⎯⎯ ୨ Max Verstappen Masterlist ୧ ⎯⎯

forever and always // ln4

part two to champagne coast

pairing: lando norris X reader

word count: 10k

warnings: cursing and alcohol use

includes: 100% pure fluff

summary: life with lando after the italy trip or lando and you getting your happily ever after

masterlist

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Life at the moment couldn’t be greater for you. You’d just gone on the most amazing week-long trip to Italy and in the process managed to upgrade your best friend into your boyfriend. You couldn’t truly ask for more, except for the screaming baby on the plane to give it a rest. Even in first class the baby’s incessant cries could be heard and you wanted to slap yourself for not remembering to pack your headphones into your carry-on. 

You glance over at your boyfriend who’s sat in the spacious seat next to you. “We should have just flown private like you wanted.” You were trying to not have Lando spend any more unnecessary money on you then needed, lord knows how much he spent on you this past week. You’d told yourself that you could survive a commercial flight, it was only three hours back to London. You do it for work and when you visit Lando in Monaco, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Well, at least that’s what you thought a couple hours ago. 

“What I wanted was to stay in Italy for another week.” His large hand finds yours and your fingers intertwine. “But I know my working girl has responsibilities and deadlines to meet and money to make and all that kind of stuff.” He lifts your intertwined hands up to his lips and presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand, the simple gesture sending an eruption of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Yeah well someone’s got to bring home the bacon in this relationship.” You joke, like Lando wasn’t bringing home a modest 30 million a year. 

“Well, racing isn’t gonna last forever, so I am gonna eventually need you to be my sugar mommy.” 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Your teasing causes a pink tint to spread across the apples of Lando’s cheeks and it makes you giggle at how easily you can get him riled up. 

He slides down in his seat, trying to make himself seem smaller, all while still anchoring himself to you by his hand. “Nothing wrong with liking to be taken care of.” Lando has never not been vocal (at least with you) about how he in all honesty likes to be babied. 

Sure, he loves taking care of you, but sometimes he just wants the woman he loves (you) to take care of him. Even before you two got together you were the person who would look after him after a particular shit race weekend and when he would visit you back in London he always seemed to just be able to let his walls down and be vulnerable with you. 

“I like that you need me.” You state, which has Lando feeling even more warm and gushy inside. 

“Never not gonna need you. You know that right? You’re stuck with me.” And Lando means every word that slips out of his mouth. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you in his life. For so many years you were his everything and now that he fully has every part of you he can’t imagine letting you go.

Your eyes soften at the man you love. There isn’t anyone else you’d rather endure this plane ride from hell with. Yet, with all the love you have for him, you can’t help but poke fun at him. “Unfortunately.” You say with a cheesy grin on your face. 

“You love me.” Lando pushes back. 

“Unfor-“ 

Lando interrupts you before you can push his buttons even more. “Wait, do you hear that?” 

Your eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, your head glancing around the cabin to try and figure out what he’s talking about. “Hear what?” 

“Exactly.” 

And that’s when you realize that there is nothing to hear, because the baby had stopped crying. You think you’d forgotten what quiet was for a moment and to finally have it back was pure bliss. Though the little slice of silence lasts for a few short moments because as the plane begins its descent the change in air pressure has the baby crying once more. “Well, at least we know we are almost home!” You say trying to be positive. 

“We could have still been in Italy.” Lando groans. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Adjusting to life back in London was a little harder than you thought it was going to be. It helped that you had Lando with you this week, but you wished so badly to be back in Italy. The Thames couldn’t hold a candle to the Mediterranean Sea and you could only dream that you would wake up to the calming lull of the waves and not construction and sirens. And while you were slowly adjusting it seemed like Lando wasn’t at all.

When Lando was back in London for work he usually just stayed with you or Max, so Lando staying at your place wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but him not letting Max or his family know that he was back home was out of the ordinary. After the third day of Lando being a hermit in your apartment all day while you were at work you finally confronted him about it. 

“Lan, I’m home!” You called out as you kicked off the world's most uncomfortable heels, your feet silently thanking you as they felt the cool flooring beneath them. 

“Kitchen!” You hear him holler back and by the smoke free air you’d have to conclude that he wasn’t trying to cook you dinner. Instead you find him standing at the counter in the middle of making himself a cup of tea. Your hands sneak around his waist, resting your head on his muscular back. A content sigh escapes past his mouth and you feel his free hand settle on your arm. 

“Hi baby. How was work?” 

“Very long and tiring. I’m glad to be home.” You reply before placing a kiss on his shoulder. 

Lando says nothing as he moves to grab your arm, leading you towards the couch. And by some miracle he sets his cup of tea down on the coffee table spill free while he pulls you into his side as you two plop down. “Missed you while you were gone.” His words are slightly mumbled as he plants a kiss onto the top of your head. 

Moments later his phone buzzes and your eyes can’t help but glance at the screen as he pulls it out of his sweatpants pocket. You barely see the contact name of your shared friend across the screen before he’s locking his phone and sliding it back into his pocket. 

“Lando.” His fingers ghost up and down your arm as he hums in response. “Why have you been ignoring Max?” You weren’t trying to pry into his business, but what you were saying was true. You’d seen the unread texts and for Lando to ignore his best friend, especially when he was back in England, was very out of character for him. 

His movements halted and you can hear the gears in his pretty little head turning. “I’m not ignoring him.” 

You shift on the couch so you can properly look at him. “Lando. You’ve been holed up in my apartment ever since we got back. What’s going on? You ignore Max’s texts to make plans. I see the missed calls from your parents. Are you second guessing things or do you not want people to know about us?” 

Lando’s eyes nearly bulge out his head at your suggestions and he’s reaching out for your hands faster than lightning. “Oh god no. God. No no no. Never in a million years would I not want to be with you.” 

“Then what is going on?” Your eyes soften at the man you love as you try to understand what’s going on in his head. 

“It’s quite selfish of me.” He finally admits with his head hung low while you rub your thumb across his knuckles, encouraging him to continue. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but I don’t want to have to share you with anyone quite yet. You going to work I can handle, but god we haven’t even gotten to really spend time together as a couple. Summer break is going to be over very soon and then that’s a whole nother beast we have to figure out and I know I’m very in my head about all of this but I just want you to myself for as long as I can. I don’t want other people’s opinions about you or our relationship to be all over the internet either. God why am I so in my head?” . 

Your heart swells at Lando’s words and while you understand how he feels, you know you’ve got to talk some sense into him as well. “I get it. We’ve been living in our own bubble this past week and now it’s even better that we’re together. It’s like the real world and reality are out to get us, but baby that’s life. And really I don’t give a fuck what anyone on the internet says about me or us because they’ve been saying stuff for years. It’s not anything new– I know what’s real between us and that’s all that matters to me and it should to you also.” 

You give his hands a reassuring squeeze, trying to convey just how serious you were about all of this. 

“Plus, I’m not worried one bit about once you start racing again, sure I’ll miss you when I can’t come with you, but we’ll make it work. What I am worried about though is you isolating yourself. I love that you love spending time with me, but Lan you gotta not let the anxiety of life get into your way. Even with this crazy life that you live you’re lucky enough to have people who care deeply about you and the rare occasion that you aren’t in England for more than a day or work and you chose to ignore them is not good for you. So take your phone out and tell Max that we’ll be over at his place Friday.” 

Lando sighs as he internalizes your words. Everything you had said was right. You always know how to get into his head and talk him off his anxiety induced edge. He can’t recall how many times you’d been there for him during a bad race weekend— granted this was nothing like that, but nonetheless he knows he can always confide in you and that you’ll always be there with love and the right words to say. 

And like the obedient boyfriend he is– he slips his phone out of his pocket and quickly sends Max a text. “Why not Saturday? Don’t you work Friday?” He asks. 

You shrug your shoulders at him like it was no big deal. “I got Friday off and we have other plans for Saturday.” 

“With your friends?” 

“No. We are having dinner with your family. I’ve been texting your Mom occasionally ever since we got back. Someone had to let her know her son was still alive.” 

Lando’s cheeks turn red in shame, he’s a known certified Momma’s boy and he knows his Mother was probably worried sick about him these past couple days. “I’ve always said she likes you more than me.” 

“Yeah well I actually respond to her messages.” You tease as you tuck yourself into Lando’s side, the couch pulling you in deeper. 

Silence fills the room for a few moments and it’s tranquil– golden hour cascading through your floor to ceiling windows as the two of you cuddle up on the couch, the feeling of Lando’s fingers running up and down your back as you listen to his steady heartbeat. 

“Thank you.” Lando is the one to break the silence, his voice soft and meaningful. You hum in response, waiting for him to continue. “Thanks for getting me out of my head. You’re my person, you know that? Don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

The sun filtering into the room makes the golden brown flecks in his eyes pop even more and you can’t believe that this beautiful and caring man that you’ve had in your life for so long is now actually yours and that maybe if you would have opened your eyes sooner you could have had him this way for even longer. 

“I love you.” 

Lando’s face erupts into a smile and you can’t help but lean into his hand as it moves to cup your face. 

“I love you too.” 

He leans in for a kiss and when your lips meet you swear it’s like you're kissing him for the first time again. There’s something so enthralling and intoxicating about kissing Lando and you pray it’s something you never grow tired of. 

“Can you really blame me though, for wanting to stay locked away with my sexy, stunning, intelligent, caring, and breathtaking girlfriend?” Lando states as you two resume your prior positions on the couch, soaking in this serene evening together. 

“Wow, that's a lot of adjectives.” You reply as a slight giggle escapes from you. 

“I can name some more if you’d like.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Friday comes in the blink of an eye and before you know it you’re standing next to Lando as he knocks on the door to Max’s apartment. The solid white door swings open and there stands Max with a mischievous look on his face. 

“Thought you two had fucked off and decided to move to Italy.” 

“It’s still a possibility.” Lando states as he walks in behind you. 

“Don’t be bitter because you weren’t invited Fewtrell.” You chime in. 

The three of you settle in the living room and it reminds you of old times before Lando moved to Monaco. When you’d all be gathered at someone’s place and life seemed simpler. Things have changed drastically since then, but you know you’ll always have these two annoying guys in your life. 

“I’m not bitter. I’ve third wheeled enough in our friendship to know when I’m not wanted.” Max is chomping at the bit to know what went down on your trip and if nothing had he thinks his two best friends may have one collective brain cell that they share between them. “Soooo. How was Italy? Romantic?” 

Your eyes quickly dart over to Lando who’s seated in one of the chairs slightly to your left, while Max is sitting on the couch opposite of the one you’re residing on. Max was clearly digging for information and according to someone else in your friend group, Max had a large amount of money that he had bet on the two of you coming back from Italy and being together. So Lando and you had decided to make Max work for his prize– nothing like a little lying and mental warfare while spending time with friends right? You see that mischievous look in Lando’s eyes and then he open’s that pretty little mouth of his. 

“Did you know pizza was apparently invented in Naples?” 

Max furrows his eyebrows at Lando, surprised at the fact that was what came out of his mouth. “I didn’t.” 

“Yeah. Think we ate our body weight in pizza this past week. Gonna have to hit the training hard before the season starts back up.” Lando is acting too nonchalant about the trip and you can tell Max is listening for any little slip up. 

“Hmm is that so?” Max glances over in your direction and you know your next in line for his interrogation. “Y/N.” 

“Max.” 

“How was Italy?” 

“It was great. We ate lots of good food, went sightseeing, went to the beach, and relaxed. Everything you’d do on a trip to Italy.” 

Max still isn’t satisfied with anyone’s answer. To him there was just no way that something didn’t happen between you two on that trip and he was going to get the truth out even if it killed him. “Nothing exciting happened?” 

You shrug your shoulders as you glance over at Lando– wanting him to take the reins on this one. You can see the gears turning in his head all the while Max is getting antsier by the second waiting for someone to respond. 

“Well, Y/N did meet a guy.” 

There’s a shocked look on both Max’s face and yours at Lando’s words. Even with your little plan in place you didn’t think Lando was going to say that or honestly bring up that night ever again, but he did and he’s thrown Max for a loop at the same time. 

“You met a guy?” Max asks you. He isn’t sure if he heard Lando right and he’s really starting to wonder how this trip could have gone this horribly wrong. 

“Yeah. We went out to a bar one night and I started talking to this guy. He was really nice and happened to be from London. He’s my most recent follow on insta if you want to see what he’s like. His name is Harry.” You hadn’t bothered to unfollow him and at this moment you guess it was a good thing you hadn’t. 

Max thinks the world is ending right here in his apartment. How could his best friends be so fucking stupid? How could they go on a trip by themselves and not see how utterly in love they were with each other? 

He pulls up your instagram and finds the guy's account– sure he’s attractive, but there’s never going to be the connection there that Lando and you have. Anyone with two working eyes and a brain could see that and as Max locks his phone and tosses it on the couch cushion beside him he thinks he should make an appointment for both Lando and you to go see an optometrist and neurologist. 

“He seems like a nice lad.” Max had given up. If anything did happen you two were clearly dead set on not giving it up, so he’d try again another day. If Max knew one thing it was that consistency was key and being annoying about his best friends being in love was one thing he will always be consistent about. 

“Yeah I think he’d fit in really well with our friend group.” The look on Max’s face is nothing shy of disgust and out of the corner of your eye you can see Lando fighting back his laughter. You know if you fully look at Lando that you’ll break so you focus on Max who seems to be going through the five stages of grief.

“Right. Well Lando I’ve got a couple things I need to go over with you for Quadrant. Let me go get my laptop real quick.” Max has no issue with changing the subject at this point— the mere idea of that guy joining your friend group was completely out of the question. 

Once Max was out of earshot you immediately turned your attention to Lando. 

“Oh he’s absolutely fuming.” Lando states, his voice slightly higher from trying to suppress his laughter. You can feel the giggles rising from within you and it’s like in school when you aren’t supposed to be laughing, but everything is way more funny because of it. It’s not even that funny of a situation, but Lando and you are nearly beside yourselves over it. 

Before you both completely lose it Max waltzes back into the living room with his laptop in hand. The two of them go over clothing ideas and mockups for sometime while you calm yourself and scroll through your phone. 

“Ok one last thing- the redesign for the website. I’ll send the test link to your phone and see if there’s anything you want to look different on the mobile site.” 

Lando pats his pockets and realizes he forgot his phone in the car. “Shit. Hey baby can you please run to the car and grab my phone.” He’s tossing the car keys to you and you’re catching them before Max can get his brain and his mouth to work fast enough. 

“Sorry! What?!” 

You stand there confused, Lando’s keys jingling in your hands. 

“What’s wrong?” Lando asks. 

Max doesn’t know what to think at the moment. “You just called Y/N baby!“ 

In all honesty Lando didn’t even realize the term of endearment had slipped past his tongue and from the way you reacted it seems you didn’t either. But Lando and you share a knowing look and instead of panicking you decide to just run with the situation.

Lando scoffs, like Max had just suggested the most outrageous thing. “No I didn’t” 

“Yes you did!” Max’s eyes look like they are about ready to bulge out of his head as he speaks. 

“Max he literally didn’t. I think I would know if Lando called me baby.” 

“Stop gaslighting me!” Max knows what he heard, he’s not stupid or crazy like the two of you are making it seem. His eyes dart back and forth between Lando and you, trying to see if he can read your faces, but it’s useless. 

“Alright well I’ll be right back. Lando maybe try to calm Max down.” You state before swiftly leaving Max’s apartment before you break character. 

While you’re gone Max doubles down on his interrogation of Lando, but all Lando does is deny deny deny. His PR training coming in handy at this moment in time. It doesn’t take long for you to get back and when you hand Lando his phone and keys Lando can’t help but fan the fire some more by intentionally letting that little four letter word slide right off his tongue. 

“Thank you baby.” His hand lingers on yours for way longer than need be. The simple skim of his fingers across your skin sends a shiver up your spine. You don’t even get time to respond to Lando before Max’s big mouth is hollering once more. 

“I know I’m not going crazy. I heard that clear as day! Now would you two quit fucking with my head and tell me you finally opened your eyes.” 

There’s an unspoken agreement between Lando and you as you shift your gaze towards him, a shrug of the shoulders and both of you knowing that if you continued to screw with Max he’d probably start to make your lives hell. So, you take a seat on the arm of the chair that Lando is still residing in and like a magnet he’s snaking his arm around your waist–pulling you closer to him. 

Max sits there eyeing the both of you, your current positions tell him nothing, as your closeness and touching was nothing out of the ordinary for you two, but it’s what comes out of Lando’s mouth seconds later that has Max’s eyes as wide as saucers. 

“Better call Ed and let him know he owes you some money.” 

He knows what that means and has clearly been waiting for it to happen, but actually knowing now has him somehow not believing that Lando is telling the truth. “Are you guys fucking with me again or is this for real?” 

“What you want me to physically tell you that Y/N and I are together? That we finally realized that we’ve been in love with each other for an unreasonably long time and made everyone close to us crazy for years?” 

Max sits there dumbfounded, for someone who had been wanting to finally hear this news he just can’t believe it had finally happened. “Well yeah I guess.” He watches his best friends as their hands intertwine and when they look at each other he can see the love radiating between them. 

It had always been there– the love, but there was something different between them now that they’ve become partners like the missing pieces of the puzzle had finally slotted into place. He’s happy that his best friends finally have each other in the way they were meant to and perhaps that he has a little more money in his pocket. “Alright well now can you actually tell me how Italy was?” 

“Well first of all. It wasn’t just you and our other friends that were annoying about us. I think everyone in Italy thought we were a couple before we even realized how we actually felt.” And so you tell Max all about Italy and how special it is to the two of you now. 

“See now why couldn’t you have just told me all of this in the beginning instead of fucking with me?” Max exclaims. 

“Well that’s no fun is it?” Lando rebuttals. “Think about how funny of a story that will be to tell at our wedding one day?” 

You feel your heart start to rabidly race and a heat spread throughout your body at Lando mentioning your wedding. You guys had only really been together for like a week and he’s already casually mentioning marrying you? You weren’t trying to freak out, but what the fuck? Your ears are ringing and it’s like your mind has left your body for a second, but the one thing that brings you back to Earth is the feeling of Lando’s hand squeezing yours. 

When you look down at him and he looks at you with those pretty eyes that seem to be an enigma of colors and that smile of his that could make you feel better even on the shittiest of days you just somehow know that he is the man you’re going to marry. You couldn’t imagine yourself marrying anyone but him. And yes it’s early, way too early to be thinking about marriage in this relationship, but if Lando asked you in a couple months to get married during the Las Vegas GP by some Elvis impersonator in a little church on the strip– you’d say yes in a heartbeat. 

“Well as long as I’m your best man.” Max states. 

“Who else would it be?”  

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The three hour drive from London to Lando’s childhood home the following day is spent trying to figure out how you should announce to his family that you two are together. You’d gone over every scenario, but they either seemed too awkward or just unnecessary. 

“We could just say ‘hey we are in love and in a relationship’ as soon as we walk into the door.” Lando suggests. 

“Do we even really have to tell them?” You counter, knowing you are both totally overthinking this situation. “I mean couldn’t we just let them find out through social media or something?” 

Lando scoffs at your suggestion and he doesn’t even have to speak for you to know that your idea wouldn’t work with his family, especially his Mother. Cisca would never let you both hear the end of her finding out about you two over social media, especially when she’s been not so shy about expressing how she felt about you two. 

The English countryside passes by in a blur as you stare out the car window, you’d given up on figuring out ideas and decided to enjoy the view and the feeling of Land’s hand in yours as you continued the journey. 

“If my family didn’t know that you were coming I could have just called and said I was bringing my girlfriend home for them to meet.” Lando states from the driver's side. Now it’s your turn to scoff, but Lando doesn’t seem to be backing off the idea. “Seriously, we could surprise them.” 

“Lando, that's not a good idea. You’re gonna be in deep shit with your Mom.” 

“I’ll just call and say that you aren’t coming and that there’s someone that I’ve been wanting them to meet for awhile.” He thinks there’s nothing wrong with his plan, but you know he’s gonna get his ass chewed out by his Mother. You love Lando dearly, but he’s also stubborn and sometimes you have to just let him learn his lesson. You can’t even tell him it'll be your funeral before you hear the phone ringing. Cisca picks up rather quickly and you decide to keep quiet in the passenger seat. 

“Hello darling. Are you guys almost here?” Her voice echoes through the luxurious car. 

“Yeah we’ve got a little under an hour left.” 

“I can’t wait to see you and Y/N. Can she hear me? Hello my love! I’ve got a little gift for you when you guys get here. I saw it when I was out shopping the other day and I just thought of you instantly.” 

You want to speak up, already feeling the guilt creep in over this and Lando hasn’t even opened his big mouth to speak yet. You look over at him with pleading eyes, trying to convey just how much he shouldn’t do this, but he’s waving you off and you know this is when Lando has signed his death certificate. 

“About that. So Y/N isn’t coming to dinner. There’s actually someone else that I’ve been wanting you to meet.” 

There’s silence on the other end for some time and anyone would think Cisca had hung up or the line had disconnected, but the call time on the screen keeps going. “Mum are you still there?” Lando finally breaks the deafening silence. 

“Am I on speakerphone?” She replies and you know Lando is about ready to get yelled at. If there was one thing you knew about Lando’s Mother, it was that she didn’t play around when it came to you, especially if it involved Lando. 

“No.” Lando says confidently like her voice wasn’t echoing throughout the car. 

“I know I raised you better than this Lando. Y/N and I have been talking and she literally planned for all of us to have dinner. For you to uninvite her and then decide to bring some random girl in her place is absolutely horrible Lando. She said you guys had a wonderful time on your trip and that you had been staying at her place this week so I don’t know what is going on, but this better be a joke. If it’s not you’d better pray that you don’t lose the one person who cares so deeply about you. I’m so disappointed in you son, but we will talk more when you get here. Oh and hopefully the girl you decided to bring likes my roast dinner. I know it’s Y/N’s favorite meal I make so I was going to surprise her with it. Anyways I’ll see you in a little bit.” 

There’s no goodbye’s exchanged or time for Lando to reply, just Cisca hanging up on her son and then music that was playing before the call filling the air once again. You so badly want to tell Lando that you told him so, but from the blank look on his face and the thousand yard stare he’s got going on, you think perhaps that wouldn’t help the situation any. 

“I should have listened to you.” He finally says, the stupidity of his idea fully sinking in now that his Mother reprimanded him over the phone.   

You shrug your shoulders at him, fully knowing he should have, but not wanting to rub it in his face. “Hopefully once she sees me your wrongs will be forgiven.” 

“God, we can only hope.” 

By the time you pull into the driveway Lando’s already thought of ten different ways his Mother could kill him and when he’s getting out of the car and heading up to the front door he’s thought of eleven. Usually his family would be opening the door to greet them by the time they pulled into the driveway, today was a different story. The decadent smell of his Mom’s cooking hits both of you in the face as soon as you enter the house and you’re so glad you’re actually here and not back at home like you were supposedly meant to be.

“Mum! I’m home!” Lando hollers. 

“In the kitchen.” 

So you slowly traipse behind Lando towards the kitchen, letting him be the one to greet his Mom. He stops just past the doorway, his Mom standing at the counter peeling potatoes, while you’re slightly hidden behind him. “Smells amazing.” He figures starting out with a compliment wouldn’t hurt his situation any.

“Thank you.” 

You can’t exactly see Cisca, but you know just from the tone of her voice and the fact that she doesn’t have her son wrapped up in her arms right now tells you she’s still upset with him. The sound of the peeler against the potatoes is getting more rapid and aggressive– you’re thankful to not be a potato right now. You can slightly see her over Lando’s shoulder and she’s still got her back turned to you both still as she speaks once again. 

“Are you going to introduce me to your girlfriend?” 

Lando steps to the side, nudging you to step into his previous spot. You know Cisca will be thrilled when she sees you, but you’re still a little nervous after seeing the ever apparent cold shoulder that she’s giving Lando right now. You hear the peeling stop as you step into the kitchen and when Cisca turns around to see the supposed mystery girl, the peeler drops to the ground with a clang. 

“Y/N! Oh my darling!” A look of shock, excitement, happiness, and slight confusion washes over her face as she’s practically running towards you and wrapping you up in her arms. “What are you doing here? Lando said you weren’t coming?” She pulls back from the hug and just stares at you, like she’s trying to figure out if you’re actually here. 

“Surprise!” You say with a smile. 

She looks back and forth between you and Lando, who unbestowed to you has the biggest grin on his face. And then like a switch that was flipped her jaw drops and she grabs your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll run away. “Wait a minute.” 

You feel Lando delicately place his hand on the small of your back as he moves right up against you. “Mum can you stop hogging my girlfriend please.” And you can hear the smile on Lando’s face as he speaks. 

The look on Cisca’s face you would have thought Lando had just won the driver’s championship. “Oh my god finally! My love I’m so happy you’re here. If it hadn’t been you that I saw when I turned around I think I would have had to knock some sense into my hard headed son.” She’s wrapping you up in another bone crushing hug and it’s one of the best feelings in the world to be embraced by someone who truly cares about you. 

“Well to be fair I think we both needed some sense knocked into us a long time ago.” You joke as Cisca finally frees you. 

“Yes, but this is how it was clearly meant to be. I’d always said you two were meant for each other and that one day eventually you’d open your eyes and hearts and realize that your other half had been with you all along.” 

You can see tears start to well up in her eyes.

“God I’m just so happy that you’re here. My heart broke when Lando had said you weren’t coming, but now it’s like it’s been mended. You’re the person for my Lando and I knew that from the first time I met you all those years ago Y/N. You’ve made him so incredibly happy and always been there for him during the extreme lows and highs, but as much as you're his person he’s just as much as yours. I’ve never seen him act like he does with someone like he does with you. I saw that love in his eyes that only a Mother can see the first time he brought you home. He may not have realized it, but I did.” 

Now you’re feeling the tears start to well up in your eyes and it’s only a matter of time before Cisca has got you in her embrace again. 

“Where’s the love for your own son?” Lando asks jokingly as he watches the two most important women in his life. 

“My own son wouldn’t have played with my emotions like you did earlier.” Cisca fires back, before heading back to her previous task.

Lando and you sit down at the small table in the kitchen while Cisca resumes peeling the potatoes. “I told him not to do it.” You say just to finally get in your I told you so.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite!” Cisca chimes in. 

Lando groans, but it’s all an act because there’s nothing that makes his insides turn to mush more than you being so loved and getting along so well with his family. “Maybe I actually shouldn’t have brought you.” 

You know he’s joking, but he earns a full name shout and a look from his Mom that only Mom’s can do. Which in turn emits a giggle from you and to Lando anything is worth getting to hear that melodic sound bless his ears, even getting scolded by his Mother. 

Dinner is spent filling in the rest of his family and both Lando and you somewhat get made fun of as his family points out all the times you two were so blind about how you felt about each other. Then to no one’s surprise Cisca begins to get emotional again as you’re talking to her about Italy. And not soon after Lando says the one thing again that makes your heart skip a beat and your body run hot. 

“Alright Mum save those tears for the wedding.” 

You laugh it off and allow for Cisca’s animated reaction to allow no one to focus on how flustered Lando’s words have you. It was one thing to talk with Max about it, if anything you were sure Max had mentioned (more like teased) you two about getting married many times before. But to just so openly mention it, even if he was just messing around, to his family had your head spinning and the butterflies in your stomach ready to burst out like some sick gory horror movie. 

You had always been close with the Norris family ever since Lando and you had become friends, but there was something about their not so shocked reaction (besides Cisca) that had you wondering if they had just always expected Lando and you to end up together. For you two to get married and grow old together. That the idea of it being anyone other than you had never crossed their minds. So that when Lando does casually mention it during dinner it’s like yeah of course you two would get married? Why wouldn’t you? It’s not until people begin getting up from the table that you come back to reality and out of your head. 

Once the mess from dinner is cleaned up you find yourself looking at all the photos across the house. Picture frames filled with childhood photos and family portraits scattered on shelves, tables, and walls. You’ve seen them all before, each one with a story that’s been told you were sure to anyone who visited the Norris household. Pictures of Lando as a child were your favorite to look at, especially when you see just how tiny he was as a kid. Cute little innocent Lando who had to be velcroed to his karting seat and went up against kids three times his size.

As you continue to look through the pictures your mind begins to think about the future and you can’t help but wonder if your kids would be small like him or when they inevitably started karting if they too would have to be velcroed to their seat. If there was one thing you knew for sure it was that you hoped they would have Lando’s pretty eyes and curly brown hair. God you hoped they wouldn’t inherit his big head. 

Then it’s like reality hits you in the face and you realize just how insane you’re being at the moment. You have to remind yourself once again that you two haven’t been together even a month yet, perhaps thinking about your future children is a little premature. But then you remember Lando mentioning you two getting married multiple times already, so you tell yourself your thoughts aren’t as bad as you made them out to be. 

Moments later a familiar pair of strong arms snake their way around your waist and some unruly curls tickle your neck as Lando rests his chin on your shoulder. He’d been admiring you from the doorway for some time before he finally couldn’t resist not clinging onto you somehow. You feel yourself start to melt into his embrace and before you know it you’re leaning back into him, his arms secured around your midsection as both of you now look at the various photos. “You know you were a pretty cute kid.” 

Lando hums in response, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your neck as he tries to stop himself from thinking about how much he’d love to have mini versions of you two running around. Not right now of course, but god some years from now he could imagine it clear as day. He hoped they would be little spitting images of you, that he’d hear your laughter in little kid form and know that when he came home from a bad race weekend that he’d have the most important people in his life waiting there for him. He’d always figured he’d eventually settle down and have a family, but now that you’re in his life there’s not a doubt in his mind.

While Lando was thinking the same thoughts you had minutes ago an unfamiliar picture on the wall catches your attention. “Is that one new?” You question, breaking Lando out of his thoughts. 

His eyes follow to where your finger is pointing and sure enough it is. In fact it’s a picture he didn’t even know existed. “Mum must have taken it and decided it was worthy of a place on the picture wall.” Lando mumbles. 

“It is a good picture though.” 

The picture in question? The two of you after the Belgium Grand Prix weeks ago. The race didn’t go the way Lando wanted it to at all. Yet, even with the disappointment from the race it was like when he saw you afterwards none of that shit mattered. He knew he was going to get to spend a week with you in Italy and at the end of the day he knew you’d always be there for him. 

To anyone else looking at the picture they would have thought you two were together, but at the point in time you two were still hard headed dumbasses. He remembers posing for the picture with you, but the angle this one is taken at he knows his Mother must have taken it from behind the scenes. She’d caught him looking at you with the biggest heart eyes mankind has ever seen and a smile that only radiates one thing– love. 

Night time was fast approaching and as everyone retired for the night you found yourself in Lando’s childhood bedroom. It still had its boyish charm with trophies and medals lining the walls next to posters of past racing legends. There wasn’t really anything that had changed since the last time you had stepped foot in his room, it was almost like a time capsule from the last moment in time that Lando still lived at home. 

As you take a seat on the twin bed you glance over at the one thing you loved to tease him about and when you see a bare wall where it should be you’re shocked. A freshly showered Lando walks into the room seconds after you’d spotted the missing piece of history. 

“You took down the Alex poster?!” You bombard him as soon as your eyes land on him. 

Lando furrows his eyebrows as he looks over to the spot where the infamous poster once resided. “Yeah.” He says, like it’s no big deal. 

“Why?!” 

Lando’s confused as to why you’re so distraught over him taking down the poster, but he entertains your inquiry. “Maybe because I didn’t want a poster of Alex Albon, who is my co-worker, staring me down while I fuck my girlfriend.” He teases as he saunters towards the way too small bed. 

You know what you’re planning on saying will get Lando riled up and so you say it with confidence. “Well thats what I was planning on looking at while you fucked me.” 

Lando hates how much of a tease you are and how easily you can press his buttons. He thinks he might need to teach you a lesson and in a flash he’s hovering over you with your hands pinned above your head. “You really know what to say to get me going, don't you love?” 

“Yeah but you love it.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

two years later

The salty sea air fills your nostrils as you walk along the beach holding the hand of the man you love. It had been an amazing week in the country you both hold to your hearts so dearly and tonight was the last night before you both had to go back to reality once more. Lando had suggested taking a walk after dinner and you were never one to pass up admiring the natural beauty that Italy has to offer. The lounge chairs and umbrellas were long gone from the beach and all that was left was the lulling waves and a picturesque sunset over the coastline. 

“I’m glad we were able to come back here.” You state as you lean your head on Lando’s shoulder. 

“Me too. It’s been too long.” 

And it truly had, the two of you hadn’t been back to Italy since the first time years ago. Since then the two of you had moved into a beautiful place in Monaco, Lando had two constructors championships and a driver’s championship under his belt, and you had been dominating your new job– quickly moving your way up the ladder. You were both thriving and it seemed like to you life couldn’t get any better than it was right now. 

Lando on the other hand somewhat felt the same. He’d accomplished so many things in the last couple years, but there was something that just didn’t feel complete in his life. And that something was burning a hole in his pants pocket. He’d won both championships, traveled the world more times than he could count, he’s lived a thousand lives it seems, but none of them would ever feel complete until he made you his wife. 

He’d known very early on that he was going to marry you, but the timing never seemed right and it was something he didn’t want to mess up. In all honesty he’d had the ring for over a year and how you hadn’t found it while living together he didn’t know, but the fact that you hadn’t was a sign to him that this is how it was meant to happen. 

You two had been talking about wanting to go back to Italy since what seemed like the day you got back the first time, but it seemed like something was always popping up or you had plans to go to someplace else. So when your schedules lined up and nothing else had been planned Lando knew this was when it was going to happen. 

He’d talked it over with Max trying to create some elaborate plan, but in the end they both agreed that something lowkey and more sentimental would be the best option. So now here he is minutes away from asking the love of his life to be his forever and she has no idea. He seems to be slyly checking his pocket every chance he can get to make sure the ring is still there and each time he feels it he thinks his dinner is about ready to come back up. 

When you ask him to take some pictures of you with the sunset he knows this is the moment. He actually does take a couple pictures of you just as like a moments before kind of thing, but when you turn your back to him he tosses the phone in the sand and grabs that little black box from his pocket. His heart feels like it’s about ready to beat out of his chest and he thinks he’s experiencing more adrenaline now than he ever has while racing. He gets down on one knee and his hands are trembling so bad he can barely open the box to display the ring. This is what he’s been planning for what seems like years, yet in the moment he’s so fucking nervous he can’t even think straight. 

“Oh my god!” 

He hadn’t even looked up at you yet before you had turned around and saw the scene in front of you. Your voice snaps him out of his anxiety induced trance and when he sees the woman he loves standing in front of him on the verge of tears he knows this is meant to be. 

“Y/N Y/L/N. I’ve known I wanted to marry you since practically the first week of our relationship, but I’ve loved you knowingly and unknowingly for what seems like a lifetime. You’re my sun, my moon, and my stars. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t acknowledge just how insanely lucky I am to have you in my life and for you to be mine. You love me when I’m happy, when I’m sad, and even when I’m a little bit of an ass.” 

He pauses trying to calm himself. 

“God, you’ve supported me through my worst times in racing and during my absolute best times. You’re my best friend, my soulmate, my lover, you’re everything I’d ever need in life wrapped up into one extraordinary woman. I’ve done so many things in life and accomplished so many things, but my life isn’t complete until I make you my wife. I’ve never loved someone like you and I never plan on loving anyone but you. You’re it for me, you’re the person I want to grow old and grey with. So Y/N, will you make me the happiest man on Earth and marry me?” 

There’s tears streaming down your face and Lando manages to let some of his own fall as he professes his love to you in the most vulnerable way possible. You feel like you’re not even in your body at the moment, but you drop to your knees and grab Lando’s face in your hands, pulling him into the most passionate and loving kiss you two had ever shared. To hear the man you love with every fiber of your being talk about you like that is a moment you’ll never forget. When you pull away you look down at the breathtaking ring that’s residing in the box being held by a still shaky Lando. 

“Yes, I’ll marry you.” You say breathlessly. 

“Yes?” Lando can’t believe the words he’s hearing. 

A huge smile stretches across your face, of course Lando doesn’t believe you. “Yes!” 

In an instant the ring is out of the box and being slid onto your ring finger. It’s even more gorgeous on and as you stare at your hand you really can’t believe you’re engaged. Lando’s pulling you into another breathtaking kiss and you realize you’re kissing your fiance which makes you feel even more giddy. 

“I love you so much.” Lando says as he stares deeply into your eyes, his hand gently cupping your cheek. 

“I love you more.” You counter back. 

“Impossible.” 

As you two walk back to the villa you’re both still on cloud nine, but it doesn’t stop either of you from being your cheeky selves. “Y/N Norris does have a nice ring to it doesn’t it?” 

You give him a tight lipped smile. “This is awkward… I thought you’d be taking my last name.” 

Lando lets out a laugh, pulling you tighter into his side. “Honestly I’ll do whatever you want my love.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

a year later 

The wedding was planned rather quickly, the both of you almost considering just getting eloped, but you knew you’d want the memories and stories to tell. So, you planned a wedding with just your families and close friends to attend. 

The ceremony itself was beautiful and you couldn’t have asked for it to be any more romantic or sentimental. Tears were shed by both Lando and you and the crowd during your vows. The way Lando talked about you and expressed just how much he loved you let you know you had made the right choice in marrying him. 

The reception on the other hand was what seemed to be the party of the century. You had ditched your long elegant wedding gown for a much shorter white dress. While Lando ditched his suit jacket and had opted to roll up his sleeves and unbutton the top buttons on his shirt which had you feeling feral. You’re husband was looking hot as fuck and you couldn’t wait to have some alone time with him. 

As the two of you sat at the wedding party table you heard the clinking of silverware on a champagne flute. To your right stood Max Fewtrell with his glass held high and everyone’s eyes on him. “Excuse me everyone, but as the best man I’m required to give a speech, so here goes nothing.” He shoots a wink towards Lando and you and you’re scared for what’s about to come out his mouth. “Well let me just start off by saying, I think we all figured this day would eventually come, but for a while we didn’t think it ever would. I mean I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people be more in love with each other for years and not realize it and deny it!” 

The crowd laughs and you feel your cheeks turn pink at the teasing, choosing to hide your face in Lando’s neck for a moment while Max continues. 

“There was a time where we all went on a group trip to Greece and mind you there was a group of us and Lando and Y/N acted like no one else existed. They’d go off and do their own thing, leaving everyone else behind, and this was probably a good year before they finally opened their eyes. Then when they went to Italy together by themselves and made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal, when it was all Lando could literally talk about the week leading up to it. Luckily they came back and realized how in love they were with each other, because I know I can speak for myself and everyone in this room when I say we all would have had to knock some sense into you if you hadn’t.” 

More laughter fills the air and both Lando and you have a little red tint to your cheeks, which you both blame on the alcohol. 

“Anyways, I’m so happy that my two best friends have each other in the way they were intended to. You two are my favorite example of love and I hope I can make another speech at your fiftieth wedding anniversary.” Max raises his glass in a toast. “Here’s to the happy couple. May your love last a million lifetimes.” 

The crowd erupts into applause and hoots and hollers as Max sits back down in his chair. Lando presses a quick kiss to your temple before quickly getting up from his chair, repeating the actions of Max’s glass clinking. You look up at him confused, but he just shoots you a smile before speaking. 

“First of all thank you all for coming to celebrate me marrying a woman who’s way out of my league. Secondly, thank you Max for that lovely speech.”

Laughter and cheers fill the air once again and then there’s some commotion in the background somewhere. Then you see two guys wheeling a projector screen to the middle of the room where everyone can see it. 

“Um, I’ve got a little something for my amazing wife that I’ve been working on for years and actually I had been working on it unknowingly for years before that. Anyways, let me stop rambling and show you.” Lando sits back down in his chair next to you as the lights dim and before you can ask him what’s going on his pretty little face pops up on the screen. 

“Hi baby! Over the years of us being together I’ve been capturing pictures and videos of you. Which is nothing new, we are always taking pictures and stuff, but these ones are special. These are pictures and videos that you’ve never seen. Instead of me explaining just let me show you. I love you so much and I want everyone to see the extraordinary woman I’ve married. I want everyone to see you how I see you.”

The screen fades to black and then pictures of you begin to pop up, ones that you didn’t even know existed. You’re so used to Lando having his camera out that you never thought to think of the ones he didn’t show you. Pictures of you in your pajamas making breakfast to you in your work attire to you all glammed up for a gala. Videos of you singing in the car, laughing, and just existing. Birthdays, trips, everything you could imagine someone could capture. Then you realize some of these pictures and videos are from before you two even got together from when you were still friends. 

It makes your heart swell to know Lando’s been capturing you in such a loving way since basically the beginning of you two knowing each other. You don’t even realize your crying until you feel Lando gently wiping away your tears. If someone would have told you years ago before you two went to Italy that you’d be here today married to Lando and crying over the most beautiful thing he’s ever given you, you would have laughed in their face. You look into your husband’s eyes and you know that there’s not another human being on this planet that could love you like he loves you. There’s a permanent place for him in your heart now and deep down you think there always has been. He’s your person and you're his and sure it may have taken you guys awhile to get here, but everything happens for a reason and you know you two were meant to be here at this moment right now. 

“You’re mine forever you know that right? I love you so much it hurts.” You tell him as the video ends and the guests also wipe their tears. 

Lando grabs your hands in his, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. “Forever and always, baby.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

five years later 

A little girl with a mop of brown curls and laughter that resembles her Mother plays in the sand with her Father by her side. “Daddy!” She screeches looking up at him with eyes that mirror his– pretty blue like the water. The waves keep inching closer and closer to the sandcastle they’re building and the little girl is worried their hard work will be washed away any minute now. “I know my love. We should have listened to Mommy and built it further up.” 

“Mommy know’s everything.” She states matter of factly. 

The man lets out a laugh. “That she does.” 

A baby lays on his Mother’s chest as they both lounge under an umbrella. The woman watches her husband and daughter lovingly as they play in the sand. She catches her husband's eye and he flashes her a smile that even after all these years makes butterflies erupt in her stomach. 

Later after a day spent at the beach they’re both carrying a sleeping child back to the villa, their world in their arms. Finally when both kids are sound asleep in their beds the adults find themselves sitting outback with an all too familiar scenery around them. The man leaves for a brief second and while he’s gone the woman watches her babies through the baby monitor, her heart swelling over the fact that she made them with the love of her life. 

When he returns he has something hidden behind his back and with a raised eyebrow from his wife he reveals an old favorite of theirs. 

“The trip wouldn’t be complete without this now would it?” He says as he sits down next to her. 

“God we haven’t had this in forever.” She says as she takes the glass of pink moscato from him. 

“Just a man after your heart.” 

She laughs at her husband's antics. “You’ve already got it darling.” 

White Horse - Chapter 5: July 2023

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 the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

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

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Just a heads-up. I have a girlfriend.

Jos: …And you’re only telling me now?

Max: Yes.

Jos: How long?

Max: Four months.

Jos: Jesus, Max. Who is she?

Max: Isabelle.

Jos: Isabelle who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc.

Jos:

Jos: LECLERC??

Max: Yes.

Jos: You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?!

Max: Yes.

Jos: And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?

Max: Why would I?

Jos: Because she’s a Leclerc.

Max: And?

Jos: And that’s complicated.

Max: No, it’s really not.

Jos: Do her brothers know?

Max: No.

Jos: They’re going to lose their minds.

Max: Probably.

Jos: And you don’t care?

Max: Not really.

Jos: …You’re serious about her.

Max: I am.

Jos: Huh.

Max: That’s all you have to say?

Jos: What do you want me to say?

Max: I don’t know. I expected more yelling.

Jos: Would it change anything?

Max: No.

Jos: Exactly.

Jos: Don’t let her distract you.

Max: She’s not a distraction.

***

There was something to say about Isabelle Leclerc in her element. 

High Heels clicking against the dark wood that now covered the floor of his penthouse (Walnut, as she had explained to him once, laid in a herringbone pattern), the cream dress she wore swishing around her calves, nearly the exact same colour as was on most of the walls (Max had realised that he was colour blind by the time she had shown him five different shades of cream, told him to pick one, and he had been certain that she was playing a practical joke on him because they all looked the exact same. Who knew that there was a different between Snow White, Skimmed Milk White, Shaded White, Strong White and New White?) and telling him all about the light fixtures that were now hung in the space. 

She walked ahead of him, soft voiced, giving a quiet tour of the apartment she’s spent the last few months designing. 

Max trailed behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her more than the rooms.

She was different here.

Not in a big, obvious way—Isabelle was always composed, always graceful—but here, in the space she had built from the ground up, she walked with ease. She fit into the light like she belonged to it. And the truth was, she did.

Isabelle stopped in the living room, where the late sunlight stretched across the wooden floors, and looked around.

“All that’s left is the furniture install,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’ll be livable in a week or two.”

Max nodded, but didn’t answer right away.

Isabelle turned to him, mistaking his silence for something technical. “Unless there’s anything you want to change?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s perfect.”

She gave him a small, pleased smile, and turned back to the windows. That’s when he said it.

“You should move in.”

She stilled.

“Belle.”

She looked back at him. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it wavered at the edges. “Max.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped closer, gentle, careful—because he knew that look on her face. It was the look she wore whenever he offered her something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept. 

“You made this place feel like home,” he said. “Everything in it has your fingerprints on it. You already live in it, in every way except physically.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked around again—at the walls she’d chosen, the soft gold hardware, the faint echo in the emptiness.

“I don’t want to take up too much space,” she said finally, so quiet it hurt.

Max frowned. “I want you to take up space.”

She hesitated. He knew she would. She always thought twice before stepping forward, especially when it came to being wanted. He also knew that hesitation wasn’t about him—not really. It was about every time she’d been treated like an afterthought.

So he took a step back, and pulled out his phone.

She blinked. “What are you—”

“Exhibit A,” he said, tapping open a photo and turning it toward her. “Jimmy. Sitting by the front door. Waiting for you after you left last week.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched. “That’s just because I give him treats.”

“Exhibit B,” Max continued, swiping again. “Sassy. Nesting on the blanket you left on the couch. Will not accept substitutes.”

“Max…”

“And Exhibit C,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket and walking over to her, eyes soft but unwavering. “Me. Also useless without you.”

She bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Are you emotionally blackmailing me with your cats?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “And if this doesn’t work, I will start sending photos of Sassy looking depressed. I will weaponize her pout.”

She laughed, head dropping slightly as she shook it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he said. “And I’m not asking for something huge or scary. I just want you here. Where you already belong.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but smiling now.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said. “But I’ll be here. So will Jimmy. And Sassy. And we’ll all be very supportive and dramatic about it.”

She laughed, but the sound was splintering around the edges. 

“Are you sure?” Isabelle asked him, her voice shaky. 

Max reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sure,” he said firmly. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. I just—” He exhaled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I just want you to know I want this. I want you.”

She stepped into his arms then, wrapping hers around his waist, burying her face in his chest. And when she whispered, “I think I want to say yes,” he smiled so wide it made his cheeks ache.

And if Jimmy and Sassy got extra treats that night when she came over?

Well. They’d earned it.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max asked me to move in.

Isabelle: Like. Officially. Into the penthouse. With him.

Isabelle: I said yes.

Emilie: YOU SAID YES??? YES TO WHAT??

Isabelle: Max. The penthouse. The cats. All of it.

Emilie: AAAAAAAAAAAA

Emilie: I knew it. I KNEW he was going to ask. He’s been treating you like a man who wants joint bills and matching key hooks.

Isabelle: He was so calm about it. Like he’d already pictured me there. Like it was obvious.

Emilie: Because it is obvious. You designed that penthouse and made it a love letter to your own taste. You’ve already moved in emotionally. Time to do it physically.

Emilie: So when do we pack?

Isabelle: That’s… actually why I texted. Can you come help? I need moral support.

Emilie: Say less. I’ll be there with wine. 

Isabelle: …perfect. Also, if I start backpedaling emotionally, please just throw a throw pillow at me.

Emilie: I’m bringing the heaviest one. You’re doing this, Belle. I am SO proud of you.

Isabelle: I’m scared. Like… what if I mess it up?

Emilie: You won’t. You don’t know how to be anything but steady and brilliant and thoughtful.

Emilie: And Max is completely in love with you.

Emilie: You’re building a life with someone who sees you.

Emilie: Not someone who just remembers you when they need a reservation booked.

Isabelle: That’s a little mean.

Emilie: I am your best friend. I am required to be mean on your behalf.

Emilie: Max loves you. He sees you. You get to have a gorgeous man AND a rooftop pool. This is the dream.

Emilie: Let’s pack your life, Belle. You’re going home.

***

Emilie Abadie had always believed that homes told stories.

Not just the curated kind you shared in design portfolios, or the kind Instagram filtered into perfection. The real ones. The stories that lived in cluttered drawers, forgotten shelves, and the boxes you avoided packing because they were full of things you didn’t want to explain.

Isabelle’s apartment told a quiet, thoughtful story—soft linens, deep greens and warm woods, books arranged by mood, not color. A ceramic cup collection that made no cohesive sense except to her. It was lived-in, and loved, but also… careful.

Emilie knew what careful looked like.

She’d watched Isabelle perfect the art of it for years.

Which was why it didn’t surprise her when, halfway through packing up the hallway cupboards, she found it. The collection of objects that could only be described as “well-meaning psychological warfare,” wrapped in tissue paper and reluctant affection.

Highlights included: 

A desk plaque that said Think Like a Leader.

A collection of self help books. 

A coffee mug that read Worlds Okayest Sister. 

A heavy coffee table book about golf. 

A Bluetooth speaker shaped like a race car that lit up in flashing LED colors.

A number of scented candles, all of them unburnt. All of them with the kind of sickly sweet scents that Emilie knew Isabelle would get headaches from. 

A bright red umbrella. Ferrari merchandise. 

A black pantsuit Isabelle had never worn and would never wear—tags still attached.

A Diet cookbook. Which pretty much exclusively featured recipes that involved red meat, which Isabelle never ate anyway. 

A pair of trainers in a garish neon yellow.  Two full size too big. 

It was Isabelle Leclerc’s version of a family scrapbook.

Emilie didn’t say anything at first. Just sat cross-legged on the floor and started lining them up like museum artifacts. Like evidence. And it made her blood boil.

“You kept all of them,” Emilie finally said, not bothering to mask her disgust.

Isabelle, predictably, didn’t flinch. Just looked over from where she was folding dish towels and sighed. “Please don’t start.”

Emilie snorted. “I’m not starting. I’m documenting.”

Isabelle walked over and perched on the armrest of the couch, staring at the collection like someone facing down a polite ghost.

“They’re not trying to hurt me,” she said, because of course she did.

“They’re not trying to see you either,” Emilie finally replied.

God, they had trained her to make excuses for them so well. 

And that was the thing about Isabelle.

Isabelle defended them. Always. Even when they ignored her. Even when they handed her a gift that said, in a thousand unspoken ways, we don’t know who you are, so here’s who we’d rather you be.

Emilie loved Isabelle for her grace. Respected her for her patience.

But sometimes she wanted to scream on her behalf.

Because Isabelle Leclerc was brilliant. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.

She could sketch out a space and see a life inside it before anyone else could.

She knew how to listen, how to hold space, how to fill a room without taking it over.

And yet, her family treated her like the placeholder sibling.

The support system.

The “how lucky we are to have you manage our chaos” afterthought.

Emilie wanted to shake her sometimes. 

“You’re allowed to admit it hurts,” she said, softer than she meant to.

Isabelle just hummed noncomittingly.

Emilie had watched this play out for years: birthdays where Isabelle got gifts that felt like HR perks, dinners where she was interrupted or talked over, family holidays where she played event planner and emotional buffer and never, not once, was asked what she wanted for herself.

And then Max Verstappen had shown up.

At first, Emilie had been skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? He was Max—F1 World Champion, known for being blunt to the point of rudeness.

But then… she saw the way Isabelle softened around him.

Or no—that wasn’t it.

Isabelle didn’t soften with Max. She just… relaxed.

Like for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to justify her existence. Max didn’t question her decisions, didn’t treat her like she was delicate or invisible. He watched her. Not with confusion, but with certainty. Like he already knew she was extraordinary.

And when he asked her to move in, Emilie saw the panic. But underneath it? The wonder.

The possibility of being seen. Fully. Without apology.

So as Emilie watched her best friend now—holding that terrible mug with a rueful smile, defending the people who had handed her metaphorical shrink-wrap year after year—she didn’t say the things she wanted to.

She didn’t say, They don’t deserve you.

She didn’t say, They never tried hard enough.

She didn’t even say, You don’t have to keep forgiving them just because it’s easier than facing the truth.

Instead, she handed Isabelle a roll of bubble wrap and said, “I’m glad you’re moving.”

Isabelle didn’t answer, just smiled faintly and kept folding.

But Emilie meant it. Not just because the apartment was too small for her, or too carefully arranged around other people’s expectations—but because Max had asked her to move in.

And Max—despite being the chaos of F1 incarnate—saw her.

He wasn’t perfect—God, no—but he made space for her. Real space.

And for someone like Isabelle, who had spent her whole life tucking herself into corners… that mattered.

Max didn’t just love her.

He made her feel unchallenged in her existence. Like it was safe to take up room. To bring her books and her silly teacups and her weird throw pillows and be.

Emilie looked around the apartment one last time. The walls felt like they were exhaling. Letting go.

And when Isabelle asked, softly, “Do you think I’ll miss it?”, Emilie didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said. “You’ll be too busy building something better.”

With someone better.

And that made all the difference.

***

Isabelle didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The shopping trip was meant to be practical.

They had all the essentials, really—Max’s penthouse was fully furnished, a curated blend of sleek lines and soft warmth, every finish and fixture carefully chosen. By her. For him.

And now… for them.

Because Max had asked her to move in. And she’d said yes.

And suddenly, the things she used to walk past in shops—the towels, the sheets, the coffee mugs—meant something entirely different.

They weren’t just purchases.

They were choices.

Isabelle ran her fingers over the display of Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and cloud-white, then turned to a soft beige set that made her think of sleepy mornings and Max’s warm skin under her fingertips. She held up the tag, inspected the thread count, and caught herself smiling.

It felt a little silly, how giddy she was. How young she felt. Like a teenager dreaming of her first apartment. But this was different. This wasn’t fantasy.

This was real.

She was going to live with him. Not just crash on weekends, not just brush her teeth beside his before tiptoeing out the next morning.

She would be there when he got home.

She would be there when he left.

She would be home.

That thought made her pause.

The nerves came creeping in—quiet but insistent.

Would she take up too much space? Would she somehow get in the way? What if she over-decorated, what if she made it feel less like his place?

What if she loved it more than she was allowed to?

She picked up towels next—thick ones, luxurious ones. One set in cream, one in a dusky grey-blue. Neutral. Calming. Shared.

Would Max care?

Probably not. He’d happily dry off with whatever was closest.

But Isabelle cared.

Because this wasn’t just shopping.

This was settling.

Belonging.

She carried the towels and duvet set to the counter and added a couple of throw pillows she hadn’t planned to buy, and still did, before she went to her favourite antique store. 

The store smelled like old books, wood polish, and dried lavender. Isabelle had always loved it—the quiet hush of it, the way everything creaked slightly underfoot, how time seemed to fold in around the edges. Nothing here rushed. Nothing here demanded.

Which was why she came.

When she needed to think.

When she needed to feel like she was choosing something entirely her own.

The console table caught her eye almost immediately. Oak, mid-century, solid but delicate somehow—slim legs, warm finish, brass drawer pulls that looked like little leaves. It wasn’t flashy, but it was hers. In the way certain pieces just are.

She stood in front of it for a while, her hand brushing over the edge.

They had space for it. Max had said she could pick what she wanted. He meant it. He’d said things like it’s your home too and whatever makes it feel like us, but Isabelle still felt the pull of hesitation in her chest. A quiet anxiety that came not from Max—but from all the years of not quite being allowed to take up space.

But she wanted this one.

This table. This little symbol of her taste, her joy, her voice.

She turned to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it.”

The words were quiet, but steady.

A few minutes later, she stood at the counter, scribbling her name on the delivery slip. The butterflies were still there—flapping somewhere between her ribs—but so was something else. Something lighter.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: So hypothetically… if someone were to have bought a few things for the apartment while you were gone… would that be a problem?

Max: Define “a few things.”

Isabelle: …Towels. Throw pillows. A vintage console table I may have emotionally imprinted on.

Max: Was it whispering to you in the store?

Isabelle: It was practically begging to live in our hallway.

Max: Then obviously you had no choice.

Isabelle: Exactly. Also, I got a really pretty ceramic tray for the kitchen island. You know, for keys. Or snacks. 

Isabelle: You’ll love it. It’s very “Max doesn’t know what it’s for but agrees it looks nice.”

Max: My favorite kind of décor. You’re making this apartment ours. I love it.

Isabelle: You can thank me by letting me put  the throw pillows I just found on the couch. 

Max: Are the throw pillows neutral or secretly pink?

Isabelle: Neutral… ish. There’s texture. You’ll survive. I debated between “soft beige” and “almond stone.” I chose “soft beige”.

Max: That’s not even a real difference.

Isabelle: Says the man who can feel the difference between tire compounds while going 300 km/h.

Max:  Touché.

Max: Buy anything you want. Cover the couch in throw pillows. I miss you and imagining you decorating makes it feel closer to coming home.

Isabelle: That was dangerously sweet.

Max: I’m in a hotel room with bad lighting and no you. I’m weak.

Isabelle: I’ll save you a spot on the couch. And possibly hide the pillows until you’ve emotionally adjusted.

Max: Deal. Now send me a photo of that tray. I need to know what I’ve agreed to.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@f1fashionista93: where is this shop?? asking for a friend (the friend is me)

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s called Vintage Collection, at the Carré d’Or!

@emilie_abadie: You’re so lucky I wasn’t with you or that lion would be in my living room.

↳ @isabelleleclerc You would’ve named him and given him a tragic backstory. ↳ @emilie_abadie And he would’ve deserved it.

@paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???

@victoriaverstappen: “Something older than everyone in the room” is my new golden rule—thank you for this! ❤️

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s such a good trick!

@/F1GossipQueen: You’ve inspired me to go antiquing this weekend. Hoping to find my own weird lion.

***

Max wasn’t sure when it hit him exactly—somewhere between unrolling a rug Isabelle had ordered and setting it gently under the coffee table, or watching her rearrange the spice drawer for the third time like she was memorizing her own existence.

She was here. She had moved in. But somehow… she hadn’t arrived yet.

He watched from the doorway as she unpacked a box labeled “Books + misc. (bedside stuff?)” in her neat handwriting. Her movements were precise. Careful. Like every item she placed might be quietly retracted if it took up too much space.

It wasn’t the way she moved in his life. With him, she was steady. Present. Laughing softly in the kitchen or curled up with Jimmy or Sassy, or leaning into his touch like she belonged there—which, to him, she did.

But this… this looked like someone trying not to leave a mark.

“Hey,” Max said softly, leaning in the doorway.

Isabelle glanced up. “Sorry. I’m taking over the dresser—if you want the top drawer back—”

“I don’t,” he said, crossing the room. “I want you to take all the drawers. And the shelves. And the bathroom counter.”

She looked at him warily, like she didn’t quite believe it.

Max reached for her hand. “You’re not a guest, Belle. You live here. I want to see your things around the place.”

Isabelle hesitated, fingers curling slightly in his. “I just… I’ve never had space before. Not really. And I don’t want to—”

“Take up too much room,” he finished for her. Gently.

She nodded, eyes down.

Max cupped her cheek, making her look up. “Take up all the room. Please. I’ve seen this place without you in it. It’s beautiful and cold.”

She huffed a soft laugh, like it surprised her. “I just didn’t want to… clutter it.”

“You’re not clutter,” he said firmly. “You’re the heart of it.”

He tugged her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tightly, and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I want to trip over your shoes in the hallway,” he murmured. “I want your throw blankets on every surface. I want the picture of Blanche in the living room and that stuffed bunny from your childhood sitting next to my championship trophies.”

She buried her face in his chest, breathing in deeply. “You’re sure?”

“I’m certain,” Max whispered. “Make it yours. Make it ours.”

There was a long silence—warm, safe.

Then Isabelle pulled back slightly and smiled, small but real.

“Okay,” she said softly.

And just like that, the penthouse began to feel like home.

***

Isabelle hadn’t meant to hide it.

The roll-up keyboard wasn’t a secret. It was just… something small. Something she kept. Tucked away behind art books and a folded throw blanket. She’d placed it there quietly, the way she placed most of her things in this space—carefully. As if she were still trying to make sure she belonged.

So when she heard him call from the living room—“You didn’t tell me you had this”—her stomach fluttered.

Isabelle padded out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, the sleeves of Max’s hoodie falling over her hands. He was crouched near the bookshelf, curiosity written across his face as he unzipped the worn canvas pouch she hadn’t touched in months.

The roll up keyboard.  That sad little silicone thing she’d used in university apartments and rental flats, when the idea of owning a real piano had felt laughable.

“Oh,” she said, voice faintly embarrassed. “Right. That thing.”

Max looked up at her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You actually play on this?”

“I did,” she admitted, sinking onto the rug beside him. Her legs folded under her easily, like muscle memory. “When there wasn’t room for anything else.”

There was a time when she’d pulled that keyboard out just to feel normal for five minutes. Between assignments, between shifts, between everyone forgetting she existed.

“You’re full of surprises,” Max murmured, watching her fingers hover above the keys, not quite touching them.

Isabelle shrugged, soft. “Not really. We had a piano growing up. At the country house.”

He glanced at her. “Do you write music too? Like Charles?”

She blinked, surprised that Max knew that…but then she remembered that her brother had actually released some of his compositions. Of course, Max would know.  “Do you?” Max asked again, gentler this time. Not pushing—inviting.

She shook her head. “No. I was never interested in writing anything new. I liked learning. Things people said were difficult. Pieces with layers. There’s something comforting about playing something that already exists. Like translating someone else’s thoughts.” Her voice dropped slightly. “It felt less scary than putting mine out there.”

Max watched her like he always did—closely, quietly, like he knew what she wasn’t saying.

“So you were more of a storyteller than a composer.”

She blinked. That was… accurate.

“It felt like less pressure,” she said. “I didn’t have to be brilliant. I just had to be present.”

And that, she thought, was the kind of safety she rarely felt in her family. But somehow, she found it here. In this penthouse she helped design. In this quiet space with the man who saw her entirely.

Max turned to glance at the empty corner by the window, where soft light spilled from the sconces she’d chosen herself. “We should get you a real piano.”

She looked at him quickly. “Max…”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m serious. You shouldn’t have to unroll your music out of a drawer. Not here. Not anymore.”

Her throat tightened. Not just at the gesture, but at what it meant. What he understood without her having to explain it.

“I don’t even know if I’d still be good,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care,” Max replied. “I just want to hear you play.”

She leaned in and kissed him—slow, grateful, still in disbelief that someone wanted this much of her. When she pulled away, her voice was soft and full of warmth.

“What kind?”

“You pick,” he said simply. “I’ll just be the guy who listens.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Serious question: Am I allowed to touch your trophies?

Max: …What?

Isabelle: Your F1 trophies. The actual ones.  Like, are they sacred objects or can I move them?

Max: I’m sorry… what?

Isabelle: I want to move them into the built-in display we had made. The one with the custom lighting and matte black shelves you pretended not to care about but totally loved.

Max: I do love that wall.

Isabelle: It’s ready. And your trophies are going in. But I needed to check if you’re one of those people who’ll panic if I breathe too close to the 2021 Abu Dhabi trophy.

Max: What?? No. They’re trophies, not cursed artefacts.

Isabelle: You say that like it’s obvious.

Max: Why would it not be obvious??

Isabelle: Because Charles once lost his mind when I breathed too close to his karting trophies. Like—actual panic. Told me to “never touch the silver one from 2012,” because apparently my mortal fingerprints could destroy the legacy.

Isabelle: So I’m checking. Do I need gloves? Tongs? An FIA certification? Or can I just move them like a normal person?

Max: ...Your brother is completely insane. 

Isabelle: So can I move your trophies? Dust them? Put them in the light-up cabinet I designed with my whole heart?

Max: You could build a pyramid out of them and I’d say thank you. They’re metal, not ancient relics. You don’t need ceremonial gloves.

Isabelle: Okay good. Because the lighting is chef’s kiss. I even have little engraved name plates.

Max: Touch whatever you want. Including me, when I get home.

Isabelle: Noted. Trophies first. You second.

Max: I’ll take it.

Max: Send me a photo when it’s done?  I kind of love that you’re doing this. Feels like the trophies finally have a home too.

Isabelle: I’ll send you a whole slideshow. With dramatic lighting.

***

The flight back had been mostly quiet.

Well—quiet-ish. If you didn’t count the eighty-four times Lando had apologized for breaking Max’s trophy, or the part where he genuinely offered to ride in the luggage compartment as penance.

Now they were back in Monaco. The sun was doing that rich golden thing it did right before it sank into the sea, and Lando was trying very hard not to think about how he’d destroyed a priceless piece of Verstappen history.

Max had just unlocked the front door of his brand-new penthouse—the penthouse, the one Lando hadn’t seen yet—and turned back with a smirk.

“Come in,” Max said. “You can personally witness the replacement trophy making it home safely. Might help your guilt complex.”

Lando followed him in, dragging his emotional damage behind him like a suitcase. “Mate, I broke your winning trophy. They handed it to you and I just—smash. Right there on the podium.”

“Honestly, that thing fell apart like IKEA furniture,” Max said over his shoulder, already tossing his keys into a surprisingly stylish bowl. “That’s what they get for making a teapot the trophy.”

Lando barely heard him. His brain had short-circuited the moment he stepped into the apartment.

It was… insane.

Vaulted ceilings. Curved walls. Warm lighting that didn’t feel clinical or rich-guy sterile. It didn’t scream money, it whispered it, in like, six languages. And the view—the view—was like something out of a dream. Monaco glittered below them, golden and lazy, like it had been placed there just for Max.

Lando looked around the massive open space—sleek kitchen, moody wood floors, an actual staircase—and had to bite back a seriously?!

It looked like Max Verstappen lived in a Pinterest board for emotionally stable billionaires.

He flopped dramatically onto Max’s disturbingly soft couch. “Do you know how many people sent me the slow-mo of that moment? Like I wanted to be immortalized as the idiot who destroyed the winner’s trophy.”

Max snorted from the kitchen. “Gods, you’re worse than my girlfriend.”

Lando blinked. “Wait, what?”

Max poured two glasses of water like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Belle used to be terrified of touching my trophies. Wouldn’t even go near them. Her brother’s obsessed with his, told her once that she could ‘smudge the history’ by getting fingerprints on them.”

Lando stared. “Your what?”

Max, with the calm of a man not fully aware of the chaos he was about to cause, strolled past him. “My girlfriend.”

Lando’s entire brain short-circuited. "SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"

Max shrugged. “About… four months?”

“FOUR MONTHS?” Lando shrieked, sitting up straight. “And I’m just now finding out?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“I’m your friend, Max!”

And then, as if the universe were determined to finish Lando off, the front door opened.

Lando turned.

In stepped Isabelle Leclerc.

Isabelle Leclerc in all her soft, gently glory. Wearing sunglasses on her head, a bag slung over one shoulder, in high heels and a pink dress… her expression soft and content in that way people were when they walked into a space that felt like home.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at Max. “I missed you. Did the box with the spare trophy arrive?”

Max pointed to the dining table. “It’s right there. Lando helped escort it home personally.”

Lando’s soul evacuated his body.

He turned to Max.

Then to Isabelle.

Then back to Max.

In a hoarse, horrified whisper, he said, “That’s Charles’ sister.”

Max, the absolute psychopath, just nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

Lando turned to Isabelle. “And you’re okay with this?”

She smirked. “Clearly.”

Lando turned back to Max, voice rising. “And Charles knows?”

Max popped a chip into his mouth. “No.”

Lando nearly fell off the couch. “HE DOESN’T KNOW?”

“We’re keeping it private,” Isabelle said, casually crossing her arms like she wasn’t detonating Lando’s entire worldview.

Lando laughed. Or maybe screamed. Or both. “You’re keeping it private?” He pointed at Max. “Does Victoria know?”

Max nodded. “Yes.”

“Sophie?”

“Yep.”

“Jos?”

“Yes.”

Lando stared, hands flailing. “So just to confirm—everyone in your family knows—”

“Right.”

“—and none of hers knows?”

“Correct.”

Lando dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay, cool. Cool cool cool. So when Charles finds out, do you want your funeral to be in the Netherlands or Monaco?”

Max rolled his eyes. “Charles isn’t going to kill me.”

“YES HE IS!” Lando turned to Isabelle. “He’s going to kill him!”

Isabelle just shrugged. “I’ll deal with him.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “You’ll deal with him? This is the worst idea Max has ever had!”

Max just grinned, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Lando pointed at him. “And I want no part in it! I’m officially removing myself from this entire situation!”

“Noted.”

“I’m serious, Max. When Charles comes at you with, like, a Ferrari spoiler, I was never here.”

Max smirked and held up his hands. “Understood.”

And yet somehow, Lando knew that when it all inevitably exploded… he’d still end up involved.

Because, apparently, this was his life now.

***

Max had survived media scrums, championship-deciding races, and Jos Verstappen's silence-with-a-side-of-glare disapproval—but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to waiting for Emilie to step foot into the penthouse.

Isabelle’s Emilie.

 The best friend. The sister-by-choice. The one person Isabelle never sugarcoated anything for. The one who’d once, according to Isabelle herself, told a former boyfriend, “I hope you fall down an escalator and land on your ego.”

Max was… a little afraid.

He wasn’t nervous often. His job didn’t allow for it. But now, standing in his own kitchen, hands resting on the marble countertop Isabelle had picked out, he was nervous.

Because Emilie was the kind of person who saw things clearly—and said them out loud. And Max wasn’t stupid. He knew that Isabelle’s past was littered with people who hadn’t protected her the way she deserved. Especially her family. Especially the ones who should have known better.

So Emilie was the gatekeeper.

And Max? He was the boy who had fallen in love with the girl she protected.

The intercom buzzed. Isabelle, barefoot and glowing, went to let her in.

Max exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and silently promised the cats not to make this weird.

When the door opened, Emilie stepped in with a tote bag on one arm and sunglasses perched on her head like she belonged on the cover of “Best Friend With a Sharp Tongue Monthly.”

“Hi,” she said to Max, all easy charm and narrowed eyes.

“Hi,” he replied, with what he hoped was equal ease but probably came off a little like please don’t hate me.

Emilie looked around slowly. Took in the space. The light. The symmetry. The faint scent of lemon and clean wood. Then: “You let her pick the rug?”

Max blinked. “I mean… yes?”

Emilie turned to Isabelle. “He’s either deeply in love with you or very smart.”

Isabelle grinned. “Both.”

Max cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Emilie studied him for a beat. “Coffee?”

“Coming right up.”

He moved toward the machine, listening as Isabelle showed her around—explaining where things were, which parts of the design had been last-minute additions, what Max had insisted on and what she had picked out. 

Max made her coffee exactly the way Isabelle had once told him Emilie liked it—strong, touch of oat milk, pinch of cinnamon—and slid it across the island as Emilie wandered in, Sassy having demanded Isabelle’s attention like she was prone to be doing. 

Emilie took it, sipped, and raised her eyebrows. “Alright. You pass step one.”

“There are steps?” Max asked, mouth twitching.

“Oh, so many,” Emilie said. “But relax. You’re already ahead. You didn’t try to impress me with vintage wine or your Rolex.”

“I was going to offer cookies,” he admitted.

“Smart man.”

She took another slow sip, then set the mug down.

“Max,” she said, and her tone shifted—less playful now, more real. “You know she’s never done this before, right? Never let someone be her safe place. Never believed she could build something and live inside it, too.”

“I know,” Max said quietly.

Emilie studied him a moment longer.

“I don’t care that you’re a world champion,” she said. “I care that when she comes home, she gets to rest.”

Max nodded. “She does. That’s all I want. I don’t need her to fit into anything. I just want her to feel like she doesn’t have to be anything more than she is.”

Emilie stared at him.

Then, finally, she smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Infinitely better,” she said. “But if you screw this up, I will make you regret it in very creative ways.”

Max raised a hand. “Understood.”

Isabelle returned to the kitchen then, breezy and radiant, unaware that Emilie had just conducted an emotional background check in under five minutes.

“I like him,” Emilie said, already helping herself to a cookie.

“Thank God,” Isabelle murmured, leaning into Max with a smile.

And Max—well, Max just exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes. Because if he had Emilie’s approval?

That meant he was doing something right.

 Which mattered.

 Because Isabelle?

She was everything worth getting right.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Need vacation recommendations.

Lando: Oh no.

Max: What?

Lando: This is about her, isn’t it?

Max: …So do you have suggestions or not?

Lando: I knew it.

Lando: Max, I know you and Isabelle are a thing.

Lando: But Charles doesn’t.

Lando: And I would like to stay alive.

Max: This has nothing to do with Charles.

Lando: It has everything to do with Charles.

Max: No, it has everything to do with Isabelle.

Lando: SAME THING.

Lando: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be involved.

Max: I’m literally just asking for vacation recommendations.

Lando: And yet somehow, I will still end up suffering because of this.

Max: Lando.

Lando: FINE. Seychelles.

Max: That was fast.

Lando: Because I don’t want to talk about this any longer than I have to.

Lando: Seychelles is private, expensive, beautiful. Go there.

Max: Thanks.

Lando: Do not tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.

Max: Got it.

Lando: Seriously.

Max: Okay.

Lando: Like, if Charles finds out and demands to know what I knew—

Max: Then you knew nothing.

Lando: Exactly.

Max: Thanks, Lando.

Lando: I hate you.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript 

Stream starts, Max joins the call.

[Background reveals a brand-new sim room: sleek LED lighting, perfectly mounted curved monitors, and a back wall entirely dedicated to trophies, helmets, and framed photos—immaculately designed.]

Chat:

WAIT.

NEW ROOM??

WHERE TF IS HE

TROPHY WALL HELLO???

Bro has a museum behind him

That’s not the old sim room 😭

Chris Lulham: “Hold on, what is that behind you??”

Gianni Vecchio:  “Is that a whole new background?? Did you move? Why do you look like you're in an actual Formula 1 museum?”

Luke Crane: “That is not the same white wall with the sad curtain.”

Chris:  “Is that a trophy wall?? With lights?? WHY IS IT GLOWING.”

Gianni:  “That’s a custom setup. Someone made that. You did not install LED strips yourself, Max.”

Max: glances around “Oh, yeah. I moved. Still in Monaco.”

Chris: “Wait, what?! Since when?”

Max: “Few weeks ago.” shrugs

Chat:

🚨 BREAKING NEWS: MAX VERSTAPPEN MOVED AND DIDN’T TELL US 🚨

Max casually dropping life updates like he’s talking about the weather.

Bro didn’t even hint at it???

NEW SIM ROOM???

OH MY GOD THE MONACO TROPHY IS ON A LITTLE TURNTABLE

Luke Crane: "Hold on, hold on—are we just glossing over this? You moved and didn’t tell us?"

Max: laughs "I don’t tell you guys everything."

Luke Crane: "Clearly."

Chris: "Okay, but like… why?"

Max: shrugs again "Just wanted a change."

Chat:

He’s so unserious about major life events.

“Just wanted a change” bro you’re in a whole new house.

Luke Crane: “Alright, when’s the housewarming party?"

Max: "Never."

Chris: "Figured."

Chat:

That was the fastest rejection ever.

LMAOO Max really said NOPE.

Someone check the Monaco real estate listings 😭😭😭

Chris: "Okay, but real question—do we at least get a tour?"

Max: “Hold on, check this out.”

[Max adjusts his camera slightly, reaching off-screen.]

[Trophy wall lighting shifts smoothly from warm white to deep racing red.]

Enzo Bonito: NO WAY.

Luke Bennett: Did you just change the color?

Max: It’s all programmed. RGB control. Motion sensors too. They dim when I leave the room.

Gianni: That’s actually ridiculous. 

Max (grinning): Also acoustic panels. So no echo. And the mic quality’s better now too—right?

Luke Bennett: Sounds dangerously smooth, yeah. Honestly, this is a Bond villain layer disguised as a sim room.

Chat: 

max literally lives in a batcave

 this is a SIM LAIR

 rich people don’t build houses they build race temples

 bro’s sim room has mood lighting and better HVAC than my entire apartment

 WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A NETFLIX SET

Luke Bennett: Man, I feel like I should be wearing a tuxedo just to race you now.

Max (grinning): Anyway. Let’s race.

Chris: If my wheel breaks mid-race, I’m blaming this emotional damage.

Gianni: If I lose tonight, it’s because your RGB lighting intimidated me.

***

Isabelle always arrived on time for family dinner. With dessert, of course.

She always brought something. Homemade or picked up from her favorite patisserie. No one commented on it, but the plate was always clean by the end of the night.

Dinner was in full swing now, a chaotic medley of pasta, overlapping voices, and half-remembered updates from everyone’s life—except hers.

“So I told the media team we should change the graphic for next week,” Charles was saying, gesturing with his fork. “And they acted like I was speaking a different language.”

“Maybe they were,” Arthur said, grinning. “You barely speak one as it is.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “And you’re in F2, so calm down.”

“I’m in F2, not in last,” Arthur shot back.

“Boys,” Pascale said in a long-suffering tone. “Please. Eat.”

Isabelle had barely spoken since they sat down.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to contribute—she just never quite found the opening. Every time she tried, someone else jumped in louder, faster. She was used to it. It had been this way for most of her life.

Still, she tried.

“Oh,” she said lightly, when the conversation briefly turned toward travel. “I’ll be in Nice next week for a client install. Final stages of a boutique I’ve been working on for a few months.”

Charles barely looked up from his glass. “Interior stuff again?”

Isabelle smiled tightly. “Yes. It’s the final phase.”

“What are you installing, like… pillows?” Arthur asked, half-joking, half-serious.

“Furniture. Lighting. Custom cabinetry. Architectural finishes,” she replied, ticking them off calmly. “You know. The usual.”

“Right, right,” Lorenzo said, tone absent. “Pinterest, but expensive.”

Isabelle bit her tongue.

Hard.

She smiled again—her polite, polished, professional smile—and took a sip of her wine to swallow down everything she wanted to say.

No one asked more about the project. The conversation veered into Charles’ media schedule for the next race.  No one circled back to Isabelle.

They never did.

Until, several minutes later, Arthur mentioned Max.

“Did you know he just finished renovating his place in Monaco?” Arthur said, gesturing with his fork. “Fully redone. It’s all over the sim racing forums—some insane setup.”

“Oh, yeah,” Charles added. “I saw it. Trophy wall, hidden screens, mood lighting. So over the top.”

“It’s not over the top,” Isabelle said, casually.

They all turned.

“I designed it.”

Silence. Actual silence.

Isabelle set down her fork and took another sip of wine, just to give them a moment to catch up.

Charles blinked. “You—what?”

“I was the lead interior architect on Max Verstappen’s penthouse,” she said, voice steady. “From layout to lighting to final finishes.”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Like… the Max Verstappen?”

“No, Lorenzo, the other one,” Isabelle deadpanned.

Pascale blinked. “Well. That’s… quite something.”

“It was,” Isabelle said mildly. “A lot of work. High standards. Very involved client.”

…not really, but nobody needed to know that. Mostly Max had just let her do whatever she wanted. 

“You never said anything,” Charles muttered, confused.

“You never asked,” she said, sweetly. “You thought I was just picking out pillows.”

No one had an answer for that.

And Isabelle didn’t try to change the topic. instead she just stood up, starting to clean up plates— graceful as ever.

“I’ll help clean,” she said, voice still perfectly polite. And then, with a final smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she added, “Let me know if you ever want help picking out throw pillows, though. I’m very good at that.”

***

The front door opened with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable rustle of paper shopping bags and the sound of someone toeing off their shoes with slightly more force than necessary.

Max looked up from the couch, one arm draped around Jimmy, who had fully claimed the throw blanket. “You’re back late.”

Isabelle stepped inside, arms full of muted-toned bags from an upscale decor shop near the port. She dropped them on the kitchen island with a sigh that sounded far too heavy for a casual stroll home.

“I stopped at—” she started, then waved vaguely at the bags. “—somewhere.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

“Frustration shopping,” she muttered, pulling off her coat and hanging it neatly by the door.

He got up slowly, padding barefoot across the floor to meet her. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she unpacked …something that looked like a seashell and a pretzel had a baby,  a geometric candleholder she didn’t need, and a cushion cover in a color Max was pretty sure they used in the guest room.

“They laughed at my job,” she said finally, quiet but steady. “Again.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

Isabelle didn’t look at him. She kept unpacking. “Arthur made a joke about installing pillows. Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive.”

He let the silence hang, waiting.

“And then I told them,” she said, meeting his gaze now. “About the penthouse. The sim room. The trophy wall. All of it.”

Max stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly against her hand. “Good.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she admitted, her voice dipping. “I didn’t want it to sound like name-dropping. But I just—snapped. I was so tired of biting my tongue.”

“You don’t have to bite your tongue,” Max said, his voice low and firm. “Not with them. Not with anyone.”

She looked up at him, eyes a little glossy but not crying. Not yet.

“I built something for you,” she said. “Something real. And they still treat me like I’m playing house with fabric swatches.”

Max reached behind her and gently tugged her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“They can’t see it because they don’t want to,” he murmured. “But I see you. Every detail, every decision, every part of this place that feels like home—you did that.”

Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.

The silence was softer now. Safer.

After a beat, Max pulled back just enough to glance at the bags.

“...Please tell me that weird seashell thing isn’t going in the sim room.”

Isabelle laughed, a real one this time, even as she sniffled. “No promises.”

***

Quadrant Stream Transcript 

Lando Norris: Okay, I’m in. Finally.

Max Fewtrell: Took you long enough. What’d you do, build a new rig?

Lando: Nah, I’m not Max Verstappen. I don’t have a personalised sim fortress with like… ambient lighting and a trophy shrine.

Max F: Bro, that room is insane. I saw a clip on TikTok, and I swear it looked like he was about to launch a space shuttle.

Lando : That’s because Isabelle did it.

Max F: …Isabelle who?

Lando: Isabelle Leclerc.

Max F (pauses): …As in… Charles Leclerc’s sister?

Lando: Mhm.

Chat: 

LANDO WHAT

 BACK UP

ISABELLE LECLERC DESIGNED MAX’S SIM ROOM???

Max F: Wait wait wait hold on. Max Verstappen’s sim room was designed by Isabelle Leclerc?

Lando: Yep.

Max F: Okay but like—can she do my room?

 Lando: Have you got Max Verstappen money, mate?

Max F: …Right. So that’s a no.

Lando: That’s a hard no. She’s not out here doing LED lighting schemes for the boys on a Logitech G29.

Max F: Ouch. No, but seriously, that room looks like a race car museum had a baby with an interior design Pinterest board.

Lando: It’s ridiculous. He’s got like… hidden drawers, ambient color modes for quali, race, cooldown—mood lighting for his championship mood swings.

Max F: You’re telling me my man gets P1 and then sets the room to gold sparkle mode?

Lando: Wouldn’t even be surprised.

Max F: And Isabelle did all that?

Lando: Yeah. Interior architect. Like… architectural degree, portfolio, the works.

Max F: I’m gonna DM her my IKEA shopping list and see what happens.

Lando: All she’ll say is “please never contact me again.”

Max F: Worth it.

Chat: 

 “do you have max verstappen money” LMAO

 lando fully spilling the tea again i love him

ISABELLE IS THE INTERIOR ARCHITECT???

makes so much sense now why it has taste

Max F: This stream just turned into an episode of MTV Cribs: F1 Edition and I’m emotionally unprepared.

Lando: You and me both, mate.

***

The rooftop club was loud—bass pulsing through glass walls, drinks flowing freely, and the scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Monaco glittered below, and the whole world above felt like it had hit pause: one final blowout before the second half, before the summer break. 

Charles had been halfway through a conversation with Pierre when he heard it—faint, over the music, slipping in between thudding bass and the occasional shout of laughter.

French.

With a Monegasque accent.

He turned instinctively, blinking through the crowd.

Who the hell—

It was Max.

Max Verstappen.

Speaking fluent French. 

Not just French—Monegasque-accented French. Clean. Polished. Lightly clipped consonants in the way Charles had grown up hearing around every market stall and café table. Max’s cadence had shifted too—not quite native, but not clumsy either. 

Max was leaning slightly over the bar, talking to a bartender Charles recognized. His posture was relaxed, like it was normal. Like he’d done this a hundred times. His accent wasn’t perfect, but it was close—soft R’s, local cadence, the kind that didn’t come from a Duolingo app.

Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even know Max spoke French.

Pierre elbowed him, confused. “What?”

Charles shook his head, blinking. “Is he speaking French?”

Pierre followed his gaze, did a double take, then frowned. “Oh. Huh.”

“Where the hell did he learn that?” Charles muttered.

“Don’t look at me,” Pierre said. “Last I checked he couldn’t even pronounce ‘quiche’ properly.”

Lando strolled up then, already laughing at something Oscar had said. “What’s going on?”

“Max is speaking French,” Charles said, still stunned.

Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, he does that now.”

“What do you mean now?”

Lando shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been learning. Says it’s good for Monaco. And, you know with…” He trailed off.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Lando opened his mouth to respond and then suddenly blanched. “Nothing! Just…I need another drink!” and off he went. Charles stared after him. 

What was that about now? 

Charles frowned deeper, watching Max accept his drink with a quiet merci, bonne soirée like it wasn’t the most confusing thing Charles had witnessed all summer.

It wasn’t just the French.

It was the accent. The ease. 

Charles couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—that Max was speaking French… or that he was doing it like a local.

And somewhere in the back of his head, a quiet, suspicious thought began to form:

Why would Max Verstappen bother learning Monegasque-accented French?

a different light — max verstappen

max verstappen x fem!reader [6.9k] summary: you weren’t just friends. friends didn’t touch you the way he did (or the one where max has an epiphany and realizes he's in love with his best friend) warnings: 18+ explicit smut, idiots in love, friends to lovers a/n: idk what it is with me and writing fics at work, but here i am again. i had SO much fun writing this so I hope you enjoy reading this ♡

Max hadn’t experienced many moments where he felt true and utter bliss, especially when he was growing up. His home life made it hard, and he’d rejected any type of positive feelings for a long time until you came along. You’d been a force to be reckoned with, matching Max’s energy so well that it wasn’t hard to build a solid friendship that would last for as long as it did.

He found comfort in your soft skin, in your reassuring smile. Even in the way your voice would get all high pitched when you told a white lie. You’d been his one true pillar when his career went from karting to racing, becoming a known household name in the chaos of it all. You’d kept his feet on the ground when he needed it most, and there was no amount of money to ever repay you for everything you’d done for him, and you vice versa.

So, he found comfort in a lot of things when it came to you. But you, sitting close to him when you had so many seats and chairs to choose from? That was everything.

You had claimed the two-seater for yourselves, but it didn’t stop you from snuggling right up to your best friend’s side with his arm around you and your head comfortably resting on his pectoral. It was a common occurence, you so deeply embedded in his arms that it might as well have been a permanent shape of you on his skin. Max had grown up with you, so he'd basically memorized the smell of your shampoo that you'd used since you were fifteen, the freckles and moles on your face and how goosebumps rose on your skin at the slightest cold breeze because that's who you were.

He'd naively thought it to be normal, to be so in tune with his best friend and it wasn't until he'd entered early adulthood and actually spent time with his friends on the grid that he realized that maybe it wasn't usual.

He still remembered the day he'd brought you along for the Baku Grand Prix and you'd mentioned being childhood friends in a passing conversation, registering the sheer looks of confusion coming from his friends. It had made him flush, a little embarrassed and a little confused until Daniel had hooked an arm around his shoulders and murmured I've been going around for three months thinking she was your girlfriend, man.

Max had shoved his friend and pulled a face, the usual ‘gross, she’s like a sister’ phrase on his tongue that he couldn’t quite bring himself to say. But it had stuck with him for the rest of that day, and the more he thought about it, the more Daniel was probably right in thinking so.

Max couldn't pinpoint what exactly had shifted after that day, but he knew that something had changed. He became hyper aware of your touches and lingering looks, your ability to flirt but still toe the line of it being a little too inappropriate.

Sharing hotel rooms became weird, and it dawned on Max that maybe the two of you were acting a little too much like a couple when he found himself in bed with you snoring by his side, Daniel's words still haunting him like a ghost at the corner of the king sized bed.

He’d stared at your face in the dark for an hour, the street lights doing a good job of contouring your face in the dark and he’d felt a knot in his stomach when you’d shifted in your slumber and reached for something. He hadn’t realized what you looked for until you placed your hand on his arm.

Not grabbing. Just… setting it there like you needed his comfort even in your sleep. Such a simple gesture that had shook your best friend to the core.

The Aussie made it, along with Lando, his life's mission to send looks and make comments after that race weekend in Baku.

That was eight months ago, and they clearly had no intention of stopping as you sat in the backyard of Carlos' family vacation home in Palma de Mallorca, surrounded by drivers and their partners alike. You’d been there for two days, the relaxation already blanketing your group the more you spent time in the ocean and dozed in the loungers. The nights consisted of card games, drinking games and bonfires until someone had the stupid idea to go for a dip in the sea that just so happened to be in your backyard.

You'd been dozing tonight, finding it hard to stay awake with the way Max's fingers absentmindedly drew patterns up and down your drawn up legs.

The sun had clearly done its number on you during the day, draining every bit of energy you’d had. Heat and humidity always did that to you, so it wasn’t a surprise that you’d find the comfort of your best friend’s embrace the moment everyone sat down and curl up much like a cat.

The rhythm of his chest was enough to lull you into a sense of security, watching your group of friends across the table as they played Uno with the occassional accusation and shouts that came with playing the card game.

It had been Charles' idea to play it, clearly wanting to see the world burn as he put a group of competitive people into a game of Uno. It had been great entertainment though, your lips curled into a permanent amused smile as you watched on in silence.

Lando pulled a draw four card, setting it down with a grin and Carlos cursed in Spanish, clearly annoyed as he shoved the curly haired boy. A ripple of laughter tore through the group at the display, and you figured that it wasn't long before the game would dissolve into angry arguments.

"You can't beat the master of Uno." Lando said, clearly looking to agitate the Spaniard as the black haired man picked up an additional four cards to his already stacked hand.

"You've lost the last four games, mate." Charles muttered into his glass, taking a sip of his icy margarita for good measure.

"My luck is turning, mate.” Lando flipped him off, earning laughter from Pierre and George. “Get off my back."

You watched them bicker, thoughts stuttering to a halt when Max shifted beneath you. He drew the hand that had been on your legs up, ruffling your hair gently and you glanced up at him.

"Have you fallen asleep on me yet?" He asked quietly, for your ears only and you grinned sleepily, the perfect picture of comfortable.

“Not yet.” You muttered, covering your mouth as a yawn took you by surprise and Max smiled in amusement.

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” He glanced up at the boys when their voices picked up volume. “Get out before this becomes massacre.”

You laughed, nodding your head in agreement and letting him pull you up. No one really noticed as you slipped away, or if they did, they didn’t question it.

The voices of your friends faded into the background the further you got away from the house, grass and gravel transformed into cobblestones leading up to the town and further from the ocean.

“It’s so pretty here.” You mused, looking down the cobbled path, lit up by street lamps. “I’d love to live some place like this, some day.”

Max’s brows furrowed, following your gaze before looking at you questioningly.

“You basically do.” He said, humourous lilt to his voice. “Mooching off of me, living it up in Monaco.”

It would’ve made you feel self-conscious and even a little embarrassed if those words had come from anyone else but Max, but you’d been friends for so long that you knew when he was joking and when he was being serious. And in this case, it was the former. It was evident in the teasing smile and his light voice, aside from the fact that he’d always find a way to rebook your flight and beg you to stay for a few more days. As if you hadn’t been with him for a week already, as if you didn’t attend nearly every race because he claimed that he didn’t want anyone else around but you.

You were aware that it wasn’t a normal friendship, what the two of you had. And you knew that people thought it to be unbelievable that you weren’t romantically involved, some days you questioned that yourself. But that was a whole can of worms that you weren’t ready to crack open just yet. It felt too dangerous.

“I’ll be out of your hair soon.” You said, voice airy as you tossed your hair over your shoulder and skipped a step forward before turning and walking backwards in front of Max. He arched a confused brow, almost disappearing under his cap and the sight was a little too funny. “As soon as I find another man to live off of. Preferably handsome and rich.”

You were kidding, obviously, but the thought still made something sour well up in Max’s throat and he struggled to not frown in annoyance. He looked away, making it seem as if he was admiring the ocean view that he could barely see in the dark, when he was in fact trying to shield his face from your attentive eyes.

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” He said, cursing himself when his voice shook. It was so minimal though and you thankfully didn’t call him out on it. ”I mean, look at you.”

There was an awkward silence seeping into the space between you and you tried to maintain the aloof expression on your face but it was hard when your stomach was doing weird flip flops. Look at you.

“And also,” Max continued, rushing to fill the silence and break the sudden and rare awkwardness. “You’ve got me as your wingman.”

That made you laugh, and something like relief flooded Max’s stomach.

“Wingman? Right.” You turned, walking ahead of him and the boy frowned at the disbelieving tone in your voice.

“What do you mean? I’m an excellent wingman.” He jogged up to catch up with you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in.

It always amused him how you stumbled into his embrace whenever he did that, always so caught off guard but never once doubting that he’d be there to keep you upright. It was his favourite thing to do, mainly because you’d grumble and peer up at him with your eyes and Max would grin like the close proximity didn’t make him want to vomit with how much he craved to press his lips to yours. Just to see what it’d be like.

“Max,” you rolled your eyes. “No one ever dares to approach me when you’re by my side. You’re like a guard dog.”

“What?” He pulled back a little to look at your face, still keeping his arm around you. “I’m not! What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You scare off every single man!” Your voice went high in amusement and something else that he couldn't put his finger on. At Max’s furrowed brows, you sucked your teeth in exasperation and continued, “Last weekend, we were out in Monaco, remember? Two guys approached me, and you just magically seemed to show up and stake your claim. You might as well have peed all over me.”

The furrow between Max’s eyebrows seemed to deepen, feeling a little lost all of a sudden because you sounded genuinely upset and he didn’t know what to do with that.

“That's disgusting. And I wasn’t staking anything.” Max grumbled when the silence stretched on. “They were idiots anyway. Who wears sunglasses inside a club? At night?"

The both of you stared at each other as you walked and you couldn’t help but let out a giggle that broke the sudden tension. Just the sound of it made Max relax a little from where he'd suddenly gone tense.

“He was kind of a loser, wasn’t he?” You agreed, because it was true. “But you still scare every guy off.”

Okay, so maybe he did. And he’d done so unintentionally until last year before his feelings for you started to enter dangerous territory. Whereas before, he’d genuinely think that the guys you dated were total idiots, now he’d find a way to glare and act standoffish until the men took that as a sign and bailed.

“Sorry.” He said, but he really wasn’t. And you clearly didn’t believe he was sincere, judging by the arched brows on your forehead. “What? I am.”

You didn’t say anything to that, because you weren’t really upset about the fact that Max managed to chase men off whenever they got close to you. It was just the fact that he ran them off and then continued to act as if his actions didn’t have any hidden motives.

There was clearly something between the two of you, and it scared you but it also made you want more. Max was just too much of a wuss to act out on it, and so were you, in a way.

You didn’t know how many hints you could dish out before it got borderline ridiculous. Max didn't need a push, he needed a shove.

The both of you took a walk around the small village before circling back home. A few had retired to bed already, and you found Daniel, Pierre and Lando lounging around by the outdoor fireplace. Lando clocked the both of you walking into the backyard, looking a little suspicious and you shot him a questioning glance.

“Welcome back, children.” The man himself greeted, earning a flick to the head by Max in passing. He yelped, making you laugh as you sat down by Pierre.

“We’re older than you, idiot.” You pointed out and Max made a hum in agreement, looking around with a small frown.

It was ridiculous how he all of a sudden felt a little lost when you didn’t immediately go for a seat that held two people. You always managed to find a seat right next to Max, even going as far as sitting in his lap when he was in a chair; neither of you pointing out the fact that there were other seats to choose from.

But now you’d sat next to Pierre, and he felt something ugly bloom in his chest when the man in question draped a friendly arm over the backrest. You were good friends with the Frenchman, and he had a girlfriend but it still made Max annoyed.

He reluctantly sat in a chair when he realised that he’d lingered for too long, trying to tune into the conversation that had gone on for the whole time he’d gotten lost in his head.

You’d noticed, of course you had, there was no one as in tune with Max Verstappen as you were. It made you feel a smidge of glee because it was just further confirmation that whatever was going on between the two of you wasn’t friends being friends.

And it only seemed to solidify when Max looked your way, a hundred emotions shining in his eyes as he glared daggers at Pierre and his harmless arm. You arched an eyebrow, silently and innocently asking him what was wrong.

You watched Max shift in his seat.

“So, where’s Kika, Pierre?” He asked, the question coming out of the blue and you almost rolled your eyes, trying not to react when Daniel and Lando’s conversation trailed off to look at the three of you.

Pierre touched your shoulder with a finger, a tap that conveyed so much and you hid a smile by biting your cheek. Leave it to Pierre to read a room and embody the innocent and clueless man perfectly in order to help you.

“She’s sleeping.” He replied easily, kindly. “Had a little too much to drink. Which reminds me…” He trailed off and turned his head to look at you. “She wanted me to remind you of your plans tomorrow.”

“What plans?” Max asked before you had a chance to reply.

“We’re just going to a boutique we came across. It looked cute,” you smiled. “It was closed when we walked by today. But they had these nice bikinis I wanted to get my hands on.”

Lando looked up at the mention of bikinis, a smarmy smile that told you exactly what he’d say before he even opened his mouth.

“Can I come?” He asked, making Daniel cackle.

You stretched your leg out to kick his shin, grinning at his cheekiness. Lando dodged your kick just barely, a smile of his own stretching his lips.

“You’re being weird.” Max said, giving the British boy a look that looked an awful lot like a warning. It didn’t deter Lando though, not like it’d make a grown man running if it were aimed at a stranger.

The curly haired boy only rolled his eyes, a playful air to him as he glanced between you and Max.

“I’m being weird, sure.” He said. “Not as weird as you two sharing a bed.”

A hot flush traveled up your spine and reached your cheeks when Pierre and Daniel laughed, like they were trying to hold it in but couldn’t. You had half a mind to reach over the table and strangle your friend who looked way too smug to have aired out the one thing everyone probably had thought at least once, but never said out loud.

You and Max shared a glance, expecting him to look embarrassed but he looked smug and you didn’t know why your stomach rolled at the sight. He looked… hot. Confidence had always looked good on Max.

“At least I have someone to share a bed with, dipshit.” He stretched out his hand to pinch Lando, making everyone laugh. “Can’t say the same for you.”

“Oh, ha!” Lando raised his voice in a fake laugh, face scrunched up adorably sarcastic. “Ha, ha, you’re so funny, Max. Maybe you should consider being a comedian instead of the insufferable driver that you are.”

“Maybe then you’d have a chance to get podium.” Max said around a laugh and it took exactly two seconds before everyone started hollering and cackling, Lando standing up to deliver half-assed punches and nips at the laughing Dutchman who tried to dodge the incoming attacks.

You watched with an amused smile as they scuffled, both red in the face from laughter and shouts. There was no way that they wouldn’t end up waking up everyone in the house, so you stood up and ushered Lando away from Max with a laugh.

“You’re both children.” You pointed your finger at Lando when he took a step back.

“Still more mature than you.” Lando said, not maturely at all and you smiled in amusement.

“That's a fucking lie, mate.” Daniel scoffed, laughter in his voice and Lando turned around to give him a piece of his mind.

You watched them dish out insults at each other that really sounded a lot like friendly love in disguise, startling a little when you suddenly felt arms circle your waist. A yelp left your lips when you were pulled into Max’s lap, twisting until you could look at him.

The closeness of his face caught you off guard, the blue in his eyes so striking with the fireplace reflecting in them. You draped both legs over his lap, making yourself comfortable with a shy smile.

“Hi.” He greeted you softly once you’d settled down.

“Hello.” Your breath stuttered a little when he brushed his fingers against your waist, skin against skin where your tank top had ridden up.

“I think that’s our cue to go to bed.” Daniel said quietly, but loud enough for you to hear and look at him.

Lando shot him a look, eyebrows raising when both Daniel and Pierre stood up.

“I’m not tired? You go —“ He halted his words when Daniel glared at him. “Right. Whatever.”

The boys stood up, bidding you goodnight and kisses to your head before disappearing inside. You watched them through the sliding doors as they shoved each other and laughed, vanishing around a corner. Max squeezed your side and you glanced at him.

“What?” You asked when you spotted the smile that so badly wanted to break out on his face, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“You were trying to make me jealous.” He said, not as a question but as a sure statement. You rolled your eyes and tried to steady your breathing when he leaned forward to nuzzle his face in the crook of your neck, his hot puffs of breath making goosebumps rise on your skin.

You squirmed when his beard tickled you, shoving halfheartedly on his shoulder but he didn’t budge. He pressed his lips against your pulse point and you knew that was it; he could definitely feel your racing pulse, there was no way he couldn’t.

“Well, it worked.” You replied belatedly, voice a lot weaker and shakier than you would’ve liked it to be.

Max didn’t say anything of it, though you could feel his lips move as he smiled into your throat.

“It did.” He confessed quietly, feeling your pulse jump beneath his lips. “I wanted to break Pierre’s fingers.”

He touched your shoulder where the Frenchman had previously touched you, like he was wiping off evidence of any man but himself. It made something coil tightly in your stomach, and you struggled to not squirm in your best friend’s lap.

“That would be unwise.” You whispered, glancing over at the house where there was no sign of life.

You didn’t know how you’d explain it away, if someone were to walk back out and find the two of you in this position. You, in his lap with your arm wound around his shoulder and Max under you, pressed so close in every way. It would certainly be hard to convince anyone you were just friends after this.

But you weren’t just friends. Friends didn’t touch you the way he did, with his hand stroking the skin over your collarbone, trailing a path down the cup of your tank top and feeling the swell of your breast. Your heart was thundering in your chest, eyes locked on his hand as it mapped out every inch of your skin; fingers stroking down between your tits before he opened the palm of his hand to slide it over your ribs, almost cupping your heaving chest. You almost wished that he did, every inch of your body aching to be defiled by the very same man you’d called your best friend for years.

“Breathe.” He murmured against your throat and you realised that you’d been holding your breath, a rush of air escaping your mouth as you willed yourself to relax.

“Max.” Your brows furrowed, arching your back a little and pushing your chest closer to him.

He said your name, the sound of it so beautifully intimate and hot on his tongue that it almost made you whine. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess in your head, making it hard for you to think of anything other than his hand. The very same hand that caressed your ribs, fingers spanning out until he brushed your nipple. You inhaled sharply at the twinge of pain when he went over it again, making out the shape of it through the thin material of your top and circling it teasingly just so he could hear your stuttered and laboured breaths.

“You sound so pretty for me.” He spoke against your skin, welcoming the twinge of pain when you pulled at his hair slightly.

The whispered compliment lit your body on fire, made your hand tighten in his hair so you could push his face against your neck. He seemed to get the memo, opening his mouth to latch onto the sensitive skin there and suck. The combination of suction and the sharp pain of his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple made you moan, the loudness of the sound catching you off guard.

“Fuck!” You cursed when he rolled the bud between his fingers, enjoying the way you squirmed; like you weren’t sure whether to push into or away from him.

You glanced up at the sky, trying to focus on the light of the stars but there was no stopping the way your eyes rolled when he bit into your skin where he’d been sucking a nasty mark into it, flattening his tongue out to lave over it. Almost like he wanted to soothe the sting.

“This isn’t weird, is it?” You asked breathlessly, even though you both knew the answer to that.

“Does it feel weird?” He countered, pulling away and you blinked down at him; struck by the absolute need in his face.

It was the first time you’d seen his face since you sat down, taking in the saliva on his lip and the blown out pupils. He looked good enough to eat and you couldn’t help but lean forward to kiss him, licking into his mouth the way you'd thought of doing for the last year.

He welcomed it with gusto, pulling away for a swift second to gauge your reaction. Max must’ve liked what he saw on your face because he dove right back, claiming your lips in a bruising kiss that had you moaning from your throat.

“Been thinking about this for a long time now.” Max confessed when you both let up for air, staring at each other through hooded lids and bruised lips.

“Me too.” You said, pushing his hair back softly. “So long.”

He kissed you again, like he couldn’t help it and you let him claim your lips however he pleased before he trailed down your jawline, sucking a few more hickeys down the side of your neck for good measure. You pushed your chest out when he neared the swell of them, watching how he pulled your top down just enough to get a better look at your tits.

Max stared at them, marvelling at the sight before the need to have his mouth on them became too great. A whimper tumbled from your lips when he sucked and licked until your skin turned raw, giving the other nipple the very same treatment.

“Oh, what the fuck?” A voice exclaimed and you jumped, turning to shield yourself from whoever had decided to turn up unannounced.

Max hurried to pull up your tank top, shooting you a glance before he leaned to the side and peered around you at the same time you looked over your shoulder. George had his back turned to you, one hand on his waist and face turned toward the sky. You couldn’t see his face, but the exasperation was clear as day in his body language.

“You guys are fucking gross.” He said and you bit your lips together to stop from laughing.

“What the fuck do you want, Russell?” Max asked, clearly annoyed that you’d been interrupted and you smoothed a thumb over the crease on his forehead.

“I forgot my phone, asshole.” He replied, agitated. “Are you guys decent?”

“Yes, you drama queen.” You rolled your eyes and watched him turn around.

There was a grimace etched on his face as he walked forward, sticking his hand down between the couch cushions until he fished out his phone. George stood upright, and there was a moment of awkwardness as you all looked at each other.

“Congratulations on finally coming to your senses.” He said finally, saluting you and walking backwards. “But please don’t shag on the patio furniture, we still have a week left and I don’t think Carlos would like an ass print on the cushions.”

“Why don’t you come over here and kiss my ass?” Max flipped him off with no real heat and you laughed.

“No thanks,” he grinned as he reached the sliding doors. “I’ll leave that to your girl.”

A silence filled the air after George made his exit and you slowly turned around, mentally preparing yourself for the onslaught of prodding questions that would surely come in the morning. George could never keep his mouth shut, enjoying chaos where it wasn’t necessary and you’d been friends with everyone long enough to know that it only took one person for word to spread like wildfire.

“It could’ve been worse.” Max said, who’d been sitting silently and regarding the faraway look in your eyes. It never ceased to amaze you how easily he could read you.

“Don’t remind me.” You widened your eyes at him, a smile overtaking your face when you saw the sparkle of humour in his eyes. “Maybe we should…”

You trailed off, hoping he’d take the hint because the sudden embarrassment kept you from finish the sentence. What would you even say? Maybe we should go to bed so we can finish what we started?

Max seemed to pick up what you were putting down, as he always did. He gave you a nod, face soft with reassurance as he cupped your face in his hand, brushing a few strands of your hair away from your face.

“Are we good?” He asked, and you took a good look at him; noting the slight worry in his eyes and you realised that while he was reassuring you, he needed a little reassurance of his own.

You placed a hand over his, giving him a gentle nod with a smile. His eyes fluttered shut when you leaned over to peck his lips, placing a kiss on his stubbled cheek for good measure.

“We’re more than good.” You gave another nod, climbing out of his lap and reaching both your hands out so he could grab them. “Take me to bed, Max.”

He made a show of groaning loudly until you laughed, hauling him up and dragging him across the lawn. You preened under his wandering hands as he crowded your space from behind, plastering his front to your back and winding his arms around you.

“Stop that.” You hissed when he buried his face in the crook of your neck, making loud and lewd noises until it tickled you.

“But you’re so soft.” He complained, sliding both hands up your sides and under your top, fingers grazing your under boob.

You squirmed but made no real effort to push him away, opening the sliding doors and walking inside with a little difficulty. The both of you got as far as the living area before Max turned you around and kissed you, rendering you useless to stop him or protest. You could feel his mouth stretch into a smirk, like he knew what he was doing and you didn’t have the heart to make any effort to scold him even as he backed you into the sofa. A loud yelp left your lips when the backs of your knees hit the sofa, accompanied by his startled shout when you both went tumbling down on the furniture with him over you.

“That wasn’t nearly as sexy as they make it out to be in the movies.” You complained, watching Max smile down at you. He adjusted the both of you until you had your legs around him, testing the waters by grinding down on you and your mouth dropped open when you felt the hardness of his cock against your crotch. “Oh, hello.”

Max exhaled, like he was relieved to finally take some pressure off by grinding against you and you angled your hips to meet his thrusts, keeping your eyes on his to watch as his face went through a hundred of different emotions. You were struggling though, the rough denim of his shorts against your cotton ones felt deliciously nice and it was becoming increasingly harder to keep quiet.

“I’d sometimes lie awake and imagine what you’d sound like.” Max murmured quietly, teeth bearing down on his lower lip when you gripped his shoulders a little harder. He ground down, listening to you whine high in your throat. “I’d fantasise what you looked like when you came.”

You dug your heels into his ass, silently telling him to keep going because a few minutes more of his incessant thrusting and he’d have you coming. Max kissed down your jawline, sucking tiny little marks into the skin that he knew you’d give him shit for when your mind had cleared, but it was the thought of your friends seeing your bruised skin that worked him up into a frenzy. He wanted, needed to show everyone that you were his. Fuck Pierre and his wandering hands, and Daniel who’d smugly smiled at him from across the paddock all those times.

He’d show them.

“You gonna make that reality, my love?” He was getting close, voice losing its edge as he spoke the words into your clavicle. He bit the thin skin there until you keened, digging your blunt nails into his shoulders. “Gonna show me what you look like when you come?”

“Yes, yes, yes…” your words were becoming jumbled, making these high noises from your chest that seized Max by the throat.

He didn’t think you were even aware of how loud you were becoming, but he’d be damned to stop you. It reminded him of the same noises you’d make when you’d take a quick dip into a cold ocean and he’d splash you just for the sake of it. You’d make this high pitched, whiny noise like the chill of the water took your breath away. It was mesmerising and so fucking hot that Max couldn’t help but grind down one last time and shoot off into his shorts, a throaty moan in your ear that sent you over the edge as well.

He forced himself to watch your face as it scrunched up, mouth hanging open as you gasped for breath, body seized up beneath him as you both ground against each other in an effort to bring you back down from your highs.

“Fuck, this is gross.” Max scrunched his nose up as he looked down between you. You peered down with a breathless giggle, noting the spot in his shorts that had seeped onto yours.

He looked up at you at the sound of your laughter, face relaxing when he saw your smiling eyes and hot cheeks. The sun had been good to you, kissing your skin so beautifully that he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from you for a second since you got here.

“I can’t believe we just humped like a couple of teens.” You said it with laughter in your voice, but Max could spot the shy tilt of your brows and there was something oddly endearing about it. "In Carlos's family home." You said the last part in a mortified whisper, like the reality of it was dawning on you.

“Should’ve done that sooner.” He joked and you laughed, slapping his shoulder.

Max dropped his weight on you as sudden exhaustion seeped into his body, and you grunted. You wound your arms around him though, ignoring the messes you’d made between you for the sake of a cuddle. Your fingers drew little patterns on his back, like you knew Max loved, and he almost purred at the feeling.

“We should probably go to bed.” You said quietly.

“Yeah.” He said, but neither of you made any effort to move.

The grandfather clock was ticking away in the corner, almost like background music, and you were almost lulled to sleep by Max’s steady breathing. Your eyes opened when he suddenly moved above you, having sensed that you were two seconds from falling asleep when your hands stopped moving on his back.

“Okay,” he sighed heavily and stood up with a grimace, wobbling a little. You smiled slowly when he offered you his hands, pulling you up. “Time for bed.”

“I’m getting déjà vu.” You referred to an hour ago when you’d declared bedtime, only to end up a few meters away on the couch instead.

Max laughed, pulling you along toward the stairs and guiding you down a narrow hallway.

The morning after went as well as you’d imagine, waking up with Max snoozing quietly on his stomach with his hands shoved underneath the pillow. You’d ghosted a kiss on his cheek before getting up to get ready for the day. Sharing a room with Max during all the years had made you stealthy enough to perform your routines without him waking up, but it could also be because he slept like a rock and not even pans and pots in the hands of Lando and Daniel could bring him out of his dead sleep.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Daniel greeted you when you stepped foot into the kitchen, pulling everyone’s eyes toward you and you smiled awkwardly.

“Hi? Hey.” You carefully avoided George’s eyes as you walked around the counter, patting Heidi on the back in a silent greeting.

The look she gave you had your hackles rising a bit, but you pushed the paranoia away because surely George hadn’t gone and blabbed already? It was only - you looked at the clock - nine in the morning. Christ.

Charlotte handed you a mug of steaming coffee and you wordlessly took it, taking a small sip. “Thank you.”

Conversation picked back up again as you went on the hunt for toast, popping them in the toaster and pouring another cup of coffee for Max who’d probably woken up by now. Francisca talked about the boutique you’d be going to, waving Pierre off with a playful hand when he tried to invite himself into your girls day.

There was a slight lull in the chaos of three conversations happening in the space of the kitchen, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that Max had finally joined the party. You turned your head and almost smiled at his hair, wet from a shower and sticking up in all directions. He looked sleepy still, a little bleary eyed but he still managed to find you in the gaggle of people.

It warmed your heart a lot more than you’d like to admit when you watched his eyes light up as they settled on you, murmuring good morning’s and patting backs as he made a beeline for you.

You smiled at him. “Morning.”

Max accepted the mug of coffee you handed him, kissing your cheek in thanks and you leaned into it automatically. It was scary how fast you’d gotten used to his affection, but it felt so natural that you couldn’t bring yourself to question it.

“You look beautiful.” He complimented you, hand finding the hem of your dress to pluck at it with his fingers.

It was a plain old summer dress in white, one you’d worn a couple of times but it was Max’s favourite piece. It made your legs look amazing, and he was slightly mourning the thought of having to let you go out with the girls and not being able to ogle you openly.

“Thank you.” You smiled up at him.

“Is anyone gonna address the elephant in the room?” Lando spoke out, bringing the both of you out of your bubble you’d managed to create.

You turned around to look at the nosy group, rolling your eyes at your friend.

“Isn’t it clear?” Pierre balled up leftover bread from a loaf and chucked it at the Brit from across the table.

Charles frowned, glancing at you before looking over at his girlfriend who was smiling a little too brightly for your liking.

“Am I missing something?” Charles narrowed his eyes and looked at you. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“You’re not.” You said, playfully glaring at your friends. “They’re just being idiots.”

George coughed, dodging an incoming slap to the arm from Carmen. Just that one gesture let you know that Carmen was aware of what had happened last night.

“Tell that to Carlos’ furniture.” He muttered but it was enough for Carlos to look up, frown deep in his face as his round eyes looked between George, you and Max.

“What?” He asked, confusion lacing his voice. “What did you say?”

Max coughed, hiding a laugh as he turned around to pick up his mug of coffee. You shot Kika a look that screamed help me and she didn’t even hesitate to hop up from the barstool and nod at the girls.

“Everyone ready?” She asked, earning a few replies as they gathered up their things for a day in town. "Vamos."

You watched in amusement before turning to Max, not really in the mood to leave him and he seemed to share those feelings, judging by the look on his face. His eyes flickered across your face, like he was trying to memorise it and you leaned into him.

“I’ll see you later?” He asked, like it was ever a question, watching you nod. He handed you the toast you’d prepared, giving you a look. “Eat up before you go.”

You tried to act like that small gesture didn’t make your heart absolutely crumble into ashes, not having the strength to refrain yourself from standing on your toes to press a kiss to his mouth.

“What the fuck?” Came Charles’ voice from somewhere and you laughed into Max’s lips before pulling back.

Max gave your behind a small pat and you turned around to leave the kitchen, thinking that you couldn’t wait to be back home.

White Horse - Chapter 4: June 2023

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 the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

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

The kitchen was a mess—takeout boxes stacked on the counter, two wine glasses half full, and Max barefoot, leaning against the fridge like he didn’t want the night to end.

Isabelle stood a few steps away, curled into the oversized sweater he’d lent her after she complained she was cold, even though they both knew it was just an excuse to steal something that smelled like him.

They’d eaten on the floor. Talked for hours. Laughed until she’d nearly dropped her chopsticks on Sassy, who had decided that Isabelle was her favourite human. It was one of those nights—unguarded and easy, where everything just fit.

Isabelle didn’t know what she’d said to make him go quiet—some small, unremarkable comment about how being with him made her feel like she could finally take a breath—but when she glanced up, Max was looking at her like she’d cracked open the sky.

“What?” she asked, smiling, suddenly self-conscious under his stare.

He shook his head slightly, still watching her.

And then he said it.

Quiet. Unflinching. Certain.

“I love you.”

Isabelle blinked.

The words landed so gently they didn’t make a sound—just settled between them, warm and heavy and real.

She hadn’t been expecting it. Not now, not tonight, not when she had rice stuck to her sweater.

But Max—Max looked like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting to say it. Like it had been there all along.

Her heart stuttered.

“You…” she started, then stopped.

Max didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence. Just let her have it.

“I didn’t think—” she tried again. “I didn’t think you’d be the first to say it.”

He smiled softly. “Didn’t plan to. Just felt it.”

And that broke something open in her chest.

Because it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t grand or dramatic or wrapped in perfect timing.

It was just him. And her. And the quiet truth sitting between them.

She took a breath. “Say it again?”

He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you.”

And this time, she didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

The smile that spread across Max’s face made her dizzy.

Then his arms were around her, lifting her off the ground just enough to make her squeal and laugh and cling to him tighter.

She kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then finally his mouth.

“I love you,” she whispered again, just to see the way he looked at her when she said it.

And it was everything.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max said “I love you” tonight

Emilie: WAIT

Emilie: WHAT

Emilie:  WHAT DO YOU MEAN MAX SAID “I LOVE YOU”

Emilie:  LIKE CASUALLY???

Emilie:  OR DRAMATICALLY???

Isabelle: casually

Isabelle: quietly

Isabelle: Like it was the most obvious thing in the world

Isabelle: I think I forgot how to speak for a full five seconds

Emilie: ISABELLE

Emilie:  Did you say it back???????

Isabelle: yes

Isabelle: After I made him say it again because I needed to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating

Isabelle: And then I said it

Isabelle: And then he looked at me like I hung the stars 

Isabelle: And now I’m sitting in his hoodie trying not to lose my mind

Emilie: OH MY GOD

Emilie:  YOU’RE IN LOVE

Emilie:  HE’S IN LOVE

Emilie:  YOU’RE BOTH IN LOVE

Emilie:  I’M GOING TO THROW FLOWERS AT YOU NEXT TIME I SEE YOU

Isabelle: Please don’t.

Isabelle: You’ll wrinkle my outfit

Emilie: I love you

Emilie:  I’m crying

Emilie:  Also you saying “I love you” for the first time and then texting ME immediately after is everything

Isabelle: Of course I did

Isabelle: You are my emergency emotional processing hotline

Emilie: I’m framing this whole conversation

Emilie:  I hope Max knows he’s never allowed to break your heart because if he does, I will learn how to operate a pit stop jack and throw it at him.

***

Isabelle sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her thighs, her phone propped up beside her with a pronunciation guide open. She had told herself for weeks that she was going to do this. If Max was learning French for her, then she could at least try to learn some Dutch for him.

The problem was… Dutch was hard.

“De kat… zit op de stoel,” she murmured, trying to match the robotic voice coming from her phone.

Her brow furrowed. Did she sound anything like that? She hit the playback button again and repeated it, slower this time.

“De kat zit op de stoel.”

The voice app chirped happily, but she was fairly certain it was lying to her. She scribbled down the phrase in her notebook, along with the ten others she had attempted today. A lot of them had been completely useless sentences. Something about elephants drinking water. Another about red dresses.

And yet, she was determined.

She flipped to another tab, a list of common Dutch phrases. Her eyes scanned down to one she recognized immediately.

“Ik hou van jou.”

Her stomach flipped just reading it.

She already knew those words. Max had said them to her before—quietly, softly, in the safety of their world away from everyone else. She had understood them then, even without knowing the direct translation.

Still, she traced the words in her notebook, mouthing them to herself.

“Ik hou van jou.”

She barely noticed the front door opening until she heard Max’s voice calling her name. She scrambled to close the tabs, slamming her notebook shut just as he walked into the living room.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm. He glanced at her suspiciously. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

His brows lifted. “That was very fast.”

She kept her face neutral. “Just… reading.”

Max clearly didn’t believe her, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and murmured, “Ik hou van jou.”

And even though she wasn’t ready to say it back in Dutch just yet, she smiled.

“I love you too.”

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Hey, can I ask you something?

Sophie: Of course, sweetheart. What is it?

Max: It’s about Isabelle.

Sophie: Oh?

Max: Her family. The way they treat her.

Sophie: What do you mean?

Max: They don’t listen to her. They don’t take her seriously. She plans things for them, does so much, and they just… don’t acknowledge it. Like it’s expected.

Sophie: That must hurt her.

Max: It does. But she never complains. Just brushes it off like it doesn’t matter.

Sophie: Because she’s used to it.

Max: Yeah. And that’s what makes me so angry. She deserves better.

Sophie: She does.

Max: I just don’t know how to help.

Sophie: You already are.

Max: How?

Sophie: By noticing. By making sure she knows she’s valued. That’s more than they’ve ever done.

Max: But it doesn’t change them.

Sophie: No. But it changes her world. And that’s what matters.

Max: I just want her to feel like someone actually sees her.

Sophie: And she does. Because of you.

Max: I hope so.

Sophie: I know so.

Sophie: You love her, don’t you?

Max: Yeah. I really do.

Sophie: Then keep loving her the way she deserves. That’s all she needs.

Max: I will. But it still frustrates me.

Sophie: Of course it does. You care about her.

Max: Yeah, and I don’t understand how they don’t.

Sophie: I think they do, in their own way. But they’ve taken her for granted for so long that they don’t even realize it.

Max: That’s not an excuse.

Sophie: No, it’s not. But it helps you understand why she doesn’t expect anything different.

Max: I want her to expect more.

Sophie: And she will. Because you’re showing her what it’s like to be loved properly.

Max: I don’t know if it’s enough.

Sophie: It is. Trust me.

Max: I just want to protect her from all of it.

Sophie: I know, Maxie. But you can’t change them. You can only make sure she always has a place where she feels safe and valued.

Max: She does. With me.

Sophie: Then that’s all that matters.

Max: I hate seeing her hurt.

Sophie: And that’s why she’s with the right person. Because you see her.

Max: Always.

Sophie: Good. Then just keep doing what you’re doing. She deserves someone who fights for her, even if it’s just in the quiet moments.

Max: I will.

***

Max hadn’t really thought about saying it out loud until the words were already out of his mouth.

“I think I want to learn how to ride.”

Isabelle, who had been adjusting the saddle on the horse, froze. Then, very slowly, she turned to look at him like he had just announced he was retiring from racing to become a ballet dancer.

“You what?”

Max shrugged, trying to look casual. “I want to learn how to ride.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicious. “Since when?”

He hesitated. Since the first time he watched her ride, probably. Since he realized how her entire posture relaxed when she was around the horses, how she spoke to them with quiet affection, how they seemed to understand her without needing words.

Instead, he just said, “A while.”

Isabelle crossed her arms, still watching him like he might be joking. “Max, you don’t have to do this just because of me.”

“I know that,” he said simply. “But I want to.”

She was still studying him, like she was trying to make sense of it. Then, after a long pause, she let out a quiet breath. “Horses used to be the most important thing in my life,” she admitted, almost absently. “Until one day, they weren’t anymore.”

Max leaned against the stable door, waiting. Letting her take her time.

“I had a horse,” Isabelle continued, voice soft. “Blanche. I loved her more than anything.” She smiled faintly, but there was sadness beneath it. “She was stubborn but kind. She was mine.”

“She was a dapple grey,” Isabelle continued. “Not pure white, but close. Tall, strong, stubborn. The first horse I ever loved.”

Max didn’t say anything, just nodded, encouraging her to go on.

“She was mine for 6 years,” Isabelle continued, her voice steady, almost detached. “We grew up together. She was there for every fall, every scraped knee, every bad day. I thought we’d be together forever.”

Max shifted beside her. “What happened?”

“My parents sold her.”

Max stiffened. “What?”

What the absolute fuck was he listening to right now?!

“To pay for Charles’ karting,” she said plainly. “One day she was there, and the next she was gone.”

He could just stare at her. 

He knew that Isabelle loved horses. She had mentioned that during their very first date. He had known that she still went to that stable outside Monaco at least 2 or 3 times a week for riding lessons. 

But he hadn’t known…he hadn’t known that. 

“They didn’t even tell you?” Max asked, fury burning deep in his gut. 

They had taken away something that… something precious from her?!? 

“Not until it was done.” Isabelle let out a short, humorless laugh. “They told me it was for the best. That Charles had a future in racing, and I could always ride again someday.”

Max swore under his breath. “That’s—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not okay.”

“It was practical.”

“I don’t care if it was practical,” Max shot back. “They took something that mattered to you and acted like it didn’t.”

She swallowed. “It wasn’t just that they sold her. It was that they didn’t think I’d care enough for it to matter.”

Max’s hand curled into a fist, his knuckles white. “Did you ever find out where she went?”

“No.” Isabelle shook her head. “I tried asking, but they didn’t have answers. Or maybe they just didn’t want to tell me.”

Max was quiet for a long moment. Then, softer, “Did you stop riding?”

She hesitated. “At least, for a while. We didn’t have the money,” she said simply. “And later… I thought—what was the point, if it could all just be taken away?” She swallowed. “But when I went to university, I found a stable near campus. I worked there, just to be around the horses again.”

“You never told anyone?” Max asked.

She shrugged. “Emilie knows. You know,” she said simply. “I never told my family. It wasn’t…It was mine. For once, it wasn’t about Charles or Arthur or what my family needed. It’s just… mine.”

Max reached for her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. She let him. “You should have never had to give that up.”

Isabelle just reached out for her lesson horse, a dark brown gelding that obviously adored her. “It was just how things were,” she said simply. 

No anger. Not really. Just simple acceptance in her words. 

Max didn’t think that he would ever have gotten to that point if the same thing had happened to him. If he had needed to give up racing for an older brother and didn’t get to go back for it for years. 

He would still be utterly furious. 

“That doesn’t mean it was right,” Max said sharply. 

She just shrugged, going back to closing the girth on the horse. 

He swallowed. 

“I know I can’t change the past,” he said quietly. “But if this is something you love, I want to understand it.”

Isabelle’s expression softened. “Okay.”

Max smiled. “Okay.”

She smirked slightly. “Just don’t expect to be good at it.”

Max huffed a laugh. “I drive a car for a living. How hard can a horse be?”

Her laughter was warm, and it lingered even as she shook her head. “Oh, you are going to regret saying that.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: …Max told me he wants to learn how to ride.

Emilie: LIKE A HORSE???

Isabelle: Yes, Emilie. Like a horse.

Emilie: OH MY GOD.

Emilie: wait.

Emilie: wait wait wait.

Emilie: He’s going to take LESSONS??? voluntarily??

Isabelle: He literally said, “If it’s important to you, I want to understand it.”

Emilie: Girl. GIIIIIRL. Do you understand what you have here?

Emilie: Men don’t do this. Men don’t do activities that don’t revolve around them unless they are deeply, hopelessly in love.

Isabelle: I mean… I thought it was sweet.

Emilie: Sweet? SWEET?

Emilie: This man is a two-time world champion and he is willingly signing up to be humbled by a horse just because you like them. Max Verstappen, the control freak, is about to have his entire ego destroyed by a pony.

Isabelle: I did warn him that it’s not easy.

Emilie: please tell me you’re taking him to the stable soon. I need this. The world needs this.

Isabelle: He’s already asked when we can go.

Emilie: Max Verstappen riding a horse. Max Verstappen falling off a horse. Max Verstappen developing a rivalry with a horse.

Isabelle: You’re getting way too much joy out of this.

Emilie: I’M RIGHT AND YOU KNOW IT.

***

Max Verstappen had done a lot of things in his life that required balance, control, and sheer nerve.

Driving a Formula 1 car at over 300 km/h? No problem. Threading the needle between two cars on a soaking wet track? Easy. Taming a thousand-pound animal with a mind of its own?

Apparently, impossible.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shifting awkwardly in the saddle.

Isabelle, who was standing beside the horse and very obviously trying not to laugh, gave him an innocent look. “What’s ridiculous?”

Max shot her a glare. “This. Everything. All of it.”

Her lips twitched. “You’ve only been on for five minutes.”

“Feels like an hour,” he grumbled, adjusting his grip on the reins.

He had expected this to be easier. It was just riding a horse, right? He was an athlete, for god’s sake. His coordination was elite. His balance was second nature. How hard could it be?

Answer: very hard.

He had barely gotten onto the horse without embarrassing himself, and now that he was sitting in the saddle, he felt bizarrely out of control. The horse—an old, patient gelding Isabelle had assured him was "perfect for beginners"—shifted slightly, and Max tensed like it was about to take off at full gallop.

Isabelle sighed, reaching up to adjust his posture. “Relax. You’re sitting like you’re bracing for a crash.”

“I would rather be in a crash,” Max muttered.

Isabelle ignored him. “Loosen your grip on the reins. He’s not going to run away.”

Max loosened his grip. Immediately, the horse flicked an ear back and took a step forward. Max panicked.

“What is he doing?”

“Walking.” Isabelle’s voice was far too amused.

“Make him stop.”

“You make him stop,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Use your seat, not just the reins.”

Max had no idea what that meant. His instinct was to lean back and pull. The horse stopped, but not before giving an exaggerated huff, like it was exasperated with him.

Isabelle patted the horse’s neck. “Good boy. He’s trying his best, unlike someone.”

Max scowled at her. “I am trying.”

“Try harder.”

He glared but adjusted his posture again. Isabelle instructed him to nudge the horse forward, and when he hesitated, she rolled her eyes and demonstrated on the ground.

It took a few attempts, but eventually, Max managed to get the horse moving in a slow, steady walk.

“This is good,” Isabelle said encouragingly. “Now just—”

The horse sneezed. Loudly.

Max, unprepared for the movement, nearly lost his balance. “What the—”

Isabelle was laughing now, actually laughing. “He just sneezed, Max.”

“He tried to throw me off.”

“Right, of course.”

Max muttered something in Dutch that his mother would have washed his mouth out with soap for.

She walked alongside him, giving him small instructions, but every time the horse did something unexpected—took a deeper breath, flicked its ears, shifted its weight—Max tensed like it was about to bolt.

After what felt like a lifetime, Isabelle finally called an end to the lesson. When Max slid off the horse, his legs wobbled slightly. Isabelle definitely noticed.

She patted his arm, barely holding back a grin. “Not bad for your first time.”

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance.”

He groaned. “Fine. When’s the next lesson?”

Isabelle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re actually going to keep going?”

Max shrugged. “I don’t like losing.”

She grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

***

Instagram Post -@/maxverstappen1

Comments:

@/charles_leclerc: ????? @/landonorris: mate, blink twice if you need help @/gridgirlgossip: There is absolutely no way Max Verstappen woke up one day and said, “Yeah, I think I’ll ride a horse today.” @/danielricciardo: Is this a cry for help? Be honest. @/carlossainz55: This is the most unexpected thing I’ve ever seen. @/F1: Should we be concerned? @/redbullracing:  Is this an challenge we weren’t aware of? @/monacopaddockqueen: Imagine driving at 300 km/h every weekend and then deciding… horse. @/hannahshelmetcam: Somewhere, a woman is responsible for this, and I respect her immensely. @/speedyspice33: He’s been spending time with a horse girl. I just know it. @/​​verstappenthirst: Can’t wait for Drive to Survive to ignore this completely. @/hornersburner: Red Bull gives you wings, but it also apparently gives you hooves now. @/landoandchaos: This is what happens when you let Max make his own life choices. Absolute madness. @/girlsonpolepod: Max Verstappen Horse Girl Era: a crossover episode we didn’t see coming. @/queenoftheredbullring: Bro saw a Ferrari and went, “Yeah but what if: REAL HORSE?” @/paddocktea4u: The real mystery is why he looks good doing it. @/theDR3effect: So uh… when’s the cowboy hat debut? @/sainzismo: I’m begging for a video. Just imagine the commentary. ​​@/maxymaxmaxxed: If you told me this morning that Max Verstappen would post a horse-riding pic, I would have laughed in your face. @/paddockclown: I need Christian Horner to explain this in an interview immediately. @/hotgirlpitwall: MAX VERSTAPPEN. ON A HORSE. WHAT IS HAPPENING. @/chaoticenergy33: At least he didn’t caption it ‘Yeehaw’… small mercies.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner

Christian: Max.

Christian: Please, for the love of everything holy, do not fall off that horse and break any bones.

Max: …Good morning to you too, Christian.

Christian:  You are a Formula 1 driver. You are worth millions in contracts and sponsorships.

Christian: And now you are willingly climbing onto a large, unpredictable animal that could throw you off and break something.

Christian: WHY are you on a horse?

Max: Because I wanted to learn.

Christian: You do not need additional risks in your life.

Max: I’m being careful.

Christian: That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you doing this?!

Max: You ride.

Christian: Yes, but I’ve been around horses for years. You, on the other hand, decided this completely out of nowhere.

Max: Not really.

Christian: Not really?

Christian: What am I missing here?

Max: …

Christian: Max.

Max: Hypothetically speaking, if you loved someone and they had a passion, wouldn’t it be nice to learn about it too?

Christian: I don’t need you breaking an arm trying to impress your girlfriend.

Max: I’m not trying to impress her. I just… wanted to learn.

Christian: Max.

Max: I already have good balance, fast reflexes, and control over my body. It’s just… a different skill set.

Christian: You drive for a living.

Max: And now I ride for fun.

Christian: …You really like this girl, don’t you?

Max: More than anything.

Christian: Fine. Just—helmet, body protector, don’t be an idiot.

Max: I already wear a helmet for a living.

Christian: Yes, and yet you still manage to make my blood pressure spike on a regular basis.

Max: My girlfriend says I’m improving.

Christian: You know what? Fine. Whatever.

Christian: But I swear, if you turn up to a race weekend with a limp and I have to explain to Helmut that you got bucked off a horse, I’m going to lose my mind.

Max: …So that means if I do fall, I just shouldn’t tell you?

Christian: MAX.

Christian: So, how long have you been seeing her?

Max: A while.

Christian: A WHILE?!

Christian: Max, you’ve had a girlfriend this whole time, and I’m only now finding out because of horses?

Max: You never asked.

Christian: That is not how this works.

Christian: But… you’re happy?

Max: Yeah.

Christian: And she’s good to you?

Max: Very.

Christian: …Okay. That’s all I need to know.

Max: Just like that?

Christian: Max, I’ve spent years watching you put everything into racing. You’ve never let yourself slow down. If you’ve finally found someone who makes you want to do that—even just a little—I’m happy for you.

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@/emilie_abadie: this is giving “peaceful main character energy” and I approve

@/paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???

@/victoriaverstappen: Can’t blame you. The light hits different there ❤️

@/sunsetseasondaily: Every time you post from Monaco I want to sell everything I own and move there immediately

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Max.

Max: That’s my name.

Isabelle: Why did Victoria just follow me on Instagram???

Max: Oh. Yeah. I told her about us.

Isabelle: YOU WHAT???

Max: Relax. I told her a month ago.

Isabelle: AND YOU’RE JUST TELLING ME NOW???

Max: I didn’t think it was a big deal?

Isabelle: Max, your sister just randomly following me is a big deal!!

Max: She said she wanted to, but she didn’t want to freak you out. I guess she finally decided to do it.

Isabelle: …She didn’t want to freak me out?

Max: Yeah. She said you were always a little quiet at karting races, so she wasn’t sure if you’d be weird about it.

Isabelle: She remembers me?

Max: Of course she does. She likes you. Said you were nice.

Isabelle: …

Max: So are you going to follow her back, or should I tell her you’re ignoring her?

Isabelle: MAX.

Max: I’ll tell her you’re playing hard to get.

Isabelle: MAX EMILIAN.

Max: She’ll think it’s funny.

***

Instagram DM – @/isabelleleclerc →  @/victoriaverstappen

Isabelle: Hi, uhh… this is Isabelle. Leclerc. 

Isabelle: this might be the weirdest message I’ve ever sent someone, but I figured… if anyone would understand, it’s probably you. 

Victoria: Hi!!  I want to meet the girl who makes my brother this happy, but Max has been keeping you all to himself! 

Isabelle: …He talks about me?

Victoria: Constantly. But in a Max way, so it’s more like, “She’s incredible, but she doesn’t believe it”.

Victoria: Oh, and my favorite: “I don’t know how I got this lucky.”

Isabelle: …He actually said that?

Victoria: He actually said that.

Victoria: What do you need? Blackmail material? I have plenty. I imagine that there is a good reason why you are sliding into my Instagram dms. 

Isabelle: I need help with Dutch.

Isabelle: Max has been learning French.  Like, properly. Quietly. Seriously. He pretends it’s casual but I’ve caught him watching French YouTube videos and writing down verb conjugations in Notes. And—well—I kind of want to return the gesture. So. Would you maybe be willing to help me with a little Dutch?

Victoria:  Okay, first of all: this is absolutely NOT weird, it’s adorable.

Victoria:  Second: I would love to help.

Victoria:  Third: I’m going to send you a list. You’ll be fluent in romantic, slightly sassy Dutch in no time.

Victoria:  And if you ever need help pronouncing anything, just send me a voice note.  Sister-in-law privileges and all that.

Isabelle: You’re amazing. Thank you so much.  

Isabelle:  Also—I’ll absolutely take you up on the voice notes. But only if you promise not to laugh too much.

***

Pre-race press conference Transcript - Canadian Grand Prix 2023

[Scene: Pre-race press conference. Max Verstappen is seated alongside Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, and George Russell.]

Journalist: “Max, there have been some rumors that you’ve been spending time with some horses recently. Can you confirm or deny?”

Max: [Sighs, then nods] “Yeah. I tried horse riding recently”

*[Lando immediately chokes on his water. Charles and George exchange wide grins before the laughter starts.]

Lando: “Please tell me there are videos.”

Max: [Deadpan.] “Yes, I have been on a horse. And, in case you’re wondering, I have no talent whatsoever.”

Lando: [Wheezing.] “Oh my god. This is the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

Charles: “Wait, but like… how bad are we talking?”

Max: [Shrugs.] “It’s way harder than I thought. The balance, the movement, trying not to fall off… And trotting? It’s horrible.”

George: [Grinning.] “The bouncy part?”

Max: [Dead serious.] “The bouncy part.”

Lando: [Nearly in tears laughing.] “I need to see this. Max Verstappen getting humbled by a horse.”

Charles: [ thoughtful.] “So… are you done, or—?”

Max: [Clears his throat, avoiding eye contact.] “I… I am taking lessons.”

*[Immediate chaos. Lando actually slides out of his chair laughing. Charles stares in shock. George is shaking his head, grinning.]

Lando: “YOU’RE TAKING LESSONS?!”

Charles: “Oh, this is amazing.”

George: “I have never respected you more.”

Max: [Shrugging, trying to play it cool.] “Well, I sucked at first. But I figured I should at least try to be decent at it.”

George: [Teasing.] “And how’s that going for you?”

Max: [Sighs.] “I am still terrible.”

Charles: [Grinning.] “But you’re improving?”

Max: “...Not really.”

Lando: [Absolutely delighted.] “This is better than winning a race.”

***

The door clicked shut behind Max as he stepped into their apartment, exhaustion lining his features but the unmistakable glow of victory still in his eyes. Red Bull cap slightly askew, and his bag hung off his shoulder. He barely had time to drop it before—

“Welkom thuis, kampioen.”

Max freezed.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto Isabelle, who stood a few feet away, hands nervously clasped in front of her. She looked stunning—she always did to him—but right now, all he could focus on was what she just said.

“Say that again,” he demanded, stepping closer.

Isabelle bit her lip, suddenly shy, but she straightened and repeated, “Welkom thuis, kampioen.”

Max blinked. His hands were still mid-motion, as if he'd forgotten what he was about to do. “You’re speaking Dutch.”

She shrugged, trying to play it off. “A little.”

Max just stared at her, stunned. His heart was racing—not from the adrenaline of winning, but from this. From her. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“You learned Dutch?” His voice was softer now, almost reverent.

“I slid into Victoria’s instagram dms,” Isabelle admitted sheepishly. “She’s been helping me.”

Max let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Of course she has.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” she continued, shifting nervously on her feet. “You’re always learning French for me, and I just thought… I should try, too.”

Max moved before she could say anything else, closing the space between them in an instant. His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. His lips crashed against hers, not just in gratitude, but in pure, overwhelming love.

When he pulled back, his forehead rests against hers. He was smiling, wide and radiant. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Isabelle smiled back, breathless. “I think I have some idea.”

Max grins. “Say something else.”

She hesitated for half a second before murmuring, “Ik heb je gemist.”

That did something to him.

Max exhaled sharply, his grip on her tightening. His jaw clenched, like he’s trying to keep his emotions in check, but his voice betrayed him when he murmurs, “Isabelle.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly worried she said it wrong.“Do you like it?”

Max huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Are you kidding? I love it.”

“Good,” she said, growing bolder. “Because ik hou van je, Max.”

Max freezed for the second time that night. His breath caught, and for a moment, he just stared at her. Then, something shifted in his expression—something softer, deeper.

“Say it again.” His voice was quiet, almost pleading.

She smiled. “Ik hou van je.”

Max let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against hers. 

And then he kissed her again—slowly this time, like he was savoring every moment, every syllable of her Dutch, every part of her. Because he didn’t need to say it out loud for her to know:

Ik hou van je, ook.

***

Red Bull Racing Video – "Max Verstappen Answers Fan Questions!"

The video opens with Max Verstappen sitting casually in a Red Bull Racing hoodie, arms crossed, a can of Red Bull next to him. 

Interviewer: "Alright, Max, we’ve got fan questions for you. Ready?"

Max: grinning "Let’s go."

Interviewer: "First question—what’s something new you’ve tried recently?"

Max: shrugs "Horse riding."

Interviewer: laughs "Really?"

Max: smirking "Yeah. Turns out, it’s harder than it looks."

Interviewer: "And why exactly did you try horse riding?"

Max: casually "My girlfriend rides."

Interviewer: "Oh? That’s new information."

Max: grinning, taking a sip of his drink "Next question."

Interviewer: "What’s your go-to post-race meal?"

Max: "Pasta. Preferably good pasta."

Interviewer: "Define ‘good’?"

Max: mock serious "Not made by me."

Interviewer: "What’s something people would be surprised to learn about you?"

Max: thinking "I actually enjoy sim racing just as much as real racing."

Interviewer: *"I think everyone knows that, Max."

Max: laughs "Yeah, fair enough."

Interviewer: "What’s your favorite thing about Monaco?"

Max: "It’s home. It’s quiet when I need it to be."

Interviewer: "Last one—what’s the best advice you’ve ever received?"

Max: "Surround yourself with the right people and focus on what really matters."

Interviewer: "And you feel like you’ve done that?"

Max: grinning slightly "Yeah. I think so."

Comments: 

@/F1Obsessed97: Max casually dropping ‘my girlfriend’ like we weren’t all going to freak out???

@RBRfan4life: HORSE RIDING. MAX VERSTAPPEN. I need a moment.

@/GridGossip: Did we all just collectively miss the fact that MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS A GIRLFRIEND?? AND SHE RIDES HORSES??

@/SimRacingKing: Max really went ‘surround yourself with the right people’ and immediately smiled. Sir, who is she??

@/F1MemeLord: Red Bull: ‘Max answers fan questions!’ Max: Gives us a relationship soft launch instead.

@/TifosiTears: I’m sorry but ‘next question’ after mentioning his girlfriend??? Sir, that is NOT how this works.

@/MaxSupermax33: Max went from never mentioning a girlfriend to learning horse riding for her. That’s commitment.

@F1TeaSpiller: ‘My girlfriend’???? EXCUSE ME, SIR???

@/RedBullRacingFanatic: Max casually mentioning he moved and has a girlfriend in the same video like that’s not the biggest news drop of the year.

@/OversteerKing33: He really thought he could sneak that in and we wouldn’t notice. WE NOTICE EVERYTHING, MAX.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: So… Max has a girlfriend. Max learned horse riding. HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?

@/Horner’sBurnerAccount: The way he just smiled and moved on after saying ‘my girlfriend’… I am unwell.

@/TifosiPainClub: The FIA needs to investigate how Max managed to keep a whole relationship secret.

@/HorseGirlMax: I am begging Red Bull to release footage of Max on a horse.

@/VerstappenFanatic: Max, blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a woman with an equestrian background.

@F1Gossip: MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS A GIRLFRIEND AND HE LEARNED HORSE RIDING FOR HER. DO NOT SPEAK TO ME.

***

The sun warmed the white stone path leading through the cemetery, birds chirping gently in the background as Isabelle made her way to the familiar headstone tucked beneath a slender tree.

Six years.

The ache hadn’t gone away—it had just changed. Softened. Settled. It lived with her now, quietly, like a shadow that didn’t ask for attention but never really left either.

She knelt in front of the headstone, brushing a bit of dust and pollen off the smooth stone. No frills, no flourishes. 

“Bonjour, Papa,” she said quietly, placing the bouquet down. White roses, lavender, and the soft green of eucalyptus. The kind of flowers that looked like peace, not performance. 

She sat cross-legged in the grass, like she always did, tugging at her dress to keep it from wrinkling and resting her elbows on her knees. The breeze pulled gently at the hem of her dress, tugging her hair loose from its clip. “Six years.”

She exhaled slowly. The ache wasn’t raw anymore—it was worn in, like a bruise she didn’t flinch from, but never quite forgot.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately,” she admitted. “And not just today.”

Her fingers picked absentmindedly at the grass beside her, pausing at a small patch of dandelions. “I used to come here and pretend I only had good memories. I think I did that to protect myself, and you. But I don’t think I have to do that anymore.”

“Maman’s… still Maman,” she began, her voice light, like she was easing herself into it. “She misses you more than she admits. Though she hides it behind self-help books and gift-wrapped life advice… She got me a pantsuit for my birthday, by the way. Black. Structured. She knows I don’t wear trousers unless I’m working out. I think she thinks if I dress like a different person, I’ll be one.”

A small pause. Then a sigh.

“She also gave me a book. How to Be More Assertive. You’d have laughed. Or said nothing and nodded. Which is worse, probably.”

She looked down for a moment, voice quieting.

“The boys are alright. Arthur got into Formula 2. He’s thrilled—he’s already planning how to outshine Charles. He won’t, but I like that he dreams like that. It reminds me of you, sometimes. And Charles…” she smiled, but it was tinged with something bittersweet, “he placed fourth in Canada. Said it like it was a tragedy. I think he forgets how much he’s already done.”

Her fingers stilled. “And Lorenzo is still Lorenzo. Always the calm one. The problem solver.” 

The silence stretched, until it turned heavier.

“You probably already know, but... I never really forgave you for Blanche.”

Her voice didn’t shake, but it softened.

“I know it wasn’t easy. That money was tight. That you wanted Charles to have a chance. But Blanche was mine. You didn’t even ask. Just said she’d gone to a good home and expected me to smile about it.”

She swallowed.

“I was thirteen. And I didn’t have much that was mine. You took the one thing I loved and gave it up for someone else’s dream.”

A breeze moved past her, rustling the eucalyptus leaves.

“But I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” she said after a while. “You were doing what you thought was right. You always put racing first. Always.”

She stared at the ground for a moment, lips pressed together.

“I used to think that made you a bad father. But now, I think it just made you… human. Flawed. Stubborn. Messy. You were trying to hold a family together by chasing a finish line.”

Her voice cracked just a little. “Sometimes I wish you'd seen me more clearly.”

And then—after a long pause, a small smile ghosted across her lips.

“I met someone.”

Her eyes stayed on the headstone, like she needed to say it just right.

“I haven’t told anyone yet. Not Maman. Not the boys. It’s still just ours right now.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them.

“His name’s Max. Max Verstappen. I know you knew him—you used to talk about how talented he was in karting. You said he and Charles were ‘the kind of rivals who’d make each other legends.’ I remember. You always respected him.”

“He’s competitive, sure. But there’s kindness underneath it. Stillness. And when he looks at me, it feels like… like I’m not invisible.”

Her voice softened.

“He’s not like people think. He’s quiet. Kind. Steady in a way I didn’t know I needed. And he listens. Like—really listens. He even started learning French for me. Just… because.”

She smiled, quietly.

“I think you’d be surprised. Not just that it’s him. But that I’m happy. Really, truly happy. It doesn’t feel like I’m shrinking anymore just to keep other people comfortable.”

She stood slowly, brushing off her dress, gathering herself.

“I’m happy, Papa. I didn’t know I could be, not like this. I just wanted you to know. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

She bent to press her fingers lightly to the cool marble.

“I’ll come back next year,” she said. “Same day. Same flowers. Maybe a different story.” 

***

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

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The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused. 

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.” 

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit. 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation. 

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname. 

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water. 

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind. 

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless. 

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Thin Walls - Sebastian Vettel x reader

Sebastian Vettel x female!reader

Requested? Yes/No

Anon: Was wondering if I could put in a request for a Red Bull era Seb fic / oneshot? Maybe something along the lines of working for Red Bull since Seb joined, and the beginning of the 2013 season, Mark Webber finds out that Seb has always had a massive thing for you. Mark then decides to start flirting with you to make Seb jealous. Seb gets back at Mark by enacting Multi-21, and after the race, gets the ultimate payback by getting you to come back to his thin-walled hotel room, which is the room right next to Mark’s. ;)

Word Count: 4.5K

Warnings: Angst, smut 18+++, dom! Seb, swearing (wrap it before you tap it kids)

—

Ever since Sebastian Vettel had joined Red Bull you had been working alongside him. Being Red Bull’s main photographer had a lot of benefits including being rather closer with both drivers. You conducted their photoshoots all year round and then followed them like a shadow around the tracks to get the best photos you could. Sure you got on with both boys well but there was always something about Sebastian that made him that little more special, maybe it was because the two of you started your Red Bull journey together or maybe it was because you two could never keep your eyes off one another. Whatever it was Mark Webber sure picked up on it and used it to his advantage. 

“You like her,” Mark turned to face Sebastian. The two were sat at a drivers meeting and Mark had caught the German’s eyes linger on you just outside the room for a little too long. “Don’t you?”

“Who?” Seb snapped his head back to meet the gaze of his teammate. “y/n? No.”

“I didn’t even mention her name.” Leaning back in his chair he smirked back at Seb. “So you do like her?”

Continuar lendo

X MARKS THE SPOT!

pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.

faceclaim: jessica alba.

summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.

warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3

author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D

now part of a trilogy!

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others

yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!

view all 298,727 comments

user1: MOTHERRR

user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!

-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

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u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

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liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

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‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

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view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

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[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.

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liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir! with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’

mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘trailblazer’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

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— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)

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stream madness pt. 4

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Twitch streams, chaos during trivia, and one very soft Lando Norris. Whenever Y/N shows up on stream, fans get more than they bargained for. Between Max F's third-wheeling, and Lando's doting habits, the internet can't keep up.

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of period, pregnancy

Five star michelin

The stream blinked to life, revealing a familiar setting: the sleek, modern kitchen of Lando’s Monaco apartment. The camera was already rolling, capturing a countertop neatly prepped with ingredients, and a few pots and pans waiting on the stove like soldiers at attention. Cooking stream? Unheard of.

Lando appeared on screen, a little out of focus as he fiddled with something just off-camera. He leaned down toward a mic and gave it a couple of taps.

“Can you hear me now?” he asked, eyes darting toward the chat as it exploded with responses. A few seconds passed before he nodded, satisfied. “Nice.”

From somewhere off-camera, a familiar voice chimed in. “You ready?”

“Mmhmm.” Lando stepped back into frame and clapped his hands together, “So—”

A sudden laugh burst from off-screen, stopping him mid-sentence. He turned his head, smirking.

“What?”

Y/N finally stepped into view, her expression amused. She wore one of his Quadrant hoodies, her hair pulled back casually, looking completely at home. “You and Max always do that,” she teased.

“Do what?” he chuckled, reaching out to tug her gently closer until she was tucked beside him, shoulder brushing his.

“The clapping,” she said, gesturing at him with a knowing smile. “Every time you guys film something, you both do that little clap before talking. It’s like a reflex or something.”

Lando rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “Whatever, hater…”

He turned back to the camera, hands twitching like he was going to clap again. “Anyways, so—” He froze, caught himself mid-motion, and looked right at her. “...Fuck. I really do it, huh?”

Y/N doubled over laughing, lightly shoving him. “I told you! It’s your little pre-performance ritual.”

Lando laughed too, bumping her gently with his hip. “I feel attacked in my own kitchen.”

“You should,” she grinned. “Consider this an intervention.”

“Alright, alright,” Lando grinned, finally pulling it together. “No more claps. Let’s cook before I develop another weird habit.”

“Tell them what we’re doing,” Y/N says, grabbing two aprons from the counter and tossing one to Lando.

“Right!” he nods, slipping the apron over his head. “We’re making dinner. From scratch.”

“That’s right,” she grins, stepping behind him to tie his apron strings neatly at the back. “Steak and mashed potatoes today, quick and easy.”

Lando scans the kitchen setup with a slightly exaggerated frown, lips pressed together as he surveys the ingredients. Y/N catches the look and raises a brow.

“What’s wrong?”

He exhales a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m actually kind of nervous. Chat’s gonna see how rubbish I am at this.”

Y/N’s face softens as he gently spins her around to tie her apron too, the motion slow and familiar. She glances over her shoulder with a small smile. “That’s why I’m here, bub. We’ll work as a team.”

He gives her a playful pat on the bum, earning a surprised little laugh as he says, “Alright, boss. What’s first?”

Y/N grabs a bowl of unpeeled potatoes and hands it off to him along with a peeler. “Wash them, peel them, cut them into quarters.”

Lando blinks. “Huh?”

She stifles a laugh. “Wash. Peel. Cut. Into quarters,” she repeats with a teasing squeeze to his arm, before turning toward the fridge.

He looks down at the potatoes, then to chat, then back at the potatoes, sighing as he walks to the sink. “Do I like... scrub them or something?” he calls over his shoulder.

“No need,” she answers, rinsing some herbs at the counter. “We’re peeling them anyway.”

And so the chaos begins.

Y/N gets to work seasoning the steaks and prepping the herb butter, while Lando stands at the sink, holding a potato like it might explode. He finally begins peeling, very slowly, occasionally pausing to read the chat.

“Hey! I’m not slow!” he says, pointing the peeler accusingly at the camera, eyes squinting playfully. “I’m just taking my time.”

From behind him, Y/N chuckles, drying her hands. “You are doing it quite slow, my love.”

She walks over with a chopping board and a knife in hand, peeking into the bowl beside him. “I’ve already seasoned the meat, made the herb butter, and cleaned up. And you—” she pauses, looking over at his bowl of potatoes “—have peeled exactly… three potatoes.”

Lando gasps like she’s just betrayed him on live television. “I think I'm doing a mega job.”

She laughs, nudging him gently with her hip as she starts chopping the peeled ones. "And I'm so proud of you"

The chat explodes in laughter, messages flying in:

“3 potatoes in 20 minutes 💀” “Y/N carrying as usual” “He’s trying his best leave him alone 😭”

Y/N takes over the potato duties without much of a fight, Lando had peeled just enough for her to work with. She dumps the chunks into a pot of water and sets it to boil, giving it a quick stir before turning to check on her newly assigned sous-chef.

Lando is now standing in front of the stove like he’s guarding a priceless artifact. The pan on the burner is still very much empty, not even a drop of oil or butter in sight, but he’s watching it with intense focus.

“You do realize the pan’s still empty, right?” Y/N asks, sliding up beside him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

Without taking his eyes off the pan, Lando scoffs, “I’m aware, yes.”

She bites back a grin. “And you’re watching it like a hawk because…?”

“I’m waiting for it to heat up enough,” he replies, dead serious, hovering his hand just above the surface with surgical precision. “You said it has to be hot. Like hot hot.”

Y/N stares at him for a second, then laughs. “Okay, fair, but you could at least put some oil in while you’re doing your little steak meditation.”

Lando lets out a dramatic sigh like she’s asking him to do the impossible, but obliges, grabbing the olive oil and drizzling it into the pan with flair. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” she deadpans. “Now wait til it's smoking a bit.”

He narrows his eyes at the pan, nodding slowly. “Got it.”

From the corner of the room, her phone buzzes with notifications. Chat is thriving.

“Lando’s steak arc begins” “This man is doing yoga with a frying pan” “Protect the pan at all costs”

Lando peeks over her shoulder and squints. “I feel very attacked in this live stream.”

Y/N smirks. “Good. Means they care.”

Just then, the oil begins to ripple gently in the pan. She leans over, inspecting it.

“Alright, chef,” she says with a teasing salute. “You’re good to go.”

Lando straightens up dramatically, grabs the seasoned steak like it’s a sacred relic, and carefully lays it into the pan with a loud sizzle. He flinches slightly at the noise, glancing at her like, “Did I do that right?”

Y/N gives him a proud little nod. “That’s perfect.”

The satisfaction on Lando’s face is almost too much. He’s glowing like he just scored pole position.

“Yeah?” he says, biting his lip to hide the grin. “I mean… obviously.”

They both stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the stove, their expressions weirdly serious as they watched the steaks sizzle in the pan. The kitchen was quiet now, save for the soft bubbling from the potatoes and the satisfying sear of meat against hot oil.

Neither of them spoke. Just stood there. Staring.

Chat, however, was anything but silent.

“they’re both dissociating 😭” “brainrot live” “this is peak couple behaviour” “they’re literally the same person wtf”

Lando finally blinked out of it first. He glanced sideways and immediately burst into a quiet laugh, spotting the exact same zoned-out expression on Y/N’s face as she stared into the pan like it held the secrets of the universe.

She snapped out of it at the sound of his laugh, turning her head with a soft smile. “What?”

“You were giving me crap for staring at the pan,” he said, nudging her gently with his elbow. “You were literally dissociating watching the steak cook.”

Y/N blinked, then laughed, covering her face with one hand. “Oh my god. I was. I think the sizzle hypnotized me.”

Lando grinned, bumping her again. “Welcome to my world.”

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder, still smiling. “Brain empty. Just meat noises.”

Chat was in shambles.

“JUST MEAT NOISES” “meat trance 🧠✨” “someone screenshot this, I need it framed”

Not much time had passed, and now the two stood on opposite ends of the kitchen island, heads down, tongues slightly poking out in focus as they carefully plated their food.

Each had been assigned their own plate, it had somehow turned into a competition. And of course, they’d agreed that chat would vote on whose presentation was better.

“Stop hogging all the broccoli, baby!” Lando cried dramatically, pointing an accusing finger at her side of the counter. “I’ve got no garnish.”

Y/N scoffed, not even looking up as she arranged a small floret just so. “You knob, we’ve literally both got five each!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly to her plate like she was presenting evidence in court.

Lando leaned over with a squint. “Yeah, but you’ve got all the pretty pieces!”

She froze mid-mash, then turned to look at him, face twisted in utter disbelief. “They’re all broccoli, you muppet! What do you mean ‘pretty pieces’?!”

“The round ones!” Lando argued back, now clutching his plate like it was his child. “Yours are, like… cuter!”

“I cannot believe we’re arguing about broccoli aesthetics,” she muttered, laughing as she snatched one off his plate and swapped it with hers. “There. Happy?”

He paused, inspecting the trade like a jewel dealer. “...Yeah, that’s fair.”

Lando glanced over at his plate, then at hers. His brow furrowed.

“How’d you do that?” he asked, confused, staring like her food was some sort of black magic.

Y/N didn’t even look up, too focused on delicately arranging the slices of steak just right on her plate. “What now?”

“Your mash…” he said, drifting over behind her to peer over her shoulder. “How’d you make it look like that?”

She let out a loud, surprised laugh, trying to push him away with one arm. “Lando! We literally have the same stuff. Go back to your side!”

“But yours is nicer!” he whined, barely budging under her efforts, grinning down at her like a menace.

“Then make yours nicer” she shot back, trying to block his view with her body.

Lando laughed, finally backing off with a shake of his head. He grabbed a clean spoon and stood over his plate like he was defusing a bomb. Slowly, carefully, he swiped it through his mashed potatoes in a swooping motion, eyes narrowed in focus.

“Done!” Y/N announced triumphantly, tossing her hands in the air. She wiped her hands on her apron and sauntered over to Lando’s side with a mischievous grin.

“Hey!” Lando yelped, quickly shifting to block her path with his hip like a human kitchen gate. “Back to your side!”

“I just wanna peek!” she laughed, trying to sneak a look over his shoulder.

Without warning, Lando wrapped one arm around her waist, effortlessly scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Y/N squealed in surprise as he spun her around and plopped her down directly in front of the camera.

“Stay there,” he said, grinning as he planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Talk to chat while I finish my masterpiece.”

Y/N blinked at the camera, momentarily stunned, before bursting into laughter. “This man really picked me up like I was a rogue toddler.”

Lando finally walked over to show his plate toward the camera with a dramatic spin. “Voilà. Chef Norris’s Signature Steak Surprise.”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to inspect. “Surprise being you didn’t burn it?” She teases as she holds up her own plate to show the camera

“Oi,” he huffed, nudging her gently with his hip again. “Time for the votes. Chat—choose wisely.”

He moved to stand beside her as the poll popped up on screen: Whose plate wins? 🍽 🧡 Lando’s Luxurious Lunch 💚 Y/N’s Superior Steak Situation

The votes flew in fast.

“I swear, if you win because of the mash swirl…” Y/N muttered, squinting at the poll.

Lando grinned. “That’s called technique, love.”

The timer ticked down.

Y/N – 62% Lando – 38%

“YESSS,” she cheered, throwing her arms up again. “Justice for the broccoli.”

Lando slumped against the counter dramatically. “This is rigged. I demand a recount.”

Y/N leaned in, pecking his cheek. “Better luck next dinner, chef.”

------------------------------------------------------

Think fast

Being in a relationship with Y/N meant Lando had to stay constantly on his toes. In the early days, her endless pranks always managed to catch him off guard, whether it was the latest viral trend or some chaotic idea she came up with on a whim, he never stood a chance. These days, though, he liked to think he’d gotten better at spotting the signs, or at least bracing himself for whatever mischief she had up her sleeve.

“It’s not going to work.”

Y/N and Max Fewtrell strolled into the McLaren hospitality, phone in hand streaming live on twitch, making their way toward the back where Lando was supposed to meet them. He’d left the hotel a couple hours earlier for back-to-back meetings before free practice.

“When has he not fallen for one of your pranks?” Max asked, sipping his coffee with a knowing grin. “Just try it. Chat's going to love it”

Y/N shook her head, already laughing at the thought of Lando calling her out before she even made a move.

“The last two times, he shut me down before I even got the chance,” she said with a shrug. “He’s learning.”

They found an empty table tucked away from the crowd and sat down to wait. Max, ever the instigator, kept nudging her to try one of the latest pranks he’d seen trending on his feed, desperate for a dose of chaos and the chance to see his best friend publicly flustered.

The two sat like that for a while, answering a few questions every now and then. Before long, Lando’s voice rang out behind them.

“Oi! There you two are!”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder and grinned, standing up with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You want your fix? Watch this,” she whispered to Max, stepping aside from the table just as Lando approached.

“Sorry, meeting ran long,” Lando said, pulling off his cap and tossing it onto the table.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “Think fast! I’m a random girl!”

Without warning, she lunged at him—arms outstretched, lips puckered dramatically, ready to play her role to perfection.

Lando’s reflexes kicked in fast. “Whoa!” he said, holding his palm out and catching her right in the forehead, effectively stopping her mid-charge.

“I’m happily taken, thank you very much,” he deadpanned, pushing her away gently but firmly, then wiped his hand on his pants with exaggerated disgust. “Please maintain a safe distance, stranger.”

Max burst out laughing while Y/N nodded proudly, even slow clapping.

“Mate,” Max wheezed through his laughter, practically spilling his coffee, “you’re like a trained puppy!”

“Proud of you, babe,” Y/N grinned, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Hey!” Lando ducked away dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Lady! Please… I just told you—I have a beautiful girlfriend!”

Y/N smacked his arm, laughing. “You muppet.”

Lando chuckled, finally letting his act drop as he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in. “Hello, my love. Trying to entertain Max and chat again, I see?”

“Someone’s gotta give them content,” she teased, and Max just shook his head, still grinning, proud to have captured the whole thing.

------------------------------------------------------

Just cause

Lando had been on Twitch with Max for hours now, deep in a chaotic stream full of banter, games, and far too much shouting. Y/N had been missing in action the whole time, curled up in bed for a nap when the boys started, and clearly forgotten amidst the noise.

When she finally stirred awake, the first thing she heard was Lando’s muffled shouting through the walls. Headphones on, game volume cranked, completely unaware of how loud he was being. With a sleepy smile, she grabbed her phone and hopped onto Twitch, curiosity getting the best of her.

Instead of Lando’s stream, she tapped into Max’s—knowing full well she’d get the better view and more unfiltered commentary.

“Hi Maxie” she typed, the grin already growing on her face.

“Woah, is that Y/N?” Max’s voice rang out, loud and clear through Lando’s headset.

Lando glanced over his shoulder instinctively. “She’s asleep in the room, mate.”

Max let out a laugh. “No, mate—she just said hi in my chat. Hi Y/N!”

Lando’s brows lifted in surprise, just as the sound of her soft footsteps approached from behind. Moments later, she was there—turning his chair slightly before straddling his lap without a word, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Oh—” Lando blinked, arms instinctively wrapping around her waist, one hand settling gently on her back. “Hi, baby. What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer—just shook her head and nuzzled into his neck, clearly not in distress, just craving closeness.

The chat exploded.

“OMG STOP” “They’re so cute I’m gonna cry” “IM SO SINGLE” “Watch Max clown them in 3...2...1…”

“Ewww! Get a room, you two!” Max called out through his mic, laughing.

“Shut up, Max,” Lando chuckled, slipping off one side of his headset and muting his mic. He leaned back slightly, guiding her face away from his neck so he could see her.

“Baby… hey,” he said softly, concern laced through his voice as his arms held her close. “You alright, my love?”

She smiled gently, still sleepy-eyed. “Hi.”

“Well, hello,” Lando chuckled, amused by the unexpected visit. He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. “What’s wrong? You don’t usually do this… not that I mind—I quite like it, actually.”

She only shook her head, letting out a quiet sigh as she settled her head back on his shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck.

Lando’s smile faded into a soft frown, now slightly worried. “You feeling okay? Are you sick?” His hand instinctively moved to her forehead, checking her temperature.

She laughed, lifting her head to meet his eyes. “I’m okay, silly. I just… missed you.”

That one sentence made something warm bloom in his chest. He smirked, his hands now tracing slow circles on her back, already forgetting the stream still running in the background.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, now suddenly a little bashful under his gaze.

“I can end the stream,” he offered gently. “We can hang out in the room, maybe order some food and watch a movie?”

She shook her head. “Maybe later? Go finish your game… I’ll just stay here for a bit.”

Lando smiled softly and guided her head back down to his shoulder, pressing a tender kiss to the side of her head. “Alright, my love. One more hour—then I’m all yours.”

He leaned forward and unmuted his mic, the grin already spreading on his face. “Sorry—boyfriend duties,” he said proudly, as Max groaned dramatically and the chat predictably exploded again.

“bf of the year!” “THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER 😭” “MAX IS GONNA LOSE HIS MIND I LOVE THIS” “THE BAR IS ON THE FLOOR AND LANDO JUST LAUNCHED OVER IT”

------------------------------------------------------

Who knows me best?

The stream kicked off with the usual trio, but this time, they had a small whiteboard in hand. Lando sat center, eyes scanning his computer as he tweaked his Twitch setup.

“Ready?” he asked, giving his hair a final fluff before leaning back in his chair.

Max and Y/N finally set their phones aside, both nodding in sync with soft hums of agreement.

"So..." Lando clapped his hands to mark the start of the stream, prompting a chuckle from Y/N

“See? Told you he does that too,” Y/N said, leaning forward to look at Max.

Max grinned. “P said the exact same thing to me.”

“The clapping again?” Lando groaned, rubbing his cheek in mock frustration. “I swear I’ve been trying to stop. Someone tie me down already.”

“Y/N can do that tonight—like you two always do,” Max said with a cheeky smirk. “Right!” He punctuated the joke with a clap, then winced. “Ah, fuck. I did it too.”

That sent all three of them into a fit of laughter.

“We’re hopeless, mate,” Lando wheezed between laughs. “Alright, chat! We’re here for the ‘Best Friend vs. Girlfriend’ challenge—who knows me best?” He turned to Y/N with a playful look. “Or as she likes to call it…”

“‘Girlfriend versus Boyfriend,’” Y/N said, nodding seriously at the camera. “Because Max is my boyfriend’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, piss off,” Max laughed, shaking his head.

"I've started a poll, so you guys an vote on who you think will win" Lando says, handing each of them their own markers

“First question!” Lando grins, glancing between the two. “When and where was my Formula 1 debut?”

Max and Y/N immediately start scribbling on their boards, Lando casually jotting down his own answer with that signature smug smile.

Once they’re both done, Lando nods toward Max. “Alright, Max. You go first.”

Max flips his board with confidence. “2019, Australian Grand Prix.”

Lando chuckles and gives him a fist bump, flipping his board, revealing the same answer. “Point for Max.”

He turns to Y/N, who’s already rolling her eyes. “You got it wrong, didn’t you?”

“On the contrary,” Y/N says, flipping her board around with flair.

Lando and Max burst out laughing before she’s even finished reading.

“March 16, 2019. Australian Grand Prix. 3 PM local time,” she recites matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re fucking joking,” Max wheezes, clutching his stomach. “You gave her the questions beforehand, didn’t you?!” He shoots Lando an accusatory look.

“What?! No! I swear I didn’t!” Lando throws his hands up, still laughing.

“I’m just that good of a girlfriend,” Y/N shrugs, casually erasing her board and adding a neat little mark in the corner for the point she just earned.

“We weren’t even dating yet, baby,” Lando teases, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Yeah, but she definitely had a massive crush on you already,” Max adds with a smirk, wiping off his own board "Remember when you begged me to not tell him when I found out and you—"

"—Okay! That's enough from you Maxiepoo," she says clapping her hands trying to speed up the process "move on come on keep them coming!"

Lando chuckles and nods, reading another question off his phone, “Next one. What’s my worst habit?”

Both Max and Y/N immediately start writing without hesitation, clearly prepared.

Lando watches them suspiciously. “Why are you both so fast with that?”

Max flips his board first: “Biting his nails”

“Okay wow—” Lando starts.

But Y/N’s already turning hers around: “Saying ‘I’m fine’ when he’s clearly spiraling.” She underlines it twice for dramatic effect.

Lando throws his head back laughing. “Well fuck, I feel attacked.”

“You should,” Max says. “We’ve had an intervention, like, twice.”

“You ignored both,” Y/N adds, casually ticking her board again.

Lando just shakes his head. “You guys are supposed to be on my team.”

“No,” they say in unison. “We’re on the truth’s team.”

Chat? Loving it

"NOT THEM TEAMING UP ON LANDO" "Max and Y/N are so competitive with it" "lol i think they're playing who loves Lando more?" ------------------------------------------------

Mini Lando

It had been a two-week break between races, and Lando was soaking it all in, some sun, some sleep, and a whole lot of gaming with the boys back in Monaco.

Today was no different, Lando and Max were live on Twitch, lazily stacked in their usual setup, bantering, gaming, and occasionally getting completely distracted by chat. But there was one thing everyone in the comments couldn't stop talking about.

The clip had already gone semi-viral on F1 Twitter: Twitch stream, Max mid-sentence, Lando walking off-screen, only to pop back into frame quietly leaning over Y/N on the bean bag, hand resting softly on her stomach, the other brushing her hair away like some kind of soft boyfriend fever dream. That, paired with Y/N’s mysterious absence from this stream?

Yeah. The fanbase had collectively lost its mind.

“Where’s Y/N?” Lando reads aloud, scoffing with a half-smile as he leans back in his chair.

Max snickers but doesn't look up from his screen. “Mate, you’ve unleashed the internet. That clip’s everywhere.”

Lando chuckles. “I was literally just saying hi.”

“Sure,” Max says, dragging it out like he’s stirring something dangerous. “Saying hi with your hand on her stomach and playing with her hair like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

Lando defends, laughing now. “I was being a good boyfriend”

Chat explodes — everything from “we know what tired means” to “BABY LANDOOOOO??”

Lando shakes his head, clearly fed up with the stream chat spiraling out of control. With a sigh, he pulls out his phone and dials Y/N, holding it up on speaker for dramatic effect.

Almost instantly, her voice comes through, dry and familiar “You do know I’m in the bedroom, right?”

“Hi, my love,” Lando says sweetly, ignoring Max’s exaggerated eye roll. “Come here for a sec?”

Max doesn't miss a beat. “The tone shift is insane. Bro went from gamer rage to Shakespearean boyfriend in 0.2 seconds, someone study that.”

Lando reaches over and smacks his arm, earning a loud “Oi!” from Max.

“Lan,” Y/N groans on the other end, “I look like shit right now.”

“You always look beautiful, my love,” Lando says, dramatically and unapologetically simping. “Chat’s looking for you. And, apparently… baby Norris too.”

“Oh my Gosh,” she mutters, but the sound of movement comes through anyway.

Not a minute later, Y/N appears behind Lando’s chair, wrapped in a hoodie that definitely wasn't hers, her hair in a mess of clips and chaos. She leans down, placing a soft kiss to the top of Lando’s head.

“You called?” she murmurs.

Lando looks up at her like she hung the moon. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Max turns back around, still grinning. “Everyone thinks baby Norris is on the way.”

Y/N snorts. “We can’t even agree on getting a pet, and you guys think we’re having a child?”

Chat loses it. Lando’s smile widens as he reaches up and laces his fingers through hers.

“So that’s a no?” Max deadpans.

“That’s a hell no,” she says, laughing. “Not until he agrees to get a dog”

“Here we go again,” Lando groans, burying his face in her hand.

“I was just on my period, guys. Calm your T’s,” Y/N says casually, walking further into frame like she didn’t just drop a bomb on the chat.

Max chokes on his drink. “Okay then—!”

Lando just shrugs, grinning. “You wanted answers.”

Without missing a beat, Y/N walks over to the corner of the room and returns with a small basket cradled in her arms.

“Anyway,” she continues, unfazed by the hysteria in the comments, “look at the care package Lando got me.”

She plops down next to him and starts pulling items out like she’s hosting an unboxing video: a ridiculous amount of chocolates, sour gummies, a box of painkillers, a face mask, heating patches, and even a tiny plush dinosaur.

“For emotional support,” Lando adds, pointing at the dinosaur. "Tell everyone what you named him, baby"

“His name's Dino Ricciardo” Y/N says, nudging Lando with her shoulder. “He was just being a doting boyfriend, is all.”

Chat absolutely explodes — messages flooding “I’m crying real tears, this is PEAK boyfriend behavior”“CAN WE CLONE HIM?”“Dino Ricciardo world champ 2025”“Why am I single 😭”

Lando’s just grinning like an idiot while Max shakes his head. “Yeah, alright, you win. Everyone else can go home.”

------------------------------------------------------------

Cat gate

Lando and Max were lounging side by side in his gaming room, mid-break between rounds of Counter-Strike, when Lando’s phone lit up on the desk.

“Ooh, look who’s calling, chat,” he grinned, picking it up and flashing the screen toward the camera, a photo of Y/N, cheeks squished against his in a selfie. The chat instantly flooded with heart emojis.

“Probably misses me already,” he added smugly, answering with a teasing, “Hello, baby.”

“Yuck,” Max groaned beside him, visibly cringing as he read the chat explode with reactions to Lando’s soft tone. “Hate it here.”

“Hey, so, um… don’t be mad,” Y/N’s voice came through, the slightest bit hesitant.

Lando’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s never a good start. What’s wrong, my love? You still out with Lily and Alex?”

“Yeah! We had such a good time—we played a little golf, got some lunch…” she said casually, but there was background noise now: distant music, a bit of wind, someone talking.

Lando glanced at Max, curious. “Sounds fun. You on your way back?”

“Almost home, yes. But okay, listen… there’s just this tiny thing.”

“Wait—" Lando cut in, scandalized. "You played golf without me? I’m actually offended.”

“Lan…”

“Traitor,” Max muttered, shaking his head at her through the mic. “She always says no when we ask.”

“Because Lily actually knows what she’s doing!” Y/N snapped back playfully, then sighed. “Anyway, that’s not the point—”

“You told him about the cat yet?” another voice chimed faintly in the background—Alex Albon, unmistakably.

Lando’s expression froze. “Cat? Did Alex just say cat? What cat?!”

Y/N laughed nervously, “Okay...you know what? We’ll talk about it later. We’re almost home. Ten minutes. Love you, bye!”

“Wait—we?” Lando sat up straighter, suddenly suspicious. “Baby, who’s we? Hello??”

The call had already ended.

Max burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re in trouble.”

Lando stared at the screen like it betrayed him. “What cat? Who is we?! Did she mean her and the cat?!”

Not long later, a soft knock echoed through the room.

Lando glanced at the door just as it creaked open, revealing Y/N’s head peeking in, her eyes wide with mischief and a grin tugging at her lips.

Max immediately leaned forward, laughing. “Oh, she’s definitely up to something. That’s the face of someone who’s just done something incredibly stupid… or incredibly amazing.”

Lando turned in his chair to face her, smiling despite himself. “Come in, baby. The stream’s on.”

She stepped fully into the room, and in her arms, curled up like a sleepy little angel, was a kitten. A tiny, soft-furred ball of fluff, blinking slowly and completely unfazed by the chaos around it.

“Before you say anything,” Y/N started quickly.

“Oh my god,” Max said, whipping his head toward Lando, his eyes wide with glee.

Lando just stared. “Baby… you didn’t.”

“We can’t. We’re barely even home,” he added, voice soft but edged with disbelief.

“I know,” she rushed out, walking toward him and gently placing the kitten in his lap. “Technically, she’s still Alex’s. One of their cats had a litter and I said we could foster one for a bit.”

Lando let out a breath as the kitten instantly curled into him, purring like a tiny engine. His hand instinctively began to stroke the soft fur.

“How am I even meant to carry a cat?” he muttered, spinning his chair a little to show the stream.

“Mate… what do you mean? You’re literally holding it,” Max deadpanned, watching in disbelief.

“So?” Y/N asked, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Can we keep her—for now? Alex said if you say no, that’s totally fine. We’ve got three months to decide.”

Lando looked up at her, caught somewhere between overwhelmed and completely smitten. “But I thought you wanted a dog?”

“I do!” she said, nodding eagerly. “But now they can be friends.”

Lando turned to Max for backup, but Max just shrugged. “Leave me out of this one, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked back to Y/N, a grin breaking across his face despite the chaos. He looked down at the kitten, now snoozing peacefully in his lap.

“What are we naming her?”

Growing Pains | Max Verstappen ( Chapter One )

SUMMARY — It started with berry stained fingers. Karting suits that were slightly too big. The sickening crunch of metal and the silence that followed.

If you asked Max Verstappen to pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Mila Meijer, he'd say, 'Lonato, Italy. 2005. Behind my father's van. In a blackberry bush.'

If you asked Mila Meijer when she fell in love with Max Verstappen, she'd smile, blush, and ask, 'Which time?'

WARNINGS — Career ending spinal-injuries and the aftermath, coming of age, abusive parents (very vague), death of a parent, racing accidents, PTSD, chronic pain, time skips, eventual smut.

AUTHOR NOTES — This one goes out to the girlie's who fell in love as kids and still hold on tightly to that love to this day. The timeline is not going to be completely accurate, but that's okay! Hope you love it - Peach x

Series Masterlist

2005 – Lonato, Italy

The air smelled like burnt rubber and warm grass—summer smells. A kart shrieked through a far-off corner of the track, thin and angry, then all of the noise was gone again.

Mila Meijer crouched low behind a mess of blackberry bushes at the edge of the paddock, hidden from view. Her karting suit—white with bubblegum-pink stripes—was unzipped and tied around her waist, the sleeves dragging in the dirt. Her undershirt clung to her back, sticky with sweat. Juice stained her fingers red and purple where she’d crushed berries in her palm, one after another. She sucked the juice from her knuckles slowly, letting the sugar sit on her tongue. For a moment, nothing else existed; just sun, sweetness, and the quiet thrum of the karting paddock.

Then a shadow blocked the sun.

He came around the corner fast, all elbows and knees, expression sharp. 

Max Verstappen.

Buzzcut, furrowed brow, mouth pulled tight like he’d forgotten how to smile.

He stopped when he saw her. Glared like she wasn’t supposed to be there.

“You’re gonna get your gloves sticky,” he said. His voice was clipped, like he was pointing out a safety hazard.

Mila looked at her hands. Juice was dripping down the side of her wrist. She blinked, wiped it off with the side of her shirt, and shrugged. “I’ve got other gloves,” she said, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Max squinted at her. “But those are your race gloves.”

“I know.” She shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just nodded slowly and stared at her like she was from Mars. 

“You’re Max Verstappen,” she said. Not a question. He nodded again, like: obviously. “I beat your qualifying time.” She said. She also grinned toothily, just to annoy him. 

It totally worked. His head snapped toward her, a glare forming like a storm cloud. “You got lucky,” he said. “It was wet.”

Mila made a face. “Won’t be tomorrow, and I’ll still start in-front of you.”

Max kicked a loose rock hard. It skidded across the gravel and thunked against the side of a van. She didn’t flinch, just plucked another berry from the bush and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly.

Max watched her do it, watched the red juice stain the corners of her mouth. “What’s your name?” He demanded.

She told him. “Mila Meijer.” 

“Dutch,” he said, frowning. 

“Obviously,” she said back, like that should’ve been clear. “I race under the Dutch flag.” 

Max glared at her even harder then. “Yeah, well, your suit’s unzipped.” He said, like an accusation. 

“So’s yours,” she replied, before she even thought about it.

He looked down, saw that she was right, and glowered. 

She held out her hand, palm open. Three squished berries sat there, glistening in the sun.

“Want one?”

Max wrinkled his nose. “They’re all mushy.”

“Still yummy.”

He stared at the berries. Then at her. He sat down beside her in the grass, cross-legged, elbows on his knees like he couldn’t help it. He took one, gently, like she might bite him, and crushed it between his fingers as he lifted it to his mouth. Juice ran down his wrist.

“Shit,” he muttered, wiping it on his pants.

Mila’s eyes went big. “You swore!”

Max frowned. “I swear all the time,” he said, like that was totally normal for someone eight years old.

She leaned closer, eyes wide. “Will you teach me?”

Max tilted his head, studying her. “Okay.”

—

Later, Max sat on a plastic crate, staring at the tires of his kart. Jos was crouched beside the frame, ratcheting something into place, focused and quiet. Max picked at the edge of his glove.

Across the paddock, Mila stood next to her kart. Her dad stood with his arms crossed, looming over her mechanic. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was tight and sharp, like a corner taken too fast.

“No, not like that,” he said. “She’ll lose time out of Turn 2 if it pulls like that again. You need to get it right.”

Mila didn’t say anything. Just nodded, expression unreadable.

Max watched the way her entire body stiffened when her dad stepped in closer. 

Then her dad put a hand on her shoulder. Not rough. Not gentle either. Mila flinched.

“You want to beat these boys?” He said, low and hard. “Then stop making mistakes. Every one of them counts. Do you understand?”

She nodded again, fast.

Max looked away quickly, pretending to adjust something on his own kart. The tire pressure didn’t need checking. He did it anyway.

—

By the time the sun dipped low and the paddock lights buzzed to life, Max wandered back to the blackberry bushes. Mila was already there, squatting in the grass with grease smeared across her cheek. She looked small and tired, but her hands were still stained purple.

“Did you get in trouble?” He asked, hands in his pockets.

She shrugged without looking at him. “Always.”

Max sat next to her. Close enough that their knees almost touched. He didn’t ask this time, just picked a berry, popped it in his mouth, and made a face.

“They’re sour now,” he muttered.

Mila nodded. Frowned. “Too ripe.”

They didn’t talk after that. Just sat there with sticky fingers, the track going quiet in the distance. Max reached down, pulled a blade of grass, and twisted it between his fingers.

“Do you ever wanna quit?” Max asked, not looking at her.

Mila didn’t answer right away. She picked at a scab on her knuckle. “No,” she said finally. “But sometimes I wish it was different.”

Max nodded like he understood. Like he wished that too, even if he couldn’t say what different meant.

Then he said, “Your dad seems mean.”

Mila turned her head, squinting at him. “So does yours.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “My dad just wants me to do well. He wants me to win.”

She shrugged. “Mine too.”

Max stared at her for a moment. He wanted to say something like—‘Yeah, but you’re a girl. And dads are supposed to protect their daughters, not yell at them and dig their fingers into their shoulders like that.’

But he didn’t. That was an inside thought. A secret one.

So instead, he kicked at a clump of dirt and said nothing at all.

—

2008 – Belgium

Sometimes, when Max couldn’t sleep, the memory came back in pieces. Not like a movie; more like flashes. Out of order. Out of reach.

The sound first. The ugly shriek of tires too fast into a corner, the crunch of metal on plastic, the silence after. That part always came first.

Then the light. Late afternoon, golden and heavy. Engine smoke hanging thickly in the air. Someone shouting, then everyone shouting. Footsteps. The smell of petrol and hot tarmac and something underneath it all—something coppery and terrifying. 

He remembers his hands. Small. Still in velcro gloves. One of them holding the steering wheel even after he’d already stopped his own kart. The other shaking when he unbuckled himself and started to run.

He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d stopped. Ended his own race in the blink of an eye. He still doesn’t know how he knew it was her who’d spun out. He just knew. Like a wire had snapped inside him. Like something invisible had yanked him toward her.

Her kart was sideways in the grass, a front tire missing, the nose crumpled. She was there, but not really. Crumpled too. And still.

He remembers her helmet first. Pink with white stars. The strap undone. Someone, maybe him, had pulled it off. Maybe it had fallen. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Her eyes were open, though. And she was blinking too slowly. There was dirt on her cheek and a cut on her lip and something wrong with the way her body was curled. Like a puppet with the strings let go.

He remembers saying her name. Over and over. Quiet at first, then louder. ‘Mila. Mila. Mila!’

He doesn’t remember crying, but he must’ve, because later his cheeks were wet and his nose hurt from breathing too hard.

And then suddenly Jos was there. Kneeling beside them, one hand on Max’s shoulder, the other hovering over Mila’s back. His voice low but urgent, “Don’t move her. Don’t touch her, Max.”

Max hadn’t. He’d just sat there, right beside her, knees digging into the gravel, hands in his lap. Helpless. Until his dad tore him away, had to throw him over his shoulder and carry him away.

He doesn’t remember the ambulance leaving. Just that the blackberry bushes by the track had been ripped through by someone’s tires. The berries crushed into the dirt like blood.

Later, they told him what happened. How the kart had snapped sideways at the exit. How the rear tire had lifted, twisted wrong, thrown her forward like a rag doll. How the seat had been mounted too rigidly. How her spine had taken the hit like a nail driven into wood.

They used words like compression fracture and T12 and incomplete. Words like lucky and won’t ever race again and rehabilitation.

Max hadn’t understood most of it. He still doesn’t think he really does.

All he knew was that she didn’t move. 

And then, for a long time after, she wasn’t there.

—

The rain had been tapping against the windows for over an hour. Inside the Verstappens’ house, everything was warm and still.

Mila lay curled on the fold-out mattress in Max’s room, legs awkward under a thick blanket. Her back brace sat in the corner, neatly folded. She hated wearing it around him—said it made her feel like an ugly robot. Max thought it was cool, actually. Like armour. Thought it was ridiculous that she didn’t like something that helped her not hurt so much.

Boys and girls weren’t really supposed to have sleepovers. But Jos didn’t mind so much when it was Mila. Not since Max started talking less to everyone else and more to only her.

“You’re thinking about it again,” Mila said, voice soft in the dark.

Max blinked, turned on his side. She was already watching him, eyes half-lidded but awake.

He didn’t say anything.

“You get that face when you do,” she went on. “Like you’re mad.”

He stared at the ceiling. “I just—” He stopped. “I knew it was you before anyone said anything and I don’t know how.”

Mila didn’t answer right away. “I don’t remember it. Sometimes I think maybe it didn’t even happen. Like I made it up.”

“It did,” Max said quickly, too sharp. “It happened.”

She slowly got up and tiptoed over to his bed. Stared at him until he huffed and moves over to make room for her. She gingerly climbed up and his hands itched to help her, but it’d only annoy her if he did. She eventually laid flat next to him. Both of them staring at the ceiling now. “I know it did. I’m just saying—I don’t remember it.”

He looked over. “Do you still miss it? Racing?”

Her voice came out small. “Every day.”

Silence again. Just the rain. Just the steady rhythm of breath.

“But I don’t miss being scared all the time,” she said after a while. “I don’t miss trying to win just so my dad wouldn’t yell at me all the way home.”

Max’s hands curled under the blanket. “I don’t miss that either.”

“I might come watch you race next year,” she said, quieter. “Jos said he wouldn’t mind. But I don’t want to be wearing the brace. It’ll just embarrass you.”

“You won’t,” he said, like it was obvious. “You could never embarrass me. I want you at all my races.”

She giggled. “That’s a lot of travelling.”

“You like planes.”

She just shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just shifted a little closer, until their shoulders touched beneath the blanket. She didn’t move away.

And when Max finally fell asleep, her hand was still resting quietly on top of his.

— 

2009 – Genk, Belgium

The crowd was loud, all clapping hands and stomping feet and the shrill metallic clatter of cowbells. Mila stood just behind the barrier near parc fermé, bundled in a navy rain jacket too big for her and a scarf Jos had insisted she wear, even though it wasn’t even that cold. The air smelled like exhaust and damp tires, her breath catching sharp and light in her chest.

On the track, Max was flying.

She could spot him anywhere, his helmet, matte black with the red lion decal Jos had added for him. His shoulders hunched in that specific, aggressive way when he drove angry. He was always better when he drove angry.

Her lion. 

She gripped the metal rail tighter.

The final corner came fast. Max dipped left, clean and low, and came out of the apex with barely a twitch. The kid behind him, Italian, taller, always trying to bump his way past, missed his shot. Max stayed ahead.

The chequered flag waved, and he won. 

Max didn’t celebrate, not really. He just lifted one fist in the air and kept driving, steady and sharp, until the track marshal made him stop.

Mila had never been so still in her life. Not even during the accident. She felt it everywhere, in her ribs, in her knees, in the space between her shoulder blades where the pain used to live. 

It felt like watching someone become exactly who they were born to be.

Jos clapped him on the helmet, proud but restrained. Always restrained. 

When Max finally made it back toward the barrier, out of the kart and peeling off his gloves, his eyes searched through the crowd.

He found her.

His face changed, not a smile exactly, but that quiet spark he never showed anyone else. Not Jos. Not the other drivers. Just her.

Mila grinned. She raised both thumbs, like a total idiot, and mouthed, “You did it!”

Max didn’t mouth anything back. He just pressed one hand against his chest, over his race suit. Just once. Like a promise. Like a thank you. 

And even though the ache in her back flared up from standing too long, and her legs felt sore from the walk to the paddock, Mila didn’t move.

She just watched him. Her best friend. Her person.

Her lion had just won the Mini Max class at the Belgian Karting Championship. His first real title. Real enough that Jos gave her a careful hug after the trophies were handed out, which meant that he wasn’t just happy — he was elated. 

— 

2010 – Kitzbühel, Austria

Snowbanks pressed up against the windows of the Verstappens’ rented chalet in the hills above Kitzbühel. Inside, it smelled like firewood, hot cocoa, and damp ski gear drying by the door.

Mila sat cross-legged on the floor by the fireplace, flipping through an old motorsport magazine. Her brace was on, she wore it more in the winter when the cold made her back ache worse, and her sweatpants bunched around it awkwardly. She hated how it looked. But it hurt too much to take off.

Max was across from her on the rug, trying to beat Mick at some ancient PlayStation rally game that Jos had found for them to play in the back of a cupboard.

“Max, you’re cutting the corner!” Mick complained, voice high with frustration.

“It’s not cutting if there’s no penalty,” Max muttered, without looking away from the screen.

Mick scoffed and flopped back against a cushion. “You’re such a Verstappen.”

Max just grinned like it was a compliment — it was, probably.

The next round started, but Mila wasn’t watching. She was pulling gently at the hem of her hoodie, trying to cover the plastic edge of her brace. She could feel it pressing into her ribs today, sharp and dull at the same time.

“You’re not skiing this year?” Mick asked, glancing over.

Mila shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Oh,” Mick said. He looked at her for a second longer. “Because of your robot thing?”

She blinked at him. “It’s called a brace.”

“Yeah. But like—” he hesitated, fumbling the words like they were marbles in his mouth. “It makes you look kind of funny. Stiff.”

Max dropped his controller.

The game kept running, his car spinning off the track, but he didn’t even glance at it.

Mick didn’t notice at first. “My dad says it’s probably hard for you, not racing anymore. Must be boring.”

Max stood up, sudden and angry. “Don’t,” he said, voice quiet but hard. Mila had never heard him sound like that before.

Mick blinked up at him. “What?”

“I said don’t.”

Jos was laughing about something with Corinna in the next room. There was the clink of coffee cups and adult voices muffled by thick walls.

Mila stared at Max. His hands were clenched at his sides. Not in fists, just—tight. Like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I didn’t mean anything,” Mick said, trying to laugh it off, but the tension didn’t go anywhere.

Max looked at him, jaw tight. “Just don’t talk about her like that again.”

Mick nodded slowly. Max sat back down.

The game music looped softly in the background.

After a while, Max shifted closer to Mila, not looking at her. He picked up the magazine she’d been reading and held it in front of them like it mattered.

“You’re not stiff,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear.

She swallowed. “I know. Thanks.”

And for the rest of the day, she didn’t tug at her hoodie once.

— 

2011 – Lelystad, The Netherlands

The cemetery sat on the edge of Lelystad, where the land lay open and bare, flat as paper under a heavy March sky. The trees, stripped thin by winter, rattled in the wind like bones. The funeral had ended hours ago, but the cold clung on—settled in the collarbones, under the fingernails, behind the eyes.

Mila sat alone on the rusted swing set behind her grandmother’s old farmhouse, a crooked little place not far from the karting track where her dad used to take her every Sunday, rain or shine. The swing creaked under her slight weight, chains moaning softly with every gust of wind. Her black dress hung loose around her shoulders. One knee of her tights was torn open, blood dried along a pale scrape from where she’d fallen earlier behind the church, running too fast, trying to get far away as quickly as she could. 

The swing beside her was empty until Max found her.

He stood a few feet away at first, arms folded tight across his chest, like he could brace himself against her grief if he held still enough. His blazer was too formal for him, stiff at the shoulders, the collar digging into his neck. Jos had made him wear it. He’d barely spoken the entire day. But when Mila vanished after the service, Max hadn’t waited to be told. He just went looking.

“He always hated this place,” Mila said finally, voice low and fragile. “He said Lelystad was too flat. That it made you feel like nothing ever changed. Like you could drive in circles forever and still be exactly where you started.”

Max didn’t speak. The creak of the swing, the soft hush of wind through the wet grass—that was all that filled the silence.

“Growing up, he used to tell me I was going to be world champion.” Her throat bobbed. “Like it was already true.”

Max stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel. “You could’ve been,” he said quietly. “You still—”

“No,” she said, not sharp, just flat. Final. “Not anymore.”

He opened his mouth again, but nothing came. She was looking at the ground now, eyes red-rimmed and distant.

“My mom’s gone too,” she added. “Not really, but… she’s not here either. She hasn’t looked at me all day. Like if she does, it’ll make it real. Like it’ll turn her inside out.”

Max finally sat beside her, his blazer bunching awkwardly as he lowered himself onto the swing. His feet didn’t touch the ground either. They were still young enough for that.

“I’m stuck,” she whispered. Her voice caught on the last word. “Like... I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. And I can’t get back to mine.”

“You’re not stuck,” Max said. It came out too fast, too defensive, like he wanted to punch the idea out of the air before it landed. “You’re not.”

She turned toward him, eyes glassy. “I am, Maxie. I’m stuck. I can’t race, my dad is gone, and my mom’s a ghost. And everyone keeps looking at me like I might break in half if they say the wrong thing.”

Her lower lip trembled, and she wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I wish I could just be with you all the time. You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m broken. You make everything feel… less bad.”

He didn’t answer with words. Just reached over and took her hand, chubby fingers, bitten nails, knuckles raw from winter air. His own were bigger already, rough and strong from hours at the wheel. 

She looked down at them, at their mismatched hands resting between them on the cold metal of the swing, and her cheeks flushed, softly pinked with something that wasn’t the wind.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Max said, and this time his voice was soft. Solid. A promise.

And when she leaned her head lightly onto his shoulder a minute later, neither of them said anything else. They just stayed like that—two kids in black, in the cold, holding onto each other like it might keep them from floating away.

— 

2011 – Zuera, Spain

The heat shimmered off the asphalt. Mid-afternoon sun bore down on the Zuera International Circuit, turning every metal surface into something that burned when touched. Kart engines snarled in the distance, buzzing like hornets, echoing off the low mountains that rimmed the dry Spanish horizon.

Max was leaning against the pit wall, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He had just climbed out of the kart, sweat clinging to the collar of his race suit, eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. His mechanic was crouched beside the kart, adjusting something near the front axle, but Max wasn’t looking at him. 

His eyes had already found Mila.

She sat on an upturned cooler box a few feet away, her legs crossed awkwardly at the ankles, a notebook in her lap and a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her brace was off, only really worn on bad days or long travel stretches now, but she still moved with a certain caution, like her body was always preparing itself for pain. 

Mila glanced up and smiled the second she caught him watching her. It was small, and lopsided, but real. “You kept locking up into Turn 6,” she said before he could speak. “Twice in the first five laps.”

Max blinked. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” she said, not unkindly. “The right rear lifted. Your dad saw it too—he’ll yell at you about it later, probably.”

Max huffed. Dropped his helmet gently beside her cooler box and crouched down, tugging open a water bottle. “I wasn’t braking late.”

“You always brake late,” she said, arching a brow. “You think it makes you invincible.”

He grinned around the bottle. “Maybe I am.”

She laughed, quick and quiet. “Tell that to your tire wear.”

Max offered her the bottle without thinking. She took it and sipped, even though she had her own beside her feet. He always gave her his, like some instinct he didn’t question.

Behind them, Jos was talking with a steward, gesturing toward the telemetry station. Max tuned it out.

“You looked good though,” Mila said after a moment. “In the second half. You were clean. Controlled.”

He looked at her, heat still radiating from his skin, heart still beating like a drum from the adrenaline. “You think I’ll win?”

“You always ask me that.”

“Yeah, but I only believe it when you say yes.”

She tilted her head. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, messy by now, bits sticking to her forehead. “Yes,” she said, softly. “You’ll win.”

A long pause. Max didn’t say thank you. He just nudged her foot with his. “Do you still miss racing?” He asked that question a lot. Every few months, like he expected the answer to change. 

“Yeah,” she answered, no hesitation. “But I don’t miss the pain.”

“Would you come back?” He asked. “If your doctor said you could? Would you start karting again?”

Mila looked down at her lap. The notebook had little diagrams sketched in the margins, corner maps, gear ratios, tire notes. She wasn’t racing anymore, but she was still studying every lap like she was. Max liked looking at them after every race, and Jos always told her that she was smarter than any strategist he’d ever met. It was nice. “I don’t know,” she said. Then after a second, “I don’t think so. I’d be too scared. And my dad always used to say that there’s no place for fear when you want to win.”

Max sat beside her, elbows on his knees, both of them watching the track in the distance where another group of karts tore past in a blur.

“You should be out there,” he muttered, slightly angrily. Always so angry. “With me.”

“You can win for us both,” she said. “That’s good enough.”

He didn’t say anything, but his shoulder pressed against hers.

And when Jos called him over five minutes later for a debrief, Max didn’t move right away. He stayed where he was, beside Mila, like everything could wait a little bit longer if it meant spending an extra few seconds by her side. 

—

2011 – Wackersdorf, Germany

Rain. Not heavy, but constant; the annoying kind that clung to everything and made the rubber slick against the asphalt. The track was damp enough to be dangerous, dry enough to be fine. Everyone was second-guessing tire choices, and tempers were running short.

Max was pacing. His gloves were already on, helmet visor fogged from the inside. Jos stood off to the side, arms crossed, jaw tight, saying nothing, which somehow made it worse.

Mila was sat on a folding chair just outside the tent, hood pulled up, her notebook open across her knees. Her right leg bounced, a leftover habit from when she’d still be strapping in for wet races like this.

Max ignored his mechanic and looked at her. “Do you think I should go with wets?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her pencil tapped the page once, twice. Then, “No. Intermediates. You’ll lose time on the opening lap, but the track’s drying. You’ll claw it back.” She didn’t even look up. Just wrote stay patient lap 1 – outside line better grip in the margins.

Jos overheard. “She’s not your engineer, Max.”

Max didn’t blink. “Yeah, but she’s smarter than all of them. Knows my driving style better than anyone else.”

Jos scowled, but didn’t argue.

Ten minutes later, Max was on the grid, visor down, tires still shiny with heat wrap residue. His pulse was steady, but his fingers kept twitching inside his gloves. He didn’t usually get nervous. But today felt...off.

Then, through the visor fog, he spotted her. Mila, standing alone at the fence. Still hooded, still bouncing that leg. She raised a hand, not waving, just holding it there, like a small lighthouse in the mist.

Max tapped his chest. Once. Just for her.

And something settled.

—

He won.

Not by much. Not cleanly. The race was ugly, elbows out, wheels banging, split-second lunges. But he listened. He waited through the first lap, then started carving through the pack once the grip returned on the drier lines.

When he crossed the line, the fist pump came late. It wasn’t about celebration. It was relief. Control. Proof that the plan, her plan, worked.

Later, soaked through and reeking of fuel, Max found her by the timing screens. He shoved his helmet into her hands like a trophy.

“You were right,” he said, grinning.

Mila rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

He bumped her shoulder with his. “I’m gonna keep listening to you forever.”

She snorted. “You barely listen to your dad.”

“That’s different,” Max said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll always listen to you. Promise.” 

She smiled at him. 

—

2012 – Somewhere on the Autobahn, En Route to Genk

Mila sat sideways in the passenger seat of the van, legs out straight, chin resting on the edge of her hoodie. Max was half-asleep next to her, head slumped against the window, arms crossed tight. 

Jos was driving. The highway lights flashed over his face in intervals, yellow-white, yellow-white, and the hum of the tires on wet road was the only sound for a long time.

And then Mila’s flip-phone buzzed. Again.

MAMA: We need to talk. Call me tonight. You missed your French test. Again.

She swallowed. 

“You okay?” Max asked, his voice rough with sleep. He didn’t even open his eyes.

“Fine,” she lied, instantly.

He cracked one eye open. “That was a lie.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “My moeder is mad.”

“Why?”

“I missed a test. I’ve missed a lot, actually.” She didn’t say it like she was guilty. More like she was tired of pretending that she was. 

Max sat up slowly. “But it’s not your fault. You were with us all weekend.”

“That’s kind of the point, Max.” She said. 

He blinked, his eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t wanna come and watch me race anymore?”

“No,” she said, quickly, fiercely. “Of course I want to. I just... don’t know if I can.” She looked away, out the rain-streaked window. Shrugged. “She says that I have to start thinking about the future. University. She said being at racetracks all the time isn’t—what was the word—appropriate.”

Max looked like someone had just told him the sky wasn’t real. “But this is your future,” he said. “Ours.”

“No, Maxie. This is yours.” She hated how soft her voice sounded. Like giving up.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared at her like he could make her take it back by sheer force of will. “You’re part of this,” he said eventually. “You’re part of all of this. I don’t know how to do it without you anymore.”

Her smile cracked. “I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll have to learn.”

The van was too quiet after that. Jos said nothing, maybe pretending not to hear, maybe just choosing not to get involved.

“I don’t want to win if you’re not there,” Max said suddenly, and the words came out sharper than he meant. Not dramatic—furious. Desperate.

Mila turned to him, eyes soft and tired. “Don’t say that, Maxie.”

“Why not?”

“Because you will win,” she whispered. “And I don’t want to be the reason you don’t.”

Max’s hands balled into fists. His voice was tight, cracking around the edges. “You’re not a reason. You’re—” But he didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t. Because how do you say you’re everything when you’re fourteen and don’t know the right words for it yet?

Instead, he reached out and hooked their pinkies together, his grip firm. Like it meant something. Like it could hold her there.

And Mila let him. Held on.

—

2012 – Rotterdam, Erasmus Medical Center

The fluorescent lights made everything look too clean. Too white. Like being inside a cloud made of antiseptic. 

Mila sat on the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling under her legs. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands. She kept folding and unfolding them. Her mama sat in the corner of the room, purse in her lap, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.

The door clicked open and the orthopaedic specialist walked in with a laptop under one arm and that tight smile that meant ‘I’m about to tell you something bad but I’m going to say it kindly.’

“Hi Mila,” he said. “Good to see you.”

Mila nodded. “You too.” She lied. 

He pulled up the scan images, angled the monitor so they could both see. Spinal curvature. Hardware. Thin white lines against soft shadows.

“You’ve been doing quite well since the last procedure,” he began. “But we’ve been keeping an eye on the growth pattern around the fusion site, and... the imaging shows some instability just below the existing rods. That’s why the pain’s been getting worse.”

Mila didn’t say anything. Her mum straightened but didn’t speak either.

“I think we need to consider another surgery,” the doctor continued gently. “Not immediately. But… soon. Before things worsen or start affecting your mobility long-term.”

Mila blinked slowly. “And then what?”

“Six to eight months recovery. Then bracing for a while.” He paused, and this time his voice dropped. “And Mila… after that, we need you to know that you might require a mobility aid for a few months. Maybe a few years. Spinal injuries are so unpredictable. I just want you to be prepared for that, okay?”

She laughed. A breath, sharp and dry. “Yeah. Not like I have a choice, right?”

“I’ll give you and your mother a moment,” he said, and slipped out with a quiet click of the door.

Mila stared at the wall.

Her moeder finally spoke. “This is a good thing. No more pain.”

Mila didn’t answer.

She stood, came over, and reached for her shoulder. Mila flinched just slightly, but let her. “We’ll get through it. You can focus on school during your recovery, Mila. You can build something real.”

Something real.

Later, in the car on the way home, Mila texted Max without even thinking about it.

Mila: Can’t come to see you next weekend. I’ll tell you about it later.

Max: You okay?

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched the buildings blur past the window.

Mila: Yeah. No. I don’t know.

He didn’t text back for a long time. But when he did, it was simple.

Max: I’ll come to you.

— 

2012 – Rotterdam, Two Days Later

Mila’s bedroom still looked like it belonged to a younger version of herself. Posters curling at the corners, a stack of karting magazines under the bed, and a pink star helmet sitting like a relic on her bookshelf.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, hoodie zipped all the way up. It was late afternoon. Grey light spilled in through the window.

Max knocked once before pushing the door open. He didn’t wait to be invited. He never had to. “I brought stroopwafel,” he said, holding up a bakery bag like it was some kind of offering.

Mila gave him a half-smile. “That’s cheating.”

“I know.”

He dropped onto the carpet beside her, crossed his legs. The bag crinkled as he opened it, handing her one.

She didn’t take it.

Instead, she stared at her hands. “I’m having another surgery.”

Max stilled. “When?”

“Before the end of the year. The hardware from the last fusion is causing problems.”

He looked at her now, fully. Not just with his eyes, but with that laser-focused kind of attention he usually reserved for overtaking manoeuvres.

“What kind of problems?” He demanded to know. 

“Pain. Balance instability. They said if I don’t do it, I might lose flexibility. Maybe total mobility.”

Max didn’t say anything. Just set the bag down and shifted closer. “And afterwards?”

“Maybe a walking aid. More rehab. I’ll have to be careful about everything. For the rest of my life.” She didn’t cry. But her voice cracked on everything.

Max’s hands were on his knees, clenched. “That’s bullshit.”

She huffed something like a laugh. “Yeah. I know.” There was a long silence. Then she finally looked at him. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d hate it. I knew you’d make that face you’re making right now.”

He tried to ease his expression. Failed. “I do hate it,” he said anyway. “I hate that you have to go through this because of one stupid crash.” 

She smiled weakly. “Me too.”

He reached forward. Took her hand. Held it tight. “I wish I could fix it,” he said.

“You can’t.” She sniffled. 

“I know.” He glowered at the wall. 

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Let out a long breath. “You being here helps, though.”

“Always.” He swore. 

They stayed there on the floor, the room quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside and the occasional squeak of floorboards as the house settled. Max rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head.

“I’m going to miss so many of your races.” She hiccuped. 

He held her tighter. “I’ll win them all. Just for you.” 

Her eyes burned with tears. 

And she let him hold her. 

— 

It wasn’t easy. It never was, but Mila’s recovery after the surgery dragged on through months of physical therapy, aching muscles, and moments where she thought her body would never be the same again. There were days when she felt the familiar pang of frustration—when the pain in her back felt like too much to bear, when her movements were slow and careful. 

But through it all, Max never stopped showing up.

When she needed something to distract her from the long recovery process, he was there with stories of races, videos of his recent karting wins, and pictures of himself grinning in front of trophies. Even though she couldn’t be at the tracks with him, Max still made sure to share every victory, every near-miss, and every little milestone. He called her on days when the pain was unbearable, talking about the small things, like his newest kart setup or his thoughts on his next race. It made her feel like she wasn’t missing out, even though she was.

In 2012, Max was on fire. He was winning more than ever, his karting career moving forward with such momentum that it felt unstoppable. He won in World Championship Karting, at several international events, and started to attract the attention of big names in the motorsport world.

Mila wasn’t there to see any of it.

At least, not physically.

While she recovered at home in Rotterdam, Max sent her regular updates, videos from his races, texts after every win, a million photos of him holding up trophies on the top step of every podium. Anything he could do to keep her close, even when she was so far away. 

—

By the winter of 2013, Mila was slowly returning to herself. Her rehab sessions were still frequent and painful, but she had rebuilt the strength her body had lost during and after her surgery. She was no longer confined to her bedroom or the couch. She was starting to walk again without crutches, her movements still stiff but improving. She still wasn’t ready to be back at the track, but she could sense it was getting closer.

One afternoon, a message from Max pinged her phone, as it always did when he was traveling or racing.

Maxie: I’m going to miss you at the next race, but we’re going to make sure you’re here soon, okay?

Mila read the message with a smile tugging at her lips. Her heart fluttered with something she hadn’t felt in so long; hope, maybe. 

Mila: Maybe I’ll surprise you.

And surprise him she did.

The next race was an international one, a massive event in Belgium. It was one of Max’s biggest yet, and he was riding high on the confidence from his previous wins. He had worked relentlessly for this moment, and everyone expected him to show the same fire. What they didn’t expect was for Mila to show up, after all the time she had spent away.

Max arrived at the track early that morning, the cold wind biting as he adjusted his karting suit and prepped for the day ahead. He had been in the middle of a conversation with his mechanic when, without warning, a figure in a hoodie appeared near the fencing. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her.

Mila.

She stood just beyond the barrier, slightly off to the side, watching him. The pain in her eyes was dull, but it was still there. 

For a split second, everything stopped for Max. It was like the whole world paused, and it was just the two of them. 

She waved awkwardly, as if she had no idea how to be the same person she used to be at these races. Max’s heart pounded in his chest. Without thinking, he sprinted over to the fence. He climbed it, nearly knocking over the barriers in his eagerness, and didn’t stop until he was standing in front of her.

Mila reached out to him, her face lighting up in a smile that made everything feel right again. He didn’t waste a second.

Max grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close, his lips crashing into hers without hesitation. The kiss was urgent, but also soft. The moment their lips touched, it felt like everything they had been through, the pain, the distance, the time apart, vanished.

Neither of them had expected it, but it felt so natural. So right.

They pulled away only when they heard the sound of a camera shutter. A photographer, who had been snapping photos of the pit lane, had caught the entire moment. Before they could even react, the photographer had already turned the camera around to show them the shot.

Max and Mila stared at the image, the rawness of it on display. Max with his arms wrapped around Mila, his lips still lingering near hers, the shock and surprise still written on their faces. It was too perfect. Too real.

But in that moment, Max didn’t care about the photo. All he cared about was the girl standing in front of him, her hand still gripping his, and the way she made him feel more complete than he had ever felt before.

“You—” Max started, his voice still rough from the kiss, “You’re really here.”

Mila smiled softly, still a little dazed, still holding his gaze. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

— 

Karting Today – December 2013 Max Verstappen’s Little Lioness: The Girl Behind the Champion By Sarah Van den Heuvel

Max Verstappen is a name that’s become synonymous with speed and talent in karting. But behind every win, there’s a person who has stood by him from the beginning—Mila Meijer, his best friend and unwavering support.

For years, Mila was Max’s unofficial teammate. Together, they dominated the track, pushing each other to new heights. But in 2007, a career-ending crash forced Mila to step back from racing, leaving Max to continue his journey without her. As Max earned victories across Europe, Mila was there for more races than she wasn’t; a true show of the bond they shared.

After months of recovery from her third spine surgery, Mila returned to the paddock this month. And when Max spotted her in the crowd, with a smile that lit up the track, he jumped over the fence and pulled her into a kiss—right there, in front of everyone.

The moment took fans by surprise. Verstappen, who’s rumoured to be heading for F3 in the coming year, kissed the girl who had been there since the beginning. It wasn’t just the young driver and his best friend—it was a new chapter in their story.

Max may be racing toward a bright future, but Mila will always be the one who fuels his drive.

The lion and his lioness. 

— 

2014, Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium

The garage was buzzing with pre-race tension. Mechanics were running through checks, engineers were glued to their screens, and the air had that electric charge of anticipation before a big race weekend. But in the midst of it all, Max and Mila found a quiet corner in one of the lounge areas. The chaos outside their bubble seemed so far away.

Max was sitting on a couch, tapping out a message on his phone, his eyes darting between the screen and Mila. She was perched beside him, her legs curled carefully under her, watching him with a mixture of affection and a touch of concern.

“You’re thinking too much,” she said quietly, reaching over to gently nudge his arm. “Worrying.” 

Max glanced up at her, his expression serious but softening when he saw the look on her face. “Just… feels weird, you know? All this. F3. It’s big. Even after all the testing, you know…”

Mila smiled, but it wasn’t the carefree grin he was used to. There was something deeper in it, a mix of pride and worry. “You’re ready, Max. You’ve been ready for years.” She paused, letting the words sink in. Then, her voice dropped slightly, almost as if she was testing the waters. “But, you know… things will change now. Girls will start looking at you differently. You’re going to be famous. F3 is a big deal.”

Max raised an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What are you talking about?” He leaned back, his voice teasing but with that underlying sincerity he never bothered to hide when it came to her. “You think I’m going to start paying attention to some random girls?”

Mila’s fingers brushed against the fabric of his jacket as she shifted closer, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. “I don’t know, Max. I just… I guess I’m just not used to it. Sharing you.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he locked his phone and put it down, his full attention now on her. Max reached out and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently, as if grounding them both in the moment. His voice was low but completely certain when he spoke. “I don’t want them, though,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

Mila’s breath hitched, her heart beating faster in her chest. She looked at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt, any hesitation. But there was none. Just the quiet certainty of the boy who had always been by her side, no matter what.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Max smiled, a rare, genuine smile that only she seemed to draw out of him. He shifted closer to her, resting his forehead against hers for a brief moment. “Good. Because I don’t think I could do all of this without you.”

The world outside, the cameras, the spotlight, the constant noise, didn’t matter when it was just the two of them. It was as if, in that small corner of the world, they were still the same kids they had been all those years ago, sharing secrets and dreams with no one else to witness it.

“Alright,” Mila said, pulling back slightly but keeping her hand in his, “but I’m still going to be worried about all the girls at the track.”

Max grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Don’t be. You’re the only one who matters.”

---

COMING HOME | LN 4

lando norris!dad x fem!reader!mom

warn: super fluffffff

prev chap

After an entire week away on a girls’ trip, Y/N was finally coming home.

And Lando? He was already there, waiting—alone.

Noah and Leo were at a Kai (Max son) birthday party, which meant he had Y/N all to himself.

And oh, he was going to make the most of it.

The second he spotted her walking out of arrivals, suitcase in tow, he was on the move.

Lando pulled her into a crushing hug, burying his face in her neck. “Finally,” Lando groaned into her neck, inhaling deeply as if he was trying to memorize her scent. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”

Y/N laughed, hugging him back just as tightly. “I missed you too, baby.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue-green eyes shining with something possessive. “No, you don’t get it. A week, love? That felt like a damn year.”

She smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “A little dramatic, aren’t we?”

Lando huffed. “Not dramatic. Just a man starving for his wife.”

Lando grumbled dramatically, pulling back just enough to pepper kisses all over her face. His hands never stopped roaming—her back, her waist, her arms—like he was trying to make sure she was really there.

On the drive home, Lando kept one hand firmly on her thigh, occasionally squeezing or rubbing circles with his thumb.

The moment they stepped inside the house, it was game over.

He was all over her.

Lando clung to Y/N like he was making up for every second she had been gone. He nuzzled into her neck, whined whenever she tried to move away, and made it physically impossible for her to go anywhere without him attached in some way.

“M’spoiled now,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re not allowed to leave me that long ever again.”

Y/N laughed. “You sound worse than the kids.”

Lando scoffed. “Nah, I’m worse. Noah and Leo don’t have the same needs as me.” He nipped at her neck. “You’re mine.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, but the truth was, she loved how much he adored her. Even after years together, two kids, and a chaotic life, Lando still treated her like she was his entire world.

He tilted his head up to look at her, his lips brushing against her jaw as he pouted. “At least they get you every day. I had to survive a week.”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “You called me every night.”

“Not the same,” he whined, kissing a slow path down her neck.

Lando wanted to be spoiled.

And he was making the most of it.

For the few precious hours they had alone, Lando insisted on being babied.

When it was time for lunch, he refused to eat unless Y/N fed him. He sat on the couch, eyes bright and mischievous, lips slightly parted as he waited.

“Baby,” Y/N sighed. “You can eat by yourself.”

Lando grinned. “Yeah, but I don’t want to.”

She shook her head fondly but gave in anyway, bringing the spoon to his lips. He accepted it happily, humming in delight.

“Mmm. Tastes better when you feed me,” he teased, leaning in for a quick kiss.

When it was time to shower, he refused to let her go alone

“Oh,” Lando gasped dramatically. “I also need help in the shower.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

Lando nodded solemnly. “Can’t possibly get properly clean without my wife’s assistance.”

And that’s how they ended up spending way too long in the shower, half washing, half just standing under the warm water, Lando’s arms wrapped around Y/N as he whispered how much he loved her.

Afterward, they tumbled into bed, Lando immediately pulling her into his chest, their legs tangling together as he buried his face in her neck.

“M’gonna get jealous of our own kids,” he murmured. “They always steal you away from me.”

Y/N smiled, running her fingers through his damp curls. “That’s because they need me.”

Lando huffed. “I need you.”

Lando, Y/N, and a bubble of warmth that neither of them wanted to pop.

But then—

The sound of tiny feet stomping up the stairs.

A door bursting open.

And two little voices squealing, “MOMMY!”

Noah and his little brother Leo came barreling into the room, full of excitement—until they saw the scene in front of them.

they saw their dad.

Still wrapped around their mom.

Still.

Holding.

Her.

Their excitement immediately turned into betrayal.

Noah stopped in his tracks, his tiny fists clenching at his sides. His big brown eyes shimmered with pure devastation.

Leo, the more dramatic of the two, gasped so loudly it was like the world had ended.

Noah’s voice wobbled. “Mommy!” His bottom lip quivered. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I wanted to hug you first!”

Y/N’s heart melted as she trying to reached out for him, but she couldn't because Lando mischievously held her back in his hug.

“Oh, baby—” Leo huffed, crossing his arms tightly.

“Daddy!” he accused, his little voice high with outrage. “Why is Daddy like that?!?! Now Leo is angry. Leo don’t want Daddy anymore!”

Lando grinned, clearly thriving off their reactions.

"Oh?" he teased, tightening his grip on Y/N. "What's wrong, little man?"

Leo's little face scrunched up. "NO!! That's Leo's mommy!"

Lando laughed, pressing even more kisses onto Y/N’s cheek, just to rile them up. “Mmm, no, I think this is papa’s mommy. She is mine,”

Lando hummed, holding Y/N even closer. “Right, my love?”

Noah gasped in horror. "NO! That's our Mommy!"

Leo stomped his little foot, his voice high and wobbly. "Papa's Mommy is Glandma, Y/N is Leo's Mommy!"

Y/N had to bite back a laugh as Leo’s little lisp made his words even cuter.

Lando, fully enjoying himself, grinned. “You sure?” Lando teased. “I think she likes me more.”

Leo’s eyes welled up instantly. “Daddy’s bad! I will hit you!”

Lando smirked, challenging, “Oh yeah? You think you can take me, little man?”

Noah narrowed his eyes. “Daddy’s Bad! You’ll really get hit.”

Leo, fully tearing up now, sniffled. "Yeah, Daddy will get eaten by a monstel!"

Lando lost it.

"Oh nooo," he mocked, his voice exaggerated as he rocked Y/N in his arms. "Not the big bad monstel!"

Leo screeched, turning to Noah for backup.

“Daddy’s not scared of the monstel!” he wailed.

Lando grinned. “Oh, Daddy’s not scared because Daddy is safe in Mommy’s arms.” He smirked, snuggling into Y/N dramatically. “See? Daddy’s all safe here.”

Noah and Leo decided they had enough.

With both battle cries, they launched themselves onto the bed—except in their excitement, they almost tripped.

“Eh, be careful! Be careful, baby,” Y/N gasped, her voice instantly gentle and full of concern.

The second they heard her soft tone, both boys sniffled and made a beeline for her, scrambling into her arms. Lando reached out instinctively, steadying them as they climbed onto the bed.

Noah and Leo immediately latched onto Y/N, snuggling into her sides and glaring at Lando.

“Eh, don’t hit Daddy, Daddy will get hurt,” Y/N soothed, rubbing Noah’s back. “How about we just don’t play with Daddy? Noah and Leo can cuddle with Mommy instead, okay?”

That did the trick.

Both boys instantly relaxed, wrapping their tiny arms around her.

Lando gasped in betrayal. “Wait. No. That’s not fair—”

Too late.

They had claimed her.

For the next hour, the four of them lay tangled in bed together, the boys happily cuddled against Y/N as they chattered about their day. Noah recounted every little detail of the birthday party, while Leo excitedly explained how he talked to the “screen people” when Lando streamed.

And in that moment, Lando didn’t mind losing the game.

Because there was nowhere else he’d rather be.