For VDay requests: Lando takes her to a nice dinner and she gets mad at him idk maybe he does something without realizing. And then they come back home and shes still pissed but he looks so good after he changes in his comfy clothes so they end up fucking on the couch or something but that's when she tells him why was she mad at him ❤🥀
Happy Valentine's Day guys xx
Torn on Valentine | LN⁴
💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you for this request, I actually had so much fun with it. Enjoy your reading and happy Valentine’s, my lovelies!!
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
🩷summary ──── Lando notices immediately that his girlfriend is angry with him. However, he has no idea why. But whatever the reason might be, he is determined to remind her exactly why she can't stay mad for long. It's Valentine’s Day, after all.
Lando had gone all out to make sure that won’t happen, starting the morning by waking her up with muffins in bed, the scent of vanilla still lingering in the sheets as he pressed lazy little kisses to her neck.
They spent the day walking around the city, and shopping, wandering through little boutiques where he insisted on buying her anything and everything she had laid her eyes on.
And then, la pièce de résistance: a fancy dinner at an exclusive restaurant, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A soft melody played from a piano in the corner, setting the perfect atmosphere. The food was great, the wine was good, and every detail screamed romance, from the flickering candle between them to the way Lando’s thumb traced tiny heart shapes on her hand as they talked, his eyes never leaving hers.
All in all, it had been perfect. Until he ruined it.
The moment was burned into her mind, replaying it over and over again, like a broken record. The waiter, a girl who had been a little too friendly with him all night, had leaned in when she refilled his wine at some point, brushing his shoulder with a touch that lingered for too long. And Lando, oblivious as ever, had winked at her.
Winked.
She knew her boyfriend. Knew he was clueless about these things, that his flirty nature wasn’t always intentional. But that didn’t make it sting any less. Because the waiter had noticed. She smirked at him, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and acted like his girlfriend wasn’t literally sitting on the other side of the table.
After that, she had gone silent.
The entire ride home, she stared out the window, with her arms crossed and lips pursed, and her knees facing the opposite way from him. Lando figured something was wrong ever since; he glanced at her between shifts, brows furrowing, but he didn’t say anything, probably thinking she was just tired.
Then they got home, and she had barely looked at him as she changed into something more comfortable, still replaying the scene in her head.
Had he done it on purpose? Probably not. But did it matter?
That’s… debatable. It mattered to her.
Deprived by every emotion except irritation, she followed Lando setting up his last surprise of the day — a cozy movie marathon on the couch, complete with fuzzy blankets, sweets and drinks, and a bunch of her favorite Valentine’s-themed movies ready to run.
Now, their apartment is quiet except for the hum of the TV that neither of them is really watching. The tension between them is thick, lingering in the air like a storm that hasn’t broken. Yet.
She breathes heavily, sitting curled up on the opposite side of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, and arms crossed over her chest. Lando, on the other side, is content to let her be.
Until he isn’t.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we playing the guessing game again?” he finally asks, voice edged with concern. He knows that she needs time to process whatever’s bothering her at the moment, but his patience has limits, too.
She doesn’t look at him, just shrugs as she lies, “Nothing’s wrong.”
Lando puffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Right. That’s why you’ve been side-eyeing me like I insulted your entire family ever since we got back. It’s annoying, you know? If you have something to say…” his voice trails off, but he feels a wave of anger building inside, so he decides to let go before making it worse.
Her jaw tightens.
She doesn’t want to give in, mostly because she knows that the reason why she’s mad is, well, kind of absurd. But at the same time, she’s frustrated in a way that isn’t just about her boyfriend winking at other girls. The weight of the week has been pressing down on her shoulders, and she needs something — him — but she’s too stubborn to say it. Especially now. Still, her eyes keep flickering down, lingering on the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips, the lazy way he’s sprawled out, legs spread wide.
He catches her looking, fighting a smile as he stretches his arms over the back of the couch. “You wanna sit on it?”
Her head snaps toward him, face heating instantly at his question. “What?”
Lando shrugs, “You keep looking,” he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Figured I’d save you the trouble of pretending you don’t want to.”
She scoffs, but can’t deny it. She does want to. Desperately. But she’s mad at him. So, she says nothing. Just presses her lips together, turning her attention back to the screen like she isn’t thinking about climbing onto his lap and letting him pull her apart, little by little.
On the TV, the main characters are making out, sending her mind spinning relentlessly, fueling her sudden desire. Apparently, that’s enough for her to decide that she has to put an end to it, finally taking Lando’s advice and speak her mind. But he’s faster. His hands are reaching out for her, almost like they appeared out of nowhere, gripping her waist, effortlessly pulling her onto his lap.
A surprised gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t fight him, and doesn’t push him away. If anything, she melts just a little, legs instinctively settling on either side of his hips.
He looks up at her, fingers squeezing at her waist. “That’s better, hm?”
She glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I didn’t say you could touch me.”
Lando raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You didn’t say I couldn’t either,” he counters, sliding his hands down to grip her thighs, thumbs brushing tiny, teasing circles on her skin. “And you’re not exactly running away.”
She hates how smug he is. Hates how easily he sees through her act. Hates how good he looks right now.
But then his hands slide further up, fingertips ghosting over the curve of her ass, pressing her down against him just enough for her to feel him through the fabric of his sweats. And the feeling is… intense to say the least, since she’s only wearing an oversized t-shirt and her pajama shorts.
Lando watches her closely, aware of the effect he has on her. “Gonna tell me why you’re mad, or do I have to make you forget?”
She shouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But when he shifts beneath her, dragging her forward so deliciously slow, her resolve crumbles.
Her hands grip his shoulders, nails pressing in. “Shut up.”
“And?”
She closes her eyes, exasperated by his attitude, “Shut up and do something.”
Lando grins at her bluntness, fingers tightening on her hips as he rolls her against him again. “Ask nicely.”
She huffs annoyed, but so needy it aches. “Lando,” she warns in a low voice.
Lando shakes his head. “No, baby. You know how this works,” he reminds her, lips brushing against her neck as his hands keep guide her movements. “Use your words.”
She breathes lightly, head tipping back as the friction sends heat pooling low in her belly. “Please?”
“See, that’s a good start,” he chuckles, nipping at her jaw and dragging his tongue over the sting, “But I know you can do better.”
Her pride wars with her desperation, but it’s a losing battle. She needs more than that, and she knows he won’t give it to her until she breaks.
Next time she speaks, her voice is a whisper, breathy yet sweet, “I need you, please.”
He smirks as he watches her through his eyelashes, happy with the state he managed to put her in so easily. “There goes my girl.”
Lando can see the shift in her the second he finishes his sentence. It’s in the way frustration morphs into impatience, and how her breath hitches every time he grinds her against him but doesn’t give her what she really wants.
“I know you’re enjoying this, but there’s no reason for you to take your sweet ass time, you know that,” she mutters, her voice edged with irritation.
Lando shrugs. “And you know I like watching you squirm.”
She rolls her eyes, but her body betrays her — again and again. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, while her thighs tense around his waist. With a sharp exhale, she moves on her own now, hands sliding down between them, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. Lando follows her movements, amused, but doesn’t stop her as she pulls them down just enough to free him.
Her breath catches at the sight: he’s already hard, the head flushed deep red, leaking just slightly.
She glances back at him, brows raised, but Lando shrugs again, as if the reason is obvious. “You on my lap, begging? Kinda hard not to get… you know, hard.”
Her stomach clenches at his nonchalance, the way he acts like it’s inevitable. Like, of course he’d be this ready for her. Duh.
Lando exhales excited as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking just enough to make his hips twitch beneath her. His breath gets slightly unsteady after that, but his control remains.
“Getting bold now?” he asks, eyes locked on her as he pushes her shirt up just a little, tracing his fingers along the warm skin of her waist.
The girl doesn’t answer, just bites her lip as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of her shorts, dragging them down and letting them catch on the curve of her thighs before she kicks them away. That’s when the teasing glint in Lando’s eyes fades, replaced with something darker. He swallows hard, hands settling firm on her hips as he drinks her in.
“So soft,” he mumbles under his breath, mostly to himself.
She feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being half-naked. It’s like he’s seeing everything, because he knows her so deeply. Like he’s about to ruin her in the best way possible.
And she’s going to let him.
Lando wraps his hand around hers and, together, they pump his cock slowly, his gaze always on her, watching the way her body responds to the sight of it. Then he runs his thumb over the tip, spreading the bead of wetness there while he moves purposely, dragging the length of himself through her folds, groaning at how slick and warm she is.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to hers for a second, while she needs to hold on to him with both hands now. “You’re dripping.”
She whimpers as he does it again, sliding against her, teasing her clit with the thick head before pulling back, drawing out her frustration.
“Lando, don’t…” she whines, shifting against his chest, trying to get more of him.
Lando laughs, low and raspy, but his grip on her isn’t loosening one bit. “Patience, baby.”
“I need—”
“Yeah?” he cuts her off, pressing the head of his cock against her entrance this time, barely pushing in before pulling back out. “What? This what you need?”
Her stomach flips at the feeling, so raw, unable to spit out any words. Instead, she only manages to nod.
To show her that he appreciates her honesty, Lando guides her hips, dragging her along his length, pressing his swollen tip against her clit once more and holding her there. Without moving. She gasps, her whole body shuddering as the pressure sends sparks through her nerves.
Lando groans, feeling how she pulses against him, how her body aches for more. “Well, shit. That’s pretty,” he admits, watching her fall apart in his hands.
She lets a little cry out in protest, trying to push down, but he keeps her there, right on the edge of everything, everything.
“You gonna beg for it again?” he asks in a teasing voice.
She wants to fight him on it, but she can’t. Not when she’s this close to him, when every second of waiting feels like pure, unfiltered torture.
She shakes her head, her little cry turning into a throaty moan.
Lando gets ecstatic at the sound and the way her body shivers — so desperate, so utterly wrecked for him before he’s even inside her. For a split second, he considers giving in completely. But then he remembers she’s mad at him. Or at least, she was. And if she thinks she can get away with that attitude without consequence, she needs to understand that she’s sorely mistaken.
Instead of giving her what she wants, Lando kisses her. Hard. His lips crash into hers, swallowing the whimper of frustration that slips from her throat. He starts guiding her against him, harder now, making her ride the thick length of his cock without ever letting her sink onto it, the friction sweet but never enough. She tries to pull back, gasping against his mouth, but he doesn’t let her. One hand tangles in her hair, holding her close, keeping her exactly where he wants her.
Until her patience snaps and, with a sharp gasp, she bites his lip, just hard enough to make him hiss, her nails digging into his scalp as she pulls at his curls. Lando moans, a low, needy sound that strikes her like lightning. The sting, the fight, the way she’s clawing for a type of control she won’t get — not yet — motivates him to keep teasing her.
Annoyed, she lets her hand slip between them, fingers wrapping around his cock, slick and throbbing, before she finally sinks down onto him. Because, sometimes, the best thing you can do for yourself is to take matters into your own hands.
At that, both of them go silent.
Her body tightens around him instantly, the fullness of him stealing her breath, making her walls flutter as she adjusts to his length.
Lando’s forehead presses against hers, his lips parting with a violent inhale, his hands squeezing her hips.
“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, voice wrecked, “What buttons did I push?”
She doesn’t reply. Doesn’t move. Neither does he.
They just sit like that, their bodies locked together so perfectly it almost feels cruel to even blink. The fight, the frustration, the teasing… it all fades away in one moment, replaced by something more intense. Something profund.
When she shifts just slightly, Lando whines, feeling the way she clenches around him, and how perfectly they fit together. The thought makes him throb inside her, the heat of her making his pulse race.
She presses her forehead harder against his, her breath shaky. “Baby,” she whispers, “Shit, you feel so good.”
Lando opens his eyes, finding hers already on him.
For a second, he’s happy to simply look at her. Her flushed cheeks, the way her lips are swollen from his kisses, the way she’s barely holding herself together — everything about her is perfection. Then, he lifts her up, and the sudden rush of cool air against his cock makes him moan.
She shrieks at the emptiness, at the way her body aches to take him back. “Please, not now,” she pleads.
Before she can continue, he shoves himself back in, agonizingly slow, making her feel every inch of him as he stretches her again. As a result, her head falls forward, a desperate whimper breaking from her throat.
Lando keeps his eyes on her, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks, “Already falling apart, love? I’ve barely even started.”
She whines, arms wrapping around his neck, hips twitching like she wants more. Much more.
“This what you needed, yes?” Lando taunts, rolling his hips just enough to make her lose her mind. “You gonna stop being a brat now?”
She tries to answer, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. Lando smiles, dragging himself out just to push back in, watching her eyes flutter shut.
“No, no. Keep those pretty eyes open,” he instructs, nipping at her jaw, “Come on. I wanna watch you break for me.”
Because he is absolutely evil, Lando keeps it slow. Too slow.
Every roll of his hips is calculated, dragging himself out so she feel his cock slipping away, then pushing back in deep, filling her up so completely it makes her walls pulsate. She can’t do anything but take it, her senses overwhelmed by him — by the rough drag of his hands on her skin, the warmth of his breath against her lips, the filthy sound of their bodies meeting.
Then his hands move, sliding up from her waist, fingers tracing over her ribs before finally cupping her breasts. It makes her gasp, her back arching into his touch as his thumbs sweep over her nipples, teasing a little, then rolling them between his fingers.
“So sensitive, look at that,” says Lando, his voice thick with lust. “Are you shaking, baby?”
She is. Her thighs tremble where they straddle him, her whole body squeezing him with every slow thrust, every lazy swipe of his thumbs against her skin.
His gaze drops between them, and his breath stutters at the image. “Beautiful.”
She doesn’t understand at first, too lost in how slowly he fucks her, but then he guides her chin down, forcing her to look.
And oh, fuck.
She can see everything: the way her body stretches to take him in, the way she’s dripping down his entire length, making a mess on his lap, and the way her thighs are trembling on each side of him.
Lando’s heart starts beating faster, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her neck. “See how you’re fucking ruining me?”
She lets out a soft, broken moan, fingers playing absentmindedly with the curls at the back of his head, mostly to anchor herself in the moment.
“Lan…”
“I know, love,” his tongue flicks against her pulse point before he kisses her jaw. “Not so mad at me now, are you?”
Right now? No. She realizes she’s not. She can’t be. Not when he’s touching her like this, fucking into her with such lazy, devastating precision. Not when he’s whispering filth into her ear while looking at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters.
Her hands move, framing his face, tilting it up so she can kiss him again. But this time, their kiss is different. It’s not angry, not desperate, but tender and loving. A kiss that makes Lando’s grip falter, that steals the breath from his lungs and sends him to a new world that’s only inhabited by them.
She whimpers hungrily against his lips, and that’s what breaks him, because he knows he broke her first.
A guttural moan rumbles from his chest as his fingers dig into her thighs. And then he snaps. “Let me take care of you, baby,” he whispers next to her ear, thrusting into her harder. It takes her by surprise, the way he is holding her so tight like he’s trying to fuse them together. “Need you,” he adds.
The sudden change in pace fractures something in her brain to the point she can’t remember anything else except his name.
“It’s okay you’re mad,” Lando assures her. “You can be as mad as you want, yeah? All day, everyday,” he groans, voice wrecked. “I’m still gonna fuck you like this. Gonna give you exactly what you need. Whenever you need me, love.”
Her head falls back, a loud moan spilling from her lips as he loses himself in her, in the heat, the mess, and the way she clings to him.
“Always gonna take care of my girl,” he promises, sealing the words against her skin. “No matter what.”
She can feel his control slipping in the way his thrusts deepen, the rhythm faltering slightly as his breath becomes gradually uneven. He’s still trying to hold back, but she can tell he’s far from behaving. She feels his cock twitching so deliciously inside her, and the way his hands melt with her skin almost painfully on her hips. Every new sensation makes her dizzy, until it’s too much. The pressure building in her chest, the overwhelming feeling of him inside her, the way his hands start roaming over her skin, and his mouth leaving hot trails across her neck — all too much.
With a shaky breath, she collapses forward, her body unable to keep steady, falling against his chest as her hands slide weakly to his sides.
“I can’t,” she gasps, “Can’t hold myself up.”
Lando’s hands move immediately, his hold firm on her back, and voice filled with a deep urgency, “I got you, baby. You know I do.”
And then he flips them, his strength not-so-surprising as he rolls them onto the couch, her body now on her back with him above her. The new angle makes them both moan in unison, the sudden shift in depth making every movement feel sharper, more intense.
Lando’s hands find her thighs, pulling them apart so he can press deeper, pushing into her with a delicious force that makes her stomach tighten and her toes curl. The sound of their bodies slapping together fills the room — wet, sticky, perfect. Her hands reach up, gripping the back of the couch, her nails scratching at the fabric, trying to keep herself grounded as he fucks her harder.
“Fuck, baby,” Lando groans, his face flushed with sweat, his lips parted as he stares down at her, eyes wild with need. “You’re so fucking perfect, can’t get enough of you.”
She can feel him getting closer, the way his movements grow sloppier, more desperate, but there’s no slowing him down. He’s all in — in her, in the moment, and she can barely breathe under the weight of it all.
The sounds of their passion are unrestrained, loud, their breath ragged and frantic. It’s all they hear now: her moans, his grunts, the soft squeak of the couch beneath them. But as the tension starts to crack, she feels herself spiraling as closer to the edge as he is, and she finally feels the last remnants of her jealousy fade away.
She looks up at him, her vision blurry from the pleasure. “You… winked at the waiter.”
Lando freezes for just a moment, his thrusts shallow, and he looks down at her, confusion flickering in his eyes as he forces himself to regain control. “I did?” he breathes out wildly, his lips twitching with a laugh that’s barely contained.
She moans, biting her lip as she writhes under him, “Yes, when she came back with the wine,” she admits, her voice soft, barely a whisper. “It was so stupid, I wanted to throw it in your face.”
Lando finally laughs, a genuine chuckle, his face still flushed with pleasure. “Always so dramatic, aren’t you?” he asks, leaning down to kiss her lips before pulling back. “Wanted to be mad, but you’re too busy getting fucked to even care now, hm?”
She wants to argue, wants to tell him he’s being a cocky bastard, but the words get lost in the sound of her own moans as his rhythm picks up again, faster this time, his cock hitting places inside her that have her seeing stars.
“Oh,” she gasps, her voice full of the tension and the blinding pressure building in her chest, “I’m so... Fuck. I’m close.”
Lando doesn’t ease off. “I know, baby. I feel it.” He pushes her closer, his hands gripping her legs just right, his thrusts brutal and relentless. “Wanna come for me?”
She doesn’t have enough time to process his words. The wave hits her hard, crashing over her like an unstoppable force, and her body goes taut, every nerve lighting up as she cries out, her back arching off the couch as she cums around him.
And Lando isn’t far behind.
He slams into her once more, and then his head falls on her chest with a groan as he releases, the hot pulse of his cum filling her up just as her own orgasm shakes through her. Breathless, they stay like that, bodies joined, both of them tangled in the aftershocks of their release.
“Next time, don’t wink at other girls if you want to keep your eyes,” she finally says, feeling him softening inside her.
“Next time,” he whispers, still trying to catch his breath, “Don’t go non-verbal on me. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
She smiles weakly, pressing her lips to his. “You never mean it like that, do you?”
The air between them thickens, leaving behind an almost palpable silence. Affected by her last affirmation, Lando’s hands find home on her skin, the touch light, slightly hesitant, like he’s afraid to disrupt the fragile calm that’s settled between them.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She traces her fingers through his curls, her body feeling like a flame now, flickering gently after being ignited. There’s a warmth spreading from her chest, outwards, a comfort that soothes the storm inside her. But still, her heart races, and the lingering heat from their connection seems to hum through her veins.
Lando shifts, moving to pull her closer, his arms wrapping around her. She nestles into him, feeling the heat of his skin and the sweat against hers, the warmth of him grounding her.
“You okay?” she hears him again.
“Yeah... just needed a moment to catch my breath,” her voice is a soft murmur in his ears.
Lando smiles weakly, his lips curling with that familiar grin. He brushes a lock of hair from her face, fingers skimming her cheek like a whisper, and the gesture is enough to make her chest tighten.
“You’re everything I need, silly. Always.”
She knows that. And luckily, the storm inside her has subsided. “I’m sorry, too. For being stubborn,” she whispers, her voice full of a quiet vulnerability.
Lando chuckles, “Stubborn is an understatement.”
She lets out a breathless laugh. “Don’t push it.”
His hands, once firm and assertive, now trace delicate patterns over her skin, mapping every curve, every inch of her as though trying to imprint her into his soul. There is no need for words now, not anymore.
As Lando presses another soft kiss to her lips, she remembers why they will always be able to overcome any childish misunderstanding.
“I love you,” she says, her voice steady.
He smiles, feeling a familiar warmth spreading in his chest. And, instead of saying it back, Lando tilts his head slightly, meeting her gaze with a teasing smirk.
Then, he winks at her.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Thank you for reading!
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For VDay requests: Lando takes her to a nice dinner and she gets mad at him idk maybe he does something without realizing. And then they come back home and shes still pissed but he looks so good after he changes in his comfy clothes so they end up fucking on the couch or something but that's when she tells him why was she mad at him ❤🥀
Happy Valentine's Day guys xx
Torn on Valentine | LN⁴
💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you for this request, I actually had so much fun with it. Enjoy your reading and happy Valentine’s, my lovelies!!
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
🩷summary ──── Lando notices immediately that his girlfriend is angry with him. However, he has no idea why. But whatever the reason might be, he is determined to remind her exactly why she can't stay mad for long. It's Valentine’s Day, after all.
Lando had gone all out to make sure that won’t happen, starting the morning by waking her up with muffins in bed, the scent of vanilla still lingering in the sheets as he pressed lazy little kisses to her neck.
They spent the day walking around the city, and shopping, wandering through little boutiques where he insisted on buying her anything and everything she had laid her eyes on.
And then, la pièce de résistance: a fancy dinner at an exclusive restaurant, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A soft melody played from a piano in the corner, setting the perfect atmosphere. The food was great, the wine was good, and every detail screamed romance, from the flickering candle between them to the way Lando’s thumb traced tiny heart shapes on her hand as they talked, his eyes never leaving hers.
All in all, it had been perfect. Until he ruined it.
The moment was burned into her mind, replaying it over and over again, like a broken record. The waiter, a girl who had been a little too friendly with him all night, had leaned in when she refilled his wine at some point, brushing his shoulder with a touch that lingered for too long. And Lando, oblivious as ever, had winked at her.
Winked.
She knew her boyfriend. Knew he was clueless about these things, that his flirty nature wasn’t always intentional. But that didn’t make it sting any less. Because the waiter had noticed. She smirked at him, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and acted like his girlfriend wasn’t literally sitting on the other side of the table.
After that, she had gone silent.
The entire ride home, she stared out the window, with her arms crossed and lips pursed, and her knees facing the opposite way from him. Lando figured something was wrong ever since; he glanced at her between shifts, brows furrowing, but he didn’t say anything, probably thinking she was just tired.
Then they got home, and she had barely looked at him as she changed into something more comfortable, still replaying the scene in her head.
Had he done it on purpose? Probably not. But did it matter?
That’s… debatable. It mattered to her.
Deprived by every emotion except irritation, she followed Lando setting up his last surprise of the day — a cozy movie marathon on the couch, complete with fuzzy blankets, sweets and drinks, and a bunch of her favorite Valentine’s-themed movies ready to run.
Now, their apartment is quiet except for the hum of the TV that neither of them is really watching. The tension between them is thick, lingering in the air like a storm that hasn’t broken. Yet.
She breathes heavily, sitting curled up on the opposite side of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, and arms crossed over her chest. Lando, on the other side, is content to let her be.
Until he isn’t.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we playing the guessing game again?” he finally asks, voice edged with concern. He knows that she needs time to process whatever’s bothering her at the moment, but his patience has limits, too.
She doesn’t look at him, just shrugs as she lies, “Nothing’s wrong.”
Lando puffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Right. That’s why you’ve been side-eyeing me like I insulted your entire family ever since we got back. It’s annoying, you know? If you have something to say…” his voice trails off, but he feels a wave of anger building inside, so he decides to let go before making it worse.
Her jaw tightens.
She doesn’t want to give in, mostly because she knows that the reason why she’s mad is, well, kind of absurd. But at the same time, she’s frustrated in a way that isn’t just about her boyfriend winking at other girls. The weight of the week has been pressing down on her shoulders, and she needs something — him — but she’s too stubborn to say it. Especially now. Still, her eyes keep flickering down, lingering on the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips, the lazy way he’s sprawled out, legs spread wide.
He catches her looking, fighting a smile as he stretches his arms over the back of the couch. “You wanna sit on it?”
Her head snaps toward him, face heating instantly at his question. “What?”
Lando shrugs, “You keep looking,” he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Figured I’d save you the trouble of pretending you don’t want to.”
She scoffs, but can’t deny it. She does want to. Desperately. But she’s mad at him. So, she says nothing. Just presses her lips together, turning her attention back to the screen like she isn’t thinking about climbing onto his lap and letting him pull her apart, little by little.
On the TV, the main characters are making out, sending her mind spinning relentlessly, fueling her sudden desire. Apparently, that’s enough for her to decide that she has to put an end to it, finally taking Lando’s advice and speak her mind. But he’s faster. His hands are reaching out for her, almost like they appeared out of nowhere, gripping her waist, effortlessly pulling her onto his lap.
A surprised gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t fight him, and doesn’t push him away. If anything, she melts just a little, legs instinctively settling on either side of his hips.
He looks up at her, fingers squeezing at her waist. “That’s better, hm?”
She glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I didn’t say you could touch me.”
Lando raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You didn’t say I couldn’t either,” he counters, sliding his hands down to grip her thighs, thumbs brushing tiny, teasing circles on her skin. “And you’re not exactly running away.”
She hates how smug he is. Hates how easily he sees through her act. Hates how good he looks right now.
But then his hands slide further up, fingertips ghosting over the curve of her ass, pressing her down against him just enough for her to feel him through the fabric of his sweats. And the feeling is… intense to say the least, since she’s only wearing an oversized t-shirt and her pajama shorts.
Lando watches her closely, aware of the effect he has on her. “Gonna tell me why you’re mad, or do I have to make you forget?”
She shouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But when he shifts beneath her, dragging her forward so deliciously slow, her resolve crumbles.
Her hands grip his shoulders, nails pressing in. “Shut up.”
“And?”
She closes her eyes, exasperated by his attitude, “Shut up and do something.”
Lando grins at her bluntness, fingers tightening on her hips as he rolls her against him again. “Ask nicely.”
She huffs annoyed, but so needy it aches. “Lando,” she warns in a low voice.
Lando shakes his head. “No, baby. You know how this works,” he reminds her, lips brushing against her neck as his hands keep guide her movements. “Use your words.”
She breathes lightly, head tipping back as the friction sends heat pooling low in her belly. “Please?”
“See, that’s a good start,” he chuckles, nipping at her jaw and dragging his tongue over the sting, “But I know you can do better.”
Her pride wars with her desperation, but it’s a losing battle. She needs more than that, and she knows he won’t give it to her until she breaks.
Next time she speaks, her voice is a whisper, breathy yet sweet, “I need you, please.”
He smirks as he watches her through his eyelashes, happy with the state he managed to put her in so easily. “There goes my girl.”
Lando can see the shift in her the second he finishes his sentence. It’s in the way frustration morphs into impatience, and how her breath hitches every time he grinds her against him but doesn’t give her what she really wants.
“I know you’re enjoying this, but there’s no reason for you to take your sweet ass time, you know that,” she mutters, her voice edged with irritation.
Lando shrugs. “And you know I like watching you squirm.”
She rolls her eyes, but her body betrays her — again and again. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, while her thighs tense around his waist. With a sharp exhale, she moves on her own now, hands sliding down between them, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. Lando follows her movements, amused, but doesn’t stop her as she pulls them down just enough to free him.
Her breath catches at the sight: he’s already hard, the head flushed deep red, leaking just slightly.
She glances back at him, brows raised, but Lando shrugs again, as if the reason is obvious. “You on my lap, begging? Kinda hard not to get… you know, hard.”
Her stomach clenches at his nonchalance, the way he acts like it’s inevitable. Like, of course he’d be this ready for her. Duh.
Lando exhales excited as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking just enough to make his hips twitch beneath her. His breath gets slightly unsteady after that, but his control remains.
“Getting bold now?” he asks, eyes locked on her as he pushes her shirt up just a little, tracing his fingers along the warm skin of her waist.
The girl doesn’t answer, just bites her lip as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of her shorts, dragging them down and letting them catch on the curve of her thighs before she kicks them away. That’s when the teasing glint in Lando’s eyes fades, replaced with something darker. He swallows hard, hands settling firm on her hips as he drinks her in.
“So soft,” he mumbles under his breath, mostly to himself.
She feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being half-naked. It’s like he’s seeing everything, because he knows her so deeply. Like he’s about to ruin her in the best way possible.
And she’s going to let him.
Lando wraps his hand around hers and, together, they pump his cock slowly, his gaze always on her, watching the way her body responds to the sight of it. Then he runs his thumb over the tip, spreading the bead of wetness there while he moves purposely, dragging the length of himself through her folds, groaning at how slick and warm she is.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to hers for a second, while she needs to hold on to him with both hands now. “You’re dripping.”
She whimpers as he does it again, sliding against her, teasing her clit with the thick head before pulling back, drawing out her frustration.
“Lando, don’t…” she whines, shifting against his chest, trying to get more of him.
Lando laughs, low and raspy, but his grip on her isn’t loosening one bit. “Patience, baby.”
“I need—”
“Yeah?” he cuts her off, pressing the head of his cock against her entrance this time, barely pushing in before pulling back out. “What? This what you need?”
Her stomach flips at the feeling, so raw, unable to spit out any words. Instead, she only manages to nod.
To show her that he appreciates her honesty, Lando guides her hips, dragging her along his length, pressing his swollen tip against her clit once more and holding her there. Without moving. She gasps, her whole body shuddering as the pressure sends sparks through her nerves.
Lando groans, feeling how she pulses against him, how her body aches for more. “Well, shit. That’s pretty,” he admits, watching her fall apart in his hands.
She lets a little cry out in protest, trying to push down, but he keeps her there, right on the edge of everything, everything.
“You gonna beg for it again?” he asks in a teasing voice.
She wants to fight him on it, but she can’t. Not when she’s this close to him, when every second of waiting feels like pure, unfiltered torture.
She shakes her head, her little cry turning into a throaty moan.
Lando gets ecstatic at the sound and the way her body shivers — so desperate, so utterly wrecked for him before he’s even inside her. For a split second, he considers giving in completely. But then he remembers she’s mad at him. Or at least, she was. And if she thinks she can get away with that attitude without consequence, she needs to understand that she’s sorely mistaken.
Instead of giving her what she wants, Lando kisses her. Hard. His lips crash into hers, swallowing the whimper of frustration that slips from her throat. He starts guiding her against him, harder now, making her ride the thick length of his cock without ever letting her sink onto it, the friction sweet but never enough. She tries to pull back, gasping against his mouth, but he doesn’t let her. One hand tangles in her hair, holding her close, keeping her exactly where he wants her.
Until her patience snaps and, with a sharp gasp, she bites his lip, just hard enough to make him hiss, her nails digging into his scalp as she pulls at his curls. Lando moans, a low, needy sound that strikes her like lightning. The sting, the fight, the way she’s clawing for a type of control she won’t get — not yet — motivates him to keep teasing her.
Annoyed, she lets her hand slip between them, fingers wrapping around his cock, slick and throbbing, before she finally sinks down onto him. Because, sometimes, the best thing you can do for yourself is to take matters into your own hands.
At that, both of them go silent.
Her body tightens around him instantly, the fullness of him stealing her breath, making her walls flutter as she adjusts to his length.
Lando’s forehead presses against hers, his lips parting with a violent inhale, his hands squeezing her hips.
“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, voice wrecked, “What buttons did I push?”
She doesn’t reply. Doesn’t move. Neither does he.
They just sit like that, their bodies locked together so perfectly it almost feels cruel to even blink. The fight, the frustration, the teasing… it all fades away in one moment, replaced by something more intense. Something profund.
When she shifts just slightly, Lando whines, feeling the way she clenches around him, and how perfectly they fit together. The thought makes him throb inside her, the heat of her making his pulse race.
She presses her forehead harder against his, her breath shaky. “Baby,” she whispers, “Shit, you feel so good.”
Lando opens his eyes, finding hers already on him.
For a second, he’s happy to simply look at her. Her flushed cheeks, the way her lips are swollen from his kisses, the way she’s barely holding herself together — everything about her is perfection. Then, he lifts her up, and the sudden rush of cool air against his cock makes him moan.
She shrieks at the emptiness, at the way her body aches to take him back. “Please, not now,” she pleads.
Before she can continue, he shoves himself back in, agonizingly slow, making her feel every inch of him as he stretches her again. As a result, her head falls forward, a desperate whimper breaking from her throat.
Lando keeps his eyes on her, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks, “Already falling apart, love? I’ve barely even started.”
She whines, arms wrapping around his neck, hips twitching like she wants more. Much more.
“This what you needed, yes?” Lando taunts, rolling his hips just enough to make her lose her mind. “You gonna stop being a brat now?”
She tries to answer, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. Lando smiles, dragging himself out just to push back in, watching her eyes flutter shut.
“No, no. Keep those pretty eyes open,” he instructs, nipping at her jaw, “Come on. I wanna watch you break for me.”
Because he is absolutely evil, Lando keeps it slow. Too slow.
Every roll of his hips is calculated, dragging himself out so she feel his cock slipping away, then pushing back in deep, filling her up so completely it makes her walls pulsate. She can’t do anything but take it, her senses overwhelmed by him — by the rough drag of his hands on her skin, the warmth of his breath against her lips, the filthy sound of their bodies meeting.
Then his hands move, sliding up from her waist, fingers tracing over her ribs before finally cupping her breasts. It makes her gasp, her back arching into his touch as his thumbs sweep over her nipples, teasing a little, then rolling them between his fingers.
“So sensitive, look at that,” says Lando, his voice thick with lust. “Are you shaking, baby?”
She is. Her thighs tremble where they straddle him, her whole body squeezing him with every slow thrust, every lazy swipe of his thumbs against her skin.
His gaze drops between them, and his breath stutters at the image. “Beautiful.”
She doesn’t understand at first, too lost in how slowly he fucks her, but then he guides her chin down, forcing her to look.
And oh, fuck.
She can see everything: the way her body stretches to take him in, the way she’s dripping down his entire length, making a mess on his lap, and the way her thighs are trembling on each side of him.
Lando’s heart starts beating faster, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her neck. “See how you’re fucking ruining me?”
She lets out a soft, broken moan, fingers playing absentmindedly with the curls at the back of his head, mostly to anchor herself in the moment.
“Lan…”
“I know, love,” his tongue flicks against her pulse point before he kisses her jaw. “Not so mad at me now, are you?”
Right now? No. She realizes she’s not. She can’t be. Not when he’s touching her like this, fucking into her with such lazy, devastating precision. Not when he’s whispering filth into her ear while looking at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters.
Her hands move, framing his face, tilting it up so she can kiss him again. But this time, their kiss is different. It’s not angry, not desperate, but tender and loving. A kiss that makes Lando’s grip falter, that steals the breath from his lungs and sends him to a new world that’s only inhabited by them.
She whimpers hungrily against his lips, and that’s what breaks him, because he knows he broke her first.
A guttural moan rumbles from his chest as his fingers dig into her thighs. And then he snaps. “Let me take care of you, baby,” he whispers next to her ear, thrusting into her harder. It takes her by surprise, the way he is holding her so tight like he’s trying to fuse them together. “Need you,” he adds.
The sudden change in pace fractures something in her brain to the point she can’t remember anything else except his name.
“It’s okay you’re mad,” Lando assures her. “You can be as mad as you want, yeah? All day, everyday,” he groans, voice wrecked. “I’m still gonna fuck you like this. Gonna give you exactly what you need. Whenever you need me, love.”
Her head falls back, a loud moan spilling from her lips as he loses himself in her, in the heat, the mess, and the way she clings to him.
“Always gonna take care of my girl,” he promises, sealing the words against her skin. “No matter what.”
She can feel his control slipping in the way his thrusts deepen, the rhythm faltering slightly as his breath becomes gradually uneven. He’s still trying to hold back, but she can tell he’s far from behaving. She feels his cock twitching so deliciously inside her, and the way his hands melt with her skin almost painfully on her hips. Every new sensation makes her dizzy, until it’s too much. The pressure building in her chest, the overwhelming feeling of him inside her, the way his hands start roaming over her skin, and his mouth leaving hot trails across her neck — all too much.
With a shaky breath, she collapses forward, her body unable to keep steady, falling against his chest as her hands slide weakly to his sides.
“I can’t,” she gasps, “Can’t hold myself up.”
Lando’s hands move immediately, his hold firm on her back, and voice filled with a deep urgency, “I got you, baby. You know I do.”
And then he flips them, his strength not-so-surprising as he rolls them onto the couch, her body now on her back with him above her. The new angle makes them both moan in unison, the sudden shift in depth making every movement feel sharper, more intense.
Lando’s hands find her thighs, pulling them apart so he can press deeper, pushing into her with a delicious force that makes her stomach tighten and her toes curl. The sound of their bodies slapping together fills the room — wet, sticky, perfect. Her hands reach up, gripping the back of the couch, her nails scratching at the fabric, trying to keep herself grounded as he fucks her harder.
“Fuck, baby,” Lando groans, his face flushed with sweat, his lips parted as he stares down at her, eyes wild with need. “You’re so fucking perfect, can’t get enough of you.”
She can feel him getting closer, the way his movements grow sloppier, more desperate, but there’s no slowing him down. He’s all in — in her, in the moment, and she can barely breathe under the weight of it all.
The sounds of their passion are unrestrained, loud, their breath ragged and frantic. It’s all they hear now: her moans, his grunts, the soft squeak of the couch beneath them. But as the tension starts to crack, she feels herself spiraling as closer to the edge as he is, and she finally feels the last remnants of her jealousy fade away.
She looks up at him, her vision blurry from the pleasure. “You… winked at the waiter.”
Lando freezes for just a moment, his thrusts shallow, and he looks down at her, confusion flickering in his eyes as he forces himself to regain control. “I did?” he breathes out wildly, his lips twitching with a laugh that’s barely contained.
She moans, biting her lip as she writhes under him, “Yes, when she came back with the wine,” she admits, her voice soft, barely a whisper. “It was so stupid, I wanted to throw it in your face.”
Lando finally laughs, a genuine chuckle, his face still flushed with pleasure. “Always so dramatic, aren’t you?” he asks, leaning down to kiss her lips before pulling back. “Wanted to be mad, but you’re too busy getting fucked to even care now, hm?”
She wants to argue, wants to tell him he’s being a cocky bastard, but the words get lost in the sound of her own moans as his rhythm picks up again, faster this time, his cock hitting places inside her that have her seeing stars.
“Oh,” she gasps, her voice full of the tension and the blinding pressure building in her chest, “I’m so... Fuck. I’m close.”
Lando doesn’t ease off. “I know, baby. I feel it.” He pushes her closer, his hands gripping her legs just right, his thrusts brutal and relentless. “Wanna come for me?”
She doesn’t have enough time to process his words. The wave hits her hard, crashing over her like an unstoppable force, and her body goes taut, every nerve lighting up as she cries out, her back arching off the couch as she cums around him.
And Lando isn’t far behind.
He slams into her once more, and then his head falls on her chest with a groan as he releases, the hot pulse of his cum filling her up just as her own orgasm shakes through her. Breathless, they stay like that, bodies joined, both of them tangled in the aftershocks of their release.
“Next time, don’t wink at other girls if you want to keep your eyes,” she finally says, feeling him softening inside her.
“Next time,” he whispers, still trying to catch his breath, “Don’t go non-verbal on me. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
She smiles weakly, pressing her lips to his. “You never mean it like that, do you?”
The air between them thickens, leaving behind an almost palpable silence. Affected by her last affirmation, Lando’s hands find home on her skin, the touch light, slightly hesitant, like he’s afraid to disrupt the fragile calm that’s settled between them.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She traces her fingers through his curls, her body feeling like a flame now, flickering gently after being ignited. There’s a warmth spreading from her chest, outwards, a comfort that soothes the storm inside her. But still, her heart races, and the lingering heat from their connection seems to hum through her veins.
Lando shifts, moving to pull her closer, his arms wrapping around her. She nestles into him, feeling the heat of his skin and the sweat against hers, the warmth of him grounding her.
“You okay?” she hears him again.
“Yeah... just needed a moment to catch my breath,” her voice is a soft murmur in his ears.
Lando smiles weakly, his lips curling with that familiar grin. He brushes a lock of hair from her face, fingers skimming her cheek like a whisper, and the gesture is enough to make her chest tighten.
“You’re everything I need, silly. Always.”
She knows that. And luckily, the storm inside her has subsided. “I’m sorry, too. For being stubborn,” she whispers, her voice full of a quiet vulnerability.
Lando chuckles, “Stubborn is an understatement.”
She lets out a breathless laugh. “Don’t push it.”
His hands, once firm and assertive, now trace delicate patterns over her skin, mapping every curve, every inch of her as though trying to imprint her into his soul. There is no need for words now, not anymore.
As Lando presses another soft kiss to her lips, she remembers why they will always be able to overcome any childish misunderstanding.
“I love you,” she says, her voice steady.
He smiles, feeling a familiar warmth spreading in his chest. And, instead of saying it back, Lando tilts his head slightly, meeting her gaze with a teasing smirk.
Then, he winks at her.
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Thank you for reading!
None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎
Maybe I’m just built different because I would choose “I’ve read all of these, I set them aside for you. Perhaps you might share your thoughts on them” over any other declarations of love on the show.
Description: You're Lando Norris's personal assistant, which means your job description includes three things: fixing his disasters, answering his calls at ungodly hours, and definitely not thinking about kissing your boss. The first two you're great at. The third one? That's becoming a problem.
Genre: lando being a little shit, he does not hide that he wants ur kitty, angst, fingering during meetings, fucking in hotel rooms, why are we fighting every 2 minutes
WC: 24k
Your phone rings at 3 AM, which can only mean one thing. Lando Norris calling, which means this is going to be so much worse than any text could ever convey. You stare at the ceiling of your Monaco apartment, counting to ten in three different languages before you answer. It's a technique you've perfected over the past several years of working for Lando, which requires a special kind of patience-building exercise that keeps you from committing what would definitely be classified as justifiable homicide.
Not that you'd get away with it. You probably would, actually, but that's beside the point.
"Lando," you answer, voice flat as the fucking pavement. "Unless you're currently on fire or have been kidnapped, this can wait until morning."
"Wow, so you'd just let me burn?" His voice comes through warm and sleep-rough and far too chipper for 3 in the fucking morning. There's an echo to it, the telltale acoustics of an airport terminal, and you curse under your breath. He's supposed to be on a flight right now. He's supposed to be thirty thousand feet in the air, unconscious, not bothering you.
"That's cold," he adds, and you can hear the grin in his voice, "noted for future reference."
You close your eyes. "Where are you?"
"So , uhm, I'm in Bahrain—"
"You're supposed to be in Monaco."
"—yeah, about that," he continues as if you haven't spoken at all, and you can hear the grin in his voice. The bastard thinks this is funny. He thinks this is hilarious. "I might've gotten on the wrong plane."
You sit up. God, you hate your life. You hate your job. You hate that you're awake right now. Most of all, you hate that you aren't even surprised. "You might have what?"
"Okay, I definitely got on the wrong plane," he amends, and there's a rustling sound like he's shifting his phone to his other ear. "But in my defense, the vodka Red Bulls at the airport were really strong, and Oscar dared me to see if I could get through security in under thirty seconds, and then there was this really fit flight attendant who asked if I needed help finding my gate, so ya'know, being the gentleman I am—"
You cut him off before he can finish that sentence. "Lando."
"—and I said yes obviously, because I'm not rude, and she was smiling at me with that smile, you know the one the ladies use—"
"Lando."
"—where it's like, super flirty but also professional? And she had these eyes that were doing this thing—"
"Lando."
He stops. You can practically hear him smirking through the phone, can picture the exact expression on his face, the one that makes you want to strangle him with your bare hands. "Yes?" He says it so innocently, so fucking sweetly, like he hasn't just woken you up at 3 AM to tell you he's on the wrong continent. "That's my name, by the way. Love it when you say it like that. Especially when you're all angry and you do that thing where your voice gets all—"
"What," you interrupt, jaw clenched, "do you need."
"See? That. That right there." He's definitely smirking now. You want to throw your phone into the Mediterranean Sea. You want to throw him into the Mediterranean Sea. "Makes me feel things."
You don't dignify that with a response.
"Anyway," he continues, undeterred as always, "I need you to book me a flight back and maybe fix things with my sponsor who I was supposed to meet with—"
There's a pause. You hear him ask someone in the background, "Mate, what time is it? Cheers."
Then, back to you, far too casually, "Yeah, so about four hours ago."
"Stay where you are," you cut him off, already climbing out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you're already mentally running through which contacts you'll need to grovel to at this hour. "I'll handle it."
"Ooh, so commanding." His voice drops lower, teasing in that way that makes you want to reach through the phone and— "Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I special?"
"You're something."
"I'll take it." You can hear the smile in his voice, warm and infuriating and so fucking pleased with himself. "Knew you loved me."
"That's not what I said."
"Didn't have to," he replies, like it's obvious, like you've just confirmed something he's always known. "I can read between the lines. It's one of my many talents, actually, along with being really good at driving and also being really good at—"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait wait wait," he says quickly, and there's something slightly different in his voice now, less performative. "Will you actually fix it? With the sponsor? I know I fucked up."
You pause at your bedroom door. This is the thing about Lando that makes it impossible to actually hate him, just when you think he's completely oblivious, completely wrapped up in his own chaos, he does this, acknowledges the mess, trusts you to fix it. Doesn't apologize—he never apologizes—but asks anyway.
"I'll handle it," you repeat, softer this time. You shouldn't be softer. "Just stay at the airport, Lando. And please, for the love of god, do not get on any more planes."
"Yes, ma'am." He's back to teasing, just like that, the moment already gone. "Love it when you boss me around, by the way. Should I call you boss? Or do you prefer something else? I'm pretty flexible."
"Goodbye, Lando."
"Wait," But you're already pulling the phone away from your ear when you hear him say, "You're incredible, you know that?"
You pause and your thumb hovers over the end call button.
"I'm serious," he adds, but his voice hasn't gone soft. He sounds exactly the same—amused, chaotic, like he's grinning on the other end. Like he's always grinning. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm including my first win in that statement. Don't let it go to your head, though."
You exhale through your nose.
"Without me, you'd probably still be in Bahrain," you say finally. "Go drink some water. I'll text you the flight details."
"Aw, you care about my hydration levels." He sounds delighted. "That's basically a love language, ya' know."
You hang up and your apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of waves and your own heartbeat, which is doing something annoying in your chest. You pad into your kitchen with its view of the Mediterranean that you never get to enjoy because you're always putting out fires that Lando starts.
Metaphorical fires, mostly. Though there was that one incident in Singapore that the team agreed to never speak of again. Your laptop boots up as you make coffee, strong, black. The blue light illuminates your face as you pull up his schedule, his flight options, draft what will be a very apologetic email to the sponsor he's just stood up.
You've written variations of this email so many times you could probably do it in your sleep. Maybe you are doing it in your sleep. Is this a nightmare? It would make sense if this was a nightmare.
This is your life now. Has been your life for years, actually, and you still haven't figured out how you ended up here—awake at 3 AM, fixing problems for a man who gets on the wrong plane because a flight attendant smiled at him.
At least the pay is good.
Lando's apartment looks like someone gave a golden retriever a Black Amex and thirty minutes in an interior design showroom. You let yourself in with the key he gave you three months ago. The fifth time he'd locked himself out, he'd just shrugged and said "might as well" and handed you a spare.
The hallway opens into the main living space, there’s framed F1 car prints lining the walls in that papaya orange that's burned into your retinas at this point, there's a gym bag spilling protein powder across the hallway floor. His helmet collection sits in a backlit display case like he's running a museum dedicated just to himself. There's a DJ setup gathering dust by the windows, you've seen him use it exactly twice, both times drunk off his ass at 2 AM, and both times his neighbors complained.
"Lando?" You call out, toeing off your shoes by the door. "Meeting's in two hours. We need to go over your schedule."
There's a crash from deeper in the apartment, followed by a string of curses. "Fuck—shit—"
"Are you dying?"
"Kitchen! And don't come in, I'm basically naked!"
You head straight for the kitchen. When Lando Norris tells you not to do something, it's usually because he's already done that exact thing and it's gone horribly wrong.
The kitchen is all white cabinets and black marble countertops, which are pristine nine out of ten times because Lando doesn't cook. Can't cook, more accurately. He once tried to make toast and somehow set off the fire alarm. Yes, he texted you for help. No, you don't want to talk about it.
A single trainer sits in the sink for some reason, and you don't ask.
When you round the corner into the kitchen, you stop dead. He's at the island, fresh out of the shower. Water drips from his hair onto his bare shoulders, trailing down his chest, then his stomach, catching the morning light filtering through the windows. The towel around his hips is slung so low you can see the sharp V of his hipbones—that line of muscle that disappears beneath white cotton.
He's holding a yogurt container in one hand, spoon in the other, staring at both like he's forgotten how they work together.
"Ha! Told you not to come in," he says, grinning like he just won pole position, "but you did anyway, so this is on you."
You're staring. You know you're staring. His hair's dripping water onto the counter. There's a droplet sliding down his collarbone, another one trailing down his abs, and your brain has just completely fucking blue-screened.
"Put a shirt on."
"That's not an answer about the yogurt."
"Lando."
"What? I just got out of the shower, it's my apartment." He takes a step closer and you can smell his body wash. "You're the one who walked in on me. Why, is this distracting or something? Am I being unprofessional?"
Yes. Extremely fucking yes. Your brain has completely shorted out and you're having thoughts that would get you fired, probably sued, definitely escorted out of the building by security.
"The sponsor meeting is in two hours and we need to prep." You force yourself to look at his face. Just his face. Nowhere else. His face is safe, except his mouth is doing that thing where he bites his bottom lip and that's not safe at all.
"I'm listening. Go ahead, prep me." He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps flex and you watch the muscle move under his skin and forget how to breathe.
"Can you put on clothes first?"
"Can't, actually. All my clothes are in the bedroom, and if I walk away now you'll just follow me there, won't you? And then we'll really be in trouble." His grin widens and you can see the exact moment the idea takes root in his head. "Unless that's what you want? I'm not opposed to it, for the record. Bedroom's got a better view anyway."
Your face goes hot. The back of your neck prickles with heat and you know he can see it, the flush creeping up from your collar. He looks fucking delighted with himself.
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what, exactly? Standing in my own kitchen in my own apartment after taking a shower? I mean, that's not a crime last time I checked." He picks up the yogurt container, squinting at the label. "Pretty sure it's fine, honestly. Smell test?"
He holds it out. You don't move.
"I'm not smelling your expired yogurt, Lando."
"See, this is the problem with our working relationship, there’s no trust whatsoever." He digs the spoon in and takes a bite, keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time. Then proceeds to maintain eye contact while he swallows. "Tastes fine to me. Bit tangy, yeah, but could be the expiration date, could be the flavor. Who's to say, really."
"You're going to give yourself food poisoning and then I'm going to have to explain to Zak why you can't make it to testing."
"Probably, but you'll take care of me though, won't you?" He sets the yogurt down and takes another step closer. Your feet stay planted to the floor. "I mean, that's literally your job, isn't it? Taking care of me."
"My job is managing your schedule, not nursing you through a bout of salmonella because you can't be bothered to check expiration dates."
"That's the same thing, basically." Another step and he's suddenly close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off his skin, see the little scar above his eyebrow from that karting crash when he was twelve that he always brings up. Smell that fucking body wash. "You're really good at taking care of me, you know that? Like, really fucking good."
"You've mentioned it before."
"Yeah, but I don't think you get it, like, properly understand what I mean." His voice drops lower and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Like, really good. Better than anyone else I've ever worked with, honestly. Sometimes I do stupid shit just to see what you'll do, how you'll fix it. It's become kind of a thing for me."
"That's actually psychotic."
"Nah, that's half the fun of having you around." He tilts his head and his hair drips water onto your shoe. "You're blushing, by the way."
"I'm not blushing."
"You absolutely are, it's very cute actually. Goes all the way down your neck and," His eyes track down, following the flush of heat spreading across your skin, they linger at your collarbone and you feel on fire, everywhere. "Makes me wonder how far down it actually goes."
Jesus fucking christ. "Lando."
"That's my name, yeah. You know, you say it a lot when you're flustered, I've noticed. It's sort of hot, actually, the way your voice gets all tight and annoyed, like you're trying really hard not to tell me to fuck off."
"I am trying really hard not to tell you to fuck off."
"See? Exactly like that, perfect example." Water drips from his hair onto your shoulder. "Want to know a secret?"
"Not particularly, no."
"I think about you a lot." His voice shifts, goes softer. "Like, more than is probably normal for a boss-employee situation, if I'm being honest. Definitely more than my PR team would be comfortable with if they knew."
Your heart's slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. "You're jetlagged from the flight."
"I'm not jetlagged."
"You're delirious from expired yogurt, clearly."
"I'm completely lucid, I promise you." He reaches out and catches the hem of your shirt between his fingers. Doesn't pull you closer, just holds the fabric. His thumb brushes against your hip through the cotton. "You're avoiding the question."
"You didn't ask a question."
You've spent two years trying to resist this. This pull. This gravity. Lando Norris is a black hole and you've been orbiting him, getting closer and closer, knowing eventually you'll cross the event horizon and there will be no coming back.
"Do you think about me?" The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache. "When you're not working, when you're doing normal people shit, do you ever just think, 'Wonder what that dickhead Lando is doing right now?'"
"Jesus, Lando." You take a breath, trying to find some semblance of professionalism. "This is so unprofessional. You know that, right?"
"Maybe." He tips his head back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes, and there's something mischievous in his expression, a little pout, a lot of trouble. Like he knows exactly what he's doing and doesn't give a single shit about it. And, you hate to admit that you do think about him. Constantly. When you're at the grocery store and his favorite energy drink is on sale. When you're watching Netflix at 11 PM and some comedian makes a joke he'd absolutely lose his shit over. When you're lying in bed at 3 AM and your phone lights up and before you even look you know it's him.
But you're not giving him that, not a chance. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, wetting it, and your eyes track the movement before you can stop yourself.
"See?" His grin turns absolutely wicked. "You can't even resist me right now."
"Oh my god." You roll your eyes so hard it hurts and step back, pulling your shirt free from his fingers. "Clean up your yogurt. I'm getting you a shirt."
"Wait, no—"
"Lando."
"But I like being shirtless around you," he whines, actually whines like a child. "You're so fun to tease when I'm shirtless."
"Shirt. Now. Where are they?"
He sighs dramatically, slumping against the counter. "Second drawer. The tall one. But for the record, this is cruel and unusual punishment and I'm going to file a complaint with HR."
"You don't have an HR department."
"Then I'll make one just to file a complaint." He's grinning again as you head toward his bedroom. "Make sure you grab the tight one! The black one! You know which one I mean!"
You absolutely know which one he means and you're absolutely not grabbing that one. His bedroom is somehow even more ridiculous than the rest of the apartment. The bed's massive, unmade, sheets tangled like he's been fighting them. There's a sim racing rig in the corner, and trophies line the floating shelves on the wall. A Quadrant hoodie draped over his gaming chair.
You find the dresser and pull open the second drawer. It's full of McLaren team shirts and regular t-shirts. You deliberately avoid the tight black one you know he's talking about and grab a loose grey one instead. When you walk back into the kitchen, he's still leaning against the counter, yogurt untouched, grinning at you.
"That's not the shirt I asked for."
"Clean. Up. Your. Yogurt."
"So bossy." But he's already moving, grabbing paper towels, wiping up the mess. You toss the shirt at his head and it hits him square in the face.
"Ow. Violent."
"Put it on."
"What if I don't want to?" He's holding the shirt but not putting it on, just watching you with that infuriating smirk.
"Then I'm leaving and you can explain to Zak why you missed another sponsor meeting."
"Fine, fine." He pulls the shirt on and yeah, even the loose one looks good on him. His hair's now sticking up from where the fabric messed it up. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic. Do you want coffee?"
"You're really gonna make me coffee after I've been such a terrible boss?" He's following you to the coffee maker like a puppy.
"I'm going to make myself coffee and you can have some if you shut up for five minutes."
"I don't think I can shut up for five minutes. That's asking a lot." He watches you work, and you can feel his eyes on you. "You know how I like it though, right?"
"Two sugars, oat milk, unfortunately yes, I've memorized your terrible taste in coffee."
"It's not terrible, it's refined."
"It' tastes like ass."
"But you make it anyway." His voice has gone softer and you don't look at him. "Because you're sooooo good at taking care of me."
"Because I'm paid to take care of you."
"Yeah, yeah, same thing."
You hand him his mug and make your own. He takes a sip and makes a satisfied sound that you absolutely do not think about.
"So." You pull out your tablet, pull up your notes, try to look professional despite the fact that ten minutes ago he was basically naked and asking if you thought about him. "The meeting, let's go through the main talking points."
"Are you still thinking about it?"
"About the meeting, yeah obviously—"
"About kissing me."
Your face goes hot again. "Lando, I swear to god—"
"You've got all three tells going right now." He's grinning at you over his mug. "It's actually impressive. Didn't know you could do all three at once."
"Can we please focus?"
"I am focused. Very focused. Laser focused, actually." He sets his mug down. "Okay, tell you what. Let's make a bet."
"Absolutely not."
"If I'm perfect at this meeting and I mean perfect, no jokes, just straight on full professional Lando mode, you'll have to answer one question for me, and honestly."
You narrow your eyes. "What question?"
"That's the fun part. I'm not telling you until I win."
"You won't win. You're actually incapable of being professional for more than ten minutes."
"Bet." He holds out his hand, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Come on, unless you're scared."
You take his hand. His palm's warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel. He holds on just a second too long, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"You're gonna regret this."
"Maybe." His grin is absolutely feral. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"
The sponsor meeting is in a conference room at the McLaren Technology Centre, and you arrive fifteen minutes early because Lando's never early to anything, which means you need to be early enough for both of you. Except for the fact that when you walk through the door, he's already there.
Sitting at the table. In a button-down shirt. Looking through the presentation materials like he actually cares about the quarterly projections.
"You're early," you say, and trying your best to not sound surprised.
"Yeah, well." He glances up and grins, but it's not his usual grin. "Got a bet to win, don't I?"
The sponsors arrive, there's two executives from Monster, all business suits and firm handshakes. Lando stands, smiles, does the whole being offensively charming thing. But it's different, he's actually fucking trying. You can't believe your goddamn eyes.
You sit in the corner with your tablet, taking notes, watching him work and it's fucking unsettling. He answers their questions perfectly. He's articulate, focused on them, doesn't make a single inappropriate joke. Doesn't even bother to check his phone. You've genuinely never seen this version of him before. You've seen him hungover at sponsor brunches, making jokes about his own driving. You've seen him show up twenty minutes late with his shirt on backwards. You've seen him accidentally insult a CEO's tie and then somehow charm his way out of it.
But this? This is someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who's prepared. Someone who knows exactly what he's doing and how to do it. It's terrifying because if he can be this professional, this focused, this put-together, then every other time he's been a disaster, he's been choosing to be a disaster. Which means his chaos is intentional. Which means when he shows up at your apartment at midnight because he locked himself out, when he calls you at 3 AM from the wrong country, when he stands in his kitchen in a towel asking if you think about him.
Jesus, when did it get so hot in here? You take a deep breath, grabbing your notepad and begin to fan the paper in front of your face. It certainly does not help. When you come back to the conference room, Lando's leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the table, grinning at you. The real grin, the "I totally won this bet" grin, and you feel a sinking in the pit of your stomach.
"So," he says. "I win."
You take a deep breath, realizing you have to talk your way out of this. Lando Norris always wins, always gets what he wants, and you just handed him ammunition like the fucking idiot you are.
This is how it happens—not with you quitting, not with some dramatic resignation, but with you trapped in a conference room while he cashes in a bet you never should have made. You're going to lose your job. You're going to lose everything. You can already see it, the HR meeting, the severance package, the LinkedIn post about "pursuing new opportunities" that everyone will know means you fucked your boss and it ended badly.
"You didn't even last the full hour, there's still—"
"Nope. Meeting's over. come on, I mean I was perfect." He stands up, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up and you can see a strip of his stomach, the waistband of his boxers. "Which means you owe me an answer to one question. Honestly."
You open your mouth to protest, but he stops you. "Those were the terms." He's walking toward you now, and there's something predatory about it, like you're a corner he's about to take at full speed. "You shook on it."
"What's the question."
He stops right in front of you. Your throat tightens and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, dark against the tan of his skin. His goatee is slightly uneven, like he trimmed it himself this morning without really looking.
Your heart stops. Restarts. Stops again. "No."
"Liar." He takes a step closer. The movement is slow, deliberate, and you can feel the heat coming off his body. Your back hits the glass wall and it's cold, so cold compared to the warmth radiating from him. "Try again."
"Lando—"
"You promised to answer honestly." Another step and he's close enough now that you can smell his cologne properly—cedar and bergamot, but underneath there's something else. Something warm and slightly spicy. Amber, maybe, nonetheless, it makes your head swim, your chest ache. Water? You need water, holy water. "That was the deal."
"The deal was one question."
"And you didn't answer it." His hand comes up, bracing against the glass next to your head. Not touching you, but close enough that you can see the calluses on his palm, the white lines of old scars across his knuckles. "Do you want to kiss me? Yes or no."
Your mouth is dry. There's something throbbing low in your stomach, a pulse that matches your heartbeat. "This is so unprofessional."
"Uh-uh, not the right answer." His other hand comes up, caging you in. You can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat, the way his chest rises and falls. He's breathing faster than normal. "Come on. You're always so honest with me. So direct, let's not start lying now."
"I'm not."
"You are." He leans in and his nose brushes against your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and mint-fresh. "You're thinking about it right now. I can tell."
You realize you've stopped breathing. You inhale sharply and it's a mistake because all you can smell is him, that cologne, his own scent, it's consuming. Your head swirls, and you feel like at any moment now you might pass out. Bastard, what a fucking little shit.
"Lando, we can't."
"Why not?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. "Give me one good reason."
"You're my boss."
"Terrible reason. Next."
"This is the MTC, anyone could see us."
"Door's closed. Glass is tinted from the outside." His lips brush against your temple and you can feel your knees go weak. "Next."
"I—" Your voice cracks. There's heat everywhere he's close to you, like standing too near a fire. Your skin feels too tight and there's something pulsing between your legs and you press your thighs together. "This is a bad idea, very, very, bad idea."
"Probably." His hand moves from the glass to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. His skin is rough and warm and you can feel the drag of his calluses. "But you still haven't answered my question."
You can see the green in his eyes, flecks of blue catching the fluorescent light. His pupils are dilated, dark and wide. His lips are slightly parted and you can see the white of his teeth, the pink of his tongue when he wets his bottom lip.
"Yes." The word comes out broken, barely a whisper, and it feels like signing your own death warrant. You've just ended your career. You've just destroyed every carefully maintained professional boundary. You've just proven that you're exactly what people will call you when this inevitably falls apart—a personal assistant who couldn't keep her hands to herself, who thought she was special, who believed Lando Norris when he looked at her like she mattered.
"Yes what?" He's smiling now, that wicked grin that makes your stomach flip.
"Yes, I want to kiss you." Your hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. "Happy now?"
"Getting there." His thumb moves to your bottom lip, dragging across it slowly. You can feel every ridge of his fingerprint. "How long?"
"That wasn't the question."
A knock at the door shatters the moment like glass, and you both freeze. His thumb is still on your lip. His other hand is still pressed against the small of your back. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs.
You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Reality crashes back in like ice water. You're going to be sick. You're actually going to be sick.
"Lando?" It's Jon, his trainer. Another knock. "You in there? Got that debrief in five."
Lando closes his eyes and drops his forehead to yours. You feel him exhale, warm breath skating across your mouth.
"Yeah," he calls out, voice rough. "Be right there."
"Alright, mate. I'll head down, meet you there."
Footsteps retreat down the hallway and the silence that follows is deafening. Lando doesn't move. His thumb drags across your lip one more time, slower, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to bite back a sound. You're going to let him do this. You're going to let him ruin you in this conference room and you won't even fight it.
This is who you are now. This is what you've become. The personal assistant who spreads her legs when her boss decides he wants her. The woman who throws away everything she's worked for because Lando Norris smells good and knows exactly where to put his hands.
"We should," you start, but even you can hear how weak it sounds. How unconvincing.
"Yeah." But he still doesn't move. His eyes are so dark, pupils blown completely wide, and you can see yourself reflected in them, small and desperate and already lost. "We should."
Neither of you move. The moment stretches. You're waiting for him to step back, to release you, to let you salvage some microscopic shred of dignity. His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. You watch his throat work when he swallows, the muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers flex against your back, pressing in hard like he's restraining himself.
"Lando."
"I know." Finally, fucking finally, he steps back. Cold air rushes in where his body was and you almost whimper at the loss. "Debrief, yeah, it's fine, professional. We're professional." He runs a hand through his hair and it sticks up at odd angles. His shirt is wrinkled where your fists were twisted in the fabric. There's color high on his cheekbones, his neck.
You definitely look worse.
"You've got—" He reaches out and his thumb brushes your cheekbone. "Your makeup's smudged."
His touch is gentle but your skin feels like it's burning. You step sideways along the glass wall, putting distance between you, and your legs are shaking so badly you're amazed you're still standing.
"I'll fix it in the bathroom."`
"Yeah. Good. That's—yeah." He's staring at you like he's forgotten how to form sentences. "A good idea."
You smooth down your skirt with trembling hands. Your underwear is definitely ruined, you can feel how wet you are, slick and uncomfortable and god, you need to get out of this room before you do something stupid like beg him to finish what he started.
"I'll see you at the debrief," you manage.
"Yeah."
You make it to the door on shaking legs. Your hand is on the handle when he speaks again. "Hey."
You don't turn around. You can't turn around because if you look at him right now, you'll do something irreversible.
"This isn't over," he says quietly. "Just so you know."
Your fingers tighten on the door handle. "Lando."
"It's not." His voice is closer now. You feel him behind you, not touching but close enough that heat radiates between you. "I'm not going to push, but I'm not going to pretend that didn't just happen either."
You open the door and walk out without looking back, even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stay. The bathroom mirror shows exactly how fucked you are. Your makeup is smudged under one eye. Your lips are swollen like you've been biting them—you have been biting them. There are marks on your jaw, faint red patches where his stubble scraped against your skin. Your hair is messed up on one side. You look like you've been thoroughly compromised in a conference room.
You wet a paper towel and try to fix the damage, but your hands won't stop shaking. The cold water helps and you press wet palms to your cheeks, your neck, trying to calm the heat still racing through your body.
"Fuck," you whisper to no one.
Your reflection, however, doesn't provide any answers.
The debrief room is smaller than the conference room, it houses a table that seats maybe eight people, and when you walk in, Jon's already there, scrolling through his tablet. Zak's on a call in the corner. A few engineers you recognize but can't name, and Lando, sitting in the middle, looking completely normal, completely unphased.
He glances up when you enter and his face gives nothing away, like twenty minutes ago he didn't have you pinned against glass, asking you questions that made your brain melt.
"Hey," he says, easy and casual. "Saved you a seat." He taps the seat next to him and you want to barf. Instead, you sit your ass down and pull out your tablet. Your hands have stopped shaking. Your heartbeat has returned to normal. You've got this. You're totally, completely, fine.
Jon starts the debrief, pulling up performance data on the screen at the front of the room. Lando leans back in his chair, arms crossed, nodding along to whatever Jon's saying. He asks a question about the downforce. Proceeds to make a joke about Oscar's setup from the previous season and everyone laughs. He's completely normal, and a part of you is starting to think maybe you imagined the whole thing in the conference room when his hand lands on your thigh.
Not high up. Just above your knee, right over your skirt. Completely innocent if anyone looked. Except, his thumb has started moving in small circles. They're slow and deliberate, and the fabric of your skirt is thin enough that you can feel the heat of his palm, the exact pressure of each finger.
Your pen immediately stops moving, and while Jon is still talking, Lando continues to nod, asking more questions, all while his thumb keeps drawing circles.
Then his hand slides up, it's just an inch. Then another. Still over your skirt, still looks completely innocent, but it's higher now. Mid-thigh and the circles get wider, his thumb dragging across the fabric, and you can feel the heat spreading up through your body. You try to focus on Jon's words. Something about corner entry, but Lando's pinky finger stretches out, brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath stops completely.
His hand slides higher again and you reach down under the table and grab his wrist. Hard, and dig your nails into the flesh as a warning. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even look at you, just keeps nodding along to Jon's analysis, and his hand—his hand keeps fucking moving up, dragging yours with it now, until his fingers are high enough on your thigh that the edge of his pinky brushes against the hem of your skirt where it's ridden up.
"Thoughts on that setup change, Lando?" Jon asks.
"Yeah, makes sense. Should help with the understeer ." His voice is completely steady. His fingers flex against your thigh. "We can test it in the sim tomorrow, see how it feels." His thumb finds bare skin just above where your skirt has shifted, and the touch is like electricity straight up your spine.
You dig your nails harder into his wrist. He just turns his hand in your grip, twisting until his palm is up, and then his fingers thread through yours. Now you're holding hands on your thigh like this is something sweet, something innocent, except his thumb is stroking your bare skin in slow, deliberate circles and you know the fucker wants to go further.
Jon pulls up another slide. Lando shifts in his seat, angling toward you slightly like he's trying to see your tablet better. His knee presses against yours under the table. His fingers are on bare skin, halfway up your thigh, and if anyone looked under this table they'd see exactly what this is.
"What do you think about the tire strategy?" Zak's voice cuts through the haze in your brain.
You force yourself to look at your tablet. Force words to form. "The—uh—the medium-to-hard strategy should work for—"
Lando's thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner thigh and your voice cuts off.
"For the two-stop," you finish, and it comes out breathless.
Zak nods, and Jon begins talking about quali sims. Lando answers something about tire warm-up and his hand shifts higher, taking yours with it, and his pinky finger brushes against the edge of your panties. Your whole body goes rigid and as the fucker continues to talk, his pinky finger traces along the elastic edge of your panties. Then, just then, he hooks his finger under the elastic and pulls it aside.
Just barely. Just enough so that the cool air hits the wetness there, and oh god, you're so wet you can feel it, and his finger is right there, right at the edge, not touching where you need him but so fucking close. You're going to fucking kill him, actually kill him after this meeting.
"That sound good to you?" Jon's looking at you.
You have no fucking idea what he's asking about. "Yes. Sounds—sounds good."
Lando's finger slides through the wetness and you have to turn it into a cough, your hand flying to your mouth.
"You alright?" Zak asks.
"Fine. Sorry. Just," Lando's finger finds your clit and presses, and you actually make a sound, have to disguise it as clearing your throat. "Dry throat."
His finger starts moving in circles. "Someone get her some water," Zak says, and one of the engineers slides a bottle across the table.
You reach for it with your free hand, the one that's not trapped under the table tangled with Lando's while his other hand is between your legs. Your hand is shaking so badly water sloshes out when you try to drink. Lando's finger slides lower, dipping just barely inside you, and your thighs clench around his hand. He pulls back immediately and his thumb goes back to those slow circles on your inner thigh, over your underwear now, completely innocent again.
The message is crystal clear now: Stay still and behave, or I'll stop.
You force your legs to relax. Force yourself to breathe normally and his finger slides back, immediately pushing your underwear aside again, and this time when he touches your clit you manage to stay quiet, stay still, even though everything in your body is screaming.
Jon pulls up sector times. Lando adds commentary about his racing line through turn seven. His finger keeps moving in slow, devastating circles, and you're trying so hard to stay still, to stay quiet, but you're so wet you can hear it, and you're terrified everyone else can hear it too.
"I think we're good for now," Jon finally says. "Same time tomorrow for the sim session?"
"Sounds good." Lando's finger presses harder and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. "Looking forward to it."
People start standing up, gathering their tablets and personal belongings. Lando's hand disappears from between your legs so fast you almost whimper at the loss, but he's already standing, stretching casually like nothing happened.
Like he didn't just have his fingers on you in a room full of people. Like you're not sitting there soaked and shaking and desperate.
"Right, I'm starving," he announces. "Gonna grab lunch. You coming?" He's looking at you, and his eyes are dark and amused and absolutely wicked. "You look like you could use a break."
You can't speak. Your voice is gone, dissolved somewhere between his finger on your clit and the desperate need still pulsing between your legs.
"I'll take that as a yes." He grabs his phone off the table, slides it into his pocket. "Come on then."
You stand on shaking legs. Your skirt is wrinkled, riding up higher than it should be. You smooth it down with trembling hands and pray no one notices. Jon claps Lando on the shoulder as you both head for the door. "Good session today. See you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yep, bright and early." Lando's voice is easy, normal. He holds the door open for you and you have to walk past him, close enough to smell his cologne again, and your head swirls.
The hallway is empty, when Lando begins to speak. "You're very quiet," he says, falling into step beside you.
"Still thinking about the meeting?" His voice drops lower. "Or thinking about something else?"
"Fuck you."
"That's more like it." He sounds delighted. "There she is."
You jab the elevator button harder than necessary. The doors slide open immediately and you step inside, pressing yourself against the far wall. He follows, hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease. The doors close. you're finally alone, and you almost expect him to move. To touch you, to try and finish what he started.
He doesn't, instead he just stands there, leaning against the opposite wall, watching you with that infuriating smirk.
"You know what I realized?" he says conversationally.
You don't answer, so he continues. "You never actually answered my question. From before." The elevator descends. "About how long you've wanted to kiss me."
"I'm not doing this right now."
"Not doing what? Having a conversation?" He tilts his head. "I'm just curious. Was it really Barcelona? Or was it before that?"
The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open onto the lobby and you practically run out, but he's right behind you, matching your pace easily.
"I'll give you a ride home," he says and it's not a question.
"I have my car."
"Your car's in the shop, remember? That's why you got a ride in with Sarah this morning." He's already walking toward the parking garage. "Come on."
Fuck. He's right. You completely forgot.
"I can get an Uber."
"Don't be ridiculous." He glances back over his shoulder. "Unless you're scared to be alone in a car with me?"
You're not scared, you're fucking terrified. But not for the reasons he's implying. So, you do the totally sane thing, and follow him into the parking garage. When you get to his Lamborghini Urus, he opens the passenger door for you and the leather seat is cold against the back of your thighs where your skirt has ridden up.
Where his hand was ten minutes ago. He slides into the driver's seat and the engine roars to life, all that power barely contained. The sound vibrates through your chest, through your bones.
"Seatbelt," he says, glancing over. You fumble with it while he pulls out of the parking garage and the silence is suffocating. You can hear every breath, every small shift of fabric. The gear shift is right there, his hand wrapped around it, and you're staring at his fingers, remembering exactly how they felt. He reaches forward and turns on the music. The volume is just loud enough that conversation would be difficult, and you're grateful for it because you have no idea what you'd even say.
His hand rests on the gear shift. So close to your thigh, yet, he doesn't budge. Doesn't make a single move to touch you.
The city passes by in a blur. Streetlights and pedestrians and other cars, but all you can focus on is him. The way his jaw clenches slightly when he shifts gears. The way his fingers drum against the leather. The way he's so completely calm while you're falling apart in the passenger seat. Your underwear is still wet. You can feel it every time you shift in your seat, a constant reminder of what he did to you, what he didn't finish.
He pulls up in front of your building and puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine. It idles, a low purr that you can feel everywhere. He turns the volume down slowly, and the silence that follows is deafening.
You reach for the door handle.
"Hey."
You stop, not looking at him.
"Look at me."
You do. You shouldn't, but you do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you, like he's starving.
"You did really well in there," he says, voice low. "Staying quiet. Staying still." His tongue flicks across his bottom lip and your eyes track the movement. "It was very impressive."
Heat floods through you, pooling between your already-soaked thighs.
"Lando."
"When you get home," He leans slightly toward you. "When you're alone in your apartment, and you're thinking about what happened in that meeting."
"I won't."
"You will be." He's certain, so fucking sure of himself, it's insufferable. "And when you are, when you're touching yourself because you're so desperate you can't help it," His eyes drop to your thighs, then back to your face. "I want you to think about what would've happened if Jon hadn't knocked. If I'd had more time with you."
Your breath catches.
"Think about where my fingers would've gone. What I would've done to you in that conference room where anyone could've caught us." He reaches out and his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, the same way it did earlier, and your whole body responds. "Think about how quiet you would've had to stay while I made you come."
You're going to die. You're actually going to die right here in his passenger seat.
"Go inside," he says softly, pulling his hand back. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"You're—you can't just."
"Can't what?" That infuriating smirk is back. "Drive you home? I actually think I deserve a thank you."
You want to hit him. Want to kiss him. Want to pull him into your apartment and finish what he started. Instead, you get out of the car on shaking legs. He waits until you're at the door of your building before he drives off, engine growling as he disappears down the street.
You make it inside. Into the elevator. Into your apartment. You close the door and lean back against it, breathing hard. You head straight to your bedroom, already knowing exactly what you're about to do.
Hating that he knew it too, hating even more that he's right.
The rest of the week passes in agonizing normalcy. Lando shows up to the sim session on time, professional, focused. He discusses setup changes with the engineers like an actual adult. He doesn't call you at 3 AM. Doesn't text you anything inappropriate. Doesn't even look at you for longer than strictly necessary.
The night before you leave for Japan, you're in your apartment packing. Business casual for the events, comfortable clothes for the paddock, the McLaren team jacket that's mandatory for all personnel. You fold everything, checking items off your list.
Your phone sits on the bed, silent. Lando and Oscar are flying out on the McLaren private jet early tomorrow morning, 5 AM departure from Farnborough. You're on the commercial flight, business class, leaving three hours later from Heathrow. It's always been like this. The drivers get the PJ, the key personnel fly commercial but comfortable. You've made peace with it. It's not like you expected to be on the plane with them.
Except now you can't stop thinking about it. Lando in those grey joggers he always wears on flights. Lando stretched out across the leather seats, probably playing strip pocker with Oscar or watching old race footage. Lando twelve hours ahead of you, already in Tokyo while you're stuck in business class somewhere over Russia.
You zip your suitcase closed harder than necessary. This is stupid. You've done this a hundred times. Flown separately, met them at the hotel, had everything coordinated and ready by the time they arrived. It's your job. It's fine.
Heathrow at 8 AM is its own circle of hell. Security lines, overpriced coffee, flight delays announced in monotone over the intercom. You make it to your gate with twenty minutes to spare and find a seat near the window. Lando posted an Instagram story three hours ago, you saw it while brushing your teeth this morning, him and Oscar on the jet, Oscar sleeping with his mouth open. The caption said something about being ready for Japan.
You pull out your tablet and go through Lando's schedule one more time. Thursday: arrival, settle in, team dinner. Friday: media day, practice sessions, sponsor meet-and-greet. Saturday: quali, another sponsor event. Sunday: race.
You pull out your laptop. Open Lando's schedule again, stare at it without seeing it. Somewhere over the North Sea, you close the laptop. Somewhere over Poland, you lean your head against the window and watch clouds drift past.
This is unattainable. Whatever happened in that conference room, whatever almost happened before Jon knocked—it was a moment. A lapse in judgment. Lando Norris doesn't date his assistant. Doesn't have relationships with employees. He has models and influencers and people who exist in his world, not people who coordinate his calendar and fix his disasters.
Somewhere over Russia, you recline your seat and close your eyes. You don't think about Lando stretched out on the private jet. You don't think about his hand on your thigh in that meeting. You don't think about how his fingers felt or how his voice sounded when he told you to think about him. You don't think about any of it.
You're lying, but at least there's no one here to call you on it.
Japan is humid and overwhelming and beautiful. You arrive at the hotel Thursday afternoon, jet-lagged and exhausted. Lando and Oscar got in hours ago, you saw them in the lobby when you were checking in, surrounded by team personnel and looking refreshed in that way people who fly private always do.
The team dinner that night is at some expensive restaurant in Shibuya. You sit at the far end of the table, taking notes on your phone about schedule changes for tomorrow. Lando's four seats down, laughing at something Oscar said, drinking water because he's being responsible before a race weekend.
He doesn't look at you once, and when Friday rolls around, you're busy from 6 AM. Coordinating with the press officers, making sure Lando hits all his media obligations, adjusting timing when an interview runs long. You see him in passing and catch up to him.
"You've got Sky Sports in ten," you tell him between sessions.
"Yep, cheers." He doesn't break stride, already walking toward the media pen with his PR officer.
You stand there in the paddock, tablet in hand, and watch him go. This is your job. This is what you do during race weekends. You're not an engineer, not a trainer, not someone who's essential to the actual racing. You coordinate. You schedule. You make sure he's where he needs to be, when he needs to be there. The rest of the time, you're just there.
You're updating his schedule for next week. This is fine. This is normal. This is every race weekend. Except you keep catching yourself watching the timing screens. Watching his sector times. Watching the little dot that represents his car going round and round the circuit. FP1 goes smoothly. FP2 has a small lock-up in turn one but nothing serious. You see him briefly when he comes back to the garage, he's talking to his engineer, analyzing data, completely in the zone.
Friday night you have dinner alone in your hotel room. Room service, ESPN playing race coverage on the TV, your laptop open with his schedule for tomorrow. Saturday is qualifying and the energy in the paddock is different. Higher stakes with more tension. You do your job, make sure he's at the pre-quali briefing, coordinate with media for post-quali interviews, confirm timing for the sponsor appearance later.
You watch qualifying from the garage. He puts it P4. Good, but not great. He's frustrated when he comes back, you can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he pulls off his helmet.
"P4's solid," his engineer says.
"Should've been P2." Lando's already reviewing the data, pointing at the screen. "Lost time in sector two, if I'd just—"
On Sunday, the paddock is chaos, there's camera crews everywhere, fans pressed against the barriers, the energy electric and overwhelming. You've been awake since 5 AM coordinating last-minute changes, confirming grid walk timing, making sure everything runs smoothly. You see Lando in the garage during the pre-race prep. He's in his race suit, going through his routine with Jon. Stretching, visualization, the same ritual he does before every race.
The race starts and you watch from the garage, headset on so you can hear the team radio. Lando gets a good start, gains a position into turn one. P3.
"Good job, Lando, P3, keep it clean," his engineer says over the radio.
You watch the monitors. Watch his lap times. Watch the gap to the car ahead.
"DRS enabled," the engineer says. "Let's get him this lap."
You hold your breath. He's through turn one clean, right behind Leclerc. Turn two he's on the inside, they're side by side through the corner and then the radio crackles.
"Fuck—I'm okay, I'm okay—fuck—"
Your heart stops. The screen shows it in slow motion. Lando and Leclerc side by side, Lando on the inside, not enough space, the Ferrari comes across and Lando's got nowhere to go. He clips the Ferrari's rear tire and suddenly he's spinning, out of control, and then the sickening crunch of carbon fiber hitting the barrier. Hard.
The car bounces off the wall and slides back onto the track, rear end destroyed, front wing gone, debris everywhere. Red flag. The screen shows the wreckage and your stomach drops.
"Are you okay?" his engineer asks urgently. "Lando, are you okay?"
The relief hits you so hard your knees almost give out. He's fine. He's talking. He's fine. The medical car is already there. You watch on the monitor as Lando climbs out, waving to show he's okay. But the way he rips off his helmet, the way he stalks away from the car tells a different story.
"He's going to medical, can you ask if he still wants to do the interviews?" Zak calls out to you, and you nod. It's standard procedure for crashes that hard.
You're moving toward the medical center. The paddock is chaos, there's people rushing past, radios crackling, camera crews trying to get footage. You push through it all, heart still pounding, the image of that crash replaying in your head. The medical center is quiet compared to outside. Lando's sitting on an examination table, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist. There's a medical officer checking his shoulder, asking him questions about pain levels and range of motion.
"I'm fine," Lando says, and his voice is sharp. "It's fine, I'm fine."
You hover in the doorway. His hair is a mess from the helmet, sweat-damp and sticking up. There's a red mark on his cheekbone from where the helmet pressed during impact.
"They want to know if you're up for interviews," you say, keeping your voice professional. Steady. "Zak is asking, and there's the post-race media obligation but I can push it if you need."
"If I need?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "If I need time because I just binned it into a wall?"
"That's not what I said."
"I'm fine. I'll do the fucking interviews." He shrugs off the medical officer's hand. "I'm cleared, yeah?"
"You should really—" the medical officer starts.
"I'm cleared." It's not a question.
The officer sighs. "You're cleared. But you need to take care of that shoulder."
Lando's already sliding off the table, pulling his race suit back up, zipping it roughly. His hands are shaking. You can see it even though he's trying to hide it.
"Lando."
"What?" He rounds on you and his eyes are too bright, too intense. He's angry. You freeze and the words die in your throat because you don't actually know what you were going to say. That you're worried? That he doesn't have to do this? That seeing him crash made your heart stop?
"Nothing, I just—"
"Good." He's already moving past you, yanking the door open. "Let's go." He storms out into the paddock and you're left standing there in the too-bright medical room, watching him disappear into the chaos. You follow at a distance. Watch him walk through the paddock with his shoulders tight, his jaw set. People try to stop him, but he keeps moving, heading straight for the media pen.
Sky Sports is first. You stand just out of frame, watching him put on the professional face. The interviewer asks the standard questions, what happened, are you okay, thoughts on the incident. "Yeah, just racing," Lando says, and his voice is perfectly controlled. Perfectly fine. "Leclerc and I both going for the position, unfortunately we came together. That's racing sometimes. Just gutted for the team, they've worked so hard and we've thrown away good points today."
He says all the right things. Smiles at the right moments. Thanks the team, thanks the fans, talks about bouncing back next week. When he finally finishes the last interview, he walks straight past you without a word. Doesn't even look at you, just heads toward the McLaren garage, and you know he's going to debrief with the engineers, review the data, analyze what went wrong.
You stand there in the media pen, holding your tablet, and realize that the distance he's been keeping all week—the politeness, the normalcy, the acting like nothing happened, wasn't him moving on.
It was him holding on by a thread and that thread just snapped.
You give him two hours. Two hours to debrief with the team, to shower, to decompress. Two hours before you show up at his hotel room with the schedule changes for next week that absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow because there are flights to coordinate and sponsor obligations to reschedule.
Upon entering the hotel, you head to the front desk.
"Good evening, I need access to Lando Norris's suite," you tell the receptionist. "I'm his assistant." She checks her computer, verifies your credentials in the system. As his PA, you're listed as authorized personnel, can access his room for deliveries, coordination, emergencies. It's standard practice and makes the logistics easier during race weekends.
She hands you a key card. "Fortieth floor. Suite 4012."
The elevator ride up feels endless. Your tablet is clutched against your chest, the schedule changes pulled up on the screen. This is fine. This is professional. You coordinate with him in hotel rooms all the time during race weekends, it's easier than trying to find quiet spaces in the paddock. The fortieth floor hallway is quiet, the plush carpet muffles your footsteps and you find Suite 4012 at the very end.
You knock, and no answer. So, you knock again, and again. "Lando? I need to go over the schedule changes."
Still nothing. Here goes nothing. You swipe the key card and the lock clicks open, you push the door open and step inside. The suite is massive, there's a living area with large windows that overlook Tokyo, a separate bedroom through an open doorway, a bathroom, and a McLaren team jacket thrown over the back of the couch, his shoes kicked off by the door.
"Lando?" you call out. "I texted you, I need to—"
That's when you hear the sound from the bedroom. Low and rough and—oh god. Your brain catches up to what you're hearing a second too late. The kind of breathing that's unmistakable. The kind of sound that makes heat flood through your entire body. He's jerking off, oh my fucking god.
Another sound, a groan, muffled like he's trying to stay quiet, and your mouth goes dry.
You should leave. You need to leave right now. "Fuck—" His voice carries through the open bedroom door, rough and desperate, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to grab the back of the couch.
Leave. Leave now. But you can hear him so clearly. Can hear the rhythm of his breathing, getting faster. Can hear the slick sound of his cock, and your feet are suddenly planted, unwilling to move.
Jesus Christ. Your face is on fire. Your whole body is on fire. You're frozen in his living room listening to your boss getting himself off and you need to leave, you need to fucking leave.
"Fuck," he groans again, and then your name. Your name, breathless and desperate on his tongue and so fucking clear there's no mistaking it. He's saying your name, repeating it like it's the only thing getting him through this. "Please," His voice breaks on the word. "Fuck, please."
You're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel suite listening to him fall apart while thinking about you. The sounds get more desperate. His breathing harsher, you can hear the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, and your imagination is filling in all the details, his hand wrapped around his cock, his head thrown back, his abs flexing with each movement.
"God—fuck—" Another groan, louder this time, and you realize he's close. God, he's about to fucking come and he's saying your name. You hear him gasp your name one more time, broken and raw, and then a string of curses as he comes.
The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there trying to steady yourself as your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears. Your underwear is soaked, your whole body is shaking. You turn toward the door, moving too fast, and your hip catches the edge of the side table. The decorative vase on top wobbles, you reach for it but your hands are shaking too badly, and it tips over the edge. The crash is deafening in the quiet suite. Glass shattering against the floor, water spreading across the floor, flowers scattering everywhere.
"Fuck," you breathe.
Complete silence from the bedroom. Then—"Who's there?" Accompanied by footsteps, rapidly increasing. You freeze, staring at the broken vase, at the mess spreading across the floor. There's nowhere to go. The door is ten feet away but he's already on the way. Then, in a matter of seconds, Lando appears in the bedroom doorway. He's in grey joggers, no shirt, hair an absolute mess. His face is flushed, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are wide, startled and then he sees you.
You watch the realization hit him. Watch his expression shift from confusion to shock to something that might be horror. "How long—" His voice is rough, wrecked. "How long have you been here?"
You can't speak. Can't move, you can only stand there surrounded by broken glass and spilled water while your face burns and your heart tries to break out of your chest. His eyes drop to the mess on the floor, then back to your face. You watch him put it together, the broken vase, your expression, the way you can't look at him. "Oh fuck." He runs both hands through his hair. "Fuck. You—how much did you hear?"
"I'm sorry." Your voice comes out strangled. "I knocked, you didn't answer, I needed to—the schedule changes, I just—I'm sorry, I'll go."
"Don't." He crosses the room in three strides, making sure to avoid the glass splattered across the floor. "Don't move, you'll, there's glass everywhere."
He's right in front of you now and you can smell him, sweat and something else, and you know what that something else is and you're going to die. "How much did you hear?" He asks again, and his voice is quiet now, serious.
"Nothing, it's fine, I just got here."
"Oh my god." He starts laughing and it's that Lando laugh, the one that makes his whole face light up even though this is absolutely not funny. "Oh my god, you totally heard it. Look at your face, you're so red right now."
"I'm not."
"You are, you're like, properly red. That's amazing." He's still laughing, running a hand through his hair. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, by the way. Worse than the crash, significantly worse than the crash."
Despite everything, you feel a laugh bubble up in your chest. "It's fine, I'll just, I'll help you clean this up and we can forget it ever happened."
"Yeah?" He's grinning now, and there's something dangerous in it. Something that makes your stomach flip. "Just forget about it?"
"Completely."
"Right, because you're so good at forgetting things." He moves toward the bedroom to grab something to clean with. "Very convincing." You crouch down and start picking up the larger pieces of glass, trying to focus on anything other than what just happened. The flowers are scattered everywhere, water soaking into the expensive carpet.
He comes back with a towel and crouches down across from you. That's when you see the dark spot on the grey fabric of his joggers. A wet patch near the hem, and your brain immediately supplies exactly what that is, and heat floods through your entire body. He follows your gaze. Looks down. Looks back up at you with that fucking grin.
"See something interesting?"
Your face is on fire. "No."
"No?" He shifts slightly and the fabric pulls tighter. "You sure about that?"
"I'm just cleaning up the glass."
"While staring at my crotch, yeah, very subtle." He's laughing again as he picks up a piece of glass. "You're terrible at this."
"At cleaning?"
"At pretending." He wraps the glass in the towel. "At acting like you're not affected."
"I'm not affected."
"Yeah? Then why are you shaking?"
You look down. Your hands are trembling. "I'm not—"
"You are." He reaches across the mess and catches your wrist, stilling your hand. His fingers are warm and sure and you can feel your pulse hammering against his touch. "You're shaking. Your face is red, and you can't stop looking at me."
"That's not true."
"And you heard me say your name." His thumb presses against your pulse point. "Didn't you?"
The air feels too thick. Too hot, and suddenly you can't breathe properly. "Lando."
"Tell me you didn't hear that and I'll drop it right now." His eyes are locked on yours. "Tell me you don't know exactly what I was thinking about." You can't, can't lie, can't say it because you did hear it, and you do know, and your entire body is screaming at you to close the distance between you.
"That's what I thought." He lets go of your wrist and sits back on his heels. "So no, I don't think we're going to forget about this.
"We have to."
"Why?" He tilts his head, watching you. "Give me one good reason why we have to pretend this didn't happen."
"Because you're—" You stop yourself.
"I'm what? Your boss?" He laughs. "Yeah, we've established that's not stopping anything in the conference room. Try again."
You can't think of anything. Your brain has completely shut down, and he stands up, glass crunching under his trainers, and that's when you see it properly. The grey joggers are doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. The outline is obscene, obvious, and he catches you looking.
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "That's what you do to me. That's what you've been doing to me for months."
"So here's what's going to happen." He takes a step toward you, and there's something predatory in the movement. "I'm going to be very clear with you because apparently subtle isn't working."
Another step and suddenly you're backed up against the wall. "I want to fuck you. Right now. Here." His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense and completely serious. "Not date you, not take you to dinner, not have some long conversation about feelings and what this means."
He braces a hand against the wall next to your head. "I want you right fucking now. Tonight, and then we'll go back to normal tomorrow and pretend this never happened if that's what you want." His other hand comes up, fingers brushing against your jaw. "You can take it or leave it. But I need an answer right now because I'm losing my mind here."
Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your whole body is screaming yes, take it, stop thinking.
"Lando."
"Yes or no." His thumb brushes across your bottom lip. "That's all I need. One word, just tell me one word."
"Yes."
The word barely leaves your mouth before he's on you. His lips crash against yours, hard and desperate, and there's absolutely nothing gentle about it. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grabs your hip and pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is, pressed against your stomach, and the sound he makes when you gasp is absolutely obscene.
"Fuck—" He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. His mouth is back on yours, tongue sliding past your lips, and your hands find his bare shoulders, nails digging in. He tastes like mint and desperation and something that's just him, then, he presses you harder against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, and you can feel his cock through the thin fabric of his joggers. The heat of him, the hard length of his cock, and when he rolls his hips again you actually moan into his mouth.
"That's it," he breathes against your lips. "Wanna hear you."
His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your skirt up. His palm is rough and hot against your bare skin, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He hooks your leg over his hip and grinds against you properly now, right where you need him, and the friction is perfect and not nearly enough.
"You're so fucking—" He breaks off with a groan, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape against your pulse point and you arch into him. "So fucking perfect."
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear, and you actually whimper.
"These need to come off," he mutters against your skin. "Everything needs to come off. Right fucking now." He pulls back just enough to look at you and his eyes are absolutely feral. His hair is a mess from your hands, his lips red and swollen, his chest heaving.
"Bedroom," he says. "Now. Unless you want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could hear."
Your brain has completely short-circuited. You can only nod, and his grin is wicked. "Good." He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bedroom. The bedroom is dark except for the city lights, Tokyo glitters forty floors below, completely oblivious. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, and you can see exactly where he was lying when you walked in. He spins you around and his mouth is on yours again, walking you backwards toward the bed. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribs to cup your jaw. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he pushes you down.
You land on the sheets and they smell like him, and your brain supplies the image of what he was doing here twenty minutes ago and heat floods through you. He's standing over you, chest heaving, and his eyes drag down your body slowly. Your skirt is rucked up around your thighs. Your shirt is wrinkled from his hands. You're a mess and he's looking at you like you're something he wants to destroy.
"Take off your shirt," he says. Your hands are shaking but you reach for the buttons. He watches every single one come undone, and when you shrug it off his jaw clenches. "Skirt too." You shimmy it down your hips and kick it off, and now you're in just your bra and underwear and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.
"Fuck." He runs a hand over his mouth. "You're so," he stops himself, shakes his head. "Lie back."
You do and the sheets are cool against your overheated skin. He hooks his fingers in his joggers and pulls them down, and oh god. He's not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and already leaking, and you can't stop staring.
You let out a soft whimper, and Lando knows he’s gotten you right where he wants you. His cock aches, he’s so hard for you.
"See something you like?" There's that cocky grin, but his voice is strained. He climbs onto the bed, settles between your legs, and the weight of him is perfect. His hands bracket your head and he leans down, nose brushing against yours.
"Last chance," he murmurs. "Say no and we stop."
"Hell no." He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. His hips roll against yours and you can feel him, hot and hard against your soaked underwear, the friction makes you gasp into his mouth. His hand slides down your side, over your ribs, your waist, your hip. His fingers hook in the elastic of your panties.
"These are ruined," he says against your mouth. "Absolutely soaked. Were you this wet when you were listening to me?" Your face burns but you can't deny it.
"Thought so." He drags your underwear down slowly, tossing them somewhere off the bed. His hand comes back up, palm sliding up the inside of your thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, you both groan. "Fuck, you're so wet." He circles your clit once, twice, and your hips buck up. "This all for me?"
"Lando," you moan out.
"Answer the question." His fingers slide lower, teasing. "Is this from listening to me? Or from thinking about what I was saying?"
"Both," you gasp.
"Good answer." He pushes one finger inside you and your back arches off the bed. "So tight baby. Fuck, you're going to feel so good on my cock." He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and his thumb finds your clit. The combination makes you see stars.
"That's it," he breathes, watching your face. "Want to see you come before I fuck you. Want to watch you fall apart." His fingers move faster, harder, and you're already so worked up from earlier that you're embarrassingly close.
"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to bite at your neck. "Let me hear you. No one's going to interrupt us this time." That does it and you come hard around his fingers, gasping his name, and he works you through it until you're shaking. You're seeing stars, and he continues to rub on your clit.
"Fuck, that was beautiful." He pulls his fingers out and you watch him bring them to his mouth, licking them clean. "Taste even better than I imagined." He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. His hands are shaking as he rolls it on.
"You ready?" His voice is rough, barely controlled.
You nod and he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense, perfect, everything. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. "Fuck—so tight," he's barely halfway in. "You okay?"
"Yes—don't stop, fuck, fuck," you moan. He pushes in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. You both freeze, breathing hard.
"Need a second," he grits out. "Or this is going to be over waaay too fast." You can feel him shaking, the tension in every muscle as he holds himself still. You open your mouth to speak, but Lando stops you, "Give me a second—" He laughs, breathless. "This is embarrassing. I'm not usually, fuck, you just feel so good."
You roll your hips experimentally and he actually gasps. "Don't—if you do that I'm going to actualy cum."
You do it again, and he takes a deep breath before smiling. "Fuck it." He starts moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pace is brutal and perfect and exactly what you need.
He drives into you harder and you actually cry out. "That's it. Want everyone in this hotel to hear you." His hand grabs your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can go deeper. "Want them to know exactly what I'm doing to you." Each thrust hits something inside you that makes your vision blur. Your nails drag down his back, definitely leaving marks, and he groans.
"Mark me up," he breathes against your neck. "Want to see it tomorrow. Want to remember this." His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate. All teeth and tongue and gasping breaths between kisses. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the dual sensation makes you clench around him.
"Oh fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "Do that again." You clench deliberately and he actually growls, hips snapping harder. "You're going to make me come if you keep doing that." His thumb circles your clit faster. "But you're coming first. Want to feel you come on my cock."
The praise combined with his fingers on your clit and the relentless pace of his hips pushes you right to the edge. "Come for me," he demands. "Want to feel it. Come on, baby."
You shatter, clenching around him so hard he chokes on a moan. Your whole body goes rigid, pleasure crashing through you in waves, and you can hear yourself crying out his name but you can't stop. "Fuck—fuck," He slams into you twice more, rhythm gone completely, and then he's coming too, face buried in your neck, saying your name over and over like a prayer.
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and shaking. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse. After a moment he lifts his head, looking down at you. His hair is completely destroyed, his face flushed, lips swollen from kissing. He looks absolutely wrecked.
"That was—" He stops, laughs breathlessly. "Yeah. That was nuts."
"Yeah," you agree, because you can't form actual words yet.
He pulls out carefully and you both wince. He ties off the condom and tosses it, then collapses back onto the bed next to you, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Give me like, ten minutes," he says. "And then we're doing that again."
"Ten minutes?"
You laugh despite yourself, and he rolls toward you, hand finding your hip. "Stay," he says, and there's something vulnerable in it. "Tonight. Please, stay."
You should say no. Should get dressed, have that conversation about the schedule, go back to your own hotel room and pretend this was just a one-time thing. But his hand is warm on your hip and Tokyo is glittering outside the windows and you're not ready for this to be over yet.
The following morning, you wake up to sunlight streaming through windows and the immediate, horrifying realization that you're naked in Lando Norris's bed. Your body aches. That's the first thing you notice, a deep, satisfying soreness in your thighs, your hips, between your legs. The second thing you notice is the evidence scattered across your skin like a crime scene. Bruises on your hips, dark purple fingerprints that you can count. Marks on your thighs. Your neck.
There are scratches down your own arms from where you clawed at yourself, at him, at the sheets. You don't remember doing that but the evidence doesn't lie. The third thing you notice is Lando, still asleep beside you. Face-down in the pillow, one arm stretched across where you were lying moments ago. His back is a mess of red lines from your nails, and there's a bite mark on his shoulder that looks almost violent in the morning light.
7:43 AM
Shit. His flight to the next race is at noon. You have meetings scheduled, his entire day planned down to the minute. You slip out of bed as quietly as possible, gathering your clothes from where they're scattered across the floor. Your shirt is wrinkled beyond repair. Your underwear is, well it's somewhere. After looking for about three minutes, you find your skirt under the bed.
"Where are you going?"
His voice is rough with sleep, and it does something to you. Makes heat pool low in your belly even though you're sore, even though you should not be thinking about this right now. You turn and he's propped up on one elbow, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction.
"I have to, Lando, we have an entire schedule to go over. Your flight's at noon."
"So we have time." He pats the bed next to him. "Come back."
"Lando."
"Five more minutes," he murmurs, and suddenly you're against him, his body solid and warm against your back. His arm drapes over your waist, hand splaying across your stomach possessively.
You know this is a bad idea, horrible, idea. But goddamn it, you just can't bring yourself to say no to him. So, you drop your clothes and climb back into bed. He immediately pulls you against him, warm and solid, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.
This feels different than last night. Last night was frantic, desperate, angry almost. This feels completely dangerous in a different way. "We can't," you begin.
"We already did," he points out, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Multiple times, if I remember correctly."
Your face burns. You do remember. You remember all of it, every touch, every word, every time he made you come until you couldn't think straight. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His hand slides down, fingers tracing the marks he left on your hip. "Because it seems pretty clear what happened here."
You should move, you need to move, get dressed, re-establish the professional boundary that you obliterated last night. But his hand is moving lower, thumb brushing the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and your body is already responding. Traitor.
"We said one night," you manage, but your voice is weak.
"Did we?" His lips brush against your shoulder, exactly where he bit you last night. The mark is still there. "I don't remember saying that."
"You said," What did he say? You can't remember. Can't think when his hand is moving like that, when you can feel him hardening against your ass.
"I said a lot of things last night," he murmurs against your skin. "You want me to repeat them? Because I remember you really liked it when I said—"
"Don't," you interrupt, squeezing your eyes shut. You don't need him to repeat it. You remember. God, you remember the filthy things he said, the way his voice got rough and demanding. His hand slides between your thighs and you're already wet. Already ready for him even though you're sore, even though this is a terrible idea.
"You're thinking too much," he says, and there's that insufferable knowing tone. Like he can read your mind, like he knows exactly what you're spiraling about. Maybe he does. Maybe you're that obvious. His fingers find your clit and you gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. He makes a satisfied sound, like he's proven something.
"See? Your body knows what it wants even if your brain won't shut up about it." You want to argue but he's circling your clit now, slow and deliberate, and all the arguments die in your throat.
"We have—" you try, "—there's the schedule—"
"Tell me my schedule then," he says, and you can hear the challenge in it, the fuckning amusement. This is a game to him. This is always a game.
"Checkout is at eleven," His finger slides lower, teasing. "Car to the airport at eleven-thirty." He slides two fingers inside you and your words dissolve into a moan. You're so wet, so ready, and it should be embarrassing how easily your body opens for him.
"Keep going," he encourages, and his free hand comes up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "What else?" You're not going to be able to do this. Can't focus when he's touching you like this, when pleasure is already building low in your belly.
"You have—fuck—you have a call with sponsors at two."
"Uh-huh." He curls his fingers and finds that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "What time are we landing?"
"I can't," you gasp, grinding back against his hand. You need more, need him to move faster, but he's taking his time. Torturing you.
"You can," he says firmly. "You're good at this, remember? You know my schedule better than I do." His fingers pump slowly, deliberately, never quite enough to get you there. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing in rhythm with his fingers, and you're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel bed because Lando Norris won't stop touching you.
"Media obligations, Thursday morning," you're grinding against his hand now, chasing the orgasm that's just out of reach. "Prep for, oh god, oh my fuuuucking god."
"Keep going," he murmurs against your neck. You can feel him smiling.
"Practice Friday, quali Saturday," Your voice is barely recognizable, high and desperate. "Lando."
"Good girl," he praises, and those two words combined with his fingers curling inside you push you right to the edge. "What else?" You can't think. Can't remember. Can't do anything but feel, his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his body solid and hot behind you, his voice in your ear telling you how good you are, how well you take it.
Your phone buzzes again. Multiple times. Insistent and reality tries to crash back in but Lando doesn't stop, doesn't slow down.
"That's," you gasp, "that's probably Zak."
"Probably," he agrees, and his fingers move faster. "But you're not done yet."
"I need to, fuck, I need to answer."
"After," he says firmly, and adds a third finger. The stretch is perfect and terrible and you're so close, grinding back against his hand shamelessly now. You should be embarrassed by the wet sounds, by how desperate you are, but you can't bring yourself to care.
"Come for me," he says, voice dropping into that commanding tone that makes everything in you tighten. "Come on my fingers and then you can go be responsible." His thumb presses hard against your clit and that's it, you're coming, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name into the pillow while he works you through it. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, pushing his hand away because it's too much.
When you can breathe again, when your heart stops trying to break out of your chest, you become aware of several things at once: Your phone is still buzzing, Lando's still hard against your ass. You just let him finger you while quizzing you about his schedule. You are so unbearably fucked.
"Better?" he asks, and you can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.
Your phone is still buzzing and you grab it with shaking hands. There's three texts from Zak. Two from the PR team. One from logistics asking about Lando's luggage. Fuck, fuck, you're going to get fucking fired.
"Shit. I need to—I have to go." You're scrambling for your clothes again.
"Hey." He's out of bed, standing in front of you completely naked and completely unselfconscious about it. About the scratches down his chest, the bite mark on his shoulder, the fact that he's still obviously hard. Before you can move, before you can think, his hand catches your wrist. "Look at me."
You do, even though you know you shouldn't. Even though looking at him makes everything more complicated. He's gorgeous, his hair is sticking up where you pulled it. There's a hickey on his collarbone that you definitely put there. And he's looking at you like you're the entire world. And for just a second—one brief, stupid second—you let yourself think that maybe this means something.
Then his expression shifts. "You're spiraling," he says, and the warmth from moments ago is gone.
"I'm not."
"You are." His hand tightens on your wrist. Not painful, but firm enough that you can't pull away even if you wanted to. "You're doing that thing where you overthink until you talk yourself out of what you actually want.
"You don't know what I want."
"Don't I?" He's smiling now, and it's not nice. "You want me to tell you this means something. You want me to make this easy for you so you don't have to feel guilty about fucking your boss." He leans closer, still holding your wrist. "But I'm not going to do that."
Your stomach drops. "Then what are we doing?"
"Having fun," he says easily, like it's obvious. Like you're stupid for asking. "Isn't that enough?" It should be. You should say yes, should take what he's offering and not ask for more. But something twists in your chest, sharp and ugly.
"Let go of me."
"No." His thumb finds your pulse point, presses in. "Not until you stop lying to yourself."
"I'm not."
"You are. You're already thinking about how this was a mistake, how you need to put distance between us, how you're going to be professional again starting now." His eyes are too knowing, too green, too blue. "But you won't. Because you're going to show up at my room tonight anyway."
"You're being an asshole, Norris."
"Yeah," he agrees, finally releasing your wrist. "But you knew that already." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and for a split second something flickers across his face, something that looks almost uncertain. But it's gone before you can identify it, replaced by that insufferable smirk.
"Go do your job," he says, already turning away. "I'll see you at eleven."
You're in the lobby at 10:58, tablet in hand, going over the Singapore schedule one more time even though you've already memorized it. The SUV is idling outside, a black Mercedes, luggage already loaded. Driver awaiting the cataclysmic clusterfuck he doesn't even know he's going to be a part of.
At 11:00 exactly, the elevator doors open and Lando steps out, sunglasses on even though it's overcast outside. There's headphones around his neck and when he sees you, he doesn't break stride, just continues to walk past you toward the exit.
"Morning," you say, falling into step beside him. "Car's out front. I confirmed with the airport that—"
"Yep."
That's it. Just "yep." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't slow down. His jaw is set in that particular way that means he's decided something, and you know from experience that whatever he's decided, it won't be good for you.
Outside, the humid Tokyo air hits you both. The driver opens the door and Lando slides into the back seat without a word, without a glance, and you stand there for half a second too long.
The driver looks at you expectantly and you get in the other side. The door closes. The driver pulls away from the hotel, and Tokyo streams past the windows—grey sky, crowded streets, people living their lives. Normal lives. Lives where their boss doesn't fuck them and then ice them out twelve hours later.
You open your tablet, the screen glowing blue in the dim interior of the car. "So, Singapore. You've got the sponsor appearance Thursday night, and I wanted to confirm timing because—"
"I read the email."
His voice is flat. Bored, almost. Like you're a telemarketer who's caught him at a bad time.
"Right," you say carefully, "but I wanted to go over the specifics in person because the venue changed last minute."
"It's fine." He's scrolling through his phone now. Instagram, from the looks of it. Double-tapping photos. Liking photos of women in bikinis almost to anger you more.
The silence in the car is deafening, with both of you just breathing wordlessly. The air between you doesn't simmer, it's gone cold, crystallized into something sharp.
"Lando," you try one more time.
"What." Still not looking up.
It's unfair that it always has to be you that reaches out first, but this isn't your first fight with him, and it surely won't be your last. You're stubborn, but he's worse than you are. He'll let it fester, let you both suffer, until you break and try to fix it. Always you, never him.
Which is why, after two years, you're still at a stalemate about Barcelona. About the first time he'd looked at you like you were something other than staff. It's the one argument you've never conceded on, and you never will. Remembering that day does something to your chest that you were desperately trying to avoid, but that's an issue for another time.
It's the reason he pestered you about how long you wanted to kiss him. It's the reason you refused to give him the proper answer.
"Can you at least look at me while I'm talking to you?" You ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds.
He does look at you then. Finally. Turns his head, lowers his sunglasses just enough that you can see his eyes over the rim.
They're empty.
"I'm looking," he says. "What do you need?"
What do you need. Like you're a stranger asking for directions.
"I need to go over your schedule," you manage.
"So go over it."
"The Thursday appearance, do you want to do the full hour or should I tell them forty-five minutes?"
"Whatever you think is best." He pushes his sunglasses back up. Returns to his phone. "That's literally your job, isn't it? Deciding things for me."
The words land like a slap and you close your tablet. Turn to look out the window instead. Watch Tokyo blur into highway, highway blur into airport approach, and try very hard not to think about how his hands felt on you last night, how he'd looked at you this morning like you were the only person in the world.
That was twelve hours ago, this is now. Lando puts his headphones on and the rest of the ride is silent.
At the airport, he's out of the car before it fully stops. Long legs carrying him toward the private terminal like he's got somewhere important to be, someone important to see.
Not you, clearly.
You handle check-in with the McLaren rep, confirm the luggage, go through the motions of your job. By the time you make it through security, Lando's already in the lounge. He's in the far corner with his laptop open. Oscar's there too, and they're talking about something that doesn't involve you. Lando's gesturing with his hands the way he does when he's explaining a corner, and Oscar's nodding, engaged.
You approach slowly and when Oscar sees you first, he brightens. "Hey! Ready for Singapore?"
Lando doesn't look up from his screen.
"Lando," Oscar says, glancing between you both with growing confusion, "she's here."
"I can see that," Lando replies, still typing.
The air shifts. Oscar's smile falters, and he suddenly looks very interested in his phone. You stand there for a beat. Two. Waiting for, what? Acknowledgment? An apology? Some sign that the man who had you pinned against his bed yesterday still exists somewhere under this cold, indifferent exterior?
"Can you grab me a coffee?" Lando asks his laptop screen. "Black with two sugars."
The request hits you wrong. He's never asked you to get him coffee. Not once in all of the years you worked for him. He always gets his own, or he offers to get you one, or you go together while discussing the schedule.
Oscar's looking at you now with something that might be pity, and that somehow makes it worse.
"Sure," you say.
You walk to the coffee station on legs that feel disconnected from your body. Make his coffee exactly how he actually likes it, two sugars, oat milk, not black like he just said because he's testing whether you'll follow orders or whether you still think you know him.
You bring it back. Set it on the table beside his laptop, careful not to let your hand shake.
He glances at it. Then at you. Then back to it. "I said black."
"You always take oat milk," you reply quietly.
"Not today." He pushes the cup away, just slightly. Just enough to infuriate you. "But thanks anyway."
Oscar has fully retreated into his phone now, shoulders hunched like he wishes he could disappear. You stand there for one more second. Feeling battered and overwhelmed. You feel your throat close, and you swallow the ache away. Your eyes blur momentarily, and it feels unacceptable.
So you pick up the coffee. Walk back to the station. Pour it out, watching the pale liquid swirl down the drain. Make a new one. Black. Two sugars like he said, like he's never drunk it in his life.
When you bring it back, Lando takes it without looking at you.
"Thanks," he says to his screen.
You walk away. Find a seat on the other side of the lounge, as far from him as the space allows. Pull out your tablet and stare at the Singapore schedule until the words stop meaning anything at all.
You're in Singapore at 9 PM, sitting alone at a hawker center that's too loud and too bright and exactly what you need right now. It's the kind of place Lando would never come to. There's no reservations, no private rooms, just plastic stools and flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of chili crab and char kway teow thick in the humid air. You're surrounded by families and tourists and locals who don't know who Lando Norris is and wouldn't care if they did.
It's perfect. You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table.
It's perfect.
You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table. You've turned off notifications. For the next hour, Lando Norris can handle his own life.
The satay arrives, chicken and beef skewers with peanut sauce and cucumber. You eat slowly, deliberately, tasting things for the first time in what feels like days. The sauce is sweet and spicy. The meat is charred just right. It's good. Simple and good. You can't remember the last time you ate something without checking your phone, without one eye on the schedule, without being ready to jump up if Lando needed something.
A family sits down at the table next to you, parents, two kids, a grandmother. They're arguing about something in Mandarin, laughing, the kind of easiness that comes from people who know each other completely. The father reaches over and steals food from his wife's plate. She swats his hand and their kids giggle.
You look away and your phone starts ringing. The sound cuts through the noise of the hawker center, his ringtone, the one you set specifically for him so you'd always know when it was him calling. Some obnoxious song he'd picked out himself, thought it was hilarious.
You let it ring. Watch the screen light up with his name, his contact photo, him on the podium in Austria last year, champagne bottle raised, that stupid beautiful grin on his face. Figure it out yourself, asshole.
It rings out. Goes to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it starts again.
You decline the call. Take another bite of satay, even though you can't taste it anymore. Immediately, it starts ringing again.
Fourth call. You decline it. Fifth call. Sixth. Seventh, until the tenth call. Your jaw is clenched so tight it hurts. Your hand is wrapped around your beer glass hard enough that your knuckles are white. He's not going to stop.
You know him well enough to know that. Lando Norris doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't accept being ignored. He'll call a hundred times if he has to. He'll call until your phone dies or you answer, whichever comes first.
You snatch the phone off the table and answer it.
"What." Your voice comes out sharp, venomous.
"Oh, so you are alive," Lando says, and he sounds almost cheerful. "Been trying to reach you."
"I know. I can see my phone."
"Then why didn't you answer?"
You close your eyes. Take a breath that does nothing to calm you down. "What do you need, Lando."
"Where are you?"
"Out."
"Yeah, I got that part. Out where?"
"Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't," he says easily, and you can hear him moving around, the sound of a hotel room, a door closing. "Just curious. You're usually answering by now."
"Maybe I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
Your grip tightens on the phone. "Is there a reason you called me ten times?"
"Ten? Was it ten?" He sounds amused. Like this is funny. Like your phone vibrating itself off a table in the middle of a restaurant is entertainment. "Didn't count."
"Lando."
"I was just thinking," he interrupts, and his voice shifts into something casual, conversational, like you're just some friends catching up. "You know that thing tomorrow morning? What time was that again?"
Your whole body goes rigid. "Are you serious right now."
"What? I'm asking about my schedule."
"The sponsor breakfast that's been on your calendar for two weeks?" Your voice is rising. The family next to you has stopped eating. "That thing?"
"See, you do know what I'm talking about." You can hear the smile in his voice. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is you're calling me ten times to ask me something you already know."
"I wanted to hear you say it." He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact. "Wanted to see if you'd answer."
"And what was the name of that guy again? The one from Tag Heuer?"
"Lando."
"Starts with an M, right? Michael? Martin?"
"It's Marcus and you know it's Marcus."
"Right, Marcus. See? This is helpful. You're so good at this." His voice drops lower, intimate. "Always know exactly what I need."
"Stop."
"What's he there to talk about again? Contract renewal?"
"Read. The. Fucking. Briefing." You're gripping the phone so hard your hand is shaking.
"But you're already on the phone," he says reasonably, like he's being perfectly logical. "Might as well just tell me. That's what you do, right? Tell me things. Keep me organized. Make sure I don't fuck up."
"I'm hanging up now."
"No, you're not." And he sounds so certain, so fucking sure of himself. "You're going to tell me about Marcus and the breakfast and whatever else I need to know, because that's your job. Because that's what you do. Because—"
"Because what?" You cut him off, your voice shaking now with rage. "Because you fucked me? Because you think that means you own me?"
Silence.
Then, "I never said that."
"You didn't have to." Your voice cracks. "You ignored me all day. All fucking day, Lando. Didn't speak to me in the car, didn't look at me at the airport, made me get you coffee like I'm—like I'm nothing."
"You're not nothing." His voice has changed now, gone sharp and defensive. "Don't put words in my mouth."
"And now you're calling me ten times because what? You want to make sure I'm still here? Make sure I still answer when you call?"
"I called because you weren't answering," he says, and there's an edge to it now. "Because you always answer. Because that's what we, because that's how this works."
"How what works? Me being available 24/7? Me dropping everything when you need something?"
"That's literally your job."
"Fuck my job! And fuck you for calling me ten times to ask me shit you already know just to prove that you still can!"
"Are you done?" he asks finally, and his voice is cold now.
"Is there anything else you actually need?" You ask. "Anything work-related?"
"No."
"Then yes. I'm done."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow at seven-thirty."
He hangs up first and you resist the urge to light your phone on fire.
You wake up at 5:47 AM to your alarm, which means you got maybe four hours of sleep, maybe less if you count the hour you spent staring at the ceiling thinking about how Lando hung up on you, or wait—you hung up on him, didn't you? You did. You definitely did (you didn't). And then you ordered another beer and sat there until the hawker center started closing down around you, and the grandmother from the table next to you had given you this look that said oh, honey in a language you don't speak but somehow understood perfectly.
You shower. The water pressure in Singapore hotels is always too strong or too weak, never just right, and this one is too strong, pelting against your skin. You stand there longer than you should, letting it run cold, because you read somewhere once that cold showers are good for anxiety or depression or something, though you can't remember which and you're not sure it matters because you're pretty sure you have both at this point.
Your suitcase is still mostly packed because you've been doing this for years and you've gotten very efficient at living out of luggage. Black pants—the ones that don't wrinkle, because you learned that lesson the hard way in Bahrain when you showed up to a meeting looking like you'd slept in your clothes, which you had. White blouse—the silk one, not the cotton one, because the sponsors notice these things even if Lando doesn't. Blazer. The McLaren team jacket is folded on the chair, and you stare at it for a long moment before deciding you don't want to wear it today, don't want the papaya orange plastered across your back like a brand.
You're his assistant, not his property.
Except you let him fuck you in a hotel room in Japan, so maybe the line there is blurrier than you'd like to admit, but that's an issue for another time. For a time when you haven't slept and your hands aren't shaking while you try to apply mascara in a bathroom mirror that's slightly too high for you to see properly without standing on your toes.
It's 6:58 AM when you leave your room.
The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, and you're alone in it, watching the numbers descend—12, 11, 10—and thinking about how you used to feel nervous before seeing Lando but in a good way, in an excited way, like maybe today would be the day he'd look at you like you were something other than his assistant. And then he did look at you like that, in a conference room with glass walls where anyone could see, and then in a hotel room in Japan, and now you're back to being nervous but in a bad way, in a what the fuck happens now way.
Your car is already outside. Different driver than yesterday, thankfully, because you're not sure you could handle the same driver who witnessed yesterday's silent treatment. This one is older, and he smiles at you when you get in and asks if you'd like the air conditioning higher or lower, and you say lower even though you're not actually sure what temperature you want, you just know you need to say something.
You check your phone. 7:11 AM. Lando is meeting you at 7:30, which means you're going to be early, which means you're going to be sitting in the restaurant waiting for him like some kind of desperate whore.
Your phone buzzes with three texts from Lando, telling you he's running a bit late. Lando Norris is never on time to anything that isn't racing, and you're the one who's always early, always prepared, always waiting.
The restaurant is in a hotel different from yours, the Fullerton, which is the kind of place that has doormen in white gloves and floors that echo when you walk across them. The breakfast is in a private room on the second floor, and you're the first one there, which you knew you would be, standing in a room that's set for twenty people with tables arranged in a U-shape and place cards that you helped coordinate two weeks ago.
Your card is at the corner. Lando's is at the head of the table, obviously, because he's Lando Norris and he's always at the head of the table.
You sit down. Pull out your tablet. The briefing document is already open, you've read it four times but you read it again anyway because you need something to do with your hands, something to look at that isn't the door, that isn't waiting for him to walk through it.
7:38 AM. The sponsors start arriving. Marcus from Tag Heuer, who you've met three times before and who always shakes your hand too firmly like he's trying to prove something. Two executives from Singapore Airlines whose names you know but always mix up, one is David and one is Daniel, and you make a mental note for the fourteenth time to come up with a mnemonic device for them. A woman from DBS Bank who you've never met but who looks exactly like every other corporate executive you've ever met, black suit, pearl earrings, the kind of smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
They're all making small talk, getting coffee from the station at the back, and you're nodding and smiling and saying yes, Lando will be here shortly, yes, very excited for the weekend, yes, the car is looking strong this year.
Fifteen minutes later, Lando walks in, and the first thing you notice is that he looks tired. Not tired in the way that normal people look tired, Lando Norris doesn't get dark circles under his eyes or pillow creases on his face. But there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he's moving just slightly slower than usual, that tells you he didn't sleep well either.
Good. You hope he didn't sleep at all.
He's wearing the papaya team polo, the one that makes his eyes look impossibly green, and his hair is styled in that way that's supposed to look effortless but you know takes him at least fifteen minutes. He sees you immediately and for a fraction of a second, something crosses his face.
Then it's gone, and he's smiling, and he's Lando Norris again, and he's shaking hands with Marcus and making some joke that you can't hear from where you're sitting but that makes everyone laugh.
The breakfast starts, and you're taking notes on your tablet even though you don't really need to, even though you've done this exact breakfast seventeen times in different cities with different sponsors who all ask the same questions. How's the car feeling? What are your goals for the season? Can you tell us about your preparation routine?
You write down notes that you'll never read again.
Lando is in the middle of a story about Oscar, something about a prank involving someone's helmet, and everyone is laughing, and you can see the exact moment when his eyes start to drift toward you and then catch himself and look away.
It happens three more times during breakfast. Him starting to look at you, stopping himself, redirecting his attention to whoever's speaking or to his plate or to literally anywhere else.
The breakfast ends at 9:15 AM. People start standing, exchanging business cards, making promises to follow up. Lando is still shaking hands, still smiling, and you start gathering your things because that's what you do, you gather your things and you follow him to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing after that.
You're almost to the door when you hear him say your name. You turn and he's standing by his chair, hands in his pockets, and everyone else has filtered out into the hallway. It's just the two of you in this room with its white tablecloths and half-eaten fruit plates and the ghost of conversations that don't matter.
"Can we talk?" he asks.
And you have a choice. You could say yes. You could stay. You could let him explain or apologize or do whatever it is he's planning to do. Or, you could simply leave.
"I have to coordinate your transport to the track," you say. "You have media at eleven."
"I know what I have." His voice is quiet. "I'm asking if we can talk."
"About what?"
"About—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, messing up the styling he definitely spent fifteen minutes on. "About last night. About everything. I don't know, fuck—just talk."
This is the part where you're supposed to be the bigger person, supposed to hear him out, supposed to help him process his feelings or whatever it is that assistants-turned-something-else are supposed to do. But, you're tired, and quite frankly, irrigated with his phone call from last night, the past week.
And the only thing running through your head is that Lando Norris can go fuck himself.
"You've got thirty minutes before our car leaves," you say. "Don't be late."
You walk out before he can respond. In the hallway, your hands are shaking because no one tells Lando Norris no.
But you just did and somehow you make it to the elevator, make it down to the lobby, make it into the car that's waiting to take you both to the track—except Lando takes a different car, which the logistics coordinator apologizes for, says there was a mix-up with timing, and you know there wasn't a mix-up at all.
Lando Norris doesn't want to be in a car with you. Fine, so fucking be it.
The thing about working with Lando after Singapore is that it's exactly what you said you wanted. It's professional. There are boundaries now that are so clearly defined you could draw them on a map and submit them to the fucking FIA for track limits.
He starts to shows up on time, early, even, which is so unlike him that the first time it happens in Azerbaijan you actually check your watch twice to make sure you haven't gotten the schedule wrong. He reads every briefing you send him, responds to emails within ten minutes with perfect punctuation and "Thanks, appreciate it" sign-offs that make you want to throw your phone into the Caspian Sea. He says please and thank you to your face, confirms schedules without complaint, attends every meeting and every appearance and every obligation without a single emergency phone call at 3 AM or text thread about how he's lost his passport again.
It's perfect and it's absolutely killing you.
Because Lando Norris being professional and competent and respectful is somehow infinitely worse than Lando Norris being a disaster. At least when he was a disaster, he needed you. At least when he called you from the wrong country, when he missed flights, when he showed up to sponsor meetings with his shirt on backwards and that stupid grin that said I know I fucked up and you'll fix it anyway—at least then you mattered to him.
At least then you were something other than the person who books his hotels and coordinates his calendar and exists nowhere in his mind.
Now you're just another one of the staff. Azerbaijan comes and goes. He qualifies P3, finishes P4, solid points for the team. Does every single media obligation without you having to remind him once. Thanks the sponsors in his post-race interview, remembers all their names, makes that self-deprecating joke about the Safety Car that has everyone laughing. The Instagram content team gets usable footage of him and Oscar doing some challenge in the garage. He's perfect. Everyone loves Lando Norris.
You stand there with your tablet and watch him be perfect and your chest feels like someone's hollowed it out with a spoon.
Austin is somehow worse. Not because anything happens, that's the problem. Nothing fucking happens. Lando qualifies P2, finishes P3 after a brilliant drive where he overtakes Russel on the outside of Turn 1 and the entire garage loses their minds. You're standing there watching the screens, watching him celebrate, watching him spray champagne on the podium with that massive grin, and Jon claps you on the shoulder and says "Great weekend, yeah?" and you say "Yeah, great" even though you feel nothing at all.
Lando does his media rounds. You coordinate them all flawlessly because that's what you do, that's what you've always done. He thanks you once, in passing, on his way out of the paddock. Says "Cheers for everything today" like you're a volunteer marshal, like you're someone he's being polite to because that's what good people do.
That night you sit in your hotel room and eat room service that tastes like shit and watch some Netflix show you've already forgotten by the time you turn it off. Your phone sits next to you on the bed, silent. The episode ends. Another one starts. Your phone stays silent, and when you close your eyes, you dream of nothing at all.
Mexico. Brazil. Monaco.
The races blur together like watercolors left out in rain. Lando is perfect at all of them. Perfect driver, perfect ambassador, perfect professional who waves at fans and signs autographs and does Instagram stories with Oscar where they're both laughing and being the perfect team. He never once acts like anything is wrong, because maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe you were just a blip, a moment of extremely poor judgment that he's moved past completely.
Maybe fucking his assistant was something he did and forgot about, the same way he tried going vegan for a week last year or got really into padel tennis for three months. Just another phase. Just another thing Lando Norris tried and decided wasn't worth continuing.
In Brazil you have to ride in the same car to the track because logistics fucked up, only one car available, driver shortage, something about the local contractor. The coordinator apologizes profusely. You say it's fine. Lando says nothing at all.
So you sit in the back seat together in silence. He's on his phone, scrolling through something with his thumb, and you're on your tablet pretending to review the media schedule. The driver tries to make conversation about the weather, about the race, about literally anything, and gives up after both of you give one-word answers that kill the attempt dead.
Lando's knee is eleven centimeters from yours. You measured with your eyes, which is insane, which means you're absolutely fucking losing your mind. You can smell his cologne—the same one as always, the one that was on your skin for three days after Tokyo, the one you can still smell sometimes when you're falling asleep even though that's impossible.
He doesn't look at you once during the entire twenty-three-minute drive. You count that too. The minutes. Because apparently you're a person who counts things now, who measures distances and time and all the space between you and Lando Norris that keeps expanding like the universe, infinite and cold and just all to fucking far away.
Las Vegas is when you realize you can't do this anymore.
Not the job—you can do the job. You've been doing the job perfectly for years, and you could probably do it for two more, or ten more, or however long it takes for Lando Norris to retire or get bored of racing or spontaneously combust from holding in whatever it is he's holding in.
But you can't do this. This thing where you exist in the same space and pretend you don't. This thing where he's polite and professional and you're polite and professional and underneath it all you're both screaming. At least you are. You're not sure about him anymore.
You're not sure he thinks about Tokyo at all. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it really was just that easy for him to flip the switch, to go from having his hand over your mouth while he fucked you to saying "Thanks, appreciate it" in response to your calendar updates.
Maybe you're the only one who's drowning here.
The race is at night, which makes everything feel more surreal, more like you're living in some alternate dimension where Las Vegas has an actual Formula 1 circuit running through it. Lando qualifies P1, races well, finishes first after a late-race battle with Piastri that has everyone on the edge of their seats.
You watch from the garage. Feel nothing. He does his interviews, thanks the team, heads back to the motorhome to debrief. You coordinate his transport back to the hotel, confirm his Monday morning flight, send him the updated schedule for Qatar.
He responds: Got it, thanks.
That's it. Two words and a punctuation mark. You stare at the message for five full minutes, and that's when you decide, Qatar. You're going to make something happen in Qatar, because if you have to spend one more race weekend in this professional purgatory, you're going to lose your fucking mind.
It's been thirty-seven days since Singapore.
Thirty-seven days since he asked if you could talk and you walked away from him. Thirty-seven days of Lando Norris being exactly what you told him to be, professional, respectful, boundaried. Never calls after hours. Never texts about anything that isn't work. Treats you like a colleague, like staff, like someone whose opinion matters only in the context of his schedule and his obligations and nothing else.
You should be happy. You won. You set the pace, you told him no, you hung up on him, you walked out of that breakfast, and he listened. He learned. He gave you exactly what you asked for.
So why does it feel like you're suffocating?
Why do you lie awake at night in hotel rooms that all look identical and think about the way he looked at you in Tokyo? Why do you check your phone forty times a day even though you know he won't call? Why did you save that Appreciate it text like some kind of pathetic digital shrine to whatever this was?
Qatar arrives and you're done with this. Done with him, done with yourself, done with the performance you're both putting on. Done with being professional. Done with boundaries. Done with doing the right thing when the right thing feels like dying slowly.
You book your hotel room on the same floor as Lando's.
It costs an extra €900 that you pay out of pocket, which is insane because you're supposed to be saving money, supposed to be preparing for whatever comes after you finally submit that resignation letter you've rewritten forty-seven times. But you pay it anyway. Request room 4007 specifically because you know—you've always known, you coordinate his bookings—that Lando is in 4012.
Five doors down. Close enough.
The hotel bar on Thursday night is full of people from the paddock. You can spot them easily, their team polos, the branded jackets, the mechanics and engineers clustering in corners talking about setup changes and when their next vacation is. It's the kind of place Formula 1 always stays, all identical rooms and bars that serve €35 cocktails to people on expense accounts.
You order a gin and tonic you don't want and sit at the bar, scanning the room for something. A distraction. A catalyst. A way to make something happen because you can't stand another day of nothing.
That's when you see him.
He's tall with dark hair that's slightly too long. Wearing a Racing Bulls polo, so he's an engineer, probably, or data analyst, someone who works in the circus but isn't the show. Late twenties. Attractive in a conventional way that Lando isn't, none of the madness, none of the sharp edges, none of that gravitational pull that makes Lando the center of every room.
He's perfect, and he catches you looking. Smiles and you smile back. His name is James. Works in aerodynamics for Racing Bulls. British but lives in Milan now. In Qatar for the weekend. Thinks this bar is overpriced but at least the drinks are strong.
You laugh at his jokes even when they're not funny. Let him buy you a second drink. A third. Touch his arm when he makes some comment about your hair. You're performing—you know you're performing. The years with Lando Norris have made you exceptional at performing, at being charming, at making people feel like they matter.
"Want to get out of here?" James asks around 11 PM, hand on your lower back.
"Yeah," you say. "Let's go."
James walks you to the elevator. You press 4. His hand stays on your lower back, warm through your shirt, and it should feel good but it just feels wrong, like a placeholder for someone else's touch.
The elevator rises. 1, 2, 3, 4.
The doors open and there's Lando fucking Norris standing right in the hallway.
Grey joggers. Black t-shirt. Hair a mess like he's been pulling at it. He has a phone in one hand. He looks up when the doors open.
Sees you. Then sees James. Sees James's hand on your back.
His face does something complicated and then something much darker. His jaw clenches. His eyes, which haven't really looked at you in thirty-seven days, are suddenly locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"Oh," you say, voice deliberately light. "Hey, Lando."
"Hey," he says.
James on the other hand, doesn't care. "Which room?" he asks, breath warm against your ear.
"4007," you say.
Still looking at Lando. Still watching him. Watching his hands curl into fists at his sides. Watching his knuckles go white. Watching thirty-seven days of professional boundaries suddenly evaporate.
That's right, Norris. Two can play at this game.
"Have a good night," you say.
You walk past him. Feel his eyes on you like a physical weight. Feel him watching as you pull out your room key, as James says something you don't hear, as you laugh even though nothing's funny.
You open the door to 4007. James follows you inside, and the lights of Doha filter through the window, and James is already close behind you, hands finding your waist.
"Nice room," he says, which is a lie because it's aggressively mediocre, but you don't call him on it.
"Yeah," you say. He kisses you and it's fine. His mouth tastes like beer and spearmint gum, and his hands are moving up your sides, and you kiss him back because that's what you came here to do, isn't it? That's the whole point of this. You let him walk you backwards toward the bed, let him pull your shirt up slightly, let his hands find skin.
Your brain is somewhere else entirely. Counting seconds. Waiting for this to be over. You hope Lando is physically ill, you hope he's thinking about you getting fucked by another man as he's only a few doors down.
James is saying something against your neck—something about how he's wanted to talk to you all night, how he noticed you at the bar immediately—and you make a noise that sounds like agreement. His hand finds the button of your jeans.
That's when the banging starts. Not knocking.
Banging.
Fist against door, hard enough that it echoes through the room, hard enough that James jerks back and says "What the fuck?" Three hits. Four. Five. The sound is aggressive, violent almost, and your heart is suddenly racing for reasons that have nothing to do with James.
"Ignore it," James says, leaning back in, but the banging continues.
Six. Seven. Eight.
"Jesus Christ," James mutters, pulling away completely now. "Should you—"
"Yeah," you say, already moving toward the door, and your hands are shaking when you reach for the handle.
You know who it is. Of course you know who it is.
You open the door. Lando is standing there, and he looks—fuck, he looks fucking furious. His chest is heaving and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, and his eyes are wild. Darker than you've ever seen them. There's nothing professional about him right now, nothing controlled. He looks like he's about to either punch something or break something, and you're not sure which.
"Get out," he says, but he's not looking at you. He's looking past you at James, who's appeared behind you, confused and irritated.
"Excuse me?" James says.
"Get. Your shit. And get the fuck out." Lando's voice is low, dangerous, each word clipped and precise. "Now."
"Who the fuck do you think—" James starts, but Lando takes a step forward into the doorway, and there's something about the way he moves, the energy coming off him, that makes James stop talking.
"I'm not asking again," Lando says.
James looks at you, clearly expecting you to say something, to tell this psycho to leave, but you don't. You just stand there between them, heart pounding, because this is what you wanted, isn't it? This is exactly what you wanted.
"This is insane," James mutters, but he's already moving, grabbing his phone from where he set it on the desk. "Fucking McLaren people are all crazy."
He pushes past both of you into the hallway, and Lando doesn't move, doesn't step aside, makes James squeeze past him. The second James is gone, Lando steps inside your room and slams the door shut behind him.
The sound echoes. And suddenly you're both just standing there, staring at each other, and the air in the room feels electric, dangerous, like something's about to combust.
"What the fuck was that?" you say, finding your voice.
"What the fuck was that?" Lando repeats, his voice rising. "Are you serious right now? You bring some random fucking guy to your room."
"So what if I did?" You step closer to him, anger flooding through you. "What the fuck do you care? You've ignored me for over a month!"
"Because you basically told me to fuck off!" His hands are in his hair, pulling at it. "You're the one that walked away, you made it very fucking clear you wanted nothing to do with me, like you—" He stops himself, chest heaving.
"Like you didn't what?"
"Like you didn't fucking need me, okay?" The words explode out of him. "Then I have to act like I don't think about it every single day, like I don't want to," He stops again, jaw clenching. "And then I see you with him, with his hands on you."
"You don't get to be jealous," you say, but your voice is shaking now. "You don't get to ice me out for thirty-seven days and then show up here acting like—"
"Thirty-seven?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "You've been counting?"
"Fuck you."
And in the midst of it all, you kiss him. Or he kisses you. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly his mouth is on yours and his hands are in your hair and you're grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel something other than the past thirty-seven days of nothing. It's not gentle. It's desperate and angry and messy, all teeth and tongue, his hands rough as they yank at your clothes.
He walks you backwards until your legs hit the bed and you fall onto it, and he's on top of you immediately, pressing you down into the mattress with his full weight. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe that's your heart, or maybe it's both of you about to explode from the pressure of everything you haven't said.
"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, and his hands are shaking as they pull at your jeans. "Fuck, I've been going insane."
"Shut up," you gasp, yanking his shirt over his head, needing to touch him, needing to confirm he's real and here and not the ghost you've been living with for over a month. "Just shut the fuck up."
Your jeans are stuck on one ankle and he doesn't bother getting them all the way off, just pulls them down far enough and hooks your leg over his hip. His joggers are shoved down hastily, and then he's against you, hard and desperate, and you're so wet it's embarrassing but you don't care.
"Tell me you thought about me," he demands, one hand fisting in your hair, the other between your legs. "Tell me I wasn't the only one losing my fucking mind."
"Every day," you choke out as his fingers push inside you roughly, no patience, no buildup. "Every single day, Lando, I couldn't."
"Good." He sounds wrecked, fingers working you open, hooking into your cunt until you're squirming under him. "Good, because I haven't been able to think about anything else, haven't been able to focus, couldn't even look at you without wanting to fuck you."
His thumb finds your clit and the combination makes you gasp, hips bucking up into his hand. You're already so wet, so ready, and he knows it. Can feel it.
He lines his cock against your entrance and pushes inside you in one hard thrust that makes you both gasp. There's no finesse to it, no technique. Just need. Just two people who've been starving finally getting fed.
God, he's so fucking big. You've been thinking about his cock fucking you since Tokyo.
"Fuck," he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, and he's not moving yet, just breathing hard, like he needs a second to process that this is real. "Fuck, you feel so good."
"Move," you demand, nails digging into his shoulders. "Lando, fucking move."
He does. Hard and fast and completely graceless, hips snapping against yours with a desperation that borders on violent. This isn't romantic. This isn't making love. This is two people destroying each other because it's the only way they know how to communicate anymore.
"I couldn't do it," he gasps against your throat, and his rhythm is erratic, uncontrolled. "Couldn't keep pretending you didn't exist, couldn't watch you with someone else, couldn't fucking breathe without you."
"I know," you sob, because you do know, you've been drowning in the same thing. "I know, I know."
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb, and the combination of him inside you and his fingers on you makes your back arch off the bed. You're close already, wound too tight from thirty-seven days of nothing, and he can feel it.
"That's it," he breathes, and there's something broken in his voice. "Come on, let me feel it it baby."
"Lando—" Your voice cracks on his name.
“I fucking love you,” he hisses against the side of your throat, thrusting into you with reckless abandon.
Your heart stops.
"Don't," you gasp, but you don't know if you're telling him not to say it or not to stop saying it.
"I do." He's fucking into you harder now, faster, like he can make you believe him through sheer force. "I love you and I hate that I do, hate that you have this much power over me, I fucking hate it."
"I love you too," the words tear out of you, and you didn't mean to say them, weren't planning to, but they're true and you can't hold them back anymore. "God, Lando, I love you."
He makes a sound that's half groan, half something else, something that might be relief or might be agony. His thumb presses harder against your clit and you shatter, clenching around him as you come, gasping his name into his mouth as he kisses you through it.
"Fuck, yes," he growls against your lips. "Love feeling you come on my cock, love you, fuck."
His rhythm stutters, hips jerking erratically, and then he's coming too, spilling inside you with your name on his lips and his hand in your hair and his weight pressing you into the mattress like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.
For a few seconds, neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his breath hot against your skin, can feel the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks.
This is honest. This is the most honest either of you has been in thirty-seven days, maybe longer. No performance, no professionalism, just truth wrapped in sweat and desperation and words you can't take back.
He lifts his head slowly, and when he looks at you his eyes are soft, vulnerable, like he's just handed you something fragile and he's waiting to see if you'll crush it.
Your chest aches. Your whole body aches. You reach up and touch his face, and he leans into it, and for one perfect moment you think maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed.
Then his expression changes and the moment shutters closed like a door slamming, and he's pulling away before you can stop him. He gets up from the bed, shoving his clothes on with jerky, agitated movements.
He takes another look at you—really looks at you this time—like he's reasserting to himself that you're fine. That you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're real. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step forward.
Description: You stopped answering his calls after the sixth one.
Seven months of silence, of building a life that looks perfect from the outside-Leo, success, money that can't fill the hole in your chest.
Then Lando gets engaged, and for the first time, you answer. This is a story about loving someone at the wrong time, about the calls you don't answer and the ones you wish you hadn't, about what happens when "I choose you" comes eighteen months too late.
Genre: angst, second chance romance, theres like 4 sex scenes, i wrote this while ovulating, smut and sadness basically, there WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING, right person wrong time, regret, pining, fucking in closet, lando norris being devastating, slow burn heartbreak, bring tissues
WC: 23k
The phone vibrates against the marble countertop at 2:47 AM, and you know—without looking, without thinking, without breathing—who it is.
You're in Leo’s penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Singapore's glittering skyline, each light a pinprick of someone else's life, someone else's choices. Their life story, all sealed behind a window. The city never sleeps here, and lately, neither do you. The laptop in front of you shows green numbers climbing, your latest trade exceeding projections by eighteen percent. You should feel something about that. Satisfaction? Happiness?
Instead, you do feel the phone vibrate again.
Leo is asleep in the bedroom, his arm probably still stretched across the space where you should be. He's good like that—reaching for you even in sleep, even when you've slipped away to chase the European markets, the American closing bell, the endless cycle of numbers that make sense when nothing else does.
Your phone lights up. Lando Norris.
Not "Lan" with the heart emoji anymore. You changed that after the third call. Clinical and distant, as if he’s just another within the vast sea of clients. Like he hadn't once known the taste of your skin, the sound of your laugh at three in the morning when you were both too young and too reckless to know that forever was a lie people told themselves.
You changed it after the third call, but you didn't block the number.
You should have blocked the number.
Your finger hovers over the screen. For seven months, you've practiced discipline. For seven months, you've built something that looks like a life—Leo with his patient smile and his family's hedge fund (though you don’t need it)—and his marriage timeline that includes you in every five-year plan. The calls came like clockwork at first, every few weeks, always when Lando was drunk enough to forget why you stopped answering.
Call one: The night after Bahrain. He'd gotten P2, his voice electric with champagne and adrenaline. "I wish you'd been there," he'd slurred. "It's not the same when you're not—" You'd hung up before he could finish.
Call two: Monaco. Always Monaco. The place where you'd spent a summer learning that loving someone who belonged to the world meant you'd always come second. He'd been crying. You'd listened to him cry for forty-five seconds before your thumb found the red button.
Calls three, four, and five: Increasingly incoherent. Increasingly painful. Each one a reminder that you weren't strong enough to block him, but you were strong enough not to answer. It was a thin kind of strength, the kind that felt like glass—practical until it shattered.
Call six: Two weeks after he’d gone public with his girlfriend, Magui, a beautiful blonde with an infectious smile. You still felt like the air had been ripped out of your chest. And then you answered. Immediately, regret wrapped around you, because his voice came in like fire and trembling: “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing—I miss you so much, baby. You, just you.”
Then silence.
Seven entire months of silence.
You'd told yourself he'd moved on. You'd seen the photos—Magui, with her beautiful smile, Lando's hand on her back as they entered the paddock, protective and public and permanent. Then, the announcement came through Instagram like everything else in his life. No warning. Just her hand with a ring, his caption simple: "Forever starts now."
You'd liked the post. Leo had been beside you on the yacht off Santorini when you did it, and he'd kissed your temple like you'd done something brave instead of something that hollowed you out from the inside.
"Good for him," you'd said.
"Good for us," Leo had replied, and you'd let him believe it was the same thing.
The phone stops vibrating. The screen goes dark. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding.
Then it starts again.
Your hand moves before your brain catches up. Muscle memory. The kind of stupid, self-destructive instinct that successful people are supposed to have evolved past. You've made seven figures this quarter by trusting your gut, but your gut has always been compromised when it comes to Lando Norris.
So, you do the sane thing. You answer.
"Hello?"
Silence on the other end. Not empty silence—occupied silence. The sound of breathing, of a connection established, of a bridge you'd burned being rebuilt in real-time with nothing but air and want and the kind of history that doesn't fit in the past tense.
"You answered." His voice is wrecked. Alcohol-soaked and raw, like he's been screaming or crying or both. "You actually—fuck, you answered."
You should hang up. You should wake Leo and let him wrap his reliable arms around you and remind you of all the reasons you chose this life, this man, this version of yourself that doesn't break at 2:47 AM over a voice you used to hear every day.
Instead, you walk to the window. Press your forehead against the cold glass. Watch your breath fog the skyline into something abstract. The ache in your chest growing with each breath, tearing an opening right at the cavity.
"Lando," you say, and his name tastes like blood in your mouth. Like something vital you've been trying not to need. "It's almost three in the morning."
"I know what time it is." He laughs, but it's not a laugh. It's the sound of something breaking in slow motion. "I always know what time it is when I call you. When I called you. When you stopped—" He cuts himself off. "I’m engaged."
"I know. I saw. Congratulations."
The word sits between you like a third person on the call. Polite. Appropriate. Utterly meaningless. Why the fuck did you have to answer?
"Don't do that." His voice sharpens, cuts through the alcohol haze. "Don't be fucking polite with me. You were never polite with me."
He's right. You were never polite with him. You were raw and real and so catastrophically yourself that sometimes you couldn't tell where you ended and he began. That was the problem. That was always the fucking problem.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know." He sounds lost. Lando Norris, who navigates chicanes at 200 miles per hour, who calculates the apexes in split seconds, sounds completely, utterly lost. "I don't know. I just—I'm drunk, and I'm engaged, and for the first time in seven months, I called you and you answered, and now I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to say."
You close your eyes. Behind you, the laptop chirps softly—another notification, another win, another number climbing in an account that's supposed to mean you've made it. You want to throw it out of the window.
"Why did you call?"
"Why did you answer?"
The question hangs there, unanswerable. Or too answerable. The kind of question that has only dangerous truths behind it. In the reflection of the window, you can see yourself—silk pajamas, hair twisted up in a clip, the faint shadow under your eyes that no amount of success has managed to erase.
You look like someone who has everything. Yet, you feel like someone who's bleeding from a wound no one else can see.
"I should go," you whisper.
"Yeah." He breathes out slowly. "Yeah, you should."
Neither of you hangs up.
In the distance, Singapore pulses with life. In the bedroom, Leo sleeps the sleep of the certain. On the other end of the line, Lando Norris—engaged, drunk, and far too late—breathes in rhythm with you like your hearts remember a synchronization your minds have tried to forget.
"I miss you," he says finally. Quietly. Like he's confessing to murder. "I miss you, and I shouldn't, and I'm getting married, and I still fucking miss you."
The hole in your chest—the one you've been ignoring, filling with work and Leo and vacations and the lie that you're happy—tears open a little wider.
"I know," you say, because what else is there?
"Do you—" He stops. Starts again. "Do you miss me?"
You should lie. You should protect him, protect yourself, protect the people you've both promised your futures to. You should be the bigger person, the mature one, the woman who's moved on.
"Goodnight, Lando."
You hang up before you can tell him the truth: that you never stopped.
Three weeks later, Monaco smells exactly the way you remember. Like salt and old memories and sunlight that exists nowhere else—golden and exquisite, like it costs extra to touch your skin here. You'd forgotten how much you hate this place. How much you love it. How the two feelings exist in the same breath, the same heartbeat, the same key turning in a lock you haven't touched since February.
The apartment was an investment. That's what you tell people. Prime real estate in Fontvieille, appreciation rates that made your financial advisor actually smile. You don't tell people that you bought it the same month Lando moved here. You don't tell people that you used to keep a toothbrush at his place before you had your own address, that you learned to make coffee the way he likes it in a kitchen three streets over, that every corner of this principality is haunted by a version of yourself that believed in forevers.
The elevator is broken. So you take the stairs with your luggage, each step a small violence against your Louboutins. Leo is in London for meetings. You told him you needed to check on the apartment, handle some documents in person. He'd kissed you goodbye at the Singapore airport with his usual tenderness, his usual faith that you are exactly who you present yourself to be.
You didn't tell him about the phone call. You haven't told him about any of the phone calls.
The third-floor hallway is exactly as you remember—cream walls, tasteful sconces, the kind of quiet that only money can buy. Your apartment is 3C. You're fishing for your keys when you hear it.
A door opening. 3B. You freeze.
You know this building. You know exactly two units on this floor are owned, the rest still tied up in some investment group's portfolio. You're 3C. And 3B—
3B was empty when you bought your place. You'd checked. You'd needed it to be empty because the thought of neighbors, of small talk, of anyone witnessing your comings and goings in this city that knew too much about you already, was unbearable.
The door swings open fully and Lando steps into the hallway.
For a moment—a suspended, airless moment—you think you're hallucinating. That you've finally crossed some line between want and reality, that your brain has started conjuring him out of nothing but memory and pain.
Then his eyes meet yours.
The coffee cup in his hand—Costa, always goddamn Costa, even here where the espresso is objectively better—stops halfway to his mouth. His hair is a mess, sleep-ruffled in a way that means he stayed over. He's wearing joggers and a McLaren team shirt, and there's a mark on his neck that you can see from here, small and purple and precisely where you used to—
"Fuck." The word drops from his mouth like something physical. The coffee cup wavers. "Fuck, what are you—"
You can't speak. Your throat has closed around everything you might say, every casual greeting or surprised laugh or normal human reaction. Your keys are still half-in your purse. Your suitcase is heavy in your other hand. You're wearing yesterday's clothes from the flight, and you probably look exhausted, and he's here.
He's fucking here. In the hallway outside 3B.
3B.
The realization hits you with the subtlety of a crash barrier. You have a sinking feeling of who must live in 3B.
His fiancée lives next door to you.
"You live here?" His voice cracks on the last word. "In this building?"
"I bought it two years ago." Your voice comes out steady. You've learned to make your voice steady even when your pulse is trying to break through your skin. "Investment property."
"An investment." He laughs, and it's the saddest sound you've ever heard. "Right. Of course. An investment."
He knows. You can see him doing the math, remembering when you bought it, what was happening between you then. The laugh becomes something else, something that might be a sob if he were alone, if you couldn't see him fighting it back.
A voice calls from inside 3B. Female. Sleepy. Portuguese accent wrapping around his name like ownership.
"Lan? Who are you talking to?"
You watch him close his eyes. Watch him take a breath that makes his shoulders rise and fall like he's preparing for impact.
"Just a neighbor," he calls back. His eyes open. Find yours. "Give me a minute, yeah?"
The door behind him stays open. You can see a slice of the apartment—white walls, modern furniture, a pair of women's shoes by the entrance. Evidence of a life. His life. The one that doesn't include you.
"You haven't been here." It's not a question. He's stepped closer, and you can smell his cologne, the specific laundry detergent he's used since you met him, the coffee on his breath. Every sense memory you've spent two years trying to delete. "The landlord said the owner never stays here."
"I've been busy."
"In Singapore?"
"Among other places."
"With Leo?”
Your name in his mouth is a sermon. The way he says "Leo" is a curse.
"Yes," you say. "With Leo."
"And are you happy?"
The question is so direct, so raw, that you actually step back. Your shoulders hit your door. The handle presses into your spine.
"Lando, that's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair." He's closer now. Close enough that you could reach out and touch him, could press your palm to his chest and feel whether his heart is racing like yours. "You live next door. You've lived next door to Magui this whole time, and you never—" He stops. Regroups. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"How would I have known?"
"Because—" His hand comes up, runs through his hair in that gesture you know better than your own face. Frustration and helplessness. "Because we were—we are—"
"You're engaged, Lando."
The words sit between you like a physical barrier.
"I know." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I know I am. But you answered. Three weeks ago, you answered the phone, and I thought—"
"What did you think?"
You need to hear him say it. You need him to put words to the thing you've both been avoiding, the truth that's been living in the space between his calls and your silence.
"I thought maybe—" He stops. His jaw works. Behind him, you hear movement in the apartment. Water running. The domestic sounds of someone making breakfast, starting their day, existing in the life he's building with someone else. "I don't know what I thought."
"You should go." Your hand finds your keys. Your fingers shake as you try to fit metal into lock. "She's waiting."
"I don't want to go."
"Lando—"
"I don't want to go, and you don't want me to go, and we're both going to pretend otherwise because that's what we do now, apparently. We pretend."
The key slides in. Turns. The door opens to your apartment—dark, unlived, full of furniture that's never been broken in. You should step inside. Close the door. Start unpacking. Call Leo. Do any of the thousand things a person who's moved on would do.
Instead, you turn back to look at him.
It's a mistake. He's looking at you the way he used to look at you before races—like you're something he's about to lose, something he's trying to memorize before it's gone. His hand is braced against the doorframe of 3B, and his coffee has gone cold, and there's devastation written across every line of his face.
"I'm getting married in four months," he says.
"I know."
"I call you when I'm drunk because I'm a coward when I'm sober."
"I know."
"If I asked you—" His voice breaks. Actually breaks. "If I asked you to tell me that you don't—that you've moved on, that Leo is everything, that you're happy—could you say it? Could you look at me and say it?"
Your hand tightens on your suitcase handle. The metal digs into your palm, sharp and grounding.
Behind him, Magui appears in the doorway. She's beautiful in that effortless way some people are, wearing his shirt, her hair perfect even fresh from sleep. She looks at you with polite curiosity, no recognition, no threat assessment. Why would there be? She's the one who woke up in his bed. She's the one wearing his ring.
"Babe, your coffee's getting cold." Her hand touches his shoulder, casual ownership, then she actually sees your face. Sees his. The air between you that's thick enough to choke on. Her smile falters. "Is everything okay?"
"Fine," Lando says, but he's still looking at you. "Just saying hi to a neighbor."
You watch him make the choice. Watch him step back into his apartment, into his life, into the future he's promised to someone who isn't you. His eyes hold yours until the last possible second, and in that second, you see everything—all the words he'll never say, all the calls he'll keep making when he's drunk enough to forget why he shouldn't, all the love that didn't die just because it became inconvenient.
The door closes and you stand in the hallway, your key still in the lock, your suitcase heavy in your hand. Then you hear it, bleeding through the walls. Their voices, muffled but unmistakable.
"Who was that?"
A pause. Long enough that you know he's deciding what truth he can afford.
"No one important."
You step into your apartment. Close the door. Slide down against it until you're sitting on the floor in your expensive shoes with your expensive luggage, in your expensive apartment next door to the man you still fucking love and the life he's building without you.
Your phone buzzes. Leo, checking that you landed safely.
You stare at the message. At the heart emoji. At the "miss you already" and the photo he's attached of the two of you in Singapore, your smile bright and convincing, his arm around you like you're exactly where you're supposed to be. Through the wall, you hear laughter. Hers, bright and uncomplicated. His, following after, and you've heard Lando Norris laugh a thousand times but never quite like this—like he's trying to convince himself of something.
You text Leo back: Landed safe. Miss you too.
Then you sit in the silence of your investment property, in the city where you learned how to love someone who belonged to the world, and you let yourself feel the hole in your chest that's shaped exactly like the man on the other side of the wall.
Three weeks ago, you answered his call, and you're already wondering how long until the next one.
The wine bottle is half-empty when you hear the first knock.
It’s not a polite knock, not just another neighbor-checking-if-everything's-okay knock. A desperate knock. The kind that says I know you're in there and I'm not leaving and please all at once.
It's 3 AM. You're on your third glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that cost too much and still somehow tastes like ass. The TV is playing something—that show everyone watches, the one with the kids and the monsters and the one oddly hot villan—but you stopped paying attention an hour ago. You're just grateful for the noise, for the voices that aren't yours, for the distraction from the fact that you've been in Monaco for two days and you still haven't left the apartment.
Haven't left because leaving means potentially seeing him.
Haven't left because staying means potentially hearing him through the wall.
You told Leo you needed a break. Not a break-up, just a break. Space to think. Though you know it’s a lie, and yet, he'd taken it well because Leo takes everything well, with his reasonable questions and his patient acceptance and his "I'll be here when you're ready."
You'd wanted him to fight for you. To make you feel just an ounce of something, but he didn’t. He accepted the truth for what it was, and with his warm smile kissed you goodbye.
"I know you're awake." Lando's voice comes through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "I can see the light under the door. Please let me in.."
You should ignore him. You've gotten good at ignoring him—seven months of practice, six unanswered calls, a lifetime of learning that some people are meant to be loved from a distance. Instead, you're standing. Your legs work without permission from your brain. The wine has made everything soft around the edges, including your self-preservation instincts.
"Go home, Lando." Your voice is steadier than you feel. You're still on your side of the door, your hand flat against the wood like you can feel him through it. You want to see him.
"She's in Brazil."
It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. The geography of where his fiancée is none of your concern. Not. Your. Fucking. Problem.
"That's not my problem."
"I can't stop thinking about you." His voice drops, and you have to press your ear to the door to hear him. "It's been a month. Four weeks. Twenty-eight days since I saw you in the hallway, and I've thought about you every single one of them. Every hour. I'm losing my bloody mind."
"You're drunk."
"So are you. I can hear it in your voice." A pause. "Let me in."
"No."
"Please."
"Lando—"
"I love you."
The words hit you like a physical blow, you actually stagger back from the door, your wine glass tilting dangerously in your hand. It’s been so long since you’ve heard it and in person it’s a hundred times more devastating.
"Don't say that."
"I love you," he says again, louder. "I've loved you the entire time. Through Singapore and the silence and every fucking day I've pretended I didn't. Let me in. Please. I just—I need to see you."
Your hand finds the lock. Some treasonous part of you that's tired of being good, of being reasonable, of protecting everyone's feelings except your own.
"This is a bad idea," you whisper.
"I know."
"You're engaged."
"I know."
"I told Leo I needed a break."
Silence on the other side of the door. Then: "Did you tell him why?"
You unlock the door andLando falls into your apartment like he's been leaning his full weight against the door. He catches himself on the wall, and you see him fully for the first time—worn jeans, a black hoodie, hair a disaster, eyes red-rimmed and wild. He looks like he hasn't slept. He looks like he's been crying. He looks like every bad decision you've ever wanted to make. He looks like a sin you’re ready to commit.
"You told Leo." It's not a question. He's reading your face like he used to, like no time has passed, like he still has the right. "You told him about me?"
"I told him I needed space." You close the door behind him. Locking it like that will keep the consequences out. "I didn't tell him why."
"Why do you need space?"
You gesture around the apartment—the wine, the TV still playing to an empty couch, the evidence of you hiding from your own life. "Look at me, Lando. I'm in Monaco drinking alone at 3 AM because I can't be in the same city as you without falling apart. You think Leo doesn't notice that something's wrong?"
He steps closer. You step back. It becomes a dance—him advancing, you retreating, until your back hits the kitchen counter and there's nowhere left to go.
"Tell me you don't feel this." His hand comes up, hovers near your face but doesn't touch. Waiting for permission. Always fucking waiting. "Tell me I'm alone in this and I'll leave right now. I'll marry her and I'll never call you again and you can go back to Leo and we can both pretend this was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing." The words taste like blood. Like truth. "It was everything. That's the problem."
"Then why—" His voice breaks. "Why did you leave?"
"You know why."
"Say it."
You close your eyes. The wine has made you brave and stupid in equal measure. "Because loving you meant coming second. To the racing, to the travel, to the world that owns you. I couldn't—" Your breath catches. "I couldn't keep giving you everything while getting whatever was left over."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Your eyes open. "Be honest, Lando. Really honest. When we were together, when was I ever the priority?"
You watch him try to answer. Watch him search for examples, for proof that you were wrong. The silence stretches and you have your answer.
"That's what I thought," you whisper.
"I was young." His hand finally makes contact, fingers ghosting along your jaw. "I was stupid. I didn't know what I had until you were gone, and by then you'd already—" He stops then starts again. "You'd already built this whole life without me. Success and Leo and you seemed so happy, and I thought, this is what she deserves, someone who can give her everything."
"So you got engaged to someone else?"
He sighs. "So I tried to move on." His forehead drops to yours. "It didn't work. It's not working. She's—Magui is beautiful and kind and she loves me, but she's not—"
"Don't." You put your hand on his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm. "Don't do that to her. Don't compare us."
"I love you." He says it again, and this time it sounds like a confession. Like something being ripped out of him. "I'm three months away from marrying someone else and I'm standing in your apartment at 3 AM telling you I love you, and I know it's selfish and it's wrong and it's too late, but I can't—I can't keep pretending."
Your hand fists in his hoodie. You should push him away. Should tell him to leave, to go home, to marry his beautiful fiancée and stop trying to drag you back into the chaos of loving him.
Instead, you pull him closer.
"This doesn't fix anything," you say against his mouth.
"I know."
"We'll hate ourselves in the morning."
"I don't care."
"Lando—"
He kisses you, and it's like falling. Like the seven months dissolve into nothing, like every call you didn't answer was just holding your breath until this moment. His hands are in your hair, your wine glass is falling, shattering against the tile, and neither of you stop. You kiss him back like you're drowning. Like he's air. Like you haven't spent two years teaching yourself how to breathe without him.
You’re going to regret this in the morning, you know you will. Yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips as if he’d read your mind, your jaw, the curve of your neck. "Tell me this isn't what you want."
But you can't. The words won't come. Instead, your hands find the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up, needing skin, needing proof that this is real and not another wine-drunk fantasy.
"We shouldn't—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, this one deeper, more desperate.
"I know."
"Leo—"
"Is far away." His hands span your waist, lifting you onto the counter. "And Magui is in Brazil. And right now, right here, it's just us."
It's the worst logic you've ever heard. It's also all you need to hear. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hands slide under your shirt—his shirt, actually, one you stole years ago and never gave back. He recognizes it the moment his fingers touch the fabric, and the sound he makes is broken and possessive and entirely undone.
"You kept it."
"I kept everything." It's too honest. Too revealing, but you're past the point of self-protection. "I kept all of it. Every t-shirt, every hoodie, every—"
The air in your apartment hums like a live wire. His breath mingles with yours, all whiskey and want, his palms hot and insistent against your ribs, pushing your shirt higher until it’s tangled around your shoulders. His hoodie falls somewhere on the floor, forgotten, like the rest of your reasons. You tilt your head back as his mouth traces up your throat, teeth grazing skin, a sound tearing from you that you don’t recognize—something between a sigh and a plea. His name breaks from you in fragments, syllables dragged raw, and he answers with a low growl, the kind that vibrates down your spine and pools heat in your belly.
The window across the room glows faintly with the city’s reflection—amber light, slick glass, rain streaking down like melted gold. You catch a glimpse of yourselves there—your body pressed to his, half-dressed, half-mad—and it only drives you further. His hands drag down, over the curve of your hips, gripping hard enough to leave memory. He presses closer, between your legs, the counter biting at the backs of your thighs, cold and smooth, grounding you in the storm of it.
“Do you still want me to stop?” His voice is rough, wrecked. You shake your head, wordless, your nails raking the back of his neck as if to keep him there, tethered. He kisses you again, messy, bruising, until you’re gasping into his mouth. His tongue traces yours with desperate familiarity, all the old rhythms coming back too easily, too painfully.
When Lando pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glassy, fevered, like he’s been starving and you’re the first taste in months. “Say it,” he whispers. “Say you still—”
You crush your mouth against his before he can finish, tasting the confession, swallowing it down. The movement knocks something off the counter—glass shattering against the tile—but neither of you care. He lifts you, his hips slotting between yours as you wrap tighter around him, your back pressed to the window now, the cool pane shocking against your heated skin. The rain outside runs in rivulets just beyond your shoulder, city lights bending and refracting around you, and you think for a moment that the whole world could drown right now and you’d let it.
“Lando,” you gasp when his mouth finds your collarbone, tongue tracing the edge of the old tattoo he once kissed for luck before every race. “This is—”
“Real,” he mutters, breath catching, his forehead pressed against your shoulder. “Tell me it’s not.”
But you can’t. Not when his hands slide lower, gripping your ass, pulling you closer against the hardness of his cock straining between you. Not when his lips find that spot just below your ear that always unravels you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling at the fabric, moaning and needing to feel the shape of him beneath it. The thickness. His hoodie, your shirt, everything comes away in impatient tugs, a scatter of cotton and heat. Skin to skin at last, slick with sweat, every inch of you mapped against the other’s like a language only you two ever spoke.
The couch is a blur of motion and breath. He half-carries, half-stumbles you there, lips never leaving yours, and when you fall back, the cushions give with a soft thud. He hovers above you, eyes searching, but you grab his face, drag him down again, because thinking hurts more than this ever could. Your legs part to welcome him, the weight of him pressing down, his breath ragged against your cheek. Every kiss feels like an apology that comes too late and still matters too much.
His hands roam, relearning you. The slope of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the soft catch of your breath when he grazes a nipple. You arch into his touch, a low sound escaping you, and he answers it with a sigh that trembles. His lips trail lower, over the hollow of your throat, the edge of your ribs, down your belly where goosebumps rise under his tongue. You twist your fingers into his hair, a silent command, and he obeys, mouth worshipping, marking, until you’re trembling and gasping and half-laughing through it, the tension snapping and re-forming like lightning.
Outside, thunder rolls distant but steady. The city feels far away now. There’s only the pulse of the rain, the creak of the couch, the rough drag of breath against skin. He lifts his head for a moment, strands of hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs. “You’ll make me think—”
“Don’t think,” you cut in, tugging him back down. “Just feel.”
He moves like someone who has tried for months to forget what this felt like and failed. Every inch of his body says mine even when he’s the one who left. The kiss turns reckless again, his hands gripping hard at your hips as if he could fuse you together by pressure alone. The couch dips under you both, the rhythm of motion turning frantic, unmeasured. You grab at him—his shoulders, his hair, his jaw—trying to hold him still, but he doesn’t stop; he can’t.
He breaks from your mouth to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning. “I missed you,” he says against your lips, voice shaking. “Every night, even with her. Every goddamn time I closed my eyes.” You pull him closer until your words dissolve in the space between your teeth.
The world narrows to warmth, weight, heartbeat. He gathers your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head; the look in his eyes is almost defiant, as if daring you to make him stop. You don’t. The power in the room shifts—he isn’t taking, he’s begging through dominance, trying to prove something he doesn’t know how to say aloud. You let him, not because you surrender, but because you understand exactly what’s breaking inside him.
When he releases your wrists you move first, flipping the balance, forcing him back against the cushions. For a breath he just stares up at you, chest rising fast, a small, stunned smile ghosting across his face before it’s swallowed by want. You trace the line of his throat with your fingers, your voice a whisper that vibrates through both of you. “You don’t get to be the only one who misses things.”
He sits up fast, hands sliding to your back, pulling you until your chests meet. The shift sends both of you tumbling to the floor; you land against the cold wall, laughter catching on your breath, and then silence again—just breathing and rain and the sharp scent of skin.
There, pressed between plaster and heartbeat, everything that’s been unsaid leaks out. He touches your face with his fingertips, gentle now. “She doesn’t make me feel like this,” he confesses. “He doesn’t make you feel like this either, does he?”
You close your eyes, not to lie but because the truth hurts too much to look at. “No.”
That single word cracks open whatever restraint was left. He leans in, and when you kiss him this time it’s slow, deep, deliberate—the kind of kiss that remembers everything. Your hands slide around his neck, his slide under your thighs, lifting you again, pressing you to the wall. You can feel the tremor in his muscles, not from exertion but from how close he is to losing every piece of control he’s rebuilt since you broke.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs into your hair.
“You already are.”
He exhales hard, half a laugh, half surrender, and lets his forehead rest against yours. The wall behind you is cool, grounding; his body is all heat, motion, contradiction. You hold there, breathing together, until the moment steadies enough for words.
“Tomorrow,” he says, voice rough, “we’ll pretend again. You’ll go back to him. I’ll go back to her.”
“And tonight?” you ask.
He looks at you like a man memorizing something he knows he’ll lose again. “Tonight doesn’t have rules.”
You can feel the pulse in his neck hammering under your fingertips, a frantic percussion against the quiet hum of rain outside. He’s looking at you like he’s afraid to blink, because blinking would break the spell, and there’s a tremor in his jaw when he finally moves—slow, deliberate, testing.
His mouth catches yours again, softer now, the drag of his lower lip deliberate against yours before his tongue slides past, tasting, coaxing, remembering. The kiss deepens until it stops being a kiss at all—until it becomes something rawer, wetter, his breath spilling into yours, his hands sliding up your thighs.. You can feel his hard cock against you already, the press of his cock on you, pulsing heat and friction that makes your breath hitch, makes your thighs tighten around his waist.
You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan—a rough, low sound that vibrates in your chest. “Fuck,” he whispers, teeth grazing your bottom lip, “I’ve dreamed about this every night.”
“Show me,” you whisper back.
He does.
He drags his hands down, over the curve of your ass, pulling you closer until your hips align, grinding once, twice, until there’s no room for air, just heat and friction and the sound of rain sliding down the glass. You reach between you, fumbling at his belt, your fingers shaking—not from hesitation but from need so sharp it borders on pain. The metallic clink of the buckle cuts through the silence; then he’s shoving his jeans down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed, the head slick already from how badly he wants you.
You can’t help the small, involuntary sound that escapes your throat—half gasp, half moan. “Ahh—”
Lando grins against your neck, teeth brushing your skin, the sound of it going straight to his cock. “Yeah?” he murmurs, dragging the head against your pussy through the thin barrier of your underwear, just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. “You missed this, didn’t you, babby?”
“Mh—yes.” The word cracks apart on your tongue. You tilt your hips, desperate, chasing friction, feeling the heat of him through the damp fabric that’s doing nothing to hide how wet you already are.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband and pulls, slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The air hits you cold, your skin hypersensitive to every draft, every breath. He slides his hand down, his fingers tracing the slick seam between your thighs, a soft, wet sound escaping when he pushes one finger inside, shallow at first, then deeper, curling up until your hips lift off the wall.
“God baby, fuck,” you breathe.
Lando smirks, sliding another finger in beside the first, moving them in slow circles until your muscles tighten around him. “Not God,” he murmurs, his mouth close to your ear, voice hoarse. “Just me, baby, just me.”
Your laugh comes out broken, cut off by a moan when he curls his fingers again, hitting the spot that makes your eyes roll back. He keeps it up until you’re panting, clinging to his shoulders, and then he pulls his fingers out, slick with you, dragging them over the head of his cock before lining himself up.
He looks at you once more, silent question in his eyes, but you’ve already got your hand on his neck, pulling him closer, whispering, “Do it.”
Lando pushes in, slow but relentless, the stretch making you cry out, nails digging into his skin. “Ah—fuck, yes—” It’s half sound, half plea. He grits his teeth, muscles tensing as he sinks all the way in, every inch of him sheathed in heat, your body gripping him so tight it’s almost too much.
For a second, he doesn’t move—just breathes against your neck, trembling, like he’s trying to memorize this moment by feel alone. Then he starts to thrust, slow, deep strokes that make the wall thud behind you in rhythm. The sound of skin on skin, wet and sharp, mixes with the rain outside.
“Say my name,” he murmurs against your jaw, his voice rough.
You do, breathless, over and over, until it becomes a chant, a rhythm all its own.
He groans, thrusts harder, each movement pressing you higher against the wall until your head knocks gently against the plaster, your legs locked around his waist, your heels digging into his back. The friction builds—wet, hot, consuming—and the air is full of it, the sound of you both unraveling.
You clutch at his shoulders, whispering things that make no sense, just fragments of want and apology and ache. “Don’t stop—please—don’t—”
“Not yet,” Lando growls, biting at your neck, his thrusts turning ragged. “Not until you—fuck—”
And you do—your whole body tightening around him, the release hitting like a wave that tears through every nerve ending, dragging a cry from your throat so loud it startles you. “Ahh, Lando—fuck—yes—yes—”
He’s right behind you, the sound he makes low and guttural, his hips stuttering as he comes, pulsing deep inside you, breath shaking, forehead pressed against yours. The world narrows to the beat of his heart against your chest, the smell of sweat and rain, the quiet sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then he leans back, still inside you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Tomorrow,” he whispers again, voice raw.
You nod, the word barely leaving your throat. “Tomorrow.”
But for now, it’s still tonight—and tonight, as he kisses you again, slower, gentler, you both know there’s no pretending left to do.
You wake to sunlight knifing through the curtains and his arm heavy across your waist. For one perfect, terrible second, you let yourself stay. Let yourself feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breath against your shoulder blade, the way his fingers curl possessively even in sleep.
Then reality crashes in like cold water.
What have you done?
His phone is on the nightstand, screen dark but present. A reminder. Evidence that in a few hours—maybe less—Magui will call him. She'll be bright and affectionate, fresh from Brazilian sun, asking about his day, his training, whether he missed her.
And he'll have to lie. All because of you. Your phone is in the living room. You extract yourself from his arms with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb—slowly, barely breathing, praying he doesn't wake. He shifts, murmurs something that might be your name, then settles back into sleep.
What have you done? What the fuck have you done? Fuck, fuck. Fuck.
You don't let yourself look at him. If you look at him—soft with sleep, vulnerable, beautiful in the morning light—you won't be able to leave. The apartment looks like a crime scene. Your wine glass in pieces on the kitchen floor. His hoodie abandoned by the couch. The TV finally dark, hours of content played to an empty room. Evidence of everything you've done, everything you can't take back.
Your phone screen is a graveyard of notifications. Leo called three times. Texted five. Each message a progression of concern: Hope you're sleeping well to Getting worried, call me when you can to Please just let me know you're okay.
You're not okay.
You've never been less okay. Your hands shake as you open your suitcase, start throwing things in. You don't fold. Don't organize. Just need to move, to run, to get out before he wakes up and looks at you with those eyes and makes you believe in tomorrows that don't exist.
"What are you doing?"
You freeze. Turn slowly and Lando is there in the bedroom doorway, shirtless, wearing last night's jeans unbuttoned at the waist. His hair is a disaster. There's a mark on his collarbone—your mouth, your teeth, your temporary insanity made visible.
He looks at your suitcase. At you and the understanding of the situation dawns slowly onto him, then all at once. His face contorts with pain and he moves.
"No." He crosses the room in three strides. "No, you're not—we said tomorrow. We said we'd figure it out tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow." Your voice comes out steady. A miracle. "And I am figuring it out."
"By running?"
"By leaving before this gets worse." You shove a dress into your suitcase. "Before we do more damage than we already have."
"Damage." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's what last night was to you? Fucking damage?"
"What else would you call it?" You finally look at him directly. Let him see that you're not cruel, just realistic, that all you’re trying to do is just survive this. Survive him. "You're engaged, Lando. You're getting married in three months. And I just—we just—"
"I know what we did." He runs both hands through his hair. "I was there. I was extremely fucking there."
"Then you know why I have to leave."
"What if I don't want you to?"
The question hangs between you like something living and dangerous. You’ve played these games before, and the ending is always the same. You refuse to surrender to the same consequences.
"It doesn't matter what you want."
"Doesn't it?" He's closer now. You can smell his cologne, see the exhaustion around his eyes that matches your own, the marks on his neck, the heat radiating off his skin, and it takes everything in you to not leap into his arms. "You left Leo. You told him you needed a break. That has to mean something."
"It means I'm confused." You zip your suitcase with violent finality. You have no idea what you’re doing, where you’re going to go, how you’ll face Leo after all of this. "It means I made a mistake coming here. It means last night was—"
"Don't." His voice cuts like glass. "Don't you dare diminish what happened. Don't pretend it was just—"
"What else can it be?" You're shouting now, upset at yourself for missing him, for caving. "What future do we have, Lando? You go home and tell Magui you cheated? Call off the wedding? Blow up both of our lives for—for what? For this?" You gesture between the both of you. "For something that didn't work the first time?"
He’s shouting now too. "It didn't work because I was an idiot who didn't know what he had."
"And now you're an idiot who's promised yourself to someone else."
The words land like a slap. You watch him flinch, watch the truth of it settle into his bones.
"I love you," he says quietly. Desperately, and you feel sorry for him.
"I know." And you do. You believe him and that's what makes this entire situation unbearable. "But you love her too. Or you did. Or you will. And I can't—" Your voice breaks. "I can't be the reason you ruin your life. I won't do that to you. Or to her."
"So you're just leaving me?"
Leaving him? The statement ripples through you like venom, tearing your insides apart. You swallow the lump in your throat, and sigh. "Yes."
"And we'll just—what? Pretend this didn't happen?"
"We'll have to."
He stares at you for a long moment. You watch something die in his eyes, some hope he'd been carrying that you didn't even know was there.
"When will you be back?" His voice is empty now. Defeated.
"I don't know. Maybe not for a while."
"The lease on this place—"
"I'll deal with it remotely." You grab your suitcase, your purse. Move toward the door like a soldier on a mission. "I should go. My flight—"
"You don't have a flight." He's not trying to stop you anymore. Just observing and cataloging the end. "You just decided this ten minutes ago."
"No, but I do have a private jet."
Your hand is on the doorknob when he speaks again.
"I meant it. Every time I said it. I love you."
You close your eyes. Let yourself feel it one last time—the weight of those words, the impossible hope of them. "I know," you whisper. "That's why I have to leave."
You don't look back. If you look back, you'll stay. And staying means destroying everything—his future, your future, whatever fragments of dignity you both have left. The hallway is empty. The elevator is still broken. You take the stairs with your suitcase banging against your legs, and you don't let yourself cry until you're in the car, Monaco shrinking behind you, the principality that holds too many memories and one too many mistakes.
Your phone starts ringing before you reach the airport.
Lando Norris.
You decline the call.
It rings again. And again. By the time you're through security, you have fifteen missed calls. Twenty texts that you don't read. Your phone vibrates constantly, persistently, a heartbeat of want that you refuse to answer.
On the jet, you finally block him. Not because you don't want to hear from him. Because you know if you don't, you'll answer. You'll cave. You'll let him convince you that love is enough when you know—you've always known—that it isn't. Leo calls as you're landing in London. You do answer this time.
"I'm sorry," you say before he can speak. "I'm so sorry. For all of it."
"Are you okay? What happened?" His voice is careful, filled with concern. Everything Lando's was, but without the desperation.
"No," you admit. "But I will be,” you pause, “I need to tell you something."
You meet him at his flat. You tell him the truth—not all of it, not the details that would destroy him unnecessarily, but enough. Monaco. Lando. The history you've never fully explained. The reason you needed space.
He listens. Doesn't interrupt. Doesn't rage or cry or demand explanations you can't give. When you're done, he takes a breath. "Do you love him?"
The question you've been avoiding.
"I did," you say carefully. "I do. But it doesn't matter. now"
"Why not?"
"I don’t know,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Because love isn't enough. Because he's engaged? Because you deserve better than someone who's in love with someone else."
"And what do you deserve?"
You don't have an answer for that. Leo is kind about the breakup. Of course he fucking is, he's kind about everything. He tells you to take your time, that he'll be here if you change your mind, that he hopes you find whatever it is you're looking for. You move back to Singapore. Throw yourself into work with manic intensity. The numbers make sense. The markets are predictable. You can control this, even if you can't control anything else.
You don't unblock Lando's number.
But late at night, when the trading floors are closed and the city is as quiet as Singapore ever gets, you wonder if he's still calling. If he's still texting. If he married Magui or if he—
You don't let yourself finish that thought.
Three months pass like a lifetime. You're in your office when the envelope arrives. Thick cardstock, your name written in calligraphy, and it’s devastatingly beautiful because you already know what it is before you open it.
Magui Corceiro & Lando NorrisRequest the honor of your presence at their wedding
The date is two weeks away. Lake Como. Black tie. A destination wedding for their closest friends and family.
There's a note tucked inside, separate from the formal invitation. His handwriting.
I know you won't come. I'm sending this anyway because I need you to know that I called it off twice. Changed the date once. Tried every excuse I could think of. But I can't keep waiting for something that's never going to happen.
I'm getting married. I'm moving on.
I hope you can too.
— L
You read it seventeen times. Then you put the invitation in your desk drawer, under files and contracts and all the paperwork of a life that looks successful from the outside.
Your assistant finds you an hour later, staring at your computer screen without seeing it.
"Are you alright?" she asks.
"Fine," you lie. "Just tired."
That night, you open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The same kind you were drinking that night in Monaco. You sit on your balcony overlooking the Singapore skyline and you let yourself feel everything you've been avoiding.
The love that didn't die. The choice you made. The wedding invitation that reads like an ending to your greatest love story. Your phone sits dark and silent on the table. No calls. No texts. No drunk confessions at 3 AM.
Just silence. And somehow, that's worse than all the calls you never answered.
Two weeks, you think. In two weeks, Lando Norris will marry someone else, and whatever you had—whatever you could have had—will be truly, finally over.
You drink your wine, refusing to cry. You don't unblock his number. Yet, you keep the invitation.
And you hate yourself a little bit for that.
You're not here for the wedding.
At least, that's what you tell yourself on the private jet, flying over the Alps at sunrise with your phone clutched in your hand and Lando's number freshly unblocked. The screen shows months of missed calls. Texts that stop after week three. The digital evidence of someone giving up.
You're not here for the wedding. You're here because... because? You don't have a reason. Not one that makes any actual fucking sense. Not one that justifies the lilac dress you bought yesterday, the exact shade he once said made your eyes look like they held storms. Not one that explains why you've spent five hours in the air rehearsing what you'll say, how you'll explain, what possible words could make him understand that it took you this long to realize—
Realize what? That you're selfish? That you're cruel? That you've finally hit the limit of your own self-preservation and discovered it wasn't noble at all, just cowardice dressed up in “good intentions”?
The villa appears below like something from a dream. Lake Como spreads out in impossible blues, the Italian sun making everything look like a painting. You can see white tents on the lawn. Flowers everywhere. People already arriving in their elegant clothes, their happy faces, ready to witness a love story that isn't yours.
Five hours. The wedding starts in five hours.
Your personal driver from the airport winds through streets too beautiful for what you're about to do. He tries to make conversation—asks if you're excited for the wedding, if you’re doing okay. You make noncommittal sounds and watch the villa get closer with the inevitability of a crash.
Because what the fuck are you doing? The question loops in your head as you pay your driver, let him know you’ll call later, as you smooth down your dress, as you walk toward the entrance where staff in crisp uniforms are directing early arrivals. You don't have an invitation. You left it in Singapore, in your desk drawer, next to all your other evidence of cowardice.
But you did bring the envelope.
The villa is chaos in the beautiful way only weddings can be. Florists making last adjustments, while caterers set up glassware. Somewhere on the grass, there's a string quartet practicing somewhere, notes floating through open windows. You slip past the main entrance, around the side, trying to look like you belong while your heart attempts escape through your throat.
A bridesmaid rushes past—you don't recognize her, thank god—carrying a bouquet and speaking rapid Portuguese into her phone. Max Fewtrell, Lando’s best man, someone you once knew well, stands by the garden entrance, laughing with someone. You duck behind a column, feeling ridiculous, feeling desperate, feeling every single emotion you've spent three months trying to bury.
This is insane. This is the most selfish thing you've ever done.
You do it anyway.
"Excuse me." You catch a woman in a staff uniform, her arms full of programs. "I need to find the groom. The bride—" The lie tastes like ash. "The bride forgot to give him something. A letter and she mentioned it's important."
The woman's eyes soften like she’s in some movie with star-crossed lovers. Last-minute romance. She probably thinks you're helping with some grand gesture, not being the grand gesture, not ruining one.
"He's in the east wing. Third door on the left. But you should hurry—the photos start soon."
You take the stairs two at a time, your heels clicking against marble and the east wing is quieter. Sunlight streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance like they're celebrating, like they don't know you're about to detonate someone's life.
Third door on the left.
Your hand hovers over the wood. Behind this door is Lando Norris, getting ready to marry someone else. Someone who didn't run. Someone who didn't make him wait. Someone who said yes when he asked instead of disappearing for three months and blocking his number. You should leave. Call your driver who you should’ve never never dismissed, fly back to Singapore, let him have this. Let him be happy. Let him marry the woman who showed up, who stayed, who didn't keep choosing fear over love.
Instead, you knock.
"Come in."
His voice. God, his voice. Three months since you've heard it not filtered through memory, not conjured up at 3 AM when you can't sleep, but real and present and about to see you.
You turn the handle. Step inside and lose the door behind you and turn the lock with shaking fingers hoping that God will just strike you dead before you can successfully make an ass of yourself. He's standing by the window, silhouetted against Lake Como's impossible blue. He's in his suit—navy, perfectly tailored, no tie yet. His hair is styled but not too styled, still soft enough to run your fingers through. He hasn't turned around yet, a part of you hopes he never does.
"Just leave whatever it is on the table," he says. "I'll look at it after—"
Then he turns, and the world tilts on its axis, slows to a fragile, trembling stop. Every sound dulls; every breath lingers in the air between you. You watch him see you. His face flickers—confusion, recognition, shock—before it hardens into careful nothing. Maybe, for a heartbeat, there’s hope, but it shutters behind his eyes like a door slammed too quickly. His hand clenches the windowsill behind him, knuckles white, like he needs it for the balance.
"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, you're not—you can't be here."
"I know." Your voice sounds like you've been screaming, even though you've barely spoken all day. "I know I can't. I know I shouldn't. I know—"
"Then why?" He doesn't move from the window. Refuses to come closer, like the proximity might break whatever control he's barely maintaining. "Why now? Why today of all fucking days?"
"Because I'm a coward." The words tumble out, too fast, too desperate. "Because I've spent months lying to myself, telling myself I did the right thing, that leaving was noble, that you'd be better off without me. And I believed it. I really believed it. Until I got your invitation and I—"
"I told you I called it off twice." His voice is hard now. Sharp edges designed to cut. "I tried. I gave you time. I gave you months and you blocked my goddamn number."
"I know."
"I called you 247 times." The number is so specific it hurts. "I texted you until my hands cramped. I waited. And you gave me nothing, not even a word. Not a sign. Fucking nothing."
"I know." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face, ruining whatever makeup you bothered with. "I know I don't deserve—I know I have no right to be here. But I couldn't let you do this without telling you—"
"Telling me what?" He laughs, and it's the cruelest sound you've ever heard. "That you've changed your mind? That you want me now? Now that I've finally figured out how to move on?"
"Have you?" The question rips out of you. "Have you really moved on? Because if you have, if you're actually happy, if you love her and this is real, then I'll leave. Right now. I'll walk out that door and you'll never see me again. But if there's any part of you that's only here because you gave up on me—"
"Don't." He pushes off from the window, and the movement is violent in its restraint. "Don't you dare put this on me. Don't make me the villain for trying to build a life after you destroyed me."
"I'm not trying to—" You step forward. He steps back. The dance from Monaco reversed, and it breaks something in your chest. "Lando, please. Please just listen—"
"I'm done listening." But he doesn't move toward the door. He doesn't tell you to leave. "I spent months listening to nothing. To silence. Do you know what that does to a person? Calling someone you love and hearing nothing back? I thought—" His voice cracks. "I thought maybe you'd died. I thought maybe something happened and that's why you weren't answering. I almost called your office. Your emergency contacts. That's how fucking pathetic I was."
"I'm sorry." You're sobbing now, ugly crying, past the point of any dignity. "I'm so sorry. I was scared. I was terrified that if I answered, if I let myself love you again, it would be like before. That I'd lose myself. That I'd always be second to the racing and the world and everything that owns you. So I ran. I've been running our entire relationship, and I'm tired. I'm so tired of being scared."
"So you show up on my wedding day." He's crying too now, tears tracking down his face, and you want to cross the room and wipe them away but you don't have that right anymore. "You show up in lilac—you wore lilac—and you expect what? That I'll just call it off? Again? That I'll keep waiting for you to be ready?"
"No." You shake your head. "No, I don't expect anything. I know it's too late. I know you've moved on. I just needed you to know that I choose you. I should have chosen you months ago, three years ago, every single time I had the chance. But I'm choosing you now. Even if it's too late. Even if you hate me. I'm here, and I'm choosing you, and I love you. I love you so much.”
The words hang in the air between you like something holy and terrible.
"You love me," he repeats flatly.
"Yes."
"And you thought—what? That would be enough? That showing up here, today, with my fiancée getting ready down the hall, with 900 people about to watch me get married—that would be enough?"
"I don't know what I thought." You're backing up now, toward the door, finally understanding how cruel this is. "I wasn't thinking. I just—I got on a plane and I came here and I didn't have a plan. I just needed you to know. Before you did this. Before it was permanent. I needed you to know that someone chose you. That I choose you. Even if it doesn't change anything."
"It doesn't change anything." He says it too quickly. Trying to convince himself. "It can't. I'm getting married in—" He checks his watch. "In four and a half hours. The guests are arriving. My parents are here. Her family is here. I can't just—"
"I know." You reach for the door lock. "I know. I'll go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I hope—" Your voice breaks. "I hope you're happy. I hope she makes you happy. I hope you have everything you deserve."
Your hand is on the lock when he speaks again.
"Do you remember what you said to me? In Monaco? You said loving me meant coming second."
You freeze.
"You were right." His voice is hollow. "You would have. The racing, the travel, the career—it all comes first. It has to. That's the life. That's what I signed up for. And Magui understands that. She's okay with it. She doesn't need me the way—" He stops. "She doesn't need more than I can give."
"And that's enough for you?" You turn to face him. "Settling for someone who doesn't need you? Building a life around what you can't give instead of what you can?"
"It's realistic."
"It's sad, Lando."
"It's what I have." He crosses his arms, defensive. "You left. You chose to leave and I respect that choice. But you don't get to come back now and tell me I'm settling. You don't get to make me the bad guy for moving on."
"You're not the bad guy." You're crying harder now, everything you've held in for months pouring out. "You're not. You're the love of my life and I ruined it because I was scared and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I'm here now. I flew across the world. I'm standing in front of you in your favorite color begging you to—"
"To what?" He's across the room suddenly, close enough to touch, his face wrecked with everything he's feeling. "To call off my wedding? To humiliate Magui? To blow up my life on the possibility that this time will be different? How do I know you won't run again the first time it gets hard? The first time I have a bad race or I'm gone for three weeks or I'm too tired to be who you need me to be?"
"You don't." It's the only honest answer you have. "You don't know. I can't promise I won't be scared sometimes. I can't promise it'll be perfect. But I promise I'll stay. I promise I won't run. I promise that if you choose me, I'll spend every day proving I was worth the risk."
He's so close now you can see gold flecks in his eyes, see the exact moment he almost gives in. His hand comes up, almost touches your face, then drops.
"I can't," he whispers. "I want to. God, I want to. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep breaking myself on the possibility of you."
"Lando—"
"You need to leave." His jaw sets. "Please. If you ever loved me, leave before I do something we'll both regret."
"I do love you. That's why I'm here."
"And I love her." He says it like he's trying to convince himself. "I love Magui. Maybe not the way I love you, but I love her, and she deserves better than this. Better than me standing here wishing you'd come back sooner. She deserves someone who's all in."
"Are you?" You have to ask. Have to know. "Are you all in?"
The pause is too long.
"I will be," he says finally. "After today. After I marry her. I'll make myself be."
"That's not how love works."
"Then I guess I'll learn." He steps back, putting distance between you again. Choosing distance. Choosing her. "You should go. Please. Before someone sees you. Before this becomes even more complicated."
You want to fight. Want to scream that he's making a mistake, that he'll regret this, that you're supposed to be together. But you can see it in his face—he's already made his choice. Made it when you didn't answer his calls. Made it when you blocked his number. Made it in all the silence you gave him when he needed words.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay. I'll go."
You unlock the door. Step into the hallway. Turn back one last time. He's standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking more lost than you've ever seen him. Like he's about to walk down an aisle toward a life he doesn't want but has convinced himself he deserves.
"I hope you'll be happy," you say. "I really do."
"Yeah," he says. "You too."
You close the door. You make it down the stairs, through the villa, past the flowers and the musicians and the happy guests. You make it to the road before you collapse against a wall, sobbing so hard you can't breathe.
Your phone rings. For one wild second, you think it's him. That he's changed his mind. That he's coming after you.
It's not his number.
You don't answer. You call your driver and get back to the airport. You pay him triple the amount you should have, hoping that the small amount of his happiness would ignite any feeling in you. It does not. So, you board your jet with your lilac dress wrinkled and your face destroyed and your heart in pieces on a villa floor in Lake Como.
You flew across the world to choose him and he chose to let you go. The flight back is seventeen hours of wondering if you just made the biggest mistake of your life—showing up, or leaving.
You'll never know which.
The wedding photos are everywhere.
Vogue runs them first—a twelve-page spread that you see in an airport in Tokyo, flipping through magazines while waiting for a delayed flight to Singapore. The headline reads "Racing Hearts: Lando Norris and Magui Corceiro's Lake Como Dream Wedding."
She looks like a princess. He looks happy. You buy the magazine and hate yourself for it. But you buy it anyway, and on the plane, with a glass of champagne you don't taste, you study every photo like there might be some hidden truth in them. Some sign that he's pretending. That this isn't real.
There isn't one. Not a single goddamn one. Instead, he’s's smiling in every shot—that full, genuine smile that crinkles his eyes. His hand on her waist. Their first dance. The kiss at the altar. You memorize each image like you're cataloging evidence for a crime, and maybe you are. Maybe you're the crime.
People magazine runs a feature two weeks later. Tatler does an exclusive interview. Instagram explodes with professional photos and guest candids and hashtags that trend for days. #LandoAndMagui. #NorrisWedding. #ForeverStartsNow.
You see every single one. Seven months pass like this—you, building an empire that would make anyone else satisfied. Your portfolio has tripled. You've closed deals that make financial news. Money pours in with the inevitability of tide, and you convert it into things that are supposed to matter: properties, art, cars with price tags that require NDA signatures.
Wes says you're running.
"Iceland was fucking cold," he tells you over FaceTime, his face windburned and happy. "But at least I knew I was running then. You're just calling it success, babe."
Wes Kensington—your best friend since university, the only person who knows the full story, who held you while you sobbed for three days after Lake Como. He's in Reykjavik for five months working on his latest collection, avant-garde pieces that fashion magazines call "revolutionary" and you call "Wes being Wes."
"I'm not running," you tell him. "I'm thriving."
"Uh-huh. You're buying things, darling. That's not the same as living."
But you don't know how to explain that buying things is the only language you understand anymore. That work is the only place your mind quiets. That if you stop moving, stop acquiring, stop building this monument to your own success, you might have to feel the hole in your chest that's shaped like a choice you made too late.
So you buy a villa in Nice. Wes comes with you to see it—fresh off the plane from Iceland, his skin pale and his design sketches still smelling like volcanic ash and wool. The villa is obscene in its beauty: nine bedrooms, infinity pool, vineyards that roll down to the Mediterranean like something from a dream.
"It's perfect," Wes says, walking through rooms with ceilings painted by artists whose names you can't pronounce. "It's also completely excessive for one person."
"I'm thinking of it as an investment."
"You're building yourself a cage." He touches a marble column that probably predates Napoleon. "A very beautiful cage, but still."
You don't argue because he's not wrong. The Monaco apartment needs to be dealt with first. You've been avoiding it for months—paying the utilities remotely, ignoring the real estate agent's increasingly pointed emails about the market being hot, about buyers interested in the building.
But you can't keep it. Not when he's three meters away through the wall. Not when staying there means existing in the same space he shares with his wife.
His wife. The word still sits wrong in your mouth.
Wes offers to come with you to pack, but you tell him you need to do it alone. He's in Monaco anyway, meeting with a fabric supplier in Monte Carlo, staying at the Hôtel de Paris and complaining about the thread count like it's a personal insult.
"Text me if you need an extraction," he says, kissing both your cheeks. "I can be there in ten minutes with wine and terrible decisions."
"I'll be fine," you lie.
The building looks the same because buildings don't care about heartbreak. The elevator is still broken—some things never change. You take the stairs with your Hermès bag and your Cartier watch and your armor of things that don't protect you from anything that matters.
Third floor. The hallway that's haunted by every version of yourself that's walked it—hopeful, destroyed, desperate, leaving.
You're fishing for your keys when the door to 3B opens and Magui steps out.
Time doesn't stop. That's the thing about these moments—they keep moving, forcing you to exist in them second by excruciating second.
She's beautiful. More beautiful than the magazines, than Instagram, than your jealous memory has allowed. She's wearing casual clothes—linen pants, a silk top, effortless in the way people are when they're happy. Her hair is pulled back. There's a glow to her that speaks of good sleep and good sex and a life being lived without the weight of regret and you realize this is the first time you’ve seen here in person.
She sees you.
You watch recognition dawn slowly, then all at once. Her smile—polite, neighborly—freezes. Her eyes widen slightly. You’re unsure if she recognizes you because of work, or something entirely else.
"Hi." Your voice comes out steady. Another miracle. You've gotten good at those. "I'm—I was just—"
"I know who you are." Her accent wraps around the words, soft and careful. Not unkind. Just aware of her neighbors. "You own 3C."
Not "Lando's ex." Not "the woman from Lake Como." Just the owner of 3C, like you're nothing more than a name on a deed and maybe that's all you are now.
"Yes." You clutch your keys like they’ll save you from this moment. "I'm actually selling it. Just here to wrap up some final things before the realtor takes over."
"Oh." She shifts her weight. There's something in her eyes—not hostility, but not warmth either. A careful distance. "We'll miss having a quiet neighbor."
We. The word is a knife between your ribs.
"Congratulations," you blurt out. "On the wedding. I saw the photos in Vogue. You looked beautiful."
Why did you say that? Why did you mention the wedding? Why can't you just unlock your door and disappear like a normal person instead of standing here making small talk with the woman who married the man you—
"Thank you." Her smile is genuine. "It was a beautiful day."
A British voice calls from inside 3B. "Babe? Have you seen my—"
Magui's expression shifts—something like panic, like protection. "I should go," she says quickly. "It was nice to finally meet you."
She disappears back inside before you can respond, the door closing with a soft click that sounds like finality.
You stand frozen in the hallway. He's in there. Right now. Three meters away through walls and lives. Maybe he's in the kitchen making coffee. Maybe he's getting ready for training. Maybe he's happy in a way he never was with you.
Your throat feels sick. Actually sick like you might vomit right here on the marble floors that have witnessed every iteration of your heartbreak.
Your hands shake as you unlock your door. 3C looks exactly as you left it—furniture you never broke in, art you bought but never really looked at, a kitchen you used maybe ten times. It's a museum to a life you never actually lived. A investment property that cost you everything.
Your phone buzzes. The realtor, confirming she'll be here in an hour to do the final walkthrough.
One hour. You have one hour to exist in this space before you never see it again.You walk through the rooms mechanically. The bedroom where Lando slept once, where you woke up to sunlight and regret. The living room where you drank wine and watched Stranger Things and tried to convince yourself you were fine. The kitchen where broken glass from that night still left a tiny scratch on the tile that no amount of cleaning has erased.
You're leaving everything. The furniture, the dishes, the ghost of who you were when you thought proximity to him was the same as having him. The realtor has buyers lined up who want it furnished—some millionaire who won't know or care about the history embedded in these walls.
You're only taking what matters: the cars in the garage downstairs (a Porsche and a vintage Ferrari you bought at auction), the art (three original pieces that will look perfect in Nice), and the jewelry.
Nothing sentimental because you've learned that sentimentality is a luxury you can't afford. The villa in Nice is waiting. Seven bedrooms overlooking the Baie des Anges. Infinity pool that bleeds into the Mediterranean. There’s vineyards and olive groves and enough space that you'll never have to see your neighbors, never have to make small talk with someone's wife, never have to hear British voices through walls.
You've convinced yourself the sea will make you feel something. The sea, and the distance, and the clean slate of a place that doesn't know your history.
You're standing at the window—the same window where you watched the skyline while Lando called, where you've stood a hundred times trying to make sense of your choices—when you hear it.
Through the wall. Muffled but unmistakable. Laughter. His laughter, specifically—that bright, unguarded sound that used to be yours. Followed by hers, lighter, feminine, domestic.
The sound of a marriage. The sound of him keeping his promise to move on.
Your phone buzzes again. Wes: How's the funeral for your old life going? Need that extraction yet?
You text back: All good. Almost done. :)
You're not good. You're not almost done. You're standing in an empty apartment listening to your ex-boyfriend's happiness bleed through the walls, and you're about to sell this place and move to Nice and pretend that geography can fix what's broken.
But you're good at pretending now.
You've had seven months of practice. The realtor arrives exactly on time—a crisp woman in Chanel who doesn't ask why you're selling, just catalogs the space with professionalism. You sign papers. Transfer keys. Accept the fact that someone else will live here now, will make memories in these rooms, will have no idea that this apartment was witness to the death of the only love that ever mattered.
"The art and jewelry are already in transport," you tell her. "The cars will be picked up tomorrow. Everything else stays."
"Understood." She doesn't ask why you're leaving thousands of euros worth of furniture. Maybe she's used to rich people and their incomprehensible decisions. "The buyers are thrilled. They close next week!"
Next week. In seven days, this won't be yours anymore.
The relief should feel bigger. You leave the keys on the counter. Walk out of 3C for the last time. The hallway is empty—no awkward encounters, no last glimpses, just you and your bag and your heart that's learned to beat around the hole.
The stairs feel longer going down. Your phone rings as you reach the ground floor. Wes again.
"I'm coming to Nice with you," he announces. "No arguments. You're not spending your first night in that absurd villa alone."
"Wes—"
"I've already packed. Well, I've already decided what I'll pack. Same thing and we're going to be drinking expensive wine and skinny dipping in your excessive pool and you're going to tell me why you looked at property listings for six weeks before choosing the one that's exactly 47 kilometers from Monaco."
"I didn't measure the distance."
"Darling, you absolutely did."
He's right. You did. You measured it precisely—far enough that you won't accidentally run into them, close enough that you're still orbiting the same sun.
Still running, but in circles now. A grand ol’ difference.
"Fine," you concede. "Bring wine."
"I'm bringing champagne. Wine is for people who are dealing with their emotions in healthy ways."
You almost smile. Almost. Outside, Monaco gleams in afternoon sun. Yachts in the harbor. Expensive cars on expensive streets. Beautiful people living beautiful lives. You slip on your sunglasses, Celine, and head toward your car.
You don't look back at the building. You've gotten good at not looking back.Nice is waiting. The villa, the sea, the next chapter of running that you'll call healing. Wes will come and make inappropriate jokes and force you to acknowledge that buying things isn't the same as being happy.
But not yet.
For now, you drive. Windows down, Mediterranean air whipping through your hair, trying to outrun the sound of laughter through walls and the memory of a wedding in Vogue and the fact that you chose too late and now you get to live with that.
The sea better make you feel something.
You've bought it specifically for that purpose. And if it doesn't—well. There's always another property. Another city. Another distance to measure in kilometers from the epicenter of everything you've lost.
Your phone buzzes one more time.
Not Wes. Not the realtor. A notification from Instagram. Someone you don't follow, but whose profile you've looked at more times than you'll ever admit, so Instagram recognizes your a certified stalker, wonderful.
@magui.corceiro shared a new post
You don't open it because you've gotten good at that, too.
Eighteen months after Lake Como, you barely recognize yourself in mirrors.
The hair is different first—honey blonde instead of your natural color, cut shorter with highlights that your stylist in Nice applies every six weeks like clockwork. Your body is different too—toned from daily sessions with a trainer, muscles defined in ways they never were.
You look good. At least, everyone says so. Wes says so. The men you occasionally let into your bed say so before you kick them out and don't return their calls. Magazine profiles say so—you've been featured in Forbes twice now, Financial Times once, always photographed in your Nice villa with the sea behind you like you've found some sort of zen.
You look like someone who has their life together.
You feel like a beautifully decorated corpse.
The company expanded to Europe exactly like you planned. Offices in London, Paris, Frankfurt. Your name on buildings. Your signature on deals that move markets. You're richer than you ever imagined possible—the kind of rich where you stop checking prices, where your accountant sends quarterly reports you barely read because the numbers have stopped meaning anything.
Money was supposed to fix things. Yet, it hasn't.
"You need a break," Wes tells you over FaceTime, his face pixelated from whatever corner of South America he's currently occupying. "You look exhausted."
"I look great. You literally just said I look great."
"You look like a very attractive robot who's forgotten how to feel things." He adjusts his phone, and you catch a glimpse of ocean behind him. "Come to Uruguay. I’ll be at the house for three weeks. Beach, sun, aggressive amounts of wine. You need this, babe."
"I have meetings—"
"Reschedule them. Darling, I love you, but you're turning into one of those tragic women who dies at her desk and no one finds her for three days because everyone just assumes she's busy."
"That's dark."
"So is whatever you're doing." His expression softens. "Please. Come and let me feed you food that isn't made by your private chef. Let the ocean do something other than serve as a backdrop for your emotionally vacant existence."
So you go. Because Wes is right, even if you won't admit it. Because the Nice villa feels less like a home and more like an expensive holding cell. Because you've been in Europe for eighteen months and you've barely left France except for work, and even then it's just airports and hotels and conference rooms that all look the same.
Because you're so fucking tired of being empty.
Uruguay is beautiful in the way only places that haven't been completely overtaken by tourists can be. Wes's house is in José Ignacio—a stretch of coast that's somehow both exclusive and understated, million-dollar homes tucked between dunes and native vegetation like they're trying not to draw attention. The house itself is pure Wes: there’s floor-to-ceiling windows, architectural lines that shouldn't work but do, furniture that's somehow both minimalist and comfortable. And the beach—god, this fucking beach. Private and pristine, sand like sugar, the Atlantic stretching infinite and grey-blue. It’s utterly beautiful.
"See?" Wes says, handing you a glass of wine on your first evening. "This is what healing looks like."
"This is what running away looks like," you counter, but you take the wine anyway.
"Darling, you've been running for two years. At least run somewhere with a decent coastline."
You've been here for five days when you realize he's right about something else too, you have a hard time with men now. There's a dinner party—some fashion designer friend of Wes's, artists and models and people with interesting faces and more interesting trust funds. A photographer named Mateo pays attention to you, and he's handsome in that specific South American way, all dark eyes and easy charm.
You let him kiss you in Wes's garden. You let him press you against a wall while the party continues inside. You let him whisper things in Spanish that sound like promises.
Then you feel nothing. Nothing when he touches you. Nothing when he suggests going back to his place. Nothing except the familiar emptiness and the sure knowledge that if you sleep with him, you'll treat him exactly how you've treated all the others—like they're interchangeable, disposable, a temporary distraction from the permanent ache.
"I should go," you tell him, and you see the confusion in his face. The hurt.
You're hurting people now. You've become the thing you used to hate—someone who uses bodies to forget feelings, who takes without giving, who leaves before morning because staying would require being honest about how broken you are.
"I'm sorry," you add, but it doesn't help.
Inside, Wes takes one look at your face and steers you toward the deck.
"Want to talk about it?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You're crying."
You touch your face. He's right. You didn't even notice.
"I don't know how to do this anymore," you admit. "How to let someone in. How to feel something that isn't just nothing."
Wes doesn't offer platitudes. That's what you love about him. He just sits with you while you cry, while the party continues inside, while you face the reality that you've spent eighteen months building a life that looks perfect and feels like death.
The next afternoon, you're on the deck alone. Wes has gone into town for supplies—or maybe to give you space, he's good at reading when you need solitude. The sun is setting over the Atlantic, painting everything gold and pink and devastating. You're in a linen dress, barefoot, wine glass in hand, watching the waves and trying to remember what it felt like to want something other than oblivion.
"Ruffus!" A man's voice, British, slightly panicked. "Ruffus, come back here, you absolute—"
A dog appears on the deck—some kind of terrier mix, small and scruffy and completely unbothered by commands. It makes a beeline for you with the confidence of an animal who's never met a stranger.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry—" The voice is closer now, footsteps on the deck stairs.
The dog jumps at your legs, paws on your knees, tongue out and panting like you're the most exciting thing it's ever encountered. You can't help but laugh—the first real sound you've made in days—and crouch down to pet it.
"Hey buddy," you murmur, scratching behind its ears. "You're quite friendly, aren't you?"
"Ruffus, down. Ruffus—Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry, he's usually better behaved—"
You look up and the world tilts.
Lando Norris is standing five feet away, haloed by sunset, looking at you like he's seeing a ghost. He's in board shorts and a t-shirt, hair salt-messy, sunburned across his nose. Older somehow—not much, but enough that you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes. There's a wedding band on his left hand that catches the dying light like an accusation.
For a moment—a suspended, airless moment—neither of you moves. The dog continues to lick your hand, oblivious to the fact that the entire world just shattered and reformed into something unrecognizable.
"Hi," you manage. Your voice sounds like you've been underwater.
"You—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "What are you doing here?"
"Wes's house." You gesture vaguely behind you. "You?"
"Next door." He points to the house barely visible through the dunes. "We're renting for the month. I—fuck. I didn't know you'd be here, I completely forgot Wes is right there."
We. Of course. We means Magui. We means his wife. We means this is somehow worse than Lake Como because at least there you knew what you were walking into.
You stand up slowly, the dog finally losing interest and trotting back to Lando. Your wine glass is still in your hand. Gripping it like you might break the damn thing.
"Your hair," he says suddenly. "It's different."
"Yeah." You touch it self-consciously. "I needed a change."
"It's—" He stops himself. Looks away. "You look good. Different. But good."
You want to ask if he's happy. If the wedding took. If Magui is inside their rental right now, unpacking groceries or scrolling through her phone or existing in blissful ignorance of the fact that her husband is standing on a deck in Uruguay staring at his ex-girlfriend like she's an equation he can't solve.
Instead, you say, "Congratulations. On the wedding. I know I said it before, but—"
"Don't." His voice is sharp. "Please don't."
"Okay."
The silence stretches. The ocean fills it with the sound of waves, of gulls, of the world continuing despite the fact that you're both drowning in this moment.
"I should go," he says, but he doesn't move.
"Yeah." You don't move either.
Ruffus barks, impatient, ready to continue his beach adventure.
"How long will you be here?" The question comes out before you can stop it.
"Four more weeks." He's looking at you with something that might be hope or might be dread. "You?"
"Three weeks.."
The implication hangs between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Three weeks. In neighboring houses. With his wife and your best friend and eighteen months of unfinished business sitting in the space between what you are and what you were.
"I'm married," he says suddenly. Forcefully like he's reminding himself of it.
"I know."
"And you're—" He gestures at you, at the villa behind you, at whatever version of yourself you've become. "You're different now."
"I am."
"Happy?"
The question is so direct it steals your breath.
"Are you?" you counter.
He looks at you for a long moment. The sunset paints him in impossible colors—gold and amber and the shade of heartbreak that you've learned to live with but never learned to cure.
"I'm trying to be," he says finally.
It's the saddest answer you've ever heard.
"Me too," you whisper.
Ruffus barks again, and Lando finally, finally looks away. Clips the leash onto the dog's collar with shaking hands.
"I should—Magui will wonder where I am."
"Yeah. Of course."
He takes three steps toward the stairs. Stops and turns back.
"It's good to see you," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "Even if it's—even if we shouldn't—it's good to see you."
"You too."
He leaves. You watch him walk back down the beach toward the house next door, the dog pulling at the leash, the sunset turning everything into a painting of something that might have been beautiful if it wasn't so destroying. You stand on the deck until long after he's disappeared. Until your wine is warm and the sun is gone and Wes comes back to find you exactly where he left you.
"You alright?" he asks, setting down grocery bags.
"Lando's next door," you say flatly.
"I’m sorry. What?"
"With Magui. They’re renting the house next door. For three weeks."
Wes stares at you. Then at the house barely visible through the dunes. Then back at you.
"Fuck," he says eloquently.
"Yeah."
"Do you want to leave? We can leave. I can call the jet, we can be back in Nice by tomorrow—"
"No." You're surprised by how certain you sound. "No. I'm tired of running."
"Darling—"
"I'm staying." You finally look at him. "I don't know what happens next. But I'm staying."
Wes studies your face for a long moment, then nods slowly.
"Okay," he says. "Then we're going to need more wine."
"Much more," you agree.
Inside, your phone buzzes. Unknown number. You stare at it for a full minute before opening the message.
I'm sorry. About the deck. About all of it. I'll make sure we don't cross paths again. Enjoy your vacation.
No name. It doesn't need one. You'd recognize his words anywhere.
You type and delete five different responses before settling on:
It's a small beach. We're adults. It's fine.
It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine. But you hit send anyway and try not to think about the fact that you have three weeks in Uruguay, eighteen months of unfinished grief, and the man you still love sleeping in a house thirty meters away with the woman he chose instead.
The universe is cruel.
For three days, you avoid the beach like it's contaminated. It's not hard—the villa has everything. Infinity pool, private gym, a view that makes the Mediterranean look modest. You work remotely, take calls on the terrace, pretend you came to Uruguay for the architecture and not the ocean.
Wes doesn't call you out on it. He's too busy being disgustingly happy with Fernando. Fernando who arrived two days after the Ruffus incident—tall, Spanish, absurdly handsome in that way that makes even you understand why Wes keeps giggling like a teenager. He's a photographer, which means he and Wes spend hours discussing "light" and "composition" while looking at each other like they've invented romance. They 100% have fucked, and recorded it.
"You like him," you observe on day three, watching Wes actually blush over breakfast.
"I'm considering liking him," Wes corrects. "There's a difference."
"Please, you’re already planning the wedding."
"I'm planning what he'll wear to my next show. It’s professional."
"Uh-huh sure, just so you know, you’re unbearable when you're happy."
"And you're unbearable when you're hiding." He steals a piece of your toast. "We bought a yacht so we should probably use it."
The yacht is—excessive doesn't begin to cover it. You and Wes bought it six months ago in a moment of shared madness, a 120-foot floating testament to having more money than sense. It's moored in the marina at José Ignacio, white and sleek and absolutely fucking ridiculous.
Vagrancy, you named it. Because even your boat is running away from something. God, the fucking irony.
"Fine," you concede. "But if I see him on the water—"
"The ocean is large, darling. The odds are astronomical."
The odds turn out to be irrelevant when Fernando gets involved. You're on the yacht by noon—the three of you plus a few friends and a small crew, anchored in a perfect spot where the water goes from turquoise to deep blue. Wes has brought enough champagne to sedate a small army. Fernando has brought his camera and keeps taking candid shots of Wes when he thinks no one's noticing.
You're three glasses deep, lying on the sun deck in a bikini that cost more than most people's cars, trying very hard not to think about the fact that Lando is somewhere in Uruguay, probably doing normal vacation things, probably happy with his wife, probably not thinking about you at all.
"I invited some people!" Fernando calls up from the main deck, way too cheerful.
You open one eye. "What people?"
"The neighbors! They were having a bonfire on the beach, and I thought, why not? The more the merrier!"
Your stomach drops to the ocean floor.
"Which neighbors?" Wes asks carefully, already knowing, shooting you a look that's pure apology.
"The British couple! And their friends—very nice people. They said yes immediately!"
Of course they did. Because Lando wouldn't speak up. Wouldn't say "actually, my ex-girlfriend who I'm definitely over is on that yacht, this is a terrible idea." He'd just smile and agree because that's what you do when you're trying to be normal, trying to be married, trying to pretend the past doesn't exist.
"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for the champagne bottle.
"We can cancel," Wes says quietly, kneeling beside your lounge chair. "I'll tell Fernando you're sick. We'll say—"
"No." You sit up, drain your glass, refill it. "It's fine. We're adults. It's a big yacht."
"It's not that big."
"Then I'll get drunker."
By the time the tender brings them over, you're five glasses deep and feeling nothing, which is exactly the point. You stay on the sun deck, hidden behind your sunglasses and your artificial calm, while Wes goes down to play host. You hear them before you see them. Magui's laugh—light, genuine, the sound of someone who has no idea this is a nightmare. A woman's voice you don't recognize, Brazilian accent, must be Pietra. Max Fewtrell's distinctive tone, joking about something. And then—
"Mate, this is insane. How rich are these people?"
Lando. Trying to sound normal. Absolutely failing.
"Very rich," Fernando says proudly. "Wes designed for half of Paris Fashion Week. And his friend—she's in finance. They bought this together."
"His friend," Max repeats slowly. "Does this friend have a name?"
Oh god. Max knows. He fucking knows. Lando's told him everything—Monaco, Lake Como, all of it. You can hear it in the careful way he's asking, the way the entire group goes slightly quiet.
"She's up on the sun deck," Wes says, and you can hear the warning in his voice. "Getting some sun. Very hungover. Might not be very social."
It's a gift. An out. A way for Lando to grab Magui and make excuses and leave before this becomes catastrophic.
He doesn't take it.
"Well, we brought drinks!" Pietra says brightly, oblivious. "Should we bring them up?"
You close your eyes behind your sunglasses. Take a breath. Stand up and make your way to the stairs before they can come to you, because at least this way you control the moment of impact.
They're all on the main deck when you descend. Fernando is opening wine. Wes is already pouring something that looks like it’ll be a problem later. And there they are, Max Fewtrell, mid-sentence, freezing when he sees you like someone's pressed pause and he’s seen a goddamn ghost. His face cycles through recognition, shock, and what might be sympathy before he manages to control it.
Pietra, gorgeous in a simple sundress, smiling warmly because she has no idea who you are. Magui, in a bikini, her hair perfect, her ring catching the sun as she reaches for a glass.
And Lando. Lando in board shorts and a linen shirt, unbuttoned, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. The wedding band on his finger like a brand. Looking at you like you're a car crash he can't look away from.
"Hi," you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near catastrophic. "Welcome to Vagrancy."
"Oh my god," Pietra gasps, looking around the yacht properly. "This is incredible. You own this?"
"Co-own," you correct, accepting a drink from Wes that you don't look at before downing half of it. "Wes has terrible spending habits and I enable them."
"You love it and you know it," Wes says, settling beside Fernando with ease. "Everyone, this is—"
"We've met," Max interrupts, his voice careful. His eyes flick between you and Lando like he's watching a bomb countdown. "Actually. In Monaco. A few years ago."
The lie is kind and you're grateful for it.
"Right!" You smile brightly, artificially. "Max! Good to see you again.”
Pietra is still oblivious, already exploring the deck with wide eyes. Magui is taking a selfie against the ocean backdrop, her phone angled perfectly. And Lando is still staring at you like he's trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with whoever he's been remembering.
"Your hair really is different," he says quietly.
Everyone looks at him. Then at you, and suddenly the air becomes thick with unspoken questions.
"Needed a change," you repeat, same words as the beach, taking another long drink. "You know how it is."
"Right. Change." He's still looking at you. Only you. His wife is three feet away and he's looking at you like she doesn't exist. "It suits you."
"Lando," Magui calls, turning her phone toward him. "Baby, take one of me and Pietra?"
The word "baby" hits you like a physical blow and you decide in that moment to turn away, toward the bar, refilling your glass with hands that shake slightly.
"I'll give a tour!" Fernando announces, because he's lovely and oblivious and trying to be a good host. "Come, I'll show you the state rooms—this yacht has five, can you believe it?"
Pietra and Magui follow him eagerly. Max hesitates, looking at Lando, then at you, clearly debating whether leaving you two in the same space is a good idea.
"Go ahead," Lando tells him. "I'll catch up."
Max leaves with obvious reluctance.
Wes stands. "I should—"
"Stay," you tell him. "It's fine. We're fine."
But Wes knows you too well. He kisses your cheek, whispers "I'm inside if you need me," and disappears after the others.
Leaving you and Lando alone on the deck of a yacht in Uruguay, eighteen months and a marriage between you.
"You're drunk," he observes.
"I’m happily drunk," you correct. "There's a difference."
"It's not even three PM."
"It's five o'clock somewhere. Isn't that the vacation motto?"
He moves closer. You move toward the railing, putting space between you, putting ocean and wind and the reality of his wedding ring between you.
"I didn't know you'd be here," he says. "On the yacht. Fernando didn't mention—"
"Why would he? He doesn't know." You laugh, and it comes out sharp. "Nobody knows except Wes and Max, apparently. Everyone else just thinks we're strangers who met once in Monaco."
"We're not strangers."
"Aren't we?" You finally look at him directly. "You're married. I'm... whatever I am. We don't talk. We don't exist in each other's lives. That's pretty much the definition of strangers."
"That's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "You can't just show up places looking like—being—" He stops. Regroups. "This is hard enough without you being here."
"Hard?" Your voice rises despite yourself. "You think this is hard for you? You're here with your wife on a vacation, and I'm the inconvenience?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?"
Before he can answer, Fernando's voice echoes from below. "Come see the master cabin! It's obscene!"
Lando looks toward the sound, toward his wife, toward the life he's supposed to be living.
"I should go," he says.
"Yeah. You should."
He doesn't move.
"You look happy," he says finally. "In the photos Wes posts. You look happy."
"So do you. In Vogue. You looked very happy that day too."
"I'm trying to be."
"Still?" The question escapes before you can stop it. "It's been eighteen months, Lando. Are you still just trying?"
His jaw tightens. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair."
"Lando!" Magui appears at the stairs, glowing and gorgeous and completely unaware. "You have to see this bathroom. It has a rainfall shower that's bigger than our flat in Monaco!"
Our flat. In Monaco. In the building where you used to live. Maybe even in 3B. Maybe they're sleeping in the bed where you—
"Coming," he calls back, not looking away from you.
Magui disappears again.
"Go," you tell him. "Be married. Be happy. Stop looking at me like I'm the one who got away."
"What if you are?"
The words stop your heart.
"Don't," you whisper. "Don't do that. Don't say things like that when she's right there, when you chose her, when you made vows that apparently mean something even if—"
"Even if what?"
"Nothing. Forget it." You drain your glass. "Go look at the bathroom. I'm getting drunker."
This time he does leave. And you do get drunker.
By sunset, you're seven drinks deep and doing okay. Okay in the sense that you're numb. That the edges of everything are soft. That you can look at Lando and Magui and feel nothing, which is a gift, which is the goal, which is the only way to survive this.
Fernando has set up a spread on the main deck—tapas and wine and the kind of casual elegance that makes Pietra take approximately ten thousand photos. Everyone is relaxed, happy, sun-drunk and actual-drunk.
Max keeps shooting you looks that range from concerned to impressed that you're still standing. Wes hovers subtly, ready to intervene. Fernando, bless him, remains oblivious and keeps everyone's glasses full. You're doing fine until the sun really starts to set. Until the sky turns that specific shade of pink-gold that reminds you of Lake Como. Until Lando puts his arm around Magui's waist and she leans into him with the ease of someone who has every right to, and something in your chest cracks open.
"Need more drinks," you announce to no one, heading for the bar.
There's a guy there—one of Wes’s friends, maybe mid-twenties, attractive in a nondescript way. He smiles at you.
"Can I get you something?" he asks.
You should say no. Should get your drink and go back to the group and maintain the facade of being fine.
Instead, you say, "What's your name?"
"Diego."
"Diego. Do you want to get out of here?"
His eyebrows raise. "We're on a yacht."
"There are other decks. Lower decks. Quieter decks."
Understanding dawns. He glances toward the group, toward Wes who's busy with Fernando, toward Lando who's definitely not looking at you except he absolutely is.
"Sure," Diego says. "Lead the way."
You take his hand. Make sure you're visible as you lead him toward the stairs. Make sure Lando sees. Because if he can move on, you can too. If he can have a wife and play happy and pretend you never mattered, you can take some stranger downstairs and feel nothing and prove that you're fine, you're over it, you're exactly as empty as you look.
The lower deck is quiet. Private cabins that no one's using. You pull Diego into one, close the door, press him against the wall and kiss him.
He tastes like beer and salt and absolutely nothing. You kiss him harder, trying to conjure something. Anything. Your hands in his hair—too soft, wrong texture. His hands on your waist—too tentative, wrong touch. You imagine Lando. Force yourself to imagine it's Lando's mouth, Lando's hands, Lando's body against yours.
Feel absolutely nothing.
Diego is making sounds like he's enjoying this. His hands are traveling, getting brave. And you feel—
Nothing. Empty. So profoundly empty that you want to scream.
"Stop," you say, pulling back. "I'm sorry. Stop."
"What? Did I do something—"
"No. You're great. This is—" You step away, fixing your dress. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. You should go."
"Are you sure—"
"Please. Just—please go."
He leaves, confused and probably offended, and you lean against the wall where you just had him pressed, trying to remember how to breathe. What is wrong with you? Why can't you feel anything? Why is every nerve ending in your body dead except for the ones that apparently only respond to a man who's married to someone else?
You need air. Real air, not the recycled air of this cabin that smells like your own desperation.
The back deck is empty when you stumble out—everyone must still be forward, watching the sunset, being normal people who can enjoy simple things. You grip the railing and stare at the water and try very hard not to cry.
"What the fuck was that?"
You spin around. Lando is standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something you can't quite name.
"What was what?" You're still drunk enough to be brave. "Me getting air? That's not usually controversial."
"Don't play stupid." He moves closer, and there's something dangerous in how he's moving, something barely controlled. "That guy. You and him. Everyone saw you."
"So?"
"So?" He laughs, harsh and sharp. "So you just—what, you just take some random guy downstairs and—"
"And what, Lando?" Your voice rises. "What's it to you? You're married. You don't get to have opinions about who I kiss."
"I saw you." His voice drops, goes rough. "Through the window. I saw you against the wall. His hands on you."
Oh.
Oh.
"Were you watching me?" The question comes out quieter than you intend.
"I wasn't—" He stops. Runs both hands through his hair. "I was looking for the bathroom and I saw—and you were—" He can't seem to finish sentences. "Who is he? Do you even know him?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes." He's right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell his cologne, see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "Yes, it fucking matters. You can't just—you can't just do that. Not here. Not in front of—"
"In front of who? Your wife?" You're angry now, drunk and angry and so tired of this. "I'm sorry, is my presence ruining your vacation? Should I have stayed hidden below deck so you don't have to remember I exist?"
"That's not what I—"
"Then what? What do you want from me?" You're shouting now, don't care who hears. "You married her. You chose her. You get to be happy with your wife and I get to do whatever I want with whoever I want and you don't get a say in it!"
"I know that!" He's shouting too. "I know I don't get a say. I know I have no right. But watching you—seeing you with him—" His hands flex at his sides like he wants to hit something. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
"What it does to you?" You laugh, bitter and broken. "You're unbelievable. You're actually unbelievable. You can parade your wife around, put your arm around her, call her baby, be everything to her, but god forbid I kiss someone—"
"Did you like it?" The question stops you cold. "Kissing him. Did you feel anything?"
You should lie. Should tell him it was amazing, that Diego made you forget Lando exists, that you're completely over him and moving on and fine.
The truth comes out instead: "No."
Something in his expression shifts. Cracks.
"Why not?"
"You know why not." Your voice breaks. "You know exactly why not, and it's not fair that you're standing here asking me these questions when you're wearing a wedding ring, when your wife is fifty feet away, when you made your choice and I'm trying—I'm trying so hard to make mine."
"By kissing strangers you don't feel anything for?"
"By trying to feel something for anyone that isn't you!" The confession rips out of you. "I don't feel anything, Lando. Nothing. Not for him, not for any of the others, not for anyone. I'm empty. Completely empty. And I thought maybe if I just kept trying, kept going through the motions, eventually something would work. Someone would make me feel something. But no one does. No one can. Because apparently I'm broken and the only thing I'm capable of feeling is this—" You gesture between you. "This completely hopeless thing for someone I can't have."
The silence that follows is deafening. Lando stares at you like he's seeing you for the first time. His chest is heaving like he's been running. The sunset paints him in impossible colors—gold and amber and the particular shade of heartbreak.
"You think you're the only one?" His voice is barely a whisper. "You think I don't know exactly what you're talking about? I'm married. I have a wife I care about. And I still—" He stops. Takes a breath. "I still feel nothing except when I think about you. When I see you. When I'm trying to be present in my own life and all I can think about is what you're doing, where you are, if you're happy, if you miss me even a fraction as much as I—"
"Stop." You put up a hand. "Don't. Don't say these things. Not now. Not here."
"When, then?" He's close enough to touch now. Close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, see the pain written across every line of his face. "When am I supposed to tell you that marrying her was a mistake? That I think about you every single day? That I saw you on that deck three days ago and every moment since has been torture?"
"You can't say that." You're crying now, tears streaming down your face. "You can't say that to me. You're married. You made vows. You chose—"
"I chose wrong." The words fall between you like bombs. "I chose wrong and I've known it since the wedding and I can't—I can't keep pretending."
"Lando—"
"I love you." He says it desperately. "I love you and I've loved you through all of it and I know it's too late, I know I'm married, I know this is—but watching you with him, I couldn't—I can't—"
"Baby?" Magui's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. "Are you back here?"
You both freeze.
"Baby?" Magui's voice, distant but getting closer. "Lando? Where did you go?"
Panic flashes across his face. He looks toward the sound of her voice, then back at you—your tear-stained face, your wrecked expression, the evidence of everything written across both of you.
"Fuck," he breathes.
Then his hand is on your wrist, pulling you sideways through a door you didn't even know was there—some kind of storage closet, cramped and dark, life vests and equipment crowding the small space.
"What the fuck—" you start, but his hand covers your mouth.
Not rough. Gentle, almost. But firm. His other hand braced against the wall beside your head, his body blocking yours, both of you pressed into the tiny space. You can feel his heart racing against your chest. Feel his breath coming fast and shallow.
Through the door—which he didn't close all the way, just pulled mostly shut—you hear footsteps. Magui.
"Lando? Baby, where are you?"
His hand is warm against your mouth. You can smell his cologne, his skin, feel every point where your bodies touch in this confined space. Your back against stored equipment, his front against yours, no space, no air, nothing but proximity and panic and the absolutely insane reality of being hidden in a closet with your ex-boyfriend while his wife searches for him.
His eyes meet yours in the dim light filtering through the crack. They're wild, desperate, pleading for—what? Silence? Understanding? Forgiveness for this absolute fucking disaster?
You should bite his hand. Should shove him away. Should announce your presence and blow this whole thing up because at least then it would be over, at least then there would be consequences instead of this endless torture.
Instead you stay perfectly still.
Magui's footsteps pause. She's right outside. Right fucking there.
"Where did everyone go?" she mutters to herself and you almost feel bad.
Then her footsteps retreat. Back toward the party. Back toward the safety of not knowing.
Lando doesn't move his hand. Doesn't step back. Just stands there, pressed against you in the dark, breathing like he's been running.
His fingers tremble when he lets them fall away, like a confession that might still be snatched back. The closet smells of salt and varnish and now his cologne, sharp and too familiar, and the thin light from the hallway strips the party down to a silhouette at the crack where the door doesn’t fully close. Lando’s face is inches from yours, and the part of you that has been hollow for a year and a half fills up so fast it hurts, an ache that’s mostly hunger and memory and the stupid, reckless hope you have tried to bury.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you whisper, harsh and shaking. "You can't just—you can't just grab me and—"
"You always talk like you mean to leave me," he breathes, voice so low it becomes a vibration through your sternum. His thumb ghosts along the seam of your lip. "You always pretend the gap is something we could step over. You make it sound like there's still room to be sensible."
Heat crawls from your throat to the center of you. You should shove him, should laugh, should call him selfish and walk out into the party and find a corner to die in. Instead your knees give medium and you let him half-lean, half-fall against you until your backs touch the stowed life jackets and a plastic rumble rolls under both of you like the announcement of an avalanche. A Life jacket tips over and thunks to the floor, a small, obscene percussion that makes both of you flinch and then laugh—an animal, breathless sound that dies into a ragged inhale.
"Lando," you say again, but the word comes out wet with everything you have not said for eighteen months. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them the wildness is softer, like a flare that's gone out but still leaves smoke.
"I shouldn’t have gotten married," he admits. "I shouldn’t have—God, I—"
You want to say I should have loved you less, I should have loved you more. You want to say the obvious things that would unspool this with a clean cut. Instead your hand finds the collar of his shirt without thinking and you drag him down, and when his mouth meets yours it is not the tentative, testing kiss of strangers. It is a claim. It is both apology and indictment and the simplest truth you cannot bear and cannot refuse.
His tongue is the map you remember by heart, pulling at old cartography, and your hands find the hard plane of his back, the flex of muscle under the fabric. His left hand cups your face and the wedding band is ice against your cheek—cold, foreign, wrong. You feel the ridge of it, the weight of promises made to someone else, and for a second you almost pull away. Almost.
You kiss like you are trying to fix the way time has been wrong, like you are welding the halves of a broken compass back together. He groans, that low, resident sound you thought you would catalog in a box and never open, and it vibrates against you, making the world tilt.
"Jesus," he rasps between kisses, fingers threading in your hair, tilting your head so he can better devour you. "You taste like the stupidest part of me." His mouth traces your jaw, then the hollow beneath your ear, and the shiver that answers makes him laugh—an ugly, relieved thing. "You always know where to make me lose my head."
The stupidest part that belongs to someone else now, you think, but the thought dissolves when his mouth finds that spot below your ear, the one only he knows about, and you forget how to be good.
You press into him until both of you are two halves pressed into the same small space, and the yacht creaks around you like an audience shifting in their seats. Outside, laughter explodes and a glass shatters—someone's joke finishing off someone else's patience—and you imagine Magui somewhere in there, unaware of the seismic underfoot.
Hands slide like they remember the old language: under fabric, along the small of your back, skimming until the air in the closet feels thinner than before. Buttons rebel under the weight of your impatience; his shirt opens and falls away. His ring snags on your dress—a small catch in the fabric, a tiny resistance. You both feel it. Both ignore it. The thin gold band that should be a stop sign becomes just another thing you're choosing to destroy yourselves over.
Your breath maps the bare skin you have wanted for forever, and he answers every inch with his mouth, with whispered badness and every filthy, reverent thing he used to say in the dark.
"Say it," he demands suddenly, low and fierce. His hands grip your hips until you can feel it in your bones. "Say it like you fucking mean it."
You should be scared. You should be furious. But the only honest thing rising up is the litany you've kept folded and secret for too long, and it pours out of you in a tremulous whisper that might as well be a shout.
"I love you," you say. The closet swallows the sentence whole and it comes back at you, echoed in his breathing. You had not planned on confessing; it leaks out like blood from a shallow wound, unstoppable.
He presses his forehead to yours and there is a brief, desperate silence as if the two of you are measuring the weight of the words. "I love you," he says back, like he is afraid if he repeats it once it will be taken away. "I love you. I love you. I love you." The repetition turns into a stammer, a prayer, until the words are almost a moan.
He said those words to her too. In a church, in front of God and two hundred witnesses, with photographers capturing the moment for Vogue. He promised her everything with that ring on his finger, and now he's promising you the same thing in a storage closet that smells like sunscreen and gasoline. The cruelty of it steals your breath.
There is something feral in the way his hands take you then, not gentle so much as claiming, not violent so much as urgent. You stand, guided by his grip, and the small living space becomes a private planet where the rules that govern the rest of your world do not apply. A box of extra napkins tips and flutters like pale moths. A plastic container clinks and tumbles; life jackets spill in a heap and make a crude nest at your feet. The closet door thunks a little against the frame when both of you shift, a dull, obscene drumbeat that might as well be the ship's heart.
Your knees threaten to fail, Lando catches you, presses you against the wall of stacked supplies, and you both laugh at how ridiculous it is to be making out in such a ridiculous place. His mouth finds yours again and this time the kiss is rougher, edged with something raw and unforgiving, like the tide crashing into cliffs. His palms travel a route they always knew, then explore new ones, learning the tolerances of your skin as if testing the boundaries between caution and collision. You moan—one of those long low sounds that leaks out of the back of your throat, and he answers it with words that are unsteady and perfect.
"You're mine," he says, not in the possessive, but in the knowing way of two people who have once burned and still choose to touch the flame. "Mine even if it's stupid. Mine if it hurts. Mine even if it fucking kills me."
Your hands claw at his shirt, at the belt, at anything that promises more skin, and he obliges. Buttons come undone in a frantic, clumsy cadence; breaths hitch and mingle. There are tears at the corners of both your eyes—tears from the laughable cruelty of being together like this, tears from the too-bright memory of the life you do not have, tears that are also lubrication for the ache inside your chest.
"Don't stop," you whisper, and the words are a plea and a command both. He answers by kissing the place where your clavicle meets your sternum, then lower, lower, until you can feel the heat pooling, a place he has found again with professional certainty. His mouth is an expert cartographer and you are an uncharted island rediscovered, and each ministrations sends static shocks of pleasure through the hollow parts you thought were caved in for good.
The closet is tight, so every movement is close, intimate, invasive. Metal life jacket buckles press against your thighs, a zipper grazes your hipbone, and something knocks over—maybe a box of sunscreen—spilling a smell of coconut and chemicals, ridiculous in the face of what you are doing. The noise is absurd and obscene in equal measure, and you curse and laugh through a breathless exclamation that ends in a choked, needy whisper.
"Lando," you say again, but this time there is no pleading; there is only the raw instruction of someone who has wanted this for too long. "Now. Please."
He answers by lifting you a little, steadying you on his thigh, and the angle is intimate and smart in a way that makes blood rush to your head. His hands are everywhere, and then not enough, and then all-consuming. The friction of bodies, the press of skin against skin, the slick sound of desperate mouths and wet breaths fills the small, oxygen-starved room. You cling to him, fingers tangled in his hair, your lips bruising his until both your mouths sting.
"Say my name," he hisses into your mouth, and you do, as if by naming it you can keep it from slipping away again. The name becomes a litany, a talisman to hold.
Outside the door someone calls out his name againm—Magui, sharp and searching—and both your heads turn as if pulled by an impulse you violently suppress. Lando freezes for the barest second, his forehead against yours, the sound of his wife's voice a physical thing that trembles the air. You both hold your breath, not because you are afraid of being caught, but because being found would mean finishing, sealing, and the idea of being stamped and boxed is unbearable.
"She's close," Lando whispers, voice ragged and far away. "Stay still. Don't move." His hands are on you like anchors; there is a lurching urgency to every touch now, to make the time you have left count. He leans in and bites down lightly on your lower lip, hard enough to taste blood and salt. You respond by arching into him, by letting the burn of it turn into a new kind of pleasure.
The walls of the closet get smaller as you fold into the shape of each other. Clothes fall in a haphazard mess, a silk scarf tangles around his wrist and you pull at it like a mariner hauling rope. The world narrows to the slick, incessant contact between you and the ache underneath. He mutters almost-never-sayable things into your hair, things that smell like confession and want and the sweet, bruising knowledge that you both left a part of your souls on a bench somewhere and now have found them again under fluorescent light and life vest plastic.
"Say it again," he murmurs against your throat, and you answer with a sound that is equal parts sob and moan. His pace quickens without warning, hands driving, hips bucking, and you meet him, a rhythm born of old, practiced intimacy that has not been used in ages but remembers itself like muscle memory.
You cry out when he finds that place inside you, the exact arrangement of pressure and friction and rough devotion that sends something hot and piercing straight to your brain. Tears streak your cheeks as he keeps going, as if the grief and the joy can coexist and spill out at the same time. The sound you make is not pretty; it is something magnificent and ugly and terribly honest. He whispers your name like a benediction and you catch it and hold it against your ribs.
"I love you," you sob, a broken band of sound. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
He answers by slamming into you harder, because words are useless and motion is the only language left. Each thrust is a punctuation mark, a sentence that begins and ends in the heat between you. The closet is small enough that the impacts echo; the plastic life jackets behind you squeak and clap against the wall. You push back into him, nails scoring his shoulders, and he groans something fierce and animal.
There is a moment when the door handle turns and both of you still, eyes locking in a lightning flash of terror and desire so close together they are indistinguishable. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. Somewhere in the party footsteps shift, a laugh floats, and then the door closes again on whatever someone else is saying and the imminent danger slips like water off a duck's back.
When the coast is clear Lando laughs, a short, incredulous sound, and it breaks something inside you open all the way. "We are such fools," he says, voice raw, and you kiss him because only touching can answer the confession.
Your bodies find a brutal, beautiful cadence, shuddering toward something unavoidable. The closet becomes a chapel, a battlefield, a confessional. You say the words until they mean nothing and then mean everything. He keeps saying them back, soft and quick, until the syllables run together and you are both babbling like lovers and old men at once.
Time collapses into a few frantic minutes where you are not the past and not the future, just two people who have decided to trade everything for an hour of honest heat. He grips the back of your neck and drags you up to him, eyes half-lidded with a pleasure so sharp it looks like pain. You come with a strangled cry that is part release, part admission, and when he follows a second later it feels like the world is ripping and being sewn up in the same motion.
Afterwards you cling to him in the dim light, sweaty and messy and whole in the way only devastation can make you. Your breaths slow to the boat's rhythm. Outside, the party's noise is distant and unimportant. The life jackets are in disarray, sunscreen spilled, a trail of small casualties proving you existed in there at all.
Lando's forehead rests on yours, and he hums a sound low in his chest that is almost a laugh and almost a sob. "I can't do this," he whispers, and you feel the words break open in the space between you. Not I can't do this again. Not we shouldn't have. Just the simple, destroying truth: I can't do this.
Can't keep pretending. Can't go back out there and put his arm around her. Can't survive another eighteen months of wanting you while living a lie.
"I know," you say, because you do. Because you can't either.
His thumb traces your jaw, tender in a way that makes you want to scream. "I have to tell her."
"No." The word comes out sharp, desperate. You pull back enough to look at him properly. "No, you don't. This was—this was a mistake. We were drunk and stupid and—"
"Don't." His grip tightens, keeping you close. "Don't do that. Don't make this cheap."
"What else can it be?" Your voice breaks. "You're married, Lando. You have a wife who loves you, who's out there right now probably wondering where you are, and we just—" You can't finish. Can't say what you just did in a storage closet while his wedding ring pressed into your skin.
"I'm going to tell her," he says again, quieter now. Certain. "Tomorrow. Tonight. I don't know when, but I can't—I can't keep doing this to her. To you. To myself."
"And then what?" You're crying now, tears mixing with sweat, everything a mess. "You blow up your marriage for this? For us? We don't even know if we work, Lando. We never figured that out. We just keep destroying each other in increasingly creative ways."
"So we figure it out." He says it like it's simple. Like love is ever that simple. "We stop running. We try. Really try this time."
"She doesn't deserve this."
"Neither do you." His voice cracks. "Neither do you, and I keep hurting you anyway because I'm too much of a coward to admit I married the wrong person."
The confession hangs between you like something alive and dying all at once.
"What if you're wrong?" you whisper. "What if you tell her, and blow everything up, and then we try and it still doesn't work? What if we're just—what if we're only good at the breaking?"
"Then at least we'll know." He kisses you, soft and devastating. "At least we'll have tried instead of spending the rest of our lives wondering."
Footsteps above. Close. Getting closer.
Reality crashes back in with the force of a tidal wave.
"You have to go," he says, even as his hands refuse to release you. "Before someone—before we make this worse."
Worse. As if there's a scale for this kind of destruction.
You fix your dress with shaking hands. He helps, fingers gentle on fabric that's inside out, evidence everywhere of what you've done. His hair is a disaster. There's a mark on his neck you don't remember making. He looks absolutely wrecked, and you probably look worse.
"Lando—"
"Tomorrow," he interrupts. "I'll tell her tomorrow. And then—" He stops. Swallows hard. "And then we figure out what comes next. Together."
You want to believe him. Want to believe that this time will be different, that love is enough, that you won't just destroy each other in new and creative ways. But you've been here before. In Monaco, in Lake Como, in every moment you've chosen each other and then chosen fear instead.
"Okay," you whisper anyway, because hope is the cruelest thing and you've never learned how to kill it.
You slip out of the closet first. The hallway is empty, but you can hear voices from the main deck—Magui laughing at something, Pietra's phone camera clicking, Wes's theatrical storytelling voice.
The party continuing like the world hasn't just fundamentally shifted.
You make it to the bathroom, lock the door, and stare at your reflection. Your lips are swollen, your hair a mess, your dress wrinkled in ways that tell a very specific story. You look like someone who just made the biggest mistake of her life.
You look like someone who would do it again. When you finally emerge, Lando is back on deck, standing beside his wife, his hand in hers. But his eyes find yours across the space, and the look in them is a promise or a threat or both.
Tomorrow, that look says.
You don't believe him. But god, you fucking want to.
You moved to Monaco for peace and quiet but ended up with Lando Norris — loud, annoying, and ridiculously cute. Between his terrible taste in music and constant chaos, you were pretty sure he was trying to drive you insane. Problem was, you kind of liked it.
pairing. Lando Norris x neighbor! fem! reader.
warnings. enemies to lovers, 9,1k words, forced proximity- ish, slowburn, implied age gap (20/25), student! reader; automotive engineering, 2nd year. neighbor war, teasing, pet names (love, sweetheart), profanity, alcohol use; drunk confession (kind of).
IT WAS HALF PAST THREE IN THE BLOODY MORNING.
You were still wide awake. Not because you wanted to be, but because your neighbor had decided it was the perfect time to blast loud British rap through the walls. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the music that had been playing nonstop for hours. The lyrics were full of slang you barely understood, and the accent was so strong it made your head hurt. You were pretty sure your eye was starting to twitch from the stress.
Your neighbor? None other than Lando Norris. The infamous Formula 1 driver, McLaren’s rising star, and a guy who seemed to collect ego-driven nicknames and attention like it was his job—which, to be fair, it kind of was. Unfortunately, you had the unlucky honor of living right next to him. And while Monaco was supposed to be peaceful and fancy, your apartment felt more like a front-row seat to chaos.
You’d run into him a few times in the hallway. He was always acting like he owned the place—confident, loud, and just a little too full of himself. He tripped over things more often than you’d expect from someone who drives cars at 300 kilometers per hour. Let’s just say he was really questionable. Questionable mostly because of the parade of different girls slipping out of his door every week. You didn’t say anything, but you definitely noticed. And yes, you judged. Hard.
You let out a deep sigh, wishing you could just hide under your blankets and pretend the loud music wasn’t shaking the walls. But there was no chance of falling asleep—not with whatever mess Lando called a playlist blasting through the night. The bass was pounding like a drum right next to your head, and it felt like your entire apartment was vibrating.
After another minute of the noise, you couldn’t take it anymore. You threw off the covers, got out of bed, and marched straight to the wall that separated your apartment from his. You hit it with your fist, hard, hoping he’d get the message.
Nothing. Of course.
You tried again, louder this time, your knuckles stinging from the impact. Still no reaction. It was like he couldn’t hear you—or just didn’t care.
Frustration boiling over, you turned and stormed out of your apartment. If he wasn’t going to listen through the wall, then you’d make sure he heard you face to face. You didn’t care if it came off as rude. You were tired, annoyed, and ready to fight for your sleep. You had an exam in the morning—something about engine design, though at this point you barely remembered. What mattered was that you needed rest. And Lando Norris, with his loud music and zero awareness, clearly didn’t.
You hit the door harder than you probably should have, fists slamming against the wood with all the frustration you’d been holding in for hours. You didn’t care if it was dramatic. You were exhausted, fed up, and completely done with the noise.
After a few seconds, the door opened.
Lando Norris.
Hair a mess like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He wore a hoodie, but it was hanging open, showing off his bare chest like he hadn’t bothered to get dressed properly. And of course, he had that same smug, lazy grin on his face. Like this whole thing was funny to him. Like you showing up at his door in the middle of the night was just another part of his entertainment.
You didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“It’s three thirty in the morning,” you said sharply, your voice low but firm.
Lando blinked, then tilted his head slightly. “Shit. Is it? Already?” he said, completely unfazed, that smirk still glued to his face.
You narrowed your eyes. “Didn’t care to check between all the terrible roadman songs?”
His grin stretched even wider, and you could feel your blood pressure climbing with every second. It was like he was enjoying this—like your frustration was just another game to him.
“Not really,” Lando said, voice casual and smug, as if the pounding music and your sleepless night were no big deal. He leaned against the doorframe, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d just been confronted in the middle of the night.
You took a slow breath, trying to keep your cool. You didn’t want to yell, but you were dangerously close. “I have an exam tomorrow,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “Can you please turn the music down?”
He tilted his head slightly, pretending to be curious. “You’re still in school?”
Your eye twitched again. You weren’t sure if it was from the stress or the sheer disbelief that this was your life now.
“Turn. It. Off,” you said, each word sharp and clear.
Lando didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stood there, looking you up and down with that same annoying grin that made your skin crawl. It was like he thought this was funny—like you were just another part of his late-night entertainment.
“Didn’t realize I live next to a schoolgirl,” he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe like he had nowhere else to be. “Do your parents know you’re out this late?”
You stared at him, jaw tight. Idiot. Absolute idiot.
“I’m asking one last time,” you said, voice low and sharp. “Can you turn it off?”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.
You didn’t flinch. “Or do you want me to ruin your whole reputation online?”
That wiped the smirk off his face—just a little.
“Okay, no need to be dramatic,” he said, finally turning away and disappearing into his apartment. A moment later, the music stopped completely. Just like that.
Then he reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, that smug look still lingering. “Satisfied?”
You didn’t bother with a thank you. “Very much,” you said flatly, turning on your heel and heading back into your apartment.
You slammed the door behind you, letting the sound echo through the hallway. For a moment, there was silence. Then, faintly, the music started again—lower this time, but still there.
Asshole.
───
School that day was a complete disaster. Every class felt like it lasted forever, and you couldn’t focus on anything. You forgot your part of the group project, stumbled through a presentation, and you were pretty sure you failed that exam. By the time you finally made it back to the apartment complex, you were running on fumes. So when you saw Lando’s usual parking spot sitting empty—no flashy McLaren in sight—you didn’t even think twice. You pulled right in, parked, and didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.
Upstairs, you dropped your bag the second you walked through the door and collapsed face-first onto the couch. You didn’t even bother changing or grabbing food. You were already halfway to sleep, your body sinking into the cushions like it was the only safe place left in the world.
And then the banging started.
Knock knock knock.
Bang bang bang.
You froze, groaning quietly into the pillow. Of course.
Then came the voice—loud, annoyed, and way too familiar.
“Hey! You parked in my spot!”
You didn’t move. Maybe if you stayed perfectly still, he’d go away. Maybe if you pretended to be asleep—or dead—he’d give up.
More knocking. Harder this time.
“I know you’re in there!”
You groaned again, louder this time, wondering if ignoring him counted as self-care.
You dragged yourself off the couch, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. With a tired sigh, you shuffled to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open just enough to show your face. No way were you giving him the satisfaction of a full dramatic entrance.
And there he was—Lando Norris in all his glory. Hoodie thrown on like he hadn’t bothered with anything else, curls sticking out in every direction, and a look on his face like you’d personally ruined his entire week. His arms were raised like he was about to start a protest right there in the hallway.
“Seriously?” he said, voice full of disbelief. “My spot?”
You stared at him, completely unfazed. “It’s not labeled.”
He scoffed, clearly offended. “Everyone knows that’s my spot.”
You leaned against the doorframe, too tired to argue but not willing to back down. “Well. Guess everyone includes me now.”
His jaw dropped slightly, and you could see the gears turning in his head. But you weren’t about to give him more of your time—not today.
Lando narrowed his eyes, clearly not amused. “Are you trying to start something?” he asked, voice low and sharp.
You gave him a sweet smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “No. Just finishing it,” you said calmly, leaning a little more into the doorframe.
He stepped closer, clearly not ready to let it go. “Move your car.”
“No.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think about it. “Because I’m tired,” you said, voice slow and steady. “And there’s not any free spot anyway.”
For a second, he just stared at you, mouth slightly open like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was the kind of look people gave when they weren’t sure if you were joking or just completely serious.
“Are you for real right now?” he asked, still trying to process your answer.
You shrugged, not even pretending to care. “You kept me up all night,” you said. “I consider this balance restored.”
Lando didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you, lips parted, eyes squinting slightly, like he was trying to figure out whether you were completely insane or just the most annoying person he’d ever met.
“You want war?” Lando asked, eyes narrowing with a mix of challenge and amusement.
You didn’t even flinch. You just gave a small shrug and nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You were too tired to play nice, and honestly, part of you was starting to enjoy pushing his buttons.
He turned away, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder. He walked backward down the hallway with that same cocky swagger he always had—like he owned the building, the street, maybe even the whole country. It made you want to throw something at him. Something hard.
“Careful,” he called out, voice lazy but sharp. “Wouldn’t want your little student car to get mysteriously towed.”
You raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat. “Wouldn’t want your gifted sport car to get mysteriously keyed.”
That made him pause. His mouth twitched, and for a second, you saw something flicker in his eyes—maybe surprise, maybe amusement. It was quick, but it was there.
Then he smiled. No, he grinned. Wide, smug, full of teeth and trouble. “You wouldn’t,” he said, like he was daring you.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart still pounding from the argument but refusing to show it. “I absolutely would.”
He stared at you for a moment longer, like he was locking this memory away for future use. You could almost feel it—him filing it under “reasons to annoy you later.” Then he spun around and walked off, muttering something under his breath. You didn’t catch all of it, but you were pretty sure it included the word “psycho.”
You didn’t care. You were too tired, too done, and honestly? You kind of liked the chaos.
───
It had been a long, exhausting day filled with lectures, lab work, and way too much caffeine. Your brain felt like mush, and your feet were dragging with every step. The only thing keeping you going was the thought of finally getting your hands on the package you’d been waiting for all week. A brand-new set of calipers for your engine design class. Not exactly thrilling for most people, not for you either, but it was the key to finishing your project—and not failing the class.
As you reached your apartment door, you pulled out your phone and checked the tracking info. Delivered at 3:33 PM. You looked down, expecting to see the box waiting for you.
But there was nothing.
You frowned and glanced around the hallway. It was completely empty. No package, no note, nothing. That didn’t make sense. You were sure you’d entered the right address, and the delivery time matched perfectly.
Feeling a little uneasy, you started pacing near your door, phone pressed to your ear as you called the delivery guy. Maybe he left it somewhere else. Maybe it was a mistake.
“Yeah, I left it with a guy who said he was your friend,” the delivery driver said over the phone. “Curly hair, dark hoodie. He said you asked him to pick it up.”
You stopped pacing. Your eyes narrowed, and your jaw clenched.
Of course.
There was only one person who fit that description. One person who would have the nerve to take your package and pretend it was totally normal. Lando Norris. Your charming, chaotic, pain-in-the-ass neighbor.
Without wasting another second, you spun around and stormed down the hallway. Your footsteps echoed off the walls, fast and angry. You didn’t hesitate—you raised your fist and banged on his door, hard. So hard the hinges probably rattled. You didn’t care.
Lando opened the door with that same smug look he always wore—like he’d been waiting for this moment. His smile was full of fake innocence, and the way he leaned casually against the doorframe made your blood boil.
“What’s up, neighbor?” he said, voice light and teasing, like he hadn’t just stolen something important.
Your eyes flicked past him and landed on the package sitting on his kitchen counter, plain as day. That was it. Your calipers. The thing you’d been waiting for all week. The thing you needed to finish your project. And there it was, in his apartment.
“Give it to me,” you said, your voice cold and sharp. You didn’t have the energy for games. Not today.
Lando raised an eyebrow, pretending to be confused. “What?” he asked, like he had no idea what you were talking about.
Oh god. He was really going to play dumb.
You felt your patience snap. “Don’t act even more stupid than you already are, Norris,” you said, stepping forward. “I know you have my package.”
Your heart was pounding, not just from anger but from the sheer disbelief that he’d actually done this. You didn’t know if he thought it was funny or if he genuinely didn’t care, but either way, you weren’t going to let it slide.
“I might have it,” Lando said slowly, dragging out the words like he was enjoying every second of this. His voice was calm, almost playful, but you could see the spark of mischief in his eyes. He was loving this—holding your package hostage like it was some kind of game.
“But the thing is…” he continued, stepping back just enough to make you feel like you were chasing him. “I’m not sure I should just hand it over. You haven’t exactly been very neighborly lately.”
Your jaw clenched, and you felt your frustration spike. Was he seriously doing this? After everything—after the music, the parking spot, the constant teasing—he was now trying to make you feel guilty?
“Lando!” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I need it for class!”
He didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin grew wider. His eyes sparkled with that same annoying confidence, like he knew exactly how far he could push you.
“Well then,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “how about some manners, love? Say please.”
You stared at him, heart pounding, torn between screaming and laughing at how ridiculous this was. He was impossible. Absolutely impossible.
“What?” you asked, blinking like you couldn’t possibly have heard him right. Surely he wasn’t serious.
But Lando just stood there, arms crossed, that smug grin still plastered across his face. “Say please,” he repeated, calm and firm, like he was asking for the most reasonable thing in the world.
He didn’t add anything else. No explanation. No joke. Just those two words.
You stared at him, your pride screaming in protest. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Not after everything. But you also needed that package. You needed those calipers. And you were too tired to keep fighting.
So you gave in. Just barely.
“…Please,” you muttered, voice low and reluctant, like the word physically hurt to say.
Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Not enough,” he said, still smiling, still enjoying every second of this power trip.
You felt your eye twitch again. This man was going to be the reason you lost your mind.
“Please, Lando,” you said, louder this time, clearer. And just like that, you felt your dignity slip right through your fingers. It was gone. Completely. You’d begged—begged—your annoying neighbor for a package that was rightfully yours.
Lando’s eyes lit up like Christmas. He looked absolutely delighted.
“Wow,” he said, grinning wide. “Wasn’t even that painful, was it, sweetheart?”
You narrowed your eyes, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. “More painful,” you muttered, stepping forward, “is going to be my foot if it accidentally ends up in your—”
But before you could finish the threat, he casually reached behind him and handed you the package.
Just like that.
You stared at it for a second, almost surprised he gave it up so easily. Then you snatched it from his hands, resisting the urge to throw something at him on your way out.
───
You remembered overhearing Lando complain about sushi once—loudly, dramatically, and with way too much passion. He’d gone on and on about how it was disgusting, slimy, and probably should be illegal. Honestly, it was the kind of rant that stuck with you. And now? It was the perfect opportunity to use that little detail against him.
With a wicked grin, you opened your food delivery app and started scrolling. You didn’t just pick any sushi—you chose the most extravagant platter you could find. Shrimp, salmon, tuna, eel, and every fishy thing imaginable. It was colorful and absolutely something he’d hate. You carefully typed in the shared building address, his name, and his door number—C55. That number was engraved into your brain after all the passive-aggressive sticky notes you’d slapped on his door over the past few weeks.
It didn’t take long. Maybe twenty minutes later, you heard it—the sound of confusion echoing down the hallway.
“What is this? I didn’t order anything—”
You practically sprinted to your door, pressing your ear against it like a nosy neighbor in a sitcom. Yes, you were that curious. And yes, you were already giggling.
The poor delivery guy sounded exhausted. “Mate, are you Lando Norris? It was ordered under your name, to your door. Obviously it’s for you.”
You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud. The plan had worked perfectly. And the best part? You hadn’t even left your apartment.
“But I hate sushi!” Lando whined, voice high and dramatic, eyes wide like a kid who’d just been told he couldn’t have dessert. He stared at the platter like it was some kind of personal attack.
The delivery guy didn’t flinch. He’d clearly dealt with worse. “It’s paid in full,” he said, already turning to leave. “Enjoy. Have a nice day.”
You could’ve paid good money—millions, honestly—to see the look on Lando’s face. The mix of horror, confusion, and pure betrayal was priceless. You waited until the delivery guy was gone, then quietly cracked your door open, just enough to peek out.
Lando was still standing there, holding the box like it might explode.
“It’s sushi time, Lando,” you said with a grin, lifting your own takeout bag like a trophy. You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out. This was too perfect.
He turned toward you, eyes narrowed. “You think this is funny?”
You leaned against the doorframe, completely unbothered. “Hilarious, actually.”
───
You were probably never going to get a peaceful night’s sleep in this building. That much was clear. One moment, you were finally asleep—no music shaking the walls, no shouting, no awful British rap rattling your brain. Just quiet. Blissful, uninterrupted quiet.
And then the fire alarm went off.
It was loud. Painfully loud. Your ears rang as you shot upright, heart pounding. You cursed under your breath, grabbed your phone, keys, and the nearest pair of slippers. No time for a hoodie, no time for anything, really. You were wearing a thin tank top and shorts that barely counted as clothing, but there was no way you were staying inside to change.
The moment you opened your door, chaos hit you like a wave. People were running in every direction—neighbors clutching handbags, jewelry, pets, even a potted plant. Someone was crying. Someone else was yelling. It was like a scene from a disaster movie, only louder and more confusing.
And then you saw him. Lando.
“This you again?!” you shouted over the blaring alarm, eyes locked on him.
He turned, looking just as confused as you were—but somehow still managing to look annoyingly good in sweats and messy curls. “Why the hell would I even do this?!” he yelled back, voice full of disbelief.
You opened your mouth to throw something sarcastic at him, but before you could, he rushed forward and grabbed your wrist.
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot!” he snapped, pulling you along through the chaos.
Your heart jumped—not just from the alarm, but from the sudden touch. And as you stumbled after him, half-dressed and half-awake, you couldn’t help but think: This building is cursed.
The blast of cold night air hit you the second you stepped outside, and it was brutal. Goosebumps spread across your skin instantly, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold in whatever warmth you had left. Your teeth were already chattering, and the thin tank top and shorts you’d rushed out in were doing absolutely nothing to help.
You dropped onto the curb, pulling your knees close, shivering as the fire alarm continued to scream in the background. Around you, neighbors milled about, some still in pajamas, others wrapped in blankets or clutching their pets. And then there was Lando—of course—wandering around like he owned the building. He was chatting with the older residents, probably fishing for gossip or just soaking up the attention like he always did.
He glanced over at you once, then again. The second time, his eyes lingered a little longer, and you could tell he’d noticed how miserable you looked.
“You’re literally shaking,” he said, like it was some kind of shocking discovery.
Before you could respond, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it straight at you.
“What are you—” you started, but the warm fabric hit you square in the face, cutting off your words.
You stared at him like he’d just handed you a live grenade. The hoodie sat in your lap, warm and soft, but you weren’t sure if accepting it would feel worse than the cold. “Is this some kind of pity thing?” you asked, voice tight.
Lando didn’t even blink. “It’s called being decent, believe it or not,” he said, smirking like he knew exactly how much this was messing with you. “But if it really hurts your pride, I can always take it back.”
You hesitated. The cold wind bit at your skin, and your arms were already numb. As much as you hated the idea of accepting anything from him, freezing to death wasn’t exactly a better option. With a quiet curse under your breath, you pulled the hoodie over your head. It was instantly warm, wrapping around you like a blanket—and unfortunately, it smelled like him. Clean, a little musky, and way too nice for someone who drove you insane.
Damn it. That was… annoyingly attractive.
“Thanks,” you muttered, the word tasting like defeat.
Lando turned, clearly enjoying every second of this. “What was that?” he asked, leaning in slightly. “Didn’t quite catch it.”
You shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut steel. “Fuck off.”
He laughed, and you hated how good it sounded.
Lando dropped down onto the curb beside you, settling in like he had all the time in the world. He rested his elbows on his knees, glancing sideways at you with that familiar, easy grin.
“So,” he said, like he was delivering some kind of breaking news, “turns out some genius on the third floor burnt fucking toast.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. Of course. That was it? All this chaos, the freezing cold, the panic—for toast?
“You’re joking,” you said, voice muffled but amused.
“Wish I was,” he replied, shaking his head. “Whole building evacuated because someone couldn’t figure out a toaster.
You peeked at him through your fingers, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Honestly, I’m surprised it wasn’t you.”
He laughed, and for once, it wasn’t smug or teasing. Just real. Warm. And weirdly nice.
───
Finally, a few days off. After all the chaos, the sleepless nights, and the endless schoolwork, you’d earned this. You and your best friend had picked one of Monaco’s trendiest restaurants—fancy, stylish, and just far enough from your apartment to feel like a proper escape. You were ready to relax, eat something overpriced, and forget Lando Norris even existed.
You were mid-rant, swirling your drink as you told your friend the latest drama. “And then he gave me his hoodie,” you said, shaking your head. “Like, I took it, sure, but seriously—who does he think he is?”
Your friend nodded, already rolling her eyes. “Yeah, like, sorry, but I’m not falling for—”
Suddenly, she froze. Her eyes widened, and she kicked your shin under the table so hard you nearly dropped your glass.
“Shut up! Shut up!” she hissed, whisper-shouting like her life depended on it.
You blinked, confused. “What?!”
“Turn around,” she whispered, eyes locked on something behind you.
You turned slowly, already bracing yourself—and there he was.
Lando. Lando motherfucking Norris. Strutting into the restaurant like it was his personal runway, with some girl practically glued to his side. She was laughing at something he said, leaning in so close she might as well have been sitting in his lap.
You groaned, loud enough to earn a few curious glances from nearby tables. “Why is this asshole literally everywhere I go?”
Your friend tried to hide her laugh behind her menu, but you could tell she was loving the drama.
Of course. Of course they had to walk right past your table.
Lando’s steps faltered the moment his eyes landed on you. He stopped mid-stride, eyebrows raised, that familiar smirk already forming. “Well, if it isn’t my overachieving engineering neighbor,” he said, voice loud enough to turn heads. “I thought you were busy collecting textbooks, not splurging on fancy dinners.”
His hand was wrapped tightly around the girl’s waist, holding her close like he was trying to make a point. She glanced at you with a look that could only be described as judgmental—like she already decided you weren’t worth her time.
You leaned back in your seat, unfazed, and gave him a slow smile. “Yeah…” you said, dragging the word out. “Kind of harsh coming from someone who collected more girlfriends than race wins so far.”
Your best friend nearly choked on her drink, snorting so loudly it made the couple at the next table glance over.
You turned your attention to the girl beside him, eyes sharp. “Third one this week, right? Sorry to shatter your perfect image, girlie.”
Lando’s grin faltered. Just slightly. His jaw tightened, and you saw him swallow hard, clearly caught off guard. “Don’t listen to her, gorgeous,” he said quickly, pulling the girl even closer. “She’s a bit… unwell.”
He started to walk away, but not before turning back one last time. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and furious, and without a word, he raised his hand and gave you a slow, deliberate middle finger.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just Lando being Lando—cocky, smug, always with someone new hanging off his arm. It was his thing. His brand. And you weren’t supposed to care.
But deep down, it bit a little.
Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. Not even to yourself. Still, watching him walk in like he owned the place, all casual and confident, with that girl practically glued to his side—it poked at something inside you. Something you usually kept buried under sarcasm and eye rolls. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. More like irritation with a side of… something else. Something you didn’t want to name.
Your best friend nudged you under the table, snapping you out of it. “You okay?” she whispered, her eyes sharp and knowing.
You forced a laugh, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Yeah, fine. Just… tired of his shit.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.
You watched him disappear into the crowd, his arm still around the girl, his swagger still intact. And for a split second—just a flicker—you wondered what it would be like if he wasn’t such an infuriating asshole. If maybe, behind all the ego and teasing, there was something real.
Then you rolled your eyes, shoved the thought away, and took a long sip of your drink.
Back to reality.
───
“Fuck, no! No, no, no! Fuck!” you shouted, twisting the faucet in every direction like it might suddenly change its mind. But no matter how many times you turned it, nothing came out. Just a sad, dry hiss. Of course. Life had a way of kicking you when you were already down, and today was no exception. The water had decided to quit on you—right when you had a cute tennis hangout planned with your girls.
You stood there, staring at the useless faucet, sighing so hard it felt like your soul was trying to escape. You were seriously starting to question every decision that led you here. Especially moving to Monaco. Monaco—the glamorous tax haven, the playground for the rich and famous. And here you were, stuck in a fancy apartment with no running water, no backup plan, and no patience left.
You didn’t want to do it. You really didn’t. But you had no one else in this building to turn to. No one who’d even bother answering their door.
Except Lando.
You groaned, already regretting the idea before you’d even moved. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And unfortunately, your most annoying neighbor might be your only hope.
You grabbed everything you’d need—towel, change of clothes, toiletries—and marched straight to Lando’s door, trying not to think too hard about what you were about to do. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he slammed the door in your face. You had kind of wrecked his date a few days ago, and you hadn’t exactly been subtle about it.
Still, desperate times.
You rang the bell, heart thudding a little harder than you wanted to admit.
“Just a second!” he called from inside, voice casual. He probably didn’t even realize it was you.
A moment later, the door swung open—and his eyes widened when he saw you standing there, arms full, looking slightly frazzled and very much not in the mood for games. “You? Again?”
“Look,” you said quickly, before he could say anything smug. “My water’s out. I need to shower. Can I? Please?”
You hated how rushed and awkward it sounded, but you were too tired to care.
Lando leaned against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest, that familiar smirk already forming. “Now suddenly I’m useful?” he said, voice teasing. “I don’t know… you kinda ruined my date last time.”
You groaned internally. Of course he’d bring that up.
Fair. I guess.
“She looked boring anyway. Total gold digger. I probably saved you,” you muttered, rolling your eyes with theatrical flair.
Lando laughed, that familiar, effortless sound that always made your chest tighten just a little. It wasn’t fair how easily he brushed things off, how quickly he found humor in everything—even when you were being deliberately annoying.
He shot you a sideways glance, one brow arched, lips twitching with amusement. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
You smirked, but something in his tone made your stomach flip. There was affection buried in the insult, and it threw you off more than you cared to admit.
Still, he stepped aside, his body language relaxed but watchful. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said, pointing with a casual flick of his hand.
You hesitated for half a second before stepping inside. His apartment smelled faintly of cologne and something warm—coffee, maybe. It was messy, but not in a gross or careless way. More like the kind of mess that came from someone who lived fast and didn’t have time to slow down. A hoodie draped over the back of a chair, racing gloves tossed on the counter, a half-eaten protein bar abandoned on the coffee table. It was chaotic, but it made sense. It was him.
You felt strangely out of place, like you’d stepped into a part of his life you weren’t supposed to see. And yet, he’d let you in. No hesitation. No questions.
As you walked toward the bathroom, you couldn’t help but wonder what that meant.
After your shower, dressed and slightly more composed, you stepped back into the living room. Lando was sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, looking completely at ease—like he hadn’t just let you borrow his bathroom, like you weren’t standing there awkwardly wondering what came next.
You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual. “So… how’d the date go? Even after what I said?”
Yeah, you were curious. More curious than you wanted to be. And maybe you shouldn’t have been. He was still Lando—the boy who drove you absolutely insane. The boy who made your blood boil with every smug comment and cocky grin. In the bad way, you reminded yourself. Right?
He looked up, that familiar cheeky grin already forming. “Oh, you mean the ‘boring gold digger’ one?” he said, clearly amused. “Let’s just say you weren’t wrong. She spent half the night talking about how many Labubu she bought. I didn’t even know what those were. It was like listening to a shopping list with no end.”
His eyes flicked over you briefly, and you felt it—just for a second. That quiet tension. That awareness.
He chuckled, leaning back. “Honestly, I think she was more into my car than me. Not much competition there.”
You smirked, arms crossed. “Told ya.”
He gave a soft laugh, more genuine this time. “Yeah… thanks for saving me.”
You shrugged, but something about the way he said it stuck with you. Maybe it was the warmth in his voice. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, he wasn’t teasing. Either way, it left a strange flutter in your chest.
───
Those few precious days off had vanished faster than your will to live during a Monday morning meeting. One minute you were sipping wine and admiring the Monaco skyline like a civilized human being, and the next you were neck-deep in chaos, somehow wearing Lando’s hoodie he gave you and you forgot to return it, hunched over your tiny balcony table like a gremlin with a deadline.
Crumpled notes covered the floor like fallen leaves, half-sketched drawings of a stubborn front wing mocked you from every angle, and the pile of empty Red Bull cans beside you looked like it could sponsor an entire race team. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the city, but you barely noticed. You were too busy spiraling.
“Why won’t you just work, you piece of shit,” you muttered, dragging your hands down your face in pure despair. The laptop screen blinked back at you, frozen, uncooperative, and evil. You weren’t sure if you were closer to crying… or yeeting the damn thing straight off the balcony and watching it explode on the street below.
Either option felt valid.
“Watcha doing?”
Of course. That voice. That smug, pain-in-your-ass voice that had haunted your hallway, your peace, and now apparently your balcony.
You rolled your eyes toward the sky like it might offer divine intervention, but no—there he was. Lando Norris, leaning dangerously over the railing like some nosy sitcom neighbor, craning his neck just enough to peek into your chaos. There was a perfectly good wall between your balconies, yet somehow, he still managed to invade your personal space with ease.
“Something your tiny little brain couldn’t possibly understand,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to—but not sorry enough to take it back.
He didn’t even flinch. Just tilted his head, annoyingly calm. “No, seriously. What are you doing?”
You hesitated, fingers twitching over your mess of notes. As much as you hated to admit it, there was a tiny voice in your head whispering that maybe—just maybe—he could be useful. F1 driver. Front wings. Aerodynamics. It was literally his job to know this stuff.
You sighed, defeated. “Uh… front wing design,” you muttered, gesturing at the disaster zone around you. “Doesn’t work, though. At all.”
Lando’s eyes scanned the mess, and for once, he didn’t look smug. He looked curious.
“Maybe I can help,” he offered, voice casual, but with just enough confidence to make your pride bristle.
You froze for a second, caught in the crossfire between your stubborn ego and the harsh reality that you’d been staring at the same sketch for three hours straight with absolutely nothing to show for it. The lines blurred, the math didn’t math, and your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.
You sighed, dragging a hand through your hair, rolling your eyes like the very idea of accepting his help physically hurt. “Door’s open,” you muttered, already regretting the words the moment they left your mouth.
He didn’t move right away, just stood there with that maddening smirk—the one that said I know you need me, but he was too smug to say it out loud. From the look on his face, you knew he heard the unspoken warning loud and clear: Don’t make me regret this.
A few seconds later, he was in your apartment—just like that. No hesitation, no knocking, no second thoughts. He stepped onto your balcony like he’d done it a hundred times before, eyes scanning the mess of notes and sketches with surprising focus.
“Move,” he said, nodding toward the spot on the couch where you were sitting.
You raised an eyebrow but shifted over, giving him space. He dropped down beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, and immediately leaned in to study your laptop screen.
“So here’s your problem,” Lando said, grabbing a pen and the nearest scrap of paper. He started sketching with ease, his lines confident, his explanation smooth. “This curve sends the air around the tyre instead of straight into it. Reduces drag, gives you more grip into the corner—”
You blinked, caught off guard. Not just by how quickly he understood the issue, but by how professional he sounded. Focused. Sharp. And stupidly hot while doing it. His brows furrowed slightly as he worked, and you realized you were staring more at his face than the sketch.
He didn’t seem to notice.
“—and if you adjust the flap angle like this,” he continued, scribbling a quick fix, “you’ll actually be able to turn without ending up in the wall.”
You swallowed, nodding slowly, trying to focus on the paper and not the fact that your heart had picked up speed for reasons that had nothing to do with aerodynamics.
“You actually know what you’re talking about,” you said, surprised by how genuine it sounded. “I like that.”
His eyes met yours, and for a second, everything stilled. Shit.
There was something different in his gaze now—less smug, more focused. And it wasn’t just on the sketch. It was on you.
“Well, I drive it,” he said, voice low, a hint of pride threading through. “I should know how it works.”
He was still looking at you, and you were still looking back, and suddenly the air between you felt heavier than it had any right to.
Then came the nickname. That damn nickname.
“Look, sweetheart,” he said, flashing that signature grin. “Just change this, this—” he pointed to a few key areas on your sketch, “and this, and I guarantee you’ll get the best grade.”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged into a reluctant smile. He was cocky, yes. Infuriating, absolutely. But he wasn’t wrong. And worse—he was kind of charming when he wasn’t being a complete menace.
“Thanks, Lando,” you said, your voice softer than before, the smile tugging at your lips more genuine this time.
He glanced at you, and for once, there was no teasing in his expression. Just something quiet. Something real.
“No problem,” he replied, and it wasn’t smug or sarcastic—it was easy. Honest.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The sketches sat between you, the Monaco skyline glowed behind, and the silence felt… comfortable.
───
Few days later, you finally finished the project—thank god for Lando. Words you never thought you’d say, let alone mean. But if he hadn’t pointed out what was wrong, you’d probably still be hunched over your balcony table, muttering threats at your laptop and drowning in Red Bull.
You leaned back in your chair, exhausted but victorious, letting the Monaco night breeze cool your skin. Relief washed over you in waves. It was done. Finally.
Then your phone buzzed.
You glanced at the screen—and froze.
Lando’s name lit up.
Right. You had his number. For, uh… neighbor emergencies. Like fire alarms. Or broken plumbing. Or, apparently, aerodynamics crises.
But it was past midnight.
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering. What the hell could he want now?
“Hm? What’s up?” you said as the call connected, rubbing your eyes and already bracing for whatever nonsense Lando had gotten himself into.
But the voice on the other end wasn’t his.
“Uhm, hey Y/n—it’s Max here. Lando’s friend,” the guy slurred slightly, clearly mid-party. “We’re at Jimmy’z club and, uh… yeah, Lando is past gone. Like, completely wrecked. All he’s done for the last hour is talk about you. Says he needs you. Can you come pick him up?”
You blinked, sitting up straighter. “Wait, what?”
Max chuckled awkwardly. “I know, I know. It’s weird. But he’s not letting anyone else take him home. Keeps saying you’re the only one who won’t leave him in a bush or something.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Of course he’d pull something like this. You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but deep down, you knew you couldn’t just leave him there.
He helped you. You owed him a safe ride.
“Tell him I’m on my way,” you muttered, already reaching for your keys.
The ride didn’t take long. Monaco was quiet at this hour, the streets bathed in soft golden light and leftover party glitter. You pulled up to the curb outside Jimmy’z, spotting two figures immediately—one swaying slightly on his feet, the other… well, horizontal.
Lando was lying on the sidewalk like he’d just given up on life. Arms sprawled, head tilted back, one shoe missing. Classic.
You stepped out of the car, eyebrows raised. “Hey.”
Max turned toward you, clearly buzzed but still functioning. “Hey, Y/n,” he said, offering a slightly wobbly handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
You took his hand, amused. “Yeah, what a situation to meet someone,” you said, glancing down at Lando with a sigh.
He groaned dramatically, one arm flung over his face like the streetlights were paparazzi flashbulbs. “My love, you’re here,” he mumbled, voice thick with alcohol and theatrical desperation.
You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Unfortunately.”
Max snorted beside you, clearly entertained by the whole scene. You crouched down, crossing your arms. “Let’s go, Lando. Can you imagine all the photos of you like this? Monaco’s golden boy passed out on the sidewalk? That’ll look great on your next sponsorship deal.”
That got him moving—barely. With a few groans, some muttered nonsense, and Max’s help, you managed to wrangle him upright and shuffle him toward the car. He leaned heavily on both of you, mumbling something about how soft your hoodie was and how you smelled like victory.
You shoved him into the passenger seat, buckled him in like a toddler, and sighed as you closed the door.
Max gave you a grateful smile. “You’re a lifesaver.”
You glanced at Lando, who was now humming to himself and poking the window like it was a touchscreen. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Not sure he’s worth saving.”
But deep down, you knew you didn’t really mean it.
You slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and barely had time to adjust the mirror before Lando turned his head toward you with dramatic flair, eyes glassy and grin lazy.
“You’re so hot when you’re focused,” he said, voice low and slurred, like he thought he was being smooth.
You didn’t even glance at him. “Shut up or you’ll throw up,” you warned, gripping the wheel tighter, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest.
But he wasn’t done.
“Or when you’re mad?” he continued, eyes drifting over you. “Oh damn… I remember when I stole your package and you looked at me like that—like you wanted to kill me. Oh fuck, I thought I—”
You cut him off before he could finish whatever disaster was about to leave his mouth. You could already tell where it was headed. Something inappropriate. Something very Lando.
“Lando!” you snapped, shooting him a warning glare.
He blinked, then smirked, clearly pleased with himself—even in his drunken haze.
You groaned and pulled out onto the road, silently praying he’d pass out before saying anything else you’d have to pretend not to remember.
Lando didn’t flinch at your warning. If anything, it seemed to egg him on.
He slumped deeper into the seat, head tilted toward the window, but his eyes stayed on you. “You looked at me like I was the only idiot in the world,” he murmured, voice softer now. “But also like… I mattered. I dunno. It was kinda hot.”
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel, heart thudding a little harder than before.
He let out a breathy laugh, almost to himself. “I think I like it when you hate me. But… I would rather you to actually like me.”
That one hit different.
You glanced at him, just briefly, and found him staring out the window now, the smirk gone. Just a boy too drunk to filter his thoughts, and maybe too honest for his own good.
You didn’t say anything. But the silence between you felt heavier than the night air.
You finally pulled into the building’s garage, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound between you. Lando had slumped sideways during the ride, his head resting against your shoulder like gravity had given up on him. You didn’t push him off. Not this time.
By the time you reached his door, he was leaning heavily into you, his weight warm and familiar. You stood in front of the entrance, bracing him with one arm. “Lando, keys,” you said, trying to keep your voice firm.
He fumbled through his pockets with the grace of a toddler, muttering curses under his breath until he finally produced the keyring and dropped it into your hand.
You unlocked the door, guided him inside, and helped him into his bedroom. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed with a groan, and you knelt down to tug off his shoes, tossing them aside.
“So,” you said, brushing your hands off on your jeans. “You want water? Bucket? Just in case you throw up?”
Lando blinked at you, eyes hazy but locked onto yours. “I want you,” he mumbled, voice low and unfiltered.
You didn’t miss a beat. “So… water.”
He let out a soft laugh, already half-asleep, and you turned toward the kitchen, heart pounding harder than you’d ever admit.
In the kitchen, you leaned against the counter, gripping the glass of water like it might anchor you. The silence felt louder here—no engines, no sarcastic banter, no distractions. Just you, the hum of the fridge, and the echo of I want you still ringing in your ears.
You told yourself he was drunk. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was just Lando being Lando—reckless, impulsive, always toeing the line between charming and infuriating. But something about the way he’d said it… quiet, unguarded, like it slipped out before he could stop it… it stuck.
And the worst part? You didn’t hate it.
You took a deep breath, grabbed the water, and headed back to his room.
He was still awake, barely. Propped up on one elbow, eyes half-lidded but searching for you the moment you walked in.
You handed him the glass. “Here. Sip slowly or I swear I’ll let you drown in your own mess.”
He took it, fingers brushing yours, then set it down on the nightstand without drinking. “Stay,” he said, voice rough and low. “Just for a bit.”
You hesitated in the doorway, heart thudding, walls rising instinctively. But something in his face—something soft, something real—made you pause.
You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t leave either.
You hovered in the doorway for a moment longer, debating whether to listen to your instincts or your heart—neither of which had been particularly reliable lately. But then you sighed, walked over, and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.
He shifted slightly, just enough that your knees brushed. The room was dim, the only light coming from the hallway, casting soft shadows across his face. He looked tired. Not just drunk-tired, but worn. Like something had been weighing on him long before the alcohol.
“You didn’t have to come get me,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
You shrugged. “You helped me with my project. Consider it even.”
He turned his head toward you, lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s not why you came.”
You didn’t respond. Not right away. Because maybe he was right. Maybe you had wanted to see him. Maybe you’d been thinking about him more than you should.
“I didn’t want you to end up in a bush,” you said finally, trying to keep it light.
He chuckled, then winced. “Max probably would’ve left me there.”
You glanced at him, studying the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell messily across his forehead. “You always act like you’ve got everything figured out,” you said softly. “But you don’t, do you?”
He looked at you then—really looked. “Not even close.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, but in a way that felt honest. Like something had shifted, just slightly.
“You’re not as annoying when you’re like this,” you murmured.
He smirked. “You’re kinda sweet when you’re not trying to murder me.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered.
───
You sat curled up on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, the Monaco sun spilling through the windows like it was trying to calm your nerves. The final message from your professor was supposed to come any minute now, and while you weren’t exactly panicking… your heart had other ideas.
You’d triple-checked the submission. You knew the design was solid—thanks to a certain infuriating F1 driver—but still, the waiting gnawed at you. You weren’t the type to fall apart over grades, but this one mattered. You’d poured yourself into it. You wanted it to mean something.
Then, suddenly, the notification popped up.
“100%. Congratulations. Best grade in the class.”
You blinked. Reread it. Then stared at the screen like it might vanish if you breathed too hard.
“YESSS!! OH MY GOD!” you shouted, leaping off the couch like the floor had just turned into a trampoline. Your laptop nearly flew off your lap, but you didn’t care. You were too busy spinning in a circle, arms flailing, heart pounding with pure, unfiltered joy.
You’d done it. You nailed it.
And you knew exactly who to tell first.
Without even thinking, you bolted out of your apartment, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. You crossed the hallway in a blur, feet barely touching the ground, and banged on the door with both fists like your life depended on it.
“Lando!” you called out, breathless and grinning. “Open up!”
You didn’t even care if he was asleep, shirtless, or halfway through a race on his simulator. He needed to hear this.
He opened the door, still groggy and shirtless, clearly not expecting a hallway ambush. But before he could get a single word out, you burst forward, eyes shining.
“I got a hundred percent!” you shouted, practically launching yourself into his arms.
It was instinct—pure, electric joy—and somehow, his reaction was just as automatic. His arms wrapped around you tightly, lifting you slightly off the ground as he laughed, loud and genuine.
“No way!” he said, spinning you once before setting you down. “I’m so fucking proud of you!”
He kicked the door shut behind him, still holding you close, the grin on his face brighter than you’d ever seen it.
You pulled back slightly, breathless, cheeks flushed. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” you admitted, voice softer now, more honest.
His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the celebration paused—just long enough for something unspoken to settle between you.
“Don’t say that,” he said, smiling at you—soft, sincere, the kind of smile that made your chest ache in the best way.
You laughed breathlessly, heart still racing. “I’m just so happy I might—”
You didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to.
Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up, reaching for his face, fingers curling gently against his jaw. His eyes widened just slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Not even close.
You pulled him closer, and your lips met his in a rush—fast, warm, a little messy, but real. Like all the tension, all the teasing, all the late nights and quiet moments had been building to this one spark.
He kissed you back instantly, arms tightening around your waist, grounding you as everything else fell away.
You’d never imagined kissing your annoying, insufferably smug neighbor. Not in a million years. He was the guy who stole your packages, teased you relentlessly, and somehow always knew how to push your buttons.
But there you were—wrapped in his arms, lips still tingling, heart pounding like it was trying to catch up to the moment.
And the wildest part?
You were happy.
Genuinely, stupidly, unexpectedly happy.
You pulled back slowly, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. His eyes were still on you—wide, searching, like he was trying to figure out if that had really just happened.
It had.
Neither of you spoke for a second. The silence stretched, warm and electric.
Then Lando broke it, voice low and a little breathless. “So… that just happened.”
You let out a soft laugh, nerves bubbling under your skin. “Yeah. It did.”
He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Was it the grade? Or all the Red Bulls? Or have you secretly wanted to kiss me this whole time?”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Don’t push it, Norris.”
babsie radio ! it’s here…IT’S HEREEE!! omgg <3 this was so fun to write i was giggling the whole time. ALSO SOMBR JUST ANNOUNCED HIS DEBUT ALBUM OH MY GOD I WAS BORN READY FOR THIS
tag list. @haniette @l4ndoflove @gossenabitur @clovermoters xx
r/aita · @piastriprincess asked, “aita (m25) for hating all my best friend’s boyfriends?”
ꔮ starring: lando norris x best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 7.7k.
ꔮ includes: romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. flashbacks, max fewtrell (<3) haunts the narrative, yearning…, best friends to lovers. title inspired by both lorde’s (i’m waiting for it, that green light, i want it) and tate mcrae’s (i’m still waitin’ at the green light to tell you what i feel like) song of the same name.
ꔮ commentary box: confession time—i’ve always felt a bit hit-or-miss when writing for lando, but this one… i reaaally like how it turned out 🚦 everybody say ‘thank you, lily’ for the banger prompt!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
The McLaren P1 isn’t exactly designed for emotional turmoil.
It’s low to the ground and louder than sin. Not the kind of car you want to be brooding in. But here Lando is, idling at the curb outside your flat in Bristol, watching the rain tattoo the windscreen and trying to pretend he’s not bracing for whatever weird tension you’ve decided to lace this car ride with.
You appear in the rearview mirror like a final boss. Hoodie up, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking like you’re headed to war rather than a birthday party.
Lando presses the button to open the door. You hesitate, which you never used to do. You slide into the passenger seat like it physically pains you. He half-expects you to bring holy water.
“You know,” he says, because silence is worse than bad jokes, “most people would be thrilled to be chauffeured in a million-pound hypercar. You look like you’re entering a hostage negotiation.”
You don’t laugh. You do that half-smile thing that doesn’t reach your eyes, and suddenly Lando wants to kick himself for knowing the difference.
“Thanks for the lift,” you say, polite enough to pass for normal.
It isn’t. It really, really isn’t.
Lando flicks the wipers on. The rain makes a rhythmic hiss against the windshield. It used to be that rides like this meant music and shared snacks and you yelling at him for taking corners too aggressively. Now, it feels like he has to tiptoe around your mood as if it's an open flame.
He eases the car away from the curb. “So, Birmingham,” he says. “Home of Fewtrell’s yearly descent into unchecked ego.”
You huff out a laugh through your nose, barely audible. It should make him feel triumphant; instead, it makes his chest tight.
What’s a spark when you used to light up around him? No matter how many people crowded your lives—teammates, friends, plus-ones at dinner tables—you were always his person. That one human who saw him beyond the grid, who didn’t care about lap times or social media engagement.
Lando knows something broke. He just doesn’t know when.
The car hums beneath him, taut with energy it can’t release in Bristol traffic. Maybe it’s a metaphor. Maybe everything is.
“You doing okay?” he asks, too casually.
You look out the window. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
There it is. He could write a dissertation on your avoidance techniques. In fact, he probably should. Title: How to Be Ghosted by Your Best Friend Without Them Technically Leaving the Chat.
He lets it go for now. Because the motorway is long, and the rain’s getting heavier, and there’s still two hours between here and the truth.
Lando doesn’t know when the silence between you became a living thing.
It’s not just still. It’s tense. It’s textured. It breathes like it’s third-wheeling from the back seat, wedged between you two with crossed arms and a wisenheimer expression.
He fiddles with the volume knob, turning the music down so low it’s practically just rhythm. Normally, you’d complain that it’s criminal to listen to music and not let it play properly. You’d grab his phone and queue some obnoxiously long indie playlist called something like orange show speedway and make him admit that you have taste.
Today, nothing.
He risks a glance sideways. You’re staring out the window like you’re auditioning for a breakup scene in a rainy film.
You used to talk to him about everything.
Shared inside jokes. Shared chips. Shared one toothbrush once on a trip to Mallorca, which he’s never quite recovered from. Every girl he ever liked, you sized up with terrifying efficiency. Every victory lap, you were the first person he texted. Every racing-related heartbreak, you were the one who told him to shut up, cry it out, then get back in the car.
He doesn’t remember a version of his life that doesn’t include you in the passenger seat.
So what the hell happened?
His car purrs along the motorway, cutting through the wet roads with the kind of grace only British engineering can pull off. They pass a familiar neighborhood and Lando slows a little, almost unconsciously.
He recognizes it before he wants to. The red-bricked semi with the peeling paint and the tragically optimistic garden gnome. He looks towards you, forces a grin.
“You remember this place?” he asks, way too chipper. “Your first boyfriend lived there. What was his name again? Something that sounded like a bootleg Marvel villain.”
You sigh. “Connor.”
“Right. Connor. God, he had the personality of a paper towel.”
You don’t smile. You just go back to looking out the window, past the brick house and the neighborhood that once felt like Lando’s entire world.
The silence, smug bastard that it is, stretches its limbs and settles in again.
Lando grips the wheel tighter. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he should’ve driven straight through and pretended the past wasn’t sitting in the backseat, wearing a stupid letterman jacket and reminding him of everything he didn’t say back then.
He can’t help but add, “He was an idiot, by the way. Never deserved you.”
That gets a flicker. Not a response, exactly, but a shift. A pause. A breath caught in your throat.
For a second, Lando remembers it. That summer. The start of all this. The spark, the fester, the personal betrayal of the friendship that was never quite enough for a man who wanted it all.
The first time Lando meets Connor, he’s already mentally uninstalling him like a glitchy app.
It’s some after-school club thing. Yearbook, or debate, or something equally cursed. The point is: Lando doesn’t belong here. He’s there because you asked him to walk you home, and you insisted he wait until the meeting ended. Which would’ve been fine, if the meeting hadn’t devolved into social hour and you hadn’t suddenly started radiating this stupidly obvious crush energy toward a guy in a rugby hoodie.
Connor.
The name alone sounds like someone who owns too many types of protein powder.
He’s tall in the way sixth-formers think is impressive. Smiles like he’s waiting for a camera to flash. And he talks—God, does he talk. About running drills. About his coach. About, and this is not a joke, a recent dream he had where he was chosen as the face of a sports drink campaign.
“He said, ‘I think I have the jawline for it,’” Lando recalls later in a whisper, as if traumatized.
Back in the moment, Lando tries to be polite. He stands there, hands in pockets, nodding like he’s buffering. “Right. That’s cool,” he mumbles, after Connor launches into a story about a pulled hamstring.
You glance over, eyes bright, clearly hoping Lando will be nice. So he tries again. “Do you, like, play matches every weekend, then?”
Connor nods solemnly. “Unless I’m injured. But I usually push through it.”
“Cool,” Lando says, tone flat as a pancake. He considers throwing himself out the nearest window.
He checks his phone. Fifteen minutes of this. That’s longer than he lasted in his first karting endurance run. He’s about to make a quiet escape—fake a text, mumble something about dinner, the works—when you touch his wrist.
“Stay?” you ask.
You say it soft, barely audible over the buzz of the room, and it derails his exit plan completely. He sighs. Dramatically. Just enough so you know he’s suffering, but not enough to actually mean it.
“Fine,” he grits out. “But if he brings up Real Madrid again, I’m eating the fluorescent lightbulb.”
You beam at him like he just agreed to co-sign your mortgage.
He stays for another twenty agonizing minutes. Listens to Connor talk about macro splits. Lets you giggle at jokes that barely qualify as sentences. Pretends not to notice the way your foot inches closer to Connor’s under the table.
Lando doesn’t know it yet, but something inside him knots that day. Small and quiet. Tight enough to notice. Deep enough that it’ll take years to unravel.
Connor lasts six months.
Six months of bland texts, gym selfies, and Lando resisting the urge to stage a small, tasteful intervention.
He suffers through it all like a war veteran. Group hangs where Connor brings up creatine unprompted. School events where Connor stands behind you like a security detail. One truly cursed double date to the cinema where Connor clapped at the end of the movie.
Lando logs every moment like evidence for a trial that never comes. Until one Tuesday afternoon, when you text him the four most beautiful words in the English language.
I dumped him lol.
Lando shows up at your door within the hour, snacks under one arm, self-righteousness under the other.
You look strangely relaxed. Legs curled under you on the sofa, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, as if the breakup lifted a fog you didn’t know had settled.
“Turns out,” you say, accepting a bag of crisps from him, “dating someone who talks about himself in third person isn’t actually fun.”
Lando gasps, hand to chest. “Lando is shocked. Who could’ve predicted that?”
You roll your eyes. “Bug off.”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, sinking into the cushion beside you, “some of us knew from day one that Connor was a human rice cake with delusions of grandeur.”
You snort, the laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it. “Fine, fine. You were right.”
“Finally.” He makes a show of looking to the heavens. “It only took six months, three public arguments, and one extremely awkward bowling night.”
“Never again,” you groan, tossing a crisp at him. “No more athletes.”
Lando recoils like you slapped him. “Excuse you. I’m an athlete.”
“You’re an exception. You’re, like, emotionally literate.”
“That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”
You laugh again, easier this time, and Lando feels something shift. It’s a small, prideful flicker of knowing: Connor probably never made you laugh like that.
He watches you tip your head back against the sofa, eyes fluttering closed. The late afternoon light spills across your face, and for once, there’s no boyfriend shadowing your smile.
It’s just you and Lando.
And just like that, Boyfriend Number One is out of the picture.
The wipers fight a losing battle, flailing side to side in frantic arcs, trying their best to keep the view ahead from turning into an impressionist painting. The P1 glides through it all with the confidence of a car built to outrun lightning, but even Lando—lover of speed, master of circuits, alleged adult—has to admit.
This is not exactly ideal driving weather.
You’ve been silent for most of the ride. The kind of silence that has teeth. It presses against the back of Lando’s neck, daring him to say something dumb.
Then, finally—
“Lando,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “it’s getting really bad.”
He blinks, snapped out of the existential spiral he’d been mentally free-falling through. Turns slightly toward you, brow cocked in mock offense. “Have you forgotten who I am?”
You give him a tight, unimpressed look. “A man who once rear-ended a shopping cart at Tesco car park.”
“That was one time. I was seventeen. And it came out of nowhere.”
“It was stationary, Lando.”
“It was aggressively stationary.”
Your knuckles go white against the armrest as another gust of wind slams against the car. Your worry hangs thick in the space between you, louder than the rain. Lando feels it like static beneath his skin.
He huffs, puffing up with the defensive pride of a man desperate to impress someone who already knows every version of him, embarrassing stories and all.
“I’ve driven Spa in a thunderstorm, you know. This?” he gestures with one hand. “This is drizzle with a flair for the dramatic.”
Cue cosmic timing.
The car hydroplanes.
It happens in an instant. A slick patch, a twitch of the wheel, the rear kicking out just enough to raise the hair on his arms. The tail of the car fishtails right, then violently left, the P1 tilting off center in a slow-motion ballet of oh-god-oh-no.
Lando reacts on instinct. Years of karting, racing, muscle memory firing like it’s just another corner at Silverstone. He counter-steers, stabilizes, corrects. The car obeys, just barely. But what he doesn’t think about is the way his arm flings across your chest, holding you in place.
It’s ridiculous. There’s a five-point seatbelt system. The car is practically a carbon-fiber cocoon. All the same, his body makes the decision before his brain does: protect you first.
The tires grip. The fishtail stops. The car straightens.
His heart tries to break the sound barrier.
You’re both silent, the only noise your unsteady breathing and the rhythmic thump of his heart echoing in his ears. He doesn’t wince when you practically screech, “What the hell was that?!”
“It was a save,” he mutters, as if saying it in a smaller voice will make it sound more reasonable. He grips the wheel like it personally betrayed him.
You round on him as if he just tried to murder you with style. “A save? I thought I was about to become modern art on the side of the M5!”
“I had it under control.”
“You swore it was drizzle!”
“Water is water, babe!”
Your hands go to your face in pure exasperation. “You absolute bellend.”
For some reason—maybe the adrenaline, maybe just you finally sounding like you again—Lando laughs. It starts low, then builds, bubbling up like he’s been holding it in for weeks.
He watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re alive, irritated, breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, your voice has weight. You’re not tiptoeing around him. You’re calling him out. Loud and unfiltered and exactly as you used to be.
“Missed that,” he says, almost to himself.
“What?”
He keeps his eyes ahead, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His grin is trying to stay small but refuses to be ignored. “The sound of you telling me off,” he says, plain and simple and honest to a fault.
In the thick of rain and tension, there’s a crack of warmth. The silence that follows isn’t the old silence. It’s not angry or tense or drowning in things unsaid. It feels like the kind that comes after something.
Maybe not a full repair, but a start.
Lando pulls into the gas station. You’d asked him politely but firmly to pull over, just for a bit, to wait out the rain. And for once, he doesn’t argue.
The fluorescent lights hum above as he shifts the car into park. Rain still drums on the roof, but the chaos outside feels farther away now. Muted. Contained. It gives the illusion of control, even if everything still feels slightly sideways.
You unbuckle and stretch, exhaling like you’ve been holding your breath since the near-spin. Maybe you have. Lando watches you from the corner of his eye, trying not to make it weird. Failing a little.
It’s this station. Your station. Not legally, but in spirit.
He remembers all the times you’ve dragged him here over the years: late-night snack runs, dares to buy the weirdest item on the shelf, one very ill-advised slushie taste test that ended with blue tongues and a stomach bug. This place has been witness to everything from your worst hangovers to your best impressions of cursed TV ads.
He glances at the flickering store sign, then at you.
“Remember when you dated the cashier here?” he says, because clearly he has a death wish.
You groan. It’s visceral. From the chest. “Can we not talk about Tom?”
“Oh, Tom now. We’re using names.” Lando grins, all teeth and zero mercy. “He sold you expired milk on your third date.”
You cover your face. “I’m going to open this car door and let the rain take me.”
“And abandon me here? In the sacred land of lukewarm sausage rolls and scratch cards?”
You laugh. You actually laugh. And even if it’s mostly directed at your own poor decisions, Lando will take it.
“God,” you grumble, still hiding behind your hands. “I was so dumb.”
“No,” he says. “You were just hopeful. With tragically low standards.”
You peek at him through your fingers, eyes narrowing. “Is that your version of comforting me?”
He shrugs, fighting a laugh of his own. “I thought it was pretty accurate.”
You’re still smiling when you turn your face back toward the rain-blurred window. Lando watches the way your expression fades into something softer. More distant.
He thinks of the way you used to look at Tom. And the way you looked after it all went to shit.
The memory creeps in, uninvited. The same way that godforsaken ‘boyfriend’ did.
Tom was a phase.
Lando says it then, says it now, says it like a mantra. A phase. Curtain bangs, the keto diet, Vine.
He never meets Tom properly. Not in the same way he met Connor, all tight smiles and passive-aggressive protein talk. No, Tom appears in your life like a Wi-Fi outage: disruptive, inconvenient, and wildly inconvenient at the worst possible time.
Lando’s already racing in the lower formulas when it starts. Barely home. Living out of suitcases and duffel bags, counting time in flights and practice laps. He sees it unfold from the periphery. A flicker of chaos just off-track.
He catches glimpses of it in your Snapchat stories. Blurry concert videos. Gas station selfies. One particularly haunting Boomerang of you and Tom doing shots with a caption that just says YOLO in Comic Sans font.
That was the first real red flag.
The second comes from Max, in a text that just says: Why is your best friend dating the guy who once tried to pay for gum with a Greggs coupon.
Lando doesn’t even respond. He only closes his phone and exhales like he’s been personally wronged.
Tom is a lot, from what he can tell. The kind of guy who thinks sarcasm is a personality trait and only follows meme accounts. He wears those tiny sunglasses ironically. Calls himself a ‘creative entrepreneur’ because he once made a custom iPhone wallpaper in Canva.
Lando doesn’t get it.
He doesn’t get why you’re laughing so hard in those stories, or why your texts to him have started thinning out, shorter and more sporadic. He doesn’t get how this man—this man who lists “vibes” as a core value—has managed to take up space where Lando should be.
But he tells himself it’s just a phase.
You’ve had them before. The Twilight obsession. The time you tried to become a minimalist and nearly cried getting rid of a shoebox of concert tickets. This is the same thing, just with more snapbacks and ‘u up?’ texts.
And so Lando watches from a distance. A blur of airports and circuits and hotel rooms, tuning into your life in fifteen-second increments.
He tells himself not to get worked up. Not to overthink it. It’s just a phase.
The thing about phases is they leave a mark when they pass.
After God-knows-how-long of on-again, off-again, the end comes in the form of reliable gossip from Max.
Lando doesn’t hesitate. Max barely gets the words out—“She’s really done this time. Like, done done.”—and Lando’s already pulling up the British Airways app with the grace of a man who’s been waiting for this moment since Tom entered your life.
The flight to Bristol is boring. The snacks are stale. The woman beside him spends forty minutes playing Candy Crush with her volume on full blast and a grim determination Lando hasn’t seen since the Monaco GP. But none of it matters, because his leg is bouncing with a rhythm only anxiety or maybe anticipation can tap out.
He hasn’t seen you in three months. Not properly. Not since the last time Tom slithered his way back into your life like a parasitic vine, and Lando watched helplessly as you got tangled again. Like you were boarding a ship headed straight into a hurricane with a neon sign that read this is fine. Lando, from the shore, had to wave and pretend he didn’t want to light that ship on fire.
Now he’s here. Rented car. Cap tilted low. Heart wired.
He texts Max to stall, tells him to play dumb if you ask questions. Pulls into your driveway like it’s any other Wednesday, not a dramatic friendship intervention wrapped in emotional whiplash and British Airways peanuts.
You open the door, and both of you balk at the sight of each other.
“You flew here?” you breathe.
“You dyed your hair?” he counters immediately, because yeah, you look different.
Still you, but brighter around the edges. Like maybe the weight of Tom has finally stopped sitting on your chest. You’re in a hoodie he hasn’t seen in a while. The grey one you used to steal from him back when you were neighbors and everything was stupid and easy.
“You flew here?” you repeat, incredulous. There’s a defensive slant to your tone, like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to feel touched.
He shrugs, stepping past you into the hallway like he hasn’t just crossed countries to make sure you’re okay. “Was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d pop by, insult your ex, steal your biscuits.”
You smile. A real one. Tentative, but real..
He follows you to the kitchen, where the kettle’s already half-boiled and the air smells like tea bags. You sit, curled into the chair like you’re trying to fold yourself down to a more manageable size. Lando hates that. Hates that you look like you’re bracing for the next hit, hates that you think you had to be anything but yourself in this devastating situationship.
“Max said you were done,” he says outright.
You nod. “I am.”
“Good,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Because if I had to pretend to like him one more time, I’d have developed a stress twitch.”
You laugh, and it feels like sunlight breaking through a cloudy week. Broken and bright. It does something to Lando’s chest. A little lurch. A little click. A puzzle piece slotting into place.
“Remember when he said Manchester was in Scotland?”
“God, or when he thought almond milk came from baby almonds?”
“Or when he tried to fight that goose?”
That one breaks you. You snort, full-on wheeze, laugh so hard your shoulders shake and your face disappears into your hands. Lando watches you like he’s trying to memorize every second. Like if he stares hard enough, he can bottle the sound of your joy and take it with him when he’s fighting for his life on Sundays.
You look up, cheeks flushed, eyes finally shining with something other than sadness. “He really did try to fight a goose, didn’t he?”
“He lost,” Lando deadpans. “To a bird with a vendetta and no moral compass.”
You giggle again, softer this time, settling into it. Into him.
Lando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since the plane took off.
This. This is what he came for.
To see you smile like that. To make you laugh again. To remind you who you are outside of the storm cloud that was Boyfriend Number Two.
Even if it’s just for a little while.
Lando’s staring straight ahead when it blurts out of him: “Why have you been avoiding me?”
The words hit the windshield just as hard as the rain does, fast and sharp and impossible to ignore. Yobegu stiffen in the passenger seat.
“I haven’t,” you say, too fast. Too rehearsed. Lando can see you in your bathroom back home, preparing for the conversation in front of your mirror.
Lando scoffs. Loudly. Dramatically. Because what else is he meant to do with a lie that transparent?
“Right. So all the unanswered texts, the missed calls, the five-second voice notes that end with ‘Sorry, gotta go’ even though I can literally hear you not going anywhere—,” he pauses, takes in a breath, goes on, “that’s just you being, what? Efficient?”
You cross your arms. Classic defense stance. He sees the way your jaw tenses, the way you shift your weight as if you’re prepping to run a marathon. Or escape a conversation.
“I’ve been busy,” you offer.
“With what, a monastic vow of silence?”
“Lando.”
“Don’t ‘Lando’ me,” he snaps, turning toward you now, fully, anger prickling beneath his skin. Not white-hot fury. A low, aching kind. The kind born of hurt. “You disappear on me for weeks and think I won’t notice?”
You open your mouth. Close it again.
He laughs, humorless. “Jesus. Just say it, then. Whatever it is you’re clearly trying not to.”
“There’s nothing to say,” you argue.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
Silence, heavy and cloying, stretches between you like something physical. And then you reach for the door.
Lando blinks. “Are you serious? It’s pissing it down outside.”
You push it open anyway.
“Oh my God,” he groans, reaching across to try and stop you, but you’re already halfway out. Rain slapping hard against your hoodie, the wind catching your hair.
“This is so unnecessarily dramatic,” he shouts over the downpour. “Even for you!”
You flip him off without looking over your shoulder. Lando exhales like he’s just aged ten years.
Of course this is happening.
Of course you’re trying to escape a deeply emotional conversation by drowning yourself in goddamn weather.
And of course, he’s about to go after you anyway.
Lando has chased you through paddocks, airports, and one ill-advised IKEA on a bank holiday weekend. But this? This is a new low.
You’re walking down a rain-slicked road like it’s a runway, soaked to the bone, one arm stretched out like you’re auditioning for a 90s road trip comedy.
“Will you please get in the bloody car?” Lando yells, jogging a few paces behind you, hoodie already useless against the downpour.
Rain pelts his face. His trainers are definitely ruined. There are probably frogs watching from the ditch with more dignity than he currently possesses.
You don’t look back. You just wave your hand in a vague go away gesture and keep walking as if the pavement’s not a slip hazard waiting to happen.
“What are you even doing?” he calls again. “Trying to get kidnapped? Start a new life in Wales?”
“I’m proving a point!” you shout over your shoulder.
“What point?” Lando throws his arms up. “That you’re allergic to staying in a parked car with me for more than five minutes?!”
You stop walking long enough to turn. Hair dripping, mascara smudged, and cheeks pink with cold and fury. “I’m not letting you deflect like you always do.”
“I’m the one deflecting?” Lando screeches. “Who’s the one playing out the third act of a Nora Ephron film on the side of the A38 right now? The one you watched with—”
“Don’t.”
You narrow your eyes. He knows that look. That look has preceded at least two near-misdemeanors and one regrettable shared tattoo.
“Don’t what?” he bites out anyway.
“Don’t make this about him.”
Lando stops short. The wind shoves water into his face.
You cross your arms, jaw tight. “That’s a low blow, Lando,” you say tersely.
He sighs, remembering himself. Runs a hand through his dripping curls. “Okay. Yeah. That one might’ve been on me.”
You glance away, lips pressed tight.
Even now—even drenched, and stubborn, and maybe seconds from catching pneumonia—you look heartbreakingly familiar.
Lando doesn’t say it. Doesn’t even think it too loud.
He only watches the past creep back in like a drizzle.
His name is Matthew. Not Matt. Not Matty. Not some delightfully ridiculous hybrid nickname you’d shout across a car park. No, it’s Matthew.
Like a grown-up. Like a man who knows how to fold a fitted sheet and use words like ‘conscientious’ in casual conversation.
Lando hates him immediately.
Not for any real reason. Matthew is tall, polite, and somehow always smells like eucalyptus. He wears jumpers with elbow patches and irons his jeans. He volunteers on the weekends. Max meets him once and texts Lando, bro he’s NICE nice, which somehow makes it worse.
Because Matthew is nice. Objectively. Irritatingly. The kind of nice that doesn’t even flinch when your gran asks invasive questions or when your dog throws up on his shoes. Lando tries to catch him out—waits for a bad joke, a sarcastic smirk, a single out-of-pocket comment—but Matthew plays a clean game. Doesn’t even double dip.
It drives Lando mad.
And what’s worse? You’re happy. Genuinely happy.
Glowing in a way that makes Lando’s stomach twist, because it’s not for him. It never has been, not really. Not in the way he wants. Sure, he’s had his chances. He’s danced around it for years, leaving breadcrumb jokes and half-hearted flirtations in your path like you might trip over them one day and fall into his arms.
You never did. You fell for Matthew, and for all the right reasons.
Lando tries. God, he tries. Plays the supportive friend card with a smile stretched too tight. Tells you he’s glad for you, then goes home and grumbles to Max about how Matthew probably has a sock drawer organized by color.
It’s not that he wants Matthew to be awful. He just wants something—anything—that makes this ache in his chest easier to justify. Some glaring red flag. Some hidden flaw. But all Lando’s got is a deep, gnawing sense of falling behind, of watching the credits roll on a film he thought he was starring in.
He’s not happy for you. Not in the way you might want. That, somehow, is the most infuriating part of all.
Matthew stays in the picture for a whopping three years.
Long enough to survive two surprise party meltdowns, a full flat renovation, and a group trip to the Dolomites where Max nearly dies trying to ski backwards. Matthew’s in every photo, every inside joke, every weekend plan. He’s at your side in Instagram posts and tagged stories, smiling like he belongs there.
Matthew helps Max fix his sink. He gets Lando a birthday gift without needing a reminder. He has a spreadsheet for your shared groceries. He knows your order at five different coffee shops. He does everything right.
Lando hates, hates, HATES it. Not because there’s anything wrong with Matthew, but because there isn’t.
Because every day you seem a little more out of reach.
Because you don’t text him at midnight with weird thoughts anymore. Because you cancel plans, rebook dinners, drop conversations halfway through. Because now Lando only hears about your day in secondhand summaries at group hangouts.
When he does finally get a one-on-one lunch, you’re distracted. Checking your phone. Smiling at something you won’t tell him about.
It drives him insane in that quiet, gnawing kind of way. The slow unravel. The you-shaped silence growing wider each week.
Then Matthew asks him.
Lando’s in line at a coffee shop, still wearing his hoodie from a bad simulator session, phone in hand. Matthew taps him on the shoulder, all pleasant charm and water-repellent outerwear.
“Hey, mate. Sorry to bother, but—um—do you happen to know her ring size?”
Lando balks. “What?”
“Her ring size,” Matthew laughs nervously. “I’m thinking of… you know. Eventually. Not now-now. But sometime.”
He says it all casual, like it’s a weather update. Like he’s not detonating a landmine in the middle of Lando’s soul.
Lando laughs. Loud. Too loud. The barista glances over.
“Sorry, erm, just… had a flashback to when she got one of those mood rings from a vending machine and insisted it meant she was dying,” he stammers. “No clue on size, though.”
Matthew chuckles. Thanks him. Moves on.
Lando, meanwhile, forgets what he came here for. Leaves without coffee. Gets in the car and sits there for twenty-three minutes, hands gripping the wheel like he might snap it off.
He doesn’t cry.
But he does punch the steering wheel once. Then again. “Fuck,” Lando grits out through his teeth, fist landing the steering wheel a third, softer time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Matthew thinks it’s end game. You probably do, too. Lando’s the only one who hasn’t gotten the memo.
It sneaks up on him. The ensuing distance. Not yours, for once, but his.
It’s subtle at first. Missed texts, delayed replies, a string of excuses that sound convincing even to him. You, ever gracious, ever unbothered, don’t push. Until one day you ask, plainly, with that look that always cuts straight through him: “Are you avoiding me?”
Lando—cornered in the world’s most dangerous trap, your honesty—says the worst thing possible. He lies.
“What? No. Just busy.”
You nod, but your eyes hold there, suspicious. He changes the subject so fast it practically leaves a skid mark.
He tries afterwards. God, he really does. Makes more effort to be a better best friend. Starts sending you memes again. Asks about your week. Makes jokes about your taste in romcoms like he’s not the one who’s watched Notting Hill six times. With you. Voluntarily.
But it’s like trying to balance on ice. Because every time Matthew’s name comes up—when he picks you up from dinner, or when you show up in one of those blouses Lando knows weren’t your taste until someone else said they liked them—Lando short-circuits a little.
Matthew’s a man-shaped Post-it stuck to every part of you Lando doesn’t get to touch, and it all but kills him for those three years.
Lando’s terrified of becoming the footnote in your story. Of standing at your wedding someday, raising a glass and making a joke about how he always knew, when really he never wanted to know.
You’re the one who shows up this time.
No warning. No text. Just the doorbell to his apartment, and you, and eyes that look a little red, and a voice so small he almost misses it when you say: “Can I come in?”
Matthew’s not with you.
Matthew’s not coming.
You sit on his couch. You take your shoes off and set them aside. You don’t speak right away. You curl your knees up and hold a pillow against your chest like a shield. Lando doesn’t ask questions.
You say, “We ended things.”
He waits for the joy. For the surge of self-righteous relief. For the I told you so itching to leap off his tongue.
None of it comes.
Instead, you cry.
For the first time—really cry over a breakup in front of him. Shoulders shaking. Silent tears at first, then the full-body, rib-wracking kind. Lando just sits there. Not joking. Not speaking. Only shifting closer until you fold into his side like muscle memory.
He holds you.
All he feels is this: sadness. Yours, his, collective.
No more pretending. No more pretending this doesn’t hurt. No more pretending he’s only ever been your best friend.
Lando kisses the top of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair, and he means it. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Please,” Lando calls, already drenched through. “I don’t want to die for Max, of all people.”
You don’t even look back. Just keep walking, thumb out like you’re genuinely trying to hitchhike. In the middle of nowhere. In the pouring rain.
“Oh, come on,” he yells. “This is not the moment to recreate the climax of your favorite romcom.”
You spin on him. “Why? Scared you’ll end up in the headlines?”
He stops short, blinking water out of his eyes. “No, I’m scared you’ll actually get in some random stranger’s van and I’ll have to chase it down like an idiot!”
You huff, cross your arms. “I don’t need saving.”
“I never said you did!”
“Then what do you want, Lando?”
What does he want?
What does he want?
A World Driver’s Championship, dry clothes, a dog. Most of all—
“I want you to come back,” he says, and it’s not just about the car anymore.
His voice cracks on the words, like his lungs are tired of holding the weight in. He thinks of the distance, the years, the boys. He thinks of what it was like when it was just you and him against the world.
“Come back to me,” he breathes, “Just—come back.”
In the back of his mind, he adds: Pleasepleaseplease. I’ve never begged for anything and I’ll be horrible. Don’t make me do that. Come back to me, please.
You look at him like he’s just punched you in the chest. And for a second, he thinks he’s messed everything up. Again.
A laugh escapes you, but it’s not happy.
It’s bitter, and broken, and fraying at the edges. “That’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?” you spit.
“What?” he asks, throat tightening.
“You,” you say, voice sparking now. “You’ve always been the problem.”
He recoils like you’ve physically hits him. “I—I don’t understand.”
You step closer, jabbing a finger into his hoodie. “You want to know why no man’s ever lasted? Why every boyfriend I’ve had eventually walked away, or I did?”
Lando doesn’t speak. Can’t.
“It’s you,” you seethe. “Even Matthew, for all his perfection, for all the ways he was kind and patient and stupidly good at making pancakes—he knew. He knew there were parts of me that didn’t belong to him. That never would.”
You slam a fist to Lando’s chest, and he stumbles backward despite it not being all that forceful.
“Because those parts belonged to you,” you sob, and something in the silence cracks open. “So much of me—’s all with you.”
Lando doesn’t realize he’s crying until the rain can’t account for the salt.
He stands a few feet in front of you on the shoulder of the road, headlights casting long shadows, mist curling at his knees like the world’s stage crew is setting up a very dramatic Act Three.
Maybe this is Act Three. Or Act Twenty-Five. Whatever. He’s tired. And wet. And done being careful.
He thinks about all the times you’ve asked him—offhand, casual, never really casual—what he thought of the guy you were dating. The little glances after a joke, a compliment, a moment you hoped he’d noticed. He always pretended he didn’t.
About how you once skipped a two-year anniversary dinner because he’d binned it in Q1 and couldn’t even make eye contact in the garage. You showed up with pizza and no expectations, just sat with him until the world felt less unbearable.
About how every year, without fail, you still get him a birthday card and write the same stupid inside joke in it. How your playlists have songs he said he liked once. How there’s always a seat saved for him, in every version of your life.
He moves before he can think better of it.
Closes the distance, rain pouring off his curls, hands cupping your face like you’re a flame he’s terrified of snuffing out. You blink up at him, stunned, lips parted to protest, or breathe, or remind him of something impossible.
“God, you’re such an idiot,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you.
It’s too wet. Too much nose. Possibly some teeth. But it’s real, and it’s him, and it’s you, and he’s been dying to do this since the moment he realized you were the only person who’s ever made him feel like more than just a wheel in motion.
He pulls back a fraction, mouth brushing yours, breath ragged. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words spilling out of him in a stream. “I can’t settle for just parts of you. I want all of you. All the stupid parts. The loud parts. The ones that break things just to fix them better. You. I want you.”
Turns out Lando Norris knew how to beg after all.
Your eyes are shining now, but not from the rain. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”
You fist the front of his hoodie and kiss him again. Like you’re furious he didn’t do this sooner. Like you’re scared he’ll stop.
Like there’s no such thing as bad timing, or broken umbrellas, or boyfriends who came before. Just this moment, and this road, and the sound of everything finally falling into place.
You finally, finally give in. Lando manages to herd you toward the car with all the finesse of a wet sheepdog, wet curls plastered to his forehead and shoes squelching with every step. You duck inside the passenger seat, and Lando shuts the door behind you with a thud that feels suspiciously like relief.
He cranks the heater, grabs a towel from the back, and starts dabbing at your arms before realizing that’s probably weird. You snatch the towel from him with a soft scoff and wrap it around your shoulders.
“I hate you,” you say heatlessly.
Lando snorts. “You kissed me like you were trying to win a bloody Oscar. Hate’s a strong word.”
You roll your eyes. “I was cold and emotionally compromised.”
“You still are.” He reaches over to adjust the vents so they’re aimed directly at you. It feels too domestic, too tender, as if this is just a normal night and not the latest installment of your mutual slow-burn, star-crossed, soap opera.
But then you laugh.
Not the quiet, breath-through-your-nose kind you’ve been rationing for the last few weeks. No, this one bubbles out of your chest like champagne, loud and undignified, echoing around the car like a challenge to the storm outside.
Lando glances at you, startled. “What?”
“You’re being weird,” you accuse, grinning. “Like—boyfriend weird. Hovering. Fiddling with the heater. Are you about to offer me your hoodie next?”
He shifts in his seat, brows furrowing. “I mean… yeah?”
“Seriously?”
“I just kissed you in the rain like a Nicholas Sparks protagonist. I think I deserve to be called your boyfriend.”
You stare at him, towel clutched around you. He stares back, every nerve ending in his body doing laps. Then, slowly, you lean across the center console and kiss him.
No preamble. No hesitation. Just your mouth on his, warm and sure and rain-slicked and a little desperate.
He groans, half in disbelief, half in oh thank fuck, and immediately fumbles for your waist, pulling you over the console and into his lap.
“Lando,” you protest into his mouth, breathless, “your seats—”
“Fuck the seats,” he mutters, kissing you harder, both hands tangled in your damp hair. “Fuck the car.”
And fuck all the boys before, too, he nearly adds, but you’re kissing him back before he can bitch about it. It’s a welcome way to be shut up.
Max opens the door to find you and Lando shivering on his doorstep.
It’s not exactly how he envisioned this moment going down—less triumphant reentry, more drowned rats with trust issues—but then again, with you two, it was never going to be smooth.
“Look who finally made it out of the wild,” Max deadpans, stepping aside to let you two in. “Welcome to Birmingham. Population: two soggy disasters with no sense of direction.”
Lando mutters something about missed turns, a road that may or may not exist on modern maps, and sheep with murder in their eyes. You chirp out a very sincere, very breathless, “We’re so sorry we missed the party,” as you toe off your wet shoes, leaving a trail of puddles like you’re starring in a very damp Hansel and Gretel reboot.
Max lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. You missed the party, the group photo, the snacks, my DJ set, and my famous mini quiches. Tragic, really.”
“There were quiches?” Lando asks, eyes wide with betrayal.
“There were never quiches,” Max says dryly. “But if there had been, you’d have missed them. Along with the firework display and the ice sculpture of Toto Wolff.”
You and Lando shuffle inside like two kids caught sneaking back after curfew, still damp despite the towels draped around your shoulders like battle-worn cloaks. You look like someone who’s cried, laughed, kissed, and threatened murder all in one afternoon. Lando looks like a boy who’s finally gotten what he wanted and is now terrified of losing it.
Honestly, Max has never seen the pair of you look better.
You nudge Lando with your shoulder. He elbows you back. You squawk something about fragile bones. He mumbles something about delicate drama queens. It’s like watching a tennis match, if tennis involved way more bickering and accidental flirting.
Friends again, Max notes. But also…
It’s in the little things. The way Lando brushes a strand of wet hair off your cheek, his eyes tracing your face with a reverence that borders religion. The way your hand lingers at his back, fingers resting there like it’s instinct. The way you press a kiss to his cheek when Max turns to grab a towel, clearly forgetting that he lives here and has functioning eyeballs.
“Right,” Max says, chucking a fresh towel at Lando’s head. “Don’t get my couch pregnant. It’s the only thing in this flat that hasn’t betrayed me.”
Lando sputters, towel smacking against his face, while you laugh so hard you nearly fall onto the aforementioned couch. “You love us,” you say, beaming up at Max from where you’re sprawled.
“I tolerate you,” Max corrects, but he’s smiling.
Lando flops beside you, damp clothes making a half-hearted squelch against the upholstery. You both look like chaos wrapped in human skin, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, there’s a weird sort of peace between you. The kind that comes after a storm, literal and emotional.
Max leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you two settle in like you haven’t been emotionally exhausting all week. He scrolls through his phone and quietly closes the Weather app.
There was never any party.
Just a text thread, a fake group chat full of complicit friends, and one extremely coordinated schedule that might strand a stubborn driver and his emotionally constipated soulmate in the middle of nowhere.
Max smiles to himself.
Sometimes, you really do have to drive people into a storm to get them to admit they’re in love. ⛐
"It’s tough to overstate how difficult what Lando Norris just pulled off truly is. When you are trying to get a Formula 1 car around a race track at speed without making mistakes on your own, it's a huge challenge. With the kind of pressure that he was under for those last five or six laps, from inside the cockpit... I mean he said, he was exhausted. It's not that this is a particularly physical race, he was having to use every bit of his mental capacity to make sure that he did not open that door for Oscar. And, look, credit to him. It was a 12 second gap that Oscar just absolutely chewed up, put him under crazy pressure for those five or six laps, dealing with traffic. Absolutely sublime drive from Lando." - WE LOVE YOU HINCH
♡You saw tik tok about if he doesen't cum faster then you he is losing interes. Obviously you had to rile him up about it
Pairing: Rafe Cameron x You
Warnings: NSFW dialogue, mentions of sex and erections, relationship conflict, swearing, slightly toxic humor, dumb TikTok-induced spiral, mutual miscommunication, angst with humor, Rafe being unhinged but hot, petty!you being unrelenting, no actual smut, just chaotic vibes.
You knew you were being a little unhinged.
You knew it.
But TikTok had a point.
It all started with one video. Just one. A girl, mid-eye-roll, lipgloss too shiny to trust, saying:
“If he doesn’t cum faster than you, he’s losing interest.”
“And if he doesn’t get hard just by thinking about you?? Girl… he’s over it. Leave.”
You watched it once. Then twice.
Then 14 times while laying in bed in fetal position.
And you and Rafe hadn’t had sex in three days.
That was like… a dry spell.
A Sahara Desert level emergency.
So obviously—you spiraled.
And obviously—you picked a fight.
___
You’re sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island in an oversized t-shirt that lowkey used to be his. Rafe’s leaning back against the counter in grey sweats, spooning ice cream from the tub like it’s his last meal on death row. The AC is humming. The tension is LOUDER.
“So,” you start, tone way too casual to be innocent, “we haven’t had sex in three days.”
Scoop. Munch. Pause.
Rafe lifts a brow, licking his spoon. “Okay? You got a point, or you just stating facts now?”
You squint. He’s too chill. Dangerously chill. He’s eating moose tracks and shrugging at you like he didn’t just make you feel like chopped liver with that tone.
“I saw this TikTok—”
“Oh my fucking god.”
“—no, listen to me—this girl said if your boyfriend doesn’t cum faster than you, he’s not into you anymore.”
Rafe just stares at you. Spoon mid-air. Eyes going full "are you serious right now?" mode.
“TikTok? This is about fucking TikTok?”
“It makes sense!” you throw your hands up. “And you haven’t even—like—we haven’t done anything in three days, Rafe! THREE.”
Rafe runs a hand down his face. Looks like he’s trying to summon patience from another dimension.
“What the fuck are you even saying right now?”
“I’m saying maybe you don’t even like me anymore.”
“Jesus Christ—”
He drops the spoon into the tub, tosses the whole thing on the counter without even putting the lid on, like your delusional spiral just made him lose his literal appetite.
“I can’t believe I’m arguing about my dick because of something you saw on TikTok.”
“So you admit it?!”
“ADMIT WHAT? That I didn’t fuck you for 72 hours?! I had a migraine yesterday!”
“So I’m not worth pushing through a migraine for??”
“Are you even hearing yourself right now?!”
He’s fully red in the face. You’re fully doubling down. Because, really, you’re doing this for your mental health. For your dignity. For justice.
“You’re the one who used to be, like, unable to keep your hands off me! You used to get hard from just looking at me.”
“I still do, you psychopath.”
“Then prove it.”
“OH MY GOD.”
He drags both hands through his hair and looks like he’s seconds away from walking directly into the ocean and drown.
“I get hard from thinking about you. From hearing your fucking laugh in the other room. You don’t even have to be near me. I wake up hard just because your foot touched me in your sleep.”
“Then why haven’t you tried anything in THREE—”
“BECAUSE YOU SPENT THE LAST TWO NIGHTS WATCHING GREY’S ANATOMY IN BED EATING FUCKING DORITOS AND CRYING OVER FICTIONAL MEN!”
You flinch. That’s fair. That’s… kind of true. Still. You cross your arms.
“I was emotionally vulnerable. You could’ve taken advantage.”
“I’m not gonna take advantage of you while you’re sobbing over Dr. Shepherd dying!”
“He was a hero, Rafe.”
He turns his back like he’s about to walk off, then turns around again like he just can’t believe how deep he’s been dragged into this.
“No. You don’t get to gaslight me over a horny TikTok. That shit’s not real. You’re in my bed every fucking night, stealing my hoodies and sleeping with your icy cold feet on my calves like it’s your birthright—how is that not enough proof I love you?”
You blink.
“So you admit your dick isn’t as hard anymore?”
“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME—”
He shoves the ice cream aside so hard it thunks against the backsplash. Grabs the towel, tosses it angrily on the counter.
“You know what? Whatever. I’m not doing this. This… this is bullshit.”
He storms toward the hallway. You call after him.
“Is it because I wore your mom’s robe on laundry day?! That one time??”
“I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER THAT.”
“YOU SAID I LOOKED LIKE A SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER!!”
“I WAS JOKING!”
You hop off the island to follow him. You’re like an emotionally unstable golden retriever now. You cannot let this go.
“So you don’t hate me?”
He whirls around. “No, I don’t fucking hate you. I hate TikTok. I hate moose tracks. I hate Derek Shepherd. And I hate when you say batshit things about how I don’t want you just because we didn’t bang for three days. I love you. And my dick’s in love with you too. There. Happy now?”
Shoutout to Superman (2025) for making it incredibly fucking clear that Superman is for good people. He’s hope. He’s love. He’s supportive. He’s an immigrant. He supports Palestine. He loves animals. He protects children.
The movie is a light. If you’ve been feeling really depressed about the world lately I’d highly suggest watching Superman.
summary: lando leaves the club with nothing but guilt and your voice in his head and ends up on charles’ doorstep, unraveling everything he couldn’t say before
content: heartbreak, regret, quiet grief, emotional hurt, messy boys being messy, lando spiraling™, Charles as the reluctant therapist friend, bittersweet vibes, hope, maybe?
word count: 2,9k
pairing: lando norris x charles leclerc (lol, told i´ve been waiting for this)
walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist
definatly confusing if read as standalone
Lando didn’t remember leaving the club.
Not the faces, not the music, not even the exact moment his feet carried him out the door. Only the echo of your voice stayed with him, sharp and cold and so much more powerful than any punch he could’ve thrown.
Stop.
It hadn’t been a scream. It hadn’t needed to be. Just one word, said with enough weight to split him open.
And you’d meant it.
The champagne had dried sticky on his wrist where the bottle had slipped, half-poured and half-splashed during someone’s toast. His shirt collar was crooked, stretched where someone had yanked him back from Charles, maybe a bouncer, maybe a friend. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. The night had already split into before and after, and he wasn’t entirely sure which version of him belonged to either.
He walked.
Not home. Not anywhere in particular.
Just… walked.
The streets of Monaco blurred by under his shoes, glinting wet from street cleaners or spilled drinks. Gold light spilled from windows that didn’t belong to him. Laughter echoed in alleys he didn’t turn down. And the whole time, his head felt full and hollow all at once, like grief had vacuumed out every solid thought, but left the ache behind.
He kept replaying it.
That night.
The night.
Your skin against his. Your laugh, tipsy and tired, that little whisper
“Lando? …I love you.”
And he hadn’t said it back.
God, he hadn’t even heard it. Not really. Not in the way you needed him to. He’d chalked it up to the moment, to your breathy intoxication, to something he shouldn’t lean into.
But he remembered now. Too clearly.
He’d known you were hurt when you left. He just hadn’t realized how deep it went. And now?
Now he’d seen it, the distance in your eyes. The wall between you. The way you hadn’t even looked back when you walked out of the club with Charles.
And the worst part?
He couldn’t even blame you.
How could he lose you?
You, of all people.
His anchor. His safest place. The only one who never wanted anything from him except who he already was.
How had he let it get this far?
His feet stopped moving before his brain caught up. Somewhere along the aimless wandering, the city had gone still. The ocean below the cliffs whispered soft against the docks, and the stars above burned too bright, too indifferent.
And there he was.
Outside Charles' building.
It was too late for this. It was stupid late. That desperate hour when all the noise of Monaco had settled into a hush, and every light on every terrace felt like it was judging him, too warm, too intimate, too not for him.
He went inside, took the elevator, then he stood there for a while, staring at the door. Hands buried in his pockets. Lips parted like he might say something even if no one was around to hear it.
Then he knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Footsteps.
The door creaked open.
Charles stood there, blinking at the sight of him — the same way someone might look at an unexpected ghost. His curls were a little messy, flattened on one side like he’d been lying down. Hoodie slouched. Joggers. Barefoot. The kind of comfort only exhaustion could excuse. He looked like he’d already been trying to forget the night. Trying to shut it out.
And then there was Lando, standing on his doorstep, visibly shattered.
Charles took it in slowly. The disheveled collar. The dried champagne stains on his shirt. His eyes — bloodshot, rimmed red, but not from drinking. From something heavier. Lando didn’t even try to speak at first. His mouth opened slightly, but the words got stuck somewhere in his throat.
Charles was the one who broke the quiet. His voice came low, gentler than the tension deserved.
“What are you doing here?”
Lando’s mouth closed again. He looked down. His shoulders caved forward, like something inside him was collapsing further every second. His silence was thick with something unspoken, regret, maybe. Or fear.
“She’s not here,” Charles said, quieter now, his expression softening.
Those words hit Lando like a blow to the gut. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, but Charles saw it.
Still, Lando looked past him — toward the inside of the apartment, toward the corners where he wished you might still be, curled up on the sofa or leaving a forgotten mug on the kitchen counter. Some part of him had hoped the truth could be bent. That maybe you hadn’t left. That maybe, if he was just fast enough, he’d catch you still here.
But it was empty.
Of course it was.
“I—” Lando finally tried. But his voice gave out before he could finish. His jaw clenched. He swallowed like it hurt.
“I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t… I don’t even know where to look for her.”
Charles’ expression didn’t change, but something softened in his eyes. He hesitated for only a moment, then stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Lando did, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to. He brushed past him, just enough space between them to keep from bumping shoulders, and stepped inside.
The apartment was dim and quiet. A lamp glowed low from a corner. The TV was off. A used mug on the table. Maybe it had been a long night for Charles too.
Lando sat at the edge of the couch like he didn’t know how to occupy the space anymore. Elbows on his knees. Shoulders hunched. His head dropped into his hands, fingers digging into his hair. He stayed like that for a long time. Silent. Motionless. Except for the slow rise and fall of his back as he breathed, unsteady and shallow.
Charles brought him a glass of water and set it on the table without a word, then took a seat across from him in the armchair. He didn’t push. Didn’t demand. He just waited.
And eventually, it came.
Lando’s voice — hoarse, cracked around the edges like it had been scraped raw.
“I’m sorry.”
His head lifted slightly. Eyes heavy, rimmed red. He looked at Charles directly this time.
“I really am.”
Charles studied him. There was no defensiveness left in Lando — no heat, no ego, no justification. Just ruin. Something in Charles’ chest twisted a little, but he kept it steady.
He nodded once, slowly.
“It’s okay, Lando.”
The words were simple. But not dismissive.
He reached out, set a grounding hand on Lando’s shoulder. Lando didn’t move — didn’t flinch or pull away. Just breathed, like he hadn’t been able to until that touch anchored him.
A long silence stretched between them.
Outside, the city kept sleeping. The harbor lights blinked faintly in the distance. Somewhere far below, a car passed — but up here, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them, and everything Lando hadn’t said yet hung heavy in the space between them.
Charles stayed quiet, watching him. Letting him unravel at his own pace.
Lando stared down at the floor, fingers still loosely clutching the edge of the couch cushion, knuckles pale.
Then — a pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to mean something.
“Was there ever…” Lando started, and his voice felt even smaller now. Almost afraid to be heard. “Between you two. Was there ever anything?”
The question fell with a weight neither of them pretended not to feel.
Charles looked at him fully this time. His brows lifted slightly, as if the question itself stung — not with offense, but with sadness. Then he shook his head.
“No,” he said plainly. “Not once.”
Lando’s eyes stayed fixed on him — searching. Digging for even the smallest crack.
“You swear?”
“I swear.” Charles didn’t even blink. His tone didn’t falter. “She needed someone. That’s it. Nothing more.”
Lando’s eyes stayed fixed on him — searching. Digging for even the smallest crack.
“You swear?”
“I swear.” Charles didn’t even blink. His tone didn’t falter. “She needed someone. That’s it. Nothing more.”
There was no room for misinterpretation in those words. No space for suspicion to twist itself around the edges. Just the kind of clarity that only came from someone who had nothing to gain by lying.
And maybe that was what finally broke something loose in Lando, the last thread snapping.
His shoulders dropped further, as if something invisible had been propping him up this whole time and finally gave out. His body folded inward, like grief was gravity.
A long breath trembled out of him. His voice, when it came, was threadbare.
“I messed this all up…”
Charles didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to soften it. He didn’t offer empty comfort.
He just nodded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You kinda did.”
The truth didn’t need to be cruel to hit hard.
Lando’s gaze turned glassy, unfocused. His jaw trembled once before he bit it down. The weight of everything was settling now, not just tonight, but the weeks leading up to it. The silence. The distance. The self-sabotage disguised as pride. The way he’d let everything rot in the spaces between what should’ve been said and what never was.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said again, softer now, like it was all he had left. “I really didn’t…”
His eyes blinked fast against the tears threatening to fall — not dramatic, not loud. Just quiet devastation.
Charles leaned back in the chair, letting the silence rise and settle like dust in low light. Not because he didn’t care — but because he knew this kind of grief didn’t need interruption. It didn’t need bandages or fast fixes. It needed space. The kind you gave someone when they were finally telling the truth, even if it came out in pieces.
And Lando… Lando was finally feeling it.
Not just the regret, the embarrassment, the shame that had been clinging to him like static for weeks. But the full weight of the loss. The truth of it. It didn’t matter that he’d won Monaco — not now. Not with the way your voice still echoed in his head, sharp and final. Not with the image of you turning away from him burned into the back of his eyes.
In that small apartment, under the hum of the refrigerator and the faint echo of tires on wet pavement outside, Lando finally crumbled.
He winced, breath catching, then dropped his gaze to the floor like it was the only solid thing left. His shoulders hunched in defeat.
Tears burned — quiet, hot, unwanted — behind his eyes.
“She’s my best friend,” he choked out. “And I just…”
He trailed off, shaking his head like he could knock the words loose.
“I don’t know what to do, Charles. I don’t even know why I came here. I don’t know what I thought you’d say. I don’t know what I would’ve said if she had been here.”
Charles didn’t move. Just listened.
Lando’s hands pressed to his knees, white-knuckled.
“I bottled it. I shut everything down. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. I thought I was being careful or smart or—” He cut himself off, voice catching again. “I was so fucking stupid. I didn’t know she had feelings. I didn’t even see it until it was too late. And now everything’s broken. Everything’s so broken and I don’t think there’s anything left to fix.”
The words sat heavy between them. Real. Raw. Like open wounds.
Charles exhaled slowly, hands laced together in his lap. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but steady — the kind of honesty that didn’t try to protect you from yourself.
“It may feel that way,” he said. “And to be fair, yeah — you did cause a lot of damage. Hurt her. Hurt yourself. And you didn’t listen when she needed you to.”
Lando flinched at that, but didn’t argue.
“But…” Charles continued, his gaze leveling. “I don’t think it’s ruined beyond saving.”
Lando blinked up at him, hollow.
Charles shrugged faintly. “She cares. You know she does. Hell, everyone knows. Just don’t be blind, Lando. Don’t pretend she didn’t mean more to you than you let yourself admit. And don’t lie to yourself now just because you’re scared.”
The room was still. The kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful — but suspended. Like the next thing said might change everything.
Charles tilted his head slightly, not judging, just asking. “What about that other girl? Charlotte, right?”
Lando let out a bitter sound — a humorless huff of breath that barely qualified as a laugh. He dragged the heel of his palm across his face, trying to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes.
“She ended it,” he said, voice rasped and flat. “Told me she could tell I wasn’t really there. That even when I smiled, I looked… sad.”
Charles watched him, expression unreadable.
“She was right,” Lando added after a pause. “I was thinking about her. The whole time. Every time.”
He didn’t have to say your name. He didn’t need to.
“You need to talk to her.”
Charles said it plainly, no dramatics, no pressure. Just the simple truth of it, dropped into the thick silence between them like a stone into water.
Lando didn’t react at first. He just sat there, eyes fixed on the floor, like the grooves in the hardwood might offer him an answer he didn’t have. His jaw worked, clenched once, then softened again as his shoulders sagged lower.
“I don’t know how,” he admitted, and the words sounded like they physically hurt coming out of him. “I don’t even know where she is.”
His voice cracked slightly at the end — not dramatically, not like a cry for pity. Just a crack in a dam that had already been worn thin.
Charles didn’t answer right away. He sat with it. You had to, with something like this. You couldn’t rush grief. Or love. Or guilt.
A moment passed. Then another.
Charles rubbed the back of his neck, tension bleeding through his posture. His face was tight with something halfway between resignation and quiet care. He breathed in slowly and exhaled even slower, like he was trying to find the line between being a friend and betraying a confidence.
“She found a place,” he said at last, the words low, almost reluctant. “Rented an apartment a few blocks up from the port. Small. Quiet. She moved in maybe two weeks ago.”
Lando’s head jerked up. Not a lot. Just enough to show how stunned he was. There it was again — hope, fragile and flickering in his eyes, like a match he wasn’t sure he was allowed to strike.
“You know where?” he asked quietly, hesitating like the very idea of asking might shatter it all.
Charles sighed. His expression pinched, as if he was replaying a hundred reasons not to answer, but he already knew he would. The consequences were there. So was the risk. But so was something else: the knowledge that some things don’t get better unless you help them along.
He pushed to his feet, walked to the kitchen, and rummaged through a drawer. After a few seconds, he returned with a pen and a scrap of paper. He paused with the pen in hand, one last flicker of doubt in his eyes.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said, almost to himself. “She didn’t want anyone involved. Told me she needed space, time.”
He looked down at the slip of paper and wrote anyway. A street. An apartment number. A second-floor unit, tucked away in one of those sleepy buildings that caught the golden light in the morning.
“But,” he continued, walking the paper over, “you need to fix this. Not through a text. Not through another argument or apology she can’t believe in.”
He handed it to Lando.
Lando took it carefully, reverently, like it might dissolve if he held it too tightly, or blow away if he exhaled wrong. He stared at the address like it was a lifeline. Like it was the first solid ground he’d been offered in weeks.
His fingers curled around the edge. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For all of it. For dragging you into this. For how she got caught in the middle of my—my fucking inability to just feel things properly.”
Charles didn’t smile. Didn’t nod right away. He just looked at him with the quiet tiredness of someone who’s seen a friend self-destruct and wanted to stop it, but knew it had to come from them first.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Charles said eventually. “I’m not the one you broke.”
The words weren’t cruel. They were just… honest.
Lando blinked hard, his throat tightening around the guilt. Around everything he hadn’t said to you. Everything he should’ve done differently.
“Just…” Charles sighed again, raking a hand through his hair, suddenly looking a little older than his age. “Don’t waste it, mate. If you go, mean it. Say the truth this time. Not the easy version. Not the safe one.”
Lando nodded. For the first time all night, it wasn’t a broken, hollow gesture.
It was real.
A promise, maybe.
One hand still gripped the paper like a tether, and the other wiped at his face as he stood, heart thudding against his ribs in uneven rhythm.
He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.
Charles just gave him a look — steady and a little sad.
And Lando turned toward the door. Toward whatever came next.
summary: we´re in monaco babyyy and where do you go in monaco? right, you go to the club. and what happens in the club? right, nothing good. alsooo we´re still spiraling and thats what´s happening
if i were to split this part this would have been lando norris x charles leclerc, just for shits and giggles
a thought: you voted for it to be a long one, so here we go... getting closer to the end and i think we´re here, it´s rock bottom
walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist
definatly confusing if read as standalone
The sunlight had started to warm the backs of your hands, resting quietly on the café table between you and Charles. It filtered through the striped red-and-white awning overhead, catching in the rims of your sunglasses and painting soft shapes on the tablecloth. The breeze off the water was gentle, familiar—carrying with it the scent of salt and espresso, warm pastries and something distinctly mechanical, the low growl of engines echoing faintly in the distance.
Behind Charles, Monaco stretched out like a film set, like something designed to look perfect rather than be perfect. White boats swayed lazily in the marina. The walkways glittered with well-dressed strangers. Laughter from a nearby table curled through the air like smoke.
But your phone still sat heavy in your hand.
You hadn’t opened the screen in nearly ten minutes. You didn’t need to. The unread messages waited there like a pulse you didn’t want to touch. You could feel them—knew them—like a pressure in your chest, like something invisible but weighty pressing beneath your ribs.
You hadn’t replied. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know if you wanted to say anything at all.
Charles sat across from you, one arm resting casually on the table, the other wrapped around a nearly empty espresso cup. He sipped slowly, his gaze drifting to a couple walking a dog down the promenade, then back to you. Always back to you.
There was no pressure in his expression. Just quiet awareness. A kind of calm that made the tension in your spine ease, even if only a little.
He cleared his throat lightly, then spoke in French, low and careful.
“Are you okay?”
You blinked, slowly refocusing, your thumb brushing the edge of your phone’s case.
“Yeah,” you said, barely above a murmur. Then again, a little stronger. “Yeah, I guess. I just... I don’t really want to worry about him anymore.”
You meant for it to sound resolute.
But your voice wavered halfway through.
Charles nodded. Not in agreement, not in pity — just in understanding. A silent acknowledgment that some things were too complicated for clean exits or easy decisions. That grief and guilt could wear the same face. That love could outlive the relationship it came from, lingering like smoke in the clothes you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.
The silence stretched between you for a beat, soft and ambient, filled with the murmur of waves and distant voices. Charles tapped the side of his espresso cup once before speaking, his tone low and deliberately easy.
“I don’t want to annoy you,” he began gently, not quite looking at you as he spoke. “But… I wanted to ask if you’re coming this weekend.”
Your gaze drifted to him, but your mind was still a few steps behind. Still caught in the static left behind by Lando’s messages—each one echoing in your head with a sharpness that hadn’t dulled yet. Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone on the table, the glass screen a reminder of all the things left unsaid. All the things said too late.
You blinked, trying to clear it away.
“Oh. Uhm…” Your voice caught, then steadied. “I—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Charles didn’t flinch. He didn’t press. His dark eyes stayed on yours with a quiet patience, head tilting as if to say go on. But when you didn’t, when the hesitation hung there too long, he offered something softer instead.
“It’s my home race,” he said, smiling just a little, like he already knew how this conversation might go. “So… I kinda have a free wish, right?”
That made your lips twitch into a small, reluctant smile. The way he said it—like it was a child’s birthday wish, like it held magic—disarmed you. It broke something open in your chest, just enough to let in a breath that wasn’t laced with ache.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, ducking your head. “That’s not fair,” you muttered.
He leaned in slightly, folding his arms on the table now, smile growing a little more real. “My wish,” he said, with the mock-seriousness of someone delivering a royal decree, “is for you to come. You can stay in my garage the whole weekend if you want. I’ll make sure you have your own space. You don’t have to talk to anyone. You can wear headphones. I’ll bribe you with snacks. And maybe even let you listen in on radio comms if you swear complete secrecy.”
You looked up at him through your lashes, a soft laugh escaping before you could suppress it. “That sounds like bribery.”
“It’s not bribery,” he said with mock offense, hand over his heart. “It’s premium Ferrari hospitality.”
You shook your head slowly, trying not to smile too much. The way he was looking at you—light in his eyes, a quiet kind of hopefulness in his tone—wasn’t pushy. It was… safe. Comforting.
But the idea still made your stomach knot. Lando would be there. The paddock would be buzzing with whispers. With speculation. With pictures—the last ones already etched into people’s timelines and headlines.
You turned your cup in your hands, fingers trailing the rim.
But the voice inside you—the quiet one, the one that had started speaking more lately—asked a better question than what if he sees me there?
What if I go for myself?
Not to make a statement. Not to be seen. But to claim something again. Something quiet and personal and yours.
“If you promise I can stay in the garage,” you said after a long pause, voice soft but steady, “and not speak to anyone… and you really, really want me to come…”
Your eyes met his again.
“I will.”
Charles blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so soon. Then a grin broke across his face—boyish and genuine, something unguarded. “Really?”
You nodded, almost surprised by your own calm. “Yeah.”
“Deal,” he said, tapping the edge of your coffee cup like a contract had just been sealed. “I’ll get you the best headphones on the grid. Absolute silence. Like a monk in the middle of Monaco.”
You smiled, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. He meant it, too. Charles never tried to mold you into something more palatable for the world around him. Never asked you to play a part you didn’t want.
From there, the conversation shifted—back to easy things. Music. The disaster of his new espresso machine. A video he’d seen of Pierre nearly falling into a flowerbed during a run. You laughed with him, grateful for the lightness, for the way he never reached to pick at your bruises.
Eventually, the café began to thin out, the sun climbing higher overhead. The clock on your phone buzzed quietly with the reminder that the rest of your day still existed.
You both stood at once, and Charles leaned in automatically, arms coming around your waist. You hugged him tighter than you expected to, your body pressing in like it needed something warm to anchor it for just a moment.
Your face found the space between his neck and shoulder, breath exhaling slow against his skin.
“Thank you, Charles,” you murmured.
He squeezed you gently. “You don’t have to thank me.”
But neither of you noticed the man across the promenade.
Neither of you noticed the quiet clicks.
The pictures.
The framing.
The story that hadn’t even started yet.
And neither of you noticed how it looked from the outside.
It only lasted until the next morning.
The calm, the quiet, the breath of normal you’d let yourself believe in for just one moment, it shattered the second your phone began vibrating across the nightstand like it was trying to wake the dead.
You groaned, hand fumbling blindly for the screen, squinting at the flood of notifications: missed calls, texts, pings from apps you barely checked. All from Charles. A few from friends. Even one from a number you didn’t recognize.
Still mostly tangled in your sheets, you called him back.
He picked up instantly. "Thank God," he breathed. "What happened to you?"
Your voice came out thick with sleep. “What do you mean? I was asleep, Charles.”
“Yeah, I figured.” He laughed softly, but it was tight around the edges. “You must have been really out of it.”
“Why are you even waking me up at this ungodly hour?”
A pause.
“So you didn’t see yet?”
You pushed yourself up in bed, rubbing at your face. “See what?”
He didn’t answer right away, but you could hear the tension shift through the line.
“The photos,” he said finally.
Your stomach dropped.
“What photos?”
“You and me. At the café.”
You shut your eyes. “Shit.”
“They’re all over,” Charles went on, quieter now. “The headlines—‘Charles Leclerc’s New Girlfriend,’ that kind of thing. Some are worse.”
You didn’t respond right away. You didn’t need to look at your phone. You could feel the internet’s heat bleeding through it.
“This is going to end catastrophically,” you muttered, not to him, but more to yourself.
“I’m sorry,” Charles said softly. And you knew he meant it. Knew it wasn’t his fault. But the fire had already been lit, and both of you were standing far too close to it.
There was a long stretch of silence. You listened to him breathing. Could almost picture him standing in front of his window, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when something spiraled.
“…Are you still coming?” he asked eventually.
You sighed, slow and steady, letting the breath sit heavy on your tongue.
“Yeah. I promised.”
“You don’t have to, chérie. I’d get it if you didn’t want to now.”
You smiled a little, tired but honest. “It’ll be okay.”
Even if neither of you were sure that was true.
The weekend arrived, and with it came no relief from the gossip.
Everywhere you turned, whispers seemed to follow, snatches of conversation in hallways, quick glances from crew members, the click of camera shutters that never seemed to stop. It clung to the paddock air like humidity, thick and hard to ignore.
You stayed quiet, tucked into a discreet corner of Charles' garage on Friday, barely speaking unless someone addressed you first. You watched from the shadows as he handled media, team meetings, practice runs. Always gracious, always composed. He didn’t hover, didn’t fuss. He just made sure you had space.
By Saturday morning, the buzz hadn’t faded. If anything, it was worse.
Some headlines now came with your full name.
Others speculated timelines.
And some, crueler, dug up your past posts, tagged you in clips, called you things.
You tried not to read them. Really, you did. But it was hard not to see.
After qualifying, Charles found you leaning against the back wall of the garage, watching the live timing screen still glowing with results. He didn’t say much, just nodded toward the corridor.
You fell into step beside him, and by the time you reached the Ferrari hospitality building, the walkways were congested with crew, press, guests. Charles didn’t hesitate—his arm found its familiar place around your shoulders as he gently guided you through the bodies.
And that’s when you saw him.
Lando.
At first, the expression on his face didn’t register. He was moving fast, head down, jaw tight but the second his eyes lifted and met yours, something electric passed between you. Something jagged.
You froze.
The smile drained from your face. And that’s when Charles noticed, glancing down, his arm tightening slightly around you.
You didn’t have to speak. The change in you said enough.
Lando kept walking. Straight toward you. Toward Charles.
The way his eyes darted between the two of you made your stomach twist. It was all there, plain as day: confusion, disbelief—then sharp, unmistakable anger.
But before he reached you, someone stepped into his path—a reporter, enthusiastic and clueless, pulling him aside with a mic in hand.
“Lando! Pole position—tell us what was working so well for you in qualifying today?”
You let out a shaky breath.
He stopped. But his eyes didn’t leave you until the mic touched his chin and the camera light flipped red.
Charles turned slightly, shielding you from view as much as he could. “Do you want to go inside?”
You nodded. Even though your heart was thudding. Even though the damage was already done.
Inside the hospitality suite, the lights were cooler, the crowd thinner. Air conditioning hummed overhead and the buzz of conversation felt dulled, distant, like it was happening through thick glass.
You kept your eyes down as Charles led you to a table in the back corner, one of the quieter ones, half-shielded by a divider wall.
No cameras here. No whispers. Just the clink of espresso cups, the occasional burst of laughter from across the room.
Charles sat across from you, sliding off his cap and running a hand through his hair. You could tell he was trying to keep the mood light, but there was tension in the line of his shoulders.
You sipped the sparkling water in front of you. Swallowed once. Your stomach felt tight.
“He saw us,” you said softly.
Charles didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to.
“I figured,” he murmured, resting his elbows on the table. “Your whole body changed.”
You looked up at him. “Do you think he’ll say something?”
Charles paused, then gave a tired smile. “If he does, I doubt it’ll be kind.”
A beat.
“Sorry,” he added. “That’s unfair. I just—he looked like he wanted to put me through a wall.”
You exhaled a small, breathy laugh. “Well, you did bring me to your home race and put your arm around me in front of fifty cameras.”
Charles raised a brow, but smiled. “My fatal mistake.”
“I just didn’t want to make a scene.”
“You didn’t,” he said gently. “You’re not the one people are watching for fireworks.”
That truth settled heavy between you.
You played with the condensation on your glass. “I thought I’d feel worse about the headlines,” you said. “But what I feel is... numb. Not scared. Just... like I’ve already been through the worst part.”
Charles nodded. “You left.”
“Yeah.” You blinked. “I left.”
There was a silence then. Not awkward—just quiet. Like both of you were trying not to think too hard about the hours ahead.
Eventually, he leaned forward. “Do you want to stay hidden for the rest of the weekend?”
You shrugged. “Honestly? I haven’t decided yet.”
He didn’t push. Just nodded, glancing out the window toward the paddock beyond.
And then, without thinking, you stood. Walked around the table. Wrapped your arms around him tightly from behind. Your face tucked into the crook of his neck, breath warm against his collarbone.
“Thank you, Charles,” you whispered.
His hand reached up, settled lightly over your forearm. His voice was quiet when he answered.
“Always.”
Then came Sunday.
The air in Monaco was electric, heavier than it had been all weekend, thick with heat, anticipation, the scent of sea salt and gasoline. It wasn’t just any race day. It was Charles’ race day. His home. His streets. His crowd.
The whole principality seemed to pulse with it — red flags hung from balconies, cheers rising from yachts and balconies as fans crowded along the railings in sunburnt waves.
The paddock buzzed like a hive, and Charles wore it well. Calm, grounded, the slight twitch in his jaw the only tell that maybe, somewhere under it all, he still carried the weight of years past.
You kept close but quiet. A step behind him through the swarm of photographers, team personnel, and VIPs, sunglasses shielding your eyes from both the sun and the stares.
When he turned to say goodbye before heading toward the grid, he smiled — a real one. Small but full. The kind he didn’t wear often before races. You could feel his nerves humming beneath it, but his hand reached for yours and gave it a brief squeeze.
“Good luck,” you said, stepping into him.
He pulled you into a hug without hesitation. No second thoughts. One arm tight around your waist, the other pressing lightly between your shoulder blades. You felt him breathe in. Then out.
“Merci,” he murmured into your ear.
That’s when the shutter snapped.
Somewhere in the crowd — another photo. Another angle. Another headline brewing before the lights had even gone out on the grid.
But you didn’t care. Not today.
Because the truth was yours to carry. You knew what this was and what it wasn’t. You knew what you were healing from, and what you weren’t ready for. And most of all, you knew why you were here: not for cameras, not for gossip, not for revenge.
But for him. For this. For the race.
Charles broke the hug first, just slightly, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before pulling away.
“Watch me fly, chérie,” he said with a wink before disappearing into the crowd of scarlet and chaos.
You stood still for a beat after he was gone. Let yourself feel the roar of the grandstands, the rattle in your chest from the engines coming to life.
And then you turned toward the Ferrari garage.
Eyes forward. Head high.
You didn’t see Lando down the lane, helmet in hand, jaw tight, still staring after you.
Didn’t see the way he looked at Charles walking onto the grid like he was already mourning a race he hadn’t yet lost.
Because your focus was forward now.
And nothing — not the noise, not the memories, not even Lando’s fury — was going to pull you back.
Typical Monaco.
The race had been a procession — slow, strategic, predictable. A street circuit with no teeth, no real room to bite.
It didn’t matter how good Charles had been off the line, how perfectly he had preserved his tyres, how close he'd stuck to Lando in the closing laps. No space meant no chances. And Monaco didn’t forgive dreams of glory — not unless you’d already claimed pole.
So Lando did.
And Charles, again, didn’t.
You stayed in the back of the Ferrari garage for the race, headphones on, lips pressed into a flat line. You watched the timing screens, Charles’ onboard, your own fingers laced together so tightly they hurt.
But when the chequered flag waved and Lando’s name blinked across the screen in first, the weight dropped into your stomach like stone.
The paddock erupted. A sea of cheers and McLaren orange spilled onto the monitors. Mechanics clapped, people hugged. You stayed still.
You didn’t move until the podium began, the anthem echoing through the speakers. You stepped out just far enough to see him.
Lando.
On the top step.
He stood tall, face mostly unreadable — except his eyes. His eyes searched.
And then they found you.
For a second — just a second — it was as if the roar quieted, like the sun dimmed just enough to let you feel everything that welled up inside you.
He looked proud, victorious, shining under the golden light.
And still your chest clenched in that stubborn, stupid way.
You smiled before you could stop it. Couldn’t help it. Because even after everything, even with the way he had hurt you, even with how badly things had twisted — you were proud. So damn proud.
A single tear slipped down your cheek, soft and silent.
You didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t need to. You just stood there, smiling like a fool, broken-hearted and proud all at once.
Because he was looking at you.
Because for a breath, it felt like nothing happened at all.
With the roar of the engine fading behind him and the chequered flag waving overhead, everything else disappeared.
The weight of the weekend, the pressure, the interviews, the tension humming under his skin like an exposed wire, it all cracked apart the second he crossed the line.
Lando let out a raw, guttural scream into the radio.
“MONACOOO BABYYYY!”
The cheers from the crowd bled into the cockpit like a living thing. A wave crashing over the car. Over him.
He couldn’t stop laughing. Or breathing hard. Or shaking.
Because he’d done it.
He’d actually done it. A win in Monaco.
His win.
As the car rolled through the cool-down lap, the enormity of it settled on his chest, warm and tight and soaring. This was the one. The one every driver dreamed about. The race that made legends out of names and history out of momentum. His name — Lando Norris — was now a permanent piece of that story.
By the time he pulled into parc fermé, his heart was still pounding.
He jumped out of the car into the arms of mechanics, McLaren crew, his race engineer. Hugs, pats, shouts of “you fucking legend!” rang in his ears. He spotted his parents through the barrier and made his way to them, holding onto his mum a little longer than he meant to. His dad was beaming.
He’d made them proud.
He’d made himself proud.
Up on the podium, it was everything he imagined.
The trophy weighed heavy in his hands.
The champagne burst cold against his suit.
He smiled, wide and bright and real.
Until he looked out over the crowd.
And found you.
Just off to the side — not hidden, but not in the spotlight either. Arms crossed in front of you, lips pressed into the ghost of a smile. One that didn’t quite reach your eyes. One that looked like it hurt to hold.
And then he saw it — the tear on your cheek.
Not a dramatic sob. Not a storm.
Just one silent streak of emotion, slipping down skin he used to kiss goodnight.
And suddenly, it all... dulled.
Like someone had turned the color down on the whole scene.
The joy twisted — not gone, but warped. Thinned out by a pull in his chest that had nothing to do with racing, nothing to do with the win.
Because you were here, for his win. But not quiet there.
Because even in this moment — his moment — he still wanted you to be proud of him.
Still wanted you to say something.
But you just stood there.
Looking at him.
And smiling like you still meant it.
The national anthem ended. The crowd roared again.
But Lando just stood there, heart still beating hard — for a reason that had nothing to do with the race anymore.
When the ceremony ended and the cameras dropped their gaze, the three drivers stepped off the balcony, still dripping in champagne and adrenaline. The buzz of celebration hung thick in the air — loud and cloying — but for Lando, it shifted into something bitter the second they were behind the glass.
Charles moved first. Still breathless from the crowd, he reached over, a hand landing on Lando’s shoulder with what might’ve once been affection.
“Good race,” he said, a little too casual, like it meant something.
But Lando’s body stiffened.
He shrugged the hand off roughly, turning to face him with eyes that no longer smiled.
His voice came low, tense, sharp enough to cut skin.
“Don’t fucking dare talk to me.”
Charles froze mid-step, hands rising slowly in a non-confrontational gesture.
“Okay,” he said carefully, brows tugging down in concern. “Okay, mate. But I think we should”
But the damage was already done.
The anger — the kind Lando thought had simmered into something dull — came surging back like a wave breaking open. It tore through his chest with no warning, ripping past the layers of pride and victory he’d built up over the past two hours.
Because there Charles was, wearing his smug restraint like a badge, like he hadn’t just spent the whole weekend parading around with you.
Like he hadn’t been the one you ran to.
Like Lando was the fool for feeling anything at all.
His jaw locked. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, still sticky with celebration. But there was no joy left in him. Just the reminder of what he’d lost and who you were standing beside while he did it.
He turned, storming past the crowd, away from the cameras, the press, the podium, away from Charles.
Because if he stayed a second longer, he’d say something he couldn’t unsay. Or worse, do something he couldn’t undo.
Monaco called for a night out. This day called for a night out.
The situation, complicated and tangled as it was, begged for one.
For Lando, it was to celebrate or maybe it was to forget. The win still buzzed in his veins, but it didn’t burn as brightly as it should. Not with everything else lodged beneath his skin. So he poured himself into the energy, the drinks, the music. Into the arms slung around his shoulders and the congratulations echoing too loudly in his ears. He sat in a booth already crowded with people — friends, strangers, a few too many people— smiling like it didn’t ache.
Charles, meanwhile, had insisted on a drink. Not to sulk, he’d said. He wasn’t sulking. But losing Monaco again, his Monaco, sat heavy in his chest like a stone. So he leaned against the bar beside you, sipping slowly, watching the crowd like it might hand him back some version of the night that didn’t feel like defeat.
And you — you just wanted quiet inside your own head.
A moment where no one was speculating. No photos. No looks.
No seeing him.
So it wasn’t a surprise when it all collided.
Not in Monaco. Not tonight.
The club pulsed around you. Thick bass. Dim lights. Glittering bottles and bodies moving like the music had teeth. You were mid-laugh at something Charles had said, your elbow brushing his arm as you leaned in toward the bar — when you felt it.
That shift. That subtle pressure. Like the whole atmosphere tilted by one degree.
You glanced sideways. And there he was.
Lando.
Half-lounged in the booth on the other side of the club. Surrounded, loud, eyes shadowed by the strobe lights. But not laughing. Not really. Not when his gaze was locked onto the two of you.
He didn’t look away.
And your breath caught.
Because neither did you.
You’d already been at the club for a while, long enough that Charles didn’t think twice when you leaned in and told him you were heading to the bathroom. He just nodded, distracted by the bartender and some half-hearted attempt at keeping conversation going.
You weren’t drunk, but the night had blurred a little around the edges. The lights too bright, the bass too deep, the air too thick.
In the bathroom, you splashed cold water on your face. Let it drip down your neck. Tried to cool off the heat that had been slowly building in your chest since the podium. Since the anthem. Since Lando’s eyes locked with yours and didn’t let go.
You told yourself it was fine. That tonight wasn’t about him. That you’d done your part — shown up, stayed civil, stayed out of his way. That the smart thing would be to go home, sink into your sheets, and let the rest of the world keep spinning without you for a few hours.
You decided right there you’d leave.
But when you stepped out into the hallway — the dim corridor leading back to the main stretch of the club — your plans slipped through your fingers.
Because you heard it.
A murmur. Low and sharp. Not quite shouting, not yet. But tense enough to make heads turn. And then you saw them.
Charles and Lando.
Standing far too close for it to be a coincidence. For it to be calm.
Lando’s jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Charles stood still, but his posture was stiff, coiled, like the only reason he hadn’t thrown a punch yet was restraint. Barely.
You couldn’t hear what had been said — didn’t need to. The air between them crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on.
You pushed through the crowd, heart hammering.
Lando had been nursing the edge of his drink for what felt like hours, the condensation pooling under the glass, the liquid untouched and long gone warm. He didn’t care. It wasn’t about the drink. It never had been. He didn’t feel the sting of alcohol anymore, didn’t even remember what it was supposed to taste like. Everything else had drowned it out.
The club was a blur of color and motion, bodies moving, lights slicing the darkness in neon streaks, bass vibrating deep in his ribs like a second heartbeat. The music was too loud to think, but somehow not loud enough to drown out his thoughts. The laughter, the conversations, the energy — it all felt miles away, like it belonged to a different version of the night. A version he wasn’t invited to.
He should’ve been celebrating.
He’d won Monaco.
It was the dream. The fantasy. The bucket list ticked off in gold ink. The kind of victory kids imagined while racing matchbox cars across kitchen floors.
And yet, here he was — standing alone, hollowed out, eyes locked on one corner of the club as if the rest of the place didn’t exist.
His fingers tightened around the glass. The condensation slipped down his knuckles.
He wasn’t looking at the bar.
He was looking at you.
You were standing beside Charles — talking to him, leaning in just slightly to be heard over the music. Your hand brushed his arm. A blink-and-miss-it kind of touch. Casual. Familiar. So small. So stupidly small. And yet it felt like a dagger twisting behind Lando’s ribs.
The flare of heat in his chest wasn’t new, but this time it didn’t simmer — it spiked. Sudden. White-hot. Irrational.
You said something, Lando couldn’t hear it, not over the roar of the club, but he saw the way Charles smiled, soft and genuine. The kind of smile that used to belong to him.
And then you got up.
You walked off, toward the back. Probably the bathroom. Maybe the exit. He didn’t know. Didn’t care. That wasn’t the point.
Because the moment you disappeared, something inside him snapped.
Maybe it was the alcohol, burning slow and steady in his veins.
Maybe it was the weight of everything unsaid, weeks of silence from you, of unanswered messages and dreams that still ended with your name.
Maybe it was just the unbearable sight of you looking fine. Happy. With someone else.
But whatever it was, it pushed him over the edge.
He moved without thinking, fast, aggressive, fueled by something between grief and fury. His breath came quicker, shallower, like he was revving up for something even he didn’t fully understand.
And then he saw Charles — alone now, chatting with a Ferrari engineer at the bar. Laughing at something. Still glowing from the night even though he hadn’t taken the win.
The sight of it — him — was too much.
Lando should’ve turned around. Should’ve walked away. He knew that.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he crossed the space in seconds, the crowd parting for him like they sensed what was coming. He didn’t speak. Didn’t give a warning.
Lando stood there, jaw tight, fists half-curled like they didn’t know what they wanted to do, swing or shake or fall to his sides in defeat.
Chest heaving. Pulse thundering. Eyes burning.
All of it — everything — bubbling up in his throat, choking him with the words he hadn’t said since the night you walked away.
And standing in front of Charles now, heart racing, hands trembling, all he could think was:
You got her to stay.
I lost her… and you got her to stay.
The music didn’t stop, but the world around them might as well have.
Lando didn’t bother with hello. Didn’t stop to think. Didn’t check the rage buzzing like static under his skin.
He stepped in close, voice sharp and cold and loud enough to slice right through the beat of the club.
“We need to talk.”
Charles looked up, brows pulling together, mouth tightening as he instinctively took half a step back. There was surprise in his expression, but only for a second. Then something else set in — wariness, maybe. Resentment.
“Oh,” Charles said, voice clipped. “Now you want to talk. About what?”
“You fucking know what,” Lando snapped.
The air between them changed, heavy, sudden, thick like a summer storm about to break. A beat passed. Maybe two.
Charles didn’t blink. “If this is about her—”
“It is about her,” Lando cut in. His voice was louder now, barely restrained. “You think this is funny? Just gonna swoop in and play the fucking hero?”
That line — spoken so simply, so calmly — cracked something down Lando’s spine.
“I didn’t mess shit up,” he growled, stepping closer. Close enough now that the heat off both their skin mingled. “You don’t know anything about what happened between us.”
“I know enough.” Charles’ voice was low, cold. The kind of calm that meant he was trying hard not to rise to it — not yet. “I know she needed someone. I know you weren’t there.”
“You don’t get to say that,” Lando shot back, chest rising and falling. “You’re not in this.”
“I’m in it now,” Charles said, staring him down. “And I’m pretty sure you’re the one who doesn’t know what happened, mate.”
That one landed. Hard.
Lando’s jaw flexed, and he laughed, sharp, joyless. “You think you’re better for her?”
Charles didn’t flinch. “I think I’m not pretending I don’t care.”
The words were calm, but they hit like a slap.
Lando leaned in, close enough that people around them began to shift, casting glances, sensing something coming. “Bullshit. You saw your chance and you took it. That’s what this is. You waited for this.”
Charles didn’t back down. Not an inch. “You let her go,” he said, simply. “You got scared, and you let her go.”
“I didn’t—” Lando started, but his voice cracked halfway through.
“You don’t get to be angry that she didn’t wait around for you to figure your shit out,” Charles continued, voice quiet now, cruelly calm. “You’re not mad at me. You’re mad at yourself.”
Lando’s hand twitched at his side — not a full movement, but enough to catch Charles’ eye. Enough to draw a flicker of tension across his shoulders.
And that’s when they realized the noise around them had dulled.
People were watching now. Conversations quieted. A few heads turned. Even the bartender had paused, eyes flicking toward the pair of them over the rim of a pint glass.
The bouncer at the far side of the room stood a little straighter.
But neither of them moved.
Because whatever this was — it was no longer just about words. It was every unsaid thing. Every bruised feeling. Every moment they’d swallowed it down and let silence do the damage.
Lando stared at Charles like he couldn’t see him through the blur of emotion.
His chest rose and fell too fast, heat building in the space between them — not from anger alone, but from something deeper.
More dangerous.
Rage clawed at the back of his throat, but underneath it, beneath the adrenaline, the bravado, the fumes of alcohol and pride — was something much quieter.
Something smaller. Raw.
Fear.
Because what if he’d already lost you?
Regret.
Because he knew exactly when he had.
And so it came out, sharper than he meant. More cruel than he even believed.
His voice cracked in the heat between them.
A bitter snarl. A confession dressed in accusation.
“I’m mad because you decided to fuck my best friend just because it was easy.”
The words hung there.
Loud. Final. Brutal.
Charles' eyes darkened. His mouth opened, maybe to reply, maybe to fire back something just as vicious, but he didn’t get the chance.
Because then —
you spoke.
Your voice.
Clean. Sharp.
The kind of sharp that didn’t yell to be heard, it cut to be heard.
“Stop.”
Just one word.
But it dropped like a thunderclap, silencing everything around it.
Lando didn’t need to see you to know it was you. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Muscles locked, heart stilled. And then came the touch.
Your hand. Gentle but firm. Wrapping around his forearm, not restraining, not pulling, just… there.
And it destroyed him.
The ground beneath his feet gave way. Air left his lungs like someone had punched it out of him.
Not because of the pressure, but because of the familiarity. The way your touch didn’t just sit on his skin, it reached somewhere far deeper. Somewhere he hadn’t let himself go in weeks.
It was instinctual. Immediate.
His body knew it was you. The weight. The warmth. The memory of it.
And with that, everything shattered.
The fury that had been vibrating in his chest seconds ago? Gone. Just gone.
His breath hitched. His vision blurred. The edges of the club — the lights, the sweat, the music — fell away like peeling wallpaper. The world narrowed to one singular sensation: your fingers resting lightly on his skin.
And inside, a dam cracked open.
Not gently. Not quietly.
It ruptured, and the flood came, fast and merciless. A wave of emotion so violent it almost dropped him where he stood.
Grief. Regret. Want.
You.
It wasn’t just a memory that came — it was a relapse.
Vivid. Unforgiving.
Suddenly, he was there again.
The flat. Dim lighting. His breath tangled with yours. The feel of your laugh against his neck as you’d curled into him, the way your body had melted under his touch, like you’d been made to fit exactly where he held you.
Your voice — god, your voice — low and breathless and warm from alcohol and trust. His face nuzzled into your hair.
And then your voice.
“Lando? …I love you.”
He hadn't heard it then. Not really. He'd been too far gone — drunk off you, dizzy with it, thinking it was just another late-night slip of the tongue, something he'd dreamt rather than lived. It hadn’t landed.
But now?
Now it detonated inside him.
He hadn’t even remembered it the next morning. Too caught up in the haze. Too scared of what it might’ve meant.
But now?
Now it branded itself into his ribcage. Played on repeat in his ears, over and over and over.
I love you.
He hadn’t moved. Couldn’t.
You had already let go, stepping toward Charles — pulling him away from whatever this had nearly become.
But Lando stayed exactly where he was.
Frozen. Unmoored.
Like something inside him had been ripped out and replaced with nothing.
And when his eyes found your face — just for a second — when your gaze met his and then slipped away like you couldn’t hold it…
That was what broke him.
Not your absence.
Not the fight.
Not even the words.
It was the way you looked at him like he was someone you used to know.
And then you turned. And walked away.
Lando’s fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to call after you. Stop you. Apologize.
But no sound came out.
No words formed.
He stood there, lost in a club filled with noise and lights and people who didn’t matter.
The only thing that did was already walking out the door.
And in the echo of everything he hadn’t said, only one phrase remained.
summary: after a shattering heartbreak with lando, you’re left raw and broken in the quiet aftermath, lost in grief until charles quietly arrives, offering steady, unspoken comfort and gentle presence that might just help you begin to heal.
pairing: lando norris charles leclerc x fem!reader
walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist
might be confusing if read as standalone
The whisper of sheer curtains shifting in the morning breeze stirred you from sleep. Sunlight poured in like honey, thick and golden, coating everything in a deceptive warmth. It draped across the white linen sheets, across your tangled limbs, tracing gentle shapes on skin that hadn’t known peace in days.
Somewhere beyond the half-open balcony doors, the world was still turning.
Waves murmured against the shore in soft repetition. A slow car rolled over cobblestone below, and the scent of sea salt mixed with faint espresso from some sleepy café down the street.
And for one split second—a single, fragile breath—it almost felt like everything might be okay.
You didn’t move, just sank deeper into the pillow, letting your cheek press into the soft cotton. The mattress beneath you cradled your body like it knew how heavy you’d become inside, how much of you had hollowed out in silence. The kind of softness meant for healing, or maybe hiding.
But then your body reminded you.
The headache came first.
A low, stubborn throb that pulsed behind your eyes and down the back of your neck, the kind of ache you only get from crying until your ribs hurt. Your throat burned, scraped raw from sobs you didn’t even remember letting out. Your skin felt coated in grief—clammy, sticky, fevered in places. A fine layer of salt still clung to your cheeks, and your shirt, damp beneath your arms, held the shape of your misery like a second skin.
Your hair was an oil-slicked tangle, stiff at the ends, heavy at the roots. You ran your fingers through it slowly, trying to tame the knots, but it was no use. You scraped it back anyway, tying it up into something that felt a little less like defeat.
The small en-suite bathroom was waiting.
Your own personal chamber of horror. Every inch of the mirror felt like a threat.
You forced yourself in anyway. The harsh light above the sink sputtered to life like it, too, wasn’t sure it wanted to witness this.
When you caught your reflection, you almost recoiled.
Eyes swollen and bloodshot, ringed in a purple that no amount of rest could fix. Lashes stuck together from dried tears. Skin pale, dull, and unfamiliar.
You couldn’t look at yourself for more than a second. It was like seeing a version of yourself from the other side of something irreversibly broken.
You splashed cold water on your face, again and again, until the sting chased the numbness back just a little. The shock made you gasp, but it was grounding. Real. Almost proof you were still here.
Brushing your teeth felt like trying to scrub the grief out from your bones. The mint burned your sore gums. You brushed too hard, as if it might erase the way your mouth had once whispered I love you into the wrong silence.
Toothbrush still in your mouth, you hear a soft knock at the door.
You hum a quiet reply.
Then, the door creaks open.
He steps in.
Charles.
FLASHBACKa few days ago
As soon as the door to Lando’s apartment clicked shut behind you, the weight of it all came crashing down. It wasn’t just tears, it was collapse. Full-body, breath-stealing collapse. The kind where you don’t even register you’re falling until your knees hit the hallway floor, hard. You folded in on yourself like something hollowed out as soon as you were arround the corner.
The silence roared in your ears. The taste of his words still burned in your mouth.
Everything inside you felt split open, your ribs too soft to hold your heart in place, your lungs unable to stretch wide enough for air. You had no idea what had just happened. You had no words for it yet. Only pain. Only the raw, wide-open wound of being seen and unloved in the same moment.
You couldn't breathe.
Your hand fumbled for your phone, fingers numb, limbs trembling so hard you almost dropped it. You didn’t think. You just opened the last conversation that had ever felt safe. The one that still felt like kindness.
hey you up?
The message sat there, blue bubble and all, glowing through your tears. It was only just after nine. Saturday morning. Monaco quiet and uncaring.
The reply came in seconds.
yes cherie. is this a booty call?
Normally, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Thrown something back—sharp, teasing, flirty. But now the words struck like a match against raw skin.
You didn’t laugh. You folded deeper. Your sobs tore from your chest, the kind that made your whole body shudder like it was trying to escape itself.
The message was marked read.
No typing bubble.
Just silence for a second.
And then your phone vibrated in your palm.
Charles. Calling.
You answered with nothing—just breath, just the ugly sound of crying that couldn’t be masked or swallowed down. You couldn’t even say hello.
He didn’t wait.
“I’m coming,” he said, already moving. You could hear the background, the clatter of keys, the scrape of a zipper, feet hitting tile.
“I will come get you”
You tried to answer, but your voice cracked apart halfway through the word. Just a wet inhale, a sob, a broken syllable. But it was enough.
“I’m on my way, ma belle. Just hang on.”
You sat there on the floor for what felt like years, phone clutched like a lifeline, cheek pressed to the cold wall. Your tears slowed, but only because you’d run dry for a moment. You weren’t done crying, just paused. Just wrecked.
The hallway stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
Then: the elevator.
A ding.
Footsteps.
Faster than you expected. Then slower. Then a stop.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak.
Just turned the corner and saw you.
Charles.
Still damp from a shower, hair sticking up at odd angles. Hoodie slung over his shoulders, sleeves too long, one shoe untied. He hadn’t even tried. He’d just come.
And when his eyes met yours—red and swollen and barely holding it together—his face twisted, like it physically hurt him to see you like this.
He dropped down beside you without a word. Knees bent just like yours. Like he knew the posture of heartbreak already.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t push.
He just opened his arms.
“C’mere.”
You moved without thinking.
Curled into him like something instinctual. Like gravity.
His arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, your cheek to his chest. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, warm and steady, fingers combing gently through the mess of your hair. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you to breathe. He just held you.
Eventually your sobs turned to hiccups. Then to silence.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, voice almost lost in your hair. “Okay? I’ve got you.”
You didn’t answer. Just nodded, your forehead pressed against him, eyes still closed. The kind of nod that says I believe you even if I don’t believe anything else right now.
Time passed like fog. Long, formless minutes.
And when you finally pulled back, your face blotchy, lips trembling, eyes burning from exhaustion, he just looked at you with something soft and breakable in his gaze. No judgment. No pity. Just a quiet sort of worry he didn’t try to hide.
Then the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Let’s get you out of here, yeah?”
You nodded again, smaller this time. Like the weight of everything between you had turned sacred somehow, and raising your voice, even a little, might crack it wide open.
Charles didn’t say another word. He simply reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and took the bag from your trembling hands. He stood first, then offered you his other hand. Not out of obligation but like it was second nature. Like helping you up from rock bottom was something he already knew how to do.
And when you were standing—barely steady—he didn’t let go. Not until you were out of that building. Out of that hallway that still echoed with everything that had just fallen apart.
He walked beside you as if you were breakable. Not fragile in the pitiful way. Precious. He didn’t rush. Just kept step with you, his body angled protectively, like the air around you was a thing he could shield.
The second you hesitated at the passenger door, he slipped off his hoodie and wrapped it around your shoulders. No commentary. No performance. Just the warmth of him, draped over you, smelling faintly of clean laundry and something indefinably Charles.
You didn’t speak. Neither did he.
The drive started in silence.
Not the kind that stretches awkwardly, waiting for someone to fill it. But the kind that’s necessary. The kind born from mutual understanding that words would only bruise what was already bruised.
You curled into the seat like you were trying to disappear. Jacket pulled tight, arms locked around yourself, your cheek resting against the cold window. The glass vibrated gently beneath your skin with every bump in the road. Outside, the city rolled by in quiet tones—sunlight caught between buildings, storefronts still sleeping, the cobbled streets reflecting that soft, early grey that doesn’t belong to day or night.
The world looked like it was holding its breath.
You felt like you were, too.
Charles didn’t rush. His hand was steady on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers loose. He didn’t fiddle with the radio. Didn’t check his phone. Just drove, like that act alone was a kind of care. Like he understood the rhythm of the road could do something for you that words couldn’t yet.
Every few minutes, you felt the quiet brush of his eyes. Just checking. Just making sure you hadn’t shattered completely.
You didn’t flinch when he looked.
You didn’t move when he didn’t.
And then, after the silence had softened enough to not feel like a wound, he spoke.
“Do you want me to say anything?” he asked, voice low, like it belonged to the moment. “Or just… keep driving?”
It took effort to shake your head. Even more to answer.
“Just keep driving,” you whispered, barely louder than the hum of the car.
He nodded once. That was all. No questions. No expectations.
Just Charles.
Just steady, quiet Charles, beside you, but not too close. Present, but never pressing. A constant in the unraveling. The kind of calm you didn’t know how to ask for until it was already there.
A FEW DAYS LATER
You caught your reflection in the mirror just as his soft footsteps crossed the wooden floor behind you.
Your eyes looked hollow, puffy and rimmed with red, the skin beneath them sallow from too little sleep and too many tears. You almost didn’t recognize yourself. Like grief had reshaped you overthe past days.
Charles voice came gently from the doorway, careful not to break the silence too harshly. “I made breakfast… just eggs and toast. Nothing fancy.”
A beat.
“You want some?”
You were still brushing your teeth, minty foam clinging at the corners of your lips. You hummed, low, indecisive, somewhere between maybe and I don’t know. But it was enough for him. You saw the faint nod in the mirror’s corner as he stepped back toward the kitchen, giving you space without vanishing completely.
You rinsed your mouth and leaned forward, bracing yourself against the cold porcelain sink. The water dripped down your wrists. The taste of mint sat sharp on your tongue, a momentary relief from the lingering bitterness in your mouth.
From the hallway, the scent of warm toast drifted in. Buttery. Familiar. Comforting in a way that made your throat sting.
By the time you walked into the kitchen, Charles was already seated at the small round table by the open balcony doors. The morning light filtered in soft and golden, catching the tousled edges of his curls. He looked up when he heard you, eyes gentle, voice even gentler.
He motioned to the seat across from him, one hand still resting lightly on the edge of his coffee cup. “Come sit. Eat something, even just the toast.”
You moved slowly, like your body didn’t quite feel like yours yet. The chair felt too solid beneath you. The plate in front of you was warm, comforting. Two slices of toast, golden and crisp. Eggs, sunny side up, yolks still intact. Exactly the way you’d said you liked them once, a throwaway comment over brunch months ago.
You cleared your throat. “Merci,” you murmured. The word came out rough, your voice thin and unsteady.
Charles smiled, barely. “You don’t have to thank me.”
For a while, the room was filled only by quiet, real quiet. Not awkward or strained. Just... still. The gentle clink of his fork, the distant squawk of a seagull, waves crashing faintly beyond the balcony.
You picked at your toast, tearing it into small pieces with your fingers. You weren’t really eating. Just... touching something. Holding something. Being part of something that wasn’t unraveling.
After a few minutes, Charles broke the silence, soft and steady. “If you want, I can take you somewhere today. Just a walk. Fresh air might help.”
You looked up slowly. He wasn’t pushing. Just offering. His eyes were calm, anchored.
“I don’t think I want to go outside,” you admitted, quiet.
“That’s okay,” he said, like it was the simplest truth. “Then we don’t go.”
Something about that—his quiet acceptance—punched you harder than you expected. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he wasn’t trying to fix it. He was just there.
You dropped your head into your hands, elbows resting on the table. Your voice cracked when you whispered, “I’m such a mess.”
Charles didn’t flinch. He didn’t soften his gaze or offer empty comfort.
He just said, “You’re allowed to be.”
And that, somehow, almost broke you all over again.
FLASHBACK
a few days earlier
It wasn’t all tears. Not after the first day, at least.
He didn’t force you to talk, didn’t try to fill the silences with useless noise. Instead, he offered space, intentional, gentle space. The kind that made it easier to breathe without feeling like you owed anyone your healing.
The mornings were slow. Still. You’d wake in fits and starts, the ache in your chest pulling you back under again and again. But the apartment was always warm. Quiet. He’d leave fresh coffee steaming on the kitchen counter, not waiting for you to come out and get it, but never forgetting it either. A small plate of toast, sometimes fruit. Windows cracked just enough to let in the sea breeze. Towels folded at the foot of the bed, a spare hoodie draped across the back of a chair, as if he knew exactly what comfort looked like for you before you even did.
He was around but only when you needed him. You never had to ask.
On the second night, the memories came sharp and sudden. A scent. A dream. Something fractured behind your ribs. You woke up gasping, throat tight, hands gripping the sheets as if they could anchor you.
You padded into the living room like a ghost, barefoot, half-wrapped in a blanket, the dark swallowing you whole. The couch was cool beneath you, the light throw barely covering the way your body shivered, not from cold but from everything else. You couldn’t cry anymore. You didn’t have it in you. You just stared out the window, the city beyond it quiet and glittering like something unreachable.
You didn’t even hear him come in.
He appeared without sound, barefoot in worn sweats, curls flattened on one side, sleep still clinging to the edges of him. His eyes landed on you, and for a beat, he said nothing.
Then he crossed the room, grabbed a thicker blanket from the armchair, and draped it gently over your shoulders.
You thought he’d turn around, head back to bed.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he sat. Right beside you. Not too close. Just there. His arms rested lightly on his thighs, fingers interlaced, gaze fixed on some quiet point out the window.
After a long moment, his voice broke the silence. Soft. Sleep-rough. Careful.
“Can’t sleep?”
You shook your head. No explanation. None needed.
He didn’t press. Didn’t tell you it would be okay. Didn’t ask what had woken you or how you were holding up. He just let the silence exist between you without needing to fix it.
And when you shifted—slowly, uncertainly—and let your legs stretch out, resting across his lap with only the slightest touch, Charles didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even shift his weight. He simply stayed, quiet and steady, like he understood that even the smallest movement might break the fragile peace you were trying to hold together.
He didn’t look down. Didn’t make it about anything more than what it was: closeness. Permission. An offering of space.
His hand moved after a long pause, gentle and unhurried, coming to rest against your shin where the fabric of your sweats had pulled up. Just a palm—warm, solid, grounding. His thumb brushed lightly back and forth, more instinct than thought.
And for a brief second, memory flared.
Lando.
You and him used to lie like this, tangled limbs and late-night movies and the kind of closeness you could pretend wasn’t intimacy until it suddenly was. His laugh in your hair. His fingers tracing shapes on your calf like he didn’t even realize what it meant. Like he didn’t know he was becoming everything.
But Charles didn’t trace anything into your skin. He just held on. Let his touch be nothing but presence. Just enough to remind you: you’re not alone.
And eventually, the ache in your chest softened, dulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath you.
Your eyes fluttered closed again, lashes damp, cheek resting against the back of the couch cushion. The room stayed dark, lamplight never turned on, the curtains still half drawn against the night.
When you woke, it was to the smell of coffee. Again.
Charles was in the kitchen, barefoot still, hoodie half-zipped. He slid a mug across the counter toward you with a quiet sort of pride, like handing someone a small, carefully built miracle.
You blinked slowly, still not quite awake. Still heavy.
He smiled. “You snore,” he said, soft but teasing.
The sound that came out of you wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a cracked breath that tilted into something lighter.
But it was something.
BACK TO CURRENT
You swallowed hard, the ache in your throat blooming again like it had been waiting for the quiet. Your hands cradled the coffee mug as if it could steady you, but the steam had already faded, and the toast on your plate had gone stiff at the edges. You stared at it anyway, like maybe focus could stop the unraveling.
Your voice came low, nearly lost in the stillness between you.
“I haven’t even said thank you, Charles.”
Across from you, Charles paused. The scrape of his fork against his plate went silent, and when he looked up, it wasn’t surprise or expectation in his eyes, just calm. Just that quiet, anchored softness that he seemed to carry even when the world frayed around the edges.
“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice just as steady as his gaze. No warmth added for comfort. No distance to protect himself. Just truth.
But you shook your head slowly, eyes lifting until they met his and this time, you let them stay there. You let him see the cracks, the exhaustion, the fragile truth still bleeding at the seams.
And when you spoke again, it came out stronger. Not because the ache was gone, but because it deserved to be said anyway.
“Thank you,” you said, like it cost something. Like it gave something back.
His smile was small, nearly invisible, but it reached his eyes. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The day passed. The kind of quiet that felt like it was pressing down on you as much as it was comforting. You barely moved from the couch except to stretch or drink water. The hours drifted, the sky turning from silver to rose to deepening blue.
By the time the sun had started to bow beneath the rooftops, you found him again, outside this time.
The sliding door was open just enough to let in the salt-stained air. He sat curled on the narrow balcony bench, knees pulled close, one hand resting on a glass of red wine, the stem tilted lazily between his fingers. The breeze caught the edge of his hoodie, the soft fabric fluttering like a second breath.
You didn’t say anything. Just stepped out barefoot, the cool concrete under your toes grounding you in a way nothing else had all day. You folded yourself down beside him, the cushion giving under your weight, and leaned your shoulder just barely against his.
The air was thin with quiet. The horizon was painted in deep pinks, smudged with amber and violet, the sea mirroring it all below.
He didn’t look at you right away. Just sipped his wine and let the quiet stretch a little longer.
Then, a sigh. Low and heavy. Yours.
That was all it took.
He turned his head, one brow lifting gently. “You wanna talk about it?”
Your eyes stayed fixed on the sky. But something behind your ribs shifted—an ache you didn’t know how to hold anymore.
“I don’t even know where to start,” you murmured.
Charles tilted his head slightly, watching you without leaning in, without crowding. “Start with how you feel.”
The breath you let out trembled, and the words followed with it—raw and real.
“Like I’m a fucking idiot.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush to fix it. Just let the wind creak the railing again, and after a beat of silence, he nodded.
“That’s fair,” he said finally. His voice was quiet. Thoughtful.
That made you turn to him. Really turn.
And there he was—his face open and solemn in the last of the light. No judgment. No pity.
FLASHBACK
after goging home with charles after the club
You’d just stumbled out of the club, blinking against the sudden drop in sound, the bass still pulsing faintly through the walls behind you like a second heartbeat, too loud to ignore completely. The night air hit you all at once, cool and sharp, prickling against your flushed skin. Your arm was looped through Charles’, more for stability than affection.
Laughter and cigarette smoke swirled nearby. Neon reflections shimmered in the puddles along the curb. The night was still spinning, but slower now—just slow enough for everything to start catching up to you.
There was a tight, coiled anger sitting low in your belly, dulled by the alcohol but not erased. You’d laughed too hard in there. Smiled too wide. Tried to drown it in flashing lights and cheap liquor. It hadn’t worked. The hurt was still there—just under your skin, just beneath the glitter.
Charles glanced down at you, his brow creased. You hadn’t said much since he pulled you away from the crowd, away from the mess of whatever had gone unsaid between you and Lando inside.
“Hey,” Charles said softly, his hand brushing against your elbow like he didn’t want to startle you. “You okay?”
You didn’t answer—not with words. Just turned to look at him, eyes raw and shining, lips pressed tight to keep from trembling. There wasn’t language for what you felt. Only ache.
And then—before you even registered what your body was doing—you leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t frantic. Not yet. It was tentative. Gentle. The kind of kiss that asked a question it didn’t really want answered.
But Charles pulled back almost immediately, his hands finding your upper arms, anchoring rather than pushing. His grip was light, but steady.
“Chérie,” he said, his voice low, heartbreakingly kind. “I don’t think this is what you want. Not really.”
The words didn’t sting because they were rejection. They stung because they were true. They cracked something honest open inside of you and you hated how much that hurt.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, heat rising behind your eyes again.
He shook his head, gaze firm but impossibly gentle. “No. Don’t be. You don’t need to be sorry.”
That was the moment the tension drained from your shoulders. The moment you stopped trying to escape yourself.
Later, at his flat, you curled into the far corner of his oversized couch, one of his hoodies draped around your frame like it belonged there. The sleeves swallowed your hands. It smelled like him—clean, a little citrus, something you couldn’t name but knew instinctively.
You spoke slowly, the words falling from you one by one like pieces of something broken.
You told him everything.
How it started with Lando, innocent and stupid and so casual it felt safe. Just late nights and shared glances, shoulders brushing in hallways, jokes whispered over dinner. How you convinced yourself your feelings were manageable. Contained.
“I thought I could handle it,” you said, eyes locked on a crack in the ceiling. “I really did. I thought I could be the friend and the confidante and never ask for more.”
“And then it became more,” Charles said—not a question. Just a knowing.
You nodded, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “And now I can’t turn it off. It’s like it’s taken root. And he—he’s with Charlotte now and fuck, I want to hate her. I do. But she’s so—” your voice cracked, “—she’s so beautiful. And nice. Like, genuinely kind. And I just… I look at her and I think: of course. Of course he chose her.”
The breath you pulled in was jagged. “She’s everything I’m not, I mean have you looked at her?”
Charles didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush in with hollow comfort or easy defiance. He just watched you quietly, like he’d been watching you unravel for days and finally had the words.
“Chérie,” he said, and there was something heavier in his voice now. Not pity—frustration, maybe. Anger, even. But not at you.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, and it wasn’t soft—it was emphatic. “Stunning. Hot actually, if I had to find words. In every way. But I need you to hear me when I say that this is—by far—the least interesting thing about you.”
Your breath hitched. You looked at him.
His jaw was tight, brows furrowed like he wanted to shake you out of the self-loathing clinging to your skin.
“The way you laugh at stupid shit and cry at movies you’ve seen five times,” he said. “The way you carry everyone’s feelings like they’re your responsibility. The way you notice things. The way you love. That’s what makes you beautiful. Not your face. Not your hair. Not some impossible standard that makes you feel small.”
You blinked, hard, the tears rising again but different this time. Softer. Looser around the edges.
His smile was soft now, bittersweet. “I’d kiss you again in a heartbeat. You know I would.”
Your lips parted, breath catching.
“But I won’t,” he added gently, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone to catch a tear. “Because it’s not the right thing right now.”
BACK TO CURRENT
You said it softly, almost like a confession whispered into the quiet evening air.
“I slept with him.”
Charles nearly choked on his wine, eyes wide with shock and a flicker of something like horror. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to reset the moment.
You held his gaze calmly, not flinching.
“That’s not the worst part.”
His eyebrows shot up, but he stayed silent, waiting.
“I said I love you.”
The words hung between you, heavy and raw. Charles’s face tightened as if struggling not to faint right there on the balcony.
“Still not the worst,” you murmured.
He uncrossed his legs, shifted to sit upright, fully facing you now. His eyes searched yours, concern and something deeper swirling in their depths.
Tears welled up again, threatening to spill, and you quickly looked away, swallowing hard.
He reached out slowly, placing a steady hand on your arm.
“You—”
Your breath caught.
“I don’t know,” you whispered, voice breaking. “He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. We were drunk, and…”
The words trailed off as your tears began to fall freely. You didn’t meet his eyes but looked down into your lap, overwhelmed.
Without hesitation, Charles pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you in a firm, protective hug.
Your tears began falling again, hot and silent, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. Charles didn’t let go. His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing, steady.
“Hey… hey, cherie…” His voice was low, soft in your ear. “You don’t deserve this. Not this kind of pain.”
He leaned back just enough to look at you, but his arms stayed firmly around your shoulders. His eyes were warm, serious.
“I know Lando seems like the dumbest asshole in the world right now,” he said, voice laced with wry warmth, “and maybe he is. But you haven’t talked. Not really. You didn’t speak to each other, not the way it mattered.”
You opened your eyes again, and his gaze was steady.
“You didn’t admit it to yourself before, cherie. So maybe don’t expect him to know what was going on in your heart.”
You swallowed hard, but didn’t look away.
He shrugged lightly. “Still—he’s a full-on idiot for doing what he did. For saying what he said. And there’s no excuse for that. It’s not your fault. None of it is.”
You nodded slowly, barely, like your body wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Like it had forgotten what it meant to be understood.
Charles stayed quiet for a moment after that, letting the silence settle again, letting you feel the weight of what he’d said without rushing to fill it.
“I keep going over it,” you whispered, voice fragile like glass just before it breaks. “Every second. Every look. Every moment I thought he knew. I keep asking myself—was I wrong the whole time?”
Charles turned slightly, enough to look at you fully. His expression was calm but firm, eyes steady. “No, you weren’t wrong.”
You swallowed hard. Your throat burned, raw from everything you hadn’t said fast enough, loud enough. “But he said things that morning… things that cut. Not careless. Just cruel. Like he’d been thinking them for a while.”
Charles’s jaw twitched—just a flicker of restrained emotion—but his voice stayed soft. “Then that’s on him. And I don’t want to defend him, but maybe—maybe he was angry, confused. Maybe he still doesn’t know what any of this means.”
You looked down, the tears already falling again before you could blink them back. “I tried to tell him.”
“I know,” he said gently. Like he’d heard the silence between you and Lando too, somehow. Like he’d felt it with you.
When you looked up at Charles again, there was only softness in his face. Not pity. Never pity. Just a kind of quiet, patient strength that wrapped around you like a blanket.
“I wanted him to say it back,” you said, your voice barely hanging on. “And now I feel like I’ve ruined everything.”
“I know,” Charles said again, and somehow—he made those two words feel like more than enough.
You let your weight fall sideways until your forehead touched his shoulder, eyes closed. For once, there was no pressure. No need to explain. No one asking you to make sense of what didn’t.
And when his hand slid into yours—fingers curling between yours like they’d always fit there—you held on.
It was a few days later, and the apartment hunt had gone smoother than you expected. Mostly because Charles had been with you every step—taking notes, asking the annoying questions you couldn’t bring yourself to ask, somehow knowing exactly when to crack a joke and when to shut up and just stand there beside you.
You’d found one. A place that felt… peaceful. Light wood floors, big windows, a sliver of sky visible between rooftops. It was small but clean. Yours.
Now Charles was packing for the race weekend, clothes folded with more care than you thought possible from a man who usually tore his shirts off like they offended him.
He glanced at you over his open suitcase. “You sure you don’t want to come?”
You didn’t even hesitate. “No. I’d rather never go again.”
He paused, nodding once, lips pressed together like he understood. Then, with a sly lift of one brow, “Fine. But promise me you’ll go out a bit, yeah? Don’t just sit around at your new place rotting in your feelings.”
You snorted, sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Yes, Mom.”
He grinned and tossed a pair of socks at your head. “Good.”
The plan was simple. You’d move into the new apartment this weekend—while Charles was gone. The good thing? Lando would be gone too. Monaco was quiet without them, the streets a little less electric. It meant you could go by his apartment, grab the rest of your things without worrying about seeing him.
It should’ve felt like closure.
But it wasn’t like that at all.
Not when you were actually standing in front of the door, keys in hand, heart in your throat.
The building was quiet, too quiet. The usual buzz of city life felt muted here, like even Monaco didn’t want to witness this. You stared at the door for a long time. That ridiculous blue welcome mat still there. Your initials scratched faintly into the bottom of the metal mailbox. His name on the buzzer.
Your hand trembled as you unlocked it.
The apartment smelled the same. That warm, slightly citrusy scent that clung to Lando’s clothes and always made your chest feel too full. The lights were off. Everything was where it had always been—too much so. It felt like walking into a frozen memory. You didn’t even take off your shoes. You couldn’t.
You started in the bedroom.
Photos on the nightstand. The one of the two of you on the beach, blurry and sun-drenched. He was laughing, your head on his shoulder. You stared at it for a beat, then laid it face down before putting it away.
In the drawer, a bracelet he bought you at a market in Italy. A stupid little thing—wooden beads and sea glass—but you remembered the way he’d grinned when he gave it to you, like he was proud of finding it. That went in the box too.
Each thing you touched felt like a ripple. Not quite pain, not anymore, but a dull ache beneath the surface. Like pressing on a bruise that wasn’t done blooming.
The last thing you took was your mug. The one that had “Wicked but Caffeinated” written on it in gold script. He used to joke it suited you too well. You turned it over in your hands, fingers brushing the chipped rim. Then packed it away.
And just like that, everything was gone.
Everything that was yours, anyway.
You stood in the doorway, the last box in your arms. The apartment stretched out in front of you, empty and echoing. This had been home. This had been everything. And now it wasn’t yours anymore.
Still, something shifted.
A weight. A breath.
This hurt but it was also a beginning. It didn’t feel like peace, but maybe something close to it. Maybe the start of it.
Gabriel said that Lando wrote him a congratulation text after getting his seat.
Franco said that Lando was the first one to contact him and that they organised a lunch with him and his manager to talk about what were Franco’s preoccupations.
Susie said that Lando frequently visits the F1 Academy paddock.
Multiple fans at multiple races or F1 events said that Lando went out of his way to greet them and give them as much time as he could.
As of recently, fans said he even went to the fans that were outside of the very expensive red carpet.
And the thing that I love the most about all of this is that it’s never Lando saying these things, that we always hear it from third parties. It’s simply amazing.
to think that someone said to me they don’t care if their drivers are kind they only care about them winning races- well I’m sorry I’m not shallow???
Gabriel said that Lando wrote him a congratulation text after getting his seat.
Franco said that Lando was the first one to contact him and that they organised a lunch with him and his manager to talk about what were Franco’s preoccupations.
Susie said that Lando frequently visits the F1 Academy paddock.
Multiple fans at multiple races or F1 events said that Lando went out of his way to greet them and give them as much time as he could.
As of recently, fans said he even went to the fans that were outside of the very expensive red carpet.
And the thing that I love the most about all of this is that it’s never Lando saying these things, that we always hear it from third parties. It’s simply amazing.
baratheonpilled
janainaart
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
