Little Enzo - Charles Leclerc

64.media.tumblr.com

White Horse - Chapter 17: May 2024 - Part 1

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, mention of the loss of a parent

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

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Maman’s birthday next week—what’s the plan?

Arthur: Isabelle? You usually handle it.

Isabelle: Not this year.

Lorenzo: Sorry, what?

Arthur: Lol okay, very funny. What’s the plan?

Isabelle: I’m serious. I’m not doing it this year.

Charles: Wait. What do you mean you’re not doing it?

Isabelle: I mean you three can plan it this time. I’m not the family secretary. Not anymore.

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: Since I realized I’m the only one who ever does it, and you all expect it like it’s a given. I’m not your personal event planner.

Arthur: Okay, but… you like that stuff.

Isabelle: I like when people contribute. I don’t like being taken for granted.

Charles: Whoa.

Arthur: Is this because I forgot to Venmo you for the gift last year?

Isabelle: That was two years ago, Arthur. And you still haven’t.

Lorenzo: This feels aggressive.

Isabelle: It’s not. It’s a boundary.

Charles: Okay but can’t you set it… after Maman’s birthday?

Arthur: Yeah. This is really inconvenient.

Isabelle: It’s not supposed to be convenient for you.

Charles: I don’t like this version of you.

Belle: I don’t like being the only adult in the room. So I guess we’re even.

Arthur: So you’re really not doing anything?

Isabelle: I am getting flowers from all of us. I am ordering the cake. I am doing my own gift for Maman. If you three want to do a joint gift, you can do that, but I am not planning it. One of you can book the restaurant.   

Lorenzo: This feels like a test.

Isabelle: It’s not. But you’re definitely failing it.

Charles: I feel emotionally manipulated.

Lorenzo: I feel abandoned.

Arthur: I miss the old Isabelle. The one who covered for us.

Isabelle: I don’t. She was a doormat. ***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: Okay so we still don’t have a gift for Maman and Isabelle is being stubborn.

Charles: She said “boundaries.” Since when does she have boundaries?

Lorenzo: She said she’s not helping. She meant it.

Arthur: This feels personal.

Charles: I feel abandoned. I feel like I’ve been emotionally left on read.

Lorenzo: We should’ve started this earlier.

Arthur: We always start this last-minute and it’s fine because Isabelle does everything.

Charles: She’s so good at it though. She likes organizing things.

Lorenzo: We need to be strategic. What would Isabelle get?

Arthur: Peace. Quiet. 

Charles: So a spa day?

Lorenzo: We’re not sending our mother to the spa again. She’s starting to think we believe she’s stressed.

Arthur: She is stressed. We exist.

Charles: I had an idea last night. What about a puppy?

Lorenzo: Absolutely not.

Arthur: What if we just… get her a necklace? Generic. Safe. Shiny.

Charles: No creativity. She’ll know we panicked.

Lorenzo: We are panicking.

Arthur: You know what would solve this? If Isabelle told us what to do.

Arthur:  I feel like a neglected plant.

Charles: I feel like the plant someone gave Isabelle to water, and now she’s like “it’s not my plant.”

Arthur: Cool cool cool. So we’re getting Maman a plant and pretending we planned it?

Lorenzo: ...We’re hopeless.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Okay but hear me out: What about a pottery class for her and her friends?

Isabelle: Charles it’s 2am

Isabelle: Go to sleep.

Isabelle: Maman doesn’t even like pottery. 

Charles: How about a goat?

Isabelle: A what?

Charles: A goat. Like a cute little goat. They’re trendy right now.

Isabelle: She lives in an apartment, Charles.

Charles: A small goat.

Isabelle: No.

Charles: You said I had to contribute. This is me contributing.

Isabelle: This is you spiraling.

Charles: Okay but this looks nice right?? (sends link)

Isabelle: That is a garden gnome wine holder, Charles. 

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon and Nico Hulkenberg)

Oscar: HE DID IT

George: HE ACTUALLY DID IT

Carlos: LAAAAAAAAAANDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Alex: My BOY MY TWITCH STREAMER MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT CHAOTIC SUNBEAM

Daniel: I’M CRYING IN PUBLIC WHO LET HIM BE THIS FAST WHO ALLOWED THIS WHO HANDED HIM A TROPHY AND SAID “YEAH, OKAY”

Lando: guys…

Carlos: YOU’RE HERE? GO POP CHAMPAGNE

Oscar: Put your phone down. Go cry. We’re doing it for you.

Nico H: Congrats, man. Seriously. That was a hell of a drive.

Lewis: Five years. FIVE YEARS. You deserve this.

Daniel: Do we throw him a party? Do we kidnap him and fly to Ibiza?

Alex: Yes. Obviously. We ride at dawn.

Carlos: He’s never allowed to say “I’m not good enough” again. I will slap him.

Lando: Okay okay okay 😭😭 I just… can’t believe it happened I thought I was gonna throw up before the last lap

Daniel: I’m gonna rewatch the podium 14 times. You SMILED. Like, real smiled. Oscar was lowkey crying. Don’t let him lie.

Oscar: I WASN’T …shut up

Lewis: See? You’re loved. You’re really loved.

Sebastian: This is what we call earned joy. Enjoy every second, Lando. I’m so, so happy for you 🧡

Daniel: I’m printing out today’s timing sheet and framing it

Alex: We were on Norris Watch for years. YEARS.

Checo: Congrats, man. You’ve waited a long time for this. Really happy for you.

Nico R: You’ve had the pace for a while. Today you had the moment. Bravo.

Oscar: And now he’s won. And he’s still just a slightly dehydrated raccoon in designer sunglasses

Lando: I can’t even be mad

Kimi: Took you long enough.

George: Okay but do we start placing bets on win #2 now?

Carlos: Let him breathe 😭

Lewis: Enjoy it, mate. Every second. You earned this.

Fernando: It was inevitable. That’s all.

George: Do we throw him a party? I vote party.

Mark: He’s in Miami. The party’s coming to him.

Sebastian: Just don’t let Daniel plan the itinerary.

Daniel: I’M A DELIGHTFUL PARTY PLANNER. I’VE MATURED.

Lewis: No you haven’t.

Alex: Absolutely not.

Oscar: Zero evidence of that.

Lando: I love you guys. Thank you. Seriously

George: We’re gonna get so insufferable about this

Lando:I’m gonna go sob in the shower and then drink a really big coconut

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Lando Norris

Isabelle:  You did it. 🧡

Isabelle: You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know… I’m really, really proud of you.

Isabelle: You earned this. Every second. Every race you stayed calm. Every joke you cracked when you were hurting. Every time you smiled for fans even when you didn’t feel like it. You never gave up. And today? It all paid off.

Lando: …you’re gonna make me cry again and I’ve already cried twice.  that’s my limit for the year

Belle: Sorry 😌 I’ll save the long, emotional voice note for later

Lando: Don’t you dare Actually Do it

Isabelle:  I will. After you finish that coconut

Lando: HOW DO YOU KNOW I’M DRINKING A COCONUT

Belle: Because I know you. And you looked like you were already planning it the second you stepped on the podium

Lando: okay fair thank you, Belle really

Belle: Always. Now go celebrate. I’ll be cheering from here.

Lando: From Monaco?

Belle: From the rooftop. With our cats. They’re proud of you too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Isabelle Leclerc

Max: Going out with Lando for a bit. Post-win celebration. He earned it.

Isabelle: Aww 🧡 That’s sweet of you. Be nice to him.

Max: I am nice. I’m bringing him shots. That’s nice.

Isabelle: That’s dangerous. Try not to start a bar fight.

Max: Promise. Love you. 

[Monday, Much, Much Later]

Max: BELLE

Max: U R SO PRETTY

Max: LIKE. ACTUALLY. PRETTY PRETTY

Max: U should be here u’d hate it but like also u’d look SO HOT in this lighting

Max: lando said i’m soft now bc i said ur voice is my favorite sound so i punched him in the arm

Max: soft???? bro i’m in love what does he want me to do. deny it???

Max: anyway ur eyes r the best part of monaco u can quote me

Max: i miss u

[Much, Much Later]

Isabelle: Good morning, poetic disaster 💋 How’s the head?

Max: 🥲 Loud. Everything is loud. Why does my soul feel hungover.

Isabelle: Probably because you told me my eyes were the best part of Monaco and then threatened to fight Lando for calling you soft.

Max: …Did I actually type that?

Belle: Verbatim. You also called me “pretty pretty” and claimed I’d look “SO HOT in this lighting.” Capitals included.

Max: I hate myself

Isabelle: Don’t. It was very charming. Drunk and feral, but charming.

Isabelle: You did tell me my voice was your favorite sound.

Max: Okay that one stands. I mean it.

Isabelle: I know you do. Still going to make you suffer for the rest though.

Max: I was vulnerable. Weak. In my tequila era.

Isabelle: You were in love and dramatic. It was kind of perfect.

Max: You still love me?

Isabelle: Soft bro, I’m in love. What do you want me to do, deny it?

Max: 😤 Uncalled for.

Isabelle: Call me when you’re functional. 

Max: You’re too good to me.

Isabelle: I know. I’m Monaco’s best feature, after all.

Max: Can confirm. ***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there. 

***

Belle had done what she said she would do—and no more.

She’d ordered the cake. She’d picked up her mother’s favorite flowers that morning: cream roses and blue hydrangeas, wrapped in soft white paper. She’d even arrived early to set them on the table herself, with care, because that was the kind of daughter she was. Or used to be.

Now, she was the kind of daughter who kept her word but stopped letting herself be steamrolled.

Pascale arrived right on time, kissed Belle on both cheeks, and immediately gave the restaurant a once-over.

“This place wasn’t my first choice.”

Belle smiled tightly. “Arthur booked it.”

“Ah. Well.” Her mother’s eyes skimmed the mirrored walls, the packed tables. “At least it’s… clean.”

Belle gestured to the bouquet from all of them, and the beautifully chosen gift bag she had chosen for her gift to her mother. It was a hand painted silk scarf from her mother’s favourite small boutique in Nice.  “Happy birthday, Maman.”

“Oh, thank you, darling.” Pascale barely glanced at them. “How thoughtful. Did you and the boys coordinate?”

“No,” Belle said evenly. “They’re doing their own gifts this year.”

Pascale’s brow twitched. “Oh?”

“I told them weeks ago.”

“Hm.” She lifted the bag without really looking at it. “Just from you?”

“Yes. Just me.”

The rest arrived five to ten minutes late, as if they’d all agreed to stagger themselves and then forgot the timing. Arthur looked panicked, Charles like he was trying too hard not to look panicked, and Lorenzo came with Charlotte in tow, who smiled politely and looked like she already regretted it. Alexandra walked in beside Charles and kissed Pascale on the cheek like a diplomat entering a war zone.

“Happy birthday, Pascale” Alexandra said. “You look wonderful.”

Pascale’s smile returned. “Merci, cherie. You always say the right things.”

“Unlike your sons,” Charlotte muttered under her breath, loud enough for Belle to hear.

Charles sat beside Belle and leaned toward her. “So… I take it the restaurant’s not a hit.”

Belle didn’t even glance at him. “What gave it away? The menu or Maman’s expression?”

As the waiter listed off the specials—every one of them garnished with fennel—Belle watched her mother’s face tighten.

“I thought I said last year I hated fennel,” Pascale said lightly.

Arthur mumbled, “It was the only place with a table.”

Charlotte’s voice was gentle. “It’s a beautiful spot though.”

“Yes,” Pascale said with a tilt of her head. “But not terribly thoughtful. I would’ve preferred a nice picnic at home,” Pascale muttered, opening her menu as though it had personally offended her.

Belle stayed quiet. She wasn’t the one who chose this.

Though the one thing she agreed with: Even the wine tasted horrific in this restaurant. She pushed her white wine glass far away from her, the acidic smell hitting her nose and making her want to scrunch her nose. 

The gifts came next. Or rather, the lack of them.

Arthur had hastily shoved a gift bag onto the table with the receipt still inside. Lorenzo offered wine. 

And Charles? Charles offered nothing but a vague “It’s arriving later, it’s like... experiential.”

“Experiential?” Pascale repeated, arching a brow.

“It’s a class,” Charles added quickly. “Pottery.”

Their mother stared at him like he had sprouted wings. 

“Pottery?!” Pascale asked and Charles swallowed, nodding, looking like he was regretting all his life choices. 

Belle didn’t look up, but Alexandra choked into her water and muttered, “I told you.”

Belle sipped her water.

“Oh,” Pascale continued, “and what’s this?” She picked up the card. “Just from you, Isabelle?”

“Yes,” Belle said simply.

“No group gift this year?”

“I asked everyone to handle their own,” she replied. “I did the flowers and the cake. And the card. That was enough.”

Pascale gave a little hum of amusement. “Well, I suppose you have become very independent lately.”

Belle met her mother’s gaze. “I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”

“No, no, of course not,” Pascale said, voice breezy. “It’s just… you used to take such pride in pulling everything together. You were always so good at it.”

“That was the problem.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “To be fair, you didn’t exactly help us this year.”

“I told you what I was doing. You just didn’t listen,” Belle said calmly.

“You used to remind us,” Charles mumbled. “You used to care.”

Belle’s jaw twitched. “I still care. I just don’t want to be treated like the family secretary anymore.”

“I think she misses being in control,” Lorenzo muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Charlotte glanced at him, sharp. “Or maybe she’s just tired of being taken advantage of.”

“Exactly,” Alexandra said. “God forbid she set a boundary.”

Pascale, still smiling, turned to Belle. “Cherie, no one’s saying you have to do everything. It’s just… you’re so capable. When you stop doing it, everything falls apart.”

“Maybe that means everyone else should step up,” Belle replied.

Pascale gave a laugh that sounded delicate and dismissive all at once. “Well, clearly no one stepped up today.”

She said it like a joke. Like a shrug. Like it wasn’t her sons who had forgotten, scrambled, improvised. Like it was somehow Belle’s fault for letting them fail.

Belle felt the burn in her chest—not anger, not really. Just exhaustion.

She’d done her part. More than her part. But it would never be enough, because the moment she stopped doing everything, the blame quietly shifted to her.

“You could’ve reminded them,” Pascale said again, softer now. “You know how your brothers are.”

“Yes,” Belle said. “I do.”

“Well,” she said lightly. “I suppose this is what adulthood looks like. Everyone suddenly too busy to remember their mother.”

“I remembered,” Belle said.

“You always do, darling. It’s just that this year… you remembered differently.”

And there it was.

Not cruelty. Not even anger.

Just the kind of soft-edged disappointment Belle had spent most of her life trying to avoid.

The rest of lunch passed in half-hearted conversation and clumsy attempts at jokes. The cake arrived—beautiful, perfect, and, predictably, unacknowledged.

Belle watched her brothers clap, watched her mother blow out the candles, watched it all carry on like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t just been told—kindly, sweetly, carelessly—that she was the glue, and glue isn’t allowed to come undone.

Alexandra leaned closer, her voice low. “You okay?”

Belle forced a smile. “I will be.”

As they all stood to leave, Pascale leaned in and kissed her cheek again.

“Next year, maybe we go back to the usual way. Less… disjointed.”

Belle didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t sure the old way would ever return.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: I survived.

Emilie: Emotionally or just physically?

Isabelle: ...Barely both.

Emilie: How bad?

Isabelle: Let’s just say the cake was perfect and no one noticed. Arthur brought a gift bag with the receipt still inside. Charles gave her a pottery class. A POTTERY CLASS. And Lorenzo recycled a bottle of wine she gave him last year.

Emilie: I’m sorry. Did they try to offer her used wrapping paper too?

Isabelle: Honestly wouldn’t have been surprised. She looked at the card—my card—and asked if it was just from me. Then she said everyone was too busy to remember their mother. I reminded her that I remembered. She said: “You always do, darling. It’s just that this year… you remembered differently.”

Emilie: … Wow. Soft weaponized guilt in its final form.

Isabelle: I’m so tired. I did what I said I would. Flowers. Cake. My own gift. I set boundaries. And it still felt like it was my fault everything else fell apart.

Emilie: That’s because it isn’t about the gifts. It’s about control. You stopped doing everything, and instead of realizing they need to grow up, they decided you were the problem.

Isabelle: She said things “fell apart” because I stopped doing it all. Like it was inevitable.

Emilie: Because no one in your family wants to believe they’re part of the problem. It’s easier to blame the glue than to learn how to hold things together.

Isabelle: I didn’t cry. I thought I would. But I didn’t.

Emilie: That’s not because it didn’t hurt. It’s because you’re exhausted from caring so hard for so long. And you knew exactly how today would go.

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: I’m proud of you, by the way.

Isabelle: For what? Ruining lunch?

Emilie: No. For not letting them pull you back in. You didn’t break your boundary. You kept your head high. You even brought the right cake like a damn queen.

Isabelle: I don’t feel like a queen. I feel like… a disappointed intern who can’t quit because the office is run by her family.

Emilie: Then consider this your resignation letter. Effective immediately. From now on, you only show up to enjoy the cake—not to organize the entire damn bakery.

***

The apartment was unusually quiet.

Max pushed the door open slowly, balancing a paper bag in one hand—her favorite pastries from that little place by the port—and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

“Belle?” he called.

No answer.

He kicked off his shoes and padded through the hallway. Her shoes were by the door, her bag hanging from the hook. She was home. But the lights were still off, the curtains half-drawn.

He stepped into the living room, expecting to find her reading or curled up with her laptop.

Instead, he found her asleep on the couch.

Belle never napped. She was the kind of person who filled silence with tasks, who felt guilty if she rested too long. Her idea of downtime usually involved organizing something or researching a new fabric for a client.

But now?

Now she was curled up in the corner of the couch, one arm tucked under her cheek, her breathing slow and steady. She’d kicked off her heels, and one strap of her dress had slipped slightly down her shoulder. Her brow was furrowed, even in sleep.

And all three cats were piled on top of her.

Jimmy was sprawled across her legs, completely dead weight. Lilly was curled protectively against her stomach, one paw gently resting on her arm. And Sassy—who rarely let anyone touch her—was nestled against her neck, purring like a motor.

Max smiled softly.

The cats knew. Of course they did.

He moved quietly, setting the bag of pastries down on the counter and crouching beside the couch. He didn’t wake her. He just watched her for a moment—her lashes dark against her cheeks, the faint smudge of exhaustion still lingering under her eyes. There was something heartbreakingly small about the way she’d folded in on herself. Like she’d tried to make herself take up less space.

He reached out and gently brushed her hair back behind her ear.

Belle stirred, but didn’t wake. Lilly opened one eye, flicked her tail, and went back to purring.

Max exhaled and whispered, “I’m sorry it was shit.”

She didn’t need to tell him. He’d seen the signs before she left: the tight smile, the perfectly chosen scarf, the way she’d stood just a little too straight. He knew Pascale. He knew her brothers. And he knew the weight Belle carried when they made her feel invisible for having a spine.

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over her gently, tucking it in around the cats. Jimmy let out a tiny grunt but didn’t move.

Max kissed her temple. Light. Barely there.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

He sat on the floor beside her, leaning against the couch, and let his hand rest on hers, careful not to disturb the cats. She shifted slightly, her fingers curling instinctively into his.

The apartment stayed quiet, but now it felt full. Safe.

Eventually, Belle would wake up. Eventually, she’d downplay it all, say she was fine, say it wasn’t that bad.

But Max would remember the way she napped in the middle of the day like her body had finally crashed, like she’d had to hold herself together for too long.

***

She woke up slowly.

There was warmth on her legs. Something heavy on her chest. A light pressure on her hand.

For a moment, she didn’t move—just let herself feel the quiet. The absence of expectations. The strange relief of not having to speak.

Then she blinked and registered the familiar weight of Jimmy on her thighs, Lilly tucked into her side, and—

Sassy. On her shoulder. Sassy, who hated everyone except Max and her. 

She turned her head slightly and saw Max sitting on the floor beside the couch, head tilted back against the cushion, his fingers still laced with hers. His thumb stroked over her knuckles slowly, rhythmically, like he’d been doing it the whole time she slept.

“How long have you been there?” she whispered.

His eyes opened. “Long enough to be offended none of the cats chose me.”

Belle gave a weak, sleepy laugh. “You didn’t bring treats.”

“I brought toys last week. I feel that earns me some credit.”

She stretched, only a little, careful not to disturb the cats. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She looked down at their hands. Her voice was quiet when she said, “It was awful.”

Max didn’t respond right away. He waited.

“I knew it would be,” she continued. “I was ready for it. I thought I was. But—” She paused. “It still got to me.”

“Of course it did,” he said gently. “Because you’re not made of stone, no matter how good you are at pretending.”

She swallowed. “She didn’t yell. None of them did. That’s the worst part. Just these… little jabs. Like I ruined things by not doing what I always do.”

He brushed his thumb along the back of her hand again. “Because they don’t want to admit how much they rely on you. It’s easier to pretend you’re being difficult than to admit they’ve taken you for granted.”

“I felt like the villain for saying no.”

“You weren’t,” he said firmly. “You were the only one who showed up the way she deserved.”

“She said I remembered differently.”

“You remembered honestly,” Max said. “And with boundaries. That’s a good thing.”

Belle exhaled slowly. “I hate how tired I am.”

“That’s what happens when you carry everyone else’s expectations for fifteen years.”

She closed her eyes. “I just wanted her to notice. Not the card. Not the scarf. Me.”

Max was silent for a long beat. Then he shifted, stood, and gently sat on the edge of the couch beside her, nudging Jimmy out of the way with minimal protest.

“You know what I noticed?” he asked softly.

Belle looked up at him.

“You walked into that lunch knowing it would suck. You still brought the cake. You still picked out the flowers and got there early and remembered everything that matters. But you also stood your ground. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t apologize for having limits.”

She blinked fast.

Max reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“You didn’t fail them, Belle. They failed you. And she—she missed the point. But I didn’t.”

She let out a breath that trembled more than she wanted.

Belle reached for him then—slowly, tiredly—and he leaned down so she could rest her forehead against his chest. His arms came around her without hesitation, strong and warm and steady.

And for the first time all day, Belle didn’t feel like she had to hold anything together.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: The horse is here.

Emilie: WAIT WHAT???

Max: She’s perfect. Big eyes. Very soft nose. Looks at me like she knows I have no idea what I’m doing.

Emilie: Oh my god. Congrats! You now own 1.5 sentient drama llamas! I didn’t think you’d pull it off this fast!!

Max: Neither did I. I just nodded and wired the money whenever someone looked at me confused.

Emilie: Bold of you to admit that. How’s Fleur settling in?

Max: Good so far. The stable manager is in love with her. She’s very sweet…very gentle. But listen—can you help me with something?

Emilie: That depends. Do I need a forklift?

Max: No forklifts. But maybe a… horse stylist?

Emilie: ...Max.

Max: I want to get her everything she needs. Feed, brushes, gear, blankets, treats, toys, whatever. But I don’t trust myself not to forget something vital and end up buying her a dog collar by mistake.

Emilie: You think a grooming kit is the same thing as a dog leash???

Max: I bought a horse off emotional impulse, Emilie. Anything’s possible.

Emilie: Fair. Okay. Emergency horse wardrobe coming right up.

Max: You’re a lifesaver.

Emilie: I know. What’s the budget?

Max: No budget.

Emilie: …Max.

Max: Buy her the kind of things you’d buy if you were spoiling a horse for someone you love. Go full chaos. Embroidered halter, custom saddle pads. I don’t care.

Emilie: You just said the words “go full chaos” to me. You realize this is going to spiral.

Max: If the horse ends up with a Swarovski encrusted hoof pick, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Emilie: I’m making a list. She needs turnout rugs. Stable rugs. Lightweight blankets. Fly masks. Brushing boots. Halter. Lead rope. Hay net. Saddle pad. Grooming kit. Oh—and a personalized nameplate. Obviously.

Max: I’m overwhelmed.

Emilie: I haven’t even started color coordination yet.

Max: Color coordination???

Emilie: You think I’m putting Belle’s horse in random mismatched gear like some common gelding??

Max: …No?

Emilie: Good answer.

Max: Make her look like she belongs to someone who loves her.

Emilie: That’s easy. She does.

Max: Also... get something for the foal too. It’s still baking, but I want it to have everything once it shows up.

Emilie: You're going to be the most unhinged horse dad in the south of France.

Max: That’s the goal.

Emilie: Okay. I’ll drop everything and build Fleur’s shopping cart of dreams. Expect a delivery van full of horse nonsense by tomorrow.

Max: Thank you. Seriously. I just want everything to be perfect.

Emilie: It will be. She’s going to lose it. In the best way.

Max: That’s the plan.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Hey. You know about horses, right?

Lando: … Why would I know about horses?

Max: Because your sister and your mum ride. That makes you, like… horse adjacent.

Lando: Max. MAX. Being horse adjacent is not the same as being a horse expert.

Max: Do you know how to tell if a pregnant horse is okay?

Lando: MAX WHAT

Max: I got Belle a horse. Actually two. Well, one horse, and she’s pregnant, so technically 1.5 horses.

Lando: I’m sorry back up- You WHAT? YOU BOUGHT A PREGNANT HORSE???

Max: Yes. For her birthday. It’s the foal of her childhood horse. The horse passed away, but the daughter is alive. So I bought her. Fleur. That’s her name.

Lando: Jesus Christ.

Max: She’s perfect. But she’s in foal and due later this summer and now I’m spiraling.

Lando: Okay okay okay. Deep breaths. Why are you spiraling??

Max: Is it normal for her to not eat as much hay? She was eating like crazy when she arrived and now she’s just… slower. Max:  She seems fine. She’s drinking. She let me pet her today. Max:  But what if she’s not fine and I miss something and the foal is in danger and Belle gets attached and then—

Lando: MAX

Max: WHAT IF I’M A BAD HORSE DAD

Lando: Okay first of all: You are very much not a horse dad. You are a stressed boyfriend with access to wire transfers and too much emotional capacity

Max: Unhelpful.

Lando: Second: Flo and my mum both ride. Hang on, I’ll ask.

(Two minutes pass.)

Lando: Okay. Flo says: “Mares get weird when they’re in late pregnancy. Appetite changes, temperament shifts, they get clingy or distant. As long as she’s drinking water and not acting colicky or in pain, she’s probably fine.”

Max: What does colicky mean?

Lando: Horse tummy ache apparently. Signs: pawing at the ground, lying down and getting up a lot, rolling on her side, not passing gas or poop.

Max: She’s not doing any of that.

Lando: Cool. Then Flo says you can stop freaking out and maybe go touch grass.

Max: I would but I’m watching her through the stall window to make sure she blinks evenly.

Lando: You need a hobby.

Max: This is my hobby now. I’m going to be the best horse dad Monaco’s ever seen.

Lando: You’re terrifying. Flo says you should talk to a vet if you’re this stressed. There are equine pregnancy specialists.

Max: I already booked one. They’re coming Thursday. And I bought her a new salt lick. And a bigger water bucket. And more bedding. Just in case she’s nesting.

Lando: Nest??? You think she’s a raccoon now???

Max: SHE’S CARRYING A TINY HORSE INSIDE HER I DON’T KNOW WHAT SHE NEEDS

Lando: Okay wow. This is actually incredible You’re losing your mind and it’s so pure

Max: She’s not just a horse. She’s Belle’s horse. She’s family now. And her foal will be, too

Lando: Max Verstappen, 3x World Champion, is scared of a pregnant horse.

Max: You don’t understand. If anything happens to that horse, Belle will never recover. And I’ll never forgive myself.

Lando: Okay, I’m texting Flo again. You need like. A Horse Dad Hotline. She’s gonna make a guide. Expect a PDF.

Max: Perfect. I’ll print it. And laminate it.

Lando: You’re completely unhinged and I love it. Belle has no idea what she’s in for, does she?

Max: Nope. But I do. And I’m not screwing this up.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso and Kimi Räikkönen)

Lando: UPDATE. Max has officially entered his next evolutionary stage: Horse Dad

Carlos: what???

George: what do you mean Horse Dad.

Lando: HE TEXTED ME FOR HORSE ADVICE. Apparently  he bought Belle a horse for her birthday next week…and said horse is pregnant. AND NOW HE’S SPIRALING.

Oscar: he bought her a pregnant horse???

Lewis: This man does not know how to do things at 50%.

Alex: Imagine being an unborn foal and your literal horse granddad is Max Verstappen.

Daniel: What was he panicking about ?

Lando: "Is it normal for her to eat less hay?" "She blinked too slowly." "Am I a bad horse dad." "I think she’s nesting." "I bought her a new salt lick just in case."

Oscar: nesting?? she’s a horse not a squirrel??

Sebastian: This is beautiful. I love this for him. And for the horse.

Checo: Didn’t he just buy this horse last week???

Lando: YEP. And he’s already at the stage of “watching her breathe through the stall window like a Victorian widow.”

David: I’m crying. Verstappen, World Champion, afraid of pregnant mare.

Checo: He deserves this stress. This is what happens when you spend 300k on a pregnant horse with no clue what you’re doing.

Mark: That foal is going to be raised like equine royalty.

Fernando: It will be a champion. I can feel it.

Alex: Do NOT let Max hear that. He’ll start building it a trophy shelf.

George: How did we get here

Lando: Anyway I told Flo and my mum and now they’re making him a Horse Dad PDF Guide

Alex: Max Verstappen: Race car driver, emotionally fragile boyfriend, horse dad with laminated charts.

Nico H: I’ve never been more afraid of him

Oscar: I just want to see Belle’s face when she finds out

Lewis: She's going to cry

 And then thank him And then cry again And then probably cry on the horse

Lando: And Max will cry because she’s crying. And the horse will just blink slowly like “why are the loud mammals leaking”

Oscar: i love love.

Fernando: We are watching the evolution of a man.

Daniel: Max Verstappen used to destroy the grid. Now he panics about hay consumption

Sebastian: This is growth.

Sebastian: Should we all send baby gifts for the foal?

Lewis: You mean we’re not already?

Fernando: I have already arranged a custom halter and embroidered blanket.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Okay this might be a stupid question

Oscar: Those are your specialty, go on

Lando: Should we get Belle a birthday gift?

Oscar: Like… us? Together??

Lando: Yeah. Like a joint thing. I don’t know. A friend gift. A “we know your family’s exhausting but we like you” gift.

Oscar: Honestly? I like it. She deserves it. Especially after Max went full Horse Dad™

Lando: Right?? Like, I’m not trying to compete with two horses but like… a little gift?

Oscar: Yeah, yeah. Something thoughtful. Wait—hang on. Lily’s reading this over my shoulder now.

Lily (via Oscar): YES. GET HER SOMETHING. I LOVE HER.

Lando: I mean that tracks. Everyone who meets Belle ends up weirdly attached.

Oscar: Max didn’t even stand a chance

Lily (still hijacking): Ask your sister for horse-related gift ideas!!!

Lando: You mean Flo?

Oscar: Yeah, Lily says she’ll know what would be good for a new horse owner or something cute Belle can use at the stable.

Lily (via Oscar):  Or something for the baby horse!!! They imprint, right??? GET THE FOAL TO IMPRINT ON YOU GUYS.

Lando: I don’t think we can plan imprinting, Lily.

Oscar: She says that sounds like quitter energy.

Lando: Okay but seriously I will text Flo.

Oscar: We could do like… a fancy grooming kit?

Lando: Or like a custom halter for the foal? 

Oscar: That’s actually so cute. What if we get it in Max’s helmet colors?

Lando: STOP I’M EMOTIONAL

Oscar: Lily is now googling “tiny horse birthday hats” so things are escalating. 

Lando: Belle gets Max, two horses, and emotional support F1 drivers

Oscar: Our love language is semi-coordinated panic

Lando: Okay. I’ll ask Flo for ideas. Lily can continue the hat research.

Oscar: She’s already measuring things on the screen. I think we’re locked in.

***

Belle closed her laptop with a soft sigh, the click of the hinge sounding louder than it should’ve. The apartment was calm—Max behind her, drying dishes from dinner—but inside her head, everything felt overfull.

She crossed to the counter, reached for a glass, and filled it slowly at the sink. Her shoulders ached. Her chest felt tight. Not in a dramatic way—just… tired. The kind of tired that curled up somewhere inside and stayed, no matter how many hours of sleep she got.

Max’s voice was gentle, behind her. “You okay?”

She nodded before answering. “I ordered something for Mother’s Day.”

He turned from the cupboard, brow raised. “For your mother?”

Belle hesitated, and that was enough for him to catch it.

“Yes,” she said, carefully. “For Maman. From all of us.”

There was a pause. She could feel his eyes on her even as she kept hers on the water glass.

“From you and your brothers?” Max asked quietly.

Belle nodded again. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

When she glanced back, Max was just watching her. Not angry. Not judgmental. Just… knowing.

“You’re still saving them,” he said.

Belle straightened slightly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” she repeated, too fast. “I just… I don’t want another disaster. I don’t have the energy for more awkwardness or guilt. I just want it to be done. Clean.”

“You’re the only reason it won’t be a disaster,” Max said softly.

Belle looked down at the water glass. Her hand was trembling slightly. She hadn’t realized.

“I’m just so tired, Max,” she said, and the words came out smaller than she meant them to. Like admitting it made her feel even more fragile.

Max stepped toward her and touched her wrist, grounding her.

“Then why spend what little energy you have on something that only drains you more?”

“Because if I don’t,” she whispered, “Maman will be disappointed. And my brothers will make jokes. And the silence will feel like blame. It’s easier this way.”

“It’s not easier,” Max said. “It’s just more familiar.”

Belle didn’t answer. Her throat felt tight.

Max pulled her gently into his arms, wrapping her in the kind of hug that made everything quiet for a second. Belle leaned into it like someone letting go of something heavy she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.

“You don’t have to fix everything to be a good daughter,” he murmured into her hair. “Or a good sister.”

She closed her eyes.

“Don’t remind them,” he added, quietly but firmly.

She pulled back slightly to look up at him. “What?”

“Don’t message the group chat. Don’t nudge them. Don’t drop hints. Let them forget. Let them feel what it’s like when you don’t carry it for them.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “They’ll blame me.”

“Then let them,” Max said, brushing her hair back from her face. “You don’t owe them your peace.”

“I don’t know if I can ignore it,” she whispered. “It’ll just sit there in my chest like a rock. The whole day.”

“Then I’ll carry it,” he said. “Let me carry it for you.”

Belle’s eyes burned.

“Maybe next year,” she said softly. “Maybe next year I’ll be strong enough not to do it at all.”

Max didn’t push. He just nodded, kissed her temple, and held her tighter.

She didn’t have to say thank you. He already knew.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Happy Mother’s Day, Mama ❤️ Hope you’re relaxing this morning.

Sophie: Thank you, sweetheart 💕 Just had breakfast with Tom & Victoria. Luka made me a card 🥹

Max: He’s a better artist than me already 😂 Your gift should’ve arrived by now. Did it get there?

Sophie: Yes! Just opened it ☺️You didn’t have to get me anything 😌

Max: Yeah, but you deserve it. Spa weekend for you and Vic—Belle helped me pick it. She remembered you mentioned it in passing once.

Sophie: Wait, the place in Provence? With the mineral baths?

Max: That’s the one. Belle remembered the name and everything. She’s… kinda incredible at that.

Sophie: Belle remembered that from months ago?

Max: She remembers everything. She’s scary-good at it.

Sophie:She really is the sweetest. You should’ve booked for three. Belle should come with us.

Max: I suggested it. She said she didn’t want to intrude.

Sophie: She would say that 😤 Tell her I’m demanding she join. It’s non-negotiable.

Max: …You sure? You and Vic don’t want a mother-daughter trip?

Sophie: She is like a daughter to me, Max. And Victoria loves her. You know that.

Max: Okay, okay. I’ll tell her.

Sophie:  I’m adore her. She fits. Like she’s always been here.

Max: Yeah. Feels like that to me too.

Sophie: So bring her over soon. I want to give her a proper hug for this gift. And for looking after you.

Max: I’ll try to drag her away from the horses. 

Sophie: Of course she is. Tell her thank you from me. Truly.

Max: Will do ❤️ Love you.

Sophie: Love you too, Maxie. ***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Alexandra Saint Mleux

Charles: Merde. Is it Mother’s Day today???

Alexandra: Yes.

Charles: No one said anything?! Isabelle didn’t remind us this year. She always reminds us.

Alexandra: She’s not your personal assistant, Charles.

Charles: But she knows I forget stuff like this. She usually sends the group chat the schedule with reminders and emoji codes and—

Alexandra: She shouldn’t have to. You’re almost thirty. You should know when Mother’s Day is without your sister hand-holding you through it.

Charles: Okay, but she always does it. And this year she suddenly decides she’s “setting boundaries” and just lets me walk off a cliff??

Alexandra: You forgot your mother. That’s on you. Don’t you dare try to make it Isabelle’s fault because she finally decided to stop mothering you.

Charles: Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize you were on her side.

Alexandra: I’m not “taking sides.” I’m telling you that blaming your sister for your failure is weak. And unfair.

Charles: I’m stressed, okay? I forgot, I feel like crap, and now you’re yelling at me.

Alexandra: No. I’m calling you out because this isn’t the first time you’ve pulled this. The second something goes wrong, you look for someone else to blame.

Charles: That’s not fair.

Alexandra: Isn’t it? Last month it was your trainer’s fault for not updating your calendar. Before that, it was your PR team for not reminding you about a shoot. Now it’s your sister for not telling you Mother’s Day was coming?

Charles: I just didn’t expect this from you.

Alexandra: You mean honesty? Accountability?

Charles: I don’t need a lecture right now.

Alexandra: Maybe not. But you need to grow up.

Charles: Are you seriously turning this into a moral crisis?

Alexandra: You forgot Mother’s Day. You blamed the one person who used to quietly make sure you didn’t screw it up. And when I told you the truth, you made me the problem too.

Charles: Alex…

Alexandra: I love you, but I’m not going to pretend this version of you isn’t exhausting sometimes. Figure it out, Charles.

Charles: Wait—are you seriously mad enough to—

Alexandra: I’m not leaving. But I’m done coddling you.

Charles: ...Okay.

Alexandra: Start with a phone call to your mother.

Charles: Yeah. Okay.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: So… today’s Mother’s Day.

Arthur: Yeah. Not that anyone would’ve remembered.

Lorenzo: Would’ve been nice to get a heads-up this year.

Arthur: Right? A little calendar emoji would’ve gone a long way.

Charles: You always used to remind us, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: Kind of your thing.

Isabelle: I’m not doing that anymore.

Charles: We noticed.

Arthur: You could’ve at least said something.

Isabelle: I did. Before Maman’s birthday. I said I wasn’t organizing family events anymore. I meant it.

Lorenzo: Yeah, but Mother’s Day’s different.

Charles: It’s not like we’re asking you to do everything. Just a reminder. One message.

Arthur: Instead we’re all waking up to guilt and no plan.

Isabelle: Then maybe next year, plan ahead. Put it in your phones like everyone else.

Lorenzo: You didn’t even mention it once this week.

Isabelle: Because it’s not my job.

Charles: You used to care about this kind of thing.

Isabelle: I still care. I just care about my own mental health too.

Arthur: So what, we just look like idiots today?

Isabelle: I sent a gift from all of us. Card, flowers, everything.

Charles: Wait… seriously?

Isabelle: Yes.

Lorenzo: You didn’t tell us.

Isabelle: I just did it because I didn’t want her to feel forgotten.

Arthur: That’s kind of manipulative, Belle. Doing it and not telling us.

Isabelle: What’s manipulative is expecting me to do everything, and then blaming me when I don’t.

Charles: You’re really different lately.

Isabelle: I’m tired. So I handled it, one last time. You’re welcome.

Lorenzo: Well. Thanks, I guess.

Arthur: Next year maybe give us a little warning?

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Pascale: My darlings ❤️ Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers and the card. They arrived this morning and made me cry (in the best way). You always know just what I love. I feel so lucky to have you. 💐✨

Charles: Aw, Maman ❤️ You deserve it!!

Arthur: Glad you liked it 🥹 Happy Mother’s Day!

Lorenzo: Only the best for you, Maman 😘

Pascale: You boys did so well! So thoughtful. And the message in the card… so sweet. Isabelle, you must’ve helped them pick it, didn’t you? It had your touch.

Lorenzo: We definitely had it covered 😌

Charles: Worked as a team.

Arthur: Isabelle deserves the credit though. She’s always the best at that stuff.

Pascale: Well, however you did it—thank you. I feel very loved. The flowers were perfect. Isabelle: Glad you liked them, Maman. Happy Mother’s Day.

Pascale: Love you all. 💕

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: She sent the Mother’s Day gift from all of them.

Emilie: Of course she did. Let me guess: they acted surprised and then took credit?

Max: Yep. Pascale sent a thank-you in the group chat. Her brothers responded like they’d done something.

Emilie: I’m going to scream into a pillow.

Max: Belle didn’t say anything. Just said she was glad Pascale liked it.

Emilie: She’s still saving them.

Max: I know. And they still don’t see it.

Emilie: They don’t want to. It’s easier to let her carry it all and pretend that’s normal.

Max: She told them she wasn’t going to be the family secretary anymore. Then she quietly handled everything anyway. Because she knew they’d drop it. And she didn’t want Pascale to feel forgotten.

Emilie: That’s the curse of being the responsible one. You’re punished whether you do it or not.

Max: Exactly. And now they’ll just expect it again next year.

Emilie: She deserves better.

Max: I keep telling her that.

Emilie: It’s not just about hearing it. She has to believe it. And she doesn’t. Not deep down.

Max: Yeah. I know.

Emilie: How is she?

Max: Quiet. Too quiet. She’s not upset, exactly—just… hollow. Like it’s easier to feel nothing than admit she’s hurt.

Emilie: I hate that I know exactly what that looks like on her.

Max: She just sat down after lunch and said, “It’s done now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Emilie: That’s Belle for “I’m hanging on by a thread but don’t want to be a burden.”

Max: I wanted to say something. Call them out for her. But she just looked so tired.

Emilie: You’re doing more for her by holding her right now than anything they’ve ever done.

Max: I still wish I could do more.

Emilie: You do more just by noticing. By seeing her.

Max: I don’t want her to keep being the one who holds everything together.

Emilie: Then be the one who holds her together. That’s what she needs. Someone who won’t let her feel invisible.

Max: Yeah. That I can do.

Emilie: Good. Because I swear, if I see another “thanks for the flowers, guys!” message in that family group chat, I’m throwing someone into the harbor.

Max: I’ll drive the boat.

***

The water was warm from the sun, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue, and the city below hummed with distant life—Monaco moving through another glittering afternoon like it always did.

Max floated lazily on his back, eyes closed, one hand trailing through the water, while Belle sat on the pool steps, scowling down at the knot of her bikini top.

She tugged at the strap again, muttering, “This thing is definitely tighter than last time.”

“You said that last week too,” Max murmured without opening his eyes.

“Because it keeps getting tighter.” She frowned down at herself. “Did it shrink in the wash?”

Max cracked one eye open. “You sure it’s the bikini and not you?”

She gave him a look. “Subtle.”

“I’m just saying, maybe the girls are staging a growth spurt.”

Belle rolled her eyes, but her fingers paused against the fabric. They were… sore. More than usual. And she’d been bloated for days. And tired.

It was probably hormones. Or stress. Or the five cookies she’d eaten for lunch.

Max swam closer and rested his arms on the edge of the step beside her, his chin propped lazily against them. “If it’s bothering you, just take it off. No one can see up here.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You wish.”

“I absolutely do,” he said cheerfully.

She flicked water at him and leaned back, letting the sun warm her shoulders. The strap still dug in a little, but she tried to ignore it.

Max let his eyes drift closed again. “This is nice. Quiet. Feels like we’re the only people up here.”

Belle sighed. “We kinda are. You made sure of it, remember? ‘Private rooftop pool, non-negotiable.’”

“Worth every euro.”

She reached out and laced her fingers with his underwater. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

After a moment, she said, “You know my birthday’s on Monaco GP weekend this year?”

He groaned softly. “That’s criminal scheduling.”

She smiled faintly. “Right? Sunday. Race day.”

He looked at her. “Do you want to celebrate after the race? I could try to arrange something small—”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “No pressure. Let’s just do something the day after. Quiet. Just us.”

Max tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” She kicked her legs slowly in the water. “Honestly, I don’t care about parties. I just want to sleep in, eat something sweet, and maybe hang out with the horses.”

He grinned. “You want a Belle Day.”

“Exactly.”

“I can deliver a Belle Day,” he said. “I will make an itinerary. I’ll laminate it.”

She laughed, and he leaned forward to kiss the tip of her nose.

“Day after Monaco,” he said. “It’s yours.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/OscarPiastri: Searching my family tree to find any trace of Monégasque roots

@/Charles_Leclerc: I can adopt you if needed. 

@/OscarPiastri: No need, mate — your sister already agreed to!

@/Charles_Leclerc: what

@/F1fanatic91: I’m sorry. WHAT.

@/girlsonpole: charles's WHAT????

@/chaoticprancinghorse: Isabelle Leclerc SAID SHE WOULD ADOPT OSCAR??? excuse me??????

@OscarPiastri (replying to himself a few minutes later): for context: Belle showed me around monaco when i first moved. Gave me the full tour. Taught me where to find the best bakery, the best dry cleaners, and which shortcuts avoid tourists. Basically made it feel like home. honorary monegasque confirmed. (Also later adopted my girlfriend, who I am quite sure, she likes more than me.) 

@/raceweekendchaos: charles offering to adopt oscar like a good pal only for oscar to casually reveal he’s already been adopted by belle leclerc is SENDING me

@/tifositalks: charles: i can adopt you oscar: too late mate your sister said yes charles: error 404 charles.exe has stopped working

@/piastriblues: i have been alive for 21 years and never felt this much secondhand embarrassment for charles leclerc

@/f1fluff:  this is so accidentally wholesome it hurts

@/gridgossip: ISABELLE GAVE OSCAR A WELCOME TO MONACO TOUR??? ARE YOU KIDDING THAT'S SO CUTE

@monacominis:  oscar piastri having isabelle leclerc as a big sister figure is EXACTLY the kind of off-track crossover i live for

@chillycharles: charles was offering adoption papers but isabelle already issued a citizenship through pastries and dry cleaning recs. elite move.

@/Charles_Leclerc (finally replying):  I see I am no longer needed. (Enjoy the bakery recommendations, they are very good.)

@/OscarPiastri: Thanks, mate. You're a great backup option.

@/scuderiawifey: ok but this is actually adorable??? like belle really just took oscar under her wing????

@/wheelnutsanon: also charles reacting like he just learned he has a secret second sibling is killing me

@/gridgossip: BREAKING: Oscar Piastri has been unofficially adopted into the Leclerc family. Charles found out through Twitter.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: What is this about you “adopting” Oscar??

Isabelle: Hello to you too, Charles.

Charles: Seriously, Isabelle. Twitter thinks you’ve absorbed him into the family. You couldn’t mention that?

Isabelle: He asked me where to get pastries when he moved here. I answered. That’s not exactly international news.

Lorenzo: So you adopted him through croissants and Google Maps. Makes sense.

Charles: And the internet’s obsessed with it. Again. This is exactly how the Lando rumors started.

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: No—don’t “Charles” me. You’re always like this. You do some tiny thing in public, the fans lose their minds, and I get blindsided before quali.

Charles: This is not a joke. It’s race weekend. At home. I don’t need distractions right now.

Isabelle: Then maybe stop scrolling Twitter two hours before FP?

Charles: I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t always causing speculation.

Lorenzo: Are we back on the “Belle is dating Lando” thing?

Charles: YES. Because people think she adopted Oscar and is soft-launching into the Norris family.

Isabelle: I’m not dating Lando. Or Oscar. Or anyone in orange.

Charles: Can you just be low-profile until Sunday? 

Charles: I want to win at home without the press asking if my sister is secretly engaged to my teammate’s former teammate. Is that too much to ask?

Isabelle: Don’t worry, Charles. I’ll keep a low profile.

***

Belle exhaled slowly, settling onto a high stool of McLaren’s hospitality.

“This is so much calmer than Ferrari,” she murmured.

Lily tilted her head. “Too much espresso and shouting over there?”

“Too much everything. Ferrari feels like performance art fueled by adrenaline and barely restrained stress. The walls are tense. Even the coffee judges you.”

Lily laughed. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Our chaos is cozy. Loud, but cozy.”

They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment, letting the hum of track activity drift over them.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then, casually—too casually—Belle said, “So… do you happen to know if Lando is single?”

Lily blinked, turned her head very slowly. “I beg your what?”

Belle smiled innocently behind her sunglasses. “Just curious.”

“Is this like... a casual curiosity or a capital-C Conspiracy curiosity?”

“It’s for a friend,” Belle said sweetly.

“Oh my god.” Lily’s grin widened. “Your Emilie?! The one with the arched eyebrow and emotional X-ray vision?!”

“The very same. She asked about him after Miami and then insult-complimented him. Which means she’s intrigued.”

Lily gasped. “That’s basically a declaration of intent.”

“I thought so too,” Belle said smugly.

“She’d eat him alive.”

“He’d love it.”

Lily clutched her chest. “This is my favorite subplot of the season. And yes, as far as I know… Lando is tragically, gloriously single.”

Belle grinned. “Perfect. I’m just collecting data. Like a responsible friend.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Belle finished the last sip of her iced coffee and stood, stretching slightly before reaching for her sunglasses case.

“I should head back,” she said, a little regret in her voice. “If I’m gone too long, someone at Ferrari will think I’ve defected.”

Lily grinned. “You’d be welcome. Just saying.”

Belle gave her a wink. “Good to know.”

They hugged briefly, and Belle made her way down the narrow stairs of the McLaren motorhome, back toward the paddock’s center. The roar of engines was slightly muffled here—just enough to hear the hum of conversation, the clicking of photographers resetting lenses, the low static of radios. She moved easily, weaving between teams and team staff.

She’d just passed the Pirelli tent when she spotted him, unmistakable despite the sunglasses and cap—Jos Verstappen, chatting with a Red Bull staffer, nodding at something on a clipboard. He looked up as she approached, pausing mid-sentence.

He was not an easy man—everyone knew it.

She’d seen the way people stiffened when he walked past. Heard the stories. Max never sugarcoated them. His childhood hadn’t been easy; Jos was hard, demanding, relentless. Too much, sometimes.

And yet, Max still loved him.

Not blindly. Not without scars. But intentionally.

Max called him after every race. He texted him when things went wrong

Max loved him.

That was the part Belle always circled back to. Not in blind forgiveness—but in this fierce, complicated loyalty that had shaped who he was. Max could talk about his father’s mistakes and still want to protect him in the same breath.

And Belle, Belle who had lost her own father earlier than she should have…she understood that. The absence still ached. Quietly. Persistently.

Belle had never been on the receiving end of Jos’s temper. Never once. He’d been gruff, sure—especially the first time they met. But not unkind. Not to her.

She suspected that made her an exception.

The paddock thought Jos was all bark, all judgment. But Belle had sat beside him during lunch more than once, sipping coffee while he quizzed Max on fuel mapping like it was a Sunday crossword. She’d seen the sharpness soften when Max smiled, heard the pride he buried under complaints about tire strategy.

It was strange, maybe, but she liked him. Not in a warm, fuzzy way—but in the way you respect a hurricane for what it is and appreciate it when it spares your house.

There was a rare kind of steadiness in people who didn’t lie to themselves about who they were. And Jos knew exactly who he was.

He’d been brutal with Max at times. Too harsh, too strict. But Belle had watched Max pour all that pressure into discipline, pour all that history into determination—and then let her be the place where he could rest.

And Jos saw that. Maybe that’s why he liked her.

He looked up as she approached, the stern line of his mouth twitching into something just short of a smile. For him, it might as well have been a beam of sunshine.

“Belle,” Jos said, his voice rough but warm. “There you are.”

“Hello, Jos,” she greeted, easy and open.

He stepped toward her with the kind of casual nod that could almost pass for affection. “Thought you were with Ferrari.”

“I was. Took a detour.”

Jos huffed. “McLaren has better lighting. Can’t blame you.”

They stepped to the side, out of the path of two mechanics wheeling a cart. Belle found herself watching him for a moment—his weathered face, the tightness still in his shoulders. 

She knew what people said about him, knew what he’d been like with Max as a child. Strict to the point of brutal. All pressure, all fire.

But Max still called him Papa sometimes, when he was tired or fond.

Still lit up when Jos showed up on a race weekend, even if he didn’t say it.

Love could look strange from the outside. And still be real.

She never pretended to understand it. But she respected it.

“You look good,” Jos said, nodding to her. “Max said Monaco’s treating you both well. ”

Belle smiled slightly, brushing a wind-blown strand of hair behind her ear. “It has been.”

Jos made a noise that might’ve been agreement—or amusement. “How’s Lilly settling in?”

“Still a menace,” Belle replied, smirking. “She shredded one of Max’s Red Bull shirts last week. Looked very pleased with herself afterward.”

He studied her then, for a long moment. Not judging—just weighing. Jos never said anything he didn’t mean. Which made what he said next hit harder than it had any right to.

“I know I wasn’t an easy father,” Jos said, eyes fixed ahead, as if the admission would be easier without eye contact. “I pushed too hard. Got too angry. Expected too much.”

Belle didn’t speak. She knew better than to fill silence when someone like Jos offered it willingly.

“But Max…” Jos exhaled. “He still calls. Still wants me at races. Still makes space.”

“He loves you,” Belle said quietly.

Jos nodded once, jaw tight. “He tells me things now,” he said quietly. “Little things. What you made for dinner. What you said when he had a bad sim race. How the cats sleep on your side of the bed.”

Belle felt her chest tighten—but not in a bad way. Just in that quiet, overwhelming way that meant this mattered.

“I used to worry,” Jos went on. “That he’d burn out. Too much, too soon. Like I pushed him past something soft he was supposed to keep. But with you...”

He trailed off. Didn’t finish the sentence. Jos didn’t need to.

Belle understood anyway.

With her, Max had something soft again. Something to rest in. Something to hold.

“I don’t want to be the only soft thing in his life,” Belle said gently. “But I’ll be there, if he needs it.”

Jos nodded. “He does.”

A pause. He looked at her again. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”

“He’s steadier with you,” Jos added. “Not softer. But anchored. Like he knows where to land.”

Belle blinked away the sudden sting in her eyes. “He does the same for me.”

Jos’s mouth curved, just a little. “That’s how it should be.”

They stood like that for another few seconds, in the shifting quiet of the paddock—engines humming, people passing, a thousand things moving around them. But it felt still.

Then, as if remembering who he was, Jos cleared his throat and stepped back. “Go on, before someone accuses you of defecting to Red Bull.”

“I’ll deny everything,” Belle promised.

Jos nodded once, a final farewell. “Tell Max to call this evening. He never remembers.”

“He does,” Belle said, turning away with a small smile. “He just likes when you remind him.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/MonacoMadness:

Someone zoom in on this pic. She’s laughing at something Lily said.

THE EYE CONTACT.

WAKE UP SHEEPLE.

@/GarageGhouls: Me: they’re just friends. Also me: builds color-coded map of Belle’s appearances near Lando over 18 months

@/SprinkleTheory:

REMEMBER THE SPRINKLE CONVERSATION???

Don’t act like y’all forgot the sprinkles.

Lando and Belle. Ice cream. Eye contact. ENDGAME.

@/CharlesStan97:

Charles could be on fire and no one would notice because y’all are too busy shipping his sister with Lando.

@/OscarPSpyCam:

Meanwhile Oscar is just thrilled his girlfriend and Lando’s or Max’s maybe-girlfriend are bonding over iced coffee and judging everyone.

@/LandoNation94: She was with Lily later too??? Like fully laughing at something together like besties??? What do they know

@/BelleWatch2025: Everyone: She’s dating Max. Me, seeing her chat and giggle with Lily: 👀👀👀

@/MonacoMadness: Belle is either: a) secretly dating Lando b) adopting the entire McLaren team as her emotional support family c) both

@/RedFlaggedRomance: I’m telling you. Belle being with Oscar’s girlfriend all before qualifying?? That’s some soft launch energy

@/OpenYourEyesF1: She’s in the papaya now. The soft colors. The oat milk lattes. The laughing. Ferrari could never.

@/PapayaTheory: So what you’re saying is: Isabelle is now friends with Lily AND STILL INSISTS SHE’S “JUST A FRIEND” Right.

@/gridgossip: DID I JUST SEE ISABELLE LECLERC CHATTING WITH JOS VERSTAPPEN??? and like… smiling??? And he WAS TOO???

@/chaoticprancinghorse: That man growled at a cameraman last year and now he’s out here looking friendly because Belle showed up??? What kind of soft power diplomacy is this???

@/f1girldetective: Belle. Babe. What spell did you cast on Jos Verstappen and is it available in serum form??

@/paddockcryptid: you’re telling me jos verstappen—the same man who looks like he’s planning a coup 80% of the time—was out here smiling??? Because of isabelle leclerc??? i’m ascending

@/maxsmiletracker: First the wallpaper, now they are chatting in the paddock?!?

@/wheelnutsanon: BREAKING: Jos Verstappen spotted having a pleasant conversation with Isabelle Leclerc. Charles Leclerc reportedly still screaming into a pillow somewhere

***

Belle had barely stepped through the glass doors of Ferrari hospitality when Charles turned on her like a heat-seeking missile.

“Why were you talking to Jos Verstappen?”

She blinked. “Hi, Charles. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

He stalked toward her, cap slightly askew, eyes wild in that very specific way he only got during Monaco weekend meltdown mode™.

“No, seriously. I just saw you outside. With Jos. Why?”

Belle exhaled slowly. “Because we ran into each other. We exchanged words. As people sometimes do.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “It looked longer than words. You were smiling.”

She dropped her bag onto one of the hospitality chairs with more force than necessary. “What exactly do you think is happening here, Charles? Spell it out. Because first it was GP, then Lando, and now—now—you think I’m flirting with Max’s father?!”

“You smiled at him, Belle!”

“I also smile at dogs, coffee, and your PR assistant. That doesn’t mean I’m planning a romantic future with any of them.”

Charles scowled. “You don’t understand. The whole paddock watches you. They speculate. And it distracts me.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry my existence is personally offensive to your championship hopes,” Belle said flatly. “Do you want me to start wearing a paper bag over my head?”

Charles blinked. “That’s not—”

“You’re stressed. I get that. Monaco is important to you. But I’m not the enemy here, Charles. I’m not out there giving interviews or calling press conferences. I was walking back from McLaren. I ran into Jos. We talked. That’s it.”

“He’s Max’s dad,” Charles said, like it was the punchline to a joke she didn’t get.

“And Max is a person I know,” Belle replied, tone tight. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Belle gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Nothing. Because I’m not doing this with you.”

“Belle—”

“No, Charles.” Her voice dropped, low and firm. “You’re rude. You’re exhausted. And instead of admitting that, you’re picking a fight with me.”

Charles faltered. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did. But it’s fine. You’ll be insufferable until Sunday and then pretend none of this happened.”

She walked past him, brushing lightly against his shoulder. “Next time, just say you’re scared of losing and stop dragging my coffee chats into it.”

Charles stood frozen, holding his espresso cup like it had betrayed him.

Belle didn’t look back.

White Horse - Chapter 6: August 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 toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

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

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller: Uhhh… when did Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc start following each other on Instagram??

↳@/F1Fanatic44: Wait what??? Since when do they even know each other??

↳@/GridGossip: That’s actually wild because I don’t remember them ever interacting before???

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Victoria always comments on her posts too?? Like hype girl mode. Like full-on “omg stunning!!” type comments.

↳@/PaddockSpy: And Isabelle replies!! She called Victoria’s baby “the cutest little thing.”

↳@/TifosiTears: The Leclerc brothers don’t even do that lmao

↳@/PaddockWhispers: How did we miss this??

@/F1TeaSpiller: No because I went deep and Victoria and Isabelle have been commenting on each other’s posts for MONTHS.

↳@/DR3Simp: So either they’ve been secret besties this whole time… or something else is going on.

↳@/LandoLover4: Define “something else.”

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Y’all. Y’ALL.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: What if she’s dating Max.

↳@/RedFlagF1: BE SERIOUS.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: THINK ABOUT IT.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: 1. Isabelle keeps her private life locked down.2. She suddenly has a very close relationship with Victoria Verstappen. 3. MAX ALSO KEEPS HIS PRIVATE LIFE LOCKED DOWN. 4. HES LEARNING TO RIDE FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND AND THE LECLERC’S SOLD ISABELLE’S CHILDHOOD HORSE TO PAY FOR CHARLES’ KARTING. 

↳@/TifosiTears: No. No way.

↳@/GridGossip: … But imagine if it’s true. SHE DESIGNED HIS APARTMENT AFTER ALL.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: How do you get from “Max’s girlfriend likes horses and so does Isabelle Leclerc” and Victoria Verstappen following Isabelle Leclerc on Instagram to: “Max and Isabelle will raise the next racing dynasty?!”

@/PaddockWhispers: When did they even meet?? Isabelle isn’t really in the paddock scene like that.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SHE DESIGNED HIS SIM ROOM. THEY MUST HAVE MET THROUGH THAT. 

↳@/LandoFangirl: Be so serious right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, I’m officially obsessed with this mystery. Isabelle and Victoria are way too friendly for two people who have zero public connection. Something is UP.

↳@/TifosiFan44: What if they just vibe?? Not everything has to be a conspiracy.

↳@/F1Detective: Okay, let’s be logical for a second. Isabelle and Victoria both grew up around karting. Their families must’ve crossed paths back in the day. Maybe they’ve always known each other and just reconnected??

↳@/TifosiFan44: Yeah, but why reconnect now? Why not years ago?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Maybe they ran into each other recently? Like, at a race or something?

↳@/GridGossip: Or maybe… through someone else. 👀

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SAY HIS NAME.

↳@/RedBullUpdates: DUH DUH DUH MAX VERSTAPPEN

↳@/PaddockWhispers: This is getting out of hand.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Is it? OR AM I ONTO SOMETHING???

@/F1Conspiracies: If you’re telling me Isabelle and Victoria were secretly friends this whole time, I’m gonna need proof because this is a new development.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Nah, I just scrolled through their follows. Victoria followed Isabelle first and Isabelle followed back. It happened within the last few months.

↳@/PaddockWhispers: And suddenly, Victoria is in Isabelle’s comments like they’re besties??

@/TifosiFan99: Do you guys think Charles knows his little sister and Victoria are suddenly besties???

↳@/F1Detective: Absolutely not.

↳@/GridGossip: He’s about to find out through Twitter like the rest of us.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Imagine Charles scrolling IG and seeing Victoria hyping up his sister like “That’s my girl! 🥰” and he’s just sitting there like ???

↳@/PaddockSpy: Someone check on Arthur too, because he’s definitely confused.

@/F1Chaos: Isabelle Leclerc and Victoria Verstappen being all over each other’s Instagram is the funniest plot twist of the season. ↳@/PaddockWhispers: If it turns out that Max and Isabelle have been secretly dating and Victoria knew before Charles, I will actually SCREAM.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat 

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Are we going on a family trip this summer?

Charles: Yeah, Maman was saying she wants to go somewhere all together.

Arthur: Cool. Who’s planning it?

Lorenzo: Isabelle?

Isabelle: …Planning what?

Arthur: The holiday. You know, flights, hotels, stuff to do.

Charles: Yeah, you’re good at that.

Lorenzo: You always find the best places.

Isabelle: Where do we even want to go?

Charles: Somewhere sunny.

Arthur: Beach?

Lorenzo: Good food.

Charles: Okay, Isabelle will sort it.

Isabelle: Right. Sure.

***

Max walked into the living room to find Isabelle surrounded.

Not by clutter—because she didn’t do clutter—but by controlled chaos: her iPad, her laptop, a notebook with neat handwriting, three different browser tabs open on the TV via screen mirroring, and a Google Doc titled Leclerc Family Vacation 2023 (Please Read This One, Arthur).

She didn’t even look up when he walked in. Just tapped something into a spreadsheet with the quiet precision of someone five minutes away from snapping.

“Let me guess,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her. “Charles still hasn’t confirmed the villa dates?”

“No,” Isabelle said calmly, “but he did text me a TikTok of a guy falling off a paddleboard. So. Priorities.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Arthur?”

“Suggested a campsite,” Isabelle muttered. “In Corsica. In August. With no air conditioning.”

Max winced. “Criminal.”

“Then Maman said she was ‘fine with anything,’ which we all know is a trap. And now someone needs to book rooms, coordinate flights, and arrange for something that resembles a plan so we don’t end up yelling at each other on a dock somewhere again.”

Max blinked. “So you’re doing it.”

“I always do it.”

That last part came out too soft, almost like she didn’t mean to say it.

Max leaned back, watching her. Hair up in a clip, sleeves pushed to her elbows, brow furrowed in concentration. This was her armor. Her autopilot. The invisible job of being the quiet one. The dependable one. The one who held everything together while everyone else lived like the world would bend for them.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So… Leclerc family vacation, next week?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll go a week later.”

She paused mid-keystroke. “What?”

“Your family’s doing their thing the 6th,” Max said, reaching for her notebook and gently closing it. “So we’ll do ours the 13th. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

Her lips parted. “You mean… another trip?”

“Yeah.” He stretched his arm over the back of the couch, brushing his fingers through a loose strand of her hair. “One where no one forgets your suitcase. Or sticks you with the worst room. Or makes you plan dinner for eight.”

A beat passed.

Then she asked, automatically, “Want me to look up flights?”

Max laughed softly, leaning in. “One: I have a private jet.”

Isabelle blushed. “Right. I forget that sometimes.”

“Two,” he said, voice dropping just a little, “I’m going to plan this one. You don’t have to do anything.”

She stared at him like he’d offered her an alien concept.

Max tucked a finger under her chin, smiling gently. “You don’t always have to carry it all, Belle. Not with me.”

Her throat bobbed. “But I’m—”

“Let me take care of you for once,” he said simply.

And it hit her—the realization that he meant it. That he liked doing this. That she didn’t have to earn it, or apologize for it, or trade it for usefulness.

Just be loved.

Just rest.

Isabelle nodded slowly. “Okay.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Alright, what’s the latest Max Verstappen Is a Perfect Boyfriend update?

Isabelle: …I don’t know if it’s a big deal.

Emilie: Isabelle. It is. Just tell me.

Isabelle: He cuddles me after.

Emilie: …After?

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: Like, after after?

Isabelle: Yes, Emilie.

Emilie: ARE YOU TELLING ME NONE OF YOUR EXES EVER CUDDLED YOU AFTER SEX?!

Isabelle: …I thought that wasn’t really a thing?

Emilie: I—WHAT.

Isabelle: I mean, maybe for some people? But I always got the impression guys weren’t really into that.

Emilie: No. No, no, no. They just weren’t into you.

Isabelle: Gee, thanks.

Emilie: NOT WHAT I MEANT. I MEAN THEY DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU.

Isabelle: Oh. Yeah. That sounds more accurate.

Emilie: No one ever held you? Like, at all?

Isabelle: Not really. Sometimes they’d roll over and go on their phones. Or just… leave.

Emilie: …And you were okay with that??

Isabelle: No? But I thought that was just how it was.

Emilie: Isabelle. Oh my god.

Isabelle: But Max just stays. Like, without me asking. He pulls me close, kisses my forehead, plays with my hair, runs his hands up and down my back. Even if we don’t say anything, he just stays.

Emilie: Because he cares about you. Because he actually likes you.

Isabelle: I know. 

***

The villa was beautiful.

Of course, it was. Isabelle had picked it.

Neutral-toned interiors, quiet luxury, three terraces, private beach access, and just enough separation between the bedrooms to avoid World War III.

She’d arranged the grocery delivery.

 The airport transfers.

 The private boat rental.

Carefully adjusted seating to avoid drama (Arthur’s girlfriend apparently did not want to sit next to Alexandra ever again)

It was her spreadsheet, her itinerary, her effort.

And yet, as she stood in the kitchen restocking the drinks fridge with sparkling water and wine, she may as well have been part of the cabinetry.

No one noticed.

Or, worse—they noticed and assumed.

Assumed that of course she’d print the vineyard directions, that she’d know which car everyone was in, that she’d restock the sunscreen, make the lunch reservations, mediate the “how many towels is too many towels” fight between Arthur and his girlfriend (spoiler: it was not about the towels).

Her mother hadn’t said thank you. Not once.

No one had.

Not for the itinerary.

 Not for the car rentals.

 Not for the fact that she’d packed extra chargers and medicine and picked up Pascale’s favorite jam from that little shop in Nice.

“Isabelle,” Pascale called from outside. “Can you bring out the extra glasses?”

Isabelle bit back a sigh, picked up the tray she had already prepared, and stepped outside with a smile.

The group was gathered around the outdoor table, wine in hand, sun-drenched and happy. Lorenzo was holding court about a minor work drama, Charlotte and Alexandra nodding sympathetically, while Arthur’s girlfriend laughed at something Charles said and Arthur scrolled on his phone.

No one looked up.

No one asked how Isabelle was doing.

No one offered to help.

She set the glasses down, smiled politely, and sat at the empty spot at the end of the table.

“I think we should do the coastal hike tomorrow,” Pascale said, sipping her wine. “Before it gets too hot.”

“I thought we were doing the boat day,” Charles said.

“No, that’s Wednesday,” Isabelle said, gently. “The captain wasn’t available tomorrow.”

Pascale frowned. “Didn’t you book it for Tuesday?”

“I did. Then they called to reschedule. I put it in the itinerary I emailed last week.”

No one responded.

Lorenzo changed the subject. “Charlotte, didn’t you want to go to that vineyard?”

“Oh yes!” Charlotte said. “The one with the stone tasting room.”

“I have it bookmarked,” Isabelle said, scrolling on her phone. “We can go Thursday after lunch.”

Again, silence. Then Arthur said, “Did anyone bring cards?”

Isabelle looked down at her glass, playing with the stem.

This was how it always was.

She planned.

 She coordinated.

 She smoothed everything over.

And they still looked right through her.

No one noticed her skip lunch. Or how she was always the last to sit down. Or how she cleared everyone’s plates without being asked. 

When the private chef asked who to talk to about allergies, they directed him to Isabelle. When the AC broke in Charlotte’s and Lorenzo’s room, Isabelle called the concierge. When the car for the beach trip got delayed, Charles tossed her his phone and said, “Can you handle this?”

She did.

She always did.

And yet, when someone poured rosé for the table at dinner that night, no one poured for her.

Not out of malice. Just… absence.

Isabelle sat back, watching her brothers laugh and bicker, their girlfriends leaning into the glow of effortless charm. Her mother, serene and smiling, gently correcting Arthur’s posture and calling Charlotte chérie.

Not once had anyone asked Isabelle how her work was going. How she was doing.

As if she didn’t exist outside the role she played.

The problem was—she was too good at it.

Too good at making things smooth. Too good at stepping out of the way. Too good at fixing things before anyone noticed they were broken.

And now? No one even saw her hands holding the whole thing together.

Not even the people who were supposed to love her most.

She was just so tired. 

***

Isabelle had texted him last night.

The usual emojis were missing. Her messages were shorter. And when he’d called her just after dinner, she’d whispered, “I’m fine, it’s just a headache,” in the voice of someone trying not to cry in a bathroom.

Now, standing at the top of the stairs, he watched as a black car rolled to a stop at the edge of the airstrip. The driver stepped out and opened the door—and there she was.

Isabelle.

Shoulders slumped, hair pulled into a hasty bun, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She moved like someone trying not to be perceived. Or maybe like someone who just wanted to stop moving altogether.

She climbed the stairs slowly, and when she reached him, she managed a soft smile.

“Hi.”

Max cupped her face gently. “Hey.”

Her voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I look like hell.”

He blinked. “You look like my favorite person.”

She laughed, sort of, but it turned into a wince.

Max frowned. “Headache?”

She nodded. “It’s been going since yesterday. Loud house. Strong perfume. Arthur’s playlist.”

Max stepped aside so she could settle into the plush leather seat, already signaling to the crew to dim the lights and lower the cabin temperature. She sank into the chair, curling slightly toward the window.

He knelt beside her, undoing the buckle on her sandals like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, like it was some kind of failing.

Max looked up sharply.

“Stop apologizing.”

She blinked behind her sunglasses. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re in pain,” he said, his voice low, tight with something sharp and protective. “And exhausted. And still trying to be polite about it.”

She didn’t reply.

“You are not a burden,” Max continued, brushing a thumb over her knee. “You’re not too much. And you don’t have to smile through it just to make me comfortable.”

The silence stretched.

Then, quietly: “I am so tired, Max. I planned everything. Every hour, every restaurant, every day. And I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

“I noticed,” he said immediately. “Even from home, I noticed.”

He stood and grabbed a blanket, gently draping it over her before sitting beside her and tugging her legs into his lap.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “We’ll be here a while.”

She blinked quickly, looking down at her hands. “It was just a lot.”

“I know,” he said. “I read your texts. I could read between the lines.”

She gave a soft, tired laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Always.” He leaned back.“You shouldn’t have to be the glue for everyone else, Belle. Especially not at the cost of your own peace.”

“I’m trying,” she said, her voice barely there. “It’s just hard to stop when no one else steps up.”

“Then let me step up.”

She closed her eyes again. Finally relaxed.

He tucked her closer.

And whispered, “Rest. I’ve got you now.”

She fell asleep between one breath and the next. And didn’t wake. Not during the flight… not during the landing. 

Max moved slowly, careful not to wake her, easing one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. She let out the faintest breath but didn’t stir, her head tipping lightly against his chest.

She weighed next to nothing like this.

The tarmac was still warm beneath his feet as he descended the steps. 

Surprisingly, Lando could be trusted with vacation recommendation. The North Island in the Seychelles greeted them with turquoise, crystalline water and beautiful weather.

The villa Max had rented just for them stood nestled between palm trees and the beach, pale stone glowing in the late afternoon light. Secluded. Safe.

It had taken him exactly twenty minutes to book it after he’d read the description. Just: privacy, space, quiet.

A place she could breathe.

He carried her inside, murmured a quiet thank-you to the staff who had pre-stocked the fridge, and walked straight to the bedroom with the softest sheets.

He laid her down gently, brushed a few strands of hair away from her forehead.

Isabelle frowned in her sleep—like even now, she didn’t know how to fully let go.

Max knelt beside the bed and whispered, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be anything right now.”

Then he pulled the blackout curtains closed, set water out on the nightstand for later, and moved through the house like a man on a mission.

No phones. No noise. No expectations.

Just him. Just her.

Just the silence she had earned.

***

Isabelle woke up to the sound of waves.

That was it.

Not alarms.

 Not messages.

 Not someone yelling across a hallway or calling her name from the bottom of a staircase.

Just waves. Slow and rhythmic, like a lullaby that had been playing long before she arrived and would keep going long after she left.

The room was warm with sunlight. Pale curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, and the air smelled like salt and sun-warmed wood. She lay still for a long time, blinking up at the thatched ceiling, half-draped in linen sheets and Max’s hoodie from the night before.

For a few seconds, she didn’t remember where she was.

Then it hit her all at once: the flight, Max, peace.

And the fact that, for the first time in months, there was nothing to do.

 No family group chat spiraling into chaos.

Nothing.

Just this.

Isabelle sat up slowly, stretching, and looked out through the open doors to the private beach just steps away. White sand. Blue water. Palm trees swaying like they were dancing to music only they could hear.

And Max.

Already outside, barefoot in board shorts,  sunglasses perched on his head, sprawled in a lounge chair like he owned the concept of leisure. He looked up the second she moved, and smiled.

Like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She stepped outside, bare feet hitting sun-warmed wood, and he lifted his arm without a word. She curled into his side, her cheek against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head.

“Morning,” he murmured.

“It’s late.”

“Who cares?”

She shifted closer. 

One hand moved slowly up and down her back. Not to fix her. Just to say I’m here.

She felt him breathe. Felt her own breathing start to match his.

Felt… safe.

Like she could finally put all of it down. The smiling. The pretending. The quiet, invisible labor of being the one who always held it together.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max murmured, kissing her hair. “Not today.”

She didn’t.

Didn’t need to.

Because this—his arms around her, the hush of the ocean, the stillness he made just for her—this was enough.

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, Isabelle Leclerc let herself fully rest.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Uh oh. What did Max do?

Isabelle: Nothing?? That’s the thing???

Emilie: …I need more context.

Isabelle: We’re on vacation.

Emilie: Yes, I am painfully aware that you’re somewhere warm and beautiful with your perfect boyfriend while I’m stuck here. Continue.

Isabelle: I haven’t had to plan anything. Not a single thing.

Emilie: …And?

Isabelle: No scheduling. No coordinating. No last-minute scrambling.

Isabelle: Do you understand how weird that is for me???

Emilie: Isabelle. That is literally how vacations are supposed to work.

Isabelle: I know??? But I’m just so used to handling everything.

Isabelle: And Max just… took care of it. Flights, hotel, reservations. Everything.

Emilie: And you’re struggling because…?

Isabelle: Because I keep waiting for something to go wrong and for someone to expect me to fix it. But nothing has gone wrong.

Emilie: That’s because Max is a fully functional adult. Unlike, you know. Your brothers.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: What.

Isabelle: Nothing. Just. Huh.

Emilie: That’s the sound of your brain rebooting because someone is actually taking care of you for once.

Isabelle: Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now go enjoy your stress-free vacation. You deserve it.

Isabelle: …This is so weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

***

The difference was almost laughable.

The second morning, she woke up slowly, stretching under the soft sheets, and realized something was missing. She wasn’t exhausted. She wasn’t checking her phone to make sure everything was running on schedule.

She just was.

Max, lying beside her, traced lazy circles on her arm and murmured, “You okay?”

She turned her head to look at him, her face half-buried in the pillow. “This is weird.”

His lips twitched. “What is?”

“Not having to do anything.”

Max let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Schatje.”

She didn’t quite know how to put it into words—that she wasn’t used to this, to someone making sure she was taken care of. That she had spent her whole life organizing and managing and making sure everyone else was comfortable, and now, for the first time, she was the one being looked after.

And Max wasn’t making a big deal out of it. He wasn’t acting like it was some grand gesture. He just did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she was worth the effort.

By the third day, Isabelle wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or completely unnerved by how easily Max took over.

They had spent the morning by the beach, and when she’d started to gather their towels and check if they needed to book dinner somewhere, Max had just taken the towels from her hands and said, “I already made a reservation.”

At her look of disbelief, he had only smirked. “You think I don’t know how to plan things?”

“It’s not that,” she said, stretching out on the lounge chair. “I just… I’m usually the one who does this kind of thing.”

Max hummed, pushing his sunglasses up. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You always do everything.” His tone was light, but his gaze was sharp behind the tinted lenses. “For your family. For work. You take care of everyone. But who takes care of you?”

The question caught her off guard.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to say nobody needs to, but the truth was, no one ever really had.

And then Max, like he could hear the wheels turning in her head, just reached over and brushed his fingers against hers.

“You’re allowed to let someone else handle things,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

She swallowed, staring at their hands. His fingers were warm, steady.

“It’s just how it’s always been,” she admitted softly.

“I know,” Max said, lacing their fingers together. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

She didn’t answer, but when they went back to the villa, she didn’t ask where they were having dinner. She didn’t double-check the reservation or worry about what time they needed to leave.

Instead, she let Max take her hand and lead her out the door, into the night, into something she wasn’t quite used to but thought—just maybe—she could get used to.

Dinner was at a small, candlelit restaurant overlooking the ocean. Isabelle didn’t recognize the name, but the staff greeted Max like an old friend when they arrived.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked as they were led to their table.

Max pulled out her chair before sitting down himself. “I got a recommendation from a friend.” He shrugged. “I like places that are quiet.”

She understood what he meant the moment they sat down. The restaurant was intimate, with soft music playing in the background, the ocean breeze drifting through open windows. It was nothing like the places her family always picked—grand, extravagant, and often exhausting.

“You know,” she said after the waiter poured their wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a vacation like this before.”

Max raised a brow. “Like what?”

She gestured vaguely. “Where I didn’t have to plan everything. Where I didn’t feel like I had to keep everything together.”

Max studied her for a long moment, then set his glass down. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that at all.”

She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s just how it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” he countered. “That’s my point.”

Isabelle exhaled, shaking her head. “Max—”

“No, listen.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You spent weeks making sure your mother’s birthday was perfect. You handle everything for your family, and they don’t even realize it. When was the last time someone did something like that for you?”

She stayed quiet.

“That’s what I mean,” Max said. “You do so much for everyone, but no one ever makes sure you’re okay.”

She wanted to argue, to say that wasn’t true, but the words wouldn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Max sighed, sitting back. “I just don’t want you to think you always have to be the responsible one. That you always have to be the one making sacrifices.”

“I don’t mind,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said simply.

She twisted her wine glass between her fingers. It was strange, this feeling of being cared for so deliberately. Like Max had been quietly watching, noticing the cracks no one else had.

And then he smiled, easy and warm. “But for now, you don’t have to think about any of that.” He lifted his glass toward her. “This week, I handle everything.”

She hesitated, then clinked her glass against his.

It was just a week.

But for once, maybe that was enough.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Réponds.

Arthur: Maybe she’s busy?

Charles: Isabelle is never busy.

( One hour later… )

Isabelle: What do you want?

Charles: Wow. No hello? No how are you?

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: Okay, fine.

Charles: What’s Alexandra’s shoe size?

Isabelle: Why are you asking me?

Charles: You’re a girl. You know these things.

Isabelle: …Charles. You live with Alexandra. Just pick up a pair of shoes from your girlfriend and CHECK FOR YOURSELF.

Charles: …oh. 

Charles: That’s actually smart.

Arthur: Wait.

Arthur: Why did it take you so long to answer?

Isabelle: I was busy.

Arthur: With what?

Isabelle: Living my life.

Arthur: That’s vague.

Charles: Yeah, where even are you?

Isabelle: On vacation.

Arthur: ???

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: A few days ago.

Charles: Where are you?

Isabelle: The Seychelles.

Arthur: THE SEYCHELLES???

Arthur: WITH WHO???

Isabelle: A friend.

Arthur: You have some of those?!

Isabelle: Yes, Arthur, I do have friends. 

***

Instagram Post -@/maxverstappen1

Comments:

@/victoriaverstappen: Finally taking a break that doesn't involve a garage 🙌

@/danielricciardo: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a lifestyle influencer.

@/landonorris: Are you… relaxed?? Is this what peace looks like on you?

@/gridgirlie: I’m sorry, but this man does NOT look that content alone.

@/charlesleclercsneck: no but WHO took these??? Max didn’t set up a tripod I KNOW THAT FOR A FACT

↳ @/sunsetandsebastian: It’s the secret horse riding girlfriend! 

Instagram Post -@/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/f1updates: HOLD ON. WHERE DID YOU GO AND WHO ARE YOU WITH??

@/f1detectives: Wait… these pictures aren’t from the Leclerc family vacation last week, right?!?.

↳@/wagwatch: Omg you’re RIGHT. The Leclercs were in Corsica, and this is… definitely not Corsica.

↳@/f1updates: Wait, was she even on that trip?!  (I don’t think I have seen her in any pictures her brothers posted?)

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Yes!! I was on the family trip!! These are just from a different vacation.

@/leclercnation: Isabelle, where are you NOW???

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Just a little trip with a friend for a week 😊

↳@/leclercfanclub: “A little trip with a friend” GIRL THIS IS PARADISE

@/victoriaverstappel: Enjoy the vacation! And take lots of pictures, I want to sigh dreamily when you show them to me! 

@/f1sleuths: Sooo, if this isn’t the Leclerc family vacation… where exactly is she?

↳@/paddockwatch: And who is this friend taking her on a luxury getaway? 👀

@/emilie_abadie: jealous 🤩

@/gridgirls: If this is what a “quiet getaway with a friend” looks like, I need to start choosing better friends.

@/paddocktea: What do we think? Single era glow-up? Secret relationship? The people need answers.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. It happened again.

Emilie: What, relaxation? Peace? Being taken care of??

Isabelle: Yes??

Emilie: Isabelle, I swear to God—

Isabelle: We went on a hike today. I just… followed Max. That’s it. No figuring out where to go, no checking maps, no making sure there was water or sunscreen or food.

Emilie: And??

Isabelle: It felt wrong. Like I should be doing something.

Emilie: ISABELLE.

Isabelle: I know. I know.

Emilie: This is years of being the responsible one catching up to you.

Isabelle: He even packed snacks?? 

Emilie: That sounds horrible.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Seriously, why are you texting me? Shouldn’t you be enjoying this?

Isabelle: I think my body is rejecting the concept of not having to plan or worry about anyone else.

Emilie: That is a you problem.

Isabelle: He just told me we have a boat day tomorrow. I didn’t even know we had a boat day tomorrow.

Emilie: And what are you expected to do?

Isabelle: Nothing. Just be there.

Emilie: …Okay, I sort of get why you’re spiraling.

Isabelle: Right???

Emilie: But also. Isabelle. Sweetheart. This is what happens when you date someone who pays attention and puts in effort.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: STOP SAYING ‘HUH’ LIKE YOU JUST DISCOVERED FIRE.

Isabelle: I think I have discovered fire.

Emilie: You’re dating Max Verstappen. Not one of your brothers.

Isabelle: I just… I didn’t think I was this bad at being taken care of.

Emilie: You are. But the good news? You’re learning.

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now relax and let your very rich, very organized boyfriend spoil you.

Isabelle: Huh.

Emilie: I’m blocking you.

***

The light was warm and low, spilling through the palm trees and painting the terrace in soft amber.

Isabelle sat with her knees pulled up on the oversized lounger, still in her swimsuit and one of Max’s linen shirts, damp curls tucked behind her ears. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, untouched, pencil resting against the paper. She hadn’t drawn a single thing in an hour.

She was too content to move.

Max sat beside her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, sipping from a glass of something cold and citrusy. The sea whispered in the background. He hadn’t looked at his phone in hours.

They were quiet.

It wasn’t silence that needed to be filled. It was just safe.

She turned her head and found him watching her.

“What?” she asked softly.

Max tilted his head. “You know what would be nice?”

“Tell me.”

“If you met my family before Zandvoort.”

The question landed so gently she almost didn’t realize it was a question. It was just Max—calm, steady, offering something important like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just opened a door and waited for her to walk through it.

Isabelle blinked. “Before Zandvoort?”

He nodded. “Just a quiet dinner. In Belgium maybe, or Monaco, whatever’s easier. My dad. Mum. Victoria. Tom. Their kids. No pressure.”

Isabelle looked down at her sketchbook. Her heart fluttered.

Meeting Max’s family wasn’t something she’d let herself think about—not seriously. Because what they had felt big sometimes, and big things had a habit of slipping away if she looked at them too hard.

But Max?

Max never made her feel like she had to earn her place.

She looked back up, searching his face. “Are you sure?”

Max smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. “They’ll love you.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “And… if they don’t?”

“They will,” he said, without hesitation. “But if they didn’t—which they will—I still would. That’s what matters.”

Her throat went tight.

“You don’t have to say yes now,” he added, quieter now, reaching for her hand. “But I want you there. I want them to know you like I do.”

She leaned in and kissed his shoulder, then tucked herself under his arm.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “Okay. Before Zandvoort.”

He squeezed her hand.

And for a while, they just sat there as the sun dipped into the ocean, a promise tucked between them like something sacred.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat 

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Zandvoort’s coming up. Arthur, you good with logistics?

Arthur: Yep. I’m flying in Tuesday morning.

Isabelle: Hey— I’m actually in the Netherlands that week for a work event. Rotterdam. I was thinking… if you two are okay with it, I could come to Zandvoort for the weekend? I’d love to watch you both race.

Arthur: Yeah, totally. That’d be nice.

Charles: Definitely, yeah. It would be nice to have you there.

Arthur: We’ll have Ferrari add you to the room block, right, Charles?

Charles: Yeah, yeah. Easy. I’ll let the team know you’re joining.

Isabelle: Okay! I’ll come down Friday morning after my meetings wrap up. Can’t wait to see you both.

Arthur: Bring those granola bars you had at Silverstone. 

Charles: Bring some for me too.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: He wants me to meet his family before Zandvoort.

Isabelle:  His entire family.

Isabelle:  Dinner. At his mother's house. No pressure apparently.

Emilie: Max Verstappen just casually inviting you into the lion’s den. Classic.

Emilie:  Are you freaking out?

Isabelle:  I am in a controlled state of panic.

Emilie: You do realize you’re literally the perfect daughter-in-law, right?

Emilie: You’re quiet, polite, absurdly thoughtful, and stunning in a soft-lighting European cinema kind of way.

Isabelle: I am really not. 

Emilie: You listen. You make people feel calm just by existing.

Emilie:  His family will LOVE you.

Emilie:  And if they don’t, that’s not a reflection of you.

Emilie:  It’s a red flag, and I’ll show up swinging.

Isabelle: He was so casual about it.  “They’ll love you,” he said. Just like that. No hesitation.

Emilie: Because he knows they will. Max isn’t casual about anything he doesn’t absolutely mean.

Isabelle: What if I forget how to talk? Or what if Victoria is terrifying?

Emilie: You talk when you have something worth saying.  And Victoria? She’ll adore you. You’re going to be her sons' new favorite person within five minutes. Probably less.

Emilie: You don’t have to prove anything, Belle.  You just have to show up. The rest takes care of itself.  You’re already his family. The rest is just the intro.

Isabelle: I love you.

Emilie: I know.  Be polite and devastatingly charming at dinner.

***

Isabelle had been in high-pressure situations before.

Final exams, high-stakes client presentations, being the only woman in a room full of men twice her age who thought she was just there to take notes—none of those compared to standing in the Verstappen family home, about to meet Max’s family for the first time.

Max had assured her it would be fine. He’d been so casual about it, telling her “They’ll love you,” like it was a certainty. But then again, he already loved her, and he’d made that seem inevitable, too.

The door opened before she could finish that thought, and suddenly, she was being yanked inside by an overenthusiastic blonde.

"Finally!" Victoria Verstappen declared, looping an arm around Isabelle’s before she even had a chance to say hello. "I was beginning to think you were a myth."

Max rolled his eyes, following them inside. "I literally told you about her months ago. You have talked to her."

"And yet, this is the first time I’m meeting her," Victoria shot back before turning to Isabelle with a knowing grin. "Ignore him. I already love you, by the way."

"That’s… good," Isabelle said, slightly breathless from the whirlwind welcome. "I’d hate to be off to a bad start."

"Not possible," Victoria declared before releasing her and giving Max a pointed look. "You never bring anyone home. I don’t care who she is. She could be an alien, and I’d still be thrilled."

Max sighed. "She’s not an alien."

"Shame," Victoria said with a dramatic sigh before linking their arms again. "Come on. Mum is dying to meet you."

They were halfway through the house before Isabelle even had a chance to look around properly. It was warm and inviting—the kind of place where people laughed loudly at the dinner table and where childhood photos still hung on the walls.

She barely had time to take in the framed pictures before she was pulled into a hug by a woman who could only be Sophie Kumpen.

"Isabelle," she said warmly, squeezing her hands when she pulled back. "It’s so lovely to finally meet you."

"You too," Isabelle said sincerely.

"Max has told me so much about you," Sophie continued, giving her son a pointed look. "I was beginning to think he’d made you up."

Victoria cackled. "That’s what I said!"

Max groaned. "Why does everyone think I’m lying?"

Before anyone could answer, another voice cut through the conversation.

"You’re Charles’ sister."

The room shifted slightly as all attention turned to Jos Verstappen.

Max tensed beside her, and Victoria, who had been all smiles just moments ago, pressed her lips together in something that looked suspiciously like exasperation.

But Isabelle didn’t waver. She turned to look at him and nodded. "Yes."

Jos hummed, gaze sharp. Then silence.

It stretched long enough that Max was clearly about to intervene, but before he could, Sophie clapped her hands together, cutting through the tension like it was nothing.

"Let’s sit," she said, smiling as if Jos hadn’t just been scrutinizing Isabelle like she was an opponent on track. "I made tea."

The conversation moved on, shifting to lighter topics—Victoria’s kids, Sophie’s recent travels, Max’s upcoming races. But Isabelle could still feel Jos’ gaze on her, quietly assessing.

Max never let go of her hand.

It wasn’t until much later, after dinner, after Victoria’s sons had climbed all over Isabelle and decided that she was their new favourite person, when the conversation had lulled and Isabelle was helping Sophie clear the table, that Jos spoke to her again.

"You’re an architect?"

She turned, nodding. "Yes."

"That takes discipline."

"It does."

He studied her for a long moment. Then— "Max needs someone like that."

It wasn’t outright approval. It wasn’t exactly warm.

But it was something.

And when Max returned, slinging an arm around her shoulders like he had no intention of letting her go, Isabelle decided it was enough.

***

The lobby was nice in that neutral, five-star motorsport weekend kind of way. Polished stone floors, a curated floral arrangement on the front desk, one of those confusing water features that seemed to exist purely for aesthetic drama.

Isabelle smiled at the receptionist with practiced ease, suitcase in hand, lanyard tucked into her coat pocket. 

She was exhausted, having run herself ragged over the last few days with a client install in Rotterdam. She had managed to wrap that up, just in time to catch the train towards Zandvoort with only a small amount of cursing.

“Hi, I should have a room with the Ferrari team block? Leclerc?”

The receptionist tapped quickly on the keyboard. Pause. Frown. Tap again.

Isabelle kept smiling. She knew this look.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said kindly. “I don’t see a reservation under your name.”

“Oh,” Isabelle replied, blinking once. “Could you check again? Maybe under Charles or Arthur?”

More typing. The woman’s brows drew together. “They both have rooms, but… there’s nothing additional listed. I don’t see a third Leclerc on the team list. And all our rooms are booked for tonight.”

Isabelle nodded, her face still polite. “Right. No worries.”

Because what else could she say?

Because of course, they’d forgotten.

It wasn’t even anger that hit her. Just a quiet, familiar ache, the kind that wrapped itself around her ribs and pressed in slowly.

She stepped away from the counter, wheeling her suitcase off to the side. The hotel lobby was buzzing—PR people, Ferrari junior drivers, Red Bull interns in matching polos. People who had rooms. People who had plans.

She pulled out her phone and opened a message thread she knew she could trust.

To: Max 

Apparently I do not exist to the Ferrari logistics team. I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just… don’t really know what to do right now.

The three dots popped up immediately.

Max: Room 706.

Isabelle: Max, I don’t want to cause a scene.

Max: You’re not. You’re coming upstairs. You’re not spending the night in the lobby because your brothers forgot you.

Isabelle: You’re busy. I don’t want to be in the way.

Max: You’re not in the way. You’re mine. Room 706. Come up. The door is open. You’ve got a place with me. Always.

She stared at the message for a moment, biting her lip.

No one had ever said it like that. Not her family. Not even past relationships. Like she wasn’t something to accommodate but someone who belonged.

Then, gathering her bag, she stood and waited by the elevators, wondering how something as painful as being forgotten could still land her exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had seen Max Verstappen through just about everything.

From raw, sharp-edged teenager to relentless world champion. From radio meltdowns to perfect laps in impossible conditions. From reckless frustration to the rare, still moments where he let his guard down—just enough to be human.

But over the past five months, GP had noticed him changing once again. 

It wasn’t dramatic. Max hadn’t started writing poetry or singing love songs. There were no fireworks, no sweeping declarations.

It was quieter than that.

He smiled more.

Texted back.

Stopped snapping at the comms team over small things.

Started asking if someone else needed anything before the garage debrief ended.

And then there were the little tells. Subtle changes GP clocked because he always clocked them.

The way Max would glance at his phone with a barely-there smile. The occasional “oh, she’d like this” muttered at a merch stand or a snack table.

She.

GP hadn’t needed to ask who.

Because he had known since Max started asking him for relationship advice. Because clearly, GP was a fountain of romantic wisdom because GP had somehow managed to persuade his wife to take pity of him and marry him. 

GP had observed. 

Had allowed his eyes to track Isabelle Leclerc whenever she happened to show up at a race.  He’d seen her in the background. Quiet. Observing. Never trying to claim space that wasn’t offered.

Isabelle Leclerc.

The girl with the soft voice and sharper eyes. 

She wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t chasing the spotlight.

Which was probably why Max was so hopelessly gone for her.

So when Max looked at his phone mid-dinner and smiled—really smiled—GP didn’t need to ask who it was.

He just sighed.

And then he watched how Max’s whole body language changed in an instance, swallowing the bite of food he had just taken, his jaw clenching, tapping on his phone with barely contained rage. 

GP raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

Max stood and muttered, “Kind of,” before grabbing his room key and disappearing into the hallway without another word.

GP blinked. “...What?”

He took a bite of luke warm pasta, leaned back, and waited. Max was many things—brilliant, intense, chronically infuriating—but he wasn’t cryptic without reason.

And GP hated when Max was cryptic.

The door opened again.

And Max walked in with Isabelle Leclerc.

GP blinked.

For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. Maybe something in the hotel pasta had finally triggered a stress-induced fever dream.

But no. There she was. Real, flushed with embarrassment, wearing a coat and carrying a travel bag, clearly trying to disappear into the carpet.

Max, looking infuriatingly casual: “GP, this is Isabelle.”

As if GP didn’t know exactly who she was.

Leclerc.

 As in Charles Leclerc’s sister.

 As in "Ferrari’s Golden Boy Is Going To Break The FIA When He Finds Out You’re Sleeping With His Sister" Leclerc.

GP set down his fork. Slowly. Carefully.

“Hi,” she said softly. “Sorry. This isn’t how I pictured meeting you.”

GP blinked.

“She didn’t have a hotel room,” Max added, like that explained everything.

“So you invited her to your room,” GP said flatly.

Isabelle turned even pinker. “I didn’t know he wasn’t alone.”

GP stared at Max, then at her, then back at Max, who had the gall to sip his water like they weren’t seconds away from becoming a tabloid headline.

“In the Netherlands,” GP clarified.

“Yes,” Max said.

“During your home Grand Prix.”

“Yes.”

GP took a long, slow breath. “Perfectly reasonable.”

Max didn’t even blink.

Isabelle, bless her, looked like she wanted to apologize for existing. “I can go…”

GP waved her off. “No, no, please. You’re already more pleasant than he is.”

Max threw a piece of bread at him.

GP caught it midair without looking.

Then he sighed. 

“What do you mean she didn’t have a room?” he asked Max with a raised eyebrow. 

“She thought her brothers had booked her one,” Max said, like he wasn’t holding back fury with every word. “They didn’t.”

GP’s fork hit the table. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

GP turned to Isabelle, who was doing her best to shrink into her jacket. “They left you without a room?”

“I think they forgot I was coming,” she said, voice light, like it didn’t sting. Like it didn’t matter. “It’s okay. I just didn’t want to make a fuss tonight.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

And GP—who had been mad at Max for a million things over the years—suddenly wanted to march down the hall and yell at two grown men for treating their sister like a misplaced backpack.

“You’re staying here tonight,” Max said firmly. “End of discussion.”

GP crossed his arms. “I mean—yes. Obviously. But still. You’re telling me neither of them noticed?”

Isabelle looked away. “I guess not.”

Max let out a low, sharp breath through his nose.

It wasn’t just annoyance. It was rage. But the quiet kind. The kind Max only reserved for people who hurt the very small handful of people he actually loved.

Max rubbed a hand over his face and stood. Walked across the room. Paced, like he had no idea what to do with the fury crawling under his skin.

“She’s staying here,” he said again, turning to GP.

“Obviously.”

GP looked at Isabelle more gently now. “For what it’s worth, they’re idiots.”

Isabelle smiled faintly. “I’m kind of used to it.”

Max stopped pacing and came to stand beside her. He didn’t touch her—not yet—but the tension in his jaw said everything.

He was furious. Not just on her behalf, but because deep down, he’d known this would happen. And he hadn’t been there in time to stop it.

“You deserve better,” Max said quietly, only for her.

GP cleared his throat. “Okay. Well. I’m going to leave you two alone before I throw something.”

Isabelle blinked. “Wait—you’re mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” GP muttered. “Just not at you.”

He grabbed his notes, paused in the doorway, and said to Max: “I want you in bed in the next thirty minutes.”

Max smirked.

GP pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Then he looked at Isabelle again. Really looked.

And in that second, watching the way Max’s entire body shifted around her—the protectiveness, the softness, the calm—GP felt the sharp edge of his frustration melt into something else.

Respect.

“You’re good for him,” he said simply.

Isabelle’s eyes widened a little. “Thank you.”

“And Max?” GP said one last time. “If they forget her again—I will. Personally. Book. Her. A. Room.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

GP closed the door behind him.

And in the hallway, alone, he muttered:

“Goddamn Leclerc brothers. Idiots, the lot of them.”

Then: “...But at least Max got something right.”

***

The door clicked shut behind GP, and the room fell into a thick, heavy silence.

Isabelle was still standing near the foot of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She looked small. Not fragile—but like someone who’d been holding herself upright for hours longer than she should’ve.

Max crossed the room and gently took the travel bag from her shoulder.

“You can relax now,” he said quietly.

She gave him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to crash dinner.”

“You didn’t,” he replied. “We were already nearly done.”

He set her bag down carefully by the armchair and turned back to her, studying her face. She looked pale beneath the overhead lights, cheeks still flushed from the hallway chill. Her eyes had the telltale glassiness of someone who was trying very hard not to cry out of sheer exhaustion.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

She blinked. “I—what?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

She blinked. “Um… this morning?”

“This morning,” he repeated, and it came out sharper than he meant it to.

She winced. “I didn’t have time, Max. It’s not a big deal.”

He turned and stalked toward the room service menu like he needed somewhere to put the anger. Not at her. Never at her.

But her brothers?

They had let her show up to Zandvoort and forgotten to book her a room. 

 And now here she was—exhausted, underfed, and still trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like being forgotten was normal.

He pulled the phone off the receiver and ordered something warm. Soup. Bread. Tea.

She hovered by the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.

“Don’t make a whole thing out of this,” she said, voice small.

He looked at her. “Making sure you had a place to sleep? A meal? That’s not a whole thing, that’s the bare minimum.”

“I know, I know.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I just—I didn’t want to make a fuss. Charles was already stressed about media stuff and Arthur was busy with something…”

“And they forgot about you,” Max said flatly. “Again.”

“Max.”

“I’m not going to yell at them,” he said, trying to tamp down the fire crawling up his throat. “But don’t ask me to pretend it’s okay. It’s not.”

She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands curled in her lap. “If I get upset, they make me feel like I’m overreacting. If I don’t say anything, I get forgotten. It’s like—I’m either too much or invisible.”

Max crossed the room, crouched in front of her. Rested his hands on her knees, grounding.

“You are not too much,” he said. “And you are never invisible. Not to me.”

She blinked hard, closing her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. He just looked at her, at the shaky way she exhaled. 

There was a knock at the door. Room service.

She tried to stand up, but he squeezed her hand.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You just… sit. Please.”

He brought the tray over himself—soup, warm rolls, tea already steeping in the pot—and set it on the table in front of the window. Isabelle sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him like he might vanish if she blinked too hard.

“Eat first,” he said softly. 

She hesitated for a moment—then nodded and reached for the spoon.

Halfway through the meal, she finally looked a little more like herself. Less pale. Less folded in on herself. Her shoulders relaxed. She leaned into his side, one hand resting on his knee, like she needed to stay grounded.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head.

“You’re mine,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. 

She didn’t say anything back. But she reached for his hand under the table, tangled their fingers, and held on tight.

And that was enough.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: My brothers left for the track without me.

Isabelle: They literally forgot I was even staying in the same hotel.

Isabelle: I came downstairs and the receptionist said, “Your family already left.” Like I was late for a school trip.

Isabelle: I know you’re busy, I just… needed to tell someone before I screamed into a decorative pillow.

Max: Are you serious?

Max: Stay right there. I’m sending someone now. You’re not taking a taxi like some fan on a giveaway pass.

Isabelle: Max, it’s fine—

Max: No, it’s not. 

Isabelle: You don’t have to fix everything.

Max: I want to fix this.

Max: Stay where you are.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Max: Are you still at the hotel?

Daniel: Yeah, just finishing my coffee. Why?

Max: Can you give someone a ride to the track?

Daniel: Yeah, no worries. Who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc. Her brothers left without her.

Daniel: Wait. Charles’ Isabelle?

Max: Yeah.

Daniel: Why is she not with them?

Max: They forgot her. 

Daniel: …Brutal.  Alright, I’ll head down and grab her.

Max: Thanks. Be nice.

Daniel: When am I not nice?

Max: Don’t answer that.

Daniel: So… why are you arranging this?

Daniel: Since when are you a Leclerc family concierge?

Max: Since right now. Go get her.

Daniel: Alright alright, I’m going.

Daniel: You’re weirdly invested in this.

***

Daniel Ricciardo had done a lot of weird favors in his life—once helped a teammate move house using a go-kart trailer, once lied to a customs officer about being allergic to oranges just to dodge a fruit declaration—but picking up Isabelle Leclerc from the hotel lobby because her own brothers had forgotten her? This one was top tier.

He didn’t know Isabelle well—he’d met her a handful of times, mostly quiet paddock hellos and awkward “Charles’ little sister” nods—but he was 100% sure she didn’t deserve to be ditched like a stray sock in a hotel lobby.

Who does that to their sister?

He had a sister. If someone had left Michelle behind at a race weekend? He’d have thrown hands. The thought of Isabelle, standing in some quiet hotel lobby while her brothers sped off to the circuit like she was an afterthought—it made his blood simmer.

He spotted her right away: sunglasses on, hair in a braid, sitting quietly in one of those fancy lobby chairs that always looked too stiff to be comfortable. She stood when she saw him, smoothing her skirt and lifting a tote bag onto her shoulder with calm, effortless grace.

“Hey,” he said, waving. “Max sent me.”

“I figured,” she said with a small smile. “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He gestured toward the car. “Although I’ve gotta say, you being stranded wasn’t on my bingo card for today.”

She let out a soft laugh as they walked. “It wasn’t on mine either.”

“I mean—how do they forget you?” he asked, a little incredulous now. “You’re their sister. This isn’t like forgetting your phone charger.”

“They’re… busy,” Isabelle said diplomatically, as if that explained everything. Her voice was soft, her expression sincere, and it made something tug in his chest. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t throwing a fit. She wasn’t calling her brothers to scream at them.

She was just… taking it.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“Seriously,” he said as they headed to the car, “they just left without you?”

“They’re not very detail-oriented,” she said with a light shrug, like she was used to making excuses for them.

Daniel frowned. “They’re your brothers, not a logistics team.”

She just smiled a little. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

He opened the door for her and tried not to seethe the entire way to the circuit. 

The silence in the car was comfortable, oddly enough. Isabelle looked out the window, the sunlight catching in her hair. She smelled like something soft and green and expensive—not perfume-y, just... nice. Warm.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you and Max talk much?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Sometimes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t explain anything when he asked me to pick you up.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He just said you needed a ride, and that I was supposed to be nice.”

She smiled to herself. “That sounds like him.”

Daniel watched her for a beat longer. There was something easy in how she spoke about Max. Something familiar. Something… personal.

Suspicious.

He knew that tone. It was the same one Michelle used when she pretended she wasn’t dating her coworker. The same one his friends used when they were trying not to spill the beans too early.

Then, the kicker: her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, read the screen, and her entire expression softened—smile tugging at the corner of her mouth in a way that made her glow.

Daniel caught a glimpse of the contact name.

Max. With a little heart emoji.

And that was it.

The lightbulb went on.

“You’re with Max,” he blurted out.

Isabelle blinked. “Sorry?”

“You’re dating him.”

She blinked again, clearly debating denial… then gave up with a sigh and a smile. “Please don’t tell Charles.”

He gasped. “Charles doesn’t know.”

“Daniel…”

“I can’t unknow this now, Isabelle! This is, like, Top Secret Gossip of the Year! You can’t just hand me this emotional grenade and expect me not to panic!”

She laughed then—soft and real—and Daniel blinked. She looked… happy. Actually, genuinely happy.

He slowed down a little. “So… you’re good? With him?”

She nodded. “Better than I ever thought I could be.”

Daniel let out a long breath and shook his head. “Okay. Fine. I’ll take it to the grave. But when Charles finds out, I’m not in the room. I’m not even in the country.”

***

The paddock was buzzing, media wrapping up, and Max had just emerged from debrief when Daniel cornered him like a man on a mission.

“Hey,” Daniel said, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Max raised an eyebrow, completely unsurprised. “About?”

“You know what about,” Daniel said. “Don’t play dumb.”

Max took a sip of his Red Bull, deadpan. “You found out.”

“I picked her up from the hotel,” Daniel snapped. “I drove her. I talked to her for fifteen minutes. She’s warm, she’s kind, she listens—Max, she’s human sunshine.”

Max smirked, because yeah. Isabelle kind of was.

 “Also? Her brothers left her behind this morning. They forgot her. Like she was a damn charger cable.”

Max exhaled through his nose. “They also forgot to book her a room,” Max said, voice going tight.

“…What?”

“Last night,” Max said. “She got to the hotel and found out Charles and Arthur hadn’t added her to the Ferrari room block. She had nowhere to sleep.”

Daniel stared at him. “So what did she do?”

“She texted me.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t even call them? She just quietly… what, curled up in a hallway with a travel bag and a dream?”

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I told her to come upstairs. She’s staying with me.”

Daniel muttered something that vaguely sounded like a threat. 

“I mean—look, Max, I’ve seen people be casually inconsiderate before. But this? This is Olympic-level. This is gold medal negligence.”

“She wasn’t even mad,” Max said, and the quiet in his voice was far more telling than any shout. “She just said she didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Daniel’s shoulders dropped.

“Jesus.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of it hanging between them. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set.

“I hate that she’s used to it,” he said finally. “The way she just… accepts it. Like being overlooked is normal.”

Daniel looked at him, something softer settling into his expression. “And you’re not gonna let that happen anymore.”

Max shook his head. “Not from me.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Good. But I am still wondering, how the hell did you end up with Isabelle Leclerc? I watched you ghost half of Europe. I watched you emotionally flatline your way through every relationship like you were waiting for a fire drill. And now you’re with her?”

Max looked up, expression shifting from amused to something quieter. Something real. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel paused. “You’re serious about her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max’s expression shifted—still calm, but quieter now. More grounded. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel sighed, shaking his head with a grin. “You really are in deep, huh?”

Max nodded. “Very.”

There was a beat of silence.

Daniel exhaled, some of the theatrics melting away. “Okay. Okay. That’s good. Because she’s too good for you.”

Max chuckled. “I know.”

“No, like, really too good. You forget her birthday? I’ll kill you. You mess up and she cries? I will haunt you.”

Max sobered slightly. “I’m not going to hurt her.”

“I know,” Daniel said. “But I had to say it. It’s the law. Shovel talk protocol.” Daniel pointed at him again, this time less dramatic, more protective. “She’s quiet. She’s kind. She doesn’t push. That kind of girl? People forget to treat her like she matters. You don’t get to be one of them.”

“I know,” Max said instantly.

“I’m serious. You hurt her? You even accidentally make her feel like she’s less than everything? I will become your personal nightmare.”

Max nodded slowly. “Fair.”

Daniel exhaled. “Okay. Good.”

Another pause.

Then: “Also, bro. You’re screwed when Charles finds out.”

Max cracked a faint smile. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel said, standing up, “I’d start investing in body armor. And maybe bribe Fred Vasseur.”

“I already told Victoria and Sophie,” Max said. “Jos knows too.”

Daniel turned mid-step. “So everyone in your family knows, and no one in hers?”

Max just raised his hands helplessly.

Daniel whistled. “Wow. Balls of steel, man.” Then, after a beat: “I still can’t believe you’re the one who pulled this off.”

Max grinned. “Me either.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “If you propose before Charles finds out, I’m not helping you escape.”

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Are you already at the circuit?

Victoria: Just pulling in. Got Luka. Snacks. One million toddler wipes. Why?

Max: I need a favor.

Victoria: This sounds serious.

Max: It is.  Isabelle’s here. Her brothers left without her this morning. Yesterday, they forgot to book her a room. She was alone at the hotel with nowhere to go.

Victoria: You’re kidding.

Max: I wish I was. I found out when she texted me.

Victoria: She texted you instead of calling them?

Max: Said she didn’t want to make a fuss.

Victoria: That’s not a fuss. That’s basic human decency.

Victoria: What the hell is wrong with her brothers?  Did they think she just… didn’t exist this weekend?

Max: I don’t think they thought at all.

Max: I’ve got her staying with me, obviously.  But I’m at the car most of the day. Can you…  I don’t know. Just keep an eye on her?

Victoria: I’m already on it.  I’ll find her. Luka adores her anyway.

Max: Thank you. 

Victoria: Also—Max?

Max: Yeah?

Victoria: You’re doing good. For her.  I can tell.

Max: I just want her to feel safe.

Victoria: She does. That’s why she called you.

***

The Ferrari garage buzzed with the usual race day chaos—engineers shouting data, mechanics darting between screens and tires, media cameras hovering just out of reach.

Isabelle stood off to the side, tucked just behind a stack of spare tires. She had her accreditation lanyard looped around one wrist, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

No one had said anything to her.

Not Charles. Not Arthur.

Not a single “where were you?”

No one had noticed she hadn’t arrived with them.

Not even when she slipped through the paddock gate forty minutes late with Daniel Ricciardo, who’d given her a cheerful wave and then glanced back at her with a concerned little frown, like he could feel her shrinking into herself.

She hadn’t told them. Hadn’t reminded them. It felt pathetic, like trying to make a dent in something carved from stone.

So she watched them from the background. Charles adjusting his earpiece. Arthur laughing with his race engineer. Everyone moving like she was part of the set dressing—quiet, reliable, conveniently invisible.

Her phone buzzed. 

Victoria Verstappen:

Come to Red Bull hospitality. We have fruit, juice boxes, and a child who keeps asking where you are.

A second later:

Victoria Verstappen:

He refuses to eat his banana unless you’re here. Help me.

Isabelle smiled before she could stop herself.

She glanced back at the garage—no one looking, no one asking, no one even noticing she was there—then quietly turned and slipped out through the paddock gate.

The moment she stepped into Red Bull’s space, it was like the air changed. Quieter. Calmer. The edges softened.

And then—

“Belle!”

Luka barreled into her legs like a small, over-caffeinated torpedo, throwing his arms around her knees and looking up with wide, expectant eyes. His curls were slightly flattened from his bucket hat, and his juice box was clutched precariously in one hand.

 “I saved you a banana,” he said solemnly. 

Isabelle crouched down, her heart tightening. “You did?”

He nodded. “Mum said I had to eat fruit, but I said ‘no’ until you came.”

Behind him, Victoria appeared, holding a mostly squished banana and a tired smile.

“You’re now officially the only person Luka will eat produce for. Congratulations,” she said, handing Isabelle the banana. 

Isabelle stood and hugged her.  “You okay?” Victoria asked gently.

Isabelle hesitated. “I’m fine.”

Victoria just arched a brow.

“I mean—I’m okay,” Isabelle corrected. “A little tired. It’s been a weird weekend.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Victoria said. “Max already told me everything.”

Isabelle winced. “Of course he did.”

“Don’t worry. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Very seriously. Like I was being recruited for a mission.”

Isabelle blinked. “He what?”

Victoria shrugged. “You’re important to him. Of course he’s worried.”

Luka tugged on Isabelle’s sleeve. “Wanna draw race cars?”

“I would love to draw race cars,” she said, letting him take her hand.

Victoria reached for a juice pouch and smiled softly at her over Luka’s curls. “Come sit with us. Eat something. You don’t have to go back to that garage today. No one there deserves your company.”

And Isabelle—still tired, still aching in that quiet, unseen way—followed.

Because it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t flashy.

But it felt like home.

***

Victoria had known Isabelle Leclerc for years without really knowing her.

A couple of polite nods in paddocks. One or two mutual “Happy Birthday” comments under photos. That sort of F1-adjacent proximity that meant you were vaguely aware of someone’s life through a filtered lens of curated smiles and race weekend lighting.

And then her brother had fallen in love with her. 

And that had changed everything. 

Somewhere between a soft photo of Lio holding a wooden toy horse and Isabelle quietly liking every story Victoria posted about motherhood, something shifted.

Their friendship had started in Instagram DMs and lessons of dutch. 

And now, sitting on the plush couch in the Red Bull family lounge, Victoria watched Isabelle cradle Luka like she’d been made for it.

He was wrapped around her torso like a baby monkey, eyes already drifting shut, his small hand clinging to the neckline of her cardigan. Isabelle’s hand was in his hair, gently combing through the curls with practiced ease.

Victoria’s heart clenched.

Max had chosen well.

Not because Isabelle was sweet (though she was), or thoughtful (painfully so), or talented (clearly), but because Max had never once let anyone in like this.

He had flings. Flirtations. A relationship or two that never made it past the media glare.

But this?

Isabelle, sitting cross-legged at a coloring table, nodding patiently as Luka explained crayon colours with the enthusiasm of a sugar-high professor?

This was different.

This was real.

And when Max had texted her that morning —Can you keep an eye on her?—Victoria hadn’t even blinked.

Because she knew.

He wasn’t asking out of obligation.

He was asking because Isabelle mattered. Because she was his person. Because her quiet pain had become his problem to carry, and Max Verstappen had never once backed down from something he gave a damn about.

Victoria watched Isabelle gently brush Luka’s hair out of his eyes as he leaned too close to the table, crayon smearing on his elbow, and something in her chest ached.

Because she’d also seen the way Isabelle’s brothers looked past her. The way they forgot her. The way she was a fixture—not a presence. Easy to love from a distance, easier still to forget when something shinier demanded attention.

It made her furious.

It made her want to storm the Ferrari garage and shake Charles and Arthur like snow globes until they remembered who the hell their sister was.

Because if a three-year-old could recognize her worth after one afternoon, what excuse did they have?

Victoria was still fuming quietly when the door to hospitality opened—and Max stepped out onto the terrace.

He spotted them instantly. His shoulders dropped just a little. Not with weariness, but relief.

He crossed the room toward them, his steps sure and unhurried.

And when Isabelle looked up and lit up—not with surprise, not with hesitation, but that soft, unmistakable joy that came from knowing someone was hers—Victoria exhaled.

Max reached them, crouched beside Luka first.

“Hey, little man,” he said, ruffling his hair.

“Max!” Luka beamed. “We made cars!”

“Very impressive,” Max said, scanning the drawings. “Yours definitely wins in the flame department.”

Then he looked at Isabelle.

Their eyes met.

No one said anything for a beat. They didn’t need to.

Max touched her wrist gently. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Better now.”

And Victoria—who’d seen every version of her brother: stormy, closed-off, sharp-edged and impossible—watched as his whole expression softened into something rare.

Something like peace.

She smiled to herself, sipping her drink again.

About time.

Max hadn’t just fallen in love with her.

He’d gotten it right.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Sleuth: GUYS. I was at Zandvoort today and I just saw Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc talking in the paddock like they’re actual best friends??? Since when???

↳@/GridGossip: You’re lying.

↳@/TifosiNation: They follow each other on Instagram now, so maybe it’s not that surprising???

↳@/RedBullRumors: But like… why do they know each other that well?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Do you have PICTURES?

@/F1Sleuth: I couldn’t get a clear photo, but I swear to god Victoria’s little boy was obsessed with Isabelle. Like, full-on clinging to her, as they were sitting in Red Bull hospitality. This was NOT a casual “oh we kind of know each other” interaction.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Excuse me?????

↳@/TifosiForever: I guess it makes sense? Isabelle was around during karting when Max and Charles were kids, so maybe she and Victoria knew each other back then?

↳@/RBfan44: Imagine if Charles and Max are rivals but their sisters became best friends instead lmao

↳@/PaddockGossip: Omg that’s adorable 🥹

@/F1GossipQueen: Maybe they just reconnected? Like old karting friends finding each other again.

↳@/RBUpdates: This is actually really cute, imagine the Verstappens and Leclercs becoming one big happy F1 family.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles and Max being forced into friendship because their sisters are besties is something I NEED to happen.

@/F1Sleuth: OKAY UPDATE. Max Verstappen just showed up and walked straight to Isabelle and Victoria. No hesitation. Like, he was SUPPOSED to be there.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Oh??? Oh. OH.

↳@/GridGossip: Why does this feel like a soft launch but also not at the same time???

↳@/RBfan44: I swear if Max and Isabelle are secretly besties, I’m going to lose my mind.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Besties or… 👀

↳@/PaddockRumors: Max looked so comfortable. Like this isn’t a one-time thing. Isabelle smiled at him like she was expecting him to show up.

@/F1Sleuth: MAX TOOK VICTORIA’S BABY FROM ISABELLE LIKE IT WAS THE MOST NORMAL THING IN THE WORLD. They’re just sitting there, talking, while he’s holding his nephew??? I don’t know what’s happening but I need ANSWERS.

↳ @/PaddockGossip: I’m sorry but Max holding a toddler while casually talking to Isabelle Leclerc?? That’s suspicious. That’s weird.

↳@/RBUpdates: Someone check on Charles because wtf is going on

↳@/F1Conspiracies: I feel like we’re witnessing something we’re not supposed to know about yet.

↳@/RedBullNation: Okay but imagine if they’re just actual close friends and we’re all being insane for no reason.

↳@/GridGossip: But what if we’re not? 😏

@/PaddockInsider: Charles has no idea what’s happening because he’s STILL doing media. Meanwhile, his sister is chilling with Victoria and Max like this is a normal Sunday.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles is going to come back and be so confused lmao

↳@/F1DramaLover: Imagine him seeing Max holding a baby next to Isabelle. He’d actually short-circuit.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Someone record his reaction PLEASE.

@/F1Sleuth: Max just leaned over and said something to Isabelle, and she laughed. Victoria said something too, and they all looked so comfortable?? This is actually driving me insane.

↳@/PaddockGossip: What is going on.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Isabelle, blink twice if you’re secretly a Red Bull spy.

↳@/RBUpdates: The way Max just sat down and started talking like this was totally normal… yeah, something’s up.

This is how I look when I’m reading about old man cock btw

Glory days- S. Vettel

Sebastian Vettel x wife! Reader

In which you ask your husband to fuck you like he did in your glory days

Warnings?; SMUT, p in v, unprotected sex(plz use protection!), oral(f receiving), fingering(f receiving), dirty talk, ass slapping, degrading, cursing, porn with a small plot, prob many errors & bad grammar 

Part of my 1k celly:)

You blamed the internet for being the reason you were seeking out your husband. The damn tik tok you scrolled upon showing your husband being drowned in champagne by two of his closest friends and then him showing his tongue with his index finger up to the world.

You loved the way Sebastian treated you in the bedroom, there was no doubt about that.

But the video had you missing the RedBull days where he was more wild and would have you pinned against a wall with tears streaming down your face as he spat things at you in German, how he’d tease you for so long you were sobbing and begging for him, the quickies in his drivers room while the entirety of the RedBull team were looking for him.

Finally finding him sat at his desk in the office you snuck up behind him, running your hands down his chest to signal your presence.

“Hi meine Liebe” he smiled taking your hand in his, bringing it to his lips.

“Hi” you greeted back.

Turning around in his chair the man smiled up at you before pulling you onto his lap.

“The girls go down easy?”

“By the second story they were both snoring” he laughed at the thought of his sweet twins fast asleep.

“I’m glad, they love having you put them to bed” you beamed snuggling deep into his chest.

“And I love doing it”

You two sat like that for a minute , his large hand running along your back while he replied to emails he’d been putting off.

“Hey Seb?” Your soft voice broke the comfortable silence.

“Yes darling?”

“Remember the night you won your third championship?” You smirked at the sound of the him taking a sharp breath.

“Of course I do, what about it?” He coughed slightly shifting underneath you.

“Remember how drenched we were in champagne? How you poured it down my chest before licking it up? How you made me come three times in three different ways?”

A cry tore from your throat when his hand slotted in your hair and pulled you from his neck.

“What are you trying to do here Schatz?” He grunted

“I just…We haven’t gone at it like that in a long time, and don’t get me wrong I still love the way you fuck me but I kinda miss us being messy and rough” you spoke looking up at him with his favorite doe eyes.

A growl, an actual growl broke from the mans throat before he smashed his lips against yours, the kiss was hot and sloppy, something familiar but yet forgotten.

His free hand reaching down to grip your hip, pulling you so close you could feel his chest moving in and out against your own.

“Seb” you panted pulling away from his lips.

“What?”

“I need you, please. I need you to fuck me so hard that I don’t remember my own name-like you used to.” You begged the blonde.

Without anymore pleading he slipped his hands under your thighs before standing and making his way down the hall.

“Seb you passed the bedroom” you spoke with confusion.

“I know”

Confusion clouded your mind for a moment until you realized he was opening the door to one of your guest rooms.

“Further from the girls, don’t wanna risk your pathetic noises waking them” he spat, his hands hastily pulling your leggings down.

Slotting himself between your thighs he began trailing soft kisses against the insides of your thighs, lips brushing right past your wet cotton panties.

“Seb, please” you begged.

“Hush Kleiner Hase” he smirked at the yearning whimper that broke from your throat at the name.

His torturing kisses continued along your skin, nipping and sucking along the skin coaxing whines and whimpers from you.

“Sebastian baby-please, I need you” you begged, hands running through his soft and overgrown curls.

“Your the one that asked for this baby, wanted me to take care of like I used to.” He tutted and as much as you wanted to argue he was right.

Sebastian hardly made you wait anymore, usually due to the fact that kids made it hard for you two to take your time.

Finally running his fingers over the elastic of your panties Sebastian hooked a finger in the material and pulled them down your legs.

“So wet for me” breathed, mouth watering at the sight of your dripping folds.

“Oh god seb please” you whined.

Your body was aching for him at this point, wanting nothing more than his body pressed against yours while he fucked you silly and made you come over and over again.

A groan left your husbands throat as he left kisses along your folds, his tongue teasingly running through them. Your body shuddered at the feeling of his mouth finally coming into contact with your cunt.

Your fingers gather his hair in a vice grip, pulling on the locks so hard it had Sebastian whimpering.

“Feels so good Seb” you heaved, body shivering as he ate you like a starved man.

His tongue ran along your folds, moving in multiple different patterns while his nose bumped and prodded against your clit.

Sebastian’s hands pinned your hips down as you attempted to grind against his face, a sharp slap against your skin letting you know to knock it off.

Your thighs shook as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten by the seconds, your moans getting louder and your tugs on Sebastian’s hair getting harder.

“M’ gonna-fuck, gonna cum seb” you cried out.

“Go on pretty girl, cum for me. Want you to cum all over my face.” He encouraged as he slipped two fingers inside you to help guide you to your high.

You arched your back, breath quivering as you came, thighs closing around Sebastian’s head drawing the man even closer to your cunt then before.

Broken sobs escaped your throat as you came down from your high, Sebastian left wet kisses along the skin of your lower stomach while his fingers continued to work you open.

“So pretty Schatz” he cooed in your ear before your body was flipped over and you were placed on your knees with your face shoved into the comforter.

You could feel him shuffling before the warm head of his cock was placed against your folds, teasingly running through the cum and spit covered skin.

Sebastian shuddered as he slipped inside, his hands gripping your hips so hard you knew there’d be bruises in their place tomorrow.

“My fucking god..” he growled at the way your walls hugged him.

He could hear your muffled cries as he kept up a brutal pace, the sounds of skin slapping mixing in with your shared moans filled the room.

Your breath hitched with every thrust, you could feel every ridge and vain as he split you open. His deeps grunts and growls making you clench even tighter around him.

“Ah-fuck. Seb it feels so good” you whimpered as he placed a foot onto the soft mattress to allow him a deeper angle over your body.

“Yeah? Like when I fuck you like a little slut?” He spat, leaning his body over your back to whisper in your ear.

The man got nothing but muffled cries in return as your body squirmed underneath his, your toes curling in pleasure as he fucked you deep.

“Clenching me so tight” he panted into your neck.

Your breath hitched at every thrust, the heat in your lower stomach getting hotter and hotter by the second.

“Se-oh!-m’ gonna cum” you stuttered.

He smirked at the way your body shook due to his movements, how you cried as his hand came down hard against your plump ass.

“Go on Meine Liebe, come all over my cock like a good whore” he taunted as his thrusts picked up and soon his hand was placed on the back of your head; shoving your face into the mattress.

Your mouth opened in a silent scream, body trembling, and toes curling as your climax washed over you. Your entire body shook as Sebastian kept going, his thrusts unforgiving as he chased a high of his own.

Grunts filled the room as Sebastian felt the familiar shiver run down his spine and he came deep inside you, your cunt milking him dry.

He smirked at the sight of your fucked out face when he turned your body over, tear tracks covered your red cheeks as you panted for air.

“So pretty Liebling” he shushed as he ran his thumb along your warm cheek.

“Tha-that was amazing” you laughed as you pulled his body down to press against yours.

“Yeah?” He smirked as he placed kisses along your neck.

“Mhm”

“I’m glad because I’m far from being done with you”

-

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

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

........................................................................

The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car passes beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea resting on the nightstand, and my phone—face-down, untouched for the past hour.

I had set it aside like it burned me.

And in a way, it had.

I don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for me there.

The photograph was simple. A candid, taken at a cruel angle, just slightly off-guard—me walking alone through the paddock, my hands delicately adjusting the strap of my bag, my gaze flickering off to the side.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

A part of me had expected this. I’m not naive—this is the cost of being seen.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of my mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

I exhale slowly, smoothing my hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in my throat.

It’s fine.

I was raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

I know I am my own person and that is what matters.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

I don’t turn immediately, letting myself blink once, twice, composing myself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at me.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

I hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

I exhale, tilting my head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of me, his hands warm against my thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, I have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving me his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to me.

I hesitate. Then, finally, I murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on my legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." I let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking my head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for my phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need me to guide him-he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes my stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

I open my mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

I shift under his gaze, biting my lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it. "Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to me.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

I raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving me a look like I have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with me is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow us as we move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm. Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in our wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real-time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on my hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds me close, the way his fingers brush over mine in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward me slightly every time I speak, like I am the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where I belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers me toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees me, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward me—toward our hands, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

I watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for me to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

I take my coffee, cradling the cup in my hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," I say lightly.

I watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to me then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

I, on the other hand, can't help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still echoing through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory. Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found me.

When he saw me, he ran.

Straight toward me, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

I barely had time to react before he collided into me, arms wrapping around my waist, lifting me off the ground like I weighed nothing.

I shrieked—a real, actual shriek—as my feet left the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spun me in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he couldn’t contain it.

And then—he kissed me.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and me in the same breath.

I felt the world erupt around us—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background. But none of it mattered.

Because Lando was grinning against my lips, breathless, victorious, mine.

When he finally set me back down, he didn’t let go.

Didn’t even try to.

Instead, he beamed down at me, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

I rolled my eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasped. Actually gasped.

"You’re kidding. You’re joking." He turned toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

I bit my lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeated, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

I burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

"Lies." He pulled me back in, forehead resting against mine, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for me.

"Say you’re proud of me."

I sighed dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

He nipped at my bottom lip.

"Say it."

I grinned, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hummed, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won arace for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at me, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

I blinked. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turned back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to me, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books. Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

I rolled my eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as we curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in my neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

I ran my fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

I smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

Masterlist Hello i’m L welcome to my ff masterlist

IN ALL FF READER IS AFAB, SHE/HER PRONOUNS BUT HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION AND NO BLOOD RELATIONS WITH ANY CHARACTER SO THAT IS INCLUSIVE

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

OTHER CHARACTERS MASTRERLIST (TOP GUN, Stranger Things, HOTD, TLOU

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

MARVEL - BUCKY BARNES X READER

Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

-fever    (fluff/flirting)

-All the way Bucky told you ‘i love you’ (image, fluff, hurt/comfort) 

Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader (Revenge saga)

the stark!reader one shots are virtually all present in the same universe as are about my OFC called Revenge

Stark!reader facts

This are backgrounds info for my Stark!reader that are useful to have more insight for the one-shots that I publish. all can be read without this info but it helps make some of implied facts  in the one-shots more clear. 

-what the hell?   (stark!reader) (fluff/blurp)

-I wish he was here too (stark!reader) (fluff/angst)

-Rebecca (stark!reader) (fluff/minor angst)

-The Gala Part 1 2 3  (stark!reader) (fluff/angst) 

Tonight is your big come back to stark industries after your brother’s death. Thankfully Bucky will be by your side. (more focused on tony’s death and grief)

-Rogers! The Musical (Stark!reader) (fluff)  Ft. Clint Barton and Stark!Reader (Platonic, best friends)

As your best friend Clint is in town and his children want to go to see the new Rogers! The Musical you/stark!reader bring along your boyfriend Bucky and your friend Sam to the show

-Five Christmases in y/n stark’s life (fluff) (Tony Stark and Stark!reader (platonic, siblings) ft Steve rogers x Stark!reader)

You are tony’s sister this are five of your Christmas throughout your life. Mainly tony stark being cute and taking care of his little sister. 

-Your First Christmas with Bucky (Stark!reader) (fluff) 

-St. Valentine Day (stark!reader) (fluff)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT THIS IS FOR 18+ READERS

Relax (smut/fluff) (Inspired by The Gala)

TONY STARK AND SISTER!READER CENTRED FF MASTERLIST

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

THE ORIGINALS - ELIJAH MIKAELSON X READER 

Most are of OriginalVampire/Witch!Wife!Reader (Theoretically all are in the same universe but is not a series or they don’t need info from other parts)

The more Klaus and BestFriend!Reader with implied Elijah x Reader are signposted as such

Klaus x best friend reader centred Materialist with elijah x reader

Headcanons

-Headcanons of being Elijah’s wife and an original (Part 2)

-Headcanons of being Klaus’s best friend (Part 2) 

-You and elijah falling in love when human (fluff)

-Children misfortunes info on your and Elijah children

More instalments in the Mikaelsons family x reader materialist

Images

-All the way Elijah told you ‘i love you’ (fluff/angst, hurt/comfort) 

Rewritten canon Scenes / reader insert

-Dinner with the Salvatore brothers (Mikaelson reader insert scene from TVD 3x13) (funny/comical image)

-Being daggered (reader insert scene from TO 1x01) (angst) (more Klaus centred)

-You and Elijah say goodbye (reader insert TO 3x22) (hurt/comfort)

-1492 (reader insert TVD 2x19) (fluff)

-1919 (reader insert TO1x15-16 flashbacks) angst and fluff

-Where it all started (rewrite TO 3x18) angst  

One Shots

-The Painting (fluff) 

-Vacation (fluff, canon divergent)

-St Valentine’s day, Really? (fluff)

-Bandits (hurt/comfort) 

-Muse (fluff, suggestive themes)

-It’s not your fault (hurt) 

-Three Christmases blurb (fluff blurb)

-5 times elijah was jealous (funny, fluff, angst, implied smut)

-Consequences (PURE ANGST)

-Cheating spell (angst with happy ending)

-4 times Elijah slept on the sofa (fluff and angst)

Long One Shots

 -A Mikaelson Christmas: - Morning - Day - Evening 

(family fluff, elijah x reader fluff, reader x bestfriends!klaus-rebekah)

-Marcellus: (Part 1) - (Part 2)

(family fluff, elijah x reader fluff, reader and bestfriends!klaus raising marcel)

Series

-Let her go: 1 2 3 4 5 (angst with happy ending, fluff flashbacks)

the hollow takes you. now elijah has to save you (TO 4.9-4.11 rewriting/reader insert )

-The lost daughter masterlist: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 (Angst) +blurbs on masterlist

Human AU

-Drunk (more klaus centred, elijah at end and start) 

-The birth (fluff)

Social media AU

-Mikaelsons + reader incorrect chats 1 (18 +)

-y/n, klaus and Elijah’s IG feed

Smut 

-Elijah NSFW head canons  (smut) 

MIKAELSONS FAMILY X YOU CENTRED FF MASTERLIST 

KLAUS AND YOU CENTRED FF MASTERLIST  (some include implied elijah x reader)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

SUPERNATURAL - DEAN WINCHESTER  X READER  MASTRLIST 

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

send an ask or comment if you want to be added to a taglist

Follow us on AO3

Reading list and side blog @starkleilafavoritereadings . Ultimate favorite ff and suggestion in this post (work in progress)

Horny Teenagers - Max Verstappen

Words: 1,189 Summary: If Max and her were only allowed to say one thing that people described them as, it would be horny teenagers. They disagree with that entirely, after all what’s wrong with having a healthy sex life? Note(s): Suggestive Themes, Slightly NSFW

Masterlist | Support Me!

“Max, how do you feel about the most recent interview your team principal did?”

Max raises an eyebrow, not understanding the question from Olav.

“He described you and your girlfriend as horny teenagers.”

“I mean, I don’t see how we are. I think of it as us having a healthy sex life.” The words slip off his tongue before he can stop them and he can see Y/N just a few feet away cover her mouth at the Dutch words and he worries for a second but then sees her shoulders shaking with laughter.

—

“Red Bull is going to kill us.” She pants, her hand fisting the hair at the back of Max’s skull, his lips sucking a bruise into her neck.

“Like they’ve been threatening for two years?” He smirks, squeezing at her leg that’s wrapped around his waist and really he’s lucky she wore this dress, such easy access to everything he wants.

Her laugh turns into a moan as he grinds his hips into hers, eyes slipping shut.

“I just won my fourth championship. I think they can forgive this.”

Her free hand pulls at the waistband of his pants, fingers grazing over his bulge that’s pushing at his zipper. “You say that like we ever need an excuse to fuck in a club.”

“No, but it certainly helps.”

She hums, eyes opening and she can spot more than a few phones pointed at them and it’s really lucky that Max is so broad. They more than take risks, but Max would never let anyone see any part of her, always sure to press her face into his neck, hiding everything he can so he can greedily have it all for himself.

“Take me back to the hotel? I can’t congratulate you properly here.”

“Whatever you want, schat. Whatever you want.”

—

“You did amazing.” Her voice is nearly a shout and Max’s smile widens, eyes crinkling at the edges and his arms are wrapping around her waist, their lips pressing together.

Her hands immediately go to his face, feeling the flush of his cheeks, the slight sweat dripping from his brow. And she giggles against his lips as one of his hands moves to her ass, grabbing and pulling her closer. She nips at his bottom lip in revenge, breath hitching at the near growl he gives.

“You're getting it later.” He warns.

“Promise?”

He kisses her again. “As soon as I’m done with media.”

She watches him walk back over to where Charles and Oscar are, both shaking their heads at him, and she can see the resigned looks of most of the Red Bull team.

“Twenty seven and still playing grab ass.”

“Max is twenty-seven.” She corrects, smiling at GP and his amused expression.

“Oh yes, sorry, you're how old again?”

She shakes her head, nudging him slightly as they both watch Max step up to give his interview.

She sighs, continuing to watch him. “Winning looks so good on him.”

“I don’t need to hear that.”

“None of us do.” Rupert murmurs.

“Really starting to think you guys hate when I speak.”

“We do.”

GP nods, “Would really rather you didn’t. Don’t think I need to hear anymore about Max.”

“Your loss.” She sings, blowing Max a kiss as he looks over at her one last time before leaving for the cooldown room.

—

“Actually, before everyone goes, I wanted to let you all know some exciting news before we all see each other next time for preseason testing.”

Everyone in the room shares glances at Max’s words, the driver practically beaming.

“Y/N and I are expecting a baby.”

The room erupts in congratulations. People getting up and swarming and the driver and he laughs, accepting the pats on the backs and hugs.

“How is she doing?”

“She’s doing great. No morning sickness or anything, she’s thirteen weeks along, so we finally started telling people.”

“That’s amazing, really, Max. When is her due date?”

“August 17th. A bit fortunate with the new calendar, but babies have their own schedule, the doctor told us.”

“Thirteen weeks, huh?” GP asks.

Max nods and they can see his hand twitching to his wallet and they just know that he’s got an ultrasound or two in there.

“Vegas must have been a really nice celebration.”

Max laughs, a slight pink to his cheeks. “Well, the club was nice, but the hotel was much better.”

Groans escape from everyone in the room at the reminder of all the pictures and videos that had flooded social media from that night, but they all can’t help exchange looks, more than happy for the driver but also finally, finally it would mean a break from the nightmare that was Max and Y/N together and their constant horniness.

—

Rupert looks in horror at Max’s back.

“What happened?”

Max looks over his shoulder at him, bending to get a shirt before sliding it on. “What do you mean?”

“Your back is shredded.”

“You say that like it’s the first time.”

He splutters, running a hand over his face. “No, but Y/N’s pregnant.”

“And?”

“You two are still having sex.”

Max laughs, slapping him on the back. “You do know that doctors actually encourage that right? It’s good, apparently. And what you thought that just because she was pregnant we’d stop? It’d take more than that.”

Rupert watches Max leave in horror.

—

“Max,” At the sound of his name, he looks away from Charles’ phone that displayed a picture of Leo. “I just wanted to offer my congratulations on the news of you and Y/N expecting a baby and was wondering if you could stamp out a rumor of sorts.”

“Thank you and a rumor? We are talking about rumors again? So early in the season.”

A few reporters laugh.

“It is quite early. This has to do with a report that apparently last weekend your hotel room in Bahrain was vandalized. Broken mirror, torn pillows and such.”

Max coughs, trying not to laugh as he sees actual concern on the reporter's face. “No, nothing like that happened. Just, uh, a little overexcited so to speak.”

Charles lets out a laugh that he quickly turns into a cough when feeling his press officer glare at him.

“Mate.” He murmurs.

Max smiles, dropping the microphone back in his lap as Tom changes the subject, asking Jack something. “Well if I said any more I’d get fined.”

“I can imagine.” And Charles’ gaze softens. “I know I’ve said it already but congratulations. You and Y/N will make excellent parents.”

Max’s smile widens. Charles had been the first driver to text him to offer his congratulations, and his repetitiveness of offering them was nice. It was good being so close with Charles after their rocky karting years. “Thank you, Charles. I’m starting to think you want to be in the running for godfather.”

“Oh, absolutely. If not, I better be known as uncle Charles. I’m offering piano, Italian, and karting lessons.”

“Fucker.” Max mumbles at the last one with an amused look and small nod before turning his attention back to Tom.

---

COMING HOME | LN 4

lando norris!dad x fem!reader!mom

warn: super fluffffff

prev chap

After an entire week away on a girls’ trip, Y/N was finally coming home.

And Lando? He was already there, waiting—alone.

Noah and Leo were at a Kai (Max son) birthday party, which meant he had Y/N all to himself.

And oh, he was going to make the most of it.

The second he spotted her walking out of arrivals, suitcase in tow, he was on the move.

Lando pulled her into a crushing hug, burying his face in her neck. “Finally,” Lando groaned into her neck, inhaling deeply as if he was trying to memorize her scent. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”

Y/N laughed, hugging him back just as tightly. “I missed you too, baby.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue-green eyes shining with something possessive. “No, you don’t get it. A week, love? That felt like a damn year.”

She smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “A little dramatic, aren’t we?”

Lando huffed. “Not dramatic. Just a man starving for his wife.”

Lando grumbled dramatically, pulling back just enough to pepper kisses all over her face. His hands never stopped roaming—her back, her waist, her arms—like he was trying to make sure she was really there.

On the drive home, Lando kept one hand firmly on her thigh, occasionally squeezing or rubbing circles with his thumb.

The moment they stepped inside the house, it was game over.

He was all over her.

Lando clung to Y/N like he was making up for every second she had been gone. He nuzzled into her neck, whined whenever she tried to move away, and made it physically impossible for her to go anywhere without him attached in some way.

“M’spoiled now,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re not allowed to leave me that long ever again.”

Y/N laughed. “You sound worse than the kids.”

Lando scoffed. “Nah, I’m worse. Noah and Leo don’t have the same needs as me.” He nipped at her neck. “You’re mine.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, but the truth was, she loved how much he adored her. Even after years together, two kids, and a chaotic life, Lando still treated her like she was his entire world.

He tilted his head up to look at her, his lips brushing against her jaw as he pouted. “At least they get you every day. I had to survive a week.”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “You called me every night.”

“Not the same,” he whined, kissing a slow path down her neck.

Lando wanted to be spoiled.

And he was making the most of it.

For the few precious hours they had alone, Lando insisted on being babied.

When it was time for lunch, he refused to eat unless Y/N fed him. He sat on the couch, eyes bright and mischievous, lips slightly parted as he waited.

“Baby,” Y/N sighed. “You can eat by yourself.”

Lando grinned. “Yeah, but I don’t want to.”

She shook her head fondly but gave in anyway, bringing the spoon to his lips. He accepted it happily, humming in delight.

“Mmm. Tastes better when you feed me,” he teased, leaning in for a quick kiss.

When it was time to shower, he refused to let her go alone

“Oh,” Lando gasped dramatically. “I also need help in the shower.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

Lando nodded solemnly. “Can’t possibly get properly clean without my wife’s assistance.”

And that’s how they ended up spending way too long in the shower, half washing, half just standing under the warm water, Lando’s arms wrapped around Y/N as he whispered how much he loved her.

Afterward, they tumbled into bed, Lando immediately pulling her into his chest, their legs tangling together as he buried his face in her neck.

“M’gonna get jealous of our own kids,” he murmured. “They always steal you away from me.”

Y/N smiled, running her fingers through his damp curls. “That’s because they need me.”

Lando huffed. “I need you.”

Lando, Y/N, and a bubble of warmth that neither of them wanted to pop.

But then—

The sound of tiny feet stomping up the stairs.

A door bursting open.

And two little voices squealing, “MOMMY!”

Noah and his little brother Leo came barreling into the room, full of excitement—until they saw the scene in front of them.

they saw their dad.

Still wrapped around their mom.

Still.

Holding.

Her.

Their excitement immediately turned into betrayal.

Noah stopped in his tracks, his tiny fists clenching at his sides. His big brown eyes shimmered with pure devastation.

Leo, the more dramatic of the two, gasped so loudly it was like the world had ended.

Noah’s voice wobbled. “Mommy!” His bottom lip quivered. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I wanted to hug you first!”

Y/N’s heart melted as she trying to reached out for him, but she couldn't because Lando mischievously held her back in his hug.

“Oh, baby—” Leo huffed, crossing his arms tightly.

“Daddy!” he accused, his little voice high with outrage. “Why is Daddy like that?!?! Now Leo is angry. Leo don’t want Daddy anymore!”

Lando grinned, clearly thriving off their reactions.

"Oh?" he teased, tightening his grip on Y/N. "What's wrong, little man?"

Leo's little face scrunched up. "NO!! That's Leo's mommy!"

Lando laughed, pressing even more kisses onto Y/N’s cheek, just to rile them up. “Mmm, no, I think this is papa’s mommy. She is mine,”

Lando hummed, holding Y/N even closer. “Right, my love?”

Noah gasped in horror. "NO! That's our Mommy!"

Leo stomped his little foot, his voice high and wobbly. "Papa's Mommy is Glandma, Y/N is Leo's Mommy!"

Y/N had to bite back a laugh as Leo’s little lisp made his words even cuter.

Lando, fully enjoying himself, grinned. “You sure?” Lando teased. “I think she likes me more.”

Leo’s eyes welled up instantly. “Daddy’s bad! I will hit you!”

Lando smirked, challenging, “Oh yeah? You think you can take me, little man?”

Noah narrowed his eyes. “Daddy’s Bad! You’ll really get hit.”

Leo, fully tearing up now, sniffled. "Yeah, Daddy will get eaten by a monstel!"

Lando lost it.

"Oh nooo," he mocked, his voice exaggerated as he rocked Y/N in his arms. "Not the big bad monstel!"

Leo screeched, turning to Noah for backup.

“Daddy’s not scared of the monstel!” he wailed.

Lando grinned. “Oh, Daddy’s not scared because Daddy is safe in Mommy’s arms.” He smirked, snuggling into Y/N dramatically. “See? Daddy’s all safe here.”

Noah and Leo decided they had enough.

With both battle cries, they launched themselves onto the bed—except in their excitement, they almost tripped.

“Eh, be careful! Be careful, baby,” Y/N gasped, her voice instantly gentle and full of concern.

The second they heard her soft tone, both boys sniffled and made a beeline for her, scrambling into her arms. Lando reached out instinctively, steadying them as they climbed onto the bed.

Noah and Leo immediately latched onto Y/N, snuggling into her sides and glaring at Lando.

“Eh, don’t hit Daddy, Daddy will get hurt,” Y/N soothed, rubbing Noah’s back. “How about we just don’t play with Daddy? Noah and Leo can cuddle with Mommy instead, okay?”

That did the trick.

Both boys instantly relaxed, wrapping their tiny arms around her.

Lando gasped in betrayal. “Wait. No. That’s not fair—”

Too late.

They had claimed her.

For the next hour, the four of them lay tangled in bed together, the boys happily cuddled against Y/N as they chattered about their day. Noah recounted every little detail of the birthday party, while Leo excitedly explained how he talked to the “screen people” when Lando streamed.

And in that moment, Lando didn’t mind losing the game.

Because there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Lost and Found

Lando Norris x Reader

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

Warnings: descriptions of a car crash and memory loss

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

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

And then-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you with the driver now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? I need your name.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t mention it, Lando.”

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

***

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

Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ambulance jerks into motion, the siren blaring overhead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando frowns, like the question is too complicated to process. “… Tuesday?” He guesses, though it sounds more like a question than an answer.

The EMT glances at you briefly, then back at Lando. “Close enough,” he mutters under his breath.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“Lando Norris,” Lando slurs, then huffs, like just saying his own name took monumental effort.

“All right, Lando. You're doing okay, but you’ve probably got a concussion,” the EMT says, his tone calm but firm. “I need you to stay awake for me, yeah?”

Lando's eyelids droop again, dangerously close to closing. “M’tired,” he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.

“I know you are, but you’ve gotta fight it. Stay with me, Lando.”

You lean forward, suddenly anxious. “Hey. Lando.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it gets his attention. His eyes flutter open, just barely.

“Stay awake, okay? Keep talking.”

He shifts sluggishly, his head rolling to the side. “‘Bout what?”

“Anything,” you say quickly, glancing at the EMT as if looking for backup. “Uh … tell me more about racing.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Fast,” he mumbles, and you can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, I figured,” you say. “But, like … how fast?”

“Really fast,” he whispers, his voice trailing off into nothing. His eyes close again, and this time, they don’t reopen.

“Lando?” You reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his arm. “Hey. Lando.”

The EMT leans in, tapping Lando's cheek with two fingers. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”

Nothing. Lando’s breathing is steady but shallow, his head slack against the neck brace.

The EMT mutters a curse under his breath. “He’s out. Heart rate’s steady, but we’re not taking any chances.”

You feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. “Is that bad?” You ask, your voice smaller than you'd like.

“It’s not good,” the EMT says bluntly. He grabs a stethoscope and checks Lando’s breathing again. “We’re almost there. Just gotta keep him stable.”

The ambulance sways as it takes a corner, and you clutch the edge of the bench to steady yourself. Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast in your ears.

You watch the EMT work, every movement precise and deliberate, but it still feels like time is dragging, like the ambulance isn’t moving fast enough.

The siren wails overhead, a sharp, urgent reminder of how serious this is.

You glance at Lando’s face — pale, slack, and too still — and something twists painfully in your chest. You don’t even know this guy, not really, but the thought of him not waking up feels … wrong.

“Hang in there, Lando,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

The ambulance jerks to a halt, and the EMT presses a button to radio the hospital. “ETA sixty seconds. Unconscious male, suspected head trauma. Prep trauma room two.”

Your stomach flips as the doors fly open, and two more EMTs appear, ready to unload.

The gurney jerks as they lift it, and you follow closely behind, stepping out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital bay. The cold air hits you again, but it barely registers.

The EMT glances over his shoulder at you as they wheel Lando inside. “This is where we leave you,” he says, not unkindly.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Right.”

The gurney disappears through the sliding glass doors, and you stand there for a moment, unsure what to do next.

The night air feels heavier now, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a strange emptiness.

***

The waiting room is cold, with that sterile, over-sanitized smell that clings to every surface. You sit awkwardly in a plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over your chest. It’s eerily quiet, except for the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile and the low murmur of nurses passing through. A vending machine hums softly against the far wall.

You’ve lost track of how long it’s been since they wheeled Lando through those double doors. An hour? Two? Time feels slippery here, twisting and turning in on itself, every minute stretching out longer than the last. You try scrolling through your phone, but nothing holds your attention. The adrenaline has drained from your system, leaving you restless and uneasy.

It would’ve been easy to leave after they took him inside. After all, he’s a complete stranger. But the thought of him waking up alone, disoriented and confused in a hospital bed, doesn’t sit right with you. And so, you wait.

A nurse pokes her head out of a side door at one point, scanning the room. Your heart jumps, but she’s only calling for someone else — a patient’s relative who stands up with a relieved sigh. The room empties little by little, families reuniting with loved ones or filing out into the night.

You shift in your seat, rubbing your hands together to stave off the chill. You could leave right now, go home, crawl into bed. But somehow, you know you won’t — not until you know Lando is okay.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the door swings open again. This time, it’s a physician in pale blue scrubs, holding a clipboard. He looks around the room, squinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Is anyone here with the car crash patient?” He asks, voice low but carrying through the empty space.

You stand up before you even realize what you’re doing. “I … I’m here.”

The doctor’s eyes flick over to you, eyebrows raised. “You’re with him?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, sort of. I was there when it happened.”

The doctor approaches, glancing down at his clipboard. “He’s stable,” he says, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “He has a pretty severe concussion, though. He lost consciousness on the way here, but we were able to wake him up a little while ago.”

You let out a slow breath. “That’s good, right?”

“Yes and no,” the doctor replies, shifting his weight. “It looks like he has post-traumatic amnesia. He doesn’t seem to know who he is — doesn’t even remember his own name.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably. “Amnesia?”

The doctor nods. “It’s not uncommon with head injuries like his. In most cases, the memory loss is temporary. But it’s hard to say how long it will take for him to regain his memories — could be hours, days, or longer.”

You swallow, trying to process that. “He didn’t have any ID on him?”

“No wallet, no phone. Nothing to tell us who he is.” The doctor frowns. “Do you know his name?”

You feel a flicker of panic — you barely know anything about him. But you remember something from the ambulance, a faint, slurred sentence buried in the fog of the night. “His first name is Lando,” you say slowly. “He told the EMT that much. I-“ You press your fingers to your temples, frustrated with yourself. “He also said his last name, but I can’t remember it right now. It was … it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

The doctor gives you a sympathetic nod. “That’s all right. At least we have a starting point.” He flips a page on his clipboard. “Lando … okay.” He pauses, then looks at you with a curious expression. “Are you related to him?”

“No,” you say quickly. “I just … I saw the crash and rode with him in the ambulance.”

The doctor tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “It’s unusual,” he says slowly, “but since he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him … we could make an exception and let you visit him.”

You blink, surprised by the offer. “You would? Even though I’m not family?”

The doctor nods. “Under the circumstances, yes. He’s confused, disoriented. It might help him to see a familiar face — well, at least someone who’s been around since the accident.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod. “Yeah. I’ll visit him.”

The doctor gives you a small smile, then gestures toward the door. “Follow me.”

Your heart beats a little faster as you trail behind him through the sterile hallways, passing closed doors and curtained-off spaces. The farther you go, the quieter it gets, until the only sounds are the soft squeak of your shoes on the linoleum and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

Finally, the doctor stops in front of a room and gestures for you to go inside. “He’s still a bit groggy, but you can sit with him for a while.”

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, and push the door open.

The room is small, dimly lit by a single lamp on the wall. Lando lies in the bed, looking pale and disoriented, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and an IV drips steadily from a bag hooked to a pole beside the bed.

You step inside, and his gaze shifts toward you, though it’s clear he’s struggling to stay focused.

“Hey,” you say softly, pulling the chair closer to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

He blinks at you, his expression hazy with confusion. “I … I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice scratchy. “Where … where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital,” you explain gently. “You had a car accident.”

Lando frowns, his brow furrowing. “A car accident?”

“Yeah,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “It was pretty bad, but you’re going to be okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. “Do I … do I know you?”

You shake your head. “No, we just met — well, kind of. I was there when you crashed. I called for help and rode with you in the ambulance.”

Lando’s lips press together, as if he’s trying to make sense of your words. “Why?”

The question takes you by surprise. “Why what?”

“Why did you … stay?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You hesitate, not entirely sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” you admit. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Lando gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. Then he opens them again, struggling to stay awake.

“You said my name is Lando?” He asks, his voice faint.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’s what you told me. Do you … remember anything else?”

Lando shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering across his face. “No,” he whispers. “Nothing.”

You offer him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You just need to rest.”

He nods weakly, his eyelids drooping.

For a moment, the room is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the IV drip and the distant sounds of the hospital outside.

“Thank you,” Lando murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible.

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For staying,” he whispers. “For not leaving me alone.”

You feel a strange warmth spread through your chest at his words, unexpected but not unwelcome.

“Of course,” you say softly. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Lando’s eyes close again, his breathing evening out as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

You sit back in the chair, watching him for a moment longer, feeling oddly connected to this stranger — this man whose life, for reasons you can’t quite explain, has suddenly become intertwined with yours.

***

You wake up to the soft click of a door opening. For a moment, you’re disoriented — the sharp smell of antiseptic in the air and the hum of machines aren’t what you expect. Then it all comes rushing back: the crash, the ambulance, Lando.

You straighten in the uncomfortable hospital chair, your neck aching from the awkward position you slept in. A nurse in pale scrubs moves around the room quietly, checking Lando’s IV and jotting notes on her chart. She glances at you and offers a small smile.

“Good morning,” she says softly, like someone used to tiptoeing around the sick and injured.

You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Morning. Is he …”

The nurse nods toward Lando. “Still sleeping. His vitals look stable, though.”

You glance at him. He’s shifted a little in his sleep, curled slightly on his side with the blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His face is peaceful, his breathing steady, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget the chaos of last night.

The nurse scribbles something else on her clipboard. “The doctor will be in soon to check on him. If he’s doing okay, we might start talking about discharge.”

You frown slightly. “Discharge? Already?”

The nurse gives a small shrug. “It’s common. Once someone is stable, there’s no reason to keep them here longer than necessary.”

Before you can respond, the door opens again, and the same physician from last night steps in, looking far more awake and put-together than you feel. He carries a folder tucked under one arm and offers a polite nod as he approaches Lando’s bed.

“Morning,” he says briskly, flipping through the papers. “Let’s see how our patient is doing.”

Lando stirs at the sound of voices, his brow furrowing slightly before his eyes flutter open. He blinks at the ceiling, clearly disoriented, and then his gaze shifts toward you.

“Hey,” you say softly, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you in a dream that hasn’t fully faded. “I … I don’t know,” he mumbles. His voice is raspy, as if unused for too long. “Where …”

“The hospital,” you remind him gently. “You were in an accident. Do you remember?”

Lando’s expression crumples with frustration, and he shakes his head weakly. “No. I don’t remember anything.”

The doctor steps closer, setting the folder down on the bedside table. “It’s okay, Lando,” he says in a professional but kind tone. “You’ve had a serious concussion. Amnesia like this is not unusual. It may take some time for your memory to come back.”

Lando doesn’t respond. His hand rests on the blanket, fingers twitching slightly, as if he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.

The physician clears his throat and flips through the imaging results. “We’ve run more tests, and everything looks good. No fractures, no swelling that we need to be concerned about. Medically speaking, you’re ready to be discharged.”

Lando stares at the doctor, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Discharged? But … I don’t even know who I am.”

The doctor sighs sympathetically. “I know it’s overwhelming, but there’s no medical reason to keep you here. Usually, when patients have amnesia, we recommend that they go home, rest, and be with family until their memory returns.”

Lando lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Except I don’t even know if I have family.”

The doctor exchanges a glance with you, clearly uncomfortable. “We tried contacting local authorities, but without ID, there’s not much we can do to locate anyone for you right now. In the meantime …” He trails off, glancing at his watch. “You’ll need to find somewhere safe to rest. Hospitals aren’t designed for long stays in cases like this.”

You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out at first. A knot twists in your stomach — Lando looks so lost, sitting there in the stiff hospital bed with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

And then, without thinking, you blurt out, “He can come home with me.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and unexpected.

Both Lando and the doctor turn to stare at you, identical looks of confusion written across their faces.

“What?” Lando asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

You blink, as if hearing yourself for the first time. “I mean … if he has nowhere else to go,” you say quickly, your heart racing. “It doesn’t feel right just … leaving him like this.”

The doctor looks at you like you’ve just volunteered to adopt a stray animal off the street. “Are you sure about that?” He asks cautiously. “Taking care of someone with memory loss can be challenging.”

You nod before you can second-guess yourself. “I’m sure. I can help him get settled until … until he remembers something.”

Lando’s brow furrows as he tries to process what’s happening. “You’re serious? I can’t even remember my own name, and you’re just … offering to let me stay with you?”

You shrug, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “It’s not like I’m going to just let you wander the streets of New York with a concussion.”

Lando huffs a soft laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am. I could be a serial killer or something.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you feel like a serial killer?”

He pauses, blinking at the question. “No. I just feel … confused.”

“Then we’ll take our chances,” you say, standing a little straighter.

The doctor looks between the two of you, clearly torn. “All right,” he says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. “We’ll need you to sign some forms for his release. And …” He glances at Lando. “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days — no strenuous activities, no driving, and absolutely no drinking.”

Lando nods slowly, still looking stunned by the turn of events.

The doctor finishes writing and tears off a sheet of paper, handing it to you. “Here are his discharge instructions. Make sure he rests and drinks plenty of fluids. If there’s any change — headaches, confusion, anything — bring him back right away.”

You nod, taking the paper. “Got it.”

The doctor gives a final nod before stepping toward the door. “A nurse will be in soon to help with the paperwork. Good luck.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with Lando in the quiet room.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Lando breaks the silence first. “You’re really doing this?”

You glance at him, and for the first time, you realize how scared he must be — lost in a city he doesn’t remember, with no memory of who he is or where he belongs.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m really doing this.”

Lando’s lips twitch, almost like he’s trying to smile but isn’t quite sure how. “You’re either very brave,” he mutters, “or very stupid.”

“Maybe a little of both,” you admit, and the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.

He looks down at the blanket covering his legs, running his fingers along the edge. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, standing up and smoothing out your wrinkled clothes. “Just … don’t make me regret it, okay?”

Lando glances up at you, his expression serious now. “I’ll try not to.”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, holding a clipboard. “Ready to go?”

You nod, glancing at Lando. “Ready?”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever comes next. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

And with that, the two of you step into the unknown together.

***

The subway car rattles along the tracks, a steady clunk-clunk that fills the silence between you and Lando. He’s seated beside you, his head tilted back against the cold metal pole, watching the city blur past through the dirty windows. His posture is relaxed — almost too relaxed — but you can tell it’s not comfort. It’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional. Every so often, he glances at the other passengers with the wide-eyed caution of someone dropped into an unfamiliar world.

“You okay?” You ask, nudging his arm gently with your elbow.

He turns toward you, slow and deliberate, like even small movements take effort. “I guess. Just feels … weird.” He rubs his temple, the faint crease of a headache forming between his brows. “Everything’s moving so fast, and I can’t tell if that’s the world or just my brain being scrambled.”

“Definitely the world.” You try to smile, hoping it’ll ease some of the weight he’s carrying. “New York doesn’t stop for anyone. You get used to it.”

Lando offers a weak chuckle, but the sound fades quickly. “You do this every day?”

You shrug. “Pretty much. You learn how to block out the noise after a while.”

He leans his head back again, eyes drifting shut as if the conversation itself takes more energy than he has to spare. You glance at him, wondering what’s going through his mind — if he’s terrified, disoriented, or just trying to keep it together for your sake. Maybe all three.

When the subway screeches to a stop at your station, you nudge him again. “This is us.”

Lando blinks awake, dragging himself upright as you both stand. He follows you off the train, into the chaotic swirl of the station. The noise, the movement, the fluorescent lights — none of it fazes you, but you can feel him stiffen beside you as if it’s too much all at once.

You make your way to the stairs, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, and Lando does his best to keep up. “This city is … a lot,” he mutters as you ascend to street level.

“Yeah.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “But it grows on you. Like a fungus.”

Lando snorts — an actual laugh this time, though it’s still edged with disbelief. “I think I’ll take your word for it.”

The two of you walk in silence for the few blocks to your apartment. It’s late morning by now, the streets bustling with people on errands or rushing to work. You pull your coat tighter against the breeze and glance at Lando, who’s walking beside you with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of the hospital-issued sweatpants.

When you finally reach your building, you unlock the front door and lead him up two flights of stairs. Your apartment isn’t much — a tiny one-bedroom with a narrow kitchen, mismatched furniture, and walls covered in posters and sticky notes. But it’s yours, and for now, it’ll be his too.

“Home sweet home,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let him in.

Lando hesitates in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where you live?” He asks, his tone curious rather than judgmental.

“Yep. Not exactly a palace, but it works.” You drop your keys on the counter and kick off your shoes, motioning for him to do the same. “Welcome to grad student life.”

He steps inside cautiously, as if the apartment might swallow him whole, and his eyes land on the piles of law books scattered across the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even the armrest of the couch. A legal pad covered in half-finished notes is open on the floor, surrounded by highlighters and empty coffee cups.

“It looks like a library threw up in here,” he says, eyebrows raised.

You let out a laugh, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah, sorry. It’s kind of … everywhere.”

He picks up one of the books from the table — Constitutional Law: Cases and Materials — and flips through the pages with an amused expression. “So … you’re a lawyer?”

“Not yet,” you correct, dropping your bag on the couch. “I’m still a student. Columbia Law.”

Lando sets the book down carefully, as if it might bite. “That sounds … intense.”

“It is.” You collapse onto the couch with a sigh, stretching your legs out. “It’s basically my whole life right now. Classes, studying, internships … sleep, if I’m lucky.”

Lando leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You like it?”

You tilt your head, considering the question. “Yeah. I mean, it’s hard as hell, but I do. There’s something … satisfying about figuring things out, solving problems.”

He nods slowly, as if trying to imagine what that kind of life feels like. “So, you’re one of those people. The smart ones.”

You laugh. “I guess that depends on the day.”

Lando’s gaze drifts back to the books, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re just … letting me crash here. Even though you’ve got all this going on?”

You shrug, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “It’s not a big deal.”

He gives you a look — one that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, I don’t even know who I am, and you brought me home.”

“Well, you didn’t seem like a serial killer.” You grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take you if it came down to it.”

Lando chuckles, the sound low and genuine this time. “Right. Because you’ve been training in MMA on the side.”

“Exactly.” You gesture to the couch. “That’s where you’ll sleep, by the way. Sorry it’s not a king-sized bed or anything.”

He glances at the couch, then back at you with a wry smile. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He shrugs, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Memory loss, remember?”

“Right.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Guess we’ll both find out what you’re used to.”

Lando walks over to the couch and sinks into it experimentally, testing the cushions. “It’s not bad,” he says after a moment. “I’ll survive.”

“Good. Because I’m fresh out of five-star hotels.”

He leans back, resting his head against the cushion, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “For … all of this. I know it’s weird.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “It’s not that weird.”

Lando opens one eye, giving you a skeptical look. “It’s definitely weird.”

“Okay, maybe a little.” You grin. “But life’s weird sometimes. You just roll with it.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes drifting shut again. “You make it sound easy.”

You watch him for a moment, the way his breathing slows, the tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. There’s something oddly comforting about having someone else here, even if that someone is a total stranger who just happens to have lost his memory.

“You hungry?” You ask, standing up and stretching. “I’ve got … well, probably just instant noodles, but it’s food.”

Lando cracks a smile without opening his eyes. “Instant noodles sound like a feast right now.”

“High standards, I see,” you tease, heading to the kitchen.

As you fill a pot with water and set it on the stove, you can’t help but glance back at him. He’s still stretched out on the couch, looking more at peace than he has since you met him.

And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, it feels right.

***

Steam rises from the bowls of instant noodles, curling into the dim air of your apartment. The two of you sit side by side on the couch, knees almost touching, slurping quietly while some mindless local news plays in the background. It’s not much, but there’s something comforting about the simplicity of it. For the first time all day, things feel … normal.

Lando scoops a forkful of noodles, twirling them slowly, like even eating requires focus. “So, this is gourmet cuisine?” He teases, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, these are the premium kind,” you shoot back, nudging him with your elbow. “I even added an egg. That’s high-level cooking.”

He chuckles, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment you think maybe — just maybe — he’s settling in. But then the newscaster’s voice shifts into something more urgent, drawing both of your attention.

“… the United States Grand Prix is set to take place this weekend in Austin, Texas, with the world’s top drivers arriving to compete in what promises to be a thrilling event …”

The screen cuts to footage of race cars whizzing by, sleek and impossibly fast, engines roaring like angry beasts. Drivers in fireproof suits pose for cameras, and somewhere in the background, a McLaren car gleams under stadium lights.

You glance at Lando. He’s sitting perfectly still, bowl of noodles forgotten in his lap. His eyes are glued to the screen, unblinking, as if the images are stirring something just out of reach — a half-buried memory fighting to resurface.

“Lando?” You say softly.

He doesn’t respond, just stares at the television like it’s showing him the key to his past. His fingers tighten around the bowl, knuckles going white.

“Does that … mean anything to you?” You ask cautiously, setting your own bowl aside. “The race?”

Lando’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His brow furrows deeply, frustration flickering across his features. He shakes his head slowly, like trying to sift through fog.

“I … I don’t know,” he mutters. “It feels … familiar. Like I should know something about it.”

You lean closer, watching his face carefully. “Do you think it’s connected to you? Maybe that’s-“

“I don’t know!” Lando snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. He winces immediately, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Sorry. I just … it’s right there, you know? Like I’m supposed to know why this matters, but I can’t grab it.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, hoping to calm him down. “It’s not your fault.”

Lando drags a hand down his face, breathing hard through his nose. “It’s just … frustrating,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember anything?”

The sheer helplessness in his voice makes your heart ache. You can see him trying so hard to stay composed, but it’s slipping. He blinks rapidly, his jaw tight, as if he’s on the verge of tears and doing everything in his power not to let them fall.

You set your hand on his arm gently. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to force it.”

Lando shakes his head again, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s not okay. I don’t even know who I am. What kind of person forgets their whole life?”

“You’re not broken,” you tell him firmly. “You just had a really bad accident. Your brain’s protecting you, probably — it’ll come back when it’s ready.”

He looks at you, his eyes glossy, and for a moment he seems like a kid lost in a supermarket, scared and trying not to cry. “But what if it doesn’t?” His voice is small, filled with uncertainty. “What if I never remember?”

The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. It’s strange, seeing someone like him — someone who carries himself like the world should make sense — crumble under the weight of something he can’t control.

You don’t know what to say. What can you say? You’re just a law student who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. But you can’t leave him in this. You won’t.

“It’ll come back,” you say softly. “And until it does, you’re not alone, okay?”

Lando presses his lips together, nodding slightly even though he doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head back, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower alone can force the tears away. You see the frustration etched in every movement, the way he clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into his palms.

“Why does this feel so familiar?” He whispers, more to himself than to you. “That car … the race … it’s like I know it, but it’s just out of reach. It’s right there, but I can’t …”

You squeeze his arm, grounding him. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Lando exhales shakily, dragging his hands through his messy curls. “I feel … useless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t even know what.”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’re not useless. You survived a crash that should’ve been a lot worse. That’s already pretty impressive.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah. Real impressive. Can’t even remember my own name.”

“You remembered some of it,” you remind him. “That’s a start.”

Lando looks at you, his expression hovering between gratitude and exhaustion. “You didn’t have to do this, you know. Take me in. Deal with … whatever this is.”

You shrug. “I wasn’t about to leave you on your own.”

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to memorize your face — or maybe trying to understand why a stranger would care enough to help him. Finally, he nods, a small but genuine gesture.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure to remember everything all at once.”

Lando breathes out slowly, as if the weight of the moment is starting to lift, even if just a little. “Okay,” he whispers. “One day at a time.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. On the screen, the sports segment wraps up, and the anchor shifts to another story — something about a mayoral race you couldn’t care less about. But Lando keeps glancing at the TV, his gaze flickering with something you can’t quite place.

You watch him carefully, wondering what’s going through his mind. Maybe there’s more he remembers, things he can’t quite articulate yet. Or maybe the images of the race just stirred something instinctual — a feeling rather than a memory.

“Do you think …” Lando starts, then stops himself, biting his lip. “Do you think I was supposed to be there? At the race?”

You consider his question carefully. “It’s possible. I mean … maybe. But it’s also possible that it just feels familiar because you love racing. Maybe you were a fan.”

Lando doesn’t look convinced. “It feels … bigger than that. Like it’s important.”

“Well,” you say gently, “if it’s really that important, I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

He nods, though his expression remains troubled. “Yeah. I hope so.”

You reach for the remote and turn the volume down, hoping it’ll give him some peace. “For now, just try to rest, okay? We can’t solve everything tonight.”

Lando leans back against the couch cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Right. One day at a time.”

You nod, settling back beside him. “Exactly.”

And for a moment — just a moment — the world feels a little quieter. A little more manageable. Neither of you knows what tomorrow will bring, but for now, you’re here. Together. And maybe, for tonight, that’s enough.

***

In Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre buzzes with the usual energy, but today, there’s a frantic undercurrent no one can quite contain. Engineers huddle over laptops, scrolling through telemetry and GPS data. Phones ring at an alarming frequency. It’s as though the entire organization holds its breath, waiting for a disaster they can’t fully comprehend but know is happening.

Zak Brown slams his phone down on the desk in his office, his jaw tight with frustration. “No answer. Nothing. It just goes to voicemail,” he says, pacing. His voice carries out into the open office space, drawing glances from staff nearby.

“Same here,” a voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Andrea Stella looks exhausted, cradling his phone against his ear. “No response to texts. No one at the hotel he was supposed to check into has seen him. And his phone’s not pinging anymore — it’s like it just went dark.”

Zak rakes a hand through his short, cropped hair, then exhales sharply. “We’re five days away from Austin. Five. Freaking. Days. And we’ve lost our damn driver.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with anxiety. The silence is punctuated only by the soft hum of computers and the occasional tap of keyboards. No one dares say what they’re all thinking: If Lando doesn’t show, they’re down a driver for one of the most critical races of the season.

Andrea leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was in New York,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else. “Why did he even go to New York? He was supposed to meet us in Austin straight away.”

Zak shrugs, his hands flying in frustration. “Lando said he wanted a couple of days to himself before the race. Some break or whatever. I figured — he works hard, let him have it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Apparently, the worst did happen.

Over by the giant wall of monitors tracking everything from car data to driver schedules, one of the comms coordinators speaks up. “We haven’t been able to track his car since yesterday. No activity. Not even location pings.”

Zak swears under his breath and turns toward Andrea. “We need to start contingency planning. This is serious. If he’s not in Austin in the next day or so, we’ve gotta be ready.”

Andrea doesn’t reply right away. His mind churns through endless scenarios, none of them promising. Do they scramble to find a reserve driver? Call Pato O’Ward or Ryo Hirakawa? That would be a media frenzy in itself. But that’s a worst-case option — first, they need to find Lando.

“Have we checked his family? Friends? Girlfriends?” Zak asks, rubbing his temples.

“We tried his parents,” Andrea replies with a sigh. “His mum thought he was already in Austin. She hasn’t heard from him in over 24 hours either.”

“Girlfriend?” Zak asks.

“He doesn’t have one.” Andrea’s tone is clipped, as if that fact only makes the situation more frustrating. “He’s not exactly the relationship type.”

Zak mutters another curse. “Christ. He’s alone, halfway across the world, and we have no idea where the hell he is.”

The weight of that statement sinks in. It’s not just that Lando isn’t answering his phone — it’s the growing realization that something might have gone terribly wrong.

***

In another corner of the office, the team’s director of communications, Sophie, types furiously into her laptop. Every time she hits send on an email, another response pings back: negative. Nothing. No one knows anything.

“Has anyone checked the airlines?” She calls out. “If he was flying through New York, maybe there’s a record of him checking in somewhere?”

“We’re working on it,” one of the logistics guys responds, flicking through tabs on his screen. “But it’s hard to get anything without specific flight details.”

Sophie sighs and looks over at Zak and Andrea, who are still pacing near the windows. “Do you want me to draft a public statement?” She asks tentatively. “Just in case?”

Zak freezes. “No. Absolutely not. The second the media gets wind of this, it’ll turn into a circus. We’ll have paparazzi crawling over every hotel and airport in New York. We can’t afford that distraction.”

“But if he doesn’t show soon,” Sophie presses, “we might not have a choice. People will notice if he’s missing from Austin.”

Andrea folds his arms, his expression grim. “We’ve got 48 hours, tops. After that, people will start asking questions.”

Zak rubs his face, exhaustion creeping into his every movement. “Goddamn it, Lando.”

There’s a collective silence as the weight of the situation settles over the room. No one says it out loud, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Something has gone terribly wrong.

Sophie speaks up again, her voice quieter now. “We could … call the local authorities in New York? Just to see if anything’s been reported. An accident or-”

“No.” Zak cuts her off sharply, though there’s no bite behind the word — just fear. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Lando being hurt. Or worse.

But Andrea is already nodding. “Do it,” he says to Sophie. “Just discreetly. Don’t mention his name. See if they’ve had any reports matching his description.”

Sophie hesitates, then nods and picks up her phone, already pulling up contact numbers.

Zak looks over at Andrea, his jaw tight. “If something’s happened to him …”

“We’ll find him,” Andrea says firmly, though even he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

Zak turns to the logistics guy. “Book me the next flight to New York. I’ll go myself if I have to.”

Andrea grabs Zak’s arm. “Wait. If you go running to New York, it’ll raise questions. We don’t want anyone finding out about this before we know what’s going on.”

Zak exhales sharply but nods. “You’re right.” He looks around the room, addressing everyone. “We keep this quiet. No leaks. No media.”

Everyone nods in unison, the weight of the unspoken agreement heavy in the air.

“Sophie,” Andrea says, turning back to her. “If the police don’t have anything … try the hospitals.”

“Already on it,” she replies, tapping at her phone.

Zak mutters under his breath, pacing again. “He better be okay.”

Andrea glances at the clock on the wall. Every second that ticks by feels heavier, more oppressive. The race in Austin is looming, and with each passing hour, their chance of finding Lando before everything unravels gets slimmer.

They have no idea what’s happened, no idea where Lando is, and no one to call for answers. All they can do is wait, and hope.

***

The morning sun streams through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over your cluttered apartment. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sound of toast popping from the toaster. Lando sits across from you at the small kitchen table, his face scrunched in exaggerated misery. He’s been pouting for at least ten minutes now, stirring his cereal like it’s personally offended him.

“You’re seriously leaving me here? Alone?” His voice drips with disbelief, spoon clinking against the bowl. “What am I supposed to do? Stare at the wall? Die of boredom?”

You sigh, lifting your mug to your lips. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a few hours. I need to go to class.”

Lando leans forward, his elbows on the table, making no effort to hide his sulking. “You’re abandoning me.” He looks at you with those big, green eyes — slightly glassy from frustration, or maybe just sleepiness. “I thought we were, you know … friends now.”

“We are friends,” you say, setting your mug down with a small clink. “But friends don’t have to be attached at the hip.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “But what if I forget everything again? What if I walk out the door and just — poof — vanish into thin air?”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-amused. “I think you’ll manage to avoid disappearing for three hours.”

Lando drops his head onto the table with a thud. “I might die.”

“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous.”

He peeks up from where his cheek is squished against the table. “Just let me come with you.”

You pause mid-sip, the words hanging in the air. “To … class?”

“Yes.” He sits up straight, suddenly full of life again. “Take me with you. I won’t make a sound. I’ll just sit in the corner and … blend in. Like a plant.”

You arch a brow, incredulous. “You? Blending in?”

He places a hand over his chest, feigning insult. “I can totally blend in.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t think you’ve blended into anything a day in your life.”

“I’ll prove you wrong,” he declares with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

You tilt your head, considering it for a moment. The idea is absurd, but it’s not like you haven’t already made enough bad decisions in the past 24 hours. What’s one more?

“You have to promise to be quiet,” you warn, pointing your spoon at him. “No interrupting. No talking to anyone. And definitely no causing a scene.”

Lando raises his hand solemnly, like a kid swearing an oath. “I pinky promise.”

You roll your eyes but extend your pinky anyway. He links his with yours, sealing the deal. His face lights up with the same kind of joy you’d expect from a kid on Christmas morning, and you can’t help but laugh.

“This is the dumbest idea,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing your backpack from the floor.

“You won’t regret it,” Lando says, practically bouncing in his seat.

But as you swing the backpack over your shoulder, something occurs to both of you at the same time.

Lando freezes mid-motion. “Uh … I don’t have any clothes.”

You blink, glancing down at the crumpled sweats he’s wearing — the same ones the hospital gave him. They’re wrinkled, a bit too big, and definitely not suitable for a law class at Columbia.

“Right,” you say slowly, realizing how ridiculous it would look if you showed up with him dressed like … well, that. “You need something better than hospital pajamas.”

Lando looks down at himself, then back at you. “This isn’t exactly suitable for blending in, huh?”

“Nope.” You chew the inside of your cheek, already running through the logistics. “There’s a department store a couple blocks away. If we leave now, we can stop there first.”

Lando grins, clearly pleased with how things are going. “See? Teamwork. This is why you keep me around.”

You scoff. “I didn’t exactly invite you to move in, remember?”

He shrugs, that boyish grin still plastered on his face. “Yet here we are.”

You shake your head, grabbing your keys. “Come on, plant boy. Let’s get you something halfway decent to wear.”

Lando hops up from his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind.”

***

The lecture hall hums with the quiet shuffle of notebooks, laptops, and tired law students. You’ve managed to slip in just before class starts, dragging Lando along like a reluctant sibling. After the last-minute stop at the clothing store, he’s now wearing a basic hoodie and dark jeans — simple enough to not attract too much attention. Or so you thought.

Lando’s sitting beside you, fidgeting with the cap of a pen. His leg bounces restlessly, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since the professor started his lecture on tort law.

You whisper sharply, “Stop moving.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters back, spinning the pen between his fingers.

“Yes, you are.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated sigh but tries to stay still — at least for a full thirty seconds — before turning his attention back to the professor. As the professor drones on about duty of care, Lando tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

“This guy sounds like he’s making stuff up,” he whispers under his breath.

You shoot him a warning look. “Shh.”

“No, really. What the hell is a reasonable person? Do they just pick some random dude off the street and ask what he’d do?”

You grit your teeth. “That’s not … just be quiet.”

Lando leans closer, clearly ignoring your plea. “You’d be a terrible lawyer if you tried that argument. ‘Your Honor, my client is a reasonable person.’ What even is that?” His accent makes the sarcasm hit a little harder, like he’s personally offended by the entire concept.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal mistake.

The professor is still speaking, explaining negligence, when Lando mumbles again, “So, wait — if someone slips on a wet floor, that’s someone else’s fault? Isn’t that just bad luck?”

“Lando-” you hiss through clenched teeth.

But he’s not done. “And what’s the point of signs if people still sue, anyway? I mean, if it says Wet Floor, what more do you want? A song and dance?”

Your face burns as a few students glance over, trying to suppress grins. You’re sinking lower in your seat, arms crossed tightly, praying to somehow blend into the furniture.

“Are you really paying for this?” Lando continues, oblivious to the daggers you’re glaring at him. “Because you should ask for a refund.”

A soft chuckle ripples from somewhere in the back of the room, and that’s the final straw.

The professor — an older man with wire-rimmed glasses and the tired patience of someone who’s been teaching far too long — pauses mid-sentence. He pushes his glasses up his nose and scans the room until his gaze lands squarely on you. And, unfortunately, Lando.

“Is there … something you’d like to share with the class, sir?”

You want to disappear. Melt into the floor. Be swallowed whole by the ground.

Lando, however, perks up like he’s just been invited to a dinner party. “Yeah, actually.” He leans back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it like he owns the place. “I just think it’s weird, this whole idea of liability for something that isn’t always in your control.”

A murmur of interest ripples through the class. Some students are amused, others just grateful for a break from the monotony of the lecture.

The professor narrows his eyes. “And you are?”

Lando flashes a charming grin. “Lando. Just visiting.”

The professor’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, Lando, this is a law class, not a debate club.”

“Isn’t law just debating with fancier words, though?” Lando shoots back, and a few students laugh outright.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

“Okay, that’s enough-” you start, but Lando is on a roll now.

“No, seriously. You’re saying someone can sue if they get hurt even if there was a warning? What’s next — someone sues a crack on the sidewalk because they tripped over it?”

More chuckles ripple through the room. The professor’s patience is clearly hanging by a thread. “That’s not exactly how the law works, young man.”

“Then explain it,” Lando challenges, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this sounds like people just want excuses to blame someone else.”

The professor looks genuinely exasperated now. “If you’re not enrolled in this course, I’d advise you to refrain from further commentary.”

You shoot a hand out, slapping it firmly over Lando’s mouth before he can respond. His eyes go wide with surprise, muffled sounds of protest buzzing against your palm.

“I am so sorry, Professor,” you blurt, your face burning hotter by the second. “He’s — he’s not a student. I promise this won’t happen again.”

Lando tries to wriggle free, but you keep your hand firmly planted over his mouth as you yank him up by the arm. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and a few students snicker as you drag him toward the exit.

The professor clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

You pull Lando through the door and into the hallway, your heart pounding with mortification.

“What the hell was that?” You whisper-yell, spinning around to face him the second you’re out of earshot. “I told you to be quiet!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle mischievously above the edge of your hand, and before you can react, he presses his tongue against your palm.

“Ugh!” You recoil in disgust, jerking your hand away. “Did you just-”

“Did you really think you could keep me quiet that easily?” He grins, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“That is disgusting!” You rub your hand furiously against your jeans.

Lando chuckles, completely unbothered. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

You glare at him, feeling a mix of anger, embarrassment, and the faintest hint of amusement — though you’d die before admitting it.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Lando shrugs, still grinning. “You knew what you were getting into when you brought me.”

“No, I absolutely did not.” You shake your head, exasperated. “Do you know how much trouble I could’ve gotten in?”

“But you didn’t,” he points out with a cheeky grin. “I saved the class from a really boring lecture. You should be thanking me.”

You let out a frustrated groan, turning on your heel to storm down the hallway. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Lando jogs to catch up with you, still laughing under his breath. “Don’t be mad. Admit it — you were kind of impressed.”

“I was not impressed,” you say flatly, pushing open the door to the stairwell.

“Maybe a little bit?” He teases, nudging your shoulder.

“Absolutely not.”

“Aw, come on. I thought we made a great team in there.”

You give him a withering look. “I’m seriously reconsidering this whole arrangement.”

But Lando just grins wider, falling into step beside you. “Nah, you love having me around.”

You roll your eyes as the two of you descend the stairs, already dreading the next conversation you’ll have to endure because of this.

Lando hums, clearly pleased with himself. “So … What’s next? Lunch? Another class? Maybe we try philosophy next. I have so many thoughts.”

You shoot him a look that could kill. “Do not push your luck.”

Lando just laughs, utterly unapologetic. And despite yourself, you feel the tiniest tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth.

***

The halal cart on the corner smells like heaven — charred lamb, grilled onions, and the sharp tang of white sauce hanging in the air. There’s already a small line, but you don’t mind. The break from your chaotic morning with Lando is much needed. He’s standing beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, rocking on his heels like a restless kid waiting for candy.

“So … this is a New York classic?” Lando asks, glancing skeptically at the handwritten menu taped to the side of the cart.

“Yes,” you say with a little grin. “You’re about to experience lamb over rice with white sauce. It’s practically a rite of passage.”

“Doesn’t sound fancy,” he muses, nose scrunching slightly.

“It’s not. That’s the whole point.”

When it’s your turn, you order two lamb over rices and a couple of sodas, stepping to the side so the next person can order. Lando watches, intrigued as the cart guy flips sizzling meat on the griddle with quick, practiced movements.

“You come here a lot?” Lando asks.

You shrug. “Often enough. Cheap, fast, and good — you can’t beat it.”

He hums thoughtfully, watching the cart guy with curiosity. “And you’re paying for me, huh? You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, handing over cash when the food is ready. The warm, foil-wrapped containers radiate delicious heat against your fingers.

As you hand Lando his food and the two of you walk toward the steps of the Columbia library, he hesitates. “Seriously, I feel bad about it. I should’ve been the one paying.”

You scoff, finding a spot on the wide stone stairs and sitting down. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a wallet. Or, you know, memories. So I think it’s okay.”

He sits beside you, the smell of lamb and garlic wafting between you. “Still.”

You grin, poking your plastic fork into your food. “Tell you what — when your memories come back, you can pay me back. Since you’ve got a McLaren, I’m guessing you can afford it.”

Lando snorts, shaking his head as he unwraps his container. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two of you dig into your meals, the bustle of the city alive all around. Horns honk in the distance, pigeons coo at your feet, and students filter in and out of the library behind you. There’s something oddly peaceful about it. For the first time since this whole strange adventure started, things feel … easy.

Lando lets out a small noise of appreciation after a few bites. “Okay, this is actually good.”

“Told you.” You grin smugly, scooping more rice onto your fork. “Halal carts don’t miss.”

Lando points his fork at you. “I stand corrected. You New Yorkers know your street food.”

You laugh, taking a sip of your soda. “Damn right we do.”

For a while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence, watching the city move around you. Lando seems at ease, though every so often, you catch him staring into the distance like he’s trying to grab onto something just out of reach — memories that won’t quite click into place.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently.

He shrugs, poking at his food with his fork. “I dunno. Fine, I guess. Just … frustrated.”

You nod. “It’ll come back. You just need time.”

Lando presses his lips together, looking down at the lamb and rice like it holds the answers to everything. “It’s weird, though. Like-“ He pauses, trying to find the words. “Like I know there’s something I should remember, but it’s just not there. You know?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I get it.”

He exhales, leaning back on his hands, his food momentarily forgotten. “It’s just hard not knowing. Who I am, what I do … where I fit.”

You glance at him, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. For a guy who usually hides behind playful grins and cheeky remarks, it’s rare to see him this open, this honest.

“Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours. “You’re fitting just fine right here. No pressure to remember anything right now.”

He gives you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

You finish the rest of your food in easy companionship, the city buzzing quietly around you. It feels surprisingly normal — two people sitting on the library steps, eating street food, and talking like old friends.

When the last bite of lamb is gone and the containers are crumpled into a nearby trash bin, you stretch your legs out with a sigh. “So, my classes are done for the day. What do you wanna do now?”

Lando perks up, a glimmer of excitement lighting his face. “Central Park. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

You arch a brow. “Always?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Well, maybe not always. But it sounds cool, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “It’s a big park, Lando. Hope you’ve got good walking shoes.”

Lando glances down at his new sneakers, wiggling his feet experimentally. “I’m ready.”

You laugh, standing and brushing crumbs off your lap. “Alright, let’s do it.”

With that, the two of you head toward the subway, blending into the rhythm of the city — just another pair of people wandering through the streets of New York, trying to figure things out one step at a time.

***

The two of you stand side by side, leaning over the railing at the penguin exhibit in the Central Park Zoo. A group of them waddles awkwardly around their little habitat, sliding on their bellies and plunging into the water with clumsy grace. Lando is completely captivated, his eyes wide and bright as if he’s seeing penguins for the first time.

“Look at that one,” he says, grinning as a particularly rotund penguin flops dramatically into the pool. “That’s me. That one right there.”

You laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”

Lando bumps his shoulder against yours, the cold October air carrying his playful energy. “If I don’t remember anything about myself, maybe I was secretly a penguin enthusiast.”

“Honestly, not the worst thing to be,” you say, smiling. “Could be worse.”

For a while, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm — watching the penguins dive and splash, swapping silly theories about what your hypothetical future careers as zoo employees might look like. The peace is nice, a soft pocket of calm in the buzz of New York.

And then it happens.

“OH MY GOD, it’s Lando Norris!”

The shout comes from somewhere behind you. At first, you don’t think it’s directed at either of you. But when you turn, a small group of teenage girls is staring directly at Lando with wide eyes, their phones already out and recording.

Lando looks at them, blinking in confusion. “Uh … hi?”

The girls rush over, bouncing with excitement. “We can’t believe it! You’re really here! In New York!”

Lando glances at you, bewildered, then back at the girls. “Uh … yeah?”

“Can we take a picture with you?” one of them asks breathlessly, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

Lando hesitates, clearly confused but not wanting to make a scene. “Sure?”

Before you can react, they surround him, taking selfies and giggling like it’s the best day of their lives. Lando flashes an awkward smile for each photo, looking like he’s trying to keep up but not fully understanding what’s happening.

You stand to the side, watching in stunned silence as this bizarre moment unfolds. Lando Norris. Why does that name sound so familiar?

“Thank you so much!” The girls squeal once the photo session ends. One of them waves as they walk away. “Good luck at the race!”

The girls disappear into the crowd, still giggling, leaving Lando standing next to you with a stunned expression. He blinks a couple of times, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Well.” He turns to you, his confusion melting into a crooked grin. “I guess I’m famous.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your mind already working overtime. “Hold on.” Grabbing your phone, you quickly open the browser and type his name.

The results load instantly — articles, social media posts, fan pages. The screen fills with photos of Lando, all of them unmistakably him, usually grinning in front of race cars or holding trophies. There’s even a photo of him standing next to a sleek McLaren, looking impossibly proud.

You turn the screen toward him. “So … apparently, you’re a Formula 1 driver.”

Lando stares at the phone like it’s showing him a ghost. “Formula 1 …”

You scroll further down the page, reading headlines aloud. “‘Lando Norris: McLaren’s Rising Star.’ ‘Lando Norris on Racing, Pressure, and Fame.’ ‘The Young British Driver Taking Formula 1 by Storm.’” You glance at him. “Now the McLaren makes sense.”

Lando rubs the back of his neck, clearly overwhelmed. “I … I don’t remember any of this.”

You bite your lip, piecing things together. “Wait — right after the crash, when you were all out of it, you kept saying you were a race car driver. I thought you were just some rich kid talking nonsense.”

Lando blinks a few times, as if the memory is just out of reach. “I guess I wasn’t.”

The two of you fall into stunned silence, the realization hanging heavy in the air. It’s surreal. One minute, Lando was just some lost guy with no memory, and now — he’s apparently a professional race car driver with fans, fame, and a career you didn’t even know existed.

“This is insane,” you mutter, scrolling through the search results. “How does someone just … forget all of this?”

Lando is quiet beside you, staring at the screen like he’s trying to force the memories to come back through sheer willpower. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts — panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait. What did those girls say? Something about a race?”

You scroll back up to check the news alerts. “Yeah. The United States Grand Prix. It’s happening this weekend.”

Lando’s face pales. “This weekend?”

You nod, your heart starting to race along with his. “Yeah. In Austin.”

Panic settles over him like a weight. “I have a race. In a few days. And I still don’t remember anything.”

You place a hand on his arm, trying to steady him. “Hey, hey — breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? You don’t have to remember everything right now.”

Lando lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to race if I don’t even remember racing?”

You can see the fear in his eyes, the way he’s gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s not just scared — he’s terrified.

“One thing at a time,” you say gently. “First, we need to contact someone from your team. They’ve probably been looking for you.”

Lando gives a small, panicked laugh. “Great. That’ll be fun to explain — ‘Hi, sorry, I forgot who I was and ended up in New York.’“

You squeeze his arm reassuringly. “They’ll just be glad you’re okay.”

He looks at you, his expression softening slightly. “Thanks. For … you know, everything.”

You offer him a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”

But as the two of you stand there, the enormity of the situation settling between you, you know things are only going to get more complicated from here. Because Lando Norris isn’t just some random guy who lost his memory — he’s a professional athlete with a career that’s still waiting for him.

And somehow, you’ve become a part of the chaos.

***

The McLaren garage in Austin is buzzing like a kicked anthill. Mechanics are running diagnostics on car components, engineers are gathered around laptops, and team managers are huddled over plans, but there’s a thick tension under it all. They’re missing something — or someone — and every minute that passes without word from Lando tightens the knot of stress across the paddock.

In the team’s motorhome, the director of trackside operations, Mark, leans over a table, muttering something about flight records to a colleague. Then his phone buzzes.

“It’s Liz from Woking,” the other man says, reading the caller ID. “Should I-”

“Put it through.” Mark gestures impatiently. “Maybe she’s heard something.”

The line clicks, and Liz’s voice comes through, brisk and professional but with an undertone of hesitation. “Hey, Mark, we just got a call from someone claiming to know where Lando is.”

Mark freezes. Every eye in the room turns toward him. “What do you mean ‘claiming’?”

“They’re saying Lando is with them in New York,” Liz continues. “Should I patch them through to you?”

Mark’s heart jumps. “Do it. Now.”

The seconds feel like hours until there’s a mechanical click, and then-

“Hello?” Your voice crackles over the speaker, sounding cautious but steady. “Is this the McLaren team?”

Mark exchanges a sharp glance with one of the engineers before answering. “Yes. This is Mark, McLaren’s director of trackside operations. Who is this?”

You take a breath, clearly trying to keep your nerves in check. “I, uh, my name’s Y/N. I’m with Lando.”

There’s an audible shift in the room. Mark presses his palm to the table, leaning forward as though proximity to the phone will help him make sense of this. “With Lando? As in — he’s there with you, right now?”

“Yeah,” you say, and then your voice turns muffled for a second, like you’re whispering. “Lando, say hi.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a familiar voice chimes in, unsure but undeniably Lando’s.

“Hi.”

The tension in the room cracks wide open, releasing a mix of shock, disbelief, and relief. One of the engineers mouths, thank God. Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, a rush of adrenaline surging through him.

“Lando,” Mark says, his tone walking a tightrope between frustration and sheer relief, “what the hell is going on? Where have you been?”

“Uh …” Lando’s voice falters slightly. “I think I got into a bit of a … situation.”

“A situation?” Mark repeats, incredulous. “You’ve been missing for almost two days, mate. Do you know how close we were to filing a missing persons report?”

“Yeah, about that …” Lando trails off, and you jump in, clearly sensing he needs a lifeline.

“Look, we’re really sorry,” you say quickly. “He got into a car accident — he’s okay now,” you add hastily, “but it was bad enough that he, well … he doesn’t remember anything.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Mark’s brain stumbles over the words. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”

“Like, nothing,” Lando mutters, his voice low and frustrated. “I woke up with no memory. Didn’t even know my own name until Y/N told me what it was.”

Mark scrubs a hand over his face, trying to piece it all together. This makes no sense. “And you’re in New York right now?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “He crashed his car here. I found him and brought him to the hospital, and now we’re … um … back at my apartment.”

A pause stretches long and thin. The room in Austin feels too small, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Okay. Listen carefully. We need your address. Now.”

You hesitate. “Why do you need it?”

“Because we’re sending someone to get him,” Mark says, not bothering to mask the urgency in his voice. “Lando has a race in less than four days. We need to bring him to Austin yesterday.”

There’s a shuffling noise on your end, and when Lando speaks again, his voice carries an edge of panic. “Wait — hold on, Mark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t race if I don’t even know who I am!”

Mark exhales slowly, softening his tone but not his resolve. “We’ll figure that part out, Lando. But right now, you need to get to Austin. The longer you stay where you are, the worse this gets.”

You cut in, sounding skeptical. “What exactly is the plan here? Because right now, it sounds like you’re asking him to show up for a race with no memory of … well, anything. That doesn’t seem safe.”

Mark drums his fingers on the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. “Look, we’ll handle it once he’s here. This is a controlled situation — we’ll have doctors on standby. But we can’t do anything if he’s stuck in New York.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a stretch of silence thick with indecision.

“Lando?” Mark prompts, lowering his voice. “Are you okay with this? Do you trust us?”

Another shuffle on the line. “Yeah … I guess. But, Mark, seriously — what if I can’t do it? What if I screw everything up?”

“You won’t,” Mark says firmly, injecting confidence where Lando is clearly lacking. “We’ve got your back, mate. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just stay put, and we’ll sort the rest.”

Lando exhales audibly, like he’s trying to let go of some of the fear gripping him. “Okay.”

Mark straightens, sensing the conversation wrapping up. “Good. Now, give us the address, and sit tight.”

You’re quiet for a second, and then, after what sounds like a reluctant sigh, you rattle off your address. Mark scribbles it down, then repeats it to confirm.

“Got it,” he says. “Don’t move from that spot. Zak’s already on his way to pick you up.”

There’s an awkward shuffle, and then your voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Wait — Zak? As in, the CEO? Your boss is coming here personally?”

“Yes,” Mark replies, dead serious. “And I strongly suggest you both be ready when he arrives.”

Lando groans, and you laugh softly, though there’s an undercurrent of nerves in it. “Well, this is officially the weirdest day of my life,” you mutter.

“Welcome to Formula 1,” Mark says dryly.

The call ends with a click, leaving Mark and the rest of the team in Austin scrambling to prepare. Meanwhile, back in New York, Lando leans back on your couch, his head in his hands, looking like a man who just agreed to something without fully understanding what.

You glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “So … Zak Brown is coming to my apartment?”

“Apparently.” Lando drops his hands and gives you a helpless look. “God, I feel like I’m in so much trouble.”

You snort, half-amused, half-terrified for him. “Yeah, you probably are.”

Lando groans again, flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “This is a disaster.”

You pat his knee in mock sympathy. “Better buckle up. Your life’s about to get a whole lot weirder.”

And with that, you both sit in the strange, buzzing silence — caught between the surreal chaos of what’s coming and the quiet, unexpected bond you’ve built in the middle of it.

***

It’s a little past noon when Zak Brown pulls up in a sleek black SUV outside your apartment building. You watch through the window as he steps out, all business — except for the concerned crease in his brow. Even from up here, you can tell he’s walking with purpose, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

Lando stands by the door, peeking through the curtains with you, looking nervous. “What if he hates me?” He mutters, running a hand through his unruly curls.

You glance at him, taken aback. “Why would he hate you?”

Lando shrugs, fidgeting. “I don’t know … maybe because I crashed a car, disappeared for three days, and now I can’t even remember who he is?”

You snort softly, nudging him with your elbow. “Well, when you put it like that …”

There’s a knock on the door. Lando jumps a little, and you exchange a glance before you open it.

Zak is standing there, a commanding presence filling the small hallway. His gaze flickers over you for a moment before locking onto Lando. Relief floods his face, and without a word, he strides forward, wrapping Lando in a bear hug that lifts him a few inches off the ground.

“Thank God,” Zak mutters, voice gruff with emotion. “You had us scared half to death, kid.”

Lando stands there, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides, looking like he’s not sure what to do. Finally, he lifts one hand and pats Zak gingerly on the back, his eyes wide as he meets your amused gaze over Zak’s shoulder.

“Uh, hi?” Lando says, voice muffled against Zak’s chest.

Zak pulls back, his hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he gives him a once-over. “You alright?” His tone is more businesslike now, eyes searching Lando’s face. “You look … fine, considering what we heard.”

Lando grimaces, glancing at you for backup. “I don’t really feel fine, to be honest. I can’t remember anything.”

Zak’s face tightens, but he quickly shifts his attention to you. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done,” he says, his voice warmer now. “If you hadn’t been there … well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

You wave it off, feeling a little awkward under the weight of his gratitude. “It’s no big deal. Really. I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

Zak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not so sure about that. You went above and beyond. We owe you.”

Lando fidgets next to you, his fingers tapping against his leg. “So … what now?”

Zak turns back to him, his expression softening. “Now, we get you back to Austin. You’ve got a race in a couple days, and we need to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Doctors, specialists … we’ll take care of you.”

Lando’s face falls, panic flitting across his features. He glances at you, then back at Zak. “Wait, what? You mean we’re leaving … now?”

Zak nods. “Yeah. We’ve got to get you back to the team as soon as possible.”

Lando looks back at you, his face pale. “But … I don’t want to go alone.”

Zak blinks, clearly not expecting that. “You won’t be alone. The whole team is there.”

Lando shakes his head, his voice tightening with anxiety. “No, I mean … I don’t know anyone. Except …” He trails off, looking at you again.

You meet his gaze, unsure of what he’s asking, and suddenly, you get it.

“No,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “I can’t — I have classes, and-”

“Can she come with us?” Lando blurts out, cutting you off.

Both you and Zak stare at him, equally surprised.

Zak is the first to recover, blinking as though trying to process the request. “You want her to come with us to Austin?”

Lando nods, his eyes pleading as he turns to you. “Please. I don’t-” He hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to go by myself. You’re the only person I feel like I know right now.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words get stuck in your throat. You’ve spent the last couple of days trying to help this guy, thinking he’d recover and everything would go back to normal. But now, with him looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels like the ground’s been pulled out from under you instead.

Zak looks at you expectantly. “Well? What do you think?”

You stare at both of them, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. On one hand, this isn’t your problem. Lando has an entire team, an entire life waiting for him in Austin. He doesn’t need you tagging along. But on the other hand … the thought of leaving him now, when he’s so lost and vulnerable, feels wrong. You’ve been his lifeline — whether you wanted to be or not — and something inside you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he still needs you.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I guess I can watch my lectures online …”

Lando’s face lights up, and Zak claps his hands together. “That settles it, then,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Go pack a bag. We’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”

You stand there for a second, still processing the fact that you just agreed to go to Austin with a guy you barely know, who also happens to be an amnesiac F1 driver. This was not how you saw your week going.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Lando quietly, once Zak steps outside to make a phone call.

Lando nods, his expression sincere. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on, but … I know I feel better when you’re around.”

Your heart stutters at that, a warmth spreading through your chest despite yourself. You nod and turn toward your bedroom, trying not to let him see how much that simple admission has affected you.

“Give me ten minutes,” you say over your shoulder.

Lando watches you disappear into your room, relief clear on his face. “Take your time.”

Ten minutes later, you’re standing at the door with a hastily packed duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Zak reappears, finishing a phone call, and gestures toward the SUV. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a plane waiting.”

The ride to the airport is mostly quiet, though Lando keeps glancing at you every few minutes, like he’s still making sure you’re real and actually there. You catch him doing it once, and he quickly looks away, pretending to fiddle with his seatbelt.

Zak notices too, but doesn’t say anything, just tapping away on his phone, presumably giving updates to the team in Austin.

When you finally board the private jet, it hits you all over again how surreal this entire situation is. The plush leather seats, the quiet hum of the engine, the fact that you’re flying across the country with a Formula 1 team because their driver has amnesia and apparently needs you to hold his hand through it all. It’s like something out of a weird dream.

Lando sits next to you, his knee bumping yours every so often as the plane takes off. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. You wonder what’s going through his head — how it must feel to have your entire life ripped away, every memory and experience erased, leaving you with nothing but confusion and panic.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when Zak leans over the seat, giving you both a small, tight smile. “We’ll be landing in Austin in a few hours. The team’s already been updated on the situation, so we’ll go straight to the hotel and get Lando checked by the doctors.”

Lando nods, but he still looks uneasy. You reach out and give his arm a gentle squeeze, trying to offer some comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly.

He glances at you, his expression softening. “Thanks.”

Zak watches the two of you for a moment longer, then leans back, leaving you in a strange, charged silence as the plane continues its journey toward the unknown.

***

The jet lands with a smooth touch on the tarmac at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, and Zak is already up and moving before the wheels fully stop.

“Alright, let’s get moving,” he says briskly, shooting a glance back at Lando and you. His voice leaves no room for hesitation.

Lando is sitting rigidly in his seat, his fingers anxiously tapping against the armrest. As soon as the cabin door opens and the humid Texas air floods in, Zak gestures for both of you to follow. Lando shoots you a nervous glance before suddenly reaching for your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.

You raise your brows but don’t pull away. “Lando?”

“Don’t let go,” he whispers, his voice tight. “Please.”

The plea is quiet, almost childlike, and something about it tugs at your heart. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m right here. Let’s go.”

Zak, halfway down the steps of the jet, turns impatiently. “Come on, you two!”

Lando pulls you along, practically dragging you after him. His steps are uneven, like he can’t decide whether to sprint away from everything or freeze in place. By the time you reach the black SUV waiting on the tarmac, Lando’s breathing is shallow, his grip on your hand almost too tight. You climb into the backseat with him, his knee bouncing anxiously as the driver pulls out toward the city.

When you arrive at the Hilton in downtown Austin, Zak wastes no time, herding you both through the polished lobby and straight to a large conference room on the second floor. The door swings open to reveal what looks like a pop-up medical center.

There are exam tables, diagnostic equipment, and at least half a dozen physicians and specialists, all dressed in clinical whites and branded team gear. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of low conversations fills the space. Everyone is focused and efficient — like they’ve done this before, just not with a driver who can’t remember anything.

Lando stops dead in his tracks at the entrance, his hand still gripping yours. His eyes dart around the room, wide and glassy, like a deer in headlights.

Zak claps him on the shoulder. “Right, Lando. They’re just going to check you over, make sure everything is good before the race.”

Lando stares at him. “What race?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

Zak’s smile is tight, his patience visibly thinning. “The Grand Prix. On Sunday. We’ve got three days to get you ready.”

Lando takes a step back, bumping into you. “How … how am I supposed to race?” He stammers, his voice cracking. “I don’t even remember what racing is. How do you expect me to get in a car and drive it? What if I crash? What if I-”

He’s spiraling, and you can feel it. His breathing is coming faster now, his grip on your hand becoming painfully tight.

“Lando,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”

But it’s like he can’t hear you. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts, his other hand gripping the hem of his shirt so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, shaking his head over and over again. “I don’t even know how to be me. Everyone’s acting like I’m supposed to just jump back into my life, but I-” He cuts off, his throat tightening.

Zak opens his mouth, likely to say something firm and pragmatic, but before he can, the door swings open again, and someone strides in.

“Lando?”

A young man in casual team gear stands at the door, blinking as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His brown hair is slightly tousled, and there’s a look of cautious relief in his eyes.

Lando stiffens beside you, his breath catching. He stares at the newcomer, recognition flickering in his eyes — not in the form of memory, but in the way his entire body seems to relax at the sight of him.

“Who-” Lando starts, his voice unsteady.

The young man steps forward, concern written all over his face. “It’s me. Oscar.”

Lando doesn’t move for a moment, frozen in place. Then, slowly, as if something instinctive clicks into place, he takes a step toward the other man.

“Oscar …” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.

Oscar closes the distance between them in two quick strides and pulls Lando into a tight, firm hug. And just like that, Lando melts into it. His whole body seems to deflate, the tension draining from his muscles as he leans into Oscar’s embrace.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Oscar mutters against his shoulder, giving him a hard squeeze. “We were all freaking out. You had us worried sick.”

Lando doesn’t say anything, just clings to Oscar like a lifeline, his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve seen him fully relax since the accident, and it takes you by surprise how much it affects you.

Zak clears his throat, and Oscar finally pulls back, though he keeps a steadying hand on Lando’s shoulder.

Lando wipes at his eyes quickly, like he’s embarrassed to have broken down in front of everyone. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I … I don’t remember you. But you feel … familiar.”

Oscar gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah? One step at a time.”

Lando nods, biting his lip, and you can tell he’s trying to keep it together.

Zak claps his hands. “Right, now that we’ve had our reunion, we need to get started. Oscar, you can stick around, but these guys need to run some tests.”

Oscar gives Lando’s shoulder one more squeeze before stepping aside to let the medical team take over. You start to follow, but Lando’s hand shoots out, grabbing yours again.

“Stay,” he whispers, his eyes pleading.

You nod, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The next couple of hours are a blur of activity. Lando sits through blood tests, brain scans, vision checks, and reflex tests, all the while clinging to your hand like a lifeline. Every now and then, Oscar cracks a joke or nudges Lando with his elbow, trying to make him smile. And somehow, it works. You can see the flickers of trust between them — something unspoken and unbreakable, even if Lando doesn’t remember it yet.

When the doctors finally wrap up, Zak reappears, looking satisfied with the reports. “You’re good to go, Lando. Rest up tonight. You have free practice tomorrow.”

Lando’s face pales again. “Practice? For the race?”

Zak nods. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be fine. It’ll come back to you once you’re in the car.”

Lando looks far from convinced, but Oscar slings an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be with you the whole time, mate. We’ll take it slow, alright?”

Lando exhales, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

You give his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go, your heart heavy with the knowledge that Lando’s world is slowly pulling him back in — whether he’s ready or not.

***

Friday arrives under the blinding Texas sun, and the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas is alive with the hum of activity. The smell of hot asphalt, rubber, and gasoline fills the air, and everything seems to move at hyperspeed — mechanics adjusting tires, engineers tapping furiously on laptops, and cameras catching every moment of the weekend’s unfolding drama.

In the McLaren garage, Lando stands rooted in place, wide-eyed and tense, staring at the papaya-colored car being prepped for free practice. His race suit feels suffocatingly tight, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to run.

“Mate, you’ve got this. It’ll come back to you,” Oscar says from beside him, squeezing Lando’s shoulder.

Lando swallows hard, feeling the sweat bead on his brow beneath the weight of his helmet in his hands. He glances at the car and then at Zak, who gives him an encouraging nod. Everyone around him looks so calm — like this is all normal, like this is exactly where he belongs.

But the thing is, he doesn’t remember if this is where he belongs. His stomach churns with fear, twisting tighter with each glance at the sleek machine waiting for him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice is thin, almost lost beneath the noise of the garage. “What if I mess up? What if I crash? What if-”

“Lando.”

He turns, eyes full of panic, and you step closer, careful to keep your voice steady. “Breathe. Just … take a second. You don’t have to think about the race right now. Just the practice. One lap at a time. One corner at a time.”

He clenches his jaw, struggling to keep his composure. “But what if I forget what to do? I still don’t even remember who I am.”

“You’re Lando Norris,” you say firmly. “And I know you’ve got this. Maybe your brain doesn’t remember, but your body does.”

Lando’s lip twitches, caught between a nervous laugh and a scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Hey.” You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said it yourself yesterday — racing must mean something to you. Your body knows what to do. You just have to trust it.”

He stares at you for a moment, lips parting slightly like he wants to argue, but something in your expression makes him pause. He takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay,” he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Just then, one of the mechanics gestures toward the car. “It’s ready, mate. Time to hop in.”

Lando’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusts his helmet under his arm. Zak gives him an encouraging clap on the back, and Oscar leans in close. “I’ll be right there with you during practice. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Lando nods, though his eyes are still clouded with uncertainty.

The mechanics pull back the steering wheel and lift it out of the cockpit, making room for him to slide in. Lando stares at the narrow seat, frozen for just a second too long, before your voice cuts through the haze of his fear.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Lando. Just be you.”

Something about those words seems to reach him. He sucks in a breath, gives you a tentative nod, and finally, slowly, lowers himself into the cockpit.

And just like that, something shifts.

The moment his body settles into the molded seat, his fingers finding the familiar feel of the wheel, it’s as if a switch is flipped inside him. His shoulders relax slightly, his hands seem to know exactly where to rest, and his feet instinctively press against the pedals like they belong there. He rolls his neck side to side, the movements fluid and natural — like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The mechanics lean in to fasten his harness and replace the wheel, and Lando doesn’t flinch, his attention shifting to the world through the narrow slit of his helmet. His hands tighten around the wheel, and without thinking, he taps one of the buttons to bring up a setting on the dash.

Zak notices the small motion and smiles. “There he is.”

Oscar leans down beside the cockpit and grins. “Told you, mate. It’s muscle memory. You’re already in the zone.”

Lando doesn’t reply, but you can see the faintest flicker of something like relief in his eyes. His breath evens out, and some of the tension in his posture melts away.

You step closer to the side of the car, giving him a thumbs-up. “See? Like riding a bike.”

He turns his head slightly toward you, the corners of his mouth twitching under the helmet. “Except a bike doesn’t go 300 kilometers an hour.”

“Details,” you say with a grin.

One of the engineers taps his headset. “Alright, Lando. Fire it up. We’ll do a systems check before you head out.”

Lando takes a deep breath, then hits the ignition button. The engine roars to life with a deafening growl, vibrating through the air and rattling the walls of the garage. You jump slightly at the sound, but Lando doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked straight ahead, his grip on the wheel steady.

It’s like watching a different person — the nervous, unsure Lando from earlier fading into the background as something sharper, more focused, takes its place.

The mechanics give a few final nods, signaling everything is good to go. The team radio crackles to life in Lando’s ear.

“Alright, Lando. Systems look good. Let’s roll out and get some laps in. We’ll ease into it.”

Lando’s fingers tap lightly against the wheel, a gesture that feels almost unconscious. He glances over at you one last time, his eyes peeking through the visor.

“You’ve got this,” you tell him, your voice steady and sure. “Just drive.”

For the first time since you met him, Lando’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there — a glimpse of the person buried beneath the fear and confusion.

“Thanks,” he murmurs through the helmet, his voice crackling over the radio.

You step back as the mechanics lower the car off its jacks. The tires touch the ground with a solid thunk, and the sound of the engine revving fills the garage.

“Let’s do this,” Lando says, more to himself than anyone else. And with that, the car rolls forward, smooth and controlled, out of the garage and into the sunlight of the pit lane.

You stand at the edge of the garage, watching as the papaya car disappears around the corner, the roar of the engine fading into the distance. Your heart pounds in your chest, a strange mixture of pride and nerves settling in your stomach.

“He’ll be fine,” Zak says from beside you, watching the car with a knowing smile. “He always is.”

You exhale slowly, still gripping the edge of the garage wall. “I hope so.”

As Lando’s car speeds down the track for the first lap of free practice, a thought strikes you — he might not remember who he is right now, but in this moment, behind the wheel of that car, he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And somehow, you know he’ll figure the rest out from there.

***

Saturday arrives with the buzz of excitement hanging thick in the air, the kind that only race weekends can bring. The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas, and the grandstands are packed, fans waving flags, faces painted with bright colors, and anticipation radiating from the crowd. The tension in the McLaren garage is almost palpable.

Lando sits in the cockpit of his car, visor down, hands relaxed but ready on the steering wheel as Q3 begins. The roar of engines fills the track as the remaining drivers fight for the top starting positions for the sprint race. It’s fast, intense, and unforgiving. There’s no room for hesitation here — only precision and instinct. And for the first time in days, Lando feels like himself again — or at least the closest version of it.

But there’s still a wall in his mind, blocking the memories of who he is beyond this moment, beyond the car. His hands know what to do. His feet know where to place pressure on the pedals. But his brain? It still feels like a stranger.

“Alright, Lando,” his engineer's voice crackles through the radio. “We’ve got time for two more flying laps. Let’s go get it, mate.”

“Copy that,” Lando replies, voice steady.

The tires squeal as he tears down the straight, the roar of the engine vibrating through every bone in his body. He weaves through the first sector like a painter brushing strokes across a canvas, flowing naturally from apex to apex. For those watching, Lando Norris looks like a man on fire — quick, precise, unrelenting. But inside his helmet, he’s still scrambling.

The team radios him updates as he pushes through his first timed lap, green and purple sectors lighting up on his dash. But something still feels off. There’s a pressure building in his chest, like an itch at the back of his mind that refuses to surface.

“Sector 2 looking great, Lando. Keep it together, and we’ve got a chance at pole.”

He doesn’t respond — can’t respond. The itch is growing stronger. A spark flares at the edges of his consciousness, like a door creaking open just a sliver. His grip tightens on the wheel as he flies through the penultimate corner.

And then, it happens.

The door in his mind swings open with the force of a tidal wave, flooding him with memory after memory. It’s overwhelming — flashes of moments, feelings, names, faces. The accident. The ambulance. You.

He remembers everything.

“Holy fuck!” Lando’s voice bursts through the radio, excitement crackling through every word. “I-I remember everything!”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line before his engineer’s voice comes back, laced with disbelief. “Lando? You’re saying-”

“Yeah, yeah — everything!” Lando’s laugh is almost hysterical, pure joy and disbelief pouring out of him. “I know who I am. I know where I am. Oh my god, I can’t believe this!”

“Lando, that’s — well, fantastic, mate!” The engineer’s relief is obvious, but there’s no time to dwell. “Alright, focus. One more corner. Bring it home.”

And just like that, Lando snaps back into race mode. His hands feel lighter on the wheel, his body moves with an ease that’s almost poetic. He barrels down the final straight with precision, pushing the car to its limits.

The crowd erupts as he crosses the finish line.

“P1, Lando! P1!” His engineer shouts, barely able to contain his excitement. “You’ve put it on pole, mate!”

Lando lets out a whoop of joy, thumping the side of the steering wheel. “Let’s go!” He shouts, the exhilaration bubbling over. “Pole position, baby!”

The car rolls back into the pit lane, where the team is already waiting for him, cheering, clapping, and slapping the side of the car in celebration. Lando pulls himself out of the cockpit, yanking off his helmet and balaclava. His curls are a sweaty mess, his face flushed from the heat, but his grin is unstoppable.

He barely has a moment to catch his breath before you come rushing through the crowd toward him.

“You remembered?” You ask breathlessly, searching his face, your own eyes wide with disbelief and relief.

Lando laughs, nodding as he sweeps you into a hug without hesitation. “Yeah, I remembered!” He says, voice muffled into your hair. His arms are tight around you, grounding himself in the moment, as if letting go might make everything disappear again.

You let out a laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s amazing, Lando!”

When he finally pulls back, there’s something softer in his expression — a gratitude so deep it’s hard to put into words. He stares at you for a moment, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Lando says, his voice dropping into something more serious, more heartfelt. “I — thank you. For everything.”

You shake your head, trying to wave off his words, but he grabs your hand, holding it tightly between his. “No, seriously. I may have forgotten a lot over the past week, but I’ll never forget you. I mean it.”

His eyes are bright and sincere, and the weight of his words settles warmly between the two of you.

“Well,” you say, trying to lighten the mood, “I guess you’ll have to pay me back now, huh? I did cover your food and clothes.”

Lando throws his head back and laughs — a real, genuine laugh that feels like sunshine after a storm. “Deal. I owe you big time.”

He squeezes your hand one last time before reluctantly letting go, the roar of the crowd still echoing around you. But in this moment, none of that matters.

All that matters is that Lando is back.

***

The McLaren motorhome is quieter than usual as the race weekend winds down. The buzz of victory and podium celebrations has shifted to a more subdued hum. Lando didn’t make the podium this time — P4 after a frustrating five-second penalty. You’re sitting on one of the couches in the corner, sipping a bottle of water while waiting for him to finish his media duties and post-race obligations.

The screen on the wall is playing highlights from the race, showing flashes of the battles on track, the post-race interviews, and the podium celebrations. You glance at it occasionally, but your mind is elsewhere. The last week has been a whirlwind — meeting Lando, the accident, taking him home, the amnesia, his memories flooding back during qualifying. And now, here you are in Austin, at a Formula 1 race, as if you somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.

When Lando finally walks in, his race suit unzipped down to his waist, hair still damp from sweat, he looks a mix of exhausted and relieved. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles — a real one, not the half-hearted, media-friendly smile you’d seen him wear earlier.

“Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat next to you. “Sorry that took forever.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug, returning the smile. “You’re the one who had to go talk to like fifty people after a penalty.”

Lando groans, leaning his head back against the couch. “Don’t remind me. I could’ve had a podium today.”

“You still did great,” you say sincerely. “Fourth is nothing to be disappointed about, especially with that penalty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Lando mumbles, but his eyes flicker with something else — like he’s wrestling with his thoughts. He looks away for a second, then glances back at you, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then closes it again.

You watch him for a moment, the silence stretching between you, comfortable but also heavy with something unspoken. Finally, you break it with a soft chuckle. “Well, I guess this is it, huh?”

Lando straightens slightly, turning to look at you, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you gesture vaguely, “this is where we part ways. You’ve got your life back, and I’ve got … a mountain of reading for law school waiting for me.” You force a small smile, trying to make it lighthearted, but there’s an awkwardness to it.

Lando’s face falls, just for a moment, but it’s enough to make your heart twist. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at his hands. “Yeah, I guess … I guess so.” He pauses, and when he looks back up, there’s something nervous in his eyes, something hesitant, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “But, uh … I’ve been thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“So, next weekend is the Mexican Grand Prix,” he says slowly, watching your reaction. “And I know you’ve got classes and everything, but …” He trails off, biting his lip, before blurting out, “I’d really love it if you could come.”

You blink, taken aback. “Mexico?”

“Yeah,” Lando says quickly, leaning forward, his hands gesturing as if he’s trying to convince you. “I mean, I’d cover all the travel expenses, of course. And I could get you a paddock pass again so you could hang out in the garage, watch the race from the best spot. It’d be fun.”

You tilt your head, pretending to think it over, though you can already feel your resolve crumbling. “Hmm, I don’t know. I have a lot of lectures to catch up on …”

Lando’s face falls, and he looks genuinely disappointed, his expression bordering on sad. “Oh, right, yeah, of course,” he mumbles, his voice dropping. “I totally get it. You’ve got your school stuff, and I don’t want to-”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, laughing softly. “I’ll come.”

His eyes light up immediately. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” you confirm, smiling at his excitement. “I mean, I can watch the lecture recordings online, and it’s not like I get an invitation to a Grand Prix every day.”

Lando’s smile grows, wide and almost boyish in its happiness. “You won’t regret it,” he promises, leaning back with a sigh of relief. “I swear, you’ll have the best time.”

“I’d better,” you tease. “You’re my tour guide, after all.”

Lando chuckles, his body visibly relaxing now that you’ve agreed. “Deal. I’ll make sure you get the full VIP treatment.” He glances at you, then adds with a smirk, “I might even throw in some lunch for good measure.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really going all out, huh?”

“For you?” Lando grins, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Of course.”

There’s a brief pause, the playful banter falling into a comfortable silence again, but this time it’s lighter, easier. Lando looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m really glad you’re coming, though. It’s been a crazy week, and … I don’t know, it just feels better having you around.”

You glance down, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, it’s been a pretty wild week,” you agree quietly.

Lando shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours. “You’ve kind of become my good luck charm, you know.”

You snort. “Good luck? You didn’t even get a podium today.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “Alright, alright, but still … I feel like everything’s better when you’re there.”

His voice drops slightly, and you look up, meeting his eyes. There’s a sincerity in his gaze, something deeper than just the playful banter that’s been passing between you. It catches you off guard, and for a second, you don’t know how to respond.

But then Lando breaks the tension with a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “So, what do you say? Ready for another adventure?”

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into these things.”

Lando smirks, standing up and offering his hand to you. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

You roll your eyes, but take his hand anyway, letting him pull you to your feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out of the motorhome together. “Oh, you totally would.”

***

The Mexican Grand Prix is nothing short of electric. The grandstands of the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez are packed with thousands of fans, waving flags, blowing horns, and chanting in unison. The energy in the paddock is unlike anything you’ve seen before, and you can feel it thrumming through your skin as you stand in the McLaren garage, nerves and excitement buzzing through you like static electricity.

Lando had qualified well, putting his car on the front row. And now, after nearly two hours of wheel-to-wheel racing, pit stops, and heart-pounding battles, the chequered flag waves, and Lando wins.

He wins.

The entire team explodes into chaos. Engineers jump from their monitors, hugging each other, cheering, and throwing their hands into the air. Zak claps so hard it sounds like thunder, while others shout and bang on the pit wall. In the garage, you scream, your voice lost in the roar of celebrations, barely able to believe what you’ve just witnessed.

“He did it!” One of the engineers shouts, wrapping you in a quick hug, making you laugh from the sheer joy of it all. The victory feels contagious, like every person in McLaren colors has won alongside Lando.

In parc fermé, the top three cars pull into their designated spots, their engines cooling with a metallic hiss. Lando’s McLaren rolls to a stop in P1, the bright papaya-colored car shimmering under the Mexican sun. As soon as the mechanics signal it’s safe, Lando jumps out, punching the air with both fists, his face stretched into the widest grin you’ve ever seen.

He rips off his helmet and balaclava, his messy curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. You can see the pure, unfiltered elation on his face — he’s won before, but this one feels special. Hard-fought. Hard-earned.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando catches sight of you standing at the edge of the fenced-off area, just outside the celebrating team members. His eyes light up, his grin somehow growing even bigger. And then-

He’s moving toward you.

The crowd, the cameras, the team — all of it fades into the background as Lando beelines straight to you, like you’re the only person in the world he wants to share this moment with. He doesn’t think twice. His arms wrap around you, and before you can say a word, he kisses you.

It’s quick but intense — an explosion of happiness, adrenaline, and pure relief all at once. His lips crash against yours, and for a second, everything stops.

You freeze, wide-eyed, as your brain catches up to what’s happening. Lando Norris — Formula 1 driver who just won the Mexican Grand Prix — is kissing you.

And just as fast as it happened, it’s over.

Lando pulls back abruptly, eyes wide with realization, looking as if he’s just broken every unwritten rule. His face flushes as if he’s mortified, and he stammers, “Oh — oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t — I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I-“

You blink, still stunned, and then — laughter bubbles out of you, light and genuine. You can’t stop it.

“You idiot,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head.

Lando’s face is somewhere between sheepish and panicked, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to apologize. But before he can get another word out, you grab the front of his race suit, pull him back toward you, and kiss him again — this time with purpose.

His hands find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer. This kiss is slower, softer, but filled with the same electric energy. Around you, the world erupts — the cameras are flashing, the team is cheering, and the crowd in the stands is losing its mind — but none of it matters.

It’s just you and Lando.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless, Lando stares at you like he can’t quite believe what just happened. “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?” He asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “You just won the race, Lando. I think you’re allowed a free pass.”

He leans his forehead against yours, still smiling, his breath coming in short bursts from the exertion of the race and the adrenaline coursing through him. “Best. Weekend. Ever.”

“You’re biased,” you tease, but your heart feels light, like it’s floating somewhere above the grandstands.

“I mean it,” Lando murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your waist. “And it’s only the beginning.”

Before you can respond, Zak’s booming voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, lovebirds! Save it for later — we’ve got a podium to attend!”

You both pull apart, faces flushed but smiling. Lando gives you one last look, a mixture of joy, disbelief, and something else — something you can’t quite put your finger on yet. Then, with a wink, he jogs off to be weighed, leaving you standing there, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

And, as you watch him climb onto the top step of the podium, spraying champagne over everyone, you realize that the whirlwind you’ve been caught in with Lando Norris isn’t slowing down anytime soon. And honestly? You’re okay with that.