♪ — 𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗬𝗢𝗨 Max Verstappen X Fem! Girlfriend! Reader

you're mine now

Charles Leclerc x Best Friend!Reader count: 3.1k words summary: Charles invites you over for a movie night, that ends on his kitchen counter, no clothes involved. a/n: explicit smut, so strictly 18+

It isn’t supposed to be anything more than friends hanging out. You know this, and you remind yourself of it as you pat down your dress, ignoring the winter chill your bare legs give you. Maybe sundress wasn’t the best option, but it was the most chill-but-still-sexy option you had in the closet.

You rang the bell and Charles opens the door.

He looks good, to say the least – his hair has grown out a little and the curls are making their way back, alongside the ease in his shoulders that he regains during the off-season months. He pulls you in for a hug, and you suppress the shiver his cologne gives you.

Charles kisses your cheek. “Stunning, as always.”

“You’re outdoing me.”

“You’re putting a dress against sweatpants and a tee? Sure.”

“Sweatpants and a tee on you are a different story,” you argued.

He laughs and leads you through the house, even though you could’ve made your way to the living room in the dark, if you had to. The conversation takes you to the bar where he pulls out a bottle of champagne too expensive for the occasion, and tells you about the week since the last race.

You are listening—you pull yourself out of your thoughts a few times—but all you can think about is how good he looks. It’s like you haven’t seen him in years, not months. His hair’s messy and you know he was taking a nap shortly before you arrived because there’s red marks on his face, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days and great, now you’re looking at his lips—

“Do I have something on my face?”

You down the champagne in your glass. “No.”

“Want a refill?”

“Yes. Please.”

He takes the bottle and begins pouring, and your eyes are glued to his biceps, and the way they’re stretching the shirt—

“There you go.”

“Are you going to judge me if I finish that one, too?”

Charles laughs. Your legs go jelly.

“Only if you let me catch up, first.”

Three glasses of champagne down—each—later, you’re sitting on the couch. It’s a little bit cold and you complain, and the heating’s turned up within moments. He returns to the couch and looks at you; you catch him adjusting his sweatpants as he retakes his seat.

“Your sofa’s not small, you know.”

“What’s the point of sitting further away?” he asks. “I need to be able to annoy you during the movie.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

It’s Charles’s turn to pick a movie. He scrolls through the list, asking you if you’ve seen this one, or that one, and you respond with your mind half there, half on the champagne resting against the side of the couch. You pour yourself another glass and one for him, too.

“We’re going to need another bottle.”

Charles shrugged. “We could start doing shots.”

“Charles!”

“What?” He looks at you so innocently, so full of something, that you feel a shiver. It doesn’t help when he puts a hand on your bare calf, thumb moving just slightly. “Shots are for later, alright. Do you want more champagne or wine?”

You hesitate: champagne would be perfect, because that was absolutely delicious, but you also know how much it costs.

“Wine,” you say.

Yet when he returns with the bottle, it’s not wine he’s holding.

“Charles—”

“We can have more champagne if we want, okay? We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

He smiles as you clink your glasses together; something in your gaze grounds you, making you aware of every millimetre where his skin is touching yours.

“Us,” he says, and drinks to it.

He slots back into the spot at your side as his fingers absentmindedly brush your calves. It’s enough to keep you distracted – the way he’s sitting, or half-lying, you can clearly see the outline of the bulge in his sweatpants. He adjusts himself a few times, when he thinks you’re not looking, but it’s all you can see.

That, and the biceps, and the hair, and the slope of his nose that would feel so damn good against your—

You clear your throat. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Do you want an itinerary? The bathroom.”

“Don’t take too long,” he says. “The movie’s getting good.”

Ah, the movie. The one you’re definitely watching.

In the bathroom, you splash some water over your neck. Your face would’ve been better but you spent an hour doing a no-makeup makeup look and you’re not foolish enough to ruin it.

You think about it. It would be a lie to say you don’t.

You sit on the closed toilet and breathe, your hands on your thighs, itching to slip under your dress.

Behind closed eyes, you picture Charles on the couch, waiting for you. His hands are in his hair, making it messier, and you can just make out the outline of his—

Something cold touches the inside of your thigh. Your hand. You were about to—

It’s tempting. You can feel the pulsing, the need, the way your core responds to Charles’s every movement. If you took care of it here, and now, you’d be able to go through the movie without distractions. It wouldn’t even take long, considering how fired up you already are, and the image of your best friend so clear in your mind.

The outline gave you enough of an idea of what you’d expect. Of how it would feel in your mouth, between your legs, and maybe you could slip a finger in and think of it some more and—

“Y/N, you alright?”

Your hand flies to your mouth, masking the gasp. The other hand comes out from under your dress, the tip of your finger slick with your wetness.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, just… Just give me a minute.”

“I’m here if you need anything.”

The words made you leave out a long, controlled breath, willing your heart to stop racing. You promise you’d be out in a few seconds and when you hear his footsteps getting quieter, you wash your hands.

In the reflection, the woman looks as if she’s judging you.

“Shut up,” you tell her. “I know it’s bad.”

More water ends up on your neck and you dap it off with a bit of toilet paper. If Charles didn’t knock when he did, you probably would’ve gone more than just put a single finger in, and the thought of doing that while he sat across the wall is…

Exciting.

The whole place feels warmer as you make your way back to the living room. There’s a falter in your step – he’s sitting exactly the way you were picturing him. Even with the bulge still visible, if not as big as you supposed he could get.

If he knew what you were doing in his bathroom…

You slot back into your place, but make it so that no parts of your bodies are touching. If Charles notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He laughs along to the movie, and he’s enjoying it, for the most part, but it’s taking you every bit of self-control to keep your hands to yourself, when he’s so close. It’s not like you haven’t thought about this before—hell, you two even kissed on a dare when you were twelve—but this is different.

His attention is back on you as the movie ends. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know. You’re a bit quiet.”

“I was watching the movie.”

“Sure,” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t believe you.

He’s close – so close you feel his breath on your lips. Your gaze flickers to his before you can help it and when you look up, your cheeks burning, he’s smiling.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

His hand’s on your calf—has it always been there?—and you swallow the lump in your throat. You hear the noise from the TV, the high-pitch of the fridge, and your own heart trying to beat its way out of its cage.

“We should, um.” You clear your throat. “Drinks?”

Charles follows you to the island counter, placing the glasses on it. You pour the champagne this time and your hand’s shaky enough you wonder if he’ll comment on it, but he doesn’t.

You look at his hands—his fingers—and remember that less than an hour ago, you were taking care of yourself in his bathroom thinking of these.

“Truth or dare,” you blurt out.

Charles laughs. “What are we, twelve?”

“Truth or dare. No backing out.”

“Fine,” he says. “Truth.”

“Boo. Pussy.” You swirl the champagne around your glass, thinking. “When’s the last time you had good sex?”

“Three weeks ago,” he answers.

“Good,” you repeat. Three weeks ago, he was texting you about a girl he hooked up with, who could barely hold a dick in her mouth without gagging. “Answer honestly.”

He leaned against the counter, blowing air out of his mouth. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. A few months, maybe? What about you?”

You smile. “The question was for you.”

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“That’s not fair! You knew what I was about to ask.” When all you do is shrug, he shakes his head, but he’s smiling. His cheeks are a soft tint of red, and you wonder if they’d feel warm against your touch. “I can’t think of any good dares.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Seriously!”

“You’re boring,” you say. “I can think of one.”

“For yourself?”

You hum in response. “It’s getting hot in here.”

Charles was quiet for a few moments – you left the ball in his court, and it was up to him to accept it. If you weren’t already tipsy, you could’ve sworn his cheeks had gone redder.

On the counter, your hands were touched just the slightest bit, but the sensation ran down your spine.

“Okay,” he says, stepping the tiniest bit closer. “I dare you to take off your dress.”

Aware of your eyes on your body, you grab the hem of your sundress. It’s not often you can see him take you in piece by piece, cheeks reddening, eyes hazing over as if unsavoury thoughts are running across his mind. You slow down, stick your hip out a little, trailing your hands on your thigh higher, higher, higher—

You watch his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallows at the sight of your lacy underwear.

“Y/N—” he tries, but his voice gives out, deep and husky and so, so needy.

You tug the rest of the dress over, throwing it on the floor between you. His eyes are on your chest, with his tongue brushing over his lips. Even without needing to check, you know there’ll be an outline on his trousers – not once has a man looked at you like this without wanting to jump your bones.

You smile. Innocently. “Your turn.”

Charles hesitates, but only for a moment. His eyes dart to your face and whatever he finds there must agree with him, because he grabs the bottom of his shirt and tugs it over in one movement, dropping it on top of your dress.

Your heart beats in two places, looking at him like this. The light is dim and you could trace the abs on his stomach, the firmness of his pecks, even the shoulders, memorising it to make a statue of him in his mind.

The thought of him, bare, makes your mouth go dry.

“Sweatpants too,” you say.

He quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m in my underwear.”

“We’re both wearing two pieces of clothing.”

There’s the moment—the opening you’ve been waiting for—and you look at him in the eye, searching, until you see the way his lips are parted, the speed of his chest rising, the outline of his dick screaming to be let out, and you make your decision.

“Why,” you say, “when we could be wearing none?”

Charles’s eyes darken in a way you haven’t seen before. Gone was the gentleman, the strong man with a kind heart, and you think of him looking at you like this with his hands on your throat, pounding into you, and your knees buckle.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“We’ve been dancing around this long enough.” You hook your thumbs in the waistband of your panties. “I can do it, or you can.”

He crosses the distance between you in a moment, his body crashing against yours as he snatches you by the wrists, pulling them around his back. His mouth is against your neck and his breath sends shivers down your spine as he murmurs, “It would be my pleasure.”

He kisses you, then. His lips are soft against your skin they trail towards your collarbone, between your breasts. His hands are on your waist, now, just above the waistband, but travel behind your back as his mouth finds your nipple over the fabric of your bralette, pulling it in, the mixture of sensations making your body relax into his arms. Your hands are in his hair, now, tugging at it the way you’ve pictured yourself doing a million times, and he’s moaning against your breast, and you feel unravelled and you haven’t even done anything yet.

Charles pushes you against the counter and he pulls you up by the waist, and your legs wrap around him as if they were created for this. One hand on your chest tries to push you down but you shake your head, pulling one finger into your mouth, twirling your tongue around it as if it were a lolly.

“No,” you whisper. “I want to watch.”

“Fussy,” he says, dropping to his knees with a smile.

Your hands go back to his hair as he spreads your thighs with his hands, kissing the skin behind your knee, travelling inwards with soft kisses.

“Charles,” you moan. “I need—”

You gasp as his teeth sink into your thigh, followed by a kiss. “We’re doing this my way, princess.”

You’d protest—you’ve thought about this moment too often for it to go wrong—but his hand found your centre over your panties with soft, but confident strokes, with his mouth peppering kisses closer, and closer, and closer—

He kisses you over the fabric. He teases you, tongue flicking at your clit, and you tug his hair to tell him to hurry the fuck up and he parts your legs wider, pulling your panties to the side with his teeth and holding them there with his thumb. You feel his hot breath against your core, bare and exposed like this.

He looks up at you and you feel yourself melting into the sight. Those big green eyes, darkened with desire, his mouth an inch aware of your most private part…

You breathe out his name as if it were a prayer.

He smiles, satisfied, and burrows himself between your legs.

If heaven is real, you sure have died and gone to it, because your best friend is a master of the art of pleasure. He holds you steady against the counter as his tongue does the work even with your writhing and pleading for more, more, more, until he pushes a finger inside you, pumping and curling and it could be a minute or it could be an hour and your thighs are clenching his face and shaking, warms rushing through your body, and you breathe out his name again and again and again as he kisses you through your high, only pulling himself up from between your legs when your breathing steadied.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he says, smirking.

You shake your head, with what little energy you had left, but the sight of him like this—the bulge still trying to escape his sweatpants—has you yanking his clothes down until his cock springs free, every bit the thing you’d hoped for and more.

You kiss the head, lightly, teasing, hearing Charles’s moan. His hand moves to the back of your head and you take him into your mouth, bobbing your head on it. He even tastes good.

He moans, again, grabbing a fistful of your hair, urging you to go faster, sloppier, and you do. You let him into the back of your throat, not gagging, and he starts moving into you, shivering as his eyes meet yours.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He lets out a moan, loud, and pulls out. “Get back on the counter.”

You do as told and then he’s between your legs, lining himself up at your entrance. Both of you are too needy, too excited, too drunk to worry about a condom, and he pushes himself in, but you’ve been waiting for this the whole night, and he slides in with little to no resistance.

He moans, again, in the crook of your neck. You arch your back into him and he starts pumping, head buried against you and hands planted on the counter behind you. Your nails dig lines into his back and he bites and sucks on the skin below your chin as he fills you up to the brim, over and over and over again.

“Charles,” you say against his ear, half-whisper, half-moan.

You feel him shiver.

“Yes?”

“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

He looks at you and you give him a nod, and then he’s pumping into you faster, harder. You take his hand and drag it to your neck while lowering your back against the counter, biting onto your hand to suppress a moan as the new angle hits even deeper. Charles’s hand curls around your neck, just like you were imagining not too long ago, and his eyes bore into yours as you whisper his name, feeling yourself close, again.

It’s a few more pumps and a light squeeze on your neck and then your legs are shaking around him again and he moans, loud, guttural, as you feel the warmth of him spread inside you.

Charles does one last thrust and melts against your body, replacing your neck with more kisses, lazy this time, weary. Your hands are in his hair and you pull him up, your lips less than an inch away.

He kisses you. It’s tired, too, and sloppy, but you feel him twitch still inside of you, and his tongue explores your mouth. You can still taste yourself on it, and you remember how it felt, to have him buried between your legs, and you think, how could anyone give this up?

You couldn’t. You won’t.

“Charles,” you breathe out.

“Mhm?”

“You’re mine now.”

Hi!

Can I please ask for a social media au (not sure if it's the right one for this idea, so you can do it however you want it) with whichever era of Seb Vettel where the reader is a best-selling author and she is freaking out on twitter or other social media platforms after watching an interview with Seb after a race. An interviewer asks him what his favourite book is after catching him reading one, and he casually shows hers while stating that it was one of the best books he's ever read and that she was his favourite writer and a very beautiful and talented woman. All of her fans that also follow f1 are going crazy and shipping the two of them, since they know very well of her undying love for him, so they team up with the f1 fans to get them to finally meet after one of his races in the same country where she was doing a book meet-and-greet.

Sorry if this is too long but it's been in my head for a while and I really liked the idea of maybe the red bull team (if you want to write that era of him) surprising him with the reader after he won the race and his reaction going viral.

Thank you so much!! 💝

HIIII! i had such a lovely time writing this <3 i wasn't taking requests but i loved this one too much, and i might js open requests coz i have so much fun writing prompts 🤭 i did a mix of a regular fic and smau fic!! im so sorry if this isnt what you wanted, but i tried my best! this is my first time writing an smau fic so i hope i did well :)) for the interviewing part i was little unsure on how i should make the layout + questions so hopefully they were good enough 😭 i dont know too much abt seb's rbr era [as a new-ish f1 fan], so hopefully i did well. i think i did mix up a few stuff, i forgot to add a few parts and im so sorry for that 😭 also so sorry if i took too long to get to this request! i loved how detailed this was coz it really helped me get a better view on what i was doing!! i did add more things coz i had an idea in my notes and decided to put them together! and never be sorry, i think this is a lovely idea. thank you for this request!! also sorry if you accidentaly saw me post this, it was an accident 😓 i hope everyone reading this has a lovely day, and just know i'm proud of you for whatever you've done today <3 the fic became too long so i have to split it into two parts 😞

part one

part two [coming soon]

BLOG MASTERLIST

works by cate :) hope you like it 💌 feedback is always welcome.

FORMULA 1

Charles Leclerc

“You knew all too well I was right where you left me” [on the making] -> It’s the story of a woman frozen in the moment her world fell apart. A perfect dinner ended with, “I met someone else,” and while everyone moved on, she remained stuck in that instant, unable to let go of the past. A poignant tale of heartbreak, grief, and the weight of being trapped in a “forever” that never was.

“Am i too much for you? Maybe I’m too much for everyone” -> Reader feels insecure but Charles makes sure she knows how important she is to the world (specially his world).

“Tender is the night for a broken heart” -> You been feeling very sad lately. Your emotional stress is taking you places you didn’t want to back in ever again. And Charles knows it - just wanna make sure you know you are loved despite it all.

“You think you won ‘cause you got the man. But honey, you’ll always be a fan” -> Charles has a new girl and she’s obsessed with you.

“If I define her I limit her” -> You go together to the Gladiator || premier because your best friend Paul Mescal invited you. You didn’t expect Charles being so sweet talking about you on interviews.

“26” -> the world didn’t know you and Charles broke up a few months ago. it was until you haven’t been to any gp people started speculating. he finds some one new. Makes his dream com true. And you write an album about him reveling how you broke up and why.

Lando Norris

part 1: “opposite”, part 2: “sue me” -> Reader and Lando broke up a few months ago. You both assist a mutual friend’s birthday party and Lando has a new girl. Then reader has a girlfriend and thinks she’s all right. But did she really move on?

part 1: “so long, London”, part 2: “L’AMOUR DE MA VIE” -> You and Lando have been engaged for a while. You thought you were end game but he didn’t love you anymore. Then, you moved on. But Lando didn’t.

“If you were my boyfriend. And I was your girlfriend. Probably wouldn’t see nobody else” -> you are just ‘friends’.

“If nothing else get you through. Then darling, I’ll cry with you” -> Lando was fighting the championship until the Brazil GP happens. Max wins and Lando pretends it’s not a big deal. But you know, it is.

“Him” -> oblivious idiots to lovers. That’s what Max said.

“I would set the world on fire for you” -> after the Brazil GP, lando comes home to the worst week of his year. Also, it was his birthday. So even though the world hates him, you wanna make sure he is loved and he did nothing wrong. And that if you could you would set the world on fire for him.

Oscar Piastri

“I’ll pay the price I guess” -> the world hates you’re dating Oscar.

“This is how you fall in love” -> Oscar is truly, madly, deeply in love with you.

"Maybe i should've told you i miss you. But i don't know if you feel the same" -> your insecurities lead to lose the love of your life, but destiny always play its worst (or best) cards for you. in the aftermath of it all, two souls become one (again). or that's what you'd like.

Franco Colapinto

“But we were something, don’t you think so? And if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you” -> You and franco broke out a year ago. You are now Williams Racing social media manager and he’s an F1 driver. Your job just got a bit harder because of him. Is possible a second chance?

"Modales" -> You had a brief yet beautifully intense romance with F1 driver Franco Colapinto a few years ago when he was driving for F3. When he decided to end your relationship, you didn’t expect he would move on that quickly.

“Pueden más que el amor y son más fuertes que el Olimpo” -> how is like to date Franco since your teenage years. And how is for you as a student to balance your world and his world to make the relationship work.

Lewis Hamilton

“Can’t believe you’ve noticed me” -> Reader and Leiws are on vacation. One day under the golden hour he decides to sing you a song he wrote for you.

Made in Argentina : The series

Reader is argentine and Franco Colapinto's bestie.

Lando’s Version -> part 1

Oscar’s version -> part 1

Franco Colapinto

coming soon.

Like , reblog & comment if you like! Support your fave writers!

Oliver Twist

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Chapter Synopsis: In which Charles Leclerc becomes a sugarbaby.

Warning: Aftermath of unprotected sex and innuendos

Word Count: 4647

Chapter: 3

Sunday mornings are supposed to be calm.  For people to wake up peacefully and go about their day slowly, it is for having hearty breakfast and whispered conversations about the most mundane of stuff.

But here you were, with a possible corpse right in front of you.

In instinct from all the training you got from your job, you carefully assess the look of his neck.  Unusually thick but it doesn’t look broken, still, you wouldn’t want to risk moving him.  Instead you pat his shoulders firmly to check for responsiveness.

“Hey, hey!  Are you okay?”

There’s no response and you whimper, you were just placing two fingers on his carotid when he groaned and the relief that washed over you was immense, you wanted to hug him just for breathing.

He twists and lies on his back instead and you hug the duvet closer to your body as you look over him.  The man grimaces and looks alarmed when he sees you.  It was a bit funny if the situation was different.  He looked so disoriented and scared, all the while looking incredibly sexy covered in red lipstick stains.

“Hey...uhm…I’m sorry for being dramatic.  Are you okay?”  You ask sheepishly and you let out a sigh of relief when he nods.  “Does anything hurt?”

The man struggles to get up to a sitting position and you hesitantly help him up.  “Yeah…my head.  But it could be just the hangover.”

If this isn’t a serious situation, you would have swooned at his thick accent.

“Shoot.”  You bite your swollen bottom lip in worry.  His eyes follow your movements and his eyes don’t miss the marks he undoubtedly left on your neck and shoulders.  He watches as you leave to search for something and return with your phone and turn on the flashlight

“What are you doing?”  He asks as you lift it to his face, his eyes squinting immediately.

“Oh, sorry.  I just need to check your pupillary reflex.”  You say with your cheeks flushing and he lets you.  God, he really has the prettiest eyes you have ever seen in your entire life.

“How are they?”  He asks as he blinks.

Still pretty.  “They’re brisk and equal to size and shape, which is good…uhm…let’s go to the hospital just in case.”  You say gently to him as you turn off your flashlight.

He considers it for a moment.  “How discrete are your hospitals here?”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously.  “Why?  You’re not some criminal on the run, are you?”

This somehow makes him chuckle before wincing and clutching his forehead.  “Not really.”

“There’s only one hospital here.  I work there as a nurse and we’re very strict on the records.  Plus our town isn’t big on social media, or phones in general if you’re worried about that.  Most of the population here are uhm…a bit old school.”  You try to explain and he nods.  “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Charles.”  He smiles charmingly, showing off his dimples.

“Nice to meet you…get dressed.  I will too.”  You say stiffly, still not knowing what to make of the situation and trying not to melt in front of this gorgeous, gorgeous man.  “Hurry okay?”

When he nods, you immediately scurry to your walk-in closet, dragging the duvet like some makeshift gown and when you get out with fresh clothes held tightly in one arm, you both stare at each other, his hand pausing while reaching for his shirt atop your vanity.  You awkwardly smile and he does too, you step to the side and again you laugh awkwardly before running off to the bathroom.  You are absolutely freaking out in there.

Once you’re in the safety of the bathroom, you scream soundlessly, clutching the duvet until your knuckles turn white.  You can’t believe you slept with someone!  And what are the odds that you’d do it with probably the most attractive man you have laid eyes upon.  But what are you doing!  You’re in an emergency here.  Traumatic Brain Injuries are not something to be taken lightly.

But as soon as you drop the duvet, you cannot help the shrill scream this time.  You look like you were mauled by a bear!

A knock on the door startles you and you immediately run behind the shower curtain.

“You good in there?”  His voice is muffled behind the door but you do hear the concern.

“All good, sorry!”  You try to forget the insane amount of purples and reds on your shoulders and breasts.  You quickly pee and pray you don’t get UTI because from the looks of your position earlier, you looked like you were knocked out after your deed, with no chance to have gone to the bathroom after.  You hurriedly grab a towel and wet it under the tap to wipe on the copious mess he left between your thighs.

Despite how cute he is when he smiled, you’d kill him if you hadn’t already tried earlier.

Hastily you slip on your bra and panty which you quickly lined with a pad and put on the first sundress you saw from your closet.  You splash your face with water and you hurry out of the bathroom.  He stands just outside the door and asks if he can use it.  Of course you let him, the poor guy still has lipstick stains all over his face.  While he’s in the bathroom, you went to your room to collect your stuff.

When you came back with your bag, he also stepped out of the bathroom.   He notices that you wrapped a light summer scarf around your neck now.

“Ready?”  You ask and he nods.

You lead him out and into the parking space.  You didn’t see how his bottom lip juts out as both his eyebrows raise, taking a liking to your car.

He didn’t feel quite comfortable about sitting on the passenger side but he doesn’t say anything about it when you head over to the driver’s seat.  His masculinity is not fragile, he can let a woman take the wheel once in a while.  He does fasten his seatbelt as soon as he sits down though.

You glance at his cap to make light conversation as you start the car.  “Are you a Ferrari fan?”

Unexpectedly you hear a sigh from him.  “I don’t think so anymore.”

“Oh.”  You say softly as you get into the highway, feeling the need to apologize for suddenly ruining his mood, even though you have absolutely zero idea why.  And he sees it, now feeling like kicking himself for making you feel bad.

“You should’ve asked me yesterday morning.”  He tries with a lighthearted  tone, making you lose the stiffness of your shoulders a little bit.  “I was probably one of the biggest fans.”

You laugh lightly, even if you don’t understand just to get rid of the awkwardness.  “How are you feeling, by the way?  Any lightheadedness or nausea?”

He tells you no, and is now silently judging your driving.  You’re pretty good at it, much to his surprise.  It’s not that he’s strongly opinionated about women’s skills in driving, he just rarely sees women do it.  Most have chauffeurs or have their husbands or boyfriends drive for them from where he’s from.

Charles sees a building, it’s smaller than he thought and the paint looks a little weathered but it does look more modern than the rest of the town, so he can’t complain.  You park your car and you both get out.

He watches you hurry to his side as you lead him to the ER.

“Do you have an ID?  I’ll fill up your information sheet for you.”  You say as you make him sit on the triage where a nurse gets his vitals.  He hands you his international driving license and you sit next to him, filling up the sheet.

You know the nurse so Charles was a bit confused when there’s no instructions given and you just headed inside the ER while clutching his hand.

Another nurse meets you inside the ER and was quite surprised to see you, his sleepy eyes widening over his mask.  It was early in the morning but Charles could see the nurses bustling about, either doing something with the computers lining the station or restocking items around the place.  The nurse leads you to a hospital bed, where he guides Charles to sit, and takes the sheet from your hand.  

The nurse greets you both and introduces himself as he reads through the information sheet.  When asked about your relationship, your throat went dry, not knowing how to respond.

Charles puts his hand on your shoulder and answers for you.  “I’m her boyfriend.”

The nurse looks at you for a moment before breaking into a cheeky smile, his eyes crinkling on the sides.  You know what’s running through his mind now.  Nurses can be pretty judgmental.  You should know.  “Alright.  So you are visiting her?”

“I am.”  Charles nods with a charming smile.

“That makes you his guardian.”  The nurse points a finger at you.  He excuses himself and pulls the privacy curtain around the bed and leaves to talk to a doctor.

You glare at Charles, dramatically collapsing on a chair at his bedside.  “Why boyfriend?”  You whisper yelled at him.

“We slept together.”  He shrugs. 

This guy.

“We could’ve just been cousins or distant relatives.”  You grumbled.

Charles sighs.  “Again, we slept together.” 

“Friends then!”  You say while throwing your hands in the air in frustration.

You’re kinda cute when you get mad.

“I’m sorry, okay?”  The little shit doesn’t look apologetic at all.  “It’s just the first thing that came to mind.  Considering what happened earlier and because of the…evidence.”  His eyes scan your shoulders and neck and you gasp, immediately fixing your hair to hide the evidence better.  But who are you kidding, there’s way too many, you should’ve worn a turtleneck if you really wanted to hide them.

The nurse comes back with the doctor and you immediately act civil when the curtains are pulled to the side.

They run a few neurological tests and the doctor says that there’s no apparent signs and symptoms of traumatic brain injury and decides not to have Charles go through diagnostic tests but he should be closely monitored nonetheless.  You are quite worried still and tried to offer to have him go through CT scan but after gathering a quick patient history interview, the doctor deduced that the brief loss of consciousness might be a result of mild alcohol poisoning.  Charles did reluctantly admit that he drank a lot yesterday.  The doctor eyed you as if you had anything to do with it!

After giving him IV fluids for hydration, Charles was quickly discharged.  You both got out with a bit of your anxieties lifted off, well most of it.  You still don’t know what to make do of your little situation.  But since you both rushed to the hospital on an empty stomach, you made a quick drive through which put the both of you in a better mood. 

“Sorry, I might have overreacted.”  You admit but he turns to you with an understanding smile, which you only see through your periphery as you focus on not crashing your car.  “It’s just that, you were knocked out upon impact so I thought it was Traumatic Brain Injury for sure.”

“I got good neck strength actually, tried to lean my head back and use my chest to break the fall, but I appreciate that you’re concerned, especially for a stranger.”  Charles tells you and he looks around when you go to a route he didn’t think you took earlier that morning.  “I saw multiple times what TBI does to people.”  

You briefly glance at him, now driving at the parking lot of some mall.  “What do you mean?”  You manage to park successfully.  Charles mirrors your movement as you unbuckle your seatbelt.

Charles purses his lips in contemplation and then looks at you, a small smile threatening to crack in his lips.  “Are you familiar with Formula 1?”

Raising a brow you eye his smile suspiciously.  “Kinda…?  It’s like racing, right?”  You say hesitantly which made his smile widen as he nodded.  “Are you like a medic?”

“No, sweetheart.”  He shakes his head, chuckling in pure amusement that he really had to introduce himself and what he does.  “I’m an F1 driver.”

For a moment you just look at him.  “…So like you drive around in circles?”

Charles looks at you in the most offended way anybody could have ever looked.

“I’m sorry!”  You apologize quickly.  “I am familiar with the idea of F1 but I am not like…a fan?”  You grimace and Charles lets out a series of words of disbelief in his thick accent and he just starts rambling…in French or was it Italian…both?

“I’ll look it up, alright?”  You say with a tired exhale, trying to calm him as his hands start flying in large gestures, still is pure and utter disbelief.  You reach for your bag on the backseat and you fetch your phone, waving it in front of his face and he calms down a bit, exhaling from his flared nostrils.

You start searching his name on Google.  “Charles Leclerc, right?”  You mumble and he loudly confirms it, his arms now crossed over his broad chest.  “Geez, calm down.  Remind me not to piss off a French dude.”  You chuckle as you type it in Google.  “With three wins, 11 podiums and nine pole positions, he was the only man able to consistently take the fight to champion Max Verstappen, ooohhh wow.”  You grinned at him excitedly but the man wasn’t smiling at all.

“You understood none of that, did you?”

“…yes.”  You say honestly.

Charles rolls his eyes.  “First of all, I’m Monégasque…meaning I’m from Monaco.”  He explains when you tilt your head to the side.  “I am a Ferrari driver…or at least, was a Ferrari driver until yesterday.”

There’s a drop to his voice at the end and you tried to continue the conversation.  “I love cars and I may not be following F1 but I do admire Ferrari greatly.  And to represent them in an international race?  Charles, that is beyond impressive.”  You say with pure admiration.

“I no longer represent them.”  He says with a stiff smile.  “I messed up last night and they terminated my contract.”

You look at him apologetically.  “I…I’m sorry.”  That explains the alcohol poisoning.

“It’s not your fault.”  He turns to you before looking out the windshield.  “In fact I should be sorry.  I took it out on you last night and I caused trouble this morning too.” 

You flush at his words but you can’t stop the laugh that escaped you.  “No, that’s okay, Charles.”

He scratches at his cheek, glancing briefly at your crime scene of a neck and you can’t help but smile at his little quirks.

“May I ask what happened?”  You ask gently.

Charles considers for a moment and lets out a long sigh.  After what happened between you, he thinks you have the right to have your questions answered.  “My girlfriend dumped me over the phone.”  You wince and he grins at your reaction.  “But it wasn’t that that made me spiral.  I was kind of okay with the break up.  I was losing her long before it happened…I just…I don’t know.  I felt like I needed a break from everything so I drank.”

“So if you’re from Monaco, how did you even get here?”

“I took a plane.”

You nearly snorted at how serious he is about it.

“What?”  He now laughed at your reaction.  “I did come here from Monaco on a plane!  Then I took a few cabs, stopped by some bars along the way, I think I took a bus but I’m not sure.  Now I’m flat out broke, no cellphone, and I have no intentions of using my ATM, or my PR team will show up at your doorstep.”

You shake your head as you reach for your bag, slowly taking in the information.  What a rough day he had yesterday, no wonder you can feel the ache all over your body.  He watches you apply your red lipstick perfectly.  You got out of the car right after killing the engine, Charles followed after you.

“So that’s how you ended up with alcohol poisoning.”  You narrow your eyes playfully at him.  “Also, don’t worry about the money.  I’ll just adopt you for now.”

“Thank you…but why?”  He looks genuinely puzzled. 

“I’m feeling kind of responsible for you since uhm…I think I’m the only one around here who knows what’s going on.”  He looks grateful but his facial expression shifts to concern when you grimace and hook a finger to fix your scarf.  “Ugh, why did I buy this?  It’s so itchy.”

“Why don’t you take that off?”  Charles casually suggests.  “Are you embarrassed to be seen with hickeys?”

You click your tongue.  “Anybody sane would be, Charles.”

“It is proof you had a good time.”  He says playfully with his accent drawling again and you smack him with your bag, making him laugh out as if he wasn’t just telling you about the disaster that landed him there.  You really admire the resilience of this guy.  “But what about you, we’ve been talking about me all morning.”

The mall’s automatic doors slide open and you lead him to the clothing department.

“Uhm…my life’s pretty boring actually.”

He shrugs.  “Still wanna know.”

Since he’s so insistent, you give in and you tell him your name and age like it’s some sort of interview.  “I’m uh…not from around here.  I just moved to this town for work.” 

Charles hums and asks where you’re from and you tell him.

“And it’s just you here?  No relatives?”

You shake your head no as you bend to grab a basket which you gently push to his chest.  He takes it from you without questions.

“Not around this area.  I have relatives here in US but they’re in different states and I kinda like being here.  Alone.”  You walk ahead and he follows you with his eyes.

“Alone?”  He echoes and you nod, picking up hangers with…underpants?

“Boxers or briefs?”

Charles chuckles with an awkward frown, making you look at him with frustration clear on your features.

“Come on, you need to change into fresh clothes.”  You huff but he can’t stop chuckling.  “Wait, how long are you planning to stay?  Don’t feel any pressure by the way, you’re welcome in my apartment…if you behave.  But like…do you have a date in mind when you’ll be heading back to Monaco? You just came here out of impulse afterall.”  You press your lips together, realizing you rambled.

His laughter dies out and you watch the internal battle behind his pretty eyes.

“I honestly don’t know yet.  I don’t plan to come back to Monaco anytime soon, that’s for sure.  This year’s season also ended a month ago so I don’t have any commitments.  Plus, Ferrari kicked me out of the team so...”

You sum it up for him.  “So you’re staying for a while.”  When he nods you place the hangers back and step to the shelf of some brand he doesn’t usually buy from but is familiar with.  “Well, you’re welcome to crash on my couch for as long as you want.”

He opened his mouth to respond but you held up two boxes from the shelves to his face.  These boxes hold at least a week’s worth.  

“Boxers or briefs?”  You ask again.

Charles glares at you with no real anger behind it, clearly just frustrated with your insistence but he knows you’re being practical.  He wordlessly attempts to snatch the briefs from your hand but you tighten your hold on the box.

You give him a mischievous grin.  “Large, medium, or small?”

He scoffs.  “I think I’ll choose my underpants on my own, thank you.”  Underpants aren’t even based on that stuff, why are you being so insufferable about it?  “And are you sure you want to keep teasing about sizes?  I got you staining the sheets last night, no?”

You open your mouth to retort but you settle with a quick “Suit yourself.”  You push the boxes to his chest before disappearing behind other aisles.

Charles follows you with his gaze before he looks at the boxes of underpants you shoved at him.  He scans the boxes and chooses the one that is his size.

You come back with a set of socks and a couple of…gym towels…he thinks.

“Are you done?”  You ask in a chirpy tone and he nods.  You pull him to the men's clothing section and you grab another hanger but this time with a long sleeved black linen shirt.  You hold it against his chest and Charles leans back slightly to keep the hanger’s hook from poking his eye.

You hum before putting it back and grab a different linen shirt with a better cut, this one in white and your eyes visibly brighten and you take it off from its hanger and drape it over your arm.  You grab the same design but in light blue.  You also hold a plain white t-shirt against him and you nod silently, he watches you grab another one of the same design and color and another one in black.  You are practically grinning when you place them in the basket he’s holding before you gasp.

“Oh my.  I’m literally playing dress up with you.”  You look genuinely apologetic and he finds it funny that you’re just figuring it out.  “You’ll be the one wearing them, you should choose for yourself.”

Charles scratches his chin.  “You’re paying so I can’t complain and I also like the ones you’ve chosen so far…can I get an extra pair of pants though?”

You look so adorable as you listen to him talk and the quick smile as he finishes, God!  “Sure.”  You say and he can’t resist ruffling your hair, making you slap his hand away. 

Charles follows you like how a chick would to its mother hen.  You like how he’s being vocal about what he wants.  “I’m thinking…something lighter in color, to go with the linen shirts…the one I have on now is denim so it’s perfect with the t-shirts.” 

He rambles more to himself and you can’t help but smile.

He picks out a cream colored pants and you raise your thumbs up when he proudly shows it to you.  Charles double checks the waistline before placing it on the basket that isn’t empty anymore now thanks to you.  He acknowledges it too and can’t help but think for a moment.

“I know I already asked…but I still don’t get it.”  He mumbles.  “I’m still a stranger.  We just slept together, why are you being so kind?”

Because you’re cute?  Your eyes widen at your own thoughts and you shake your head to get rid of it.“Well…I don’t know.  I just, it felt different having someone over in my apartment…and it’s a good difference, despite the…accident.  This is the first time that my boring morning routine changed like ever, so I’m not in a hurry to get rid of you.”  You smile at him from your shoulder.

“But I’m a stranger.”  He argues as you run your fingers on some sweatpants, falling right back into the urge to pick out clothes for him.

“Waistline?”  You ask and he responds quickly, making you pick out the gray sweatpants where your hand is resting.  You check the waistline then show it to him and he nods without looking at it, still wanting a clear answer.  “If it was me who woke up in your apartment, with no idea where I am, no money, no friends or relatives whatsoever in the area, would you kick me out?”  You place the pants against his legs and once you’re satisfied with the length, you pull it out of the hanger and fold it neatly to be placed in the basket.

He shifts his weight on his feet.  “Well, I don’t think so.  But I’d probably pass you to my team so they’d handle your uhm situation.”

You laugh at his honesty.  “I don’t have a team to pass you to and I just…I feel like being a good person at the moment.”  Like hell you’d tell him that you’re just lonely.  “Plus I already told you I’ll adopt you so I’m standing by what I said.”

“I feel indebted to you now.”  He chuckles.  “Don’t worry though, I’ll find a way to repay you somehow.”

“As long as you pick up after yourself in the apartment, we’re good actually.”

“Are you really sure I can stay in your place?  You said you liked being alone.”  Charles hesitates but you’re busy choosing workout shorts for him.

“Having company is nice every now and then.”  You mumble as you do the same thing you did with the sweatpants and you fold two dark workout shorts to be placed on the basket.  “Just don’t trash my house, help me a bit with the chores, and respect my alone time and we won’t have a problem.”

He gives you a lopsided smile.  “Roger that.”

“Oh, I also run an online business.  Don’t bother me when I pack orders.”  You say before leading him to different aisles of hygiene products.

“So you’re an entrepreneur too.”  He bumps your shoulder, making your cheeks heat up. 

“It’s just a small business, I only started it last year.”

“Wait…how?  You’re working?” 

You pick out items from the shelves as you answer.  “I go on duty in the hospital only for three days.  The rest of the week, I work on my business.”

“What kind of business is it again?”

Humming, you stare up into the ceiling, he smiles when it brings back memories from last night.  “Stationary…accessories…shirts…uhm regular girl stuff.”  You place basic toiletries in the basket.  You’re unfamiliar with the male products but you heard good things about the brands you chose. 

Charles looked at them and gave a silent approval.  “Must be tiring.”

“It is.”  You bemoaned.  “I work in the operating room and despite this place being a small town, we still get a lot of road incidents.  And hip replacements.”  You chuckle.  “Yeah we get a lot of those.”

“You’re a busy girl.”  He watches you toss a deodorant on the basket.  You also stop in front of various bottles.  “Perfumes?”

You nod as you turn to walk off somewhere.  “Yeah, choose something please, I’m getting kinda hungry again.”

Charles puts down the basket and opens a cap of perfume, his face immediately scrunching up.  He opens another one before he finally finds one that smells a bit like his usual perfumes.  He leans down and places the bottle on the basket, your feet come to his view and he watches you place a pack of razors and aftershave.  There’s also a facial cleanser and body lotion.  How’d you get those so quickly?

“You’re really serious about adopting me, huh?”  He grins and picks up the basket as you lead the way.

“I am officially your sugarmama.”

This cracks him up.  He follows you to the health section and watches you pick up a pack of sanitary pads, making his perfect brows furrow.

“Those are for me.”  You tell him and it makes more sense to him now.  “Do you need anything else?’

His eyes go over your head and he can’t help but let out a weird sound that sounded like groaning and a laugh.  “No, I don’t need anything else.”  He places an arm around your shoulders and leads you away.

You struggle to take a peek and you flush when you see condoms lining that part of the aisle.

Overdrive

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

--------------------------------------------------

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.

only angel - ʟɴ⁴

the one where she hits it off one of his driver friends, and meets a new version of lando in the very same night.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten

contains; fluff, dom!lando, nsfw, smut; manhandling, oral (m & f), slit-fucking?, fingering, orgasm denial, kinda voyeurism?, squirting, crying, degradation kink, praise kink; talks of loss of virginity, swearing.

…

…

‘glamour on the grid’, they called it.

“it’ll be fun!” keegan exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. “come on, lando.”

the four were sat in a sports bar somewhere in melbourne — the group being lando, lily, keegan, and max. lando wasn’t quite sure why they’d gone to a bar, when only two of the four would be drinking — max and keegan — but he’d agreed nonetheless after lily said she wouldn’t drink if he couldn’t.

“and it’d be good for PR,” max added, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. “come on, bob.”

“yeah, do it for the team!” the younger boy nodded enthusiastically.

lando sighed and flitted his gaze over to the girl beside him, “you’re going, right?”

“i mean, i have an invite.” she shrugged. “but i don’t have anyone to go with, it’s a pairs kind of thing.”

“go with me?” he asked softly, “i don’t wanna be on my own.”

keegan went to speak, probably to say something like ‘you’ll have us!’, but max kicked him under the table as to say — ‘shut up, they’re having a moment.’

“yeah, of course.” she smiled softly, the subtlest of blushes spreading across her cheeks when he kissed her forehead briefly — going unnoticed by all but max.

“so, that’s settled, and you need a suit, mate.” max nodded. “do you need a dress, lala?”

lala.

that stupid nickname max had for her — only the quadrant crew called her that. it was her initials, ria had written them down wrong one day, (they were three letters how did she even get that wrong?) and thus ‘lala’ was born.

“yeah, i do, i’ll just ask dior or something,” she shrugged, almost laughing at the nickname. “do you want me to get you a suit too, lan?”

“yes please, you know my sizes and stuff — i’ll just match you.”

max was sat there, watching the two talk, and something was different. the way lando’s gaze lingered a little more than it usually would, how his voice was soft and low, the look in his eyes that made her seem like she’d hung the stars in the sky.

and even keegan noticed it too. the way lily would blush a little deeper than usual for her, the way she was either constantly touching or looking at him in some way, and her inability to have anything but a smile on her face gave her away completely.

maybe they were dating? no, surely they’d have told them by now.

maybe they were…? the boys basically had no idea what was going on there, but they were going to find out.

-

lily wasn’t impressed, whatsoever.

it wasn’t the fact that he wasn’t with her, it was the fact he was with her, of all girls, of the girl he was having sex with for gods sake!

lando and callie had been chatting all night, and it was pissing lily off — she was very aware of her jealousy and she couldn’t give a fuck.

she was this beautiful blonde girl, tanned with the prettiest eyes lily had ever seen, and the most contagious laugh ever recorded — shit, lily would have taken her out herself if she wasn’t madly in love with the boy she currently had her hand on the arm of.

“you look fucked off,” max pointed out as the two laughed about something.

“i’m not,” she snapped, before sighing and realising that maybe max would be able to see through her lie. “okay, maybe i am, but that’s none of your business.”

“just go and flirt with someone else,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “lando’ll hate that, he almost— actually, that’s a story for another day. just go and find someone else to piss him off with.”

“i don’t want to piss him off though.” she sighed.

“oh, so there is something going on with you and bob then?” max caught her, smiling widely.

she had given herself away.

lily could have made up a lie about why she was annoyed — her time of the month, her dress was itchy, it was too hot — but no, she just let the truth fall from her lips.

in all honesty, everything was perfect, but she wanted her boyfriend— no, best friend to be by her side like he usually was.

“just don’t say anything, okay?” lily huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “i’ve only told lex and i don’t know who he’s told, carlos maybe.”

“i won’t, secret is safe with me, as long as this ends in a relationship.” max teased.

she rolled her eyes, before picking up her lemonade and heading off to find her new man for the evening.

-

“no way, i worked with them not too long ago,” he said, crossing his leg over the other as they sat in the quiet corner.

“yeah, i asked them to send me this for tonight last minute,” lily smiled, gesturing to the white sparkly dress clinging to her body. “and well, if this is last minute i really need to up my standards.”

he laughed in response, the adorable gap between his front teeth showing — and no, it wasn’t lando.

lily ainsley was sat with, and had been for the past hour, sir lewis hamilton… talking about fashion of all things.

“we should set up a collab or something,” lewis added, lily nodding as he reached for his drink.

unfortunately, lewis’ hand brushed hard enough against lily’s full glass to send it flying off of the table, somehow not breaking it, but getting lemonade all over the floor and a bit on the bottom of her dress.

“oh my god,” he gasped, clapping his hand to his mouth. “i am so sorry, lily, is it on your dress?”

“only a little bit, don’t worry.” she shook her head with smile, “it’s warm, it’ll dry.”

she couldn’t help but laugh as lewis’ panicked eyes stared at her nonchalance about the situation — lando had spilled many of drinks down her top when he was drunk on nights out — so this was quite minor.

“let me buy you another drink, please?” lewis said, clasping his hands together as he chewed on his lower lip.

“okay, yeah.” she shrugged, a free beverage of any kind was something lily never turned down.

they reached the edge of the busy bar together, and lewis saw the slightly anxious look in her eye, so he simply held his arm out for her to link through.

she mouthed a kind, ‘thankyou’ to him, before they made their way through the swarm of bodies together.

“dude, where’s lily?” keegan asked lando, tapping his arm, while he held up a piece of fabric that had come off of his designer jacket. “i wanna ask her where the fuck this goes.”

“i’m pretty sure that’s your pocket…” lando furrowed his eyebrows. “she’s around here somewhere.”

“what, she’s not with you?” keegan asked, looking at him confused — those two were usually a package deal.

“no—”

“oh there she is!” the australian exclaimed. “oh, fuck nah, she’s with lewis… i’ll go over later.”

“she’s with lewis?” lando’s head snapped up, searching for lily’s familiar face in the foreign crowd. “as in— what the fuck?”

there she was, in all of her angelic glory, laughing softly with one of his childhood heroes — well that was a sight he thought he’d never see.

lewis’ hand was loosely around her waist, mostly to stop her being swept away by the bustling atmosphere of the crowd.

to lando, it was a declaration of war.

-

the uber home was filled with a tense silence, the lingering scent of annoyance and jealousy tainting the air. neither of them spoke, either too stubborn or too pissed off with the night’s antics to talk.

her phone lit up, max fewtrell.

max fewtrell: let me know how it goes with sunshine. he was real pissed earlier. worse than when i broke his gaming chair. good luck!

“lewis?” lando spoke up roughly.

“what?” she looked up from her phone after she’d unlocked it.

“too busy talking to him to listen to what i’m saying, wow.” he huffed, god was this boy dramatic.

“sorry, i thought you were too busy with callie to acknowledge my existence.” she shot back, rolling her eyes as she replied to max.

‘he’s in such a piss. i should have just left it be. i hate your ideas, fuck you!’

“oh please, you were all over lewis! he’s double your fucking age, lily!” lando snapped, raising his voice at her — something he never did.

“well maybe that’s because you were too busy being a slut to acknowledge my existence!” she shot back.

he laughed, he fucking laughed.

the rest of the ride was silent, it wasn’t even tense — something was looming, lando was planning something, she could tell.

the uber was paid and tipped gratefully, and the two took the elevator back to their hotel room. his hands weren’t on her, which worried her a little — either she had upset him, or he was saving it for once they were behind closed doors (she hoped it was the latter of the two.)

the door closed behind them, and it was like a switch flipped inside of the brit.

“a slut, huh?” lando chuckled lowly, grabbing lily and throwing her over his shoulder roughly.

“lando— put me down, lando!” she hit his back, with no real force — but she didn’t want to seem desperate.

“shut up.” he grumbled, putting her down on the floor so she was stood up.

“thank—”

his hands were on her hips, spinning her away from him. lando’s large hands managed to undo the zip on the back of the dress with ease, before he pulled it down and pushed the item off of her body.

he smirked to himself as she let him, not protesting as he spun her back around to face him.

“on your knees,” he nodded, unbuttoning his shirt.

she looked up at him, dazed and very turned on by this new version of lando she was met with.

“are you deaf?” he snapped “i said on your knees.”

lily got her knees gently, the cold tiles of the floor making the position a little uncomfortable.

he nodded, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek — she knew what he meant, wordlessly telling her to get to work.

his belt was undone by her slender fingers, and to her surprise, he wasn’t fully hard, meaning she was actually going to have to—

no, the first brush of lily’s fingers on his shaft sent it upward, slapping up against his abdomen. the thought of teasing him swirled around her mind briefly, but the look in lando’s eye told her to think otherwise.

a warm splatter of saliva dripped onto the tip of his cock, lubing the tip as she then took it in her mouth. her lips expertly wrapped around him, taking him deep down her throat straight away, swirling her tongue around every part she could reach. he groaned, clenching his jaw as he began to thrust slowly into her mouth.

she bobbed her head to meet his thrusts, tears welling in her eyes as he crammed his cock into her mouth.

“so much more polite with my dick in your mouth, aren’t you, angel?” he said, almost sweetly.

she made a muffled sound around him, not daring to pull off until his seed was deep in her throat.

her jaw was starting to lock, and the tears spilled down her face.

lily could feel him twitching inside of her mouth, and she was about to speed her movements up, when he pulled his cock out of her mouth.

loosely wrapping a hand around her throat, he pulled her gently, getting her to stand up, before pushing her onto the bed.

“ass up,” he commanded, helping her a little as she buried her face in the pillow.

he gazed down at her white underwear, clearly soaked and most likely ruined. one clean swipe rendered them (and her) useless, her panties tossed across the room with any dignity she had left.

“don’t even deserve to be fucked,” he muttered, taking his cock and pushing it though her folds, notching at her entrance.

he positioned his cock so it sat snugly in her puffy folds, bumping up against her clit every time he pushed forward.

“you think lewis could make you feel like this, baby?” he spoke cockily as she shuddered, thighs clenching as he pushed down her slit agonisingly slowly — holding back his own moan.

“n-no,” she choked out, moaning as her lower tummy fizzed with need.

“then why were you with him?” he pried, knowing the real reason — he’d spoken to max.

“tryna’ make—” she moaned softly as he brought his thumb forward to toy at her needy entrance. “get your attention, didn’t like seeing you with her.”

“so you were whoring yourself out with my rival?” he questioned lowly. “you could have just told me you were a pathetic mess for me, you know?”

her body was so hungry for him, pushing back against his slow thrusts into her slit — that the tears from earlier in their escapades resurfaced, streaming down her face.

he knew she was crying, but until there was an apology for calling him a slut, there wouldn’t be any letting up on her.

lando continued to thrust forward, her whimpers quiet and low. so, in aid of not being able to hear her, he slipped two fingers inside of her weeping entrance — pumping them hard and deep with no warning.

her slick was dripping onto his dick, coating it in a warmth as it slid back and forth though her folds. the previous stimulation of being buried deep inside of her throat helped him get close quickly, and he could tell she was close by the way her hips jerked when he scissored his fingers apart.

but he was closer than she was, and a sick though passed through his head and into his movements.

the brit pulled his fingers from her, grabbing his cock and pumping it on top of her ass. he let out a guttural groan, shooting thick webs of cum over her perfect ass and picturesque back — “fuck, stay there.”

she sobbed and whined out as his fingers left her hole, feeling empty without his digits stuffed deep inside of her.

he leaned down off of the bed and fished his phone out of his pants pocket, before repositioning himself as before.

“let me take a photo, yeah, baby?” lando asked roughly. “look so fucking pretty like this.”

she hummed, pushing her ass up toward him. flicking to the camera, he placed his hand on her lower ribcage, pulling her marked body back toward him, and snapped a photo.

“lando,” lily whimpered, thighs shaking a little at the loss of her much needed high.

“i’m sorry, what was that, lils?” he asked condescendingly, flipping her from her tummy onto her back. “wanna repeat that?”

“lan,” she murmured, lower lip caught between her teeth.

“oh, pretty baby,” lando teased, leaning over her so their faces met. “shoulda’ though ‘bout what you wanted before you decided to be a bitch.”

“i’m sorry,” she murmured. “didn’t mean it, promise, ‘m so sorry, lan.”

“there she is,” lando switched, his whole mentality flipped based on a few words. “there’s my pretty girl.”

“‘m sorry,” she repeated, tears streaming down her face.

“i know you are, i know you didn’t mean it.” he reassured her, pressing soft kisses to the tear stains on her cheeks. “tell me what you need, and i’ll give it to you, angel.”

the addition of the please popped on the end sealed the deal for him, and he nodded, gently connecting their lips as to say — sorry for being a prick.

“mouth, need your mouth.” she nodded quickly, “please.”

“mhm, there’s my good girl.” he praised, nodding at her as he gazed into her soul.

lando pressed kisses down from her throat, through the valley of her breasts, over her tummy, and softly began his mission to bring his girlfriend— no, best friend into a world of mind-bending pleasure.

“open up for me baby,” he asked softly, placing his hands on her inner thighs.

she spread her legs shakily, letting him have full access to her slick pussy.

lando flattened his tongue against her pussy, groaning against her as he lapped up her juices. he circled her clit, pressing his thumb into her entrance to tease her.

she clenched around him, moaning softly as he closed his lips around her clit, gently sucking it as he replaced his thumb with two thick fingers, sliding into her tight heat with a little resistance. lily whined, clenching around his digits as he set the same pace he had previously kept.

“lan…” she let out a guttural groan, eyes rolling back. “fuck— gonna cum…”

it was embarrassing how quickly she came, inner walls convulsing around his fingers, legs shaking, liquid gushing from her and a large portion of it spraying into his mouth.

he whined into her pussy pathetically, drinking her up without hesitation. “so pretty,” he murmured, toying with her clit as her hips bucked away from him.

“my pretty girl.”

-

the morning drew in, and the tanned arms around her body stayed here, tightening every now and again.

“morning.” he said groggily, lifting his head from the crook of her neck.

“good morning.” she yawned softly.

“i’m um… sorry, about yesterday.” lando began softly, “just um… i just didn’t like you and lewis, and i went the wrong way about it completely, i‘m sorry,” he sighed, blinking at the girl. “i shouldn’t have been with callie, i went there with you, not her.”

“it’s okay, lan, really, i overreacted — but i promise you, nothing is there with me and lewis, he’s just a friend i promise.” lily reassured him, gently carding her fingers through his soft curls.

“i know, i was being a twat.” he pursed his lips. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay, i promise.” she nodded softly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“why don’t we make an agreement?” lando suggested. “while we’re doing this, there’s no one else. we’re like… exclusive to each other.”

a soft blush spread across her face, and she smiled at the boy wrapped around her.

“yeah, yeah that sounds good.”

-

god this one was actually so hard to write i almost died — more coming soon!

White Horse - Chapter 14: March 2024

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, Me trying to write therapy sessions.

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

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Gianpiero Lambiase

Isabelle: Hi GP, Um. This is Isabelle. Belle. Max’s Belle. Sorry for texting you out of nowhere. I hope it’s okay.

GP: Hi Belle. It’s okay. Max talks about you enough that it feels overdue, honestly.

Belle: Oh. Good.

GP: He’s very annoying about it. In a way that’s almost endearing.

Belle: Haha. Sorry.

GP: Don’t apologize. What’s up?

Belle: So… I’m in Bahrain. And I want to surprise Max. Like, sneak into his hotel room before he gets back from practice. Very harmless. Very stealthy. Zero crime.

GP: Did your doctor clear you to travel?

Isabelle: Yes. I have a note and everything.

GP: Because if you’re here without medical clearance and something happens, Max will kill me. And then probably reanimate me and kill me again.

Belle: I promise. I’m cleared. I’ll send you the doctor’s note if you need it.

GP: Good. Because if I was going to help sneak you in, it needed to be a guilt-free crime.

Belle: You’ll help?

GP: Belle, if surprising Max with you magically appearing in his hotel room gets him to stop moping around like a man whose soul was ripped out, I will personally carry you upstairs myself if needed.

Belle: You’re very good at emotional blackmail. I respect that.

GP: I learned from the best. (Max.)

Belle: Okay. I’m at the hotel now. Should I just wait nearby?

GP: Yeah. Give me 10 minutes. I’ll text you when the coast is clear.

Belle: Thank you, GP. Really. I know you didn’t have to.

GP: You’re good for him. That’s all I need to know.

***

The hallway was dim and quiet when Max stepped out of the elevator, still half in race mode — muscle memory from practice laps thrumming through his veins, sweat drying at the back of his neck.

He dug for his key card automatically, mind already turning toward data reviews and hydration schedules, as he opened the door of his Hotel room. 

And then he looked up.

And stopped dead.

Because there, lounging on the couch in his Hotel room in Bahrain, wearing a loose fitting dress, her hair damp from a shower she must have just taken - was her. 

Belle.

Waiting for him.

Max blinked once.

Twice.

He genuinely thought, for a heartbeat, that he was hallucinating.

"Hi," she said, smiling — a real smile, tired but so real — like she hadn’t nearly died two weeks ago, like she hadn’t ripped his heart out and stitched it back together in the same breath.

"Hi," Max said hoarsely, voice cracking slightly.

She stood up slowly, careful, and Max could see the faint traces of bruises still painting her collarbone under the neckline of her dress.

He didn’t think.

He crossed the hallway in three long strides and gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest so tightly she squeaked.

Belle laughed — a soft, breathless sound — and buried her face against his shoulder.

"You’re here," Max murmured, like he still couldn’t believe it, like he had to say it out loud just to make it real. "You’re actually here."

"I missed you," Belle whispered into his shirt. "I wanted to surprise you."

"You’re going to kill me one day, you know that?" he said, laughing wetly against her hair. "Heart attack at 26."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, hands still clutching the fabric of his shirt.

"You’re not mad?"

"Mad?" Max shook his head, jaw tight with emotion. "Belle, I’m—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "I’m so fucking glad you’re here, I don’t even have words for it."

Her eyes shone a little too brightly, but her smile was steady.

"I’m cleared to travel," she said quickly, reading the worry still written across his face. "I’m fine. I’m okay."

Max leaned down and kissed her forehead — a soft, reverent brush of lips — before resting his forehead against hers.

"I thought you were at home," he said, voice low and rough. "Resting."

Belle gave a tiny, guilty smile.

"Technically, I am resting," she said. "Just... here."

Max huffed a breathless laugh — half relief, half something too big to name.

"And how exactly," he murmured, pulling back to raise an eyebrow at her, "did you sneak into a fully-booked F1 team hotel?"

Belle bit her bottom lip, eyes sparkling.

"GP might have helped a little."

Max stared at her for a beat — then burst out laughing, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

"Of course he did," he said, voice shaking slightly with laughter and something dangerously close to tears.

Belle beamed up at him, utterly unrepentant.

"He even texted me like it was a spy mission," she added proudly. "I think he had fun."

Max shook his head, still smiling, overwhelmed by how much he loved her.  

"He's going to regret that when I promote him from race engineer to full-time Belle smuggler."

Belle laughed, wrapping her arms tighter around his waist.

"You’re not mad?"

Max kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

"Mad?" he echoed. "No. You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all I’ll ever care about."

She tucked her face into his chest, and Max just held her there — steady, grounding her, grounding himself.

***

Arthur spotted her near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, and for a long second, he honestly thought he was seeing things.

Isabelle —

Here?

In Bahrain?

He frowned, confused, slowing his steps.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

No one had said anything.

She hadn’t said anything.

Not in the family chat.

Not in any of the bland, polite “good luck” texts she sent before race weekends.

Arthur crossed the walkway toward her before he could overthink it.

“Isabelle?” he called, blinking against the bright sun.

She turned, smiling when she saw him — but it was a small, careful kind of smile.

Not the bright, easy one he remembered.

“Hey, Arthur,” she said softly.

He stopped in front of her, feeling weirdly awkward.

“You didn’t say you were coming,” he said, trying for teasing but it came out too sharp, too defensive.

“I didn’t know I was coming until a few days ago,” Isabelle said, shrugging one shoulder. “Doctor cleared me. Figured I’d make the trip.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked over her automatically — and caught, despite himself, on the faint bruising still along her temple, the shadows along her collarbone.

He looked away quickly.

Pretended he hadn’t seen it.

“You look fine,” he said too quickly. “You are fine, right?”

Isabelle’s smile faltered.

“I’m… better,” she said after a beat. “Still a little bruised. But yeah. I’m okay.”

Arthur nodded, desperate to believe it.

“Good,” he said, forcing a casual shrug. “We were all worried.”

Were we? a voice whispered in the back of his mind, but he shoved it down.

Isabelle looked at him for a long second, her expression unreadable.

“You didn’t ask,” she said lightly. Not accusatory. Just stating a fact.

Arthur blinked.

“What?”

“After the accident,” she said. “None of you really asked what happened. You just… assumed I was fine.”

Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it.

He didn’t know what to say to that — not without admitting that he hadn’t wanted to ask.

Hadn’t wanted to know.

Because if she wasn’t fine —

If she had been hurt worse than a few bruises and a night in the hospital —

Then what did that say about him? About all of them?

Arthur shifted his weight, uncomfortable.

“You’re here now,” he said finally, as if that proved something.

As if her survival was enough to erase everything else.

Isabelle smiled again — but it was a different kind of smile this time.

Tired. A little sad.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m here.”

And for the first time, Arthur wondered if maybe — just maybe — that wasn’t as simple as it sounded.

***

Lily hadn’t been trying to find anyone in particular — she'd just been wandering the paddock in search of ice cream.

It was so hot, that she really, really needed ice cream before she melted into a puddle of useless girlfriend.

Oscar had pointed her in the vague direction of the food vendors before dashing off for driver obligations, so Lily wandered across the paddock, sunglasses perched precariously on her head, following her nose (and the general vibe of "ice cream is this way").

She was halfway there when she spotted her.

A girl — no, a young woman — perched casually near one of the vendor stands, flipping through her phone with an easy kind of grace, looking completely at home despite the chaos around her.

At first, Lily didn't recognize her. She just noticed the calm. The way people instinctively gave her space without even realizing it. Like the eye of a storm.

Then she realized.

Isabelle Leclerc.

Charles’ sister.

The one who somehow existed on the very edge of all the chaos — always close enough to be there, but never quite tangled up in it.

Belle. The girl who had rescued Oscar from buying “the ugliest couch in existence in Monaco.”

Oscar had mentioned her, in the same tone you'd use for someone you admired without quite knowing how to say it.

Lily hesitated — torn between her mission for ice cream and her deep-rooted manners that said go say hi, you dork.

She picked manners.

"Hi," Lily said, smiling as she approached.

Isabelle looked up, and for a second, Lily thought maybe she'd made a mistake — maybe she was interrupting something.

But then Isabelle smiled back — soft and real — and it was like being wrapped in sunshine.

"Hi," Isabelle said warmly. "You're Oscar's Lily, right?"

Lily laughed, a little breathless with surprise. "I guess so."

"Finally, we meet properly. Belle Leclerc," Belle said, tucking her phone away. "You heading somewhere, or are you just braving the paddock chaos for the experience?"

"Ice cream," Lily admitted. "Desperately."

Belle laughed — a real laugh, the kind that made you want to laugh too. "Good instincts. It's basically a survival tactic in this weather."

Lily grinned, a little more relaxed now. "You wouldn't happen to know where the best vendor is, would you?"

Belle tilted her head thoughtfully, like she was considering the great philosophical question of their time. "There's a stand near the back of the McLaren motorhome," she said. "Less crowded, better flavors. Also, the guy running it doesn’t skimp on sprinkles if you look appropriately pitiful."

Lily beamed. "You’re a lifesaver."

"Come on," Belle said, already falling into step beside her. "I'll show you. It’s basically my civic duty."

Belle tucked a strand of caramel coloured hair behind her ear and Lily suddenly saw the faint bruising still lingering along Belle’s temple and just under her collarbone where her dress dipped at the neck.  

The sight made something twist sharply in Lily’s chest.

"I—" she started, then bit her lip. "I just wanted to say… I’m really glad you’re okay."

Belle blinked, clearly surprised.

"I heard about the crash," Lily said quickly, "Oscar told me it was serious."   She trailed off, feeling weirdly emotional for a person who barely knew her.

Belle’s expression softened even more — touched, a little shy.

"Thank you," she said, voice a little rougher around the edges. "I was really lucky."

Lily smiled, relieved.

"And also," Lily said, remembering, "thank you for helping Oscar with his apartment. He said you saved him from living in chaos forever."

Belle laughed again, covering her mouth. "He’s exaggerating."

"No, he’s really not," Lily said earnestly. "He had one pot and like three mismatched plates before you intervened."

Belle giggled. "I just gave him a list."

"And apparently taught him the existence of rugs and throw pillows," Lily said with a wink. "You’re a hero."

Belle was still laughing, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made her seem even younger, even softer.

Lily found herself smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

Without really thinking, she said:

"I’m really glad we ran into each other."

"Me too," Belle said, and this time there wasn’t a trace of hesitation.

And just like that — without ceremony or fanfare — Lily was swept up into Belle’s orbit. Adopted. Collected. Claimed.

No big declarations. No awkwardness.

Just a steady, unspoken you’re one of mine now.

Lily understood immediately how it had happened to Oscar.

And why Oscar had looked so quietly smug about it ever since.

As they made their way through the paddock together, Belle offering casual commentary on the chaos around them, Lily thought maybe — just maybe — this whole world felt a little less overwhelming when you had someone like Belle at your side.

Two girls who hadn’t meant to find each other in the chaos of the paddock — but who did anyway.

***

Text Messages: Lily Zneimer & Oscar Piastri

Lily: I just met Belle.

Lily: At the ice cream stand!!

Lily: We both went for survival ice cream.

Lily: It was fate.

Oscar: Oh no. What did you do.

Lily: EXCUSE ME.

Lily: I was adorable.

Lily: SHE was adorable.

Lily: We’re best friends now.

Oscar: That tracks.

Lily: Oscar. OSCAR.

Oscar: What.

Lily: I get it.

Lily: I GET IT.

Lily: Why you’re obsessed with her.

Lily: She’s sunshine wrapped in a cardigan and stubbornness.

Oscar: Yeah. She’s Belle. Everyone’s a little obsessed with her. Max just got there first.

Lily: Also she’s still got bruises from the crash and she was just out here smiling like a total champ.

Lily: I wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap.

Oscar: Trust me. Max is already trying. If he could put her in a Volvo made of titanium, he would.

Lily: Tell him to let me help.

Lily: I’m small but scrappy.

Oscar:  I’ll pass along the message. He’ll appreciate the reinforcements.

Lily: I’m serious. I love her already.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1Overheard: Isabelle Leclerc and Lily Zneimer spotted getting ice cream together in the paddock today. New power duo just dropped???

@/Turn1Drama:  Not to be dramatic but I would lay down my life for Isabelle and Lily within 0.2 seconds of meeting them.

@/F1Receipts: Ok but… zoom in. Look at Isabelle’s collarbone.  There’s… bruising???

photo attached: Belle smiling with Lily, faint purple fading along her neck/collarbone visible above her dress

@GridGirlsUnited: WAIT. WHY DOES ISABELLE HAVE BRUISES.

@/FerrariFeverDreams: Isabelle Leclerc is the blueprint for moving through the world with quiet grace and still kicking life’s ass.

@/F1WAGUpdates:  UMMM??? ISABELLE LECLERC AND LILY (OSCAR'S GIRLFRIEND) SPOTTED GETTING ICE CREAM IN BAHRAIN?? HELLO??? THE POWER DUO I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED????

@/gridgirlconfessions:  not to be dramatic but Isabelle taking lily under her wing is the SOFTEST THING EVER.  I’m literally going to cry in the paddock rn

@turn1meltdown also. not to be That Person but did anyone else notice... Isabelle has bruises?? I am pretty sure she covered one at her forehead with makeup. but you can see one on her shoulder when her dress fell down  as she got ice cream??

@/tinfoiltires: not to start a conspiracy but…do you think she is dating Lando?! I mean she is hanging out with Oscar’s girlfriend. 

@/paddockprotectionagency: There is literally no evidence for that. At all. 

@/F1TeaTime:  ISABELLE LECLERC AND LILY PIASTRI SPOTTED TOGETHER IN BAHRAIN:  GIRL GANG FORMING ALERT.

@PaddockSpy Isabelle "please don't perceive me" Leclerc and Lily "mystery personified" Zneimer together is EXACTLY the energy the paddock needs.

@/McLarenMayhem Oscar spotted hovering around Lily and Isabelle like a guard dog. Lando too???

@/PitLaneDrama:  Theory: Isabelle was hurt recently. Not racing related (obviously). Something serious enough that the whole grid knows but fans are only now noticing.

@/FerrariFanForum: idk what's happening but if someone hurt Isabelle Leclerc I fully believe half the paddock would riot.

@/f1overheard:  also... are we gonna talk about the fact that Belle still has bruises on her arms??? Faded but definitely there??? Is she okay??? Who do I need to fight???

@/chaosinsector1: She’s laughing and walking and eating ice cream but seeing those bruises on Belle actually made me want to fistfight a drunk driver in the middle of Bahrain.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Max Verstappen

Oscar: Mate. Did my girlfriend just get adopted by your girlfriend??

Max: Good. Belle needs more allies.

Oscar: They went for ice cream and now Lily’s acting like she’s been knighted into the Order of Belle.

Max: She has. There’s no going back.

Oscar: ...is this what happened to me?

Max: Yes. You just didn’t notice. It’s stealthy like that.

Oscar: Incredible.

Max: Also — Can you tell Lily to keep an eye on her?

Oscar: Belle?

Max: Yeah. Doctor cleared her for travel, but… She’s good at pretending she’s fine when she isn’t.

Oscar: Got it. I’ll tell Lily. (But I think she already clocked that. She’s weirdly good at reading people.)

Max: So is Belle. That’s probably why they found each other. But yeah. Just… make sure she rests. If she starts acting like she’s invincible, let me know.

Oscar: Copy that. Spy network: activated.

Max: Appreciate it. You get one free pass next time I accidentally block you in quali.

Oscar: Noted. I’ll save it for when it hurts the most.

***

Belle had just been laughing at something Lily said — something about Oscar’s catastrophic ability to pick good ice cream flavors — when she felt it.

That snap in the air.

The sudden chill.

She turned — and sure enough, there was Charles, storming across the paddock toward them with thunderclouds practically radiating off him.

Belle stiffened instinctively.

Oscar noticed too — his easy grin faltering. He had had flopped into a seat beside them minutes ago, looking amused but exhausted after media duties. Lando Norris had joined them too, fresh from a sponsor event, stealing a spoonful of Belle’s icecram like a menace. 

Lando now looked like he was considering dropping his spoon and running.

“Isabelle,” Charles barked, sharp enough that it turned a few heads.

Belle straightened, fighting the instinct to brace herself.

“Hi, Charles,” she said evenly. “Good afternoon to you too."

He didn’t bother with greetings.

He didn’t even glance at the others.

His glare locked onto her like a missile.

He pointed dramatically at Lando, who looked like a deer in headlights.

"Are you dating him?!"

Dead silence.

Belle stared at her brother, mouth slightly open, frozen mid-bite.

Before she could even start responding, Lando erupted:

"WHAT?? NO. OH MY GOD, NO."

He flailed so hard he nearly knocked over his chair.

"I would never!" he blurted, panicked.

Oscar looked like he wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.

Lily was visibly biting her lip, fighting back laughter.

Belle closed her eyes very slowly, inhaled through her nose, and set her cup down carefully on the table.

"First of all," she said icily, "even if I were dating someone, that’s absolutely none of your business."

Charles opened his mouth to argue.

Belle held up a hand. "I’m not done."

Charles froze.

"Second," Belle continued, voice sharp, "I am not dating Lando. I was laughing at a joke about Oscar thinking that horseradish is an ice cream flavour that should exist, thank you very much."

Oscar made a helpless noise of protest. Lily patted his arm sympathetically.

"And third," Belle said, her eyes narrowing, "I would like to remind you that last year, you accused me of flirting with GP because we had a five-minute conversation about kitchen backsplashes."

Oscar actually choked on his yogurt.

Lando snorted so loudly he nearly fell out of his chair.

Charles, flushing red, spluttered, "That was — that was different!"

"Was it?" Belle said, crossing her arms. "Was it really, Charles? I am an adult," she said crisply. "I am capable of talking to men without planning a wedding, thank you."

Belle took a slow step forward, closing the space between them — not enough to make a scene, but enough that he had to really look at her.

At the fading bruises on her skin.

At the shadows under her eyes.

At the way she stood — a little too still, a little too tired — but standing all the same.

“I survived a car crash two weeks ago,” Belle said, voice quiet but razor-sharp. “I’m allowed to eat ice cream with my friends without needing your permission, Charles.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue — to scold her somehow, as if she hadn’t earned the right to live her life on her own terms — but for once, no words came out.

Belle didn’t wait for them either.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Lando: I’M GOING TO DIE.

Lando: I’M ACTUALLY GOING TO DIE.

Carlos: What happened now?

Lando: CHARLES. CHARLES HAPPENED.

Lando: HE THINKS I’M DATING BELLE.

Lewis: Wait, dating?? What did you do?

Lando: NOTHING. WE TALKED ABOUT ICE CREAM TOPPINGS.

Daniel: …please tell me you’re joking.

Oscar:  He’s not. 

Lando: I SWEAR.

Lando: I WAS TALKING ABOUT OREOS.

Lando: AND SPRINKLES.

Lando: AND NOW I’M A DEAD MAN.

Daniel: This is incredible. Never change.

Carlos: Sprinkles = romantic commitment now. Good to know.

Lando: CHARLES LOOKED AT ME LIKE HE WAS ALREADY DIGGING THE GRAVE.

Lando: I’M INNOCENT.

Oscar: Tell it to the judge. (aka Charles.)

Lando: I NEED WITNESSES.

Lewis: Your Honor, all he did was sprinkle some toppings.

Daniel: GUILTY. Of flirting with ice cream.

Oscar: Death by suspicious glances.

Lando: THIS IS A MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE.

Carlos: Charles said guilty. Sprinkle boy must suffer.

Lando: I HATE YOU ALL.

Oscar: Love you too, Sprinkle Boy.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Update from the chaos front: Charles now thinks I’m dating Lando.

Max: First GP. Now Lando. Who’s next? Helmut?

Isabelle: PLEASE.

Max: Imagine explaining that one to the family.

Isabelle: At this point I think they’d believe anything. I just need to talk to someone and apparently it’s a full-blown scandal.

Max: Good thing you already have a secret boyfriend. ME. 

Isabelle: The only one that matters. (And the only one who would never judge my ice cream topping choices.)

Max: Correct. As your official and only secret boyfriend, I feel like maybe it’s time to make you an honest woman.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: All I’m saying is if you wore a ring, maybe Charles would stop suspecting every man who breathes near you.

Isabelle: You’re lucky you’re cute.

Max: I’m lucky for a lot of reasons. You’re the biggest one.

***

David Coulthard had been around Formula One long enough to notice things.

He noticed when a driver had a new sponsor before anyone said a word.

He noticed when a pit crew moved two tenths faster than last season.

And he noticed — very easily — when something was going on off-track.

It started with Max.

Max was... Different.

Still sharp, still competitive — God help anyone who thought the fire had gone — but... softer around the edges, somehow.

 Less likely to bite a journalist’s head off.

 Laughing more. Smiling — smiling! — during media duties instead of looking like he wanted to physically vanish into the concrete.

David had filed it away, mildly amused.

 Maybe maturity.

 Maybe something else.

But then Bahrain happened.

And David saw her.

He was standing near the Red Bull hospitality tent, making small talk with Christian Horner about the new season, when he caught the sight of her.

Isabelle Leclerc.

Charles' little sister.

 Quiet. Polite. Always seemed to hover just outside the spotlight.

She was walking across the paddock, a small tote bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched on her head — casual, unnoticed by most of the chaos around her.

Except Max noticed.

Max, who’d been standing half-turned, mid-conversation with a Red Bull engineer, stopped mid-sentence when he saw her.

David watched — curious, instinct pricking at the back of his neck — as Max’s entire face softened.

Not just fond — no, no.

Absolutely gone.

Max excused himself a little too quickly. Caught up with her a few paces later, walking just a little too close, talking low and quiet.

David tilted his head, observing like a man watching a slow car crash — except it wasn’t a crash at all. It was... intimate.

Isabelle laughed at something Max said — and David watched Max practically beam like a golden retriever who’d just been handed a steak.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

Well, well, well.

Later that afternoon, while pretending to be busy near the media center, David caught another moment.

Isabelle was perched on the low wall near the Red Bull motorhome, sipping from a bottle of water, flipping through something on her phone.

Max came out the door — helmet in hand, race suit half unzipped — and immediately bee-lined toward her.

Not toward the engineers.

Not toward the debrief room.

 Her.

And when he thought no one was looking, Max leaned down and pressed a kiss — soft, fast, familiar — to the top of her head.

David raised his eyebrows.

Oh, it wasn’t just a thing.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t nothing.

This was serious.

And judging by how utterly comfortable they were — how instinctively they gravitated toward each other without even thinking — it had been serious for a while.

David smirked to himself, pulling out his phone.

Text to Mark Webber:I bet you a bottle of wine Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc. Long term. Dead serious.

Mark:WHATexplain immediately

David chuckled, pocketing his phone.

Oh, he wasn’t going to explain everything yet.

Where was the fun in that?

He was going to sit back, enjoy the slow unfolding chaos, and wait for the paddock to finally catch up to what he already knew:

Max Verstappen was utterly, completely, irrevocably in love.

And her last name was Leclerc.

God, the 2024 season was already looking fantastic.

***

Mark Webber prided himself on keeping his ear to the ground.

Or, at the very least, knowing when David bloody Coulthard was onto something juicy.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that text message.

 I bet you a bottle of wine Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc. Long term. Dead serious.

 Dead serious.

 David didn’t throw those words around lightly.

So, naturally, Mark did what any sane, mature, retired driver would do.

He went hunting for information.

It wasn’t like he could just ask Max — not without getting a death stare and possibly a Red Bull can thrown at his head.

 No, he needed someone younger. Someone adjacent. Someone... less likely to suspect an ambush.

He spotted Oscar near the McLaren garage, fiddling with a water bottle, looking far too innocent for a man in the Formula One paddock.

Perfect.

Mark strolled over casually, hands in his pockets, wearing the most nonchalant face he could muster.

Oscar looked up, blinking like a deer in headlights.

"Hey, mate," Mark said smoothly. "Quick one for you."

Oscar looked instantly suspicious — good lad, instincts sharp — but he nodded.

Mark leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Any idea if Max Verstappen’s dating Isabelle Leclerc?"

Oscar choked so hard on absolutely nothing that he physically stumbled back a step.

Mark arched a brow. "That’s a yes?"

"How—" Oscar spluttered, looking around wildly like he expected FIA officials to pop out of the bushes. "How do you know that?!"

Mark laughed, genuinely delighted. "Ohhh, mate, you just confirmed it for me."

Oscar groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I didn’t confirm anything! I just— I mean—" He lowered his voice urgently. "It’s, like, a massive secret."

Mark chuckled, utterly unbothered. "Not that massive if Coulthard noticed it after one afternoon."

Oscar buried his face in his hands. "I’m so dead. Max is going to kill me. I didn’t say anything!"

"You didn’t have to." Mark clapped him on the shoulder, grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Cheers, mate. Appreciate it."

He turned to saunter away — job done, day made — leaving poor Oscar standing there, looking absolutely haunted.

Mark was already pulling out his phone to text David back: Oscar just confirmed it. Owe you a bottle. Also this is incredible.

God, he loved this sport.

***

The restaurant was loud, chaotic in the way all post-race celebrations were, but Max didn’t mind.  

Not tonight.

The Bahrain Grand Prix trophy was already back at the hotel, forgotten for the moment — because the real prize was sitting right next to him, curled into the booth, tucked safely under his arm.

Belle.

Max still hadn't entirely recovered from seeing her waiting for him after free practice a few nights ago — real, alive, breathing.  

Now, with her hair soft around her face, wearing a simple sundress that made her look even more breakable and beautiful under the low lights, he could barely keep his hands off her.

And he didn’t have to.  

Not here.  

Not when everyone thought she was just Isabelle Leclerc, Charles’ sweet little sister, along for the ride.

Max smirked to himself, sliding his hand a little higher on her thigh under the table, tracing small, lazy circles against the fabric of her dress.

Belle looked up at him, cheeks flushing immediately, but her eyes sparkled — delighted, conspiratorial.

God, he loved her.

Lando, unfortunately, was sitting across the table — and he was dying.

Max could feel it.

Every time Max leaned in closer to Belle, murmuring something low in her ear, Lando shifted violently in his seat like he was physically restraining himself from making a scene.

It was beautiful.

"So," Belle said, teasingly soft, tilting her head up toward him, "how does it feel to add another trophy to the collection?"

Max shrugged, smirking, fully aware that Charles — sitting a few seats away — was half-listening while pretending to be absorbed in the menu.

"Don’t care about trophies," Max said easily, keeping his voice just loud enough to carry.

Belle blinked up at him, playing along.  

"Oh no? What do you care about, then?"

Max leaned down, his mouth brushing just over the shell of her ear, and said, so low that it was a miracle only Lando seemed to catch it:

"You’re the only trophy I want."

Belle flushed scarlet, her hand tightening briefly around the napkin in her lap, her breath catching visibly.  

Max smiled against her temple, smug and helplessly in love.

Across the table, Lando made a tiny, strangled noise and buried his face in his hands.

Charles — bless his stupid, oblivious soul — just looked up from the menu and said, casually:

"You’re not even looking at dessert, Max. You’re going to miss the good stuff."

Max didn't even blink.  

"I already have the good stuff," he said without missing a beat, eyes locked firmly on Belle.

Belle made a tiny, helpless noise that she immediately disguised with a cough.  

Lando kicked Max hard under the table, and Max barely resisted kicking him back.

Charles, meanwhile, just shrugged and went back to the menu, completely, fantastically unaware.

Max felt Belle’s hand slide into his under the table, squeezing once — a secret, silent, trembling squeeze — and he squeezed back, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

She was his.

And one day soon —  

He wasn’t going to hide it anymore.

But for now?  

He could live like this.  

With Belle flushed and smiling at his side, Lando dying quietly across from him, and the rest of the world too blind to see that Max Verstappen had already won the only race that ever really mattered.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, Lewis Hamilton)

Lando: I almost DIED at dinner.

Oscar: What happened??

Lando: Max flirted with Belle. In front of Charles. Like, full-on heart eyes and whispered sweet nothings.

Carlos: Please tell me Charles noticed.

Lando: HE DIDN’T. He told Max to look at the dessert menu.

Lando: Max literally said “I already have the good stuff” while STARING AT BELLE.

Lando: And Charles just??? Nodded???

Lewis: Oh my god.

Oscar: I’m losing it. How are you still alive.

Lando: She was BLUSHING. Max was basically devouring her with his eyes.

Lando: I had to physically punch myself in the leg to not start screaming.

Daniel: You deserve an award. Like. An actual trophy.

Carlos: Or a medal. “Bravery in the Face of Complete Dumbassery.”

Oscar: Lando Norris: Survivor of Max-and-Belle Public Flirting™️

Lando: I’m writing my will. If I die because Charles eventually finds out and kills me, tell my mum I love her.

Daniel: Will do. Also, dibs on your gaming chair.

Lewis: We are NOT inheriting his Twitch setup, Daniel.

Daniel: You can’t stop me.

Carlos: Focus. The real question is: How long until Max just proposes and Charles still doesn’t notice?

Oscar: 50 bucks says it happens this season.

Lando: I’m raising you to 100. Because honestly? At this point? I can see it happening.

***

There were a few great constants in Formula One.

 One: There would always be politics.

 Two: Fernando Alonso would always find a way to be fast.

 And three: The old guard — Mark Webber, David Coulthard, and Fernando himself — would probably end up at a hotel bar, drinking expensive whiskey and gossiping like teenagers at a sleepover.

Tonight was no exception.

David leaned back in his chair, looking insufferably smug as he sipped his drink.

"I’m telling you," he said, tapping the side of his glass for emphasis. "It’s serious. Verstappen and the little Leclerc."

Mark, grinning like a fox, said, "Oscar practically shat himself when I asked him."

Fernando’s eyebrows shot up, delighted. "You interrogated Piastri?"

Mark shrugged, completely unapologetic. "Didn’t even need to. Kid panicked so hard I thought he was about to call his mum."

David chuckled darkly. "Told you. Not just a fling. Proper relationship. Long-term."

Fernando leaned forward, elbows on the table, suddenly far more interested. "I have seen them together a few times. Very... comfortable."

David pointed at him triumphantly. "Exactly! No nerves. No posturing. He looks at her like he’s already married her and built her a house in the countryside with five cats."

Mark howled with laughter. "Imagine Max Verstappen in the countryside, bloody hell."

Fernando smirked. "You are both missing the real headline."

Mark and David raised their eyebrows in unison.

Fernando leaned back, satisfied. "When Charles finds out."

There was a beat of silence — then all three of them burst into laughter, loud enough that a few other patrons in the bar turned to look.

David wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, God, Charles Leclerc’s going to combust."

"Publicly or privately?" Mark asked, grinning.

Fernando considered it seriously. "Privately first. Brooding. Sad playlist. Maybe a little crying in the shower. Then public disapproval."

"Disapproval," David echoed, nodding solemnly. "In that very polite Monegasque way. ‘I am not angry, I am just... disappointed.’"

Mark knocked back the rest of his drink, still chuckling. "Imagine the Christmas dinners. Verstappen sitting across from Leclerc at the table. Isabelle kicking him under it every time he tries to start a fight."

David grinned. "Max pretending to be polite for fifteen minutes before he says something that makes Charles’ eye twitch."

Fernando clapped his hands together, pleased. "This season is already perfect."

Mark waved down the bartender for another round, because frankly, they deserved it.

"We should start a pool," he said. "How long until it goes public?"

David leaned forward eagerly. "Or how long until one of them accidentally soft-launches it on Instagram."

Fernando raised his glass. "Or until Verstappen punches a journalist for asking a stupid question about Isabelle."

They clinked glasses with wicked grins, the unofficial F1 Gossip Club alive and thriving.

Across town, Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc remained blissfully unaware that three of the sport’s greatest troublemakers were placing metaphorical bets on their entire relationship timeline.

***

It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

It was just a haircut. A simple thing.

Isabelle had asked, gently, over coffee one weekend. "Would you mind coloring my hair again, Maman?"

Her voice light, casual — hoping it would sound like a normal daughterly request, not something heavy.

Pascale had smiled vaguely, barely looking up from her phone. "Of course, cherie. Make an appointment, and we'll sort it out."

Belle had smiled too, automatic and small. "Okay."

She booked it the next week, a Friday afternoon — easy enough to squeeze in around both their schedules. She texted her mother to confirm.

Belle: Appointment for Friday at 2pm. Let me know if that still works for you!

The reply came half a day later.

Pascale: Oh, mon coeur, Friday’s going to be tricky. Charles needs help with a sponsor shoot! We'll find another time, I promise ❤️

Belle told herself it was fine. Of course it was fine.

Charles' career came first. It always had.

She rebooked for the next week.

Wednesday afternoon. Easy. Flexible.

Pascale: Arthur’s looking at apartments. I need to go with him. Next week? ❤️

Another reschedule. Another brushed-off excuse.

Lunch with friends. Last-minute travel plans. A gala that needed organizing.

Each time, Belle rearranged her schedule like a good little daughter. Each time, Pascale’s priorities stayed somewhere else — with someone else.

And Belle — Belle stayed small and polite, pretending like it didn’t sting.

Eventually, after the fourth reschedule in three weeks, Belle stood in front of her bathroom mirror, stared at her roots growing out unevenly, the dull ends of her hair catching awkwardly in the light — and something inside her simply... cracked.

She booked an appointment. With someone else. No fanfare. No texts.

She sat in the warm, bright little salon tucked near the flower market that Emilie had recommended, letting a stranger mix a soft, golden color for her hair, hands sure and kind.

And when it was done — When Belle caught sight of herself in the mirror — she smiled.

Really smiled.

The soft caramel highlights caught the light, framing her face, making her eyes look warmer. She looked — fresh. Hopeful, even.

It was silly.  It was just hair. But it felt like something more.

A line, quietly drawn. A choice for herself, not for anyone else.

She didn’t tell her mother.

Not at first.

But Pascale noticed at a family brunch the following weekend.

The moment Isabelle sat down, Pascale’s eyes sharpened, taking in the subtle change.

"You went to someone else?" she asked, light but pointed, the corners of her mouth tightening almost imperceptibly.

Isabelle sipped her coffee calmly. "You were busy."

Pascale laughed, waving it off. "Still, cherie, you should have waited. It’s not quite... what we would have done."

Belle smiled, soft and polite — the kind of smile she'd perfected years ago. Maybe not what you would have done, she thought. Maybe that's the point.

"It’s just hair, Maman," she said lightly.  She didn’t offer to rebook. Didn’t apologize.

And for once, she didn’t feel guilty about it.

***

The chair in Simone’s office was comfortable — too comfortable, sometimes.

It made it harder to keep her walls up. But maybe that was the point.

Belle picked at the seam of her sleeve, her legs curled under her, staring at the little woven rug on the floor as she spoke.

"It sounds stupid," she said after a long pause. "About the hair, I mean."

Simone — patient, kind Simone — just shook her head gently. "I don't think it sounds stupid at all."

Belle exhaled, staring at her hands."I just... I asked her to help. My mother. And she said yes, but then kept rescheduling. Again and again. For Charles. For Arthur. For everyone else."

Simone nodded, quiet encouragement in the simple gesture.

"And it wasn't the first time," Belle added, voice thinner now. "It’s never the first time. I know that."

"And how did it feel?" Simone asked, voice low, careful.

Belle hesitated.

How did it feel? It felt — small. It felt like being fourteen again, forgotten in the corner while her brothers got all the attention, all the applause.

"It felt like..." she trailed off, fumbling for words. "Like I wasn't important enough to remember."

Simone’s gaze was steady. "And what did you do with that feeling?"

Belle smiled tightly. "I told myself it didn't matter. Booked another appointment. Let someone else do it."

"And how did that feel?"

Belle surprised herself by laughing — a soft, broken sound. "Good," she admitted. And then, more quietly: "Really good."

Simone smiled. "You made a choice for yourself."

Belle nodded, the weight of it sinking in.

"I didn’t wait around this time," she said. "I didn’t hope she'd find time for me if I was just... patient enough."

"That’s not a small thing," Simone said. "That’s reclaiming something you were taught not to expect."

Belle blinked, throat tightening unexpectedly.

"You were taught," Simone continued gently, "that your needs came second. Or third. Or fourth. Or not at all. And now — even in something as small as a haircut — you're learning that you don't have to keep living by those old rules."

Belle swallowed hard.

"I guess I always thought... if I was just easier, or more useful, then maybe they'd—"

She broke off, voice catching.

Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice warm and firm.

"You don't have to earn love, Isabelle."

Belle squeezed her hands into fists, feeling the sting of tears she refused to let fall.

"You were already enough," Simone said. "You always have been."

Belle left the session feeling raw — scraped open — but lighter too.

Because maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to take up space. Allowed to choose herself. Allowed to stop waiting for permission that was never going to come.

Maybe love didn’t look like waiting on the sidelines. Maybe it looked like laughing under new sunlight, caramel highlights catching in the breeze, walking into the world without asking first.

And maybe — just maybe — she could be proud of that.

***

Text Messages: Victoria Verstappen & Isabelle Leclerc

Victoria: Hey Belle 💛 Random question — do you have some time in the next few weeks?

Isabelle: Hi! I should, yes! What’s up?

Victoria: I need help. With the nursery.

Isabelle: 🥺🥺🥺 You want me to help?

Victoria: Of course. You have the best taste. And honestly? I trust you. I want the nursery to feel safe and warm — not like something out of a catalog.

Isabelle: 😭 Vic.

Victoria: I'm serious!! Also I’m too emotional and tired to pick out wallpapers without crying 😂

Isabelle: Say no more. I’m honored. When were you thinking of starting?

Victoria: Whenever you’re free! No pressure. (But preferably before I get too big to waddle up the stairs without a forklift.)

Isabelle: 😂 You’re glowing, not waddling. But yes, I’m free next weekend if you want?

Victoria: Perfect. We can have snacks and mood boards and a no-crying policy.

Isabelle: (That rule is for you.)

Victoria: 100%.

Victoria: Thank you, Belle. Really. It means a lot to me. It means a lot to us.

Isabelle: I can’t wait 🩵 Already have about 12 ideas brewing.

Victoria: I knew I asked the right person 🥹

****

Team Redline Stream – Transcript

(Stream already in progress. Max is mid-race, casually chatting with the team and chat.)

Chris Lulham: So, Max, what’s your girlfriend up to these days? Did she get a new job, or is she just vibing?

Max: (Laughs.) She’s freelancing now."

Luke Crane: "Oh, so technically working, but with way less stress?"

Max: "Exactly. No more crazy hours, no more annoying bosses. Now she actually gets to have a life."

Chat:

FREELANCE ERA LET’S GOOOO

Max won the battle against corporate life

Work-life balance king fighting for his queen

"She actually gets to have a life" he has been PRAYING for this

Bro was so against that job, he’s probably happier than she is 💀

Chris: "So what does she do with all her free time now?"

Max: "More time for the cats. More time for horse riding, instead of just talking about how much she misses it. She’s already been out riding a few times."

Chat:

THE HORSE GIRL ERA RETURNS

"Instead of just talking about it" I know that used to break his heart

He is so smug about this, I can hear it in his voice

The cats and horses are winning rn

Imagine quitting your job and getting more time for your pets and hobbies… she’s living the dream

Chris: "And I’m guessing the cats are thrilled?"

Max: (Grinning.) "Of course. She bought them a ridiculous amount of toys, so they’ve been playing non-stop. They love her more than me anyway."

Aalberts: "I feel like you’ve just accepted that."

Max: (Shrugs.) "It’s the truth."

Chat:

MAX IS A SECONDARY PARENT IN HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD

The cats chose their favorite and it’s NOT him 💀

"They love her more than me" bro just casually taking Ls on stream

Imagine being Max Verstappen and losing to your girlfriend for affection

The way he’s not even mad about it

Luke: "Wait, how many cats is it now? Still Sassy and Jimmy?"

Max: (Smirks) "Three."

Chris: "THREE???"

Chat: HE DROPPED THAT SO CASUALLY HELLO??? NEW CAT REVEAL LET’S GOOOOO

Gianni Vecchio: "When did you get a third cat, mate?!"

Max: "Christmas. She surprised me."

Luke: "Bro your girlfriend got you a whole CAT for Christmas and you’re just mentioning this NOW???"

Chat: WHAT A FLEX A WHOLE CAT Forget watches or cars. Max got a BABY TIGER for Christmas Proposal energy tbh

Chris: "What’s the new cat’s name?"

Max: "Lilly."

Chat: LILLY!!! Sassy, Jimmy, and Lilly — squad complete MAX IS OFFICIALLY A CAT DAD OF THREE

Chris: "Okay but real talk — she got you a cat, bro. That’s basically marriage. So does this mean she’ll be at a race soon?"

Max: (Casually.) "She already was."

Luke: "Wait—WHAT?"

Chat:

HELLO???

EXCUSE ME???

SHE WAS THERE AND WE DIDN’T KNOW???

MAX YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THAT AND MOVE ON

We have failed as detectives

Chris: "Bro. You have people trying to figure out if she even exists, and you’re telling me she was at a race and nobody noticed?"

Max: (Laughing.) "Apparently not."

Luke: "This is insane. What do you mean 'apparently not'?"

Max: (Shrugs.) "She was just walking around, watching, same as always."

Chat:

This man’s girlfriend is a stealth legend

MAX JUST CASUALLY DROPPING BOMBSHELLS ON US

She was among us and we were blind

I feel like he enjoys watching us suffer

WE NEED TO FIND FOOTAGE, THIS IS A MISSION

Chris: "Alright, new game. Next race, we’re all scanning every background shot for your girlfriend."

Max: (Grinning.) "Good luck."

Chat:

Bro knows we will NEVER find her

He’s enjoying this way too much

This is now our new conspiracy theory

Max Verstappen’s girlfriend is the Where’s Waldo of F1

WE WILL NOT REST UNTIL WE FIND HER

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@F1Detective: MAX JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THAT HIS GIRLFRIEND WAS AT A RACE AND WE ALL MISSED IT????

@TireDegEnjoyer:: Max: "Oh yeah, she was at a race." Us: "SIR??? AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO MENTION THIS EARLIER???"

@softmaxgirl: I refuse to believe we all collectively failed at spotting her. This is a cover-up. She’s in a Red Bull hoodie somewhere in the background. We need to check every race weekend.

@pitlanechaos: Max: "She was just walking around, watching, same as always." SAME AS ALWAYS???? SIR??? DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME SHE’S BEEN TO MULTIPLE RACES?????

@LandoStoleMyLunch: Max’s girlfriend has officially become the Where’s Waldo of the paddock. She’s there, but she’s a ghost.

@DR3sMullet: ANOTHER CAT?!? I DEMAND PICTURES. WHAT DO YOU MEAN SASSY AND JIMMY HAVE A NEW SIBLING?!!?

@PaddockTea: This woman is so committed to her privacy. Most WAGs get papped once and boom, we know their whole life story. Max’s gf? We don’t even have crumbs.

@SuperMaxStan: The fact that she quit her job and instead of immediately becoming a full-time WAG, she just started freelancing??? She really does not care about his money at ALL.

@F1Shitposter: What do you bet Max has tried to convince her to become his trophy wife at least once and she just refused LMAO

↳@UndercutKing: The way half of us would’ve immediately quit their job the second Max suggested it and she just… didn’t. Iconic.

@FrontWingDamage: Max is just so casual about everything. Like, sir. You do realize we’ve been trying to figure this out for months.

↳@RedBullConspiracy:WE HAVE TO GO BACK. CHECK THE FOOTAGE. FIND HER.

↳@F1Sherlock: He said it so casually. Like he didn’t just confirm that she’s been right there and we all missed it. EMBARRASSING FOR US.

@GridReporter:The fact that people are now scrubbing through paddock footage frame by frame trying to find a glimpse of her… I love F1 fans.

↳@McLarenMemeLord:Max: “She was at a race.” F1 Twitter: ACTIVATE FBI MODE

@SuperMaxUltraFan:At this point, I don’t even care who she is. I’m just impressed by the commitment to staying invisible.

↳@Horseriding4Life:"More time for horse riding"—girl is really just living her dream life, huh?

↳@SidepodDisaster:The fact that she chose freelancing instead of living the soft WAG life… Respect.

@RedBullChaos:She really doesn’t care about his money and I think that’s what drives people insane the most.

***

Alex Albon was halfway through his coffee when Max dropped into the chair across from him like the world had personally wronged him.

“Lilly’s sneezing,” Max said, without preamble.

Alex blinked. “Okay… hi?”

“My kitten,” Max clarified, as if that explained everything.

Alex raised a brow. “Right. Is she okay?”

“She started sneezing two days ago,” Max said, frowning. “Little sneezes. Like tchu-tchu. Not constant. But today it’s more.”

Alex set his cup down. “Vet?”

“Took her yesterday. No fever, no infection. Not her food. They tested for everything. Nothing.” Max looked personally offended by the mystery. “So it has to be something in the apartment.”

Alex squinted. “New plants? Cleaning products?”

Max pulled out his phone and swiped with purpose. “Switched laundry detergent last week. Isabelle lit a new candle. It smells like cedarwood and… I don’t know, something sweet.”

“Floral?” Alex offered.

Max nodded like he was on a crime show. “Possibly rose. Or jasmine. Something aggressive. I think it’s the candle.”

“Could be,” Alex agreed. “Some scents mess with cats’ systems. Especially essential oils.”

Max turned his phone toward him. “Here. This is her on the couch—right next to where the candle’s usually lit.”

Alex looked.

It was a picture of Lilly. Big blue eyes. Tiny paws. Mid-sneeze. The picture was blurry, chaotic, adorable.

But behind the kitten, sitting casually on the couch in one of Max’s oversized hoodies, was Isabelle Leclerc.

Hair pulled into a messy bun. Mug in hand. Bare legs tucked under her like she belonged there. Looking at the kitten with this soft, utterly unguarded smile that said: this is home.

Alex stared.

Max didn’t notice. “See, she only sneezes in the living room. Nowhere else. So I think it’s—”

“Back up,” Alex said, voice sharp.

Max paused. “What?”

Alex pointed at the photo, eyes wide. “Is that Isabelle Leclerc in your living room?”

Max glanced at the phone like it was obvious. “Yeah.”

“Max,” Alex said slowly. “That’s Charles Leclerc’s sister.”

“Correct.”

“She’s wearing your hoodie.”

Then said, without any trace of shame: “Yeah.”

Alex stared. “Yeah?! That’s all I get?!”

Max squinted. “What do you want? A timeline?”

“Uh, YES?” Alex exclaimed, leaning forward. “That’s Charles’ sister. And she’s sitting on your couch in your hoodie with your kitten like she LIVES THERE.”

Max shrugged. “She does.”

Alex’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?”

Max took a sip of his water. “We’ve been together for a while. Over a year.”

Alex made an unholy sound. “And Charles doesn’t know?!”

“Nope.”

Alex blinked rapidly. “Does anyone know?!”

“GP, Lando, Daniel, Oscar…Lewis, my family...Oh, wait, Nico Rosberg. Now you.”

“Do you want to die?!”

Max gave him a mildly amused look. 

Alex dropped his head into his hands. “You’re actually insane.”

Max waited a beat, then tapped his phone. “So. Candle, yes or no?”

Alex groaned. “Yes, Max. It could absolutely be the candle. But also, WHAT IS HAPPENING WITH YOUR LIFE.”

Max tilted his head. “Are you going to tell Charles?”

Alex gave him a look. “Do I look like I want to be collateral damage in that explosion?”

Max nodded approvingly. “Good. So... lavender and cedar — dangerous?”

Alex sighed. “For the kitten, yes. For you? I think you’ve already walked off a cliff.”

Max smirked. “Worth it.”

Alex groaned again. “I need a drink. And maybe a therapist.”

***

Group Chat: 2019 Rookies

(Members: Lando Norris, George Russel and Alex Albon)

Alex: boys. Alex: BOYS. Alex: you’re not going to believe what just happened

George: oh no George:  what did you do?

Alex: not meAlex: MAX

George: even worse George:  what happened?

Alex: so max came to me for ADVICE Alex: about his KITTEN Alex: because she’s sneezing

George:  what???

Alex: wait Alex: it gets worse Alex: he shows me a picture of the kitten Alex: and who’s in the background??

George: WHO?

Alex: ISABELLE. Alex: LECLERC. Alex: on his couch Alex: in his hoodie Alex: drinking out of his red bull mug Alex: LOOKING DOMESTIC AS HELL

George: YOU’RE JOKING

Lando: he’s not

George: EXCUSE ME???? George:  SINCE WHEN????

Alex: over. a. YEAR. Alex: he said that with his whole chest like it was normal

George: A YEAR???? George:  A YEAR?????

Lando: welcome to hell 😌

George: CHARLES DOESN’T KNOW???

Alex: he does not

George: ARE THEY TRYING TO DIE

Lando: hang on hang on Lando: adding you both

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lewis Hamilton, George Russell and Alex Albon)

Lando Norris has added George Russell and Alex Albon

Lando: new additions have arrived

Daniel: Alex!! Daniel:  G-MONEY!!! welcome to the worst-kept secret in f1

Carlos: it is not a secret. it’s a ticking time bomb.

Oscar: Charles will find out and take us all down with him

Lewis: has anyone built a bunker yet?

Alex: I feel like i need to lie down

George: I feel like I need a legal team

Daniel: guys we’re fineDaniel:  just don’t say anything to charles and don’t look max in the eye for too long

George: what happens if you look max in the eye???

Oscar: you see your life flash before your eyes

Lando: and also possibly belle in a hoodie making pancakes

Alex: ...she cooks for him????

Carlos: they cook together

George: that’s worse.  THEY HAVE A ROUTINE

Lando: they have matching coffee mugs Lando:  and the kitten has a name that matches the other cats.  it's over

George: i am distressed George: deeply, emotionally distressed

Lewis: You’ll get used to it. eventually

Oscar: No, you won’t.  We’re all dying inside… but she’s happy so we keep quiet

Daniel: And max is terrifyingly in love so we don’t poke the bear

George: this is insane

Alex: they are insane

Lando: but also, like… kind of cute right?

***

Max had faced down championship-deciding races, international media frenzies, and Monaco traffic. None of it — none of it — had prepared him for being frog-marched into a luxury jewelry boutique by Emilie Abadie at ten in the morning.

"Stand up straight," Emilie hissed under her breath, fixing the collar of his jacket like he was a misbehaving toddler.

Max glared at her. "I am standing straight."

"You’re standing like you’re about to be arrested," Emilie muttered. "Look less guilty."

"I am guilty," Max grumbled. "Guilty of letting you hijack my life."

Emilie grinned wickedly, grabbing his wrist and hauling him inside.

The boutique was elegant and understated — all cream walls, glass cases, and staff so polished they practically floated across the floor. A woman behind the nearest counter looked up, smiling warmly.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Verstappen. Mademoiselle Abadie. Welcome back."

Max blinked. "Back?"

Emilie shot him a look. "I told you I started scouting months ago. We have an appointment."

"You booked an appointment without asking me?"

"You needed help," Emilie said breezily. "You should be thanking me."

Max grumbled something unflattering under his breath but let her lead him deeper into the store. A private consultation table was already set up — soft lighting, velvet ring trays, glasses of still water, and a discreet little sign that read: “Reserved for Mr. Verstappen.”

Max sat down stiffly. Emilie plopped into the chair next to him like she owned the place.

The saleswoman joined them, setting out a leather-bound book filled with sketches. "You mentioned you were interested in a custom design. Yellow gold, emerald centerpiece, classic but with modern detailing?"

"Exactly," Emilie said crisply, before Max could even open his mouth.

Max raised an eyebrow. "Are you proposing or am I?"

"You're the wallet," Emilie said sweetly. "I’m the brains."

The saleswoman laughed quietly and turned the book toward Max. Beautiful sketches of rings — thick yellow gold bands, stunning emeralds set flush into intricate settings, delicate hidden details like tiny horseshoes, floral engraving, or Celtic knots.

Max stared at them, overwhelmed for a second by how serious it felt.

This wasn’t just a ring.

It was Belle’s future wrapped around her finger.

It was a promise he intended to keep for the rest of his life.

Emilie nudged him gently with her knee under the table. "You’re okay," she said quietly. "You’ve already made the most important decision. This is just picking the outfit for it."

Max exhaled slowly and leaned in, studying the designs.

He pointed to one — simple, stunning, an oval emerald cradled in a four-prong yellow gold setting, surrounded by diamonds, the inside of the band left smooth for an inscription.

"This one," he said roughly. "But I want the stone a little lower. So it doesn’t snag."

The saleswoman smiled approvingly. "Excellent eye, sir."

They finalized the adjustments, confirmed timelines (discreetly expedited, of course), and signed the paperwork.

 Max handed over the deposit without blinking.

When it was done, he stood awkwardly in the middle of the boutique, feeling somehow lighter and heavier all at once.

Emilie looped her arm through his, squeezing. "You did good, Verstappen."

"Yeah?" he asked, voice low.

She looked up at him, eyes suddenly bright. "You’re giving her something no one else ever did," Emilie said softly. "You’re choosing her first."

Max swallowed hard. "She deserves it," he said simply.

And he meant it with everything he had.

***

Instagram Story: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1gossipgirl: hold on. HOLD ON. isabelle leclerc... hanging wallpaper... with JOS VERSTAPPEN???

@/casualf1fan:  jos verstappen? the jos verstappen? the one who doesn’t like anyone???

@/raceweekgirlie: victoria verstappen posting belle and jos working together calmly has actually sent me into a spiral i was not prepared for today

@/slowpitstop:  isabelle organizing the nursery i get isabelle being friends with victoria i get but isabelle and JOS VERSTAPPEN collaborating on a wallpaper project????

@/softdrs the fact that jos looks??? like he’s enjoying himself???? someone explain. fast.

@/piastrisleftshoe:  NO BECAUSE THINK ABOUT IT. isabelle has always been quiet, polite, organized. jos: respects competence above all else it’s making sense but also???? why does this feel WEIRDLY IMPORTANT

@/f1socialspy:  the verstappens are either adopting isabelle or she’s secretly engaged to max there’s no third option

@/leclercslens: every time i think about isabelle being on a ladder next to jos verstappen holding a roll of wallpaper like it’s normal i lose 3 years off my life

@/f1girliesunite: wait hold on. why is jos verstappen installing wallpaper with isabelle leclerc. what is happening.

@/chaoticf1fan: THE CROSSOVER I DID NOT EXPECT jos verstappen and isabelle leclerc hanging wallpaper like they’re on some home renovation show???

@/leclercbrainrot: belle leclerc being chill with victoria verstappen i get. belle leclerc hanging out with jos verstappen?????? PLS EXPLAIN

@/maxiecatlover33: I’m sorry but if you had told me in 2019 that JOS VERSTAPPEN would be calmly putting up wallpaper with a LECLERC I would have called you insane.

@/dutchgrandprixfan: the way jos looks like he’s genuinely concentrating and belle is just THERE like it’s totally normal?? I HAVE QUESTIONS

@/landochaosnorris: isabelle leclerc and jos verstappen hanging wallpaper together" is my roman empire now

@/chaosformula1: You’re telling me Max Verstappen’s dad and Charles Leclerc’s sister are casually hanging out???? Installing WALLPAPER together??? Am I on drugs or

@gridgirlenergy Not to be dramatic but if you had told me a year ago that Jos Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc would be collaborating on INTERIOR DESIGN I would’ve called you clinically insane. What’s next? Toto Wolff and Christian Horner hugging it out?!

@/maxfosi:  the way jos and belle were concentrating on that wallpaper like they were on a two-man pit crew… i have QUESTIONS

@/slowpitstop:  someone please explain how belle leclerc is closer to the verstappens than literally any other paddock girlfriend when SHE’S NOT EVEN A PUBLIC GIRLFRIEND (or is she...?)

@/verstappenfiles: there’s just no way she’s not with max right??? you don’t just rope in your extremely grumpy father to do nursery wallpaper with your brother’s "friend" unless it’s SERIOUS

@/mclarenchaos:  the verstappen family adopting belle like a lost kitten while the internet loses its mind is my favorite off-track drama right now

@/redbullstan89: petition to get a documentary crew in there IMMEDIATELY because whatever this is, i want to see it unfold in real time

@/f1girlies:  petition to make “isabelle leclerc hanging wallpaper with jos verstappen” the new unit of measurement for how confusing the f1 world is

@/pitlaneconfessions: still can’t believe victoria posted that and acted like it was NORMAL like “here’s belle and jos, wallpapering together” no context no explanation iconic behavior honestly

@/charlespills: charles leclerc obliviously posting selfies from golf while his sister is bonding with jos verstappen is soooooo on brand

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 2

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy, seizures and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

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

By the time Lizzie heard the knock on her door, she was almost regretting inviting Lando over.

Not because she didn’t want to see him—she did. But because she was still exhausted, her limbs felt like lead, and she hadn’t had the energy to change into anything more presentable than this.

Which was how she found herself standing in front of her door, dressed in sweatpants and a vintage Ferrari hoodie that was older than both of them, trying to summon the will to care.

She pulled the door open, and there he was—Lando Norris, grinning at her like she hadn’t texted him less than 6 hours ago to say, Hey, I had a seizure, so can we not do the fancy restaurant thing?

“Hey,” he said, then his eyes dropped to her hoodie. His expression morphed into pure betrayal. “You—Lizzie.” He pointed. “Is that—is that a Ferrari hoodie?”

She crossed her arms, ignoring the amusement bubbling in her chest. “It was my dad’s.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Lando said, still staring at it like it personally offended him. “It makes it worse. It’s, like, vintage blasphemy.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes and stepped aside to let him in. “You’re in my apartment. You don’t get to insult my clothes.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You really don’t.”

"You literally live in Woking," Lando said darkly as he stepped into her apartment. "A stone throw away from the MTC!"

Lizzie rolled her eyes once more, closing the door behind him. "And I'm still a Ferrari girl at heart."

Lando groaned, shaking his head. "You're breaking my heart here, you know that?"

"Is now the time to mention that Mara is also named after Ferrari?" she asked with a grin, as he followed her into the kitchen and sat down a grocery bag on the counter.

Lando blinked. "How is Mara named after Ferrari?" he asked her.

"Well, Mara is short for Maranello," Lizzie said brightly.

Lando's mouth fell open. "You have got to be kidding me," he said, staring at her. "Your dog is named after Ferrari headquarters?"

Lizzie just smiled, not even trying to hold back her amusement. "Yep," she said, popping the p on the word.

"First the hoodie, then the dog... what's next, a Vettel tattoo?" Lando asked her with a sigh.

"I mean, I was considering it," Lizzie said, completely deadpan.

For a moment, Lando actually looked worried. "You're joking, right? Please tell me you're joking."

Lizzie cackled, a deep, full-belly laugh. "Relax, Lando. I'm kidding."

His shoulders sagged. "You're an evil woman. An actual evil woman."

"What is even in there?" she asked with a nod to the grocery bags.

Lando smirked. “Backup nuggets.”

Lizzie frowned. “Backup nuggets?”

“In case yours suck.”

Lizzie snorted. “Wow. True trust issues.”

Lando grinned, but there was something softer behind it. She felt it when he looked at her for just a second too long.

She shoved the nuggets into the oven before he could say anything annoying about it.

"I also brought ice cream. I didn't know what you like..."

"Vanilla," she said immediately.

"Vanilla it is," he agreed. "Where's Mara by the way?"

Lizzie's eyes darted down the hallway. "She's probably passed out in the living room, honestly," she said. "Dad said she barely left my side last night, poor thing. Probably wore herself out."

Lando winced. "I can imagine. Must've been pretty freaked out, huh?"

Lizzie nodded. "She kept licking my face. Apparently they do that to wake you up when you have a seizure."

For a moment, his gaze softened, and he looked at her thoughtfully. "You don't get hurt, right? When you have a seizure, I mean."

"Generally, no," Lizzie said, "I might accidentally bite my tongue, and I'm usually sore and tired after, but I don't get hurt."

Lando nodded, but she could see the concern still lingering on his face. "But you're okay now?" he asked quietly.

Lizzie managed to bite back her smile. "I'm fine, Lando. I promise. This really is normal for me."

His head dipped. "You're sure?"

She softened, touched by the worry in his voice. "I'm sure," she said gently. "No need to look so serious, pretty boy."

“Excuse me, I’m not pretty.” He objected with a disgusted expression.

Lizzie snorted. “Yeah, you aren’t if you pull a face like that.” She shot back immediately.

“Excuse me, that’s not very nice!”

“Mate, make up your mind,” Lizzie said with a snort. “I say you are pretty, you disagree. I say you aren’t, you also disagree. What are you then?”

“I am ruggedly handsome,” he told her seriously.

She could only stare at him.

“If you somehow manage to grow a beard, then, maybe. But with that clean-shaven look you have going on right now? Not in a million years. You’re pretty, and that’s that.”

Lando's eyes widened, taken aback. "Did you just—" he spluttered. "Did you just insult my ability to grow facial hair and then go and call me pretty in the same breath?"

"I absolutely did," Lizzie said, barely able to hold back her grin. "What are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?"

What she hadn't expected was for him to advance and corner her against her kitchen counter.

She froze, eyes wide, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest. Lando planted one hand on either side of the counter, caging her in.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, expression still tinged with faux offense.

And his eyes...she could spent a whole book describing their colour and Lizzie was quite sure that it was going to fall short. Even in the dim light of her kitchen, they shifted from blue to green and back.

The intensity of his gaze was almost unbearable. Lizzie's mind went completely blank, and she found herself staring at him, a flutter of nervous energy coursing through her like electricity.

Lando was so close now that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. She was suddenly hyper-aware of every nerve in her body, like this new, intimate proximity had set her senses on fire.

Lizzie wasn't even sure who moved first.

All she knew was that suddenly, his lips were on hers. The kiss started gently, almost tentatively. But something shifted in an instant.

It became hungrier, more desperate, like a dam had burst. Lizzie couldn't help herself; her arms wrapped around Lando's shoulders and pulled him closer, every part of her body pressed against his.

One of his hands threaded into her hair, angling her head to get better access, and she made a small, needy sound in the back of her throat. Her fingers curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, clutching at it as she kissed him back, dizzy with the feel of him.

Oh. 

Oh. 

Lando groaned, the sound reverberating through her. His free hand slid beneath her hoodie, seeking out the bare skin of her waist.

Her own hands moved over his back, desperate and urgent. The kiss turned hotter, less controlled as her world narrowed to this, to him, to the intoxicating feeling of his body against hers.

And then the sound of the oven timer beeped. Loudly. She jerked in his grasp, managing to make one of her cookbooks clatter down onto the floor.

A second later, Mara was barelling into the room, clearly thinking that she had had a seizure and destroyed her house.

Lizzie and Lando sprung apart, both of them flushed and more than a little breathless.

Lizzie couldn’t help it; she burst into a fit of giggles, watching Mara skid across the linoleum.

"I'm fine, Mara," she said through her laughter. Her dog whined, clearly not convinced.

Lando was looking like a deer in headlights, his cheeks flushed and his hair messed up from her fingers. He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, and she bit her lip to keep herself from grinning like an idiot.

"We should rescue the dino nuggets," Lizzie suggested.

Lando still looked stunned. "Right - yeah - nuggets-" he said, blinking.

Lizzie chuckled and knelt down to pat Mara to reassure her. The dog was practically whining with worry, licking her face and nudging her. Lizzie gently pushed her back in an attempt to give herself some space.

"I think you traumatized my dog," she said, looking up at him with a smirk.

He scratched the back of his head, still endearingly awkward. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I wasn't exactly...thinking when..."

She just shook her head, grinning. "Maybe we should focus on rescuing those dino nuggets, don't you think, pretty boy?"

He swallowed, glancing at her briefly before nodding. "Yeah. Nuggets."

Lizzie pushed herself off the floor, giving Mara's head a final pat before she headed over to the oven. Lando joined her in the kitchen, his gaze flickering to her every other second. Lizzie took the plate from the oven, setting it down on the stove top.

"They look fine," she said, inspecting the slightly-singed edges of the nuggets. "All things considered."

Lando leaned against the counter beside her. "Great," he said, but his voice was still a little unsteady.

She shot him a sideways glance, amused by the way his gaze kept dropping to her mouth.

"Was that..." he trailed off and she watched to see a slight blush cover his cheeks.

"What?" she asked, hiding a smile. He was even more adorable when he was embarrassed.

He cleared his throat, looking vaguely flustered. "That was okay, right?"

And just like that, her own cheeks grew warm. They'd just made out in her kitchen, and now he was asking her if... if it was okay?

She studied him, taking in the pink hue on his face. There was something so vulnerable about the way he was looking at her. It was like he couldn't believe it had happened, and now he was scared he had overstepped.

"It was..." she began, only stopping to consider her words."...pretty incredible."

Relief flickered across Lando's face. "Yeah?" he said, a hint of the cocky demeanor returning. "You liked it, then?"

In response, Lizzie just rolled her eyes, pushing the plate of dino nuggets towards him to end the conversation before he could say anything else.

"Try a damn nugget."

Lando raised an eyebrow, but his smile grew even wider as he picked up a nugget from the plate. "Bossy."

She just rolled her eyes again, biting back a laugh. "Eat your nugget before I regret telling you that I liked it."

He chuckled and popped the nugget into his mouth. "Not bad," he said, still grinning.

Lizzie found herself returning the smile. He was impossible.

But then again, she thought as she looked at him, she supposed she wouldn't want him any other way.

"Let's take this to the living room," she suggested.

"So is there even more Ferrari merch there?" Lando asked her. She just rolled her eyes.

"Not Ferrari merch, no," she said drily. “I keep that in the bedroom.” Lando gave a squawk in response. She just laughed. 

Did her living room kinda look like the set of a fantasy movie had thrown up all over it? Yes. 

She had a near life size portrait of Astrid and Ciaran, the main characters of her book series hung over her fireplace, which an amazingly talented fan artist had painted and she had purchased.

Lando was staring at the portrait with something close to amusement. He turned to her, eyebrow raised. "Okay, so who is that guy, and why does he have bat wings?"

Lizzie sighed, taking a seat on the large couch that dominated the room. "That would be Ciaran. Bat wings and all."

Lando took a seat beside her, still eyeing the portrait suspiciously. "And who exactly is Ciaran supposed to be?"

"He is the Dark Prince...The Heir to the throne of the land of Kasharia," she said with a wave of her hand. "He's the love interest in the Seasons of Fate Series."

Lando's eyebrows shot up, turning back to the portrait, studying it with more interest this time. "And the Wings are his thing, I'm guessing? Makes him the 'Dark Prince'?"

Lizzie bit her lip to keep a laugh from escaping. "Basically."

"Right, right." He was nodding now. "What about the woman, then? Blondie with the dagger?"

Lizzie found herself smiling, remembering the story behind that particular piece of art. "That would be Astrid," she said.

Lando looked like he was starting to put pieces together. He leaned back on the couch, eyes on the portrait once more. "And Astrid is, what? The princess or something?"

"She's a handmaiden of the Princess of another kingdom he's supposed to marry," she explained with a wave of her hand. "She ends up married to Ciaran instead."

Lando was nodding along as Lizzie described it, a look of fascination on his face. "Oh, so it's like one of those forbidden romance deals, huh?" he asked, sounding surprisingly invested.

"In a sense, yeah," she agreed, finding herself amused by his interest. "You seem surprisingly interested in this, considering you thought the wings were over the top a minute ago."

Lando shot her a look, his eyes twinkling. "Hey, I can appreciate a good love story, can't I? Besides, million of people adore your books. There must be something pretty special about them."

Lizzie felt a surge of warmth in her chest at his words. It still surprised her, at times, how much her books meant to people.

Lizzie felt a surge of warmth in her chest at his words. It still surprised her, at times, how much her books meant to people.

"I don't know about that, but people seem to enjoy them," she said lightly. "Still thinking you are going to pick one up?" she teased him with a grin.

"It’s probably gonna take me two months to get through the first book, between my schedule and my dyslexia, but the bat wings have totally sold it," Lando told her seriously.

She couldn't help but laugh at that, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. The idea of Lando, who was about as far from a fantasy fan as you could get, actually trying to read one of her books was too absurd. "You are absolutely not going to read one of my books," she said, grinning.

"Hey, I could!" he objected with mock offense. "Don't underestimate me."

Lizzie shook her head, still laughing. "I'm not underestimating you. But let's be honest, you've got better things to do with your time than read about bat winged princes and handmaiden."

"Don't you have better things to do than too watch 20 men in their cars drive around in wobbly circles?" he shot right back. "You created these books. You poured your time and energy into them. I don't think there are many things that are more important than that." 

Lizzie fell silent, taken off guard by his words. He had a point, she thought.

"I suppose you have a point there," she admitted quietly.

Lando seemed pleased with himself, his cocky demeanor falling back into place. "See? I do have some smarts in there."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't keep the smile off her face. "You are insufferable, you know that? Besides, what's with your job," she teased him. "Isn't Miami coming up?"

Lando just snorted. "Yeah, we are all looking forward to hear the Dutch national anthem. Again."

Lizzie chuckled, picturing the familiar sight of the podium at a Grand Prix - the winning driver and the Dutch and Austrian anthems playing. "You are so dramatic. Maybe you'll win in Miami."

He gave her a look, his expression clearly communicating that he thought her words were ridiculous. "Uh-huh. You obviously don't know my luck. Second place is basically my second name."

Lizzie laughed, finding his complaining endearing despite herself. "You sound like Mara when I have a treat, but don't give it to her. Stop whining. Second place is still impressive as all hell, you know that right?"

Mara perked up at the mention of her name and took that moment to jump up on the couch, and once again, not caring at all about personal space, just drape herself all over Lando.

Lando looked startled, his gaze flying down to where Mara was settling onto his lap. "Uh..." he said, his voice full of confusion.

Lizzie tried not to crack a smile at the way he looked like he'd never encountered a dog before. Mara, meanwhile, looked incredibly pleased with herself.

Lando looked up at Lizzie, his expression a comical mix of disbelief and alarm. "What...what is she doing?" he asked, clearly bewildered.

Lizzie couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing. "She likes you," she managed to say through her mirth. "Clearly a woman of excellent taste."

Lando gave her a dubious look, clearly not sure if he was being insulted or not. Then Mara shifted in his lap and let out a happy sigh, and he looked back down at her. Lizzie could see the exact moment he melted. No man was immune to dogs.

"I'll go against my core beliefs and root for the ugly orange car with your number on it if you promise me that you'll believe that you have a chance of winning."

Lando shot her a look, a little surprised at her request. Then his familiar cocky smirk spread across his face.

"You'll root for papaya? Over Ferrari?"

Lizzie just nodded. "As long as that big ego of yours lets you believe you can win," she said dryly.

Such A Mystery - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry) 

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Currently thinking this will have like 5-7 parts?

She wasn't fine. Colette was so far from fine that it wasn't even funny anymore.

And now her twin brother had decided to chime in with his own opinions, pouring oil into the fire. 

The thought of the media dissecting every word, every gesture, every expression was unbearable. And still, she couldn't stop herself from doomscrolling.

Colette was in a state of constant anxiety, unable to stop herself from scrolling through social media and the news articles. She knew it wasn't helping her, that it was only adding to her stress, but she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the screen.

Every article, every comment, every thread seemed to only add to her worry. The criticism, the speculation, the accusations...it was all too much. But she couldn't look away or stop herself from reading every word, no matter how much it hurt.

She was stuck in a vicious, spiralling cycle, seeking out the information, even though she knew it was bad for her. 

The hormones and the pregnancy symptoms didn't make it any better either. 

The hormones made her emotions more intense, her anxiety more pronounced, and the pregnancy symptoms only added to the stress and discomfort. She wanted desperately for it to end, but it seemed like it would never stop.

The worst of it all was the constant swirl of thoughts in her head. The worry and fear, the relentless stream of "what-if" scenarios.

And the most terrifying thought of all: what if her stress was hurting the baby? The idea that her anxiety could harm the little life growing inside her was a constant one, always at the front of her mind.

“Eat, Choupinette,” her mother insisted. Colette stared down at her plate. Porridge and fruit and whatever else was supposed to be good for her these days. 

But her appetite was nonexistent. The weight of everything that was happening, the thoughts and fears that were running through her mind...it made it difficult to even think about food.

"Eat, Choupinette," her mother insisted again, clearly concerned. "You need to eat something, for the baby's sake. You're too pale."

“I am..”

“You aren’t fine,” her mother cut her off with a disbelieving snort. "You're pale, you haven't been eating properly, and you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

"And don't even try to tell me that the pregnancy is doing that," her mother added, her tone firm. "I had three pregnancies, I know how tiring it is. This isn't just normal exhaustion."

Colette knew that her mother was right. The pregnancy, while exhausting, wasn’t the reason. It was the anxiety, the worry, the stress...it was all taking its toll on her.

But she also knew that there was nothing she could do about it. The situation was out of her control, even if it was affecting her directly.

It was her own fault why she was in this situation to begin with. 

“I was so stupid.” Colette's shoulders slumped as she muttered under her breath. Her mother shook her head, disagreeing with the assessment.

 "It wasn't the smartest thing," her mother admitted. "But the media is blowing it out of proportion. They're making an elephant out of a fly."

It was a sentiment that Colette wholeheartedly agreed with. But at the same time, she knew that the media was relentless in their pursuit of a story. 

And Colette’s and Max's relationship would be the juiciest scandal they had gotten their hands on in a long, long time.

“I don’t want this to fall back on Charles,” Colette whispered, her voice barely above a murmur.

Her brother had worked so hard to be where he was, at the pinnacle of motorsport…to drive for the team he loved so much. 

She didn’t want to get Charles into any trouble. It wasn’t his fault. It was all on her. And any scandal, any whiff of controversy, could potentially ruin everything Charles had worked so hard for.

Her mother's words were calm, but they hit hard. "Your brother is an adult," she repeated. "He can make his own decisions. And he was the one who decided he wanted to protect you. You didn’t force him to do anything, Choupinette."

Colette knew that her mother was right. Charles was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. But that didn't make her worry any less.

Her phone rang, her hand immediately shooting out for it. It was Max. Her hand was almost shaking as she answered the call.

"Maxie," she breathed, relief and worry mixing in her voice.

Max's voice was gentle, a soothing balm in the storm of chaos that was swirling around her. "Hey liefje," he repeated, the affectionate nickname rolling off his tongue.

Colette closed her eyes for a moment, relishing the sound of his voice.

"What are you up to?" Max inquired, his tone soft. 

"I'm having breakfast with Maman," she replied, glancing at her mother, who was watching her carefully.  

There was a moment of silence on the line, but she could almost picture Max's expression. He was no doubt worrying just as much as she was, if not more. "How are you doing?" he finally asked, his voice laced with concern. 

Colette let out a shaky sigh, her emotions warring inside her.

She wanted to lie. Wanted to tell him that she was fine. But Max and her had made themselves a promise ages ago. If there was one thing that Max hated, then it was lying. Even little white lies like this. They didn’t lie. They didn’t sugarcoat. They told the truth. Regardless of how hurtful it could be. 

They told each other the truth. Always. 

“Tired,” she answered weakly. 

"I heard you've been stalking social media again," Max's voice was dry, a hint of disapproval in his tone.

"Charles should really mind his own business," she bit back, her irritation at her twin brother evident. There was just one person that Max could have learnt that from. 

There was a pause, and she knew that Max was choosing his words carefully.  "He's just worried," he said finally. "We all are."

Colette huffed, her irritation at being coddled smouldering. "I don't need everyone to worry about me," she retorted, her tone snippier than she intended.

"We're not doing it to annoy you," Max replied, his voice gentle but firm. "We're doing it because we care about you.  I'm worried about you, liefje."

Those words were like a knife through the heart. She could hear the worry and concern in his voice, and it made her feel guilty for being so snappy with him.

Sassy chose that moment to come to jump up on her lap and she petted the Bengal cat absent-mindedly as she made herself a home on Colette’s lap. 

"I know you are," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I just..." she trailed off, unsure of how to put her mixed feelings into words. Sassy purred softly. 

"It's okay," Max reassured her, his voice low and soothing. "I know it's hard. But please, try to take care of yourself. For me. For Bébé."

Colette felt the tears well up in her eyes again. She wanted to tell him that she was trying, that she was doing her best. But the words lodged in her throat, replaced by a thick lump of emotion.

"I'm trying," she managed to say, hating how weak and shaky her voice sounded.

"I know you are," Max murmured, his voice full of understanding. "But you need to rest, to eat. You're not doing yourself or the baby any favors by skipping meals and staying glued to your phone."

Colette knew he was right. The lack of food and sleep was taking its toll on her health and her baby. But the stress, and the worry, it made it hard to find an appetite or to switch off her brain.

"I know," she whispered, feeling helpless and frustrated. Max sighed softly on the other end of the line. 

"I wish I could be there," he said, the longing in his voice palpable.

"Me too," she whispered, her heart aching with the weight of their separation.

"I hate being apart during all of this," he mumbled, a rare show of vulnerability from him. "I should be there with you, taking care of you, protecting you from all this damn media noise."

Colette's eyes welled with tears again at his words. "You are taking care of me," she reassured him, her voice thick with emotion. "Just hearing your voice helps more than you know."

"It's not enough," he retorted, his voice firm again. "I should be there, not just talking with you over the phone. I should be able to hold you, to make sure you eat and sleep properly."

Colette could picture the fierce expression on his face, the set of his jaw. She could almost feel the intensity of his gaze, his desire to protect and care for her. But she could also hear the frustration and helplessness in his voice.

"Max," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "It's not your fault. You're doing everything you can."

Max let out another sigh, a sound full of frustration and helplessness. "It doesn't feel like it," he mumbled, his voice betraying his emotions. "I feel so useless here, stuck continents away while you're dealing with all of this alone."

Colette's heart ached at his words. She wanted to assure him that he wasn't useless, that his support through the phone and the occasional visit meant the world to her. But she also understood how powerless he felt, how useless he must feel, miles and miles away from her.

"You're not useless," she said firmly, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall. "You're the only thing keeping me sane right now."

There was a pause on the line, and she could sense Max's turmoil on the other end. "I just wish I could do more," he said quietly. "I wish I could take all this away from you, the stress, the worry, the media. You shouldn't have to deal with all this alone."

Colette felt a fresh burst of tears at his words. She wanted to tell him that he wasn't Superman, that he couldn't fix everything, but she also knew that he would never accept that. Max was a doer, a problem solver. Watching her struggle from afar must be killing him.

"I'm not alone," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I have you. That's more than enough."

"It's not enough," he mumbled again, the stubborn set to his words making her smile despite herself. She could almost see the familiar stubborn pout on his face even from so far away. "I'm serious," he insisted, his voice firmer now. "I should be the one taking care of you and our baby, not just chatting on the phone."Colette let out a quiet sigh, a mix of amusement and frustration at Max's stubbornness. She loved that he cared so much, but at the same time, she didn't want him to feel guilty for something that was out of his control.

"Max," she said gently, trying to make him understand. "You do take care of us, even from miles away. Just knowing that you're there for me, that you love us, it means everything. We're a team, remember? We're in this together."

There was another silence on the line, and she could practically picture Max clenching his jaw. She knew that he wanted to protest, that he wanted to argue, to find a solution to make things right. But he also understood that there was nothing he could do right now but accept the situation.

Finally, he sighed, the sound a mixture of frustration and resignation. "Okay," he said quietly. "But promise me you'll try to eat and sleep properly. Promise me you'll take care of yourself and our baby."

Colette couldn't help the tears that rolled down her cheeks at his concern. She could hear the love and worry in his voice, the desperate plea for her to take care of herself.

"I promise," she whispered, her voice wobbly but firm. "I'll take care of myself. For you, for Bébé. I promise."

She would even let go of the fact that she was pretty sure that her family were babysitting her. When her mother went home after breakfast, it didn't take too long for Arthur to show up, happily ignoring her pointing out that he actually had work to do and instead he joined her on the couch watching re-runs of The Real Housewives.

Colette rolled her eyes at Arthur's unashamed enjoyment of the reality TV show. He had always been a sucker for messy drama, and the housewives provided plenty of that.

"You are ridiculous," she mumbled, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Oh, shut up," Arthur retorted cheerfully, his eyes never leaving the screen. "You love this show and you know it."

"I do not," Colette protested, but it sounded halfhearted, even to her own ears.

Quite frankly, she would rather watch fake drama on TV than think about the one happening in real life to her.

Bébé decided at that moment to kick her in her ribs again and she grimaced.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked her immediately.

Colette let out a wince as the baby kicked her again. "Yeah, just baby kicking my ribs again. It's getting more and more frequent," she mumbled, rubbing the spot on her stomach where the baby had kicked.

Arthur chuckled. "The baby's probably just feeling cramped. They want more space," he teased.

"Ha ha, you're hilarious," Colette replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“Maybe the baby's just getting impatient and wants to come out already," Arthur said with a shrug, his eyes still glued to the screen.

"Don't even joke about that," Colette said, her tone serious. "I still have another month to go. He better stay in there until then.”

She still had around 4 weeks of pregnancy left. 

"Still thinking it's a boy?" Arthur asked her curious.

Colette nodded, her hand still resting on her stomach. "Yeah, I just have a feeling. Call it a mother's intuition," she said with a small smile.

Arthur rolled his eyes in amusement. "Or just wishful thinking," he teased her.  "Isn't Max convinced it's a girl?" 

Colette chuckled, thinking about Max's adamant belief that the baby was a girl. "Yeah, he is. He has ordered a bunch of dresses online," she said with a laugh. “And hairbows...so many hairbows…If it's a boy, I don't know what I'll do with all of them."

Arthur started laughing.

Colette shot him a playful glare. "Don't laugh at my predicament," she said, but the effect was ruined by the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Arthur couldn't help himself, bursting into another fit of laughter. "I'm sorry, it's just too funny picturing Max buying all those dresses and hairbows," he managed to say between chuckles. 

Her phone pinged again.  Colette huffed in irritation as Arthur picked up her phone before she could. "Hey, that's mine," she protested.

Arthur just shot her a cheeky grin. "Finders keepers," he teased, waving the phone just out of her reach. "Besides, no more doomscrolling for you," her younger brother told her seriously.

Colette rolled her eyes at his reprimand, but deep down, she knew he was right. "I wasn't doomscrolling," she mumbled petulantly, even though she knew it was a blatant lie.

"I just...People are making up opinions about me and my life and they don't know me," she said weakly. "That's why I don't even have a public Instagram in the first place, Arthur. I just want to live my life without worrying about what people are going to think..."

"What does it matter what they think?" Arthur asked her curiously.

Colette let out a frustrated sigh. "It shouldn't matter, I know it shouldn't," she said firmly. "But it does. Maybe it's human nature to care what other people think, I don't know."

She ran a hand through her hair tiredly. "I just don't want people to judge me, to make assumptions about my life and my decisions."

Arthur nodded in understanding. "I get it," he said softly. "It can be hard to block out the noise. But you have to remember that the only opinion that matters is your own."

Colette let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, tell that to the media," she mumbled, but there was no vitriol in her voice, just resignation.

Arthur huffed, shaking his head. "The media don't know what they're talking about. They just want the next big headline, the next scandal. They don't care about the truth."

Colette sighed, slumping back on the couch. "I just wish they'd leave me alone," she mumbled. "I just want to have my baby in peace."

Arthur patted her leg comfortingly. "Just focus on yourself and the baby," he said firmly. "Everything else is just background noise."

Colette nodded, taking a deep breath. He was right, of course. “They have this picture of me in their head, that’s very different from the actual person,” she said weakly. “And now they judge me for something that they don’t even know what it was, because it’s not public. They just take Russell’s word and run with it…”

Arthur's expression darkened as she vented. "I know," he said softly. "It's unfair and it sucks. But you can't let it get to you."

Colette sighed, rubbing a hand over her eyes. "I know. I know.”

"You don't owe anyone anything," Arthur said firmly. "You don't have to justify yourself to anyone. Max would say the same."

Colette smiled wryly at the mention of Max. She could almost hear his voice in her head, telling her the same thing.

She closed her eyes, picturing Max's face in her mind. He always knew what to say to keep her grounded, to keep her from spiralling into a dark pit of despair. She missed him, more than she thought was possible.

"I just wish Maxie was here," she muttered, her voice thick with emotion.

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.” 

***