What About... Pining And Yearning Driver (doesn't Matter Who He Is Tbh) But In Reality He's Just Stupidly

Radio Silence | Chapter Seven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, more angst (IM SORRY IT'LL GET BETTER SOON I PROMISE).

Notes — Welcome to Oracle Red Bull Racing, Amelia Brown.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2020

The office was quiet in the way only offices designed for genius could be; not sterile, but reverent. Drafting boards and CAD monitors hummed quietly in the background, interrupted only by the soft tick of a mechanical clock that someone had insisted on keeping analogue.

Amelia sat stiffly in the chair opposite Adrian Newey.

He was perched on a stool beside a massive whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained faintly with pen ink, as though he’d been sketching ideas directly into the fabric of his shirt. His presence was oddly... nerve-racking. 

Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes.

Amelia rolled her golf ball between her hands in her lap, trying not to bounce her knee. Adrian made a few marks on a fresh sheet of paper, muttering under his breath. It sounded like a stream of formulaic gibberish to anyone else. To her, it was almost a lullaby.

He paused. Looked at her. “Do you have any thoughts?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear them.”

Adrian hummed, and then there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I will always listen. I will also always tell you when you are wrong.”

She swallowed, then nodded. Then she gestured to his paper pad. “You’re already sketching the '21 nosecone?”

“Yes. The frontal vortex targets under the new regs are… absolutely maddening. They’ll make cooling a nightmare.” He muttered. 

She shifted forward, almost involuntarily. “Mm. Not if you separate the low-pressure bleed early and feed it into the underside of the side-pod. It could trick the wake into thinking it’s interacting with a full-body airflow.”

He went very still. 

“Interesting,” he said slowly, standing and crossing to the nearest drafting board. He didn’t ask her to explain it again. He just started drawing. She stood too, walking around the conference table in order to stand at his side. Without looking at her, he handed her a pen. 

She made a face at it. “I like red.” 

He didn’t say anything. Just took the black pen back and found her a red one. 

By the time lunchtime rolled around, they had filled three boards, made seven sketches, and the early formation of a concept that wouldn’t just survive under the 2021 regs; it would thrive.

They hadn’t spoken much, not conversationally. Just fragments.

“This doesn’t breathe well at speed.”

“What if we taper the upper control arm here instead?”

“Why does this remind me of the '98 car?”

But somehow, it worked.

By mid-afternoon, Adrian glanced up at her from the schematic they were both hunched over.

“You think in shapes,” he said.

She blinked at him. “You think in sound.”

He smiled, and it was full of promise. “We will make a wonderful pair, Miss Brown.”

She let out a quiet breath. “Oh. Good. I was afraid that you would regret spending three million pounds on me.”

He stared at her for a long moment before laughing shortly. “No regret, Miss Brown. Not a single one.” 

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel anxious. Or lonely. Or burning with the guilt of abandoning McLaren, the team that was synonymous with her family name. 

She tucked the golf ball back into her pocket. “I’ll draw up a more formal aero flow map tonight.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, flipping to a new page. “We’ll build it first. Then reverse-engineer the explanation.”

She grinned, sharp and fast and excited. “We can do that?”

“We can do anything we want.” He told her. 

— 

Christian pushed open the door to the technical office with the kind of hesitant curiosity reserved for someone who was pretty sure they’d told everyone to go home six hours ago.

The light was still on.

At first, he thought maybe the cleaners had left it by mistake. But as he stepped inside, the faint scratch of pencil on paper, the rustle of blueprints, and the hum of two very intense brains in quiet dialogue stopped him dead in his tracks.

Adrian was barefoot now, barefoot, perched on a wheeled chair with one leg pulled up under him like some kind of engineering gremlin, holding a scale model in one hand and gesturing toward it with the other, mid-monologue.

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a yellow golf ball tucked beneath her heel, grease-smudged notebook balanced on her knee, jotting notes at lightning speed while murmuring confirmations like, “Yeah, but the boundary layer separation’s going to collapse here—unless we change the outwash angle…”

Neither of them noticed Christian standing in the doorway.

The room was covered in paper. The whiteboards had no white left. Someone, probably Adrian, had scrawled equations on the glass wall. There was a half-eaten croissant on the radiator. Half of the work was done in black ink. The other half was done in red. 

He took one silent step backward.

Paused.

Then slowly, quietly, pulled the door closed behind him.

From inside, he could just barely hear Adrian’s voice, “Did I ever tell you about the time I built a full wind tunnel model out of my wife’s hairdryer and a vacuum tube?”

Amelia sucked in a breath. “Did it work?”

“It blew the roof off my shed.”

She laughed, genuinely, full of lightness.

Christian exhaled and reached for his phone.

—

iMessage — 00:45am

Christian Horner

We are going to become world champions. 

Helmut Marko

How can you know?

Christian Horner

Newey is barefoot. His intern is laughing. 

Helmut Marko

Mein Gott.

— 

The drive home from Milton Keynes had been quiet; just the low hiss of the car heater and the soft murmur of the radio.

It had been her first week working at Red Bull Racing. She’d stayed in Max’s flat, the one he kept in Milton Keynes but only used when he was in town for sim sessions. 

The high of her first week was still humming under her skin; the buzz of purpose, of being understood, but underneath that, exhaustion tugged at her bones. She felt stretched thin. Too much stimulus, too many new faces. 

But the moment she stepped through the front door, into the warm, lemon-honey air of the house she’d grown up in, none of that mattered.

Her mum was in the kitchen, back turned, humming softly to the radio.

Amelia didn’t say anything.

She dropped her bag quietly, kicked off her shoes, walked straight over and folded herself into her mother’s arms from behind, pressing her forehead between her shoulder blades, breathing her in.

Tracy stilled. Just for a moment. Then she reached back, tugging Amelia around until she could hold her properly; one hand at the back of her head, the other wrapped around her shoulders, thumb rubbing slow circles into her jumper.

“Hello, darling,” she whispered. “I missed you.”

Amelia pressed closer, her cheek against her mum’s collarbone. “I missed you too.”

They stood there like that for a long time, the hum of the radio filling the silence between them, a wooden spoon tapping gently against the edge of a pan.

“I saw the article,” Tracy said eventually, voice soft. “And the photos.”

Amelia tensed.

Another piece had gone live, following the Motorsport.com exclusive. Red Bull had shared her official announcement — complete with photographs of her in team gear, standing in the middle of Max and Alex. 

Tracy didn’t let her pull away. “You looked very professional. And happy.” 

“I am,” she said, too fast. Then again, slower. “I am. I just… I’m wishing that he wouldn’t make it so hard.”

Tracy sighed into her hair. “Your father’s not angry with you, love. Not really. He’s angry with himself. He had no idea that you were even receiving offers, let alone considering any.”

Amelia swallowed. Shrugged. “He didn’t want me at McLaren. He never offered. I gave him every chance to.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Tracy pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. “And you were right not to wait forever. You did the brave thing. You put yourself first. I’m proud of you.”

Amelia blinked fast. “I’m not used to that,” she admitted. “Putting myself first. It feels… selfish.”

Tracy brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. “No. Not selfish. It’s how you grow. You’re building race cars with Adrian bloody Newey. That’s something to be incredibly proud of.”

Amelia smiled, weakly. “They call me Mini Newey. All of the engineers. Christian. Max thinks that it’s funny.”

Tracy chuckled, pulling her into a tight squeeze again. “They should call you Better Newey.”

That pulled a real laugh out of her, small and sore and soft.

“Now,” Tracy said, letting her go, “go change into your favourite pyjamas and let me feed you. I bet you haven’t eaten a real meal all week.”

“I’ve been living on machine coffee and stale pastries,” Amelia admitted, already peeling off her jumper. 

Tracy shuddered. “Criminal behaviour. Go on, love. I’ll have dinner on the table in ten.”

As Amelia padded toward the stairs, warmth blooming in her chest, she heard her mum call gently after her. “He’ll come around. He loves you too much not to.”

She didn’t answer, but she nodded once, before disappearing up the stairs.

— 

iMessage — 01:43am

Lando Norris did u leave bc of me like. mclaren it’s okay if u did i just. i just need to know feels like maybe u did and idk. i feel shit also this is prob a bad time. i had like 5 beers and a shot of smth blue was v blue. tasted like acid

Amelia Brown No. Not because of you. You don’t matter to me that much.

Lando Norris ouch ok but like partly bc of me?

Amelia Brown Not everything is about you, Lando.

Lando Norris but some things are

Amelia Brown You started ignoring me. For no reason. Then I got a job designing a future championship-winning car. Those two things are unrelated.

Lando Norris when did u become so meannnn :(

Amelia Brown I’m not being mean. You’re just used to me being quiet when people treat me badly.

Lando Norris i didn’t mean to treat u badly i just panicked everything was getting weird and real and i didn’t know what to say

Amelia Brown So you said nothing. That’s still a choice.

Lando Norris yeah. i know. i’m sorry i miss u sometimes just thought u should know that

Amelia Brown That doesn’t change anything.

Lando Norris yeah i figured ok

Amelia Brown Go home. You are going to feel terrible tomorrow morning. 

Lando Norris already do thanks i guess goodnight mini newey 

Amelia Brown Don’t call me that 

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor with her laptop open in front of her, the Red Bull Racing CAD interface glowing on the screen. Max was half-stretched out on the couch behind her, a bowl of strawberries balanced on his stomach and a bottle of Heineken in hand.

“Okay,” Amelia said, tapping the trackpad. “Front wing redesign is about eighty percent locked. We’re still playing with DRS and airflow under braking, but I think what we’ve got is going to make the car ridiculously sharp into corners.”

Max took a sip of his beer, watching her over the rim. “Ridiculously sharp sounds nice.” He noted. 

“It’ll bite if you get lazy,” she warned him.

He shrugged. “So, just like you.”

Amelia didn’t even look up at him. Over the past few weeks of working with him, she’d learned how to decipher his tones — he was teasing her. “I’m not lazy. You’d die without me.”

He tossed a strawberry at her. She caught it and took a bite.

She turned back to her laptop, sighed, and opened up the email thread that she and Adrian had going. 

Max cleared his throat. “Ah, have you talked to your dad yet?”

Amelia’s fingers froze over the trackpad. “No.”

Max nodded. “He’s still not talking to you?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’. 

“Your mom?” He questioned. 

“She’s trying. He’s just… stubborn. You know what he’s like.” Amelia exhaled. “He thinks I betrayed him.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know that now.” She rubbed her temple, leaned her head back against the couch. “But I also think I became inconvenient. It was easier when I was just the kid who wanted to build toy cars in the corner. Now I’m—”

“Mini Newey,” Max offered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She groaned. “Max, stop.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are, though. And you’re building my car, so I’m not complaining.” A pause. “Have you talked to Norris?”

Amelia blinked slowly, then shut her laptop with a quiet snap. “He messaged me two weeks ago. Drunk. Asked if I left McLaren because of him.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Of course not.” She scoffed. What a ridiculous idea. “He just… doesn’t get it. He thinks that everything is about him.”

Max laughed. “He’s nineteen. His brain is still soft.”

“I’m also nineteen,” she muttered, tipping her head back against the couch to look up at him. “I think he’s just emotionally illiterate.”

Max blinked, then grinned. “Tell him that to his face. I’d pay to see it.”

“You’re not a world champion yet,” she shot back. “You don’t get to make demands like that.”

He leaned in, until their faces were almost level. “I will be. And when I am, I’ll buy you a stupidly expensive watch for every podium we get.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You say that now.”

“Mark my words,” he said, puffing his chest in mock pride.

They sat there for a while — not quite friends, not just colleagues. Something in-between. Teammates in the truest sense. Bound by a shared obsession: a championship. A car so fast it betrayed the law of physics.

“I miss him,” she said quietly.

Max exhaled through his nose, slow and even. “He’s a nice boy. Stupid, but nice.”

“I know.” Her voice was barely a breath.

— 

iMessage — 18:15

Fernando Alonso How has your first month at RB been? Do I need to make any angry phone calls?

Amelia Brown It’s been great. Everything’s going better than I could’ve imagined. I’m already making progress. Adrian and I work really well together.

Fernando Alonso I told you so, did I not? You two are very alike!

Amelia Brown It’s a perfect fit, actually. I feel like I’m finally being heard.

Fernando Alonso Good, good. I knew it. You made the right choice. And now, you’re three million pounds richer. That helps too.

Amelia Brown Haha, yes. Very much. I would've probably taken £5, so, thank you for handling the negotiation for me.

Fernando Alonso Mi Nina, for your talents, they would have paid three billion.

Amelia Brown I miss you so much. When are you coming to visit?

Fernando Alonso Soon. I’ve got some meetings in London next month.

Amelia Brown Anything exciting?

Fernando Alonso You’ll be the first to know if there is.

Amelia Brown :)

— 

Lando stood with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched, posture defensive. Across the polished meeting table, Zak leaned back in his chair, arms folded tightly over his chest, eyes fixed on the floor like it might offer him an answer he hadn’t already lost.

The silence had stretched too long. 

“She’s really gone, huh?” Lando finally muttered.

Zak didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Lando blinked hard. He wasn’t sure what he expected; some kind of denial, maybe. Some reassurance that there was still a version of this where she came back. That maybe Red Bull was just a phase. A test. Something to prove a point.

“She left a hole here,” Zak said eventually. “Not just in the team. In the culture. She was…” he paused, trying to find a word that wouldn’t sound too sentimental. “I didn’t realise how important she was to the team. How much she was involved in.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight. “We all let her down.”

Zak looked at him then. Really looked at him. “You liked her.”

It wasn’t a question. Not judgment, either. Just a fact. Like pointing out a flat tire or a burning building.

Lando flinched. “Yeah. I really liked her.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to us,” Zak said quietly. “Any of us. You should’ve fought for her.”

“I couldn’t.” Lando’s voice was sharp, brittle. “I was scared. And stupid.”

Zak let out a rough, humourless laugh. “And I was selfish. I never gave her the recognition she deserved.” He paused. “She was the brain behind the Mercedes deal.”

Lando’s head jerked up, eyes wide.

Zak’s voice dropped, heavy with something close to guilt. “She pulled it all together, handed it to me in a file with start-to-finish instruction. Never asked for credit. I knew she wanted more, deserved more, but I didn’t give it to her. Not because she wasn’t ready. Because I wasn’t brave enough.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I didn’t want to be the one who gave her a shot, because I knew what people would say. Nepotism. Favouritism. They’d talk about her name before they ever looked at her work. And I thought I was protecting her from that.” He shook his head. “But I wasn’t. I was just holding her back.”

Lando stared at him. Silent.

There it was.

The ugly truth of it all.

Lando swallowed thickly. “She was never going to stay.”

“No,” Zak said. “No. I don’t think so.” 

Lando ran a hand over his face. 

She had belonged here once. She had. And they’d both let her feel like she didn’t.

Now she was designing the future with the enemy.

And they just had to sit back and watch it happen.

— 

The paddock buzzed with the usual pre-season chaos; the rhythmic whirr of engines, the sharp sound of tires scraping against the asphalt, and the chatter of team members huddled in tight circles. 

Amelia stood near the Red Bull garage, her posture stiff but her eyes alert, scanning the familiar sea of cars and faces.

It was the start of the 2020 season, and everything felt both familiar and brand new. The sharp smell of fuel lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of freshly waxed cars. But this time, she wasn’t in McLaren orange or one of her father’s old team shirts; this time, she was in Red Bull team gear. Black and dark blue with that iconic bull on her chest, the Red Bull Racing logo proud on her back.

And tucked around her neck, a pair of navy blue Red Bull ear defenders. 

She glanced to her left. Max was chatting animatedly with Christian, the two of them gesturing towards the car as the crew worked around it. Adrian was nearby, bent over a laptop, his face creased in concentration. Amelia would soon be next to him, diving into the data and throwing out her ideas. But for a moment, she lingered at the edge of the paddock, trying to ease herself into this new, new, new. 

Amelia’s gaze drifted toward the McLaren garage, even though she knew she shouldn’t be looking. There was Lando, standing with her dad, his usual smile present but different. Amelia tried not to flinch.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her ear defenders, the cool plastic grounding her, just a little. She had left her golf ball in her office, determined not to need it. 

Her eyes flicked back to the Red Bull car, sleek and aggressive in its design. It was more than just metal and carbon fiber. It was partly her work, her heart and soul poured into something tangible. 

And then, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a camera crew approaching her.

Her stomach dropped. 

The journalist’s voice reached her first, though she barely registered the words. “Amelia, first season with Red Bull Racing. You’ve been working behind the scenes for a while, but now you're here, in the paddock, in full Red Bull gear. How does it feel to be wearing navy blue now, after spending so much time with your father’s team, McLaren?”

Before she could formulate any kind of response, a familiar presence appeared beside her. Max.

He stepped in without hesitation, his body language calm and protective as he leaned slightly into her space. His gaze shifted to the interviewer, who looked briefly excited at the new addition. 

"Need an out?" Max asked her, his voice low enough only for her to hear. His stance was relaxed, but there was something in the way he held himself; a quiet assurance that, if she needed him to, he would get her away. 

The camera crew hovered expectantly, but Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t let the pressure reach her. He stayed right there, like a grounding force beside her.

"Amelia?" The interviewer prompted, waiting for her response.

Max’s eyes softened as he glanced at her. “Say whatever feels right,” he murmured, offering her a smile that was small but understanding. “You don’t owe them anything.”

For a moment, Amelia felt the tension drain from her. This wasn’t a performance. She didn’t have to give them the perfect soundbite. She could speak her truth, on her own terms.

She took a deep breath and, feeling Max still there, solid and supportive beside her, looked directly at the interviewer.

“It feels powerful,” she said simply, her voice steady but soft. It was the truth. For the first time, it felt like she was owning her decisions, not just navigating them. Powerful because this was her journey now. Because, despite everything, she was in total control.

The interviewer didn’t push for more, probably sensing the finality in her words. But the moment lingered for a second longer, like they were all collectively taking a breath.

Max gave her a subtle nod of approval, his lips twitching into a smirk. 

And, just as quickly, the two of them turned and started walking away, the cameras still rolling behind them, but it didn’t matter. Amelia’s shoulders relaxed, a weight lifting, and her feet carried her toward the garage.

— 

iMessage — 19:51

Lando Norris I’m sorry. I know that’s not good enough but I am I’m really sorry. And I want you to know that I’m happy for you. I’m not being sarcastic. You looked beautiful on camera. I’m glad Max was there with you. I wish it had been me.

Amelia Brown Congratulations on the podium finish, Lando.

— 

The morning sun was bright over the circuit as Max and Amelia walked into the F3 paddock. Amelia was wearing a denim dress. Max, in his typical laid-back skinny jeans and plain shirt, had his hands in his pockets and a baseball cap perched low over his eyes. He was always eager to watch the younger drivers, always curious about who might be the next big thing in motorsport.

She was more used to the engineering side of things, but she’d been a fan of motorsport in general since she was a child. The thrill of being here just to watch was amazing. 

They settled into the VIP viewing platform. The race kicked off with an energy that seemed to buzz in the air. Engines roared and the young drivers raced past, navigating the tight turns and high-speed straights with a determination that made Amelia feel the thrill of the sport she’d always loved.

As the race unfolded, Amelia’s eyes were drawn to car 81; Oscar Piastri. The young Australian was carving through the field with an almost eerie calm, moving up with a precision that belied his years. He raced like someone who had been here for ages, his every move instinctive yet calculated, as though he had been born for this.

Amelia felt that familiar pull. It was the same feeling she had gotten watching Lando in Formula Renault all those years ago — a sense that she was witnessing something special. Piastri surged ahead, eventually crossing the line first, claiming the win in the season opener.

“Damn,” Max muttered, impressed. “Kid’s fast.”

Amelia leaned in closer to the barrier, watching as Piastri celebrated with his team, their joy radiating from every hug and high-five. She turned to Max, who was watching her closely, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Don’t get too attached,” he teased. “He’s not yours to claim yet.”

“I’m not trying to claim him,” she replied, her tone steady, though there was an undeniable certainty in her voice. “But I will. When the time comes. And I think...” She trailed off, watching Piastri for a moment longer. “It will come for him very soon.”

Max grinned, shaking his head fondly. “Always thinking ahead, kleine zus.”

Amelia’s eyes remained on the Australian driver, a quiet feeling settling deep in her chest. She couldn’t quite place it.

“His manager?” she asked, her gaze still on Oscar as he laughed with his team, the world around him seeming to pause for a moment.

“Mark Webber,” Max replied, his voice neutral, but his expression unreadable.

“Ah.” Amelia’s lips tipped upward into an amused smile. Mark Webber, who had been central to Red Bull's rise in the sport. She glanced sideways at Max, then back at Oscar. “Mark Webber,” she repeated, her voice soft. “It’s strange, isn't it? Fernando and Mark; rivals. And now, I’m working at Red Bull thanks to Fernando, and Oscar is under Mark’s wing.” She looked at Max, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Formula One is a funny place.”

Max grinned, clearly entertained by the thought. “You can make connections out of anything, can’t you?”

Amelia let out a soft laugh, her gaze returning to the young driver in the distance. “I guess I do,” she said, her voice quieter now, a subtle sense of realisation setting in. “And somehow, they always seem to circle back to Red Bull.”

It was funny how Formula 1 worked that way: legacies, rivalries, and new beginnings always intertwined.

—

iMessage — 00:42am

Amelia Brown

Are you in Woking?

Lando Norris

Yes…?

Amelia Brown

I’m home alone. Come over. I am still angry at you, but I’m ready to talk to you now.

Lando Norris

Ok im omw like right now

Radio Silence | Chapter One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language.

Notes — Welcome to the Radio Silence universe! This chapter is mainly devoted to introducing Amelia as a character, but does have a bit of Lando in it too! Hope you love it.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2018

Amelia Brown stared at the new plaque on her dad’s office door.

Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing.

She hated it.

Not because she wasn’t proud of him. Of course she was — her dad was brilliant, and he’d worked for years to get that title. It made sense. It was logical.

But the words looked wrong. Off-balance. Too sharp.

The old plaque had been there for years. Zak Brown, Executive Director of McLaren Technology Group. She knew the exact spacing of the letters, the way the light hit the brushed metal in the afternoon. She’d memorised it without meaning to. It had become part of the hallway, part of the routine. Safe.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers twitching at her sides.

It wasn’t just a new title. It was everything. 

The MTC felt different now. The air had a new kind of buzz to it — louder, sharper. People looked at her differently, talked to her like she was someone else entirely. Like being the CEO’s daughter had changed her, too.

The rules had changed, and no one had told her what the new ones were.

— 

Her father had been a Formula One fan for as long as she could remember.

V10 engines were her lullaby as a baby; the high-pitched scream of them a strange kind of comfort. Over time, the sound had settled into her nervous system, familiar and grounding.

By the time she was eight, she couldn’t fall asleep without it. Old races playing softly on the TV, the steady rhythm of the commentators’ voices, the roar of the engines, the tension winding through each lap. 

One night, when she was ten, the power had gone out during a storm. No TV. No white noise. Just silence and the wind scraping at the windows. 

She’d curled up in her bed, fists pressed tight against her ears, trying not to cry. 

Then came footsteps in the hallway. Steady. Familiar.

Her dad’s voice followed, soft but certain. “Hey, kiddo. Got something for you.”

He stepped into her room with a dusty old laptop under one arm and a tangle of wires in the other. 

Ten minutes later, her princess-themed bedroom was filled with the warm flicker of a grainy screen. The 2005 Japanese Grand Prix. One of her favourites.

She knew the race by heart. Raikkonen’s last-lap pass on Fisichella, the way Alonso danced through the field like he could see gaps before they even opened. She mouthed the commentators’ lines without realising, her breathing slowly syncing with the rhythm of the engine notes.

Her dad didn’t say anything. He just sat on the floor beside her bed, legs stretched out, back against the wall, holding the laptop steady for her to see.

Eight years later, Amelia thought about that night a lot. 

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what Formula One had meant to her dad before she was even born. But somewhere along the line, it had become more than just his dream. It had become theirs.

For Amelia, it wasn’t just a sport. It was everything.

Formula One was her special interest; the thing that clicked in her brain in a way nothing else ever had. The stats, the strategy, the evolution of car design, the sound of a perfectly timed downshift… it all made sense when so much of the world didn’t. 

It gave her a framework, a rhythm, a language that felt natural.

While other kids played games she didn’t understand, she memorised engine configurations. While teachers scolded her for “zoning out,” she was mentally replaying the 2002 Brazilian Grand Prix, lap by lap.

She could list every World Champion from 1950 onward before she could properly tie her shoes. At recess, when the others were pretending to be superheroes or princesses, she was mapping out imaginary circuits in the dirt with a stick, narrating races in her head with full commentary — down to the tire strategies and pit stop windows.

She tried sharing her passion with her peers, once.

In third grade, she’d brought a die-cast model of a 1998 McLaren MP4/13 to class for sharing time. She’d practised what she was going to say all night, rehearsed the facts in front of the mirror until the words felt smooth. Recited the specs; V10 engine, Adrian Newey’s aerodynamic innovations, Mika Häkkinen’s championship run, over and over.

But when she stood in front of the class, the words tumbled out too fast, too detailed, too much. She was halfway through explaining the brake-steer controversy when a boy in the front row yawned so loudly it echoed, and someone in the back let out a snort-laugh that made her ears burn.

After that, she stopped trying.

Except with her dad.

With him, she never had to translate. She could go on about tire compounds or telemetry data or how ridiculous it was that certain drivers still didn’t know how to defend a corner, and he never told her to slow down or “talk normal.” He just nodded, asked questions, matched her pace.

They didn’t need eye contact or hugs or long emotional talks. They had race weekends. They had side-by-side silence on the couch, watching onboards and live timing feeds. They had post-race debriefs at the kitchen table over scrambled eggs, like it was the most natural thing in the world for an eight-year-old to have such strong opinions about power unit reliability.

It was how they communicated. Racing was their shared language.

Her mom didn’t get it; not really. The noise overwhelmed her. The rules confused her. She once referred to Sebastian Vettel as “the one with the baby face and the weird flag thing,” and Amelia had almost burst into flames on the spot.

But she tried.

She printed out colouring sheets of cars when Amelia was little, even though she could already draw them from memory. She learned to set the TV volume just right; high enough for Amelia to hear the engines clearly, low enough not to overwhelm her. She made snacks on race days and never once complained when qualifying ran late into the night.

Her mom didn’t understand the obsession. But she understood Amelia. 

— 

Amelia walked into her dad’s office and froze, staring at the shelf lined with trophies, framed photos, and mementos from his years in motorsport. It had been that way for months now, ever since he’d taken the CEO position at McLaren, and every time she had to look at it, her ears burned.

Because the items on the shelf were never in the right order.

The memorabilia was all haphazardly placed; drivers she didn’t like sitting too close to ones she admired. There were racing helmets, but the scale didn’t make sense; one was huge, another tiny, a third just slightly off-centre. 

There were photos, too, of her dad with the team, with Fernando Alonso, with the McLaren execs, but none of them were lined up properly.

The shelf, she thought, should be perfect. But it wasn’t.

Reaching up, she slid the first photo frame to the right, just enough to make it parallel with the others. Then the helmet, she shifted it slightly, aligning it with the edge of the shelf. 

One by one, she adjusted the frames, the objects, the odd little pieces of her dad’s world that had once felt like a steady part of her life.

She wasn’t sure why it was bothering her so much today. Maybe it was the way everything felt out of sync. 

When she reached the second shelf, she noticed a small figure of a car. A McLaren MP4/4. Her dad had given it to her when she was younger, one of the few gifts he’d ever picked out himself. She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the model before she set it down exactly in the middle of the shelf, just below the first row of photos.

For a very brief moment, it was perfect.

Just a small fix. A temporary escape from the feeling that everything else was slipping out of her grasp.

“Wow. Looks much better.”

Amelia tensed at the sound of her dad’s voice from the doorway.

She hadn’t heard him come in. For a moment, she considered turning on her heel and leaving the room, pretending she hadn’t touched anything. But her dad was already smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He didn’t look upset. He never did; that was the problem. She could never tell how he was really feeling because his face always stayed the same. It was like his expressions were stuck, and no matter how hard she tried to figure it out, she couldn’t read him. It made it hard to know if he was happy, worried, or anything at all. Everything just felt... flat.

“You know,” he continued, stepping further into the room, his hands in his pockets, “I’ve never been great at this stuff. Never really noticed how... messy things can get in here. But I guess you’ve got a better eye for it than I do.”

Amelia couldn’t help but feel a small rush of pride.

She nodded quietly, her gaze flicking back to the shelf. There was a strange sense of uncertainty creeping in, though. “Is it still okay, though?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean... Does it still... feel like yours?”

Her dad glanced at her, then back at the shelf, his smile fading just a little. “Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “It still feels like me. And it’s you, too, right? Made you feel better to change things up a bit?”

She just stared at him, unsure how to answer that. 

He stepped closer, running a hand through his hair. "I know things feel... different now. I guess I'm still getting used to it, too," he admitted quietly. "But it’s still... McLaren. It's still our world, kiddo."

Amelia’s stomach clenched. She wanted to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. She only nodded, her gaze travelling back to the perfectly aligned shelf.

Her dad placed a hand on her shoulder, his thumb brushing over her skin like a quiet reassurance. She made a small noise of discomfort. He paused, and then tightened his grip. So tight it might make a normal person wince. It just made Amelia let out a relieved breath of air, the pressure good, good, good.

It wasn’t that she hated touch, it was just that it had to be right, had to be just the right amount of force, of contact. Too light, and it felt like nothing at all. Too much, and she’d start to feel overwhelmed, like the weight of the world was pressing in. But this... this was perfect. His hand, firm on her shoulder, grounded her in a way nothing else could.

“Thanks for tidying up,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “I think I might leave it just like this for a while. Feels... good.”

She nodded, the pressure of his hand still there, steady, and it was like she could finally breathe again.

— 

The McLaren pit garages smelled of oil and rubber. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, and she could still hear them even through the noise-cancelling headphones on her ears. Amelia moved through the space quietly, sharp eyes scanning the flurry of engineers, tire changers, and data specialists working with practiced urgency. Her hands were clasped behind her back, fingers pressed tight against her palms, and her gaze flicked between the monitors, the car, and the teams as they hustled to prepare the MCL33 for its next session.

Her favourite part was always the data. The telemetry displayed on the screens had a rhythm, a language that felt like it belonged to her more than anyone else. The raw numbers, the graphs, the fine-tuned fluctuations of the car’s performance; it all made perfect sense. She knew what to look for. 

Her feet carried her forward. She found herself standing near Fernando Alonso’s MCL33, just a few feet away. The car was a beautiful mess of carbon fiber, heat shields, and wires, and it was just sat there, like a puzzle waiting to be solved. 

Before the season had even started, Amelia had memorised every part of it, from the aerodynamic tweaks to the engine specs.

One of the engineers noticed her as she lingered, her posture attentive, her expression unreadable beneath the headphones. Everyone knew who she was. Zac’s daughter. A genius, in a multitude of ways. 

He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle her. He’d noticed how her eyes narrowed when too many voices clashed together at once, or how she shrunk when people got just that little bit too close. 

"Hey, Amelia," he said, his voice calm, not wanting to intrude. She turned toward him, her face still slightly blank, but he could tell by the way her eyes focused on his that she had heard him. “You good?” he asked, motioning toward the telemetry screens just behind her.

Amelia nodded, then hesitated. Her hand hovered for a second before she slowly, cautiously pointed at the screen. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, careful. “I... I think the tire pressures on the front left might be a little too high for this circuit. The temperatures are different compared to last year.”

She didn’t look at the engineer as she spoke. Her eyes stayed fixed on the data, like if she focused hard enough, she could disappear into it. She knew she was right, she was almost always right when it came to this, but the memory of past times, of laughter or dismissal, tugged at the edge of her confidence. She didn’t want to make it sound like she thought she knew more than the team. She didn’t even have a degree. 

The engineer just blinked. “I’ll pass it along,” he said, eventually.

Amelia gave a small nod, then quickly turned her focus back to the car, to the numbers flicking past on the monitors. She adjusted her posture slightly, shoulders curling inward, trying to take up less space.

As she focused on the intricate lines of the MCL33, another engineer approached her. He was holding a tablet with a telemetry feed of his own, and without speaking, he offered it to her. Amelia looked at the data for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as she absorbed the figures and readouts. Then, her finger gently traced over the tablet’s screen, pointing to a particularly complex graph of the car’s acceleration over the course of a lap.

“Right there,” she said, her voice soft but clear, though it was a bit muffled by the headphones. "You need to adjust the mapping."

The engineer hummed, impressed but not surprised. “I’ll have the team look into it,” he said, before turning to relay her suggestion to the others.

Her dad was always there, of course, close, watching from a distance, his presence a quiet comfort. But Amelia didn’t need him right now. She just needed the machines, the numbers, and the freedom to study it all. 

The engineers moved around her, respecting her space. Always careful not to brush against her, even though she was technically in their way.

When she finally did look up from the data screens, Fernando had stepped into the garage, just a few feet away, in his racing suit, helmet tucked under one arm. He glanced at her, then at the engineers who were quietly working around her.

He approached with a calm, easy presence that didn’t press too hard, didn’t demand anything. “Ah. How is the car feeling, pollita?” he asked, voice light but kind.

Amelia gave a small nod, gaze trained on the Spanish flag on the neck of his fireproofs. 

Fernando smiled. Then he turned to the engineers, who were already passing along her observations. 

“If she said it,” he said, tone warm and without a trace of doubt, “then yes—keep an eye on the turbo mapping. She is the smart one.”

— 

She walked around the paddock often. The garages were fun —fascinating, even— but it could all very quickly become too much. The noise, the flashing lights, the overlapping voices, the sudden bursts of motion. 

So she’d slip away. Not far. Just enough.

There was always a McLaren staff member trailing after her. Not hovering, not bothering, just keeping a quiet distance. Just far enough to give her the illusion of independence, a false sense of freedom she chose to believe in. She didn’t mind. As long as they didn’t try to talk, or worse, touch, she could almost ignore them entirely.

She wandered with a purpose that only made sense to her, eyes fixed ahead, headphones still on, the rest of the world muted and manageable. She liked it that way. The paddock, in the quiet bubble of her own world, was peaceful.

That’s when she spotted him.

Lewis Hamilton stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality suite, sunglasses perched on his nose. Roscoe was with him, tail wagging lazily, nose in something that probably smelled like food. Amelia stopped walking, blinked a few times, then changed direction. 

Lewis noticed her before she got too close. He smiled, lowering his sunglasses slightly. “Hey, Amelia,” he said, crouching a little as Roscoe trotted forward to sniff her shoes. “Been a while. You good?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she crouched carefully, reaching a hand out to Roscoe but not touching him until the dog pressed his nose into her palm. Only then did she give a tiny nod.

Lewis waited, patient. He was always nice like that. 

“How’s Roscoe?” she asked finally, her voice soft and low. One time, somebody told her that she spoke like she wasn’t sure she had permission to do so. Always quiet. Mumbling, if she could get away with it.  

Lewis just smiled, warmth radiating in that easy way of his. She liked Lewis a lot. “He’s good. Living his best life. Had a spa day last week. He’s spoiled.”

Amelia looked at the bulldog again, and her tight jaw felt softer. “Good.”

There was a pause. She didn’t move, didn’t say much, but she didn’t walk away either.

“You ever want to walk him sometime, just ask,” Lewis offered, still crouched. 

Amelia looked up, eyes wide, the corners of her mouth twitching in what might have been the start of a smile. She gave a small nod. 

Then she stood, gave Roscoe one last pat, and turned to leave.

The McLaren staffer fell into step a few paces behind her, still pretending not to be watching too closely.

Amelia looked down at her hand. Grimaced.

Her chest tightened. The feeling started crawling up her skin.

“I need sanitiser,” she said, voice rushed and clipped, a little too loud, a little too sharp. Her hands hovered awkwardly in front of her like she didn’t want to touch anything, even herself.

The staffer blinked once, then immediately fished a small bottle from his pocket and offered it to her without a word.

Amelia snatched it quickly, not too fast, not rude, she told herself, and squeezed a dollop into her palm. She rubbed it in with fast, focused movements. Between every finger. Around every nail. Up her wrists. Twice.

Only when the last of it had dried, leaving that slightly tacky residue behind, did her shoulders drop. The tension in her jaw loosened. The hum in her head began to fade.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. She turned back toward the paddock walkway, pressing her clean hands flat against the sides of her jeans, grounding herself in the texture.

— 

The MTC’s glass corridors were quiet, filled with the soft echo of Amelia’s footsteps. She liked walking here early in the mornings, before the building filled with noise and movement. The lines were clean, the light was even, and everything had its place.

She turned a corner and nearly collided with someone moving fast; backwards, clumsily trying to zip up his hoodie while juggling an apple and his phone.

Lando Norris. FIA Formula 2 championship runner-up, member of the McLaren Young Driver Programme, widely considered one of the brightest rising stars in motorsport. She knew all of this about him.

He skidded to a stop when he saw her, eyes widening slightly. “Oh, hey. Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

Amelia stared at him for a beat, saying nothing. 

“You’re late,” she said plainly.

Lando blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Kinda running behind this morning. Slept through my alarm. Happens sometimes.”

She tilted her head, studying him like he was part of a data set, eyes narrowed into thin slits. “You’ll never get promoted if you’re always late.”

The words came out blunt, matter-of-fact. She wasn’t trying to be rude, just honest. Patterns mattered. Timings mattered. Discipline mattered. Racing was full of rules, and being late was not acceptable. 

Lando laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh—do you really think I won’t get promoted?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly, not in judgment but in analysis. She was already calculating, recalling his lap times, consistency, tyre management, race-craft under pressure. She’d watched his F2 season. Not just watched; studied it. He was aggressive under braking, a little rough on tyres mid-stint, but his spatial awareness was excellent, and his adaptability in changing conditions put him in the top percentile. 

He was a good fit for McLaren, in her opinion. 

“Are you fast?” She asked him, despite already knowing the answer. 

Lando blinked. Let out a short, awkward laugh. “Yeah. I mean, I think so.”

She nodded once, satisfied. “Then you’ll be fine.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her stride quick and purposeful, the conversation already filed away in her mind, concluded.

Lando stood there for a second, caught off guard. Smart. Intense. Kind of pretty, too. But brutal. “Right,” he muttered to himself, watching her go. “Cool. Fast. Got it.”

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on her bed in her family home in England, the room quiet except for the electrical hum of her phone charger. Her mom was downstairs, making chilli for dinner, and her dad was still at the office. 

She was scrolling through Twitter, quietly, methodically, as she did most evenings. She didn’t get involved much. A few retweets here and there. Articles, stats, insights. She had a good number of followers, mostly people who’d seen her on race broadcasts or encountered her race-day tweets.

But then, her thumb hovered. Lando Norris had tweeted earlier that day. She followed him, of course. She followed every McLaren adjacent account. 

She clicked on his profile.

She knew him. Had obviously studied his race-craft.

She scrolled through his timeline, her eyes tracking his tweets one by one.

"Is it just me or does everyone have a friend who thinks they know how to cook but really just know how to burn toast? 😂"

Amelia blinked. She didn’t get it. Was that supposed to be funny? She wasn’t sure that incompetence was amusing.

She continued scrolling, her eyes scanning through the odd mix of jokes, memes, and race-day updates. None of it made any sense. She was used to tweets that were precise, purposeful — like her own. Her posts were methodical, always carefully planned, always factual. Data, analysis, insights. It was how she communicated with the world.

Another tweet.

“Just watched a documentary on the moon landing. Now I’m convinced I could be an astronaut. 😂”

Amelia frowned. There was no mention of racing, no insights into strategy, no talk of lap times or tire degradation. Just... this. She scrolled past it quickly, her thumb moving with a steady rhythm as she returned to her own timeline, where everything was neatly laid out, logical, and to the point.

Maybe she should talk to Lando about using his social media more usefully. After all, he already had such a large following. He could share insights, data, something valuable for his fans. He was a professional driver, for goodness' sake. It could be a way to connect with people, educate them, make them appreciate the intricacies of racing in the same way that she did.

She bit her lip, feeling a small knot form in her stomach. She wasn’t sure if she could just tell him to change. That would be... strange. Maybe even rude.

Two hours later, Amelia sat at the dinner table, poking at her food absentmindedly. Her mom was talking about her day at work, but Amelia wasn’t really listening. 

Her dad, always quick to pick up on when something wasn’t right, glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kiddo?”

Amelia hesitated for a moment, rolling the words around in her mouth. She wasn’t sure why it was bothering her so much, but the thought of Lando’s Twitter kept circling in her mind, unresolved. “Lando Norris is a terrible tweeter. He needs a social media manager.”

Her dad stared at her for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Ah, that’s just Lando! Fans love him for it. He’s... unpredictable, keeps everyone guessing. People follow him because they like seeing the real him. Jokes and all.”

Amelia didn’t find anything about this situation funny. 

She fiddled with her food, the tension in her chest tightening. Why did nobody seem as concerned about this as she was?

Lando was good. A good racer. A worthy driver. 

Late. He was always late. He could fix that, though. 

Fix, fix, fix.

She clenched her hands in her lap, staring at her plate, her thoughts spinning.

Her mom set her fork down, leaning forward slightly. “Amelia, is it really bothering you, honey?”

Amelia’s gaze snapped up, her eyes wide. “Yes! I don’t understand it. He could be doing so much more—he’s just... joking around all the time. He never posts about his telemetry or his tests. It’s such a waste!”

Her mom nodded patiently. “That’s what you would post about?” she asked, her tone gentle.

Amelia nodded, feeling her thoughts settle into place. “Yes. It’s all there, the numbers, the data. It shows his skills. It’s... more useful.”

Her dad hummed thoughtfully. “I could have a chat with him. Tell him to post more of his racing stats. They are impressive. But I won’t tell him to stop being himself. That’s working well for his image.”

Amelia wrung her hands together under the table, taking small, even breaths. It helped calm her, but the unease was still there.

“I think…” she started, her voice softer now, the edges of her frustration ebbing away. “He is a good racer.”

Her dad smiled at her, a little amused. “You care about his success, huh? Well, that’s sweet.”

Amelia nodded. Then she frowned. Sweet? Why was that sweet? She cared about the success of all the drivers in her dad’s team… not just Lando.

Her mom reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re not the only one who wants him to do well, honey. But maybe let him be him. It’s working for him in his own way, even if it’s not how you’d do it.”

Amelia hummed thoughtfully, picking up her fork. She liked chilli. It was comforting. Simple. Consistent. 

She missed the look her parents shared — half concerned, half understanding. 

— 

Fernando would leave Formula One at the end of the 2018 season.

Amelia didn’t know how to feel about it, or if she should feel anything at all. The news came as a whisper first; just a passing comment she overheard in the MTC, a conversation between her dad and one of the engineers. At first, it didn’t seem real. Fernando had been a fixture of the sport for as long as she could remember. The idea of Formula One without him felt... wrong. He wasn’t just another driver; he was Fernando.

And then, one afternoon, her dad sat her down in his office and confirmed what she had been dreading.

Fernando was leaving.

She found herself pacing around the house, her mind spiralling as she thought about the future of F1 without him in it.

He’d always been so nice to her, letting her into his garage whenever she wanted, no questions asked. There was never any judgment in his eyes when she stared at data screens for hours or rambled on about telemetry. He just... let her be.

He had understood her in a way few people ever did.

She would miss him. 

— 

Lando Norris and Carlos Sainz. 2019 McLaren Driver Line-up.

She’d expected it. She knew it was coming. Fernando was leaving. So was Stoffel. She’d already processed that. But somehow, seeing it laid out in front of her, seeing it confirmed in black and white, made it feel much more real.

Her dad had sat her down earlier on in the month, his voice soft but steady. He’d said it was a new chapter for McLaren, a step in the right direction.

She put the phone down, the buzzing of it faint in her ears, and stared ahead. The news sat like a heavy weight in her chest. Lando and Carlos. McLaren’s new driver pairing.

— 

iMessage — Lewis Hamilton & Amelia Brown

Amelia Brown

I would like to see a photo of Roscoe. 

Lewis Hamilton

*insert photograph of Roscoe*

You doing okay, kiddo? Lots of changes happening over there at McLaren. 

Amelia Brown

I am fine. 

Lewis Hamilton 

You're always welcome at Mercedes if you need a breather, yeah? 

Toto thinks very highly of you. 

Amelia Brown

Because I am so smart? 

Lewis Hamilton

Exactly. 

— 

Amelia sat in the kitchen, scrolling through Twitter as she sipped her coffee. Her nineteenth birthday had come and gone, quietly, without much fanfare. 

Her gaze drifted across the screen.

Lando had posted something that caught her attention.

"Why do I feel like I need a vacation, but I also can't leave my bed?"

Amelia blinked at the tweet, trying to make sense of it. She tilted her head, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard. She didn’t understand. Was he… hurt? Why couldn’t he leave his bed? He was supposed to be racing a Formula One car in a matter of months.

With a worried sigh, she typed out a simple response to his tweet.

What does this mean? 

She hit send and waited. 

A few minutes later, Lando replied.

It’s just one of those random thoughts. You know, like when you’re too comfortable but you also want to escape, but you don’t really? Classic conundrum lol 

Amelia stared at the reply, processing it slowly. 

She... still didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to leave a comfortable bed just to go somewhere else? 

She frowned at the screen for a moment, her eyes scanning the thread, and then she noticed the replies.

“Lando is so sweet to explain it! 💕” 

“Aw, he’s always so patient with everyone ❤️” 

Amelia’s brows furrowed. Sweet? Patient? She didn’t understand. He was just explaining himself and his terrible analogy. Had nobody else been confused?

She stared at the replies for a moment longer, the confusion deepening. It felt like there was something she was missing.

She felt a small twist of discomfort, the kind she always got when emotions felt too complicated, too layered. 

Amelia clicked away from the thread, unsure what to do with the strange tugging sensation that lingered in her chest.

— 

That night, Amelia sat on the edge of her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. She glanced over at her mom, who was measuring her bedroom window. Amelia had asked for black-out blinds, now that the days were getting brighter again.

“When my chest gets tight— and I’m thinking about somebody, and then I see other people saying nice things about them... and it gets, um, uncomfortable— what does that mean?”

Her mom paused, turning to face her. “Well. It can be a lot of things, honey. Depends on the person. Maybe you’re feeling protective, or it could be jealousy. Sometimes, we can feel a lot of emotions physically, and they don’t always have to make sense.”

Amelia blinked, feeling something stir inside her that she couldn’t quite name. The word felt almost too big to say. “Jealousy?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her mom nodded, sitting down next to her. “Jealousy isn’t always bad. It’s just a feeling. Doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

Amelia’s mind spun. The word echoed in her head, uncomfortable and unfamiliar. 

Jealousy. 

Something about it seemed to fit.

34 osc with sick reader 🤭

this is actually so fitting bc i'm sick rn and would give anything to have an osc to take care of me

oscar piastri x reader, 1.3k. mentions of flu + flu symptoms but nothing too detailed. request something from here :)

“You should’ve told me you were ill.” 

Oscar fixes you to the spot with a slightly disapproving frown as soon as you pull open your front door, though it’s offset by the bulging paper bags dangling from both hands. 

You step aside to let him in, fighting the throbbing in your skull at the sudden movement. You’ve been holed up in your flat for almost a week with a pesky cough that had quickly morphed into a full blown case of the flu, rendering you pretty much useless for more than ten minutes. It’s been a struggle, but you didn’t want to bother anyone, especially not Oscar. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” You croak. Your words seem lost on him as he strides towards the kitchen to unload his bags. Gingerly, you follow him, focusing deeply on not keeling over in your slow hobble to lean against the counter.

“I had to hear it from Lando instead. You told Lando you were sick and not your own boyfriend?” 

“I didn’t want to get you sick, Osc. Your job is hard enough as it is, you shouldn’t have to risk making it more strenuous because I gave you whatever I’ve got.” Your reasonings die off into a hacking cough at the end, inhales that rattle through your chest painfully. Oscar winces at the sound, and his face softens. 

He pauses in his unpacking of what seems like an entire pharmacy, rounding the island to come stand in front of you, concern evident now. “I don’t care if I get sick. I wanna be here to help you.” 

“Why are you so perfect? It’s annoying.”

“It’s a gift.” He brushes off your backhanded compliment with a small smile and a shrug, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. “You’re still burning up. I brought some medicine just in case you needed anything else. Also honey lemon tea, chicken soup, and a bunch of electrolyte drinks my trainer swears by.” 

You blink, a little caught off guard by just how prepared he is. “Tea sounds nice.” 

“I’ll make you a cup. When was the last time you showered?” 

“Are you saying I stink?” You huff, mustering the most offended glare you can manage. It must not pack much of a punch, because it doesn’t phase Oscar, given his non-reaction. “Fine, I dunno. Three, four days ago?” 

“Yeesh. You should shower.” 

“Yes, I know that, mister obvious,” You gripe. The corners of his mouth lift in an amused smile. “I just can’t stand on my own for very long at the moment. Not without feeling like I’m about to pass out.” 

“I could help.” 

“Are you seriously trying to get into my pants right now?” 

Oscar’s cheeks flush bright red, ears doing the same. “No! No, I’m not—I’m trying to be helpful, honest to god.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“I am! A shower would help you feel better, and I can help make sure you don’t, like, fall and hit your head, or something.” 

“Oh. Really?” Oscar nods, looking sincere, and suddenly you feel the slightest bit bad for assuming anything else. “Um, sure. That’s really kind of you, Osc.” 

“Well, I have been told I’m annoyingly perfect.”  

“Wonder who said that.” 

“My very sick, very stinky, very cute girlfriend.” 

“Tread carefully, Piastri.” 

“Always do.” 

You feel at your most vulnerable in front of Oscar as soon as he turns the water on, even though you’ve showered together many times before. 

This time feels different. More intimate. You’re putting yourself in his hands and letting him help you because you know he’ll do it with nothing but the utmost care. 

He’s stripped down to his underwear so as to not get the majority of his clothes wet. Even in your fever muddied state, you can admire the strong plane of his shoulders, the freckles and moles dotting his skin. The way the water pools in the hollow of his collarbones before cascading down his strong chest. 

If you were feeling more like yourself, you’d jump his bones. For now, you’ll settle on leaning back against him in the spray of the perfectly hot water, taking the support he gives. 

“Can I use your nice body wash? The lavender one?” 

“Mhm,” You mumble, already halfway to slumber. 

Oscar’s hands are beyond gentle as he washes your body, murmuring soft directions punctuated with quiet stories about what’s been going on in his life since the last time you’d seen each other. It all feels very domestic, something you could even see yourself having with Oscar in the future. You’re far from that right now, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said it didn’t sound nice. 

“Hey, hey, don’t go to sleep on me,” He murmurs, nudging you gently. 

“M’not falling asleep,” You huff, pouting. Oscar lets out a chuckle that vibrates through his chest.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re all done here,” He says, rubbing a hand down your arm. He flicks the tap off, guides you out of the shower, wrapping a fluffy towel around you before grabbing one for himself. He even goes so far as to dry you off before you can even think of doing it yourself. As he towels his hair dry, he studies you with watchful eyes. “You alright? Wanna go to bed?” 

“I’m okay,” You say, feeling well rejuvenated thanks to Oscar. Now that the ache in your bones has dulled to bearable enough, you take note of your hunger. On cue, your stomach growls loud enough for him to hear. 

“Hungry, I see,” He chuckles. You smile sheepishly. “Why don’t we put some clean clothes on and I’ll heat up the soup?” 

You manage to dress yourself without Oscar’s help. When you pad out to the kitchen snuggled deep in a jumper of his that you’d nicked ages ago, he's just putting out a steaming hot mug of tea on the counter for you. A pot of soup simmers on the stovetop behind him, as promised. 

“Feel any better?” 

“Loads,” You sigh, dragging yourself to sit on a kitchen stool. The mug warms your palms nicely when you wrap your hands around it. “Thank you, Osc. I meant it when I said you were perfect, y’know.” 

Oscar smiles warmly. “If taking care of you means I’m perfect, then you're a saint for putting up with me.” 

“Being with you is easy, Osc.” 

“And taking care of you is too.” 

“I wanna kiss you so bad right now.” 

Oscar’s cheeks go pink, eyes squinting into a bashful close lipped smile. “What’s stopping you?” 

You pout. “Don’t wanna give you whatever I’ve got. I’d feel so guilty if I did.” 

“Reckon you should give my immune system more credit. I’ll be fine,” He assures you. “And if I do get sick, you can take care of me without worrying about catching it again. Because, like, antibodies, or whatever.” 

“Oh, so you’re a scientist now, are you?” You tease. Oscar shrugs. “I guess one kiss couldn’t hurt.” 

He beams wider, looking like a cat that’d just gotten the cream as he leans over the counter to offer his cheek towards you as you roll your eyes. You’ll give him that much for the help he's given you today. 

Before you can press a kiss to his waiting cheek, he rears back, ducking off to the side and into the crook of his elbow a split second before a sneeze escapes him. Then another, and a third one. 

You gasp, shoving your stool back and away from him. “I knew it! You’re gonna get sick, Osc!” 

“No, that was…allergies.” 

“Oscar!” You whine, burrowing deeper into your jumper. 

“It was!” He protests, but even that is weak. You can see right through him. “You know I have that thing with dust. Totally not you.” 

“I will kick you out.” You try your best to look threatening, but an ill timed bout of coughing rips through you yet again, making you groan a little at the scratch in your throat. Your forehead presses against the smooth countertop, the coolness bringing a little solace to your heated skin. 

Oscar’s palm smooths along your back, voice soft and fond as can be. “No, you won’t. You like me too much.”

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IT WAS OBVIOUS.

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.” — Oscar accidentally shows too much excitement after his win, revealing your true relationship to your brother and the whole world.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x Norris! fem! reader

warnings. none. AGAIN, IN THE HONOR OF OSCAR’S WIN IN CHINA ‼️🥹 (two posts in one day, crazy ik)

music. The Alchemy by Taylor Swift.

YOU WEREN’T ENTIRELY SURE if hooking up with your brother’s teammate was the best idea you’d ever had—or the worst. But here you were, tangled up in something you couldn’t quite resist.

It all started when Lando and Oscar became teammates. Their friendship blossomed quickly, the kind of bond that seemed effortless. So, naturally, it wasn’t long before Lando introduced you to Oscar. And, well, Oscar caught your eye in a way you hadn’t expected.

He was everything your brother wasn’t—polite, calm, and kind. Where your brother was loud and relentless, Oscar was steady and thoughtful. You couldn’t help but wonder how the two of them could even be friends, let alone teammates.

But the real surprise? You caught Oscar’s eye, too. What began as casual texts and lighthearted calls quickly evolved into something more. Dates, secret meet-ups, stolen moments that felt like they belonged to another world. You didn’t tell your brother for a multitude of reasons. First, it wasn’t any of his business. And second, you knew exactly how he’d react—relentless teasing, endless questions, and a level of overprotectiveness you weren’t in the mood to deal with.

When you and Oscar decided to make it official, it was a quiet decision, just between the two of you. Well, the two of you and your best friend—because keeping secrets from her was impossible. Beyond that, no one else knew. And maybe that was part of what made it so thrilling. The secrecy added a layer of excitement to every interaction, every glance, every touch.

The moments before a race were your favorite. The paddock buzzed with energy, the air electric with anticipation. And amidst it all, there were the secret kisses, the fleeting touches when no one was looking. It was a game, a dance of stolen moments that only the two of you understood. The thrill of it all made your heart race almost as much as the roar of the engines.

Lando's invitation to the Chinese Grand Prix felt like the perfect follow-up to his stunning victory in Australia. You couldn’t be prouder of him, and being here felt like a privilege. The atmosphere buzzed with energy, and you were eager to cheer not just for him, but for Oscar as well—your two boys.

Now, you found yourself standing behind the barriers, shoulder to shoulder with McLaren team members who shared in the collective anticipation. The hum of engines roared in the background as the cars sped around the track, each lap bringing Oscar closer to something extraordinary. His first-ever pole position had already felt like a monumental achievement, but now, with the race on its final lap—lap 56—Oscar was leading. His car, sleek and powerful in its vibrant McLaren orange, glided through the turns with precision, almost effortlessly.

The tension in the air was palpable, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you cheered with the team. Oscar had practically won by now, the gap between him and the car behind him widening with every second.

Standing there, witnessing the culmination of hard work and talent, you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with pride—not just for Oscar and his incredible performance, but for Lando, who was right behind his teammate. The cheers around you grew louder as the finish line approached.

The chequered flag waved, signaling the end of the race, and as Oscar crossed the finish line first, with Lando right behind him, a surge of overwhelming pride and joy coursed through you. It was a moment of pure triumph, made even sweeter knowing how much Oscar had struggled during his home race in Australia. To see him claim victory here felt like vindication for every ounce of effort he had poured into this season.

As Oscar parked his car behind the gleaming P1 sign, your gaze never wavered from him. His car came to a halt, and in the corner of your vision, you caught sight of Lando parking just behind, the two McLarens standing like trophies of the team’s efforts. But your focus was locked on Oscar, on the way he climbed out of the car, exuding both exhaustion and exhilaration.

Helmet off, his face glowed with triumph as he threw up his arms in his signature victory pose, the crowd erupting in cheers. The moment was electric, but your heart raced for a different reason as you watched him turn—not towards his team, who stood waiting with cheers and open arms, but towards you.

Oscar’s strides were purposeful, his gaze unwavering as he crossed the distance between you. Your breath hitched when he reached you, ignoring everyone else, his arms wrapping around you in an embrace that was full of relief, joy, and something so uniquely him. You held onto him tightly, feeling the intensity of the moment.

As you pulled away slightly, his face was so close to yours, his brown eyes meeting yours in a way that made the world around you blur. For a fleeting second, there was a pause, a shared understanding, before he closed the gap. His lips met yours in a kiss that was unplanned but utterly perfect—an unspoken testament to everything he couldn’t say in words.

The team’s cheers rang louder behind you, but in that moment, it was just the two of you. The thrill of victory, the secret you shared, and the raw emotion of it all were woven together in that single instant. And for that brief, breathtaking moment, nothing else mattered.

As he pulled away, his voice was quick but steady, the words tumbling out before he turned away: “I love you.” And just like that, Oscar was off, moving to embrace the cheering team members who waited to celebrate his victory. The moment hung in the air for a beat, the rush of emotions swirling inside you.

You didn’t need to think twice about what had just happened. That kiss—bold, unapologetic—wasn’t just seen by the team. It was seen by the cameras, the crowds, and possibly even the entire world. And your brother. But none of it mattered anymore. Oscar had chosen this moment to make it clear where he stood. His love, his support, his pride in being with you—none of it wavered, regardless of what anyone thought. To him, the name you carried meant nothing in comparison to the connection you shared.

As your eyes trailed back to him, now surrounded by his teammates, the warmth of the moment was interrupted by a familiar presence. Your brother was already in front of you, arms crossed, his face set in that classic judgmental look he’d mastered over the years.

You tried not to squirm under his gaze, instead forcing a smile and stepping forward to embrace him before he could say a word. "I’m proud of you," you said quickly, deflecting with a playful tone as your arms wrapped around him.

Lando’s body stiffened for a split second, his eyebrows raised in suspicion, but he eventually hugged you back. "Hmm," he muttered, clearly not convinced but letting the moment slide—for now. You could already see the gears turning in his head, and you knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation.

As the top three entered the Cool Down room, the adrenaline still seemed to linger in the air, blending with the excitement and chatter from the race outside. The drivers were greeted by monitors showing highlights of their performance, the distant roar of the crowd fading into a steady hum. Lando followed a step behind, his usual playful energy evident in the slight bounce of his step as he grabbed a water bottle from the corner table. The tension of the race seemed to dissolve, replaced by camaraderie as they settled in, catching their breath.

It didn’t take long for Lando to break the ice in true Lando fashion. He turned towards Oscar, pointing at him with dramatic flair, his expression mock-serious. “Osc, don’t think for a second I didn’t see that,” he began, his tone accusatory yet laced with humor. The way he gestured, finger wagging as if scolding a misbehaving child, made it clear he was enjoying every second of this.

Oscar, who had just picked up his towel to dab the sweat from his face, froze mid-motion. He glanced at Lando, a mixture of confusion and resignation flickering across his features. “Here we go,” he muttered, almost too quietly to be heard. But he didn’t need to say much. He knew exactly what this was about.

“My poor eyes!” Lando cried dramatically, his free hand flying up to shield his face as if he were genuinely scarred. The theatrics escalated quickly, his voice rising in exaggerated despair as he staggered backward a step for added effect. “I’ll never recover from this trauma.”

Oscar sighed, shaking his head slightly, though the smallest twitch of a smirk threatened to betray his amusement. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, man,” he said, his voice dry but tinged with tolerance—the tone of someone well-practiced in dealing with Lando’s antics.

But Lando wasn’t about to let him off that easily. “I mean, honestly,” he continued, his mock indignation unwavering, “a little heads-up would’ve been nice. You know, like—‘Oh, hey, Lando, I’m about to make the whole world cringe by publicly making out with your sister.’ Something like that. Is that too much to ask?” His grin widened as he tossed the water bottle between his hands, his eyebrows arched in that trademark cheeky expression.

Oscar rolled his eyes, lifting the towel to hide his face for a moment as if shielding himself from Lando’s relentless teasing. “It wasn’t that bad,” he replied, his voice firm but quieter now, as if trying to downplay the moment.

“Wasn’t that bad?” Lando repeated, his voice climbing an octave as he placed a hand to his chest like he’d been mortally offended. “Mate, I think I just lost three years of my life.” His grin made it clear he was enjoying this far too much, but beneath the jest, there was no malice—just Lando being Lando.

Oscar finally allowed himself a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. Next time, I’ll send you a formal invitation first,” he deadpanned, the sharp wit of his retort earning a mock gasp from Lando.

“Oh, how thoughtful,” Lando shot back, finally leaning against the wall as if he’d exhausted his dramatic reserves. But the mischievous glint in his eye remained, a silent promise that he wasn’t going to let Oscar off the hook anytime soon.

The night paddock lay in near silence, the excitement of the day's events now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The dim glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows across the asphalt, illuminating the reflection of Oscar's trophy as he carried it proudly in one hand. His other arm rested securely around your shoulders, a gesture that brought a quiet warmth as the two of you walked side by side.

Lando walked just a step behind, still buzzing with energy despite the lateness of the hour. His natural playfulness was impossible to suppress, and it wasn’t long before his voice broke through the calm, cutting through the stillness with a sense of exaggerated drama. “Soo…” he began, his tone drawing out the word as if he were preparing to deliver a theatrical monologue.

Oscar groaned quietly, already anticipating where this was headed. “Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath, his head dipping just slightly. You felt his arm tighten around you briefly, as though bracing himself for impact, while you stifled a small laugh. Lando was nothing if not predictable.

“You two have a lot to explain,” Lando finally said, his voice laden with mock sternness as he caught up to walk alongside you. His brow furrowed in an attempt to appear serious, but the mischievous sparkle in his eye gave him away. He raised an eyebrow for effect, his gaze darting between you and Oscar as though he were demanding a confession for some unspeakable crime.

Feigning innocence, you tilted your head, a sly smile playing on your lips. “What do you want to explain?” you asked, your voice light and teasing. It was clear you weren’t going to make this easy for him. Even as your heart raced slightly at the idea of confronting the topic, you couldn’t resist the urge to play along.

Lando stopped walking for a moment, crossing his arms as he stood in the middle of the path, looking every bit like a self-appointed interrogator. He narrowed his eyes, his lips twitching as though he were holding back a grin. “You two are like… a thing?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate, emphasizing the weight of what he was asking.

Oscar exchanged a quick glance with you, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t need to say anything for you to know what he was thinking—this was so typically Lando. As much as the question lingered in the air, it was impossible to take him completely seriously. Still, the tension buzzed ever so slightly beneath the surface, and it was clear that neither of you could sidestep the question for much longer.

But after a few lingering seconds of silence, Lando cleared his throat dramatically, clearly preparing to fill the void. “I mean, it was obvious,” he declared, his tone laced with faux confidence, as though he had pieced it all together from the start.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of you before you could stop it. “No, it wasn’t,” you shot back, shaking your head at him. “You had no idea, Lan.”

Lando’s eyebrow shot up as he feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest in mock indignation. “Excuse me? I’m incredibly observant, thank you very much.”

Oscar, who had been quietly amused throughout the exchange, finally chimed in, his voice calm but teasing. “Yeah, right,” he said, glancing at Lando with a smirk. “You only noticed because we made it too obvious today.”

Lando threw up his hands in a theatrical shrug. “Well, maybe. But still. I figured it out. That’s what counts,” he insisted, though the grin on his face betrayed how much he was enjoying winding the two of you up.

You rolled your eyes, giving him a playful shove. “Alright, Sherlock. Sure, you ‘figured it out,’” you teased, unable to keep the grin off your own face. Despite the teasing, there was an undeniable warmth in the moment—a mixture of relief and lighthearted acceptance. Leave it to Lando to turn even the most awkward revelations into something almost comforting.

“But seriously now,” Lando said, his tone softening as he let his teasing demeanor fade away for a moment. He glanced between the two of you, his lips curling into a genuine smile. “I’m happy for you guys,” he admitted, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard.

Oscar smiled warmly in return, his arm tightening slightly around your shoulders, as if silently thanking Lando for his support. It was a simple moment, but you felt the weight of Lando’s words—his approval meant more than you’d realized.

“Just a bit mad for not telling me sooner,” Lando added, raising his eyebrows as though pretending to scold you. Though the hint of mischief in his smile quickly undermined any seriousness. “You could’ve spared me the whole awkward guessing game, you know.”

his person

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: you are lando’s person <3

Word count: 2.3k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

If you asked anyone — anyone who’d known Lando even half as well as the world thought it did — who his best friend was, the answer came easy, automatic, like muscle memory.

Max Fewtrell.

It was almost too obvious. They’d been inseparable since their karting days — the kind of friendship that was stitched together with inside jokes, shared playlists, matching scars from dumb teenage stunts, and years of standing side by side through wins and wipeouts. They were co-founders of Quadrant, partners in crime both on and off the track, the human embodiment of controlled chaos whenever a Twitch stream went live or an Instagram story popped up. If you ever bet on who knew Lando best — who could read him like a page out of his own life — your money was safe on Max.

But if you asked Lando — really asked him — his answer wouldn’t even take a breath.

“It’s her,” he’d say, soft but steady. Certain.

“It’s always her.”

You.

The girl who had known him before the podiums, before the fame, before the world chanted his name like a stadium-wide heartbeat. The one who saw through the swagger and the quick wit, the one who called him out when his ego got a little too comfortable, and who held him up when the weight of expectation became too much for one pair of shoulders to carry alone. His girlfriend, yes. But more than that. His person. His safe place. His best friend in every sense of the word.

And God, Lando could never seem to shut up about you.

It was an unspoken rule among his circle — one that started as eye-rolls and playful jabs but eventually softened into quiet acceptance. Your name had a habit of slipping into conversations without warning, as if his mind couldn't help but orbit around you even when you weren’t there. His engineers learned to expect it, Max would mock him with exaggerated groans, but none of it ever stopped him.

“Mate, we asked about tire strategy, not your girlfriend,” his race engineer would tease over the radio mid-practice, when his focus momentarily drifted.

And Lando, without missing a beat, would just laugh — the kind of laugh that sounded like pure ease, like home.

“Same thing, really,” he’d reply, grinning under the helmet. “She keeps me grounded. Technically part of the setup.”

On race weekends, it didn’t matter how chaotic the paddock got, how many fans called his name, or how tightly his schedule was packed. His eyes would always search the crowd — cutting through the noise, the flashing cameras, the blur of faces — until they landed on you. Like some unspoken radar tuned to a single frequency.

“There you are,” he’d mumble every single time, pulling you into his arms, cameras be damned. “Took me forever to find you.”

“You walked straight toward me, Lando,” you’d laugh against his chest, your voice the one sound that always, always managed to quiet his racing thoughts.

“Still felt too long,” he’d whisper, pressing his lips to your hair like that simple touch could steady the adrenaline still roaring through his veins.

You weren’t just the girl he loved. You were his favorite adventure. His co-op player. His partner in every messy, beautiful, unfiltered part of his life. Nights were spent tangled together on the couch, feet tucked under each other, controllers in hand, or phones abandoned on the table as you scrolled through old memes, trading soft jokes and lazy kisses. But the best part was always the silence. The ease of it. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling, because being with you — just being — felt like the world had finally clicked into place.

And when the world outside got too loud — when the weight of expectation grew heavier than a leaden race suit, and headlines tried to script his story before he even had a chance to live it — it was always you he turned to.

“Do you think I’m doing enough?” he asked one night, voice quieter than the hum of the television, exhaustion settling deep into his bones after another long, hard-fought weekend. His head rested on your lap, and your fingers moved through his curls with slow, absent strokes — the kind that said I’m here, without needing the words.

“You’ve always been enough,” you answered, not even hesitating. “Wins don’t make you, Lando. You do.”

And something in his chest softened — like your words had reached places even his own self-belief couldn’t always touch. He looked up at you then, eyes warm, like he was trying to memorize the exact way you said it, the exact way it felt to be loved by you.

“See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

You smirked, playful but sincere. “Oh, I thought it was because I make better toast than Max.”

“That too,” he grinned, and it was the kind of grin that reached his eyes — the real one, the one that didn’t need cameras or podiums. “But mostly because you’re the only person who makes this whole crazy life make sense.”

And you always would.

Because even on the days when the world felt like it was spinning too fast, when the pressure of living under a microscope crept too close, you were there. Not with solutions or speeches — just you. Existing. Holding space for him the way only you could.

You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers slow and familiar. “You know,” you murmured, “I don’t think anyone will ever understand you the way I do.”

“I don’t want anyone else to,” Lando replied, quiet but sure. “They’d get it all wrong.”

There was a pause, but the comfortable kind — the kind that wrapped around you both like a blanket, no need for more words. His hand found yours, thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your skin, the rhythm steady, grounding.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” you teased, squeezing his fingers gently. “For life.”

His lips quirked, soft and lopsided. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s exactly the plan.”

Race weekends always had a way of making that feeling even stronger — like the noise and the speed and the stakes only sharpened the way Lando looked at you, like the world could be spinning at 300 kilometers an hour and still, his attention would only ever settle on you.

You stood by the garage, tucked slightly out of the way, half-hidden behind a stack of equipment cases as the paddock moved around you in its usual, barely controlled frenzy. Journalists darted between interviews, chasing headlines with mics stretched out like fishing rods. Cameras tracked every flicker of expression on every driver’s face, lenses hungry for a story in a single glance. Engineers, crew members, mechanics — they weaved through the maze of people like clockwork, hands full of telemetry sheets and radios, their minds a million miles away, deep in calculations and split-second decisions.

And then, there was Lando.

The second his eyes found you through the blur of it all — the sponsors, the fans, the pre-race nerves knotted beneath his skin — everything else seemed to fall away. His entire posture shifted, tension melting from his shoulders as that unmistakable, boyish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. The smile that wasn’t for the cameras, or the sponsors, or the sea of people waiting for autographs — the one that was just for you.

Like clockwork, he jogged toward you, cutting through the paddock like gravity had decided to rewrite the rules, yanking him toward the only place he ever really wanted to be.

“There’s my good luck charm,” he greeted, voice bright but edged with exhaustion and adrenaline — the kind that no amount of coffee or sleep could fully shake before a race. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, the contact lingering longer than it probably should have given the dozens of eyes watching, but Lando had never cared much about timing when it came to you.

“You should probably be focusing on the race,” you teased, fingers finding the zipper of his suit, giving it the lightest of tugs, grounding him even as the rest of the world tried to pull him in a hundred different directions.

“I am,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, those warm eyes locking onto yours like they always did. “You’re the best part of it.”

And the way he said it — soft, steady, without even a hint of his usual playful sarcasm — left no room for superstition or charm. Just the truth, plain and simple.

You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his balaclava, adjusting it slightly before your thumb traced the sharp line of his jaw, a familiar and quiet ritual between the two of you — like you were handing him the last piece of calm before the chaos.

“Go win,” you murmured, your voice low but sure. “I’ll be right here.”

“You better be,” he said, stepping backward, reluctant but smiling, his eyes still drinking you in like he could store the moment away for later. His race engineer’s voice crackled over the comms, pulling him back to reality, but even as he turned to go, he glanced back — once, twice — like the distance between you was the only thing that ever felt wrong.

And when he finally climbed into the car, helmet on, gloves tightened, visor down — the world might have narrowed to tire temperatures and corner speeds, but you were still there. A fixed point. The face he’d always find, whether he crossed the finish line first or not.

Later that night, long after the champagne had dried on his race suit and the headlines had already written their version of the day, you and Lando found yourselves right where you always seemed to end up — curled up on the hotel balcony, wrapped up in a blanket you’d stolen from the foot of the bed, legs tangled together like the world didn’t exist beyond that little pocket of quiet.

The city stretched out below you, lights blinking lazily in the distance, but neither of you paid them much attention. His hand rested on your knee, your feet propped comfortably in his lap, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your ankle — like his body hadn’t quite figured out how to sit still, even if his mind finally had.

For a while, you both just sat there, letting the silence settle. It wasn’t awkward or heavy — just easy. The kind of quiet that only ever existed between two people who didn’t need words to fill the gaps.

But of course, Lando couldn’t resist breaking it.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice light but thoughtful, “it’s kinda ridiculous, isn’t it?”

You turned your head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “What is?”

He let out a soft, amused huff, like the thought had been bouncing around his head for hours. “I spend all day surrounded by thousands of people — cameras, fans, the whole circus — but the second I step out of the car, the only face I ever want to find is yours. Like some lovesick golden retriever.”

You snorted, nudging him with your elbow. “You? A golden retriever? Please. More like a raccoon hyped up on energy drinks.”

He laughed, head tipping back slightly, the sound warm and genuine. “Fair, but still. You’re basically my human GPS at this point. Doesn’t matter how big the crowd is, somehow I always spot you first.”

You tilted your head, playful but sincere. “Maybe I’ve just trained you well.”

“Oh, definitely. Pavlov would be proud.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess that makes two of us, though. I could be anywhere — grandstands, the grid, the middle of a fan mob — and my brain’s only ever tuned into you.”

He grinned at that, the kind of grin that was all soft cheeks and crinkled eyes, and for a second the teasing dropped away, leaving only something honest and quiet between you.

“God, look at us,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his. “Disgustingly sappy.”

“Max would be physically ill if he heard this conversation.”

“Max would disown me,” Lando agreed, lips quirking. “But he already knows I’m screwed when it comes to you. No point in pretending.”

You stretched your legs out, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’ve been screwed since the moment I stole your fries that one time, haven’t you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head like the memory was still fresh. “That was the moment. I knew I was done for. Anyone who can steal the last fry and not feel guilty? Dangerous.”

You grinned, leaning your head back against his shoulder, your voice soft but full of playful affection. “And you let me do it anyway.”

“Let you?” he scoffed. “I offered. You just didn’t hear me over the sound of your victory.”

You both sat there for a second, wrapped up in that perfect kind of comfort that came from knowing — truly knowing — you belonged exactly where you were.

Then, without looking away from the view, you murmured, “You’re my person, you know.”

He glanced down at you, his hand finding yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours with a quiet certainty. “You’re mine too. Always have been.”

You turned your head, catching the soft, lopsided smile on his face — the one that always gave him away no matter how hard he tried to act cool. “I hope you know I’m keeping that in writing. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple, his voice lower, softer now. “Because I wouldn’t know how to be me without you.”

You leaned into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, and let the moment stretch. No flashbulbs. No roaring engines. Just the two of you.

And it hit you all over again, the same simple truth that always seemed to sit quietly at the center of everything: You weren’t just his girlfriend. And he wasn’t just your boyfriend.

You were each other’s person. The constant in the chaos. The soft place to land. And the best part of every single day.

Always.

ALMOST, ALWAYS

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “I’m always going to love you.” - La La Land (2016)

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x race engineer! reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: situationship-to-lovers, as the title says: when the almosts turn to always, lando and mc are both down horrendous, a little bit of angst in the form of lando (as usual) being hard on himself ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this was written in one manic session after lando's post-quali skysports interview - this is part desperate prayer and part manifestation for tomorrow's race ꨄ︎ requested by anon ! (i'm so sorry - i know you asked for a bittersweet ending but after quali, writing lando not getting the girl at the end would have been psychological torture for me)

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Lando Norris knows what destiny feels like, because he's spent his entire life trying to snatch it from fate’s cruel hands.

It’s the way he tightens his grip on the steering wheel when the car jolts over a curb. The way he bites back the sting in his voice when the radio crackles with numbers that don’t match the effort. It’s a god he doesn’t believe in, teasing him with glimmers of greatness, only to pull them away with a shrug and a yellow flag.

It’s also you.

Not because you’re a superstition or a lucky charm—but because you’re the one reading fate’s data. The one in the back room, eyes scanning a dozen screens, voice steady over comms even when the world is burning down. You're not just part of the team. You're his engineer. His brain when emotion runs too hot. His breath when his lungs forget how to work.

But even gods fall short.

And today, so did you.

P8.

You’d gone aggressive on the tire plan. Bet on track evolution. A gamble, one you both signed off on with twin nods in the pre-quali briefing—his jaw tense, your hand gripping your tablet too tight.

You don’t remember walking out of the debrief. Don’t remember the words you said to the engineers or the drivers. You just remember his fingers almost brushing yours when you stood up, papers rustling between you. A breath held. A touch dodged. The same silent question hanging between you that’s been there for months.

You were never his. Not really. Not officially. But you’ve spent late nights pouring over lap deltas with your feet kicked up on his coffee table. Shared hotel breakfasts where your knees touched and neither of you moved away. You know the way his voice shifts when he’s pretending he's okay. He knows the exact moment your voice falters on the comm, even when no one else can hear it.

You both know what it feels like to almost cross a line.

And now, hours later, you’re asleep in your hotel room—lap charts open beside you, headphones still in—when your phone buzzes.

Lando.

You answer on the third ring, already sitting up.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice wrapped in sleep and regret. “You okay?”

“I bombed it.” His voice is quiet, but cracked. “Absolutely fucking bombed.”

You don’t correct him. Not yet.

Instead, you exhale slowly. “Talk me through it.”

“I don’t know. Didn’t hook it up. Rear end was loose, tires didn’t feel ready. Got traffic in S2. I should’ve—” He chokes on the words, and there’s a silence that says: I should’ve trusted something else. Someone else.

You bite your lip, guilt curling in your stomach. “It wasn’t all on you.”

“I know,” he says, but it sounds like a lie.

You shift under the covers, flicking your laptop closed. “One quali doesn’t rewrite the whole season.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice distant. “But it still fucking sucks.”

You let the silence stretch. Not uncomfortable—just true.

Then, quieter: “I woke you up.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, lips curling into a soft smile, “but I’d rather be awake with you than sleep without you.”

He breathes out a laugh. It’s small, but real.

You talk for a while. About nothing, about everything. You tell him the cat at the paddock hospitality tent tried to follow you into the sim room today. You tell him one of the interns mistook your race notes for a coffee order. You tease him about how he still hasn't figured out how to work the printer back at the factory.

And he listens. Let's himself breathe.

Eventually, it fades into quiet.

“You still there?” he mumbles.

“Still here,” you say gently. “You getting sleepy?”

“A little.” His voice is soft. Barely there. “You make everything feel lighter, you know that?”

You smile into the phone. “That’s the goal.”

There’s a beat. Then:

“I’m always going to love you.”

He says it like a secret, like a truth he’s been holding inside his chest so long it’s bruised.

It’s not the first time he’s almost said it. But it’s the first time he lets it breathe. Let’s it be.

And you—you feel it. The weight of it. The ache. The fear and the want and the exhaustion.

You don’t say it back. Not yet. Because you’re still his strategist. And he’s still the boy chasing destiny with a race suit and a number on his back.

So instead, you stay.

You stay on the line until he falls asleep, quiet breathing soft in your ear like static.

Race day.

The sun blazes down on the circuit like a spotlight. Lando starts P8, jaw clenched, hands shaking in his gloves.

You’re in the garage, headset on, every sensor live. Your voice calm over radio, but your heart is a snare drum.

The lights go out like gunfire.

The start is chaos—front wheels locking up into Turn 1, one of the Ferraris darts wide, someone’s radio explodes with static and frustration. But Lando? He doesn’t flinch. He’s already shifting inside out, folding himself into that familiar headspace where nothing exists but the blur of corners and your voice cutting through the noise.

“Car ahead’s vulnerable into Turn 6,” you tell him, cool and clipped through the headset. No panic. No overthinking. You’re holding it together even though he knows your stomach’s in knots. He knows, because it’s his stomach too.

He trusts you. He always has. Even when you make bold calls. Even when the quali gamble didn’t pay off. Even when you won’t quite let your fingers brush his after a strategy meeting.

Lando dives down the inside of the Alpine into Turn 6. Tires shriek. He holds it.

P7.

The laps fall like dominoes.

“Gap ahead, two seconds. You’re quicker in this chicane.” “Box opposite Russell. We’re watching his undercut.” “Next two laps are critical. You can do this.”

He eats into the delta like it’s his last meal. When the tire drop-off comes, your call is perfect—box, outlap, traffic-free window. He rejoins behind one of the Aston Martins but doesn’t wait. Doesn't need to.

DRS open. Straight-line speed sings. Late on the brakes.

P5.

By lap 42, his gloves are soaked through. His neck aches. His visor is streaked with sweat and G-force. But he doesn’t lift.

“Rain maybe in the last five. Category 1 only,” you say, and even that—even that—lands like scripture.

You’re right. You always are.

Spots on the visor. Just a shimmer. Just enough to make it a test of nerves.

The Merc in P4 twitches into Sector 2. Lando capitalizes, flicks it up the inside with the kind of confidence you’ve been begging him to believe in.

He’s on the podium now.

P3.

The last few laps are a blur of tire management, double-checks, and defensive lines, but by the time he crosses the finish line, there’s only one thing he hears:

Your voice. Breathless in his ear. “Well fucking done, Lando.”

He rips the helmet off after parc fermé, hair plastered to his forehead, adrenaline running hotter than the engine. The champagne hasn’t even dried on his suit by the time he’s shoved past press officers and camera crews, giving the post-race interview answers half-distracted.

Smiles for the cameras. Nods at the questions. Grins when they ask about the race. But it’s all white noise.

Because you’re in the garage.

And destiny—destiny’s not on the podium. Destiny’s in black team-issue fireproofs, standing near the telemetry screens, trying to hide the fact that your hands are shaking.

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t wait.

He finds you.

You barely have time to smile before he’s running. His arms wrap around your waist, lift you clean off the ground. Your headset nearly flies off, but you’re laughing, holding onto his shoulders like gravity forgot its job.

He spins you in a tight, giddy circle, and the garage blurs behind you—engineers, mechanics, screens, all of it disappearing under the sound of his laughter.

“You did it,” you whisper, breath caught in your throat.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hair a mess, eyes wild. “We did it.”

You stare at him. Just stare.

And this time—this time—there’s no almost.

He leans in, forehead to yours, voice so soft only you can hear it, even with the noise around you.

“I meant what I said last night.”

You already know. You felt it in every overtake. Every corner he trusted you to guide him through.

You nod, lips trembling. “I love you too, Lando.”

He kisses you like it’s the last lap of the race. Like he’s already won. Like destiny finally stopped running, and turned around to meet him halfway.

PRESSED BETWEEN PAGES

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever." - Lord Alfred Tennyson

ᝰ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: fluff!!! mention of one (1) fight, yuki is in love ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: turns out me and a have a shared favorite quote! i'm a big lover of the language of flowers so this one is special to me ꨄ︎ requested by @hello-car-fandom !

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Yuki doesn’t say much when you change the flowers.

It happens quietly, usually on a Sunday. The kind of slow morning where the sky hangs low and the light in the apartment turns golden for no reason at all. Sometimes he’s just getting back from a run, shoes damp with dew, shirt clinging to his back. Sometimes he’s on the couch, scrolling through lap data, one leg tucked under him and his hair still damp from the shower.

You move through the room like it’s something sacred—plucking limp stems from glass jars, fingertips stained with water and wilting green. On the kitchen counter. By the window. Once, tucked inside a toothbrush cup by the bathroom sink.

You never make a big deal out of it. Just hum under your breath and hum again when the new bouquet unfurls its petals under the faucet. It’s the only way you really keep track of the seasons, you told him once, hands full of lilacs and eucalyptus. When you don’t have time to notice the air changing or the daylight shifting, you trust the florists to do it for you.

He listens to that in the back of his mind, files it away. Like how tulips mean spring. Daisies mean rain is coming. Marigolds mean you’re starting to sleep with the fan on again.

He never says anything when the old ones go. Just watches as you slide them from their vases, one by one, and lay them gently into the compost bin. The petals fall apart in your fingers sometimes, thin and papery. The stems bend too easily. They’ve softened with time.

But when you leave the room—off to take a call, or switch on the kettle, or pull laundry from the dryer—he moves.

Softly. Like it’s a secret. Like he’s doing something wrong, though it never really is.

He reaches into the bin, fingers threading through damp coffee grounds and orange peels until he finds the stems. Not all of them. Just one. Maybe two. The ones still holding their shape, even if their color has started to fade.

❀˖° THE TULIP - APRIL °˖❀

The front door creaks open with the soft click of a key turning too carefully, like he’s afraid to wake the walls.

Yuki drops his duffel bag quietly just inside, his shoulders stiff from the flight, neck aching from hours spent tilted awkwardly against the seat. Tokyo rain clings to the sleeves of his hoodie, tiny dark circles blooming where it soaked through.

He’s barely taken a step inside when he sees you—curled up on the couch, arms folded tight against your chest, knees drawn in like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. You’re asleep, mouth parted just slightly, hair falling across your cheek. The TV flickers with the low hum of some late-night rerun, casting moving shadows over the blanket tangled around your legs.

He moves quietly, kneeling beside the coffee table. That’s when he sees the bouquet—still wrapped in brown paper, tulip heads peeking shyly from the fold, pale pink and a little bruised around the edges.

The receipt is folded underneath it, timestamped from hours ago. You must have picked them up right after your shift. You must’ve waited.

Yuki swallows around something that tastes too much like guilt and gratitude and everything in between. He should wake you. He doesn’t.

Instead, he touches one of the tulips lightly, presses the soft edge of its petal between his fingers. He smiles, just a little. Then he stands, pads over to the kitchen, and pulls an old mug from the cupboard. Fills it halfway. Snips the stems like you always do.

By the time you stir awake, groggy and blinking through the television static, the tulips are standing tall in the center of the kitchen table, catching the soft, early light of dawn.

You don’t even notice the single tulip missing from the bunch.

But Yuki does. He presses it between the pages of an old notebook that night, the faintest scent of your waiting still clinging to its petals.

❀˖° THE DAISY - JUNE °˖❀

The clouds break with no warning.

One second it’s thick summer air, heavy with sun and the low buzz of heat, and the next it’s thunder cracking over the buildings and rain hitting the pavement like applause.

You don’t even flinch.

Yuki’s still drying his hair from a post-run shower when he hears the balcony door slide open. The curtain lifts with a gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet concrete and ozone.

When he walks into the living room, towel draped over his shoulders, he freezes at the sight of you—barefoot, already soaked, arms outstretched like you’re trying to catch the sky in your hands.

You laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed—spinning once on your heel like a kid. Your white T-shirt clings to your sides, and your hair sticks to your forehead in wet strands, but you don’t seem to care.

“It’s raining,” you say, like he hadn’t noticed.

“I can see that,” he replies, deadpan—but he doesn’t pull you back inside. He leans on the doorframe, watching you twirl barefoot on the slick tiles, lightning stitching its way across the clouds.

There’s a tiny jar by the railing with a single daisy, already sagging under the weight of the water. You must’ve grabbed it from the little garden box, some spontaneous, sunlit moment made permanent in glass.

He’ll take it inside later—after the sky clears, after you’ve come back in, dripping and radiant, tugging him by the wrist to dance with you in puddles.

That night, while you’re brushing your hair out, back turned to him in the mirror, he plucks the daisy from its jar and slips it between the pages of a half-filled journal.

Even months later, it still smells like summer rain.

❀˖° THE MARIGOLD - LATE AUGUST °˖❀

The silence after the argument feels like its own kind of noise.

Yuki sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted in his hair. You’re in the kitchen, pretending to do dishes, though all he hears is water running and not much else.

Neither of you meant for it to go that far. The fight was stupid—about groceries, or maybe laundry, or maybe the way he sometimes shuts down when things get hard. You’d raised your voice. He’d left the room.

Now it’s sunset, and the apartment glows with that soft, golden hush that only comes once a day, like the light is trying to forgive everything it touches.

When you appear in the doorway, your expression isn’t angry anymore. You’re holding something in your hands—a marigold, still bright, pulled from the vase on the table.

You walk up to him slowly and offer it out, wordlessly.

He looks up, meets your eyes. Then he laughs—quiet and a little embarrassed—and takes the flower from you, twirling it once between his fingers.

“I was an ass,” he says.

“You were tired,” you reply. “So was I.”

He tugs you down beside him, your thigh pressed against his. The marigold rests between you on the bedspread, its orange glow catching the last of the sun.

Later, he pretends to be asleep while you make dinner. He slips the marigold into a folded napkin and places it gently in the spine of his notebook.

It smells like apologies and soft light and the feeling of coming home again.

Each flower is carefully flattened between the pages of an old notebook he keeps zipped up in the lining of his suitcase. He doesn't need to label them. He remembers. Which flower came from which Sunday. Which week you couldn’t sleep. Which day you laughed so hard you spilled water all over the counter.

Sometimes, he tucks one into his pocket before a flight or race weekend. It crumbles a little each time he does, but it’s still enough. Just a whisper of the color, the shape—of you.

You never notice.

Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you started tying the stems with twine now, something softer and easier to unwind, like you’re giving permission. Like you’re saying, go on, take this one too.

And he does.

Quietly, always.

https://www.tumblr.com/no-144444/780788902343622656/a-little-better-cleclerc?source=share

Yes! More parts

the time is nigh- c.leclerc

꩜ summary: imola is fast-approaching and a decision needs to be made

꩜ pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader

꩜ a/n: suggestive mentions 18+

part one, part two (this can be read on it's own tho but this just gives more context)

The Imola Gp was fast-approaching. Charles was becoming increasingly nervous, due to the fact that you were a few days past your due date, and he’d have to make a decision, either miss the race and risk the baby not being born yet, or don’t miss the race and risk missing the baby. 

Realistically, he knew he was going to choose you. Either way, whatever that meant, he would choose you. 

“I need an answer,” Fred sighed. “You have to have your full focus on this team Charles, when you’re here, you need to be here.” 

He glanced your way from where he sat- back against the headboard. You were still asleep, looking ridiculously gorgeous as you slept soundly beside him, the early morning light shining in through the gaps in the blinds. Your hair a little messy, your mouth a little open, your brow furrowed. You had trouble getting to sleep these days, especially with Lina (a name you two were trying out) constantly kicking and moving about. He smoothed a hand over your forehead, brushing some hair out of your face, your nose scratched up, and subconsciously leaned further into his touch. His heart squeezed, and his decision was even easier. “I can’t come this weekend Fred, my family has to come first. Fred, you know better than anyone that I have given our team my everything for as long as I’ve been there, and I’ll continue to when I’m on working hours. Other than that, it’s up to me to decide on what I need.”

“I understand. I’ll tell Zhou he’ll be driving this weekend. Thank you for being honest, Charles,” Fred ended the call before Charles could ask what that meant, but regardless, as the decision settled in his mind, it didn’t create a black hole around his heart, as so many of his decisions had before. Decisions that put you on the chopping block. Decisions that he knew would make your life harder.

“Who was on the phone?” you wrapped an arm around his middle, leaning your head against his lower stomach. He wrapped an arm around your back. He missed this. Mornings with nothing to do. Mornings with you. 

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he sighed, pulling you closer. “Just Fred.” 

You stiffened, eyes turning up to meet him. Your hand turned to a fist and retracted from his body. You sat up. “Oh,” you nodded. “When do you leave?” 

He shook his head, a hand reaching out to take yours. “No baby! No, I’m staying here, obviously.”

You stared at him. “You’re staying?” you questioned. He nodded. He couldn’t help but see the way your eyes lit up, the way your shoulders dropped a bit, the way your ears perked up. “That’s great,” you smiled, clearly trying to contain your excitement. 

“I don’t want to miss Lina,” he smiled, rubbing a hand over your swollen belly. “And I want to be there for you.”

You smiled right back at him, eyes bright and shining. You leaned into him again, his warm skin against yours. “Thank you,” you whispered. He just stared as you relaxed beside him, eyes closing again. The soothing circles he was drawing on your stomach, his heat warming you up, that feeling of being cared for, something you hadn’t realised had been so absent from your life. He watched you like you were his favourite channel now, when before he could barely spare you a glance. “We can go to the market today,” you whispered, a sleepy tone of voice. Charles chuckled beside you. 

A ringing doorbell broke you both out of your bed, and he rushed to get up before you even moved. You chuckled as he slid across the hardwood floors, making sure you didn’t have to move a muscle. 

“Maman?” he questioned. “What are you doing here?” 

“We need to have a baby,” she answered as if it were obvious. Her and Arthur pushed into the house, moving Charles to the side. “Doctor’s don’t want to induce yet, so we have our own ideas!” 

If it weren’t for the early hour and the fact that Charles had wanted you to himself for a day before all the crazy baby stuff started and he had to go back to work, he would’ve thought this was super sweet. He frowned as his mother placed a grocery bag on the counter. “Maman, Lina will come when she’s ready-”

“You’ve picked a name?!” she squealed. “Oh, Lina is so beautiful, I love it!”

Charles sighed. “Maman, she will come when she’s ready, we don’t need to-”

“It’s not a terrible idea,” you shrugged, standing in the doorway. One of Charles’s old ferrari hoodies draped over your swollen belly, tiny pyjama shorts, and a curious look in your eyes. “I wouldn’t mind if it happened today.”

He would’ve argued if you didn’t look so beautiful it made him lightheaded. “Smart girl!” his mother quipped, kissing your cheek. “So I looked it up, and it said spicy things help, so I got you some peppers. Dates are also supposed to be good, so there’s a bag of those,” she unpacked the bag as you listened intently, and Charles just watched in awe. “Raspberry leaf tea, pineapple-”

“Lube?” Arthur chuckled, picking up the bottle. “Maman, how do you think they got into this situation-?”

“Turtur,” Pascale slapped his arm as he giggled. “The last thing is sex, apparently it helps,” she shrugged. “Anyway, you guys have fun, call us if little Lina is on her way!” she smiled, leaving the both of you standing shocked in the apartment. 

“Never thought I’d hear your mom talk about sex,” you admitted, placing the lube on the counter. “Kind of shocked.” 

“Agreed,” Charles sighed, cheeks red. “Well, we’ll give them a shot. Dates first?” he looked at you, and you looked down. He could sense there was something behind it, but he didn’t want to pry. This balancing game he’d gotten so used to being able to figure out, got a little bit more complex. He stared. “Or the spicy food?”

You sighed. This shouldn’t be so awkward! You told yourself. Just tell him! “Ummm,” you cleared your throat. “I could… I think I’d like to have sex,” you responded in the most awkward way possible. “Or not. I don’t mind.”

He looked at you with all the affection in the world. “Oh ma chérie,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist (as best he could). “Why do you look so nervous?” 

You shrugged. “It’s been a while,” you didn’t meet his eyes. That was fine. “I didn’t know if you were still… y’know.” 

He stilled. “What are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice low. You didn’t answer. “Mon cœur-”

You pulled away, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. This is so humiliating. You thought, wanting to just crawl up in a ball and die. He was your husband, and yes, you noticed the way he pulled away as your body changed. You didn’t think much of it in the beginning, then it became the only reason you could think of. But you’d pushed it away in recent weeks, focusing on the new Charles, the one who cared. “You’ve been so distant for so long, especially since the second trimester. I just… I don’t know. I thought you didn’t think I was sexy to you anymore, or something. We don’t have to do it, it’s stupid anyway-”

“Baby,” he took your hand. You kept your eyes on the ground. “I think you’re the most beautiful,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Most kind,” he pressed a kiss to your neck. “Seixiest,” he pressed a kiss to your collarbone. “Most wonderful,” he pressed a kiss to your bump. “Most irresistible woman on the planet, and I plan on reminding you of that, right now.” 

He smirked from his kneeling position in front of you, and you felt that flicker in your chest, the kind that you felt at the beginning. That fun you’d both missed for so long. 

You woke up at about 4pm, surfacing after a long morning, where Charles showed you exactly what he meant. 

“Mon amour,” Charles whispered, turning over and switching on the light. “Why is the bed wet?” 

Holy shit. Now was the moment.  You were going to be a mom. Charles was going to be a dad.

navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

taglist:

@awritingtree @boherahpsody @janeh22 @dustie-faerie @anayaverse @buckybarnessweetheart @scriptedinkbyxim @ferrarisstr @freyathehuntress @isagrace22 @htpssgavi @chloemehchloe @ggaslyp1 @pookynknowntranger

autumn leaves ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar loves you through the seasons. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff, angst -ish. mentions of food. established/long-distance relationship, oscar is down bad :(, just a lot of sweetness all around. ꔮ commentary box: cold coffee is one of the fics i've gotten the most love about, and so it feels apt to roll this out today! this can be read as a standalone. birthday podium for the birthday boy, lfg <𝟑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ autumn leaves, ed sheeran. home, new west. please don't change your mind, lizzie no. can this morning never end, david kingston. thumb war, ande estrella. something tells me, bailen. falling in love at a coffee shop, landon pigg.

Oscar spends winter in your café.

It’s technically the circuit’s summer break. A two-week reprieve, but it’s smack dab in what Melbourne considers to be its gripping cold spell. And so he calls it what it is— a winter spent with you. 

A few mornings a week, he shows up at the café with no real reason other than the excuse of needing a warm drink. He always says he’ll only stay a little while, but you notice how often his mug lingers empty on the table long after he’s finished drinking. He picks the seat near the corner window, lets the sunlight stretch across his arms, and listens as you hum to the tune of whatever’s playing over the speakers.

“You like being here,” you say once. It’s not a question. 

Oscar looks up from the crossword puzzle you left by his cup. He blinks, caught, then shrugs. “It’s peaceful.”

You raise a brow. “You travel the world, but you call my dinky little café peaceful?”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat.

Sometimes, he helps behind the counter. Especially on slower days. You hand him an apron once, mostly as a joke, but he ties it on with alarming sincerity. It turns into a bit, the two of you inventing fake menu items while you refill the pastry case. 

He gets flour on his cheek once and you don’t tell him until you’ve stared at it long enough to memorize the curve of his jaw. You saw his hand away every time he tries to steal a bit of chocolate for himself, and his touch lingers on your fingers like it physically pains him to pull away. 

At night, after you lock up, he walks you home. You don’t invite him in; the act seems a little too intimate, and he seems happy to just see that you’re safe at the end of your shift. 

It becomes routine. The world outside the café might be spinning on a faster axis, but here, with the two of you, time is gentle. 

You learn why he doesn’t like to drink coffee. He finds out why you can’t function until your second cup. He tells you about his sisters; you show him photos of your kindergarten self. He watches you pour latte art with the same reverence he gives to telemetry data.

And then, one night, it snows. 

It’s a treat. Whenever it snowed in Melbourne, it was mostly in High Country. You’re more well-versed with grey clouds and frost on the sidewalk. 

That evening, the two of you linger on the front step of the café as the snow falls— sure but steady. A snowflake lands in your hair. Oscar brushes it away gently, but not without a small voice in the back of his mind murmuring Beautiful. 

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels like he’s working up to something. “You ever get scared it won’t last?” he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You glance at him. “What won’t?”

“This.” He motions between the two of you. “Us. This… whatever we’re figuring out.”

As it is, the two of you are still an open-ended question. This was the wait-and-see part of dating, the carnage of you giving Oscar your number after he’d supposedly pined over you for years. 

You think about it. About how he has a plane ticket waiting and a team counting on him. About how your days are measured in regulars and espresso shots, while his are measured in laps and podiums.

Two entirely different lives. You, staying in place; him, always leaving one way or another. 

Are you scared it won’t last? 

“Yeah,” you admit. “Sometimes. But it also feels worth it.”

Oscar’s gaze finds yours in the soft glow of the streetlight. “It does, doesn’t it?”

You nod, and before you can overthink it, you reach for his hand. He meets you halfway.

Fingers laced, cold breath between you, Oscar leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours. “Thank you,” he says out of the blue.

“For what?”

“Letting me be a person here. Not a driver.”

It feels like such a small thing, a small grace, and you don’t realize the gravity of it. He’s a renown racecar driver, sure, but he’s also the same guy who came in with his sisters; the guy who saved the café when he contracted you as a race caterer that one prix. In that moment, you’re only thinking of the way your fingers slot together as you gently squeeze his hand. “Always.”

Under the hush of falling snow and the hum of something unspoken, Oscar lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, winter could last a little longer.

You fall into something softer after that. There are no declarations, no explicit conversations about what it all means. But he lingers longer. He clings to you in the back room when no one’s around. He texts you from his parents’ place late at night, asking if you’re still up, if you want to go for a walk, if you’re cold and want to borrow his scarf.

You tease him about being a romantic. He rolls his eyes. Tells you to hush. (But he smiles every time.) 

And then, there’s that unassuming Saturday— one where you’re baking early, radio humming in the background. Oscar is seated at the counter, still warm from sleep, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he peels an orange.

Your friend from the shop next door pops her head in. “Hey, your boyfriend’s blocking the cream cheese again.”

Oscar snorts, standing to move. “Sorry, sorry— didn’t mean to keep your resources hostage.”

You laugh, shooting your friend a look before turning back to your tray. But it isn’t until she’s gone that you register what had happened. 

She had referred to Oscar as your boyfriend. And he didn’t even flinch, had taken it in stride. Whether or not he realized it is yet to be seen. 

The thing is, you want to see. And so you glance at him, brows lifted. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Oscar pauses mid-peel. It seems to dawn on him, then, as he mumbles a soft cuss of shit. He looks struck, like he hadn’t realized it much either. This was the impression the two of you were giving people— that you were in a relationship. And he hadn’t corrected her. 

“You liked that,” you tease. 

“Don’t be mean,” he groans, covering his face with his fruit-stained hands. 

“Well, boyfriend,” you say, savoring the word, “do you want to help me with the frosting or just hide behind your orange?”

Oscar lowers his hands. There’s a kind of wonder in his expression, the kind that’s not just embarrassment. Something rawer, gentler.

“You’re not mad?”

“I doubled down, didn’t I?”

And that’s when it happens— he makes a noise so flustered, so delighted and overwhelmed that he knocks his elbow into the tray of clean spoons. They clatter to the floor in a chorus of chaos.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.” 

Oscar is red to the tips of his ears, bending to pick them up with a muttered, “That’s fine. Totally fine. Not at all indicative of how much I’ve wanted to call you that.”

You crouch beside him, brushing your shoulder against his. “You can call me that whenever you want,” you say, trying to hide just how giddy you are at the prospect. 

Oscar isn’t faring any better. He chews his lower lip as if he’s biting back a smile, but you can see in the glint in his eyes that he’s just as happy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“Alright, then. Girlfriend.” 

The title bursts out of him like it’s something he can’t hold himself back from saying. The moment the word has escaped him, he gives up on his facade of nonchalance. He laughs, disbelieving and low— and with a courage he could almost applaud himself for— he leans in. 

In that kitchen, surrounded by cinnamon and sugar and the soft drip of rain outside, Oscar kisses you like he’s been waiting for winter his whole life.

Spring is strange when you’re chasing it across time zones.

Some race weekends, Oscar lands in cities where it’s still snowing. Others, it’s already sweltering— sticky with heat and the sharp scent of tarmac. But somewhere between Melbourne and Monaco, in the blur of media days and debriefs, he realizes it feels like spring anyway.

Because of you.

In between sessions and flights, there are your texts. Photos of latte art attempts gone wrong. Updates on which flowers you’ve planted outside the café. A blurry snapshot of your handwritten specials board with a cheeky text of Guess who forgot how to spell ‘mocha.’

He lives for them. For the quick selfies of you squinting into the sun. For the way your good morning texts come in while he’s wrapping up his day. It grounds him, makes the whirlwind feel a little more like a rhythm.

He doesn’t expect you to watch his races live. You’re busy, and he knows the café doesn’t run itself. Still, he catches glimpses of your support— the congratulatory messages, the carefully curated playlists you send before back-to-back races. One time, you mail him a tiny good luck charm, and he tucks it into the lining of his travel bag without telling a soul.

It’s late in Japan when it happens. The call starts as usual: You in your flat, him in a hotel room with his hair damp from the shower and exhaustion clinging to his voice. He props his phone against the pillow and lies on his side, just watching you talk.

You’re rambling about a new barista who can’t steam milk properly, and Oscar is smiling like an idiot. He could listen to you talk for hours, he’s sure. But then somewhere in the middle of your story, your words slow, your eyelids start to droop.

“You tired?” he asks gently.

You blink, shake your head. “No, I’m— still talking, just…”

Your voice trails off. A beat passes.

Then another.

And then you’re out, cheek squished against your pillow, the phone still in your hand. Mid-sentence, mid-reassurance, mid-call. 

Oscar doesn’t hang up. He watches the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch every now and then. There’s a soft crease between your brows that he wants to smooth out with his thumb.

His chest aches.

It’s a new kind of ache. Tender, full. A knot of something warm that tightens when he realizes you fell asleep with him on the line. That you let him be there, even if only in pixels and soft light.

He takes a screenshot before the screen dims. Not to tease you with later (though he probably will). But to remember this. The quiet intimacy of it. The small, gentle trust of falling asleep.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear it.

Then he closes his eyes, the echo of your voice still playing in his head, and lets himself pretend— just for a little while— that he’s wherever you are.

Melbourne’s spring is a finicky thing.

It’s sunny one minute, rain-lashed the next. The mornings might begin clear and bright only for the wind to pick up by midday, scattering leaves down the laneway and making the café's front windows rattle. 

You keep a spare jacket hung by the espresso machine, switch the fans off and on at least twice a day, and have long given up trying to guess if you’ll need an umbrella.

Some things don’t change, though.

Like the way your chest tightens when you see Oscar on the television screen. The way the café hushes when he’s announced on the grid, your regulars quietly cheering for him with their cappuccinos in hand.

Race Sundays are sacred in your café. You mute the usual playlist and flip on Sky Sports. The regulars know better than to ask you questions during qualifying. You serve flat whites on autopilot, one eye always on the TV. And when Oscar’s car crosses the finish line— when he clinches another win— you’re already reaching for your phone.

The messages aren’t elaborate. Just a few words, sometimes a stupid emoji. Nice one, champ. Or: Still faster than you talk. Once, just a GIF of a trophy and a smug-looking penguin. You send something every time, whether he finished on the podium or in the points or neither.

He doesn’t always respond right away. Sometimes it’s hours. Sometimes it's the middle of your night when your phone buzzes against your bedside table.

But he always replies.

Couldn’t have done it without the world’s best barista, he texted once, followed by a rare selfie. His champagne-drenched face, a peace sign, and a smile that he reserves fro you.

You had laughed. Saved the photo, too.

That’s the thing about Oscar. He’s everywhere, all the time— jetting from country to country, circuit to circuit. And yet, he still finds a way to feel near. Like springtime warmth breaking through the clouds. Like a small, bright constant in a city that never quite decides what weather it wants.

You watch him during post-race interviews, grinning at how he deflects praise with the same awkward charm you first met him with. You listen for the jokes he doesn’t quite finish. You catalogue the curve of his grin, the way his eyes crinkle when he knows he's done well.

And always, always, you keep your phone nearby.

Just in case he replies with something that makes you blush in front of the espresso machine.

Just in case he reminds you that no matter how far he is, you’re still a part of his every win.

Summer in Melbourne means winter break for the racing world; whatever it is, it also means Oscar is yours again for a couple of weeks.

He returns during the off-season like he never left, easing back into routine with a kind of softness you wouldn’t expect from a man who spends most of the year under pressure. He doesn’t text to say he’s coming. He just shows up— like clockwork— pushing open the café door with his usual boyish grin and an apologetic wave if the bell above the door startles you.

He slides into the same seat near the corner window. Orders the same drink. Teases you the same way he always does when you write his name wrong on the cup. 

And when the regulars begin to whisper— recognizing him in quiet awe— he keeps his head down and eyes on you, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

On some days, when it’s slow and the air conditioning hums lazily against the heat outside, Oscar hops behind the counter. He doesn’t ask. He just washes his hands and starts helping. Restocking cups, organizing the pastry shelf, sneaking samples of cookies when he thinks you’re not looking.

People talk. Of course they do. 

Oscar Piastri has a girlfriend. Oscar Piastri, McLaren F1 driver, hometown hero— is in love with you. 

Strangers whisper when he wipes down tables. When he brings you a drink before you can ask for one. When he laughs too loudly at something only you could’ve said. Someone snaps a photo once, subtle but unmistakable. You pretend not to see it. He pretends not to care.

But later, when you’re in the back room counting inventory, you let the anxiety creep in.

“You know, they’re starting to figure it out,” you say, not looking at him.

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Figure what out?”

You glance over your shoulder. “Us.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Good.”

“Good?” You set the clipboard down. “Oscar, I don’t want this to hurt your image. Or make things harder for you.”

He crosses the rooms and slip an arm around your waist. “You think I care what strangers on the internet think?”

You give him a look. “You should.”

“I care what you think,” he says firmly. “And if the whole world knows I’m crazy about you, then great. Saves me the trouble of saying it myself.”

Your heart skips, because he says it like a fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising in the summer sky.

“I mean it,” he adds, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “I’m not hiding from anyone. Not from this. Not from you.”

You lean into him before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Outside, the sun blazes. Inside, he kisses you like this part of your relationship is going to last forever. Being private but not a secret. Stealing quiet moments with each other as an invisible timer hangs overhead, every second nearing the moment when he has to go again. 

And then, summer, like all good things, comes to its inevitable end.

But before it does, Oscar makes a point of being the boyfriend he doesn’t always have the time to be. He borrows his mum’s car and convinces you to shut the café down for two days. Just two, he promises, hands wrapped around your wrists and lips pressed to the side of your neck. You give in. Of course you do.

You leave before sunrise, the windows down, the wind teasing your hair as Melbourne fades behind you. The Great Ocean Road stretches ahead like something out of a film. The sea is to your left, wild and endless. The radio plays a messy mix of whatever stations come through clearly.

Oscar sings along, because you once said it’s your favorite thing in the world— having things of him that he doesn’t give to anybody else. There’s not a lot that he can give, so he grants you this. His belting, his hand on your thigh, his eyes on the road even though he wants so badly to look at you with the little time he has left. 

“You know you’re tone-deaf, right?” you tease, glancing at him from behind your sunglasses.

Oscar, entirely unbothered, turns up the volume. “And yet you stay,” he screeches over the pop song and the waves and the thrum of your heart. 

“Regretting it now.”

“Liar.”

You grin and lean your head against the window, the salty breeze kissing your skin. The road winds and weaves, dipping into forests and sweeping along cliffs. You stop for coffee at tiny beach towns, for photos near the Twelve Apostles, for stretches where you do nothing but exist side by side in easy silence.

Eventually, you find a quiet cliffside lookout. The sea churns below, sun low on the horizon, casting everything in golden light. Oscar spreads a blanket on the grass, and you sit with your knees drawn up, the wind cooler here but not unwelcome.

He joins you, shoulder to shoulder, gaze fixed on the water. For a while, it’s just the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

Then, softly, Oscar says, “I’m going to miss you.”

You turn to him. He’s not looking at you, but his jaw is tight, eyes glassy with unsaid things.

“I know it’s not forever,” he continues, voice low, “but every time I leave, it feels like I’m putting us on pause. And I hate that. I hate that I can’t stay.”

Your heart clenches. 

You reach for his hand.

“You’re not putting anything on pause. We’re still us, even when you’re away,” you remind him. 

It’s true, at least on your end. His papaya car can take him from the starting line to the chequered flag, can put him in countries all across the world. At the end of it all, he’s still the same Oscar you’d do anything and everything for. 

He doesn’t say anything much after that. You can only hope he agrees, that he’s reassured. It comforts you that Oscar has always been a man of action, not so much of words. 

When he leans in, when he kisses you there with the sun dipping behind you and the ocean singing below, it feels like summer is bending into something softer. Something that might just last.

Autumn comes quietly, almost unnoticeably. One moment i’'s late summer— your hand in his as you both watch waves kiss the Great Ocean Road— and the next, Oscar is gone again. 

Back in a race suit, back on the grid, back to being the driver the world demands him to be.

The season restarts with a rush: Press events, simulator work, endless travel. Countries blur into each other. Time zones fracture his routine. He wakes up jet-lagged more often than not, sometimes unsure of what day it is until he checks his calendar. 

In one city, it's humid and bright; in another, the rain feels like hurricanes. But somewhere in his chest, it feels like autumn. Like something has started to drift.

He still texts you. Still calls when he can. But the gaps between your conversations stretch, elastic and fragile. Sometimes he sends voice notes— quick, clipped, often in between meetings or on the way to a track. Sometimes you hear the edge in his voice, exhaustion making his tone heavier. 

He apologizes more than he used to. 

Sorry, I meant to reply last night.

Sorry, my flight got delayed.

Sorry, I missed our call.

And you’re kind. Always so, so kind.

You tell him you understand. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll just be here.

But Oscar starts to worry that your kindness is a finite resource. That even the gentlest patience has an expiration date.

He watches you through his screen most days. Watches the way you smile softly when he asks how you are. Watches your fingers cradle your mug, the steam curling between your knuckles. It hurts, in ways he never expected, to see you pixelated after having you differently.

Because yesterday— what feels like yesterday— you were with him. And today, you’re miles away.

And none of it feels simple anymore.

In the end, he doesn’t mean to wake you.

It’s late in Japan, or early, depending on how you look at it. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the glow of his phone screen and the occasional blink of city lights beyond the window. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, thumb hesitating over the screen.

You answer on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Osc?”

“Hey,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually pick up.”

“You called.”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “I just... I needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then the rustle of blankets, the sound of you shifting closer to the mic.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “What’s up?”

He closes his eyes, lets the words settle. His hands fidget with the edge of the hotel duvet, reminding him of the worn, well-loved comforter you have back at your own place. His mind is louder than it should be at this hour, cycling through worries like laps on a circuit.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” he admits. “It’s just... everything’s so fast right now. The races, the media, the pressure. And I keep thinking— what if I drop the ball with you? What if you get tired of waiting for the person I keep promising to be?”

You’re quiet for a moment. 

Then: “Oscar, listen to me.”

He does.

“You don’t have to earn my patience. You don’t have to prove yourself to me every time the world starts spinning too fast,” you say. “I know who you are, even when you’re tired and stressed and a thousand kilometers away.”

His throat tightens. He stares at the carpet, blinking back something heavy.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” you say gently. “You love me. I love you. That’s the whole thing.”

Oscar swallows hard. He’s never been good at this sort of thing; he’s honest when he has to be, sure, but the emotional part of everything has never been his forte. 

He sticks to his honesty. “I wish I was there,” he says. 

“I know.”

“It’s autumn now.”

“I know.” 

“I’d hold you so tight you’d forget I ever left.”

You chuckle, sleepy but fond. “I don’t forget. But I forgive.”

He presses the phone closer to his ear, like proximity might make the distance easier to bear. And in that quiet, in your breath and your heartbeat slowed by sleep, he finds a thread of calm to hold onto.

“I’ll come home soon,” he promises, quiet but certain.

And when you say “You always do,” he wants so, so badly to give you everything he has. 

It’s why he fulfills his promise sooner than what was probably expected.

After a brutal triple-header weekend, the kind that chews drivers up and spits them back out in time zones that blur together, Oscar finds himself on a red-eye to Melbourne before he can talk himself out of it. 

He’s running on less than four hours of sleep, still in his team hoodie and airport sneakers when he finally gets to your door. The flowers in his hand are half-crushed, stolen from the bushes just outside your café— he knows he should’ve stopped somewhere proper, but he just couldn’t wait any longer.

He rings the doorbell. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

You answer groggily in an oversized McLaren jersey, hair a mess, blinking at him like you’re not sure if he’s real.

“I know, I know,” he starts before you can say anything. “They’re from outside the shop. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this well. I just— I had to come home. I couldn’t stop thinking. I missed you. I’ve been shit at this, haven’t I? I mean, not just the flowers— everything.”

You take one look at him, wild-haired and a little breathless, with dirt on his cuffs and sincerity in his eyes, and your heart cracks open in the quietest, softest way.

You step forward and kiss him, then. Still sleepy, still barefoot. It’s not hurried or desperate. It’s grounding. Like you’re reminding him he’s here now. Like you’re saying, It’s okay, I’ve got you.

He kisses you back with a gentleness that belies the hoops he had to go through to get here. He could be more desperate, urgent, but it’s not something he wants to push while you’re half-awake. While you’re soft, practically melting in his arms. He settles on kissing you as if it’s an apology, a confession, and a promise all rolled into one. 

You take the flowers from his hand and pull him gently inside.

“Welcome home,” you murmur against his lips, and Oscar exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

It’s not complicated, not really. Not when love looks like showing up, like late flights and half-crushed flowers, like a kiss in the early morning and a place to rest your heart.

The apartment is quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the early morning birdsong outside your window. The light through the curtains is soft, golden— the kind that makes you pause and breathe a little deeper. After the flowers have been put in a vase and Oscar has changed into more comfortable clothes, you pad into the kitchen. 

You start the coffee, the motions muscle memory by now. As it drips into your mug, you lean against the counter, waiting for Oscar to inevitably follow suit. 

You don’t hear his footsteps, but you feel him. The way his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder like it belongs there. There’s probably an alternate universe where this could be your reality. Lazy mornings with Oscar, where he doesn’t have to fret over return flights and race strategy and all that.

It’s not something you yearn for. You’re happy with the cards you’ve been dealt, with the Oscar you have right now. 

He hums lowly, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Can I have some too?”

You blink, startled. “You? Want coffee?”

“Might as well learn to like it,” he murmurs into the side of your neck. “Means I get to be awake with you longer.”

You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Oscar... you don't have to change yourself for us.”

He shrugs, a lazy, boyish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know. But maybe I want to anyway.”

With half an eye roll, you hand him your mug instead. It’s exactly how you like it, and— to no one’s surprise— it’s everything he hates. He takes a sip and immediately grimaces.

“Still tastes like regret, huh?” you joke as your arms find purchase around his middle. 

“Worse,” he says, and then pulls you in for a kiss before you can say anything more.

It’s a little coffee, a little toothpaste, and all you. There’s a little more of an edge to this, a promise of something more later, but it’s also just a reminder in itself. This is what the two of you had. This is what the two of you could work with. And it would last, would go on for as long as the two of you put in the work. 

Oscar pulls back only when he absolutely has to, forehead against yours, breath warm.

Outside, the trees rustle in the breeze, gold and red and fading brown. The autumn leaves fall slowly, drifting one by one in a soundless, unhurried dance. 

Oscar falls in love like that, too— quietly, fully, with every part of him.

He falls in love with you again, right then, in the middle of the kitchen, with bitter coffee on his tongue and your smile against his. ⛐

Radio Silence | Chapter Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pushy reporters, Carlos Sainz Sr is a little bit of a villain in this chapter (sry).

Notes — I feel like so much happens in this chapter and I love it. Also: tysm for 500 followers!!🧡

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peacn x

2019

She hadn’t planned to cross through the garages; it just happened. Amelia was following a technician back from a briefing when she lost track of the conversation and the path, her thoughts spiralling through gearbox data and tyre deltas.

That’s when she heard it. Her name. Loud. Sharp. 

“Miss Brown.”

She stopped. Pivoted.

Carlos Sainz Sr. stood a few feet away, hands behind his back. 

He wasn’t smiling.

“You are the daughter of our team’s CEO, yes?” he asked.

Amelia nodded. “Yes.”

“You spend a lot of time in the garages,” he said. “Too much, I think.”

She frowned at him. “I— I help.” She told him. 

“Right,” he said, and his face did a strange twist. “But with Carlos, my son, it is important he has focus. Space.”

She stared at him, unsure what he was trying to imply. “Carlos told me that I was allowed in his garage as often as I like.”

“He would,” Sainz Sr. said. “He is polite. A respectful boy. But it is not always good to blur lines between personal and professional.” He paused. “It could cause problems.”

Amelia stood perfectly still.

“I’m not causing problems,” she said, a bit too flatly. 

Sainz Sr. regarded her a moment longer, then gave a short nod. “Good. I hope it remains that way. Distance, por favor.”

He turned and walked off, leaving her standing in the middle of the paddock walkway, her yellow water bottle pressed tightly to the base of her stomach.

She didn’t move for a long moment.

Her chest felt tight, but not like sadness; not exactly. It was the feeling of a… system error. A mismatch. She couldn’t understand what she’d possibly done wrong.

Carlos hadn’t seemed uncomfortable with her presence. He asked her thoughts on setup changes. Let her hover near the monitors during debriefs. He’d even nudged her elbow pre-quali and whispered, “Wish me luck.”

That didn’t feel like someone who did not want her around. 

Swiftly, she made her way back to Lando’s garage. Slow and quiet, avoiding eye contact. Lando waved at her from where he was talking to Jon, but she didn’t wave back. Just sat down beside a stack of unused tyre blankets and stared at the concrete floor.

Her fingers fidgeted, tugged at her sleeves. She didn’t cry. She didn’t really feel anything, other than... a disorienting sense of being wrong.

She thought of the conversation on loop. Trying to decode it. Trying to figure out how she’d accidentally made an enemy out of Carlos Sainz Sr.

She couldn’t focus. Not on the setup sheets. Not on the chatter from the engineers. Not even on the low buzz of the paddock outside.

She started working hard to anchor herself to something familiar. The smell of tyre rubber. The click of Lando’s cooling fan. The buzz of telemetry feeds looping on a nearby monitor. Safe things.

“You hiding, or working?” came Will Joseph’s voice, low and even.

She glanced up. Lando’s race engineer stood a few feet away, clipboard in hand.

“Hiding,” she told him. That’s what it felt like she was doing, anyway. 

Will nodded. Then he crouched down in front of her, elbows on his knees. “Wanna talk about it?”

Amelia tugged the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands. She hesitated. “I don’t think I did anything wrong. But… I think I have made somebody angry.”

His jaw jumped. “Yeah? Someone in the team?”

She gave a small nod.

Will glanced sideways. His voice stayed calm, but there was a weird tightness when he said, “If you want me to talk to them, I will.”

Amelia frowned. “It’s okay. I don’t want to… make it worse.”

“You sure?” He asked.

She looked away. “Yes.” She said, eventually. 

He paused, then stood, still watching her. “Okay. But if you change your mind… you know where I am.”

She nodded. Will turned as if to go, but then glanced back at her again.

“You want to look over brake traces with me?” he asked. 

She stood slowly, gripping her yellow water bottle. “Yes.”

Will gave a small smile. “Knew you would.”

--

It was Sunday, and her garage smelled like grease and old metal and comfort.

Amelia was elbow-deep in the engine bay of her BMW, sleeves rolled up and a thin streak of oil smudged across her cheek. Jazz played softly from the old radio by the workbench, and a fan hummed lazily in the corner, stirring the warm spring air. She was in her zone — focused, grounded, calm.

She didn’t hear the car pull up. But she did hear the familiar sound of her father’s golf shoes on the concrete. 

She turned just in time to see them step inside.

Her dad was in his usual race-less Sunday outfit, white sleeves shoved to the elbows, cap pushed back on his head. Beside him, Lando Norris stood in golf clothes; white polo, khaki trousers, hair a little messy. He looked slightly sunburned.

“Thought we’d swing by for dinner,” her dad told her, a big smile on his face. “We got finished up early today.”

Lando lifted a hand and waved at her. “Hey.”

Amelia stared at him. “You’re wearing real shoes,” she said.

Lando glanced down at his golf trainers. “Yeah. I know. Weird, right?”

Her dad ignored both of them, already wandering over to inspect the engine. “You’ve done the belts,” he noted.

“I did the belts yesterday,” Amelia told him, still staring at Lando.

Having him here felt… odd. This was her space, her house, her garage. The place where everything made sense, where she could retreat from the world and lose herself in the rhythm of machinery.

Then again, she considered, she was always in his garage. This was just the other way around, really.

Lando shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Your dad said dinner was happening. I didn’t really get a say.”

She shrugged. “You could’ve said no.”

“I could’ve,” Lando agreed. He was smiling at her. “But then I wouldn’t get free food. And apparently your mum’s making roast potatoes.”

“She puts garlic in them,” Amelia told him. She turned back to watch her dad, making sure he wasn’t touching anything. Or worse, moving anything. 

“She sounds like a genius.” Lando said behind her. 

Her dad pushed the hood higher, eyes inspecting the wiring, and let out a low hum of approval. “Right. Dinner in twenty,” he said, glancing at both of them, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice. “Lando, you coming inside?”

Lando wiped his hands on his trousers, then glanced back at Amelia, clearly unsure. “Might stay out here for a bit,” he said with a slight shrug.

He paused, eyes flicking between them. He seemed to weigh the situation for a second before speaking again, more slowly this time. “That okay with you, Amelia?” 

She looked over at him. Shrugged. “Fine.” 

Her dad nodded and gave them both one last look before walking out of the garage and toward the house. He started whistling somewhere along the way. Amelia grimaced, shoulders inching toward her ears. 

There was a beat of silence. Amelia crouched beside the car, fingers working a stubborn bolt. Lando just hovered. 

“This place is sick.” He said, eventually. 

She looked at him and then around the absolute chaos that was her workspace. “It’s a mess,” she said.

“Yeah, but like… a cool mess. Suits you.” He shrugged. 

She made a face, nose scrunching, eyebrows lowering. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.” 

“It’s a compliment.” He said. “Like… you fit in here.” 

Oh. Well. That was nice of him to say. Fitting in wasn’t something she usual excelled at.  

The bolt finally gave way with a soft click, and she exhaled, satisfied.

Lando took a step closer, leaning in to peek at the engine. “So what are you working on now?”

She handed him the bolt without thinking. He closed his fist around it. “Timing chain.”

“Oh. Sick.”

“You keep saying that word.” She told him. 

“I’ve got a limited vocabulary,” he said with a half-smile, sliding the bolt into his pocket. She narrowed her eyes. “Mine now. Finders keepers.”

“I hate that saying.” She muttered, not asking for the bolt back. She didn’t need it. Maybe he did. “Do you like chicken?” she asked abruptly.

“Sure.” He nodded.

“Good.” She sighed. “It’s all my mom knows how to cook.”

“Mom,” he repeated, mimicking her accent.

She frowned. “You’re quite annoying.”

He grinned, the lines next to his eyes deepening. “I know. Want me to get you a drink or something?”

Her gaze flicked to her yellow water bottle, standing out like a warning sign against the cold steel of the garage. Then to him. Her mind caught on the image of him picking it up, his hand unscrewing the lid, closing it again. It wasn’t even anything weird. Just… she didn’t like it. Not today.

Her stomach did a small, unwelcome swoop.

“No,” she said, sharp. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he replied simply. 

She squinted at him. This would be the perfect moment to bring up his social media. She had a whole list saved in her notes app; bullet points and everything. Of things he could post that would improve long-term brand perception, boost fan engagement, attract sponsor interest. She’d even colour-coded it.

But then he leaned a little closer to the engine bay, poked a stray wire with the back of his finger, and asked, “What does that do?”

And instead of launching into a Twitter audit, she blinked. Then sighed. Then said, “That’s not a wire. It’s the gas belt.”

He just looked at her. “That sounds made up.”

“It isn’t.” She crouched beside him and pointed. “It’s part of the pressure regulation loop. If it’s too tight, the fuel intake timing offsets and we lose energy recovery.”

“Oh,” he said, looking down at it. “I thought it was just a spare wire.”

“It’s never just a spare wire.” 

She didn’t plan to spend an hour explaining the entire energy recovery system to a man who literally drove race cars for a living. But she did. And he listened. Asked questions. Didn’t pretend to know more than he did.

Dinner came and went. Her mom popped her head in, said she’d keep their plates warm. Amelia didn’t even realise how long they’d been in the garage until her dad came to check if they were still alive.

“What’ve you two been up to?” He asked.

And Lando, still squatting beside the car with grease on his knuckles, said, “She taught me how a gas belt works.”

Amelia felt her lips twist into a smile before she could stop it.

Her dad laughed, loud and full of something Amelia couldn’t place. 

Lando’s cheeks went a bit pink. 

—

By the time the Spanish Grand Prix rolled around, one thing had become evident.

The Renault engine was going to be a problem.

It wasn’t just an occasional glitch or a minor calibration error — it was systemic. Structural. A pattern beginning to take shape. Carlos had already been forced to retire from the first two races. Lando hadn’t made it past lap twenty in China. And now, in Spain, he was pulling into the garage mid-race with smoke curling out from the rear. 

Amelia didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. The telemetry screens told her more than enough — voltage spikes, temperature climbs, the dreaded red-highlighted warnings blinking across the console in angry bursts.

She watched from her usual spot, perched on the edge of the engineering desk with her notebook balanced on her knee. The frustration in the air was sticky. 

This was becoming predictable. Usually, she would like that — this was not one of those times.

After the race, she found herself lingering in the quiet corner of the garage, sketching out hypothetical flow improvements in the margins of her notebook. She didn’t work on the engines — not directly, not yet. But she could see the shape of the problem, the flaw in the systems approach. She could feel it humming under her fingertips like a code waiting to be cracked.

Across the paddock, celebrations echoed from the teams that had made it to the finish. The podium champagne had already been popped. But in Lando’s garage, it felt like they were all waiting out a storm that they already knew was coming.

She pressed her pen to the page and underlined a note she’d written hours ago, before the race had even started.

"Energy efficiency doesn’t matter if the engine won’t survive the lap."

She sighed and capped her pen. In the background, someone was wheeling the scorched power unit away for inspection.

Maybe she should’ve warned them louder.

— 

She found him in his driver’s room, slouched in a chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. His helmet was discarded on the floor, and he was still in his fireproof suit, half-zipped. Amelia hesitated outside the door for a second, wondering if she should just leave him alone. But Lando had left his water bottle in the garage, and Amelia wasn’t the best at letting things slide. She wasn’t sure why it felt important to bring it to him, but it did.

She knocked softly on the already-open door before walking in. Lando didn’t even look up. He was just staring at the wall. 

“I brought your water,” Amelia told him. 

He looked up at her then. “Thanks,” he muttered as he reached for the bottle, shoving the straw into his mouth and taking a long gulp. “Second DNF in five races,” he said, his voice rough. “Rookie season, and this is what I get.”

After a second of hesitation, Amelia sat on the beanbag chair across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. She didn't say anything at first — just looked at him. She wasn’t sure how this worked, whether she needed to talk first or wait for him. 

Eventually, Lando exhaled through his nose and kept going, his words starting to pick up speed. “I don’t even know what went wrong this time. One minute, I’m fighting for position, and then it just… dies. The engine. The whole thing. It’s like I’m cursed, or something.”

“Curses aren’t real,” Amelia said, frowning. “Drink more water. I think you might be dehydrated.”

He laughed, but it was short, and it didn’t feel genuine. “Yeah, well. Maybe I deserve to be dehydrated.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” she sighed, reaching up to itch her neck. She was pretty sure that she’d started to develop a stress rash somewhere around the tenth lap. 

“I know it doesn’t,” he muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. “I just… I keep replaying it. I did everything right. I kept the pace, I managed the tyres, I even—” He stopped himself, jaw tight. “I’m trying so hard. Every week. And it still ends the same way.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Trying hard doesn’t guarantee results. Statistically, a mechanical failure is not a reflection of your driving ability.”

“Yeah, but people don’t see it like that, do they? Sponsors don’t see it like that. Fans don’t see it like that. They see a DNF next to my name and think “Ah, that lad’s shit. Couldn’t even finish the race.”

“They’re wrong,” she said, voice steady. “You can’t control the engine.”

He looked at her, like he was searching for something on her face. “That’s not really comforting, you know.”

“I’m not trying to be comforting,” she shrugged. “I’m telling you the truth.”

A beat passed. Then he let out a breath and leaned his head back against the wall, his shoulders finally sagging a little. “Still… it sucks.”

She watched him for a moment, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I made a chart,” she told him. “About Renault’s historical DNF rates. You’re not even in the worst percentile.”

He blinked at her, and for the first time that day, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You made a chart?”

“I like charts,” she said. “They help me make sense of things. Maybe they’ll be able to help you too. I colour coded.”

Lando unfolded the paper and scanned it, a soft breath of laughter escaping him. “You’re actually unbelievable.”

Amelia blinked. “In what way?”

He didn’t answer that, just kept smiling at the paper like it had done something remarkable. Which it hadn’t. It was a simple data set, neatly formatted, with pink for DNF, green for points finishes, and orange for races affected by mechanical issues but still completed. She had used bold font for his name and added a tiny asterisk explaining why none of it was technically his fault.

“You should remember that every time your engine has survived, you have finished in the points,” she said, because facts were important when emotions got loud. “And the season’s not over yet.”

Lando looked up at her. “Thanks, Amelia.”

His voice was quiet, yes, but there was something else layered in the tone, something that made her chest feel tight in a way she couldn’t immediately categorise. She frowned, not at him, but at the sensation itself.

There were variables she didn’t have control over. Facial expressions. Tone. Context. She could usually work it out when someone was mad, or distracted, or lying. But fondness… that was harder. It was inconsistent. Often irrational. Frequently confusing.

She pointed at his water bottle because that was easy. “You should still drink the water.”

He smiled again, this time more to himself, and shook his head. Then he picked up the bottle and unscrewed the lid, just like she knew he would.

As he drank, Amelia watched him carefully. Maybe, she thought, tucking her hands back into her lap, she just needed to collect more data in order to be able to fully understand Lando Norris.

— 

iMessage — 17:09pm

Max F. Sorry about the shit luck, mate. Engine again?

Lando Norris Yeah. Just shut off mid-corner. Didn’t even get a warning this time. Proper embarrassing.

Max F. Not your fault. That Renault engine’s a grenade with wires.

Lando Norris Yh that’s what Amelia said kinda She made a chart

Max F. A chart?

Lando Norris Yeah. With colours Fucking cute

Max F. Whipped. 

Lando Norris

Yh 

— 

She liked the Mercedes hospitality unit. Neutrally designed, air-conditioned, and smelled faintly of eucalyptus. She liked that a lot.

Amelia walked slowly, phone in hand. 

There was no sign of Lewis or Roscoe when she stepped inside, just the low hum of quiet conversations and the click of cutlery. She turned left, toward the usual corner where Roscoe liked to sleep in the sunbeam from the long vertical window.

She didn’t make it that far.

“Amelia.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

Toto Wolff stood halfway down the hallway. In a dark polo. Arms crossed. He was very tall. 

“Hello,” she said. She meant to say it with some level of confidence, but it came out more like a question.

“I was hoping we might speak.” His tone was hard for her to read. 

She tilted her head, a slight frown growing on her face. “I’m supposed to go and see Roscoe.”

“He will not mind waiting. I am told he is a very patient dog.” Toto said. 

She wasn’t sure what to say to that — Roscoe was not, in any sense of the word, a patient dog. She also didn’t really want to argue with Toto Wolff. 

So she just gave a small nod and followed him when he gestured to a nearby side room. It was empty. A single chair. A single table. It felt a bit like an interrogation room. 

Toto sat. Amelia did not. She hovered just near the wall and folded her arms tight against her chest.

“I understand,” he began, “that you have declined my offer. The junior engineering placement.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

There was a pause. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “You did not think it was a good opportunity?”

“I thought it was an excellent opportunity,” she said honestly. “But I already have a place at McLaren. The team like having my input.”

“That they do,” he said. He didn’t sound offended. He sounded like he was calibrating. “And Lando?”

She blinked. “What about him?”

“He seems to like having you around especially. I have noticed that you spent your time primarily on his side of the garage.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant, so she didn’t respond. She could feel her fingers starting to curl in against her arms. She tightened her grip to stop it.

Toto exhaled through his nose. “I will not press. I simply wanted to say, the door is still open. Mercedes does not forget talent.”

“I know,” she said. “My dad doesn’t either.”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Possibly a smile. Possibly a tic.

“I see. Then I will stop trying to, how do you say in English… poach you.”

“That would be good,” she said. “My dad would get mad if he found out.” 

Toto raised an eyebrow. “You did not tell him?” 

She shook her head. “No. I need to go now. Lewis and Roscoe are waiting.”

“Of course,” Toto said, standing. He offered a handshake, which she pointedly ignored.

She left the room and continued on down the hallway until she found Roscoe, sprawled across the carpet like a throw rug.

She dropped to her knees and scratched behind his ears.

“Hello. I have missed you very much,” she whispered. Roscoe huffed, then rolled over.

Lewis rounded the corner a second later with two smoothies in hand. One was green, and the other was pink. She hoped that the pink one was for her. He glanced over her shoulder, where Toto was walking away, his phone pressed to his ear. “Oh dear. Did you get ambushed?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I escaped.”

— 

Two races later, she found herself in Canada.

She was en route to the Red Bull motorhome — they always had the best coffee vendor, and no one ever seemed to mind when she slipped in — when someone stepped into her path.

“Miss Brown? Amelia?”

She blinked. The man was tall, holding a Viaplay mic, all teeth and polished camera charm. 

“We’re doing some quick paddock interviews — would you mind answering a couple of questions?”

Amelia hesitated. She wasn’t in team kit. Just a plain black hoodie and her headphones around her neck, though the headphones did have the McLaren logo engraved onto them. She glanced over his shoulder. The cameraman was already adjusting focus.

“I’m not a driver,” she said, pushing the words out through a chest that suddenly felt tight.

He laughed, like she’d made a joke. “No, of course — we know. You’re Lando Norris’, uh, data engineer, right? And Zak Brown’s daughter?”

Her fingers tightened in her sleeves. “I’m only officially one of those things,” she replied. “I am not Lando’s data engineer.” 

“Still. Very involved in McLaren. We’d love a few thoughts on the upcoming qualifying session. From your perspective.” He was still smiling. 

Amelia’s teeth squeaked with the force that she was grinding them together. Her heart was ticking fast, too fast. She didn’t like being filmed. She didn’t like… whatever this was. 

She especially didn’t like when people used polite voices to try and back her into a corner.

“I didn’t say I’d do the interview.” She said, eventually. 

“Just one or two—”

“She said no.”

The voice came from behind her. Flat. No hesitation or inflect. 

Amelia turned her head. Max Verstappen was standing next to her, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He wasn’t looking at her — his eyes were locked on the reporter.

“We’re just asking—”

“She doesn’t work for a team. She doesn’t have to answer your questions.”

“Ah, Max, come on, we’re live in—”

Max took one step forward. The cameraman slowly lowered the lens.

“I do not like to repeat myself.” He said. He didn’t sound angry, but there was nothing kind about the way he said it. 

The reporter faltered. “Right,” he muttered, stepping back. “We’ll… catch someone else.” They disappeared down the paddock, the cameraman not even bothering to stop the recording properly.

Amelia stared at Max.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just let out a breath through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. “They should not be bothering you. That was very shit of them.”

“I’m not very interesting,” she told him, her voice barely a mutter as she tried to collect herself. “There’s no point putting me on TV.”

“You’re on TV more than you think,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “Especially when Lando’s around. People are very interested in you both.”

She frowned. “What?”

Max looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

It sounded like it might matter, but if he said that it didn’t, then she wasn’t going to bother asking more about it.

Instead, she tilted her head upward in his direction. He was much taller than he looked when he was in his car. “You’re Max Verstappen.”

He squinted a little under the sun. “Yeah. I am.”

“Why did you help me?” She asked. 

He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Because I don’t like people getting cornered. And Dutch media are, ah—assholes, sometimes.” Then, his mouth curved slightly, something close to teasing. “And because Lando would kill me if I let someone mess with you.”

She just stared at him.

Her stomach did something strange and fluttery that she didn’t like at all.

Max must’ve caught the look on her face because he looked away immediately, regret passing across his features like a cloud. “Anyway,” he added, tone turning brisk, “don’t let them bother you. You’re not public property.”

“I know that,” she said, a little too fast. “I just… forget sometimes. That I’m allowed to say no.”

He nodded once. “You are.”

Then he gave her a brief, crooked grin. “I’ll see you around, Amelia.”

And with that, he disappeared into the Red Bull motorhome, as though nothing unusual had happened at all.

Amelia stood there for a few seconds, her skin still prickling from the confrontation, her thoughts spinning in all directions. The iced coffee no longer felt essential. She turned sharply on her heel and made her way back toward McLaren.

The motorhome wasn’t quiet, or even particularly peaceful; but it was familiar.

It was safe.

—

Lando’s garage was louder than usual.

Or maybe Amelia just wasn’t settled yet; her ears hadn’t quite adjusted, and everything felt like it was pressing in from too many angles. The buzz of the generators, the thud of tyres being stacked, the distant screech of an engine on an out-lap. None of it was new, but it all felt sharper today. She tugged her sleeves over her wrists and walked the perimeter of the garage, not because she needed to check anything, but just because she needed to walk.

Lando was leaning over the front wing of his car, talking to his race engineer. His voice had the kind of ease that came only after a good FP3. He glanced up when she approached.

“You okay?” he asked, brow ticking up.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He didn’t believe her. She could see it in the way he paused, fully paused, mid-sentence with Will, and turned his body slightly toward her.

“You sure?”

She considered lying. Or deflecting. She was usually very good at both.

Instead, she told him, “I ran into Max.”

Lando blinked. “Verstappen?”

“Yes.”

He looked vaguely alarmed. “Did he—? I mean, are you—what happened?”

Amelia folded her arms across her chest and looked past him, toward the pit lane. “Viaplay tried to interview me. I wasn’t wearing anything official. I said no, but they kept asking questions. Then Max showed up and made them leave.”

“Oh.” Lando’s face shifted, obvious concern first, then something much tighter. “That’s… are you okay?”

“Max said that Dutch media can sometimes be assholes,” she added matter-of-factly. “His words.”

“He’d know that better than any of us.” Lando said. 

She looked at his hands, noticing that his veins were very blue. “He also said you would kill him if he let them mess with me.”

Lando coughed, and Will made a choked sound somewhere in the back of his throat.

“Did he?” Lando asked, ears already pink.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Will looked like he was trying not to laugh, which was odd, because she hadn’t heard anyone make a joke. Lando gave a little shrug. Will nudged him with an elbow, and Lando muttered, “Fuck off, mate,” under his breath.

She sighed, looking off toward the data screens. “I didn’t even get my iced coffee.” She mentioned. 

Lando leaned a little closer to her. “You want one now? We can go get it together.”

She shook her head. “No. Just… I want to stay here. Until quali starts.”

His smile got softer. “Yeah. Okay. You can do that.”

So she stood there, adjacent to him, not speaking; just listening to the familiar rhythms of the garage. Tyres being moved. Headsets crackling. Mechanics calling out numbers and adjustments.

She watched Lando pick up his gloves and flex his fingers into them, testing the fit. Quiet. Focused.

And then she turned, and for a split second, panicked. Her water bottle had been moved. She looked around quickly, breath hitching.

But Lando cleared his throat and caught her attention. He walked over to the back of the garage and pulled it from underneath the counter. “Put it in the mini fridge,” he told her. “Didn’t want it getting warm.”

She took it from him, stared at it for a long time, and then smiled. 

— 

iMessage — 5:08pm

Mom Hello, darling! Just checking in. Hope everything went well today x

Amelia Hello, mom. I have a question. How do you know if you have a crush on somebody?

Mom I think this conversation would be much easier on FaceTime. Are you back at the hotel yet?

Amelia No. Lando asked me if I’d like to go get burgers after qualifying and I said yes. Dad was busy so I didn’t tell him. I texted him though.

Mom Is Lando driving you to get burgers?

Amelia Yes. He is a very safe driver in a normal car. He drives exactly at the speed limit. I was a bit worried that he would speed, but he doesn’t :)

Mom That’s very nice, honey x

—

iMessage — 5:12pm

Tracy Brown (Wife) Zak Brown. You have some explaining to do.

Zak Brown (Husband) What’s going on, honey?

Tracy Brown (Wife) You tell me! Your driver has taken our daughter out on a date and you’re none the wiser!

Zak Brown (Husband) What? Which driver?

Tracy Brown (Wife) He is driving her, Zak. To go and get burgers. She texted you.

Zak Brown (Husband) SHE TEXTED ME “ALL GOOD” I THOUGHT THAT MEANT SHE WAS SAFE IN HER HOTEL ROOM UNDER TEN BLANKETS WATCHING A BARBIE MOVIE 

Tracy Brown (Wife) Nope. She’s in a car. With LANDO NORRIS. They’re going for a burger date.

Zak Brown (Husband) I’m calling his father. That little shit head. 

Tracy Brown (Wife) Don’t be dramatic. They’re just getting food. I think she likes him. It’s cute.

Zak Brown (Husband) Cute? Are you serious? The media are going to be all over this. 

Tracy Brown (Wife) Have you seriously not noticed? They’ve been the talk of the paddock for weeks! They’re attached at the hip. I don’t know how we missed this 

Zak Brown (Husband) I think I’m having a heart attack And also a stroke. 

— 

Amelia had already deconstructed her burger; bun on one side, lettuce on the other, everything organised into neat piles. She wasn’t sure if that was weird or not, but Lando hadn’t commented, so she assumed it was fine.

She cleared her throat, tapping her straw against the side of her milkshake. “I’m sorry if I’m in your garage too much.”

Lando blinked at her mid-bite. “What?”

“I just… I know it might be annoying. I don’t want to get in the way. But since I’m not really allowed in Carlos’ anymore—”

“Wait. Hold on.” He put his burger down, brows pulling together. “What do you mean you’re not allowed in Carlos’ garage anymore?”

She picked up a fry, broke it in half, and frowned down at her tray. “Carlos’ dad told me, in China, that I wasn’t welcome in there. So I’ve just been staying in yours.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Fuck that.” Lando said. He was digging his phone out of his pocket. 

Amelia blinked at him, taken aback. “What are you doing?”

“I’m texting Carlos.” He stared down at his phone, typing furiously. “That’s absolute bullshit. You’re not just allowed in my garage, Amelia, you’re wanted there. You practically run the place. I mean, I was wondering why you didn’t spend any time in Carlos’ anymore, and he’s been thinking this whole time that he did something wrong.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t run anything—”

“You do.” He cut her off, still a little frantic. She stared at him. He took a deep breath. “I’m serious, Amelia. Everyone listens to you. Even Will. Which is terrifying.”

She bit her lip, worrying as she glanced at his phone. “It’s okay, though. I like your garage better, anyway.”

Lando smiled at her. “Good. But still. He can’t just get away with that. Carlos appreciated your input — he told me so. And you belong wherever you want to be, yeah?”

Her face felt warm. She reached for another fry, more for something to do with her hands than out of hunger.

“Also,” he added, a little more casually than before — but she didn’t miss the way his jaw was set, or how his voice had tightened just slightly. “Next time someone tells you that you’re not welcome somewhere you want to be… just tell me, alright? I’ll handle it.”

She tilted her head, frowning slightly. “Handle it how?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing another fry. “However I have to.”

— 

iMessage — 7:48pm

Lando Norris oye

Carlos Sainz qué pasa

Lando Norris did your dad seriously tell Amelia she wasn’t welcome in your garage?

Carlos Sainz ¿qué? when??

Lando Norris few races ago. bahrain she just told me she thinks you don’t want her around

Carlos Sainz no jodas I never said that I just thought she was busy I will talk to him. 

Lando Norris she didn’t wanna say anything

Carlos Sainz

I am glad that she did. 

tell her I never said that and that she is welcome any time

Lando Norris yh. already told her but yeah, sort your dad out mate 

Carlos Sainz voy a hacerlo ahora mismo this is nonsense

Lando Norris cheers mate

Carlos Sainz de nada are you with her right now?

Lando Norris we’re just getting burgers no biggie 

Carlos Sainz Liar.