They had been flying forever.

Vegas was a chaotic blur.

 Abu Dhabi felt years away.

“Still alive?” Lando asked.

Max made a noncommittal grunt under his hoodie.

The jet bumped onto the runway in Nice for refueling, smooth as ever, and Max finally sat up, stretching.

"We're not getting off, are we?" Lando asked, yawning.

"Nope," Max said, pocketing his phone. "Just refueling."

Lando nodded, already thinking about maybe finding a Red Bull in the mini-fridge when the jet rolled to a stop.

Then the cabin door clicked.

And she stepped in.

Isabelle.

Dressed casually—jeans, sneakers, a soft pink sweater that somehow looked expensive without trying.

 Her hair was loose. She carried a small overnight bag in one hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the other.

Lando’s brain broke.

"You’re joking," he blurted, sitting bolt upright.

Isabelle smiled, calm and bright. "Hi, Lando."

Max didn't even react. He stood up casually, took her bag, and tucked it into the overhead like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re—what—you’re coming to Abu Dhabi?” Lando stammered.

Isabelle raised an eyebrow, amused. “I’m watching my brother race. Isn’t that what family does?”

Lando opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

 Because sure, technically that was a logical answer, except for the very large fact that she was coming to watch her brother race while secretly dating his biggest rival.

And Charles didn’t know.

Max dropped into the seat next to Isabelle like nothing was wrong, slinging his arm along the back of her seat, brushing her shoulder without thinking.

Lando stared.

This—

 This was the first time he had really seen them.

 Max and Isabelle.

 Max and Isabelle.

Now that he knew, it was obvious.

The way Max’s entire body shifted when she was near — looser, softer, grounded.

 The way Isabelle leaned subtly toward him without realizing it — like orbiting Max was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t loud.

 It wasn’t flashy.

 It wasn’t the kind of relationship you noticed if you weren’t looking closely.

But now Lando could see it everywhere.

Max’s hand brushed her knuckles lightly, and Isabelle tilted her head toward him in that soft, familiar way, smiling just for him.

Lando felt like he’d been let in on the world’s most terrifying and beautiful secret.

He groaned loudly, dropping his head back against the seat.

"Charles is going to kill me when he finds out I knew," he said to no one in particular.

Max smirked, absolutely unbothered. "We’ll all be dead eventually. Might as well enjoy the flight."

Isabelle covered her mouth to hide a laugh.

Lando glared at them both. "You’re so chill about this!"

Isabelle leaned back in her seat, folding her arms. "Because there’s nothing to be not chill about."

"You say that now," Lando muttered. "Wait until your brother explodes."

Isabelle shrugged, a little more steel underneath her calm. "He’ll get over it."

Max smiled lazily beside her. "He’ll have to."

And for a moment, watching them — Isabelle with her quiet resolve, Max with his immovable certainty — Lando realized:

Maybe they weren’t reckless.

 Maybe they weren’t hiding out of fear.

 Maybe they were just... keeping something for themselves.

Private. Fierce. Unshakable.

Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

 "If I end up collateral damage in your little love story," he said darkly, "I'm haunting you both."

Max just chuckled, settling back with Isabelle tucked under his arm like it was second nature.

"Deal," Max said.  "And thanks for flying Air Max."

Lando groaned into his hands. "I'm going to have an ulcer before we even land."

Max laughed.

Isabelle just smiled and leaned into Max's side without thinking, his hand slipping instinctively to her knee.

And Lando, sitting across from them, realized grimly:

He was not surviving this weekend.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, and Daniel Ricciardo) 

Lando: she’s on the plane

Lando: she’s. on. the. plane.

Oscar: who

Daniel: oh god

Daniel: which “she” are we talking about

Daniel: please not the vegas bartender again

Lando: NO

Lando: Isabelle

Oscar: WHAT

Daniel: OH MY GOD

Oscar: LIKE

Oscar: THE Isabelle

Oscar: Charles’ sister Isabelle

Oscar: Max’s secret girlfriend Isabelle

Oscar: The one we’re all pretending not to know about Isabelle???

Lando: YES

Lando: she just got on the jet in NICE

Lando: she’s flying with us to ABU DHABI

Lando: I AM GOING TO DIE

Daniel: did max know she was coming??

Lando: he helped her with her bag and everything

Lando: like it was a normal day

Lando: like he didn’t just invite a LECLERC onto his PRIVATE JET

Lando: while secretly DATING HER

Oscar: we are all going to die

Daniel: please tell me you said something

Lando: she told me she’s just “watching her brother race”

Lando: like that’s not the most emotionally loaded thing anyone has ever said on a private jet

Oscar: I’m sweating

Oscar: Are you sweating?

Oscar: I feel like we should all be sweating

Daniel: what’s the plan??

Daniel: are we pretending we don’t know??

Daniel: are we spies now???

Lando: there is no plan

Lando: there’s only vibes

Lando: and the vibes are “Charles is going to murder us in cold blood”

Oscar: Max seems chill about it?

Lando: He’s so chill it’s terrifying

Lando: She sat down next to him and he just put his arm around her

Lando: Like she’s not the nuclear secret of the entire paddock

Daniel: He’s going to soft launch her in the paddock isn’t he

Daniel: you’re going to be THERE when it happens

Daniel: you’re IN the launch window

Lando: I didn’t sign up for this

Lando: I signed up for sim races and chaos memes

Lando: Not for hiding the Verstappen-Leclerc love story from a ticking Charles-shaped time bomb

Oscar: They’re so subtle though

Oscar: Like you wouldn’t even notice unless you KNOW

Daniel: And now you know

Daniel: And now you’re cursed

Lando: i literally said if i become collateral damage i’m haunting them both

Oscar: haunting Max would be so easy

Oscar: he already thinks every weird noise in his apartment is one of the cats

Daniel: tell Isabelle i want to be invited to the wedding if we survive this

Lando: i hate you both

Lando: they just shared a look across the cabin

Lando: i think they’re telepathic

Oscar: you’re already too deep

Oscar: we can’t help you now

Daniel: thoughts and prayers, mate

Daniel: and maybe wear orange so Charles hesitates when he comes for you

Lando: i’m gonna need more than orange

Lando: i’m gonna need a will

***

Oscar liked to think of himself as a calm guy.

Level-headed.

Mature.

 Good under pressure.

But apparently, all that went out the window the second he spotted Isabelle Leclerc wandering through the paddock.

Because he knew.

He knew.

And she knew that he knew.

And he knew that she knew that he knew.

And now every single step he took felt like it was being broadcast on national television.

Oscar straightened his posture unnecessarily, like standing up straighter would make him less suspicious.

Isabelle was across the walkway, wearing a sundress, her paddock pass and a small, polite smile for every mechanic and engineer who said hello.

Completely casual.

 Completely effortless.

Completely dating Max Verstappen and somehow nobody else knew.

Oscar stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual.

 He would not be the one to blow their cover.

 He would not be the guy who accidentally made eye contact and triggered a Red Bull-Charles Leclerc paddock war.

He focused on walking normally.

 Breathing normally.

 Existing normally.

It was fine.

 Everything was fine.

He passed within a few meters of her, gave a small, casual nod.

 The kind of nod that said "hey, I know you" without saying "hey, I know your secret relationship with Max Verstappen."

Isabelle caught his eye for a second — and her mouth twitched into the smallest, most knowing smile.

Oscar almost tripped over his own feet.

He coughed, pretended to check his watch even though he wasn’t wearing one, and kept moving like nothing happened.

Be normal, he told himself.

 You’re a Formula 1 driver.

 You drive at 300 kph for a living.

 You can survive seeing Max’s secret girlfriend without spontaneously combusting.

Behind him, he swore he heard a soft laugh — hers, light and amused — and he decided he was never speaking of this again.

Not until it was safe.

Not until he was 5,000 miles away and absolutely certain Charles wouldn’t shank him with a champagne bottle.

Oscar made a sharp left turn toward the McLaren hospitality, muttering under his breath:

"Stay in your lane, Piastri. Stay alive."

***

The sun was sinking low, throwing long shadows across the paddock. Carlos leaned back against a concrete wall near the Ferrari motorhome, helmet balanced beside him, sipping slowly from a bottle of water as Charles scrolled aimlessly through his phone.

It was rare to get these moments—quiet, easy, just them.

But something had been itching at the back of Carlos’ mind lately.

 A conversation with Lando.

 Observations that were getting harder to ignore.

Something had been gnawing at Carlos for weeks now.

So Carlos spoke.

“Your sister’s been doing some pretty cool work lately,” he said casually.

Charles didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

“Architectural stuff. Monaco interiors. Heard she’s doing well.”

Charles gave a vague shrug. “I guess.”

Carlos waited for more. It didn’t come.

“She designed Max’s penthouse, right?” he pushed.

Charles made a noncommittal noise. “She helped with it or something. Picked out the furniture.”

Carlos blinked. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—she didn’t just decorate. She designed it. Layouts. Custom interiors. Lighting plans. All of it.”

Charles frowned like he genuinely didn’t understand. “Okay…? So?”

Carlos stared at him. “So… that’s a big deal, mate.”

Charles tilted his head. “She’s always been good at decorating.”

Carlos was quiet for a second too long.

Decorating.

“Dios mio,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “You really don’t get it.”

“Get what?” Charles asked, clearly confused now. “She’s got a job, she likes it, I’m happy for her. What’s your point?”

“My point,” Carlos said, carefully measured, “is that you’re acting like she spent an afternoon picking paint colors. She designed that place. From scratch. Layouts. Architecture. Interior. Everything.”

Charles looked nonplussed. “She’s good at that stuff. ”

Carlos stared at him for a second.

 Waiting for the punchline.

 It didn’t come.

“You’re kidding,” Carlos said flatly.

Charles glanced over, frowning. “What?”

Carlos shook his head slowly. “That’s your sister, mate. Show a little respect. You talk about Isabelle like she’s some bored little sister playing pretend. Like her work isn’t real.”

Charles blinked. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said,” Carlos snapped. “You talk about what she does like it’s picking curtains. Like she’s not out there building a career people actually respect. You know how many people would kill to design a place like Max’s penthouse?”

Charles looked blank. “It’s just a flat.”

Carlos let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “No. It’s not. It’s a statement. A place Max trusted someone to shape. And your sister did that.”

Charles shrugged, still defensive. “Okay, well, good for her.”

Carlos gave him a look. “Good for her?”

“Yeah, I mean—I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Carlos exhaled, eyes narrowing slightly. “I want you to realize that she’s more than ‘my sister who’s good at decorating.’ I want you to see her. Because everyone else seems to.”

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Carlos Sainz Jr. 

Carlos:  What the hell.

Lando: oh no

Lando: what did I do. 

Carlos:  I talked to Charles. 

Carlos:  Charles talks about his sister like she’s some intern playing with paint samples

Carlos:   She’s out here designing penthouses and he’s like “yeah she’s good at decorating”

Lando: oh my god 💀

Carlos: I wanted to shake him

Carlos:   how do you not SEE your own sister

Carlos:   She’s killing it

Carlos:   She’s literally a better architect than half the guys building million dollar places in Monaco.

Lando: yeah

Lando: max definitely sees it lol

Carlos:  Yeah, well, at least Max appreciates good work

Lando: not just her work, mate 😬

Carlos:  What does that mean?

Lando: uh

Lando: nvm

Lando: forget i said anything

Carlos:  LANDO.

Lando: max and isabelle are a thing okay!!!

 Lando: they’ve been a thing for months!!

Carlos:  Are you saying

Carlos:  Max Verstappen

Carlos:  Is dating Isabelle Leclerc?!

Lando: 😬😬😬😬😬

Carlos:  dios mio

Carlos: does CHARLES know

Lando: oh absolutely not

Lando: zero clue

Lando: brain empty

Lando: we’re all going to die when he finds out

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo and Carlos Sainz Jr.)

Carlos: What is this?

Oscar: Oh no

Carlos: Lando, why am I here?

Carlos: Why do you keep dragging me deeper into this

Daniel: WELCOME CARLOS!!

Daniel: You’ve joined an elite group of people who are  😬 aware 😬

Oscar: This is a safe space for those who are emotionally compromised by Max dating Isabelle

Carlos: Are you people insane?

Lando: yes

Carlos: I just found out like 7 minutes ago. 

Carlos:  I’m still processing the fact that Max is dating Charles’ SISTER

Carlos:  and that apparently EVERYONE BUT CHARLES KNOWS

Oscar: that’s the part that really gets you huh

Carlos: YES, OSCAR

Carlos:  how has CHARLES not noticed his own sister is dating his rival

Daniel: Love is the greatest camouflage

Lando: bro what

Daniel: idk it sounded poetic

Carlos: I can’t believe you all kept this to yourselves

Oscar: I found out in the cheese aisle of a supermarket. He knew her jam preferences. And then he smiled at her.  like softly

Lando: Max in love is terrifying

Lando: he’s… emotionally functional

Daniel:  I personally love this era for him

Daniel:  boyfriend max is my favorite max

Daniel: max 2.0: will fight you and then bring you tea

Carlos: I can’t be part of this

Carlos: i’m not stable enough

Carlos: i just yelled at charles for not respecting her work and NOW I KNOW SHE’S DESIGNING MAX’S APARTMENT BECAUSE THEY’RE TOGETHER

Carlos: I AM HIS TEAMMATE.

Oscar: oh no

Lando: oh my god

Daniel: this is my favorite plot twist

Carlos: I’m going to lie down in the garage and never get up

Lando: welcome to the group

Lando:  you’ll get used to the emotional whiplash

Oscar: We’re all just waiting for the day Charles finds out  and the world ends

Daniel: we should get matching t-shirts

Daniel:  i survived the verstappen-leclerc revelation and all i got was anxiety

***

The paddock was a flurry of noise—engine whines, media chatter— and Isabelle Leclerc was sipping iced water and trying not to sweat through her linen dress. One of Max’s linen shirts—stolen and knotted over her waist—was shielding her from the worst of the heat, and her sunglasses were perched high in her hair. 

She smiled politely when people passed, waved when engineers greeted her, and genuinely lit up when Gianpiero Lambiase came to say hello.

“Hey,” GP said, clearly mid-break between meetings. “I heard you have opinions.”

Isabelle tilted her head. “About?”

“Backsplash tiles,” he said, completely serious. “Kitchen remodel. My wife thinks I’m hopeless.”

Isabelle laughed, genuinely delighted. “I do have opinions. And Pinterest boards, if you’re interested.”

GP looked genuinely relieved. “Bless you. She keeps saying she wants something that feels 'European farmhouse meets modern desert' and I have no idea what that means.”

“It means she wants matte finish tiles, not glossy,” Isabelle said immediately. “And don’t pick anything with faux distressing. It always looks cheap.”

GP raised both eyebrows, intrigued. “Okay. I’ll tell her I consulted an expert.”

They chatted for a few more minutes—about grout colors, countertop edges, the horrors of open shelving—before GP was called away to a strategy meeting.

Isabelle turned back to her water and tried to will the heat away.

And then—

“Can I talk to you?”

She looked up.

Charles. Sunglasses on, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

“Sure,” she said cautiously, standing. “Everything okay?”

He didn’t answer. Just jerked his chin in the direction of the quieter walkway near the back of the paddock. She followed, unease creeping up her spine.

When they reached the shaded area, Charles turned on her sharply.

“Seriously, Isabelle?”

She blinked. “I—what?”

“GP?” he snapped.

Her eyebrows flew up. “What about him?”

“You’re flirting with Max’s engineer now?”

Isabelle just… stared.

“Are you serious right now?” she asked.

Charles crossed his arms. “He’s married, Isa.”

“Oh my god,” she said, incredulous. “You think I’m flirting with him?”

Charles didn’t respond, which was answer enough.

Isabelle took a step back. “You think I’m—what, exactly? A homewrecker? Some desperate little paddock groupie trying to sleep her way around Red Bull?”

“I didn’t say that,” he bit out, but his tone said otherwise.

“You didn’t have to!” she snapped. “You said it with your face. And your judgmental little ‘big brother’ voice.”

Charles looked uncomfortable for the first time, but didn’t back down. “It’s not about judging you. It’s about how it looks.”

“Oh, how it looks?” Isabelle laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re really going to lecture me on appearances? You—whose own dating history has been very well documented—are suddenly the morality police?”

“That’s different,” he muttered.

“No, it’s not.” She stepped in close, her voice lower now. “I wasn’t flirting. GP and I were talking about backsplash tiles. For his kitchen remodel. With his wife. Because, surprise, I have a degree and actual taste and people ask for my opinion.”

Charles blinked.

“I cannot believe you think so little of me,” she said, voice shaking. “Do you really think I’d put myself in that position? That I’d disrespect someone’s marriage like that?”

His jaw clenched, guilt flickering behind his eyes. “I just—saw you. Laughing. And I assumed—”

“Well maybe stop assuming, Charles.” Her voice broke, and she quickly looked away. “You assume the worst. You assume I’m… what? Naive? Reckless? Looking for attention? You never give me the benefit of the doubt.”

Charles swallowed. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“By calling me a homewrecker?”

He winced.

Isabelle stepped back, the chill in the air suddenly sharper. “I don’t need your protection, Charles. I need your respect.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of her words settling between them like dust.

“I came to support you,” she said softly. “ And now I wish I’d stayed home.”

“And for the record,” Isabelle said, stepping past him, “if I was flirting with someone, I wouldn’t be flirting with a guy, who is holding a ‘World’s Best Dad’ travel mug and has a wedding band on his finger.”

***

The door clicked softly behind him as Max stepped into the suite, pulling his cap off and running a hand through his hair.

It had been a long, sticky day at the track — race prep, debriefs, heat clinging to everything — and all he wanted was to see her.

"Belle?" he called gently.

No answer.

He frowned, dropping his keys and phone onto the entry table, kicking off his shoes. The suite was mostly dark, save for the dim bedside lamp glowing through the half-closed bedroom door.

Max pushed it open carefully.

And there she was.

Isabelle sat curled up on the edge of the bed, still wearing her soft linen dress, her head bowed low.

 Her shoulders were shaking.

Max’s heart dropped.

"Belle," he said immediately, voice low and sharp with concern, crossing the room in three quick strides. "Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?"

She shook her head, wiping at her face furiously with the sleeve of his shirt, like she was trying to erase the evidence.

 It didn’t work.

 Her cheeks were flushed, eyes red-rimmed, mouth trembling in that way that always gutted him.

Max sat down beside her, close but not crowding her, careful.

 He knew her well enough to know she needed a second before he touched her.

Isabelle dragged in a shaky breath. "It’s stupid."

"Nothing that makes you cry is stupid," Max said firmly.

She let out a broken laugh. "Tell that to your future brother-in-law."

Max’s jaw clenched instantly. "Charles?"

Isabelle nodded miserably.

Max didn’t even try to temper the fury that flared in his chest.

"What did he say?" His voice was low, dangerous.

She shook her head again, sniffling. "He—he saw me talking to GP and he thought I was flirting with him."

Max blinked.

And then, against every better instinct, he let out a short, incredulous laugh.

Because seriously?

"Gianpiero Lambiase? My Race Engineer?!" Max said, completely baffled. "He thought you were flirting with GP?"

Isabelle let out a choked noise — somewhere between a sob and a laugh — and Max immediately reached out, pulling her carefully into his chest.

She came willingly, curling into him like she always did, her fists bunching into his shirt.

Max rested his chin on top of her head, his arms wrapped tight around her.

"You were talking about tile grout and kitchen backsplash colors," he muttered into her hair, still half-laughing, half-furious, because GP had told him all about that. And how Isabelle had apparently solved the tile dilemma in the Lambiase Household. "And Charles thought you were seducing a man who literally carries a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug everywhere?"

Isabelle gave a miserable little laugh through her tears, burying her face in her hands. "I feel horrible. Like I besmirched GP’s honor."

Max full-on laughed this time, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders and tugging her into his chest.

"Belle," he said, shaking his head against her hair, "you didn’t besmirch anything. You didn’t do anything wrong."

She gave a tiny groan of despair. "His poor wife. I owe her an apology email. And a free kitchen consultation."

Max kissed the top of her head. "His wife’s will probably be crying laughing when she hears this story. She knows what she married — a man who brings spreadsheet printouts to pick out a dishwasher."

That finally coaxed a watery chuckle from her.

"Charles said it looked bad," Isabelle whispered miserably. "Like I was being careless."

Max closed his eyes for a second, breathing through the anger pulsing hot under his skin.

Careless.

 Isabelle — who second-guessed every step she took, every word she said.

 Isabelle — who bent over backwards to never make anyone uncomfortable.

 Isabelle — who had spent years shrinking herself so no one could accuse her of taking up too much space.

Careless.

 It made him want to throw something.

"You," Max said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye, "are the least careless person I have ever met."

She gave him a watery little smile.

"And for the record," Max added, thumb brushing under her damp cheekbone, "if you were actually trying to flirt with someone, it wouldn’t be a married engineer who spends his lunch break arguing about countertop materials and backsplash tiles."

Isabelle laughed properly then, the sound soft and real against his chest.

"There’s my girl," Max murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair.

He rocked them gently for a second, grounding her, feeling the last of the tension bleed out of her body.

"You know what?" he said after a beat, voice lighter. "Next time Charles wants to accuse you of something, make it worth it."

She sniffed, laughing again. "Like what?"

Max shrugged, grinning. "Next time? Flirt with me in the garage. Right in front of him. Really traumatize him."

Isabelle snorted against his chest. "You’re evil."

"Only for you," Max said, kissing the side of her head again. "And besides, you’re much better at flirting than you think."

She lifted her head slightly, giving him a skeptical look.

Max smirked, leaning in until their noses brushed. "You got me, didn’t you?"

And Isabelle, finally smiling for real, kissed him — slow, lingering — like she was remembering exactly how.

Max kissed her back just as fiercely, every slow sweep of his mouth saying what he couldn’t put into words:

I see you. I trust you. I love you.

And he swore, next time anyone made her cry — even Charles — they’d have to go through him first.

And Max Verstappen didn’t lose.

****

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Remind me again why I came to this race

Emilie: oh no. What happened? Do i need bail money?

Isabelle: I had a fight with Charles. He thought I was flirting with GP. Because we were talking about backsplash tiles for his KITCHEN with his WIFE. 

Emilie: I’m going to set something on fire

Isabelle: Please don’t. Max already looks like he wants to fight him.

Emilie: Good. 

Emilie: honestly give me 20 minutes and a sharp object

Isabelle: Em

Emilie: No because it’s insane

Emilie:  He sees you laughing once and thinks you’re a scandal

Emilie:  But when Arthur was publicly dating 13 supermodels a year it’s “boys will be boys”. 

Isabelle: I know.  It’s just exhausting

Emilie: He’s exhausting.  You’re a ray of sunshine. He’s lucky to breathe the same air as you.

Isabelle: You’re very dramatic

Emilie: And you love me for it

Isabelle: I do

Isabelle: Max was perfect about it

Emilie: Of course he was. He worships the ground you walk on

Emilie: Stay strong, stay hydrated and if Charles says anything else dumb,  just smile and picture me flipping him off from 5000 miles away

Isabelle: That actually helps

Emilie: Good. Love you. 

Isabelle: love you too. 

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase.

Max: You homewrecker

GP: What???

Max: Charles thinks you’re trying to steal my girlfriend 😂

GP: WHAT

GP:  MAX WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

Max: He thought Belle was flirting with you in the paddock

GP: WE WERE TALKING ABOUT BACKSPLASH TILES

GP:  AND GROUT COLORS

Max: I know

Max: Belle told me

Max: I’m still laughing

Max: apparently "matte finish" is code for seduction now

GP: MAX

GP:  SHE CRITIQUED MY TILE SAMPLE CHOICES

GP:  I TOOK NOTES

GP:  I SAID THE WORD “NEUTRAL GROUT”

Max: Dangerous game you’re playing, mate

Max:  Luring innocent women with your opinions on subway tile. 

GP: I’m MARRIED

GP: HAPPILY

GP: FOR FIFTEEN YEARS

GP: I WAS ASKING FOR DESIGN HELP BECAUSE MY WIFE SAID I HAVE “DAD BRAIN” AND NO TASTE

Max: Well now you’ve been accused of seducing my girlfriend with your “dad brain”

Max: big scandal, very dramatic

GP: I just wanted help choosing tile

Max: It gets better

Max:  Belle is mortified

Max: She keeps saying she “besmirched your honour” and brought shame upon your grout consultation

GP: ...oh my god

GP: please tell her she did no such thing

GP: she saved me

GP: her recommendation singlehandedly ended a three-week argument with my wife

Max: She will be delighted to hear that

Max: She was preparing to write a formal apology email. And offer to design your whole kitchen free of charge. 

GP: Tell her I am in awe

GP: and also a little afraid

GP:  She is frighteningly good at backsplash logic

Max: She is. 

Max: That’s one of the many, many reasons why I love her.

GP: Next time can we please avoid dragging me into romantic drama over interior finishes

Max: No promises

Max:  You’re too charming when you talk grout

**

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Eloisa Lambiase

GP: You are not going to believe what happened today

Eloisa:  Did Max accidentally make another engineer cry?

GP: No, worse

GP: I have been accused of seducing Max’s girlfriend

Eloisa: I— what

GP: CHARLES LECLERC

GP: thought i was FLIRTING

GP: with HIS SISTER

GP: BECAUSE I ASKED FOR BACKSPLASH TILE ADVICE

Eloisa: I’M SORRY WHAT

Eloisa:  YOU SEDUCED ISABELLE LECLERC???

GP: I DIDN’T SEDUCE ANYONE

GP:  I was just asking for backsplash advice!

Eloisa: YOU GOT ACCUSED OF FLIRTING DURING A BACKSPLASH CHAT???

GP: It was in the paddock

GP:  Charles saw us talking

GP: ​​ Apparently Isabelle laughed at something I said

GP:  Now she’s a homewrecker and I tried to seduce her. 

Eloisa: OH MY GOD I’M CRYING

GP: Max thinks it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened

GP:  He called me "dangerous" and said I was “seducing her by talking about matte finish tiles”

GP:  I want to resign

Eloisa: NO

Eloisa:  YOU’RE FAMOUS NOW

Eloisa: YOU’RE THE F1 PADDOCK’S MOST DESIRED MAN

GP: Please stop

GP: I was holding my “World’s Best Dad” mug 

GP:  She was giving professional recommendations

Eloisa: You WERE

Eloisa:  and apparently it was HOT

GP: I’m blocking you

Eloisa: No you’re not

Eloisa: You’re my husband, you sexy kitchen-reno Casanova

GP: Max said Isabelle feels terrible and thinks she “besmirched my honour”

Eloisa: please tell her she SAVED us

Eloisa: your choices were horrifying before she stepped in

Eloisa: She’s invited to all future home improvement debates

Eloisa: I trust her judgement more than yours

GP: Apparently she offered to redesign our entire kitchen as an apology. 

Eloisa: DO NOT LET HER TAKE THAT BACK

Eloisa: TAKE THE FREE DESIGN WORK

Eloisa: SHE HAS TASTE AND I AM TIRED OF ARGUING ABOUT SUBWAY TILE

GP: I feel like I’ve lost control of my life

Eloisa: You did the moment you started saying “grout lines” like it was sexy

GP: …you used to find that sexy

Eloisa: I still do

Eloisa:  Now let the nice woman redesign our kitchen and stop making Max cry with your effortless charm

Eloisa:  We’ll have STUNNING countertops. 

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Can you do me a favor tomorrow?

Jos: Depends what it is. 

Max: Keep an eye on Belle in the paddock for me

Max:  I’ll be busy with Race prep and I don't want her stuck alone with the circus. 

Jos: Something happen?

Max: Charles was an idiot. Made her cry.  Thought she was flirting with GP.

Jos: ...what?

Max: They were talking about backsplash tiles.  Tiles, dad

Max:  And Charles thought she was seducing him

Max: GP has a wife and a mug that says "world’s best dad". 

Max: Belle is mortified and doesn’t want to make a scene but I’d feel better if someone was around. 

Jos: Charles is lucky she’s your girlfriend and not mine or i’d have knocked him into next week. 

Max: Thanks, dad. 

Max: So, you’ll be around?

Jos: Yeah. 

Jos: I like her

Max: you do?

Jos: Yes. 

Jos:  She’s calm

Jos:  Doesn’t care about the attention. 

Jos:  Treats you like a person, not a trophy.

Jos:  And she’s polite to everyone. 

Jos:  You need that, especially with this life

Jos: and she reminds me of your mother. 

Jos:  The good parts. 

Max: Thanks. 

Jos: Don’t thank me

Jos:  If her brother opens his mouth again, I won’t be as diplomatic as you

Max: Copy that

Jos: Go to sleep. You have a race tomorrow.  

***

The sun was barely high enough to cast proper shadows across the paddock yet, but already the place was humming — engines firing up in garages, cameras being unpacked, people moving with that sharp, coiled energy that only came on race days.

Isabelle kept her head down as she crossed toward the Ferrari motorhome, clutching her coffee cup like a lifeline.

She had barely slept.

It wasn’t Charles’ words from yesterday that lingered — it was the old, familiar sting they brought back.

 The feeling of being out of place.

 Not enough.

 Too much.

She was rounding a corner when a voice cut across her path.

"Belle."

She froze.

Turned slowly.

Jos Verstappen stood there.

Arms crossed.

Expression like granite.

For a wild second, Isabelle panicked.

Had she done something wrong?

Was this about... something?

Everything?

Jos jerked his chin toward the side of the hospitality tent.

"Come."

Not a request.

Heart thudding, she followed him.

They walked in silence along the quieter edge of the paddock, boots scuffing against the concrete, the buzz of early morning preparations filling the air around them.

Finally, Jos stopped near a low concrete wall, leaned one elbow on it, and looked at her.

Not soft.

Not kind.

Just... assessing.

"You’re not weak," he said, voice blunt.

Isabelle blinked. "I—thank you?"

Jos grunted. "Don’t let them treat you like you are."

Isabelle opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to cut her off.

"Doesn’t matter what your brother says. Doesn’t matter what anyone sees. You know who you are. You know who you stand next to."

She swallowed hard.

Jos squinted at her, like checking if she understood.

"You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone," he said. "Not even family."

He straightened then, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve like the conversation wasn’t weighing the air between them.

"And if anyone gives you trouble today," Jos added, voice low and deliberate, "tell them they can answer to me."

Isabelle stared at him.

Jos Verstappen — who scared half the paddock with a look — had just offered to fight her battles.

Or at least stand behind her, silent and immovable, like a wall no one could knock down.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

Jos shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the lingering emotions.

"You’re good for him," he said roughly. "Better than he deserves, maybe."

Isabelle pressed her lips together hard.

Jos glanced away toward the garages, then back at her.

"Head up," he said. "Eyes forward. You’re a Verstappen now."

And with a short nod — like it was settled, permanent, not up for discussion — he turned and walked off, leaving her standing there, stunned, the weight of his words hitting harder than any podium speech or paddock rumor ever could.

A Verstappen.

She let out a shaky breath, squaring her shoulders.

Head up. Eyes forward.

She could do that.

***

Post Race Press Conference -Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2023

Moderator: Congratulations, gentlemen. Max, let’s start with you — your 19th win of the season, an incredible dominant performance. How does it feel wrapping up the year on such a high?

Max Verstappen: It feels good. The team did an amazing job, as always. Car was strong all weekend. I’m happy to end the season this way.

Moderator: Charles, a strong second place today. How would you summarize your season?

Charles: (smiling, relaxed) It’s been a challenging year, but I think we made good progress toward the end. P2 today was the maximum. Happy to finish like this, and looking forward to building next season.

Moderator: George, third place for you today — and second for Mercedes in the Constructors'. Happy with that result?

George: (nods) Yeah, definitely. We knew coming into this weekend it would be tight, so I’m proud of the whole team. Good momentum heading into the winter break.

Moderator: For all three — with it being the last race of the season, a lot of families and friends are here this weekend. How much does it mean to have that kind of support?

Charles: (nodding) It’s always special. Seeing familiar faces after the race, sharing the moment — it makes all the difference.

George: (agreeing quickly) Yeah, it’s important. The season’s so long — having people show up and stick by you is massive.

Max: (voice sharp, no smile) It’s nice. Really nice when the people you care about show up. And I think that is something we need appreciate more and shouldn’t take for granted. It makes you realize who's paying attention — and who’s not.

(Charles stiffens slightly, casting a sidelong glance at Max, visibly confused. George starts tapping his fingers quietly against his knee like he’s trying to physically distract himself.)

Moderator: Moving on—Charles, you mentioned building for next season. Where do you think Ferrari needs to improve to challenge Red Bull more consistently?

Charles: I think we’ve made steps forward with race pace. But qualifying is still critical. We have to start stronger next year.

(Max’s mouth twitches — not quite a smile.)

Moderator: George, same question for you regarding Mercedes?

George: (relieved to be asked something normal) Yeah, similar. We’re closing the gap, but there’s still work to do. Everyone’s going to push hard over the winter.

Moderator: Charles, what was the most challenging part of your race today?

Charles: Uh, tire management, probably. We tried a different strategy and it wasn’t perfect. But we’ll learn from it and come back stronger next year.

Max: (flatly, without looking at him) Learning is important. Assuming you recognize the problem.

(George visibly bites his cheek to keep from reacting.)

Moderator: (to George, desperate for a less icy subject) George, what does the off-season look like for you?

George: (relieved) Um—sleep. Lots of sleep. Definitely time with family and friends. Just recharge and come back ready.

Moderator: And Charles?

Charles: (smiling automatically) Spending time with family and friends. Relaxing. Recharging.

Max: (calm, but brutal) Spending time with people who actually care about you. (pause) Quality over quantity.

(Dead silence in the room.)

(George stares at the floor like it might swallow him.)

(Charles looks genuinely confused.)

Moderator: (quickly) Alright, thank you, gentlemen. That’s all for today.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1oversteer:  Why was Max looking at charles like he wanted to fistfight him during the press conference???

@/paddocktea:  not to be dramatic but Max verstappen’s post-race energy was "say one more word and i'll launch you into the sun" and it was entirely directed at charles leclerc. what is going ON

@/racingincircles: ok but the way Max said "the people who actually show up" while STARING at charles... 😭😭😭 what did he mean by that

@/gp2engine: did charles and Max have a secret fistfight behind the garages or something why is the vibe so violent

@/monaco_mafia: george sitting in the middle of Max and charles looking like a victorian child watching his parents argue at dinner

@/f1clownery: i know charles is confused but the rest of us are confused too king WHO UPSET MAX

@/wheelsextension:  i’m sorry but charles leclerc’s energy today was so "what did i do" and Max’s was "you know exactly what you did"... except i don't think he does and neither do we… i need answers

@pitlanepettiness:  sources (vibes) are saying something WILD is going down behind the scenes and i for one am ready for the netflix edit

@fastlanefreaks:  you could feel the beef through the screen. i am eating it up but also terrified.

@motorsportmess: Max smiling tightly while charles is visibly sweating and george is trying to disappear into the floorboards... academy award winning drama

@/griddyforgp: Max throwing shade like it's personal and charles sitting there looking like he just got accused of murder

@/ferrarifangirl: charles: 😐 Max: 🙂🔪 george: 👀👟💨

@/f1sillyseason: petition for someone to tell us the FULL tea immediately i am not surviving the offseason otherwise

@/maxstappen44: someone check the abu dhabi paddock for the body bc Max BURIED charles during that conference and no one even noticed at first

@/charlesupportgroup: me watching Max roast my boy alive while he looks increasingly confused 👁️👄👁️

@/f1updates: sources in the paddock say “everyone’s being normal” but the vibes are off like someone’s about to get unfollowed on instagram levels of off

@/abudhabidrama: you are telling me Max verstappen and charles leclerc are beefing and i don't even get a backstory??? this is abuse

@/f1wagsleaks: what the actual hell is going on between Max and charles?? Max had BEEF ENERGY in that press conference and charles looked like he had no idea why i’m obsessed

@/formulachaos: MAX: “It’s nice when the people in your life actually show up to support you :)” stares directly at Charles CHARLES: 🧍‍♂️ GEORGE: 👀🚪

@/postracegossip: this is officially the most tense podium press conference i’ve ever seen someone bring popcorn and possibly a referee

@/notdutchjustfast: someone explain to me like I’m five: Why is Max acting like Charles ran over his cat and why is Charles acting like he doesn’t remember what a cat is

@/f1girliesunite: this has nothing to do with racing and everything to do with a woman, I feel it

@/danriccsmilez:George Russell is the human equivalent of the “I do not see it” meme rn He saw whatever drama that was and said “not my circus, not my millionaires”

@/mclarenshadowstalker: Lando. speak now. We know you know TELL US

@/chaosandcheckered: Next year’s Drive to Survive is going to need a trigger warning

***

Text Messages: George Russell & Alex Albon

George: Mate, do you know what’s going on between max and charles

Alex: what Alex: no Alex: why

George: Press conference was WEIRD George: Max basically roasted him alive George: Charles looked like he didn’t even know why

Alex: lol Alex: no idea Alex: i wasn’t even paying attentio

George: alex George: seriously George: it was tense

Alex: how tense are we talking Alex: like Alex: mild paddock gossip tense Alex: or Alex: security might need to intervene tense

George: somewhere in the middle George: like "passive aggressive christmas dinner" levels of tense

Alex: oof Alex: hate that

George: i swear max was this close to throwing a chair

Alex: charles wouldn’t survive that Alex: he’d just start apologizing and not know why

George: that’s the problem George: he looked genuinely confused

Alex: 😂😂 Alex: classic

George: seriously George: if you hear anything George: tell me George: i don’t want to get blindsided if they start swinging in parc fermé

Alex: lmao Alex: will keep ears open Alex: but rn all i know is Alex: max is mad Alex: charles is confused Alex: george is stressed

George: useless

Alex: you knew that when you texted me 🫶

***

Text Messages: George Russell & Lando Norris

George: Mate George: What’s going on with max and charles

Lando: Uh Lando: what do you mean

George: don’t play dumb George: press conference was insane George: max basically called him fake to his face

Lando: 👀 Lando: i mean Lando: uh Lando: i didn’t really notice anything

George: lando

Lando: maybe max’s just tired?? Lando: long season Lando: lots of emotions you know 😅

George: he looked ready to rip someone’s head off

Lando: 😬 Lando: well Lando: maybe he just really cares about honesty and support and…stuff

George: what do you know

Lando: nothing

George: lando.

Lando: i don’t know anything i can legally say

George: what does that even mean

Lando: listen mate Lando: for your own safety Lando: stay out of it

George: out of what??

Lando: THE VORTEX

George: what vortex

Lando: the verstappen-leclerc vortex Lando: you don’t want to get sucked in

George: lando. George: what did max do George: what did charles do

Lando: max didn’t do anything Lando: charles didn’t do anything Lando: everyone’s innocent Lando: and i’m especially innocent

George: you’re being very suspicious

Lando: i’m being ALIVE Lando: which is what you should focus on

George: so i should be worried

Lando: VERY worried Lando: but not about you Lando: about your proximity to the drama

George: brilliant George: great George: fantastic

Lando: good chat 😌

George: remind me to never trust you again

Lando: you never should’ve started

***

Fernando Alonso liked to think he was good at reading people.

Came with the territory — two decades in Formula 1, countless teammates, politics thicker than engine oil. You survived by knowing who was lying, who was hiding something, who was seconds from setting fire to their own garage.

And today? Today, something was off.

He was leaning casually against the Aston Martin hospitality wall, sipping a tiny, bitter espresso, when he saw it.

Max Verstappen. Walking through the paddock. Not alone.

Isabelle Leclerc, right beside him.

Nothing scandalous. No hand-holding, no grand gestures. Just two people walking.

But Max — Max, who barely let people breathe the same air as him — was walking close. Protective. Easy. Like it wasn’t new. Like it wasn’t a secret.

Fernando narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses.

Interesting.

He watched them — Max steering her casually through the chaos with a light touch at the small of her back, Isabelle laughing at something he said, bright and unbothered.

Fernando turned slightly, caught a glimpse of Charles Leclerc a few garages down — not noticing any of this.

More interesting.

Later, during media rounds, he saw Lando Norris visibly flinch when someone mentioned Isabelle's name near a microphone.

And Fernando — two-time world champion, professional paddock gossip connoisseur — put it all together.

After all, he hadn’t survived in this sport for nothing.

He caught Max alone for a moment near the Red Bull hospitality, standing with that casual, lazy posture that fooled no one.

Fernando strolled up, espresso in hand.

"Congratulations," Fernando said smoothly. "On the race. And... other things."

Max raised an eyebrow, cool as ever. "Thanks."

Fernando sipped his coffee, studying him over the rim of the cup. "You think Charles is going to kill you when he finds out?"

Max’s mouth twitched. "Eventually."

Fernando chuckled, low and pleased. "Good. It was getting boring around here."

Max just smirked, entirely unbothered.

Fernando shook his head, amused beyond measure. "You know," he said, stepping back, "I always knew you were a reckless bastard. Just didn’t think you'd go for family drama reckless."

Max tipped his head slightly, as if accepting the compliment.

"And her?" Fernando asked, almost curiously. "Isabelle?"

Max’s smirk faded, just a little, replaced by something quieter. Steadier.

Fernando recognized it immediately — the rare thing that made even champions stupid.

 Real.

 Not for show. Not for the cameras. Not for PR.

Max shrugged one shoulder, casual but firm. "She’s worth it."

Fernando barked a short laugh, clapped Max on the shoulder once. "Good," he said. "Make it worth it."

Then he tossed back the rest of his espresso, tossed the cup into a bin without looking, and strolled away — whistling under his breath.

Because finally, finally, the paddock was interesting again.

***

The roar of celebration had faded behind them. No club lights, no champagne-soaked chaos, no loud music or podium flashbacks playing on screens.

Just altitude, quiet, and the steady hum of the jet engines as they cut through the darkness above the Gulf.

Isabelle curled into the wide leather seat, legs tucked beneath her, Max’s hoodie swallowed around her frame. Across from her, Max sat slouched with one arm thrown over the back of the seat, utterly at ease. The cap was gone, curls slightly messy. His race suit was half-unzipped and swapped for a black t-shirt. He looked tired. Soft around the edges.

He’d insisted they skip the party. Said he’d had enough noise. Said he just wanted to go home. Said she was home.

She hadn’t argued.

Now, with the cabin lights dimmed and the stars beyond the windows flickering against the black, Isabelle found herself staring at him — at his calm, unreadable profile — and feeling something enormous pressing against her chest.

"Your dad found me this morning," she said, voice quiet, almost lost in the hum.

Max turned to her immediately, alert in that subtle way he always was when it came to her. "Yeah?"

She nodded, gaze dropping to the thin gold ring around her thumb — one he’d bought her in Tokyo because she’d paused in front of a shop window for half a second.

"He pulled me aside. Said some things."

Max’s brows lifted. "Bad things?"

She shook her head. "No. Just... direct."

Max’s mouth twitched. "So, my father."

Isabelle smiled faintly. "He told me I wasn’t weak. That I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone. That I was a Verstappen now."

That made Max still. Not alarmed. Not tense. Just still. Like the words had rooted somewhere deep.

"He said if anyone gave me trouble, they’d have to answer to him," she added, voice softer now. "Then just walked off like he hadn’t made me want to cry in the middle of the paddock."

Max leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, elbows propped. Watching her.

"I didn’t ask him to say that," he said, measured. "I only asked him to look out for you."

"I know," she murmured.

"And?" he asked, eyes searching hers. "Did it help?"

She let out a slow breath. "Yeah. It helped. It was... grounding. A little terrifying. But grounding."

Max smiled, small and real. "He likes you."

"Scary way of showing it," she said wryly.

Max shrugged. "He doesn’t know how to be soft. But loyalty? That’s his version of love."

She nodded slowly. Let the words sink in.

After a moment, she added, quieter still: "It meant something. Hearing that. Being told I belonged."

Max reached across the space between them and took her hand, threading their fingers together.

"In every way that matters," he said, voice low, steady, fierce, "you already are."

Her eyes flicked up to his.

"You’re mine," Max added, thumb brushing along the curve of her knuckle. "My partner. My person. My home."

She swallowed thickly. His hand was warm, steady. Unmoving.

"And if you want your passport to match someday..."

 He smiled, just a little — not teasing, not even hinting.

 Promise.

"We’ll make that happen too."

Isabelle’s breath hitched.

There was no rush.

No pressure.

But it was there — quiet and solid and waiting.

The life they were building.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, leaning across the aisle until her forehead rested against his.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I know," Max murmured. "I love you more."

And the hum of the engines, the silence of the sky, the softness of this stolen moment — it all folded in around them like a secret the world hadn’t figured out yet.

But soon.

Soon, they wouldn’t be hiding anymore.

And Isabelle — steady and ready — would meet it all head-on. Head up. Eyes forward.

Like a Verstappen.

***

Instagram Story: @/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridgossip: Isabelle ending her q&a by thanking people for asking about HER and not her brothers... I'm crying in the club actually

@/monacoprincess: no bc imagine living your whole life in the shadow of your brothers and finally being like "thank you for seeing me".  this girl deserves the world

@/paddocktalk: her just wanting to exist as HERSELF not "charles' sister" not "leclerc family member #3" just isabelle i’m going to start swinging

@/f1girlie: the worst part is you can TELL she didn’t expect people to care about her and she still answered so kindly and openly… protect her at all costs

@/undercutqueen: me watching isabelle leclerc quietly exist without demanding attention and somehow being the most interesting person in the paddock [insert emotional damage meme]

@/rbrsunshine: no bc the amount of grace and patience isabelle must have to live in the leclerc orbit and STILL be this soft and sweet… i would have gone feral YEARS ago

@/paddocktea: the fact that this was her first Q&A ever and she was genuinely shocked people asked about her and not charles/arthur???  we failed her as a society

@/tifosimama: you know what?  isabelle leclerc appreciation post. talented. stylish. kind. strong. soft-spoken but powerful. this is an isabelle stan account now.

@/f1girlies: when isabelle said "everyone should have an emilie" about emilie…i just. i need to go lie down.

@/mclarenmischief: also her talking about victoria verstappen??? saying "not a lot of people can understand what it’s like” like no wonder they’re close. It’s a whole different kind of fear

@/ferrarifangirl: THE WAY ISABELLE AND VICTORIA UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER WITHOUT EVEN HAVING TO EXPLAIN IT… that hit way harder than i expected

@/gridgossip: isabelle casually saying "everyone deserves one friend like emilie" has me SOBBING at 3pm on a Monday

@/gridgossip: new theory: what if she’s been cat-sitting Max’s cats this whole time and we’ve just been clowns not seeing it

@/p1princess: what if the cats always knew…what if sassy and jimmy were the REAL first ones to approve of belle

@/redbullracingwives: charles not letting isabelle borrow his cars is both hilarious and the most big brother energy imaginable

@/honeybadgerenergy: ISABELLE LECLERC DRIVES A VOLVO

not a ferrari

not a lamborghini

a VOLVO

she's actually mothering the entire paddock i fear

@/gridgossip: isabelle leclerc posting a literal MOODBOARD during a casual q&a and it’s everything i want my future house to be

she’s unreal

@/mclarenmischief: her caption was literally "be nice" and then she dropped the most perfect moodboard like it was NOTHING

---

•·.·''·.·• F1 MASTER LIST •·.·''·.·•

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S E B A S T I A N V E T T E L

•·.·''·.·• A shared History , Part 2 , Part 3•·.·''·.·•

(fluff)

Moments that Sebastian Vettel and Y/N have shared throughout their careers together both on and off track. Sebastian Vettel x fem!driver!reader

•·.·''·.·• Looking at her •·.·''·.·•

(fluff, suggestive at the end)

Reader has grown to love the feeling of Sebastian’s eyes on her but not everyone understands. Sebastian Vettel x shy!girlfriend!reader

•·.·''·.·• Come back to me •·.·''·.·•

(angst, fluff)

Sebastian’s world is turned upside down when he finds out the reason behind the red flag, the aftermath is just as torturous as the moment he got the news.Sebastian Vettel x wife!driver!reader

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K I M I R Ä I K K Ö N E N

•·.·''·.·• The Icebreaker •·.·''·.·•

(fluff)

It never fails to amaze the formula one community just how much of a difference there is in Kimi’s attitude whenever his wife is around. Kimi Räikkönen x Fem!Wife!Reader

•·.·''·.·• Silent Admiration , Part 2 •·.·''·.·•

(Implied age gap, fluff)

Kimi’s got some deep feelings for the reader but plans to do what he does best, keep silent. Until, Sebastian manages to persuade him that maybe melting his icy exterior might work in his favour. Kimi Räikkönen x Fem!Driver!Reader.

•·.·''·.·• Protective Shield •·.·''·.·•

(fluff, mistreatment of women)

You always have a smile on your face, even through the struggles of being the only female driver but when it feels like the entire media is against you it’s hard to keep that smile on your face but Kimi won’t allow it to disappear, he’s always there protecting you. Protective!Kimi x Sunshine!driver!reader

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J E N S O N B U T T O N

Pending….

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M A R K W E B B E R

Pending….

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M A X V E R S T A P P E N

Pending….

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C H A R L E S L E C L E R C

Pending….

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C A R L O S S A I N Z

Pending….

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O S C A R P I A S T R I

Pending….

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L A N D O N O R R I S

Pending….

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F E R N A N D O A L O N S O

Pending….

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G E O R G E R U S S E L L

Pending….

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T O T O W O L F F

•·.·''·.·• No longer his •·.·''·.·•

(angst, heartbreak)

Toto now has to face the consequences of his actions that tore your family apart. Toto Wolff x Ex!wife!reader

•·.·''·.·• Tame the Wolff •·.·''·.·•

(angry Toto)

A few scenarios in which Toto is angry and frustrated and you’re there to calm him down and save his poor team from his wrath. Angry!Toto Wolff x Calm!Wife!reader

•·.·''·.·• Broken Decisions , Part 2•·.·''·.·•

(angst, light smut, heartbreak, pregnancy trope)

The news of Toto Wolff divorcing from Susie has just hit the media and you, Michael Schumacher’s eldest daughter and George Russel’s race engineer, are beyond shocked, even more so as your relationship with your boss begins to evolve. Divorced!Toto Wolff x fem!engineer!Schumacher!reader

•·.·''·.·• Take it easy •·.·''·.·•

(fluff)

Your stubbornness to admit you may be feeling unwell might just be your downfall one day but your husband will always be there to catch you, as will your son. Toto Wolff x Wife!reader

•·.·''·.·• Clingy Boys •·.·''·.·•

(fluff)

It’s both yours and Toto’s day off but both your boys are sick and wanting your attention. Clingy!Sick!Toto Wolff x Wife!reader

•·.·''·.·• Caught In the Act •·.·''·.·•

(fluff, teasing)

The stresses of work have your mind running a million miles an hour but your husband knows how to slow it down.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

cherry flavoured | sebastian vettel

sebastian vettel x reporter!reader

based on the video of iker casillas and his gf during the 2010 world cup

she’s a long one <3 this was finished at 2:30 AM so I’m sorry if there’s any mistakes (please do not request for part 2)

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2010

It was the last race of the season and you were nervous, especially for Sebastian. It was down to Fernando, Mark, Sebastian and Lewis, one of them was going to be them champion. It was your job to cover the race and conduct interviews before and after so this gave you a chance to speak with Sebastian and wish him luck. The media didn’t know about your relationship that had just become official a month ago.

Sebastian had asked you out before the Japanese Grand Prix. That day, you decided to make a deal with him. If he won, you would go to dinner with him. After 53 laps, Sebastian secured a win and a date with you.

While you finished up your interview with Lewis, Sebastian stood patiently to the side. He kept his eye on you, staring at how you talked with such confidence and passion. He loved how expressive you were, sometimes talking with your hands. After letting Lewis go so he could prepare for the race, it was Sebastian’s turn. He happily joined you.

“Hello Sebastian, how are you?” You asked, knowing already how he felt, but you had to do your job. The night before, you stayed in Sebastian’s room, that’s when he told you how nervous he was feeling.

“Good, excited, happy.” He replied, smiling at you.

“Well I won’t keep you here for very long—”

“Why not? I enjoy talking to you.” Sebastian interrupted. His smirk was making you weak and all you wanted was to drag him into a room and let him have his way with you, but you couldn’t at least not now.

Several questions later, Sebastian was still giving you that look making it hard for you to concentrate. It was the same look he gave you the night before when you and him were in his hotel room ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Alright, good luck Seb . . astian, sebastian sorry.” You apologized.

All Sebastian did was laugh at your mistake. Since nobody apart from Mark knew about your relationship, you couldn’t call him Seb. He nodded then mumbled an ‘I love you’ and left. You really hoped nobody could read his lips since you were still live.

You understood that Sebastian needed to concentrate before the race so you didn’t bother him. Soon, the race had started, almost instantly on lap 1, a crash happened. After the race restarted, you watched Sebastian keep his p1 position. When it came to the final lap, everyone was silent in the Red Bull garage where you were watching the race from. Sebastian crossed the finish line, but you still had to wait for the other four cars.

Lewis came in second then came Jenson. After confirming, it was clear that Sebastian had become world champion.

You and the team members of Red Bull made it to the podium ceremony. The German nation anthem played as Sebastian soaked in the moment. He had made history by becoming the youngest world champion. After the national anthem finished, he tried to look for you in the crowd. When he finally did, he winked at you. Again, he was making you feel all sorts of emotions.

After the podium celebrations and posing for photos, the three drivers had to do threat post race interviews. You were in charge of being the first to interview the new world champion.

In the media pen, Sebastian spotted you getting ready for your interview. When you were done, he walked up to you with the biggest smile on his face.

“Congratulations Sebastian. How was it up there on the podium?” You asked.

“It was a dream, but now it’s reality.” Sebastian replied. “I just wanna thank all the people that supported me and you of course, you’ve been there for me.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. Was Sebastian about to reveal your relationship?

“Well congratulations again, go celebrate this historic win—” Before you could finish your sentence, Sebastian placed both of his hands on your cheeks and brought you closer to him, placing a kiss on your lips. You could taste the champagne that had been poured of him by Jenson and Lewis. From the distance, Jenson cheered, making everyone turn their attention towards you and Sebastian.

Sebastian didn’t care that you were still live. All he wanted was to celebrate with his girlfriend. “I love you.” He mumbled against your lips. When he finally pulled away, he licked his lips. “Cherry, my favorite.” He smirked.

“You’re the worst.” You laughed. “I love you too, champ. Go, I’ll see you soon.” You practically had to push him away from you so you could continue with more interviews.

“I’ll wait for you!” He yelled as he walked away.

Then Jenson made his way to you since you were going to interview him next. “Do I get one as well?” He teased.

Of course you and Sebastian celebrated, how could you not? He had made history. After the famous kiss, you were sure that you were going to get fired, but nothing ever happened. You did get a warning to not do it again, which Sebastian reminded the FIA that it was his idea not yours resulting in him getting a warning too.

Over the years, you were there when Sebastian won, when he lost, when he moved to Ferrari. You comforted him when he realized he would never win a championship with Ferrari.

During the summer break of the 2019 season, you and Sebastian decided to get married. It was an intimate wedding with only close friends and family attending. The night of your wedding, Sebastian promised you that he would take you anywhere for a while so you could spend your honeymoon. Of course being an F1 driver and a reporter, it didn’t go as planned as a global pandemic hit. You assured Sebastian that you weren’t mad, you had traveled almost everywhere with him anyway.

After the 2020 season ended, Sebastian was now with Aston Martin. He had only secured one podium finish with the team, but you were still more than happy for him.

One day after media day had finished for the 2021 French Grand Prix, you and Sebastian were in the Aston Martin motorhome having lunch. You were talking about a new piece of furniture you wanted when your phone vibrated. You checked it and saw a picture of your friend’s baby that she had sent you.

“Look, remember my friend Jane? That’s her baby girl, aw she’s so adorable.” You showed Sebastian a picture of the baby. “I need to tell her to stop sending pictures or I might get baby fever.”

“It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, right?” Sebastian asked. “We’ve been together for eleven years, married for two.“

“I did always dream of being a mother. It would be fun to play dress up with our daughter or play with you cars with our son. Can you imagine that? They would call me mom . . holy shit.”

Sebastian thought about it. He was in his mid thirties, he already won four titles, that was enough for him.

“I guess this plays into what I’m about to talk to you next. . . I didn’t renew a contract for 2023 with sky sports.” You said.

“Are you going somewhere else?” He questioned.

“No, I didn’t sign anything with anyone. I just thought that it’s time for me to step back. Give someone younger their moment.” You replied. You made the decision a while ago even before the 2021 season started.

“But you love your job.”

“I can’t stay here forever, Seb.”

All day Sebastian had thought about your words. He couldn’t stay in formula 1 forever either. The younger generation had to have a go too.

At the end of the 2021 season, Sebastian had told you the news that he would be retiring at the end of the next season like you. You were sure him retiring was the result of your conversation, but he assured you that even before that he had considered retirement.

“So when are you going to announce it?” You asked.

“Soon. I want to enjoy winter break with you first.”

You and Sebastian spent the holidays in your home in Switzerland surrounded by family and friends. You weren’t even sure how it happened since you and Sebastian spent most of your time at home, but both of you ended up testing positive for covid. You assumed you contracted the virus when you went out for groceries.

The 2022 season had started and you and your husband were stuck at home quarantining. It wasn’t bad, it was just a normal day except you had medicine and empty tissue boxes scattered around the floor.

“Do you need another blanket, liebe?” Sebastian asked you. He touched your forehead feeling it not as hot as before.

You two were in your bedroom watching the Bahrain Grand Prix. You didn’t expect this to be the start of your last season, but at least you were with Sebastian.

“I’m okay, I’m thirsty though.” You sat up as Sebastian walked to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. Once he returned, he saw how sad you looked as you watch the race.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to miss it, but I’m happy that I get to be home with you.” You smiled weakly at him.

“We can visit whenever we want, liebe, and then one day we can visit with the kids.” Sebastian replied. “Here, drink.” He handed you the glass of water.

Soon enough, you and Sebastian were good to return back to the paddock. You felt refreshed and ready to officially start the season. You did your interviews, greeted your colleagues and then made your way to the Aston Martin garage where you were going to watch the race.

By lap 24, Sebastian was out. It broke your heart to see it, it was his first race back and he didn’t get a chance to finish it. He arrived back to the garage in a Marshall’s scooter making it a funny moment despite his dnf. He looked for you first.

“Are you okay?” You asked, running your hand through his messy hair.

“Good.” Was all that he said.

After doing some post race interviews, Sebastian waited for you in the Aston Martin motorhome. When you arrived, you noticed a plate of fruit and berries on the table. “I figured you didn’t get a break all day so eat. I made sure to get plenty of pineapple and strawberries.” He moved the plate closer to you.

“Thanks, it wasn’t that stressful today. Hopefully the next race is better for us.” You said once you sat down and started to eat the fruit. “No cherries today?”

“You and your cherries. Not today, liebe.” Sebastian grabbed a strawberry from the plate.

Eventually it was time to announce to the world of motorsports and media that Sebastian and you were retiring. You announced it first with a lengthy post on instagram with pictures of when you first started to now, you even posted the famous kiss that Sebastian gave you in 2010.

You received lots of comments and messages from family, friends and colleagues. It was nice to feel loved by them. The next day, it was Sebastian’s turn to announce his retirement. It started with him making an Instagram account then posting a video.

“I hereby announce my retirement from formula one by the end of the 2022 season.”

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2022

You felt a giant wave of deja vu. Here you were back in Abu Dhabi only this time it would be the official last Grand Prix for you and Sebastian. You would still visit like Sebastian mentioned, but it wouldn’t feel the same.

You walked into the paddock with Sebastian holding your hand. You were greeted by photographers, fans that wanted to get pictures with Sebastian and several members of other teams that wanted to congratulate you and your husband on retirement.

First you went to the Aston Martin motorhome again since you were a bit tired. You sat at a table in the corner. For a couple of weeks now, you were keeping a secret from Sebastian. Your friend, Jane, was the only one who knew since she had gone through a similar experience.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sebastian asked as he noticed the tired look on you. “Want something to eat?”

“No I’m okay, I promise. It’s still too early for me to function I guess.” You dismissed it. “I’ll catch up with you later, I’m sure you have lots of people waiting for you.”

“They can wait. If you need me here then I’m staying, end of discussion.” He was about to sit down next to you, but you stopped him.

“Seb, no. I mean it, I am fine. Go.” You demanded.

Before he left, Sebastian placed a kiss on your lips. When he pulled away, he frowned. “Is that coconut? I thought you were going to wear the cherry one.”

“Change of plans.” You smiled. “Go, the team needs you.”

“Be careful, I’ll see you later.” He placed one more kiss on your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You reply as you watch Sebastian walk out. “I can just imagine how protective he’s going to be about you, baby.” You spoke to yourself as you looked down to your stomach.

You found out you were pregnant when Jane was visiting you in Switzerland. You had gone out to eat for brunch at a nice little restaurant. Immediately after arriving, the smell of eggs made you run to the nearest bathroom and vomit in the toilet. Jane had ran after you making sure you were okay.

“Fuck . . It’s the smell.” You confirmed.

“Babe, when was the last time you had your period?”

Jane’s question made you think back to your vacation with Sebastian a couple months ago. You and Sebastian couldn’t keep your hands off of each other.

After taking a pregnancy test, it was confirmed that you were pregnant. You called your doctor to schedule an appointment. Sebastian wasn’t home so you didn’t have to worry about him walking in on you holding a pregnancy test. You weren’t sure how you were going to tell him, but you knew that he would be the happiest man on earth.

You were assigned to interview Sebastian immediately after the race while on the track. You were told that it would be a special moment for you two seeing as you were both leaving. Apparently Sebastian didn’t know this so that was another secret kept from him.

Sebastian stood beside you as he got ready. You held his helmet, your name printed on the side in a small font. “Remember when I won back in 2010?”

“No, remind me again?” You joked. “Of course I do. It was the night you kissed me in front of thousands of people on live tv.”

“It would be a shame if we didn’t recreate that.” He teased. “You know . . . for historical reasons.”

“I don’t want to get in trouble on my last day.”

“You’re no fun.” Seb rolled his eyes playfully. “Kiss for good luck?”

You then kissed the top of his helmet and shoved it in his hands. “Good luck.” You were about to leave, but Sebastian grabbed your hand and brought you back to him. “Fine.” You kissed him as if your life depended on it.

“I was hoping you changed your lipgloss to cherry.” Mumbled Sebastian after pulling away from you.

“You’ll live.” You gave him a chaste kiss then waited for him to put his balaclava. “I love you and I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Soon, the race was starting. Sebastian had started from P9. It was an exciting and emotional race for you and Sebastian. You didn’t want it to end, but you knew that Sebastian’s time in f1 was over.

By the end of the 58 laps, Sebastian had scored his last point in formula 1. You were content with the result even if he only scored one point. You were then directed to the track with a camera man and microphone in hand. As Sebastian did donuts on the track, you took your phone out to record his last moments. When he finished, you put away your phone. You didn’t even notice you were crying until a marshal gave you a tissue.

You thanked him and cleaned up as Sebastian made his way out the car to wave at the fans. Eventually Sebastian made his way towards you without his helmet and his racing suit hanging from his waist. You couldn’t start the interview without hugging him first so that’s what you did. Like in 2010, the camera filmed you and Sebastian as you embraced. You could hear the crowd cheering.

“You did so well. You made me cry.” You mumbled as Sebastian kissed your temple.

“You look pretty when you cry.” He let go of you since you needed to start the interview. He fixed your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear.

“Sebastian, wow, first off congratulations on your incredible career.” You began.

“I don’t know what to say. I feel a bit empty to be honest, it’s been a big weekend.” He looked at the crowd who were sad to see him go. He gave a speech that made you cry even more, which you blamed on the hormones. “I can say that you were always with me in the bad times and good times. Thank you for sticking with me.”

“Always.” You said, completely forgetting you were holding the microphone so the whole audience heard you.

Sebastian then thanked the fans for the messages and support he’s been receiving. It only made you want to cry even more so thankfully your interview was coming to an end.

“Congratulations, Seb. You deserve it.” You said and with that you and your husband hugged once more. “You’re coming home.” You sighed.

“You don’t sound too happy.” He teased.

“I am, trust me. That means you can help move some stuff around and redecorate the guest room.” You let go of Sebastian, but you still held his hand.

“Why would we need to redecorate the guest room?” He questioned.

“Because that’s our baby’s room.”

“Our baby? Really? You mean it?” His lips turned into a smile that he couldn’t wipe off. “When did you find out?”

“Weeks ago. I’m letting you know right now that if you ever make eggs around me, I will vomit so let’s not do that.” You laughed as Seb brought you in for a kiss.

Again, Jenson was cheering in the background like he did in 2010.

When Sebastian pulled away, he smirked. You had changed your lipgloss after all. “Cherry, my favorite.”

max verstappen // mv1 fic recs

———————————— 🏎️🏎️ ————————————

one shots

misunderstood hero with a heart of gold - @harrysfolklore

“max verstappen has never been one to read books, but everything changes when he comes across a pretty booktuber who describes him better than anyone else did before”

two sides of the same coin - @monzabee

“the one where you try to convince yourself that you’re not falling for your teammate, but can’t help it when you realise that he is not that different from you after all”

a small request - @postracehair

“even world champions deserve love letters. after missing the mexico gp, you're determined to see max have a good weekend in brazil. maybe all it takes is a handwritten note”

my world (champion) - @italiangirlcoresblog

“the aftermath of the las vegas grand prix with max”

vegas baby - @neferaskingdom

“after winning his fourth world championship, max verstappen stuns the world with a live radio proposal”

work it out - @maxverstappendefender

“mclaren!rival x mv1 (max and reader had a little friends to enemies action, but they are stuck together now. maybe they will work out their issues...)”

the interview - @pucksandpower

“when you are given an assignment to interview someone, you can’t resist asking your boyfriend to be the subject … it’s just a shame that your professor doesn’t believe the interview actually happened”

christ-max - @harrysfolklore

“you invite your boyfriend max to spend christmas with you for the first time, however, your family doesn't quite believe you're dating a formula 1 world champion”

connection - @katsu28

“when a holiday gala that neither you nor max want to be at brings two people from vastly different worlds together, you find out that you might have more in common with the four time world champion than you think you do”

disturbing the peace - @pucksandpower

“an environmental activist disturbs the carefully constructed peace of max’s life and turns his whole world on its head (or in which environmentalism and being a menace both run in the vettel family)”

series

the yapping hour is upon us - @motorsportbarbie13

“in which max decides that maybe doing interviews isn't such a bad thing”

keep on rolling - @vivwritesfics

“lando's best friend having feelings for anyone on the grid? impossible, right? she worked with them, sharing her friendship with the grid with the world via the formulay/n youtube channel”

forbidden - @motorsportbarbie13

“in which you reconnect with an old friend, much to the dismay of your brother”

tamed - @jungwnies

“you're a top pr manager tasked with handling the infamous max verstappen, known for his fiery temper and controversial outbursts”

smau

she’s everything, he’s max - @menagerofmischief

“y/n leclerc starts soft launching a man and soon enough there are paparazzi pictures of the two of them except no one quiet believes that the princess of monaco would settle down with ... max”

we can’t be friends (wait for your love) - @fqlling4it

pt 2

friend of a friend - @norrisainz33

“max meets his dream girl through his friends good friend, pato o’ward”

put it all on red (bull) - @astonmartinii

“her brother won the race? does she know? does she care?”

crying in the club - @pomegranatesarchive

“how should one react when their boyfriend wins the world championship at the same time their brother loses it?”

max & the three musketeers series - @verstarppen

“mercedes’ is just a tiny bit worried about your dates with their archnemesis; once mick, lewis and george caught a whiff of your treason, they had to intervene and stop the villain from stealing their princess”

*these are part of my fic rec masterlist, please note none of these are written by me and the author of each story had been tagged! check out my f1 fic rec masterlist for other drivers!*

Lost and Found

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: one minute Lando Norris is speeding through the streets of New York City — the world at his fingertips in the days leading up to the United States Grand Prix — and the next his world is spinning out of control, leaving him with nothing except for blank memories and the concerned attention of a stranger who takes him in when he has no one and nothing else

Warnings: descriptions of a car crash and memory loss

The night is cold, and the sharp October wind slips under your jacket as you tug it tighter around you. Your boots slap against the pavement, the rhythm a steady beat on the nearly deserted street. Columbia’s library closed an hour ago, but you stayed later than you should have. Deadlines don’t wait. Law school doesn't wait. Life doesn’t wait.

You tuck your phone into your pocket, your eyes fixed on the glowing windows of the apartment building a few blocks ahead. Almost home. Almost there.

And then-

A car rips past, tires screeching loud enough to make you flinch. It’s moving too fast, way too fast, the engine growling like an animal barely kept on a leash. You freeze for a second as it flies down the street, headlights smearing into long streaks of white. Your breath catches-

It spins. A brutal, violent twist as the car skids into a corner it shouldn’t be taking. The rear fishtails wildly. For a heartbeat, it looks like it might recover. Then it slams straight into a lamp post with a sickening crunch. Metal screams. Glass explodes. The lamp shudders, flickers, and dies.

For a moment, everything is still. Silent, even.

“Shit,” you whisper, your pulse spiking hard and fast.

You stand there, frozen in the chilly air, your brain catching up to what you just saw. The street is deserted — of course it is. This isn’t exactly rush hour. There’s no one around. No witnesses. No help.

Without thinking, you yank your phone out of your pocket and dial. The ringing in your ear seems to go on forever.

“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman asks briskly.

“A car crash,” you say, already moving toward the wreck. Your feet hit the pavement harder now, the soles of your boots slapping in quick bursts. “Corner of … uh, 116th and Riverside. It’s bad — the car’s totaled. I think someone’s still inside.”

“Are you with the driver now?”

“Not yet. I’m — I’m crossing the street.” You dodge between two parked cars and jog to the other side. The car sits under the broken streetlamp, its front end wrapped around the post like it lost a fight it never stood a chance of winning. The glossy surface is crumpled and shattered, shards of glass glittering on the asphalt like broken stars.

“Ma’am, do not approach the vehicle if it’s unsafe.”

You ignore that. “I think the guy’s still in there,” you mutter, holding the phone tight between your ear and shoulder. You grip the door handle and pull hard, but it’s jammed. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your weight into it until it finally groans open.

The first thing you notice is the smell — leather, gasoline, and the acrid tang of burned rubber. Your heart pounds in your throat. You glance at the man slumped in the driver’s seat, and the breath catches in your chest.

“Hello?” You ask, bending down, peering closer. “Can you hear me?”

He groans, shifting a little, but his eyes remain half-closed. Blood trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, carving a red path down the side of his face.

“Hey! Are you okay?” You try again, louder this time. No answer — just a sluggish movement of his head, like he's fighting to stay conscious.

“What's your name?” You keep your voice firm but gentle, the way you imagine an EMT might sound.

The man mumbles something, his voice thick and slurred. You lean closer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“What? I need your name.”

“Lando,” he whispers, and it’s barely audible, more breath than word.

You frown. The name sounds familiar, but that’s not important right now. “Okay, Lando. Do you know where you are?”

His eyelids flutter, and for a second, it looks like he might pass out entirely. Then he forces them open again, just barely.

“Crash,” he mutters. “Crashed the car.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. You glance around the street again, hoping for flashing lights in the distance. Nothing. Just you, him, and the wreckage.

“Can you tell me what hurts?” You ask, trying to keep him talking. Concussions are dangerous — keeping him conscious feels important.

Lando’s head lolls against the seat. “Feels like … everything.”

His voice is thick, heavy with exhaustion. He sounds like someone who’s been through the wringer, someone who desperately needs sleep but can’t afford to close their eyes.

“You hit your head pretty hard,” you say, scanning him for any other obvious injuries. Blood stains the collar of his jacket, but nothing looks life-threatening. Yet.

“Race car driver,” Lando slurs suddenly, like the thought just stumbled out of his brain without permission.

You blink. “What?”

“Race … car driver,” he repeats, slower this time. His accent drags on the vowels, a little British, a little something else.

You raise an eyebrow, convinced now that he’s concussed. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

He gives a small, incoherent laugh, like your joke made perfect sense in his scrambled mind.

“You're not supposed to be funny,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You glance back at the wreck, taking in the sleek lines and bright logo on the hood — McLaren. Expensive. Stupidly expensive. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Jesus, you’re one of those guys,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. Rich kid, fast car, bad decisions. You’ve seen this movie before, and it usually ends with someone like him getting bailed out by daddy’s lawyer.

Lando stirs again, his head rolling toward you. “Not … like that,” he mumbles. “I am a race car driver.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. He’s barely coherent — humoring him feels kinder than arguing. “Sure you are, buddy. Sure you are.”

He squints at you, his expression dazed but oddly sincere, like he’s genuinely offended you don’t believe him. “I am,” he insists, as if that settles the matter.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s absurd — this whole situation is absurd. You crouch lower, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “Just stay awake, okay? Ambulance is on the way.”

Lando hums something that might be agreement, though it sounds more like a sigh. His eyes droop again, dangerously close to shutting.

“Hey.” You give his arm a small shake. “No sleeping. Talk to me.”

“‘Bout what?” He murmurs, his head lolling to the side.

“Anything. Tell me …“ You scramble for something. “What’s your favorite color?”

He blinks slowly, like it’s the most confusing question anyone’s ever asked him. “Blue. No, wait … orange.”

You snort. “Make up your mind, race car driver.”

Lando makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Can’t.”

“That concussion is doing wonders for your decision-making skills,” you say dryly, glancing toward the street again. Still no lights. You tap your foot anxiously.

Lando shifts in his seat, his hand twitching like he’s trying to move but can’t quite manage it. “You’re … bossy,” he mumbles, his accent thicker now.

“Yeah, well, you crashed your car, so you don’t get to complain.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he murmurs, “… Thanks for stopping.”

Something about the way he says it catches you off guard — soft, almost vulnerable. You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze his arm gently.

“Don’t mention it, Lando.”

And then, finally, in the distance — a flash of red and blue lights.

***

The wail of sirens grows louder, slicing through the quiet night like a razor. Red and blue lights bounce off the buildings, streaking across shattered glass and twisted metal. Relief washes over you, making your knees feel a little shaky.

Finally.

Two ambulances come to a screeching halt. EMTs spill out, moving with practiced urgency. One of them, a tall woman with her hair yanked into a messy bun, jogs toward you.

“Are you hurt?” She asks, already looking you up and down for signs of injury.

You shake your head. “No, I’m fine — it’s the driver. He’s … he’s pretty out of it.” You glance back at Lando, slumped in his seat. “I think he hit his head. He’s not making much sense.”

The EMT follows your gaze, nodding sharply. “Okay, step back for me.” She waves another EMT over. “We’ve got one male, early twenties, possible head trauma.”

You move back as instructed, but not far — just enough to give them space to work while still close enough to watch. One of the EMTs wedges a tool into the doorframe to force it open wider, and the crunch of metal makes you wince.

“Hey, buddy,” the EMT says, leaning in toward Lando. “Can you hear me?”

Lando stirs slightly, his eyelids fluttering open. He mumbles something incomprehensible, and the EMT exchanges a look with his partner.

“Pupils look uneven,” the first EMT mutters, shining a small flashlight into Lando’s eyes. “Definitely concussed.”

The other EMT secures a neck brace around Lando’s head, locking it into place with quick, efficient movements. Lando groans at the pressure, his face twisted in confusion.

“We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” The EMT says in a loud, clear voice. “Just stay still for me, mate. We’re gonna lift you.”

They maneuver him onto a backboard with a series of coordinated moves, careful to keep his neck stabilized. Lando lets out a soft groan but doesn’t resist — it’s like his body is on autopilot.

You cross your arms against the cold, biting your lower lip. They make it look so smooth, so clinical, but there’s something unsettling about watching someone get hauled out of a wreck like that, limp and helpless.

“Is he your boyfriend?” The EMT asks you, not looking up as they strap Lando to the board.

You blink, caught off guard. “What? No. I-I just saw the crash happen. I came over to help.”

The EMT nods once, focused on the task at hand. “All right. Appreciate you staying with him.”

They lift Lando, sliding the backboard onto a waiting gurney. He lets out a weak noise of discomfort, but his eyes remain half-lidded, barely clinging to consciousness.

As they wheel him toward the ambulance, you follow instinctively, your heart thrumming with worry. You can’t just leave now — not when he looks like that.

“Hey,” you call after them, your voice tight. “Can I … can I ride with him?”

One of the EMTs looks over his shoulder, frowning. “Are you family?”

“No. I just-“ You pause, unsure how to explain it. “I don’t feel right leaving him alone.”

The EMTs exchange glances. For a moment, it looks like they might refuse, but the woman in charge sighs and jerks her head toward the ambulance. “Fine. Get in. Just stay out of the way.”

“Thank you,” you say, relief flooding through you.

You climb into the back of the ambulance as they lift Lando’s gurney inside. The doors slam shut behind you, sealing you in with the hum of medical equipment and the faint smell of antiseptic.

The ambulance jerks into motion, the siren blaring overhead.

The EMT sitting across from you pulls on a pair of gloves, leaning over Lando. “Let’s see how we’re doing, champ.”

Lando’s eyes flicker, heavy and unfocused. The EMT checks his pulse, then takes a penlight and shines it directly into Lando’s pupils. He winces, groaning low in his throat.

“Sir, can you hear me?” The EMT asks loudly, as if trying to shake him awake with sound alone.

Lando blinks sluggishly, his brow furrowing. “… Yeah,” he mutters, barely audible. His accent makes the word sound more like yeh.

The EMT hums, jotting something down on a clipboard. “Good. Do you know where you are?”

Lando’s face twists in confusion. “Uh … car … crash?”

“That’s right. Do you know what day it is?”

Lando frowns, like the question is too complicated to process. “… Tuesday?” He guesses, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.

The EMT glances at you briefly, then back at Lando. “Close enough,” he mutters under his breath.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“Lando Norris,” Lando slurs, then huffs, like just saying his own name took monumental effort.

“All right, Lando. You're doing okay, but you’ve probably got a concussion,” the EMT says, his tone calm but firm. “I need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”

Lando's eyelids droop again, dangerously close to closing. “M’tired,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know you are, but you’ve gotta fight it. Stay with me, Lando.”

You lean forward, suddenly anxious. “Hey. Lando.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it gets his attention. His eyes flutter open, just barely.

“Stay awake, okay? Keep talking.”

He shifts sluggishly, his head rolling to the side. “‘Bout what?”

“Anything,” you say quickly, glancing at the EMT as if looking for backup. “Uh … tell me more about racing.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Fast,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, I figured,” you say. “But, like … how fast?”

“Really fast,” he whispers, his voice trailing off into nothing. His eyes close again, and this time, they don’t reopen.

“Lando?” You reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his arm. “Hey. Lando.”

The EMT leans in, tapping Lando's cheek with two fingers. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”

Nothing. Lando’s breathing is steady but shallow, his head slack against the neck brace.

The EMT mutters a curse under his breath. “He’s out. Heart rate’s steady, but we’re not taking any chances.”

You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. “Is that bad?” You ask, your voice smaller than you'd like.

“It’s not good,” the EMT says bluntly. He grabs a stethoscope and checks Lando’s breathing again. “We’re almost there. Just gotta keep him stable.”

The ambulance sways as it takes a corner, and you clutch the edge of the bench to steady yourself. Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast in your ears.

You watch the EMT work, every movement precise and deliberate, but it still feels like time is dragging, like the ambulance isn’t moving fast enough.

The siren wails overhead, a sharp, urgent reminder of how serious this is.

You glance at Lando’s face — pale, slack, and too still — and something twists painfully in your chest. You don’t even know this guy, not really, but the thought of him not waking up feels … wrong.

“Hang in there, Lando,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

The ambulance jerks to a halt, and the EMT presses a button to radio the hospital. “ETA sixty seconds. Unconscious male, suspected head trauma. Prep trauma room two.”

Your stomach flips as the doors fly open, and two more EMTs appear, ready to unload.

The gurney jerks as they lift it, and you follow closely behind, stepping out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bay. The cold air hits you again, but it barely registers.

The EMT glances over his shoulder at you as they wheel Lando inside. “This is where we leave you,” he says, not unkindly.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right.”

The gurney disappears through the sliding glass doors, and you stand there for a moment, unsure what to do next.

The night air feels heavier now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

***

The waiting room is cold, with that sterile, over-sanitized smell that clings to every surface. You sit awkwardly in a plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It’s eerily quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile and the low murmur of nurses passing through. A vending machine hums softly against the far wall.

You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since they wheeled Lando through those double doors. An hour? Two? Time feels slippery here, twisting and turning in on itself, every minute stretching out longer than the last. You try scrolling through your phone, but nothing holds your attention. The adrenaline has drained from your system, leaving you restless and uneasy.

It would’ve been easy to leave after they took him inside. After all, he’s a complete stranger. But the thought of him waking up alone, disoriented and confused in a hospital bed, doesn’t sit right with you. And so, you wait.

A nurse pokes her head out of a side door at one point, scanning the room. Your heart jumps, but she’s only calling for someone else — a patient’s relative who stands up with a relieved sigh. The room empties little by little, families reuniting with loved ones or filing out into the night.

You shift in your seat, rubbing your hands together to stave off the chill. You could leave right now, go home, crawl into bed. But somehow, you know you won’t — not until you know Lando is okay.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the door swings open again. This time, it’s a physician in pale blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks around the room, squinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Is anyone here with the car crash patient?” He asks, voice low but carrying through the empty space.

You stand up before you even realize what you’re doing. “I … I’m here.”

The doctor’s eyes flick over to you, eyebrows raised. “You’re with him?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. I was there when it happened.”

The doctor approaches, glancing down at his clipboard. “He’s stable,” he says, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “He has a pretty severe concussion, though. He lost consciousness on the way here, but we were able to wake him up a little while ago.”

You let out a slow breath. “That’s good, right?”

“Yes and no,” the doctor replies, shifting his weight. “It looks like he has post-traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t seem to know who he is — doesn’t even remember his own name.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Amnesia?”

The doctor nods. “It’s not uncommon with head injuries like his. In most cases, the memory loss is temporary. But it’s hard to say how long it will take for him to regain his memories — could be hours, days, or longer.”

You swallow, trying to process that. “He didn’t have any ID on him?”

“No wallet, no phone. Nothing to tell us who he is.” The doctor frowns. “Do you know his name?”

You feel a flicker of panic — you barely know anything about him. But you remember something from the ambulance, a faint, slurred sentence buried in the fog of the night. “His first name is Lando,” you say slowly. “He told the EMT that much. I-“ You press your fingers to your temples, frustrated with yourself. “He also said his last name, but I can’t remember it right now. It was … it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

The doctor gives you a sympathetic nod. “That’s all right. At least we have a starting point.” He flips a page on his clipboard. “Lando … okay.” He pauses, then looks at you with a curious expression. “Are you related to him?”

“No,” you say quickly. “I just … I saw the crash and rode with him in the ambulance.”

The doctor tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “It’s unusual,” he says slowly, “but since he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him … we could make an exception and let you visit him.”

You blink, surprised by the offer. “You would? Even though I’m not family?”

The doctor nods. “Under the circumstances, yes. He’s confused, disoriented. It might help him to see a familiar face — well, at least someone who’s been around since the accident.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Yeah. I’ll visit him.”

The doctor gives you a small smile, then gestures toward the door. “Follow me.”

Your heart beats a little faster as you trail behind him through the sterile hallways, passing closed doors and curtained-off spaces. The farther you go, the quieter it gets, until the only sounds are the soft squeak of your shoes on the linoleum and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Finally, the doctor stops in front of a room and gestures for you to go inside. “He’s still a bit groggy, but you can sit with him for a while.”

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, and push the door open.

The room is small, dimly lit by a single lamp on the wall. Lando lies in the bed, looking pale and disoriented, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and an IV drips steadily from a bag hooked to a pole beside the bed.

You step inside, and his gaze shifts toward you, though it’s clear he’s struggling to stay focused.

“Hey,” you say softly, pulling the chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

He blinks at you, his expression hazy with confusion. “I … I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice scratchy. “Where … where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital,” you explain gently. “You had a car accident.”

Lando frowns, his brow furrowing. “A car accident?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “It was pretty bad, but you’re going to be okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. “Do I … do I know you?”

You shake your head. “No, we just met — well, kind of. I was there when you crashed. I called for help and rode with you in the ambulance.”

Lando’s lips press together, as if he’s trying to make sense of your words. “Why?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Why what?”

“Why did you … stay?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You hesitate, not entirely sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” you admit. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Lando gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, struggling to stay awake.

“You said my name is Lando?” He asks, his voice faint.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s what you told me. Do you … remember anything else?”

Lando shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “No,” he whispers. “Nothing.”

You offer him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You just need to rest.”

He nods weakly, his eyelids drooping.

For a moment, the room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the IV drip and the distant sounds of the hospital outside.

“Thank you,” Lando murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible.

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For staying,” he whispers. “For not leaving me alone.”

You feel a strange warmth spread through your chest at his words, unexpected but not unwelcome.

“Of course,” you say softly. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Lando’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

You sit back in the chair, watching him for a moment longer, feeling oddly connected to this stranger — this man whose life, for reasons you can’t quite explain, has suddenly become intertwined with yours.

***

You wake up to the soft click of a door opening. For a moment, you’re disoriented — the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air and the hum of machines aren’t what you expect. Then it all comes rushing back: the crash, the ambulance, Lando.

You straighten in the uncomfortable hospital chair, your neck aching from the awkward position you slept in. A nurse in pale scrubs moves around the room quietly, checking Lando’s IV and jotting notes on her chart. She glances at you and offers a small smile.

“Good morning,” she says softly, like someone used to tiptoeing around the sick and injured.

You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Morning. Is he …”

The nurse nods toward Lando. “Still sleeping. His vitals look stable, though.”

You glance at him. He’s shifted a little in his sleep, curled slightly on his side with the blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His face is peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the chaos of last night.

The nurse scribbles something else on her clipboard. “The doctor will be in soon to check on him. If he’s doing okay, we might start talking about discharge.”

You frown slightly. “Discharge? Already?”

The nurse gives a small shrug. “It’s common. Once someone is stable, there’s no reason to keep them here longer than necessary.”

Before you can respond, the door opens again, and the same physician from last night steps in, looking far more awake and put-together than you feel. He carries a folder tucked under one arm and offers a polite nod as he approaches Lando’s bed.

“Morning,” he says briskly, flipping through the papers. “Let’s see how our patient is doing.”

Lando stirs at the sound of voices, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes flutter open. He blinks at the ceiling, clearly disoriented, and then his gaze shifts toward you.

“Hey,” you say softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you in a dream that hasn’t fully faded. “I … I don’t know,” he mumbles. His voice is raspy, as if unused for too long. “Where …”

“The hospital,” you remind him gently. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”

Lando’s expression crumples with frustration, and he shakes his head weakly. “No. I don’t remember anything.”

The doctor steps closer, setting the folder down on the bedside table. “It’s okay, Lando,” he says in a professional but kind tone. “You’ve had a serious concussion. Amnesia like this is not unusual. It may take some time for your memory to come back.”

Lando doesn’t respond. His hand rests on the blanket, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.

The physician clears his throat and flips through the imaging results. “We’ve run more tests, and everything looks good. No fractures, no swelling that we need to be concerned about. Medically speaking, you’re ready to be discharged.”

Lando stares at the doctor, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Discharged? But … I don’t even know who I am.”

The doctor sighs sympathetically. “I know it’s overwhelming, but there’s no medical reason to keep you here. Usually, when patients have amnesia, we recommend that they go home, rest, and be with family until their memory returns.”

Lando lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Except I don’t even know if I have family.”

The doctor exchanges a glance with you, clearly uncomfortable. “We tried contacting local authorities, but without ID, there’s not much we can do to locate anyone for you right now. In the meantime …” He trails off, glancing at his watch. “You’ll need to find somewhere safe to rest. Hospitals aren’t designed for long stays in cases like this.”

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out at first. A knot twists in your stomach — Lando looks so lost, sitting there in the stiff hospital bed with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

And then, without thinking, you blurt out, “He can come home with me.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and unexpected.

Both Lando and the doctor turn to stare at you, identical looks of confusion written across their faces.

“What?” Lando asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

You blink, as if hearing yourself for the first time. “I mean … if he has nowhere else to go,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “It doesn’t feel right just … leaving him like this.”

The doctor looks at you like you’ve just volunteered to adopt a stray animal off the street. “Are you sure about that?” He asks cautiously. “Taking care of someone with memory loss can be challenging.”

You nod before you can second-guess yourself. “I’m sure. I can help him get settled until … until he remembers something.”

Lando’s brow furrows as he tries to process what’s happening. “You’re serious? I can’t even remember my own name, and you’re just … offering to let me stay with you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not like I’m going to just let you wander the streets of New York with a concussion.”

Lando huffs a soft laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am. I could be a serial killer or something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel like a serial killer?”

He pauses, blinking at the question. “No. I just feel … confused.”

“Then we’ll take our chances,” you say, standing a little straighter.

The doctor looks between the two of you, clearly torn. “All right,” he says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. “We’ll need you to sign some forms for his release. And …” He glances at Lando. “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days — no strenuous activities, no driving, and absolutely no drinking.”

Lando nods slowly, still looking stunned by the turn of events.

The doctor finishes writing and tears off a sheet of paper, handing it to you. “Here are his discharge instructions. Make sure he rests and drinks plenty of fluids. If there’s any change — headaches, confusion, anything — bring him back right away.”

You nod, taking the paper. “Got it.”

The doctor gives a final nod before stepping toward the door. “A nurse will be in soon to help with the paperwork. Good luck.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with Lando in the quiet room.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Lando breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing this?”

You glance at him, and for the first time, you realize how scared he must be — lost in a city he doesn’t remember, with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m really doing this.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile but isn’t quite sure how. “You’re either very brave,” he mutters, “or very stupid.”

“Maybe a little of both,” you admit, and the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.

He looks down at the blanket covering his legs, running his fingers along the edge. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, standing up and smoothing out your wrinkled clothes. “Just … don’t make me regret it, okay?”

Lando glances up at you, his expression serious now. “I’ll try not to.”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, holding a clipboard. “Ready to go?”

You nod, glancing at Lando. “Ready?”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever comes next. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

And with that, the two of you step into the unknown together.

***

The subway car rattles along the tracks, a steady clunk-clunk that fills the silence between you and Lando. He’s seated beside you, his head tilted back against the cold metal pole, watching the city blur past through the dirty windows. His posture is relaxed — almost too relaxed — but you can tell it’s not comfort. It’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Every so often, he glances at the other passengers with the wide-eyed caution of someone dropped into an unfamiliar world.

“You okay?” You ask, nudging his arm gently with your elbow.

He turns toward you, slow and deliberate, like even small movements take effort. “I guess. Just feels … weird.” He rubs his temple, the faint crease of a headache forming between his brows. “Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t tell if that’s the world or just my brain being scrambled.”

“Definitely the world.” You try to smile, hoping it’ll ease some of the weight he’s carrying. “New York doesn’t stop for anyone. You get used to it.”

Lando offers a weak chuckle, but the sound fades quickly. “You do this every day?”

You shrug. “Pretty much. You learn how to block out the noise after a while.”

He leans his head back again, eyes drifting shut as if the conversation itself takes more energy than he has to spare. You glance at him, wondering what’s going through his mind — if he’s terrified, disoriented, or just trying to keep it together for your sake. Maybe all three.

When the subway screeches to a stop at your station, you nudge him again. “This is us.”

Lando blinks awake, dragging himself upright as you both stand. He follows you off the train, into the chaotic swirl of the station. The noise, the movement, the fluorescent lights — none of it fazes you, but you can feel him stiffen beside you as if it’s too much all at once.

You make your way to the stairs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, and Lando does his best to keep up. “This city is … a lot,” he mutters as you ascend to street level.

“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But it grows on you. Like a fungus.”

Lando snorts — an actual laugh this time, though it’s still edged with disbelief. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”

The two of you walk in silence for the few blocks to your apartment. It’s late morning by now, the streets bustling with people on errands or rushing to work. You pull your coat tighter against the breeze and glance at Lando, who’s walking beside you with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of the hospital-issued sweatpants.

When you finally reach your building, you unlock the front door and lead him up two flights of stairs. Your apartment isn’t much — a tiny one-bedroom with a narrow kitchen, mismatched furniture, and walls covered in posters and sticky notes. But it’s yours, and for now, it’ll be his too.

“Home sweet home,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let him in.

Lando hesitates in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where you live?” He asks, his tone curious rather than judgmental.

“Yep. Not exactly a palace, but it works.” You drop your keys on the counter and kick off your shoes, motioning for him to do the same. “Welcome to grad student life.”

He steps inside cautiously, as if the apartment might swallow him whole, and his eyes land on the piles of law books scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even the armrest of the couch. A legal pad covered in half-finished notes is open on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and empty coffee cups.

“It looks like a library threw up in here,” he says, eyebrows raised.

You let out a laugh, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah, sorry. It’s kind of … everywhere.”

He picks up one of the books from the table — Constitutional Law: Cases and Materials — and flips through the pages with an amused expression. “So … you’re a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” you correct, dropping your bag on the couch. “I’m still a student. Columbia Law.”

Lando sets the book down carefully, as if it might bite. “That sounds … intense.”

“It is.” You collapse onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out. “It’s basically my whole life right now. Classes, studying, internships … sleep, if I’m lucky.”

Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You like it?”

You tilt your head, considering the question. “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard as hell, but I do. There’s something … satisfying about figuring things out, solving problems.”

He nods slowly, as if trying to imagine what that kind of life feels like. “So, you’re one of those people. The smart ones.”

You laugh. “I guess that depends on the day.”

Lando’s gaze drifts back to the books, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re just … letting me crash here. Even though you’ve got all this going on?”

You shrug, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal.”

He gives you a look — one that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, I don’t even know who I am, and you brought me home.”

“Well, you didn’t seem like a serial killer.” You grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take you if it came down to it.”

Lando chuckles, the sound low and genuine this time. “Right. Because you’ve been training in MMA on the side.”

“Exactly.” You gesture to the couch. “That’s where you’ll sleep, by the way. Sorry it’s not a king-sized bed or anything.”

He glances at the couch, then back at you with a wry smile. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Memory loss, remember?”

“Right.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess we’ll both find out what you’re used to.”

Lando walks over to the couch and sinks into it experimentally, testing the cushions. “It’s not bad,” he says after a moment. “I’ll survive.”

“Good. Because I’m fresh out of five-star hotels.”

He leans back, resting his head against the cushion, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For … all of this. I know it’s weird.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not that weird.”

Lando opens one eye, giving you a skeptical look. “It’s definitely weird.”

“Okay, maybe a little.” You grin. “But life’s weird sometimes. You just roll with it.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes drifting shut again. “You make it sound easy.”

You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing slows, the tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. There’s something oddly comforting about having someone else here, even if that someone is a total stranger who just happens to have lost his memory.

“You hungry?” You ask, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got … well, probably just instant noodles, but it’s food.”

Lando cracks a smile without opening his eyes. “Instant noodles sound like a feast right now.”

“High standards, I see,” you tease, heading to the kitchen.

As you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, you can’t help but glance back at him. He’s still stretched out on the couch, looking more at peace than he has since you met him.

And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, it feels right.

***

Steam rises from the bowls of instant noodles, curling into the dim air of your apartment. The two of you sit side by side on the couch, knees almost touching, slurping quietly while some mindless local news plays in the background. It’s not much, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. For the first time all day, things feel … normal.

Lando scoops a forkful of noodles, twirling them slowly, like even eating requires focus. “So, this is gourmet cuisine?” He teases, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, these are the premium kind,” you shoot back, nudging him with your elbow. “I even added an egg. That’s high-level cooking.”

He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment you think maybe — just maybe — he’s settling in. But then the newscaster’s voice shifts into something more urgent, drawing both of your attention.

“… the United States Grand Prix is set to take place this weekend in Austin, Texas, with the world’s top drivers arriving to compete in what promises to be a thrilling event …”

The screen cuts to footage of race cars whizzing by, sleek and impossibly fast, engines roaring like angry beasts. Drivers in fireproof suits pose for cameras, and somewhere in the background, a McLaren car gleams under stadium lights.

You glance at Lando. He’s sitting perfectly still, bowl of noodles forgotten in his lap. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, as if the images are stirring something just out of reach — a half-buried memory fighting to resurface.

“Lando?” You say softly.

He doesn’t respond, just stares at the television like it’s showing him the key to his past. His fingers tighten around the bowl, knuckles going white.

“Does that … mean anything to you?” You ask cautiously, setting your own bowl aside. “The race?”

Lando’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His brow furrows deeply, frustration flickering across his features. He shakes his head slowly, like trying to sift through fog.

“I … I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels … familiar. Like I should know something about it.”

You lean closer, watching his face carefully. “Do you think it’s connected to you? Maybe that’s-“

“I don’t know!” Lando snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. He winces immediately, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry. I just … it’s right there, you know? Like I’m supposed to know why this matters, but I can’t grab it.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not your fault.”

Lando drags a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “It’s just … frustrating,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”

The sheer helplessness in his voice makes your heart ache. You can see him trying so hard to stay composed, but it’s slipping. He blinks rapidly, his jaw tight, as if he’s on the verge of tears and doing everything in his power not to let them fall.

You set your hand on his arm gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to force it.”

Lando shakes his head again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not okay. I don’t even know who I am. What kind of person forgets their whole life?”

“You’re not broken,” you tell him firmly. “You just had a really bad accident. Your brain’s protecting you, probably — it’ll come back when it’s ready.”

He looks at you, his eyes glossy, and for a moment he seems like a kid lost in a supermarket, scared and trying not to cry. “But what if it doesn’t?” His voice is small, filled with uncertainty. “What if I never remember?”

The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. It’s strange, seeing someone like him — someone who carries himself like the world should make sense — crumble under the weight of something he can’t control.

You don’t know what to say. What can you say? You’re just a law student who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. But you can’t leave him in this. You won’t.

“It’ll come back,” you say softly. “And until it does, you’re not alone, okay?”

Lando presses his lips together, nodding slightly even though he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head back, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower alone can force the tears away. You see the frustration etched in every movement, the way he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his palms.

“Why does this feel so familiar?” He whispers, more to himself than to you. “That car … the race … it’s like I know it, but it’s just out of reach. It’s right there, but I can’t …”

You squeeze his arm, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Lando exhales shakily, dragging his hands through his messy curls. “I feel … useless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t even know what.”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re not useless. You survived a crash that should’ve been a lot worse. That’s already pretty impressive.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Real impressive. Can’t even remember my own name.”

“You remembered some of it,” you remind him. “That’s a start.”

Lando looks at you, his expression hovering between gratitude and exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Take me in. Deal with … whatever this is.”

You shrug. “I wasn’t about to leave you on your own.”

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to memorize your face — or maybe trying to understand why a stranger would care enough to help him. Finally, he nods, a small but genuine gesture.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure to remember everything all at once.”

Lando breathes out slowly, as if the weight of the moment is starting to lift, even if just a little. “Okay,” he whispers. “One day at a time.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. On the screen, the sports segment wraps up, and the anchor shifts to another story — something about a mayoral race you couldn’t care less about. But Lando keeps glancing at the TV, his gaze flickering with something you can’t quite place.

You watch him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind. Maybe there’s more he remembers, things he can’t quite articulate yet. Or maybe the images of the race just stirred something instinctual — a feeling rather than a memory.

“Do you think …” Lando starts, then stops himself, biting his lip. “Do you think I was supposed to be there? At the race?”

You consider his question carefully. “It’s possible. I mean … maybe. But it’s also possible that it just feels familiar because you love racing. Maybe you were a fan.”

Lando doesn’t look convinced. “It feels … bigger than that. Like it’s important.”

“Well,” you say gently, “if it’s really that important, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

He nods, though his expression remains troubled. “Yeah. I hope so.”

You reach for the remote and turn the volume down, hoping it’ll give him some peace. “For now, just try to rest, okay? We can’t solve everything tonight.”

Lando leans back against the couch cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Right. One day at a time.”

You nod, settling back beside him. “Exactly.”

And for a moment — just a moment — the world feels a little quieter. A little more manageable. Neither of you knows what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you’re here. Together. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

***

In Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre buzzes with the usual energy, but today, there’s a frantic undercurrent no one can quite contain. Engineers huddle over laptops, scrolling through telemetry and GPS data. Phones ring at an alarming frequency. It’s as though the entire organization holds its breath, waiting for a disaster they can’t fully comprehend but know is happening.

Zak Brown slams his phone down on the desk in his office, his jaw tight with frustration. “No answer. Nothing. It just goes to voicemail,” he says, pacing. His voice carries out into the open office space, drawing glances from staff nearby.

“Same here,” a voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Andrea Stella looks exhausted, cradling his phone against his ear. “No response to texts. No one at the hotel he was supposed to check into has seen him. And his phone’s not pinging anymore — it’s like it just went dark.”

Zak rakes a hand through his short, cropped hair, then exhales sharply. “We’re five days away from Austin. Five. Freaking. Days. And we’ve lost our damn driver.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with anxiety. The silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of computers and the occasional tap of keyboards. No one dares say what they’re all thinking: If Lando doesn’t show, they’re down a driver for one of the most critical races of the season.

Andrea leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in New York,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Why did he even go to New York? He was supposed to meet us in Austin straight away.”

Zak shrugs, his hands flying in frustration. “Lando said he wanted a couple of days to himself before the race. Some break or whatever. I figured — he works hard, let him have it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Apparently, the worst did happen.

Over by the giant wall of monitors tracking everything from car data to driver schedules, one of the comms coordinators speaks up. “We haven’t been able to track his car since yesterday. No activity. Not even location pings.”

Zak swears under his breath and turns toward Andrea. “We need to start contingency planning. This is serious. If he’s not in Austin in the next day or so, we’ve gotta be ready.”

Andrea doesn’t reply right away. His mind churns through endless scenarios, none of them promising. Do they scramble to find a reserve driver? Call Pato O’Ward or Ryo Hirakawa? That would be a media frenzy in itself. But that’s a worst-case option — first, they need to find Lando.

“Have we checked his family? Friends? Girlfriends?” Zak asks, rubbing his temples.

“We tried his parents,” Andrea replies with a sigh. “His mum thought he was already in Austin. She hasn’t heard from him in over 24 hours either.”

“Girlfriend?” Zak asks.

“He doesn’t have one.” Andrea’s tone is clipped, as if that fact only makes the situation more frustrating. “He’s not exactly the relationship type.”

Zak mutters another curse. “Christ. He’s alone, halfway across the world, and we have no idea where the hell he is.”

The weight of that statement sinks in. It’s not just that Lando isn’t answering his phone — it’s the growing realization that something might have gone terribly wrong.

***

In another corner of the office, the team’s director of communications, Sophie, types furiously into her laptop. Every time she hits send on an email, another response pings back: negative. Nothing. No one knows anything.

“Has anyone checked the airlines?” She calls out. “If he was flying through New York, maybe there’s a record of him checking in somewhere?”

“We’re working on it,” one of the logistics guys responds, flicking through tabs on his screen. “But it’s hard to get anything without specific flight details.”

Sophie sighs and looks over at Zak and Andrea, who are still pacing near the windows. “Do you want me to draft a public statement?” She asks tentatively. “Just in case?”

Zak freezes. “No. Absolutely not. The second the media gets wind of this, it’ll turn into a circus. We’ll have paparazzi crawling over every hotel and airport in New York. We can’t afford that distraction.”

“But if he doesn’t show soon,” Sophie presses, “we might not have a choice. People will notice if he’s missing from Austin.”

Andrea folds his arms, his expression grim. “We’ve got 48 hours, tops. After that, people will start asking questions.”

Zak rubs his face, exhaustion creeping into his every movement. “Goddamn it, Lando.”

There’s a collective silence as the weight of the situation settles over the room. No one says it out loud, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Something has gone terribly wrong.

Sophie speaks up again, her voice quieter now. “We could … call the local authorities in New York? Just to see if anything’s been reported. An accident or-”

“No.” Zak cuts her off sharply, though there’s no bite behind the word — just fear. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Lando being hurt. Or worse.

But Andrea is already nodding. “Do it,” he says to Sophie. “Just discreetly. Don’t mention his name. See if they’ve had any reports matching his description.”

Sophie hesitates, then nods and picks up her phone, already pulling up contact numbers.

Zak looks over at Andrea, his jaw tight. “If something’s happened to him …”

“We’ll find him,” Andrea says firmly, though even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

Zak turns to the logistics guy. “Book me the next flight to New York. I’ll go myself if I have to.”

Andrea grabs Zak’s arm. “Wait. If you go running to New York, it’ll raise questions. We don’t want anyone finding out about this before we know what’s going on.”

Zak exhales sharply but nods. “You’re right.” He looks around the room, addressing everyone. “We keep this quiet. No leaks. No media.”

Everyone nods in unison, the weight of the unspoken agreement heavy in the air.

“Sophie,” Andrea says, turning back to her. “If the police don’t have anything … try the hospitals.”

“Already on it,” she replies, tapping at her phone.

Zak mutters under his breath, pacing again. “He better be okay.”

Andrea glances at the clock on the wall. Every second that ticks by feels heavier, more oppressive. The race in Austin is looming, and with each passing hour, their chance of finding Lando before everything unravels gets slimmer.

They have no idea what’s happened, no idea where Lando is, and no one to call for answers. All they can do is wait, and hope.

***

The morning sun streams through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over your cluttered apartment. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sound of toast popping from the toaster. Lando sits across from you at the small kitchen table, his face scrunched in exaggerated misery. He’s been pouting for at least ten minutes now, stirring his cereal like it’s personally offended him.

“You’re seriously leaving me here? Alone?” His voice drips with disbelief, spoon clinking against the bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Stare at the wall? Die of boredom?”

You sigh, lifting your mug to your lips. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a few hours. I need to go to class.”

Lando leans forward, his elbows on the table, making no effort to hide his sulking. “You’re abandoning me.” He looks at you with those big, green eyes — slightly glassy from frustration, or maybe just sleepiness. “I thought we were, you know … friends now.”

“We are friends,” you say, setting your mug down with a small clink. “But friends don’t have to be attached at the hip.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “But what if I forget everything again? What if I walk out the door and just — poof — vanish into thin air?”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-amused. “I think you’ll manage to avoid disappearing for three hours.”

Lando drops his head onto the table with a thud. “I might die.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

He peeks up from where his cheek is squished against the table. “Just let me come with you.”

You pause mid-sip, the words hanging in the air. “To … class?”

“Yes.” He sits up straight, suddenly full of life again. “Take me with you. I won’t make a sound. I’ll just sit in the corner and … blend in. Like a plant.”

You arch a brow, incredulous. “You? Blending in?”

He places a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I can totally blend in.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’ve blended into anything a day in your life.”

“I’ll prove you wrong,” he declares with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. The idea is absurd, but it’s not like you haven’t already made enough bad decisions in the past 24 hours. What’s one more?

“You have to promise to be quiet,” you warn, pointing your spoon at him. “No interrupting. No talking to anyone. And definitely no causing a scene.”

Lando raises his hand solemnly, like a kid swearing an oath. “I pinky promise.”

You roll your eyes but extend your pinky anyway. He links his with yours, sealing the deal. His face lights up with the same kind of joy you’d expect from a kid on Christmas morning, and you can’t help but laugh.

“This is the dumbest idea,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your backpack from the floor.

“You won’t regret it,” Lando says, practically bouncing in his seat.

But as you swing the backpack over your shoulder, something occurs to both of you at the same time.

Lando freezes mid-motion. “Uh … I don’t have any clothes.”

You blink, glancing down at the crumpled sweats he’s wearing — the same ones the hospital gave him. They’re wrinkled, a bit too big, and definitely not suitable for a law class at Columbia.

“Right,” you say slowly, realizing how ridiculous it would look if you showed up with him dressed like … well, that. “You need something better than hospital pajamas.”

Lando looks down at himself, then back at you. “This isn’t exactly suitable for blending in, huh?”

“Nope.” You chew the inside of your cheek, already running through the logistics. “There’s a department store a couple blocks away. If we leave now, we can stop there first.”

Lando grins, clearly pleased with how things are going. “See? Teamwork. This is why you keep me around.”

You scoff. “I didn’t exactly invite you to move in, remember?”

He shrugs, that boyish grin still plastered on his face. “Yet here we are.”

You shake your head, grabbing your keys. “Come on, plant boy. Let’s get you something halfway decent to wear.”

Lando hops up from his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

***

The lecture hall hums with the quiet shuffle of notebooks, laptops, and tired law students. You’ve managed to slip in just before class starts, dragging Lando along like a reluctant sibling. After the last-minute stop at the clothing store, he’s now wearing a basic hoodie and dark jeans — simple enough to not attract too much attention. Or so you thought.

Lando’s sitting beside you, fidgeting with the cap of a pen. His leg bounces restlessly, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since the professor started his lecture on tort law.

You whisper sharply, “Stop moving.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters back, spinning the pen between his fingers.

“Yes, you are.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated sigh but tries to stay still — at least for a full thirty seconds — before turning his attention back to the professor. As the professor drones on about duty of care, Lando tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

“This guy sounds like he’s making stuff up,” he whispers under his breath.

You shoot him a warning look. “Shh.”

“No, really. What the hell is a reasonable person? Do they just pick some random dude off the street and ask what he’d do?”

You grit your teeth. “That’s not … just be quiet.”

Lando leans closer, clearly ignoring your plea. “You’d be a terrible lawyer if you tried that argument. ‘Your Honor, my client is a reasonable person.’ What even is that?” His accent makes the sarcasm hit a little harder, like he’s personally offended by the entire concept.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.

The professor is still speaking, explaining negligence, when Lando mumbles again, “So, wait — if someone slips on a wet floor, that’s someone else’s fault? Isn’t that just bad luck?”

“Lando-” you hiss through clenched teeth.

But he’s not done. “And what’s the point of signs if people still sue, anyway? I mean, if it says Wet Floor, what more do you want? A song and dance?”

Your face burns as a few students glance over, trying to suppress grins. You’re sinking lower in your seat, arms crossed tightly, praying to somehow blend into the furniture.

“Are you really paying for this?” Lando continues, oblivious to the daggers you’re glaring at him. “Because you should ask for a refund.”

A soft chuckle ripples from somewhere in the back of the room, and that’s the final straw.

The professor — an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and the tired patience of someone who’s been teaching far too long — pauses mid-sentence. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room until his gaze lands squarely on you. And, unfortunately, Lando.

“Is there … something you’d like to share with the class, sir?”

You want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Be swallowed whole by the ground.

Lando, however, perks up like he’s just been invited to a dinner party. “Yeah, actually.” He leans back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it like he owns the place. “I just think it’s weird, this whole idea of liability for something that isn’t always in your control.”

A murmur of interest ripples through the class. Some students are amused, others just grateful for a break from the monotony of the lecture.

The professor narrows his eyes. “And you are?”

Lando flashes a charming grin. “Lando. Just visiting.”

The professor’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, Lando, this is a law class, not a debate club.”

“Isn’t law just debating with fancier words, though?” Lando shoots back, and a few students laugh outright.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

“Okay, that’s enough-” you start, but Lando is on a roll now.

“No, seriously. You’re saying someone can sue if they get hurt even if there was a warning? What’s next — someone sues a crack on the sidewalk because they tripped over it?”

More chuckles ripple through the room. The professor’s patience is clearly hanging by a thread. “That’s not exactly how the law works, young man.”

“Then explain it,” Lando challenges, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like people just want excuses to blame someone else.”

The professor looks genuinely exasperated now. “If you’re not enrolled in this course, I’d advise you to refrain from further commentary.”

You shoot a hand out, slapping it firmly over Lando’s mouth before he can respond. His eyes go wide with surprise, muffled sounds of protest buzzing against your palm.

“I am so sorry, Professor,” you blurt, your face burning hotter by the second. “He’s — he’s not a student. I promise this won’t happen again.”

Lando tries to wriggle free, but you keep your hand firmly planted over his mouth as you yank him up by the arm. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and a few students snicker as you drag him toward the exit.

The professor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

You pull Lando through the door and into the hallway, your heart pounding with mortification.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper-yell, spinning around to face him the second you’re out of earshot. “I told you to be quiet!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle mischievously above the edge of your hand, and before you can react, he presses his tongue against your palm.

“Ugh!” You recoil in disgust, jerking your hand away. “Did you just-”

“Did you really think you could keep me quiet that easily?” He grins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“That is disgusting!” You rub your hand furiously against your jeans.

Lando chuckles, completely unbothered. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

You glare at him, feeling a mix of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest hint of amusement — though you’d die before admitting it.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Lando shrugs, still grinning. “You knew what you were getting into when you brought me.”

“No, I absolutely did not.” You shake your head, exasperated. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten in?”

“But you didn’t,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I saved the class from a really boring lecture. You should be thanking me.”

You let out a frustrated groan, turning on your heel to storm down the hallway. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Lando jogs to catch up with you, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t be mad. Admit it — you were kind of impressed.”

“I was not impressed,” you say flatly, pushing open the door to the stairwell.

“Maybe a little bit?” He teases, nudging your shoulder.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. I thought we made a great team in there.”

You give him a withering look. “I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”

But Lando just grins wider, falling into step beside you. “Nah, you love having me around.”

You roll your eyes as the two of you descend the stairs, already dreading the next conversation you’ll have to endure because of this.

Lando hums, clearly pleased with himself. “So … What’s next? Lunch? Another class? Maybe we try philosophy next. I have so many thoughts.”

You shoot him a look that could kill. “Do not push your luck.”

Lando just laughs, utterly unapologetic. And despite yourself, you feel the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth.

***

The halal cart on the corner smells like heaven — charred lamb, grilled onions, and the sharp tang of white sauce hanging in the air. There’s already a small line, but you don’t mind. The break from your chaotic morning with Lando is much needed. He’s standing beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, rocking on his heels like a restless kid waiting for candy.

“So … this is a New York classic?” Lando asks, glancing skeptically at the handwritten menu taped to the side of the cart.

“Yes,” you say with a little grin. “You’re about to experience lamb over rice with white sauce. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“Doesn’t sound fancy,” he muses, nose scrunching slightly.

“It’s not. That’s the whole point.”

When it’s your turn, you order two lamb over rices and a couple of sodas, stepping to the side so the next person can order. Lando watches, intrigued as the cart guy flips sizzling meat on the griddle with quick, practiced movements.

“You come here a lot?” Lando asks.

You shrug. “Often enough. Cheap, fast, and good — you can’t beat it.”

He hums thoughtfully, watching the cart guy with curiosity. “And you’re paying for me, huh? You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, handing over cash when the food is ready. The warm, foil-wrapped containers radiate delicious heat against your fingers.

As you hand Lando his food and the two of you walk toward the steps of the Columbia library, he hesitates. “Seriously, I feel bad about it. I should’ve been the one paying.”

You scoff, finding a spot on the wide stone stairs and sitting down. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a wallet. Or, you know, memories. So I think it’s okay.”

He sits beside you, the smell of lamb and garlic wafting between you. “Still.”

You grin, poking your plastic fork into your food. “Tell you what — when your memories come back, you can pay me back. Since you’ve got a McLaren, I’m guessing you can afford it.”

Lando snorts, shaking his head as he unwraps his container. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two of you dig into your meals, the bustle of the city alive all around. Horns honk in the distance, pigeons coo at your feet, and students filter in and out of the library behind you. There’s something oddly peaceful about it. For the first time since this whole strange adventure started, things feel … easy.

Lando lets out a small noise of appreciation after a few bites. “Okay, this is actually good.”

“Told you.” You grin smugly, scooping more rice onto your fork. “Halal carts don’t miss.”

Lando points his fork at you. “I stand corrected. You New Yorkers know your street food.”

You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. “Damn right we do.”

For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the city move around you. Lando seems at ease, though every so often, you catch him staring into the distance like he’s trying to grab onto something just out of reach — memories that won’t quite click into place.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently.

He shrugs, poking at his food with his fork. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Just … frustrated.”

You nod. “It’ll come back. You just need time.”

Lando presses his lips together, looking down at the lamb and rice like it holds the answers to everything. “It’s weird, though. Like-“ He pauses, trying to find the words. “Like I know there’s something I should remember, but it’s just not there. You know?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I get it.”

He exhales, leaning back on his hands, his food momentarily forgotten. “It’s just hard not knowing. Who I am, what I do … where I fit.”

You glance at him, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. For a guy who usually hides behind playful grins and cheeky remarks, it’s rare to see him this open, this honest.

“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “You’re fitting just fine right here. No pressure to remember anything right now.”

He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

You finish the rest of your food in easy companionship, the city buzzing quietly around you. It feels surprisingly normal — two people sitting on the library steps, eating street food, and talking like old friends.

When the last bite of lamb is gone and the containers are crumpled into a nearby trash bin, you stretch your legs out with a sigh. “So, my classes are done for the day. What do you wanna do now?”

Lando perks up, a glimmer of excitement lighting his face. “Central Park. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

You arch a brow. “Always?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Well, maybe not always. But it sounds cool, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “It’s a big park, Lando. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes.”

Lando glances down at his new sneakers, wiggling his feet experimentally. “I’m ready.”

You laugh, standing and brushing crumbs off your lap. “Alright, let’s do it.”

With that, the two of you head toward the subway, blending into the rhythm of the city — just another pair of people wandering through the streets of New York, trying to figure things out one step at a time.

***

The two of you stand side by side, leaning over the railing at the penguin exhibit in the Central Park Zoo. A group of them waddles awkwardly around their little habitat, sliding on their bellies and plunging into the water with clumsy grace. Lando is completely captivated, his eyes wide and bright as if he’s seeing penguins for the first time.

“Look at that one,” he says, grinning as a particularly rotund penguin flops dramatically into the pool. “That’s me. That one right there.”

You laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”

Lando bumps his shoulder against yours, the cold October air carrying his playful energy. “If I don’t remember anything about myself, maybe I was secretly a penguin enthusiast.”

“Honestly, not the worst thing to be,” you say, smiling. “Could be worse.”

For a while, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm — watching the penguins dive and splash, swapping silly theories about what your hypothetical future careers as zoo employees might look like. The peace is nice, a soft pocket of calm in the buzz of New York.

And then it happens.

“OH MY GOD, it’s Lando Norris!”

The shout comes from somewhere behind you. At first, you don’t think it’s directed at either of you. But when you turn, a small group of teenage girls is staring directly at Lando with wide eyes, their phones already out and recording.

Lando looks at them, blinking in confusion. “Uh … hi?”

The girls rush over, bouncing with excitement. “We can’t believe it! You’re really here! In New York!”

Lando glances at you, bewildered, then back at the girls. “Uh … yeah?”

“Can we take a picture with you?” one of them asks breathlessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

Lando hesitates, clearly confused but not wanting to make a scene. “Sure?”

Before you can react, they surround him, taking selfies and giggling like it’s the best day of their lives. Lando flashes an awkward smile for each photo, looking like he’s trying to keep up but not fully understanding what’s happening.

You stand to the side, watching in stunned silence as this bizarre moment unfolds. Lando Norris. Why does that name sound so familiar?

“Thank you so much!” The girls squeal once the photo session ends. One of them waves as they walk away. “Good luck at the race!”

The girls disappear into the crowd, still giggling, leaving Lando standing next to you with a stunned expression. He blinks a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Well.” He turns to you, his confusion melting into a crooked grin. “I guess I’m famous.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your mind already working overtime. “Hold on.” Grabbing your phone, you quickly open the browser and type his name.

The results load instantly — articles, social media posts, fan pages. The screen fills with photos of Lando, all of them unmistakably him, usually grinning in front of race cars or holding trophies. There’s even a photo of him standing next to a sleek McLaren, looking impossibly proud.

You turn the screen toward him. “So … apparently, you’re a Formula 1 driver.”

Lando stares at the phone like it’s showing him a ghost. “Formula 1 …”

You scroll further down the page, reading headlines aloud. “‘Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Star.’ ‘Lando Norris on Racing, Pressure, and Fame.’ ‘The Young British Driver Taking Formula 1 by Storm.’” You glance at him. “Now the McLaren makes sense.”

Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly overwhelmed. “I … I don’t remember any of this.”

You bite your lip, piecing things together. “Wait — right after the crash, when you were all out of it, you kept saying you were a race car driver. I thought you were just some rich kid talking nonsense.”

Lando blinks a few times, as if the memory is just out of reach. “I guess I wasn’t.”

The two of you fall into stunned silence, the realization hanging heavy in the air. It’s surreal. One minute, Lando was just some lost guy with no memory, and now — he’s apparently a professional race car driver with fans, fame, and a career you didn’t even know existed.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scrolling through the search results. “How does someone just … forget all of this?”

Lando is quiet beside you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to force the memories to come back through sheer willpower. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts — panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. What did those girls say? Something about a race?”

You scroll back up to check the news alerts. “Yeah. The United States Grand Prix. It’s happening this weekend.”

Lando’s face pales. “This weekend?”

You nod, your heart starting to race along with his. “Yeah. In Austin.”

Panic settles over him like a weight. “I have a race. In a few days. And I still don’t remember anything.”

You place a hand on his arm, trying to steady him. “Hey, hey — breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? You don’t have to remember everything right now.”

Lando lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to race if I don’t even remember racing?”

You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s not just scared — he’s terrified.

“One thing at a time,” you say gently. “First, we need to contact someone from your team. They’ve probably been looking for you.”

Lando gives a small, panicked laugh. “Great. That’ll be fun to explain — ‘Hi, sorry, I forgot who I was and ended up in New York.’“

You squeeze his arm reassuringly. “They’ll just be glad you’re okay.”

He looks at you, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks. For … you know, everything.”

You offer him a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”

But as the two of you stand there, the enormity of the situation settling between you, you know things are only going to get more complicated from here. Because Lando Norris isn’t just some random guy who lost his memory — he’s a professional athlete with a career that’s still waiting for him.

And somehow, you’ve become a part of the chaos.

***

The McLaren garage in Austin is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Mechanics are running diagnostics on car components, engineers are gathered around laptops, and team managers are huddled over plans, but there’s a thick tension under it all. They’re missing something — or someone — and every minute that passes without word from Lando tightens the knot of stress across the paddock.

In the team’s motorhome, the director of trackside operations, Mark, leans over a table, muttering something about flight records to a colleague. Then his phone buzzes.

“It’s Liz from Woking,” the other man says, reading the caller ID. “Should I-”

“Put it through.” Mark gestures impatiently. “Maybe she’s heard something.”

The line clicks, and Liz’s voice comes through, brisk and professional but with an undertone of hesitation. “Hey, Mark, we just got a call from someone claiming to know where Lando is.”

Mark freezes. Every eye in the room turns toward him. “What do you mean ‘claiming’?”

“They’re saying Lando is with them in New York,” Liz continues. “Should I patch them through to you?”

Mark’s heart jumps. “Do it. Now.”

The seconds feel like hours until there’s a mechanical click, and then-

“Hello?” Your voice crackles over the speaker, sounding cautious but steady. “Is this the McLaren team?”

Mark exchanges a sharp glance with one of the engineers before answering. “Yes. This is Mark, McLaren’s director of trackside operations. Who is this?”

You take a breath, clearly trying to keep your nerves in check. “I, uh, my name’s Y/N. I’m with Lando.”

There’s an audible shift in the room. Mark presses his palm to the table, leaning forward as though proximity to the phone will help him make sense of this. “With Lando? As in — he’s there with you, right now?”

“Yeah,” you say, and then your voice turns muffled for a second, like you’re whispering. “Lando, say hi.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a familiar voice chimes in, unsure but undeniably Lando’s.

“Hi.”

The tension in the room cracks wide open, releasing a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief. One of the engineers mouths, thank God. Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.

“Lando,” Mark says, his tone walking a tightrope between frustration and sheer relief, “what the hell is going on? Where have you been?”

“Uh …” Lando’s voice falters slightly. “I think I got into a bit of a … situation.”

“A situation?” Mark repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been missing for almost two days, mate. Do you know how close we were to filing a missing persons report?”

“Yeah, about that …” Lando trails off, and you jump in, clearly sensing he needs a lifeline.

“Look, we’re really sorry,” you say quickly. “He got into a car accident — he’s okay now,” you add hastily, “but it was bad enough that he, well … he doesn’t remember anything.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Mark’s brain stumbles over the words. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”

“Like, nothing,” Lando mutters, his voice low and frustrated. “I woke up with no memory. Didn’t even know my own name until Y/N told me what it was.”

Mark scrubs a hand over his face, trying to piece it all together. This makes no sense. “And you’re in New York right now?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “He crashed his car here. I found him and brought him to the hospital, and now we’re … um … back at my apartment.”

A pause stretches long and thin. The room in Austin feels too small, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Okay. Listen carefully. We need your address. Now.”

You hesitate. “Why do you need it?”

“Because we’re sending someone to get him,” Mark says, not bothering to mask the urgency in his voice. “Lando has a race in less than four days. We need to bring him to Austin yesterday.”

There’s a shuffling noise on your end, and when Lando speaks again, his voice carries an edge of panic. “Wait — hold on, Mark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t race if I don’t even know who I am!”

Mark exhales slowly, softening his tone but not his resolve. “We’ll figure that part out, Lando. But right now, you need to get to Austin. The longer you stay where you are, the worse this gets.”

You cut in, sounding skeptical. “What exactly is the plan here? Because right now, it sounds like you’re asking him to show up for a race with no memory of … well, anything. That doesn’t seem safe.”

Mark drums his fingers on the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. “Look, we’ll handle it once he’s here. This is a controlled situation — we’ll have doctors on standby. But we can’t do anything if he’s stuck in New York.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a stretch of silence thick with indecision.

“Lando?” Mark prompts, lowering his voice. “Are you okay with this? Do you trust us?”

Another shuffle on the line. “Yeah … I guess. But, Mark, seriously — what if I can’t do it? What if I screw everything up?”

“You won’t,” Mark says firmly, injecting confidence where Lando is clearly lacking. “We’ve got your back, mate. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just stay put, and we’ll sort the rest.”

Lando exhales audibly, like he’s trying to let go of some of the fear gripping him. “Okay.”

Mark straightens, sensing the conversation wrapping up. “Good. Now, give us the address, and sit tight.”

You’re quiet for a second, and then, after what sounds like a reluctant sigh, you rattle off your address. Mark scribbles it down, then repeats it to confirm.

“Got it,” he says. “Don’t move from that spot. Zak’s already on his way to pick you up.”

There’s an awkward shuffle, and then your voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Wait — Zak? As in, the CEO? Your boss is coming here personally?”

“Yes,” Mark replies, dead serious. “And I strongly suggest you both be ready when he arrives.”

Lando groans, and you laugh softly, though there’s an undercurrent of nerves in it. “Well, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” you mutter.

“Welcome to Formula 1,” Mark says dryly.

The call ends with a click, leaving Mark and the rest of the team in Austin scrambling to prepare. Meanwhile, back in New York, Lando leans back on your couch, his head in his hands, looking like a man who just agreed to something without fully understanding what.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “So … Zak Brown is coming to my apartment?”

“Apparently.” Lando drops his hands and gives you a helpless look. “God, I feel like I’m in so much trouble.”

You snort, half-amused, half-terrified for him. “Yeah, you probably are.”

Lando groans again, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “This is a disaster.”

You pat his knee in mock sympathy. “Better buckle up. Your life’s about to get a whole lot weirder.”

And with that, you both sit in the strange, buzzing silence — caught between the surreal chaos of what’s coming and the quiet, unexpected bond you’ve built in the middle of it.

***

It’s a little past noon when Zak Brown pulls up in a sleek black SUV outside your apartment building. You watch through the window as he steps out, all business — except for the concerned crease in his brow. Even from up here, you can tell he’s walking with purpose, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

Lando stands by the door, peeking through the curtains with you, looking nervous. “What if he hates me?” He mutters, running a hand through his unruly curls.

You glance at him, taken aback. “Why would he hate you?”

Lando shrugs, fidgeting. “I don’t know … maybe because I crashed a car, disappeared for three days, and now I can’t even remember who he is?”

You snort softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Well, when you put it like that …”

There’s a knock on the door. Lando jumps a little, and you exchange a glance before you open it.

Zak is standing there, a commanding presence filling the small hallway. His gaze flickers over you for a moment before locking onto Lando. Relief floods his face, and without a word, he strides forward, wrapping Lando in a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground.

“Thank God,” Zak mutters, voice gruff with emotion. “You had us scared half to death, kid.”

Lando stands there, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides, looking like he’s not sure what to do. Finally, he lifts one hand and pats Zak gingerly on the back, his eyes wide as he meets your amused gaze over Zak’s shoulder.

“Uh, hi?” Lando says, voice muffled against Zak’s chest.

Zak pulls back, his hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “You alright?” His tone is more businesslike now, eyes searching Lando’s face. “You look … fine, considering what we heard.”

Lando grimaces, glancing at you for backup. “I don’t really feel fine, to be honest. I can’t remember anything.”

Zak’s face tightens, but he quickly shifts his attention to you. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he says, his voice warmer now. “If you hadn’t been there … well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

You wave it off, feeling a little awkward under the weight of his gratitude. “It’s no big deal. Really. I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

Zak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure about that. You went above and beyond. We owe you.”

Lando fidgets next to you, his fingers tapping against his leg. “So … what now?”

Zak turns back to him, his expression softening. “Now, we get you back to Austin. You’ve got a race in a couple days, and we need to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Doctors, specialists … we’ll take care of you.”

Lando’s face falls, panic flitting across his features. He glances at you, then back at Zak. “Wait, what? You mean we’re leaving … now?”

Zak nods. “Yeah. We’ve got to get you back to the team as soon as possible.”

Lando looks back at you, his face pale. “But … I don’t want to go alone.”

Zak blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You won’t be alone. The whole team is there.”

Lando shakes his head, his voice tightening with anxiety. “No, I mean … I don’t know anyone. Except …” He trails off, looking at you again.

You meet his gaze, unsure of what he’s asking, and suddenly, you get it.

“No,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “I can’t — I have classes, and-”

“Can she come with us?” Lando blurts out, cutting you off.

Both you and Zak stare at him, equally surprised.

Zak is the first to recover, blinking as though trying to process the request. “You want her to come with us to Austin?”

Lando nods, his eyes pleading as he turns to you. “Please. I don’t-” He hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’re the only person I feel like I know right now.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words get stuck in your throat. You’ve spent the last couple of days trying to help this guy, thinking he’d recover and everything would go back to normal. But now, with him looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under you instead.

Zak looks at you expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

You stare at both of them, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. On one hand, this isn’t your problem. Lando has an entire team, an entire life waiting for him in Austin. He doesn’t need you tagging along. But on the other hand … the thought of leaving him now, when he’s so lost and vulnerable, feels wrong. You’ve been his lifeline — whether you wanted to be or not — and something inside you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he still needs you.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I guess I can watch my lectures online …”

Lando’s face lights up, and Zak claps his hands together. “That settles it, then,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Go pack a bag. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”

You stand there for a second, still processing the fact that you just agreed to go to Austin with a guy you barely know, who also happens to be an amnesiac F1 driver. This was not how you saw your week going.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Lando quietly, once Zak steps outside to make a phone call.

Lando nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but … I know I feel better when you’re around.”

Your heart stutters at that, a warmth spreading through your chest despite yourself. You nod and turn toward your bedroom, trying not to let him see how much that simple admission has affected you.

“Give me ten minutes,” you say over your shoulder.

Lando watches you disappear into your room, relief clear on his face. “Take your time.”

Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the door with a hastily packed duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Zak reappears, finishing a phone call, and gestures toward the SUV. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a plane waiting.”

The ride to the airport is mostly quiet, though Lando keeps glancing at you every few minutes, like he’s still making sure you’re real and actually there. You catch him doing it once, and he quickly looks away, pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt.

Zak notices too, but doesn’t say anything, just tapping away on his phone, presumably giving updates to the team in Austin.

When you finally board the private jet, it hits you all over again how surreal this entire situation is. The plush leather seats, the quiet hum of the engine, the fact that you’re flying across the country with a Formula 1 team because their driver has amnesia and apparently needs you to hold his hand through it all. It’s like something out of a weird dream.

Lando sits next to you, his knee bumping yours every so often as the plane takes off. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. You wonder what’s going through his head — how it must feel to have your entire life ripped away, every memory and experience erased, leaving you with nothing but confusion and panic.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when Zak leans over the seat, giving you both a small, tight smile. “We’ll be landing in Austin in a few hours. The team’s already been updated on the situation, so we’ll go straight to the hotel and get Lando checked by the doctors.”

Lando nods, but he still looks uneasy. You reach out and give his arm a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly.

He glances at you, his expression softening. “Thanks.”

Zak watches the two of you for a moment longer, then leans back, leaving you in a strange, charged silence as the plane continues its journey toward the unknown.

***

The jet lands with a smooth touch on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, and Zak is already up and moving before the wheels fully stop.

“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says briskly, shooting a glance back at Lando and you. His voice leaves no room for hesitation.

Lando is sitting rigidly in his seat, his fingers anxiously tapping against the armrest. As soon as the cabin door opens and the humid Texas air floods in, Zak gestures for both of you to follow. Lando shoots you a nervous glance before suddenly reaching for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.

You raise your brows but don’t pull away. “Lando?”

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Please.”

The plea is quiet, almost childlike, and something about it tugs at your heart. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here. Let’s go.”

Zak, halfway down the steps of the jet, turns impatiently. “Come on, you two!”

Lando pulls you along, practically dragging you after him. His steps are uneven, like he can’t decide whether to sprint away from everything or freeze in place. By the time you reach the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, Lando’s breathing is shallow, his grip on your hand almost too tight. You climb into the backseat with him, his knee bouncing anxiously as the driver pulls out toward the city.

When you arrive at the Hilton in downtown Austin, Zak wastes no time, herding you both through the polished lobby and straight to a large conference room on the second floor. The door swings open to reveal what looks like a pop-up medical center.

There are exam tables, diagnostic equipment, and at least half a dozen physicians and specialists, all dressed in clinical whites and branded team gear. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of low conversations fills the space. Everyone is focused and efficient — like they’ve done this before, just not with a driver who can’t remember anything.

Lando stops dead in his tracks at the entrance, his hand still gripping yours. His eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy, like a deer in headlights.

Zak claps him on the shoulder. “Right, Lando. They’re just going to check you over, make sure everything is good before the race.”

Lando stares at him. “What race?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

Zak’s smile is tight, his patience visibly thinning. “The Grand Prix. On Sunday. We’ve got three days to get you ready.”

Lando takes a step back, bumping into you. “How … how am I supposed to race?” He stammers, his voice cracking. “I don’t even remember what racing is. How do you expect me to get in a car and drive it? What if I crash? What if I-”

He’s spiraling, and you can feel it. His breathing is coming faster now, his grip on your hand becoming painfully tight.

“Lando,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

But it’s like he can’t hear you. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts, his other hand gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, shaking his head over and over again. “I don’t even know how to be me. Everyone’s acting like I’m supposed to just jump back into my life, but I-” He cuts off, his throat tightening.

Zak opens his mouth, likely to say something firm and pragmatic, but before he can, the door swings open again, and someone strides in.

“Lando?”

A young man in casual team gear stands at the door, blinking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His brown hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a look of cautious relief in his eyes.

Lando stiffens beside you, his breath catching. He stares at the newcomer, recognition flickering in his eyes — not in the form of memory, but in the way his entire body seems to relax at the sight of him.

“Who-” Lando starts, his voice unsteady.

The young man steps forward, concern written all over his face. “It’s me. Oscar.”

Lando doesn’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if something instinctive clicks into place, he takes a step toward the other man.

“Oscar …” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.

Oscar closes the distance between them in two quick strides and pulls Lando into a tight, firm hug. And just like that, Lando melts into it. His whole body seems to deflate, the tension draining from his muscles as he leans into Oscar’s embrace.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Oscar mutters against his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “We were all freaking out. You had us worried sick.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, just clings to Oscar like a lifeline, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully relax since the accident, and it takes you by surprise how much it affects you.

Zak clears his throat, and Oscar finally pulls back, though he keeps a steadying hand on Lando’s shoulder.

Lando wipes at his eyes quickly, like he’s embarrassed to have broken down in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I … I don’t remember you. But you feel … familiar.”

Oscar gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”

Lando nods, biting his lip, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together.

Zak claps his hands. “Right, now that we’ve had our reunion, we need to get started. Oscar, you can stick around, but these guys need to run some tests.”

Oscar gives Lando’s shoulder one more squeeze before stepping aside to let the medical team take over. You start to follow, but Lando’s hand shoots out, grabbing yours again.

“Stay,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next couple of hours are a blur of activity. Lando sits through blood tests, brain scans, vision checks, and reflex tests, all the while clinging to your hand like a lifeline. Every now and then, Oscar cracks a joke or nudges Lando with his elbow, trying to make him smile. And somehow, it works. You can see the flickers of trust between them — something unspoken and unbreakable, even if Lando doesn’t remember it yet.

When the doctors finally wrap up, Zak reappears, looking satisfied with the reports. “You’re good to go, Lando. Rest up tonight. You have free practice tomorrow.”

Lando’s face pales again. “Practice? For the race?”

Zak nods. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be fine. It’ll come back to you once you’re in the car.”

Lando looks far from convinced, but Oscar slings an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time, mate. We’ll take it slow, alright?”

Lando exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

You give his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Lando’s world is slowly pulling him back in — whether he’s ready or not.

***

Friday arrives under the blinding Texas sun, and the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas is alive with the hum of activity. The smell of hot asphalt, rubber, and gasoline fills the air, and everything seems to move at hyperspeed — mechanics adjusting tires, engineers tapping furiously on laptops, and cameras catching every moment of the weekend’s unfolding drama.

In the McLaren garage, Lando stands rooted in place, wide-eyed and tense, staring at the papaya-colored car being prepped for free practice. His race suit feels suffocatingly tight, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run.

“Mate, you’ve got this. It’ll come back to you,” Oscar says from beside him, squeezing Lando’s shoulder.

Lando swallows hard, feeling the sweat bead on his brow beneath the weight of his helmet in his hands. He glances at the car and then at Zak, who gives him an encouraging nod. Everyone around him looks so calm — like this is all normal, like this is exactly where he belongs.

But the thing is, he doesn’t remember if this is where he belongs. His stomach churns with fear, twisting tighter with each glance at the sleek machine waiting for him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice is thin, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. “What if I mess up? What if I crash? What if-”

“Lando.”

He turns, eyes full of panic, and you step closer, careful to keep your voice steady. “Breathe. Just … take a second. You don’t have to think about the race right now. Just the practice. One lap at a time. One corner at a time.”

He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. “But what if I forget what to do? I still don’t even remember who I am.”

“You’re Lando Norris,” you say firmly. “And I know you’ve got this. Maybe your brain doesn’t remember, but your body does.”

Lando’s lip twitches, caught between a nervous laugh and a scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Hey.” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said it yourself yesterday — racing must mean something to you. Your body knows what to do. You just have to trust it.”

He stares at you for a moment, lips parting slightly like he wants to argue, but something in your expression makes him pause. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Just then, one of the mechanics gestures toward the car. “It’s ready, mate. Time to hop in.”

Lando’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his helmet under his arm. Zak gives him an encouraging clap on the back, and Oscar leans in close. “I’ll be right there with you during practice. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Lando nods, though his eyes are still clouded with uncertainty.

The mechanics pull back the steering wheel and lift it out of the cockpit, making room for him to slide in. Lando stares at the narrow seat, frozen for just a second too long, before your voice cuts through the haze of his fear.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Lando. Just be you.”

Something about those words seems to reach him. He sucks in a breath, gives you a tentative nod, and finally, slowly, lowers himself into the cockpit.

And just like that, something shifts.

The moment his body settles into the molded seat, his fingers finding the familiar feel of the wheel, it’s as if a switch is flipped inside him. His shoulders relax slightly, his hands seem to know exactly where to rest, and his feet instinctively press against the pedals like they belong there. He rolls his neck side to side, the movements fluid and natural — like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The mechanics lean in to fasten his harness and replace the wheel, and Lando doesn’t flinch, his attention shifting to the world through the narrow slit of his helmet. His hands tighten around the wheel, and without thinking, he taps one of the buttons to bring up a setting on the dash.

Zak notices the small motion and smiles. “There he is.”

Oscar leans down beside the cockpit and grins. “Told you, mate. It’s muscle memory. You’re already in the zone.”

Lando doesn’t reply, but you can see the faintest flicker of something like relief in his eyes. His breath evens out, and some of the tension in his posture melts away.

You step closer to the side of the car, giving him a thumbs-up. “See? Like riding a bike.”

He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching under the helmet. “Except a bike doesn’t go 300 kilometers an hour.”

“Details,” you say with a grin.

One of the engineers taps his headset. “Alright, Lando. Fire it up. We’ll do a systems check before you head out.”

Lando takes a deep breath, then hits the ignition button. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl, vibrating through the air and rattling the walls of the garage. You jump slightly at the sound, but Lando doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked straight ahead, his grip on the wheel steady.

It’s like watching a different person — the nervous, unsure Lando from earlier fading into the background as something sharper, more focused, takes its place.

The mechanics give a few final nods, signaling everything is good to go. The team radio crackles to life in Lando’s ear.

“Alright, Lando. Systems look good. Let’s roll out and get some laps in. We’ll ease into it.”

Lando’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel, a gesture that feels almost unconscious. He glances over at you one last time, his eyes peeking through the visor.

“You’ve got this,” you tell him, your voice steady and sure. “Just drive.”

For the first time since you met him, Lando’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there — a glimpse of the person buried beneath the fear and confusion.

“Thanks,” he murmurs through the helmet, his voice crackling over the radio.

You step back as the mechanics lower the car off its jacks. The tires touch the ground with a solid thunk, and the sound of the engine revving fills the garage.

“Let’s do this,” Lando says, more to himself than anyone else. And with that, the car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, out of the garage and into the sunlight of the pit lane.

You stand at the edge of the garage, watching as the papaya car disappears around the corner, the roar of the engine fading into the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, a strange mixture of pride and nerves settling in your stomach.

“He’ll be fine,” Zak says from beside you, watching the car with a knowing smile. “He always is.”

You exhale slowly, still gripping the edge of the garage wall. “I hope so.”

As Lando’s car speeds down the track for the first lap of free practice, a thought strikes you — he might not remember who he is right now, but in this moment, behind the wheel of that car, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And somehow, you know he’ll figure the rest out from there.

***

Saturday arrives with the buzz of excitement hanging thick in the air, the kind that only race weekends can bring. The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas, and the grandstands are packed, fans waving flags, faces painted with bright colors, and anticipation radiating from the crowd. The tension in the McLaren garage is almost palpable.

Lando sits in the cockpit of his car, visor down, hands relaxed but ready on the steering wheel as Q3 begins. The roar of engines fills the track as the remaining drivers fight for the top starting positions for the sprint race. It’s fast, intense, and unforgiving. There’s no room for hesitation here — only precision and instinct. And for the first time in days, Lando feels like himself again — or at least the closest version of it.

But there’s still a wall in his mind, blocking the memories of who he is beyond this moment, beyond the car. His hands know what to do. His feet know where to place pressure on the pedals. But his brain? It still feels like a stranger.

“Alright, Lando,” his engineer's voice crackles through the radio. “We’ve got time for two more flying laps. Let’s go get it, mate.”

“Copy that,” Lando replies, voice steady.

The tires squeal as he tears down the straight, the roar of the engine vibrating through every bone in his body. He weaves through the first sector like a painter brushing strokes across a canvas, flowing naturally from apex to apex. For those watching, Lando Norris looks like a man on fire — quick, precise, unrelenting. But inside his helmet, he’s still scrambling.

The team radios him updates as he pushes through his first timed lap, green and purple sectors lighting up on his dash. But something still feels off. There’s a pressure building in his chest, like an itch at the back of his mind that refuses to surface.

“Sector 2 looking great, Lando. Keep it together, and we’ve got a chance at pole.”

He doesn’t respond — can’t respond. The itch is growing stronger. A spark flares at the edges of his consciousness, like a door creaking open just a sliver. His grip tightens on the wheel as he flies through the penultimate corner.

And then, it happens.

The door in his mind swings open with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with memory after memory. It’s overwhelming — flashes of moments, feelings, names, faces. The accident. The ambulance. You.

He remembers everything.

“Holy fuck!” Lando’s voice bursts through the radio, excitement crackling through every word. “I-I remember everything!”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line before his engineer’s voice comes back, laced with disbelief. “Lando? You’re saying-”

“Yeah, yeah — everything!” Lando’s laugh is almost hysterical, pure joy and disbelief pouring out of him. “I know who I am. I know where I am. Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”

“Lando, that’s — well, fantastic, mate!” The engineer’s relief is obvious, but there’s no time to dwell. “Alright, focus. One more corner. Bring it home.”

And just like that, Lando snaps back into race mode. His hands feel lighter on the wheel, his body moves with an ease that’s almost poetic. He barrels down the final straight with precision, pushing the car to its limits.

The crowd erupts as he crosses the finish line.

“P1, Lando! P1!” His engineer shouts, barely able to contain his excitement. “You’ve put it on pole, mate!”

Lando lets out a whoop of joy, thumping the side of the steering wheel. “Let’s go!” He shouts, the exhilaration bubbling over. “Pole position, baby!”

The car rolls back into the pit lane, where the team is already waiting for him, cheering, clapping, and slapping the side of the car in celebration. Lando pulls himself out of the cockpit, yanking off his helmet and balaclava. His curls are a sweaty mess, his face flushed from the heat, but his grin is unstoppable.

He barely has a moment to catch his breath before you come rushing through the crowd toward him.

“You remembered?” You ask breathlessly, searching his face, your own eyes wide with disbelief and relief.

Lando laughs, nodding as he sweeps you into a hug without hesitation. “Yeah, I remembered!” He says, voice muffled into your hair. His arms are tight around you, grounding himself in the moment, as if letting go might make everything disappear again.

You let out a laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s amazing, Lando!”

When he finally pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression — a gratitude so deep it’s hard to put into words. He stares at you for a moment, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Lando says, his voice dropping into something more serious, more heartfelt. “I — thank you. For everything.”

You shake your head, trying to wave off his words, but he grabs your hand, holding it tightly between his. “No, seriously. I may have forgotten a lot over the past week, but I’ll never forget you. I mean it.”

His eyes are bright and sincere, and the weight of his words settles warmly between the two of you.

“Well,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess you’ll have to pay me back now, huh? I did cover your food and clothes.”

Lando throws his head back and laughs — a real, genuine laugh that feels like sunshine after a storm. “Deal. I owe you big time.”

He squeezes your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, the roar of the crowd still echoing around you. But in this moment, none of that matters.

All that matters is that Lando is back.

***

The McLaren motorhome is quieter than usual as the race weekend winds down. The buzz of victory and podium celebrations has shifted to a more subdued hum. Lando didn’t make the podium this time — P4 after a frustrating five-second penalty. You’re sitting on one of the couches in the corner, sipping a bottle of water while waiting for him to finish his media duties and post-race obligations.

The screen on the wall is playing highlights from the race, showing flashes of the battles on track, the post-race interviews, and the podium celebrations. You glance at it occasionally, but your mind is elsewhere. The last week has been a whirlwind — meeting Lando, the accident, taking him home, the amnesia, his memories flooding back during qualifying. And now, here you are in Austin, at a Formula 1 race, as if you somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.

When Lando finally walks in, his race suit unzipped down to his waist, hair still damp from sweat, he looks a mix of exhausted and relieved. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles — a real one, not the half-hearted, media-friendly smile you’d seen him wear earlier.

“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you. “Sorry that took forever.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug, returning the smile. “You’re the one who had to go talk to like fifty people after a penalty.”

Lando groans, leaning his head back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. I could’ve had a podium today.”

“You still did great,” you say sincerely. “Fourth is nothing to be disappointed about, especially with that penalty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Lando mumbles, but his eyes flicker with something else — like he’s wrestling with his thoughts. He looks away for a second, then glances back at you, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it again.

You watch him for a moment, the silence stretching between you, comfortable but also heavy with something unspoken. Finally, you break it with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess this is it, huh?”

Lando straightens slightly, turning to look at you, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you gesture vaguely, “this is where we part ways. You’ve got your life back, and I’ve got … a mountain of reading for law school waiting for me.” You force a small smile, trying to make it lighthearted, but there’s an awkwardness to it.

Lando’s face falls, just for a moment, but it’s enough to make your heart twist. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, I guess … I guess so.” He pauses, and when he looks back up, there’s something nervous in his eyes, something hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “But, uh … I’ve been thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“So, next weekend is the Mexican Grand Prix,” he says slowly, watching your reaction. “And I know you’ve got classes and everything, but …” He trails off, biting his lip, before blurting out, “I’d really love it if you could come.”

You blink, taken aback. “Mexico?”

“Yeah,” Lando says quickly, leaning forward, his hands gesturing as if he’s trying to convince you. “I mean, I’d cover all the travel expenses, of course. And I could get you a paddock pass again so you could hang out in the garage, watch the race from the best spot. It’d be fun.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, though you can already feel your resolve crumbling. “Hmm, I don’t know. I have a lot of lectures to catch up on …”

Lando’s face falls, and he looks genuinely disappointed, his expression bordering on sad. “Oh, right, yeah, of course,” he mumbles, his voice dropping. “I totally get it. You’ve got your school stuff, and I don’t want to-”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, laughing softly. “I’ll come.”

His eyes light up immediately. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” you confirm, smiling at his excitement. “I mean, I can watch the lecture recordings online, and it’s not like I get an invitation to a Grand Prix every day.”

Lando’s smile grows, wide and almost boyish in its happiness. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning back with a sigh of relief. “I swear, you’ll have the best time.”

“I’d better,” you tease. “You’re my tour guide, after all.”

Lando chuckles, his body visibly relaxing now that you’ve agreed. “Deal. I’ll make sure you get the full VIP treatment.” He glances at you, then adds with a smirk, “I might even throw in some lunch for good measure.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really going all out, huh?”

“For you?” Lando grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Of course.”

There’s a brief pause, the playful banter falling into a comfortable silence again, but this time it’s lighter, easier. Lando looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m really glad you’re coming, though. It’s been a crazy week, and … I don’t know, it just feels better having you around.”

You glance down, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty wild week,” you agree quietly.

Lando shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. “You’ve kind of become my good luck charm, you know.”

You snort. “Good luck? You didn’t even get a podium today.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “Alright, alright, but still … I feel like everything’s better when you’re there.”

His voice drops slightly, and you look up, meeting his eyes. There’s a sincerity in his gaze, something deeper than just the playful banter that’s been passing between you. It catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond.

But then Lando breaks the tension with a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, what do you say? Ready for another adventure?”

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into these things.”

Lando smirks, standing up and offering his hand to you. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out of the motorhome together. “Oh, you totally would.”

***

The Mexican Grand Prix is nothing short of electric. The grandstands of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez are packed with thousands of fans, waving flags, blowing horns, and chanting in unison. The energy in the paddock is unlike anything you’ve seen before, and you can feel it thrumming through your skin as you stand in the McLaren garage, nerves and excitement buzzing through you like static electricity.

Lando had qualified well, putting his car on the front row. And now, after nearly two hours of wheel-to-wheel racing, pit stops, and heart-pounding battles, the chequered flag waves, and Lando wins.

He wins.

The entire team explodes into chaos. Engineers jump from their monitors, hugging each other, cheering, and throwing their hands into the air. Zak claps so hard it sounds like thunder, while others shout and bang on the pit wall. In the garage, you scream, your voice lost in the roar of celebrations, barely able to believe what you’ve just witnessed.

“He did it!” One of the engineers shouts, wrapping you in a quick hug, making you laugh from the sheer joy of it all. The victory feels contagious, like every person in McLaren colors has won alongside Lando.

In parc fermé, the top three cars pull into their designated spots, their engines cooling with a metallic hiss. Lando’s McLaren rolls to a stop in P1, the bright papaya-colored car shimmering under the Mexican sun. As soon as the mechanics signal it’s safe, Lando jumps out, punching the air with both fists, his face stretched into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.

He rips off his helmet and balaclava, his messy curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can see the pure, unfiltered elation on his face — he’s won before, but this one feels special. Hard-fought. Hard-earned.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando catches sight of you standing at the edge of the fenced-off area, just outside the celebrating team members. His eyes light up, his grin somehow growing even bigger. And then-

He’s moving toward you.

The crowd, the cameras, the team — all of it fades into the background as Lando beelines straight to you, like you’re the only person in the world he wants to share this moment with. He doesn’t think twice. His arms wrap around you, and before you can say a word, he kisses you.

It’s quick but intense — an explosion of happiness, adrenaline, and pure relief all at once. His lips crash against yours, and for a second, everything stops.

You freeze, wide-eyed, as your brain catches up to what’s happening. Lando Norris — Formula 1 driver who just won the Mexican Grand Prix — is kissing you.

And just as fast as it happened, it’s over.

Lando pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with realization, looking as if he’s just broken every unwritten rule. His face flushes as if he’s mortified, and he stammers, “Oh — oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t — I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I-“

You blink, still stunned, and then — laughter bubbles out of you, light and genuine. You can’t stop it.

“You idiot,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head.

Lando’s face is somewhere between sheepish and panicked, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to apologize. But before he can get another word out, you grab the front of his race suit, pull him back toward you, and kiss him again — this time with purpose.

His hands find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. This kiss is slower, softer, but filled with the same electric energy. Around you, the world erupts — the cameras are flashing, the team is cheering, and the crowd in the stands is losing its mind — but none of it matters.

It’s just you and Lando.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, Lando stares at you like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?” He asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You just won the race, Lando. I think you’re allowed a free pass.”

He leans his forehead against yours, still smiling, his breath coming in short bursts from the exertion of the race and the adrenaline coursing through him. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”

“You’re biased,” you tease, but your heart feels light, like it’s floating somewhere above the grandstands.

“I mean it,” Lando murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your waist. “And it’s only the beginning.”

Before you can respond, Zak’s booming voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, lovebirds! Save it for later — we’ve got a podium to attend!”

You both pull apart, faces flushed but smiling. Lando gives you one last look, a mixture of joy, disbelief, and something else — something you can’t quite put your finger on yet. Then, with a wink, he jogs off to be weighed, leaving you standing there, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

And, as you watch him climb onto the top step of the podium, spraying champagne over everyone, you realize that the whirlwind you’ve been caught in with Lando Norris isn’t slowing down anytime soon. And honestly? You’re okay with that.

keep studying - ln4 (18+)

ꨄ lando norris x fem!reader

summary. not even studying can keep lando norris’ hands off of his girlfriend

warnings: swearing, porn w small plot, oral (fem), fingering, breast play, slight choking, praising. i’ve taken one singular anatomy class in my entire life and i didn’t even learn much so the information is all over the place hahhah

smut

word count: 1.9k

a/n: im sooo excited to go to the race on sundayyyy 😁

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y/n huffs as her eyes scan over the details in her anatomy textbook, attempting to engrave the medical wording into her brain.

with an anatomy and physiology exam coming up, the woman had been non-stop studying in hopes of acing the test. a fear of failure meant that studying would be clouding her mind until minutes before needing to take the exam. however, it also meant neglecting her boyfriend from the usual attention she gave him and the intimate parts of their relationship.

much to lando’s despair, the way that she was showing him attention was by teaching him the structure and function of the body (how exciting!). y/n claiming that if she could repeat the material she studied, she had officially learned it.

at this point, lando could become an anatomist himself with how many new things his girlfriend had taught him the past few weeks.

now, it’s three days before the test, the studying is nowhere near finishing on y/n’s end. on the other hand, lando had been missing his girlfriend’s presence and wanted, no, needed some sort of attention.

he wasn’t trying to be a jerk, he knew how important this exam was for y/n, but he also knew the sudden stress wasn’t good for her and he was (and is sure that y/n is too), tired of hearing all of the fascinating ways the human body works.

the couple sat at y/n’s desk, open biology books laid out in front of them along with wrappers from all kinds of different snacks, empty water bottles and crumpled up notebook paper.

really, y/n had lando sitting next to her for moral support, genuinely thinking that she’d go crazy if she didn’t have him next to her to keep her sane.

she can’t lie, he did serve a good purpose by writing down important bullet points on sticky notes when she asked him to, and highlighting key sentences in different pages. with a pink highlighter of course, her favorite color.

y/n’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she reads the page going over the hundreds of bones found in the human body, not quite confident that she could remember and name the different parts of each one.

“i’m going to fail this stupid thing.” y/n sighs as she harshly places down a pen and rests her head on the wooden desktop.

“hey, hey, don’t say that, baby.” lando begins rubbing her back soothingly, squeezing her shoulders slightly to relieve the built up tension there. “you’ve been doing so good, you’ve managed to teach me so many things that you stored in that pretty brain of yours.”

she lifts herself from the desk and lays back against the backrest of the chair. “you’re too nice to me, lan.” she smiles, looking at him with heavy eyes. “but the things that i’ve told you is probably only one third of the material that is going to be on the exam.”

“i just want to relax already but i can’t because i have to keep studying!” she throws back her head, a groan escaping her mouth as she begins rubbing her eyes, attempting to make the tiredness in them go away.

she feels lando’s mouth tracing kisses along her jawline, painting her skin with tender lips.

y/n hums softly before snapping back into responsible student mode, “no, lan, we can’t, i have to keep doing this stuff.” she gestures to the open book.

“you keep studying, baby, don’t mind me.” his voice is raspy as his lips begin placing open-mouthed kisses going farther and farther down.

“fuck, i can’t, won’t be able to focus.” she whispers as lando places his right hand on the side of her neck.

lando ignores her words. as he kisses along her exposed cleavage, he fully wraps his hand around her throat. “what arteries are right here, baby?” he gently squeezes.

y/n is quick to catch onto his little game and decides to play along, for pleasure and a good study method. “the c-carotid arteries.” she says breathlessly after feeling the squeeze, she was sure that the ring on his finger left an imprint.

“what’s this here?” he moves up again, placing kisses on the base of her throat.

“trachea.” y/n grips onto the desk, amazed at the effect lando has on her.

“what’s the purpose of the trachea, hm?” he softly bites the skin of her neck before soothing the sting with his tongue.

“allows air in and out of the lungs!” she gasps as lando grips onto her breast, not even feeling when his hand went under her shirt.

the thin tank top is quickly pulled off of her and fortunately for lando, she wasn’t wearing a bra so it wouldn’t be another piece of clothing in the way.

his lips are instantly all over her boobs, licking and sucking, leaving love bites wherever his mouth touched. he had always claimed he was an ass guy, but moments like this made y/n doubt his words.

“i forgot what this was called, remind me?” his tongue circles the area of skin surrounding her nipple.

y/n moans quietly, her grip tight on lando’s head to keep him where he is. “areola.”

“what were the name of the glands and their function?” he begins pecks the underside of her boob.

“montgomery’s glands, they secrete an oil to protect the skin.” she hisses as lando bites down on her nipple.

“look at you, my smart girl,” lando gets off of his chair, now on his knees in front of her. he begins peppering kisses down her stomach. “your professors are so lucky to have someone so intelligent in their class.” he praises, kissing her hip bone and hooking his fingers on the waistband of her shorts.

y/n lifts herself up slightly, helping lando to remove her shorts. he scatters kisses on her left calf and the side of her knee, taking an excruciatingly long time to reach where y/n needs him most.

he runs his hands along the back of her legs, “what’s here?” he questions as he nips at the flesh of her inner thighs.

“achilles t-tendon.” y/n breathes out, digging her fingernails into her palms in anticipation, craving lando’s mouth on her.

“what is that?” lando licks at her clothed pussy, earning a sharp gasp from y/n.

“fuck,” y/n holds onto lando’s hair as he continues kitten licking.

then he abruptly stops, y/n whines in dismay. “keep going, please lan!” y/n shuffles forward in her seat, trying to give lando the hint.

“answer the question.” he says sternly, resting his chin on y/n’s knee and staring up at her intensely.

“it’s a tissue that connects the calf muscles to the calcaneus.” she says hurriedly.

“atta girl, wasn’t so hard was it?” her panties are pushed to the side as he begins pressing kisses all over her cunt, paying the most attention to her clit.

y/n moans loudly, squeezing the pencil that she was holding in her right hand while the other held onto lando’s curls.

soon, her panties were pulled down and her legs were thrown over lando’s shoulders. he carries on with the soft kisses, not quite giving y/n what she wants yet.

“please, lan, need it so bad.” she whimpers, heels digging into lando’s back.

“one last question, baby,” he informs, causing her to let out a small noise of annoyance. “the hypoglossal nerve is responsible for the movement of what muscular organ?”

“t-the…” her voice gets lost in her throat as lando runs a singular finger through her folds, mouth kissing the flesh of her inner thighs.

“what was that, baby?” lando taunts as his tongue circles her clit ever so slowly.

“the tongue!” y/n panted, desperate to feel the familiar pleasure that lando always gives her.

“good girl.” lando says before plunging his tongue into her soaked hole, fingers quick on her clit.

y/n lurched forward from the sudden action, causing lando’s mouth to press harder into her seeping cunt, the woman nearly choking on her own saliva.

her moans are loud as they exit her mouth, a tight hold onto the sides of the chair.

“poor baby,” lando mumbled as he continued with his assault. “so stressed because of an exam, she just needed something to relieve her worries, is that right?”

y/n nodded quickly, “yes, fuck, you’re incredible.” she exclaimed.

lando replaces his tongue with a finger, inserting the digit inside her hole, mouth sucking on her clit. “more.” y/n pleaded, causing lando to add a second finger, a third right after.

lando ate her out like a starved man, you can’t blame him, nearly two weeks of no sex and no tasting his gorgeous girlfriend damn near had him going insane.

his spit and y/n’s arousal dripped onto the cushion of the chair, but neither seemed to mind at the moment, too lost in pleasure.

“lando, fuck, you’re so good at this!” y/n exclaimed breathlessly which encouraged lando to suck her clit even harder, his fingers curling at the perfect angle to hit her g-spot.

her nails dig into his bicep resting on her knee, emitting a groan from lando and with the vibrations, y/n was sure she was seeing stars.

“c’mon baby, use me to relieve yourself.” lando coaxed as he halts his moving fingers.

y/n grumbled, hating to do the work herself, before she grinds down on lando’s thick fingers, pushing herself closer to his tongue.

it only took a few minutes before louder moans began to pour out of y/n’s mouth, something that lando knew indicated that she was coming.

he takes charge again, pumping his three fingers in and out while his tongue drew figure eights on her clit.

“lan, i’m gonna come!” y/n outcries, eyes shut from the pleasurable sensation.

“that’s it, come for me, gorgeous.” lando entices and with one last suck, y/n is coming on his fingers and his face, moaning loudly as she does.

lando helps the heavy-breathing y/n ride out her orgasm, murmuring sweet praising words whilst kissing her thighs and hips.

“how are you so good at that?” y/n asks breathlessly as she places a hand on lando’s curls, refraining him from knocking his head against the desk once he begins to stand up.

“i haven’t had you in weeks, never do that to me again, woman!” lando cried out. “but also, i’m a god.” he shrugs his shoulders smugly before taking off the shirt he was wearing, handing it to y/n so she could put it on.

y/n rolls her eyes playfully, “okay, calm down now, you’re not all that.” she jokes as she slips the shirt over her head.

“excuse me, ma’am! you were not saying that when i was eating you out-”

“okay! i’m gonna go hop in the shower!” y/n abruptly exclaims, cutting his words off, causing him to laugh loudly.

“can i join you?” lando raises a suggestive eyebrow.

“if you can make me come like that again.” y/n reflects his expression.

“deal.” lando leans down and scoops her up over his shoulder, walking pridefully towards the bathroom, y/n’s loud giggles rumbling against his body.

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fin.

remember this is purely fiction! i don’t know what any of these people are truly like in real life!

©sjkbri

don’t copy or translate my work on any other platform

Hey author,

Loved your work! I have a request for a Max Verstappen fiction. Here's the idea:

Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

The Reader is a badass, known for her fiery press conferences and domination on the court, much like how Max is in racing. Despite being a power couple in front of the world, they are very vulnerable and weak for each other. They know the struggles both have been through—she understands the impact Max's childhood and his father, Jos, have had on him, and he knows the challenges she faces, including attacks and pressures from the media.

They are incredibly supportive of each other. Max attends all her Grand Slam matches, and she visits his races. They are deeply in love and very open with each other, understanding each other's feelings and experiences.

That's the type of story I have in mind. I hope you like it!

Best regards,

Anon.

Power Couple

Summary: Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

Song: Slow Down · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: I hardly had any ideas for this one but I tried my best! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

It's messy, chaotic, and punctuated by the sharp thwack of a tennis ball and the roar of a finely tuned engine. It’s the story of you and Max, a whirlwind that started when you were both just fifteen, a story that’s still unfolding in the dazzling glare of the spotlight.

You were fifteen and a force of nature on the tennis court, even back then. Your name was already whispered with respect in junior circuits. You carried a racquet like an extension of your arm, and your focus was so intense it was almost palpable.

That summer, your training brought you to a small, dusty tennis club nestled in the Dutch countryside, a far cry from the manicured lawns of Wimbledon, but the perfect place to hone your craft.

He was there too. Not on the court, but lurking near the chain-link fence, a lanky boy with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a mop of unruly brown hair perpetually falling into his face. You'd noticed him, of course.

How could you not? He was the only teenager there whose attention wasn't glued to the endless practice sessions. Instead, he seemed more interested in the growl of the beat-up scooter he’d arrived on.

One day, during a water break, you were staring down at the worn-out grip on your Wilson when he spoke.

"That's a good shot," he said, his voice still cracking with that awkward teen timbre.

You looked up, surprised, and saw him leaning against the fence, an almost shy smile playing on his lips. "You mean the forehand?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you hadn't quite shaken off.

He shrugged, his eyes dancing with something you couldn't quite place. "I don't know. All of them, I guess? You look like you're trying to kill the ball."

A chuckle escaped you. "It's called intensity."

"Yeah, well, I like it." He pushed off the fence and walked a little closer. "I'm Max."

"You know, I've noticed," you teased, a smirk spreading across your face. "Always lurking by the gate."

His grin widened, making him look younger and somehow much more approachable. "Lurking? I prefer… observing." He paused, then gestured towards your racket. “Do you think you could teach me to hit like that?”

And just like that, a friendship was born, as naturally as the changing of seasons. You didn't actually teach him to play tennis, you decided, though, that he was far more enthralled with the intricate mechanics of his racing kart, and you found yourself drawn to the way his eyes lit up whenever he spoke about the feeling of speed and control.

You spent the rest of your summer evenings not on the court, but tinkering with his kart in his garage, or racing against each other on the empty country roads, the roar of engines a stark contrast to the quiet thud of tennis balls you were used to.

You taught him a little about the precision and discipline you carried from your sport while he showed you how to embrace a more reckless, unbridled kind of passion.

As the weeks passed, those shared moments morphed into something deeper. One warm evening, after a long day at the track, you found yourselves lying on the grass, looking up at the stars.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and charged, until he turned his head, and his hand brushed against yours.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "I can't imagine not having you here. You're… unlike anyone I've ever met."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You had thought the same thing, again and again. "You're kinda different yourself, Verstappen," you whispered, your gaze fixed on his face.

He picked up your hand, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked, his stormy blue eyes searching yours.

You didn’t hesitate. You tilted your head slightly, and that soft, hesitant kiss was the start of something bigger than either of you could have imagined.

The next few years were a blur of teenage milestones, shared victories, and the quiet comfort of understanding each other. You traveled the world, following your dreams. You were winning Grand Slams.

You mastered the art of the backhand and the perfect serve, while he climbed the ranks in the world of Formula 1, learning the intricacies of high-speed racing and the relentless demands of the professional circuit.

You learned to navigate the complexities of a long-distance relationship, the bittersweet ache of goodbyes followed by the heady joy of reunions.

You’d meet in far-flung corners of the world, a stolen weekend in Monaco, a quick coffee in London, sharing late-night calls across different time zones, finding solace in each other’s voices.

You learned to listen, not just with your ears, but with your heart, understanding the unspoken language of ambition and dedication, of relentless pursuit, from someone who truly understood what was involved.

He was there in the stands when you clinched your first Wimbledon title, his applause echoing louder than the roar of the crowd, his pride radiating across the stadium.

You, in turn, were glued to the screen, every race day a nail-biting affair as you chanted his name like a magic spell. You celebrated his wins with unabashed joy, commiserated over his losses with a fierce loyalty that only a childhood best friend, a lover, could offer.

Your life now is a whirlwind of press conferences, sponsor obligations, and the unwavering pressure to stay at the top.

You glide across the court, a graceful yet powerful force, your focus sharp and unflinching, yet when you catch a glimpse of Max in the crowd, you allow yourself a secret smile, a silent reminder of your shared history, of the kid he was all those years ago. He is a reminder of that simpler time.

There are moments, like now, after another grueling day on the court, when you close your eyes and let the roar of the crowd fade away, replaced by the rumble of his scooter and the memory of his first shy smile.

You might be number one in the world of tennis, a name whispered in awe, but you know, the best title you've ever earned is his girlfriend. And that, you think, is the greatest prize of all.

And, as you’re getting ready for the next press conference, you're thinking of the next time you see him. The thought has you smiling again. . . .

The roar of the crowd is a familiar symphony, a constant hum beneath your focused breath. You adjust the headband, the familiar terry cloth a comfort against the glare of the stadium lights. Wimbledon’s Centre Court is your kingdom, the lush green grass your canvas.

You’re leading 5-3 in the third set against Elena Rybakina, a formidable opponent, your every move calculated, precise. A serve, a blur of motion – ace. The roar erupts, a wave of sound that threatens to lift you off your feet.

You know you've got this, the title within your grasp. You’ve worked for this, bled for this, every single grueling practice session, every sacrifice, all culminate in this moment.

You win the game, the match, and the crowd goes wild. The air crackles with energy, the taste of victory sweet on your tongue. You shake hands with Rybakina, a brief, respectful acknowledgment of the battle fought, then raise your arms in a triumphant arc.

Another Wimbledon title under your belt. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the familiar mix of elation and exhaustion. It’s a high like no other, but underneath that surge of victory there's another feeling, a quiet hum of anticipation.

You know who’s waiting for you.

The post-match media scrum is a blur - flashes, questions, microphone in your face. You handle it all with your usual icy grace, your well-honed responses a shield against the endless prodding.

You’re used to it; it comes with the territory of being the best. But you’re itching to escape its glare. You see your agent, Sarah, giving you a quick nod, and you know it's your cue. A few more polite words, another practiced smile, and then you're slipping away, finally free of the spotlight.

You find him in the players' lounge, perched on a sofa, his eyes tracking yours as you walk in. Max. He stands as you approach, a smile playing on his lips that makes your heart do that familiar little flip.

The harsh lines that often harden his face are softened when he looks at you. He gathers you into his arms, his embrace both fierce and gentle.

"You were incredible," he whispers against your hair, his voice roughened with emotion. "An absolute beast out there."

"Thanks, you," you murmur, breathing in his scent, the familiar comfort of it grounding you after the storm of the match. You pull back slightly, your gaze catching his. “Did you watch the whole thing? Even with your schedule?”

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. You were destroying her. Honestly, you're the most dangerous person I know." You laugh at that, a genuine laugh that’s rare these days, a laugh that only he can draw out of you.

Later, back at the house in Monaco, you sit side-by-side on the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea shimmering under the moonlight. He holds your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your knuckles.

In this serene space, the world outside fades away. The tension that always seems to cling to you both loosens, the relentless pressure of your careers receding into the background.

"You know," Max begins, his voice quiet, "sometimes I still can't believe it. You, the best there is. Not just in the world, but the best there could ever be.”

You turn to him, your eyes searching his. "And you?" you ask him, “World Champion twice? Sometimes I can't believe you’re not some superhuman entity.”

He squeezes your hand, his gaze unwavering. "We both push ourselves to the edge, and beyond," he says. "It's what makes us who we are, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," you agree, leaning your head against his shoulder. "But it's also why we need each other." The silence that follows is comfortable, a space filled with shared understanding, a knowing that transcends words.

The days that follow are a brief reprieve, stolen moments away from the relentless cycle of competition. You spend them walking along the coast, laughing, rediscovering the simplicity of just being together.

But the respite is always fleeting, the demands of your respective careers always looming on the horizon. You’re due to fly out for a tournament in Washington D.C. in a week, and Max is scheduled for a race in Hungary two weeks after that.

The night before you leave, the atmosphere is thick with a quiet anticipation. You’re curled up on the sofa, your favourite movie playing softly on the TV, but neither of you is paying much attention.

Max pulls you closer, his hand slipping beneath your t-shirt, tracing the curve of your back. His skin is always warm against yours, a familiar comfort.

"I wish you didn't have to go," he murmurs, his voice husky. "I hate being away from you."

You turn to face him, your fingers cupping his cheek. "I wish I didn't either, but we know how this goes. We’re just two very busy, very overachieving maniacs.”

He smiles, a flash of his boyish charm. "Yeah, but that's why I love you. You’re as insane as I am." He leans in, his lips finding yours, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist.

The morning you leave, the goodbyes are short, a quick kiss on the lips and a promise to call every day. You watch his car disappear down the driveway, a small ache settling in your chest.

It's the same ache you feel every time you part ways, a reminder of your connection, a reminder of what you have to come back to.

The tournament in D.C. is a brutal battle. You're seeded first, as always, and the pressure is immense. You win the first few rounds with your usual dominance, but then come up against a rising star, a young American player who pushes you to your absolute limit.

The match goes to five sets, each point a war of attrition. You’re exhausted by the end, but you win, the taste of victory bittersweet.

That night, you’re in the hotel room, the city lights twinkling outside your window. You’re on a call with Max, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

He’s telling you about his practice sessions, the improvements he’s made to his car, and you’re listening intently, your mind drifting away from the exhaustion and the pressure.

“You were so close out there,” he says suddenly, “your match was insane, I was so nervous.”

“You always are,” you giggle, picturing his intense face watching your match on the TV. “Just like how I feel every race you’re in.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, the hum of the call a gentle lull. “I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice soft, “you always make me so proud.”

“And I you,” you murmur, a lump forming in your throat.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you feel like you're home again, all the way across the world.

“Love you too, always.”

You fall asleep with his voice still ringing in your ears. The next morning, you wake up to a phone call you weren't expecting. It’s Sarah, your agent, and her voice is strained.

"There's been an accident," she says, her voice barely a whisper, "Max... he was in a crash during practice."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. The room spins, the world blurring at the edges. Your breath catches in your chest, a cold dread gripping your heart.

"How bad?" you manage to ask, your voice shaking.

"We don't know yet," she says, the uncertainty in her voice doing little to assuage the terror that’s now flooding you. "You need to come home, now."

The next few hours are a chaotic blur. You’re on autopilot, racing through airports and boarding planes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You barely register the faces around you, the sounds of the world muted, as if you're underwater.

All you can think of is Max, his face, his smile, his voice. The thought of losing him is unbearable.

You arrive in Monaco in the dead of night. The house feels cold and empty, the silence deafening. You make your way to the hospital, your every step heavy, the weight of your fear pressing down on you.

You find him in a small, sterile room, his body connected to monitors. He’s pale and still, his face almost hidden by the shadows. You feel like you’ve been ripped open, the pain so sharp it steals your breath.

You rush to his side, your fingers reaching for his hand. His skin is cold, but his grip tightens around yours, a small, reassuring squeeze.

His eyes flutter open, and he looks at you, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. "You’re here," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Max,” you breathe, a sob catching in your throat. Tears are streaming down your face as you gently cup his face. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He smiles weakly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “I knew you would be,” he murmurs, his eyes closing again, “always, even when I’m an idiot driving a race car.”

You don’t say anything, you just sit beside him, holding his hand, and watching him breathe, a silent promise passing between you, a bond forged in childhood, strengthened by shared triumphs and endured through deep pain - a love that would always, always persevere. . . .

The scent of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel clings to him even before the door shuts. You hear the familiar click of the lock, and then the heavier thud of his boots hitting the tiles of the hallway.

You’re sprawled on the couch, a worn-out copy of “Open” by Andre Agassi resting on your chest. Jimmy, the ginger behemoth, is purring like a motorboat on your left thigh, while Sassy, the sleek black panther, is curled into a perfect ebony question mark at your feet.

They’ve been your constant companions during the lull before your next tournament.

“Hey,” Max’s voice is low, tired, but a ripple of warmth underlies it. You open your eyes, the intense afternoon sun filtering in through the tall living room windows making the world outside a blur of gold and green.

You push Agassi off your chest, feeling the book’s weight leave a slight indent.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, the Red Bull logo on his polo a vibrant dash of color against the muted tones of the room.

He looks drained, the lines around his eyes slightly more pronounced than you remember from the last time he was home. You know those lines; they’re etched by the relentless pressure of Formula 1, the constant travel, the unending pursuit of milliseconds.

He kneels beside the couch, reaching out a hand to scratch behind Jimmy's ears. The cat pushes his head into Max’s palm, a rumbling purr vibrating through his frame.

“They’ve missed you,” you murmur, running a hand down Sassy’s velvety back.

Max glances up at you, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused, are a little softer now, a touch vulnerable and definitely possessive. “Not as much as I missed you,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on your face.

You feel the familiar warmth spread through your chest. It's crazy how after all these years, the simple act of him looking at you like that can still make your heart do somersaults.

He settles onto the couch, his long legs stretching out and nearly touching your feet. He pulls you into his side, and you nestle in, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting lullaby.

The tension in his body is palpable. “Bad race?” you ask softly, tracing small circles on his arm with your fingertip.

He sighs, a gust of air escaping his lips. “Third,” he replies, the single word carrying a weight that you understand completely. “Just… not good enough, you know?”

You nod, because you do know. You've had your share of crushing defeats, the sting of a missed shot, the frustration of an opponent playing out of their skin. You’ve both built entire empires on a foundation of ambition, a constant striving for perfection, despite the inherent impossibility of it.

You know how those ‘not good enough’ days can feel.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” you say, your head resting against his shoulder. There’s no need for platitudes or empty reassurances. He knows that you know.

A wry smile touches his lips. “Easy for you to say. You’re basically untouchable on the court right now.”

You chuckle, a low, confident sound that ripples through his frame. “Untouchable? Please. I just know how to make my opponents sweat a little.”

You raise your eyebrows, a mischievous glint in your eyes. He is so well aware of the press conferences where you don't mince your words.

He lets out a genuine laugh then, the sound is music to your ears. It’s raw and real. “That's the understatement of the century,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The way you went off on that reporter after your French Open semi-final was legendary."

You roll your eyes dramatically, though you can't suppress the grin that spreads across your face. “He asked if I was scared of my opponent. Scared. As if. I’d rather face a thousand of those volleys than go through another interview like that.”

He pulls you closer, his arm tightening around you. "You're fierce," he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. "On and off the court. It's... it's one of the things I love about you.”

“And you’re terrifying behind the wheel,” you tease, knowing that a lot of his race opponents are afraid of him on the track.

He chuckles again, a low rumble against your ear. “And you love that too,” he says, the teasing note in his voice back.

You don’t bother denying it. He knows you too well. You know him too well. You’ve built something that is so incredibly strong because it was always built together. You’ve seen each other through the highs and lows, the wins and losses, the triumphs and the heartbreaks.

You’ve navigated the pressures of fame, the relentless scrutiny, the isolating nature of being at the top – together. You were just kids when it started, two teenagers with big dreams and even bigger personalities.

You fell in love navigating the ups and downs of life, and you grew up together, which made things that much stronger.

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the unspoken language that only two people who have known each other for so long can share. You can feel the tension slowly leaving him, as if your presence is a balm to his weary soul.

“Tournament soon?” he asks, his voice muffled against your hair.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Dubai. In a week.” You know the time change between Dubai and Europe will be brutal, but you’ve become accustomed to that aspect of your career.

He lifts his head and looks at you, his gaze intense. “You’ll crush them,” he says with absolute certainty.

You smile, the confidence in his voice a tangible thing. “Just like you’re going to leave them all in the dust next race, huh?”

He grins, that familiar flash of competitive fire returning to his eyes. “You know it.”

You trace the line of his jaw, your fingers lingering on the slight stubble. You could spend hours like this, just the two of you, wrapped up in each other’s presence, the noise of the world fading away.

There’s a vulnerability in him that only you get to see, a softness that he hides from the cameras, the reporters, the rivals. And in return, he gets to see a side of you that very few have been privy to, the quiet tenderness that lies beneath the fiery exterior.

“Want to order some takeaway?” you ask, the thought of cooking suddenly feeling like a monumental task.

“Pizza?” he suggests, his eyes already sparkling with the thought.

“Only if it has pineapple,” you tease, knowing that it is the most controversial thing you could possibly say.

Max groans, throwing his head back against the couch. “You are absolutely going to be the death of me,” he says, but the smile on his face belies his words.

You laugh, the sound light and free. You lean in, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s the taste of home, a place where you are both just Max and you, where the pressures of the world are just whispers in the distance.

You know that outside this space, you are both world-class athletes with unwavering determination, but in each other’s arms, you are just two people who grew up together. Who fell in love.

Who, despite the relentless demands of your careers, will always find their way back to each other. You are, after all, each other’s constant. You are, and will always be, each other’s home.

The roar of the engine was a familiar lullaby, a sound that had been a constant soundtrack to your life since you were kids, perched on the sidelines of karting tracks, watching Max whiz by in a blur of red and orange.

Now, instead of a flimsy kart, you were strapped into a beast of a car, the smell of hot rubber and high-octane fuel filling your nostrils. You glanced at the familiar, focused profile of Max beside you, the set of his jaw a testament to his concentration.

This was supposed to be a fun exercise, a publicity stunt dreamed up by Red Bull’s marketing department – the world’s number one tennis player, and the reigning Formula One Champion, taking a joyride. Except, this wasn’t a joyride.

This was a terror ride, and you were pretty sure your heart was currently trying to stage a coup and escape from your chest.

“Max,” you started, your voice a little too high pitched, a far cry from the confident, booming voice that usually echoed through stadium press boxes. “You know I’m used to your speed, right? On the track, where it's meant to be, not on some random circuit at 300 km/h.”

He didn’t answer, just a subtle twitch of his lips hinting at a suppressed grin. You gripped the grab handle on your side of the car so hard your knuckles turned white.

It was no secret that Max, much like you on the tennis court, thrived on pushing boundaries. He was a master of controlled chaos on the track, and right now, you weren’t so sure about the "controlled" part.

The car accelerated, forcing you back into your seat. You let out a yell, a mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through you.

You were used to controlling your own trajectory, predicting your opponent’s next move, the satisfying thump of a perfectly placed serve. This, this was utterly out of your hands, at the mercy of Max’s foot on the accelerator pedal.

“Max! Verdomme! Slow down!” You bellowed, resorting to Dutch as your carefully constructed composure shattered into a million pieces. You could feel the g-force pressing against you, throwing your head against the headrest as he took a corner at an impossible speed.

You braced yourself, bracing your hands against the dashboard, trying to find something solid to cling to.

You could hear him chuckling, the sound muffled but distinct. You could practically see the mischievous glint in his eyes, even though you were looking straight at the dashboard.

“What, is the little tennis star scared?” He teased, his voice laced with amusement.

He downshifted, the revs of the engine screaming higher, and you swore you felt your stomach try to migrate up into your throat.

“Scared?! I’m not scared!” You shouted back, partially for his benefit, mostly for yours. “I’m just… concerned about the structural integrity of this car. And my very delicate internal organs!” You knew you sounded pathetic, not the self-assured athlete the world knew and feared, but you couldn’t help it.

This was Max Verstappen, after all. He had a unique way of bringing out your most ridiculous, human side.

He laughed again, a full, genuine laugh this time, the kind that made your heart flutter even while your stomach was performing gymnastics.

He glanced over at you, a grin playing on his face. “Relax, schatje. I have it under control.”

And maybe, just maybe, you did believe him, for a split second anyway. Then he slammed on the gas and you screamed again, a string of Dutch curses pouring out of your lips as you gripped the headrest with an iron fist.

Each turn was a rollercoaster, each acceleration a punch to your gut. You found yourself cursing in Dutch, English, and even a little bit of French, a linguistic mashup fuelled by sheer terror.

You caught glimpses of the blur outside, the landscape a streaks of green and brown. You tried to focus on breathing, trying to regain a semblance of control over your runaway emotions, but every time he hit the accelerator, you lost it again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, or perhaps just a few minutes of extreme adrenaline, the car slowed, and pulled into a stop. You were slumped back in your seat, a sweaty, disheveled mess.

“That was… an experience,” you managed, your voice still a bit shaky.

He turned to you, his eyes sparkling as he gave you a wide, triumphant grin. “Fun, right?”

You almost laughed, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “Fun? Max, I think I aged at least five years in that car.” You reached up and felt your pulse, which was still trying to break free.

He tilted his head, the playful gleam still dancing in his eyes. “But you said you're used to my speed."

You threw your hands up. “Yes, but I didn’t know you’d be trying to scare me, you… absolute menace.”

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in your chest, and then reached over and undid your seatbelt. As he did, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Maybe just a little.”

You felt yourself blush, despite the fact that you were also on the verge of throttling him. As he stepped out of the car, you took a moment to collect yourself, smoothing your clothes and trying to appear somewhat pulled together.

As you reached up, your fingers brushed something small and hard attached to the car’s dashboard. It was a camera, aimed directly at you.

Your eyes widened, and then everything clicked into place. The teasing laughter, the exaggerated acceleration, the playful comments – it had all been an elaborate, incredibly mischievous ploy.

You burst out laughing, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that echoed around the open space. You couldn't help it. It was absurd, ridiculous, and completely, utterly Max.

You covered your face with your hands, still laughing. He watched you, his eyes sparkling, a smile playing on his lips.

“Did you get all of that?” you exclaimed, still chuckling. “The screaming in multiple languages? The death grips on the dashboard?"

He shrugged, pretending to look innocent, but the smirk on his face told another story. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, your voice laced with amusement rather than anger.

“Only for you,” he replied, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

You lowered your hands, a smile now playing on your lips. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? That you would never just do a normal lap with me.”

He took a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “Where’s the fun in normal, liefje?”

You knew he was right. Normal was boring. And as much as the terror of the hot lap had made you want to wring his neck, you also wouldn't trade it for anything.

It was another reminder of the chaotic dance you and Max had always been in, a dance of adrenaline, teasing, and a love that ran as deep as the engine roar that had been the background to your lives.

This was your Max, and despite your near-death experience, you wouldn't have him any other way. You stepped out of the car, ready to face the world, and whatever else he decided to throw your way. The camera might have captured your terrified screams, but it had missed the grin that was now plastered across your face.

You were ready for your next match but you were also ready for whatever chaos Max decided to unleash next.

Life with him was never boring, and you wouldn't have it any other way. . . .

The crisp December air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, the familiar rumble of Max's engine fading behind you. You pull your coat tighter, adjusting your beanie, a small smile playing on your lips.

The holidays. A welcome respite from the relentless pressure of the tennis circuit. A chance to breathe, to ground yourself before the Australian Open looms. And, most importantly, time with Max.

He's already by the padel court, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he bounces a ball. Lando and Charles are there too, bickering about something trivial, their usual competitive energy already buzzing.

“Took you long enough, slowpoke,” Max teases, tossing the ball to you.

“Traffic,” you retort, catching it easily. “Besides, someone had to pack the snacks, didn’t they?”

Lando groans dramatically. “Snacks? You brought snacks? This is serious competition, woman!”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of your on-court persona flickering through. “Oh, I thought this was just a friendly get-together. Unless you’re scared, Lando?”

He splutters, Charles chuckling beside him. “Scared? Of you? Please. Just wait until I unleash my padel prowess.”

Max wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Don’t listen to him, liefje. We’ll crush them.”

That Dutch endearment always makes you melt, and a genuine smile spreads across your face. He knows exactly how to disarm you.

The game starts, and the air is filled with the thwack of the ball, playful taunts, and the occasional groan of exertion. You and Max move with a practiced synchronicity, years of playing (and bickering) together evident in your easy communication.

Max is surprisingly good at padel, his reflexes honed by years of racing, and you find yourself relying on his power, setting him up for winning shots.

“That’s cheating! You have your wife on your team,” Lando grumbles, wiping sweat from his brow after another point you and Max win.

“Jealous, are we?” you retort, grinning. “Maybe you should find yourself a tennis champion girlfriend.”

Charles snorts. “Good luck with that. Finding someone who can keep up with you is a challenge.”

You playfully shove Charles’ shoulder. “I’m not that intimidating.”

Max squeezes your hand. “Oh, you are. Especially when you give those death stares on court.”

He's right, of course. You can be ruthless. You have to be. The pressure to stay on top is immense, the media constantly scrutinizing every move, every word. The expectation is suffocating sometimes.

Later, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the court, you’re sitting on the bench, catching your breath.

The score is ridiculously lopsided in yours and Max’s favor. Lando and Charles have conceded defeat, blaming everything from the altitude to the snack selection.

Max sits beside you, his arm draped around your shoulders. “You were amazing out there,” he says, his voice soft. “Like always.”

“So were you,” you reply, leaning into him. “You know, for a race car driver.”

He laughs, a warm, comforting sound. “It's all about reflexes, liefje. And a killer instinct.”

He understands that killer instinct in you, the drive to win, the unwavering focus. He sees it because he possesses it too.

It binds you together, this shared understanding of the relentless pursuit of excellence, the sacrifices required, the price you both pay.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes searching yours. “With everything… the media, the pressure. Are you okay?”

It's a question he asks often, a constant check-in, a reminder that he’s there, always. It's a tenderness he rarely shows the world, a vulnerability reserved only for you.

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s tough. The whispers, the judgment… sometimes it feels like I'm living under a microscope.”

“I know,” he says, his voice laced with empathy. “They’re brutal. They try to tear you down because they’re jealous of what you’ve achieved.”

He knows what it’s like to be under that kind of scrutiny, to have every mistake magnified, every victory questioned. He lived it his entire life, his father's relentless expectations and the constant pressure to perform.

You trace a pattern on his jeans with your finger. “It’s different for you, though. You have the car, the team… you’re surrounded by people who support you, who believe in you.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm. “And you don’t?”

You look up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Of course, I do. But it’s… lonely at the top. Everyone wants something from you. It’s hard to know who to trust.”

He understands that too. The isolation that comes with success, the constant questioning of motives.

“You have me,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You always have me. And I know it’s not the same, but Lando and Charles… they care about you too. We all see how hard you work, how much you dedicate yourself to your sport.”

He pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you. “Don’t let them break you, liefje. You’re stronger than they think. Stronger than you even give yourself credit for.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, a reminder of your strength, your resilience. He sees you, truly sees you, the fierce competitor and the vulnerable woman beneath.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s just… sometimes it gets overwhelming.”

He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Then let me carry some of the weight. That’s what I’m here for.”

The sun has almost completely disappeared, and the air is getting colder. Lando and Charles are packing up their things, their boisterous energy subdued.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Lando calls out. “We’re heading back. You coming?”

You look at Max, a silent question in your eyes.

He squeezes your hand again. “Go. I’ll stay a little longer. I want to watch the stars.”

You nod, knowing he needs the quiet, the solitude. He finds peace in the vastness of the night sky, a reminder that his problems, his pressures, are small in the grand scheme of things.

You stand up, giving Max one last kiss. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

As you walk away, you glance back at him. He’s sitting on the bench, his head tilted back, gazing at the stars. In that moment, he looks so young, so vulnerable.

The weight of the world, the expectations of millions, seem to melt away, leaving only a man searching for solace in the vastness of the universe.

You know you would do anything for him, fight anyone who dared to hurt him. You are his anchor, just as he is yours.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, still staring at the stars. You join him, slipping under the blanket, pressing close to his side.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your voice soft.

He lets out a long sigh. “Just… everything. The season, the pressure, the expectations.”

You reach out and take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “You’re going to be okay, Max. You’re the best. You always have been.”

He turns to you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and tenderness. “And you? Are you going to be okay?”

You smile, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “With you by my side? Always.”

You lean in and kiss him, a long, slow kiss that speaks of years of shared history, of unspoken understanding, of unwavering love.

In that moment, under the vast expanse of the starry sky, you are just two people, connected by a bond that transcends the pressures of fame and the demands of the world.

You are simply Max and you, a team, a partnership, a love that has endured the test of time and the scrutiny of the world. And that, you realize, is all that truly matters. . .