Is It Possible For You To Do Max Verstappen X Pregnant Reader, Where She Goes To One Of His Races Even

Half a Step - KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x Wolff!reader

Summary - Kimi and the daughter of Toto Wolff find themselves enamoured with each other from across the garage.

Contains - pure fluff, awkward teenage love

The sun hung low over the paddock, casting everything in golden light. Race day was winding down, and the buzz of engines had given way to the softer sounds of crew laughter and debriefs. The clamour of the crowd was gone, replaced by something more intimate, the quiet hum of a team catching its breath.

Y/n Wolff leaned against the railing outside the Mercedes hospitality suite, sipping on a melting strawberry smoothie and watching the bustle below. She’d grown up around these tracks, the daughter of Team Principal Toto Wolff, but it never got old, the energy, the thrill of it all.

And lately, it had gotten even harder to ignore one particular part of the scenery.

Kimi Antonelli

Mercedes’ newest young driver. Barely 18, full of raw talent and the sweetest smile the Wolff girl has ever seen. Kimi had joined the Mercedes academy years ago but his presence in the garage became more prominent in 2024 as he prepared to step up to formula one.

Y/n had to pretend her heart didn't stutter every single time he entered the garage, she had to pretend that him simply walking past and giving her a friendly wave didn't make her cheeks flush and head spin. And now with the boy being in the garage full time, she was finding it harder and harder not to fall hopelessly in love with the boy.

And she had no idea that, across the garage, Kimi Antonelli was doing exactly the same thing.

Kimi sat perched on one of the low pit wall barriers, boots dangling, helmet resting beside him. His hands twisted the strap of his gloves absentmindedly as he tried — and failed — to focus on the technical debrief happening a few metres away.

His eyes kept drifting.

To her.

Y/n was a vision in the fading light, her hair catching the last strands of sunshine, her laugh — even when faint and tucked into a private conversation with one of the mechanics — sending an ache straight through his chest.

He knew he shouldn't stare. She was Toto’s daughter, practically paddock royalty, and Kimi was just the kid. The rookie trying to prove himself worthy of the same seat greats had sat in.

But it was hopeless.

Every time she was near, it was like the whole garage shifted, the world blurring at the edges until there was only her.

She was sunshine. And he was a boy who wanted to be worthy of standing in it.

From her spot by the railing, Y/n felt it — the weight of his gaze.

It had been happening more and more lately. Little glances from across the garage. Half-smiles traded over laptops and telemetry sheets. A kind of silent conversation neither of them was brave enough to voice.

Her father wasn't strict, but she knew he watched everything. And if Toto had noticed the soft way Kimi’s eyes lingered on her, or the way her laugh brightened whenever Kimi was around, he hadn’t said anything yet.

At least, not out loud.

Because Toto had noticed.

He'd caught the way Kimi looked at his daughter once — when she wasn’t watching — a gaze so open, so careful, it had stopped him mid-sentence. And he'd seen it in Y/n, too — the way her face lit up the moment Kimi entered a room, the nervous twirling of her fingers when Kimi was nearby.

Toto had seen it in both of them, separately, quietly.

And while a part of him was protective — would always be protective — another part of him, the part that understood how rare it was to find something real in the high-speed, high-stakes world they lived in, was quietly, secretly rooting for them.

The garage lights buzzed on overhead, casting a cooler glow over everything now that the sun was sinking fast.

Kimi slid off the barrier and tugged at his race suit sleeves. He should go. The engineers would be waiting for him. There was data to review, meetings to attend, future races to prepare for.

But instead, he found himself walking toward the hospitality suite.

Toward her.

Y/n spotted him immediately, her stomach flipping in that stupid way she couldn’t control.

He slowed when he reached her side, a little breathless — maybe from the walk, maybe from the nerves that always prickled under his skin around her.

"Hey," he said, voice softer than the background chatter of the packing crew.

"Hey," she answered, setting her smoothie down and turning fully toward him.

For a moment, neither spoke. They just stood there, a few feet apart, the world busy around them but somehow silent between them.

"You were amazing today," she said finally, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Kimi flushed — not from the compliment itself, but from the way she said it. Like she really meant it. Like he wasn’t just some rookie. Like he was hers to be proud of.

"Thanks," he mumbled, a little shy. "I... uh... I saw you watching."

Y/n laughed under her breath, biting her lip. "Busted."

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, gloves still twisting in his hands. "I always... I mean, I always look for you. After."

Her heart stuttered.

"Oh" she whispered, not sure what to say as a pink blush spreads across her cheeks.

The air between them stretched and tightened, sweet and terrifying all at once.

Kimi took a half-step closer, so close now she could see the faint freckles dusted across his nose, the nervous flutter of his lashes.

"I don't really know what I'm doing," he admitted, voice barely above the breeze. "But I... I like being around you. I always have."

Y/n smiled, slow and wide and aching.

"I like being around you, too."

A long, full moment passed — the kind of moment that feels like the edge of something big, the kind you only get once if you’re lucky.

From a distance, tucked into the doorway of the hospitality suite, Toto watched them.

He saw the look on Kimi’s face — the one he’d caught before — and the way Y/n smiled back at him, unguarded and full of something too bright to be anything but real.

He shook his head with a quiet smile, already resigned.

Maybe he couldn’t protect her from everything. Maybe he didn’t even need to.

Maybe sometimes, you just had to let good things happen.

Kimi swallowed hard. "Maybe we could, um... hang out sometime? Outside the garage?"

Y/n’s heart swelled, almost painfully.

"I’d like that," she said. "A lot."

He smiled, a real one, bright and a little crooked, and more beautiful than any trophy.

Their awkward smiling and blushing moment was interrupted as Kimi was approached by Bono for a debrief. They stood staring at each other unsure of what to do but as Bono called for Kimi again he gave her a wave and a smile, backing away still looking at her until he hit a wall.

She giggled softly at his clumsiness and his blush only grew, he had to reluctantly turned around following Bono into one of the meeting rooms, leaving Y/n planted in her spot.

Her trance was broken by the sound of someone's voice clearing, that someone being her father as he passed her by on his way to the meeting room following after Kimi and Bono. He looked at her with a knowing smirk and a wink before he disappeared into the meeting room.

Y/n's eyes widened and her cheeks grew impossibly redder.

Oh shit.

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Word count: 1.3k

---

i'll come home to you ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

ih6 x uni!reader

in which lovedrunk! isack shows up at your door

warnings: mildly suggestive

word count: 696

masterlist

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Isack knows that this is a bad idea. He doesn’t want to scare you off, because…

Well, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to him, including becoming a Formula One driver. 

He’s thinking about you, the way you smile at him and the kiss you’d left on the corner of his mouth the last time he saw you. 

He’d been out drinking with some of his friends, but he needed to see you, desperately. 

He’s been really desperate lately, so much so that Liam flicks his forehead every time Isack gets a text from you to clear his face of the cheesy, down bad smile. 

It’s worth it, though. He’d endure a sore forehead as long as you keep texting him about your day. 

That’s why he finds himself, tipsy and flushed at your doorstep. 

You open the door, face and legs bare. 

“Baby?” You ask, surprised, but moving to let him in. 

He has a hard time crossing into the doorframe, distracted by the smooth skin of your thighs, and the fact that you’re wearing one of his Hugo Boss hoodies he’d given you on your second date. 

This is your third, if you count showing up at the doorstep of your kind-of girlfriend at 12 AM. 

Melting into your arms, he greets you with a slurred French pet name. 

Your giggle reaches his ears just as he blows a raspberry into your neck. 

You squeal, trying to escape, but he lands the two of you on the couch. 

He digs his face into your chest, breathing in your body wash. 

“Hi, handsome. Where’d you come from?” You coo, fingers tracing his earlobe.

He shivers in pleasure, half from the sheer happiness of being in your presence, half from the feeling your hands on him. 

Slipping his hands under the thin tank you wear with the unzipped hoodie, he mutters to you about his evening. 

You hum at his story, laughing when he tells you how Yuki jumped on a table to dance. 

By the time he’s finished, you’re stripping off his hoodie due to the heat of his body pressed up against yours. He doesn’t mind at all as you push him gently up so you can take the hoodie off. 

Not when he gets to pull you onto his lap. 

“Isack, what-“ you start, but the feeling of his lips on your pulse point cuts you off. 

Isack practically purrs when your neck falls back as he mouths across your soft skin. The little whimpers you’re letting out is sending heat straight to his groin, and he groans when you shift even closer to him, clinging to his shoulders. 

“Mm,” he tells you, which you answer by threading your fingers into the short, black locks on his head. 

His eyes roll back in pleasure, at the feeling of you, desperate for him as he was for you. 

“You are so drunk,” you murmur, slipping off of his lap, grin a bit teasing and a bit disappointed. 

“Mon chérie, non!” He complains, trying to tug you back onto him. 

“Baby, c’mon. Let’s go to bed.” You start your way to what he assumes is your bedroom, looking back with wide, expecting eyes. 

He follows, half-hard and eager like the world’s most loyal puppy. 

“To sleep,” You clarify, and he deflates. Then, he bounces his steps because that means he gets to cuddle you all night. 

The two of you get unready together, brushing your teeth side by side and he lets you smooth on skincare onto his skin. 

He takes his shirt off, wearing only his boxers as you slip under the covers. You watch him, eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. 

Isack has to look at the ceiling and think about Helmut Marko for about ten seconds until he can join you. 

“Goodnight,” he pulls you into his bare chest, and you press a kiss to his heart, and then his lips. 

As you fall asleep, with his stomach warm from thick, heavy affection, he realizes this is where he wants to be forever. 

In your arms, in your bed, no matter where he is. 

With you, he thinks. 

Always with you. 

---

Max Verstappen x friends to lovers!reader

Always Walk Me Home // You and Max are keeping things casual. Sooo casual. You can be casual. Right?

Someone Sane // You and Max have a shared love for strawberry wine. The rest of your friends think you’ve got bad taste.

Empty Space // Max wakes up alone. He finds himself wishing the night before had been a bad dream.

On The Horizon // Like a sunrise over the ocean, there are nothing but good things on the horizon for you and Max.

Love Of My Life // Four moments leading up to the big day, and the moment you and Max have been dreaming of.

the extended universe (blurbs):

the 1 // an alternate ending to Empty Space

slip away // part 3.5 max feels you start to pull away again. this time, he puts his foot down.

honey honey // honeymoon antics! need I say more

lover // their first valentine’s day as a married couple

---

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: Lewis loves to spoil his girlfriend

Requested? kinda

The sun streams through the expansive glass windows of the Monaco boutique, bathing the marble floors in golden light. You glance at yourself in the mirror, adjusting the hem of the sleek dress you’re trying on. The soft fabric hugs your figure perfectly, and you smile to yourself, pleased with the choice.

As you step out of the fitting room, your heart skips a beat. Lewis is standing by the counter, dressed casually in a plain white T-shirt, baggy pants, and sneakers. His sunglasses rest on top of his head as he chats easily with the sales associate. You thought he was supposed to be in a meeting, but here he is.

“Lewis!” you exclaim, startled but delighted.

He turns to you, his grin widening. “Hey, love. Thought I’d surprise you.”

“You definitely did.” You walk toward him, your confusion giving way to joy. “What about your meeting?”

“Got canceled,” he says casually, taking a step closer. “Figured I’d spend my free time with you instead.”

Before you can respond, you notice him handing his credit card to the sales associate. “Pack up everything she liked,” he says confidently, flashing his charming smile.

“Lewis!” You place a hand on his arm, trying to stop him. “I don’t need you to do that. I have my own money.”

He looks down at you, his warm brown eyes filled with affection. “I know you do,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But I want to spoil the person I love the most. Let me.”

Your cheeks flush as your heart swells. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, but a small smile escapes.

“Only for you,” he replies, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips. The world seems to fade for a moment, leaving just the two of you in your own bubble of happiness.

The sales associate clears her throat politely, snapping you both back to reality. Lewis smirks and slides an arm around your waist. “Anything else catch your eye, or are we good?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I think you’ve done enough damage.”

He chuckles, his grip tightening slightly as he pick up the bags and guides you toward the door. “Never enough for you, love.”

---

He’s Not Usually This Gentle

Lando Norris x Pregnant!Reader

The garden was softly lit, fairy lights strung between the trees, laughter spilling from little groups scattered across the grass. The post-race celebration wasn’t wild — just drivers, a few mechanics, and close friends — the kind of night that let your guard down.

You stood near the drinks table, chatting with Lily and Carmen, a fizzy water in your hand. Every now and then, your eyes flicked to the far side of the lawn, where Lando was talking with a few McLaren engineers — but he wasn’t really talking. Every few seconds, he’d glance over at you.

When you shifted your weight or adjusted your dress, he would tense like he was ready to sprint across the yard.

“Okay,” Carmen whispered, leaning closer. “He’s looking at you like you’re going to collapse.”

Lily laughed softly. “Has he always been this... clingy?”

You smiled. “He’s just being careful.”

“Careful like he asked me if the lemonade had too much sugar” Lily said.

Lily and Carmen were still beside you, mid-laugh, when Lando started walking over — focused, determined, like he didn’t even see them.

“I think that’s our cue,” Carmen said under her breath, smiling knowingly.

Lily smirked. “Yep. We’ll give you two a minute.”

With a wink, they slipped away just as Lando reached you, his hand already brushing your lower back.

“You okay?”he asked quietly, hand brushing your lower back with the gentleness of someone handling a priceless artifact.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “You’ve asked me that eight times.”

“And I’d ask it eighty more,” he said, without a hint of irony.

You tilted your head. “You’re going to give it away.”

“No, I’m not.”

But even as he said it, Lando gently tugged you away from the lights, guiding you to a quieter corner of the garden. The music felt distant here, the party just a background hum.

His hand moved to rest on your stomach — still flat, still your little secret.

“You’re not even showing,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it. “And I’m already obsessed.”

You smiled, pressing your hand over his.

Then—

“Oi, Lando,” a familiar voice called. “You two hiding from us?”

It was George, approaching with Pierre just behind him. You both jumped slightly, Lando’s hand still on your stomach before he realized and dropped it.

But not fast enough.

George narrowed his eyes. “Were you just talking to her stomach?”

“No,” Lando said too quickly.

Pierre tilted his head. “You... were, weren’t you?”

Silence.

Then George’s eyes widened. “Wait.”

Lando exhaled slowly. “Okay. Fine. Yes. We’re having a baby.”

You bit your lip to stop the laugh bubbling up as both men stood frozen.

George blinked. “But you guys only just—” He stopped. “Wait, no. That makes sense. You’ve been acting like she’s made of glass all night.”

Lando looked proud now, standing a little taller. “She’s carrying our child.”

Pierre smiled warmly. “Mate, that’s... that’s beautiful.”

George was still in shock. “Wait. Lando Norris. Is going to be a dad?”

Lando grinned, slipping his hand back into yours. “And I’m going to be good at it.”

You nodded. “He already is.”

This was Requested by @hsbabby.🫶🏼

---

rain delay kisses

a max verstappen x reader imagine

The first drop hits your cheek just as the national anthem fades. One, then another. Within seconds the sky gives in. Rain descends upon the track before the drivers can even walk off their marks. Officials scramble, teams drag equipment under tarps, and the inevitable announcement echoes over the speakers:

“Start delayed due to weather conditions. Expected minimum 30 minute delay.”

You're standing just outside the garage, barely under the overhang. The rain is relentless now, soaking the pit lane—ricocheting droplets bouncing off the tarmac like steam. But you don't move. You’re waiting. Looking for him. Waiting for him. You know in moments like this, race weekends where time together is sparse and sacred, he will coming looking for you.

You hear him before you see him. Distinctive voice dancing in the air somewhere to the left of you. He’s talking to someone. GP probably—about new tire tactics. You don’t turn around, he’ll see you soon enough.

Finally, once some agreement has been made, he steps towards the garage, helmet tucked under one arm, race suit unzipped to his waist. He spots you instantly, a flicker of something soft crossing his features.

Without a word, he walks over, tugging a team umbrella you didn’t notice before open. It’s barely big enough for two, but he angles it anyway, pulling you close by the wrist.

“You didn’t wait inside?” he asks, his voice quieter than the rain, but warmer with a tender love that has encompassed your past few months with him. Max has a way of making every moment together feel warm.

You shake your head. “Didn’t want to miss you.”

That gets the smile—the real one. Not the PR smile he slaps on. The one he only ever gives you when the world isn’t watching. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair off your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His fingertips linger there, brushing against your face so softly you can barely feel them.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The chaos blends into the background like white noise. Nothing exists but the two of you, just for this moment.

Then he leans in, slow and certain. His lips meet yours in a kiss that tastes like rain and adrenaline. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just right. Like he needs this—you—more than he needs the race right now. Faint drops of rain patter on your cheek.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath brushing your skin.

“I think I like rain delays,” he whispers, a hint of a grin in his voice.

You laugh softly, your hands still tangled in the front of his race suit. “I think I do too.”

His hand is still on your wrist. Warm and constant

“C’mon, it’s cold,” he says, arm moving to wrap around your waist and tracing circles into the dip there, “Let’s go inside and warm up.”

I imagine this in the ‘slim pickins’ world post them being together for a little bit…

---

Track Limits | Part 1

Pairing: ex!lando x f1driver!reader (ft. love triangle w/ max)

Genre: love triangle, exes to lovers, slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, emotional???, HORNY AFFFFF, F1, reader is the first female F1 driver in 50 years, toxic dynamics, betrayal, power shift, revenge sex, we’re fucking everyone

wc: roughly 23k

Description: You’re Formula 1’s reigning world champion—the first woman to ever do it. But the start of this season is all about what you’ve already lost. Lando left. Two years in the gutter without even an apology.

You don’t owe him a smile, let alone a glance—but when he follows you into the hallway and you let him touch you, everything breaks.

Notes: my main blog is for p bueckers @bueckets

Max doesn’t lean against the wall—he never has. It’s not in him. He stands like someone waiting for the lights to go out, back straight, arms loose at his sides, fingers twitching in his pockets like they’re used to gripping a steering wheel. He’s outside because he said he needed air, but the air in Monaco doesn’t come without strings. It tastes like spent champagne and new money, clings sweet and artificial at the back of your throat. Perfume and engine grease and too many accents pretending they don’t know who he is. He ignores the ambient glamour the way most people ignore hunger—until they can’t.

He’s waiting for you, of course he is. Every minute you’re late coils tighter in his chest. Not that he’s worried. He’s not the worried type. But there’s a knot forming just under his sternum, a tension he hasn’t shaken since the end of the season. Since you vanished.

He glances at his phone. One notification. It’s nothing. He locks the screen before it fully lights up. Tucks it away. Stares out at the glittering coastline like it owes him something.

And then—there. The white Porsche, turning the corner like a ghost re-entering its own funeral. White, pristine, arrogant in the way vintage things are—refusing to blend in. The headlights sweep across the valet station, the kind of entrance that gets registered even if it’s not announced. Max doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. Just a subtle shift—his spine pulling taut, his weight redistributing slightly off his right leg, a flick of his fingers inside his pocket like he’s calibrating himself in real time.

He straightens a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to realign something invisible. The night exhales. The street bends. Max tells himself not to look eager. Not to stare. Not to overreact. But when the door lifts and you step out, all quiet grace and exposed skin and don’t-fuck-with-me heels, something in his throat tightens anyway.

You look– fuck– you look like sin. Like heartbreak rebuilt into something knife-sharp and exquisite. Like the kind of woman people name storms after. Your dress is white, but not innocent. Not even close. It clings at the waist, parts at the thigh, flows in soft spirals behind you like smoke from a gun that’s just been fired. The kind of gown that moves like it’s tired of being polite. The fabric kisses your calves with every step, ripples over your hips like it’s worshipping them. Your back is bare. Your shoulders glint under the light like they’ve never carried pain.

Max doesn’t do poetry. Doesn’t do adjectives. But fucking he’ll. You finally look like yourself. The you that hasn’t existed in months. Or maybe someone new—someone forged sharp in the fire of that off-season silence. A different kind of fast. A different kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous that makes his teeth ache. The kind that hums beneath the skin, coils in his gut, and settles low—an ache he won’t name, but can’t ignore.

You see him immediately.  You don’t slow down. You don’t smile like you used to. You give him that look—neutral on the surface, but full of teeth underneath. Like you’re waiting to see how he’ll handle it. If he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Watches as you hand the keys to the valet—smooth, practiced, fingers brushing just enough to make the kid blush. Watches as you respond to his French without hesitation, with that soft warmth you reserve for strangers who haven’t betrayed you yet. Watches as you smile—not the full one, not the one with teeth and tongue and trouble—just the corner, the polite echo of it. The one that says I’m fine when you aren’t. Your voice, low and graceful, drapes itself around merci like silk falling from a shoulder.

Your dress breathes around you like it knows the air here doesn’t belong to anyone but you. And then you walk toward him. Each step measured, heel to stone, click to silence. The wind barely dares to touch your hair. You don’t rush. You don’t need to. You walk like you’ve got nowhere to be and everyone to impress anyway.

Max swallows something stupid. Something like regret. Something like awe. And somehow, you’re still not close enough. He doesn’t step toward you. Not even a little.

He holds his ground like he’s used to doing on track—tight grip, quiet posture, too still. You’re maybe three feet away now, close enough for him to catch the tail end of your perfume, something sharp and floral and completely intentional, the kind of scent that lives in the collar of someone's memory long after the body’s gone. 

Max doesn’t blink. He catalogues everything the way only someone like him can. How your eyes flicker—not uncertain, not shy, but observant, scanning him like telemetry. How your hair’s styled not for effort but for effect. Soft waves, pinned just enough to look sculpted. How your skin glows like it’s been sleeping under better stars. And how your lips—barely glossed—still manage to look like trouble.

You stop two feet from him. Let the silence stretch. There’s a smirk playing at your mouth, not quite earned, not quite performative. The kind you wear when you’ve already decided how this is going to go, and you’re just waiting to see if he keeps up.

“You’re late,” he says, finally, and his voice is low and familiar and unsympathetic in that particularly Dutch way. No hello. No you look good. Just a casual accusation, flat on the surface, but already unraveling around the edges.

Your head tilts slightly. One brow rises. “I know,” you answer. There’s a pause. Brief. Charged.

You look at him fully now. Hold his gaze without flinching. You’re not here for comfort. You’re here for optics. For necessity. For Red Bull. But maybe, just maybe, you’re also here to remind the room that you still exist in every language they tried to write you out of. Max exhales through his nose. Like a laugh trying not to be born.

“I told them I wasn’t going in without you,” he mutters, as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t mean something.

You hum. That same infuriating, delicate little sound you used to make when he said something half-serious. Not mocking. Not kind. Just acknowledging it without letting it land. He watches your eyes flick past him, toward the entrance, and for a moment—just a flash—he thinks you might be reconsidering. Might turn around. Might vanish again like a dream punished for getting too close to real.

But then you sigh. Barely. The kind of sigh that means fine. And Max– still Max, opens the door. You don’t say thank you. You just walk past him—skin brushing the edge of his jacket, the silk of your dress rustling against the doorway—and step into the room like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

His hand comes to the small of your back. Light. Barely there. But it is there. And to him, that’s all anyone needs to see.

The air inside is thicker than it should be. Low light spills down from the custom glass fixtures like honey—too warm, too intimate for a place that charges this much to breathe. The room hums with quiet conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery, but under it all, there's that undercurrent Max knows too well: tension, curated and caged. Everyone pretending not to see, not to look, not to notice you stepping into the room on Max’s arm like a reentry wound. Monaco’s elite pretending they haven’t spent the past three months whispering your name like it was cursed.

You keep your head down.

Not a flinch. Not weakness. Just focus. Max can feel the way your posture locks in, muscles pulled tight under that silk-and-steel exterior. The dress moves like it’s made of breath and water, but your spine stays straight. Your chin tilted just slightly down, like you’re giving yourself a second to survive it. Max’s hand is still at the small of your back. He doesn’t move it.

He can’t. He’s not entirely sure if it’s to guide you or to ground himself. And then he sees them.

Lando. Charles. Oscar. Carlos. Their girlfriends. Their drinks. Their eyes.

And for the first time all night, Max falters. Just a flicker. A break in the rhythm. Because Lando looks fucking stunned. Not just shocked, not just caught off guard—but actually, genuinely out of his depth. The kind of look Max has seen on rookie drivers during their first wet quali in Spa. He recovers quickly, of course. He always does. Leans back a little. Wraps his arm tighter around Magiu like he’s marking territory he doesn’t even like the taste of.

Max meets his eyes. It’s brief. Sharp. Heavy. And in that second, there’s a history of fuck-ups and fallout crammed into one glance. You fucking idiot, Max thinks, louder than necessary. Louder than smart. You had her, and you—

He doesn’t let the rest form. Because it’s not his place. Not really. Even if he was the one you called, finally, two weeks after the season ended, voice cracked open like old paint, saying nothing but Are you home?

Even if he was the one who picked up after thirty seconds of pacing because of course he was. Even if Lando dumped you like you were an expired sponsorship deal and walked straight into some glorified influencer’s glittered lap like it wouldn’t follow him. Even if Max felt that lump in his throat grow roots.

He doesn’t let himself think about why. He’s spent a month not thinking about it. Not thinking about the way his chest tightened when he saw your name light up his phone. Not thinking about the way you sounded when you exhaled into the receiver like you hadn’t done that properly in weeks. Not thinking about how he didn’t ask any questions—just left the door unlocked and cleared the guest room and made tea he knew you wouldn’t drink.

Now you’re here, next to him, and it’s real in a way it hasn’t been yet. His hand against your back, warm from your skin, feels too personal. Too right. You tilt your head just barely toward him and mutter under your breath, voice soft and close enough to touch:

“Ik kan niet naar ze kijken.”

I can’t look at them.

Max’s jaw flexes. His hand steadies on your back, thumb brushing the edge of your spine. Just once. Barely noticeable. But it’s a decision. It’s a promise.

“Ik weet het,” he murmurs. “Ik heb je.”

I know. I’ve got you.

And he does. Whatever tonight is—whatever it means—he’s not letting you walk through it alone. He’s never cared much for ceremony. But right now, with your warmth soaking into his palm and your breath catching just enough to betray your calm—right now, it feels a lot like something.

You step through the private door like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just inhale Max’s voice in your mother tongue like a sedative. Like the tension in your shoulders isn’t three months old and fossilized. Like you aren’t acutely aware of the fact that Lando Norris is sitting in the next room, wrapped in someone else’s perfume, laughing into someone else’s throat.

You’re not here for that. You’re here for business. The room is softly lit, quiet, thick with money and influence. Long table. Frosted glass walls. A muted kind of power thrumming under everything—white oak floors, gold accents, minimalist design so curated it’s almost rude. The Red Bull principal stands at the head, his smile tight, his watch louder than his words. Flanking him are a half-dozen men whose suits cost more than most people’s mortgages, plus two women in sleek dresses and sharper expressions, their clipped nods making it very clear they don’t need to be impressed. These are the people who decide what teams look like before the engineers even touch the cars. The ones who know you by name, by number, by millions moved.

Their eyes land on you the second you enter. The silence bends. You walk like the cameras are still on. Like the championship was yesterday. Like your ex isn’t five meters away on the other side of a wall too thin for your liking. You let your heels kiss the floor like it’s a stage. Let your dress do what it was built to do—hug, whisper, glide. You keep your gaze steady, your posture regal, your expression perfectly smooth. Business now. Emotion later. Or never. Preferably never.

Max is beside you, but he’s silent. You feel him there, a familiar gravity. Still close enough to touch. Still warm.

“Look at that,” one of the execs murmurs, voice gruff but amused. “Even prettier than the headlines said.”

You give him a smile. Polished. Practiced. Sharp around the edges. Christian gestures to your seat near the head of the table. “Glad you could make it,” he says, nodding at both you and Max. “We’ll make this quick. We’re not here to waste your time. You’ve both proven you don’t need micromanaging.”

Max slides into the seat beside yours. Casual. Effortless. You follow suit, back straight, hands folded, eyes sharp.

They start talking. Money. Sponsorships. Projected figures for next season. Pay increases. You and Max are getting a bump—sizeable. You don’t blink. It’s what you’re worth. Maybe more. One of the execs jokes that with the two of you on the same team, the constructors' trophy might as well be etched already. Someone else mutters that McLaren’s upgrades are the only threat.

Because you know what they’re talking about. Not the cars. The driver. The boy. The mistake. The person you loved like he wasn’t a liability. The one who let your heart rot in his hands and then replaced you with someone who only understands Instagram captions and face angles. Your nails press into your palm. You make sure your expression doesn’t shift. You nod once. Breathe slowly. Professional. Unbothered.

Max doesn’t say anything. But you feel it—the shift in him. Like his focus sharpens the second you move. Like he’s not just watching the room. He’s watching you. You force yourself to focus on the words being said. Aerodynamic reports. Budget negotiations. Test schedules. But your mind… your mind won’t stop dragging itself back to that moment outside. The brief brush of Max’s hand against your spine. The way it didn’t feel intrusive. Or accidental. Or formal.

It felt like steadiness. Like something you didn’t realize you’d been craving until it was already gone. Like warmth in the cold hallway between past and present.

You swallow. Nod again. Someone says something about your performance last season—how no woman’s ever dominated the way you have. How the data doesn’t lie. That your cornering metrics are almost inhuman. That you might be one of the best to ever do it.

You smile again. Another trophy smile. But it doesn’t reach all the way up. Because behind it, all you can think about is the fact that Lando is five meters away. Max’s hand is still echoing on your skin. And you’re sitting in a room full of power pretending you’re not bleeding under your dress.

The room empties in increments. Slowly, like a tide receding, quiet murmurs of goodbyes and clinks of crystal echoing against the walls like afterthoughts. The chairs are pushed in with just enough noise to remind you you’re still in the land of the living. Polished hands reach for coats. Watches checked. Nods exchanged like currency. No one rushes. No one lingers.

You don’t move. You sit perfectly still in your chair, spine resting not against the leather but your own discipline, your hands laid neatly over your lap like you’re holding something fragile and invisible there. It’s over. The meeting. The dinner. The performance. And still, the tension in your shoulders doesn’t unwind.

Because the ache wasn’t in the meeting. It’s in the moments after. You feel him before he speaks. Max doesn’t move quietly. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t hover. He just exists—sturdy and low and immovable in that way he does when he’s trying to be casual but is actually watching the world unfold in real time. You don’t need to look to know he’s still standing at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, like he’s waiting for something.

You glance up, finally, and catch his eye. Just for a second. It feels like being caught looking down the barrel of something dangerous. There’s no smirk. No grin. Nothing sarcastic in the slope of his brow or the tilt of his head. Just Max, steady and warm and devastating in that suit that’s too sharp for this late at night, like he’s been built out of tailored tension.

Your mouth is dry. You don’t say anything. Not yet. Just lean forward slightly to reach for the water glass you never touched, and as your fingers curl around the crystal stem, your dress shifts. The silk across your chest tugs just slightly tighter, the slit parting a breath wider at your thigh.

And he looks. Not long. Not greedy. But direct. Unapologetic. Like he was waiting for you to move so he had permission. And for a stupid, brainless second, it flusters you. Not because it’s Max. But because it’s you, and you hate that your body notices. You hate that you feel warm under your skin in a room that’s already cooled with abandonment. You hate that every inch of professionalism you put on like perfume is starting to crack where his gaze rests.

You sip the water. It doesn’t help. Max finally speaks. Quiet. Clipped.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you, like a paperweight dropped on silk. Light. But you feel it. In your chest. Your stomach. Lower. You clear your throat and lean back, eyes on the glass in your hand.

“That obvious?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then— “No,” he says. “But I know you.”

And that—that’s what does it. You exhale slow through your nose, the kind of breath that tastes like resignation. Your fingers still wrapped around the glass, condensation sliding cool against your knuckles while heat blooms under your skin like a secret. He’s still standing. Still looking at you with that maddening calm. Like he’s the only person in the world who knows how tightly you’re holding yourself together and the exact second you’ll start to unravel.

You shift again. Cross your legs. The slit parts with a whisper. His eyes flick down. Just briefly. You wonder if he notices the way your pulse jumps in your neck. You wonder if he feels how warm the room’s gotten.

“Didn’t expect them to bring up McLaren,” you say, finally, and your voice is too smooth. Too casual. It sounds like conversation, but it’s not. Not really.

Max lets out a low sound that might be a laugh. Might be disbelief. Might be frustration smoothed out into something prettier. “They’re scared,” he says. “They should be. We’re going to fucking destroy them.”

The way he says we punches something low in your stomach. Like an old bruise pressed too suddenly. You nod. Swallow. Force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Let’s hope they don’t upgrade too fast.”

You don’t say Let’s hope he doesn’t. You don’t say Let’s hope I never have to see him in the rearview. You don’t say Let’s hope I don’t fucking break apart the first time he’s in my mirrors.

Instead, you say nothing. And Max doesn’t push. He just moves—finally. Walks slowly around the table until he’s closer. Not sitting. Not towering. Just there. Half-leaning against the back of the chair next to you, one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in front of him. He looks relaxed. He’s not. You can tell by the way his thumbs keep brushing together.

“You handled it well,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “Even when they brought him up.”

You tense. Your body betrays you again. And maybe that’s the point. Because Max leans down slightly, not much, just enough so that his voice is nearer to your ear when he adds, quieter now:

“I saw your hand.” Your breath catches. Of course he did. You hate that you care that he did. You hate how good it feels to be seen. You don’t look at him. Just stare at the condensation dripping down your glass like it’s an escape route.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“It matters,” he says, and there’s something there now—low and charged and thick between his words. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blink. The room suddenly feels smaller. The glass is empty. The lights are too soft. Your throat is dry again.

“I need a drink,” you say, and this time it’s not an excuse. It’s a confession.

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, “Come on,” he says. “Let’s find something good.” His hand brushes your arm as he straightens. Not an accident. Not subtle.

It’s warm. Too warm. And the feeling lingers. You step out into the corridor first, Max falling into stride beside you, the two of you cutting a sleek silhouette through the soft velvet hush of the hallway. You walk close—not touching, but close. Your shoulders brush every few steps, that easy cadence you slip into when you’re too tired to pretend there’s distance.

You don’t speak yet. Just walk. It’s a short stretch of hallway, but it feels like crossing back into gravity. The hallway lights are gold-toned and low, casting your reflections in ripples across the polished marble floors. You glance sideways at Max as he adjusts the cuffs of his suit, one hand sliding into his pocket with that lazy, practiced ease that says I don’t care and I’ve already won in the same breath.

And just like that, something tilts. You feel it in the ease of his movement, the unbothered slouch of him beside you, the heat still lingering where his fingers grazed your arm. Across the room, Lando exists. So does the girl on his arm. But they feel far away now—blurred at the edges, irrelevant. Because you’re here. With Max. And for the first time tonight, the weight in your chest loosens. You’re going to have a good night. Fuck the past. Fuck them. You’ve got better things to do.

You snort. He turns his head slightly, not quite looking at you.

“What.”

“You really leaned into that whole pensive Dutch robot thing tonight.”

“I was being professional,” he mutters.

“You were being Max.”

Max scoffs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I didn’t see you doing any of the talking.”

“I’m mysterious,” you say, with just enough mockery in your voice to make it clear you’re doing a bit. “I let the mystery breathe.”

He laughs again—softer this time, just under his breath. And you feel it loosen something under your ribs. Just a little. Then, the bar. Low-lit. Intimate. Filled with the kind of soft shadows that make it easy to forget what came before. The kind of place that doesn’t forgive, but suspends. Everything gets quieter here. Closer. He holds the door open for you. You walk in like the air belongs to you now. Like it owes you. Like he does.

You’re laughing before you sit. The kind of laughter that lives at the bottom of your chest—hollow, exhausted, edged in disbelief. You fold into your spot at the bar like you’ve finally exhaled, like your body’s tired of pretending to be bulletproof. The champagne’s doing what it needs to do—cooling your tongue, softening the sharpness in your throat—and beside you, Max is slouched just enough to look like he belongs here. Elbow on the bar, knee brushed against yours, mouth curled in that dry, slow way that says he’s been holding back a hundred comments since the first minute of that meeting.

“God,” he mutters, speaking in Dutch but his tone needs no translation, “the management is so fucked.”

You snort, swirling the stem of your glass between your fingers. “I know. That one guy—what’s his name? With the comb-over—he actually suggested doing a TikTok collab with Stroll. I thought I was hallucinating.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sigh, and tilt your head back against the edge of the bar, eyes fluttering closed for a second. The bar’s warm. The world is soft around the edges. You could stay like this. Not forever. But for tonight.

And then, you look at him. Just a glance. Just long enough to catch the way his neck flushes a little pink above his collar, the way his hair’s slightly messed from running his hand through it for the millionth time, the way his lips are parted like he’s still chewing on a thought he hasn’t decided whether to speak.

Something in your stomach drops. Because he looks beautiful. Not magazine beautiful. Not polished, press-conference perfect. Just—real. Flushed and blinking and a little undone, like the stress is wearing off in layers, and all that’s left underneath is him. And then he turns, just slightly, his eyes catching yours, steady, clear, unguarded in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Was your time off okay?” he asks. Voice quiet now. Still in Dutch, but softer than before. Less sarcasm. More sincerity.

You pause. Then nod, adjusting the way your fingers rest on the stem of your glass. “Yeah,” you say. “Spent most of it in Italy. On my boat. Doing nothing. Yours?”

He hums. Looks away, gaze drifting past the bar, out toward the huge glass windows that overlook the water. His expression shifts—something wistful, something gentle. His lashes are too long, and the gold light turns his profile into something carved.

And then, almost like he’s surprised to hear it leave his mouth. “Would’ve been better with you.”

You don’t answer right away. Of course you don’t. The silence feels like it was waiting for that sentence. Like it was designed to hold it. The air shifts. Slows. Thickens. The lighting overhead warps into something honeyed and cinematic, slicking across the rim of your champagne flute, clinging to Max’s lashes like it has a favorite.

You breathe, but it feels staged. Like you’re performing breath rather than feeling it. Your hand is still curved loosely around the glass, wrist delicate against the dark wood bar, but your knuckles have gone taut. The bubbles in your drink have gone flat. Or maybe they’re still rising, but you’ve lost the ability to notice. Your ears are doing that strange ringing thing they do when something lands too heavy in the center of your chest. Not painful. Pressing.

He doesn’t look at you after he says it. He says it like he means it but doesn’t want to admit he said it. Like the words slipped out of his mouth because they’d been pacing there for weeks, starved of air, and now—there they are. On the bar between you. Heavy. Unwrapped. His voice didn’t wobble, didn’t go soft. It was casual. Quiet. Like an afterthought that somehow detonated under your ribcage.

You look at the side of his face instead of his eyes. The sharp line of his cheekbone. The little hollow under his jaw that always shadows first when he’s overtired. His lips are parted slightly, like there’s more coming, but nothing follows. He’s sipping his drink again now. The glass glints. The whiskey clings to the cut crystal like it wants to stay. He looks flushed, just a little, in that way Max always does when he’s said something that cost him more than he expected.

You inhale. Exhale. Try to say something. Nothing comes. Because what do you say to a sentence like that? Because part of you wants to reach for it. Wrap your fingers around it. Feel the heat of it on your skin. The you in that sentence feels too alive, too tender, too recent. And another part of you wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Because you’re not ready. Because your heart still sounds like it’s trying to knock its way out of your throat every time Lando’s name is said.

So you do what you always do when you’re circling a feeling too big to hold.  You whisper the truth, without looking at him. “Max… I’m not ready.”

It barely escapes your mouth. Like you’re ashamed of it. Like it costs something. It does. You expect him to flinch. Or worse—offer some perfect, gentle platitude about timing and healing and how “you don’t have to be.” Something warm but distant. Something that would leave you feeling more alone.

But he doesn’t. He just nods, like he already knew. Like he’s been rehearsing that answer in the back of his mind all night.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is low. Rough like gravel, but softer than he usually lets it be with you. And then, in Dutch—quiet, intimate, untranslatable in the way it sounds in your bones.

“De mooiste bloemen groeien langzaam.”

You blink. Look at him. He finally looks at you.

And you know. You know what he means. The most beautiful flowers grow slowly. Not flashy. Not fast. They take time. Pressure. Soil and silence and things unsaid. And suddenly your chest aches. Not in the way it did when Lando broke it.

This ache is different. Gentle, but deep. The kind that builds slowly, like heat under your skin. The kind that says: I see you. I’ll wait. Not because I have to. Because I want to. You swallow. Nod. Look down at your hand on the bar, your fingers just barely brushing his now. The contact is nothing. And somehow it’s everything.

Your fingers are still resting on the edge of his. Just barely. Just enough that you can feel the heat where your skin touches his—not a flame, not a jolt, just warmth. Lingering. Like he isn’t trying to move. Like he wants you to know he’s not going anywhere.

And then— buzz.

Your bag vibrates once against the side of your hip. You ignore it. Obviously. You don’t look away from him. Not yet. The moment’s too fragile. Like a ripple that hasn’t decided whether to become a wave. Like it might disappear if you breathe wrong. Then it buzzes again.

Max raises an eyebrow without moving his hand. His fingers stay where they are. Yours do too. You sigh. Pull back.

 Not dramatically. Not like you’re breaking a spell. Just gently. Like a page being turned before the chapter’s finished.

You slide your hand into your purse, thumb already unlocking your phone on instinct. The screen glows too bright in the low amber light, and it stings your eyes, makes the bar look colder than it is. You blink against it.

Alexandra

come say hi you little freaks 😘

charles said ur making max antisocial we have wine and gossip. and ice cream 🫶

You huff out something between a snort and a laugh.

“Alex,” you say aloud, shaking your head. You tilt the phone toward Max so he can see it, and his eyes flick down at the screen, then back up at you. He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Are you up for it?”

Max groans. Not with effort. With drama. His head tilts back slightly, his shoulders slumping like you’ve asked him to run a half-marathon in loafers. “God,” he mutters, already finishing his whiskey. “I just started enjoying myself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So that’s a no?”

He looks at you. Eyes narrowed. Then downs the last of his drink in one smooth, sulky motion. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“…We’ll stay ten minutes.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “Ten?”

He nods. “Ten. Unless someone’s annoying. Then five. If Oscar’s eating ice cream with a fork again, we leave immediately.”

You stand. Max stands with you. And for the second time tonight, he doesn’t touch you. But he’s right there. Half a step behind. Ready. The walk back feels like threading a needle.

You and Max move through the crowd with just enough space between you to say nothing’s going on, but not enough to say we’re strangers. You feel him next to you in every breath, every shift of air. But he doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t brush your arm. Doesn’t soften his step. He’s already folding back into the shape of someone you’re not supposed to need.

You hate how well he does it. The booth is half-lit, washed in the kind of gold that makes everything look softer than it is. Alexandra spots you first, her smile blooming immediately as she tugs Charles toward the open seat beside her.

“There she is,” she sing-songs, already reaching for your wrist. “You took your sweet time, I was starting to think Max had dragged you away.”

You let her pull you in, your fingers grazing hers, your smile automatic. Controlled.

“God, you’re obsessed with me,” you say. Light. Teasing. The words fall easily off your tongue.

Charles leans in with a grin, his accent rounding everything he says like a warm hand. “We had bets. I said twenty minutes. Oscar guessed forty. Carlos said you’d never come.”

You raise your brows. “Carlos has no faith in me.”

“He has no faith in anyone,” Alexandra mutters, pouring you a splash of wine without asking. “Sit. You need a drink that isn’t whatever that neon gold shit Red Bull serves as champagne.”

You sit. You thank her. You drink. You’re performing. But you’re good at it. And Max—Max moves without ceremony toward the other end of the table, slipping effortlessly into conversation with Carlos, Oscar, and their dates. Of course he does. Of course he makes it look easy. The way his head tilts when he listens. The way he nods, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, posture loose like he isn’t doing calculus in his brain every second he’s away from you.

It’s not personal. It’s strategy. Because if he sat beside you, now, if he looked at you like he just did at the bar, the whole room would notice. And they’d talk. And you can’t afford that.

So he doesn’t. And neither do you. You turn back to Charles. Let him ask you about next season. Let Alexandra pull you into a story about a dinner party in Paris that involved a flaming cheese wheel and an almost-divorce. You laugh. You ask follow-up questions. You sip your wine and try not to glance down the table. Try not to search for Max.

You feel it. The shift. The weight of a gaze before you even meet it. You turn your head. And there he is.

Lando.

Seated at the far end, next to Magui, but not with her. She’s focused on Carlos, on Max, something about a joke you’re not listening to. Her hand moves when she talks. Her laugh flutters too loud. She doesn’t notice that he’s not even looking at her.

He’s looking at you. Direct. Unapologetic. Unblinking.

His eyes drag across your face like a bruise being pressed. Slow. Unflinching. His jaw ticks once. A twitch of muscle like something about you hurts. His tongue swipes across his top teeth like he’s holding something in. Something sharp. Something too late. And still, he doesn’t look away.

Neither do you. Your spine straightens. Your mouth is still parted from the sip of wine you were mid-taking. You don’t blink. You don’t move. The moment stretches—too long, too full, too familiar. And for a second, it feels like no one else is there. Like it’s just you and him and everything that was said and everything that wasn’t.

The others don’t notice. Alexandra is still laughing beside you. Charles is responding, his voice soft, affectionate. Their joy bubbles like champagne beside you, blissfully unaware that your ex is looking at you like he’s drowning in everything he threw away.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs. Press the stem of your glass between your fingers harder than necessary.

And still, Lando looks. Like he wants to say something.Like he knows he won’t. The longer he stares, the more absurd it becomes. Like a dare. Like a joke you haven’t been let in on. His jaw is tight, lips parted like he’s halfway through a sentence he doesn’t have the nerve to say, and his whole face has that stormcloud softness—like he’s confused. Like he’s wounded.

And suddenly it hits you. The audacity. The pure, blinding ridiculousness of the man who cracked your ribs open and danced in the ruin now looking at you like he’s the one grieving. You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Sharp. Short. It slips out before you can stop it—just a little huff of disbelief pushed through your nose like a gunshot. You don’t even mean to do it. But there it is.

He sees it. You don’t break eye contact when you do. That’s what makes it worse. You let him watch you laugh. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, casually—too casually—you lean over and murmur something to Alexandra. Something vague about needing to step away. She barely hears you, still caught in the glitter of whatever joke she’s spinning for Charles, but she nods anyway, and you slide out of the booth like smoke under a door.

Your hand is steady on the table as you rise. Your glass is left untouched, wine lipsticked and sweating. Your dress shifts when you stand, the slit catching a breeze you didn’t know existed, silk hugging your hip like punctuation. You walk.

Not quickly. Not with purpose. Just out. Out of the booth. Out of the moment. Out of the weight of Lando’s gaze. But it follows you.

You don’t need to look. You know. You feel it like breath on the back of your neck. You disappear around the corner of the bar, into a hallway that leads toward the powder rooms, the private terrace, the less curated corners of the restaurant. Somewhere dimmer. Quieter. Somewhere you can exhale without an audience.  

You walk like you don’t hear him behind you. Like you’re not anticipating every echo of his footsteps. Like your spine isn’t buzzing with the awareness that he’s chasing after you like this is still his story.

The hallway is dim and narrow, padded with shadows and that expensive quiet—just enough ambient light from the sconces to illuminate the framed, abstract artwork that means nothing. Everything here smells like lemon balm and wealth. You hate how familiar it is. How your body remembers the scent. The pacing. The knowing.

You turn the corner sharply, pausing halfway down, just past the staff service door, just shy of the terrace entrance, right under one of those antique sconces that drips soft gold light like honey.

And then—he appears.

Fast. Breathless. Like he expected to find a locked door and instead ran headfirst into you.

He skids slightly into the corner, like he wasn’t sure where you went until he saw you stop. Like his whole body is trying to slow itself down and failing. He’s flushed, even under the low light—his collar slightly askew, hair messier than it was ten seconds ago, the top button of his shirt pulled undone like he needed to breathe. Like you took the air with you when you left the room.

He stops two feet from you. Staring. Just staring. Eyes wide. Jaw tight. Chest rising fast, then slower. Then fast again. Like he’s trying to regulate himself but doesn’t know what gear he’s in anymore.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinking. Breathing. Like you’re not a person but a fucking apparition. And you just stand there. Arms crossed.

Weight shifted to one hip. Head tilted slightly in that way that says you’re waiting for him to be less ridiculous than this. But he doesn’t speak. He just looks. Like he wants to say a hundred things but can't even get past the first.

And you—God, you can’t help it—you almost laugh again. Because this is insane. Because you look like this, and he looks like that, and the last thing he said to you before he shattered everything was some halfhearted apology followed by a soft, smug “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

And now he’s breathing like you just stabbed him. So you say it. Flat. Quiet. Weaponized.

“What the fuck do you want?” You don’t expect the first thing out of his mouth to be that. No—you expected silence. Maybe an apology, if he could stomach the shape of the word. Maybe nothing. Maybe the cliché—“You look good,” or “Can we talk?” or “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Something limp. Something boring. Something safe.

But not this. Not this flame to the chest. Definetly not, “Is there something going on with you and Max?”

You don’t speak. You can’t. The question lands like a slap, hard and stupid and echoing, and for a second all you can hear is your own blood pulsing through your ears. Hot. Viscous. Humiliating. It drowns out the ambient jazz leaking down the hallway, drowns out the laughter from the bar, drowns out the sound of him breathing like he just chased you out of the restaurant and into a goddamn memory.

He’s two feet away and wrong in every direction. Shirt half-untucked, hair damp at the temples. Sweat clings to the curve of his brow like guilt. His eyes are bright, too bright—reflective and glassy like they’re catching every ounce of gold light and making it ugly. He smells like spice and panic, like whatever cologne he started the evening in is already losing the war against whatever stress he’s been stewing in since you stood up from that booth. He looks beautiful, the way wreckage always does—ruined and breathless and sharp around the edges. Like something that can’t be touched without cutting yourself open.

You taste iron at the back of your throat. And you burn. Because this is what he opens with. This. After everything. After the cheating. After the silence. After the photo of him and Magui you had to see, not hear about. After the complete lack of apology—no explanation, no acknowledgment, no goddamn accountability. Just… you, gone. Him, louder than ever. And now he wants to talk about Max.

Now, he wants to stand in this hallway and pant like he ran a mile in the wrong direction and ask if your teammate is touching you?

You feel your forearm itch. Not in a physical way. In that deep, animal kind of way—like your body is rejecting the moment. Like your nerves are trying to crawl out through your skin. Your spine is too straight. Your fists curl too tightly. There’s sweat between your shoulder blades and your silk dress is clinging in places it didn’t earlier. The scent of citrus cleaner and soft musk from the air diffusers is cloying now, too clean for a hallway filled with this kind of tension. Your heel is slightly off-balance against the slate tile. Your teeth are pressing into the back of your tongue. Everything is wrong. Every sense is alive.

You speak before you mean to. Your voice doesn’t crack. It slices. “You’re actually fucking serious.”

He blinks. Like he doesn’t understand. Like you’re the one being unreasonable. His hands flex at his sides. He leans a fraction closer, eyes scanning your face like it’ll save him. “I just—he was all over you tonight.”

You laugh. You laugh. It’s a sharp, hot sound that doesn’t match the coolness of your dress or the control in your expression. You laugh like it hurts your ribs, like the sound might unhinge your jaw if you let it go too long.

“He’s my teammate,” you spit. “Are you fucking joking?”

Lando says nothing. His mouth is open. Like there are more words waiting. But none of them matter. None of them would make this better. You take a step forward, and he doesn’t move. Your voice drops. Quiet now. Controlled.

“You cheat on me. With her. You didn’t call. You didn’t explain. You didn’t look for me. You just let it happen.”

You pause. Your breath catches, hot and wet at the top of your throat, and you push through it.

“And now, months later, after pretending I don’t exist, after parading her around and you have the audacity to ask about Max?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down—mouth, throat, waist—then back to your face. And there it is. That old flicker. That low heat. Desire, curling like smoke from the ashes of what he burned. You feel it hit you like it always has—low in your belly, unwelcome but familiar. Like muscle memory. Like poison you used to mistake for love.

But you don’t let it win. You step back. One inch. Enough. And then, softly. Final.

“You don’t get to look at me like that anymore.”

You say it softly. Not a whisper. Not a scream. Just truth, delivered like a blade left cooling on marble. Final, but not loud. And you mean it. You fucking mean it. You mean it even though the second the words leave your mouth, you feel the heat behind your eyes, that stupid low ache blooming in your stomach, crawling beneath your ribs like a bruise forming in real time.

Because he’s still looking at you like that. Like you’re his. Like none of it ever happened. Like you weren’t the one left with ash in your lungs and his fingerprints still clinging to the parts of you he never earned in the first place.

He blinks once. Breathes harder. His chest rises like he’s trying to say something, but the words get caught on his tongue. And then he moves.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just one step. A single fucking step that shouldn’t mean anything but sends a bolt through your spine so sharp you almost forget how to breathe.

He’s close now. Close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The way his jaw is flexing too tightly. The pulse at his neck, visible now. Racing.

He smells like whatever he sprayed on three hours ago—something expensive and leathery and sharp—but now it’s been overtaken by something else. The smell of panic. Of want. Of a body trying to hold itself still while everything inside it starts to burn. You’re still standing there, not backing down, not giving him the satisfaction. But your skin is doing things. Twitching under your dress. Tingling at the tops of your thighs. That heat low in your belly is turning into something worse. Not romantic. Not hopeful. Worse.

Familiar. He reaches for you. Slow. Like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like he knows he shouldn’t. But he does anyway. His hand lifts, then hovers, just at your arm. Just at the place where your shoulder meets your bicep.

“Don’t,” you breathe.

But you don’t move. He breathes out, ragged now. He doesn’t touch you yet, not really, just lets his fingers hang there, so close you can feel the ghost of it. And that’s worse. That’s so much fucking worse.

“You look so good,” he says, and his voice is strained, quiet, like he hates himself for saying it but hates himself more for not saying it sooner.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

You mean it. But your thighs are pressed together now. Tight. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just enough. He sees it. His lips part like he’s about to say something else—an apology, a confession, maybe a lie he’s trying to turn into something beautiful. But nothing comes.

His hand finally lands. Light. Careful. The heat from his palm sears straight through the fabric of your dress. And that’s it. That’s the mistake.

You exhale like you’ve been punched. You step back again, not because you want to—because you have to. Because if he touches you like that again, you’re going to let him. And you can’t. You fucking can’t. You spin away. Your back hits the wall. It’s cool, textured, but it doesn’t help. Your breath is shallow. Your thighs are shaking.

He watches you like a man unraveling. Like he knows he lost you the second he looked away months ago, and now he’s standing in the aftermath, trying to pick through the ruins for something salvageable.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he says, finally.

You laugh. It sounds more like a gasp. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks down. Then back at you. Then down again. There’s silence. There’s too much fucking silence.

You’re thinking about the last time he touched you. The last time you let him. The way his mouth felt on your neck. The way he used to say your name in the dark, like it tasted good. Like he earned it. Your hips shift against the wall. You don’t mean to.

His eyes flick there. It’s the worst thing you could’ve done. He steps forward again. And you don’t stop him.

“Tell me to go,” he says. Right there. Right in front of you. So close now that your noses could touch if you tilted your head. So close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his chest like a furnace, like punishment.

His voice drops. “Tell me you don’t think about me anymore.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. He looks at you like he’s drowning. Like you’re the only oxygen left in the room.

“Tell me,” he breathes, “and I’ll leave.”

And that’s the problem. You can’t. You don’t say it. You try. You really try. Your lips part like they’re about to shape it—Go. I don’t think about you. I’m fine. I’m better. But nothing comes out. Just breath. Just the taste of his cologne and regret and the electric press of skin that isn’t touching but is too close anyway.

Lando knows. The bastard knows. You feel it in the way he softens, just a fraction. The way the fight drains from his eyes and something hungrier slips into the cracks. Like he’s starting to believe this might not be the end. Like he’s seeing a window instead of a door.

Your throat burns. Your chest pulls tight, like something’s trying to claw its way out. Your hands curl against the wall behind you, searching for texture, for anything to ground you before your knees give out.

“Two years,” you whisper. It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. It’s just wrecked.

He stills.

“Two years,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks—splinters straight down the middle. Your head tilts back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut like it hurts to look at him. “For what? For who? Some girl who can’t even look me in the face?”

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You could kiss him if you wanted to. His jaw is tense, shoulders drawn in like he’s bracing for impact. His hands are fisted now. He looks like he wants to say it wasn’t like that. Like he wants to explain. But he can’t. Because it was. Because he did it.

Your chin trembles. He sees it. And then—slow, agonizingly slow—he leans in. His hand lifts again. This time it lands on your hip. Just barely. Just his fingers against the edge of your dress, the soft fabric caught between you. He doesn’t press. Just rests there. Warm. Steady. 

“Don’t,” you say, but it’s air.

It’s not real. It’s not no. He dips closer. His nose brushes your cheek, soft and maddening. You can feel the heat of his breath against your jaw. You smell him—you smell him. That mix of cologne and skin and sweat and everything you’ve tried so hard to forget. Your head spins. Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together, unthinking, desperate for friction.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

It’s not fair. None of this is fucking fair. You squeeze your eyes shut, but he’s still there, lips just above your skin, not kissing, not yet—just hovering. Like he’s waiting for you to move first. Like he’s giving you control, when you both know he took that from you the second he opened his fucking mouth.

His mouth brushes your jaw. Once. Soft.

Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s testing what he can get away with.  Your breath catches in your throat, too high, too raw. Your whole body arches forward before you can stop it—just slightly. Just enough. He kisses it again. Lower this time. Firmer. Right where your pulse sits.

You gasp. It’s quiet. Humiliating. So utterly humiliating.  You don’t think— instead, your fingers dig into the wall behind you, the plaster cool under your nails. Your knees do buckle now, just a little. Just enough that his other hand rises to your waist to steady you. And now he’s holding you. Lightly. But fully. His chest against yours. His mouth still ghosting your skin.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He nods against your jaw. “I know.”

You breathe him in. And it’s the worst decision you’ve made all night. Because he still smells like yours. Because your body still remembers this. Because you haven’t touched him in months, and now your hands are twitching at your sides like they need somewhere to go.

He kisses your jaw again. Then your cheek. Then lower.

And then he pauses—mouth at the corner of your lips, your pulse a fucking drumbeat in your throat, your body trembling with anger and ache and everything you never got to say.

“You still want me,” he says.

Your eyes don’t close when his mouth brushes yours. They flicker. Twitch. A full-body glitch, like your nerves just remembered how this ends and still can’t stop you.

Your fingers are still splayed behind you against the wall. You could push him. You should push him. Your knees would give out anyway. You tilt your chin. Half a millimeter. He crashes into that space like he was waiting for it.

His mouth—god, his fucking mouth—lands on yours not soft, not slow, not even hungry. Starved. He kisses like it’s a punishment. Like every inch he claims is revenge for something you never did. Your teeth knock, your lip catches, and there’s a hiss between you that might be pain or might be something worse. He tastes like whiskey and ash, like every “I’m sorry” you never got. And yet, you still fucking kiss him back.

You hate yourself for it. You hate how your hands leap from the wall to his shirt like they were made for this. One fist curled in the fabric near his chest, the other sliding—grabbing—his jaw like you’re trying to break it or memorize it. Your nails scrape down his neck and he groans into your mouth, low and guttural and needy, and that’s when it slips.

That thing inside you. The part you swore you buried. You bite him. Right on the lip, sharp and vengeful, and he stumbles into you with a grunt, palm flattening hard to your waist, the other flying to the wall behind your head. You’re pinned. You’re caged. And for some reason you don’t fucking care. You don’t even think. 

“Fuck,” he growls, mouth slick against yours, and you can taste blood now—his or yours, you don’t know.

“Don’t talk,” you snap.

He laughs. It’s breathless, bitter. “You came out here so I’d shut up?” You shove your hips forward just enough to make him hiss.

“Didn’t come out here for you,” you lie, panting.

He tugs at your waist like he’s going to break your spine in half. “Then why are your legs shaking?”

You snarl. “I hate you.”

“I know.” And then he does it—he drags you. Literally, hand on your arm, spins you with a snarl toward the door next to you. Unmarked. Employees Only. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t check. Just kicks it open like he owns the fucking hallway, shoves you through it, slams it shut behind him.

Click. Lock. It’s dark. It’s tiny.

Some storage closet or wine room or who gives a fuck. Shelves line the walls. A faint overhead bulb hums to life, flickers. Lando’s silhouette is massive in the door’s amber spill. He steps in like you owe him something.

“Say it,” he breathes, one step closer, “Say you hate me again.” You backpedal into a rack of coats and uniforms and god knows what. His hand lands next to your head.

Your voice wavers. Just barely. “I fucking hate you.”

He exhales, forehead lowering to yours, lips barely apart. “Then say you don’t want this.”

You don’t. You can’t. You won’t. Instead, you lunge. Mouth to his. Harder this time. Deeper. This kiss isn’t just hate—it’s grief. It’s betrayal. It’s every sleepless night you stared at your phone, knowing he wasn’t coming back. Your hands fly to his belt like a threat. His go for your thigh—no grace, no hesitation, just grab, yanking your leg up around his waist, and he groans into your mouth like you’re the first clean breath he’s had in weeks.

It’s clumsy, wet, desperate. He shoves your dress up like it’s insulted him. His hand slides under, hot and rough, fingers digging into the softness of your hip like he’s trying to erase what he did with her. You jerk his belt open, pop the button on his pants without finesse. Your breath catches on a sob that doesn’t get out, and he eats it with his tongue, one palm cupping your face now, tilting you where he wants you.

“You gonna cry for me, baby?” he pants, lips dragging along your jaw. You shove your hand down his waistband.

“Only if you come too fast.”

He snarls. Fucking snarls. Your back hits the wall with a thud. He’s fully holding your leg now, spreading you open. You’re soaking. He can feel it through your underwear, and the way his jaw clenches tells you he’s about to ruin you for that.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he mutters, thumb dragging hard over the soaked seam.

“And you’re a fucking cheater,” you shoot back, voice sharp, broken. And then—finally—he sinks to his knees.

You're not even sure how you got to this point. One minute you were hissing fuck you into his face like it was a spell, the next you’re hoisted onto a supply shelf in some hidden back hallway, dress yanked up, panties shoved aside, and Lando’s on his fucking knees. Hands tight on your thighs, fingers bruising, tongue deep in your cunt like he’s trying to crawl inside and live there.

The room’s humid with breath and sex and whatever this filthy, unholy thing is that still pulses between you like it never died. And God, it’s good. You hate that it’s good. You hate that you’re gripping the back of his head like he’s oxygen, thighs quaking every time his tongue circles your clit in that slow, cruel swirl.

You throw your head back, eyes fluttering— and that’s when you see him.

Max.

Just a flash. That quiet steadiness. That strong grip at your back. His voice in Dutch, low and constant, telling you he’s got you. And for a split fucking second, your body clenches in reflex to a man who isn’t even here.

What the fuck. Your brows twitch. Your throat burns. You’re on the edge of an orgasm with Lando's face buried between your legs, and you’re thinking about Max.

Not for long. Just a flicker. But it’s enough. You feel guilty. Not for Lando. Not for the cheating. But because Max—Max didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be in your head while you’re getting your pussy eaten by the man who shattered you.

Lando doesn’t notice. Hes lost in it. He groans into your cunt like your taste just wrecked him, hips grinding into the air like he’s fucking you with his face, tongue flicking fast, fingers now inside you. Two thick ones curling up like they know where that sweet spot is, and—

You break. Your thighs clamp around his ears and you’re coming, spasming on his tongue with a scream torn raw from your lungs.

“Fuck— Lando—fuck— you fucking—cheating bastard—”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking, dragging that orgasm out like it’s punishment. You’re sobbing now. Half in rage. Half in bliss. Your nails dig into the shelf behind you, the world blurred through wet lashes. He pulls back, chin and mouth glossy with you. He’s panting. Eyes fucking wild.

“You taste so fucking sweet when you’re mad,” he growls. “I missed that cunt. Missed this fucking pussy so bad I was getting hard looking at your goddamn photos.”

You slap him. Not hard. Just a stinging smack across the cheek. His head snaps sideways He smiles.

He fucking smiles.

“Still wanna hit me? Do it after I ruin this pussy.”

Then he stands. His cock’s already out—veiny, hard, flushed at the tip. And so thick. You’re drooling at the sight of it, even as you grit your teeth like you’re not. He fists it once, slow, the head smearing pre-cum across your inner thigh as he lines up.

“Say you want it.”

“Go to hell.”

He slams in. No warning. No slow. Just full tilt, no condom, raw and brutal. Your scream bounces off the walls, drowned in his growl.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight. Like this pussy missed me too.”

Your arms fly around his neck, legs locking high around his waist, and he starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Every motion sending your ass crashing back into the wall, the shelf behind you rattling with every wet slap of his cock inside you.

“Say it,” he snarls into your neck. “Say this cunt still fucking belongs to me.”

You sob.

“No.”

He fucks you harder. Your dress is soaked. His shirt’s half off. Your tits spill free and he bites one, groaning as your pussy clenches around him.

“Fucking liar,” he pants. “You love this dick. You need it. You’re dripping on me, babe—you’re soaking for the man who ruined you.”

Your head hits the wall. Your eyes roll back.

“God, fuck, I hate you—”

He laughs, breathless and wrecked.

“You hate this cock too? Huh?” he grunts, pounding into you. “You hate this fat cock splitting you open like it never left?”

Your orgasm crashes over you without warning. Your scream echoes, thighs shaking, cunt spasming around him so hard he chokes. He loses it.

“Shit— I’m gonna cum—fuck—I’m gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna fucking—paint this pussy, remind you who fucked it best—”

And he does. Buries himself to the hilt, slams his cock deep one last time, and moans. Hot and broken, like he’s falling apart inside you. Cum spilling raw and endless, thick and messy as he pulses into your cunt with a strangled groan. Your head lolls against his shoulder. You’re trembling. His grip is the only thing keeping you from sliding off the shelf in a pool of sweat and cum and sin.

You breathe. Once. Twice. And then his mouth finds yours again. Slower this time. Hungrier. Wrecked. Like he’s still not done.

You’re still full of him. Still trembling from that first, frenzied, hate-fueled high. His cum is leaking out of you, warm and slick between your thighs, your legs trembling around his hips.

He hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s still inside you. His forehead is pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, and everything’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s daring you to speak.

You don’t. You can’t.

Because suddenly his hands are gentle. One smoothing up your back. The other trembling against your jaw. His thumb traces the corner of your mouth like he wants to kiss you there—not to shut you up, but to taste the things you’re not saying.

Then he does. Soft. Too soft. A kiss so careful it hurts. His lips press into yours like an apology, like a confession, like he still thinks he has the right to be tender. And it shatters you.

Because that’s not what this was supposed to be. This was supposed to be violence. Payback. Carnage. But now he’s rocking into you slow. Steady.

His cock’s still hard—buried inside you like he’s home. Each thrust now is long, deep, aching. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you higher, cradling you like something breakable. Like something he wants to keep.

“God,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “I missed you.”

Your heart jerks. Don’t you fucking say it.

“Missed this pussy,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “Missed how you sound. How you breathe. Missed your fucking body—”

He chokes. Like it’s too much. Because it is. Because outside this door, his girlfriend is laughing. With Carlos. With Charles. With Max.

You see Max’s face again. His steady eyes. The quiet way he said I’ve got you without ever touching your skin. His voice still echoing in your chest when you close your eyes.

Your eyes sting. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound.

It hurts. Not from pain. From how good it feels. How slow. How full. He thrusts like he’s still tasting your moans in his mouth. Like he’s trying to memorize what forgiveness would feel like if you gave it. Each grind of his hips presses deep into your core, filling you so completely you swear you can feel the shape of his regret curling around your womb. He noses at your jaw. Kisses your cheek. Doesn’t speak. Not yet.

You’re not moaning anymore. You’re not even crying. You’re just letting him. Letting him move inside you. Letting him pretend. His hand drags along your ribs, fingers splayed, like he’s never touched you before. Like he forgot how soft your skin was. Like it kills him to remember.

And then—quiet. He murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I don’t want to see you this season.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His hips still don’t stop. The rhythm stays the same—deep, slow, like fucking in molasses.

“I mean it,” he whispers. “If I see you in the paddock—on the track—fuck, I’m gonna fall apart.”

Your brows knit. Confusion tangles with disbelief. “You’re fucking serious?”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. You can feel how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

“I can’t watch you,” he breathes. “Can’t see you with Max. Laughing. Acting like this—” his thrusts get harder now, more insistent “—like this— we didn’t fucking happen.”

You bite back a sob. “You fucked someone else.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just groans, deep and wrecked, and sinks in again—slow, grinding, like it’s punishment.

“I know. I fucking know. But I didn’t feel anything. Not like this.” His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast. “I never stopped feeling this.”

You close your eyes. Because if you look at him, you’ll scream. He pulls out halfway, then pushes back in so deep, your breath stutters. You gasp, nails digging into his back, and he moans.

“You still feel like mine,” he whispers. “Still fucking perfect. Still so fucking warm and wet and—fuck—tight.”

He kisses you. This time it's desperate. Open-mouthed. Lingering. He fucks into you with long, dragging strokes now, slower still, like he’s trying to come without ever leaving you.

“I dream about this pussy,” he grits out. “Wake up hard. Fuck her from behind and still pretend it’s you. Every fucking time. I see your face.”

Your body twitches around him. Reflex. Your core tightens, clenches. His breath hitches.

“Do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Fuck—squeeze my cock just like that.”

You do. Unintentionally. Because your body still remembers him. Still responds. Even now. 

“Jesus,” he groans, hips faltering. “You’re gonna make me cum already.”

You shake your head, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

He swears under his breath. His hands shift under your thighs, lifting you higher, adjusting the angle, and then—oh god—he starts again. Long, slow strokes. Every inch dragging, pulling, teasing. Your slick coats his cock like honey, and he’s fucking you with the patience of someone who knows this is the last time he gets to.

“Let me watch you,” he begs. “Let me see your face.”

You do. You look. And he looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, mouth slack, sweat-damp curls falling over his forehead as he thrusts into you like he wants to stay there forever. And then—his pace changes. Just slightly. More focused. More intentional.

“I should’ve picked you,” he says. It’s not a whisper this time. “I should’ve fought for you.”

You want to scream. Instead, your nails score down his back. “You didn’t.”

He groans. “I know.”

His forehead presses to yours again, thrusts slowing to a torturous rhythm, cock sliding deep and so warm, and his voice breaks when he says:

“I don’t know how to let you go.”

You do. You do. You just haven’t done it yet. You kiss him again. And again. And then you fuck him like it’s goodbye. Because it is. Even if you don’t say it. Even if he can’t. He’s thrusting again—slow, rhythmic, chasing the high you gave him once, twice, now desperate for a third like it might rewrite time. Your body’s caught in it, hips rolling to meet him, lips parted, moans dragging low from your throat that sound too much like regret.

He’s buried to the hilt, forehead on your shoulder, fingers digging into your ass like he’s afraid you’ll float away when he cums. And maybe you will.

“Don’t want to leave,” he breathes. “Just want to stay like this. Stay in you.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes “Of course you do.”

He groans. A low, needy sound in your neck. “You feel so good. Still perfect. Still fucking—fuck—made for me.”

“No,” you breathe, voice tight, cunt fluttering around his cock because your body hasn’t caught up to your head. “You gave that up. You gave me up.” He thrusts harder. Once. Twice. Deep enough your vision blurs.

“Let me fix it,” he pants. “I’ll end it with her. I swear to God, I’ll fucking drop everything.”

You look down at him, eyes burning. “You already did.”

His face crumples. The rhythm falters. His hips still, cock twitching deep inside you.

“You said it was a mistake,” you whisper, voice shaking. “But it wasn’t a moment. It was months. You kept her. You chose her. And you only came running when you saw me with Max.”

His head falls against your shoulder. His arms tighten.

“I was scared.”

You shake your head. “You were weak.”

He tries to kiss you. You turn your face. “I still love you,” he chokes.

You bite your lip, feel the sting of everything behind your teeth—and push your hips against his, hard.

“Then remember this,” you whisper, breath trembling, “because it’s the last time.”

That pushes him over the edge. He cums with a broken groan, face buried in your neck, cock jerking inside you, hot and thick and wrong. You feel every pulse, every desperate spasm of a man trying to hold onto something he already lost. He’s panting when he slumps against you. Soft now. Dripping down your thighs. Sticky with remorse.

You press your palm to his chest. Push. Harder. He finally pulls out, groaning as your cunt lets go of him with a wet, final pop. You slide off the shelf, dress falling back into place. You don’t wipe the mess. You don’t fix your hair. You just look at him—shirt half-off, flushed and fucked and wrecked—and feel nothing but clarity.

“I’ll see you on the track,” you say, smooth, even. “And nowhere else.”

He opens his mouth. You’re already at the door. Your hand’s on the handle when you stop. One glance over your shoulder.

“I hope she tastes it,” you say. Quiet. Deadly. “Every time you kiss her.”

Click. You walk out. And the door doesn't close behind you. It slams. The hallway’s cooler than it was ten minutes ago. Or maybe it’s just you. Skin still humming, thighs still slick, the ache still fresh between your legs. You walk like you’re made of marble. Slow, deliberate, like every part of your body was poured back into its mold and polished to a high-gloss finish. Your dress falls back into place effortlessly. Your lips are swollen, but only if someone’s looking. And no one’s looking. Not like that.

You reenter the restaurant like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just fuck your ex in a dark back room while his girlfriend sat ten feet away laughing at a story Max was probably pretending to care about.

Your heels kiss the tile. Your posture doesn’t waver. The moment you step back into the dim glow of the dining space, it’s like a veil drops. The laughter. The sparkle of glasses. The low murmur of Monaco’s elite pretending they don’t breathe the same air as the rest of the world. The weight of your entrance is lighter this time, almost lazy. As if you were just reapplying your lipstick. Not rearranging your soul.

You don’t go back to your seat. You just stop by the edge of the table, where the laughter is loudest now. Oscar’s flushed. Alexandra is howling at something Charles just whispered in her ear. Even Magui is smiling, relaxed, her hand curling around her wine glass in that curated, influencer way. She looks at you and doesn’t know. None of them do.

That’s the power. You lean forward slightly, voice soft and cool. “I think I’m gonna head out,” you say.

Alexandra pouts. “You just got here.”

You smile. “I know.”

Charles nods, easy, warm. “Send me that song you mentioned earlier.”

“Of course.”

Your eyes flick sideways. Max is already looking.  He straightens, barely. Sets down his glass with a soft clink. Adjusts the cuff of his shirt. Like he knew. Like he always knows. He pushes off from the booth, smooth and unhurried, nodding politely at Oscar, at Carlos, at someone’s girlfriend who says something about next week’s race. He doesn’t look at Lando. He doesn’t need to.

You don’t wait for him. You just turn. He follows. As if nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just made the worst, most intoxicating mistake of your season. The cool night air hits your skin like absolution. Not quite enough to erase what just happened, but enough to start dulling the edges. The breeze lifts the hem of your dress, tangles in your hair, kisses your neck like it doesn’t know Lando was just there. Like it wants to claim that space for itself.

You stop just short of the valet station, eyes scanning the street like you’re pretending to orient yourself. Like you don’t already know exactly where you parked. Max walks up behind you a beat later, slow, quiet, like he’s learned how to match your rhythm.

You glance at him. Just once. His tie’s loose now. His eyes are still flushed with champagne. The good kind. The kind you can feel in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. The kind that makes your teeth feel warm and your tongue too honest.

“I fucked up tonight,” you say.

Max’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t interrupt. He waits. You turn to him, slowly, the streetlight catching the curve of your shoulder, the shimmer still left on your lips. And then, softly you say.  “Wanna come back with me?”

He pauses. Just a blink. Then he smiles. Small. Crooked. Devastating.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

You don’t look at him again as you hand your ticket to the valet. You don’t need to. He’s already there, standing just a little too close, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them to himself. Like he knows. The Porsche rolls up a minute later, clean and white and sleek like nothing dirty has ever happened inside it. You get in without speaking. Max follows.

The doors shut. The engine purrs to life. And then—you drive. You drive like you’re trying to outrun the memory of his hands. Of Lando’s breath in your ear. Of the sob that nearly broke out of your throat when you came and he said I miss you. You drive like you’re chasing down silence. Like speed might bleach the shame from your skin.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches the city blur past his window, one hand braced against the center console, the other relaxed over his thigh.

The roads are mostly empty. You take the turns sharp. Not dangerous. Just fast. The wind slips into the car through the barely-cracked window, pulling your hair into your face, cooling the sweat at your temples. Your foot presses down harder. The speedometer ticks up.

You feel free. Then terrible. Not all at once. Just in pulses. Like your body can’t decide if this is survival or self-destruction. You don’t know what this looks like from the outside. The white car, the woman driving too fast, the man in the passenger seat who doesn’t flinch. The way his knuckles brush the edge of the gear shift sometimes, like he’s holding back from reaching for your knee. You don’t say a word until the city lights start thinning out behind you.

And even then—you just exhale. Quiet. Like the part of you that still wants to scream finally gave up. The roads curl as you climb. Sharp turns and silver lights and the sea flickering below like a memory you can’t quite shake. The kind of drive that would feel lonely if it weren’t for the warmth humming between the seats. Monaco thins out as you rise, the glamor traded for silence, for altitude, for real estate so expensive the trees are pruned to match the neighborhood’s collective ego.

Through it all—Max. Still. Watching you. Not in a way that demands your gaze. Not like Lando. There’s no performance in it. Just that quiet, relentless Maxness. Like he’s looking at a storm he’d rather walk into than run from. Like he knows it might break him but he’s choosing it anyway. You glance sideways. Quick. Just a flick of your eyes. But it’s enough to catch it. 

That look. The one that doesn’t belong here. Not tonight. Not after what you did. It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. It’s worse.

It’s hope. That wide, open, dangerous look like he’s seeing a version of the future where this ends differently. Where you don’t break. Where he’s the one who gets to hold what’s left of you.

Your throat closes. You want to say something. To ruin it before it becomes real. To rip it out of his hands before he gets comfortable holding it.

But you don’t. You just keep driving.  Keep pretending you don’t feel your heart curling in on itself like paper in flame. Keep pretending the thought of Lando’s whisper and falls promises doesn’t linger in the back of your head. 

---

Pit Stop Staring

♡ masterlist - request

♡ pairing - lando norris x mechanic!fem!reader

♡ summary - lando notices you during a pit stop, gets distracted and stares at you, and embarrasses himself on the radio being aired as he gushes over you, but with a little push from Zak, he makes his move on you!

♡ warnings - fluff, BLUSHY and nervous lando, love at first sight, a pinch of jealousy, Zak's a wing man, lando being cute and STUTTERINGGG hehehe

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.86k | #ilovetommy

Today was your first day working as a mechanic during an actual race, and you couldn't be more excited. You'd just finished your months of training and you felt pretty confident in yourself, so you weren't too nervous.

The McLaren team was more than welcoming when you first started, although some were a little apprehensive to have a girl working with the heavy tires, you proved them completely wrong and quickly gained their admiration, making friends with some as well.

As for the two papaya drivers, you had only briefly met Oscar about a month ago while leaving a meeting. He told you he was happy to be working with you soon, and he thought you will do amazing. You spoke shortly before he was being called off by someone, but he said goodbye and wished you best of luck.

The other driver, Lando, you had unfortunately not met yet. You heard quite a lot about him, and people said he was kind with a great sense of humor, so you crossed your fingers and wished you were able to catch him and introduce yourself. You also had seen some edits of him on your feed, not that you would tell anyone that, but you couldn't deny that he was quite a looker.

Back to today, though, you were waiting to see the bright papaya cars pull into the pit stop for their tire exchanges. After some laps, the first one to pull up was Oscar, and you and the others quickly got to work with a successful change in just about 2 seconds.

You beamed as he drove away and got a high five from your mechanic friend, Tommy, and he grinned at you, "That was great! And your first time too! You'll be putting me out of my job soon," he laughs.

You shake your head and poke his side, walking back to the garage, "Don't be silly! I did learn from the best," you say and give him a dramatic wink.

"Ha. Ha. You flatter me," he pats your head. You just push his arm away and turn your head to look at the race stats.

Oscar is in a good fourth place currently, and Lando in second, four seconds behind Max. You watch the race for about three more minutes before you hear that Lando was told to box next lap, so you and the mechanics rush out to the pit once again and prepare your gear.

A few moments pass before you can spot Lando's bright helmet in his car coming closer. He finally arrives and pulls up into his spot, while doing so, he glances around and his eyes land on you.

His mouth drops open slightly and he whispers a little, "Wow." Everyone does his tire change just as fast as Oscars, but Lando was still staring at you, who he thinks might be an angel sent down from above just for him.

Wow, he thinks to himself again, you have to be the most gorgeous person he's ever seen. He doesn't even realize that everyone has cleared the way for him to exit the stop until he sees you tilt your head and he hears his race engineer's voice, "Lando! GO! What are you doing, mate?!"

That snaps Lando back to reality, and he quickly drives away, now in last place due to how long he was there. He feels his neck and cheeks heat up in embarrassment. There's no way he would have a chance with you after that.

"I-I'm so sorry, she was s-so beautiful, and she looks like an a-angel, I-I got distracted," he stutters quietly to Will, his race engineer.

"Oh my- Lando this is being aired, you can't say stuff like that, mate!" Will sighs but he can't help but laugh a little bit. However Lando does the opposite now, he chews his lip like he's about to cry of humility, since now he knows you just heard him say that and you were the only girl there, so you know he had to be talking about you.

Back to where you were, you laughed at the radio message, curious to who he was stuttering over. Tommy's eyes bulge as he hears it, head whipping toward you.

You look at him and furrow your eyebrows, "What?"

He just blinds at you before yelling, "Lando Norris said you're beautiful! And look like an angel!"

"What? No he didn't?"

"Are you- who else would he be talking about?!" Tommy puts his hands on your shoulder and gently shakes you.

"Uhh," you laugh and glance at the other mechanics who are smirking and you and raising their eyebrows up and down. "I don't know, there are some women team members right over there," you point to the side.

Tommy just drops his head down and shakes it, "No. He was talking about you!"

"But.. I'm.. well, me? Just an average new mechanic," you look down at your uniform, "in some very unflattering working clothes."

Tommy just steps back and crosses his arms, "First off, don't ever say you're 'just you', because you're my best friend here," he whispers, so the others won't hear him, and you giggle. "Second, the clothes may be a little unflattering but you're still a very pretty girl," he smiles at you.

"Awhhhhh, Tommy! Who knew you were such a sap!" You hug the boy in thanks and he reciprocates it as you walk to the garage once again.

"So are you going to ask him out later?"

You almost choke on your breath, "What? No! Of course not! Are you crazy?"

He rolls his eyes, "Come on, he was just stuttering. Lando Norris was stuttering over you, if that isn't love at first sight then I don't know what is," he shrugs.

"Tommy!" You slap his arm, "We are done with this conversation."

"But-"

"End of discussion!" You huff, turning on your heels and walk away. Leaving your friend to rub his face in defeat.

When the race ended with Lando placed seventh due to the mishap from before, he hopped out of the car and rushed over to Zak.

Zak pulls the boy in for a hug and ruffles his hair, which was quite the opposite reaction Lando had thought he would see, since he cost the team points.

Once he lets go of Lando, the only thing he gets out of his mouth is, "Who was that?"

Zak lets out a laugh and tries to keep in a grin, "Who? Her?" he nods over to you, standing while chatting with Tommy again. Lando frowns as he watches you two.

"Are they dating?" he asks the older man.

"Hmm," he pretends to think about it, "yes," he nods. Of course he's only kidding, trying the get a rise out of the British boy.

"What?" Lando's head snaps to the man, looking utterly devastated. Zak starts laughing loudly, looking at him, and thinks this is what the human version of a kicked puppy would look like.

"I'm only joking, buddy, why don't you go and ask her?" Zak pats Lando's shoulder.

"U-uh I don't know...."

"Oh, come on! You're Lando Norris!"

The boy sighs and looks at you longingly. That was until you glanced over at him and he quickly turned back to Zak, his face now turning red again at being caught. "What about no work relationships?"

Zak sighs and shakes his head, "Listen, I'll talk to people about it and I'll make it work, okay?" He smiles and Lando lets his lips twitch into a tiny smile. "Now, go get your girl!" He turns his shoulders and pushes him forward a little bit.

Lando blinks fast and his heart races as he nervously makes his way over to you two.

You don't notice but Tommy does and bites back a teasing comment. "Lando Norris! The legendary man himself!"

You look to your right and see the boy bouncing slightly on his feet, twisting his hands and he looks back and forth between you both. "H-hi," he whispers to you, his ears turning red at your kind gaze.

"Hi! It's nice to finally meet you," you smile at him.

Tommy nods, "Yeah, and nice radio message today, man, real smooth," he chuckles.

Unbeknownst to you, Lando now wishes the floor would swallow him whole. "Uh, y-yeah, thanks?"

Tommy just laughs, "Oh! I think someone is calling me, gotta go!"

You watch him walk away, and Lando glares at him. "Did you hear someone calling him?" you ask.

"No, but, um, I-I'm sorry for today, a-and I didn't-"

You quickly shake your head and smile, "No! Don't apologize, really! I'm honored!" You put your hand on his arm, causing him to tense. You quickly remove it and apologize, "I'm so sorry! I should have asked-"

"N-No!" Lando says, and Zak drops his head into his hands as he watches the scene from afar. "You can touch me anytime! I-I mean- bloody hell- n-not like that! I mean you can if you wa-" he slaps a hand over his mouth before he can embarrass himself and more.

You just blush as you watch the boy, you find it endearing, to be honest, you've never had someone act like this with you before. "Lando! Please, don't worry, I think your rambling is cute, and... you yourself are cute too," you put your hands behind your back.

"Me? Really? You think I'm c-cute?" He lets out a nervous laugh in disbelief.

"Is that so hard to believe?" You frown.

"I... guess not.. but you're.. you! W-way out of my league..." he trails off.

"You have to be joking!"

He just looks down at his feet and smiles, his body slowly untensing as he feels a little less nervous. It's not that he's stuttering and blushing because he's scared of you, he's just never met someone so... perfect.

He slowly raises his eyes back up to look at you, "Well... then would you m-maybe want to... get dinner with me later?"

Your smile widens at the hopeful look in his eyes, you pinch your arm once, just to be sure this is really happening and not a dream. "Of course! Oh, I'd love to, would you like my number to send me the details?" you ask him.

He nods and pats his pocket for his phone, "Oh! I left my phone in my driver's room... but if you have yours, I'll give you mine?"

"Sure," you nod and hand him your phone, watching as he creates a contact for himself. "Well, I do have to go back, I promised my friends to hang out for a bit after the race but I'll see you later," you tell him.

He smiles at you, "Alright, see you!"

You turn around, walking to your friends who were giggling to themselves, watching the whole thing.

Lando is left in his spot, practically lovestruck, "What a woman," he whispers to himself dreamily.

He jumps with a yelp when he feels a hand on his shoulder, "Well done, kid! You got yourself a date!"

Lando turns to look at a way too excited Zak Brown, "Yeah... I suppose I did."

---

the good luck charm

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. max vertsappen x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

you kiss max's forehead one race morning "for luck". he wins. it becomes a thing.

It started as a joke. As most things do.

You were both exhausted and half-dressed in a hotel room in Monza, Max trying to stretch out sore muscles while you searched (unsuccessfully) for your other shoe. Something about the early morning, the nerves, the jetlag, the weird sleepy love you always carry for him—it made you lean in, cup his face in both hands, and press a long kiss to his forehead.

"May your tires be warm, your brakes be cool, and your competitors forget how to drive," you said solemnly, eyes still half closed.

He gave you the flattest look imaginable, though the end of his ears blushed a faint pink from the kiss. As they always did. “What are you doing?”

“Blessing you,” you replied, as if it was obvious. As if it had happened a hundred times before. "So you win."

Max snorted, jokingly thanked you for your wise words, and then won the race.

The next weekend in Baku, just before he headed back into the garage, he stopped in front of you. Didn’t say anything. Just stood there with his helmet under one arm, brows raised. Waiting.

You blinked at him. “…Yes?”

Max looked around and then lowered his voice. “Aren’t you gonna do your weird blessing thing?”

You smiled. You were obnoxious about it. You made it a whole scene. Two hands to his cheeks, a huge dramatic smooch in the exact middle of his forehead, a made-up chant about tire degradation and curses upon the other drivers' decision making capabilities. He pretended to hate it.

He won again.

Now it’s a ritual. It practically part of his warm up routine.

He always finds you. Doesn’t matter if it’s Silverstone or Suzuka, if you're sitting quietly in hospitality or standing in the garage trying not to get run over by a mechanic on a scooter. He finds you. Every single race.

Helmet in hand. Suit half-zipped. That laser-focus look on his face until he sees you. Then it softens—just slightly. His jaw unclenches. His hands flex like they want to hold something. You.

You rise on your toes, brush your lips across his forehead, whisper the familiar words: “For luck.” Because sometimes he doesn't need the big speech, the dramatic show, the curses upon the other cars—he just needs you.

He never says much. Just nods, or gives you the tiniest smile. Once, after a win, he muttered “works better than pole” with a blush he tried to pass off as heat exhaustion.

You didn’t tease him for it. Much.

One day the camera's pick it up, and suddenly it becomes clear that your little tradition is not a secret and private as you once thought. Even the Sky Sports commentary team has something to say:

“And there’s Max Verstappen’s girlfriend giving him—what’s clearly become—a bit of a pre-race tradition. Can’t argue with results.”

It's nice. You like being part of the flow of race day. Its nice to be relied upon, even for something as small as this.

And then… one weekend, you’re not there.

You tried. You really did. But your flight got cancelled, the backup was overbooked, and Red Bull’s private jet was full of engineers and people who don’t think “I give Max forehead kisses before lights out” qualifies as essential personnel.

You call him from the airport instead, bags at your feet, coffee in hand. Max offered to send his own jet back to pick you up, but it would never have arrived in time.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I really wanted to be there.”

Max is quiet on the other end. “You tried.”

“I’ll scream your blessing into the sky from here, okay?”

He huffs a laugh, but it sounds tight. “Might need it. Grid’s a mess.”

“You’ll handle it. You always do.”

You want to say more. Something sappy. But you can already hear noise in the backgorund of the call. He's being pulled away by Christian or Helmut or someone asking about tires. So you settle for, “I love you. Drive safe.”

His voice softens. “Love you too.”

Back at the track, people notice something’s… off.

He’s still fast—because of course he is—but there’s a tension in his shoulders. The calm, razor-sharp version of Max that usually shows up on race day feels thinner, more like a mask.

Christian corners him right before the anthem. “You good?”

“Fine,” Max says. Short. Clipped. Cold.

But his eyes keep scanning the garage, looking for something—or someone—he knows isn’t there.

The race goes okay. Not amazing. A few things go wrong. His start is messy. Pit stop’s a second too slow. He finishes second, which for anyone else would be great, but for Max it’s a shrug and a “whatever.” Second place always hurts. Always has for him.

After the cooldown room, after media, after debrief, he ducks away from everyone and finally calls you.

“You cursed me,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“I had no forehead kiss. And now look. P2. Disaster.”

You smile, curling up in the airport lounge chair. “Guess you need me, huh?”

He exhales like he doesn’t want to say yes, but then, quietly: “Yeah. I do.”

And then impossibly quieter: "I always do."

The next weekend, you’re definitely there.

He doesn’t even say hello when he finds you sat in the garage. He just walks up, stands in front of you, and tilts his head down expectantly.

You blink. “Wow. No ‘how are you,’ no hug—just forehead service?”

He glares at the ground, but there is a small smile on his face that you can just barely see. “Do the thing.”

You grin, place your hands on his cheeks, and kiss him gently on the forehead.

“For luck,” you murmur.

He exhales. Content. “There it is.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the one casting spells on my head.”

You lean in a little. “They work, don’t they?”

Max just smiles. The small, secret one. The one he saves for you. Then he nods.

After he wins that race, he dedicates it to the team. Then, on the radio, voice quieter:

“Tell her thanks. It worked again.”

You hear it. Of course you do. And when he lifts the trophy, champagne flying, there’s a tiny smile on your face that says yeah. you’re welcome.

---

oscar piastri x insomniac! reader

1. Tangerine // You’re definitely not an insomniac. But Oscar keeps finding you awake at all hours, and he’s starting to get worried.

1.5. Glad You’re Here // a rainy day blurb

2. Lavender Haze // Oscar can’t sleep. The two of you try to find a solution. This part is 18+ minors DNI!

Extended Universe (blurbs)

these exhaustive feelings are temporary

‘i want to kiss you.’ ‘now? in the rain?’

top step (Oscar’s first f1 win!)

---