Here's What I'm Consumed With Today. How Much Carlos Lost Absolutely Everything When He And TK Broke

Enjoy the Butterflies

Daniel Ricciardo x crazy rich!Reader

Summary: in which Daniel gets dropped by his team and picked up by an heiress with a penchant for taking in strays

The heavy bass of the club still hums in your bones as you step out onto the pavement, the humid Singapore night wrapping around you like a second skin. The neon lights from Zouk, one of the city’s most exclusive nightclubs, pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat, and for a second, you stand still, relishing the quiet that follows hours of dancing, laughter, and too many cocktails.

The sounds of the party still echo behind you, a muffled roar of privilege and extravagance, but out here, it’s just you and the night.

Or so you think.

Your attention is pulled toward a commotion just a few meters away. You blink, trying to make sense of the scene. There’s a man — definitely not local, tall, and a little scruffy compared to the sharp-dressed crowd you’re used to — being unceremoniously escorted out by one of the bouncers. His head hangs low, and his shoulders are slumped in a way that screams defeat.

It’s not the dramatic, messy kind of exit where someone’s too drunk to stand, or too proud to admit they’ve done something wrong. No, this is different. This guy isn’t even trying to fight back.

“Get lost,” the bouncer grunts, shoving the man one last time before turning to head back inside.

You can’t help it — you freeze, your gaze lingering on him. He doesn’t move, just leans against the wall like he’s considering sinking to the ground. His posture is pitiful in a way that tugs at something inside you, that soft part of you that your family says is too soft. The part that’s always drawn to the broken, the hopeless, the ones who don’t quite fit.

He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, his eyes flicking up to the club entrance, like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll magically be allowed back in. He’s pathetic. There’s no other word for it. But he’s also kind of endearing, in a weird way.

“Pathetic,” you mutter under your breath, half-amused.

You could leave him there, you know that. This isn’t your problem. He’ll figure something out. Or not. It’s not like you owe him anything, but …

"Are you just going to stand there?” You hear yourself saying, your feet already moving toward him before you can stop them.

His head snaps up, clearly not expecting anyone to address him. His eyes — big, brown, and confused — lock onto yours. He’s a little scruffy, but there’s something boyishly charming about him.

“I — uh,” he stammers, straightening up slightly but still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “No. I mean, yeah, I guess?”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs helplessly. “Well, I don’t really have one. Kinda got kicked out of the only place I planned on being tonight.”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

“I, uh …” He scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know, honestly. Might’ve been a little too loud, or maybe I was blocking someone important from getting their drinks. These places, man, they don’t like it when you’re … disruptive.”

You cross your arms, glancing at him up and down. He doesn’t look dangerous, just out of place. “You sound like you deserved it.”

He winces. “Probably did.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you’re still standing there, wondering why you’re wasting your time. Then, before you know it, you’re sighing. Your family would shake their heads at you, calling you too kind for your own good.

“Come on,” you say, jerking your head toward the curb. “Let’s go.”

He blinks. “What?”

You nod toward the curb, where your Rolls Royce waits, engine quietly idling. The chauffeur stands by, staring straight ahead like this is the most normal thing in the world, like this isn’t some insane act of kindness you’re pulling out of nowhere.

“I’m not leaving you out here,” you say, already heading toward the car. “Get in.”

“Uh — wait, seriously?” He hurries to catch up, still clearly not processing what’s happening. “You don’t even know me.”

You shrug, throwing a look over your shoulder. “Do I need to?”

“Usually, yeah,” he says, jogging slightly to keep pace with you. “I mean, what if I’m like, a complete psycho or something?”

“If you were, I doubt you’d be sitting against a wall feeling sorry for yourself,” you shoot back, opening the car door. “Now get in before I change my mind.”

There’s a brief moment of hesitation, like he’s weighing his options, but then he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, and slides into the backseat beside you. The leather is cool against your skin, the scent of luxury and privilege permeating the air, and for a second, it’s quiet as the door closes behind you both.

The driver pulls away from the curb smoothly, not asking questions.

“So … you do this often?” The man asks, still clearly bewildered. “Pick up random guys outside clubs?”

You snort, turning to face him. “Definitely not.”

“Then why me?”

You shrug. “You looked pathetic.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and for a second, you think you’ve offended him, but then he laughs — loud, unabashed, and surprising. “Wow. Okay. Well, thanks, I guess?”

You smile despite yourself. “Don’t mention it.”

He leans back in the seat, still grinning. “I’m Daniel, by the way. Ricciardo. Not sure if that means anything to you.”

You narrow your eyes, the name clicking into place. “The F1 driver?”

He looks a little sheepish but nods. “Yeah, that’s me.”

You stare at him for a moment, processing that. It’s not like you keep up with racing, but you’ve definitely heard of him. Seen him in ads, maybe, or on TV. It’s a little weird, thinking about it now. The same guy who’s smiling at you, a little bashfully, is famous in his own right.

“I didn’t recognize you,” you say, somewhat apologetic.

He shrugs again, more relaxed now. “Don’t worry about it. Happens more often than you think. Usually, I’m not getting kicked out of places, though.”

You smirk. “Good to know.”

There’s a comfortable silence after that, the two of you settling into the soft hum of the car as it glides through the streets. You steal a glance at him, watching as he stares out the window, looking slightly more at peace now that he’s not sitting on the pavement outside of a nightclub. He catches you looking, raising an eyebrow.

“So, you’re just gonna take me home, drop me off like a stray cat?” He teases, flashing you that boyish grin again.

You tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “Depends. Do stray cats usually get rides in Rolls Royces?”

“Only the ones that get kicked out of clubs,” he fires back, and you can’t help but laugh.

This was definitely not how you expected your night to go.

***

You lean back in your seat, letting the smooth hum of the Rolls Royce fill the silence for a moment. Daniel seems more relaxed now, but there’s still something hanging in the air, something that makes you look at him again, curiosity getting the better of you.

"So," you say, turning your head slightly to study him, "where am I dropping you off? What hotel are you staying at?"

Daniel blinks, the question catching him off guard. He looks at you, then at the ceiling of the car like the answer might be written somewhere above his head. “Uh … yeah, about that …”

You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”

He winces, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Not exactly. I mean, I know I checked into a place, obviously, but I can’t remember the name right now.”

“You can’t remember what hotel you’re staying at?” Your tone is somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

Daniel shrugs, unbothered. “It’s been a long day. Plus, there’s like, a million hotels in Singapore. They all start to blur together.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Okay, genius. So how were you planning on getting back?”

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he admits, grinning lazily. Then, the grin fades, and something shifts in his expression — something a little sadder, more raw. “Honestly, even if I did know, I don’t really want to go back there.”

You frown. “Why not?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to the window as if he can avoid answering by watching the city lights whiz by. After a long pause, he sighs and leans back against the seat, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I got dropped,” he mutters, almost too quietly for you to hear.

“Dropped?” You repeat, confused. “From what?”

“From my team,” he clarifies, his voice a little hoarse. “VCARB. They, uh, decided they didn’t want me around anymore.”

You blink, the realization hitting you like a sudden cold wave. “Oh.”

Daniel doesn’t say anything for a moment, the silence growing heavy. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch slightly as he picks at an invisible thread on his jeans.

“I mean,” he finally continues, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I kinda saw it coming. Just didn’t think it’d happen this fast, y’know?”

The lightheartedness from earlier is completely gone now, replaced by something darker, something heavier. You can feel the weight of it pressing down on him, the frustration and sadness barely concealed behind his crooked grin.

“I thought I had more time,” he says softly, his voice raw with vulnerability. “But I guess that’s how it goes. One day you’re on top of the world, and the next … well, you’re getting kicked out of nightclubs.”

You stay quiet, unsure of what to say. You weren’t expecting to find yourself in this situation tonight — sitting in the back of a Rolls Royce with a famous F1 driver who just lost his job. And yet, here you are, listening to him spill his heart out in the middle of the night, somewhere between Zouk and wherever he was supposed to go next.

“I just don’t want to be around them right now,” he continues, voice thick. “The team, the people … they’re all pretending to be nice, like it’s just business, but it’s not. It’s my life. My career.”

He shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “And now it’s over. Just like that.”

You let out a sigh, long and heavy. “So, you don’t want to go back to your hotel?”

“Not really,” Daniel mutters, slumping back in his seat.

You stare at him for a second, weighing your options. Your chauffeur is driving aimlessly through the city, waiting for your instructions, and Daniel is sitting here, lost in his own world of disappointment. He looks tired, drained, and you’re not cruel enough to leave him like this.

“Well,” you say, after a beat of silence, “I guess you’re coming with me then.”

Daniel’s head snaps up, his brows furrowing. “Wait, what?”

You glance at him, your voice firm. “You heard me. You can’t remember your hotel, you don’t want to go back even if you could, and I’m not about to leave you wandering around Singapore. So, you’re coming to my place.”

He stares at you, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “Are you serious?”

You roll your eyes. “Would I say it if I wasn’t?”

For a moment, he looks like he’s about to argue, but then he slumps back in his seat again, exhaling a long, tired breath. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

You nod, already turning to the front of the car. “Take us home,” you tell your chauffeur, who acknowledges the instruction with a curt nod before the car smoothly shifts direction.

Daniel leans his head against the window, eyes heavy. “Thanks,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

You wave it off. “I know.”

A few minutes pass in silence, the soft sound of the tires against the road lulling both of you into a calm quiet. You glance over at Daniel again, noticing how his eyelids are drooping more and more, his head bobbing slightly as he fights to stay awake.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” you comment, amused.

“M’not,” he protests, but his words are already slurred. “Just … resting my eyes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sure.”

It doesn’t take long before his breathing evens out, and his head tips to the side, fully succumbing to sleep. You shake your head, watching him for a moment. He looks peaceful like this, the weight of whatever he’s been carrying lifted, if only temporarily.

“Of course,” you mutter to yourself, leaning back in your seat, “this is how my night ends.”

The car pulls up in front of your building — a sleek, modern tower in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Your chauffeur steps out first, coming around to open the door for you. You step out gracefully, smoothing your dress, but when you look back into the car, Daniel is still out cold, slumped awkwardly in the seat.

You sigh. “This is not happening.”

Your chauffeur, ever professional, stands at attention, waiting for your next move. You consider your options for a second before glancing at him. “Help me get him inside, will you?”

The chauffeur doesn’t hesitate, nodding curtly. He moves to the other side of the car and carefully opens the door. Together, you manage to maneuver Daniel out of the backseat, his arm draped over the chauffeur’s shoulder as he leans heavily against him. Daniel stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, too deep in sleep to even register what’s happening.

The doorman, recognizing you immediately, rushes over to assist. “Miss Y/L/N,” he says, eyes flicking from you to the unconscious Daniel, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, giving him a tight smile. “Just … had a long night.”

The doorman nods, not pressing further, and helps the chauffeur guide Daniel through the lobby and into the elevator. You follow behind, feeling a little ridiculous but knowing there’s no turning back now.

The elevator ride is quiet, save for Daniel’s soft breathing as he leans against the wall, still fast asleep. You glance at him, half-amused, half-exasperated. What a night.

When you finally reach your penthouse, the door slides open smoothly, and the chauffeur and doorman gently ease Daniel onto your plush couch. He sprawls out, looking even more out of place among the sleek, expensive furniture, but you can’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“Thanks,” you tell the men, who nod before excusing themselves quietly, leaving you alone with your unexpected guest.

You stand there for a moment, looking at Daniel as he sleeps soundly on your couch. His shoes are still on, one arm hanging off the side, and his mouth slightly open in a way that’s almost comical. Shaking your head, you grab a blanket from a nearby chair and drape it over him.

“Well, this is definitely not how I thought my night would go,” you mutter to yourself, standing back and crossing your arms as you look at him one last time.

With a sigh, you turn and head toward your bedroom, already mentally preparing for the chaos tomorrow is likely to bring.

***

You’re in the middle of a dream when you hear it — the unmistakable sound of your mother’s voice. Loud, sharp, and utterly out of place in the peaceful silence of your penthouse. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding in your chest as you try to piece together why in the world she would be here, at this ungodly hour.

And then you hear it. A scream.

“Who is this man?”

Your stomach drops, the reality of last night hitting you like a freight train. Daniel. He’s still here. Passed out on your couch. And now, your very traditional mother is standing in your living room, probably about to have a heart attack.

You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over yourself as you rush toward the living room. You can already hear her ranting, a mix of shock and outrage in her voice, and you don’t even have time to think before you’re standing in front of her, trying to calm the situation down.

“Mum!” You blurt out, trying to sound casual, like this isn’t the absolute disaster it clearly is. “What are you doing here?”

Your mother’s eyes are wide, her perfectly manicured hand pressed dramatically against her chest as she stares down at Daniel, who’s still blissfully unconscious, mouth slightly open, one arm dangling off the edge of the couch.

“I could ask you the same thing!” She snaps, her voice rising with every word. “Why is there a man sleeping in your living room? And why-” she leans in, eyes narrowing, “does he look like he’s been out drinking all night?”

Your mind races, panic bubbling up as you try to figure out what to say, what kind of excuse would possibly explain this. And then, without even thinking, the words tumble out of your mouth.

“He’s … he’s my boyfriend.”

The second the lie leaves your lips, you know it’s a terrible idea. But it’s too late now. Your mother freezes, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she looks between you and Daniel. “Your … boyfriend?” She repeats, her tone incredulous.

You nod, forcing a tight smile, praying that Daniel stays asleep long enough for you to get through this. “Yes. My boyfriend.”

Your mother looks like she’s about to faint. “And you didn’t tell me? You-”

“I was going to!” you interrupt quickly. “But it’s … it’s new. Very new. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”

She crosses her arms, still clearly not buying it. “And this is how you introduce him to your mother? Drunk and passed out in your living room?”

“He’s not drunk,” you say quickly, even though that’s obviously a lie. “He’s … uh, just really tired. He’s been going through a lot lately.”

At that moment, you hear a groan from the couch. You glance over, heart sinking as Daniel stirs, slowly blinking awake. His face is pale, and the second he opens his eyes, you can see the hangover written all over him.

“Wh-” Daniel starts, voice groggy as he sits up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Where …”

Your mother’s eyes widen, and she turns to you, her expression one of absolute horror. “This is him?” She whispers, like you’ve just committed some kind of unspeakable crime.

You give her a weak smile. “Yes. Mum, this is Daniel.”

Daniel’s head snaps up at the sound of his name, his bleary eyes trying to make sense of the situation. He looks at you, confused, and you give him a pointed look, willing him to just go along with it.

"Daniel," you say through gritted teeth, “this is my mother. Remember? I told you she might stop by.”

Daniel blinks at you, his brow furrowed in confusion. It takes a second, but you can practically see the gears turning in his brain as he tries to process what’s happening. Finally, he nods slowly, trying to catch up. “Right. Your mum. Uh, hi.”

Your mother stares at him, unimpressed. “Are you alright?” She asks, her voice cold and judgmental.

Daniel, still clearly half-asleep and in the throes of a wicked hangover, gives her a shaky smile. “Yeah, just … didn’t sleep great,” he mumbles, leaning back into the couch.

You wince internally, but keep up the act. “He’s been working so hard lately,” you say quickly, hoping to smooth things over. “With his job and everything.”

Your mother’s eyes narrow further. “And what does he do, exactly?”

Daniel glances at you, panic flickering in his eyes, clearly not prepared for this interrogation. You jump in before he can make things worse.

“He’s … in sports,” you say vaguely. “He’s an athlete.”

Your mother’s gaze doesn’t soften in the slightest. “What kind of athlete?”

You feel Daniel’s eyes on you, pleading silently for help. “Formula 1,” you say quickly. “He’s a Formula 1 driver.”

Your mother blinks, taken aback by this revelation. “A race car driver?” She repeats, like it’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “That’s … interesting.”

You can tell she’s not impressed, but at least it’s bought you a little time. You just need to get through this without her prying too much further.

“I promise, Mum, Daniel’s a good guy,” you say, trying to sound convincing. “He just … had a rough night. That’s all.”

Your mother’s gaze flicks between you and Daniel, suspicion still heavy in her eyes. “And where did he sleep?”

You freeze. “Uh …”

Daniel, finally catching on to what’s happening, sits up a little straighter. “I slept here,” he says quickly, gesturing to the couch. “On the couch. I didn’t … you know …”

He trails off, looking at your mother awkwardly, but the message is clear.

Your mother’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised by his admission. “You didn’t share a bed?”

You shake your head vigorously. “No, Mum. We didn’t share a bed. We’re not married, remember?”

For the first time since she walked in, your mother seems to relax a little, her rigid posture softening just a bit. “Well,” she says, sounding somewhat mollified, “at least he has some morals.”

You breathe a silent sigh of relief, nodding along. “Exactly. Daniel’s … very respectful.”

Daniel gives a small, awkward smile, clearly still trying to wrap his head around the situation. “Uh, yeah. Very … respectful.”

Your mother studies him for a moment longer, then nods, satisfied. “Well, I suppose it could be worse.”

You almost laugh at that but manage to keep a straight face. “Right.”

There’s a brief pause as your mother smooths down her dress, glancing around the penthouse like she’s looking for something to criticize. Then, her eyes land back on you, and she smiles — one of those deceptively sweet smiles that always makes you nervous.

“Well,” she says brightly, “since I’m here, I’d love to get to know Daniel a bit better. Why don’t you two join me for dinner tonight?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Dinner? Tonight?”

Your mother nods, clearly not taking no for an answer. “Yes. I think it’s high time I meet this boyfriend of yours properly.”

You glance at Daniel, who’s looking at you with wide, slightly panicked eyes. You can tell he’s regretting every decision that led him to this moment, but there’s no way out now. You’re both trapped.

“Uh, sure,” you say weakly. “We’d love to.”

Your mother beams, clearly pleased with herself. “Wonderful! I’ll have my assistant call to make the reservation. Seven o’clock sharp. You know where. Don’t be late.”

Before you can respond, she’s already turning on her heel, heading toward the door with a satisfied smile on her face. “I’ll see you both tonight,” she calls over her shoulder as she exits, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.

The door clicks shut, and the room is suddenly, blissfully quiet.

You turn to Daniel, who’s staring at you, still half-dazed from sleep and now fully confused about what just happened.

“Boyfriend?” He croaks, his voice rough from the hangover.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing your temples. “I panicked.”

He groans, flopping back onto the couch. “Dinner with your mum? Really?”

“Yes. And if you don’t play along, I’m pretty sure she’ll disown me.”

Daniel chuckles weakly, rubbing his temples. “Great. Just great.”

You stare at him for a moment, then flop down next to him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushions. “This is a disaster.”

“Eh,” Daniel mutters, eyes closed. “Could be worse.”

You shoot him a look. “How?”

He cracks one eye open, grinning. “At least I didn’t throw up on her.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “That’s not funny.”

But when you look up, you can’t help but laugh, because as ridiculous as this entire situation is, somehow, in the madness of it all, you know tonight is going to be even worse.

***

Dinner is already awkward. You can feel the tension every time your mother glances at Daniel, her polite smile not quite reaching her eyes. It’s a small, exclusive restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters wear gloves, and the courses are tiny but outrageously expensive. The chef is renowned for his traditional yet experimental take on Singaporean cuisine, which is perfect because your mother insists on a display of sophistication when it comes to hosting. Unfortunately, that also means the pressure on Daniel is palpable.

Daniel sits across from you, trying to look comfortable, though his hand is constantly fiddling with his napkin under the table. Your mother, seated beside him, is maintaining her usual air of grace, but you can see she’s sizing him up, scrutinizing every bite, every word. And you … you’re just trying to survive.

“So, Daniel,” your mother begins, swirling her wine like a seasoned critic, “what are your long-term plans? With your career, I mean.”

Daniel freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth, the question clearly catching him off guard. He clears his throat, scrambling to find an answer that sounds impressive. “Well, uh, things are a bit … in flux right now,” he says, offering a weak smile. “But I’m working on it.”

Your mother arches an eyebrow. “In flux? That doesn’t sound very … stable.”

You kick Daniel lightly under the table, silently willing him to come up with something better than “in flux.” He glances at you for help, but you just widen your eyes, urging him to recover.

“Yeah, well,” Daniel says, trying to salvage the conversation, “I’ve been racing for a while, you know? Formula 1. It’s a pretty high-pressure job, so … I’m considering my next move carefully.”

Your mother makes a noncommittal hum, clearly unimpressed. “I see.”

You want to sink into the floor.

“I’m going to excuse myself for a moment,” you say quickly, standing from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Daniel gives you a look that screams *don’t leave me alone with her*, but there’s no way around it. You shoot him an apologetic smile before making your way toward the restroom, leaving him to fend for himself.

As soon as you’re gone, the silence at the table becomes almost deafening. Daniel shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around the room as if he’s suddenly forgotten how to act normal. He’s about to reach for his water glass when he notices your mother watching him closely.

“So,” she says, her tone unnervingly calm, “Daniel.”

He straightens up, unsure if he should be relieved or terrified that she’s addressing him directly. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I think we should speak candidly, don’t you?” She says, her voice as smooth as silk but with an edge that makes Daniel’s skin crawl. She reaches into her handbag, and Daniel feels his stomach lurch with nerves. What’s she going to pull out? A contract? Some kind of questionnaire?

What she pulls out, however, is much worse.

It’s a small, velvet box. A ring box.

Daniel’s heart stops. His eyes widen as he stares at the box, his mind spinning, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

Your mother places the box delicately in front of him, her expression serene, like she’s offering him a cup of tea rather than a proposal-sized bombshell. “I’ve been waiting for Y/N to bring home a boy for quite some time,” she says, her voice soft but pointed. “And now that she has … well, I can’t let this moment pass.”

Daniel opens and closes his mouth, but no words come out. He’s too stunned to respond, completely blindsided by this sudden turn of events.

Your mother’s eyes gleam, and she leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if she’s sharing a secret. “Of course, I would have preferred if you were Singaporean,” she continues, her tone just a touch sharper, “but I’m not getting any younger, and I want grandchildren. So, we can’t be picky, can we?”

Daniel’s mind goes blank. He tries to form a coherent thought, a response, anything, but all that comes out is a strangled, “I … uh …”

Your mother regards him with the same calm, calculating gaze she’s had since the start of dinner, as though this entire interaction is completely normal. “You’ll do,” she says simply, and there’s a finality in her tone that makes it clear this isn’t up for debate.

Daniel stares at the ring box, his brain short-circuiting. Is this really happening? He glances around the restaurant, half-expecting someone to jump out and tell him it’s all some elaborate prank. But no one does. It’s just him, your mother, and the heavy weight of that velvet box sitting between them.

He’s completely out of his depth. He can’t even think of how to respond to your mother’s words, let alone the fact that she’s just essentially handed him an engagement ring.

“I-” he starts again, but his throat is dry, and nothing coherent follows.

“Daniel,” she interrupts smoothly, her gaze sharpening. “You’re a good man, I can tell. And you’re very … respectful.” The word drips with meaning, making Daniel shift in his seat.

Before he can stammer out anything in return, the restroom door swings open, and you reappear, walking back toward the table, blissfully unaware of the bomb that’s just been dropped.

Daniel panics. His mind races as you approach, and without thinking, he snatches the ring box off the table, slipping it into his jacket pocket in one swift movement. His heart is racing, his palms suddenly sweaty, but he tries to keep his expression neutral.

“Everything alright?” You ask, sliding back into your seat, oblivious to the tension radiating from both Daniel and your mother.

Daniel clears his throat, forcing a tight smile. “Yep. All good.”

Your mother smiles pleasantly, folding her hands in her lap. “Oh, we were just having a lovely little chat.”

You look between them suspiciously, but there’s no sign of the chaos that just occurred. Daniel’s poker face is impressive, but you can sense something is off. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he just gives you a strained smile in return.

The rest of dinner is a blur. You try to focus on the conversation, but your mother seems to be on her best behavior, keeping things light and superficial. Daniel is unusually quiet, nodding along and making polite comments when necessary, but there’s something distant about him, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

By the time dessert arrives, you can’t shake the feeling that something happened while you were gone. But Daniel isn’t saying a word, and your mother’s serene expression betrays nothing.

As the waiter clears the last of the plates, your mother dabs at her mouth with her napkin, looking between the two of you with an air of satisfaction. “Well,” she says, standing from the table, “this has been lovely. I’m so glad we could all spend this time together.”

You force a smile, standing as well. “Yes, of course. It was … lovely.”

Daniel stands too, his movements a little stiffer than usual, like he’s trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he says politely, though his voice is a bit strained.

Your mother gives him one last, long look, then smiles warmly. “Oh, Daniel, you’re always welcome. Anytime.”

With that, she gathers her things and heads for the door, leaving you and Daniel standing there in stunned silence. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, turning to Daniel.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” You ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Daniel gives a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah … not too bad.”

You narrow your eyes at him, picking up on the odd tone in his voice. “Are you sure? You’ve been acting weird since I got back to the table.”

He blinks, his hand instinctively brushing the pocket where the ring box is hidden. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Just … full. Really full.”

You raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, but decide to let it slide for now. “Alright. If you say so.”

As you both head for the door, Daniel’s mind is still racing, the weight of the ring box burning a hole in his pocket. He has no idea what to do with it, or what your mother expects from him, but one thing is for sure — he’s in way over his head.

And he’s not sure how much longer he can keep pretending.

***

Back at your penthouse, the atmosphere feels … tense. Not the sort of charged tension from earlier, but something more fragile, awkward. The kind that makes everything feel a bit too quiet, like the air is too thick with things unsaid. You and Daniel are sitting on opposite ends of the plush couch in your living room. It’s not that big of a couch, but the distance feels enormous.

Daniel is fidgeting, running a hand through his hair, tapping his fingers on his knee. You’re sitting with your arms crossed, staring at him, waiting. But waiting for what, exactly? Neither of you knows. The silence stretches between you both, and it’s unbearable. Every breath feels louder than it should.

“Uh …” Daniel finally starts, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to find something — anything — to say. But nothing seems right, so he just ends up staring back at you, eyes darting around like he’s looking for a way out.

You, on the other hand, are unusually still, your eyes narrowed at him. It’s like you’re waiting for him to make the first move, but he’s not catching on. Not yet.

Daniel swallows hard, and after a moment of hesitation, his hand moves toward his jacket pocket. Your eyes flick to the motion, and his fingers tremble slightly as they close around the velvet box, pulling it out with an awkward kind of determination, as if it’s weighing him down more than anything. He holds it for a second, staring at it like it’s a puzzle he can’t solve.

Then, with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he opens the box.

The soft click of the hinge seems impossibly loud in the room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare. The ring glimmers under the soft lighting, catching the faintest reflection of the overhead chandelier. It’s not just any ring. You recognize it immediately.

And then, as if someone flipped a switch, you start laughing.

Daniel’s eyes snap to you in confusion, his brows furrowing. “What … what’s so funny?”

You’re still giggling, pressing your hand to your mouth to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t work. The laughter bubbles up uncontrollably, and Daniel looks like he’s caught between being relieved that you’re not mad and completely baffled by your reaction.

“You-” you manage between breaths, “That ring … that’s my grandmother’s. Oh my God, she’s really lost it.”

Daniel blinks, glancing down at the ring again, his confusion only deepening. “Wait, what?”

“My mother,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye, “She must be really desperate to get me married off if she’s giving out my grandmother’s ring to the first guy I bring to dinner. I can’t believe it.”

Daniel stares at you for a second, then back at the ring. “This is your … grandmother’s?” His voice is shaky, like the absurdity of the situation is just now hitting him.

You nod, biting your lip to stifle another laugh. “Yup. She always said it was meant for the man I’d marry one day. Guess she couldn’t wait any longer.”

Daniel’s face goes through a range of emotions — shock, embarrassment, and finally, something like disbelief. “I … I don’t even know what to say.”

You snicker again, leaning back against the couch and crossing your arms. “I think the bigger question here is — why didn’t you say anything to me? Did you just plan on pocketing the ring and hoping I wouldn’t notice?”

Daniel shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing. “I — I didn’t know what to do. Your mom just … handed it to me. I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘No, thank you, ma’am, I’m not ready for an arranged marriage just yet?’”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That might’ve been a good start.”

He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, clearly struggling to find a way out of this. Finally, he lets out a defeated sigh and leans back, running both hands through his hair. “This is insane.”

“You think?” You quip, smirking.

Daniel’s gaze drops to the ring again, and there’s a beat of silence before you speak up, this time your tone more playful than mocking. “Well,” you say, drawing out the word, “if you’re gonna propose, you should at least get on one knee. You know, for tradition’s sake.”

Daniel’s head snaps up, eyes wide in disbelief. “What?”

You laugh again, your teasing smile growing. “I mean, come on. If we’re going through with this charade, you might as well go all in. Get down on one knee, Ricciardo.”

He blinks at you, completely at a loss for words. “You’re not serious.”

“Why not?” You shoot back, still grinning. “What’s stopping you? You don’t have a job anymore, so it’s not like you have much else going on. You could always be my trophy husband.”

There’s a flicker of something in Daniel’s eyes — part shock, part amusement, and maybe just a little bit of something else. “Trophy husband?” He echoes, his voice incredulous.

You shrug, leaning forward and resting your chin on your hand, as if the idea were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. I mean, think about it. You wouldn’t have to work, I’d take care of you. You could just … exist. Isn’t that every guy’s dream?”

Daniel laughs — an actual laugh this time, though it’s tinged with disbelief. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

You grin. “Maybe. But I’m also not wrong.”

For a moment, the room is quiet again, but it’s not the awkward silence from before. This is something lighter, filled with the remnants of laughter and the weight of an unspoken understanding. Daniel is still holding the ring box, his thumb absently running over the velvet surface as he processes everything that’s just happened.

And then, because clearly, the universe hasn’t thrown enough chaos at him lately, Daniel does something that surprises both of you.

He nods.

It’s a small, hesitant nod at first, like he’s not even sure he’s agreeing to anything real. But then he meets your gaze, and there’s a flicker of something — maybe exhaustion, maybe delirium, maybe just the sheer absurdity of it all — and he nods again. This time, more certain.

“Alright,” he says quietly, still staring at the ring. “Okay.”

You freeze, blinking at him in surprise. “Wait … what?”

Daniel looks up at you, his expression unreadable but calm. “I said … okay. Let’s do it.”

For the first time tonight, you’re the one who’s caught off guard. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head slowly, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Nope.”

You sit up straighter, suddenly unsure whether you’re still in the middle of some elaborate joke or if the reality of the past few days has finally broken Daniel’s sense of logic. “You — wait, seriously? You’d marry me?”

Daniel shrugs, though there’s a glimmer of humor in his eyes now. “I mean, like you said … I don’t have a job anymore. And hey, being a trophy husband doesn’t sound half bad.”

You stare at him, searching his face for any sign of a punchline. But the longer you look, the more you realize he’s not kidding. He’s serious. Or as serious as someone in his situation can be.

A beat passes. Then another.

And suddenly, you burst into laughter again.

“God, you’re insane,” you say, shaking your head in disbelief. “This whole thing is insane.”

Daniel grins, leaning back into the couch with a relieved sigh, as if your laughter has lifted the tension from the room entirely. “Welcome to my life.”

You shake your head again, still chuckling, though there’s something warm and strange growing in your chest. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

Daniel glances at the ring one more time before closing the box with a soft click and slipping it back into his pocket. “Hey,” he says, his voice softer now, “if nothing else, at least we’ll give your mother something to talk about at her next dinner party.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Oh, she’ll have a field day.”

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, side by side on the couch, the absurdity of the night finally settling over you both. It’s ridiculous, completely irrational, and yet somehow, in this moment, it feels … right.

Daniel nudges you with his elbow, breaking the silence. “So … when’s the wedding?”

You groan, but you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Daniel chuckles, leaning back into the cushions, finally starting to relax. “Yeah. One step at a time.”

But even as you say it, you can’t shake the feeling that this strange, accidental engagement is just the beginning of something even more complicated.

And maybe you’re okay with that.

***

You come home the next afternoon, practically skipping into the penthouse, your eyes sparkling with excitement. The energy around you is contagious, and even Daniel, who’s lounging on the couch with a glass of water — probably trying to recover from the whirlwind of the past few days — can’t help but smile at your entrance.

“You look … happy,” Daniel says, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What did I miss?”

You clap your hands together like an excited child, barely containing your glee. “I got you something.”

Daniel’s smile falters for a moment, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Wait, what? You got me something?” He straightens up on the couch, his brows furrowing. “You really didn’t have to do that-”

“Shush.” You wave a hand at him, cutting him off before he can protest further. “I wanted to. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

Daniel chuckles, though there’s a nervous edge to his voice. “Alright, alright. What is it then? A new watch? Shoes?” He pauses, glancing at you skeptically. “Wait, is it another one of your mum’s rings?”

You shake your head, grinning like you’ve just pulled off the best surprise in the world. “Nope. Guess again.”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Okay … well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s great but-”

“I bought Red Bull Racing.”

For a second, it’s like the words don’t register. Daniel blinks at you, his expression blank as his brain tries to process what you just said. There’s a long beat of silence before his mouth finally drops open in disbelief.

“You … you what?”

Your grin widens. “I bought Red Bull Racing. You know, the Formula 1 team? Your old team?” You say it so casually, like you’re talking about picking up a pair of shoes or booking a vacation.

Daniel’s jaw is still hanging open. “You — wait — are you serious?” He’s half laughing now, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke. But the look on your face — pure, unfiltered joy — tells him you’re very, very serious.

“Yup!” You say, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Apparently, if you offer double what a team is worth, the owners tend to sell pretty quickly. Who knew?”

Daniel stares at you, completely slack-jawed, like you’ve just told him you bought a small country. “You … bought Red Bull Racing?” His voice cracks a little as he repeats it, as if saying it out loud will make it more real.

You nod, your smile never faltering. “Yup. Just closed the deal this morning.”

“Jesus Christ.” Daniel runs a hand through his hair, looking like he might faint. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit with a playful shrug. “But it’s an engagement gift, you know? Gotta keep things exciting.”

Daniel lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I … I don’t even know what to say. That’s — this is crazy.”

“I know,” you say, beaming. “But crazy is kind of our thing, isn’t it?”

He laughs again, though it’s still a little shaky. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

There’s a pause as Daniel tries to wrap his head around the fact that you, his new fiancée, just bought one of the most successful teams in Formula 1. He stares at you for a moment longer, then blinks, rubbing his temples like he’s getting a headache. “I … I don’t even know where to start. What does that even mean? You’re gonna be the new team owner?”

“Pretty much,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “And I’m planning to do a bit of restructuring. You know, make some changes, shake things up.”

Daniel gives you a skeptical look. “Restructuring? What kind of changes?”

“Well …” You tap your chin, pretending to think about it. “First of all, I figured I’d ask if there’s anyone you’d like me to keep around. I mean, it’s your engagement gift, after all. I want you to be happy with the team.”

Daniel snorts, shaking his head. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

You lean closer, your eyes gleaming mischievously. “And I assume you’ll want me to keep your boyfriend, right?”

Daniel freezes, blinking at you in confusion. “My … boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” you say, deadpan. “Max.”

Daniel nearly chokes. “Wait — what?”

You burst out laughing, unable to keep a straight face any longer. “I’m talking about Max Verstappen! Don’t act so surprised.”

Daniel’s face flushes a deep red, and he shakes his head, exasperated. “We’re not — he’s not my — Jesus, you’re impossible.”

You pat his head, still laughing. “Sure, he’s not. Whatever you say.”

Daniel groans, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my God.”

You sit back, grinning at him. “So, do you want me to keep him or not?”

He lowers his hands, shooting you a look that’s half amused, half irritated. “Obviously, you keep him. He’s the best driver on the grid.”

You nod, pretending to jot down notes in the air. “Okay, so keep Max. Got it.”

Daniel leans back against the couch, staring at you like he still can’t believe this is real. “I can’t believe you just bought a Formula 1 team.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner,” you say with a grin.

Daniel laughs, though it’s tinged with disbelief. “And you’re just … going to be the boss now?”

You shrug. “Why not? It’s not like I haven’t run a business before. Plus, how hard can it be to manage a Formula 1 team?”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “You do realize you’ll be dealing with, like, a whole bunch of egos and drama, right? It’s not just about racing. There’s politics, sponsorships, technical regulations …”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Details, details. I’ll figure it out.”

Daniel shakes his head, still grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And that’s why you like me,” you quip, flashing him a playful wink.

Daniel’s smile softens, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. But then he shakes his head again, chuckling. “Yeah, something like that.”

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, and Daniel’s gaze drifts back to the ring box still sitting on the coffee table between you. It feels surreal — like the last few days have been one long, crazy dream that neither of you can wake up from. But somehow, despite all the madness, there’s a strange sense of peace settling over the room.

Finally, Daniel breaks the silence with a quiet laugh. “So … when do you get to meet the team?”

You grin. “Soon enough. I’ll introduce you as my fiancé. It’ll be fun to see the look on everyone’s faces.”

Daniel snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over well.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You’ll love it. Don’t you like being the center of attention?”

He shoots you a playful glare. “I’m starting to regret this engagement.”

You laugh, leaning back into the couch. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

Daniel chuckles, but there’s a warmth in his eyes as he looks at you. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

***

You and Daniel are curled up together on the plush couch, nestled under a thick blanket, a pint of ice cream balanced between the two of you. The glow of the TV flickers across the room as Crazy Rich Asians plays in the background, the glamorous scenes of Singapore flashing on the screen. You scoop a spoonful of ice cream and pop it into your mouth, your eyes glued to the over-the-top depiction of high society that, to you, feels more like a parody than reality.

“I mean, come on,” you mutter around a mouthful of ice cream, shaking your head. “That’s not how any of this works.”

Daniel glances at you, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “What do you mean? It looks pretty fancy to me.”

You roll your eyes, waving your spoon toward the screen. “Yeah, because all of us crazy rich Asians are just constantly jetting off to private islands in the middle of the week. And, of course, we throw dramatic, lavish parties for every minor inconvenience.”

Daniel grins, leaning back against the couch as he scoops up some ice cream. “I dunno, the whole secret wedding dress thing seemed pretty realistic to me.”

You nudge him playfully with your elbow, laughing. “Please. If anything, that’s understated.”

Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, so maybe Hollywood doesn’t exactly nail the rich lifestyle. But it’s entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” You snort, raising an eyebrow. “It’s borderline satire. Half the time, I’m watching these movies like, ‘Are you serious? Who even does that?’”

Daniel laughs again, clearly enjoying your commentary more than the actual movie. “Okay, but admit it, the wedding scene was pretty epic.”

You sigh dramatically. “Fine, I’ll give them that one. The water running down the aisle was a nice touch.”

“See? Even you have to admit there’s some good stuff in there,” Daniel says with a grin, licking his spoon.

You lean back against the couch, settling more comfortably into Daniel’s side as the movie continues to play. The ice cream between you starts to melt slightly, but neither of you seem to care, too caught up in the comfort of the moment. Your head rests on Daniel’s shoulder, and his arm is loosely draped around you.

There’s a comfortable silence between you two for a few minutes, the movie providing a soft background noise as you both watch absently. Then, without looking away from the screen, you break the silence with a casual question.

“Hey, so … do you want to drive for Red Bull next year?”

The question seems to catch Daniel off guard. His hand, mid-way to another scoop of ice cream, freezes in the air. He turns his head slightly to look at you, eyebrows furrowed in thought. He doesn’t say anything at first, and the silence stretches out long enough for you to glance up at him, wondering why he’s taking so long to respond.

“Daniel?” You prompt softly.

He pauses the movie, the room suddenly quiet without the chatter of characters and dramatic music. His face is serious now, a stark contrast to the playful mood from moments before. He places the spoon down in the pint and leans back, exhaling a long breath.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You blink at him, confused. “You don’t know? What do you mean?”

Daniel rubs a hand over his face, looking down at his lap as if the answer is written there somewhere. “I mean, I don’t know if … if I deserve it. That seat.”

There’s a heavy pause as you process his words. The casualness of the evening suddenly feels distant, replaced by something more serious, more vulnerable. You turn slightly, facing him more directly now, your hand reaching out to rest on his knee.

“Why would you say that?” You ask, your voice quiet but firm.

Daniel looks up at you, his expression pained. “I’ve been dropped twice now. McLaren, VCARB … And, honestly, I didn’t do as well as I wanted. As well as they wanted. What if I’m just not cut out for it anymore? Maybe the sport’s moved on, and I haven’t.”

You frown, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s not true. You’re still an incredible driver.”

Daniel lets out a bitter laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Incredible? You’ve seen the results. I’m nowhere near where I used to be. And Max? He’s on another level. It’s his team now.”

“Okay, first of all,” you say, your tone shifting into something more assertive, “don’t compare yourself to Max. You’re both amazing in your own ways. And second, this isn’t about what they want, Daniel. It’s about what you want.”

Daniel doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the frozen image on the TV screen, lost in his thoughts. His jaw is tense, and you can tell he’s grappling with something deeper, something that’s been weighing on him for a long time.

You squeeze his knee gently, your voice softening. “You’ve still got it, Daniel. I know you do. And so does everyone else.”

He glances at you, his eyes searching your face like he’s trying to find some kind of reassurance in your words. “But what if … what if I can’t get back to where I was? What if I’m just holding onto something that’s not there anymore?”

“You’re not,” you say firmly, not missing a beat. “You’ve had a rough few seasons, sure. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost it. It just means you’ve had setbacks. And if anyone knows how to bounce back, it’s you.”

Daniel still looks unsure, and you can tell there’s a part of him that’s scared — scared of failing again, scared of not living up to the expectations that have been placed on him, both by himself and by others.

You lean in closer, your voice gentle but insistent. “Daniel, you’re one of the best drivers in the world. You’ve proved that time and time again. Red Bull wouldn’t have taken you back if they didn’t believe in you. And I wouldn’t have bought the damn team if I didn’t believe in you either.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Daniel’s lips at that, though it’s fleeting. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to go back. I don’t know if I can handle it if things go wrong again.”

You nod slowly, understanding the fear behind his words. It’s not just about driving. It’s about the pressure, the weight of expectation, the fear of failure.

“I get that,” you say softly. “But you can’t let fear stop you from doing what you love. You’ve been through a lot, I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. You have so much more left to give. And I’ll be there with you, every step of the way.”

Daniel meets your gaze, his eyes softening at your words. For a moment, the vulnerability in his expression is raw, unguarded. Then he reaches out, taking your hand in his, giving it a small squeeze.

“You really think I can do it?” He asks quietly.

You smile, squeezing his hand back. “I know you can.”

Daniel lets out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as some of the tension seems to drain from him. He looks at you for a long moment, then nods, as if finally coming to terms with something inside himself.

“Alright,” he says, his voice a little steadier now. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” you say with a soft smile.

He leans back into the couch, and you both settle into a comfortable silence again, the tension from earlier slowly fading away. You reach for the remote and unpause the movie, but neither of you are really paying attention to it anymore. Instead, you both sit there, sharing the ice cream, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air but somehow lighter now.

***

The evening is quiet, the city’s hum muted behind the large windows of your penthouse. The movie’s credits are rolling, but neither you nor Daniel has made a move to turn off the TV. Instead, you both sit there, wrapped up in the soft blanket, the nearly empty pint of ice cream abandoned on the coffee table. There’s a sense of calm in the air, but underneath it, you can feel something unspoken, simmering just below the surface.

You glance at Daniel, who’s leaning back into the couch, his gaze distant. He’s still processing, you can tell — about Red Bull, about everything that’s been thrown at him lately. The weight of it all seems heavier in the silence.

After a long moment, you shift slightly, turning your body to face him more directly. “Daniel,” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet.

He blinks, coming back to the present, and looks at you with a small, tired smile. “Yeah?”

“You’ve said something a lot that I keep thinking about,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “The whole ‘enjoy the butterflies’ thing. I’ve heard you say it in interviews, but I don’t think I ever really understood what you meant by it.”

Daniel’s smile falters a bit, and he looks away, his expression growing thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything at first, and you can see he’s retreating into his thoughts again, the way he does when he’s trying to figure out how to articulate something that matters to him.

You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm, coaxing him back to the conversation. “What does it really mean to you? Enjoy the butterflies?”

Daniel takes a deep breath, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “It’s … it’s kinda hard to explain,” he says slowly, his accent thicker when he’s being reflective. “It’s not just about racing, you know? It’s more about the feeling — the nerves, the excitement, the anticipation. All those little moments that make your stomach flip.”

He pauses, glancing at you as if gauging whether you’re following. You nod, encouraging him to continue.

“I think,” he says, his voice quieter now, “for the longest time, I used to hate that feeling. The butterflies. It always made me feel … unsure. Like, am I good enough? Am I ready? Every time I’d get in the car, no matter how many times I’d done it before, I’d still feel that little twinge of anxiety. And for a while, I thought it was a bad thing.”

You listen intently, your eyes never leaving his face as he speaks. There’s something raw and real in his words, a vulnerability that you don’t often see in him.

“But then, I don’t know,” he continues, “at some point, I started to see it differently. Like, maybe those butterflies aren’t a sign of weakness. Maybe they’re a sign that you’re doing something that matters. That you’re alive. That you care.”

You nod slowly, your hand still resting on his arm. “That makes sense.”

Daniel meets your gaze again, his eyes softening. “Yeah. So now, when I feel the butterflies, I try to embrace it, you know? Instead of fighting it. Because if you’re not nervous, if you don’t feel anything, then what’s the point?”

You lean back slightly, absorbing his words. There’s a quiet wisdom in what he’s saying, a reminder that life’s most meaningful moments are often the ones that scare us the most. You think about how that applies to you — not just in your relationship with Daniel, but in everything. The choices you’ve made, the risks you’ve taken, the moments when you’ve doubted yourself. Maybe those butterflies are a part of the journey, too.

“I get that,” you say softly, nodding. “But … do you still feel them? After all this time?”

Daniel smiles, but it’s tinged with something bittersweet. “Every single time.”

You look at him for a long moment, the weight of his honesty settling between you. There’s something comforting in knowing that even someone like Daniel — someone who’s faced so many high-pressure moments, who’s been at the top of his game — still feels that same uncertainty, that same flutter of nerves.

“But now,” he adds, his voice softening even more, “I think the butterflies aren’t just about fear. They’re about excitement, too. Like, yeah, maybe I’m nervous, but I’m also excited because it means I still care. I still love what I do, even when it’s hard.”

You smile gently, your hand giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “That’s beautiful, Daniel. Really.”

He chuckles lightly, looking almost embarrassed by the compliment. “I don’t know about beautiful, but it helps me get through the tough days.”

There’s a pause, and you can feel the conversation shifting into something deeper, something more personal. You take a breath, feeling the moment settling between you like a quiet pulse.

“Do you ever get tired of it, though?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “The butterflies, the pressure, the weight of it all?”

Daniel tilts his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his voice is tinged with a kind of quiet resignation. “Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like too much, like it’s all building up and I just … don’t know how to keep going.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. You’ve seen Daniel at his best, but you’ve also seen him at his lowest. The moments when he’s struggled, when he’s doubted himself. And yet, through it all, he’s always managed to push through. To keep going.

“But,” he continues after a beat, his voice soft but steady, “those moments don’t last forever. And when they pass, when I’m back in the car, or when I’ve crossed the finish line, it’s like … I remember why I do it. Why I love it.”

You watch him closely, your heart swelling with both admiration and empathy. “You’re stronger than you think, Daniel.”

He glances at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just stubborn.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I think it’s a little bit of both.”

Daniel grins at that, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He shifts on the couch, turning more toward you, his hand reaching out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. There’s a softness in his touch, a quiet intimacy that makes your heart skip a beat.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you’ve got your own butterflies too. I’ve seen them.”

You raise an eyebrow, slightly surprised. “Oh, really?”

Daniel nods, his eyes locking onto yours. “Yeah. Whenever you’re about to make a big decision or when something’s stressing you out. You get this look in your eyes, like you’re bracing yourself for something.”

You blink, taken aback by his observation. “I didn’t realize you noticed.”

He smiles gently. “I notice a lot about you.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence again, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air like a shared secret. You can feel your heart beating a little faster, the warmth of Daniel’s words wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Do you ever wish the butterflies would go away?” You ask after a moment, your voice soft.

Daniel shakes his head slowly. “No. I don’t think I do. Because if they did, that would mean I’ve stopped caring. And I don’t ever want to stop caring.”

You nod, understanding now in a way you didn’t before. The butterflies aren’t something to fear — they’re a reminder that you’re alive, that you’re still passionate, that you’re still fighting for what matters.

You smile softly, leaning in closer to him. “I think I’ll try to enjoy the butterflies a little more.”

Daniel smiles back, his hand gently resting on your cheek. “Good. You should.”

And for the first time in a long time, you feel a sense of peace settle over you — a quiet understanding that, no matter what happens next, you’ll face it with open hearts and, yes, even a few butterflies.

***

The Red Bull Racing factory is a hive of quiet activity. The entire team, from mechanics to engineers, marketing staff to the senior management, stands gathered in a large meeting room just off the factory floor. Whispers ripple through the crowd, conversations hushed and speculative. It’s unusual to have the entire team assembled like this — especially during the off-season.

But today is different. They’ve been told that the team’s new owner will be making her first official appearance, and no one knows what to expect.

The announcement of Red Bull Racing’s sale had come out of nowhere, a shock to everyone. No one knew who the buyer was, only that it was someone with enough money to pull off the purchase in record time. The rumors had flown, the speculation mounting over the past few weeks, but nothing concrete had leaked. All they knew was that something big was coming. Something — someone — new.

The murmur of voices grows louder as the minutes tick by. Eyes dart toward the doors at the far end of the room, the anticipation palpable. Then, the doors swing open.

You walk in, a vision of confidence, head held high. The noise in the room instantly dies down, replaced by the stunned silence of dozens of pairs of eyes turning in your direction. Beside you, Daniel walks in, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, a familiar but unusual sight for the Red Bull team.

The shock is immediate, rippling through the room like a wave. Everyone stares, first at you, then at Daniel, as if trying to piece together how any of this makes sense. The whispers start up again, but you don’t let it faze you. Instead, you step forward with a wide, almost mischievous smile on your face.

“Good morning, everyone!” You greet them brightly, clapping your hands once, the sound echoing in the room. “I’m sure most of you have heard by now, but allow me to introduce myself formally. I’m your new boss.”

You pause, letting the statement sink in as the team stares at you in stunned silence. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I’m thrilled to be taking over as the owner of Red Bull Racing.”

There’s a beat of silence, the team processing the bombshell, before a smattering of hesitant applause starts. You nod, acknowledging the claps, but there’s still a palpable tension in the room. You know they’re still confused, still reeling from the surprise. You’re not done yet.

“And I have one more introduction to make,” you say, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You glance over at Daniel, who’s standing beside you, a little less sure of himself than usual but still flashing that signature Ricciardo smile. “This is my fiancé, Daniel Ricciardo.”

The room gasps. The shock is real this time, murmurs breaking out instantly among the team. Fiancé? Some people turn to each other, others crane their necks to get a better look at Daniel. The whispers intensify, but you continue as if none of it fazes you.

“And I have some exciting news for all of you today,” you say, your voice cutting through the growing chatter. You step forward again, your gaze sweeping across the room. “With the team being restructured, and with Sergio Perez deciding to take some time away from the sport to be with his family …” You pause, letting that hang for a moment, watching the confusion bloom on their faces. “I’m thrilled to announce that Daniel will be returning to Red Bull Racing as a driver next season.”

The room falls completely silent again, a collective intake of breath. For a long moment, no one says a word. Then, as if on cue, someone begins clapping. It’s slow at first, hesitant, but then others join in, and soon the room is filled with applause. The realization starts to settle in.

Daniel Ricciardo — back at Red Bull.

You glance at Daniel, and his eyes meet yours. For a second, you see the flicker of uncertainty in them, the weight of everything hanging in the air. But then, as the applause grows, you see the shift — the spark of confidence returning to him, the slow curve of a genuine smile spreading across his face.

Daniel steps forward, raising a hand to quiet the crowd, but they don’t stop clapping for several more seconds. Finally, the noise dies down enough for him to speak.

“Wow, uh … thanks for that,” Daniel begins, clearly taken aback by the reaction. He rubs the back of his neck, his grin widening as he takes in the faces of the people who, not so long ago, had been his team. “I’ve gotta admit, it feels pretty good to be standing here again.”

A few people in the crowd chuckle, a ripple of warmth spreading through the room.

“I know it’s been a strange few years,” Daniel continues, his voice more serious now. “There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get back to this place. But when Y/N came into my life, well, let’s just say she’s good at making the impossible happen.” He glances at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and affection, and you feel your heart flutter in response.

The room watches this exchange, enraptured. There’s something surreal about seeing Daniel Ricciardo, a former Red Bull driver, now standing next to the team’s new owner — his fiancée, no less. It’s a lot for them to process.

Daniel turns back to the team, his expression softening as he addresses them. “This place has always been special to me,” he says quietly. “I’ve had some of my best moments in my career here, and I’m so grateful for the chance to come back and create more memories with you all. I know it’s not going to be easy, and I’ve got a lot to prove. But I’m ready. I’m ready to give everything I’ve got.”

The room bursts into applause again, louder this time, more genuine. The team members seem to be warming up to the idea now, their initial shock replaced by excitement. A few of the senior engineers, who had been with the team during Daniel’s previous stint, exchange nods of approval. There’s a growing sense of anticipation, the mood in the room shifting.

You watch Daniel as he steps back, the energy of the moment clearly lifting him. He catches your eye again, and for a brief moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you in the room. His smile is softer now, more private, meant just for you. You feel a surge of warmth, the bond between you solidifying even more in this shared experience.

Then, clearing your throat, you step forward again, reclaiming the attention of the room. “Now, I know this is a lot to take in,” you say, your tone playful. “But don’t worry. Daniel and I aren’t here to shake things up too much … unless we need to.” A few chuckles ripple through the room at that. “We’re committed to making sure this team remains at the top of the sport. And we’re going to do whatever it takes to get there.”

The applause comes again, more enthusiastic this time. You can feel the room shifting from shock to acceptance, and even a little excitement. The Red Bull team is known for its resilience, for thriving in the face of challenges, and this is no different.

As the clapping fades, one of the senior team members — a man with graying hair and a knowing smile — steps forward. He glances between you and Daniel, then says, “Well, if Daniel’s back, I guess we better start preparing for some shoeys.”

The room bursts into laughter, and even Daniel can’t help but laugh along with them, shaking his head. “You better believe it,” he says with a grin.

Slowly, the group begins to disperse, people heading back to their workstations, some still murmuring excitedly about the news. You catch snippets of conversation — mentions of Daniel’s return, your surprising entrance, and speculation about what’s next for the team.

As the room clears, Daniel turns to you, his expression soft. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You smile at him, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you. “It’s just the beginning,” you say, your voice filled with determination. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

Daniel grins, reaching for your hand. “Yeah, but I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with excitement and love. Together, you’ve just taken the first step into a new chapter — one filled with challenges, risks, and plenty of butterflies. But you know, with Daniel by your side, there’s nothing you can’t handle.

And as you leave the factory hand in hand, the future stretches out before you — unknown, thrilling, and entirely yours to shape.

***

The roars from the Melbourne crowd reverberate through the air as the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix begins. The cameras lock onto Daniel’s Red Bull, the #3 flashing as it leads the pack by several seconds. The circuit is electric, and the commentators can barely contain themselves.

“Here we are on the final lap,” David Croft’s voice crackles through the Sky Sports broadcast, almost trembling with excitement. “Daniel Ricciardo, the hometown hero, is this close to claiming his ninth career win — and his first ever win here in Australia. You can hear the crowd, the energy in the air — it’s absolutely incredible!”

Beside him, Martin Brundle jumps in, his tone equal parts admiration and disbelief. “This is what the fans have been waiting for, for years. After everything Daniel’s been through — leaving Red Bull, bouncing between teams, and now back with Red Bull and at the front of the grid — this will be a monumental moment, not just for Daniel, but for every Australian who’s dreamed of seeing him on the top step here.”

The camera flickers briefly to the Red Bull garage. You’re standing at the front, practically on your toes as you watch the live feed with bated breath, every nerve in your body tense with anticipation. You’re surrounded by engineers, mechanics, and team members, but it’s clear that all eyes in the garage are on you. The new team owner, the mastermind behind Daniel’s return to the team. And now, you’re witnessing the culmination of it all.

“Look at that,” Brundle says as the camera focuses on you. “There’s Daniel’s fiancée and the new team owner, Y/N Y/L/N. You’ve got to imagine what this moment means for her too, after buying the team and making the bold decision to bring Daniel back. She’s been nothing short of instrumental in this comeback.”

Crofty’s voice grows louder as Daniel approaches the final few corners. “And here he comes now, through Turn 13, a perfect line through there — keeping it clean. The crowd is going wild, and you can see why! He’s a few corners away from victory, from making history on home soil.”

As the camera switches back to the track, Daniel’s race engineer comes over the radio, his voice steady but filled with excitement.

“Alright, mate. Just bring it home now. One more corner. You’ve got this.”

There’s a brief pause before Daniel’s reply crackles over the airwaves, his voice barely containing his elation. “I’ve got it, mate! I’ve bloody got it!”

The Red Bull flies around the final corner, the engine roaring, and Daniel rockets down the straight toward the checkered flag. The crowd’s roar is deafening as he crosses the line.

“And there it is! Daniel Ricciardo wins the Australian Grand Prix!” Crofty yells, his voice barely audible over the roaring fans. “His ninth career win — and what a win it is! His first win here in Australia, and you can just feel how much this means to him and the crowd!”

The camera immediately cuts back to you, your face a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy. You’re laughing, hands clasped over your mouth as the enormity of the moment sinks in. The entire Red Bull garage erupts into cheers, people hugging and high-fiving all around you, but you’re frozen for a moment, just soaking in the euphoria of the victory.

“Look at her reaction!” Brundle says with a chuckle. “You can tell just how much this moment means to the team owner. It’s not just a win for Daniel — it’s a win for them. What a partnership!”

The scene cuts to Daniel inside the cockpit, raising his fists in victory as he slows the car on the cool-down lap. His voice comes over the radio again, almost breathless.

“YEEEEES! Let’s go! Oh my god, we did it! We actually did it!” Daniel shouts, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Mate, you’re a race winner in Australia!” His race engineer’s voice is filled with pride. “Take it in, soak it all in. This is your moment.”

“I’ve waited so long for this …” Daniel’s voice is quieter now, more introspective. “Thank you, everyone. This is unbelievable.”

As he makes his way around the track on the cool-down lap, the camera follows him, showing the thousands of fans on their feet, waving Australian flags and cheering for their hero. It’s an emotional scene, the kind that will go down in F1 history. The commentators fall silent for a moment, letting the raw emotion of the moment speak for itself.

Finally, Crofty breaks the silence. “Daniel Ricciardo has just made history. He’s become the first Australian driver to win here in Melbourne in front of his home crowd, and you can just see how much this means — not just to him, but to every fan in the stands.”

Daniel pulls into parc fermé, his car screeching to a halt under the massive “P1” sign. The mechanics are already leaning over the barriers, waiting for him, their arms raised in celebration. Daniel clambers out of the car, pulls off his helmet, and lets out a roar, his signature grin plastered on his face. The crowd erupts once more, their hero standing victorious before them.

The Red Bull team surrounds him, cheering and patting him on the back. But Daniel's eyes are searching, scanning the pit lane for you. Finally, they find you in the crowd, and without hesitation, he breaks away from the chaos and runs straight to you.

“Hey, boss,” he says, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice barely above the roar of the fans. “Did I do alright?”

You laugh, pushing him back playfully. “I’d say you did more than alright.”

Daniel grins, his smile wide and genuine, and then he’s swept back into the celebrations, the team lifting him onto their shoulders as the cameras capture every second.

The podium celebrations come next, the lights glittering, the trophy standing proud. Daniel, Max Verstappen, and Charles Leclerc climb onto the podium, their faces reflecting the joy and exhaustion of a hard-fought race. The national anthems play, first for Australia, then for Austria, and the crowd sings along, their pride and passion tangible.

When the champagne is finally handed out, Daniel holds his bottle aloft, savoring the moment. He walks to the edge of the podium, holding his finger up to signal the crowd. The fans know what’s coming. The mechanics in the garage know what’s coming. You, standing just below the podium, know what’s coming.

Daniel unlaces his boot and fills it with champagne, holding it high as he looks out over the sea of fans. The crowd roars with approval.

“Oh no …” Brundle says with a laugh, watching from the Sky Sports commentary booth. “Here we go. It wouldn’t be a Daniel Ricciardo victory without a shoey!”

Daniel grins and, with the flair only he can pull off, drinks the champagne from his shoe. The crowd cheers louder than ever, reveling in the chaotic joy of the moment. Even Max, standing beside him, cracks a smile as Daniel offers him the boot, but Max declines with a laugh, shaking his head.

As Daniel finishes the shoey, he looks down at you with a cheeky grin. He points the boot in your direction, his eyes twinkling.

“Wanna join in?” He shouts down, loud enough for the camera to catch.

You cross your arms, shaking your head with a smirk. “Absolutely not.”

Daniel laughs, tossing the boot aside and grabbing the champagne again, spraying the crowd as the podium celebration continues. The cameras capture everything, the joy, the fun, the relief of a long journey finally reaching its pinnacle.

Back in the commentary booth, Crofty speaks again, his voice soft but filled with admiration. “Daniel Ricciardo, a winner in Australia, celebrating in true Ricciardo style. This win means more than just points on the board — it’s the result of hard work, perseverance, and a love for racing.”

Brundle nods, his tone warm. “You’ve got to hand it to Daniel, and to Y/N Y/L/N as well. She brought him back to Red Bull, believed in him when others didn’t, and now they’re celebrating together on the biggest stage. It’s a fairytale moment.”

As the champagne rains down on the podium, Daniel glances over at you again, his face still lit up with that signature Ricciardo grin. And even though you’re not up there with him, he knows that none of this would’ve been possible without you by his side.

This is your team, your driver, and your moment.

Bad Day

Pairing: Rooster x Wife!Reader

Author’s Note: Three new fics in one day? Who is she? Someone who’s super excited about having her weeklong shadowban finally lifted, that’s who!

This one is based on this Anon request. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Stressful day, overwhelmed reader, slight insecurities, brief mention of breastfeeding, an obscene amount of fluff.

Today had been a day.

To start it all off, your alarm hadn’t gone off. You had woken up earlier in the morning to make breakfast for Rooster before he left for work, but you had been certain you’d double checked the alarm on your phone before going back to sleep. When you’d opened your eyes, however, surprised at how much sunlight was streaming through the window, you’d realized with a frantic yelp that you had overslept.

Keep reading

a distinguished gentleman - t.w.

pairing: fem!reader x toto wolff

warnings: allusions to smut, mentions of oral (m! receiving), mentions of fingering (f! receiving), some cursing, lemme know if there's anything i missed, yadayadayada

a/n: this isn't necessarily a cohesive fic, more like a spitballing of the thots i have related to this topic. i hope y'all enjoy them hehehe <3 thank you to @chaerylecq for the inspo!!!

when it comes to driving, toto is the one who always offers.

after all, you are his passenger princess.

i feel like he wants you to be comfortable as possible in his car, so he always has a little makeup bag or cosmetics bag with deodorant, makeup remover, makeup wipes, perfume, etc., for you in case you ever need to touch up. he also has a plethora of hair accessories for you to use in case you ever need one. all you have to do is just reach in the glovebox, or he keeps the pouch in the center console for your convenience.

when he starts to drive, his hand is either resting comfortably on your thigh, or his fingers are intertwined with yours. for longer drives, he always offers for you to lay your legs on top of his. (even if it not necessarily the safest route)

his windows are tinted (duh) so there are numerous times in which his fingers are plunging into you, curling as they pump in and out. for clean up, he'll usually just have you suck on his fingers, groaning and cursing under his breath as your tongue laps at the juices.

if he can't wait until you make it home, he'll have your head bobbing, one hand clutching the wheel while the other is palming the back of your skull, applying pressure so that you'll go deeper and deeper. he prefers to keep the radio off, so the filthy, obscene noises will flood the intimate space. his desire to fuck you only soars by the second, his tip pressing deeper and deeper down your throat.

if he's desperate enough, he'll nearly swerve off to the nearest exit, pulling off in an enclave or parking lot. with his large stature, he typically has you ride him in the driver's seat, savoring the way your figure molds with his perfectly as the windows fog.

other times, he just wants to hear your voice, engaging you in deep conversation. there are a variety of topics, each with their own nuance and question he'll begin with. there's nothing more that he cherishes than drives with you, because he gets to build more and more emotional intimacy. getting to know you is one of his favorite things to do, so of course he's going to seize the opportunity.

he is the type of person to request kisses at stoplights, even if they are brief. there was one time he took you cruising along the brackley campus, purposefully stopping for as long as possible at the lights or signs, just so that he can get a smooch.

of course, you don't mind. you love him. oh so dearly. of course you're going to kiss him whenever the opportunity is presented.

also, you are the one who has the aux most of the time, your phone paired to the bluetooth the second you're in that passenger seat. he enjoys your taste in music, finding a new favorite song or two each time. sometimes he'll ask you to add the song to his personal playlist, not shy in the fact that he gets a lot of his new music from his girl.

whether it's cruises at night, enjoying the skylines of whichever city you're in, or countryside tours, you just love being in that passenger seat. there are times in which you tease that he needs to get that section of the dash engraved, customized with your name.

little do you know, he has that in the works.

not just for that car, but for every vehicle in his fleet.

---

On Display

Day 10 → Exhibitionism 💋 Kimi Räikkönen

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

Kimi Räikkönen doesn’t care about most things. It’s not apathy exactly, it’s more like everything just slips right past him. He does his job, keeps his head down, says what’s necessary — and even then, not much more than that. It’s enough to keep him going, to keep the world at arm’s length, until you came along.

You're different. That’s what unsettles him.

You’re new, fresh out of university, assigned to be his Press Officer for Alfa Romeo Racing. The team was proud of themselves for hiring you. Young, capable, smart. You’ve been around Kimi for a few months now, and it didn’t take long for something to shift inside him.

He’s not sure when it happened, or how, but it did. And now he can’t stop thinking about you.

Today, the garage is bustling — mechanics clinking tools, engineers hunched over laptops. Kimi stands near his car, keeping himself at a distance like he always does. But then he hears it, a conversation drifting over the noise.

"She's way too young for him," one mechanic says, voice low but not low enough. "Kimi's over forty. She should be with someone … closer to her age."

Kimi doesn't flinch, but he narrows his eyes slightly. The other mechanic laughs, “Like who, you? Come on, man, you’d never have a chance.”

“I’m serious,” the first one continues, “She deserves someone who can keep up with her, you know? Someone who’s not … past his prime.”

Kimi's grip on his helmet tightens.

He knows how it looks — he’s been around long enough to understand how people see him. Quiet, cold, detached. The guy who doesn’t care about anything. But this? This stings more than he expected. He stands there, frozen, until he sees you at the edge of the garage, talking to another team member, completely unaware of the conversation happening just a few feet away.

Kimi makes up his mind instantly.

Without a word, he strides across the garage, brushing past people with a determined look in his eyes. You don’t notice him until he’s right in front of you, blocking your path.

“Kimi?” You ask, blinking up at him. “What’s-”

“Come,” he says, his voice low and commanding. It’s not a request. Before you can ask another question, he’s taken your hand, pulling you along with him. You don’t resist, but confusion paints your face as he leads you through the maze of the garage.

“Kimi, what’s going on?” You ask, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Did something happen?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s too focused on getting to his driver’s room, away from everyone else, away from the noise and the looks. He doesn’t slow down until he reaches the door, pushing it open with one hand and ushering you inside with the other.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he shuts the door behind him, the soft click of the lock echoing in the small space. The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy outside, and you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Kimi,” you say again, softer this time. “What is it?”

He takes a moment, staring at you with that intense, unreadable expression he always wears. But there’s something else behind it now — something sharper, more vulnerable.

“I heard them,” he finally says, voice rougher than usual.

Your brow furrows. “Heard who?”

“The mechanics.” His jaw tightens. “Talking about you. About us.”

You blink, taken aback. “What did they say?”

Kimi steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “That I’m too old for you. That you should be with someone else. Someone younger.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his frustration spilling over. “They think I can’t keep up with you. That I’m not good enough.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and raw, and for the first time since you met him, Kimi looks … uncertain. It’s jarring, seeing him like this — the man who’s always in control, always so sure of himself, now questioning everything.

“Kimi,” you say softly, stepping closer until you’re just inches away from him. “That’s ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you insist, your voice firm. “Why are you even listening to them? They don’t know anything about us.”

His gaze flickers, something close to doubt flashing in his eyes. “But maybe they’re right.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, though there’s no humor in it. “Right about what? That you’re too old for me?”

He doesn’t answer, but the look on his face says enough.

You take a deep breath, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Kimi, listen to me. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You’re the one I’m with, not them. And I’m with you because I want to be. Not because of your age, or your career, or whatever else they think.”

He stares at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “But you could have someone else,” he murmurs. “Someone … younger.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s affection in the gesture. “I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Kimi stays silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out if you really mean it. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant. “Why?”

You laugh, the sound light and teasing. “Do you really need me to list all the reasons?”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through, but he doesn’t let it.

“Fine,” you say, stepping even closer until you’re practically toe-to-toe. “You want to know why? Because you’re kind. Because you care, even if you don’t show it the way most people do. Because you make me laugh, even when you’re not trying to. And because when I’m with you, everything feels … right.”

His eyes soften, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “You really think that?”

“I do,” you say, your voice sincere. “And I don’t care what anyone else says. They don’t get to decide what’s right for us. Only we do.”

Kimi watches you for a long moment, the weight of your words sinking in. Slowly, he reaches up, his fingers brushing your cheek in the gentlest of touches. It’s such a small, simple gesture, but it feels like everything in that moment.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says quietly, but there’s a fierceness behind his words that makes your heart race. “Not for them. Not for anyone.”

You smile, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

For a while, neither of you say anything. The silence isn’t uncomfortable; it’s warm, filled with everything unspoken between you. Kimi’s thumb traces slow circles on your cheek, his gaze locked on yours, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself feel something. Something more than just the numb routine of racing, more than just the motions of his life.

It’s you.

You’re the difference. The one thing he never expected to care about, but now can’t imagine being without.

“They’ll keep talking,” he says after a while, his voice quieter now, almost resigned.

“Let them,” you reply, your tone defiant. “We know the truth. That’s all that matters.”

He doesn’t respond, but you can see it in his eyes — the way they soften, the way the lines of tension in his face smooth out. You’ve managed to calm him, to ease the storm raging in his mind. And that’s something no one else has ever been able to do.

Kimi exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something heavy. He takes your hand again, this time more gently, pulling you toward him until your bodies are pressed together. His hand lingers on your waist as he pulls away slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. There’s a certain darkness there now, a fire that wasn’t present before. He’s calm, but there’s something electric beneath the surface. You can feel it.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind him, and with a swift, almost careless movement, pulls the door to the driver’s room open. The quiet hiss of the hinges echoes in the small space, but it’s the sudden rush of noise from the garage outside that jolts you.

“Kimi,” you whisper, glancing toward the open door, “What are you doing?”

His gaze stays locked on yours, unwavering, and he says it, voice low and dangerous, “I want everyone to hear you cry my name.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“And I want them to see,” he continues, his fingers brushing along your jawline before tilting your chin up slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes, “to know what I can do to you. That you’re mine.”

There’s no question in his voice, no hesitation. He’s daring you, challenging you in a way that only Kimi Räikkönen can. The kind of challenge that pulls you in, that makes it impossible to say no, even if every part of you is screaming at how reckless, how exposed this could be.

“Kimi,” you start, but the words get lost as he steps even closer, the warmth of his body brushing against yours, overwhelming every other thought.

“You don't want them to know?” He asks, the faintest smirk pulling at his lips, though his voice remains steady. “You don’t want them to hear how you scream for me?”

Your breath hitches, and Kimi notices. He always notices. There’s that rare smile again, the one that barely shows but tells you everything. You’re his, and he’s about to make sure everyone knows it.

You glance again at the open door, the sounds of the team moving about just a few feet away — tools clanking, mechanics talking, engineers calling out data. They’re all out there. They could hear everything.

And Kimi doesn’t care.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, grazing the skin just above your hips, slow and deliberate. “I want them to know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “I want them to hear.”

The possessiveness in his voice is unmistakable. He’s not asking; he’s telling you, declaring it like an unshakable truth.

You’re his.

He guides you backward with a gentle but firm push until your back hits the wall. The sudden pressure makes you gasp, and before you can say anything, Kimi’s mouth is on yours. It’s not soft — it’s demanding, consuming. Every kiss, every touch is a statement. You belong to him, and now, he’s going to make sure the world knows it.

“Kimi, the door-” you manage to murmur against his lips, but he just kisses you harder, silencing any protest.

“I want it open,” he growls into your mouth, his voice rough with need. “I want them to see.”

His hands are all over you now, possessive, as if he can’t touch you enough, can’t get enough of you. He doesn’t care who hears, who sees. In fact, that’s exactly what he wants. He’s always been reserved, controlled — until it comes to you. With you, all of that falls away.

Kimi pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot against your lips. “Say my name.”

You hesitate for a moment, your eyes darting again to the open door. You can hear footsteps passing by, voices just outside, oblivious to what’s happening inside this room. But the way Kimi looks at you, the intensity in his eyes, the sheer force of his presence — it makes it impossible to resist.

“Kimi,” you breathe, soft at first.

He smiles, that dark, dangerous smile that sends your pulse racing. “Louder.”

“Kimi,” you say again, louder this time, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and need.

“Good,” he mutters, his hands tightening on your waist as he presses his body against yours. “They’ll hear you soon enough.”

And then he’s kissing you again, hard and fierce, his hands moving to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he presses you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of his racing suit.

The door is still open.

The thought lingers in the back of your mind, but it’s quickly drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of Kimi’s hands on you, his mouth devouring yours like he can’t get enough. You can hear the faint hum of voices outside, the occasional burst of laughter or the sound of tools clanging against metal, but it all fades away, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears and the feel of Kimi’s body against yours.

He pulls away just long enough to look at you again, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough, filled with a kind of raw intensity that makes your stomach flip. “Only mine.”

“Yes,” you manage to breathe, your heart racing in your chest. “Only yours.”

And that’s all it takes. Kimi’s mouth crashes against yours again, and this time, there’s no holding back. Every touch, every kiss, every movement is possessive, claiming. He’s making sure that when you leave this room, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind who you belong to.

But then, just as you’re about to fall over the edge, just as you feel like you might break apart from the intensity of it all, the door creaks. A shadow falls across the room.

“Kimi-” a voice starts, but it cuts off abruptly.

Your heart skips a beat, your eyes flying open as you realize someone’s standing in the doorway. Kimi’s race engineer, frozen in place, eyes wide in shock.

For a split second, the room is deathly silent.

“Kimi?” The engineer stammers, his voice filled with awkward confusion. “Uh … sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

But Kimi doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder at the stunned engineer, his expression as calm and collected as ever.

“What?” Kimi asks, his voice steady, almost bored, as if nothing unusual is happening.

The engineer’s eyes dart between the two of you, clearly flustered. “I, uh, I was just going to — there’s a … a data issue, but, uh … I’ll come back later.”

Kimi doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the engineer for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nods, almost dismissively. “Do that.”

The engineer doesn’t need to be told twice. He practically stumbles over his own feet as he backs out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a hurried click.

The second the door is closed, Kimi’s attention is back on you, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. His eyes darken again, the fire from before rekindling as if nothing had happened.

“They’ll all know now,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. There’s a possessive edge to his tone, something primal that sends a thrill through you.

“Kimi,” you breathe, your heart still pounding from the shock of being caught.

He smirks, leaning in to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Let them talk.”

And just like that, he’s kissing you again, his hands roaming your body with a kind of controlled urgency. There’s no hesitation, no pause to think about what just happened. It’s like the interruption never even fazed him.

He’s still in control, still completely focused on you.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, and this time, there’s no room for doubt.

You are his.

And he’s going to make sure everyone knows it.

***

It’s late when the mechanic finally sits down on his worn-out couch, still in his travel clothes. The day had been long, filled with the usual chaos of a flying back home after a race weekend, and all he wants is to shut off his mind, sink into the cushions, and forget about everything for a while.

His phone buzzes on the coffee table, but he ignores it at first, figuring it’s just another group message from the guys. He’ll deal with that later.

But the phone buzzes again. And again. Three notifications in quick succession, and finally, he picks it up.

The screen lights up with a message from an unknown number.

New message: Open this. You’ll want to see.

His brow furrows as he reads it, curiosity piqued. He glances around his quiet apartment, feeling a strange sense of anticipation. He taps the message, and immediately, a video starts downloading. It’s taking its time — bad signal, probably. His thumb hovers over the screen, debating whether or not this is a good idea. Could be spam, or worse.

But something about the message, the cryptic tone of it, makes him wait.

The video finally finishes, and before he knows it, he presses play.

The screen flickers to life, and at first, it’s just a shot of a luxurious bedroom — modern, sleek, with low lighting and dark, rich colors. The kind of place he could only imagine staying in.

And then he sees you.

You’re there, on the bed, your body moving in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat. You’re wearing nothing but a thin, silk robe, and before he can process what he’s seeing, Kimi comes into view, shirtless, standing behind you. His hands are on your shoulders, sliding down your arms with a possessive, deliberate slowness.

“Holy shit,” the mechanic mutters under his breath, his pulse quickening.

In the video, Kimi’s voice is low and commanding as he leans in, whispering something in your ear that the mechanic can’t quite hear. But it doesn’t matter. The way you respond — the way your body reacts, arching slightly into Kimi’s touch — tells him everything he needs to know.

You belong to Kimi.

The mechanic’s hands tighten around his phone, his knuckles going white. He should stop watching, turn it off, but he can’t. It’s like he’s been pulled into something forbidden, something he knows he shouldn’t be seeing, but now that he has, he’s trapped.

Kimi moves around to the front of you in the video, tilting your chin up so you’re looking directly into his eyes. “Tell me,” Kimi’s voice rumbles through the speakers, clear and dominant, “who do you belong to?”

Your answer is immediate, breathless. “You.”

Kimi smiles, a dark, satisfied smile. “That’s right.”

The mechanic watches as Kimi pushes you gently back onto the bed, his movements fluid and controlled, like he’s done this a hundred times before. Kimi climbs over you, his body pressing down against yours, and the camera zooms in, catching every intimate detail — the way your hands slide up Kimi’s back, the way your lips part as you whisper his name, the soft moan that escapes when Kimi kisses your neck.

“Fuck,” the mechanic breathes, his heart pounding in his chest. He shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too personal, too raw. But he can’t look away. There’s something magnetic about the way Kimi moves, the way he commands your attention, your body, your everything.

In the video, Kimi’s voice breaks the silence again. “You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice shaking, filled with a need that makes the mechanic’s stomach twist.

The mechanic shifts uncomfortably on the couch, feeling a mix of emotions he can’t quite pin down. Jealousy. Guilt. And something darker.

He hadn’t thought much of Kimi before — he’d respected him as a driver, sure, but as a man? He always thought Kimi was cold, detached. He hadn’t imagined that this version of Kimi existed — the one who could make you look at him like you were ready to fall apart, like nothing in the world mattered except him.

In the video, Kimi’s hands are everywhere now — your waist, your hips, your thighs. He’s slow, methodical, taking his time like he has all the control in the world. And maybe he does. The mechanic watches as Kimi’s lips trail down your neck, across your collarbone, lower still, until you’re gasping his name, your body arching off the bed in desperate, silent pleas.

“Kimi,” you breathe, and the mechanic feels it, the way you say his name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only thing grounding you in the moment.

Kimi doesn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, his gaze dark and possessive. His hand moves between your legs, and the mechanic can’t help but shift again, the tension in his body building as he watches. Kimi’s fingers are slow, deliberate, as he touches you, making you moan softly into the dimly lit room.

“Do you like this?” Kimi asks, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down the mechanic’s spine, even through the phone screen.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hands clutching the sheets.

“Louder,” Kimi demands, his tone firm but not unkind.

“Yes,” you cry out this time, your body trembling beneath him.

The mechanic’s chest tightens. He knows he shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too intimate, too raw, but there’s something captivating about the way Kimi has you — completely and utterly under his control. The way he commands your body, your voice, your everything.

In the video, Kimi leans down, his mouth capturing yours in a deep, possessive kiss, and the mechanic watches as you melt into it, your body relaxing into the bed as if Kimi is the only thing tethering you to the world.

It’s then that the camera angle shifts slightly, giving the mechanic a perfect view of your face — flushed, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, lips parted as you gasp for breath. Kimi’s fingers move faster now, more insistent, and the mechanic can see the way your body reacts, the way you tremble and arch under his touch.

“Kimi,” you cry out again, your voice breaking with need, with desperation.

Kimi’s response is immediate, his voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s it. Let them hear you.”

The mechanic’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches you unravel, your body shaking, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. He can’t tear his eyes away, even though he knows he should. There’s something intoxicating about watching you fall apart like this, knowing that it’s Kimi who’s doing this to you, who has you completely under his control.

The video continues, showing every intimate detail — Kimi’s hand tightening on your waist, the way your legs wrap around him, the way you moan his name over and over, completely lost in him. The mechanic’s throat feels tight, his skin prickling with a mix of emotions he can’t quite define.

In the video, you’re close — he can see it, the way your body trembles, the way your breaths come in short, desperate gasps. Kimi knows it too. His pace quickens, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers something the mechanic can’t make out, but it doesn’t matter. The effect is immediate. You cry out, your body arching off the bed as you fall apart beneath him, your voice breaking with pleasure.

The camera lingers for a moment, capturing the way you collapse back against the pillows, completely spent, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Kimi doesn’t move for a moment, just watches you, his hand still resting on your waist, his touch gentle now, almost reverent.

Slowly, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and the mechanic watches as you melt into him, your body relaxing completely. Kimi shifts, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest as you come down from the high, your breaths evening out.

The video ends with that image — Kimi lying back against the headboard, his arms wrapped around you protectively as you rest your head on his chest, eyes closed, completely exhausted. His fingers move through your hair, a soft, almost tender gesture that the mechanic never would’ve expected from him.

For a long moment, the mechanic just sits there, staring at the blank screen of his phone. His heart is still racing, his skin prickling with the intensity of what he just witnessed. He feels … unsettled. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected Kimi to be so possessive, so dominant, and definitely hadn’t expected you to be so completely his.

He swallows hard, trying to push down the mix of jealousy, confusion, and something else that swirls in his chest. He feels like he’s seen something he was never meant to see — something private, something intimate. And yet, whoever sent this video wanted him to see it. Wanted him to know exactly what Kimi is capable of, exactly how well he can take care of you.

The mechanic leans back on the couch, letting out a long breath as he stares up at the ceiling. He knows one thing for sure: Kimi Räikkönen isn’t someone to underestimate.

And you — well, you’re his, in every possible way, and now the mechanic knows it too.

Love Me To My Bones - Max Verstappen

Request from @myescapefromthislife - footballer Declan Rice and him having to speak up for his gf because she was trolled for not being "a glamour model or popstar", if you would make a story about a driver(you decide who) in a similar situation, with a girlfriend/wife who is not what the 'fans' think he should be with, but he loves her with everything she is

No part 2 requests please

Max never really thought about his girlfriend's body type as a problem, he loves her for more than he appearance. Though he'll tell her unprovoked how beautiful he thinks she is and how much he absolutely adores her.

Something he's never understood is how anyone things they have the right to comment on anyone's body. Especially commenting about a stranger they don't know.

"For you." Max smiles appearing home with a bouquet of tulips making y/n turn and look at him with a smile.

"For me?" Y/n laughs lightly taking them from him while he grins at her.

"Of course, I saw them and thought that they were just as beautiful as you." Max nods then kissing her softly.

"You don't have to do this..." Y/n mumbles as she looks at the flowers making him frown. "Don't pretend either. I know why you got these."

"Because I have a beautiful girlfriend."

Max isn't the most active on social media so it took him a while to find out that y/n had been getting hate. A lot of hate. Specifically hate about her body.

It wasn't till a couple days ago when she decided to archive her account and put on hold. A limbo between active and completely deleted but no one else can view it.

Y/n has been trying her best to keep out those thoughts about how her body looks out her head. But it's been met with little success. She's been trying everything to try and cover her body and Max's heart is breaking seeing her confidence be eaten up by people who don't even know her.

"Do you think the flowers are ugly?" Max asks making her frown almost looking offended.

"No. They're my favourite-"

"That's how I see you and that's how you should see yourself." Max tries making her look at him with a thick swallow. "Not even my opinion matters, y/n. It's just you and how you see yourself that matters."

"I'm just sick of seeing what they have to say, Max." Y/n whispers earning a sigh. "And now because I deleted everything, it's in the headlines and the media won't leave it alone."

Max career comes with a lot of frustrating elements. But he hates nothing more than the media, it's bad enough when they rip into him but at least he can tolerate that for the fact it's his own career so it makes sense that they write about him. Writing about y/n when she's done something that obviously suggests she doesn't want attention is just an insult to her and the epitome of disrespectful.

He has to handle this.

Y/n might not really like the idea of him speaking up in her defence and telling people to just leave her alone.

"Do you know...I love you like I never knew I could love someone." Max states making her sigh and shake her head. "I don't know who I'd be without you and I hate knowing that you're hurting because of what someone else thinks they have a right to say about you."

"I don't deserve you." Y/n whispers bottom lip trembling. "Look at me, Max. I don't deserve you, I don't look the part. Every other driver has a model, or an athlete or-"

"I don't want what they have then! I want you. If you asked me to describe the perfect woman, it's you. And I'm going to make sure they understand that.I can't force other people to have a brain or eyes that work." Max states while moving to finally pull her closer to herself.

"You can't call other people blind just because they see what you don't." Y/n mumbles as he holds her closely closing the space and kissing her to really just try and communicate his love in a way she can't dismiss as only words.

-

As much as he tried, Max couldn't convince y/n to come to the next race. He didn't want to push her too much when she's feeling so down. Instead he just enjoyed her videos and pictures with Jimmy and Sassy along with the promised pictures of her meals.

Max knows he should trust her to eat but with the comments being very much about her weight, he just wanted to make sure. He's been sending her pictures back of each meal he has. And he knows that she sees right through his intention of why he's doing what he's doing with the meals but he'd rather she know and do it than not know and potentially skip meals.

"So what do you want us to say?" The PR team asks after Max makes the request to have a meeting about the issues that his girlfriend is being faced with.

"That if it's not related to me and only me or the sport directly. I don't want anyone else in my life to be commented on. I think I can handle the stuff on my own social media." Max sighs making the team look between themselves. "You can read it over and make sure it's not a damaging message."

Though he wonders why he has to choose his words carefully. If he met even one of the people who have contributed towards y/n feeling as shitty about herself as she does. He'd love to have them lie on the track so he could hit there with his car.

"Does y/n know?" One of the PR girls asks making Max look at her. "Just it might be something you might want to mention...with how things are. There's going to be more attention on her when you make the post."

"She's not online anymore." Max mumbles then sighing. "I'll call her and let her know."

"Ok, good." The girl nods before they all seem to dismiss themselves.

Max sighs staring at his phone for a few moments before he sighs and picks it up tapping to call y/n who picks up after only a couple rings.

"Hey, baby." Y/n greets with a soft smile.

"Hey, sorry for calling without warning. I just wanted to...well I wanted to talk about something." Max explains making her look at him for a moment, waiting for further explanation. "I want to make a statement telling people to stop-and before you say it's a bad idea, baby it can't be any worse than it is."

"Would it make you feel better?" Y/n mumbles not arguing that things are at a bit of a rock bottom.

She hates that he own self-worth is so bad that she doesn't even want to be there for him on a race weekend.

"It's not about me. If you don't want me to do it then I'll stop the team and I won't make a statement." Max states softly earning a sigh. 'It'll get worse but it might make people shut up in thinking they have a right to comment.

"You can do it." Y/n sighs after the longest silence of Max's life.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean...maybe I was being a little harsh on myself. I probably should stop fighting the idea that you're not happy with me...you wouldn't put in the effort that you do if you really didn't want to be with me." Y/n smiles lightly while clearly stroking one of the cats out of the frame, the loud purring still reaching the mic for Max to hear so he can't help but smile.

"So it's ok?"

"Yes. I'm not going to see it anyway."

"I'll send my statement to you for you to ok first...I don't want to say anything that you're not happy with."

"Is the team checking it to?" Y/n teases since she knows a couple of the PR girls as friends so she knows the procedure for any public statements has to go through the team before it makes it to the online world for the public to read.

"I love you."

"I love you too...and I know it'll get better eventually." Y/n smiles earning a small nod. "I wish I was there...I know I kept saying no. But I do sort of regret it."

"We can still get you on a flight, I want you here."

"I don't know."

"Please, I would rather you be here and I can't put the statement out until I've actually written it and everyone is ok with it."

-

Y/n takes a deep breath as she tries to somewhat hide behind Max as they walk into the paddock. She'd flown in last night and Max spend the night with her, just figuring how what he wanted to say and how he needed to say it.

His statement went out this morning before they even arrived and maybe a surprise to no one. Pictures of the couple are being fought for.

"It's alright, baby. I've got you." Max smiles squeezing her hand and kissing the back of it.

He's arranged a little surprise for her, hoping to perk up her mood since she might be very slowly gaining some confidence back. He still feels it's his duty to do everything he can to help to gain back her confidence.

Walking into his driver's room there's 2 dozen bouquets of pink tulips.

"Maxie..." Y/n gasps then smiling as she looks at him. "This is so cute."

"All for you." Max smiles then smiling as he picks her up and kisses her a couple times. "I love you."

"I love you too."

And Max proves it later when he's in the media pen being asked about the statement.

"We don't want to discuss anything to do with y/n. But...we just want to ask if she's ok?"

"She's getting there. I think people really just need to learn that common respect goes a long way. I have some words for the people who make those kinds of comments which aren't so respectful. I will say that people can say what they like but I won't be letting them make any in my life miserable because they're jealous."

The reporter nods looking sympathetic since they've all seen what's been said, and really the comments are disgusting and there's really nothing that they're gaining from it.

"Thank you." Max smiles before moving away, happy that's the last interview for the day and when he sees y/n talking to Daniel who is holding a bag and speaking to her excitedly. "Hey, Daniel. What you doing?"

"I was just giving y/n the latest Enchanté line, all in here." Daniel smiles lifting the bag a little in gesture of it making Max take it since he'll never let y/n carry a bag.

"Thank you, Daniel. It's nice when I get a gift from my boyfriend's boyfriend." Y/n jokes catching their attention and watching them both grin at her. "How was media?"

"Boring. As always. But we can leave. So worth doing. Are you heading out mate?"

"Ah, I got a couple things to do. But let me know how the two of you like the clothes. I'm sure y/n can model and you can both give feed back." Daniel grins then hugging y/n. "He'll say you look beautiful in everything, and I have to agree. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise."

"Thank you." Y/n whispers before he pulls back and moves to give Max a shorter hug.

"Ready to go?"

"Just been to grab your stuff and at least some of the flowers from your room. Are you alright?" Y/n nods then smiling as he kisses her and mumbles a yes. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Are you alright?"

"I'm perfect. Better now you're here."

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.”

Can you please do driver reader is literally the absolute Angel of the paddock and everyone adores her, she’s the cutest sweetest little bean that you can’t help but love, she’s a Redbull driver and Christian always fawns over her and talks about his ‘daughter’ ( it’s clear she’s the favourite ). Even the older drivers love her e.g kimi, jenson, Seb, mark. Platonic pleaseeee

Omg, that is such a sweet idea. I did the format a bit differently, hope you don't mind.

Enjoy reading and send me some requests!!!

-XoXo

The Redbull Princess

YN YLN was a known name in the motor sport world. Not only was she the youngest driver currently on the grid - only 19 years - but she is the first female to ever drive for RedBull. Not oy that, but also the only woman on the grid.

Despite having a different gender, the other drivers never treated her bad. In fact, one could say that YN got the whole "Princess Treatment" from the drivers and teams. Each driver has taken a special place in her life.

Exhibit A: The protective one

The paddock was buzzing with energy, reporters swarming like bees near the Red Bull garage. YN was prepping for her media rounds, already feeling the weight of the spotlight on her. As she stepped into the press pen, a group of journalists immediately approached, firing off questions.

"YN, how do you feel about the pressure of being the youngest driver? Do you think it affects your performance?"

Before she could answer, Max appeared out of nowhere, slipping between her and the reporters with a grin that was anything but friendly. "I think that's enough for now," Max said, his blue eyes narrowing. "She’s got a race to focus on. Back off."

The reporters, visibly intimidated by the reigning World Champion, quickly shuffled away. YN let out a breath of relief, nudging Max with her elbow.

"You know, I can handle them."

Max chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, steering her away from the crowd. "Yeah, but why would I let them bother you when I can have fun scaring them off?"

"You're impossible," she laughed. "But thanks."

Exhibit B: The gossip King

YN walked into the Ferrari garage, still buzzing from practice. She found Charles leaning against his car, drinking water. His face lit up when he saw her.

"Charlie! Did you see that move I pulled in turn 9?" she said, excitedly plopping down next to him.

Charles grinned, instantly slipping into gossip mode. "I did! Smooth as butter. But did you hear about Fernando's radio message? He was furious about the tire degradation. Drama!"

YN's eyes widened. "No way! Spill all the tea, Leclerc."

Charles leaned in, whispering. "Apparently, his engineer told him to manage his tires better, and Nando snapped, saying, ‘I am managing them!’" He mimicked Fernando’s accent, making YN burst into laughter.

Exhibit C: The helping hand

The young RedBull driver just exited her car, when she felt someone grabbing her Birking Bag. When she quickly turned her head, she was meat with the sight of Carlos not only caring her bag in his hands and her coat on his arm, but carring his own stuff as well.

"Carlito, what are you doing? You don’t have to carry all my stuff for me." she told him, after they started walking towards the entrance.

Carlos mate an irritated sound, before responding to her. "Nonsense, hermana. Your job is to win this weekend. So let me help you with all the other things, comprende?"

Before Carlos could get an answer, she threw her arms around him, whispering a small thank you in his ear.

Exhibit D: The personal chef

YN sat in the Red Bull hospitality area, poking at her plate of food with a discontented look. Yuki walked over, noticing her lack of enthusiasm.

"Not good enough for you, huh?" Yuki teased, sliding into the seat across from her.

YN scrunched up her nose. "I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t eat this."

Without missing a beat, Yuki stood up. "I’ll make you something. What do you want?"

Her eyes brightened. "Yuki, really? You don’t have to!"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, you’re picky. I know that. What do you want? Miso soup? Onigiri?"

YN tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Onigiri sounds perfect."

Within minutes, Yuki was back, placing a plate of freshly made onigiri in front of her. YN took a bite and sighed contentedly. "You're the best, Yuki."

He grinned. "I know."

Exhibit E: The "annoying" prankster

YN was busy trying to make sure her helmet and gear were ready when suddenly, her entire backpack fell off the counter with a loud thud, spilling everything.

"Lando!" she yelled, spinning around, catching the British driver grinning like a mischievous child.

"What?" Lando said, feigning innocence, hands up. "It slipped."

YN gave him a look but couldn’t help the smile creeping on her face. Lando always knew how to lift her spirits, even if it was through relentless pranks.

"One day, Norris, one day!" she warned, pointing a finger at him.

"I’ll be waiting," Lando chuckled, before helping her pick up her things

Exhibit F: The shoulder to cry on

"I just can't believe it. I was so close. How did I manage to bin the car into the wall on the last corner" muttered the 19 year old. Her face pressed in Oscars neck, who was busy stroking her hair. He knew better than to interrupt her during her rant. Knowing it would help her when she got everything of her chest.

After a moment, she shakily breathed out. Oscar knew that the only thing he could do now was to let her fall apart while he would catch every piece of her.

And that's what he did. While she cried her heart out, Oscar held her close to him, rocking them slowly in a soothing matter. It felt like nothing could happen to her in Oscars arms. He would protect her from the outside world as long as she needed

Sometimes actions speak louder than words

Exhabit G: The fashionista

Lewis stood beside YN, eyeing her racing suit critically before smirking. "That’s not gonna work."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused.

He pointed at her boots. "Those shoes? No way. They don’t match the rest of the suit."

YN raised an eyebrow. "I'm not trying to walk the runway, Lewis. I’m racing."

Lewis rolled his eyes. "You can do both. Come on, let’s get you a new pair of shoes. You’ll thank me later."

And true to his words, YN received a new pair of racing shoes only a few hours later. They certainly looked better than her old pair.

Exhibit H: The mother-hen

George was hovering near the buffet in the paddock, watching YN closely as she piled food onto her plate. He narrowed his eyes as she bypassed the salad section.

"YN, you need to eat more greens. And have you had any water today?" George asked, his tone dangerously close to motherly.

YN groaned. "George, I’m fine. I had water this morning."

"That’s not enough," he replied sternly, filling a glass and handing it to her. "Drink. Now."

She pouted but took the glass. "Okay, Mom."

Exhibit I: The proud dad

During a press conference, Christian Horner stood beside YN, smiling at the reporters. "You all know my daughter here is the star of the show," he said, gesturing towards YN.

YN blushed at the comment. "Christian!"

The reporters laughed, but YN knew Christian wasn’t entirely joking. He had taken her under his wing from day one, treating her like family. And she couldn’t have been more grateful.

Exhibit J: Bwoah

In a rare quiet moment, YN had somehow convinced Kimi Räikkönen — the Iceman himself — to do a TikTok trend with her. As the camera rolled, Kimi deadpanned his way through the trend, barely moving but somehow nailing it.

"Thanks for doing this, Kimi," YN said, grinning as they finished.

Kimi shrugged. "Bwoah, don’t mention it, kid. But don’t tell the other drivers that you are my favourite"

YN laughed. "Deal."

— || Revenge is Sweet || —

Pairing: Lucius Malfoy x gryffindor!muggleborn!reader (SHE’S OF AGE) 

Word count: 6224

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 16+, fingering, clit rubbing, cock in Vigina, male and female, adult content, adult language, cuss words, clit licking, degrading, fluff if you squint, pet names, anguish, cheating, heartbreak, revenge, crying, Lucius comforting Y/N?, aftercare, praise, daddy kink, cum swallowing, fluff, out of character Lucius, 2 almost 3 years after the 2nd wizarding war, younger woman with older man, first time together, heated make out session, kissing, hickeys, love bites, SFW if you squint. (SHE IS OF AGE) 

Summary: Y/N wanted to surprise Draco by visiting him at the Malfoy Manor but ended up catching him cheating instead. While leaving she bumps into Lucius Malfoy and things get kinda heated. (SHE’S OF AGE)

Requested: by no one this is my idea 

A/N: Hello, my fellow Dreamers, hope you like this. Please give me your feedback. BTW I also already posted this on my AO3 account @ slytherintrikru.

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Y/N navigated her way up the meandering, earthy path that led to the formidable gates of the Malfoy Manor. These gates, a grand testament to the opulence within, were adorned with wrought-iron craftsmanship that gleamed even in the muted light of dusk. Beyond the gates, a long, majestic driveway, flanked by a procession of ancient trees, guided her toward the mansion's imposing facade. Standing before her, the Malfoy Manor exuded an aura of architectural splendor. Its stately stone walls rose gracefully, adorned with intricate details that whispered of centuries past. Tall, narrow windows punctuated the facade, their panes seeming to conceal secrets within, bestowing upon the house an air of sinister allure.

The estate on which the manor resided was vast and mysterious. A dark forest encroached upon the edges of the property, casting eerie shadows that played hide-and-seek with the waning daylight. In stark contrast to this enigmatic woodland, a lush and meticulously cultivated garden graced the manor's rear, a testament to the Malfoy family's penchant for grandeur and elegance.

With each deliberate step, Y/N's heartbeat quickened. Her trembling hand reached out to rap upon the massive, wooden double doors that guarded the entrance. She couldn't have fathomed that she would ever find herself returning to this nightmarish place, where the echoes of her torment at the hands of Voldemort and his fanatical followers still reverberated in the depths of her memory. It had been two agonizing years since that fateful day when Fenrir Greyback had dragged her through those very doors, her hair pulled viciously as she struggled to match the monstrous pace set by her captor. The same mansion had borne witness to her harrowing encounter with the Dark Lord himself, the malevolent figure who had imprinted the dreaded Death Eater mark upon her left arm—a mark she had desperately sought to eradicate for almost three long years.

The reason for her presence here, despite the haunting memories, was her enduring love for Draco. Three years had passed since the inception of their clandestine relationship, but their bond remained unshaken. Draco's parents, however, were a formidable obstacle in their path. They looked down upon her as a 'filthy Mudblood,' a fact that had never deterred her resolve, so long as Draco stood by her side. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy had resorted to devious tactics, attempting to buy her loyalty, attempting to pry her away from their son. Their efforts had met with stubborn resistance, leaving them fuming with frustration. On countless occasions, they subjected her to scathing tirades, especially Narcissa, whose cruelty knew no bounds. After a week, Lucius resigned to a sullen silence, but Narcissa's venomous words and occasionally physical aggression persisted as a daily ordeal that Y/N endured with steely determination.

Y/N flinched as the manor door creaked open, her reaction akin to that of someone stumbling into a jinx. Her startled gaze dropped to the floor, where a familiar figure stood. It was Rue, the endearing house elf, a cherished presence in Y/N's life.

"What can Rue do for Draco's lovely girlfriend?" Rue inquired, her lips curving into a warm, welcoming smile.

Y/N couldn't help but smile in return; Rue had always held a special place in her heart. With her bright blue eyes and those endearing pointy ears, Rue exuded an unmistakable charm. Not only did she anticipate Y/N's every need, but she also prepared food and drinks precisely to Y/N's liking. Since the law against elf brutality had been enacted, Y/N had taken it upon herself to ensure Rue's comfort, providing her with clothing. Over the months, Rue had transformed, shedding the weight of servitude to become a happier, more carefree presence.

"I'd like to see Draco, please, Rue," Y/N replied, her voice gentle and careful not to startle the petite house elf.

Rue's smile widened, and with a tiny, reassuring grip on Y/N's hand, she led her inside. As the door closed softly behind them, Rue spoke again, her voice filled with an eagerness to assist. "Master Draco is in his room. Rue will take you."

Y/N hesitated for a moment, a playful idea forming in her mind. "No, no, it's fine. I can go myself. I want to surprise him."

The adorable house elf nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. With a snap of her fingers, she vanished from sight, leaving Y/N to navigate the winding corridors of the Malfoy Manor alone.

Y/N couldn't help but grin at the thought of Rue experiencing a moment of personal indulgence, wondering if the house elf was trying to savor the pleasures she had missed in her life of servitude. With that pleasant thought, Y/N embarked on her ascent up the many flights of wooden stairs that led to the upper reaches of the manor. Her footsteps echoed softly through the hallway as she made her way toward Draco's room.

As she arrived at her destination, Y/N came to an abrupt halt, her senses keenly attuned to an unexpected sound emanating from behind Draco's door. She strained her ears, desperately hoping it wasn't a case of accidentally stumbling upon an intimate moment between Lucius and Narcissa. A glance at the door's label confirmed it was indeed Draco's room, and then she heard it again.

Moans.

Specifically, the unmistakable sounds of male and female moans. Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she leaned closer to the door, attempting to confirm what she dreaded most. She heard his name, Draco's name, whimpered from a female voice within, a voice that sent shockwaves through her.

Her blood ran cold, her heart rate spiked, and tears welled up in her eyes. Y/N prayed it wasn't true, that Draco wasn't betraying her. She cautiously pushed the door open, her movements silent as she observed the heart-wrenching scene before her. Draco, lost in passion, buried his face in Astoria Greengrass's neck, his vigorous thrusts filling the room.

Their eyes met, Y/N's and Astoria's, in a moment of cruel recognition. Astoria's smirk seemed to taunt Y/N, as if declaring, 'He's mine now, you filthy Mudblood.' With a heavy heart, Y/N gently closed the door, tears streaming down her face. She turned and fled down the hallway, down the stairs, without a care for her surroundings or the possibility of colliding with someone.

Tears flowed freely as Y/N reached the bottom of the stairs, her heart shattering into a million pieces. Her cries escaped in a heartbreaking crescendo, echoing through the manor's grandeur. In her distraught state, she collided with an unexpected presence, teetering dangerously on the brink of falling backward. However, strong arms enveloped her, steadying her in her moment of despair.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, girl?" The voice, dripping with disdain, hissed through the tense air. Y/N's heart lurched at the sound, her gut telling her it was all too familiar. As her tear-blurred gaze lifted, she was met with the sight of a thoroughly baffled and irate Lucius Malfoy, his aristocratic features etched with a mix of anger and confusion. Her own expressive eyes, a mesmerizing shade of E/C, locked onto his cold, steely gray ones.

Blinking away the tears that blurred her vision, she stared at the formidable pureblood wizard who stood before her. Their eye contact held an unspoken tension, a connection fraught with history and complex emotions. It was in that moment that Y/N noticed something she hadn't expected in Lucius – concern. The realization was like a jolt, sending a shiver down her spine.

Concern?

It couldn't be right, could it? Why on earth would Lucius Malfoy, of all people, be concerned about her well-being? Y/N hesitated, her hand instinctively rising to wipe her eyes once more, as if questioning her own senses, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. But the look in Lucius's eyes remained, a glimmer of unexpected humanity in the formidable man who had long been an enigma to her.

"Are you going to speak, or just stand there like a dumb-witted Mudblood?" Lucius's words, laced with venom, cut through the heavy silence. Y/N turned away from him, hurt etched in her eyes, his cruel words piercing her heart. In that moment, the gap between them seemed insurmountable.

Lucius, however, couldn't ignore the pain he had inadvertently caused, and for a fleeting second, remorse tugged at his conscience. Yet, his pride prevailed, and instead of apologizing, he pressed further, his tone demanding answers. "What's wrong with you, girl?"

Y/N pulled herself away from him, a mixture of emotions welling up inside her. She hesitated for a moment, then her voice trembled as she questioned him, "W-Why do y-you care?"

The unexpected vulnerability in her voice caught Lucius off guard, and a flicker of something uncharacteristic passed through his stormy gray eyes. He blocked her path as she attempted to move past him, their proximity intensifying the tension between them. "Just because we got off to the wrong foot when we first met doesn't mean I'm the same person I was before," he hissed, a rare hint of vulnerability seeping into his words. "Now tell me what's wrong, or I'll use Legilimency on you."

Her defenses crumbling, Y/N couldn't hold back the flood of emotion any longer. The words tumbled out of her, her voice wavering as she confessed, "Your son cheated on me with Astoria, that's what happened." She glanced away, bracing herself for the judgment she anticipated. "You're probably happy that he's not with a filthy Mudblood like me anymore. I'll just—"

"He did what?!" Lucius's voice reverberated through the manor, his anger palpable as it resounded against the walls. Y/N glanced at him, a puzzled expression on her face. She couldn't comprehend why he would be so furious that his son, Draco, had cheated on her—a Mudblood—with a pureblood. Lucius Malfoy had never harbored any warmth toward Y/N, so this sudden outburst was baffling. She had always assumed that Draco's parents would be delighted if something like this were to happen.

Lucius's voice, filled with indignation, interrupted her thoughts once more. "How dare that boy break someone's heart instead of just telling you that he wants to end the relationship. I raised him to treat women with respect. Even if the girl is a filthy Mudblood!"

Y/N frowned, her gaze drifting downward to her feet, unable to meet Lucius's eyes. His words were laden with a complex mixture of anger, disappointment, and something she couldn't quite fathom.

"Why would you care anyway? You should be happy that he cheated on me. Now he can go marry a pureblood who's more beautiful than me," she muttered bitterly, her self-esteem shattered.

In an unexpected turn of events, the cold metal of the snake handle of Lucius's cane lifted her chin. She blinked in surprise as he swiftly pulled his cane away and grasped her chin roughly with his hand, forcing her to hold eye contact with him.

"Don't ever say those words again. Am. I. Understand, Y/N?" Lucius's voice, though stern, held a strange mixture of concern. She nodded in response, but it seemed that wasn't sufficient for him. He demanded more. "I expect you to answer when I ask you something!"

"Y-Yes, Sir!" she squeaked, her gaze locked onto his features. She couldn't help but notice the commanding presence he exuded, the sharp lines of his jaw, the strength evident in his angular face. His long, platinum blonde hair cascaded gracefully past his shoulders, framing his striking countenance. The blueish-gray eyes that held an air of authority seemed to peer directly into her soul. Y/N's cheeks flushed inexplicably as she found herself momentarily entranced by his striking appearance. ‘He's handsome’, she thought, a realization that seemed to take her by surprise.

Y/N's unspoken admiration for Lucius had been a well-guarded secret, a silent confession her heart made each time she crossed the threshold of the Malfoy Manor. Her heart would do a subtle dance of anticipation whenever she knew she'd encounter him, and a flush would steal across her cheeks, like a clandestine tribute to his striking presence. It was an irrational reaction, one she couldn't quite understand, given that Lucius had never hidden his disdain for her—well, at least, he hadn't before.

Lucius's trademark smirk played on his lips, but there was a curious shift in his demeanor. Gone was the initial cockiness, replaced by genuine amusement as he surveyed Y/N's puzzled expression. Her blush intensified, a shade that rivaled the crimson and gold of the Gryffindor house colors.

"You really think I'm handsome?" he probed, his tone now laced with curiosity. He leaned in closer, the proximity between them causing a subtle flutter in Y/N's heart. Lucius's eyes sparkled with a newfound charm as he awaited her response.

"I—what? I didn't—" she stammered, but her words were abruptly silenced.

"Legilimens, my darling girl," Lucius smoothly interrupted. His smirk remained, but it was tinged with a magnetic confidence that left her feeling exposed. He leaned even closer, his lips brushing against her ear, and he whispered softly, his voice a provocative caress, "Ah, yes. It appears you've conveniently forgotten that I possess the ability to delve into your mind. You see, I heard every thought you've had about me. Like your secret desire for me to pin you down on my bed, to make you forget how to walk."

Y/N's eyes widened, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment. Her heart raced, and she felt a shiver of vulnerability wash over her. Lucius's audacious revelation had unraveled a new layer of intrigue and desire, transforming their dynamic into something far more intricate and captivating.

She gasped, disbelief coursing through her. Could he truly have been privy to her every innermost thought? It felt surreal, like a dream she was unable to awaken from. In an attempt to regain her composure, she instinctively retreated a step, allowing her gaze to lock with his. His eyes held the same intense emotion she had noticed earlier – a smoldering, undeniable lust that sent a tingle down her spine. He leaned closer, his body almost brushing against hers, and she could feel the heat radiating from him.

"That's the very reason I've maintained my distance from you all these months," he admitted, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath its low, seductive tone. "After my ex-wife and I discovered the truth about you and my son's relationship, I tried to keep my demeanor cold. Yet every night, unable to control my desires, I found myself lost in fantasies of you," he confessed, his words a hushed, intimate secret shared between them.

A blush painted her cheeks once more as his voice whispered sensually into her ear, sending shivers coursing down her spine. His hands found their way to her sides, exerting a gentle, yet possessive squeeze. She couldn't help but shudder at his touch.

"My son is a fool for betraying such a beautiful, enchanting nymph like you," he purred, his lips grazing the tender skin just below her earlobe. His kisses left a fiery trail down her neck, only to ascend slowly back towards her lips. When their mouths met, it was as though a swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach, fluttering wildly. She didn't respond immediately, her brain struggling to catch up with the whirlwind of sensations. Gradually, she inhaled his intoxicating scent, responding to his kisses with a growing hunger of her own.

Y/N's moans of desire seemed to echo within the cavernous expanse of Lucius's opulent mansion. Every step she took away from the memory of Draco's betrayal and closer to Lucius felt like a transgressive leap into the unknown. The kiss, fueled by a volatile mix of guilt and longing, deepened with each passing second. It was a magnetic force pulling them closer together, their lips becoming the epicenter of their shared need.

Her fingers wove themselves deeper into Lucius's long, platinum blonde hair, the strands silky and cool to the touch. He couldn't help but groan in response, the sound a testament to the intensity of their connection. His powerful hands, previously residing at her sides, ventured boldly downward, reaching her shapely derrière. With a delicate yet firm touch, he squeezed, sending exhilarating waves of sensation through her body.

With a sudden surge of passion, Lucius lifted Y/N off her feet, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to maintain their electrifying kiss. The sensation of being carried by him, the firmness of his grip, and the heat of his body against hers were intoxicating. They ascended the grand staircase, their rhythmic ascent echoing through the mansion's ornate halls.

As they turned down the dimly lit hallway, the portraits of stern-faced ancestors bore witness to their clandestine rendezvous. The anticipation was palpable, each step a deliberate stride toward the unknown. The soft glow of moonlight spilled through heavy, brocade curtains, casting intricate patterns on the Persian rugs that lined the floor.

With an audacious display of strength and desire, Lucius kicked open the door to his lavishly appointed bedroom. The door swung wide with a creak, revealing a chamber bathed in shadows. The grandeur of the room was nothing short of breathtaking, with its sumptuous canopy bed, antique furnishings, and gilded accents. The room exuded an air of timeless elegance, a stark contrast to the illicit passion that had led them there. Yet, with another commanding kick, he shut the door behind them, sealing their secret within the confines of the room's opulent embrace.

In the opulent chamber, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtered through heavy curtains, he guided her towards his bed with a gentleness that belied the intense desire simmering between them. The sumptuous sheets, adorned with intricate patterns, awaited their embrace, a testament to the luxury that surrounded them. With a feather-light touch, he laid her down, the mattress conforming to the curves of her body like a lover's caress.

Desire surged between them, an irresistible force pulling them closer together. She eagerly wound her legs around him, her longing palpable. A deep, resonant chuckle rumbled from his chest, a seductive reverberation that filled the room. It was a sound that resonated with promise, the promise of what was to come.

His lips embarked on a slow descent down the delicate curve of her neck, leaving a trail of searing kisses in their wake. His teeth grazed her skin, eliciting sharp gasps and urgent moans from her trembling lips. Y/N's moans danced in harmony with the hushed symphony of their passion, their clandestine desires woven into every sound.

With a masterful touch, his hands began their sensual exploration, fingers tracing the contours of her body. He reached for the fabric of her shirt, the anticipation of their impending intimacy electrifying the air. But as he made to unveil her, he paused, gazing into her eyes with a mixture of tenderness and raw desire. His voice, a sultry whisper, hung in the air like an unspoken invitation, "Do you want to continue this?"

Her heart swelled with a heady blend of love and desire at his considerate question. It wasn't just about the act itself; it was about the connection they shared, the intimacy that extended beyond the physical. Her eyes met his, and she nodded in fervent agreement, but his gaze turned insistent, demanding more than a mere gesture.

She acquiesced, her voice a soft, breathless confession. "Yes, I want to continue."

With the patience of a man intoxicated by her presence, he lifted her shirt, revealing her in all her vulnerability and desire. Each moment was a deliberate act of unveiling, an exploration of the secrets they had kept hidden for too long. Her whimpers of longing grew more pronounced, a sweet symphony of passion that ignited the room.

Their discarded shirts lay scattered, forgotten remnants of the world they had left behind. Their lips collided once more, a fervent clash of desires. His hands, strong and gentle, cradled her face, deepening the kiss into a consuming blaze of longing. In this stolen moment, their connection transcended the physical, binding them together in a fiery embrace that defied the boundaries of reason and restraint.

In the cocoon of their desires, time seemed to slow, allowing them to savor every tantalizing moment. The room, adorned with rich, heavy curtains that filtered the moon's soft glow, bathed them in an otherworldly ambiance. They paused briefly to remove the remaining garments that clung to their heated bodies, leaving a trail of discarded clothing scattered haphazardly across the floor.

With a profound longing etched upon their faces, they surrendered to the pull of their desires. He took the initiative, his lips blazing a path of fiery kisses down her form. Every inch of her skin he touched seemed to ignite with desire, his teeth delicately grazing, and his mouth fervently claiming her.

One of his hands, large and commanding, found its place on her breast, the fingers expertly working her sensitive flesh. The other sought solace on her hip, the grip possessive yet tender. Y/N's response was immediate, her back arching sensually as she pressed herself closer to him. The room bore witness to her unrestrained passion, shadows playing tricks on their entangled figures.

The dimly lit room provided an intimate backdrop to their stolen moment, amplifying the intensity of their connection. She gasped, unable to stifle the whirlwind of sensations coursing through her body. Her longing and need reached a fevered pitch as his lips moved relentlessly over her skin.

This sensation was unlike anything she had ever encountered, not even with Draco. It was a heady concoction of raw desire and an emotional connection that left her feeling utterly exposed and vulnerable, yet simultaneously empowered and alive.

His lips reluctantly abandoned her chest, tracing a searing path downward, inching closer to the epicenter of her desire. Her hips reacted instinctively, a silent plea for more, a plea for him to satiate the burgeoning hunger that consumed her. In response, he chuckled darkly, a knowing grin playing upon his lips.

"So, so greedy for me, aren't you?" he purred, his voice a sultry whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "I've barely even started, my little nymph, and you're already squirming."

Her moans grew in volume, punctuating the charged atmosphere. Her hips continued their rhythmic dance, a wordless invitation for him to delve deeper into her desires. Just as hope began to wane, he boldly ventured between her legs. His thumb found her eager clit, tracing slow, electrifying circles that sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her body. She couldn't help but gasp loudly, her moans intensifying as her body surrendered to his skillful touch.

“L-Lucius!” Y/N's fervent whimper hung in the air, a plea for more that only fueled Lucius's desire to push her further into the depths of pleasure. He reveled in the sound, a wicked grin playing upon his lips as he continued to work his magic. His fingers, slick with her arousal, glided effortlessly inside her, seeking out her g-spot with uncanny precision. The sensation of his touch sent electric jolts of pleasure coursing through her, her moans becoming a chorus of surrender.

The room seemed to close in around them, the ambiance heavy with the heady scent of their desire. Shadows danced seductively across the walls, an intimate audience to their clandestine tryst. Every subtle movement, every trembling breath, was magnified in the dim light, intensifying the eroticism of the moment.

Lucius's voice, a velvet caress of dominance, lured her deeper into submission. "That's right, my little slut," he whispered huskily, his words both an affirmation and a command. "Feel how good I'm making you. Did he ever make you feel like this? Did he know all the right spots to please you?"

She struggled to form coherent words, the pleasure he evoked rendering her speechless. Her response was a breathless admission of truth, punctuated by her moans of ecstasy. "N-No... aahh-"

Lucius's eyes bore into her with an intensity that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable, yet utterly consumed by desire. His fingers continued their relentless assault on her g-spot, her body quivering in response. Her pussy clenched around him, a physical manifestation of her escalating pleasure, and he couldn't help but grunt with satisfaction.

"My little slut," he growled, his voice dripping with unrestrained lust, "you've never felt this kind of pleasure before, have you? Well, let's make sure you're fully satisfied, my dear."

With each word, he propelled her further into the abyss of desire, his fingers dancing with a masterful touch that promised to fulfill her every longing. In the dimly lit room, their forbidden encounter continued, a symphony of passion and submission that echoed through the night.

Lucius's descent towards her quivering core was an agonizingly slow and tantalizing journey. His head moved lower, inch by tantalizing inch, until his mouth hovered just above her dripping wet pussy. The room, bathed in the soft, dim light of concealed passion, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the forbidden act about to unfold.

Y/N's body was a live wire, tingling with desire as his warm breath caressed her sensitive flesh. Her back arched in a primal response, a silent plea for him to continue, to grant her the pleasure she craved. The air was thick with tension, the electrifying atmosphere heightened by the palpable anticipation of what was to come.

With a deliberate, torturous slowness, his tongue made its first sensuous contact with her throbbing clit. Y/N's response was immediate and intense; she arched her back, a breathless gasp escaping her lips. Waves of desire surged through her, her hips rising to meet his mouth in a fervent demand for more. His tongue traced lazy circles around her clit, each pass a teasing caress that left her trembling with need.

Her hips moved in rhythmic desperation, bucking into his mouth as she sought to intensify the pleasure. Lucius, the master of seduction, had her in a hypnotic trance, his tongue shifting tactics to move from side to side, skillfully exploring every sensitive inch of her. He returned to her clit, sucking with a purposeful hunger that sent shivers coursing through her body. Her moans grew in intensity, a symphony of ecstasy that filled the room.

As if orchestrating a symphony of pleasure, his fingers joined the sensual dance, slick with her arousal. They thrust in and out with a relentless rhythm, each penetration hitting her g-spot with pinpoint accuracy. Y/N's body was a trembling instrument of desire, her moans and whimpers filling the room like a seductive melody.

A familiar sensation began to coil within her abdomen, growing in intensity with each tantalizing moment. Her pussy clenched around his fingers as the waves of pleasure overtook her. With a gasp that shattered the air, she climaxed, her body trembling in the throes of ecstasy.

Lucius's voice, thick with desire and dominance, broke through her post-orgasmic haze. "Good girl, my good girl," he murmured, his words both a praise and a command. Her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction. He withdrew his hand from her quivering pussy, his fingers glistening with her essence. With forceful insistence, he grasped her jaw, parting her lips and presenting his cum-covered fingers to her mouth. "Taste yourself, whore!" he demanded, his voice a potent blend of authority and lust, igniting a primal hunger within her.

The room, cloaked in shadows, seemed to hold its breath as Y/N's lips encircled Lucius's fingers, moving with an almost hypnotic rhythm as she licked and sucked them clean. Her tongue, eager and tantalizing, left no trace of her essence behind, and Lucius watched her with a predatory hunger that mirrored her own desire. With an excruciating slowness, he withdrew his fingers from her mouth, his grip shifting to encircle her delicate throat, a possessive hold that sent a jolt of excitement through her.

A deep, throaty chuckle resonated from Lucius, a dark sound that underscored his mastery over her. It was a symphony of submission, her whimper in response to his control weaving through the charged air. His other hand, which had been on her jaw, descended with purposeful intent to his throbbing cock. With tantalizing deliberation, he began to stroke himself, each languid movement of his hand a seductive overture to the impending climax of their desires.

Y/N grappled with a myriad of emotions. She knew she should be overwhelmed with guilt, entangled in an illicit affair with her ex-boyfriend's father. Yet, beneath the layers of her moral reservations, a burning desire and a thirst for revenge surged within her. She yearned to make her ex-boyfriend pay for his betrayal, to mend her shattered heart by indulging in the very act that had caused her so much pain.

Her internal turmoil was momentarily eclipsed as she felt the firm tip of his cock teasing her wet, throbbing pussy. The exquisite friction sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through her, and her moans and whimpers filled the room like a seductive aria. Her body was a symphony of need, the sultry dance of his cock against her clit driving her to the brink of ecstasy.

Lucius's voice, dripping with dominance and desire, anchored her in the present moment. "My little mudblood," he taunted, his words laden with a derogatory term that should have stung. Instead, the sultry timbre of his voice rendered her helpless, a willing captive to his seduction. "Is this what you've desired all this time? For a real man to fuck you, to slide his cock deep inside you and make you feel good?"

Despite the term, her moans and whimpers betrayed her true desires, her voice trembling with need. "Y-Yes, Daddy," she whimpered, her plea echoing through the room, a fervent entreaty for the fulfillment of her deepest, most forbidden fantasies. “ Please, fuck me!”

"Daddy? Hmm?" Lucius questioned, his voice dripping with irresistible seduction that hung in the air like a sultry promise. A low, dark chuckle followed, resonating with a wicked allure as his eyes sparkled with mischief and a hint of malevolence. It was a look that promised a thrilling journey into forbidden desires, an intoxicating blend of pleasure and danger.

The room, cloaked in shadows and secrecy, bore witness to their clandestine rendezvous—a sensual dance of dominance and submission that unfolded in hushed gasps and fervent touches. Lucius reveled in her surrender, delighting in the way the derogatory term slipped off his tongue, and, to his surprise, she seemed to share in that twisted pleasure. "My little mudblood is filthy, isn't she?" he continued, his words dripping with desire and a touch of cruelty. In their intimate connection, the term had evolved into an oddly cherished secret, symbolizing her eager willingness to plunge into the irresistible depths of their forbidden passions. "I like that."

With deliberate intent, Lucius poised himself at the edge of her ecstasy, the air thick with anticipation. He surged into her abruptly, a powerful thrust that drew an electrified whimper from Y/N. Her body responded instinctively, arching in response to the sudden intrusion, a wordless plea for more. Lucius groaned in satisfaction, luxuriating in the exquisite sensation of her tight, wet heat enveloping him.

"Daddy!" Y/N's moan, fervent and desperate, reverberated through the room, echoing the intensity of her longing and submission.

Lucius wasted no time in unleashing the primal depths of his desire, setting a relentless pace that sent tremors through the bed beneath them. Pleasure and pain intertwined as Y/N's body stretched to accommodate him, her moans and gasps forming a seductive symphony that filled the room. Each powerful thrust propelled her closer to the precipice of ecstasy, the headboard bearing witness to the fervor of their illicit union.

"F-Fuck," Lucius hissed, his voice a symphony of unquenchable desire as he intensified his rhythm. His hips surged against her with unrestrained lust, each collision sending waves of pleasure coursing through her. The room resounded with their shared passion, an intoxicating rhythm that reverberated through the air and ignited an inferno of sensations. “You’re so tight and wet, aaah- I’m going to have so much fun destroying this tight little hole of yours.”

The hand that encircled her throat tightened incrementally, a gesture of dominance that sent a thrill of arousal coursing through Y/N. Her fingers tangled in Lucius's long, platinum blonde hair, tugging gently as she sought to draw him closer. His primal groans and moans in response only served to deepen her desire, each intoxicating sound forging an unbreakable connection between them in the hidden world they had created.

Their moans, like an intricate duet, melded into an intoxicating symphony of desire, echoing through the dimly lit room. With each primal thrust, he plunged deeper and faster into her, igniting a passionate crescendo that left them both gasping for breath. Her heart raced in response to the electrifying pleasure coursing through her veins.

"Lucius—Lucius! Aaaahhh—fuck! Daddy!" Her words, a fervent chant of need and submission, spilled from her lips in breathless abandon. Her hips responded in kind, moving in a seductive rhythm that matched his powerful thrusts, a dance of desire that transcended the bounds of their forbidden liaison.

"So damn good! Aahh—yes! Oh fuck, my little mudblood knows how to please me," he growled with unapologetic desire, his voice a seductive purr that sent shivers cascading down her spine. His hips quickened their relentless pace, pounding into her with an unyielding urgency that caused the bed to groan and creak beneath them, a testament to the fierce intensity of their union. “Tell me how good I’m making you feel, slut!

Her moans swelled, a wild symphony of ecstasy and surrender that reverberated through the room like a siren's call. She clawed at the sheets beneath her, her fingers desperately seeking purchase in the soft fabric as waves of pleasure crashed over her. It was an exquisite torment, a tantalizing whirlwind of sensations that threatened to consume her entirely.

"Daddy, you—ahh—feel so good," she gasped, her voice trembling with a potent mix of longing and desperation. Her nails traced feverish patterns over his heated skin, leaving trails of tingling sensation in their wake. Her silent entreaty was clear: she yearned for him to take her harder, to claim her completely in the tempest of their shared passion. “You make me feel so good! You’re fucking me so much better than him.”

Amid the dimly lit room, their passionate entwining continued, each feverish moment adding a new layer to their shared desire. Lucius, a commanding figure, maintained his relentless thrusts, his dominance evident in every movement. Her fervent responses wove a tapestry of longing and ecstasy, their chemistry igniting the air around them.

"I know, my little nymph," he purred, his voice an intoxicating blend of pleasure and command. His grip on her tightened possessively, fingers leaving tantalizing imprints on her heated skin. "Cum for me, slut. Show me how good I make you feel." His words hung in the air like a seductive spell, sending electrifying shivers throughout her body.

With each powerful thrust, the tip of his cock skillfully teased her cervix, intensifying the delicious ache in the pit of her stomach. Their bodies moved in perfect unison, a dance that seemed to transcend the boundaries of time and reason, an intricate symphony of passion that left them breathless.

Lucius, releasing his hold on her throat, replaced it with his mouth, his lips and teeth marking her skin as he continued to slam into her with primal urgency. Love bites and passionate kisses adorned her flesh, evidence of their unrestrained fervor. They moved together, bodies melding into one, a force of nature that defied control. In a rapturous climax, they reached the pinnacle of their desire, their voices rising in unison, filling the room with their unrestrained passion.

As Lucius withdrew from her, a plaintive whimper escaped her lips, a testament to the aching desire that still clung to her. His triumphant smirk hinted at the pleasure he derived from her desperate longing. As he made his way to the bathroom to cleanse himself, her eyes remained fixed on the vacant space he had occupied, her body still tingling with the fading echoes of their intense union.

Upon his return, a damp cloth in hand, he approached her with eyes that held both tenderness and desire. Every stroke of the cloth was a gentle caress, an unspoken declaration of their strange intimacy. The discarded rag landed carelessly beside them, a forgotten relic of their fervent encounter.

"Go to sleep, my little nymph," he whispered, his arms enveloping her in a protective embrace. "I'll be here when you wake." His words were a soothing promise, lulling her into a cocoon of security and contentment that belied the complexity of their relationship.

She nestled against him, her heart aflutter with emotions that defied easy categorization. Despite the impending repercussions of their actions, she couldn't deny the profound satisfaction she felt. As her eyes fluttered closed, the only thought that remained was that revenge, in its twisted and tumultuous way, could be intoxicatingly sweet.

No but why can I see Checo and Leclerc! sister sending the overprotective brothers updates while they're on holidays or everyone sending pictures of Leclerc! Sister when she falls asleep in most random places.

Why do I feel so called out about the part where Leclerc!reader falls asleep at the most random places???

Since you’re the only female daughter of Pascale, your brothers tend to be overly protective of you, even when you got married to the point that they threatened Checo to send updates of you whenever you’re both on vacation or just together outside. So Sergio had no choice but to make a group chat of him together with your three brothers.

Your significant other and brothers kept this a secret from you as to not worry you or think that they don’t trust you. They do trust you, with their whole life, but they’re scared to lose you. After all, in their eyes you’re the princess, the lady Leclerc of the family aside from your mother, so they held great pride when it came to you.

It was summer break for both you and Checo so the two of you decided to getaway from the same place and go to Maldives. Your brothers didn’t know about this, but you had told your mother about it which she was okay with. When Charles was looking for you the next day, Pascale only shrugged saying she had no idea where you are. And that only left Charles to message the groupchat with Checo about your whereabouts.

When the notification popped up on Sergio’s phone, you were both having lunch in a bungalow. Checo looking at his phone, immediately saw Charles’ message, and when you weren’t looking, he snapped a photo of you sending it to the groupchat. When Charles received the photo, he nodded to himself before sending a “have fun” to Checo.

When three hours has passed, you decided to drag Checo and go scuba diving. While your significant other protested and thrashed, you were having none of it explaining to him that what was the purpose of having a vacation in Maldives if you weren’t going to scuba dive. Checo knowing that he won’t be able to argue anymore, let himself get dragged by you.

As he enjoyed himself getting pulled by you to the ocean, he took another candid photo of you, smiling to himself. He then sent it to the groupchat with the caption, “scuba diving” before leaving his phone at the given cupboard.

When Sergio saw you standing at the edge of the dock waiting for him, he smiled softly to himself as he admired you. He watched you as you basked in the warm, ethereal glow of the setting sun. The sun's gentle caress highlighting every contour of your face, casting long, romantic shadows. Your eyes sparkle, reflecting the hues of the sky, and your smile radiates pure happiness. In that fleeting moment, time seems to stand still, and Sergio was once again reminded of the beauty of love and nature coming together in perfect harmony.

When he was only an inch left away from you, he leaned down and captured your lips, pulling you into a soft and affectionate kiss. You were astounded by what he did, but you didn’t protest instead you pulled him closer wrapping your arms around his neck before pulling him with you to the ocean.

You both fell in the cold waters, and when you both got up to the surface, your husband was looking at you with furrowed eyebrows. You let out a gentle laugh as you swam closer to him, fixing his soaked hair and putting it to the side before pulling home into a kiss again, this time no more joking.

When he pulled away, he gave a cheeky grin then splashed your face with water. And let’s just stay instead of actually doing the itinerary, you and Checo instead just swam around the ocean, enjoying each other’s presence.

When the sun has set and the moon shone brightly on the dark sky, Checo decided that it was time for both of you to get out and have dinner. Hearing your stomach grumble, you followed him out the water, grabbing yourself and drying yourself up.

Checo noticing your shivers, covered you with his own towel before wrapping his arms around your shoulder, warming you up. You leaned yourself on him as he guided you to the bungalow.

When he saw you comfortably on the chair, he went up and grabbed dinner for the both of you. But when he sat down and arrived on your table, he was starstrucked at how you managed to fall asleep with your posture still fixed.

Holding back his chuckle, he took another photo and sent it to the group chat, this time the one with Pascale. Almost all of them immediately sent a reply, laughing and talking about how you’re always sleeping anywhere any time possible.

Checo knowing how tired you must be, tapped you softly on the shoulder and asked if you wanted to go rest instead of having dinner. You groggily shook your head, grabbing your utensils as you let out a gentle yawn making Sergio smile.

As you both finished eating, your husband took both your plates and placed it in their respective places before returning to you and helping you up. He guided you so that you were standing behind him before he crouched down and helped you get on his back while you half-sleepily wrapped your arms around him.

Carrying you in a piggyback ride, he slowly walked to your shared hut, humming quietly as he smiled to himself while thinking of those wholesome moment with you. It never ceases to amaze him how you have the ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime as long as you’re exhausted. It doesn’t matter how uncomfortable it would feel after or what body part of you will ache, you will still fall asleep anyway.

When he arrived at your room, he gently placed you in the middle of the bed before disappearing into the bathroom and appearing again with a wet face towel. He went to your side and cleaned you up, removing your swimwear and replacing it with his own clean shirt. Finishing up with you, he covered your lower extremities with the thin blanket provided before taking one last photo of you then sending it to the groupchat and saying good night to your brothers as well as he cleaned himself too.

*fast forward after break*

As mentioned, it has been a weird habit of yours to fall asleep anytime and anywhere. And it’s no secret to your significant other, family members, and even co-drivers on how you are able to do that. In fact, even your fans know about that peculiar habit of yours and they adored you more ever since.

Since you were driving for Ferrari, you are team mates with your brother and let’s say the both of you are quite unstoppable when working together. But today, it seemed like none was going to your plans as two red flags have already occured and it’s just the second free practice.

The first red flag occured when Hulkenburg crashed into the barriers because of a break issue and that caused around 20 minutes of the first free practice to be wasted. What you did, however, was you asked your engineer to play soft classical music before dozing off in your car as you waited for the session to continue. When the cameras showed a display of you, everyone watching chuckled and shook their heads, clearly aware of your silly antics.

Now for the second time around, the red flag happened because even thought it was just the second free practice, everyone decided to play bumpy cars and crashed into one another, and by everyone you meant George, Max, and Lando.

But now instead of staying in your car, you went out of your car, and you sat beside your race engineer, deciding to talk about the upgrades brought into the car before you left and went to the Red Bull garage, specifically your husband’s garage.

On the way you greeted, Hugh Bird, Checo’s engineer and asking him where your significant other was. Hugh only shrugged, mentioning the last time he saw your husband was on his way to relieve himself. And upon deciding that you’ll wait for him, you sat at the little corner of his garage’s side.

Holding your knees to your chest, you leaned your forehead on top of your knees before even realising that you were falling into slumber. You only woke up from your power nap when you felt someone sit beside you. Looking up, you saw your husband, a wide cheeky grin plastered on his face before he kissed your cheeks.

“Nice nap, amor? No stiff necks?” He asked teasingly.

Scoffing, you nudged him softly and you rolled your eyes which made him laugh. And when he was done with his laughing fit, you leaned your head on his shoulder. Checo realising what you were doing, he guided your head on his shoulder before kissing the crown of your head.

“You can nap more, comfortably this time. I’ll wake you up when the session is green flagged.”

Yawning to his statement, you gently nodded your head to at least let him know you understood. He once more planted a kiss on your head before he took your hands in his and caressed it gently.

The next time you woke up, Checo was poking your legs and opening your eyes, you were greeted by the cameras of F1 medias and your brother, Charles.

Squinting as the flash hits your eyes, you looked at Checo who only gave you a sheepish grin as he stood up and helped you up too.

“Recharged again, mi cielo?” He asked softly and you nodded, stretching your body as you fixed your race suit.

Charles impatiently waiting for you, said good bye to your husband and grabbed your hands, dragging you outside your team’s rival garage and bringing you to your home turf.

Laughing to his childish behaviour, your laugh only disappeared when you saw the screen replay the video of you and Checo in the corner. Now it was Charles’ turn to laugh at your reaction, not until you punched him on the arm gently.

When your race engineers said that the session was resumed, you got ready and went into race mode.

MY GOD THIS TOOK FOREVER 😭

Not the same anymore

Summary: After ending his three-year-long relationship due to his friend’s influence, Lando tries everything to get his lover back.

Note: I’m back!!! The winner of the poll I set up was loud and clear! I hope all of you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! P.s buckle up this one is a long one!

Reader x Lando Norris

Genre: fluff/angst

I had been dating Lando for three years, and our relationship was everything I could have ever hoped for. We met at an event, our eyes locking from across the room. He was so handsome, his smile blinding, and I knew right then that I had to talk to him. Except I was too shy to approach him. At that moment it felt like the universe heard me and made Lando approach me. We talked all evening long and we hit it off instantly.

From that moment on, we were practically inseparable. We spent hours talking and getting to know each other, our bond growing stronger with every conversation. I still remembered vividly how he had made me laugh until my sides hurt, how he listened with genuine interest to every word I said.

I remembered the excitement and anticipation when he asked me out, the butterflies in my stomach when he first held my hand. It felt like a fairy-tale come true, and I knew from that moment on that he was the one for me. We shared so many moments of joy, of happiness, and even the occasional disagreement, but we always worked through them together.

At first, I tried not to worry, thinking it was just a phase, but the changes in him only became more pronounced. He was less responsive to my texts and calls, and he seemed to prioritize spending time with his friends over me. I felt lonely and confused, unsure of what had caused this sudden shift.

Lando invited me to his place, and I was excited. I thought he was doing just the same, planning to spend some quality time together.

However, as soon as we found ourselves alone, Lando's face was serious, and my heart started to pound. I knew something terrible was about to happen.

Lando sat down next to me, his gaze fixed on the floor. There was a long, heavy silence before he finally spoke.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice almost a whisper.My heart dropped. Those words... they were never good.

I sat there, feeling the dread settling in my stomach. I knew whatever was about to come couldn't be good. Lando took a deep breath, but his face remained serious.

"I think... we need to break up."

I felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. Break up? The words hung heavy in the air, and my mind struggled to process them.

"W...what?" I managed to choke out, my voice shaking slightly. "Why, Lando?"

He avoided my gaze, his fingers fidgeting nervously. "It's just... I need to focus on my career right now," he said, his voice robotic, like he was reciting lines. "Being in a relationship is a distraction, and I can't let it interfere with my goals."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was throwing away our three years together with such ease, as if it meant nothing. I tried to reason with him, to remind him of all the happy memories we had shared.

"We've been together for three years!" I said, my voice rising in volume. "Why is it suddenly a problem now?"

"I need to be 100% focused," Lando insisted, finally meeting my eyes. "It's not just about the amount of time, y/n. It's about the current moment, and right now, my career is my priority." He sounded almost cold, like he was pushing me away.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but I fought them back. How could I mean so little to him, that he would discard our relationship so easily?

"What about us, Lando? What about everything we've been through together?" I pleaded, my voice shaky.

He remained stoic, his expression unchanging. "I'm sorry, y/n," he said, his tone lacking emotion. "But my mind is made up."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It felt as though he was a stranger, a shell of the man I had fallen in love with. “You don’t mean any of it! You’re just stressed.”

Lando seemed to snap. "My friends were right," he said, his tone sharp. "This is for the best. Now, I don't need the distraction of a relationship, and I'm better off without you."

His words felt like a stab in the heart, and I couldn't hold back the tears any longer. I wanted to defend myself, to challenge him, but his friends were the last thing I wanted to bring up.

But I couldn't help it. "Your friends?" I shot back. "They're the worst! All they care about is partying, drinking, and living off your money.”

Lando's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. "Don't you dare talk about my friends like that," he snapped, his tone filled with resentment. "They're the ones who are always there to support me, unlike some people."

I couldn't hold back anymore, the emotions boiling over. "Unlike some people? Are you kidding me?" I retorted, my voice cracking. "Who was there for you when you were doubting yourself? Who stayed up late with you, listening to your worries, pushing you to keep going? Wasn't it me?"

He looked stung, but he shook his head, trying to uphold his cold facade. "That's not how things work," he said stiffly. "My career is my top priority, and I don't have time for anything else."

I felt my own anger rising to match his. "So, you're telling me three years of love, support, and understanding mean nothing to you? Just throw it all away for the sake of your career?"

Lando stood up, his face tense. "The decision is made. I don't need a distraction right now, and that's what you are. A distraction." His words felt like a slap in the face.

My heart shattered, each word breaking another piece of it. How could he turn our love into nothing more than a mere bother? How could he talk to me like this? But I couldn't let myself break down fully. Not here, not in front of him. I clenched my fists, trying to hold back tears and keep my composure.

"Fine," I said, my voice cold. "If I'm just a distraction, then go ahead. Focus on your oh-so-important career." I crossed my arms, trying to hide how much his words had hurt me.

"And you know what, Lando?" I continued, my voice rising. "Your friends? They're all using you. They're not true friends; they're just there 'cause you're famous and rich."

Lando's face twisted in anger at my words. "How dare you talk about my friends like that?" he sneered, his tone spiteful. "They're the ones who have supported me through everything. They're true friends, unlike you. Maybe that's why I'm better off without you."

My eyes narrowed. He had crossed a line. How dare he? "At least I never used you. I loved you for you, not for your fame or your money," I shot back.

He laughed, a humorless, bitter laugh. "Love? Please. You only liked being with a famous guy. The attention it brought you, the luxury. Let's not pretend this wasn't also about status for you."

I felt my fist clenching so hard it hurt. "You know that's not true," I said through gritted teeth. "I never cared about your fame or money. I loved who you were, or at least who I thought you were."

"Oh, really?" Lando challenged, his tone sharp. "Then why didn't you ever say no to the fancy parties or designer clothes I bought you? Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it."

I felt like my chest was tightening with every one of his accusations. How could he twist things like that, making it seem like I only cared about his money? It was so far from the truth. The minute those words left his mouth I knew it was his friends feeding him these lies about me.

"Those were gifts, Lando," I said, my voice cracking. "I loved them because they came from you, not because they were expensive!"

I didn’t let him speak as I grabbed my bag, my hands shaking with emotion. "Fine. Just don't contact me ever again," I said, my voice cold and void of emotion. "This is over. You’re not the same anymore.”

I walked out of his place, my steps heavy and numb. I didn't look back, afraid of seeing him or breaking down in tears. I just wanted to leave, to get away from his words that echoed in my head, and the painful ache in my heart.

As I stepped outside, the fresh air felt like both a relief and a cold slap in the face. I hailed a taxi, and as I watched the familiar streets pass by, I felt as though my old, happy life had shattered into pieces. I had given him everything, and he had thrown it all away for his stupid career. I would never make that mistake again, I promised myself.

Lando sat in his place alone after she left, the silence of his now-empty home weighing heavily on him. He started thinking about the breakup, feeling a pang of guilt, but quickly pushed it aside, remembering that he had chosen his career over her. It was for the best, he told himself, repeating what his friends had been telling him.

As the hours passed, the guilt started to fade, numbed by the pain and the alcohol he poured himself. He eventually called his friends, and they eagerly agreed to come over, happy to hear he had broken up with his now ex-girlfriend.

They arrived, with smiles on their faces, their eyes glinting with anticipation. "Finally, you get to live a little without that distraction!" one of them said, slapping Lando's back. "We're gonna party hard tonight, man! You deserve it."

Lando felt himself slipping into a numbing haze, the alcohol dulling his emotions and his conscience. He allowed himself to be guided by his friends, their words like sweet poison, promising him that he was better off without me, that he wouldn't miss her. They started planning their night out at a flashy new club, their enthusiasm infectious in Lando's alcohol-doused state.

Lando found himself nodding along, his resistance fading away with each drink. The idea of partying seemed like a good escape, a way to drown out the guilt and the loneliness. He convinced himself that tonight, he would let loose and forget, throwing himself into the nightlife and the company of his so-called friends.

As the night progressed, Lando found himself increasingly affected by the alcohol he had consumed. The world started blurring at the edges, and his thoughts became a jumbled mess. He grabbed his phone, his fingers clumsy as he fumbled with the buttons. After several clumsy taps and misdialed numbers, he finally managed to dial Max's number.

As the call went through, he heard Max Fewtrell answer from the other end. "Lando? What the hell, it's 3 am, are you drunk?"

Lando let out a chuckle, his voice slurred. "Heyyy, Maxxy," he said, his words tripping over themselves. "You sound so grumpy. Come ooon, I need to talk to youeee."

Max sighed, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake the sleep from his voice. "Lando, this better be important. I was trying to sleep, you know." His tone was annoyed, but the concern was evident under the surface.

Lando ignored Max’s tone, his mind swimming with alcohol-induced impulsiveness. "I need to talk, buddy," he said, his words stumbling over each other. "It's about y/n."

Max sat up in his bed, his annoyance fading in the face of Lando's evident distress. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more awake and alert. "Okay, Lando, I'm listening," he said, his voice steady.

Lando took a deep breath, his words slurred. "Max, I messed up, I really messed up," he slurred, his voice cracking. "I broke up with y/n, and man, I feel like crap. I miss her, Max. I miss her, and it... it hurts, Max, it hurts so much." The line of words came out in a jumble, the weight of his emotions too heavy to hide under his inebriated state.

Max let out a sigh, his concern growing with Lando's admission. "Okay, Lando, listen to me. Stay exactly where you are, and for god's sake, don't go anywhere else. Tell me the name of the club, and I'll come get you."

Lando mumbled the name of the club through the phone, his words a bit muffled. "It's... uh, it's called 'The Neon Lights.' It's that new club in town, very fancy. Can't miss the neon lights," he hiccuped.

Max sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright, Lando. I'm on my way. Just don't do anything stupid. Just stay put and wait for me." Max quickly got dressed, leaving his bed behind for the task ahead.

Max drove as fast as he could, and reached the club soon. He spotted Lando right away. His best friend was sitting outside, next to a homeless man, laughing loudly in his inebriated state.

Max couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Lando's current predicament. He approached them, giving the homeless man a nod in greeting. "Alright, Lando, let's go," Max said, reaching out to grab Lando by the arm to help him onto his feet.

Lando tried to protest, but his words came out as a muddled mess. "No, wait! I was just having a talk with him!" he argued, hiccuping. He tried to pull away from Max, but his balance was too shaky. "He's a cool guy, Max. Look!" Lando gestured at the homeless man, his movements exaggerated.

Max shook his head, trying to keep his composure. "Lando, stop making a fool of yourself. Let's go, you're coming with me." He gently led Lando away, making sure he didn’t stumble and fall.

By now, a few people from the club were giving them odd looks, amused by the sight of an apparently famous driver being a mess outside. Max just focused on guiding Lando away, thankful no one had recognized him. "Come on, buddy," he said softly, his arms holding him steady.

Lando put up minimal resistance, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. He tried to protest but his words only slurred together, making it impossible to understand. His legs felt like jelly, and he let Max guide him to his car, his head spinning from the alcohol.

Once they reached the car, Max opened the passenger door for Lando, gently guiding him into the seat. Lando slumped in with a groan, his eyes flickering. Max secured Lando's seat belt, making sure he was as safe as he could be in his current state.

As they arrived at Lando's apartment, Max helped Lando out of the car, his feet dragging sluggishly. Walking him to his bed was a challenge, as Lando leaned heavily on Max. With effort, they finally made it to the bedroom, where Lando practically flopped onto his bed, groaning as his head spun.

Max was concerned about Lando, still inebriated and vulnerable. He grabbed some medication and water, placing them on the bedside table for when Lando woke up. He covered Lando with a thin blanket, making sure he wouldn't be cold in the night. He left quietly, making a mental note to check on him in the morning, closing the door softly behind him.

Max returned to Lando's place the next morning, his concern for him still lingering. He used the spare key Lando had given him and let himself inside the apartment. There was a noticeable silence, the aftermath of Lando's excessive drinking still hung heavily in the air.

Max was in the kitchen by the time Lando trudged down, looking half dead from the night before. His hair was tousled, his eyes bloodshot, and his face pale. He groaned as he spotted Max standing by the counter, a cup of coffee and a plate of breakfast ready.

Max watched as Lando slumped into a chair, cradling his head in his hands. "What the hell were you thinking, Lando? You were drunk off your ass," Max scolded gently, his voice laced with worry.

Lando winced as he lifted his head, his eyes squint to slits. "I... I don't know. Needed a distraction," he groaned, his voice hoarse. The alcohol had taken its toll, and he felt like death warmed over.

Max sighed, pushing the cup of coffee towards Lando. "There are better ways to distract yourself than getting drunk, Lando. What if the media had found out? You could have jeopardized your entire career."

Max paused, his gaze fixed on Lando’s disheveled state. "So who were you with last night? Who was irresponsible enough to let you drink in such a state, and then leave you alone in that condition?"

Lando rubbed his temples, trying to remember through his foggy memory. "Some friends," he mumbled, avoiding Max's accusing stare.

"You know, just some guys I hang out with sometimes. They were partying, and I... I don't know, I joined in." He paused, trying to compose himself. "Then I got drunk and they... they left."

Max’s eyes narrowed, seeing right through it. "Those friends, right? Are those the ones who always use you, Lando? The ones who take advantage of your fame?" His voice was sharp and filled with frustration, knowing exactly how those 'friends' manipulated Lando.

Max’s tone was hard as he continued, his questions probing deeper. "Did they invite you or did they just drag you along with them? Because I know how they are, Lando. They always take advantage of you. They use you for your money, your fame, and never really care about you."

Lando hesitated, his eyes downcast. He knew Max had a point. "I... they invited me," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "But I went because I wanted to forget. I wanted to forget her." His voice trembled slightly, the pain he felt creeping into his voice.

Max's ears perked up at the mention of y/n. "Is that why you broke up with y/n, then?" Max's tone softened slightly, realizing this was a sore subject.

"Because you wanted to forget her? To distract yourself from the pain?" He saw Lando wince at the mention of her name, and it confirmed his suspicions.

Lando swallowed hard, the pain in his eyes speaking volumes. "I... yes," he whispered. "I thought if I ended things, it would make it easier, but it's only made it worse." His voice shook with regret, the weight of his mistake heavy on his shoulders.

Max probed further, sensing there was more to this. "Were the friends the ones who influenced you to break up with y/n, Lando?" He had a feeling they were involved, knowing their toxic nature.

Lando shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Max's gaze. "They... they encouraged it, yeah," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost ashamed.

"They kept saying she was holding me back, that a relationship would only hinder my career, and I... I let them get into my head."

Max was furious. He had seen how much y/n loved Lando, how much she supported him at every turn, and now he had thrown it all away because of some 'friends' who didn't care about him. "They're the worst, Lando!" His voice rose. "They don't care about you, not like she does. She's been there for you, through everything. And you let them poison you against her?"

Lando closed his eyes, the reality of Max's words piercing through his foggy mind. Max was right. He had let himself be manipulated by his so-called friends, allowing them to turn him against the one person who genuinely cared about him.

"I know," he whispered, his voice choked. "I messed up. I'm an idiot."

Max sighed, his frustration mingling with a sense of compassion.

"You're not an idiot, Lando. But you made a terrible mistake. You let yourself be led astray by the wrong people. Those friends, they're poison. And y/n... she's the one who truly cares for you. You need to fight for her, Lando. Don't let them ruin what you and y/n had."

Lando admitted, his voice filled with regret and defeat. "It's too late, Max. She has blocked me everywhere. She doesn't want anything to do with me." His shoulders slumped, the weight of his mistake heavy on him. "She probably hates me now, and I don't blame her. I hurt her, Max. I don't think she'll ever take me back."

Max, determined to help Lando, decided to take matters into his own hands. He texted y/n, hoping to plead on Lando's behalf, but Max was met with a cold wall - she had blocked him too. Frustration welled up inside, knowing how much of a hole Lando had dug for himself.

"Lando," he said, his tone heavy, "She blocked me too. This is going to be harder than I thought."

Lando flinched as Max confirmed y/n had blocked him too. It felt like the finality of his mistake, like the door to reconciliation was slammed shut, and he had no way to open it.

"I can't blame her," Lando muttered, his eyes downcast. "I messed up so badly. She's got every right to hate me now."

Lando's phone suddenly buzzed with a text from one of his 'friends,' inviting him out again. But before Lando could even react, Max swiped the phone from his hand, angrily blocking them all.

Lando stared at Max, a mix of shock and annoyance on his face. "Dude, what the hell!" he exclaimed, trying to get his phone back.

Max's expression was serious, his tone firm. "Those friends of yours are poison," he stated, holding the phone just out of Lando's reach. "They're the ones who encouraged you to break up with y/n. They're not your real friends, and I'm not letting them influence you further."

Lando tried to reach for his phone again, his eyes blazing with frustration. "Max, please give me my phone. You can't just block them all! Those are my friends!" He sounded desperate, trying to justify something he knew deep down was wrong.

Max stood his ground, shaking his head. "No, Lando. Those friends are the reason we're in this mess right now. They don't have your best interests at heart. They only care about what they can gain from you. You need to see that!" His grip on the phone remained firm, not giving Lando any chance to retrieve it.

Lando, still hungover and angry, tried to make his case. "But... but they're the only ones who are there for me, Max!" Lando argued, desperation lacing his voice. "They're the ones who party with me when I feel down. They're the ones who go out to clubs while y/n stays home. They're just trying to look out for me."

Max's patience wore thin, his anger boiling over. He threw the phone at Lando with a snap, the device landing on the bed next to him. "Fine!" Max sneered, his voice cold. "Figure it out on your own, Lando. Seems you'd rather listen to those so-called friends than hear the truth. See how far they take you."

Lando flinched as Max threw the phone at him, feeling a mix of guilt and stubbornness bubbling inside. Max's words rang true, a painful reminder of the fact that he was defending his toxic friends over the one person who cared. But in his hungover state, he was stubborn, unwilling to admit his friends were the ones pulling him into a toxic pit.

"Fine!" Lando retorted, his voice rising. "I don't need you trying to control my life! And I don't need y/n. I can do whatever I want with my friends!" He grabbed his phone, clutching it tightly, his anger and resentment towards Max growing.

Max stormed out, leaving Lando alone in that moment, his thoughts swirling like a storm. Lando sat in silence, surrounded by the chaos he had created, and the weight of his choices. Max's absence left him with nothing but his own thoughts and the quiet, empty apartment, the reality of his situation setting in.

Days blurred together as I drowned myself in work, my fingers flying over the keyboard, creating numbers and reports that seemed like a lifeline in this sea of heartache. The silence of my apartment was too loud, so I stayed at the office, working until exhaustion took hold.

My best friend grew worried, her concern palpable, but I couldn't bring myself to open up. Who would even want to listen to my sob story, anyway?

I couldn't even bring myself to think about our breakup, the pain still too fresh. Work was my solace, a way to stay one step ahead of the thoughts that threatened to consume me. I tried to focus on the numbers, the deadlines – anything to avoid confronting the reality of my shattered heart.

But as much as I worked, the pain lingered, refusing to fade away. Every now and then, I'd find myself staring off into space, the memories of our time together flooding back. The sound of Lando's laughter, his warm touch, it all came crashing back in waves that threatened to crush me.

Lost in my own world, the sound of my best friend's voice finally broke through the fog of my thoughts. She had been calling my name for the past five minutes, but I hadn't heard a word, too consumed by my own internal battle. I blinked a few times, trying to shake off the daze.

She stood by my cubicle, her expression a mix of worry and concern. "Y/N, are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft. "I've been trying to get your attention for a while now."

I blinked again, trying to shake off the haze and focus on her words. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lied through clenched teeth, forcing a small smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Just really focused on this project." I tried to sound convincing, but I couldn't meet her gaze.

My best friend gently urged, "Y/N, I'm here for you, whenever you're ready to open up. How about a girls' night out tonight? A chance to take your mind off things? You need a break."

Each word felt like a lifeline. She knew just what I needed, an opportunity to lose myself for a moment without the weight of the breakup suffocating me.

The distraction of a girls' night out sounded tempting. I'd have a chance to let go, to pretend things were fine for a while. "Okay," I softly agreed, a small hint of warmth amidst the pain. "A girls' night sounds great. Let's do it."

As the hours passed, I tried to focus on the preparations, changing into something comfortable after my long day of work. But as I stood in front of the mirror, my mind kept wandering, the memories of Lando and the happier times we shared together. I took a deep breath, locking those thoughts away at the back of my mind, and plastered on a smile.

We met at a nearby bar, the noise and laughter a stark contrast to the silence of my apartment.

My best friend tried to engage me in conversation, steering clear of any topics about relationships or exes. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and I found myself sipping on my favorite cocktail, letting the alcohol blunt the edges of my pain for just a moment.

As the night progressed, my best friend knew something was still weighing heavily on me. She steered the conversation deeper, her eyes meeting mine in understanding. "Y/N, really, what's going on? I can see something's eating at you."

I sighed, taking another sip. The alcohol had loosened my tongue, and the pain I'd locked away started to slip out.

I hesitated for a moment, then the floodgates opened. The alcohol had loosened my tongue, and with each sip, the words poured out. "Me and Lando broke up," I said, my voice wavering. The pain I'd tried to hide finally came out in the open.

My best friend listened without interruption as I told her everything - the pain, the doubts, the sense of loss. She held my hand, her thumb running across the back of my hand in a comforting gesture, allowing me to release all the emotions I had been holding in.

The pain intensified as I allowed myself to acknowledge it again. "I still miss him," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper, "but I can't go back to him. Not after everything he put me through."

My best friend stayed silent, letting me take the lead, listening without judgment, offering reassurance with her hand, holding mine firmly.

Her words were gentle, yet comforting. "You're strong, Y/N," she said, squeezing my hands. "It hurts, and it's hard, but you'll get through this. I'm here for you every step of the way."

Her words provided solace, reminding me of my own strength, even when I felt like I was crumbling.

She was right; I had gotten through tough times before. This, too, would pass. I tried to hold onto those words, a glimmer of hope in the midst of hurt. I wiped away my tears, taking a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

After hours we decided to call it a night. As my best friend dropped me off at my apartment, the night's diversion ended, and the silence of my apartment fell heavily around me.

The momentary respite from the pain had come to an end, and the reality of being alone set in again. I tried to ignore the loneliness, the emptiness without Lando. Instead, I got ready for bed, trying to find solace in routine.

I reached for my phone in an attempt to distract myself from the memories that kept invading my thoughts. But as I opened it, I was met with a barrage of social media updates about Lando and me - our pictures together, speculation, and the truth I had been trying to escape. The pain hit me all over again as I saw others asking about our breakup, theories swirling around me.

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f1gossippoffical Trouble in Paradise? Fans have suspected that Formula One driver Lando Norris has broken up with his girlfriend Y/N. The pair have unfollowed each other on all platforms and haven't been seen together in months. This suspicion was confirmed after fans saw Lando getting drunk at a club without his partner, living his life. What do you think happened? Follow for more updates!

View all comments

loveformywags2 What? Is this confirmed? This can't be right?! 🥲

lalalandlando4 He deserved better anyways 🤷‍♀️

f1maniaclvr Do y/n and Lando know about this? 🤦‍♀️

pookielanscar481 It's just odd that he was seen being drunk out of his mind without her

mam4you81 That's what I was thinking... What if she broke up with him and he's drowning himself in alcohol?

nanalalaf14 Honestly I don't think so, I think he dumped her since he had stopped interacting with her on his socials while she still liked and commented on all his posts.

4everf1loca NOOOOO my sheilaaaaa 😭

As I scrolled through the comments, reading the theories about us, a bitter realization hit me. They were only seeing the surface, the façade we had carefully crafted for the public. If only they knew what had really happened, the pain, the reasons behind our breakup.

The comments were full of speculation and curiosity. People thought they knew our love story, but they knew nothing. They didn't see the fights, the lies, the coldness between us. Their theories felt like a slap in the face, mocking the reality of our relationship.

All I knew at this moment was that I should take the time to heal and not let anyone ruin this for me.

Months had passed since the breakup, and I had finally made significant progress in my healing journey. Though the memory of Lando and our heartbreak still lingered, I had come a long way. I had focused on myself, investing time in hobbies, spending quality time with my friends, and allowing myself to heal.

I had established boundaries, avoiding social media and news about Lando that would reopen the wounds. I started a new project at work, pouring my energy into something productive. Slowly, I felt like I was rebuilding myself.

Right now, I was sat with my best friend, enjoying lunch together. My phone buzzed with a notification from an old group chat I had almost forgotten about. It was the group chat I used to be part of, with Kika and Alex.

When I opened it, I was greeted with a flood of messages, the group hasn't been active ever since my break up. So I was curious to see what this was all about.

My best friend, curious, noticed the notification that I had checked my phone. She gave me a questioning look, asking, "What was that about?"

"It's an old group chat from two of my WAG friends," I explained. "They want to catch up during the next GP."

My best friend raised her eyebrow, visibly curious. "And are you going to go?" she asked, her voice gentle but eager to know.

"At first, I didn't really want to go because of... well, Lando being there," I admitted, a mixture of hesitation and bravery in my voice. "But then I thought why should I let him dictate what I do? I shouldn't be scared of him, right?"

I paused, my determination showing through. "So, yes, I agreed to go."

My best friend's face lit up with happiness as she heard my decision. "I'm so proud of you!" she said, her pride shining through. "You're not letting him hold you back or influence you anymore. That's such a huge step forward, and you should be proud of yourself."

For a moment, seeing my best friend's proud expression filled me with a surge of bravery. She was right; I wasn't letting Lando affect my decisions anymore. I was taking control of my life again, one choice at a time.

As I laughed with my best friend, the weight of Lando gradually faded into the background. We continued talking, laughing, and enjoying our lunch together. Lando's name didn't come up in conversation. For now, he was just a distant thought, overshadowed by the joys of friendship and healing.

Lando stood in the McLaren garage during the Silverstone GP, his entourage of fake friends surrounding him in his papaya-colored driver overalls. They joked, laughed, and offered their hollow support, all while he got ready for the race.

Amidst the laughter, Lando's thoughts turned to y/n. He missed her, the void she had left in his life was still present, gnawing at him. He had tried to reach out, creating new accounts, but he found himself blocked at every turn, silence his only reply. It was as if the universe itself was holding back any chance of them reconnecting, driving home his deepest fears and regrets.

Lando snapped out of his pensive state, focusing his mind back on the race ahead. He had a job to do, after all. With a firm tone, he told his friends to stay put, to relax and enjoy the race while he got ready. His determination was evident, a momentary distraction from his heart's constant ache.

Lando quickly realised that he had forgotten his phone. As he retraced his steps to retrieve his phone, he heard muffled voices from within his driver's room. Curious, he stopped before he entered, straining to hear the conversation inside.

Michael chuckled, his voice dripping with amusement. "Can you believe Lando was so stupid to break up with her?" Sam agreed wholeheartedly, a sneer on his face. "She was perfect for him, a distraction holding him back from his true potential."

Jake snorted. "Yeah, she was a total inconvenience, always nagging and taking up his time and money. Good riddance, I say."

They shared a cruel laugh, satisfied with their opinions. The conversation between Lando's fake friends revealed their true intentions - to have Lando's undivided attention, away from someone who truly cared about him.

They continued their conversation, mocking y/n's influence on Lando. Michael spoke with a mischievous grin. "It was a piece of cake convincing him. He ate up everything we said like a fool."

John snorted in agreement. "Yeah, we made sure he saw her as a hindrance. Now we have him all to ourselves, no competition."

James interjected, a cruel glint in his eyes. "We convinced him she was holding him back, that he needed to focus on his racing. We even convinced him she was just after his money. Classic play."

They chuckled, pleased with the web of lies they had spun. Michael added, "He doesn't even know what's good for him. We'll keep him under our control, keeping his attention and his wealth all to ourselves. He's too naive to see through us."

Sam, the schemer, couldn't contain his glee. "This has been the easiest con ever. Lando's so trusting, so foolish. We just have to keep filling his head with our lies, and he'll do whatever we want."

Lando, his heart heavy with the revelations, stormed back into the room, anger seeping through his every feature. His fists clenched, his eyes darkened in fury. He couldn't believe how easily he had been manipulated, how blind he had been to the deceit around him.

"How could I be so stupid?" he bellowed, staring down the group.

The group of fake friends froze, their faces stunned. They stared at Lando, wide-eyed, their laughter abruptly silenced. They hadn't expected Lando to return so soon, or to have overheard their malicious conversation.

Lando's voice trembled with a mix of fury and pain. "I can't believe I let you manipulate me like this!" His eyes burned with a potent blend of anger and regret. He stepped closer, his voice filled with a mixture of disgust and hurt. "You were behind all of this, convincing me to break up with her, making me think she was holding me back."

The friends, caught off guard, tried to scramble for excuses. But Lando's words cut through their attempts to justify themselves. Michael spoke up, his voice trembling, "We... we were just looking out for you, Lando. We thought she was holding you back. We wanted what's best for your career, that's all."

Sam chimed in, trying to appease Lando. "We were trying to help you, Lando. We saw how she was distracting you, taking up your time and money. You need to focus on your racing. You're our golden goose!" He forced a fake chuckle, hoping Lando would buy into the manipulation again.

Lando clenched his fists, his body trembling with fury. "You didn't care about what's best for me. All you cared about was having me all to yourselves, using me for my fame and money. You manipulated me, turning me against the one person who loved me truly."

Jake tried to interject, his voice oozing with false concern. "Lando, we did care about you. We just wanted to protect you from a bad influence. We didn't want you to be taken advantage of." He attempted a manipulative smile, trying to deflect the blame onto me.

Lando's voice rose in intensity, his anger boiling over. "Don't you Dare talk about her like that! She was the only one who genuinely cared about me, not you. You're just jealous because she didn't let you use me like you do. You're nothing but a bunch of leeches!"

Michael, emboldened by Lando's anger, smirked, his words sharp. "Don't you dare blame us. This is on you, Lando. You were the one who was too stupid to see through our facade. Now you've lost her because of your own damn foolishness, not our fault in the slightest."

Lando, seething with a mix of hurt and anger, quickly called the security guards. With a firm voice, he instructed, "Get these snakes out of here now!"

The security guards, recognizing the tone of a man pushed to his limit, swiftly entered, escorting the fake friends out of the garage. Lando stood there, watching them leave, a bitter taste in his mouth.

As the fake friends were forcefully escorted out, Lando was left alone in the garage, the weight of his emotions crashing down on him. The pain, the regret, the anger—it all slammed into him, finally giving way to the torrent he had held back for so long.

He slumped against a wall, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. Tears prickled in his eyes, his breath coming in ragged breaths.

As Lando sat there, the regret gnawed at him, growing sharper by the second. He thought about y/n, the love he had lost. The memories of their time together flooded his mind, and he berated himself for throwing it away. He blamed himself for listening to the friends who had manipulated him.

He thought about the love they shared, how he had let it slip through his fingers, shattered by his own foolishness and vulnerability to their lies.

Lando, still in a vulnerable state, decided to reach out to Max, despite their rocky past. He thought about the clubs and the disagreements they had had, but he had no one else to turn to now. With a mix of regret and desperation, he dialed Max's number.

Max picked up the phone, immediately sensing the desperation in Lando's voice. As Lando poured out his emotions and apologies, Max listened, his tone softening.

Lando confessed, his voice cracking, "I should have listened to you, Max. You were right about them, all along. I was a fool to listen to their lies and ignore you."

Max, surprised but relieved, replied, "I'm glad you realize now, Lando. Those friends were toxic. They used you, and I tried to protect you, but I understood, now." Max's words were sympathetic, understanding Lando's turmoil, even though they had their differences.

Lando confessed, his voice trembling with a mix of regret and desperation. "Max, I miss her, I miss y/n so much. I'll do anything to get her back, anything at all. It's the biggest mistake I've ever made."

Max fell silent, his concern deepening. He didn't know the extent of Lando's mistreatment of her.

The mention of y/n stirred worry in Max. He gently asked, "Lando, you know I didn't want you to break up with her. But why do you think you mistreated her? Can you tell me about that?" Max's tone was cautious, sensing that there was more to the story than he knew.

Lando hesitated, knowing he had a lot to unpack. Max's curiosity fueled a mix of fear and guilt inside Lando. He knew he had to come clean, even though it was painful to admit.

Taking a deep breath, Lando began to confess, his voice shaky. "I... I treated her badly, Max. I hurt her, ignored her, and took her for granted."

Max couldn't help but wince, knowing there was a deeper issue.

Lando's voice cracked with remorse. "They fed me lies about her. They convinced me that she was holding me back, that she wasn't good enough. I believed them, and I treated her poorly."

Max, as supportive as possible, tried to provide words of encouragement. "Lando, that's rough. You've made mistakes, but the first step is admitting it. You know you messed up; now it's about making amends."

He sighed, "Lando, remember that true love isn't about perfection. It's about growing together, learning from mistakes, and valuing someone despite their flaws."

He paused, his voice serious. "But you've got to show her you mean it. Words are easy, but actions will be your proof. Are you ready to do that?"

Lando, though shaken and determined, nodded, his voice firm. "Yes, Max. I'm ready. I want to prove it to her. I'll show her I've changed and that I'm serious about making amends."

Max and Lando continued talking, their conversation growing shorter as Lando had to prepare for the race. As they bid each other goodbye, Max reminded Lando, "Stay focused during the race. Clear your mind; that's important, too."

Lando, though his mind was heavy with emotion, took Max's words to heart. He knew he had to compartmentalize his feelings for now and focus on the race ahead. He focused on the tracks, his car, and his performance, pushing aside his turbulent emotions for the moment.

I stepped into the grand prix feeling a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. The grandstands, the roaring fans, and the smell of rubber and fuel in the air brought back a whirl of emotions. Seeing the tracks where Lando and I used to share moments filled me with nostalgia and a pang of heartache.

My thought were interrupted by two voices. Kika and Alex, my two closest friends, ambushed me with warm hugs, pulling me into their embrace. Their cheerful voices cut through the noise of the Grand Prix, and I felt a mix of relief and joy. It had been a while since we had been together.

"Y/N! You made it!" Kika exclaimed. "We've missed you so much!"

Alex chimed in, grinning widely. "We've been dying to hang out with you! It's been ages." She playfully pinched my cheek. "You look great, by the way."

"Oh, stop it! I didn't do anything special. You two, on the other hand, are the real stars here. Look at you!" I playfully nudged them both, my tone teasing and lighthearted.

Kika and Alex beamed, clearly enjoying the compliment. "Alright, alright, enough with the flattery," Alex said, feigning exhaustion. "We're here to have a blast. You ready for this?"

I sighed one more time while looking around before replying. "More then ready."

We made our way to our favorite hangout spot at hospitality. It was cozy, far from the chaos of the track. As we settled in, surrounded by comfortable couches and tables, a mix of nostalgia and anticipation washed over us.

"I've missed this place," Kika said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "So many memories, right?"

We spent hours catching up, sharing stories, laughter, and heartfelt moments. The conversation flowed easily between us, like old times. Laughter echoed in the cozy space of the hospitality center, and our spirits were lifted. Time seemed to slip away as we bonded and supported one another. Eventually, the time came for Kika and Alex to head back out; their respective significant others were getting ready for their races.

Kika and Alex rose from their seats, their faces slightly apologetic. "We have to go," Kika sighed.

Alex nodded, adding, "Come find us later, okay?"

I gave them both a nod, understanding their commitment to support their boyfriends. "Of course, we'll catch up after the races. Good luck to them!"

Kika and Alex shared one last embrace, their hugs warm and reassuring, then they left to get to their respective spots by the trackside.

As they left, I was left to navigate the grandstands, finding my spot amidst the sea of fans. I blended into the crowd, the anticipation in the air as the racers prepared for their engines to start.

The race concluded, but it felt bittersweet. Lando's face was everywhere - on the screens, the winners' podium, the trackside banners. Seeing him in his natural element, celebrating victories, stirred mixed emotions in me. The pain of missing him and the hope of reconciliation blended together in a complicated mix.

After a bit, I decided that I needed to use the restroom so I headed that way. I made my way to the private VIP restrooms, my VIP pass granting me access. The restroom was clean and spacious, offering a respite from the noise outside. I checked my reflection in the mirror, taking a moment to compose myself.

As I exited the restroom, I was lost in my thoughts, only to bump into someone in the hall. I froze, instantly recognizing Lando's familiar voice. His figure stood in front of me, and I felt my heart skip a beat. His gaze met mine, and time seemed to stand still.

Lando called out for me, his voice filled with surprise, "y/n." His eyes held a mix of shock and tenderness, his voice holding a hint of the emotions he was trying to keep at bay.

As the words hung in the air between us, my heart raced. His presence was so close, the warmth of his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

I got out of my stance, trying to leave, I tried to walk past him, but Lando blocked my path, stopping me in my tracks. I felt a wave of emotions crash over me - pain, anger, hope, and a deep longing all mingled together. The intensity of it was overwhelming, and I tried to suppress it.

Lando's voice was hesitant and filled with vulnerability. "Y/N, please…can we talk? Just for a moment."

His request was sincere, his eyes pleading with me not to walk away.

I shook my head, my resolve firm. "No, Lando. I can't and I don't want to." I replied, my voice resolute. The pain from our breakup was still too fresh, and talking to him now would reopen wounds I wasn't ready to confront. I tried to move past him, my expression set with determination.

Lando's face fell, a mix of hurt and resignation evident. He saw my determination, my refusal to engage. He took a step closer, his words soft but desperate, "Please... just hear me out."

My frustrations boiled over. "Don't you think it's ironic? Now you want me to hear you out, when you never listened to me when you decided to end things," I retorted, my voice filled with a mix of anger and sadness.

Lando winced at my words, the truth of them hitting him hard. "I know... I made a mistake," he said, his voice tinged with regret. He was trying to find the right words, his eyes pleading with me to give him a chance.

Lando's expression twisted, the guilt evident on his face as he processed my response. The words cut deep, the truth behind them undeniable.

"A mistake?" I repeated, my voice dripping with bitterness. "You ruined me."

I continued, my words raw.

"I spent months wondering what was wrong with me, why you ended a relationship of three years for a fake friendship that didn't even last a year. Where are those 'friends' who supposedly supported you through everything? I don't see them here, Lando."

Lando looked down, ashamed. He had no answer. His fake friends were nowhere to be found, leaving him alone to confront the consequences of his actions. The weight of his mistake seemed to grow heavier.

He finally managed to gather his thoughts, his voice a mix of guilt and sincerity. "I messed up. I don't expect you to forgive me right now. But please, let me explain." He took a step closer, his regret etched on his face, silently begging for my understanding.

I raised an eyebrow, my words sharp. "Explain? What's left to explain? You threw away three years of us for a group of shallow friendships. What could you possibly say to make this better?"

Lando knew my words hurt, but he was desperate. "I was blind. I was a damn coward," he confessed. "I allowed myself to be manipulated by my so- called friends, and in the process, I hurt you."

He continued, his voice tinged with regret and shame, "I saw them as my real friends, but now I realize they only saw me as a way to elevate their social status." He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "They saw you as a threat, someone who could expose their true intentions. They convinced me you were holding me back, when in reality, they had me blinded."

His voice trembled as he continued, "I let myself believe their lies. They filled my head with jealousy, making me doubt our relationship, and I was stupid enough to listen to them." His vulnerability shone through, his emotions raw.

I nodded, my expression guarded. "I'm glad you've recognized your mistakes, Lando. But can you imagine the pain I've experienced because of them, because of you?"

My words conveyed a mix of grief and resentment. The hurt I suffered remained a palpable presence, a constant reminder of the pain he had caused.

Lando nodded, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He knew he couldn't take back what he had done. The time he spent believing those fake friends and ending our relationship had shattered something that couldn't easily be repaired. He understood the depth of my suffering, a consequence of his blind trust and foolishness.

Lando looked at me, his expression sincere, and asked if we could try again. He voiced his regret, hoping for a chance to make things right. The hope in his eyes was clear, but the weight of the past lingered between us. He wanted to rebuild, to fix what he had broken.

He pleaded with me, his voice filled with remorse. "I know I don't deserve a second chance, but I want us to try again. I want to prove to you that I've changed, that I won't let those fake friends influence me anymore. I'll do whatever it takes."

I shook my head, my voice resolute. "No, Lando. I'm still healing, and right now, I don't want to try again. I need time, space. I can't just forgive and forget in a snap."

My words were firm, expressing my current inability to jump back into a relationship after everything I had been through.

Lando, his voice filled with sincerity, looked into my eyes. His gaze conveyed the depth of his regret and determination. "I understand," he said. "I will wait for you, for ten years or more," he promised. "I'll be here when you're ready, no matter how long it takes."

As we concluded the conversation, Lando stood there, his heart heavy with the weight of our future hanging in the balance. He watched me leave, a mix of emotions coursing through him: regret, hope, and an ache of longing. He had to accept that he couldn't rush our healing process, no matter how much he desired to be by my side.

I walked away, my eyes misty, the past and the uncertainty of our future intertwining in my thoughts.

f1gossippofficial

Liked by formula1_news, wagscloset, formula1_gossips and others

f1gossippoffical Months after their break-up, Lando Norris and Y/N have been spotted after the Silverstone GP. Sources state that the ex-couple were arguing, what the argument was about is still a big question. Many suspected it was because of a third party being involved. Thoughts about this one?

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lazyformulaland Bro leave them alone, they're both adults. Let them solve this in peace ffs. 🙄

lvr4lan Noooo Lando honey this isn't you run!

wagslov4 Did he pick you yet ? 🙄

bbpiastri81 What the hell is going on

norriswithrizz4 This is insane, the main focus of formula one isn't even on formula one anymore smh 🤦‍♀️

4everyours4ln Y'all are too invested, leave my girl y/n alone.

momolew16 Forreal the girl didn't ask for this

closetofpeacefashion7 Exactly she was finally thriving and then this happend. It doesn't even look like she wanted to talk to him

mayyoushush8 Did she tell you that 🤨

closetofpeacefashion7 @mayyoushush8 Don't be stupid even a kid can see that 🥱

I decided to head back home, not forgetting to shoot Alex and Kika a quick message which they completely understood.

As I reached home, the weight of the evening's emotions crashed down on me. The conversation with Lando had stirred up all the hurt and confusion I had been suppressing. I felt emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed, unsure of what to make of it all.

The silence of my home only amplified my inner turmoil, leaving me to wrestle with my conflicted feelings.

A few days passed after the incident, I decided to move on with life and not let it bother me again. A perfect distraction? Drowning myself in my workload.

I arrived at work as I stepped inside the building, I was greeted by Linda, one of my co-workers.

Linda, approached me with a mischievous grin, her question catching me off guard. "Do you have a secret admirer, by any chance?" she asked, the curiosity palpable in her voice.

I stared at her, confused by her question, wondering why she would draw such a conclusion. I shook my head, puzzled by the idea. "What makes you think that?" I replied, raising an eyebrow.

Linda chuckled, her eyes sparkling with a hint of intrigue. She replied, "Have a look in your office."

Puzzled by her cryptic hint, I made my way to the elevator and reached my office. As I stepped inside, confusion lingered in my mind, wondering what I was about to find.

My eyes widened with shock and surprise as I entered the office, finding a massive bouquet of my favorite flowers. The delicate blooms filled the space with a sweet, comforting fragrance. Attached to the flowers was a note, mysterious and intriguing. My heart fluttered with anticipation as I reached for the note.

My fingers traced the delicate paper of the note, and as I read the words, they stirred a whirlwind of emotions. The poem was written in delicate script, the words flowing like music... and it was about love. Each line spoke of tenderness, trust, and a future filled with hope. The words were so beautiful, it was as if they were carefully chosen specifically for me.

The little poem, written with a tender brush of affection, read:

"From the morning dew to the evening's glow, My love for you continues to grow. Through shadows and light, in every season's rain, Our bond remains, a gentle refrain.

In whispers of joy and moments of peace, I hold you close within my heart's embrace. Each smile shared, each memory we weave, My love will remain a boundless pledge."

I was so confused, who could've been behind this? As I read the poem again, my mind wandered to Lando for a moment. I quickly dismissed that Idea. He had confessed that he couldn't write romantic words, finding them cringeworthy.

If it wasn't Lando, then who would have written such a poem?

As the day wrapped up, I found myself heading home, my mind still lingering on the mysterious poem. Entering my home, I sank onto the couch, exhaustion seeping through my bones. The softness of the cushions welcomed me as my thoughts played through my mind, trying to unravel the mystery.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden ring of the doorbell that echoed through my home. It was late in the evening, and I couldn't guess who might be at the door at such a time. With some curiosity and a hint of wariness, I got up to answer.

I went over to the door to open it and I was met with a delivery man. The delivery man handed me a massive bouquet of fresh flowers and a large box of chocolates. The fragrance from the flowers mingled with the scent of chocolate. The combination was almost overwhelming, leaving me baffled as I accepted the gifts.

Now I was even more confused, this bouquet was even bigger than the one from my office. And the weird thing was, that the chocolates I got were only my favorites.

I examined the box of chocolates, finding another note attached to the top. Carefully, I opened the wrapper, retrieving the note. Just like the previous one, it was written on delicate paper, filled with intrigue. I unfolded it, ready to read the message.

As I unfolded the paper, I was met with neat, elegant handwriting. The words held a romantic touch, and I felt a mix of anticipation and curiosity. The second poem spoke of tender love and adoration.

"Your presence brings light to every room, A symphony of grace in each simple bloom. Though we may walk separate paths in life, My heart's allegiance is a ceaseless strife."

I sat there, taken aback by the heartfelt words. They spoke of admiration and deep affection. Who could have written these beautiful poems and left them for me? The confusion deepened, and I pondered who could be behind the mysterious gestures.

Plagued by curiosity, I reached for my phone and called my best friend, hoping for answers. As the call rang, I prepared myself for a wave of questions, expecting her to know something.

My best friend's cheerful voice filled the call, answering instantly. "Hello?" She sounded cheerful as ever, not knowing the mystery I was about to unload on her.

I cut straight to the point, my tone slightly urgent. "Hey, I have a question. So, I've been receiving anonymous flowers, chocolates, and... poems." I paused a moment. "Any idea who it could be?" I asked, hoping for some insight.

She was silent for a moment, her surprise apparent. But then her voice brightened, and I could tell she had a theory. "Oooh, a mystery admirer?" she asked, half-joking, half-curious.

I sighed, rolling my eyes playfully. "Well, yes. It is somewhat mysterious." I replied, unable to hide the hint of unease in my voice amidst the flowers and chocolates surrounding me.

We delved into the mystery, discussing possibilities. From past crushes to unknown admirers, we contemplated various scenarios. But no concrete conclusion surfaced, leaving me even more intrigued and slightly frustrated.

That was until my best friend's insight sparked a new perspective. She pointed out that the mystery admirer seemed to know me well. They knew my workplace, my love for romantic poems, and even my favorite chocolates and flowers. It wasn't just a coincidence; they seemed to have a grasp on my habits. The timing of the delivery was eerily precise, appearing just when I arrived home.

My best friend continued, her voice filled with speculation. "It's not just the flowers and chocolates, it's the timing. They know your work schedule. It's almost like they're watching, waiting for the right moment."

I agreed, thoughtfully absorbing. "Yeah, that's been bothering me. The timing is too perfect. They either know my schedule or they're stalking me." I chuckled, trying to soften the situation with humor.

"Wait!" My best friend suddenly interrupted, a speculative glint in her eyes. "Could it have been Lando?"

The name hung heavily in the air, bringing our conversation to a halt.

I shook my head, quickly dismissing the idea. "No, probably not. Lando doesn't enjoy writing, especially not romantic poems. He always told me he found them cringe."

My bestie nodded, acknowledging my response. "Ah, right. He's not exactly the poetic type, is he?"

I grinned slightly, remembering Lando's disdain for poetic words. "Nope, definitely not. He'd rather punch a wall than write a poem." I joked, the idea of Lando writing a poem seeming far-fetched, even for a moment.

After a while of thinking and cracking our brains open, we ended the conversation, deciding to table the mystery for the moment. We said our goodbyes and hung up the phone, my mind still swirling with questions. I prepared for the night, the flowers and chocolates lingering in the background, their presence a reminder of the mysterious admirer.

Several months passed, and the mysterious gifts persisted, each one more thoughtful and personal. The flowers continued arriving, alongside a new addition - small, handmade tokens. Notes slipped into the bouquet containing thoughtful messages, while a box of my favorite chocolates came with a heartfelt poem.

I sought information, asking friends and family if they knew anything. They were taken by surprise and genuinely had no idea who was behind the surprises. The mystery deepend as everyone denied any involvement.

The mystery escalated. Along with the physical gifts, I discovered a surprise on my phone. Text messages arrived with miniature poems, each one carefully crafted and sweet. The sender's number remained undisclosed, leaving me baffled about the identity.

The mystery escalated. Along with the physical gifts, I discovered a surprise on my phone. Text messages arrived with miniature poems, each one carefully crafted and sweet. The sender's number remained undisclosed, leaving me baffled about the identity.

The messages, delivered alongside the tangible gifts, carried messages that resonated with my emotions and experiences. It felt almost as if this person truly knew me, yet remained hidden behind the anonymity of their identity.

It was that time again - our annual girls' night out. We always looked forward to these nights, a chance to let loose and have a blast in a vibrant club. I had my best friend beside me, ready to dance the night away. The only problem? My best friend chose a club that Lando used to go to every time. She reassured me that he wouldn't be here which I took her word for.

We strutted into the club, excitement filling the air. Music pulsed through the venue, the bass matching the rhythm of our hearts. The lights dazzled the dance floor, and we blended into the crowd, the worries of the day fading in the throes of the nightlife. We decided to hit the dance floor, letting go of any inhibitions as we lost ourselves in the music.

We danced with abandon, the beat pulsating through us, the rhythmic movements our shared language. The neon lights flashed, adding an electric charge to the atmosphere. As we danced and whirled, we felt liberated from the daily grind, living in the moment, lost in the music and the company of my best friend.

Later that night we both got thirsty, I made my way to the bar to get us drinks, when suddenly a man approached me. I could already smell the alcohol on him as he staggered towards me, a lopsided smile plastered on his face.

He smirked, his words coming out in a clumsy manner. "Hey there, pretty lady," he slurred, his tone oozing with an unwanted familiarity. He invaded my personal space, leaning in a bit too close for comfort.

I could feel the warmth of his breath, tainted with alcohol, against my cheek as he spoke. "What's a beautiful girl like you doing here alone?" He tried to flirt, his persistence evident even amidst his intoxication.

I tried to maintain a polite smile, stepping back slightly. "I'm here with a friend," I replied, my voice a mix of politeness and discomfort. I glanced at the bartender, silently praying for my order to arrive sooner so I could escape this uncomfortable interaction.

He chuckled, his intoxication making him clumsy yet bold. "Oh, come on. A pretty girl like you shouldn't be tied down to just one friend. You should let loose and have fun," he insisted, his words filled with a suggestive undertone.

I tried to end the conversation, giving him a firm but polite dismissal. "Thanks, but I'm good," I said, my tone leaving no room for further conversation. I discreetly inched closer to the bar, hoping he would get the hint and leave me alone.

Instead of taking the hint, he persisted. "Oh, come on. Don't be a party pooper. One drink won't hurt," he insisted, his words slurring even more. He took another step closer, trying to close the gap between us.

I felt a mix of discomfort and annoyance as his persistence continued. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming, leaving a cloying odor on the air. I tried to maintain my composure, not wanting to cause a scene but also wanting him to back off.

He took another step closer, his gaze lingering on me. I could see the effects of the alcohol on him - the unsteady steps, the glazed look in his eyes, the clumsy attempts at charm. He reached out, attempting to touch my arm, his gesture too familiar and unwelcome.

The guy got annoyed when I backed away. He reached out, his hand grabbing my arm with a firm grip, trying to pull me back. I felt a jolt of fear as he attempted to drag me.

His hold tightened, his voice a mix of frustration and insistence. "Come on, don't you know how to have fun? Just one drink, a little chat." He tugged at me, his alcohol-fueled stubbornness evident.

I felt a mix of panic and defiance. "Let me go, you sick prick!" I exclaimed, my voice strained. I glanced around, hoping for someone to intervene, but every face seemed lost in their own world, oblivious or uncaring about the situation. The loud music blared, making it seem as if no one could hear my cries for help.

The guy gripped my arm tighter, his eyes filled with a mix of drunken determination. He leaned in closer, his face twisted with frustration. "Why are you making this so difficult? Just one drink, come on."

He forced me into an empty, private room, his grip on my arm still strong, leaving me with a sense of dread. The music was a distant throb outside, leaving me more isolated in this unsettling scenario.

His grip faltered as someone unexpectedly appeared, a figure entering the room with a decisive move. Before the guy could even think of pulling me fully into the room, someone intervened, delivering a well-aimed punch to his gut. The guy groaned, doubled over in pain as he released his grip on me.

The guy fell to his knees, clutching his stomach as the force of the blow rippled through him. Confusion, pain, and shock replaced the smugness from before. I could only watch, relief washing over me as I realized I wasn't alone anymore.

The drunk guy, overwhelmed by the combination of alcohol and the punch, scrambled to his feet before stumbling out of the room, whimpering in pain. The sudden exit left me alone with the mysterious person who had stepped in to save me.

Lando rushed towards me, concern etched on his face. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" he asked, his voice filled with emotion. The warm green in his eyes held a mix of worry and relief that I was alright.

He reached for my arm where the drunk guy had grabbed me before, inspecting the area to check if I was hurt. I could feel the tenderness as he gently ran his fingers over the spot, ensuring I was unharmed. Lando then gazed at my face, studying it for any signs of distress.

I gently pulled my hand away, forcing a small smile to reassure him. "I'm okay," I insisted, my voice steady but guarded. His concern was palpable, and I could see the relief in his eyes as he saw that I was not physically harmed.

Lando seemed desperate, unwilling to let me leave just yet. He reached for my arm again, his grasp gentle but firm. "Please, just hear me out," he pleaded, his voice filled with a mix of vulnerability and hope.

My response came sharp, biting. "Why would I? You didn't try to reach out, didn't try to find me, or even show an ounce of concern until now," I shot back, my words laced with bitterness and resentment.

Lando's response came with a mix of frustration and hidden emotion. "I haven't tried? Since our last talk, I've done everything I could to win you back," he retorted, his words carrying a hint of vulnerability. "Who do you think sent you all those gifts? Who else would know your work schedule, your favorite foods, your love for poems? I know I said I hated them, but for you, I embraced them."

His words were layered with hurt and a desire for reconciliation. Lando finally confessed, "It was me, all along. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you forever, so I hoped my gestures would speak for me." The pain in his face was evident, his eyes pleading for understanding.

I stammered at his words, a mixture of surprise and confusion overwhelming me. Never in my entire life I would've thought Lando would do all of this for me. My mind raced as I tried to comprehend the lengths he had gone to reach me.

My voice trembled as I spoke, "So... you were behind those text messages as well? How...? But I blocked all your accounts, even the new ones. How did you manage to send me messages?"

Lando hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on mine as he confessed. "I bought a new phone with a different SIM card... just so I could message you." His answer hung in the air, the weight of his dedication palpable in the quiet space of the room.

He continued, his voice earnest, "I couldn't bear the silence between us, the distance. Even if you blocked me everywhere, I had to find a way to reach you, to express how I felt." The depth of his yearning and determination to keep the connection alive was evident in each word.

I remained silent, overwhelmed by his confession. Lando had gone to great lengths just to communicate with me, buying a new phone and SIM card, defying my attempts to cut off contact. The depth of his dedication was both touching and overwhelming. I couldn't deny the mix of emotions swirling within me.

Lando stood there, his eyes searching mine, desperate for a glimmer of hope. The air hung heavy with anticipation as he awaited my reaction, his vulnerability on full display, his heart on his sleeve.

I grappled for a response, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. "I... I'm still processing this," I managed to utter, my voice filled with a mix of hurt and confusion. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? Why let me think you didn't care?" I blurted out, a hint of betrayal seeping into my voice.

Lando's eyes filled with remorse, his shoulders slouching slightly. "I was afraid," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid of being rejected, scared that you would push me away if I tried to talk to you and most importantly scared you would've moved on. I thought sending those gifts and messages would be a way to reach out without directly risking rejection."

I stared at him, taken aback by his honesty. His confession laid bare his fears and insecurities, exposing the vulnerability beneath his usually composed facade. But my hurt remained, the sting of his silence lingering.

I couldn't hide my feelings, and I let my resentment spill out. "But you let me suffer!" I cried out, the pain pouring out in my words. "I thought you didn't care, that you moved on, while I was here, hurting over our broken relationship."

Lando's face contorted with pain at my outburst, his shoulders sinking lower. He took a step forward, bridging the gap between us. "I know, I know," he pleaded, his voice filled with regret. "I was a coward. I let fear dictate my choices, and I hurt you in the process. I'm sorry."

I wanted to believe him, to fall into the comfort of his apology and the sweet gestures he had made, but the wounds of the past remained. The memories of his silence, his refusal to communicate, and the pain I endured still weighed heavily on my heart.

Lando saw the hesitance in my eyes, noticed the barrier I had put up. His expression pleaded with me, a mixture of sorrow and yearning. I could tell he wanted me to forgive him, to let him back in.

"Lando, I'm so conflicted," I confessed, my voice cracking. The wounds of the past still fresh, I couldn't let go easily. "How can I trust that you won't hurt me again? I've suffered so much because of you, how can I be sure you won't do something like this again?" I asked, hoping for an answer that would quell my doubts. The pain was still too raw to simply forgive and forget.

Lando's eyes filled with remorse, his face a mask of sorrow and guilt. He knew he had caused me pain and had no right to expect forgiveness so easily. He stepped closer, the gap between us becoming smaller. With a gentle voice, he spoke. "I don't ask for you to trust me instantly," he said, his voice tinged with sincerity. "I want to prove to you that I've changed, that I won't make the same mistakes again. Please, just give me a chance to show you."

I held his gaze, my eyes pleading for understanding. "I need some time," I implored, my voice shaky. "I can't just forget overnight. Give me the space to process everything, to heal." The emotions coursing through me were overwhelming, and I needed time to make sense of the rollercoaster of events.

Lando's response was gentle and resolute. "I will wait for you. Remember, even if it takes ten years," he said, his voice filled with sincerity and a hint of vulnerability. "I'll be here when you're ready, no matter how long it takes."

I looked back at Lando, his pleading eyes yearning for a reprieve. With a heavy heart, I whispered, "Goodbye," and reluctantly turned away. The music and lights faded as I weaved through the crowd, searching for my best friend who had remained oblivious to the emotional storm that had just unfolded between Lando and me.

I found my best friend in the crowd, her smile lighting up upon seeing me. However, her smile quickly faded as she saw the tears streaming down my face. Without a word, she stood up, concern etched on her face.

She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, gently guiding me towards the exit. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice filled with understanding. "Let's go home."

We stepped out of the club, the cool outside air a stark contrast to the stifling heat inside. We hailed an Uber, and my bestie decided to spend the night to provide comfort and lend an ear.

We settled into the car, the soft hum of the engine accompanying us as we made our way home. I took a deep breath, preparing to recount the tumultuous events of the evening to my best friend.

The Uber pulled up in front of my building, and we disembarked, the night's cool air a stark reminder of the emotional journey I had been through. We made our way into my house, the silence between us filled with anticipation.

We entered my house, the familiarity of the space providing a semblance of comfort. My bestie guided me to the couch, pulling a blanket over us as we settled in for what was sure to be a long night of conversation.

I poured my heart out, recounting every detail, from Lando's apology to the painful memories that still lingered. My best friend listened intently, her eyes widening in surprise and shock as she took in the emotional rollercoaster I had described.

She was stunned, her face reflecting the whirlwind of emotions that had unfolded. "Wow," she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't believe he did all that."

My voice trembled with uncertainty, "I don't know what to do," I confessed, my emotions a tumultuous mess. "I want to trust him, but it's so hard to ignore the pain he caused. It feels like a never-ending cycle of confusion and fear." I rested my head on my friend's shoulder, seeking solace in her presence.

She rubbed my back soothingly, her support an anchor that kept me from drifting further into despair. In a gentle yet reassuring tone, she spoke. "It's okay to feel conflicted. Trust is earned, and forgiveness takes time. Don't rush yourself. Take whatever time you need to figure out what you want." She held me closer, offering her presence as a grounding force amidst the chaos.

My best friend posed the question that echoed within me, "Do you still love him?" The question sliced through the air, digging deep into emotions I had tried to bury.

Hesitantly, I met her gaze, tears glistening in my eyes. "I… I don't know," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

My friend's words were honest, cutting through the confusion. She persisted, "That isn't an answer, y/n. It's a simple yes or no question." I remained silent for a long moment, my emotions swirling inside. Finally, after an excruciating pause, I whispered, "Fine, yes. Yes, I still love him." The admission hung in the air, vulnerable and raw.

My best friend looked at me, her eyes mirroring a mixture of understanding and support. "Give him a chance," she urged, her voice gentle yet firm. "Don't give in immediately. See how far he's willing to go. If he goes beyond just gifts and gestures, you'll know he's sincere.''

A wave of confusion washed over me, and I turned to her for clarification. "What do you mean, 'beyond gifts and gestures'?" I inquired, the words tumbling out in a whispered plea for understanding.

She seemed to gather her thoughts for a moment, then met my gaze with an earnest expression. "I mean, beyond just grand gestures. Beyond the gifts and the poems. Love is about more than just gestures. It's about genuine care, about being there for each other, through every high and low. It's about trust and communication. Those are the true tests of sincere love," she replied, her words wise and heartfelt.

She continued, her voice steady. "If Lando truly cares about you, he will show it in every aspect of his life, not just with grand gestures. He will prioritize your needs, respect your boundaries, and be there for you, even in the most ordinary moments."

Her words resonated within me, their truth echoing in my heart. It didn't matter if he had sent flowers or sweet poems. Love wasn't just about gifts; it was about presence, understanding, and unwavering support through life's tumultuous journey.

We continued talking for hours, my best friend's words sinking deep into my thoughts. Eventually, we decided to call it a day, both exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster. My mind whirled with questions as we prepared to say our goodnights.

Lando's dedication persisted. In the days that followed, his gestures remained constant. I noticed flowers and chocolates carefully placed on my desk each morning, a poem hidden amidst the petals, and a warm coffee waiting when I arrived in the morning, exactly how I liked it.

Today it was different. I heard a knock on my office door, I replied with a simple 'come in' as the person entered. Lando stood in my office doorway, his hands holding my favorite coffee and a neatly prepared lunch. He spoke softly, concern in his voice.

"I hope I'm not interrupting, but I know you can get forgetful about your nutrition while working. So I brought you something." The gesture warmed my heart, leaving me momentarily speechless.

His willingness to break away from his busy schedule, solely to ensure I took care of myself, touched me deeply.

"Thank you," I expressed gratefully, touched by his thoughtfulness. I had to ask him, curious about the sacrifice of his valuable time. "But aren't you busy? You still made time for this?"

Lando responded, his voice gentle yet sincere. "I'm busy," he admitted. "But I make time for you because you matter to me."

His simple yet powerful response struck a chord within me. In the midst of the busyness of life, he had made time for me, prioritizing my wellbeing. It spoke volumes about his devotion and care, that he was willing to sacrifice his valuable time just to ensure I wasn't neglecting myself.

The sincerity in his eyes and the way he stood in my office doorway, a small lunch in hand, felt overwhelming. It was as if he was trying to prove that he valued our connection more than the hustle and bustle of life.

In the weeks that followed, Lando's gestures became an integral part of my routine. He arrived at my office each morning with my favorite coffee, not missing a single day, even when I forgot it myself. During lunch breaks, he carefully watched over me, ensuring I ate, sometimes even bringing me delectable meals he prepared himself. He began helping me with paperwork, even when he didn't have the expertise—a gesture that left me touched.

Once, when I found a mouse in my apartment, he came at 4 a.m., not hesitating for a moment despite having an early flight.

His devotion continued. In the midst of his travels, he remained constant in sending me thoughtful gifts. The distance didn't seem to matter as his love crossed time and continents.

With each passing day, my heart opened up a little more. His gestures filled my heart with a mix of gratitude, warmth, and a hint of rekindling love.

It seemed like any ordinary day, with Lando on the other side of the world for a race. I was engulfed in my work, my focus solely on the paperwork, to the neglect of myself. Suddenly, my colleague Linda burst into my office.

Linda spoke with concern, her voice filled with worry. "You've been working nonstop. Come on, let's get something to eat." I protested, insisting on finishing my task first, but Linda's stern expression was unrelenting. I agreed reluctantly, rising from my seat. Little did I know, the world was about to spin.

As we walked, I started feeling dizzy, an unfamiliar sensation overtaking me. Linda's voice was heard from beside me. "Sweetheart are you alright?"

"No, no, I'm fine," I quickly reassured Linda, believing I had just stood up too quickly. Yet, before I could take another step, my world slipped away, and I plunged into the darkness of unconsciousness.

Linda witnessed the sudden collapse and hurried to my side, concern filling her voice. "y/n, are you okay?" she asked urgently, but I was unresponsive, the world around me fading into blackness.

The sound of voices echoed in the distance, Linda's voice calling my name. However, the comforting embrace of darkness held me captive.

As I emerged from the haze of unconsciousness, I felt a soothing yet firm hold on my hand. I groaned softly, my eyes slowly creaking open, reluctantly adjusting to the stark brightness of my surroundings.

As my vision cleared, I realized I was in a hospital room. The sterile environment, the soft hum of medical equipment, and the distinctive smell of antiseptic filled the air. I heard someone calling my name, I turned my head, my gaze drifting towards the source of the voice that called my name.

I blinked, still in a state of surprise to see Lando beside me. He looked at me with concern, his presence unexpected given that he was supposed to be on the opposite side of the globe. He spoke urgently, "How are you feeling? Should I call for a doctor?" His worry was evident in his eyes as he waited for my response.

Amidst the haze of confusion and exhaustion, my mind clung to one question. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice weak but filled with surprise. "You're supposed to be on the other side of the world."

His response caught me off guard, touching my heart amidst the whirlwind of emotions. "I'm you're emergency contact," he reminded me, and the realization set in.

He had crossed continents and time zones, arriving swiftly on his private jet, driven by his concern for my well-being. I had been asleep for 12 hours, and in that timeframe, he had made his way across the globe to be by my side.

The depth of his commitment touched my heart. Despite the demands of his career, he had flown across the world to be by my side, prioritizing my well-being above everything else. The knowledge that he was my emergency contact made a surge of warmth flow through me. It was a reminder of my significance in his life and the lengths he would go to for me.

I tried to compose myself, my voice still weak, I told him, "You shouldn't have done this. You have important things to attend."

Guilt tugged at me, knowing he had sacrificed his commitments to be here. His racing schedule, his career, everything seemed secondary to his concern for me in that moment.

Lando shook his head, his expression resolute. "I don't care, none of it matters as much as you do," he insisted, his gaze filled with sincerity. He reached out to gently hold my hand, his touch comforting. "Nothing is as important as you," he repeated, emphasizing his priorities.

His words struck a nerve, causing a mix of emotions to rise within me. Tears welled up in my eyes, his unwavering devotion filling me with a combination of gratitude and sorrow. I had doubted him, feared a lack of commitment, yet here he was, proving me wrong in the most dramatic way possible.

His presence in the hospital room, despite the distance he traveled, felt surreal. The sound of medical equipment beeping in the background seemed distant compared to the intense emotions swirling between us. Lando held my hand, his touch warm and reassuring.

In that moment of tender silence, Lando spoke again. His voice was soft, carrying a mix of concern and affection. He squeezed my hand gently, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. "I was so worried," he admitted, his eyes locked on mine. "Seeing you here in the hospital... was terrifying."

His eyes mirrored the vulnerability he rarely displayed, raw emotions laid bare. The fear he had felt, the concern that gripped him, all visible in his expression. The reality of the situation weighed heavily between us, his emotions palpable and sincere.

I offered a reassuring smile, trying to ease his worries, though the weakness in my voice betrayed my fatigue. "I'm okay," I whispered, exhaustion evident in my words. My weak hand attempted to squeeze his in return, hoping to show my gratitude despite my physical state.

Lando's grip on my hand tightened, his thumb tracing comforting circles on my skin. His gaze remained focused on me, studying my face, searching for any signs of discomfort or pain. He was skeptical of my reassurance, his worry etched on his furrowed brow.

We delved into conversation, discussing random topics, our worries fading into the background. Our chat was filled with laughter and genuine connection. However, our peaceful moment was interrupted when the doctor entered the room for a routine check-up. The doctor informed me that I was discharged, giving me the okay to leave.

Lando assisted me in gathering my belongings, the tenderness in his gestures evident. He carried my bag and carefully guided me out of the hospital room. We paced side by side, making our way to Lando's car parked outside.

We traveled in a soothing silence, the weight of the hospital now off our shoulders. As we reached my place, Lando diligently helped me bring my belongings inside and prepared to leave. But before he could go, he paused and called my name, the sound breaking the tranquility.

I turned my attention his way, meeting his eyes with curiosity. "Yes?" I responded, wondering what was on his mind. His voice had held a hint of hesitation, as if there was something important he wanted to convey.

He inhaled sharply, the weight of his question becoming apparent. He spoke with vulnerability, "There's something I want to ask you. You're free to refuse, but I genuinely want to ask... Will you go on a date with me tomorrow?"

I was initially startled, but the anticipation in his eyes was evident. He swiftly added, "Only if you want it to be a date of course" I could see the sincerity in his gaze. A soft smile tugged at my lips as I accepted his invitation, my voice steady with anticipation. "Yes."

The relief and happiness that washed over Lando's face at my acceptance were evident. His shoulders relaxed, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "You'll go on a date with me?" he asked, a mix of surprise and joy in his tone. "Really?"

The vulnerability in Lando's voice hinted at the significance of my acceptance. He was eager to hear my confirmation once more, his eyes glimmering with hope. I smiled warmly, reassuring him, "Yes, I'll go on a date with you."

We bid each other good night, both feeling the exhilaration of the upcoming date. The way we acted mirrored that of teenagers experiencing their first date, a mix of excitement, nervousness, and anticipation. As we exchanged a final glance, our connection felt like a magnetic pull, both eager for the moment to come. The goodbye lingered for a few moments, filled with electricity.

The evening of our date arrived, and my best friend was diligently working on styling my hair, while I focused on applying my makeup. She fussed over my locks, while I carefully applied concealer and mascara to enhance my eyes. My outfit hung on the closet's door, chosen for the evening. The weight of my excitement made my heart flutter in anticipation of the night ahead.

My best friend, brushing through my hair as she styled it, spoke up. "You know, Lando really went above and beyond for you, don't you think he deserves a chance?" she said, emphasizing his efforts.

There was a pause as I met her gaze in the mirror, a mix of emotions coursing through me. I set down my mascara and turned to face her, the weight of her words settling.

She looked at me, waiting for my response, her eyes filled with a mix of encouragement and genuine concern. The reminder of Lando's efforts weighed heavily on my thoughts. He had shown dedication and cared for me, but my past fears and apprehensions lingered, making it hard to fully let go.

I took a moment, considering her words. Inhaling deeply, I nodded, offering a soft smile of agreement. "Yeah, I know," I admitted, my voice a mix of vulnerability and hope. "But it's... it's hard to trust after everything."

I voiced my intentions, my eyes glimmering with determination. "I want to give him a chance," I declared, my resolve strengthened. "Not just a chance, but an opportunity to show me that he's worth trusting." My past pain weighed heavily on my heart, but the hope in my voice was undeniable.

Her squeal of happiness filled the room, echoing her encouragement. "Oh my god, y/n! I'm so happy for you!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with enthusiasm. "You're doing the right thing, giving him a shot. He'll make you so happy!"

She grinned, her excitement infectious. "I can feel it in my bones, this is gonna be great. He's going to sweep you off your feet."

We concluded our primping, with my best friend leaving with a parting "keep me updated, and good luck!" The anticipation in my stomach intensified, a mix of excitement and nerves gripping me. I took another glance in the mirror, taking in my appearance one last time.

I was wearing a black off shoulder dress, that hugged my curves nicely. I paired it with the famous uncomfy YSL heels and matching purse. My hair was styled in a beautiful blow out flowing over my shoulders. I sighed one more time before grabbing my stuff.

The doorbell echoed through the room, signaling Lando's arrival with its gentle tone. My heart leaped in my chest, his presence just outside my door.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and then opened the door. Lando stood there, his presence immediately filling the space, and warmth spread through my chest. He looked handsome, his well-groomed appearance evident, but it was his warm eyes and gentle smile that greeted me.

Lando stood before me, a bouquet of vibrant flowers in hand. His expression was one of awe, his words momentarily lost. He managed to compose himself and spoke, his voice filled with admiration. "You look absolutely stunning," he said, his eyes drinking in the sight of me.

The flowers were a beautiful display of color, their delicate petals reflecting the soft light of the hallway. Lando held them out, offering them to me like a bouquet of promises. I extended my hand, taking them with a soft smile, his compliment making my cheeks flush.

We walked out together, arm in arm, the cold evening air washing over us. Lando guided me to his car, opening the passenger door and helping me inside as a gentleman. As we settled in, the city lights danced outside, casting a cozy ambiance in the car.

We arrived at the restaurant, a charming Italian bistro with soft lighting and a cozy ambiance. Lando got out, rushing to open my door, offering a hand to help me out with a soft smile. The scent of fresh herbs and garlic filled the air, a promise of a delicious meal to come.

We stepped inside, the warmth wrapping around us. The atmosphere was romantic, with soft music playing in the background. Lando guided me to a table by the windows, pulling out my chair before taking a seat himself. Candles flickered on the table, casting a soft glow over everything.

We settled into our seats at the table, the ambiance around us serene and inviting. The waiter approached, greeting us warmly and setting menus before us. The scent of fresh bread and delectable aromas wafted from the kitchen, fueling the anticipation for the meal ahead.

Lando spoke with confidence, knowing my preferences. "What do you want to get?" he asked, but before I could respond, he answered himself, "No, I know already. Let me guess... the carbonara." A smile tugged at my lips as he remembered my favorites so effortlessly. I replied, "You know it," a mix of affection and appreciation filling my voice. His attention to detail and memories of things I liked made my heart swell with warmth.

The night unfolded, filled with lively conversation and laughter. Time seemed to stand still as we lost ourselves in our connection, the sound of others around us fading into the background. It felt as if the world had narrowed down to just us, an intimate bubble filled with shared laughter, stolen glances, and shared stories.

As the night drew to a close, neither of us wanted it to end. Lando paid for the meal, and I thanked him with genuine gratitude. We decided to take a stroll, drawn to a nearby bench that offered a view of the water. As we settled onto the bench, the gentle moonlight illuminated the night, casting a silvery glow over the water's surface.

I broke the comfortable silence, my voice soft and sincere. "Lando?" I began, my words carrying heartfelt appreciation. "I really enjoyed today. Thank you," I expressed, my eyes glimmering with warmth as I looked at him.

Lando met my gaze, a soft smile playing at his lips. He spoke with sincerity, his voice filled with warmth. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he replied, his eyes mirroring the appreciation in mine. "It means the world to me that you had a good time. I truly enjoyed every moment with you."

I addressed the elephant in the room, acknowledging the immense effort he'd put in. "You know, you really have gone above and beyond for me these past months," I said, my tone sincere.

It had been a challenge to regain my trust, and Lando's consistent gestures had played a significant role in rebuilding it. His eyes glimmered with a mix of vulnerability and hope, absorbing my words.

Lando's voice was quiet as he responded, his tone sincere. "I know I have, but every moment of it was worth it," he confessed, his emotions clear in his eyes.

"I wanted to show you that you could trust me, that I would go to any lengths to earn your trust," he added, his voice filled with a mix of vulnerability and earnestness.

I continued, my questions flowing out. "What about after we get back together? Would you still care about me like this" I inquired, my eyes searching his.

Lando's expression shifted, vulnerability and sincerity mixing in his gaze.

"After we get back together, I want to cherish every moment even more," he admitted, his voice filled with sincerity. "I want to support you, care for you, and be there for you through anything. I want to keep building on the trust we have and make our relationship stronger than ever."

His sincere words found their way to my heart, a tenderness washing over me. The vulnerability in his expression, combined with his commitment to cherishing our relationship, stirred something within me.

I spoke up, my voice soft but filled with resolution. "I think," I began, "I'm ready to be yours again."

Lando stood up, his eyes wide with disbelief, his emotions overwhelming him. He wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off the bench in a tight embrace.

As he spun us around in a whirlwind of joy, he spoke with heartfelt conviction, "I won't disappoint you ever again. I love you so much."

His hands remained on my waist, a tender touch that seemed to anchor me. I felt a surge of warmth and contentment as I replied with a giggle that turned into laughter, sharing in Lando's excitement.

"I love you too, Lan," I confessed, my eyes glimmering with affection

Lando's grip on my waist tightened as he pulled me into a passionate kiss, a fusion of his emotions and desires. The softness of the moment contrasted with the intensity of our feelings, the kiss sending a surge of electricity through my body. I melted into his embrace, returning the kiss.

As the kiss intensified into a make-out session, I reluctantly pulled away, the reminder of Lando's fame echoing in my mind. However, Lando was unfazed, his response quick and resolute.

He shrugged off the potential consequences, insisting, "Let them see. I've got my girl back, and that's all that matters." His smile was filled with a mixture of certainty and passion as he pulled me back, their lips meeting once more in a toe-curling kiss that seemed to defy any outside concerns.

The moon shone down, lighting up the night as Lando wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close, and we walked back to his car. The air held a delicate sense of anticipation, and as we drove away, I nestled my head against Lando's shoulder, feeling safe and cherished.

Gratitude and affection swelled within me as I realized I had given Lando another chance, and that my heart had bloomed open once again. I smiled, my thoughts swirling with appreciation and love for the incredible journey we were about to embark on.

The end