The Wrong Letter
The Wrong Letter
Lewis Hamilton x Reader
Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?
Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!
THE WRONG LETTER
The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent
⸻
The flat is still.
There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.
Exhaustion lives in your bones now.
Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.
You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.
It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.
You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.
You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.
⸻
Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.
You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.
I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.
Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.
But that version of you never existed, did he?
No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.
I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.
So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me
⸻
You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.
M. Hamilton
312 Grafton Way London NW1
You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.
You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.
It says:
L. Hamilton
213 Grafton Lane London NW1
You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.
But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.
It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”
⸻
A Week Later — Monaco
He notices the envelope right away.
It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.
L. Hamilton
He sighs.
Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.
Still, something about it makes him pause.
He’s been restless lately.
Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.
And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.
Then twice.
Then again—slower.
By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.
The words dig beneath his ribs.
It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.
The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.
He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.
He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.
And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.
⸻
He stares at the letter again the next morning.
He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.
But he did.
Twice.
And now—again.
He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”
Same.
Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.
The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.
And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.
She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.
She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.
Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?
He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.
Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.
It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.
And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.
I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.
You didn’t do that.
You just wrote.
And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.
I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.
If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.
Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.
If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.
—L
He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.
Just an initial.
Nothing else.
No fame. No clues.
Just words.
He hesitates before sealing it.
He could throw it away.
He probably should.
But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.
The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.
⸻
Back in London – Three Days Later
You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.
It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.
Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.
You write back that night. Just one line:
Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.
⸻
It becomes a ritual.
You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.
Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.
⸻
Letter #2
Dear L,
I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.
And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.
You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.
Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.
I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.
⸻
Letter #3
Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:
I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.
I forgot how much I hate almond milk.
As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.
My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.
(...That’s probably too much information.)
This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.
And I think that says something.
Still writing, —L
P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.
⸻
It keeps going.
Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.
You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”
You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.
He picks up on it. Of course he does.
⸻
Letter #5
Dear Y/I,
I think we forget how brave softness is.
Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—
You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.
Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L
(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)
You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.
You don’t know what this is.
But you know it’s becoming something you need.
You write back the same night.
⸻
Letter #6
Dear L,
It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.
I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.
I wanted to tell you.
And I don’t even know your face.
But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.
So I’m sending you something too.
It’s small. But it made me think of you.
— Y/I
(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)
⸻
And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.
You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.
Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.
⸻
Letter #12
Dear L,
I thought about deleting this letter.
I still might.
But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.
There was someone.
He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.
He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.
But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.
But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I
He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.
He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.
He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.
But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.
⸻
Letter #13
Dear Y/I,
I don’t know if this will help, but...
You don’t speak in whispers anymore.
Not to me.
Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.
And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.
But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.
You’re not nothing.
I hope you never forget that
—L
And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.
Sometimes soft.
Sometimes raw.
Always honest.
⸻
Letter #15
Dear L,
I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.
To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.
You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.
Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.
It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.
And I think... that’s more important.
— Y/I
⸻
Letter #16
Dear Y/I,
There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.
But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”
I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.
But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.
Maybe it just has to be honest.
Like us.
—L
(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)
⸻
You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.
And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.
⸻
You don’t set an alarm anymore.
Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.
You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.
It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.
You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.
You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.
It holds his letters now.
You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.
⸻
Your day unfolds the way it always does.
You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.
You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.
You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”
You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.
⸻
At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.
“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.
You shrug. “Not really.”
“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.
You fight the smile. “Maybe.”
“God, you’re such a romantic.”
“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”
She gives you a look but lets it go.
⸻
The school day ends.
You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.
And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.
Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.
You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.
⸻
Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.
Inside?
A note.
And a photo.
⸻
Dear Y/I,
It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.
But I found a little moment of stillness.
I thought you might like it.
You feel like stillness, sometimes.
Like breath.
More soon.
—L
(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)
You press the photo to your chest. And smile.
⸻
He wakes up in yet another hotel.
He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,
it’s Barcelona.
The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.
He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.
Another debrief after that.
Then sim work.
Then setup.
Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.
He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.
There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.
Always does now.
Wherever he goes.
Just in case.
He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.
“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”
He smiles.
And exhales.
⸻
The paddock is chaos.
People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.
He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.
He does the dance.
But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.
Back to her.
To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”
He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.
⸻
He takes photos quietly.
A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)
He frames the shot. Clicks.
And hears a voice behind him.
“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”
He jumps slightly, turning.
It’s Charles.
His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.
“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”
Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”
“Yeah. Personal one.”
Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”
“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.
Then, without thinking, he adds:
“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”
Charles tilts his head. “She?”
Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”
Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”
“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”
But he’s smiling.
Because that’s what she does to him.
Makes the world feel quiet again.
Even here.
⸻
That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.
He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.
⸻
Dear Y/I,
Today was loud.
The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.
But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.
I think you’re right.
This isn’t much.
But it made me feel quiet.
And when I feel quiet, I think of you.
—L
(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)
He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.
He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.
⸻
The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.
⸻
Letter #28
Dear Y/I,
I don’t know what this is anymore.
And I don’t mean that in a bad way.
It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.
I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.
(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.
Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.
Still yours,
—L
⸻
You read that letter three times.
Then again the next morning.
You walk through your day differently now. More alert.
More tender.
You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.
⸻
Letter #29
Dear L,
You said you don’t know what this is anymore.
I don’t either.
But I know what it’s not.
It’s not nothing.
And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.
Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...
You already saw it.
You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.
And that scares me.
But it also makes me feel whole.
— Y/I
P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.
⸻
Letter #30
Dear Y/I,
This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.
I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.
So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.
But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching?
To just be a man next to a woman he respects.
Not a name.
Not a brand.
Just L.
(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)
— Still just L
⸻
You reread that paragraph.
“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”
Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.
You could.
But you don’t.
Because whatever this is—it’s enough.
And you trust him.
⸻
Letter #31
Dear L,
When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.
“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”
I found them again last week.
And I cried.
Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.
You didn’t fix me.
But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.
You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.
And still—you see me.
More clearly than anyone else has.
— Y/I
⸻
He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.
The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.
But none of it matters.
Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:
That he matters without being anyone else.
That she wants him, not the idea of him.
That she’s ready.
And just like that—
He knows.
It’s almost time to tell her who he is.
⸻
It was raining the day you wrote the draft.
Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.
This was the kind of rain that felt mean.
That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.
It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.
You were already crying before you picked up the pen.
And you shouldn't have written it.
But you did.
Not to him.
Just... to yourself.
A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?
You wrote:
Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.
You folded it.
Slid it into your drawer.
You didn’t sign it.
Didn’t intend to send it.
You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.
You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.
⸻
Four days later — Monaco
He gets home late.
The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.
He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.
Her letter is there. Waiting.
He smiles before he even opens it.
But the smile fades.
Line by line.
Word by word.
He reads the first sentence.
And stops.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”
It feels like a slap.
Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.
A joke.
A mistake.
A test.
But it’s just... her.
Questioning all of it.
All of him.
And he—
He doesn’t know what to do.
⸻
He doesn't reply.
Not right away.
Not at all.
He wants to write something. Anything.
But the words won’t come.
Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.
So he doesn’t write.
He disappears.
⸻
A Week Later
You feel it before you know it.
The silence.
It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.
You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.
And then it comes.
One envelope.
No letter inside.
Just a photo.
A paper airplane.
Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.
And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:
I didn’t know I was disposable.
You sink to the floor.
The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”
Because it wasn’t meant for him.
That letter—
That damn letter—
Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.
You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.
And there it is.
The real one.
The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:
You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.
You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.
Too late.
You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:
“Please come back.”
⸻
Days pass.
Then a week.
Then two.
You don’t write.
Not because you don’t want to.
But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?
“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?
“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?
“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?
You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.
You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.
But tonight—
You do.
You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.
And then...
You write.
⸻
Letter #32
Dear L,
I sent you the wrong letter.
That’s the truth.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.
It wasn’t supposed to be you.
That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.
But I sent it.
And I know how it must’ve sounded.
Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.
But I didn’t. I don’t.
I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.
I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.
You gave me my voice back.
And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.
I understand if that’s unforgivable.
But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:
You are not disposable.
You never were.
You are everything.
And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.
Come back. — Y/I
⸻
You don’t send it.
Not right away.
You fold it.
Place it inside the box. And wait.
⸻
Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco
He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.
Even though it hurts.
He’s been quiet too long.
Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.
Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.
But then—
He finds her real letter.
Not on purpose.
It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.
He flips it open.
And there it is.
The handwriting.
His heart stops.
He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.
And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.
She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.
And that—
That’s what finally breaks him.
He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.
⸻
The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.
Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.
And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.
He won.
But it feels empty.
⸻
TWO DAYS EARLIER
“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.
“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”
He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”
Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”
He’s not.
He hasn’t been for a while.
It’s been almost two months since her last letter.
Or rather, since his last letter.
The one he didn’t send.
He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.
⸻
Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.
They’ve got a shot at pole.
Maybe more.
Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.
His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”
He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”
“That’s not the same as being present.”
He finally lifts his eyes.
She softens. “Still thinking about her?”
He swallows. Doesn’t answer.
“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”
Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”
He looks away.
⸻
RACE DAY
The car feels good.
Better than it has in weeks.
Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.
Maybe it's adrenaline.
Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.
He takes the win.
First place.
Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.
And maybe he did.
But it’s not the world he wants to save.
⸻
That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.
And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.
⸻
Dear Y/I,
It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.
And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.
Because I was a coward.
Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.
But if I’m being honest? I
stopped writing because I was scared.
I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.
I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.
But you didn’t leave me.
I left you.
And I’m sorry.
I should’ve known better.
I should’ve asked.
I should’ve told you the truth.
—
I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.
—
You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.
—
I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.
I miss you.
Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head.
You.
Whatever name you wear.
Whatever face you have.
You are already mine in every way that matters.
—
I got something.
A tattoo.
I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.
You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”
I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.
A becoming.
And I want you to see it.
—
If you never write back, I’ll understand.
But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—
I’m ready.
I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.
I want all of it.
Not in fragments.
Not in metaphors.
You.
Please let me come home.
—L
(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)
⸻
You wake up with paint on your hands.
Dried glitter on your temple.
Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.
It’s been 51 days since your last letter.
52 since you heard from him.
You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.
You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.
But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.
You still miss him.
And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.
⸻
8:02 AM — Your Classroom
“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”
You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.
“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.
“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”
You smile, and feel your throat close.
You used to write like that.
⸻
10:14 AM — Playground Duty
You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.
Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”
You nod. “Fine.”
“Liar.”
You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”
Ana stays quiet.
Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”
⸻
12:45 PM — Staff Room
You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.
“Delivery for you.”
You frown. “Here?”
She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”
Your heart stops.
You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.
It’s heavy. Dense.
Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.
Just your initial.
Your hands shake.
You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.
Ten pages.
Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.
The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.
Tears fall silently.
You clutch the pages to your chest.
You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”
And for the first time in 52 days—
You let yourself hope.
⸻
6:04 PM — Your Flat
You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.
Your hands are still shaking.
You grab your best pen.
A blank page. And write.
⸻
Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.
I think I do.
It’s real.
It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.
It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.
It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.
It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.
Because you heard it.
And then you answered.
You said you want to hear my voice.
You said you want to see my face.
So let’s.
Let’s stop hiding behind paper.
Let’s meet.
Let’s begin.
You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.
And I think we’re meant to do it together.
— Y/I
P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.
(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)
⸻
Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply
You don’t expect a response this fast.
But it arrives four days after your letter—postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.
You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.
⸻
Letter #33
Dear Y/I,
I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.
I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.
But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”
So here’s the truth:
I want to see you.
I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.
I want to meet you too.
And I think we’re ready.
So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.
Saturday. 11AM.
There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.
I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.
If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.
That way... I’ll know it’s you.
And if you don’t come—
I’ll sit there for an hour.
I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.
But if you do come—
Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L
P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.
⸻
You press the letter to your chest.
Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.
You don’t even hesitate.
⸻
The Night Before
You can’t sleep.
You try. God, you try.
You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.
Your mind won’t stop.
What if he’s not what you imagined?
What if you’re not?
What if it’s perfect?
You finally fall asleep around 3AM.
You wake at 6.
Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.
The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.
⸻
Meanwhile — Monaco
Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.
His hands are shaking.
He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”
He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.
The tattoo is healing.
He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.
It’s not for her.
It’s for him.
Just four words:
"Be who she knows.”
⸻
Back to Present – The Bookstore
You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.
You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.
You check your reflection in the bookshop window.
You look the same.
But you’re not.
Not since him.
Not since the letters.
The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.
You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.
You sit.
And wait.
⸻
11:08 AM
He’s standing outside the shop.
His heart is a percussion instrument.
He walks past once.
Then again.
He almost turns back.
But then he sees it—
Through the window.
You.
Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.
And he knows.
⸻
The bell rings.
You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like
something tectonic shifts.
Your mouth parts just slightly.
He’s real.
More real than you ever imagined.
He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.
His lips lift, soft and unsure.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” you whisper, standing.
Neither of you moves.
Then—he laughs once.
Nervously.
“This is weird, right?” he says.
“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.
He glances at your necklace.
“You wore it.”
“You told me to.”
He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”
You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.
You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.
“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.
“Disappointed?” he teases gently.
You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”
He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”
You nod.
And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.
⸻
You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
You’re trying to breathe normally.
“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
Your heart drops slightly.
“You’re... more.” he finishes.
You smile. “That was a save.”
“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“You know what’s wild?”
“What?”
“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”
“And now?”
He looks at you.
Really looks.
“You’re better than magic.”
Your throat catches.
“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.
He blinks. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”
He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”
You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.
“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”
You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”
You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.
Then you grow serious again.
“This... is real,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Yeah. It is.”
You look down. “So what now?”
He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.
“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”
You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”
He grins.
“I’ll write the first line.”
⸻
EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED
The flat is quiet.
Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.
But the house always feels different when he’s gone.
He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”
You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...
...and there it is.
A folded note.
His handwriting.
You already know what it is.
⸻
Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.
Mostly because I get to tell you now.
But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—
God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.
And who we still are.
You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.
And I’ll write you forever.
— Me
⸻
You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.
He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”
You don’t say anything.
You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”
⸻
Later That Week
It’s raining.
You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.
And you find it.
Tucked in a notebook.
No envelope.
No note.
A Polaroid.
Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.
A letter on a table.
Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.
You flip it over.
Two words.
“I waited.”
And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?
He’s here.
THE END.
⸻
THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK
1. His First Polaroid
Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."
2. Hers
A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."
3. His – From Somewhere Quiet
A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.
→ No words. Just breath.
4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention
A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."
5. His – The Near Reveal
A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."
6. Hers – Come Back
Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."
7. His – The Tattoo
Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”
→ No caption. Just the truth.
8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”
More Posts from Tammyfortis and Others
The ramos one could be something like how he is breaking ankles and injuring people on the field but around the girl he likes he is all soft and sweet, his teammates can't believe it is their same aggressive teammate
Hey bb, thank u sm for requesting!! I'd never written for him before, but it was fun, even though I don't know if I really like this lol
But I promise you I did my best. Hope you enjoy it ♡
Tame the beast
Part of the players were moving in a frenzy. It was normal for this kind of thing to happen during a game, it was to be expected. There were just some people who crossed the line, or got really, really close to it. Some would say close enough to start something.
Ramos walked incessantly towards an opposing player, forehead pressed against his, while the other man kept stepping backwards, trying hard not to trip. "The fuck do you think you're talking to? Huh?" His voice changed considerably at times like this, so much so that even his own colleagues feared the things that he could do. After all, whatever happened to him could harm the entire equipe.
What happens is that, during a play, the Spaniard had made a tackle that directly hit the opposing player's ankle. After that, instead of helping him up, or apologizing, he scoffed, as the other laid down on the grass, complaining of pain. Obviously, the guy wasn't very pleased.
Some of both men's teammates moved to intervene and, after much painstaking, managed to pull them back. Sérgio mouthed an "Hijo de puta", before walking away. Well, it could be much worse, honestly.
Perhaps less than an hour later, everyone had already moved to the dressing rooms. The buzz was loud and between laughs, jokes and screams it was almost impossible to actually hear each other.
Neymar was the first to miss his friend. In the midst of what they insisted to call a conversation, he discreetly nudged mbappe and leaned in to speak close to the boy's ear. "Where's Ramos?" he asked, then saw Kylian move his head to look around the room, just like he'd done a few moments earlier. "He's been away for a bit, right?" "Right." And with a kind of unspoken agreement, they both got up and started walking towards the back of the room, close to the lockers.
When they were already farther away from the shouting of their mates, a much more subtle and smooth voice could be heard. And when I say smooth, I mean smooth. It sounded eerily like someone speaking a few good octaves higher than what they would usually sound like, like when you're talking to a baby, or a dog.
It took them a while, but they gradually did recognize that voice. "Is this-" Kylian started, but the older man was quick to bring a hand over his mouth.
"I know, honey, I'm sorry, but he started it!" Sergio sounded like a kid being scolded and the two secret listeners did everything they could not to burst out laughing. What a time to be alive.
"I miss you too, baby. But I'll see you soon, right?" This time, the tone used was much lower, almost pleading. He most definetely sounded nothing like the number four they had just seen and heard out on the pitch. It was almost ridiculous to imagine that it was the same man.
"Okay, anjo, I'll call back later. Love you." Ney's eyes widened and he quickly grabbed his friend by the arm to avoid being caught snooping around.
That's when they noticed. Glorious moment.
To say that they laughed about it again and again and again, was an understatement. Neither of them spoke about that with the others, but they didn't need to, anyway. They would eventually find out themselves.
As said, Sergio got to see you not long after that. You had gotten a few weeks off and, of course, would spend as much of that time as possible in the company of your handsome boyfriend. You had arranged everything, every little detail together, and his anxiety was almost palpable, even over the phone.
So, like the hopeless romantic that you were, you decided to surprise him by arriving a few days early. It was cliché and could be very predictable, but you still hoped he wouldn't suspect a thing. He didn't. When you showed up that day, right after a match his team had emerged victorious from, he was as incredulous as you imagined he would be, perhaps a little bit more.
You calmly walked over to your boyfriend while the others were still busy cheering around. He was standing still, seemingly in disbelief of the fact that you were actually there, within reach, for the first time in a while, too fucking long, if you asked him. But when you were just a few steps away, looked like it finally hit him and Sergio was immediately grabbing you into the tightest, warmest embrace, that you missed so much.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and allowed yourself to get lost in the feeling of being at home.
When you pulled away, just enough to look into his eyes, he stared back with such apparent adoration, that it made you dizzy. Your foreheads now rested together, his lips brushing against your trembling ones. And as he whispered how much he loved you and that he had no idea how he managed to endure all this time away from you, you could feel his tears flowing down your own cheeks.
That's when everyone noticed.
After that, the other players teased him to death. Light hearted jokes, of course, even though sometimes they did carry a hint of envy. Whistles and kissing noises, but it just didn't bother Ramos. The only reaction he'd show was an eye roll and, occasionally, a slight blush that took over half of his face.
"So, Ramos, is she going tonight?" Marquinhos asked, eyebrows dancing suggestively. "We know she's going, he can't even breath without her" "He's whipped, doesn't even deny it"
It would be impossible for you to realize that there really was such a big difference between Sérgio Ramos on the field, and Sérgio Ramos when he was in your company. To other people, however, this discrepancy seemed more than obvious.
Of course, he wasn't really a violent person in everyday life, at all. He was a serious person and somewhat closed off, sometimes even frowning, but not violent. On the field, however, it was a completely different story. When he wore the team's shirt, his presence on the field was nothing short of threatening, in many ways. Sérgio was a great player, fast, skillful, but, above all, an aggressive player. And this was the man the team was used to.
Maybe that's why it was so shocking for them, seeing the two of you together.
Right after a tough workout, or another bitter defeat, which wasn't uncommon playing for PSG he would crawl into your open arms and completely melt, like putty against you.
"It's amazing" You'd hear a whisper, coming from, you just knew, probably Neymar. "She tames the beast." It took a lot of effort and a maturity that you definitely didn't have, for you not to chuckle.
It was funny, yes, but also flattering and, in a way, gratifying, to know that there was a side of him that was kept just for you, and no one else.
"Come on, babe, we're gonna have fun." Your grip around his waist was tight and you moved so that your chin was resting on his chest.
While spending the season with him, you learned that it was common for the players to gather after some more intense training sessions or a few matches, sometimes to celebrate, sometimes to lift their spirits and feel more invigorated to get back to the fight. These weren't really parties, but more like get-togethers, albeit relatively ostentatious and considerably eventful.
"We can have fun here!" You sighed, despite the smile that made its way to your lips. "I know, but we're gonna have plenty of time to stay here. Please, love." You insisted once more, giving him your best attempt of some puppy eyes, but he'd always been better than you in these type of things. He sighed and rested his head back against the pillows, closing his eyes.
You found yourself smirking as he looked back at you, an amused glint in his brown orbs, which now looked almost black. It all happened so fast and you honestly don't know how, but in a second Sergio was hovering over you, strong arms pinning yours against the mattress. It was easy to notice how there was still so much care and delicacy in how he held your wrists.
"Fine" He lowered his head until his lips were ghosting against the corner of your mouth. "But after that, it's gonna be just us. In this room. For a long time." You couldn't control the giggle that rumbled through your ribcage. "Si señor."
How'd Pascale react when she sees Checo and her daughter sleeping on the couch and then next morning getting told everything?
Pascale would be giggling and shit /j
Since the day before Mama Leclerc was out of the house, maybe went out with friends or something that kept her out for the whole day. So when she came home and went to the living room to be greeted by you and Checo cuddling on the couch, she let out the biggest smile. She was right about your boyfriend being a driver, though she had a few guesses who, she never thought it would be the Mexican Racing Point driver.
But before she did anything, she went to her room and freshened up. After that, she went down preparing breakfast for the six of them. The first to wake up from her kids is Lorenzo. The moment he walked in the kitchen, he greeted his mother, kissing her cheeks before getting water from the refrigerator.
Maman trying to hold back her smile, asked Lorenzo what you and Checo were doing that had you both ending up on the couch cuddling. As Lorenzo was about to answer, he was interrupted by a cheerful Arthur who was followed by a sleepyhead Charles letting out a yawn. The younger boys greeted their mother, kissing her cheek like Lorenzo did.
Once they all settled down, Lorenzo started talking about everything that took place yesterday the moment your boyfriend dropped by unannounced. Maman smiled widely when she listens to his eldest speak protectively about his only sister, it made her feel like she did something right. As Lorenzo continued telling everything that happened, Arthur and Charles would often interrupt, adding information from what their older brother is saying.
When they finished, Maman thanked her sons for being there to their sister, always having her back. Then Pascale asked her kids to help her set the table as she finished cooking their breakfast. Washing her hands after placing the food on the table, she went to the living room and sat on the single-seater couch where Checo sat yesterday when he was being interrogated by your brothers.
She smiled to herself, thinking how much you and Checo reminded her of herself and Papa Leclerc when they were dating. She watched as you snuggled closer to your significant other while Checo just wrapped his arm around your shoulder. She let out a soft chuckle as she saw the domestic actions unfold.
Lorenzo called upon their mum that the table was set and they can eat, but the eldest said it too loud that it startled you.
Falling asleep on the couch last night, you had not expected to wake up with your mother sitting across you, a wide grin plastered on her face. Your sudden movement stirred your boyfriend from his sleep. Looking at him, you saw him scrunching his eyebrows as his eyes adjusted to the bright light before his expression turned into confusion. He stared at your mother before rubbing his eyes, thinking he might be hallucinating. But when he saw that she was still there, he swiftly moved away from you, scared at the thought of Maman scolding him or worse, you.
When Pascale saw what happened, she let out a light chuckle before sighing and standing up. She went pass Checo’s side of the couch, patting his shoulders and whispered that it was okay, before she spoke this time to the both of you that breakfast was ready.
Checo scrambled from the couch, his cheeks flushed as he gets flustered from the thought that both of you were caught by your mother cuddling in the living room. You watched him internally panic as you stood up from your place, kissing his cheek and taking a hold of his hand before letting out a small smile and assuring him that your mum meant no harm.
Pascale called out for both of you again when you didn’t go to the dining room and this time you drag Checo to the room and guiding him to sit on the chair beside you.
While breakfast was ongoing, Checo was on the hotseat again, but this time getting interrogated by your mother. As your mother inquires your significant other different questions, you can see him squirm nervously on his chair and so you placed your hand on his thigh and patted it assuringly that he won’t answer anything wrong.
After breakfast and Maman seemingly satisfied with your boyfriend’s answer, she went to his side and pulled him up from his chair as she gave Sergio a hug and a kiss on the cheek, welcoming him into the family and even referring to him as her future son-in-law. You let out a huge sigh of relief as Checo passed your family’s test.
But little did you know after the kiss on the cheek, Maman threatened Checo quietly that if he ever decided to hurt her daughter, he should be prepared for the consequence. And he gulped hard like something was dislodged in his throat before nodding slowly.
Copycat
Paring: Simon Riley x taskmaster!reader, Dreykov!reader. Mention of Bucky and Steve (there married, oops 🙊).
Summary: A new Avenger teams up with Taskforce 141, turns out her and Ghost are a like.
Warning: trauma, mixing the avengers and cod together, grammar errors probably. Not a huge fan on how I ended it.
“You didn’t tell us she was fucking crazy.” Soap said to Price and Laswell.
“You didn’t ask.” Price cheekily answered.
Simon glared at him, “where’d she come from?”
“Fury from The Avengers team sent her, said she was the best,” Laswell responded.
That made sense. The Avengers were a bunch of glorified superheroes. A mix of super soldiers and non-human things, they dealt with their kind while we dealt with wars in other countries.
“She killed twenty men in two minutes with her bare hands. What the fuck?” Soap said in shock.
“What can you tell us about her?” Simon asked.
Price and Laswell looked at each other, “not much. She’s 23, her name was Taskmaster, but we call her Copycat now.” Price told.
“That’s it?” Soap asked.
“She has a violent history that is not ours to tell. I suggest you be nice. She can put us all down in a second. Now walk away.” Laswell spoke.
——
Over the few weeks you’ve been around Taskforce 141, you didn’t speak much. The team quickly realized you also wore a mask like Ghost. Ghost warmed up to you well. He didn’t talk to you much like most of the team but he was nice to you. He offered you hellos and little waves while passing in the halls. He assumed you’d give him smiles, he always wanted to see you smile.
You sat in your room with the door open. No one was around, either on missions or out in training. You open your laptop and clicked on zoom, taking off the mask, you heard your therapist speak, “Hi Y/N,”
“Hi Doctor.” You said quietly.
What the team didn’t know was that you were in court-mandated therapy just like your friend Bucky was. You committed war crimes, however, they weren’t your fault, something you haven’t yet accepted.
“How are the nightmares?” She asked.
Ghost was walking down the hall, something you didn’t hear, Ghost was always light on his feet. He heard your soft voice speaking through your door. You left it wide open, something out of character.
He peaked his head to look in your room and saw you at your desk. He noticed the mask was off, your hair in two French braids. “The nightmares haven’t happened often, I’ve been able to control the noise, you know, so I don’t wake up the team.” You shrugged.
I shouldn’t be listening, Ghost thought to himself, but he couldn’t move away. He leaned against the wall next to your door frame. “How’s the team? Your new placement?” The lady asked.
You were quiet for a moment, “nice. They kinda leave me alone.” You sigh. It wasn’t easy making friends, Ghost felt a little bad, “There is one guy though. We call him Ghost.” You started.
His heart fluttered, he had to place a hand over it. He’s never felt that before. Ghost knew he shouldn’t be listening, but he couldn’t move. “He’s nice to me, he waves and says hi. It feels nice to be acknowledged. I’d like to think he’s cute too.” You admitted.
Ghost nearly choked on air, he covered his mouth at your confession, “you have a crush? That’s good, feeling new emotion. We’ve been working hard on that.” The lady spoke.
That’s when Ghost realized that this was a therapy session, “is that what a crush feels like? I never knew what friendships or crushes were since the Red Room. Growing up with him, being that killing machine, I didn’t get a chance at being a girl. Being me.” Your body is visibly slouched.
The red room? What in the hell was that, and you grew up in it. “The mask too? Ghost wears one.” You sat up straight at the mention of his name.
“Yeah, I find comfort knowing he wears one too, though I don’t know why. I’m sure it’s to secure his identity, meanwhile, mine is to hide the ugly scar I live with.”
That’s when Ghost knew he couldn’t listen anymore. He couldn’t listen to you putting yourself down, belittling yourself. He walked away.
—
You often sat out on training, you’d rather watch the men than utterly destroy them. You memorized every single member of the team's moves, besides, no one offered to spare with you. You sat in silence watching Soap and Ghost spare, 9 out of 10 times, Ghost won.
“It’s not a fair fight,” Soap complained. “But you wouldn’t know a fair fight.” Soap smiled.
Ghost looked up at you, “Cat!” His voice boomed. You looked up confused at the new nickname. “Come on, let’s spare.”
Soap looked surprised. You uncrossed your legs, fixing your yoga pants and grabbing a pair of gloves. “This won’t be fair.” You spoke up.
“Cocky,” Soap said with a smirk.
Through all the matches, Ghost didn’t win but once, and even then, he thought you let him. “I wasn’t called the Taskmaster for nothing.” You said to Ghost helping him up.
You looked around and noticed everyone had left the room, “who calls you the Taskmaster?” He asked, He wanted more information on you.
You gave him a weary look, but you’d consider him a friend and to keep friends you need to make an effort, said your therapist. “The Red Room, heh,” you nervously chuckled.
“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want.” He said, Please tell me everything! He begged in his mind.
“No, it’s okay. I trust you.” You quietly spoke sitting down on the mat. Ghost couldn’t help but smile under his mask, “the Red Room was a training facility in Russia. We were trained to be the deadliest assassins. It wasn’t supposed to be my life, my father was the leader. But after the explosion, he couldn’t stand my face and made me who I am today.” You explained.
“He noticed my ability to memorize patterns. He put a chip in me like the other girls, made me a suit of armor, and I was forced to train newbies and kill innocents. I was a daddy’s girl once, but then I was nothing more than an ugly killer.” You whispered the last part more to yourself. “Thats the nonviolent story of my life.”
Ghost sat down with you, “I know you're not ugly.” You scoffed at him, not believing him. “I'm serious.” He said.
“I bet you're not ugly either.” You told him, “take it off.” You said with a little tease. He could see you smile through that mask.
“Only if you do.” He responded. You looked around the room, “you don’t have to Cat.” He said
“No, just, not here.” You stood up then Ghost stood up and followed you to your room.
Shutting the door behind you, you sat on your bed, patting the space next to you. “Thank you for being a friend. It’s scary how alike we are. I only have one friend back at hom, well, two if you could his husband, you’d like him. He’s full of trauma like me.” You chuckled.
“Anytime.” He said. You looked at him and then placed your hands on your mask. Slowly you pulled it up revealing your face. Your hair is in French braids but a little messier. He sees the scar on your face, a big burn scar all over your cheek, and partly on your forehead, but he still thinks you are beautiful.
“I don’t see the ugliness,” he said stroking your scarred cheek.
“Show me your face?” you asked. He pulled his mask up placing it down on yours and he ruffled his hair. He had a deep scar on his lower cheek down to his Adam's apple, “your handsome. The scar makes you look, dangerous.” You admitted.
“I am dangerous.” He replied. You giggled, and his heart started to beat faster. “And so are you Cat.”
You wanted to kiss him and like he read your mind he placed both hands on your cheeks and pulled you close kissing you passionately. He was going to help you feel normal, to feel spoiled and loved for the first time in your life.
"Focus, George. Focus"
Sir with that voice?!
😳
"You Can Call Her Phone" Series (George's Version)
author's note : okay here's the george version!!
pairing : George Russell x Fem!Reader
warnings : swearing, shitty men, and not proof read
word count : 597
“Darling!” George calls out to you from the kitchen. You’re currently folding laundry on the couch, and apparently nowhere near your phone. “Who’s this Josh Do Not Answer on your phone?” His question makes you groan and that makes him even more curious. “I’m going to answer it!”
“Wait!” You call out, jumping up from your spot to stop him, but you’re too late, speaker already next to his ear the by the time you get to the kitchen.
“Hello Josh!” George’s voice is cheery to the point of disgust and he’s smiling widely at you in way that makes you narrow your eyes. You try to grab the phone from him, but he just dodges your advances. You think Josh is talking, but you’re too focused on trying to grab the phone instead of straining your ears to hear him speak.
George’s eyes then narrow and he frowns, at which you stop trying to grab the phone and just wait. “Now, I don’t think that’s true at all mate.” He then directs himself towards you. “YN, you’ve told this Josh fellow that we’re dating right?”
His question makes you confused, because of course you have. And also, you’ve been dating for well over 2 years, there’s no way he could miss it. “Of course I have.” You’re sure you are loud enough for Josh to hear you over the phone.
“Yeah, she says that’s not true, Josh, and I have to believe her. But also, we’ve been together for almost three years, so there’s no way you could miss it. I’m sure it’s all over your social media because I’m a famous Formula One driver and she’s an amazing lawyer.” The subtle —not— brag causes you to roll your eyes, but it stops you from wanting to grab your phone and instead listen to how this plays out. “Let me listen,” you whisper to him as Josh is talking again and George nods, moving the phone away so he can put it on speaker.
“—She’s been giving me signals, mate. I’m talking sex eyes and lip biting.” That makes you roll your eyes even harder. “So, even if you two have been dating for a little while there’s no way she’s been loyal to you, not with the way she's been with me. Probably fucked half the grid behind your back.” That makes you scoff, and George can’t stop you from grabbing the phone from his hand.
“Hi Josh, this is YN,” your voice must be a shock to him, “I just wanted to let you know that those ‘sex eyes’ I’ve been making at you were actually ‘please get the fuck away from me you perv’ eyes.” George looks even more amused, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. “I will also be filling another complaint with HR on Monday for the harassment after work. I think that will be enough to terminate your contract and get you a pretty long list of places to not even think about applying to after your unemployment.” At that you end the call, placing your phone back down on the counter and then giving your boyfriend a stern look. “And this is why he’s Josh Do Not Answer on my phone, George.”
He just shrugs, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you in. “Yeah, but if I hadn’t done that I wouldn’t have gotten to see you be all Lawyer YN on him.” He pauses to give you a quick kiss. “And you know I think Lawyer YN is incredibly sexy.”
Proceed With Caution // Evan Buckley
IN WHICH: The reader doesn’t expect to become involved in a hostage situation with her fiance’s older sister, the older sister’s best friend and the best friend’s date from hell. With the addition of a SWAT member, how will the taking of dispatch change?
Warnings: Swearing, blood, threats, angst, guns, hostage/kidnapping
Words: 5.9k
A/N: Recently got into the tv show 9-1-1 and completely fell in love with Buck so here I am writing for him as well. This takes place during the season three episode ‘The Taking of Dispatch 9-1-1’. Reader and Buck are already in an established relationship.
TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX/ASK PLEASE!
Masterlist
The apartment was quiet as the sound of your keys clattered in the bowl on the countertop. It was pretty early in the morning, so you had no doubts that Buck would be just waking up. On his days off, he would use the first day to catch up on sleep; based on prior times, he would be up in half an hour.
“Buck?” You called out from the kitchen. You heard a groan from the loft where Buck was in the process of waking up, “I forgot to drop off that book Maddie wants to borrow. When I get back, do you want to get breakfast?”
A grumble you somehow translated to approval was what you received in response. You jogged up the stairs to the loft to grab the book from your bookshelf. Buck’s bare leg stretched out from underneath the comforter on your side. The soft sighs Buck made in his sleepy state tugged at your heart; the sighs grew louder when you bent to kiss his head.
Keep reading
How to find your favourite driver
Nico Hulkenberg: Kindergarten drop off
Kevin Magnussen: FIA jail cell
Zhou Guanyu: A photoshoot for a fashion magazine
Valtteri Bottas: Go somewhere where you wouldn't expect people to have their whole arse out. He will show up
Yuki Tsunoda: Go to the highest rated restaurant you can find. He will come.
Daniel Ricciardo: Texas
Logan Sargeant: Underneath an amreican flag
Alex Albon: Become a cat, let him come to you
Esteban Ocon: In an alley somewhere making tiktoks
Pierre Gasly: COD lobby, most probably beefing with a 14 year old so you will have to wait your turn
Fernando Alonso: Conduct some questionable business, eventually he will give you a call
Lance Stroll: You wont find him unless he wants you to
Oscar Piastri: Sorry, he only spawns at tracks during race weekends
Lando Norris: Top step of the podium *air horn sound**air horn sound**Sunglasses emoji**fuckboy emoji(you know which one I mean)*
Carlos Sainz: Just stand on the side of any bike trail, he will turn up eventually
Charles Leclerc: A high end designer boutique for dogs
Lewis Hamilton: Any red carpet event of your choosing
George Russell: Outside Buckingham Palace
Sergio Perez: Locate Helmut Marko, now locate the furthest point away from him. Voila, you have found Checo
Max Verstappen: Start sim racing. What? You thought you could meet him irl? Don't be ridiculous
Salt in the wound
a/n: go and listen to Salt in the wound by Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Dacus.
summary: After Stephen's accident you try to take care of him but he constantly crosses the line with you. One day he adds too much salt into your wound.
pairing: Stephen Strange x f!reader
warnings: angst, angst, angst, hurt no comfort.
You walked into his New York apartment where the now-familiar smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey hung around. Piles of dirty and mostly broken dishes were the only thing on the kitchen counter. The man you loved was sitting at the table struggling to hold a pen.
“Let me help you” you said softly and approached him.
“No!” he yelled at you. You weren’t used to this, to him treating you like this. “Go. Away.” he snapped.
“I brought you some food” you sighed. You placed take-out Chinese food from his favourite restaurant in front of him. “I’m gonna clean a bit so you can rest” you send him a shy smile.
“Are you deaf or supid?” for the first time in a few days his eyes connected with yours. “You graduated from medical school at the top of your class so I suggest that you should visit a laryngologist. Dr Cronan, right?” you have never heard so much hatred in his voice. You stood there practically speechless.
“Stephen, I-, look” before you were able to finish he interrupted you.
“Can’t you form a fucking sentence?” he shouted “Poor y/n, feels the need to take care of the guy who she’s been fucking for a few months. Watch out, I might even cry” he continued.
Cruel silence filled the room, the only sound was coming from cold rain beating on large windows. You analysed his face and immediately realised that there isn’t even a slight sign of regret. He meant exactly what he said.
“Look” You took a deep breath “I know that your job was what gave your life meaning, something that made you feel complete, but there are other things that can give your life meaning” you said and came a little closer to him and tried to touch his face but before you were able to do so he pushed your hand away.
“Like what? You?” he scoffed. “You don’t mean a thing to me!” he yelled into your face. A loud thunderclap echoed in the room at the same moment as your heart broke into pieces. You loved him, you truly did. He used to be a beam of light in your day, but now, you couldn’t recognize him.
“This is the part where you apologise” you said.
“This is the part where you leave” he responded.
You took a few steps back and leaned against the wall. You closed your eyes and felt a tear falling down your cheek.
•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•
Eight months ago, after a thirteen hours-long operation, two brilliant neurosurgeons, you and Stephen, sat down on the floor of the operation room and laughed about the facial expression of the guy they just saved.
“God, I'm starving” you said in between laughs.
“Would you like to get out of here? I know a phenomenal Chinese restaurant a few blocks away” he offered.
“Only if you are paying” you playfully smacked his arm.
“It’s a date then” he smirked and helped you to get up.
It was late November night, and the streets of New York were almost empty. You walked next to him chatting about stuff you two liked. You were surprised you two had so much in common. Even though you were extremely tired, the night went smoothly and the food was truly phenomenal. When you two finally decided to leave the restaurant you noticed that the snow was falling.
“It’s the first fall of snow this year” you smiled and he came a little closer to you. Slow music from the restaurant you just left was playing in the background.
“Before you go, may I steal one dance from you?” he asked.
“How could I refuse such an offer?” you smirked.
He placed one hand on your waist and with the other grabbed yours. You were slowly dancing around, pretending that the world did not exist. He watched your face and how it glistened as the snow fell on it. He let go of your waist and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear.
“Y/n, can I kiss you?” he asked shyly. Instead of saying anything, you leaned in. That was the beginning of it all.
•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•
“Loving you Stephen is a prison and I was willing to buy my own chain” you whispered “I tried, I really did but I can’t handle this anymore” your eyes locked again with his. “This is a goodbye” you stated.
Deep down you wanted him to say that he’s sorry, that he’s going to change, that he needs you. You wanted to hear once again how much he loves you and how important you are but you knew that this is not going to happen. You grabbed your bag from the counter and left his apartment, walked into the lift and sighed deeply. Your world had just fallen apart but the one around you had to maintain peace. You put your sling ring on your fingers and drew a portal Sanctum Sanctorum where you were Master of the Mystic Arts and more importantly Sorceress Supreme.
MASTERLIST
misunderstood hero with a heart of gold - mv1
summary: max verstappen has never been one to read books, but everything changes when he comes across a pretty booktuber who describes him better than anyone else did before
word count: 8.2k + social media posts
folkie radio: another one of my babies finally sees the light of day 🥹 this fic is really special and i was lowkey gatekeeping it but i feel ready to share it, plss take care of it <3 i hope you like it
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
Max Verstappen was bored.
It was late and he was alone in his hotel room. He had a race the following day and he knew better than staying up late. His team was already on his ass for sim racing at ungodly hours of the night when he had a race, but nevertheless, he was bored and not sleepy yet.
He scrolled through his phone, not really paying attention to what popped up on his Instagram feed, Tiktok for you page or Twitter timeline.
After a few minutes, his finger landed on the YouTube app, one that he barely used if he was completely honest, but for some reason he never deleted it.
A bunch of videos showed up on his main page, most of them about F1, gaming, fitness or cats. He scrolled through the thumbnails absentmindedly until one title caught his eye: "Formula 1 Drivers as Romance Book Character Tropes."
Max had no idea how that video ended up in his suggestions page. He wasn't much of a reader—he had only read two books in his entire life, for crying out loud— but curiosity got the better of him. He clicked on the video.
The screen shifted to a bright and lively setup, where a young woman with vibrant energy and a contagious smile greeted her viewers. "Hey everyone! Welcome back to my channel. Today, we have a fun video where I'll be pairing Formula 1 drivers with romance book tropes!"
Max found himself smiling for some reason, he thought she was really engaging and funny — and really pretty—. He leaned back against his pillows, more intrigued by the second.
"As some of you might already know, books are not my only passion, I'm also a huge Formula 1 fan since I was a little kid thanks to my dad, so I thought it would be fun to do a little crossover of my two obsessions."
Max grinned again, finding himself oddly invested in this unexpected combination of romance literature and Formula 1. Or maybe just mesmerized by the pretty girl who was talking on his screen.
"Let's begin with Mercedes," she said, clapping her hands together, "Lewis Hamilton is definitely our 'Charming Prince Charming.' He's got the looks, the talent, and that air of royalty about him."
Max chuckled, thinking it was a fitting description for his rival.
"Now for George Russell," she continued, "I'm going with 'The Boy Next Door Who Grew Up Hot.' I mean, have you seen his glow-up?"
Max chuckled again, nodding in agreement. George had indeed transformed quite a bit since his Williams days.
"Moving on to Ferrari," she continued enthusiastically. Max wondered if that was her favorite team on the grid, "Charles Leclerc is our classic 'Childhood Best Friend You've Always Had a Crush On.' He's got that sweet, familiar charm, but with a spark that makes your heart race every time you see him."
Max raised an eyebrow, surprised by the change in description. He had to admit, it fit Charles quite well.
"And for Carlos Sainz," she paused dramatically, "he's either our 'Older Brother's Best Friend' or the 'Bad Guy Who's Mean to Everyone but His Sweetheart', just think about it, he's got that rugged exterior, but you just know he's a total sweetheart deep down."
Max laughed, realizing she had Carlos pegged perfectly. He watched with growing interest as she continued.
"Now, let's talk about McLaren," she said with a sparkle in her eye. "Lando Norris is our 'Adorkable Comedian Who Steals Your Heart.' He's funny, relatable, and has a way of making you fall for him before you even realize it," Max grinned at the description of his good friend, "And Oscar Piastri... he's 'The Shy Genius.' Quiet, reserved, but incredibly talented and intelligent. He might not be the loudest in the room, but he's someone you'd definitely want on your side."
Max nodded in agreement, thinking of how Oscar had impressed everyone since joining McLaren. She continued pairing each driver with a character trope, she described Daniel as the "Life of the Party with a Sensitive Soul," highlighting his infectious energy and hidden depths. Pierre was dubbed the "Resilient Underdog," emphasizing his ability to bounce back from setbacks. Yuki was described as the "Fiery Spitfire with a Soft Center" and Logan was labeled the "Rookie with Untapped Potential," suggesting a character arc of growth and discovery.
With each driver's description, Max's anticipation grew. He found himself eagerly awaiting his own characterization, both curious and slightly apprehensive about how the pretty girl with an obsession with books and Formula 1 would describe him.
When she finally got to Red Bull, he sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued.
"Now for Sergio Perez," she said, "he's our 'Loyal Wingman Who Deserves His Own Happy Ending.' Always there to support, but with a story of his own waiting to be told."
Max nodded, thinking it was a pretty accurate description of his teammate.
"And finally, saved the best for last," she said, her eyes twinkling, "we have Max Verstappen."
Max held his breath, oddly nervous about how this stranger would categorize him.
"Max is our 'Misunderstood Hero with a Heart of Gold,'" she said with a warm smile. "Often perceived as cold or distant, but actually deeply caring and protective of those close to him. He's the type who shows his love through actions rather than words."
Max felt his cheeks warm significantly. This description caught him completely off guard. It wasn't the usual 'aggressive driver' or 'arrogant champion' narrative he was used to hearing. Instead, it felt... true. Uncomfortably true. He wasn't sure how to feel about being seen so accurately by a stranger.
As the video ended after she said her goodbyes, Max found himself staring at his phone screen, replaying her words in his mind, his thumb hovering over the comment section. He had never left a comment on a YouTube video before, but something about this one compelled him to break that habit.
After a moment's hesitation, he tapped the comment box and began typing, Once he was done, he paused, reading over his words. It felt strange, almost vulnerable, to acknowledge her characterization of him. But there was also something liberating about it. He added a thumbs-up emoji at the end and hit 'Post' before he could second-guess himself.
As Max set his phone down and settled into bed, a small smile played on his lips. He had a important race the following day, but all he wanted to think and dream about was the pretty stranger who had somehow seen through his carefully crafted public persona.
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
liked by username1, username2 and 10,725 others
f1gossip “I went to bed early last night. Just listened to the team’s orders, you know?”
Max Verstappen for media day today, however he left a comment on a YouTube video around 2:46 am 😭
view all comments
username1 HES SOOOOO
username2 the fact that he left a comment on a BOOKTUBER’S channel MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU DONT EVEN READ BOOKS 😭
username3 he looks so pretty tho
username4 MAX WE ALL SAW YOU
username5 max was actually checking which romance trope is him according to booktubers
username6 HES SO RANDOM
username7 max’s search history: lestappen as fictional couples
liked by username1, username2 and 102,438 others
ynreadsbooks in honor of max verstappen x3 world champion commenting on my latest video (which is insane to say out loud wtf) should i do another f1 themed video?? any suggestions?
view all comments
username1 YES QUEEN
username2 that max comment was so random but so real
username3 max verstappen, the man who has read two books in 27 years watching booktubers was not on my bingo card
username4 @/maxverstappen1 you favorite youtuber will do another video about you
username5 BOOKS WITH RACING THEMES
username6 books inspired by f1 circuits would be fun
username7 @/maxverstappen drop a suggestion
maxverstappen1 started following ynreadsbooks
liked by username1, username2 and 15,836 others
f1gossip Max Verstappen was seen outside of a bookshop in Monaco today !
view all comments
username1 BABYYYY
username2 max ??? bookshop ????
username3 WHAT SHIFTED
username4 he thought it was jimmyz
username5 HEELPP what is he doing there
username6 hello i work there. he arrived with a list of books in hand that he wanted, he bought around 15 action and fantasy books
↳ username1 FOR REAL???
↳ username2 max said book girl summer
↳ username3 this is so random
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If someone had told Max that this year he would spend his summer break reading, he would've laughed at their faces. Yet here he was, lounging by the pool in his Monaco house, a book in his hands and a smile on his face.
As he turned the page of "The Martian," the latest sci-fi recommendation from YN, Max couldn't help but reflect on how different this summer break was.
Usually, his days off were filled with lavish yacht parties, exclusive clubs, or intense training sessions and hours of sim racing to stay sharp for the second half of the season. But now, he found himself eagerly devouring books and spending hours chatting with YN about plots, characters, and everything in between.
As the weeks passed, Max found himself growing increasingly close to YN, despite never having met her in person. Their text conversations flowed effortlessly, ranging from in-depth discussions about the books they were reading to playful banter about racing and life in general.
Max was surprised by how much he enjoyed her company, even in this digital form. Her wit, intelligence, and genuine interest in his thoughts beyond his racing persona were refreshing. He found himself sharing things he rarely discussed with others, and looking forward to her messages became a highlight of his day.
He also thought she was absolutely gorgeous.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed with a new message from her.
Max chuckled, about to reply when he heard the doorbell. He remembered Lando and Daniel were coming over for dinner. As he got up to let them in, he quickly typed a response, telling her that he would talk to her later.
"Well, well, well," Daniel's voice boomed as Max opened the door. "If it isn't the newly minted bookworm of Formula 1!"
Lando peered around Daniel's shoulder, "I half expected to find you wearing glasses and a sweater vest, mate."
"Very funny, guys. Come in," Max rolled his eyes as he stepped away from the door.
Ever since his friends noticed his brand new habit, they took it upon themselves to tease him whenever they could. As they made their way to the backyard, Daniel spotted the book on the lounger.
"The Martian?" he read, picking it up. "Isn't this a bit advanced for your reading level, Maxy?"
"Ha ha," Max deadpanned, snatching the book back. "It's actually really good. It's about this astronaut who gets stranded on Mars and has to use science and engineering to survive-"
"Whoa, whoa," Lando interrupted, holding up his hands. "Who are you and what have you done with Max Verstappen?"
Daniel draped an arm around Max's shoulders. "I think our boy here is trying to impress a certain bookish YouTuber. What was her name again? YN?"
Max felt his cheeks warm. "It's not like that. We just... talk about books and stuff."
"And stuff," Daniel repeated, wiggling his eyebrows. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
Max rolled his eyes, trying to brush off their teasing. "Seriously, it's not like that. We just have a lot in common."
Daniel and Lando exchanged knowing glances before bursting into laughter.
"Sure, mate," Daniel said, patting Max on the back. "Whatever you say."
They settled by the pool, beers in hand, and started chatting about the upcoming races and their plans for the rest of the summer. Despite the playful ribbing, Max found himself genuinely enjoying their company. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his friends.
As the evening wore on, the conversation eventually circled back to Max's books and his little friend on his phone.
"So, Max," Lando started, a mischievous glint in his eye, "have you color-coded your bookshelf yet? Or are you more of a chronological order kind of guy?"
"Nah, mate. I bet he organizes them by how many times YN has mentioned them," Daniel chimed in, "Top shelf is probably her favorites, right Maxy?"
Max felt his cheeks flush, but he couldn't help grinning. "You two are impossible."
"When are you finally going to meet her in person anyway?" Lando said, sipping from his beer.
Max shrugged nonchalantly, trying to hide the slight flutter in his chest. "I don't know. That's not something I've really thought about,"
He lied. In truth, the thought of meeting YN had crossed his mind countless times. The idea of finally seeing the girl who had captivated him with her intelligence, humor, and beauty made his heart race. He'd catch himself daydreaming about her smile, wondering if it was as warm and infectious in person as it seemed in her videos. But he wasn't ready to admit that to his friends just yet.
Lando and Daniel exchanged a look, clearly not buying Max's nonchalant act.
"Oh come on," Lando scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You expect us to believe that? You've been glued to your phone for weeks, mate."
"I bet he's already planned their first date," Daniel leaned in, "What'll it be, Max? A romantic book reading by candlelight? Or maybe a visit to the library?"
Max felt his cheeks heating up again. "It's not like that, guys. We're just friends."
"Friends who talk every day and have you blushing like a schoolgirl," Lando teased, nudging Max with his elbow.
"I do not blush like a schoolgirl," Max protested, knowing full well that his face was probably bright red by now.
"Sure, sure," Daniel said with a wink. "Just friends. So, have you at least thought about inviting her to a race? You know, show her what you do when you're not reading about Mars?"
"Why would I invite her to a race, that would be weird," Max protested again, "And she already knows what I do, she's a fan of the sport."
"Man, you're so stubborn sometimes," Lando rolled his eyes at him, "If you like this girl, why don't you invite her to a race? It could be a great way to finally meet in person."
"And who said that I liked her," once again, Max's defensive self came through.
Daniel and Lando shared an exasperated look before turning back to Max.
"Come on, mate," Daniel said, his tone gentler now. "It's pretty obvious. We've never seen you this invested in someone before. Not to mention, you're reading books voluntarily for the first time since... well, ever."
"It's written all over your face," Lando said, shaking his head. "You like her, and there's no shame in that. You light up every time your phone buzzes. It's kind of adorable, actually."
Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew his friends were right, but admitting it out loud felt like a big step. "Okay, fine. Maybe I do like her. But it's complicated, you know? We've never even met in person."
"That's exactly why you should invite her to a race," Lando insisted. "It's the perfect opportunity. She gets to see you in your element, and you get to finally meet face-to-face."
"Plus," Daniel added with a mischievous grin, "if things go well, you can always show her your trophy collection. I hear that's a great way to impress the ladies."
Max couldn't help but laugh at that. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
"Maybe," Daniel shrugged, "but I'm also right. What have you got to lose?"
Max pondered this for a moment. The idea of meeting YN in person both thrilled and terrified him. What if they didn't click in real life the way they did over text? But then again, what if they did?
"I'll think about it," Max finally conceded.
Lando and Daniel exchanged triumphant grins.
"That's our boy," Lando said, patting his back.
After a few more beers and food, Lando and Daniel left.
As the night deepened, Max found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The conversation with Lando and Daniel kept replaying in his mind. His phone sat on the nightstand, silent but somehow still demanding his attention.
Max's thoughts raced. Should he text YN? Invite her to Zandvoort? The idea made his heart beat faster. He imagined seeing her in person for the first time, wondering if her smile would be as pretty as it was in her videos. But doubt crept in too. What if things were awkward? What if the chemistry they had online didn't translate to real life?
He rolled onto his side, eyeing his phone. The urge to reach out to her was strong, as it always was. Max realized that Lando and Daniel were right - he did like her. A lot. The thought of meeting her filled him with equal parts excitement and nervousness.
Taking a deep breath, Max grabbed his phone. Before he could overthink it, he started typing.
Hey YN, hope I'm not messaging too late. I was wondering if you'd like to come to the Dutch GP at Zandvoort? It's the first race after the summer break, and my home race. Thought it might be fun if you could make it.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself. The wait for her response felt eternal. When his phone finally buzzed, Max's heart leapt.
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ynreadsbooks this week’s video will be delayed for some ~personal reasons ☺️
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username1 GIRL
username2 ARE YOU GOING WHERE I THINK YOU’RE GOING
username3 f1 x books this is literally me
username4 hot girls support max verstappen
username5 ahh if she’s going to the gp i’ll be so happy bc she’s a huge fan
username6 the way roles reversed and now max is his fan 😭
redbullracing We can’t wait 💙
↳ username1 REDBULL???
↳ username2 AHHH THEY PROBABLY INVITED HER
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As Max headed to Zandvoort Circuit for the Dutch Grand Prix, he felt the familiar weight of expectations settling on his shoulders.
The second half of the season loomed ahead, and the pressure to maintain his championship lead was on. He knew the team was counting on him to deliver strong results, especially at his home race where the orange-clad fans would be out in full force.
But amidst the pressure and responsibility, there was another emotion bubbling up inside him - a giddy excitement that he couldn't quite contain.
The thought of finally meeting YN in person after months of texts, calls, and shared book recommendations made his heart race in a way that had nothing to do with driving at a car at a very fast speed.
As he drove to the track, Max found himself smiling at random moments, his mind drifting to imagine what it would be like to see her smile in person, to hear her laugh without the filter of a phone call.
Max realized that for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to a race weekend for reasons that extended beyond the track.
Unfortunately, his busy schedule kept them from meeting right away. Media commitments, team briefings, and practice sessions consumed his time, leaving him feeling frustrated and guilty for not being able to see her sooner. He sent her a quick message apologizing for the delay, promising they'd meet after qualifying.
As he made his way to the garage, a familiar voice called out behind him.
"Oi, Max! Ready for the big day?"
Max turned to see Daniel jogging up to him, his trademark grin in place.
"Yeah, should be a good quali," Max replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking about qualifying, mate. Your special guest arrives today, right?"
Max felt his cheeks warm. "How did you even remember that?"
"Please," Daniel scoffed. "It's all you've been talking about for weeks. So, have you met her yet?"
"No, my schedule's been packed. We're supposed to meet after quali."
"Ah, saving the best for last, eh?" Daniel's grin widened, "Smart move. Nothing like the adrenaline of a good qualifying session to make a great first impression."
"Or to completely mess it up," Max muttered.
"Hey, none of that," Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just be yourself. She already likes you for who you are, remember?"
Max nodded, feeling a bit reassured. "Thanks, Dan."
With a deep breath, Max headed into the garage, Daniel's words echoing in his mind.
Qualifying went smoothly, with Max securing a front row start to the delight of the Dutch fans. The cheers of the home crowd were deafening as he climbed out of the car, but his mind was elsewhere.
After the post-qualifying interviews, Max sent YN a quick text letting her know that he was free now and she let him know that she was around the hospitality area.
As he walked towards there, Max spotted YN standing near one of the motorhomes, looking around with wide eyes. She hadn't seen him yet, and for a moment, Max just watched her, taking in the sight of the girl who had been on his mind for months now.
She was even more gorgeous in person than he had imagined.
Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she took in the bustling paddock around her. The way the sunlight caught her hair, the gentle curve of her smile as she observed everything with wonder - it all took Max's breath away.
He noticed little details he couldn't have seen through a screen: the way her eyes sparkled, the subtle freckles across her nose, the graceful way she moved as she looked around.
Taking a deep breath, Max walked over, his heart pounding. "YN?"
She turned, her face lighting up with a radiant smile that made Max's breath catch. "Max! Finally!"
They moved toward each other, and without hesitation, Max pulled her into a hug. The embrace felt natural, as if they'd done this a hundred times before. He was aware of how perfectly she fit in his arms, the subtle scent of her perfume, and the warmth of her body against his.
"It's so good to finally meet you," he murmured into her hair. "I'm so sorry it took so long, this weekend's been crazy."
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with understanding in her eyes. "It's okay, Max. That qualifying was amazing! I've never experienced anything like it."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Come on, let me show you around."
He took her hand and he was struck by how natural it felt. Her fingers intertwined with his perfectly, and a warm sensation spread from their joined hands throughout his body.
They strolled through the paddock, Max pointing out the various team motorhomes, the garages, and the media center. YN was all wide-eyed fascination, asking questions and soaking in every detail. As they walked, Max found himself relaxing more and more, his previous nerves about their chemistry being gone fading away.
As they rounded a corner, they nearly bumped into Lando Norris. Who couldn't help but smirk at the sight of their hands intertwined.
"You guys met already!" he cheerfully said, "You must be YN."
Her cheeks flushed, clearly surprised that Max had mentioned her to his friends. Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her reaction.
"Yeah, this is YN," Max said, unable to keep the smile off his face, "Meet Lando, the perpetual pain in my ass."
"Nice to finally meet the girl who's got Max reading," YN laughed, and Lando extended his hand, "Quite the accomplishment."
"Nice to meet you too, Lando," YN said, shaking his hand. "I've enjoyed watching you race, I'm a big fan. Congrats on the pole position."
"Cheers," Lando replied, then turned to Max with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, has he bored you with car talk yet, or has he actually remembered how to discuss books?"
Max rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Shouldn't you be preparing for tomorrow, Lando?"
"Alright, alright, I can take a hint," Lando chuckled. "Enjoy your tour, lovebirds!"
As Lando walked away, Max felt a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. He glanced at YN, relieved to see her smiling.
"Sorry about him," Max said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Lando has a way of making everything awkward."
YN laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. "It's fine. He seems like fun."
They continued their walk, finally making their way to the rooftop terrace of the Red Bull hospitality area. The view was stunning, offering a panoramic look at the circuit and the sea of orange-clad fans below.
"This is incredible," YN said, leaning against the railing and taking it all in. "Thank you for showing me around, Max."
"Of course," Max said, standing beside her. "I'm really glad you could come."
They stood there for a moment, enjoying the view and each other's company. Max felt a sense of contentment wash over him, the stress of the weekend melting away in her presence.
"Max," YN said softly, turning to face him. "I know this weekend is important for you, and I don't want to be a distraction. But I'm really happy to be here and to finally meet you."
"You're not a distraction," Max replied, reaching out to take her hand again. "You're the best part of this weekend, honestly."
They shared a smile, Max was well aware of the butterflies that fluttered on his stomach and the high school girl blush his friends teased him about, but he didn't care. He felt happy with the pretty girl who had been his source of comfort for months, finally face to face.
"You know," YN said softly, "when I made that video calling you a misunderstood hero with a heart of gold, I never imagined I'd get to see it firsthand. But being here, seeing how you are with your team, with the fans… I was right about you, Max Verstappen."
Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her words. He had always been guarded about his public image, but hearing her perspective meant more than he could ever imagine.
"I'm glad you think so," he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You know, that video... it changed things for me. Not just because it led to us talking, but because it made me reflect on a lot of things."
"Who would've thought," YN said with a smile, "When I recorded that video, I never thought you would ever see it, let alone have an impact on you and let alone lead us to talking and me being here."
"Everything happens for a reason, right?"
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ynreadsbooks best experience ever. thank you, thank you, THANK YOU 🥺💙
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username1 OMFGGGG
username2 no one deserved this more than her for real
username3 SHE MET MAX TOO?? DESERVED
redbullracing Come back soon! 😉
username4 red bull finally inviting people who actually love the sport
username5 GIRL WE NEED A VLOGGGG
username6 omg how did this happen spiiiill
↳ ynreadsbooks let's say i got invited by the world champion
↳ username1 WTF
↳ username2 so MAX invited her not redbull help he really did become a fan after that video
danielricciardo Hope to see you around soon, love ! 👀
↳ username3 how do i sign up for this
username7 THAT PIC OF MAX IS SO BOYFRIEND CODED
maxversteppen1 Thank you so much for coming and making this day special ☺️
↳ username1 OMG MAX
↳ username2 i'd be screaming if i was her
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maxverstappen1 Enjoyed every moment in Zandvoort with this amazing atmosphere and the best company 🧡
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username1 KIIING
username2 how can a man be so babygirl
username3 all smiles even tho he finished p2
danielricciardo 🦁🦁
landonorris Simply lovely
↳ username1 menace
username4 bro who got you smiling like that
ynreadsbooks ❤️
↳ username2 biggest max girlie
↳ username3 WE NEED THAT VLOG
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When it came time for YN to leave the Netherlands, Max insisted on driving her to the airport himself. The car ride was filled with comfortable silence and soft conversation, both of them trying to stretch out their remaining time together.
Despite their short time together, Max found himself completely smitten, captivated by YN's intelligence, humor, and the way her eyes lit up when she talked about books or reacted to the thrill of the race.
He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was head over heels for her.
As they stood in the departure terminal, Max felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. He hesitated, his heart racing, but ultimately settled for a long, warm hug, breathing in her scent and committing it to memory. As he watched her walk through security, he already found himself missing her presence.
Now, a week later, Max was in Monza for the Italian Grand Prix. The day had been busy with media commitments and team meetings. Finally back in the quiet of his motorhome, Max flopped onto the couch, feeling drained but content. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and hit the FaceTime button next to YN's name.
Her smiling face appeared on the screen, and Max felt an immediate surge of warmth.
"Hey, you," she said, her voice soft and welcoming even through the phone's speakers.
"Hey," Max replied, unable to keep the grin off his face. "How's your day been?"
"Oh, you know, the usual. Editing videos, reading, missing the excitement of the paddock," YN teased. "How about you? Surviving the media circus?"
"Barely," Max groaned dramatically, "I swear, if I have to answer one more question about RedBull and their big mess, I might go mad."
YN laughed, the sound making Max's heart skip a beat. "Poor Max. Whatever shall we do to take your mind off your beloved team?"
"Well," Max said, shifting to get more comfortable, "I've been reading that new sci-fi book you recommended. 'The Martian-like Odyssey to Titan,' or whatever it's called."
"'Project Hail Mary,'" she corrected, "And? What do you think so far?"
"It's incredible!" Max's eyes lit up, "I mean, the science is fascinating, and the way the main character problem-solves is just... I don't know, it reminds me a bit of what we do in racing, you know? Constantly adapting, finding solutions on the fly."
"That's exactly why I thought you'd like it! The way Andy Weir writes about scientific problem-solving is so engaging."
They dove into an animated discussion about the book, Max marveling at how easily conversation flowed between them, how YN's passion for books was infectious. As they talked, a thought that had been brewing in Max's mind for days suddenly surfaced.
"YN," Max said, his voice softer than before. "There's actually something I've been wanting to ask you."
"Oh? What is it, Max?" she tilted her head, curiosity evident in her expression.
Max took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like he was about to qualify for a crucial race. "Well, I was wondering... have you ever been to Monaco?"
"No, actually, I haven't," YN's eyebrows raised in surprise, "It's always been on my travel wish list, though. Why do you ask?"
Max felt his heart rate pick up. He'd rehearsed this moment in his head countless times over the past few days, but now that it was here, he found himself fumbling for words.
"Well, you see, I have a two-week break coming up before the Baku GP, and I was thinking... maybe... if you're free, of course, and if you'd like to... you could come visit me in Monaco?"
The words tumbled out faster than he intended, and Max felt a blush creeping up his neck. He watched YN's face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. His mind raced with possibilities - what if she said no? What if this was too forward?
YN's eyes widened, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. "Oh, Max, that's... wow. That's really sweet of you to offer."
Max, sensing a hint of hesitation, quickly added, "You could stay at my place. I have plenty of room, and it would be great to have you around. Plus I have two adorable cats that I'm sure you'd love."
YN's expression softened, a mix of excitement and uncertainty in her eyes. "That sounds amazing, Max. But… are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose on your personal space or your time off."
Truth was, Max wanted to spent every free moment he had with her, but he wasn't sure how to let her know without sounding too forward or like a creep, so he just pressed on.
"You wouldn't be imposing at all, I promise. I really want us to spend more time together, away from the craziness of the race weekends. And I'd love to show you around Monaco."
He watched as YN bit her lip, considering his offer. The silence stretched for a moment, and Max found himself holding his breath.
"If you're not comfortable staying at my place," he added quickly, "I could book you a hotel room, or there are some great Airbnbs with amazing views of the harbor. Whatever makes you feel most at ease. I just… I really want to see you again."
As he spoke, Max realized just how true his words were. The thought of having YN in his space, sharing meals, exploring the city together - it filled him with a warmth he couldn't quite describe. It was more than just attraction; there was a comfort in her presence that he craved.
YN smiled, a warm look in her eyes. "You really mean that, don't you?"
"I do. Look, I know it might seem like a big ask, but I just... I can't stop thinking about how much fun we have together. And Monaco is beautiful this time of year. We could go for drives along the coast, have dinner at some amazing restaurants, or just relax by the pool if you prefer. No pressure, just... us. And well, the cats."
Max held his breath, waiting for her response. The thought of having YN in Monaco, of being able to spend uninterrupted time with her away from the pressures of the race weekend, made his heart soar. He imagined showing her his favorite spots in the city, maybe taking her out on his boat, or just lounging by the pool and talking for hours.
"Alright, Verstappen, you've convinced me. But I have one condition."
"Name it." Max grinned, relief and excitement washing over him.
"If I'm staying at your place, you have to let me cook my infamous waffles for breakfast. They're a secret family recipe, and I guarantee they'll be the best you've ever tasted."
"Deal," Max's smile widened, a burst of joy exploding in his chest. "But I warn you, I take my waffles very seriously. They better live up to the hype."
"Oh, they will. And I can't wait to meet the cats."
As they continued to chat and make plans for YN's visit, Max felt a warmth spreading through his chest. The prospect of having YN in his home, of waking up and knowing she was just in the next room, of being able to spend lazy mornings together over homemade waffles - it all seemed almost too good to be true.
He found himself imagining what it would be like to have her there. Would she curl up on his couch with a book? Would they watch the sunset from his terrace? Would he finally get the courage to kiss her?
The thought made his heart race. He remembered the moment at the airport when he had wanted so badly to kiss her goodbye. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass by.
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The day of YN's arrival in Monaco had finally come, and Max felt like a giddy teenager preparing for his first date.
In the days leading up to YN's visit, Max had found himself unusually preoccupied with preparations. He wanted everything to be perfect for YN's stay. He'd bought new sheets for the guest bedroom, making sure they were the softest he could find. He'd stocked the fridge with an array of foods, unsure of her preferences but making sure to have options. He'd even gone so far as to buy a small collection of books he thought she might enjoy, arranging them carefully on the nightstand in her room.
The morning of her arrival, Max woke up early, his stomach a knot of excitement and nerves. He double-checked everything one last time - fresh towels in the bathroom, extra toiletries in case she forgot anything, a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen counter to brighten up the space. He felt almost silly with how much effort he was putting in, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted everything to be perfect for the girl he was smitten with.
As the time to leave for the airport approached, Max found himself pacing, checking his watch every few minutes. He'd planned the route to the airport meticulously, factoring in potential traffic to make sure he'd be there in plenty of time. Just as he was about to grab his keys and head out, the doorbell rang.
Confused, Max paused. He wasn't expecting anyone - he'd made sure to clear his schedule completely for YN's visit. Frowning slightly, he opened the door to find Lando standing there, a wide grin on his face.
"Lando? What are you doing here?" Max asked, glancing at his watch.
"What, can't a mate drop by for a visit?" Lando replied, trying to peer past Max into the apartment. "Thought we could hang out, maybe play some FIFA."
Max shifted awkwardly, blocking the doorway. "Lando, mate, I'm actually just about to head out. I can't hang out right now."
"Oh, come on," Lando's grin faltered slightly, "Just for a bit? We haven't had a proper catch-up in ages."
"I'm sorry, I really can't," Max insisted, glancing at his watch nervously. "I have to pick up a friend from the airport."
Lando's eyes narrowed suspiciously, a mischievous glint appearing. "A friend, huh? Is it that your book dream girl? You're flying her out over here?"
Max felt his face heat up, a blush creeping up his neck. He tried to deny it, but his reaction gave him away.
"It is! Oh man, this is brilliant," Lando's eyes widened in delight, "Max Verstappen, blushing like a schoolboy over a girl."
"Shut up," Max grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice. He couldn't help but smile.
"So, YN is finally gracing Monaco with her presence," Lando teased. "No wonder you've been so distracted lately. When do I get to hang out with her?"
"You don't," Max rolled his eyes, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go."
"Alright, alright," Lando stepped aside, still grinning. "But I want details later, yeah? And tell YN I said hi."
Max waved him off, hurrying to his car. Despite Lando's teasing, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The excitement was bubbling up inside him again as he drove to the airport.
As he parked and made his way to the arrivals area, Max felt his nerves almost making him want to throw up. He found himself fidgeting, alternating between pacing and sitting, his eyes glued to the arrivals board.
Finally, he saw that YN's flight had landed. His heart rate picked up as he watched the doors, scanning the crowd for her familiar face. And then, suddenly, there she was.
YN emerged from the arrivals gate, looking a bit tired from the journey but still radiant. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and when they landed on Max, her face lit up with a brilliant smile.
Max felt his breath catch in his throat. He raised his hand in a small wave, a grin spreading across his face as he walked towards her.
"Hey, Max," she said as she reached him, her voice warm and slightly breathless.
"Hey," he replied, suddenly feeling shy. "How was your flight?"
Without thinking, he pulled her into a hug. As he wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair, he felt a sense of rightness wash over him. It was as if all the pieces were falling into place.
"It was good, just long," she hugged him back tightly. "I'm so glad to be here though."
As they pulled apart, Max found himself reluctant to let go completely. He kept one hand on her back as he reached for her suitcase with the other. "Here, let me get that for you."
"Always the gentleman," YN teased, but her smile was soft and appreciative.
As they walked towards the exit, Max found himself stealing glances at her, still hardly believing she was really here. "So, um, I thought we could grab some lunch if you're hungry? Or if you're tired, we can head straight to my place so you can rest."
YN considered for a moment. "Lunch sounds great, actually. I'm starving, and I'm too excited to sleep just yet. I want to see Monaco."
Max chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at her enthusiasm. "Lunch it is then. I know just the place – it has a great view of the harbor."
As they made their way to Max's car, chatting easily about YN's flight and Max's plans for her visit, Max felt a sense of contentment he hadn't experienced in a long time. The nervousness from earlier had melted away, replaced by pure happiness.
Loading YN's suitcase into the trunk, Max caught her eye and smiled. "I'm really glad you're here, YN."
She returned his smile, her eyes sparkling. "Me too, Max. Me too."
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username1 AWEEE
username2 those are cute kittens
username3 those look like max verstappen's cats
username4 JIMMY AND SASSY VERSTAPPEN??
↳ username1 how CRAZY would it be
danielricciardo Don't hesitate to shout if he's much trouble
↳ username2 HOLD ON??
↳ ynreadsbooks he's just fine don't worry 😅
↳ username3 IS SHE REALLY WITH MAX??
↳ maxverstappen1 I'm not trouble...
↳ username1 OMFGGG
↳ username4 THIS PLOT TWIST
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Three days had passed since YN's arrival in Monaco, and Max couldn't remember a time when he'd been happier.
True to her word, YN had cooked her infamous waffles for breakfast on the second morning of her stay. As Max had taken his first bite, his eyes had widened in surprise and delight. The waffles were light and crispy on the outside, yet fluffy on the inside, with a perfect balance of sweetness and a hint of vanilla. He'd declared them the best he'd ever tasted, earning a proud smile from her.
The days that followed had been filled with laughter, conversation, and exploration. They'd spent hours by Max's pool, talking about everything and nothing. YN would often bring a book, reading aloud passages that she found particularly interesting or amusing, while Max listened, content to hear her voice and watch the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about something she loved.
They'd explored Monaco together, with Max showing YN his favorite spots and discovering new ones together. He'd taken her to the Monte Carlo Casino, where they'd marveled at the architecture and people-watched. They'd strolled through the streets of Monaco-Ville, the old town, where YN had been enchanted by the colorful buildings. They'd even spent an afternoon at the Oceanographic Museum, where YN's enthusiasm for learning had been infectious, and Max had found himself just as excited as she was about the marine life exhibits.
Throughout it all, Max felt himself falling deeper for her. It wasn't just her beauty or her intelligence that captivated him, but the way she saw the world. Her curiosity, her kindness, her ability to find joy in the smallest things - it all made Max see his surroundings through new eyes. He found himself noticing details he'd never paid attention to before, appreciating moments he might have otherwise overlooked.
What struck Max most was how easy and right it all felt. There was no pressure, no awkwardness. Being with YN was as natural as breathing. They could talk for hours without running out of things to say, but they were also comfortable in silence, simply enjoying each other's presence.
As they returned from another long day of exploring the city, both Max and YN retreated to their respective rooms to change into more comfortable clothing. Max opted for a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, relishing the feeling of being relaxed and at ease in his own home.
When he emerged from his room, he found YN already settled on his couch, her legs tucked under her, a book in her hands and one of his cats curling beside her. She was wearing one the t-shirt she picked the night she arrived when she realized she forgot to pack pajamas. It was too big for her frame but Max felt like melting knowing she was wearing his shirt.
The sight made Max's heart skip a beat. There was something so intimate and domestic about the scene - YN looking completely at home in his space, in his clothes, absorbed in a book as if she'd always been there.
Max couldn't help but smile, a warmth spreading through his chest. He found himself wanting this view in his life every day - coming home to find YN there, comfortable and content. The thought both thrilled and terrified him. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, never wanted to intertwine his life so completely with another person's.
YN looked up from her book, catching Max's gaze. Her lips curved into a soft smile. "Hey. Want to join me?"
Without hesitation, Max crossed the room. Instead of sitting next to her, he surprised both of them by lying down on the couch and resting his head in her lap. He looked up at her, his eyes vulnerable. "Would you read to me?"
YN's expression softened, her eyes twinkling with affection. "Of course," she said, her free hand moving to gently run her fingers through his hair.
Max closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation. He felt her shift slightly, getting comfortable, and then her voice filled the air, soft and melodious as she began to read.
Max's lips curved into a smile. "Emma," he murmured. "I remember you mentioning it was one of your favorites."
YN paused her reading, looking down at him with surprise and pleasure. "You remembered that?"
"Of course," Max opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "I remember everything you tell me."
A huge grin appeared in YN's face, and she bent down to press a soft kiss to Max's forehead. The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it made Max's heart flutter.
As she continued to read, her fingers still combing through his hair, Max found himself only half-listening to the words. Instead, he was acutely aware of every point of contact between them - the warmth of her lap under his head, the gentle touch of her fingers, the soft cadence of her voice washing over him.
In that moment, Max realized with startling clarity that this was what he wanted for the rest of his life. Not just the glamour of racing or the thrill of victory, but this - quiet moments of intimacy, the comfort of being with someone who understood him, who made him want to be better.
He reached up, gently taking YN's free hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. She paused in her reading, looking down at him with a question in her eyes.
"YN," Max said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm really glad you're here."
She squeezed his hand, her smile radiant. "So am I, Max. So am I."
As she resumed reading, her voice mixing with the soft sound of the Mediterranean breeze outside, Max closed his eyes again, a sense of peace settling over him. Whatever the future held, he knew that this moment, this feeling, was something he'd cherish forever.
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liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 302,479 others
ynreadsbooks monaco you're the dream 🤍
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username1 GIRL
username2 THIS ESCALATED QUICKLY
username3 how do you go from max randomly commenting one of your videos to this
username4 girl we can tell that's max dw 😭😭
username5 YOU OWE US A TWO HOUR STORYTIME VIDEO
username6 anything you want to tell us best friend?
username7 she just had a book and a dream fr
landonorris Has he bored you yet?
↳ username1 IM DYING
↳ username2 she really masterminded her way into the f1 circle
↳ ynreadsbooks he's nice, makes good smoothies 😉
↳ maxverstappen1 Good to know that ❤️
↳ landonorris I'm disgusted
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As the final day of YN's stay in Monaco dawned, Max found himself feeling so many bittersweet emotions. The past week had been nothing short of magical, and the thought of it coming to an end left a hollow feeling in his chest. She hadn't even left yet, and already he missed her.
For their final day, Max had decided to take YN out on his yacht. He wanted their last hours together to be special, just the two of them away from the bustling streets of Monaco. As they prepared for the day, packing a picnic and gathering sunscreen and towels, Max couldn't help but reflect on the past week.
Daniel and Lando had teased him mercilessly about his sudden disappearance from their usual hangouts. They'd made jokes about Max being "whipped" and how he'd fallen hard for his "YouTube dream girl." But Max didn't care. He was too happy, too caught up in the bubble of joy that surrounded him and YN.
As they boarded the yacht, the Mediterranean stretching out before them in shades of turquoise, Max felt a pang in his chest. This perfect week was coming to an end, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face reality again.
Once they were out on the open water. YN leaned over the railing, a look of wonder on her face.
"This is incredible, Max," she said, turning to him with a dazzling smile. "I can't believe I'm here, experiencing all of this."
Max moved to stand beside her, their shoulders brushing. "I'm going to miss you," he said softly, "This week has been… I don't even have words for it."
"I'm going to miss you too, Max. So much. But you know I have to go back home. I have videos to make for my channel, work stuff to catch up on…"
Max nodded, understanding but not liking it. "Maybe you could make a video about 'A Week with an F1 Driver'? I'm sure your subscribers would love that."
YN laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. "Oh yes, I'm sure that would go over well. 'Day 3: Watched Max eat his bodyweight in pasta. Day 5: Learned that F1 drivers are actually big babies when they lose at Mario Kart.'"
"I am not a baby!" Max gasped in mock offense. "I'm just… competitive."
"Uh-huh, sure," she teased, her eyes twinkling. "Is that why you pouted for an hour after I beat you?"
"I did not pout," Max protested, but he was grinning.
"You know, it's still surreal to me that a random video I published got us here. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be spending a week in Monaco with Max Verstappen, I would have laughed in their face."
Max reached out, caressing her cheek softly. "I'm glad you made that video," he said softly. "I'm glad I stumbled across it. I can't imagine not knowing you now."
As they stood together on the boat, the gentle rocking of the waves mirroring the tumultuous emotions within them, Max found his gaze drawn to YN's lips. They were slightly parted, soft and inviting. His heart raced as he lifted his eyes to meet hers, a silent question in his gaze.
YN's eyes, warm and full of affection, met his. A small, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth, and in that moment, it was all the permission Max needed.
With a gentle tug, he pulled her closer, one hand coming to rest on the small of her back while the other cupped her cheek. Time seemed to slow as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the space between them. And then, finally, their lips met.
The kiss was tender at first, a soft exploration. But as YN's arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, it deepened into something more passionate. Max poured all of his pent-up emotions into the kiss - his joy, his longing, his hope for what they could be.
When they finally parted, YN's eyes were sparkling. "You know," she said, a playful tone to her voice, "I've been waiting for you to do that all week."
Max couldn't help but laugh, a mixture of relief and happiness bubbling up inside him. "Really? All week, huh?"
"Mmhmm," she nodded, her smile widening. "I was starting to think I'd have to make the first move myself."
"Well," Max said, his voice low and teasing, "allow me to make up for lost time."
With that, he pulled her in for another kiss. This one was different from the first - more confident, more passionate. His hands roamed her back, pulling her flush against him as her fingers tangled in his hair. The world around them faded away until there was nothing but the two of them, the taste of salt on their lips, and the warmth of the setting sun on their skin.
When they broke apart this time, both were slightly dazed. Max rested his forehead against YN's, unwilling to put any distance between them.
"I really like you," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "More than I've ever liked anyone before. This week with you… it's been incredible. I don't want it to end."
YN's hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin. "I really like you too, Max," she replied, her voice equally soft. "These past few days have been like a dream."
Max pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. "I know you have to go back, but… I want to make this work. Us, I mean. If that's something you want too."
"I do want that. Very much. It might not be easy with our schedules and the distance, but I think you're worth it."
"We'll figure it out," he said, determination clear in his voice. "I'll come visit you when I can, and you can come to some of my races. We'll make time for video calls, and I'll text you so much you'll get sick of me."
YN laughed, the sound like music to Max's ears. "I don't think I could ever get sick of you," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But I'm holding you to that promise about the races. I expect VIP treatment, Mr. Verstappen."
Max grinned, pulling her close again. "For you? Always," he murmured, before capturing her lips in another kiss.
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ynreadsbooks has added to their stories
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The month following YN's stay in Monaco had been blissful happiness for both YN and Max. Their parting at the airport had been bittersweet, filled with lingering kisses and tight embraces. They had spent a good hour cuddling in Max's car in the airport parking lot, neither wanting to let go.
"I'm going to miss you so much," YN had whispered, her face buried in the crook of Max's neck.
Max had tightened his arms around her, breathing in her scent. "I'll miss you too. But we'll see each other soon, I promise."
When they finally managed to separate, their goodbye kiss had been passionate and filled with promise. As Max watched her disappear into the airport, he already felt a piece of his heart leaving with her.
In the weeks that followed, they took every opportunity to be together. Max would fly to YN's home during his breaks between races, often arriving exhausted but immediately revitalized by her presence.
Their reunions were always intense, filled with desperate kisses and roaming hands as they made up for lost time. But it was the quiet moments that Max treasured most - waking up with YN in his arms, her sleepy smile the first thing he saw; cooking breakfast together, stealing kisses between flipping pancakes; or simply sitting in comfortable silence, each lost in their own tasks but finding comfort in the other's presence.
Now, as they walked hand in hand through the paddock in Austin for the USA Grand Prix, Max felt a sense of pride and joy unlike anything he'd experienced before. Having YN by his side at a race weekend, this time as more than just a friend, felt right in a way he couldn't fully express.
"This is incredible, Max," YN breathed, squeezing his hand. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."
Max grinned, his heart swelling with affection. He loved seeing the paddock through her eyes, rediscovering the magic that he sometimes took for granted.
"Wait until you see the track," he said, pulling her closer. "And the sound when all the cars start up… there's nothing like it."
They paused for a moment, watching as a group of mechanics wheeled a set of tires past them. Max took the opportunity to really look at his girl. She was radiant in the sunlight, her hair catching the light and her eyes sparkling with excitement. He couldn't resist leaning in to place a soft kiss on her cheek.
YN turned to him, a playful smile on her lips. "What was that for?"
"Do I need a reason to kiss my girl?" Max replied, his voice low and teasing.
She laughed, the sound music to his ears. "I suppose not. But maybe save some for later? We are in public, after all."
"You're killing me," Max groaned dramatically. "How am I supposed to focus on racing when you look like that?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," YN teased, patting his chest. "After all, I hear you're quite good at this driving thing."
Their playful banter was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out. "Oi, Verstappen! Finally decided to grace us with your presence?"
Max turned to see Daniel approaching, his trademark grin in place. Lando was close behind, an equally mischievous look on his face.
"Hey guys," Max greeted, unconsciously pulling YN closer. "You remember YN, right?"
"Ah yes," Daniel's grin widened. "Nice to see you again, love."
"It's great to see you too, Daniel," she smiled warmly. "And you, Lando."
Lando's eyes darted between Max and YN, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "So, Max, finally managed to seal the deal, huh?"
Max felt his cheeks heat up, but before he could respond, YN jumped in.
"Oh, he did more than that," she said, her tone light but with a hint of something that made Max's pulse quicken. "He's been quite… impressive."
Daniel let out a low whistle while Lando burst into laughter. Max couldn't help but join in, marveling at how effortlessly YN fit into his world.
As they chatted, Max couldn't keep his hands off YN. He found himself constantly touching her - a hand on the small of her back, playing with her fingers, rubbing her arm softly. Each touch was like a spark, reminding him of their passionate reunions over the past month.
He thought back to their last meeting, just a week ago. He had flown to her place straight after he was done with some meetings in Monaco, exhausted but desperate to see her. The moment he stepped through her door, all fatigue had vanished. They had barely made it to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. The memory of her skin against his, the taste of her lips, the sound of her gasps and moans… it was enough to make him want to whisk her away to his motorhome right now.
Max was pulled from his thoughts by the approach of another familiar face. Charles Leclerc was walking towards them, his trademark charming smile in place.
"Max! Good to see you, man," Charles said, clapping Max on the shoulder before turning his attention to YN. "And who might this lovely lady be?"
Without hesitation, the words tumbled from Max's lips: "This is YN, my girlfriend."
He felt the girl stiffen slightly beside him, and for a moment, panic flared in his chest. Had he overstepped? They hadn't explicitly discussed labels yet. But when he glanced at YN, she was smiling warmly at Charles, her hand still firmly in Max's.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Charles," YN said, shaking his hand.
Charles raised an eyebrow at Max, a hint of surprise in his expression. "The pleasure is all mine. I hope you're enjoying your time in the paddock."
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, they parted ways. Max led YN towards his driver's room. Once inside the relative privacy of the small space, YN turned to him, a playful glint in her eye.
"Girlfriend, huh?" she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something Max couldn't quite identify.
Max felt a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. "I… yeah. I mean, if that's okay? I know we haven't really talked about it, but…"
YN stepped closer, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "It's more than okay, Max. I was just surprised. We've been in this beautiful bubble, and hearing you say it out loud… it made it feel real in a way it hasn't before."
Max let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His hands found their way to YN's waist, pulling her closer. "It is real," he said softly. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Feels like you're everything."
Her eyes softened, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You're everything to me too, Max. I love you."
The words hung in the air between them for a moment, both realizing it was the first time either had said it. Then Max surged forward, capturing YN's lips in a kiss that was equal parts tender and passionate.
When they broke apart. Max rested his forehead against YN's, his eyes closed as he savored the moment.
"I love you too," he whispered. "God, YN, I love you so much."
YN's answering smile was radiant and she pulled him in for another kiss.
"So," he said, his voice husky, "ready to watch your boyfriend win a race?"
YN laughed, the sound filling the small space and Max's heart. "Always," she replied. "My misunderstood hero with a heart of gold."
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