rex-rambles

Latest Posts by rex-rambles

love you like i mean it ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

alex is always going to be someone that you want; you have too many years between you. (or: you, alex, and the devastating situationship that reshapes your friendship.)

ꔮ starring: alex albon x childhood best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k. ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, friendship, light angst with a happy ending. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. friends with benefits, idiots in love, the reader pines… so much…, carlos as a plot device. heavily inspired by & shamelessly references spring into summer by lizzy mcalpine. ꔮ commentary box: this was initially supposed to be inspired by chappell roan’s casual, but i listened to too much lizzy mcalpine and ended up with *gestures vaguely* this. the fic got away from me at some point hence the 10k (lol). i was supposed to give up on it, but i pushed through because i owe @cinnamorussell some alex before the month ends. please enjoy my first ever alex long fic!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ modigliani, lucy dacus. the bolter, taylor swift. right side of my neck, faye webster. touching toes, olivia dean. ode to a conversation stuck in your throat, del water gap. do you love me?, georgia parker.

Alex calls you late, the way he always does when he’s just lonely enough to admit it.

Your phone screen lights up with a sepia-toned photo from your shared childhood, featuring you and him sharing a comically large lollipop. His contact name is his initials. AAA. It puts him on the top of your list, which honestly feels like a cruelty in the grand scheme of things.

You answer his call anyway.

His hotel room in Tokyo is all muted beige and filtered city light, the kind that makes everything look like a memory. He’s in a white tank top, hair wet from a shower, collarbone shining faintly with leftover steam. He looks tired. He looks beautiful. You hate that.

“Come to Suzuka,” he says, not bothering with hello.

You smile without showing your teeth. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“It’s not,” he complains, flopping back down against his pillows. You itch to reach through the screen and trace all the parts of him you’ve come to know and love. “You didn’t even come to Melbourne for the start of the season. What’s the last race you were at?” 

You know the answer. Still, you feign like you’re thinking. “Abu Dhabi,” you say after deciding Alex has squirmed just enough. Last year’s season-ender. 

Alex winces like the truth physically hurts. “That’s criminal.”

You shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for me?” 

His voice is so small, so soft. You adjust your grip on your phone, desperate not to fall into this cycle, this pattern. Coming, taking, giving, leaving. “Work has been a lot,” you grit out. “I’ve texted you about it.” 

“Don’t do that.”

He sits forward. The screen tilts. A flash of his knee, the edge of a pillow. You’ve seen that bed before. You’ve been in it, legs tangled, laughing into his shoulder while the world outside blurred into something manageable. “I’m not doing anything,” you lie.

Alex blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Then I’ll just tell you. The helmet. The special one for Japan. It’s—it has you in it. Well, not you you. But something that’s about you.” 

Your stomach pulls. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I want you there. Because maybe it’ll make you come.”

You have half the mind to accuse him of trapping you. Of having nefarious intentions or whatever bullshit you can spew to get Alex to stop doing all this. Instead, a sigh rattles out of your chest and you say, “Fine. I’ll go.” 

His smile is quick and boyish, and it kills you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You end the call before you can say anything stupid, like I wish you didn’t do that or this isn’t fair or I want you so bad, I’d go back on the things I believe. You sit in the dark, phone face down, trying to remember how this ever felt simple.

Alex moved to Suffolk during the summer your bike had a flat tire. His family settled three houses down, in the white one with the peonies that never bloomed. He wore a school jumper too big for his frame and didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with a sharpness that made you listen.

You found each other in the way quiet children do. At the edges of playgrounds, in the hush before rain, somewhere between a shared silence and a dare. He let you ride his scooter once. You gave him half your sandwich. You became the kind of childhood friends they croon about in indie songs. 

By eight, he was already racing. Karting on weekends in places with names you couldn’t spell. You’d sit on a folding chair, hands sticky from petrol-slick air and melting sweets, watching him blur through corners. He never looked at the stands, never waved. But afterwards, helmet in hand, he’d find you first.

“Did you see that overtake?” he’d ask, grinning, teeth crooked and proud.

You always said yes, even when you hadn’t. He trusted you with his joy before anyone else, placing it in your hands time and time again. Who were you to drop it?

You grew up like parallel lines—close, steady, never touching. Until you did.

Three years ago, it had been raining in London. You’d both had too much wine and not enough food, and he had to race Silverstone in two days. His hotel room smelled like wet wool and expensive soap. You were laughing. About something stupid, a memory, one of the many things only the two of you remembered exactly the same way.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even hesitant. It was just there, sudden and sure, the way you’d always known it would be if it ever happened. Fate, you thought, you prayed. 

You hoped that would be the start of it all. The shift, the change, the inevitable. Instead, he had pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “Still friends?”

You were so dumbstruck that all you could say was yes. Yes, even though your heart clenched when he breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, because it meant Alex could comfortably lean in for a second kiss. A third. A fourth. 

You kept saying yes. Every time he reached for you in the dark. Every time he flew you out and touched you like something sacred and temporary. Every time you watched him leave in the morning, shoulders lit by the sun and never once looking back.

Still friends.

Yes.

It’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.

The suitcase lies open on your bed, half-stuffed with clothes that still smell like dust mites. You fold things with more care than necessary, pressing your palms flat over each cotton shirt like you’re trying to smooth out a thought.

Your mother hovers in the doorway. Not saying much. Just watching. “Japan this time,” she says matter-of-factly. 

You nod. “You know how it is.”

She walks in, slow and quiet. Treading light. Her hand brushes over the edge of your suitcase, the one she’d gotten you when you first started taking these jet-setting trips to visit Alex wherever he was racing. It wasn’t frequent, but it was enough to rake up a significant amount of miles.

“You’ve been going less lately,” your mother says.

You don’t look up. “Been busy.”

A silence stretches between you, gentle and persistent. “You were always thick as thieves, you and Alex,” she says. “Even when he moved away, you’d look at the calendar all the time. Count down the days until he came back.”

You smile faintly. You remember that. For the longest time, you had scribbled in the race calendars into the Saturdays and Sundays, taking note of the time differences. It was a little quirk you stopped doing last year. “We grew up,” you say vaguely, but your mother is relentless. 

“Sometimes growing up just means getting better at hiding things,” she hums. 

You stop folding. Your mother sits beside you. Her fingers find a loose thread on your jumper, twist it once, then let go. “I won’t ask,” she says carefully. “It’s not mine to ask.”

You’re grateful and aching all at once. That mothers know best, that your love for Alex is so blindingly obvious to everyone but him. 

“Just—be careful,” she warns, and you nod. That’s all you can do.

She pats your knee, stands, and leaves the room with the soft efficiency only mothers have. You finish packing in silence. It feels like preparing for something other than a race.

By the time you’re flying out, you can only focus on the imminent promise of Alex’s hands cataloguing all the changes since you last saw each other. 

Fourteen hours in the air does something to your bones. Your spine feels longer, your limbs looser, like you’ve been pulled apart by altitude. The Narita airport lighting is too clean, too kind. It reveals every wrinkle in your clothes, every bruise of fatigue under your eyes.

And then there’s Alex.

Grinning like it’s spring and not just the arrivals gate. Ball cap low, hoodie creased, holding a bouquet of jet-lagged daisies and baby’s breath like he bought them because they looked sort of like you.

“Hey,” he greets, and it’s so simple, yet it undoes you.

“Hi.”

He pulls you into a hug without warning, arms looping around your shoulders like they’ve been missing their purpose. He smells like travel and the aftershave you teased him for when he first bought it. You let your forehead rest on his collarbone for half a second longer than you should.

He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out,” you murmur.

“You flew fourteen hours. I can drive forty-five minutes.”

He says it like it’s math, like it adds up, like there’s logic to the way he always tries too hard when you’re about to slip through his fingers. You pull back. "Flowers, though?"

Alex shrugs. “Figured you’d like them. The lady at the stand said they were sweet. Like you.” 

Your laugh is dry. He takes your carry-on like he always does, hand brushing yours for a second that buzzes longer than it should. You walk in step without trying. An old habit that never bothered to leave.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Long.”

“Sleep at all?”

You shake your head. “Tried. Kept dreaming about missing the gate.”

He smiles sideways. “You didn’t miss anything. I’m right here.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Because he is right here, and he doesn’t see it—the weight of three years pressed into every beat of silence, every time he looks at you like nothing has changed.

You want to scream. You want to hold his hand.

Instead, you follow him into the soft Japanese evening, suitcase wheels humming against tile, the daisies wilting in your arms. 

You’re not surprised when there’s only one hotel key card.

Alex doesn’t say anything as he hands it over, just gives you that familiar look, half sheepish, half expectant, like this is just how things are. Like you wouldn’t have come otherwise. 

The room smells faintly of cedar and lavender, the kind of scent pumped through vents by hotels that cost more than you’d care to admit. There’s a single bed, king-sized and already turned down. The lights are low. Evening has softened the edges of everything—the city beyond the glass, the echo of jet lag in your bones, the sharpness of what goes unspoken.

Alex drops your bag by the wardrobe and shrugs off his jacket. He stretches like a cat. Arms high, shirt lifting just enough to show the skin at his waist. You look away before he catches you. You’ve memorized the lines of his back in hotel mirrors, the way his shoulder blades rise when he’s tired.

“You hungry?” he asks. “Could order something. Or just raid the minibar like we’re twelve again.”

You smile, toeing off your shoes. “Minibar dinner sounds appropriately tragic.”

He laughs, pleased. “Perfect. I’ll get the world’s saddest sparkling water. Maybe some mystery peanuts.”

You sit at the edge of the bed while he rummages, pulling out a half-sleeve of biscuits and something that might once have been chocolate. He tosses them on the duvet with the flair of a magician, then flops beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

The room settles around you in the way shared spaces do. His charger, already plugged in on your side; your toothpaste, beside his in the glass. He pads over after brushing nighttime routine, hair damp from a quick shower, shirt loose and collar stretched.

There’s something about him in these moments. Unguarded, tender. Like the world forgets to ask too much of him for once. And in that forgetting, he remembers how to exist soft with you.

He pulls you in like muscle memory. His hand on your waist, his breath near your temple.

You go unquestioningly.

The kiss is slow. Familiar. Less heat, more gravity. He touches you like you’re fragile but necessary, like this is the only part of the weekend that makes sense. He murmurs something against your skin—your name, maybe. Or just the word please. You can’t tell if it’s a question or an apology.

You let him press you back onto the mattress, the sheets cold for half a second before his warmth fills the space. His touch is gentle, reverent, like he thinks this is how you say thank you. You hold him, nails digging into his back, trying not to hurt him more than necessary. 

Later, you lie tangled in the hush, his head on your shoulder, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. You think about what it would mean to let go.

It’s just a thought, though. 

The next morning, you wake to an absence.

The sheets beside you are still warm, faintly creased from where Alex’s body had been. But his pillow is abandoned, and there’s no sound but the gentle hum of the city beyond the window. For a second—just one clean, heart-punched second—you panic.

Then you hear the shower running.

Relief and resentment wash through you at the same time.

You sink back against the pillows, pressing your palms to your face. Your throat feels tight in that half-awake way that makes you wish you dreamed less vividly. The room smells like steam and his shampoo. 

The bathroom door opens with a soft hiss of air.

Alex steps out with a towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and curling against his temples. He’s grinning already, eyes catching yours across the room. “Could’ve joined me, you know,” he says, voice still a little hoarse from sleep. “Water pressure’s phenomenal. Would’ve saved time.”

You groan into the pillow. “Pervert.”

He laughs, padding barefoot across the room, steam trailing behind him. “You love it,” he says cheekily. 

You throw a pillow at him. He ducks, and the sound of your shared laughter feels almost like the old days. Before things blurred at the edges, before kisses replaced inside jokes and you started sleeping with your memories.

“Go put some clothes on, you menace,” you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

He gives you a mock salute and turns back to the bathroom. “Yes, captain.”

You head for your toiletries, feeling the day tug at your skin already. In the mirror, your face looks quieter than it feels. Your mouth remembers his. Your hands remember where he pulled you close. But what you remember most is how easy it is to fall into him—how friendship once felt like enough.

You used to be best friends. Before everything. Before late nights and shared beds and pretending it meant nothing.

And some days, like now, you still are. Best friends, that is.

You wonder if it will ever be enough again.

You ride to the paddock in the backseat of a tinted car, shoulder pressed lightly to Alex’s. The morning is golden and forgiving. 

Suzuka blurs past the windows—red lanterns still swaying from the night before, cherry blossoms beginning their slow fall, the air touched with the delicate scent of fried batter and spring. Alex hums along to something playing faintly on the radio. He taps your knee with his fingers in time to the beat. 

Just once, then again. Like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands if they’re not touching you.

The air between you is easy. Intimate in the quiet way that friendship can be when layered over something else. A liminal space neither of you names.

He steals your sunglasses and you let him. He makes a show of adjusting them on his nose, eyebrows raised. “Do I look cooler already?” he asks, grinning. You roll your eyes and try not to stare at his mouth.

He offers you a sip of his energy drink and you make a face but take it anyway. He wipes something from your cheek with his thumb and doesn’t comment on it, just lets his hand hover there for a beat too long. The silence fills up with old knowing, soft and dangerous.

Almost enough to fool you.

Almost.

The driver pulls up at the paddock entrance, and you’re met with the orchestral chaos of race day in its early rhythms. Media crews already swarming, engineers in fireproofs wheeling gear past, the crackle of radios and the distant whine of a power unit being tested. The scent of burnt rubber and fresh coffee threads through the breeze. Alex walks beside you, hand skimming your back once, twice, as though to anchor you.

You’ve done this before. Many times. But there’s something about being here again, together, that presses a quiet ache into your sternum. Like returning to a childhood bedroom that’s been rearranged without your permission.

The Williams motorhome appears like a cathedral in blue and white. You’re recognized immediately. A few engineers smile and nod. One of the comms girls hugs you tightly, laughing something into your shoulder about how long it’s been. Someone presses a coffee into your hand, just the way you like it. Two sugars, no milk. It’s a strange kind of comfort, this small network of familiarity in a world that moves too fast.

Then—

“Carlos,” Alex says, reaching to clap the shoulder of his new teammate, who stands just outside the motorhome in full kit. “This is my best friend.”

You turn to meet Carlos’s gaze. He’s charming, polite, smiling in that open, easy way that says he’s used to being liked. He extends a hand, firm but not overdone. You’re sure he’s a good guy, but you’re too hung up on the introduction to care about anything else. 

Best friend.

You shake Carlos’s hand and hope your face doesn’t flinch. You know the role. You’ve played it well for years. Smiled through it. Laughed through it. Shared hotel rooms and winter holidays and the softest versions of yourself, all under the umbrella of that phrase.

Something about hearing it aloud, in this place, in front of someone new—it lands different. It presses cold fingers against your chest.

Alex is already moving on, ushering Carlos toward a PR meeting, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “I’ll find you after. Don’t disappear.”

You smile back, lips curving with practiced ease. Of course you do.

You take a long sip of your coffee. It’s too hot. It burns going down.

You swallow anyway. 

Alex finds you later, just as he promised, in the quiet hours between press and briefing. Afternoon light slants through the windows of the hospitality suite, dust catches like static in the air. You’re tucked into a corner seat with your knees drawn up, phone unread in your palm. 

“Got something to show you,” Alex says, voice low.

You glance up. He’s already smiling, hair a little damp at the nape, lanyard tangled around his fingers. There’s a kind of eagerness to him, the kind he used to have before kart races, before it all got louder.

You follow him without speaking.

The room he leads you to is cooler, quieter. A storage space, maybe, or a converted engineering nook—lined with crates and spare parts, the stale tang of tyre rubber hanging faintly in the air. And there, propped on a cloth-draped workbench, is the helmet.

You pause.

It’s not what you expected. Not flashy. Not loud. It’s soft. White matte base with brushed, almost watercolour swathes of indigo and lavender bleeding toward the edges, like dusk spilling into night. On the side, near the visor hinge, is a single motif: a swallow in flight.

“It’s not finished,” Alex says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still needs clear coat. But... yeah.”

You take a step closer. Fingers don’t touch, but hover. The paint looks hand-done. Imperfect. Beautiful.

“Swallows are your favourite, right?” he adds. “You said once they’re always coming home.”

“Yeah. That was years ago.”

“I remember.”

You look at him then. Really look. He’s leaning against the wall, watching you with the kind of expression that unravels things. Eyes searching. Mouth set.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. Then, quieter: “Why me?”

He shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Homecoming,” he answers, plain and simple and absolutely gut-wrenching. 

There’s a silence after that. Not awkward. Just wide. You think of the years, the way he always made space beside him without asking if you wanted to stay. You think of how easily you did.

Your throat feels dry. “You know,” you say slowly, because the thought has been on your mind since this morning, “he thinks I’m just your friend. Carlos.”

Alex winces. Fucking winces. He glances away, jaw ticking a bit, like you’re not about to head back to the same hotel room later and fuck in the shower.

A beat. Alex doesn’t say anything to your accusation.

You don’t ask him to. You only step closer, the helmet between you like a talisman. “Thank you,” you say, and this time, you do touch the helmet—just briefly, your fingers grazing the painted sky.

He watches you do it. And then, quietly, almost laughing to himself, he says, “Figured if I crashed, at least it’d be wearing something that reminds me of you.”

You shake your head. But you’re smiling, and it hurts. “Idiot,” you chide.

He grins. “Your idiot.”

You don’t answer. Not because it’s untrue, but because it’s too close to what you want—and too far from what you have.

Alex doesn’t crash.

He finishes P9.

A number that used to feel like clawing victory. Like a miracle wrung from a midfield car held together by tape and tenacity. And now—it just feels steady. Not easy, but earned. There’s something clean in the way he crossed the finish line today, a quiet defiance. The kind of performance that leaves no bruises, only breathlessness.

You watch from the back of the garage, arms crossed tight against your chest. Headphones clamped over your ears. The final laps passed like a dream.  One where the world narrows to telemetry and engine whine, the flicker of sector times on a screen. When the checkered flag waved, your lungs finally remembered how to breathe.

Now, the paddock is in chaos. Post-race buzz. Cameras flashing like static. Someone’s shouting in Italian. Mechanics high-five. There’s champagne somewhere, but you can’t see it. Just the press of bodies and the smear of victory across the asphalt.

And then he’s there.

Helmet off, hair damp with sweat, eyes scanning until they find you. He doesn’t wait for an opening. Doesn’t care about the line of journalists trailing behind him or the media handler trying to tug him toward the pen. He walks straight to you, cutting through everything.

You take a step back. Instinct, maybe. Habit.

He pulls you in anyway.

The cameras catch it. You know they do. The embrace, the way his arms wrap around your shoulders like they belong there. You stiffen, palms flat against his chest. You’ve been labeled Alex’s childhood best friend, have been subject to speculation of various rabid fans and gossip sites. 

“Alex,” you hiss, low. “People are—”

“Let them,” he says.

His voice is hoarse from radio calls and engine growl, but it’s soft now. Just for you.

You shake your head, and your hands find the hem of his fireproofs, fingers curling there like they might ground you. “You’re ridiculous,” you grumble. 

“P9,” he says, like it explains everything.

Maybe it does, because he’s beaming. Not with the sharp joy of a podium or the reckless rush of a win, but something gentler. Like he’s proud. Like he’s content. Like you’re a part of it, maybe, and that’s why he’s with you instead of everybody else. 

The cameras flash again. Somewhere, someone’s calling his name.

In this moment, though, it’s just you and him. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a second. He smells like sweat and rubber and the faint sweetness of whatever hydration drink he refuses to stop using.

“I’m happy for you,” you say.

His hand curls at the back of your neck. “Come with me?”

You want to ask where, but the question feels too fragile. Too close to breaking something.

So you nod.

And when he takes your hand, you let him.

He leads you down the corridor with his fingers wrapped around your wrist, still sticky from the gloves, still trembling with leftover adrenaline. The world outside—flashing bulbs, echoing interviews, the scream of celebration—falls away, muffled by white walls and the hush of engineered insulation.

His driver room is barely bigger than a closet. Spare. A bench, a chair, his race suit unzipped and hanging like shed skin. There’s a bottle of water half-finished on the counter. A towel draped over the back of a folding chair. Everything stripped to function.

But when he turns to face you, the room holds its breath. What’s about to happen is far from functional. 

His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Before you can ask what the hell any of it means. This morning, the helmet, the P9, the arms around you in front of half the paddock. His hands frame your jaw, a little too firm, a little too desperate. You taste the salt of him, the heat, the care.

He kisses like he’s still racing. Like the throttle’s still open and the finish line is somewhere in the shape of your mouth.

You melt. Of course you do.

Because you remember every version of him—mud-caked knees and scraped palms from karting days, late-night phone calls from airport lounges, sleepy secrets across hotel pillows—and this is all of them, distilled. This is every inch of history pressed into your spine as he backs you into the wall and exhales against your neck.

You want to say his name. You want to ask. What are we now? What does any of it mean? Do I get to keep you, or just these seconds?

But your hands slide beneath the hem of his fireproofs, and your fingers learn again the familiar slope of his waist, and he breathes your name like an answer. “My favorite part,” he murmurs absentmindedly into the crook of your neck. “This ‘s my favorite part.” 

And it should be enough.

It isn’t. 

Regardless, you let him kiss you again. You let him take you, hand over your mouth to keep your sounds muffled. You let him finish, let him bring you to that same peak, let him piece you back together after taking you apart. 

Your shirt ends up inside out.

Alex points it out between fits of laughter, eyes crinkled, bare feet padding across the linoleum floor as he tosses you your jacket. He’s flushed from the high of it all. He buttons the top of his race suit with fumbling fingers, grinning like he hasn’t done that exact thing a hundred times before.

“You look like you’ve been caught in a wind tunnel,” he says, smoothing your hair with both hands, thumbs pressing briefly at your temples. “A cute one, though.”

You try to smile. You do. But there’s a hollowness under your ribs, something heavy and low and familiar. Like something’s rotting sweet in your chest. He doesn’t see it.

He’s still beaming, tugging at a wrinkle in your sleeve. “There. Perfect.”

And you almost say it then. Almost let the words fall out: What are we doing? 

I can’t keep doing this, Alex. 

But he looks so happy. So golden in the overhead light, still caught in the orbit of something good. Something that feels like hope. You can’t ruin it. Not yet.

So you reach for his hand. His fingers slot through yours like habit, like home.

You nod toward the door. “They’re probably wondering where you are.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. “They can wait.”

You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob, if it tipped the wrong way.

I’ll tell you next time, you think, as you follow him back into the noise.

Next time, when he’s not smiling like that.

Next time, when it won’t feel like stealing joy just to be honest.

Next time.

Just—

Not now.

The timing is never right.

Saudi Arabia. P9 again.

He dances you around the hotel room with his hands still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber, laughing into the inside of your thigh as if nothing else exists. His joy is unfiltered, real. You think, maybe, you’ll tell him then.

But then he kisses you like you’re part of the celebration, like you’re champagne on his lips, and you can’t find the words in your mouth. Not when his hands know every part of you better than your voice knows how to form the truth.

In Miami, it’s P5.

He lifts you off your feet in the hallway outside his suite, spinning you once like a man who’s just won something permanent. He smells like the sun, his cheeks pink from the heat. “Did you see?” he asks, breathless, giddy. “Did you see how I held off Antonelli?”

“Of course I did,” you say, and you kiss him because it’s easier than telling him what you really mean. Because it would be cruel to take this moment away from him.

Italy is the same. Another P5.

Another night in a borrowed room, you pressed against the cool tile of a motorhome bathroom while he moans your name like it’s the only thing that exists beneath his ribs.

And still, you don’t speak.

You let him take. Let him thread his fingers through your hair and guide your mouth to his. Let him find comfort in your skin, in the shape of you, in the softness that greets him after every race. It feels like penance. Like proof that this is the version of you he wants, so long as it stays unspoken.

Each night, you lie awake beside him, the sheets tangled at your ankles, sweat cooling on your bare shoulders. You study the slope of his nose, the twitch in his fingers as he dreams.

You try to remember the sound of your own voice before it forgot how to say no.

In Miami, after the noise, after the warmth, after the sex that feels too much like lovemaking to just be chalked up to something primal—he falls asleep with his head on your chest. One arm draped across your ribs like a promise he never made. You don’t move. You barely breathe. The room hums with the air conditioner and your unspoken ache. 

You stare at the ceiling and try not to count how many ways you’ve chosen him over yourself.

You lose count before morning.

By the time Monaco comes around, you fake a migraine. A vague stomach ache. Something that sounds gentle enough to pass as believable, but just real enough to keep Alex from pressing.

He calls you from his hotel balcony, sun caught in the lighter parts of his hair. He frowns at the screen, concerned. Or at least something close to it.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks. “Want me to send anything?”

You shake your head. Smile faintly, let your voice come out soft, strained. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

He nods. Looks off-screen for a moment, distracted by something—someone. Then back to you. “Rest, yeah? I’ll call you again later.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Good luck.”

He hangs up. You stare at the empty screen until it darkens and your reflection blinks back at you. He doesn’t call, and you don’t fault him for it. 

The article finds you by accident.

One of those sidebars that pop up when you’re checking the weather. You almost scroll past it, until the name catches your eye, buried in the speculation. A tabloid photo, bright and cruel: Alex on a golf course, sunglasses perched low, grinning across the green at a pretty girl whose name is Lily and whose swing is better than yours. Professional, the article notes. 

They look good together.

You tap the images, one by one, like touching them might change what they show. In the last one, he’s laughing. Head thrown back. Free. He laughs like that, too, when you’re showering after sex or trading stories over dinners. Often in private, never anywhere someone else can see. 

You stare at that one photo until your throat closes. Until you can no longer remember what it felt like to be looked at that way.

Your mother finds you like that. Curled on the couch with your knees to your chest, phone abandoned on the floor, eyes wide and glassy.

She doesn’t ask what happened. Just sits beside you, wraps an arm around your back, tucks your head beneath her chin like she used to when you were small. “I don’t know how we got here,” you whisper.

“I think you do,” she murmurs. Her hand strokes your arm, slow, steady. “You just didn’t want to admit it.”

You nod, brokenly.

“I wanted to be enough,” you say.

“I know,” she says. 

You cry until you have no more tears. Until your breath evens out against her shoulder. Until the ache becomes a dull, familiar thing.

She holds you through it all. By the time she’s getting up to make you one of your comfort meals, you already know what you have to do. 

You stop answering.

Not suddenly. Not all at once. Just the way a tide recedes—softly, so softly, you wonder if he even notices at first. He texts the morning after the Monaco GP. 

AAA [8:20 AM]: Morning. How’re you feeling now? You missed the best post-race sushi of my life.

You don’t reply. Not because you want to hurt him, but because you don’t trust what you might say if you open the door even a crack. Later, another text:

AAA [5:39 PM]: Mum says hi, by the way. I told her you were under the weather. She’s making soup just in case, and it should be sent over. 

You see it. You say nothing.

Spain comes. He finishes P10.

Barely. You watch from a stream muted low, the sound drowned beneath your own breathing. He looks tired. He still smiles into the cameras. And when he texts—probably stolen in between media obligations—it feels a lot like a man who’s bargaining. 

AAA [4:43 PM]: You watching? Hope you’re proud. Even if it’s just one point.

He calls the same night. You let it ring.

Canada is worse. Outside the points.

His face is closed off in the post-race interviews. The text comes later. 

AAA [11:10 PM]: Did I do something wrong?

Then:

AAA [11:53 PM]: I miss you.

At three in the morning, a voicemail. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Hey. I know you’re probably busy. Or just… done. I don’t know. You never said. But I—fuck, I don’t know. You usually tell me when you’re busy. If this is about—that stupid tabloid, or whatever? It was just a golfing lesson. Anyway. You have no reason to be… jealous. Or whatever. Just… call me, okay? Please.”

You don’t.

Austria. He doesn’t even start. DNS.

Technical issue, they say. The look on his face when he climbs out of the car—grief and rage and something dangerously close to despair—it unspools you.

Another voicemail, sent somewhere between him disappearing after media interviews and showing back up in front of the journalists with a tight-lipped grin.

“You’re avoiding me. I know you are. You didn’t even tell my mum you were alright, and she’s been worried sick. I had my dad check if your family was okay and even he said you’ve gone quiet. What’s going on? Just tell me.” A pause. Then, wretched, almost like a sigh of defeat: “You don’t get to ghost me. Not after everything. Not you.” 

You sit in the dark with the phone pressed to your chest like it might warm the place where he used to live inside you.

You still don’t call.

There are some things you can’t avoid, though. Silverstone comes like a tide.

The roads fill with flags and Ferris wheels and cardboard cutouts. Your village pub sets out Union Jack bunting again. Your father makes some dry comment about the national holiday Formula One has become. And you know. You know you can't hide anymore.

You get the first text Monday morning:

AAA [1:43 PM]: I’m flying in. Can we talk?

You don’t answer. You clean the kitchen instead. Scrub the countertops, wipe down the windows. As if clean glass could clarify anything at all. He doubles down. 

AAA [5:28 PM]: I’ll come to yours. Just want to see you. I’ll bring the bad flowers from Tesco, if that helps.

A voicemail, later that evening, tentative and thinly veiled: “Hey. I know it’s been a while. You’re probably still mad. Or sad. Or both. I don’t know. I just—I’ll be there tomorrow. Even if it’s just to see you across the street. Even that would be better than this.”

True to his word, by tomorrow afternoon, there’s a knock at the front door. Not loud. Just three gentle raps, like he’s afraid your mother might answer.

You open it anyway.

He’s there, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus from the supermarket down the lane. His hair’s damp with mist, lashes clumped. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept right in weeks.

You don’t speak.

He clears his throat. “They were out of sunflowers.”

You step aside wordlessly.

He walks in like a memory. Like he’s been here a thousand times. Shoes off by the mat, flowers passed into your hand, eyes scanning the room like he expects to see a version of himself still here. The silence is soft, but full. You boil water out of habit. He lingers by the doorway, unsure.

“You’re not going to yell at me?” he asks, almost sarcastic. 

You shrug, trying to be noncommittal about it all. “What would be the point?”

He swallows. His jaw twitches. You leave the tea half-made, walk upstairs. You don’t say anything. Just know—somehow—that he’ll follow.

And he does.

Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into your room that still smells like dust and the lavender you leave under your pillow. He stands in the doorway, taking in the fact that the air is thick with expectation.

“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” he asks.

You say nothing, sitting on the edge of the bed. You don’t know if he wants to hear it, or if he only wants what he can still take.

And so you don’t answer his question. Not directly. Instead, you ask, “How was Spain?”

Alex hesitates, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hot. P10.”

You nod, like that’s all there is to say. “And Canada?”

He shifts, arms folding. “Slippery. Out of the points.”

“Austria?”

“DNS.”

You offer a small sound of sympathy, but it’s hollow, transparent. A stall tactic. He sees it. He knows you. Knows you’ve watched all the races you’re asking about, knows you’re trying to delay the same way you dragged out this arrangement for much longer than necessary. 

He steps forward, voice low but strained. “Are we going to keep talking about races? Or are you ever going to get to the point?”

Again, you don’t answer. You get to your feet. You cross the room to where he is.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not a reunion. It’s blunt, desperate, pleading. A distraction dressed in affection. And for a moment—just a moment—he kisses you back like he needs it to survive. Like this is what’s been missing from his string of ill-fated races. His hands slide into your hair, his body molding against yours as if it never learned to be apart.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. You tug.

He pulls away abruptly.

“Wait.”

You blink, breath catching. “What?”

He doesn’t step back, but he doesn’t come closer either. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. “I still want to know,” he manages. “I deserve to know.”

“Alex…”

He shakes his head, slow and quiet. “You disappeared. I thought you were sick. Hurt. I thought I did something wrong. And now you want to pick up where we left off like it never happened?”

You stare at him. He’s flushed. Hair mussed from your hands. Lips swollen. Still panting a little from the heat of the kiss.

But his eyes are hurt. 

You stand there, inches apart, in the middle of your childhood bedroom. The silence is deafening. You’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, like you’re on the edge of something neither of you can name.

You’re still catching your breath when the words crawl out of your throat.

“I love you.”

Alex freezes. Like the words are a crash, not a confession. Like they’ve splintered the floor beneath him. He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—gaze gentle, shoulders locked—like you’re something he almost recognizes but can’t quite name. Then, quietly, “I love you too.”

You close your eyes. That should be enough. It should be everything.

But it isn’t. “Not like that, Alex,” you sigh. 

His brow furrows.

You try again. “Not like… what you mean. Not in the way you mean it.”

Silence. The kind that leaves room for heartbreak.

He draws back a step. “What do you mean?”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s helpless. “I mean I’ve been in love with you since before all this.” You gesture vaguely, between the two of you, between what the kids nowadays call a situationship. Personally, you call it an undoing. An unraveling. 

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks gutted not what he finally understands what you’re getting at, now that you’ve used the word in love. 

“How long?” he asks, and his voice is barely more than breath.

You look at him. “Years,” you say, thinking back to the boy in the kart, the teenager next door, the man in front of you now. You’ve loved all of them. Your voice cracks as you repeat, “Years, Alex.”

He crumples under the weight of your words. At the fact he’d asked, in the first place, and you spent the past three years of your life letting all of it wash over you. 

“God,” he mutters. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I—fuck. I thought you were okay with it. I thought we were okay.”

“I know,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I let you think that. I let myself think that.”

He presses his palms into his eyes like he can scrub the guilt away. “You should’ve told me.”

You tilt your head. “Would it have changed anything?”

Alex looks at you, helpless. Desperate. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost panicked. He knows it’s not the right answer, not the answer that you want. 

You step toward him. You touch his hand, gently. “It’s okay,” you manage, even though it’s not. “Really, Alex, it’s alright.” 

Somehow, you manage to tell him. Truths so tender and close to the heart that to relay them verbatim would be a crime.

You tell Alex you’re grateful to have had him, even if it were just like this. Even if it was just bits and pieces. Even if it was casual. 

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you like he’s trying to piece it all together. The silence stretches again. His eyes flick to the bed, then to the door. He doesn’t move. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or walk away.

Alex leaves anyway.

He says he’s sorry, eyes flicking between your face and the floor like he can’t quite decide where the damage is worse. You repeat that it’s okay, which is the kindest lie you know how to give. And then he’s gone—hood up, shoulders shaking, not looking back.

You don’t watch him leave. You sit on the edge of the bed with your hands in your lap, palms pressed together like prayer and surrender. 

It should’ve been a clean break.

Three years of blurred lines and soft touches that always stopped just short of real. He’d kiss you like it mattered, then laugh about it an hour later. You let him. Again and again. You think that’s the end of it. You try to believe it is. It’s easier to hate an absence when it’s permanent.

But the day before the race, your phone rings. His name lights up the screen like a wound reopening.

You let it go once. Twice. You’re letting him back out, but he doesn’t buck. The third time the phone rings, you answer.

“Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically shy. “I’ve got a paddock pass with your name on it.”

You pause. Not out of surprise, but because you’re waiting to feel something. You don’t.

“Silverstone,” he adds, as if you could forget.

You picture the pass in his hand—laminated, official, hollow. A gesture more ceremonial than sincere. “I can’t go,” you say evenly.

A beat.

“You busy?”

“No.”

Another pause. This one longer. Thicker.

“Okay,” he says. But he doesn’t hang up.

You hear the static of his breath on the line. The shuffle of something—maybe his hand in his hair, maybe guilt settling in his bones.

“Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.” 

You’re not sure if you should laugh or cry at this performance of care, offered like a consolation prize. This is probably an olive branch, but you know you still need some time. You need to be furious. You need to be hurt. You need to hate him and what he’s made of you before you can even consider loving him again. 

“I should go,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. Just murmurs, “Yeah. Okay.”

But he lingers. You almost say something. Almost tell him not to call again unless it means something. Unless he means it. 

You don’t. You just let him sit there in the quiet with you, not speaking, not hanging up.

And then finally—too late, too long—he does.

You end up seeing it on the news.

P4 at Silverstone.

Just short of champagne and cameras, but still something to be proud of. Still something you would’ve teased him about. You might have told him he was allergic to podiums, just to watch him roll his eyes and smirk like you’d said something stupid but sweet. And maybe he’d kiss you, again, in his driver room, waxing British slang to tease you, all the while driving you crazy with the way he can grope and squeeze. 

You almost text him. A good job. A thumbs up emoji. A dot, even. Something weightless. Something he could pretend didn’t matter if it made things worse.

You hold back. 

You brush your teeth instead. Crawl into bed. Turn off the lamp. The room folds in around you like silence is a kind of blanket. You almost get away with sleeping until your phone rings.

You don’t even have to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

It’s loud on the other end. Laughter, glass clinking, music with too much bass. “You didn’t watch,” he slurs, like that’s just hitting him now.

“I told you I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t say why.”

You sigh. “Did I need to?”

He goes quiet, but the noise behind him doesn’t. It presses in, distorted and joyless. Celebration without clarity. Then, softer, garbled: “You’re the post-race celebration I miss the most.”

You sit up. “Alex—”

But he’s crying now. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just little, broken sounds, like something leaking out of him slow and unwilling. “It didn’t feel as good,” he sobs. “Didn’t feel as good to win—without you there.” 

You close your eyes and rest your forehead against one hand. “I’ll come get you,” you say.

He sniffles. “You don’t have to.”

You stand. Already pulling on jeans. Grabbing your keys. Not sure of anything but this: he can’t stay lost like this, not tonight.

“I know,” you say, and then you’re hanging up to book yourself a proper cab at two in the goddamn morning. 

The speakeasy isn’t marked, not really. Just a nondescript door off a narrow alley, guarded by a bored-looking man with an earpiece and a clipboard. But when you give your name, his expression changes. Softens.

“He’s in the back,” the man says solemnly, nodding you through.

Inside, the music is velvet-loud, low, and pulsing. Everything glows amber, lights like melted gold dripping down the walls. People in team polos and sharp jackets toast to something that sounds like victory, even if it’s just the illusion of it.

They all know who you are.

Someone from comms gives you a tight smile and gestures toward the hallway behind the bar. “In there,” she says, like she doesn’t need to explain further. Like you’re the inevitable ending to his night.

You find Alex hunched over a sink in the men's bathroom, one hand braced on the cold porcelain, the other trembling around the rim like even that is too much to hold. He doesn’t hear you come in. Or maybe he does, but pretends not to.

“Jesus, Alex,” you say, nose scrunching up with distaste.

He lifts his head, barely. His face is pale, lips chapped, eyes rimmed red. Not from the alcohol, but from whatever came after.

“You came,” he breathes, like it’s a miracle. Like he’s seeing something holy.

You step forward and crouch beside him, grabbing paper towels, wetting one with cold water. “Of course I came.”

He laughs, ragged and too loud in the tiled echo. “Didn’t think you would. Thought I fucked it.”

“You did,” you say, matter-of-fact, blotting sweat from his forehead. “You absolutely did.”

He closes his eyes. “Then why’re you here?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know the answer. Because you do. And it’s the kind that costs you something every time you say it out loud.

“Because you called.”

He leans into your touch like it’s a lifeline. “You always come when I call.”

You help him sit back, guide him to the floor with his back against the wall. The tiles are cold. He shivers.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Alex rests his head on your shoulder, the weight of him more familiar than foreign. “I didn’t know who else to call,” he whimpers.

You exhale, slow. “That’s not true. You just didn’t want anyone else.”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed. He’s too out of it to try and deny the fact. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you can tell by the quiver in his voice that he means it. 

You brush your fingers through his hair once, twice. You let the silence speak for you, and then you help him up. “Let’s get you home,” you say. 

The night air cuts through the alcohol-stained warmth of the bar as you step outside, Alex’s weight slung over your shoulder. He’s steadier now, upright at least, but still leaning into you like gravity is playing favorites.

You settle on the curb, one arm braced around his waist. The air smells like rain on asphalt, smoke, and the faint trace of spilled gin. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs too loud. London doesn’t sleep for long.

You’re waiting for a cab when Carlos finds you.

He approaches quietly, hands shoved into the pockets of a fitted jacket, eyes scanning Alex the way someone might glance at a closed book. Worn, familiar, unreadable. “He okay?” Alex’s co-driver asks. 

You nod. “Drunk. Sick. Stubborn,” you answer, not bothering to play nice when Alex is dead on his feet and half-asleep already. 

Carlos huffs a small laugh. “Sounds about right.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You’re the best friend.”

It still stings, still pricks. You keep your expression perfectly controlled as you give a small sound of affirmation, arms still focused on holding Alex upright. 

“Mm.” Carlos watches you for a second too long. “Doesn’t feel like that’s the whole story.”

“What does it feel like, then?”

Carlos shifts his weight. Looks away, then back. He glances at Alex to check if the man is listening, and then, Carlos confides as if it’s a secret: “It’s like you are his entire heart, and he’s just too scared to admit it.”

The words land like a bird flapping its wings across the Atlantic. No thunder, no accusation. Just something still and sudden.

You almost want to ask him to repeat it, to explain—but the cab pulls up before you can decide whether to believe him.

You help Alex into the back seat. He slumps immediately against you, arms curling around your middle without thought, face buried in your shoulder. His breath is warm and even, his fingers wound tight into your shirt like muscle memory.

You rest your cheek on the top of his head.

The cab pulls away from the curb. Carlos’s words echo, sage and unfinished. You don’t know what to do with them yet. So for now, you let Alex hold you.

You don’t think about it too hard. Just tell the cab driver your address, press your fingers against your temple, and watch the city blur by. Alex stirs once or twice, murmurs something incoherent against your collarbone, but otherwise stays folded into you.

By the time you reach your house, it’s well past four. You fumble with the keys. He sways a little when you guide him inside.

You don’t take him to your bed.

It feels too loaded, too intimate in the wrong kind of way. Instead, you settle him on the couch, pull a blanket from a nearby cabinet, and start toward the kitchen to get him some water. Before you can take more than a few steps, he reaches out.

“Don’t go yet,” he says, voice hoarse.

You turn back. “I’m just getting you a glass.”

He tugs gently on your hand. Not enough to stop you, just enough to anchor you. You kneel beside the couch. He’s watching you, eyes glassy but sharp in the ways that count.

“I want to kiss you so badly,” he says.

Here’s the terrible, terrible thing: You wouldn’t mind. You miss it sorely. The kisses, the touch. You’re convinced you’ll be dreadfully happy with the scraps of it all, but you figure the two of you have the right to make informed decisions. “You’re drunk,” you point out. 

“I know.” Alex exhales. “I won’t kiss you. Not tonight. Want the next one to be right.”

Your throat tightens. “You think there’s going to be a next one?”

His smile is impossibly sad. “Hope so.”

And then—because he’s Alex, and because this is how he breaks you—he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another, just beneath your eye. Then one at the edge of your brow, your temple, the tip of your nose. All of them clumsy and warm and deliberate. None of them where you want them most.

You don’t stop him. You don’t move. There’s too much in your chest—years of it—and not enough space to lay it all down.

When he finally sinks back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut again, his fingers remain curled around your wrist. Loose. Trusting.

You don’t move for a long time. 

The next morning, Alex is gone without so much as a goodbye. You half-expected it. Still, the hollow space where his body had been feels louder than anything else in the room.

No note. No message. No follow-up call.

You wait. A day. Then two.

By the third, you stop checking your phone so often.

When the knock comes, it’s gentle enough to be mistaken for wind. You almost don’t answer it. There’s no one at the door when you open it. Just a small brown paper bag, plain and unassuming, sitting patiently on the welcome mat.

You bring it inside, hands careful. There’s something fragile about it that you can’t quite name. Inside: a bundle of crocheted sunflowers, yellow and gold and clumsily perfect, like someone tried very hard to make them right even with hands that don’t quite know how.

Beneath them, a makeshift paddock pass—laminated, hole-punched, strung with navy-blue lanyard cord. Your name is written in all caps. There’s a photo of you from when you were kids. Grinning, windblown, your arm slung casually over Alex’s shoulder.

Underneath the photo, in bold handwriting: PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

The letter is tucked in a simple envelope, sealed with a strip of duct tape.

You open it with shaking hands.

I’m not expecting anything from you right now, his scratchy script leads with.

I get it. I know I’ve made this messy. I know I said too much too late. I still wanted you to have this, because you’ve always belonged next to me on race day. Not just as my best friend. Not just as something halfway. But for real. Something proper.

That’s why I made you this paddock pass. It’s stupid and I probably got the fonts all wrong. You don’t have to use it. If you ever want to, though, it’s yours. I don’t think anybody else is ever going to have that title. 

Also: the sunflowers. They’re not real, obviously. I wish I could give you fresh ones every time I leave, but I’m not good at that kind of thing. And they run out so often. So I made these. Or tried to. They took forever. I watched so many YouTube videos. I pricked my fingers like five times. Hope that counts for something.

I’ll let you have your space now.

I just want you to know that—given the chance, I want to love you like I mean it. 

Always and forever, Your Alexander Albon Ansusinha

The checkered flag waves.

P4.

Not a podium, but it feels like one.

Alex exhales, lungs finally catching up to the rest of him, the engine cutting to silence beneath him. His radio crackles with static and shouts, voices overlapping in celebration. The team is ecstatic. He lets out a whoop, punching the air from the cockpit, heart rattling against his ribs like it wants to break out and sprint down the pit lane.

“Brilliant job, Alex. Another P4. You nailed Sector 3.”

He laughs, breathless. “That was insane. The car felt so good. Thank you, everyone. Honestly. Thank you. Thank you.”

His gloves are damp with sweat. The world outside the cockpit is heatwaves and motion, but inside his helmet, he’s grinning so hard his face aches.

And then—a new voice cuts through the radio.

“Nice work, Albono. Kinda makes me want to crochet you a trophy.”

Everything inside him stills. 

The voice is familiar, unmistakable. Part comfort, part ache.

It’s a record scratch, a public declaration, everything he’s been dreaming of for the past couple of months. Voice shaking with unrestrained joy, Alex only manages a disbelieving, “Is that—?”

There’s laughter on the other end, muffled and alive. The team doesn’t answer. They don’t have to.

Alex is yelling again, louder than before. Whooping into the mic, a sound that isn’t filtered through performance or professionalism. A sound from the core of him. There’s something raw in the chant of yes, yes, yes, something uncontained. 

The P4 doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does. Just that voice, soft and close and impossibly real.

You’re laughing, too, as you step back from the engineer’s radio rig, nearly breathless yourself. Your palms are still slightly damp with nerves, your chest still tight with something like disbelief. 

The Williams team surrounds you in a bubble of warmth—claps on the back, someone handing you a bottle of water with a grin, another looping you into a half-hug. “Told you he’d freak,” someone says.

You nod, cheeks aching from the smile that just won’t leave. Around your neck, your proper paddock pass swings with each breath. It’s glossy, official. But next to it hangs another—rougher, laminated at home, edges slightly frayed. The homemade one Alex had sent you months ago. The one that says PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

You touch it lightly, fingers brushing over the faded corner. It's worn, like something loved too hard.

You hadn’t been sure. You’d hesitated at the airport. Almost turned around at the gate. But the truth is: you missed him. And you were tired of pretending otherwise.

The garage is alive now—busy with celebration and noise. Mechanics moving in sync, voices rising in overlapping bursts, the scent of warm carbon, oil, and sweat curling into the air. The low whir of cooling fans. The scrape of tires on concrete.

You hear the car before you see it, the soft growl of the engine rolling into the lane. The screech of tires settling into stillness.

Alex climbs out.

Helmet off. Suit unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His hands are trembling, still wired with adrenaline and something else—something unspoken and urgent. 

He tosses his gloves toward someone without looking.

Then he turns.

And he sees you.

For the longest time, you had doubted this would mean something. You worried that you’d waited too long. That all your silence had turned into something irreversible. That the distance you asked for had hardened into fact.

Time doesn’t stop. It just slows, enough for you to catch the look on his face. The way his shoulders drop, the way his mouth forms your name like it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

You don’t move.

You don’t have to.

Alex is already running right back to you. ⛐

Rex I think I need Milo at silverstone to live

he’s coming I promise…Lando really won silverstone so I could make the costume part 2 as cute as possible

Inspo I got from twitter <3 Oscar Pastry

mad max

Tonight we're Nico Hülkenberg fans first, everything else second

NICO HULKENBURG OH MY GOD this genuinely is the happiest I've been for a podium

— rainy day movies ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: cuddles, teasing, domestic softness pairing: alex albon x reader a/n: i may or may not have once fallen asleep on my long-time crush’s shoulder during a movie too🫣

you hadn’t planned on staying in all day.

the morning had started off clear enough. soft sunlight through the curtains, coffee in matching mugs, alex’s hair sticking out in five different directions while he blinked at you from across the kitchen island. you had laughed, told him he looked like a dazed bird. he’d squinted at you, mumbled something about disrespect before padding over in socks and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“you like it,” he’d whispered, voice still sleepy.

you did. you always did.

but somewhere around midmorning, the clouds rolled in thick and heavy. the kind of gray that blurs the skyline and makes everything feel a little slower, a little quieter. the first drops of rain tapped gently at the windows, and within twenty minutes, the sky had opened up completely. it poured.

you watched it from the couch, tucked into the corner with a blanket around your legs, your laptop balanced on one knee. alex had disappeared into the kitchen again, raiding the cabinets with the focus of someone preparing for a minor emergency.

“we need snacks,” he’d declared, popping his head out dramatically. “movie day rules.”

you had raised an eyebrow. “you don’t even know what movie we’re watching yet.”

“doesn’t matter. popcorn is non-negotiable. we’re doing this properly.”

now you’re sitting side by side on the couch, legs tangled, a giant bowl of popcorn between you and at least four blankets layered over your laps. the rain is steady outside, soft and rhythmic, the kind that turns the whole apartment into a cocoon.

you scroll aimlessly through the streaming queue while alex frowns at the options like you’re choosing a stock to invest in instead of a romcom.

“we could watch something funny,” you suggest.

“we always watch something funny.”

“because life is depressing enough?”

“fair.”

you keep scrolling. he shifts, the couch creaking slightly under his weight, and his thigh presses against yours a little more.

“what about something old?” he asks.

“how old are we talking?”

“like early 2000s. bad outfits. better soundtracks.”

you grin. “iconic. i’m in.”

you settle on something with a ridiculous title and a poster that looks like it was made in powerpoint. alex pumps a fist like you’ve just agreed to a team strategy call.

“i love when you support the classics.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

the movie starts. the opening credits roll. alex steals the popcorn bowl and props it on his chest, looking far too smug about it. you curl further into the couch, legs brushing his.

it’s comfortable in the way that only comes with time. not just the physical closeness, but the way you don’t have to think too hard about what to say or do. the silence is easy. his presence is familiar.

he tosses a piece of popcorn at your face without warning. it bounces off your cheek and lands in your lap.

“rude,” you say, turning to look at him.

“precision aim,” he replies, clearly proud.

you reach into the bowl and flick one back at him. it lands in his hair.

“direct hit,” you say.

he mock gasps and sets the bowl down, shaking his head like he can’t believe you’ve escalated this so quickly. then he shifts closer and drapes his arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly.

“you’re lucky i like you,” he murmurs.

your chest tightens in that quiet, happy way it always does when he says things like that. simple. casual. real.

“i’m very lucky,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder.

the movie plays on, mostly ignored. you both throw occasional commentary at the screen — bad acting, questionable hairstyles, plot holes wide enough to drive a team bus through. you laugh, and he laughs with you, and somewhere in the middle of a slow montage set to an early 2000s indie ballad, his hand finds yours under the blanket.

his thumb rubs soft circles against your knuckles. your breath catches a little.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t look at you.

just holds your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

the movie plays on, long forgotten in favor of soft glances and lazy comfort.

your head is still on alex’s shoulder, and he hasn’t moved in minutes. not that you mind. he’s warm. steady. he smells like the fabric softener you both always forget to replace and the faintest trace of his aftershave from earlier that morning.

you shift slightly to get more comfortable, and he adjusts without a word, guiding you to lean more fully against him.

“you good?” he murmurs.

“mmhmm,” you hum, eyes fluttering closed. “too good.”

he smiles. you don’t see it, but you can hear it in his voice.

“don’t fall asleep on me.”

“can’t make promises like that.”

he wraps his arm more snugly around your shoulders, fingers brushing your arm through the blanket.

you let yourself sink into him, the weight of the day slowly leaving your limbs. the rain outside is still falling in gentle waves, the kind of rhythm that makes your body slow down whether you want it to or not.

the dialogue on screen fades into background noise. the popcorn bowl sits forgotten on the floor. your breathing deepens, one soft inhale after the next, and soon enough, you’re still.

alex glances down. your head’s tucked into his collarbone now, your lashes brushing your cheeks, hand still loosely curled into his sweatshirt.

his smile softens.

“hey,” he whispers. no response.

he shifts carefully, brushing your hair away from your face. you’re definitely asleep now.

he stays there for a moment longer, letting the stillness settle over both of you like another blanket.

then, as gently as possible, he slides one arm beneath your knees and the other under your back.

you stir just a little, murmuring something unintelligible as he lifts you off the couch.

“shhh,” he soothes, voice low and warm near your ear. “i’ve got you.”

you don’t wake.

he carries you slowly through the apartment, your body limp and trusting in his arms. he nudges open the bedroom door with his foot, carefully pulls back the covers, and lowers you onto the bed like you’re made of porcelain.

you curl automatically toward the center, one hand reaching out like you’re still searching for him.

he doesn’t leave you hanging.

he tugs off his hoodie and climbs in beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. as soon as he settles, you find him again — arm around his waist, face tucked into his chest.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“you’re the best part of any rainy day,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear him.

and with the storm still humming gently outside, he lets his eyes close too.

i did not expect the costume to blow up like it did 🫶 🫶 😭

thank you for all the sweet messages and all the love!!! i will hopefully get to them tomorrow :)

smooches w leo 🐕

taglist <3:

@coffeehurricanes @kicoki @justaf1girl @jadelovesyou00

➤ THE COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: your son wants nothing more than to have spiderman at his birthday, and when a certain neighbour finds out, he decides to take matters into his own hands to make it happen.

wc: 4.2 k

warnings: none!

➤ MASTERLIST

"Mr. Norris?" Lando had a soft spot for kids. That much was obvious, especially when they were fans. Maybe it's that he remembers being that age, what it felt like to meet someone he thought was a celebrity. Maybe it was the little McLaren merch, or baby fever, or something, but Lando had a soft spot for kids.

Milo, however?

Milo could probably tell Lando to crash during a race and he'd do it.

"You alright?" He finds himself saying, immediately squatting to Milo's level by the elevator. In the boy's hands are a stack of red and blue envelopes, with names written twice: once in neat, formal writing, and the other in Milo's. "What've you got there?" 

"It's for my birthday party." Milo says quietly, extending the envelopes. "It's spider-man." 

"No way!" Lando says, smiling down at the papers. "That's so cool! How old are you turning?" 

Rather than answering, Milo holds up four fingers, the coordination making the envelopes spill from his hands. Lando's quick to pick them up, neatly sorting them into a stack, when he realizes one has his name on it. "Is this for me? Do I get to come to your birthday party?" 

"Oh, you're the guest of honour." Your voice says from above, and Lando counts another reason he has a soft spot specifically for Milo: 

You. 

His mother. 

You couldn't be much older than him, soft spoken and so kind when you moved in next door, offering sweet treats and texting apologies, laughing at his jokes, taking care of Milo. It was the sort of infatuation that Lando wasn't used to, at least with normal people in real life. You were perfect, he was pretty sure, except that was an insane thing to say to someone, let alone your neighbour. "I'm so honoured." 

The elevator doors ding open and Lando rises to let Milo and you past, and despite the fact that he had just gone up the elevator, he gets back on to waste a moment with you. "Is spider-man coming?" Milo asks up at you, and you gently card your hand through the boy's hair, and Lando wonders how that would feel if you did it to him. 

"No, sweetheart. I'm afraid Spider-Man is busy in New York!" Maybe it was the little British accents, too, that really got him. Lando rented an apartment, back home, for whenever he needed to escape from the chaos that was Monaco and just be normal. You, he thinks, are the perfect embodiment of that normal. 

Just a normal person, leading a normal life, telling your kid Spider-Man can't come to his birthday. Only, as Lando stares down at the envelope in hand, Spider-Man could technically come to the birthday. He might not be able to do a flip, but Lando's pretty sure he still has an old Spider-Man costume hung up in a closet somewhere, and has a cheery enough voice for it. 

"Well, I will definitely be coming." The elevator doors ding open to the first floor as you lead Milo out by the hand, and he reaches up to take Lando's, dragging him along towards the main doors of the building. "Oh, am I joining you today?" 

"You're going to take us in your car," Milo states firmly. "Your fast car." 

"I don't think we'd all fit," You offer with a soft laugh, the kind of noise that has Lando dreaming of a domesticity he's never even thought of before. "And I think Mr. Norris has more important things to be doing today." 

Mr. Norris. It was a sweet thing, for Milo to call him, but whenever you said it, Lando always considered what it would be like to call you Mrs. Norris. 

Not that he would ever, ever voice that thought aloud. "And if you're busy the day of the party, no worries." You add quietly back to him, stopping at the door. "Milo just wanted to make sure you got an invite." 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" He responds honestly. "Do you need me to bring anything? Snacks? Presents?" 

"I think just bringing yourself would be enough. I'm sure the other kids will be very, very excited a professional race car driver is at the party." Well, an F1 Driver AND Spider-Man, but he decides to leave you out of those plans. "Say goodbye to Mr. Norris, Milo!" 

"Bye, Mr. Norris," Milo says, waving happily. "See you at the party." 

Lando watches the two of you go, happily walking down the street, and he waits in the doorway until you're gone before he's sprinting back to the elevators. He needed to test out that Spider-Man costume, and find the best possible gift he's ever given in roughly a week. 

Manageable, he thinks. 

Surely that's manageable.

-

The knock on the door is the only unexpected part of Milo's birthday party. So far, everything had gone off without a hitch - all the decorations were perfect, the cake had arrived, the kids were somewhat behaving themselves for a room of four year olds, hyped up on sugar. 

Milo, ever the little copycat, was trying to show them how to play Mario Kart, because when Mr. Norris arrived, Milo wanted to show off how he could beat him at the game. 

Lando threw every game, but Milo didn't need to know that. The thought of the racer next door then clicks to the knock on your door, and you quickly spare a glance in the mirror in the hall before answering. It was a stupid, stupid, childish crush to have on the man, but you couldn't help it. 

Maybe it was the way he played with Milo, offered to babysit, raced around the world and somehow kept a level head, maybe it was how he looked, and how he spoke, and how he dressed, and how he acted, or maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought you were paying attention to Milo. 

Whatever it was, you were starting to get a bit embarrassed of how much you looked forward to seeing Lando today, until you open the door, and Lando was not standing there. 

Instead, there's Spider-Man, with a stack of boxes tucked under his arm. "Hey there!" He says, with an accent most certainly British but trying not to be. "I heard there's a me-themed birthday party?" 

Slowly, without alerting the kids, you peer around the door and into the living room, where they are still glued to the television, and the parents are watching and conversing nearby. "Spider-Man," You say quietly, "How did you get my address?" 

"A friend of mine told me," He says, accent slipping, "He drives fast cars, and lets me borrow them for my missions." 

"Oh, does he now?" You step aside to hold open the door, and you turn toward the kids. "Milo, your special guest is here!" 

"Mr. Norris?" Then, as Milo turns, you watch the greatest shock you think you've ever seen wash over his face as his jaw drops, clinging to the back of the couch as he stares at Spider-Lando, who offers a cheesy wave. 

And really, maybe you liked Lando because of how much Milo loved him. Watching him now, sprinting full-tilt at the driver, it almost makes you emotional. He had never run like that towards any man, only ever you. Well, you suppose he doesn't know it's Lando, but maybe it's the fact that Lando does stuff like this when he really doesn't need to. 

Lando lets the presents drop to scoop up the boy, who's been spouting questions faster than any human, or any superhuman, could answer them. You join Lando's side to gently take Milo's hand, who finally sucks in a breath to look at you. "Mom," He whispers dramatically, "Spider-Man came." 

"Well, you're a very special kid." You answer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Of course he'd come." 

Four years old. You remember when he was just a thought, a terrifying realization, and now, he was your world, dressed up like Spider-Man himself and in Spider-Man's arms. "Is that Mario Kart?" 

"We have to wait to play with Mr. Norris." Milo says, looking at the TV and the other kids, who are now circling Lando. "He's coming soon." 

"Why don't we do something else then?" Lando offers, voice cracking. You can tell he's smiling under that stupid mask at the thought of Milo waiting for him to play the game. 

"We could do cake." You say, and the crowd erupts with chants for cake. Lando gets Milo to his spot at the head of the table and helps pull out chairs for the others as parents snap photos, offering you strange looks. You had told them, outright, you hadn't been able to afford someone to play Spider Man. 

And now, here he was. You take the cake from its box on the counter, and stick in the large 4 candle and light them, as the kids begin singing. You had been so worried, once, about Milo making friends, about being a single mother, but watching now as you set the cake down in front of him, as he blows out the candles and everyone cheers, as other parents offer to help with plates and knives and forks, you realize you might actually be good at this parenting thing, even if the situation wasn't the best.

"Can you take off your mask to eat some?" Milo says, awkwardly grabbing at Spider-Lando's cheek, who happily moves the boy's hand away.

"I have to keep my identity a secret!" Lando says, before carefully rolling up the edge of his mask. "So I'll do it like this, yeah?" 

"That's silly," Milo says with a giggle, and you cut out a slice for him, which he immediately hands off to Lando. "For you!" 

"No, muppet, birthday boys get the first slice!" Lando has fully abandoned the accent by now, but no one really cares. The rest of the cake gets distributed and smeared across faces, Milo included. He gets one streak of blue icing far up on his cheek, and you grab a napkin to wipe it off. "Do I have any?" Lando asks, and without thinking, you reach over to gently wipe some icing from the corner of his mouth. 

No one seems to notice the action, too absorbed with eating and celebrating, but you feel your cheeks burn, quickly turning back to watch Milo as he finishes up. By the time the cake is done, and Lando hasn't arrived, Milo decides to turn from Mario Kart to a game called 'Spider Man Tag', where everyone chases Lando around the apartment, and you take videos of the whole thing, laughing. 

When that's done, and the kids stop climbing on him, and just when he looks like he might faint, one of the girls suggests hide and seek, and Milo immediately volunteers to be the seeker. "Go hide," He says to you, before clapping his hands over his eyes. "Spider-Man too." 

You're quick to help the other kids find their spots, throwing blankets over them and tucking them behind curtains until finally, Milo is down to 1, and you realize you haven't hidden. Luckily, you don't seem to be the only one alone in this, because Lando grabs your hand and pulls you into the front hall closet, just as Milo pulls his hands away from his eyes. 

"Hold the door," Lando says, and you put your hand together on the sliding doors to keep them from moving, and Lando pulls off his mask with a gasp. He's flushed, hair slick with sweat, and you can imagine this is what he must look like after a race. Hell, you've seen what he looks like after a race - he might honestly look worse. 

Cramped together, he doesn't have much room to wipe over his face, arm bumping into you. "You okay there, Spider-Man?" 

"I worked out this morning!" He groans softly. "That was so stupid." 

"Language," You chide softly, and he offers an amused scowl. "There are little ears nearby." 

"They can't hear us," Lando says, intercut by a scream of a child found as Milo happily laughs. "Right?" 

"We'll just have to whisper," You say, as the predicament you're in slowly dawns on you. 

You're chest to chest with Lando Norris, in a spider-man costume, in your closet, as he pants against you.

There are a lot of not age-appropriate thoughts that occur, so you shift quickly into something you can talk about. "You really didn't have to do all this," You say, and Lando cracks a smile. "You've made his year, I think. This is too much." 

"Well, he said he wanted Spider-Man, so he gets Spider-Man." Lando says, eyes skimming down your face before snapping up to your eyes. "How much longer do you think we have in here?" 

The world slows a little bit at the question. "Not much longer," You say, as Lando somehow manages to shift closer. "Breath while you can." 

"The mask is awful," He says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Think it's constricting my airways." 

Well, if you need CPR... "You can say you need to get going to stop a villain or something, and then come back as Lando. He'd be just as excited." 

"No, no, I'm committing to the Spider-Man thing." He says, tugging the mask on, but stopping before his mouth. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" 

"Trust me, Lando, there's little you could do to make me hate you." 

"I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thi-" The door to the closet yanks open as Lando fumbles to get the last of his mask down, and Milo cackles in delight. 

"FOUND YOU!" He grabs both your hands and drags you back to the living room, and you try to take as many deep breaths as possible. 

He always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing. 

Did he...with you? "Why don't we do presents?" You say, trying to find anything to distract you, and also give Lando a break. "Go sit on the couch, Milo." 

You gather up the few gifts the children brought, and Lando grabs the ones he abandoned by the door. Like any little kid, Milo rips through each package excitedly, showing off cars and Spider-Man toys and a new bubble-blower, until finally, he gets to Lando's presents, who you're sure didn't wrap them himself. 

Or, if he did, you might just love him more, considering the Spider-Man wrapping paper that's wrapped neater than you could ever manage, bow included. Milo, for some reason, takes his time opening them, and the first two are Lego sets, one of a Spider-Man scene, the second a McLaren car. 

Oh, Lando. "Mr. Norris still isn't here!" Milo says, distraught. "This is his car!" 

"Mr. Norris invited me!" Lando says, gesturing to the gift. "He told me what to get you! Maybe he'll build it with you when he gets back." 

Then, Milo carefully opens the third box, and discovers his very own webshooters. "No way!" He immediately hands the box off to you to open, which is basically the equivalent of silly string, strapped to his wrists. The moment he gets them on, he begins spraying, and in a matter of mere minutes, the room is covered in string as the kids all giggle in unison. At some point, Lando squats beside him to help him aim and shoot, carefully gesturing to things that will be easier to clean up, and your heart clenches at the image. 

Because as much as you were good at this parenting thing, as much as you had mastered being a single mother, it was something new to see a man in Milo's life who wanted to be there, who cared for him, who bought him gifts and came dressed as Spider-Man and who just...adored him, like you adored him. 

You're not sure how long you just stare at the chaos unfolding, but it's long enough you think you might genuinely have feelings for Lando, cheesy Spider-Man suit be damned. It's the sort of messy, perfect ending to a messy, perfect day. As much as Milo really doesn't want to end the party, considering Mr. Norris hasn't shown up, he's yawning and trying to fight off the inevitable crash that comes after this. 

The kids get their party favours, which include pictures with Spider-Man, and Milo says goodbye to everyone, perched on Spider-Man's shoulders, and Lando carefully dumps the boy on the couch with a huff. "I think you need to get cleaned up!" He says, gesturing to the cake and silly string staining the boy's clothes. "Heroes have to stay clean!" 

The moment Milo disappears into the washroom, Lando collapses onto the couch, head hanging back off the back of it to look at you. You step forward and gently uncurl the mask, and with as much bravery as you can muster, you speak. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" Lando's lips part as he swallows, before he nods. "I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing." 

"Yeah?" Lando breathes out, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Well, Mary Jane, now's your chance." 

Kissing Lando upside down is not how you originally planned on doing it, but it's sort of everything you wanted it to be and more. It's soft and sweet and patient, the kind of loving you need after everything you've gone through, that's just hot and heavy enough that when you hear the tap turn off in the bathroom, you're quick to pull away. 

"Can Spider-Man stay the night?" Milo asks, running up as Lando pulls down his mask again, and he lets out a soft sort of laugh that does something to your stomach. 

"I've got to get home! Maybe another time," Lando says as he rises from the couch, and Milo's bottom lip trembles. "Just think, you still have your guest of honour that needs to visit." 

"I don't want to see Mr. Norris," Milo mumbles, "I want you to stay." 

You watch Lando hesitate then, about pulling off his mask and revealing himself, but for the sake of the magic, he chooses not to, and you intervene to let the poor man go home. "There's lots of people Spider-Man has to go save," You say, crouching down to his level and brushing the hair from his face. "And you never know, he might come back soon. But for right now, let's thank him for coming." Milo pushes away from you to wrap around Lando's leg, and Lando kneels down to give him a proper hug. 

"Thanks," Milo mumbles into his shoulder. "You can come back whenever you want." 

"Thank you for having me!" Lando tries to say cheerfully. "But your mom is right, I have to get going back to New York! It's a long plane ride." 

"Say goodbye, Milo." Milo finally lets go, and helps walks Spider-Man to the door. 

"Bye, Spider-Man." He says, offering a small wave. 

"Bye, Milo. Hope you had a great birthday." 

-

Lando strips the moment he gets home. 

Fireproofs were hot, the race suits were hot, but the Spider-Man suit? 

Wrangling that many kids? 

With you kissing him? 

He's practically a sauna. And yet, as soon as he's done showering and gets changed, he'd back at your door, knocking and hoping it's not too late, and that Milo's already gone to bed. There's a shuffling noise behind the door before you open it, and he's discovered in the time it took him to shower and get back here, both you and Milo had changed into pyjamas, and were eating dinner at the table. "Mr. Norris!" Milo says, mouthful of pasta falling into his bowl. "You missed Spider-Man!" 

"What? Spider-Man came?" You let Lando in with a soft smile, and all he can think of is your lips on his, how you repeated his line back to him like it was nothing, how right it had felt. Kissing you right-side up probably felt better, but he was just riding off the high that you kissed him at all. He was pretty sure, all things considered, that you had to like him, as much as his brain tried to convince him otherwise. 

Having you actually kiss him and prove it? He was still struggling to wrap his mind around that. "And he brought me webs!" 

"Webs that are going to be tricky to clean up." You say, shooting a grin his way as you move to the stove. "Dinner?" 

"Actually, that sounds great." He had a single slice of cake after being the personal play-place for kids all afternoon. It might not be the most gentlemanly thing he's ever done, but he's not turning down a bowl. He finds his place at the table, and you take your place across from him, and for a moment, Lando thinks he can see into the future. "Did you get anything else?" 

"Bubbles, a book," Then, as if remembering it all over again, "He got me your Lego car! He said we can build it together." Then, as if remembering what Spider-Lando said, "You know Spider-Man? And you didn't tell me?" 

"It's top secret," Lando says around a mouthful of noodles, and you grin down at your own bowl. Dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and fuzzy pyjama pants, it gives a certainly warm glow that has Lando wondering what man could ever give this up. "But, I still haven't given you my gift." 

Milo perks up as your head shoots up to look at him, confusion furrowed between your brows. "Lando, that's not-" 

"I want you to come to a race." He couldn't really think of some big gift to get Milo, besides a full-paid trip to a race. Silverstone was soon, anyways. It would be fun, for Milo to see him race, for you to see him win. At least, Lando really hopes he'll win, because then that's one more reason to kiss you. "All expenses paid." 

"Lando!" You exclaim, fork clattering to your bowl. "No, no that's too much-" 

"Really?" Milo cuts you off, leaping out of his chair to throw himself at Lando. "Thank you thank you thank you-" 

"Okay, okay," Lando says, trying to calm both of you. "But you have to promise to be on your best behaviour for it, okay Milo?" 

Milo nods furiously against Lando's leg, and Lando scoops him up to hold him in his lap. "I promise. Can I drive your car?" 

"Wait another eleven-ish years for that one, mate." He continues eating his pasta as Milo drags his bowl over, content to finish his dinner sitting with Lando, and he catches you staring. You do that a lot, especially when Lando and Milo interact, and he doesn't blame you. He's a strange man playing with your kid, who wouldn't want to be checking in?

But there's always something more in the way you look at him, like you're not used to someone being there. He doesn't know the full story, and he doesn't need to, but he has a feeling that, if he pursues this, he's filling in a spot that never really was occupied before. 

"Thank you, Lando." You finally say, finishing up the last of your dinner. "That means a lot." 

"What else would I do for my favourite neighbour?" Milo, also now finished eating, yawns into his hands. "Bedtime, buddy?" 

"Come on," You say, pulling Milo from his lap. "Let's get you changed and ready for bed. Lando can read you a bedtime story." Then, back towards him, "Finish up your dinner first. No rush." 

And then, like it's the most normal thing in the world, Lando finishes the last of his food and gathers up all the dishes on the table and puts them in the sink, and finds you and Milo already on Milo's bed, a Spider-Man storybook laid out on Milo's Lap. Lando takes the other side of you, and as guest of honour, Milo explains, he gets to read tonight. If he had really been prepared for how tonight was going to go, Lando would've brought his own pyjamas, but instead, he just cozies further into his hoodie, and flips open to the first page. 

"This is Spider-Man," He begins as Milo crawls over you to splay over your lap. "He's a superhero."

"You're a superhero," You whisper quietly with a yawn, and Lando is pretty sure he turns as red as Spider-man's suit. 

"Spider-Man shoots webs," Lando continues, moving to the next page, and he decides to focus all his energy into the book, rather than you pressed up beside him. However, he finds that as he finishes up the last page, he might've let his attention wander to far. 

You're asleep beside him, head tilted back as you doze, and Milo is the same in your lap, tuckered out from the party. Honestly, if Lando could, he'd fall right asleep beside you, but that's for another time, another date, so instead, he presses a kiss to your temple, closes the book, and turns off the light. 

It's how he hopes he can spend every night for the rest of his life.

a/n: baby fever is in full swing. tell me he wouldn't be a fantastic dad.

➤ THE COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: your son wants nothing more than to have spiderman at his birthday, and when a certain neighbour finds out, he decides to take matters into his own hands to make it happen.

wc: 4.2 k

warnings: none!

➤ MASTERLIST

"Mr. Norris?" Lando had a soft spot for kids. That much was obvious, especially when they were fans. Maybe it's that he remembers being that age, what it felt like to meet someone he thought was a celebrity. Maybe it was the little McLaren merch, or baby fever, or something, but Lando had a soft spot for kids.

Milo, however?

Milo could probably tell Lando to crash during a race and he'd do it.

"You alright?" He finds himself saying, immediately squatting to Milo's level by the elevator. In the boy's hands are a stack of red and blue envelopes, with names written twice: once in neat, formal writing, and the other in Milo's. "What've you got there?" 

"It's for my birthday party." Milo says quietly, extending the envelopes. "It's spider-man." 

"No way!" Lando says, smiling down at the papers. "That's so cool! How old are you turning?" 

Rather than answering, Milo holds up four fingers, the coordination making the envelopes spill from his hands. Lando's quick to pick them up, neatly sorting them into a stack, when he realizes one has his name on it. "Is this for me? Do I get to come to your birthday party?" 

"Oh, you're the guest of honour." Your voice says from above, and Lando counts another reason he has a soft spot specifically for Milo: 

You. 

His mother. 

You couldn't be much older than him, soft spoken and so kind when you moved in next door, offering sweet treats and texting apologies, laughing at his jokes, taking care of Milo. It was the sort of infatuation that Lando wasn't used to, at least with normal people in real life. You were perfect, he was pretty sure, except that was an insane thing to say to someone, let alone your neighbour. "I'm so honoured." 

The elevator doors ding open and Lando rises to let Milo and you past, and despite the fact that he had just gone up the elevator, he gets back on to waste a moment with you. "Is spider-man coming?" Milo asks up at you, and you gently card your hand through the boy's hair, and Lando wonders how that would feel if you did it to him. 

"No, sweetheart. I'm afraid Spider-Man is busy in New York!" Maybe it was the little British accents, too, that really got him. Lando rented an apartment, back home, for whenever he needed to escape from the chaos that was Monaco and just be normal. You, he thinks, are the perfect embodiment of that normal. 

Just a normal person, leading a normal life, telling your kid Spider-Man can't come to his birthday. Only, as Lando stares down at the envelope in hand, Spider-Man could technically come to the birthday. He might not be able to do a flip, but Lando's pretty sure he still has an old Spider-Man costume hung up in a closet somewhere, and has a cheery enough voice for it. 

"Well, I will definitely be coming." The elevator doors ding open to the first floor as you lead Milo out by the hand, and he reaches up to take Lando's, dragging him along towards the main doors of the building. "Oh, am I joining you today?" 

"You're going to take us in your car," Milo states firmly. "Your fast car." 

"I don't think we'd all fit," You offer with a soft laugh, the kind of noise that has Lando dreaming of a domesticity he's never even thought of before. "And I think Mr. Norris has more important things to be doing today." 

Mr. Norris. It was a sweet thing, for Milo to call him, but whenever you said it, Lando always considered what it would be like to call you Mrs. Norris. 

Not that he would ever, ever voice that thought aloud. "And if you're busy the day of the party, no worries." You add quietly back to him, stopping at the door. "Milo just wanted to make sure you got an invite." 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" He responds honestly. "Do you need me to bring anything? Snacks? Presents?" 

"I think just bringing yourself would be enough. I'm sure the other kids will be very, very excited a professional race car driver is at the party." Well, an F1 Driver AND Spider-Man, but he decides to leave you out of those plans. "Say goodbye to Mr. Norris, Milo!" 

"Bye, Mr. Norris," Milo says, waving happily. "See you at the party." 

Lando watches the two of you go, happily walking down the street, and he waits in the doorway until you're gone before he's sprinting back to the elevators. He needed to test out that Spider-Man costume, and find the best possible gift he's ever given in roughly a week. 

Manageable, he thinks. 

Surely that's manageable.

-

The knock on the door is the only unexpected part of Milo's birthday party. So far, everything had gone off without a hitch - all the decorations were perfect, the cake had arrived, the kids were somewhat behaving themselves for a room of four year olds, hyped up on sugar. 

Milo, ever the little copycat, was trying to show them how to play Mario Kart, because when Mr. Norris arrived, Milo wanted to show off how he could beat him at the game. 

Lando threw every game, but Milo didn't need to know that. The thought of the racer next door then clicks to the knock on your door, and you quickly spare a glance in the mirror in the hall before answering. It was a stupid, stupid, childish crush to have on the man, but you couldn't help it. 

Maybe it was the way he played with Milo, offered to babysit, raced around the world and somehow kept a level head, maybe it was how he looked, and how he spoke, and how he dressed, and how he acted, or maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought you were paying attention to Milo. 

Whatever it was, you were starting to get a bit embarrassed of how much you looked forward to seeing Lando today, until you open the door, and Lando was not standing there. 

Instead, there's Spider-Man, with a stack of boxes tucked under his arm. "Hey there!" He says, with an accent most certainly British but trying not to be. "I heard there's a me-themed birthday party?" 

Slowly, without alerting the kids, you peer around the door and into the living room, where they are still glued to the television, and the parents are watching and conversing nearby. "Spider-Man," You say quietly, "How did you get my address?" 

"A friend of mine told me," He says, accent slipping, "He drives fast cars, and lets me borrow them for my missions." 

"Oh, does he now?" You step aside to hold open the door, and you turn toward the kids. "Milo, your special guest is here!" 

"Mr. Norris?" Then, as Milo turns, you watch the greatest shock you think you've ever seen wash over his face as his jaw drops, clinging to the back of the couch as he stares at Spider-Lando, who offers a cheesy wave. 

And really, maybe you liked Lando because of how much Milo loved him. Watching him now, sprinting full-tilt at the driver, it almost makes you emotional. He had never run like that towards any man, only ever you. Well, you suppose he doesn't know it's Lando, but maybe it's the fact that Lando does stuff like this when he really doesn't need to. 

Lando lets the presents drop to scoop up the boy, who's been spouting questions faster than any human, or any superhuman, could answer them. You join Lando's side to gently take Milo's hand, who finally sucks in a breath to look at you. "Mom," He whispers dramatically, "Spider-Man came." 

"Well, you're a very special kid." You answer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Of course he'd come." 

Four years old. You remember when he was just a thought, a terrifying realization, and now, he was your world, dressed up like Spider-Man himself and in Spider-Man's arms. "Is that Mario Kart?" 

"We have to wait to play with Mr. Norris." Milo says, looking at the TV and the other kids, who are now circling Lando. "He's coming soon." 

"Why don't we do something else then?" Lando offers, voice cracking. You can tell he's smiling under that stupid mask at the thought of Milo waiting for him to play the game. 

"We could do cake." You say, and the crowd erupts with chants for cake. Lando gets Milo to his spot at the head of the table and helps pull out chairs for the others as parents snap photos, offering you strange looks. You had told them, outright, you hadn't been able to afford someone to play Spider Man. 

And now, here he was. You take the cake from its box on the counter, and stick in the large 4 candle and light them, as the kids begin singing. You had been so worried, once, about Milo making friends, about being a single mother, but watching now as you set the cake down in front of him, as he blows out the candles and everyone cheers, as other parents offer to help with plates and knives and forks, you realize you might actually be good at this parenting thing, even if the situation wasn't the best.

"Can you take off your mask to eat some?" Milo says, awkwardly grabbing at Spider-Lando's cheek, who happily moves the boy's hand away.

"I have to keep my identity a secret!" Lando says, before carefully rolling up the edge of his mask. "So I'll do it like this, yeah?" 

"That's silly," Milo says with a giggle, and you cut out a slice for him, which he immediately hands off to Lando. "For you!" 

"No, muppet, birthday boys get the first slice!" Lando has fully abandoned the accent by now, but no one really cares. The rest of the cake gets distributed and smeared across faces, Milo included. He gets one streak of blue icing far up on his cheek, and you grab a napkin to wipe it off. "Do I have any?" Lando asks, and without thinking, you reach over to gently wipe some icing from the corner of his mouth. 

No one seems to notice the action, too absorbed with eating and celebrating, but you feel your cheeks burn, quickly turning back to watch Milo as he finishes up. By the time the cake is done, and Lando hasn't arrived, Milo decides to turn from Mario Kart to a game called 'Spider Man Tag', where everyone chases Lando around the apartment, and you take videos of the whole thing, laughing. 

When that's done, and the kids stop climbing on him, and just when he looks like he might faint, one of the girls suggests hide and seek, and Milo immediately volunteers to be the seeker. "Go hide," He says to you, before clapping his hands over his eyes. "Spider-Man too." 

You're quick to help the other kids find their spots, throwing blankets over them and tucking them behind curtains until finally, Milo is down to 1, and you realize you haven't hidden. Luckily, you don't seem to be the only one alone in this, because Lando grabs your hand and pulls you into the front hall closet, just as Milo pulls his hands away from his eyes. 

"Hold the door," Lando says, and you put your hand together on the sliding doors to keep them from moving, and Lando pulls off his mask with a gasp. He's flushed, hair slick with sweat, and you can imagine this is what he must look like after a race. Hell, you've seen what he looks like after a race - he might honestly look worse. 

Cramped together, he doesn't have much room to wipe over his face, arm bumping into you. "You okay there, Spider-Man?" 

"I worked out this morning!" He groans softly. "That was so stupid." 

"Language," You chide softly, and he offers an amused scowl. "There are little ears nearby." 

"They can't hear us," Lando says, intercut by a scream of a child found as Milo happily laughs. "Right?" 

"We'll just have to whisper," You say, as the predicament you're in slowly dawns on you. 

You're chest to chest with Lando Norris, in a spider-man costume, in your closet, as he pants against you.

There are a lot of not age-appropriate thoughts that occur, so you shift quickly into something you can talk about. "You really didn't have to do all this," You say, and Lando cracks a smile. "You've made his year, I think. This is too much." 

"Well, he said he wanted Spider-Man, so he gets Spider-Man." Lando says, eyes skimming down your face before snapping up to your eyes. "How much longer do you think we have in here?" 

The world slows a little bit at the question. "Not much longer," You say, as Lando somehow manages to shift closer. "Breath while you can." 

"The mask is awful," He says, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "Think it's constricting my airways." 

Well, if you need CPR... "You can say you need to get going to stop a villain or something, and then come back as Lando. He'd be just as excited." 

"No, no, I'm committing to the Spider-Man thing." He says, tugging the mask on, but stopping before his mouth. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" 

"Trust me, Lando, there's little you could do to make me hate you." 

"I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thi-" The door to the closet yanks open as Lando fumbles to get the last of his mask down, and Milo cackles in delight. 

"FOUND YOU!" He grabs both your hands and drags you back to the living room, and you try to take as many deep breaths as possible. 

He always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing. 

Did he...with you? "Why don't we do presents?" You say, trying to find anything to distract you, and also give Lando a break. "Go sit on the couch, Milo." 

You gather up the few gifts the children brought, and Lando grabs the ones he abandoned by the door. Like any little kid, Milo rips through each package excitedly, showing off cars and Spider-Man toys and a new bubble-blower, until finally, he gets to Lando's presents, who you're sure didn't wrap them himself. 

Or, if he did, you might just love him more, considering the Spider-Man wrapping paper that's wrapped neater than you could ever manage, bow included. Milo, for some reason, takes his time opening them, and the first two are Lego sets, one of a Spider-Man scene, the second a McLaren car. 

Oh, Lando. "Mr. Norris still isn't here!" Milo says, distraught. "This is his car!" 

"Mr. Norris invited me!" Lando says, gesturing to the gift. "He told me what to get you! Maybe he'll build it with you when he gets back." 

Then, Milo carefully opens the third box, and discovers his very own webshooters. "No way!" He immediately hands the box off to you to open, which is basically the equivalent of silly string, strapped to his wrists. The moment he gets them on, he begins spraying, and in a matter of mere minutes, the room is covered in string as the kids all giggle in unison. At some point, Lando squats beside him to help him aim and shoot, carefully gesturing to things that will be easier to clean up, and your heart clenches at the image. 

Because as much as you were good at this parenting thing, as much as you had mastered being a single mother, it was something new to see a man in Milo's life who wanted to be there, who cared for him, who bought him gifts and came dressed as Spider-Man and who just...adored him, like you adored him. 

You're not sure how long you just stare at the chaos unfolding, but it's long enough you think you might genuinely have feelings for Lando, cheesy Spider-Man suit be damned. It's the sort of messy, perfect ending to a messy, perfect day. As much as Milo really doesn't want to end the party, considering Mr. Norris hasn't shown up, he's yawning and trying to fight off the inevitable crash that comes after this. 

The kids get their party favours, which include pictures with Spider-Man, and Milo says goodbye to everyone, perched on Spider-Man's shoulders, and Lando carefully dumps the boy on the couch with a huff. "I think you need to get cleaned up!" He says, gesturing to the cake and silly string staining the boy's clothes. "Heroes have to stay clean!" 

The moment Milo disappears into the washroom, Lando collapses onto the couch, head hanging back off the back of it to look at you. You step forward and gently uncurl the mask, and with as much bravery as you can muster, you speak. "Can I ask you something cheesy, and you promise not to hate me for it?" Lando's lips part as he swallows, before he nods. "I always wanted to do the Spider-Man kiss thing." 

"Yeah?" Lando breathes out, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Well, Mary Jane, now's your chance." 

Kissing Lando upside down is not how you originally planned on doing it, but it's sort of everything you wanted it to be and more. It's soft and sweet and patient, the kind of loving you need after everything you've gone through, that's just hot and heavy enough that when you hear the tap turn off in the bathroom, you're quick to pull away. 

"Can Spider-Man stay the night?" Milo asks, running up as Lando pulls down his mask again, and he lets out a soft sort of laugh that does something to your stomach. 

"I've got to get home! Maybe another time," Lando says as he rises from the couch, and Milo's bottom lip trembles. "Just think, you still have your guest of honour that needs to visit." 

"I don't want to see Mr. Norris," Milo mumbles, "I want you to stay." 

You watch Lando hesitate then, about pulling off his mask and revealing himself, but for the sake of the magic, he chooses not to, and you intervene to let the poor man go home. "There's lots of people Spider-Man has to go save," You say, crouching down to his level and brushing the hair from his face. "And you never know, he might come back soon. But for right now, let's thank him for coming." Milo pushes away from you to wrap around Lando's leg, and Lando kneels down to give him a proper hug. 

"Thanks," Milo mumbles into his shoulder. "You can come back whenever you want." 

"Thank you for having me!" Lando tries to say cheerfully. "But your mom is right, I have to get going back to New York! It's a long plane ride." 

"Say goodbye, Milo." Milo finally lets go, and helps walks Spider-Man to the door. 

"Bye, Spider-Man." He says, offering a small wave. 

"Bye, Milo. Hope you had a great birthday." 

-

Lando strips the moment he gets home. 

Fireproofs were hot, the race suits were hot, but the Spider-Man suit? 

Wrangling that many kids? 

With you kissing him? 

He's practically a sauna. And yet, as soon as he's done showering and gets changed, he'd back at your door, knocking and hoping it's not too late, and that Milo's already gone to bed. There's a shuffling noise behind the door before you open it, and he's discovered in the time it took him to shower and get back here, both you and Milo had changed into pyjamas, and were eating dinner at the table. "Mr. Norris!" Milo says, mouthful of pasta falling into his bowl. "You missed Spider-Man!" 

"What? Spider-Man came?" You let Lando in with a soft smile, and all he can think of is your lips on his, how you repeated his line back to him like it was nothing, how right it had felt. Kissing you right-side up probably felt better, but he was just riding off the high that you kissed him at all. He was pretty sure, all things considered, that you had to like him, as much as his brain tried to convince him otherwise. 

Having you actually kiss him and prove it? He was still struggling to wrap his mind around that. "And he brought me webs!" 

"Webs that are going to be tricky to clean up." You say, shooting a grin his way as you move to the stove. "Dinner?" 

"Actually, that sounds great." He had a single slice of cake after being the personal play-place for kids all afternoon. It might not be the most gentlemanly thing he's ever done, but he's not turning down a bowl. He finds his place at the table, and you take your place across from him, and for a moment, Lando thinks he can see into the future. "Did you get anything else?" 

"Bubbles, a book," Then, as if remembering it all over again, "He got me your Lego car! He said we can build it together." Then, as if remembering what Spider-Lando said, "You know Spider-Man? And you didn't tell me?" 

"It's top secret," Lando says around a mouthful of noodles, and you grin down at your own bowl. Dressed in an over-sized t-shirt and fuzzy pyjama pants, it gives a certainly warm glow that has Lando wondering what man could ever give this up. "But, I still haven't given you my gift." 

Milo perks up as your head shoots up to look at him, confusion furrowed between your brows. "Lando, that's not-" 

"I want you to come to a race." He couldn't really think of some big gift to get Milo, besides a full-paid trip to a race. Silverstone was soon, anyways. It would be fun, for Milo to see him race, for you to see him win. At least, Lando really hopes he'll win, because then that's one more reason to kiss you. "All expenses paid." 

"Lando!" You exclaim, fork clattering to your bowl. "No, no that's too much-" 

"Really?" Milo cuts you off, leaping out of his chair to throw himself at Lando. "Thank you thank you thank you-" 

"Okay, okay," Lando says, trying to calm both of you. "But you have to promise to be on your best behaviour for it, okay Milo?" 

Milo nods furiously against Lando's leg, and Lando scoops him up to hold him in his lap. "I promise. Can I drive your car?" 

"Wait another eleven-ish years for that one, mate." He continues eating his pasta as Milo drags his bowl over, content to finish his dinner sitting with Lando, and he catches you staring. You do that a lot, especially when Lando and Milo interact, and he doesn't blame you. He's a strange man playing with your kid, who wouldn't want to be checking in?

But there's always something more in the way you look at him, like you're not used to someone being there. He doesn't know the full story, and he doesn't need to, but he has a feeling that, if he pursues this, he's filling in a spot that never really was occupied before. 

"Thank you, Lando." You finally say, finishing up the last of your dinner. "That means a lot." 

"What else would I do for my favourite neighbour?" Milo, also now finished eating, yawns into his hands. "Bedtime, buddy?" 

"Come on," You say, pulling Milo from his lap. "Let's get you changed and ready for bed. Lando can read you a bedtime story." Then, back towards him, "Finish up your dinner first. No rush." 

And then, like it's the most normal thing in the world, Lando finishes the last of his food and gathers up all the dishes on the table and puts them in the sink, and finds you and Milo already on Milo's bed, a Spider-Man storybook laid out on Milo's Lap. Lando takes the other side of you, and as guest of honour, Milo explains, he gets to read tonight. If he had really been prepared for how tonight was going to go, Lando would've brought his own pyjamas, but instead, he just cozies further into his hoodie, and flips open to the first page. 

"This is Spider-Man," He begins as Milo crawls over you to splay over your lap. "He's a superhero."

"You're a superhero," You whisper quietly with a yawn, and Lando is pretty sure he turns as red as Spider-man's suit. 

"Spider-Man shoots webs," Lando continues, moving to the next page, and he decides to focus all his energy into the book, rather than you pressed up beside him. However, he finds that as he finishes up the last page, he might've let his attention wander to far. 

You're asleep beside him, head tilted back as you doze, and Milo is the same in your lap, tuckered out from the party. Honestly, if Lando could, he'd fall right asleep beside you, but that's for another time, another date, so instead, he presses a kiss to your temple, closes the book, and turns off the light. 

It's how he hopes he can spend every night for the rest of his life.

a/n: baby fever is in full swing. tell me he wouldn't be a fantastic dad.

are they bert and ernie enough

photographer lewis :D

I adore your soulmate fics!! I come back and reread the oscar one a lot because it's so perfect!! Do you plan to write more?

thank you so much!! i'd love to write more soulmate au's for the drivers but i haven't found any more tropes that i like for them yet :(

if y'all have any suggestions/requests, please let me know!! they're so fun to write

A little procreate brushes test with lando

YAYYY KIMI FIRST PODIUM!! drew the goat himself to celebrate

no background version below:

Williams and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

fernando congratulating gabi on his first points in f1

Max’s new special helmet looks so cool I have to draw it ✷

Uploaded the timelapse on TikTok ^_^

taglist <3:

@coffeehurricanes @kicoki @justaf1girl @jadelovesyou00

➤ SUGAR | CHARLES LECLERC SMAU + FIC)

pairing: charles leclerc x pastry chef!reader

summary: you're offered a position as a pastry chef in monaco, where an f1 driver with a distaste for snails shows you the sweeter things in life

wc: 6.5 k

warnings: slight angst? photos from pinterest & ayo edebiri face claim <3

➤ MASTERLIST

Liked by yourbestie and others

chef_yourusername my last day in nyc, had to make the most of it

↳ yourbestie I'm going to miss you, monaco better treat you right 

↳ chef_yourusername eat all my favourite foods for me while I'm gone :(

↳ foodie12 have you ever made an Instagram post without food?

↳ chef_yourusername where's the fun in that?

-

Liked by yourbestie, bi_sous and others

chef_yourusername i promise we're proper, certified pastry chefs monte carlo, i promise 

↳ bi_sous i think you mean un chef pâtissier

↳ chef_yourusername oui oui, ma bibliotechique

↳ yourbestie did you just call him a library? 

↳ chef_yourusername ...no

-

Moving to Monaco to become a full-time pastry chef was a daunting, daunting thing. 

Being asked to move to Monaco to become a full-time pastry chef was just baffling. You weren't aware that your work had actually been noticed internationally, let alone outside of New York. Yet, here you were, with a fancy title, a terrible apartment, and a line on your resume that you couldn't quite believe. 

"Non, non. C'est un gâteau miniature, pas un petit gâteau." No, Bishop corrects, your French leaving much to be desired. It's a miniature cake, not a cupcake.

"Ah, oui." Ah, yes, you manage to put together. Despite it literally meaning smaller cake, petit gateau was the name of an actual thing, whereas you were just saying a small cake. 

"You know he can speak English, right?" Maeva says, nudging your shoulder. "We all can." 

"I'm just being a good host." Bishop answers, somewhat smug. "They need to know the language." 

Maeva picks up a stray paper from the countertop, reading over it for a moment before turning back to Bishop. "You got invited to the Feu de Cascade opening?" Then, glancing back at the paper, "What a stupid name." 

"I, believe it or not, am a renowned pastry chef." Bishop answers, plucking the paper from her fingers. "I get invited to special events." 

"Temporary pastry chef," Maeva reminds him. "Same as you. I give you two months before you crack." 

Bishop, though a native to France, was hired a month before you were, after the last two pastry chefs were caught doing something unspeakable in the walk-in freezer. Luckily, considering Bishop's boyfriend and your own relationship issues, that wouldn't be an issue for the two of you. "You're just jealous you didn't get invited." 

"I did get invited," Maeva says, moving to start her prep for the next day. "I'm just not going." 

"Not going?" Bishop says with a soft gasp. "What will we do?" 

"No 'we' in that scenario," You say as you turn towards the plans you were writing for your not-petit-gateaus. It didn't hurt, really, that you were seemingly ignored in this universal invite. You were new enough to Monaco that they likely didn't have enough space for everyone, or perhaps you were too young, or perhaps you were just overthinking it. "I wasn't invited." 

"Then you can have my ticket." Maeva says, dusting her hands off by clapping them together. "You two can have fun putting up with Monaco's finest." 

Bishop spares you a glance with a raised brow as you try not to show how excited you are. It wasn't some real, exclusive event, but it was your first time out getting to know the restaurant world in Monaco. One launch might lead to a dinner, or another invite, and pretty soon, you have an in with some of the fanciest restaurants in the world.

Bishop, however, obviously has other thoughts on that. "I thought we were Monaco's finest?" 

-

Charles was very used to red carpets by now. He could speak at any press conference, make jokes with any interviewer, shaking hands and clapping shoulders, playing nice. He had enough media training to tell him when to smile and where to go, but when he was left completely to his own devices, when the cameras turned away from him, when he didn't really know anyone in the crowd, he found himself in unknown territory.

This restaurant launch he was paid to attend was more of a publicity stunt than anything, vague celebrities drifting about and taking pictures together as Charles nursed a glass of wine, tucked away in a seat away from the centre of it all. He's sure, if another driver were here, if someone he knew were here, he'd be much more sociable, much more attentive to those twisting through the crowds, but he was alone tonight, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.

He had chosen this seat for its distance, after all. Everyone else was crowding near the cameras, the food tables, the celebrity chefs arriving. Well, he supposes everyone is a general term. The only other person in this far corner of the grass-covered patio was you, but he was pretty sure you were in unknown territory, too.

You had sat down in the chair left to him, arms cradling multiple bowls, and you had lined them up on a small table as you tried each one, taking pictures as you went, happily content in your own silence. It wasn't that Charles was watching you, really, but you were more interesting than the TikTokers who kept starting videos rather obnoxiously. He'd be drawn into one eventually, but for some reason, it seems that you'd be immune to those sorts of things.

You pause your taste-testing line, looking up at the crowd with a soft furrow between your brows, and Charles understands the feeling. The draw to go to where the people are, to make yourself known, to keep up the charade of Monaco life. But, as your gaze drifts from the crowd to him, he finds that he doesn't care much about that tonight.

He's content to just sit here, invisible, for the rest of the night, but unfortunately, you had caught him staring. It was hard not to, anyway. Besides your own strange presence, you also happened to look like an angel, which was more of the wine than Charles talking, but you were pretty, and it was making looking away from you a hard thing to do. "C'est bon?" Is it good, he asks, and you spare a glance to the side with a grimace. 

"Si tu aimes les escargots?" Do you like snails? Snails! Charles is quick to lean over to look at the dish, taking in the different colours and textures and trying to figure out which could possibly be snails. Sure, he was Monegasque, but snails had never really enticed him as a dish. You laugh softly at his reaction, a sound that makes him warm under his collar. "Non?" 

"Non." Charles extends a hand, and you stare at it as if he just offered you some sort of alien creature, rather than a handshake. "Charles Leclerc." 

You offer your name, and Charles notices that French is not your first language, like most people here. Your French is fairly good, but your intonations are off. Strangely, he thinks you sound a bit like George, whenever he tries and fails to speak French. You say something else, and Charles doesn't catch it, based on the distance between your chairs and the soft cadence of your voice, so without much thought, he grabs the leg of your chair and slides to towards him, and in his slight, tipsy stupor, he hits the edge of your carefully balanced bowl of snails, and it topples into the grass silently. You both stare at the mess seeping onto the ground, and Charles waits for the backlash.

The pictures, the disgust, the recoil, the remarks of how stupid he'd been, but rather than making any scene, or scolding him, you shrug as you try to conceal your smile. "Guess you really didn't like snails." You say, before realizing you hadn't said it in French, and you quickly try to translate before Charles raises a hand to stop you.  

"I'm releasing them back into the wild." He says as he nudges the bowl under his chair to hide the evidence, and you laugh again, not at his misfortune, but for his humour. He's not sure how he can tell, but maybe it's just from how sweet the sound is. "You are new to Monaco?" He asks, and he watches you relax slightly back into your chair. 

"I just started as a pastry chef two weeks ago." Maybe that's why you seem so sweet, he thinks, but would never voice aloud. His brain then catches up that you'd only been here for two weeks, and he can't help but think that all this must be a bit much for two weeks. It had taken him years to get used to this kind of lifestyle, and he was born here. "It's still sort of hard to believe. Everything is so much...more, here." He can imagine: the lifestyle, the people, the money. Everything is bigger and better and flashier and somehow worse in Monaco. "And you?" 

Choosing not to give too much of himself away, he settles on: "Born and raised." 

"Really? I didn't know they let babies in Monaco." At that, it's Charles's turn to laugh, head tilting back to look up at the stars. Monaco's population was definitely older, though he's never heard someone phrase it like that. "They're not old enough to pay yet." 

"Most Monaco babies are born with money in hand." It was a hard reality to escape, really. It was every other fancy car, every other fancy restaurant, and expensive store. Monaco was a place for the rich and wealthy, save for those who helped make it run. 

Like you, as a pastry chef. He supposes a place doesn't need a pastry chef to run, but it's a nice thing to have. "Ah, so I'm speaking to a former rich baby?" 

A former rich baby.

Charles tries to contain his laugh, still unable to look at you. He's sure that if he did, the stupid smile on his face would grow even larger, and he at least needs to pretend to be somewhat dignified. "You know, if anyone overheard our conversation, they'd think we're crazy."

And maybe, just maybe, he's avoiding the answer. You didn't need to know about that part of Charles's life, at least not yet. He preferred being this kind of invisible with you than some shining star that might scare you off, or entice you for the wrong reasons.

He spares a glance your way, and you just smile over the rim of your glass at him. As least that hadn't ended up in the grass.

"Luckily, the other formerly rich babies don't seem to care." You turn to look out at the crowd, picking up small plates and never eating them, mingling and changing in one great mob. You probably should be out there, talking, making cooking connections. Then, as if reading his mind, you let out a soft sigh. "I suppose we should be socializing, but I'd rather be over here." 

The admission does something strange to his stomach, and he tries hard not to show it as you look back at him. There were plenty of reasons you could like being over here, but Charles can't seem to shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, you like that he's over here too. "Really?" 

"I'm sorry if I disturbed your peace by joining you, but this-" You gesture between the two of you, leaning on the arm of your chair to look at him, and he realizes relatively quickly that he's had a little bit too much to drink, and that he pulled your chair a little too close, because half leaned on the side of your chair, you're almost in his lap, and he doesn't mind in the slightest. This time, it's Charles's heart that does something strange at you being so close, like just your proximity has him infatuated. "Seemed a lot more welcoming than that." 

Not that he'd call it infatuation. That would be crazy for someone you'd just met, but then again, you chose to come sit beside him because you felt it was welcoming. You felt he was welcoming when everyone else couldn't care to look his way for once. "You saw me?" 

"I didn't hear you." You say, though not as a bad thing. "The silence was nice, compared to all...that. I hope you don't mind the company."

"I don't mind." Charles says quickly, and a soft smile grows on your face, "It's...nice." 

"Even with the snails?" Chares snorts into his glass at your comment, most certainly not a good look, but your smile grows as Charles's heart does, and he finds that he's screwed in a mere matter of minutes. 

"Even with the snails." He answers, thoughts returning briefly to the dish he's hidden under his chair. You had the right idea, taking photos of it. So far, there was no proof Charles had attended besides him looming in the back of others' photos, and the few he had taken upon arrival. "Could you possibly send me a photo you took of them? I should post something nice while I'm here." 

You nod, returning to your phone, and Charles has never so easily gotten someone's number without even thinking before. "And how should I send it? Instagram?" 

"Ah." Or not number, he supposes. Then again, he shouldn't be handing his phone number out to strangers anyway, but still. Giving you his Instagram means you finding out everything about him in one perfect capsule, his former baby lifestyle on display, when it was this kind of connection he wanted you to have. He didn't want to scare you off, or change what this was.

He just wanted something to be normal, for once. 

"Ah?" You echo, looking up from your phone, that smile fading.

"You will know who I am, then." He clarifies, and your brows pinch together. 

"And you don't want me to know who you are?" Well, when you phrase it like that, it doesn't sound great.

He just doesn't want you to know that side of him yet. "You'll see that I'm not so different from them." He says, gesturing to the crowd, "But I suppose it's too late now." 

"You could ask for my number, and I could promise not to Google you?" It's a kind, soft answer, and this time, it feels like Charles's whole body has been set on fire, dunked in ice, maybe thrown in a blender for good measure. Now, you were giving him your number, and as much as he didn't believe you wouldn't Google him, it was a sweet gesture. 

A response immediately comes to mind, the sort of brave thing he can picture Carlos saying, or maybe Lando. And, maybe because of how you're making him feel, maybe the few glasses of wine or the distant crowd, he finds himself saying it before he can stop. "Or, I could ask for your number, and take you out to dinner to better explain who I am in person." 

He watches your cheeks flush, barely noticeable under the dim lights of the yard, and he'd give anything to see what you look like flushed in the daylight. "I'd like that." You say, handing over your phone, and Charles tries not to shake as he types in his number. This wasn't the smartest thing he's ever done, but something about you is trustworthy. "I'll make sure to pick a spot with no snails." 

"You're picking the venue?" He says, glancing up from your phone, and you shrug.

"I'm the chef, after all." You have a point there, but still.

Monaco was Charles's home, despite his qualms with it. He would show you everything and anything it has to offer, including food. Somewhat foolishly, he thinks that, if he can impress you, a chef, with his culinary opinions, he might just make this work.

"But I'm the host." He argues back, handing over your phone. "You've only been here two weeks, I should suggest where we eat." 

"Fine, then." You relent, grinning down at the phone in hand. "You pick the place to eat, and I'll see just how good your taste is." 

-

-

↳ f1gossip A follower spotted Charles Leclerc getting cozy with @/chef_yourusername, a pastry chef based in Monte Carlo, at the launch of a restaurant last night!

↳ brocedes finally someone can teach that poor man to cook 

↳ yourbestie anyone makes a joke about them going back to the kitchen and I'm throwing hands

↳ mclar_win charles I hope you have a good workout regime, have you seen the desserts @/chef_yourusername can make??

liked by chef_yourusername

-

"So, about dinner." You had tried, when Charles had picked you up, to be normal about it. You had made polite conversation, laughed at his jokes, gotten into his ridiculously expensive tinted car without batting an eye, but you knew the conversation waiting just below the surface of your silence. 

After all, it was pretty hard to ignore. It had started with some gossip account on Instagram that had somehow gotten your identity, and then it spread like wildfire until everyone you knew was calling you, texting you, sending quotes out to news sources about your relationship status and your past. You and Charles blew up before you even knew his identity, and, well.

So much for you finding out about him over dinner, because now you are very aware of his F1 fame and Monaco status, and he knows you know, except neither of you can really bring yourself to say anything about it. "What about it?" You ask, feigning ignorance even as you cringe internally. 

"I think maybe Blue Bay wouldn't be good for tonight." He parks the car in some little back alley, and your heart stops for a moment, because at the end of the day, this is basically a stranger, albeit a very rich stranger. "For your sake." 

"My sake?" His head falls back against the headrest, rolling to the side to look at you, and you let out a low breath. It wasn't fair he looked this good when he was probably about to cut this off. "I wasn't going to say anything." 

"Why?" 

"You wanted me to get to know you away from all...that." You understand, now, why he'd hesitated to give you his Instagram. This would've been a lot nicer to learn over good food, rather than the internet. "Thought I'd still give you the chance." 

Charles watches you for a moment more before a small smile graces his face, putting the car into park and turning it off. "You're not upset I'm a formerly rich baby?" 

"Intimidated, maybe." You admit, "But not upset." Then, because you feel like you need to, "I'm not here because of who you turned out to be, either."

"Good." Charles says, opening the car door. He pauses, then, looking back to you, and he gets that same smile on his face. "Good. I think you'll enjoy this place more, then." 

When people typically say a restaurant is a hole in the wall, they mean it's small - Charles has taken you to a place that's basically infinitesimal. It's two high-top tables and a counter, with slices of pizza on display. It's the sort of place you couldn't imagine existing in Monaco, or that Charles would willingly enter. 

"Charles!" The shop owner says, quickly shuffling across the small restaurant to shake his hand. It's somehow shorter than Charles, a feat you weren't sure was possible. "Si tôt de retour?" Back so soon? Back? 

Charles had come here before? Willingly? "Ah, Paulo. Nous avons besoin d'un endroit privé pour manger." We need a private place to eat, Charles says, gesturing to you beside him, and you offer a small wave. 

"Ah, quelle charmante surprise!" What a lovely surprise, which you hope is the truth. He gestures for you to follow, and he opens the door to the kitchen. Charles gently places his hand on the small of your back, gesturing for you to go, and you stop to look at him. 

"Anything you want to tell me?" You say, finally walking into the equally small kitchen, and then, to your surprise, through the back door to a little wooden dock on the water, and you stop in your tracks. 

"That my trainer does not know this place exists, and never will." What obviously is a back walkway on the water has been turned into a little oasis away from the rest of Monaco. Considering every trip you've taken outside has resulted in some sort of secret photo being taken of you, this table, with two chairs and a candle, far away from anyone, was far better than any fancy experience out there. The sun, just starting to set, has the sky covered in pink and orange twists of clouds, reflected in the water just at the horizon. "Merci, Paulo." 

At a loss for words, Charles pulls out a seat at the small table, and you sit. He takes his place across from you, crossing his arms as he looks out at the water. 

Compared to all the headlines you'd read about him, all the clips and all the comments, you hadn't really expected this. You expected the former rich baby lifestyle, the luxury, not secret back patios to old pizza restaurants. Somehow, it makes Charles more attractive than he already ridiculously is. "My father would take me and my brothers here." Charles says, finally looking from the water to find you staring. "I know it's not exactly Michelin star, but-" 

"It's perfect, Charles." The response seems to take him by surprise, his expression shifting into something you don't quite understand. "I'm impressed." 

"Well." Charles says slowly, cheeks and neck flushing. "If I had known this was what impressed you, I wouldn't have tried so hard." 

Paulo appears with two glasses of wine and wordlessly sets them down before disappearing. "You were trying hard to impress me?" 

"I mean," Charles quickly cuts himself off, taking a sip of wine. "After everything I've put you through, I ought to try hard, no?" 

"Well, it's working." Paulo reappears, with two paper plates with single slices, reminding you so much of New York, of the life that, despite only being two weeks gone, felt so far away. 

"Paulo is from New York," Charles says, thanking the man as he takes his plate. "I thought you might enjoy." 

"That's really sweet, Charles." You happily take your plate, staring down at the food you'd been craving for weeks. "Merci, Paulo." 

"Did you like New York?" You don't answer Charles immediately, because you're already inhaling half your slice. He laughs softly, watching you eat, awkwardly trying to lift up the piece to take a bite. 

You wave a hand as you swallow, stopping him in his tracks. "You fold the slice." 

"What?" Charles looks at you as if you've grown two heads, and you show him with your slice how to fold the edges to make for an easier process. 

"This is how you do it in New York." You take another bite as you watch Charles tentatively eat his, before seeming to get the hang of it. "And I love New York. It's home to so many great restaurants, great people. Monaco's a lot more to get used to." 

"Well, there are great restaurants," Then, somewhat slyly, "Great people." 

"Yourself included?" 

"Well," He says, grinning ear to ear as he looks out at the water. "I wouldn't say that." 

You hum softly in agreement, and for a moment, all the stress of the past few days slips away. All the photos, all the fans, who Charles is supposed to be disappears, and you're left staring at him, the real him, who keeps trying to fold his pizza slice the best he can and somehow fails it every time, who knocked over snails and asked you out and somehow, despite it all, is still incredibly sweet. 

Him being this attractive also doesn't hurt either. "Well," You finally say, leaning forward on the table. "You wanted me here so you could explain yourself better." 

"And we saw how well that plan went," Charles mutters under his breath. "Not much else for you to learn, is there?" 

"I wouldn't say that." There are plenty of things you didn't know about him. "Like, what's your middle name?" 

With a soft groan, Charles lowers his forehead to the table. He mutters something utterly unintelligible, before finally raising his head to give you an unimpressed look. "You're going to make fun of me for it!" 

"Well, now I have to know." 

"Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc." Charles, Marc, Hervé, Perceval, Leclerc. You try your hardest not to laugh at how truly former rich baby it sounds, and Charles fights a smile as he tries to be angry at you. "I told you!

"You sound like a prince." You say as Paulo reappears with more slices. 

"A lord, actually." He clarifies, some sort of inside joke you've obviously missed, and he waves a hand. "Never mind. Tell me something about you, then." 

"No, no, tonight's supposed to be about you." You quickly try to change the topic, to keep it on him, but he won't allow it. 

"Tonight's about us, actually." He says, and you can feel yourself grow warm, smiling like a fool down at your new plate.

Us. 

You like the sound of that. "Tell me your most embarrassing baking story." 

"We're starting with most embarrassing?" You question, quickly looking up, and Charles offers another perfect grin. "Really?" 

"Well, you already know everything embarrassing about me." With a scoff, you ball up your napkin and throw it at him, and he offers a soft gasp as it hits his shoulder. "What? You've seen my racing." 

"And that's embarrassing?" It couldn't possibly be. 

Really, you were surprised he hadn't bragged about it by now, made it something bigger, but he had avoided the topic entirely. "It's embarrassing when I lose." 

"Ah, poor baby." You tease, and Charles glances down at his plate, the softest expression breaking through, and you decide to give him a break. If he doesn't want to talk about racing, or winning, or losing, he doesn't have to. You'll have plenty of time for that later. "Well, I think most embarrassing for me would be setting one of my instructors on fire." 

And you find that, as the night goes on, and the wine gets poured, and the slices keep coming, and the sun dips below the water and night falls, Charles doesn't ever explain who he is, or what his life really is like, and really, you don't need him to. You find out everything you need to know about him simply by sitting across from him and letting yourself enjoy the night. 

-

Liked by yourbestie, bi_sous, charles_leclerc, and others

chef_yourusername I ate more than just food last week

↳ yourbestie the hottest woman to grace this earth

↳ bi_sous i'm never getting the film camera back, am i?

↳ yourbestie i'm still waiting for her to give back my bracelet from sixth grade, get in line honey Liked by yourusername

↳ brocedes call me crazy but is that not the EXACT same photo charles put on his story??

↳ pastry81 charles, we already know, you don't have to lurk

-

liked by yourbestie, bi_sous, charles_leclerc and others

chef_yourusername proof that I can serve more than food on my instagram

↳ bi_sous you need to stop with the food puns. 

↳ chef_yourusername could you say I'm...milking it? or that they're pretty corny?

↳ bi_sous i'm going to need you to put the phone down

↳ f1_fanatic CHARLES??? the hand placement????

↳ fan44 so the soft launches begin

-

-

Going out with Charles was...good. It would be hard to say anything else. It was fun, it was new, but it was daunting. 

Because it wasn't just a joke, or something to hide, Charles's fame was real, and it wasn't something that would go away, even if you were going on dates with the man. Sure, those dates were behind closed doors, but that didn't stop paparazzi, and fans, and nosy neighbours. 

It was quite a different change of pace. Moments with Charles were always in the spotlight, and you had always been behind the scenes, behind a stove, for most of your life. To have a fancy car pull up in front of your apartment building, to have reservations at the most in-demand and then the most unknown restaurants, to be his, it was all sort of a dream. And then, when you weren't with him, you were thrust back into the reality that you weren't part of the former rich baby crew. You were not a fitting piece to this wealthy, strange puzzle. 

And slowly, it dawned on you, that he'd realize this. That you catered to people of this lifestyle, you didn't live it. You couldn't name his expensive watch brands, which cost more than your apartment, hell, cost more than some houses. You couldn't pass the small talk, couldn't look the part. That, if you weren't at Charles's side, you didn't matter to the world of Monaco outside of making their desserts. 

And some day, when Charles recognized this, all of this would come to an end. The fantasy, the flings, the late nights spent curled in each other's company. Maybe, if Charles weren't so loveable, that truth would be easier. After all, it was Charles, who dumped bowls of snails on the ground, who took the lead to take you out to dinner, who treated it like it was normal. With him, everything felt normal. By your third date, you were lounging on his patio, reading books in silence. You'd taken a photo of it, included it on Instagram, because it felt like something you could control. If Charles weren't famous, it would be perfect. You would be daydreaming of getting into an actual relationship, of some day down the line wearing white, of all the possible futures you have together. 

But Charles is famous, and that fame is not ignorable, and it's not in your control. At the very least, you were spared criticism so far by those around you. People on the internet likely had other thoughts, but at Charles's advice, you didn't look at those things. You might occasionally watch videos of him, where he makes little jokes about you like it's nothing, just to remind yourself that this is real. 

You let yourself daydream and carry on because, when it does come your time to lose Charles, at least you'll make the most of it. "I never want to see a raspberry again." Bishop says as the night winds down, the last of the orders finished. "Or a blueberry. Or any berry for that matter." 

"Just be happy you work with sweet foods," Maeva responds bitterly as she wipes down her station. "I've been working with octopus all week." 

One of the servers lingers in the doorway to the kitchen, earning matching glares from the kitchen staff. "Il y a une note pour les pâtissiers?" 

There's a note for the pastry chefs, a line that has both you and Bishop look at each other in horror. "Qu’est-ce que c’est?" 

"Eh," The server extends a napkin folded into a rose to you with a somewhat embarrassed look, and you might die in front of all the other kitchen staff. "Chais pas." 

He doesn't know? How could he not know! You unfold it, expecting something from Charles, but instead, unfamiliar handwriting stares back. How you've come to know Charles's handwriting in weeks, you're not quite sure, but it reaffirms that maybe, just maybe, you've been playing into this delusion for too long. 

In case things don't work out with Mr. F1,

It says, followed by a number. 

Bishop peers over your shoulder, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear. He was one of the few people to actually ask you about Charles. Everyone else was either too worried to ask, or didn't care to know. You turn back to the server to ask about who sent it, but he'd disappeared, and you're left with all eyes on you. 

It's the sort of attention that makes your skin crawl. "Je reviens!" I'll be back, you blurt, quickly heading for the back door. The last thing you needed was for more gossip to start up about your love life, and then, as you open the back door to the alley behind the restaurant, you find Charles leaning up against the wall, waiting for you. 

Perfect timing, as always.

The door slams behind you, startling him as he looks up from his phone, and he breaks out into a grin that, for the first time, doesn't make you smile back. "You sounded stressed this morning," He says, pushing off the wall to come toward you. "Thought you might want the company." 

You had texted him about how swamped you were at the restaurant, and at any other time, this would be a sweet gesture, in fact, it still is. It's just overshadowed by your own understanding of how soon this is going to be over. "You didn't have to do that, Charles." 

"I only have so much down time," He says with a shrug. "Might as well spend it well." 

Then, he notices the napkin in hand, the phone number written down unmistakeable. 

"Ah." The small exhale he makes does nothing to help the debate in your mind. Does he think you wanted someone's number? Does he recognize how absurd this whole thing is? An F1 driver and a pastry chef. In what fairytale does that work out? "Seems I have competition." 

"It's nothing," You say, crumpling up the paper. Maybe you should keep the number, you think. For when this all ends. "I'm sure." 

"You're sure?" He echoes, expression twisting into something unreadable. "If...if you're interested in someone else, you can just say that." 

"I'm not, Charles." And it's the truth. You want him, but that's not realistic. That much is obvious, from all the other flings F1 drivers have had, all the normal people who don't exist in their lives. They get models, and actresses, not you. Not like this. "Are you?" 

His face twists then into an expression that you can read, which is utter confusion. "No, mon coeur, why would I be?" 

"I'm not exactly a former rich baby." You say, trying to joke and failing. It was the sort of complaint you felt shouldn't be put into words, that you were worried Charles would realize how much more he could find from someone else. It was just your insecurity, but at the end of the day, it felt real. It was real. This wasn't made to be something that lasts. "We have very different lives." 

"And that's good, yeah?" He steps forward, hovering above you yet not touching. Part of you wants nothing more than to reach out and place a hand on his chest, maybe fix his hair, but another part of you is too terrified to move. "You show me snails, I show you Monaco." 

"And when you get tired of snails?" You ask, because if this is happening, you need to get everything off your chest. "And someone comes along that-" You cut yourself off before you manage to say it. 

"And someone comes along to try and convince me to try something new?" The alley falls into silence as you and Charles look at each other, because how else could you say it?

There were other people out there better suited for him. Plain and simple.

"Someone comes along with a dish that's more palatable. That people here like." You finally continue, and Charles pauses, the metaphor taking a moment to catch up, and you let out a soft breath. "What I'm saying, Charles, is that this, us, me, it doesn't last. Or at least logistically, it doesn't." 

"Logistically?" 

"You are used to the spotlight, being front and centre, and that's where you belong. I'm used to being hidden away in kitchens. That's where I belong." Charles opens his mouth to protest, and you raise your hands. "And I want to be there. Baking is my life, but it's not exactly compatible for sneaking around with a Formula One driver."

The words cling to the air, suddenly hot and heavy between the two of you. It wasn't the best way you could've phrased it, but it was the truth. "Sneaking around?" 

"Tell me that people aren't saying things. That the whole reason there's so much paparazzi coverage and photos and weird fan messages isn't because you've been seen sneaking around with a pastry chef." That's all you were.

The pastry chef. An oddity. A-"I wouldn't call it sneaking around." Charles's words cut through your thoughts, and you blink up at him in disbelief. "I'd call it dating." 

Dating.

Sure, you had gone on dates, but...

Actually dating? "What?" 

"These have been dates." He's quick to clarify, gesturing between the two of you. "Have I...not made that clear?" 

"Well, yes, but that's...that's a lot more official than it seems." Going on dates and dating, at least from what you're used to, are two very different things. If Charles weren't famous, if you hadn't read so much about him and his fellow drivers, it would be obvious. You go on dates, you're dating, you're something official.

But when a man that rich and famous and beautiful goes on dates? It's just a momentary thing, something to pass the time. None of the headlines you've seen have been serious, but as you study Charles's expression, you realize you've been looking in all the wrong places. The opinions of others never could've shown you who Charles really is.

So why should they dictate what your relationship is? "Ah." Charles breathes out, finally seeming to understand, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Do you want me to ask?" 

"Charles." 

"I do not care that you are not a former rich baby, or that you like snails, or whatever anyone else might have to say about that. You saw me." His hands come to rest on your waist, pulling you to him slowly. "You came and sat with me like I was anyone else. You make me feel like anyone else. I'm sorry if I don't make you feel the same." 

"You do, you do." You rush out, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Being this close doesn't feel real, and that small, nagging thought at the back of your mind reminds you why. "It's just that, every so often, a camera flashing reminds me that this isn't." 

"And I will make amends for that." Amends. It's a sort of thrilling thing, imagining Charles all serious, telling people to stop taking photos. It'll never really happen, but it's nice to picture. "But spending time with you, dating you, means the world to me. I...it sounds so stupid in English." He says with a laugh, a warm thing that finally has you smiling back. "Veux-tu être à moi?" Will you be mine, he asks, but it doesn't feel like the kind of question that needs answering, or even needs saying. You're his, the moment he dropped those stupid snails. "Don't pretend to not know French now." 

"Oh, I heard what you said." You say, hands smoothing down the front of his chest. "Just sort of...letting it sink in." 

And there, in the mild evening breeze, in a barricaded alley with Charles Leclerc, you find yourself in love. It's a little, gradual thing you know will grow further, but right now, you just let yourself enjoy the thought. 

"You're scaring me here." Charles jokes, and you finally decide to cut him some slack, and let yourself start living the life you want to live.

"Oui, Charles. Je suis à toi." 

I'm yours.

A grin splits across Charles's face so wide, it's as if you've never seen him happy before. His hands immediately come up to cup your face, as your arms loop around his neck, and he's kissing you. It's soft and sweet and so very Charles, taking up all your senses as you pull him closer against you. You had kissed before, little pecks on cheeks, but this is the first one that felt tangible, felt worthy of being called a kiss. It's the sort of reassurance that makes this insane possibility real. 

That Charles is yours, and you are his, and this is all possible, kissing in the back alley behind your restaurant like it was an everyday occurrence.

Really, you wouldn't mind if it was. "Good," He mutters against your lips. "I was going to ask you anyway." 

"Really?" 

"Mhm," He hums, pulling back with a lazy smile. "I had a picnic planned tomorrow. I was going to cook." 

"Oh, god." You laugh, letting your head fall forward against his shoulder. "Good thing you asked me now, then." 

It wasn't that Charles's cooking was bad, per se, but it was more than yours was better. "Just for that?" Charles says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "We're going on the picnic anyway." 

-

-

Liked by yourusername, carlos_sainz, and others

charles_leclerc believe it or not, I can cook

↳ chef_yourusername sweetheart, I'm going to hold your hand when I say this...

↳ charles_leclerc I did well!

↳ chef_yourusername you did so well at putting the toppings on

↳ carcarcar I'm sorry, the last photo?? i don't know what looks better, the pizza or @/chef_yourusername

liked by chef_yourusername

-

Liked by charles_leclerc, yourbestie, and others

chef_yourusername if you think dating a chef gets you free food, you are very wrong - you become free labour ;)

↳ charles_leclerc you're welcome, mon coeur

↳ chef_yourusername merci charlie 🥰

↳ charles_leclerc ❤️ 🥟 🍜

↳ mclar_win the matching fits!! 

↳ brocedes who wants to bet the white is to hide all the flour?

↳ carcarcar first an ice cream brand, what next, a full restaurant?

↳ chef_yourusername @/charles_leclerc please please please please please please please????

↳ charles_leclerc ... i'll think about it

↳ bi_sous @/chef_yourusername you better hire me

↳ chef_yourusername obviously

a/n: despite learning french for basically ten years now, i have no idea if any of this is correct. enjoy?

➤ SUGAR | CHARLES LECLERC SMAU + FIC)

pairing: charles leclerc x pastry chef!reader

summary: you're offered a position as a pastry chef in monaco, where an f1 driver with a distaste for snails shows you the sweeter things in life

wc: 6.5 k

warnings: slight angst? photos from pinterest & ayo edebiri face claim <3

➤ MASTERLIST

Liked by yourbestie and others

chef_yourusername my last day in nyc, had to make the most of it

↳ yourbestie I'm going to miss you, monaco better treat you right 

↳ chef_yourusername eat all my favourite foods for me while I'm gone :(

↳ foodie12 have you ever made an Instagram post without food?

↳ chef_yourusername where's the fun in that?

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Liked by yourbestie, bi_sous and others

chef_yourusername i promise we're proper, certified pastry chefs monte carlo, i promise 

↳ bi_sous i think you mean un chef pâtissier

↳ chef_yourusername oui oui, ma bibliotechique

↳ yourbestie did you just call him a library? 

↳ chef_yourusername ...no

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Moving to Monaco to become a full-time pastry chef was a daunting, daunting thing. 

Being asked to move to Monaco to become a full-time pastry chef was just baffling. You weren't aware that your work had actually been noticed internationally, let alone outside of New York. Yet, here you were, with a fancy title, a terrible apartment, and a line on your resume that you couldn't quite believe. 

"Non, non. C'est un gâteau miniature, pas un petit gâteau." No, Bishop corrects, your French leaving much to be desired. It's a miniature cake, not a cupcake.

"Ah, oui." Ah, yes, you manage to put together. Despite it literally meaning smaller cake, petit gateau was the name of an actual thing, whereas you were just saying a small cake. 

"You know he can speak English, right?" Maeva says, nudging your shoulder. "We all can." 

"I'm just being a good host." Bishop answers, somewhat smug. "They need to know the language." 

Maeva picks up a stray paper from the countertop, reading over it for a moment before turning back to Bishop. "You got invited to the Feu de Cascade opening?" Then, glancing back at the paper, "What a stupid name." 

"I, believe it or not, am a renowned pastry chef." Bishop answers, plucking the paper from her fingers. "I get invited to special events." 

"Temporary pastry chef," Maeva reminds him. "Same as you. I give you two months before you crack." 

Bishop, though a native to France, was hired a month before you were, after the last two pastry chefs were caught doing something unspeakable in the walk-in freezer. Luckily, considering Bishop's boyfriend and your own relationship issues, that wouldn't be an issue for the two of you. "You're just jealous you didn't get invited." 

"I did get invited," Maeva says, moving to start her prep for the next day. "I'm just not going." 

"Not going?" Bishop says with a soft gasp. "What will we do?" 

"No 'we' in that scenario," You say as you turn towards the plans you were writing for your not-petit-gateaus. It didn't hurt, really, that you were seemingly ignored in this universal invite. You were new enough to Monaco that they likely didn't have enough space for everyone, or perhaps you were too young, or perhaps you were just overthinking it. "I wasn't invited." 

"Then you can have my ticket." Maeva says, dusting her hands off by clapping them together. "You two can have fun putting up with Monaco's finest." 

Bishop spares you a glance with a raised brow as you try not to show how excited you are. It wasn't some real, exclusive event, but it was your first time out getting to know the restaurant world in Monaco. One launch might lead to a dinner, or another invite, and pretty soon, you have an in with some of the fanciest restaurants in the world.

Bishop, however, obviously has other thoughts on that. "I thought we were Monaco's finest?" 

-

Charles was very used to red carpets by now. He could speak at any press conference, make jokes with any interviewer, shaking hands and clapping shoulders, playing nice. He had enough media training to tell him when to smile and where to go, but when he was left completely to his own devices, when the cameras turned away from him, when he didn't really know anyone in the crowd, he found himself in unknown territory.

This restaurant launch he was paid to attend was more of a publicity stunt than anything, vague celebrities drifting about and taking pictures together as Charles nursed a glass of wine, tucked away in a seat away from the centre of it all. He's sure, if another driver were here, if someone he knew were here, he'd be much more sociable, much more attentive to those twisting through the crowds, but he was alone tonight, and he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.

He had chosen this seat for its distance, after all. Everyone else was crowding near the cameras, the food tables, the celebrity chefs arriving. Well, he supposes everyone is a general term. The only other person in this far corner of the grass-covered patio was you, but he was pretty sure you were in unknown territory, too.

You had sat down in the chair left to him, arms cradling multiple bowls, and you had lined them up on a small table as you tried each one, taking pictures as you went, happily content in your own silence. It wasn't that Charles was watching you, really, but you were more interesting than the TikTokers who kept starting videos rather obnoxiously. He'd be drawn into one eventually, but for some reason, it seems that you'd be immune to those sorts of things.

You pause your taste-testing line, looking up at the crowd with a soft furrow between your brows, and Charles understands the feeling. The draw to go to where the people are, to make yourself known, to keep up the charade of Monaco life. But, as your gaze drifts from the crowd to him, he finds that he doesn't care much about that tonight.

He's content to just sit here, invisible, for the rest of the night, but unfortunately, you had caught him staring. It was hard not to, anyway. Besides your own strange presence, you also happened to look like an angel, which was more of the wine than Charles talking, but you were pretty, and it was making looking away from you a hard thing to do. "C'est bon?" Is it good, he asks, and you spare a glance to the side with a grimace. 

"Si tu aimes les escargots?" Do you like snails? Snails! Charles is quick to lean over to look at the dish, taking in the different colours and textures and trying to figure out which could possibly be snails. Sure, he was Monegasque, but snails had never really enticed him as a dish. You laugh softly at his reaction, a sound that makes him warm under his collar. "Non?" 

"Non." Charles extends a hand, and you stare at it as if he just offered you some sort of alien creature, rather than a handshake. "Charles Leclerc." 

You offer your name, and Charles notices that French is not your first language, like most people here. Your French is fairly good, but your intonations are off. Strangely, he thinks you sound a bit like George, whenever he tries and fails to speak French. You say something else, and Charles doesn't catch it, based on the distance between your chairs and the soft cadence of your voice, so without much thought, he grabs the leg of your chair and slides to towards him, and in his slight, tipsy stupor, he hits the edge of your carefully balanced bowl of snails, and it topples into the grass silently. You both stare at the mess seeping onto the ground, and Charles waits for the backlash.

The pictures, the disgust, the recoil, the remarks of how stupid he'd been, but rather than making any scene, or scolding him, you shrug as you try to conceal your smile. "Guess you really didn't like snails." You say, before realizing you hadn't said it in French, and you quickly try to translate before Charles raises a hand to stop you.  

"I'm releasing them back into the wild." He says as he nudges the bowl under his chair to hide the evidence, and you laugh again, not at his misfortune, but for his humour. He's not sure how he can tell, but maybe it's just from how sweet the sound is. "You are new to Monaco?" He asks, and he watches you relax slightly back into your chair. 

"I just started as a pastry chef two weeks ago." Maybe that's why you seem so sweet, he thinks, but would never voice aloud. His brain then catches up that you'd only been here for two weeks, and he can't help but think that all this must be a bit much for two weeks. It had taken him years to get used to this kind of lifestyle, and he was born here. "It's still sort of hard to believe. Everything is so much...more, here." He can imagine: the lifestyle, the people, the money. Everything is bigger and better and flashier and somehow worse in Monaco. "And you?" 

Choosing not to give too much of himself away, he settles on: "Born and raised." 

"Really? I didn't know they let babies in Monaco." At that, it's Charles's turn to laugh, head tilting back to look up at the stars. Monaco's population was definitely older, though he's never heard someone phrase it like that. "They're not old enough to pay yet." 

"Most Monaco babies are born with money in hand." It was a hard reality to escape, really. It was every other fancy car, every other fancy restaurant, and expensive store. Monaco was a place for the rich and wealthy, save for those who helped make it run. 

Like you, as a pastry chef. He supposes a place doesn't need a pastry chef to run, but it's a nice thing to have. "Ah, so I'm speaking to a former rich baby?" 

A former rich baby.

Charles tries to contain his laugh, still unable to look at you. He's sure that if he did, the stupid smile on his face would grow even larger, and he at least needs to pretend to be somewhat dignified. "You know, if anyone overheard our conversation, they'd think we're crazy."

And maybe, just maybe, he's avoiding the answer. You didn't need to know about that part of Charles's life, at least not yet. He preferred being this kind of invisible with you than some shining star that might scare you off, or entice you for the wrong reasons.

He spares a glance your way, and you just smile over the rim of your glass at him. As least that hadn't ended up in the grass.

"Luckily, the other formerly rich babies don't seem to care." You turn to look out at the crowd, picking up small plates and never eating them, mingling and changing in one great mob. You probably should be out there, talking, making cooking connections. Then, as if reading his mind, you let out a soft sigh. "I suppose we should be socializing, but I'd rather be over here." 

The admission does something strange to his stomach, and he tries hard not to show it as you look back at him. There were plenty of reasons you could like being over here, but Charles can't seem to shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, you like that he's over here too. "Really?" 

"I'm sorry if I disturbed your peace by joining you, but this-" You gesture between the two of you, leaning on the arm of your chair to look at him, and he realizes relatively quickly that he's had a little bit too much to drink, and that he pulled your chair a little too close, because half leaned on the side of your chair, you're almost in his lap, and he doesn't mind in the slightest. This time, it's Charles's heart that does something strange at you being so close, like just your proximity has him infatuated. "Seemed a lot more welcoming than that." 

Not that he'd call it infatuation. That would be crazy for someone you'd just met, but then again, you chose to come sit beside him because you felt it was welcoming. You felt he was welcoming when everyone else couldn't care to look his way for once. "You saw me?" 

"I didn't hear you." You say, though not as a bad thing. "The silence was nice, compared to all...that. I hope you don't mind the company."

"I don't mind." Charles says quickly, and a soft smile grows on your face, "It's...nice." 

"Even with the snails?" Chares snorts into his glass at your comment, most certainly not a good look, but your smile grows as Charles's heart does, and he finds that he's screwed in a mere matter of minutes. 

"Even with the snails." He answers, thoughts returning briefly to the dish he's hidden under his chair. You had the right idea, taking photos of it. So far, there was no proof Charles had attended besides him looming in the back of others' photos, and the few he had taken upon arrival. "Could you possibly send me a photo you took of them? I should post something nice while I'm here." 

You nod, returning to your phone, and Charles has never so easily gotten someone's number without even thinking before. "And how should I send it? Instagram?" 

"Ah." Or not number, he supposes. Then again, he shouldn't be handing his phone number out to strangers anyway, but still. Giving you his Instagram means you finding out everything about him in one perfect capsule, his former baby lifestyle on display, when it was this kind of connection he wanted you to have. He didn't want to scare you off, or change what this was.

He just wanted something to be normal, for once. 

"Ah?" You echo, looking up from your phone, that smile fading.

"You will know who I am, then." He clarifies, and your brows pinch together. 

"And you don't want me to know who you are?" Well, when you phrase it like that, it doesn't sound great.

He just doesn't want you to know that side of him yet. "You'll see that I'm not so different from them." He says, gesturing to the crowd, "But I suppose it's too late now." 

"You could ask for my number, and I could promise not to Google you?" It's a kind, soft answer, and this time, it feels like Charles's whole body has been set on fire, dunked in ice, maybe thrown in a blender for good measure. Now, you were giving him your number, and as much as he didn't believe you wouldn't Google him, it was a sweet gesture. 

A response immediately comes to mind, the sort of brave thing he can picture Carlos saying, or maybe Lando. And, maybe because of how you're making him feel, maybe the few glasses of wine or the distant crowd, he finds himself saying it before he can stop. "Or, I could ask for your number, and take you out to dinner to better explain who I am in person." 

He watches your cheeks flush, barely noticeable under the dim lights of the yard, and he'd give anything to see what you look like flushed in the daylight. "I'd like that." You say, handing over your phone, and Charles tries not to shake as he types in his number. This wasn't the smartest thing he's ever done, but something about you is trustworthy. "I'll make sure to pick a spot with no snails." 

"You're picking the venue?" He says, glancing up from your phone, and you shrug.

"I'm the chef, after all." You have a point there, but still.

Monaco was Charles's home, despite his qualms with it. He would show you everything and anything it has to offer, including food. Somewhat foolishly, he thinks that, if he can impress you, a chef, with his culinary opinions, he might just make this work.

"But I'm the host." He argues back, handing over your phone. "You've only been here two weeks, I should suggest where we eat." 

"Fine, then." You relent, grinning down at the phone in hand. "You pick the place to eat, and I'll see just how good your taste is." 

-

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↳ f1gossip A follower spotted Charles Leclerc getting cozy with @/chef_yourusername, a pastry chef based in Monte Carlo, at the launch of a restaurant last night!

↳ brocedes finally someone can teach that poor man to cook 

↳ yourbestie anyone makes a joke about them going back to the kitchen and I'm throwing hands

↳ mclar_win charles I hope you have a good workout regime, have you seen the desserts @/chef_yourusername can make??

liked by chef_yourusername

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"So, about dinner." You had tried, when Charles had picked you up, to be normal about it. You had made polite conversation, laughed at his jokes, gotten into his ridiculously expensive tinted car without batting an eye, but you knew the conversation waiting just below the surface of your silence. 

After all, it was pretty hard to ignore. It had started with some gossip account on Instagram that had somehow gotten your identity, and then it spread like wildfire until everyone you knew was calling you, texting you, sending quotes out to news sources about your relationship status and your past. You and Charles blew up before you even knew his identity, and, well.

So much for you finding out about him over dinner, because now you are very aware of his F1 fame and Monaco status, and he knows you know, except neither of you can really bring yourself to say anything about it. "What about it?" You ask, feigning ignorance even as you cringe internally. 

"I think maybe Blue Bay wouldn't be good for tonight." He parks the car in some little back alley, and your heart stops for a moment, because at the end of the day, this is basically a stranger, albeit a very rich stranger. "For your sake." 

"My sake?" His head falls back against the headrest, rolling to the side to look at you, and you let out a low breath. It wasn't fair he looked this good when he was probably about to cut this off. "I wasn't going to say anything." 

"Why?" 

"You wanted me to get to know you away from all...that." You understand, now, why he'd hesitated to give you his Instagram. This would've been a lot nicer to learn over good food, rather than the internet. "Thought I'd still give you the chance." 

Charles watches you for a moment more before a small smile graces his face, putting the car into park and turning it off. "You're not upset I'm a formerly rich baby?" 

"Intimidated, maybe." You admit, "But not upset." Then, because you feel like you need to, "I'm not here because of who you turned out to be, either."

"Good." Charles says, opening the car door. He pauses, then, looking back to you, and he gets that same smile on his face. "Good. I think you'll enjoy this place more, then." 

When people typically say a restaurant is a hole in the wall, they mean it's small - Charles has taken you to a place that's basically infinitesimal. It's two high-top tables and a counter, with slices of pizza on display. It's the sort of place you couldn't imagine existing in Monaco, or that Charles would willingly enter. 

"Charles!" The shop owner says, quickly shuffling across the small restaurant to shake his hand. It's somehow shorter than Charles, a feat you weren't sure was possible. "Si tôt de retour?" Back so soon? Back? 

Charles had come here before? Willingly? "Ah, Paulo. Nous avons besoin d'un endroit privé pour manger." We need a private place to eat, Charles says, gesturing to you beside him, and you offer a small wave. 

"Ah, quelle charmante surprise!" What a lovely surprise, which you hope is the truth. He gestures for you to follow, and he opens the door to the kitchen. Charles gently places his hand on the small of your back, gesturing for you to go, and you stop to look at him. 

"Anything you want to tell me?" You say, finally walking into the equally small kitchen, and then, to your surprise, through the back door to a little wooden dock on the water, and you stop in your tracks. 

"That my trainer does not know this place exists, and never will." What obviously is a back walkway on the water has been turned into a little oasis away from the rest of Monaco. Considering every trip you've taken outside has resulted in some sort of secret photo being taken of you, this table, with two chairs and a candle, far away from anyone, was far better than any fancy experience out there. The sun, just starting to set, has the sky covered in pink and orange twists of clouds, reflected in the water just at the horizon. "Merci, Paulo." 

At a loss for words, Charles pulls out a seat at the small table, and you sit. He takes his place across from you, crossing his arms as he looks out at the water. 

Compared to all the headlines you'd read about him, all the clips and all the comments, you hadn't really expected this. You expected the former rich baby lifestyle, the luxury, not secret back patios to old pizza restaurants. Somehow, it makes Charles more attractive than he already ridiculously is. "My father would take me and my brothers here." Charles says, finally looking from the water to find you staring. "I know it's not exactly Michelin star, but-" 

"It's perfect, Charles." The response seems to take him by surprise, his expression shifting into something you don't quite understand. "I'm impressed." 

"Well." Charles says slowly, cheeks and neck flushing. "If I had known this was what impressed you, I wouldn't have tried so hard." 

Paulo appears with two glasses of wine and wordlessly sets them down before disappearing. "You were trying hard to impress me?" 

"I mean," Charles quickly cuts himself off, taking a sip of wine. "After everything I've put you through, I ought to try hard, no?" 

"Well, it's working." Paulo reappears, with two paper plates with single slices, reminding you so much of New York, of the life that, despite only being two weeks gone, felt so far away. 

"Paulo is from New York," Charles says, thanking the man as he takes his plate. "I thought you might enjoy." 

"That's really sweet, Charles." You happily take your plate, staring down at the food you'd been craving for weeks. "Merci, Paulo." 

"Did you like New York?" You don't answer Charles immediately, because you're already inhaling half your slice. He laughs softly, watching you eat, awkwardly trying to lift up the piece to take a bite. 

You wave a hand as you swallow, stopping him in his tracks. "You fold the slice." 

"What?" Charles looks at you as if you've grown two heads, and you show him with your slice how to fold the edges to make for an easier process. 

"This is how you do it in New York." You take another bite as you watch Charles tentatively eat his, before seeming to get the hang of it. "And I love New York. It's home to so many great restaurants, great people. Monaco's a lot more to get used to." 

"Well, there are great restaurants," Then, somewhat slyly, "Great people." 

"Yourself included?" 

"Well," He says, grinning ear to ear as he looks out at the water. "I wouldn't say that." 

You hum softly in agreement, and for a moment, all the stress of the past few days slips away. All the photos, all the fans, who Charles is supposed to be disappears, and you're left staring at him, the real him, who keeps trying to fold his pizza slice the best he can and somehow fails it every time, who knocked over snails and asked you out and somehow, despite it all, is still incredibly sweet. 

Him being this attractive also doesn't hurt either. "Well," You finally say, leaning forward on the table. "You wanted me here so you could explain yourself better." 

"And we saw how well that plan went," Charles mutters under his breath. "Not much else for you to learn, is there?" 

"I wouldn't say that." There are plenty of things you didn't know about him. "Like, what's your middle name?" 

With a soft groan, Charles lowers his forehead to the table. He mutters something utterly unintelligible, before finally raising his head to give you an unimpressed look. "You're going to make fun of me for it!" 

"Well, now I have to know." 

"Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc." Charles, Marc, Hervé, Perceval, Leclerc. You try your hardest not to laugh at how truly former rich baby it sounds, and Charles fights a smile as he tries to be angry at you. "I told you!

"You sound like a prince." You say as Paulo reappears with more slices. 

"A lord, actually." He clarifies, some sort of inside joke you've obviously missed, and he waves a hand. "Never mind. Tell me something about you, then." 

"No, no, tonight's supposed to be about you." You quickly try to change the topic, to keep it on him, but he won't allow it. 

"Tonight's about us, actually." He says, and you can feel yourself grow warm, smiling like a fool down at your new plate.

Us. 

You like the sound of that. "Tell me your most embarrassing baking story." 

"We're starting with most embarrassing?" You question, quickly looking up, and Charles offers another perfect grin. "Really?" 

"Well, you already know everything embarrassing about me." With a scoff, you ball up your napkin and throw it at him, and he offers a soft gasp as it hits his shoulder. "What? You've seen my racing." 

"And that's embarrassing?" It couldn't possibly be. 

Really, you were surprised he hadn't bragged about it by now, made it something bigger, but he had avoided the topic entirely. "It's embarrassing when I lose." 

"Ah, poor baby." You tease, and Charles glances down at his plate, the softest expression breaking through, and you decide to give him a break. If he doesn't want to talk about racing, or winning, or losing, he doesn't have to. You'll have plenty of time for that later. "Well, I think most embarrassing for me would be setting one of my instructors on fire." 

And you find that, as the night goes on, and the wine gets poured, and the slices keep coming, and the sun dips below the water and night falls, Charles doesn't ever explain who he is, or what his life really is like, and really, you don't need him to. You find out everything you need to know about him simply by sitting across from him and letting yourself enjoy the night. 

-

Liked by yourbestie, bi_sous, charles_leclerc, and others

chef_yourusername I ate more than just food last week

↳ yourbestie the hottest woman to grace this earth

↳ bi_sous i'm never getting the film camera back, am i?

↳ yourbestie i'm still waiting for her to give back my bracelet from sixth grade, get in line honey Liked by yourusername

↳ brocedes call me crazy but is that not the EXACT same photo charles put on his story??

↳ pastry81 charles, we already know, you don't have to lurk

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liked by yourbestie, bi_sous, charles_leclerc and others

chef_yourusername proof that I can serve more than food on my instagram

↳ bi_sous you need to stop with the food puns. 

↳ chef_yourusername could you say I'm...milking it? or that they're pretty corny?

↳ bi_sous i'm going to need you to put the phone down

↳ f1_fanatic CHARLES??? the hand placement????

↳ fan44 so the soft launches begin

-

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Going out with Charles was...good. It would be hard to say anything else. It was fun, it was new, but it was daunting. 

Because it wasn't just a joke, or something to hide, Charles's fame was real, and it wasn't something that would go away, even if you were going on dates with the man. Sure, those dates were behind closed doors, but that didn't stop paparazzi, and fans, and nosy neighbours. 

It was quite a different change of pace. Moments with Charles were always in the spotlight, and you had always been behind the scenes, behind a stove, for most of your life. To have a fancy car pull up in front of your apartment building, to have reservations at the most in-demand and then the most unknown restaurants, to be his, it was all sort of a dream. And then, when you weren't with him, you were thrust back into the reality that you weren't part of the former rich baby crew. You were not a fitting piece to this wealthy, strange puzzle. 

And slowly, it dawned on you, that he'd realize this. That you catered to people of this lifestyle, you didn't live it. You couldn't name his expensive watch brands, which cost more than your apartment, hell, cost more than some houses. You couldn't pass the small talk, couldn't look the part. That, if you weren't at Charles's side, you didn't matter to the world of Monaco outside of making their desserts. 

And some day, when Charles recognized this, all of this would come to an end. The fantasy, the flings, the late nights spent curled in each other's company. Maybe, if Charles weren't so loveable, that truth would be easier. After all, it was Charles, who dumped bowls of snails on the ground, who took the lead to take you out to dinner, who treated it like it was normal. With him, everything felt normal. By your third date, you were lounging on his patio, reading books in silence. You'd taken a photo of it, included it on Instagram, because it felt like something you could control. If Charles weren't famous, it would be perfect. You would be daydreaming of getting into an actual relationship, of some day down the line wearing white, of all the possible futures you have together. 

But Charles is famous, and that fame is not ignorable, and it's not in your control. At the very least, you were spared criticism so far by those around you. People on the internet likely had other thoughts, but at Charles's advice, you didn't look at those things. You might occasionally watch videos of him, where he makes little jokes about you like it's nothing, just to remind yourself that this is real. 

You let yourself daydream and carry on because, when it does come your time to lose Charles, at least you'll make the most of it. "I never want to see a raspberry again." Bishop says as the night winds down, the last of the orders finished. "Or a blueberry. Or any berry for that matter." 

"Just be happy you work with sweet foods," Maeva responds bitterly as she wipes down her station. "I've been working with octopus all week." 

One of the servers lingers in the doorway to the kitchen, earning matching glares from the kitchen staff. "Il y a une note pour les pâtissiers?" 

There's a note for the pastry chefs, a line that has both you and Bishop look at each other in horror. "Qu’est-ce que c’est?" 

"Eh," The server extends a napkin folded into a rose to you with a somewhat embarrassed look, and you might die in front of all the other kitchen staff. "Chais pas." 

He doesn't know? How could he not know! You unfold it, expecting something from Charles, but instead, unfamiliar handwriting stares back. How you've come to know Charles's handwriting in weeks, you're not quite sure, but it reaffirms that maybe, just maybe, you've been playing into this delusion for too long. 

In case things don't work out with Mr. F1,

It says, followed by a number. 

Bishop peers over your shoulder, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear. He was one of the few people to actually ask you about Charles. Everyone else was either too worried to ask, or didn't care to know. You turn back to the server to ask about who sent it, but he'd disappeared, and you're left with all eyes on you. 

It's the sort of attention that makes your skin crawl. "Je reviens!" I'll be back, you blurt, quickly heading for the back door. The last thing you needed was for more gossip to start up about your love life, and then, as you open the back door to the alley behind the restaurant, you find Charles leaning up against the wall, waiting for you. 

Perfect timing, as always.

The door slams behind you, startling him as he looks up from his phone, and he breaks out into a grin that, for the first time, doesn't make you smile back. "You sounded stressed this morning," He says, pushing off the wall to come toward you. "Thought you might want the company." 

You had texted him about how swamped you were at the restaurant, and at any other time, this would be a sweet gesture, in fact, it still is. It's just overshadowed by your own understanding of how soon this is going to be over. "You didn't have to do that, Charles." 

"I only have so much down time," He says with a shrug. "Might as well spend it well." 

Then, he notices the napkin in hand, the phone number written down unmistakeable. 

"Ah." The small exhale he makes does nothing to help the debate in your mind. Does he think you wanted someone's number? Does he recognize how absurd this whole thing is? An F1 driver and a pastry chef. In what fairytale does that work out? "Seems I have competition." 

"It's nothing," You say, crumpling up the paper. Maybe you should keep the number, you think. For when this all ends. "I'm sure." 

"You're sure?" He echoes, expression twisting into something unreadable. "If...if you're interested in someone else, you can just say that." 

"I'm not, Charles." And it's the truth. You want him, but that's not realistic. That much is obvious, from all the other flings F1 drivers have had, all the normal people who don't exist in their lives. They get models, and actresses, not you. Not like this. "Are you?" 

His face twists then into an expression that you can read, which is utter confusion. "No, mon coeur, why would I be?" 

"I'm not exactly a former rich baby." You say, trying to joke and failing. It was the sort of complaint you felt shouldn't be put into words, that you were worried Charles would realize how much more he could find from someone else. It was just your insecurity, but at the end of the day, it felt real. It was real. This wasn't made to be something that lasts. "We have very different lives." 

"And that's good, yeah?" He steps forward, hovering above you yet not touching. Part of you wants nothing more than to reach out and place a hand on his chest, maybe fix his hair, but another part of you is too terrified to move. "You show me snails, I show you Monaco." 

"And when you get tired of snails?" You ask, because if this is happening, you need to get everything off your chest. "And someone comes along that-" You cut yourself off before you manage to say it. 

"And someone comes along to try and convince me to try something new?" The alley falls into silence as you and Charles look at each other, because how else could you say it?

There were other people out there better suited for him. Plain and simple.

"Someone comes along with a dish that's more palatable. That people here like." You finally continue, and Charles pauses, the metaphor taking a moment to catch up, and you let out a soft breath. "What I'm saying, Charles, is that this, us, me, it doesn't last. Or at least logistically, it doesn't." 

"Logistically?" 

"You are used to the spotlight, being front and centre, and that's where you belong. I'm used to being hidden away in kitchens. That's where I belong." Charles opens his mouth to protest, and you raise your hands. "And I want to be there. Baking is my life, but it's not exactly compatible for sneaking around with a Formula One driver."

The words cling to the air, suddenly hot and heavy between the two of you. It wasn't the best way you could've phrased it, but it was the truth. "Sneaking around?" 

"Tell me that people aren't saying things. That the whole reason there's so much paparazzi coverage and photos and weird fan messages isn't because you've been seen sneaking around with a pastry chef." That's all you were.

The pastry chef. An oddity. A-"I wouldn't call it sneaking around." Charles's words cut through your thoughts, and you blink up at him in disbelief. "I'd call it dating." 

Dating.

Sure, you had gone on dates, but...

Actually dating? "What?" 

"These have been dates." He's quick to clarify, gesturing between the two of you. "Have I...not made that clear?" 

"Well, yes, but that's...that's a lot more official than it seems." Going on dates and dating, at least from what you're used to, are two very different things. If Charles weren't famous, if you hadn't read so much about him and his fellow drivers, it would be obvious. You go on dates, you're dating, you're something official.

But when a man that rich and famous and beautiful goes on dates? It's just a momentary thing, something to pass the time. None of the headlines you've seen have been serious, but as you study Charles's expression, you realize you've been looking in all the wrong places. The opinions of others never could've shown you who Charles really is.

So why should they dictate what your relationship is? "Ah." Charles breathes out, finally seeming to understand, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Do you want me to ask?" 

"Charles." 

"I do not care that you are not a former rich baby, or that you like snails, or whatever anyone else might have to say about that. You saw me." His hands come to rest on your waist, pulling you to him slowly. "You came and sat with me like I was anyone else. You make me feel like anyone else. I'm sorry if I don't make you feel the same." 

"You do, you do." You rush out, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Being this close doesn't feel real, and that small, nagging thought at the back of your mind reminds you why. "It's just that, every so often, a camera flashing reminds me that this isn't." 

"And I will make amends for that." Amends. It's a sort of thrilling thing, imagining Charles all serious, telling people to stop taking photos. It'll never really happen, but it's nice to picture. "But spending time with you, dating you, means the world to me. I...it sounds so stupid in English." He says with a laugh, a warm thing that finally has you smiling back. "Veux-tu être à moi?" Will you be mine, he asks, but it doesn't feel like the kind of question that needs answering, or even needs saying. You're his, the moment he dropped those stupid snails. "Don't pretend to not know French now." 

"Oh, I heard what you said." You say, hands smoothing down the front of his chest. "Just sort of...letting it sink in." 

And there, in the mild evening breeze, in a barricaded alley with Charles Leclerc, you find yourself in love. It's a little, gradual thing you know will grow further, but right now, you just let yourself enjoy the thought. 

"You're scaring me here." Charles jokes, and you finally decide to cut him some slack, and let yourself start living the life you want to live.

"Oui, Charles. Je suis à toi." 

I'm yours.

A grin splits across Charles's face so wide, it's as if you've never seen him happy before. His hands immediately come up to cup your face, as your arms loop around his neck, and he's kissing you. It's soft and sweet and so very Charles, taking up all your senses as you pull him closer against you. You had kissed before, little pecks on cheeks, but this is the first one that felt tangible, felt worthy of being called a kiss. It's the sort of reassurance that makes this insane possibility real. 

That Charles is yours, and you are his, and this is all possible, kissing in the back alley behind your restaurant like it was an everyday occurrence.

Really, you wouldn't mind if it was. "Good," He mutters against your lips. "I was going to ask you anyway." 

"Really?" 

"Mhm," He hums, pulling back with a lazy smile. "I had a picnic planned tomorrow. I was going to cook." 

"Oh, god." You laugh, letting your head fall forward against his shoulder. "Good thing you asked me now, then." 

It wasn't that Charles's cooking was bad, per se, but it was more than yours was better. "Just for that?" Charles says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "We're going on the picnic anyway." 

-

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Liked by yourusername, carlos_sainz, and others

charles_leclerc believe it or not, I can cook

↳ chef_yourusername sweetheart, I'm going to hold your hand when I say this...

↳ charles_leclerc I did well!

↳ chef_yourusername you did so well at putting the toppings on

↳ carcarcar I'm sorry, the last photo?? i don't know what looks better, the pizza or @/chef_yourusername

liked by chef_yourusername

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Liked by charles_leclerc, yourbestie, and others

chef_yourusername if you think dating a chef gets you free food, you are very wrong - you become free labour ;)

↳ charles_leclerc you're welcome, mon coeur

↳ chef_yourusername merci charlie 🥰

↳ charles_leclerc ❤️ 🥟 🍜

↳ mclar_win the matching fits!! 

↳ brocedes who wants to bet the white is to hide all the flour?

↳ carcarcar first an ice cream brand, what next, a full restaurant?

↳ chef_yourusername @/charles_leclerc please please please please please please please????

↳ charles_leclerc ... i'll think about it

↳ bi_sous @/chef_yourusername you better hire me

↳ chef_yourusername obviously

a/n: despite learning french for basically ten years now, i have no idea if any of this is correct. enjoy?

(opening the author’s works page after finishing a fic) and if im lucky they’ll have written this exact same fic but different a bunch more times

hello kimi ☀️

pov you've returned from a yacht trip with your mates and you came across your best friend (who didn't join because he was busy hanging out with his girlfriend) who just did some shopping

45min oscar photo study 😋😋

I don’t think they wanted to be painted

that was not me, that was my evil twin brother, franz hermann

If reqs are open we get some more Oscar one shots?? just binged them all lmao 🙏🏻🙏🏻

♪ — 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗪𝗔𝗟𝗞 oscar piastri x girlfriend! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . Oscar Piastri might seem like a stoic Kimi R reincarnation but really, he's a sweetheart who carries you so you don't sand in your shoes (549 words)

( main naster list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

The sky is painted in soft shades of pink and orange, the kind of sunset that makes everything feel a little bit dreamlike. The waves roll onto the shore in a lazy rhythm, brushing against the sand with a whisper. It’s the kind of evening that begs for long walks and quiet confessions, but instead, you find yourself cradled in Oscar’s arms, held securely against his chest.

“You know, I could walk,” you point out, but you make no effort to move.

Oscar glances down at you, his expression neutral but his grip tightening just the slightest bit. “You didn’t want sand in your shoes.”

You huff, both amused and endeared. “That was, like, ten minutes ago. I didn’t think you’d actually carry me the whole time.”

He shrugs, adjusting his hold effortlessly. “Not a big deal.”

But it is, in the way that matters. In the way he does things for you without a second thought, never making a fuss about it. You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of salt and sunscreen clinging to his skin. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing is as steady as the waves.

Eventually, he slows to a stop, setting you down carefully on a patch of sand untouched by the tide. His hands linger for a fraction of a second before he lets go. “Better?”

You nod, slipping off your shoes and wiggling your toes into the cool, damp sand. “Much.”

He watches you for a moment, his lips barely twitching in what might be the ghost of a smile, then extends his hand. You take it without hesitation, fingers fitting perfectly between his as you step toward the water’s edge.

The tide kisses your ankles, cool and refreshing. You hum in contentment, swinging your intertwined hands slightly as you start talking—about anything and everything. About how the sunset reminds you of a painting you once saw, about the funniest thing that happened at work last week, about how you read somewhere that seagulls mate for life and isn’t that kind of sweet?

Oscar doesn’t say much, but he listens. He always listens. His thumb moves idly over the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment. Every now and then, he hums in acknowledgment or squeezes your fingers lightly, little signs that he’s with you, that he’s absorbing every word.

After a while, you stop, tilting your head up to look at him. The golden light of the sunset softens his features, his brown eyes reflecting the sky’s fading hues. “You’re quiet.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I usually am.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. “Yeah, but…what are you thinking about?”

He’s silent for a beat, then, with that same quiet certainty that defines him, he says, “You talk a lot.”

You open your mouth, ready to protest, but he beats you to it, his fingers tightening around yours. “I like it.”

The words are simple, but they settle warm in your chest, spreading through you like the tide coming in. You smile, squeezing his hand in return. “Good. Because I’m not stopping.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

And so you keep talking, and he keeps listening, walking side by side as the ocean sways in time with your laughter.