warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, fingering, dirty talk), forced proximity, pet names (sunshine, love), emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.
music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy
summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.
a/n: ohmygod. i finally posted :') at the very beginning, this is the first part! i def recommend reading part two <3 but omg this idea had been sitting in my head for far too long, and ngl i'm glad that it's finally finished. hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
14 & 18
You weren’t supposed to be listening.
Your older brother, Max, had told you sternly, and for what felt like the thousandth time, not to come downstairs. “Stay upstairs, preferably in your room. Don’t be annoying, and don’t even think about coming down here.”
He’d given you that older-brother look, the one that made it clear he thought you were the most embarrassing person alive. But as a nosy kid you’ve been, you of course had to do otherwise, and it was simply impossible not to do it. You’d wanted to stay out of sight, out of earshot, but the thing was, you couldn’t stop your mind from racing with curiosity.
You weren’t even sure why you cared so much. Max was always bringing friends over—loud, annoying teenage boys who smelled like sweat mixed with their deodorant, always calling you stupid names like “brat” or “shrimp”.
Usually, you avoided them, staying alone in your room. But this time it was different. This wasn’t just anyone—this was Lando.
You didn’t even know what he looked like yet, and what he was like, but you’d been hearing about him for weeks. You hadn’t even realized how much you wanted to see him—not until the second you heard his name.
Lando. It sounded like something straight out of a movie. It felt cool and electric on your tongue, like a name a girl would write in her diary a thousand times, testing how it looked with hearts around it. You’d never met someone with a name like that before, it was definitely special in a good way.
But the way Max talked about him? God, it was obsessive. He would casually drop little mentions of him during dinner: “Lando’s so fast, Mom.”, “Lando’s insanely talented.”, Lando’s this, Lando’s that.
You’d pretended to roll your eyes, acting like it didn’t matter. But deep down, every mention of his name made your stomach twist with a strange, unexplainable curiosity. If Max—the most impossible-to-impress person you knew—thought Lando was that amazing, then he really had to be someone special.
And today, you’d finally get to see what all the fuss was about. So yeah, you were listening. Of course you were.
You sat on the staircase, tucked behind the wooden banister, head tilted just enough to peek between the rails. Your knees were tucked to your chest, one arm wrapped around your legs, the other gripped tight around the wooden post like it might keep your body from floating off.
Then after some time, the front door finally opened.
You felt it before you even heard it—your pulse skipping, your stomach twisting in the most unfamiliar, ridiculous way. A breeze swept through the hall, and for a moment you felt suspended in time, perched at the top of the stairs in some kind of ridiculous, girlish trance.
Why was your body reacting like this? Your fourteen-year-old self hadn’t known the answer to those questions.
Max’s voice came first, loud and careless as usual. “Don’t touch anything, yeah? Mum will murder me if you break something.”
Then another voice answered, one you didn’t recognize. “Relax, mate. You act like I destroy everything I touch.”
You froze. That was him.
You didn’t expect his voice to feel like that. It was softer than you imagined, yet still smooth with that kind of amused confidence. Like a ribbon curling its way through your stomach and looping around your lungs, and like sunlight breaking through blinds and landing warm on your cheek.
Your heart thudded once, then again, faster than before, and you told yourself to breathe, to stop being stupid, but the idea of turning away was impossible now. You leaned forward just a little more, carefully and silently. And then you finally saw him.
He walked in behind Max, shoulders relaxed, hands buried in the pocket of a navy hoodie that looked two sizes too big—but on him, it didn’t look sloppy, it looked effortlessly cool. He wasn’t overly tall, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made him seem bigger than he was. His dark hair was a mess, falling into his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His skin was tanned and warm, and as he looked around, his lips were twitching into a faint smile.
There was something about the way he moved around, like the world just opened up for him. Like he never had to force a thing.
It was stupid how just looking at him made your chest feel tight. He wasn’t even doing anything, and yet he was doing everything to you. He had this air about him, this effortless confidence that made it impossible to look away from him.
Lando turned to Max, grinning at something your brother just said, and that’s when he laughed out loud. It was the kind of laugh that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, warm and easy, as if the world itself bent to his mood.
Your cheeks flushed, and you clutched the banister tighter, trying to figure out what was happening to you. Why did your heart feel like it was trying to escape your chest? Why did the sight of him make your stomach flip like you’d just gone over the top of a rollercoaster?
Then suddenly, his eyes flicked upward, towards you. You jerked back instinctively, hoping he didn’t notice you. But it was too late. The floorboard creaked beneath you, giving you away.
Max noticed immediately, sighing while letting out a soft sound of frustration. “Oh my God, seriously? Can you not?”
You tried to play it off, running off the stairs and grabbing a random book from the side table. “I was just… getting this.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you winced at the sound.
Lando turned to you fully now, and you felt like the oxygen had just disappeared from the room. His eyes were bright and curious, and when they landed on you, it was like the rest of the world faded away. You felt seen in a way you hadn’t before, like his gaze wasn’t just looking at you—it was taking you in. It was stupid, but you felt your cheeks burn under his attention.
“And who’s this?” He asked looking at Max, his voice playful but kind. He tilted his head slightly, a small, easy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Max groaned beside him, scratching the back of his head. “My annoying, little sister. Unfortunately.” And just like that, the bubble popped.
Your chest dropped, and your fingers clenched around the book. You wanted to scream at Max, tell him to shut up, that you weren’t annoying, that you were a normal person, that—
“I’m fourteen.” You blurted out, defensively but it was too fast, and too desperate. You immediately regretted it.
Fucking fourteen, when they were eighteen.
You wanted to disappear into the floorboards. Your face burned hotter, your lungs constricting around the words like they’d betrayed you. But Lando didn’t laugh, didn’t try to mock you like Max’s other friends. He just blinked at you once, and then that soft and warm smile spread across his face like sunlight through a half-open window. Like you hadn’t just embarrassed yourself in front of him.
“Watch out, Max,” Lando said, his eyes still on you. “She’s fourteen, almost as old as us.”
You couldn’t help it—your lips twitched, the corners of your mouth curling before you could stop them. A tiny, traitorous smile. His tone was light, like he was inviting you to laugh along with him. But you couldn’t. Your brain was too busy trying to process the fact that someone like him was even talking to you.
Max groaned loudly and grabbed Lando’s sleeve. “Just ignore her, mate. She’ll try to follow us around because she’s obsessed with attention.”
But Lando didn’t move. He turned back one more time, right before Max dragged him away, and when he looked at you again, there was something different in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Affection, but definitely not romantic, it wasn’t like that. Yet, still, it was kind, gentle, and real.
“See you later, Sunshine.” He uttered before joining your older brother in the living room.
And that? That ruined you.
Sunshine.
Your chest tightened at the new nickname. It was like the gentle teasing of it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, only it was suffocating in the way that made you ache.
You hated it. You loved it.
You stood frozen long after they vanished into the living room, your fingers pressed white against the book, your heart thudding so hard it made your chest ache. It should’ve made you mad, it should’ve made you feel small. But the way he said it? It felt like a nickname no one else in the world could get away with.
You sat in your room for a long time after that, knees curled up to your chest, eyes blurry, and head spinning. You were just fourteen. You didn’t even know what love was. You didn’t know anything about it or why he made you feel like that. You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice felt so smooth, nor why the sound of his laughter made your heart race.
But when Lando Norris smiled at you, and called you Sunshine—you knew. You knew that something had begun that day.
────୨ৎ────
16 & 20
The house was louder than usual. Voices echoed through the hallway, laughter spilled out from the living room, and it smelled faintly of some perfume and the greasy comfort of takeaway leftovers.
Max had invited over a whole crew of friends this time—boys you recognized in passing, most of them racing guys, some you’d seen before, and others that just blurred into a crowd.
But it didn’t matter, not really. Because he was here, Lando.
You had caught a glimpse of him when they all stormed through the front door. Max was yelling at them to take off their shoes, while someone nearly knocked over the lamp by the stairs. Lando trailed in at the back of the group, eyes lit up with laughter at something one of the guys said. Now he looked a bit older and more mature than before, as he was now twenty years old. A little broader in the shoulders, his jaw a little sharper, with that same easy smile. His hair was still messy, but now they were starting to curl. And still, when he laughed, it sounded like sunlight—effortless, unbothered, and warm in a way that wrapped around your ribs and stayed there.
The familiar smell of your mom’s baking filled the house. Fresh pastries, warm bread, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon drifting through the hallways made your stomach rumble. It was a Sunday tradition, one that had never changed since you were a little kid.
But today? Today, everything felt different. Maybe it was because you were getting older, or maybe it was because of the way your heart raced when you thought about Lando.
And of course, you had to be the one tasked with carrying the trays to Max and his friends. You had tried to get out of it, pretending that you were too busy with homework or anything else that could serve as an excuse to avoid the living room full of Max’s friends. But it was futile. Your mom had already started setting everything up in the kitchen, and you knew better than to argue with her when she had her mind set on something.
“Be a love and take this for Max and the boys, okay?” She asked, and you nodded, already reaching for the first tray.
So here you were, hands full with two trays of snacks, balancing them precariously as you made your way into the living room.
You were older now—sixteen, to be exact. Still a kid to Max, but old enough to know things. Old enough to realize the way your heart beat faster when Lando was in the same room. Old enough to hate the way your voice shook around him.
The trays were heavier than they looked. You tried not to wobble as you stepped carefully over the threshold of the living room, your fingers curled tight around the edge of the silver platter, a nervous flutter dancing in your stomach. The scent of your mom’s fresh-baked focaccia and chocolate cake clung to your skin, warm and comforting like home. But nothing about this moment felt comforting. Your heart was a mess of beats in your chest.
They were all there—Max, surrounded by a ring of his friends scattered across the couches and floor like it was their house and not yours. The energy in the room buzzed with loud laughter, the kind only a group of twenty-year-olds could conjure. Bottles of beer clinked, some video game commentary echoed faintly from the muted TV, and the windows were open to the sound of late-summer birdsong.
And then there was Lando. As usual, he was leaning against the wall, looking completely at ease in the chaotic mix of people.
You had to force your eyes to stay neutral, keep your face blank, because if Max caught so much as a single flicker of what you were feeling, he’d drag you out of the room by your hoodie and lock you in your room.
Stepping inside quietly, you tried to be invisible, even though you felt like a spotlight was burning into the back of your neck. Your heart fluttered a little, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.
“Uh— I brought snacks.” You managed to mumble, your voice quiet and awkward, the tray wobbling a little in your grip.
Max barely looked up. “Great. Put them down and go.” His tone was dismissive, not even bothering to hide his irritation.
You knew the drill by now—he didn’t want you in his space, didn’t want you interrupting his time with his friends. But as you approached the table, trying to find a spot to set the trays down, you caught Lando’s eye. He was watching you, that trademark smile of his playing at the corners of his lips.
“Hey, Sunshine.” He said, his lips curving into a smile.
That nickname. It had been a while since he started to call you that, but it still made your skin flush with warmth. His voice was calm, soft, familiar in a way that made your chest flutter like it had forgotten how to settle.
“Need help with those?” He asked, his voice smooth as ever, not a hint of judgment in his tone, like he wasn’t about to brush you off like everyone else.
You blinked, caught off guard by his attentiveness. For a moment, it felt like the whole room disappeared, and it was just you and him. God, you hated how that made you feel.
You gave a small nod, trying not to drop the tray in your flustered state. “Uh… yeah, sure. Thanks.” You muttered, struggling to steady the trays in your hands.
Your heart started pounding as you realized he was actually going to help you. He moved closer, his presence filling the space, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he towered over you, his broad shoulders almost making you feel smaller than you already were.
Lando took one of the trays effortlessly, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief second, and you felt a shiver run through you at the contact. His grip was warm, steady, and confident. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, of how good he looked standing there, holding that tray like it was nothing.
There were little things about him that made your brain short-circuit: the way his collarbone peeked through the neckline of his shirt, the way his eyelashes curled up at the edges, the tiny scar near on the bridge of his nose you always found yourself staring at for too long.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he did to you. Or maybe he did. Maybe he did, and just didn’t care.
As Lando placed the tray, he gave you a playful look, that glint of amusement in his eyes. “You know, you didn’t have to bring this all by yourself. Max is a pain in the ass, he should have prepared it by himself.”
You could feel your cheeks go warm by the way he was looking at you. “He’s always a pain.” You replied, not entirely able to contain the sarcastic edge in your voice.
Max always acted like you were an inconvenience, like everything you did was somehow too much.
Lando chuckled, “That’s an understatement.” His words made you laugh, and the sound of his chuckle made your stomach flutter.
Max, of course, chose this exact moment to finally look up from whatever he was doing. His eyes narrowed immediately, his lips pulling into a scowl.
“Seriously?” He snapped, glaring at you. “What did I say, huh? Leave the food and go.” You flinched, the sting of his words hitting you harder than you’d expected.
Your smile dropped immediately, feeling the heat creep up your neck, and the embarrassment blooming bright and painful in your chest. You weren’t even trying to bother them. You were just helping and trying to be near him.
“Max. I was just…” You stammered, but Max was already waving you off, like you were nothing but a buzzing fly in the room.
“Out. Go.” He grumbled, nodding his head towards the door.
And just as you turned, cheeks burning, heart sinking, Lando’s voice cut in, cool and calm but sharper than before. “Jesus, Max. Chill out, mate.” Lando was looking at Max now, his brows raised, that amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “She’s just bringing snacks. It's not the end of the world.”
It took you by surprise. You’d never seen Lando take a stance like this before, especially not against Max. But there it was. The way he stood up for you, even just in this small moment, made your stomach do a flip. You wanted to say something back to Max, something witty or biting, but Lando had already set the tone.
Max’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression flickering with something close to annoyance, but also a hint of surprise. He opened his mouth to retort, but Lando gave him a pointed look that shut him up instantly. Max grumbled, clearly frustrated, but he didn’t say anything else. He turned back to his friends, dismissing you like he always did.
But Lando? He didn’t turn away. Instead, he flashed you that same soft, genuine smile—the kind that made your heart race every time. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just him, Lando, acknowledging you in the way you had always wished for.
“Thanks for bringing the snacks,” He said softly, his eyes never leavinf yours. “You’re a good sister.”
His words hit you like a wave, knocking you off balance. A good sister. That was all you were to him. Max’s little sister.
But somehow, in the way he said it, you could almost convince yourself it wasn’t as simple as that. His voice was low, rich with something you couldn’t place, and the weight of his gaze made you feel like you were more than just a background character in the story Max and his friends were writing.
You smiled back, though you felt a pang of disappointment you couldn’t quite shake. “I know, I’m trying.”
Lando’s smile deepened, and there was something in it—something that made you want to hold onto that moment forever, even if you knew it couldn’t last.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Max doesn’t make it worse for you.” He said, the light humor still lacing his voice. But there was something else, something protective in the way he said it, as if he truly cared about how Max treated you.
“Thanks.” You whispered, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn that the way he looked at you made it feel like the whole world was suddenly different. You weren’t just Max’s little sister. With Lando, for just a heartbeat, you were someone who mattered.
You turned to leave, but before you could fully escape the room, Lando called out to you again, his voice warm, almost as if he didn’t want you to go.
“Sunshine,” He said, making you pause and look back at him. “You’re welcome here anytime, by the way.”
And as you walked back to the kitchen, you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the small but meaningful things, like him standing up for you in front of Max, or the way his presence filled the room in a way that made you feel seen, for once. But whatever it was, it made your heart beat just a little faster.
And you couldn’t deny the truth, no matter how hard you tried. You were falling for him. Hard.
────୨ৎ────
18 & 22
The crisp winter air bit gently at your cheeks as you stood awkwardly by the entrance to the ice rink, the sharp scrape of skates against ice echoing all around. The air was biting, the kind of cold that turned your breath into mist and made your fingers ache even through gloves.
Your hands were buried deep inside your jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up against the cold as your breath curled into the air in pale clouds. You tugged at the cuffs of your oversized jacket, glancing around nervously. The outdoor rink was strung with fairy lights, soft yellow bulbs glowing like stars against the fading winter sky. Laughter rang through the crisp evening air, and blades scraped and whispered over the ice, carving lines that criss-crossed like heartbeats. But all you could feel was the absence of him.
Max’s friends were already there, loud and full of energy, their voices bouncing off the rink walls. You lingered by the benches, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, eyes flicking toward the parking lot every few seconds. Your skates were already laced tight, and your scarf pulled up high but you stood there like a misplaced piece of the puzzle, off to the side, just barely tolerated.
“He’s late,” Max muttered beside you, his tone flat and annoyed. Then, without looking at you, he sighed. “And you are still here. Don’t you have your own friends or something?”
You looked away, blinking hard at the sudden sting in your eyes. “I do,” You muttered under your breath. “But they’re just busy today.”
“You’re already fucking eighteen,” Max had muttered when you asked to come. “Why do you need to tag along everywhere we go?”
He hadn’t even tried to hide the irritation in his voice. That sting had stayed with you, gnawing at your insides while you silently followed him and the others to the rink. You tried to brush it off, act like it didn’t matter. But it did, of course it did.
You wouldn’t have wanted to come if it weren’t for Lando. But Lando was running late, and without him, it all felt wrong.
The wind stung your cheeks, and your gloves didn’t do much to keep your fingers from going numb. Max’s friends were loud, obnoxious, their easy camaraderie only highlighting how out of place you felt. They threw teasing comments at you, half-joking but sharp-edged enough to boil your blood. You tried to laugh it off, but the knot in your stomach tightened every time.
When you finally slipped onto the ice, the chill bit deeper. Max and his friends swarmed together, skating effortlessly side by side, chatting and laughing, leaving you alone to wobble on shaky legs. They skated around you like you were invisible.
You pushed off slowly, awkwardly, trying to find your own rhythm. It wasn’t that you couldn’t skate, you could, but it was different when you were alone, and when every mistake echoed louder.
You made it halfway across the rink when a sudden slip caught you off guard. You fell hard—knees first, then palms—and the air punched out of your lungs. The shock of it made your eyes sting with tears instantly. The cold rushed through your clothes, biting into your skin. A hush rang in your ears, though the world around you kept moving. Skates zipped past in a blur. Laughter echoed just a few feet away.
You sat up slowly, pain throbbing in your joints. Your breath trembled as you looked around, hoping and praying that someone could help you stand up. Max skated by just a few feet ahead. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. Not once. He didn’t stop. He didn’t see you. And that hurt more than the fall.
“Max, wait!” You shouted, trying to get his attention while rubbing your knees. But just as you expected, he didn’t hear or rather pretended not to hear you yell his name.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Binking fast, you were trying to clear the sting from your eyes. It wasn’t just the embarrassment of falling but it was the raw, sharp edge of being overlooked, and completely ignored. You weren’t some little kid anymore, begging to be included. You were fucking eighteen, and still, somehow, you were still invisible and always in the way.
You sniffed hard and wiped your gloves against your eyes, scolding yourself under your breath. Don’t cry. Not here, and not now. But the loneliness crushed down on you like a weight, and the sting was both physical and something deeper. You were hurt, but mostly just felt humiliated.
You stayed there for a moment, knees burning, pride aching even more. And just when you thought you’d be left alone untilsomeone finally notice your absence, a familiar voice broke through the noise, soft but unmistakable.
“Sorry, I’m late, Sunshine.”
Your breath caught in your lungs. You turned your head slowly, and there he was. Lando glided towards you on his skates, his curls damp with mist, and cheeks pink from the cold. He had that damn smile on his face—soft, crooked, and warm in a way the cold couldn’t touch. A white hoodie peeked out from under his jacket, and he looked flushed from running.
His eyes scanned your face, instantly catching the mix of pain and embarrassment. The way the fading sunlight hit his loose hair, the genuine concern in his tone—it was like the world softened around you.
“You look like you could use a hand.”
Your lower lip trembled as you sank back onto the ice, feeling raw and exposed while Lando stood in front of you, steady and calm. You blinked fast, trying to stop the tears before they could fall. But something about his voice, his presence, the way he looked straight at you like you were the only person that mattered, made your throat tighten. You stared at him for a beat longer, a shiver crawling up your spine. He looked warm, like safety. Like everything you needed in that exact moment.
“I’m fine.” You muttered, but your voice cracked just slightly, betraying you.
Lando crouched in front of you, not caring at all about getting his jeans wet. His aquamarine eyes searched yours. “Well, you don’t look fine to me.”
You looked away, embarrassed, a dry laugh escaping from your mouth. “Funny that my own brother can’t even notice that.”
He furrowed his eyebrows, looking at you questioningly, “What do you mean?”
“Ugh, Max didn’t want me to come. He said I should just hang out with my friends, and now they’re all just…” You gestured vaguely toward the blur of figures skating across the rink. “They just left me here. I’m sorry, this is so stupid, and I’m acting like a child. I should have stayed at home.”
Lando’s expression shifted—a crease between his brows, his jaw tightening just slightly.
“No, it’s not stupid, Sunshine. And you’re not invisible, you know?”
Your eyes met his, and something in your chest clenched. “Well, I feel like I am.” You chuckled awkwardly.
But that was all it took. Something cracked wide open inside you. A sharp breath escaped your chest, and tears finally spilled over before you could stop them. You ducked your head, shame curling in your stomach like fire. But he didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. He just watched you, gently and patiently.
You sniffled, wiping your glove across your cheek. “I just feel like I’m this annoying, unwanted shadow which Max wishes he could shake off. But believe me or now, I’m just trying not to be alone, and I hate this,” You muttered, voice shaky. “I hate always being treated like I’m unwanted. Like I don’t matter. And I know I shouldn’t care, but fuck, it still hurts.”
You looked down at your feet, ashamed of the crack in your voice. But Lando gently tipped your chin up with one finger. His eyes were kind and warm. “You matter, Sunshine. And Max can be oblivious sometimes, but I see you, okay?”
You bit your lip to hold back the sob building in your throat. He saw you. God, you needed that more than anything.
Lando didn’t speak for a moment. The quiet between you was soft, heavy, but not suffocating. “And I’m sorry.” He added, and you could tell he meant it not just for being late, but for all of it—for Max, and for the way this entire day had unfolded.
He glanced out at the rink, then back at you. “Let’s get you warm. You deserve better than freezing out here alone.”
You blinked, looking at him with concern visible in your eyes. “But… you just got here, Lan. You didn’t even get to skate with them.”
He reached forward and took your hand, slowly helping you up from the ice. His grip was firm and warm, steadying your shaky knees. You realized just how cold you were only when his touch made your skin ache in contrast.
Lando gave a little half-shrug, his smile soft again. “Nah. I think you and I need hot chocolate more than we need bruised asses.”
You laughed, the sound small but real. “You sure?”
Lando smiled down at you, his grin shining brightly. “I’m sure. Come on, Sunshine. My treat.”
He took your hand, not even thinking about it, and you let him. He helped guide you off the rink like it was the most natural thing in the world. And as he walked with you toward the little café by the rink, your hand still tucked inside his glove-warmed one, you felt that flutter in your chest again. Not because of the fall but because when everything felt cold and hollow, he showed up.
The café was a warm wooden hut, lit by soft lamps and smelling like cinnamon and melted marshmallows. Inside, you both ordered drinks and found a booth near the window. Your hands wrapped around the paper cup, fingers thawing slowly as the heat soaked into your bones. Outside, you could still see Max and the boys skating in the cold, totally oblivious.
Inside, however, everything had slowed. You sat across from him by the table, a soft haze of steam curling from the mugs in front of you, the warm scent of cocoa mixing with the faint sugary smell of whipped cream. The windows fogged slightly from the contrast of cold air and warmth inside, blurring the snow-dusted world beyond.
Lando sat with his gloves off, hands wrapped around the ceramic mug like he needed the heat too. His hoodie was slightly crooked, cheeks flushed pink, curls a little damp from snow. He looked so effortlessly good, like warmth incarnate. Like something you’d dream up on a night when everything felt a little too heavy.
You didn’t speak right away, and neither did he. He just looked at you, softly and patiently, like you were someone worth waiting on. And maybe that’s when it started to really hit you. That the little flutter in your chest that had existed for a while now wasn’t just a silly crush anymore. It wasn’t a passing thing or some half-formed idea of romance. No, this—he—was different. Because no one else saw you like he did. No one else noticed the cracks you tried so hard to keep hidden. No one else crouched down beside you when you were hurting, let you fall apart without rushing to fix it. No one else ever made you feel like you mattered, like you could be more than just Max’s little sister. And it made your heart ache in an almost unbearable way.
You watched him bring the mug to his lips, his fingers long and slender around the rim. There was a faint smear of whipped cream on his upper lip that he didn’t notice—and you couldn’t look away from it.
God, he was beautiful.
And the way he looked at you tonight? Like the second he saw you on the ice, everything else just faded. It made your skin prickle with awareness. Like your body suddenly remembered it was his presence that made you feel alive—always had. You curled your fingers tighter around your mug, trying to ground yourself.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you. He never had. And that only made it harder. That kind of softness? That kind of instinctive care? It was lethal.
You’d fall for him a hundred times over if he kept looking at you like that. And yet you knew, deep down, it still didn’t mean anything could happen. There were lines, unwritten rules and set limits. Max would kill him if he knew. Everyone would call it wrong.
But if it was wrong, why did it feel so right?
You lowered your gaze to your hot chocolate, suddenly overwhelmed with it all—the longing towards him, frustration about Max, and ache in your body.
Lando, still quiet across from you, must’ve sensed the shift in your energy, because he leaned forward slightly, his voice gentler than before. “You okay?” He asked, voice low and genuine.
You hesitated. “I don’t know. It just… sucks. He used to care more, and we used to be much closer. Or maybe I just imagined it.”
“He does care,” He replied carefully. “But he’s also an idiot.”
You let out a small, unexpected laugh. “Yeah. A loud, arrogant idiot.”
Lando smiled at that. “He’s lucky to have you, though.”
Your cheeks flushed, and your eyes dropped to your cup. “He doesn’t act like it.”
“Well, I think you’re great,” He said, tone lighter, but something in his eyes stayed serious. “And honestly, I’m kind of glad I was late.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Because if I wasn’t, I might’ve missed that perfect moment to be your hero.” You rolled your eyes at him as he bursted out laughing, but still, you smiled and this time it stayed.
Outside, the snow had started falling in slow, heavy flakes. But in the warmth of that tiny café, it didn’t matter that Max acted like a complete asshole or that you fell. Or that you’d spent the first half of the evening trying not to cry. Because Lando had seen you, and that was enough.
You were still holding the half-empty mug, the rim cooling against your palms. The silence between you and Lando was soft, companionable. That comfortable sort of quiet you didn’t often get. He was leaning back in his chair now, legs stretched under the table, watching you with an unreadable expression—like he was trying to figure something out but wasn’t sure how to ask.
“I really didn’t mean to ruin your night.” You mumbled after a beat, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t,” He replied instantly, a little too fast. “If anything… I think I needed this.”
You blinked, surprised. “Needed…?”
He didn’t answer you. Lando just gave you a soft, lopsided smile that made your heart do a dangerous flip and leaned forward to take your hands into his warmer ones. But before you could fall deeper into that moment, the bell above the café door chimed.
“Are you serious right now?” Max’s voice cut sharply through the quiet, and your stomach dropped.
His tone was unmistakable—sharp, defensive, the kind of tone he usually reserved for pissed-off arguments and stupid racing banter. But this wasn’t stupid. This was you, and Lando. Together, alone.
You turned your head to see him standing by the door, his arms crossed, brows drawn together. He looked between the two of you—your hands brought together at the untouched skates beside Lando’s chair, at your flushed cheeks, and at how close your mugs were sitting on the table.
“Lando,” Max barked, stepping closer, “Hands off my sister.”
The silence shattered like glass, and your face went hot instantly. You could barely look at Max, his voice slicing into you like you’d done something wrong just by being here. But Lando didn’t move away from you. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something hard to name.
And then he said it—voice calm but cutting. “At least I noticed she fell.”
Max’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying…” Lando’s jaw clenched as he looked back at Max. “She fell, Max. Hard. Everyone was off doing their own thing, laughing, skating around like she didn’t even exist. You didn’t even look back, and I shall remind you that you are her older brother, not me.”
Max looked at you again, and it hit him. The way your eyes wouldn’t meet his. The way you leaned just slightly closer to Lando when he stepped forward. The tightness in your shoulders. The way you hadn’t said a word to him all evening. He knew that look. You were angry and hurt.
“She’s eighteen, Lando,” Max muttered, more to himself. “She doesn’t need babysitting every fucking second.”
“She doesn’t need babysitting! She’s perfectly fine on her own,” Lando replied, his voice cooler now. “She just needed someone to care and help her get up. That’s the difference.”
That struck something inside Max. You could see it behind his eyes—the way his brows drew together, the flicker of guilt that passed quickly across his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening. And then, slowly, his eyes dragged back to Lando, studying him, and processing everything. Something about the way Lando looked at you, about the way you looked back. The way your body language shifted when he was near.
Max’s lips parted for a moment, a breath caught in his throat, as if some subconscious part of him was beginning to do the math. But instead of solving the equation, he backed away from it.
“Yeah, whatever,” He muttered, shaking his head. “We’re leaving in ten. Don’t be late.” He turned on his heel and walked off, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. But not without a final glance over his shoulder. A long, narrowed look that didn’t say much aloud but said enough.
You watched him disappear into the crowd of other boys, your heart hammering in your chest, everything suddenly feeling more fragile than it had just moments ago. You looked up at Lando again, who was already glancing in the direction Max had gone, his jaw still set.
“I’m sorry.” You said softly, not sure what you were even apologizing for.
Lando shook his head, looking back at you. “Don’t be. You deserve better than being left alone like that.”
He held out his hand again—gentler this time, more careful, and you took it, neither of you saying anything more. But deep down, you both knew something had just shifted.
And Max? He definitely knew something was off. Like maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as innocent as he’d always believed.
────୨ৎ────
You had been waiting for this summer. Not just any summer—the summer where everything was supposed to finally shift.
Ibiza.
The annual summer trip. The one that had always been off-limits for you when you were younger. A trip only for them—Max and his friends. Every year, it was a highlight for them, full of beach days, late nights, and photos you weren’t allowed to see because 'you’re too young'.
But this year, you had hope as you were finally eighteen. Not a kid anymore, not just Max’s sister. And most importantly, you were certain that something between you and Lando had changed.
Slowly, subtly, like the tide pulling out. It wasn’t just a crush anymore. Not some schoolgirl fantasy you’d outgrow. You felt it in the way he laughed when you teased him, in the way his gaze lingered longer than it used to, in the way he told Max to chill out when you usually joined them in the living room. You knew he still saw you as the younger one, maybe even a little untouchable, but there were cracks forming in that wall. You could feel them.
So when you decided to visit Max after he moved to his new apartment, he decided to casually drop the announcement over breakfast, saying, “We have flights for Ibiza this night.”
You blinked, assuming that of course he meant you too. “Should I go back home and pack?” You asked, while trying to hide the smile already tugging at your lips.
Max didn’t even look up from his cereal. “What? No, not you. Just our group. You can stay here for the night, and then come back home.”
The words hit like a slap. “What? Why not?” You countered immediately, frowning at your older brother.
Max sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not a family holiday. It’s just our group. And you’re not coming.”
Your heart clenched. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Max. And after all, you always repeated that when I’ll be eighteen, you will take me.”
Max finally looked up at you, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Still my little sister, though. And it’s Ibiza. So no, not happening.”
You felt your jaw tighten, the flush creeping into your cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from anger. “But Mom would let me—”
“Oh, she won’t. I already talked to her, and she agrees. End of the story.”
End of the story, my ass—you thought.
“Max, I’m not fucking stupid,” You snapped before you could stop yourself. The words came out like venom, sharper than you intended. “I know exactly what Ibiza is. I’m not asking to go clubbing and drinking. I just want to go with you there.”
“What can’t you understand, huh? You’re not going. I don’t want to be responsible for you there,” He answered firmly, “And you’d still be the youngest.”
The youngest. There it was again. Always the afterthought. Always the one no one trusted, no one took seriously, no one really saw. And yet, your parents let Max do whatever he wanted when he was your age. No questions, no concern. But you? You were a whole different story.
You pushed back from the table so hard the chair legs scraped against the floor. “Of course,” You snorted, heart hammering in your chest. “Because why would anyone want me there anyway, right?”
You whipped around before you could stop yourself, and your eyes locked immediately with his. Lando. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing that soft hoodie again, the one that hung off his shoulders and made him look like a goddamn movie scene. His hair was a little messy, his skin tanned from early summer karting days, and his smile—ugh. It made your anger feel even more childish, which somehow made it worse.
He looked at you and grinned. “Hey, Sunshine.” You didn’t smile back, you couldn’t. Lando frowned slightly, eyes flicking to Max and then back to you. “Everything’s alright?”
No. Nothing was alright.
“Never been better.” You hissed, gritting your teeth in anger.
Max decided to answer Lando for you. “She’s mad because she’s not coming to Ibiza.”
Lando raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t known. “Wait, you wanted to come with us?”
Of course you did. You’d imagined it a thousand times—walking on the sun-warmed streets, swimming in that infinity pool, sipping drinks you weren’t supposed to have, brushing his hand “accidentally” under the stars. You had even planned outfits already. You had dreamed of this.
“I thought maybe I could,” You muttered, trying not to let the hurt show. “But apparently I can’t because I’m Max’s sister.”
Something shifted in his expression, but only for a second. You couldn’t read it. Sympathy? Or maybe it was regret?
Max snorted at your response. “It’s not for a debate. End of the story.”
Lando didn’t add anything to Max’s words, and that was even worse. He just gave you a soft, unreadable smile—not cold, but distant—and approached the kitchen counter to grab a glass of orange juice as if nothing had changed. Like you weren’t standing there with your heart breaking quietly in your chest.
You locked yourself in the bathroom, the tears burning your eyes before you could blink them away. But you didn’t want to cry. You refused to cry over this, and over Max because what really hurt—what cracked something open inside your chest—was the thought of Lando.
You had spent the last couple of years memorizing him. Every smirk, every time he ruffled his hair or leaned back in a chair like he owned the universe. Every warm, gentle “Hey, Sunshine.” that made you feel like the earth tilted just a little on its axis. He made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you were something more than Max’s kid sister. Something worth noticing. And now he’d be gone for a week with music, beaches, tanned girls in bikinis who didn’t stumble over their words or blush when he got too close. Girls who were his age, and who weren’t you.
It hurt so much that you could be there if not for Max’s selfishness and stupidity.
Your jealousy was ugly, and you knew that. It coiled inside you, black and bitter, twisting around your ribs until it hurt to breathe. You could picture it too clearly: Lando lounging poolside, a drink in hand, throwing his head back in laughter as some girl ran her fingers down his arm. The thought made your stomach twist.
He’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t he? You were just the sweet, harmless Sunshine he teased and smiled at like a big brother. He probably didn’t even think of you once when they booked the flights.
And the worst part? You knew he’d be kind about it. You knew if he realized how much it bothered you, he’d flash that boyish smile and say something like “Next time, yeah?” as if it meant anything. Like you weren’t already drowning in the idea of him being too far away.
You hated everyone at that moment. Max, for shutting you out. Lando, for not saying anything. And mostly yourself, for thinking this year would be different.
You stayed in the guest room for most of the day, the sound of them finishing packing and laughing made your heart ache with every passing hour.
Later during night, you cracked your door open to get yourself a glass of water, and that’s when you saw Lando with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Your breath caught. He looked so… effortless. Tanned already, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, his cap put backwards on his head, and his smile easy as he hummed something under his breath.
He noticed you, smiling at you instantly. “Hey,” He said with that familiar warmth. “What’s up? You hiding from us?”
You offered a tight smile, trying to seem unaffected. “M’just tired.”
“You okay?” He asked, slowing down. There was genuine concern in his eyes, and for a second, it almost undid you.
“I’m fine,” You answered, looking away from his gaze. “Have fun in Ibiza, Lan.”
He tilted his head, stepping closer. “Wish you could come, though. It’d be fun with you there.”
You blinked at him, a hundred unsaid things gathering like a storm behind your lips.
“Yeah,” You uttered, pausing for a second. “It would.”
His eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have. You felt it—the question that hovered in the air, the moment that could’ve been something else if only he let it. But then he smiled, and gave you a playful little wink while turning away. And just like that, he was gone.
They said they said their goodbyes, Max left you the spare keys to the apartment and then the front door finally shut close. The laughter faded, and you were left alone in a house that suddenly felt way too quiet.
For the first time, you realized that you weren’t just crushing on Lando. And you hated how much you wanted him to miss you when you weren’t there.
────୨ৎ────
The first few days felt like a blur. You tried to busy yourself, throwing yourself into hobbies, hanging out with friends, but it was impossible to ignore the space they’d all left behind.
The house was too quiet without the sound of Max laughing, without Lando’s easy banter that always seemed to make you feel lighter. It was as though the entire world had shifted, and you were stuck in place, waiting.
You spent the first days trying not to check Instagram but your fingers betrayed you every time. Lando had posted a photo on his story—shots clinking together at a rooftop bar, the glow of sunset turning the entire sky gold behind him. Max was in the background, grinning from ear to ear. Someone else had tagged Lando in a blurry club video—strobe lights, sweaty dancing, the camera panning just fast enough to catch him whispering into some girl’s ear.
Your stomach turned. You threw your phone onto your bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to let your imagination run wild. But it was no use. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. Lando, sunkissed and effortless, head tilted back in laughter, eyes lit up with the wildness of freedom.
And worse—you saw him with someone else. Someone older, someone who could walk into a club next to him like she belonged there, and someone who wouldn’t blush when he touched her arm or stammer over words when he smiled. And each time, it stung. He wasn’t yours, and he was never going to be yours.
You tried to ignore it. You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. He was Max’s friend. He had never looked at you the way you’d wanted him to. You were just the little sister who was supposed to stay out of their way, who wasn’t supposed to get caught up in the whirlwind of their world. But every time you saw those photos, every time you heard Lando’s laugh in the background of Max’s voice message, your stomach twisted. You were jealous—and you hated it. You hated how much you cared. You felt pathetic. Eighteen and lovesick, aching for someone who probably hadn’t thought about you once since the plane took off.
Still, you found yourself walking into the guest’s room at your house, where Lando usually stayed when he visited your family. It smelled faintly like his cologne—clean, expensive, a little warm. You sat on the edge of his bed, fingers grazing the stitching of his pillowcase, and let yourself imagine what it would be like to be beside him. Not just as Max’s little sister but as you, a girl he could potentially want.
You laid back, curled into the scent of him, eyes fluttering shut as you remembered his laugh, the sound of him calling you Sunshine, the way his eyes sometimes found you and lingered there just long enough to make your breath catch. You imagined him whispering your name instead—slowly, like he meant it.
After a few days of not being able to do anything else than stay at home, you decided to somehow try to distract yourself. You finally joined your friends for a day at the lake, but even the sun felt colder than usual. You turned down a summer party because you couldn’t bear the thought of pretending you were fine in a room full of noise that didn’t sound like his voice.
At night, when everything slowed and the world dimmed, your thoughts always went back to him. You’d scroll through his photos, pausing on the ones where he looked especially carefree—shirtless on the beach, hair a mess from saltwater, sunglasses pushed up onto his head. He looked like someone who belonged in a different world than you. And still—you wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you’d ever wanted anything.
It was a quiet kind of torture. Wanting someone who was both so close and completely out of reach.
By the end of the week, you almost forgot about this all. Then, one night, your phone buzzed. It was him.
Lando:
helloooo
how are things going back at home? :)
hope you’re not too mad at us for going without you
you’d probably be running circles around all of us here anyway
max’s been insufferable btw
You stared at the message, your heart doing that stupid somersault it always did when it came to him. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t a confession but it was something. Proof that he had thought about you, even if only for a second.
You typed out a response, deleted it, and typed again.
You:
it’s going alright
and i’m not mad
just saving all my energy for when i finally get to go next year
And a second later, without thinking twice, you decided to send a risky text.
You:
bet you miss me already :p
You waited thirty seconds. A minute. Two. You started biting your lower lip, overthinking if it was a good idea to text him that. Then finally, he read it and started typing.
Lando:
course I do, sunshine ;)
And just like that, you were smiling again through the ache in your chest. Because even though he was far away—probably drunk and laughing somewhere on an island with a sky full of stars and sand between his toes—he had still chosen to think of you.
And that one message was enough to keep the fire alive. At least for now.
────୨ৎ────
20 & 24
After months of surviving college, stupid assignments, and even more insufferable professors, the most anticipated moment of your life had finally arrived— the trip to Ibiza.
A year ago, when Max told you that the group wasn’t going to Ibiza—because no one could seem to agree on a date or commit to the planning or figure out whose villa to use—you were livid.
After all those years of being left behind, being told you were ‘too young’ or ‘it wasn’t the right vibe’, last year was supposed to finally be your year. You were old enough, you had planned everything, daydreamed about those humid Ibiza nights, imagined the smell of salt on your skin, the sound of Lando’s laughter by the pool. You’d waited for it, and then they all just… didn’t go? Not because of you this time, not because Max slammed the brakes, but because the group simply couldn’t get their act together. It was infuriating, and you felt robbed all over again.
But this year, thank God, they got it together.
You got your parents’ permission (despite Max’s protests), and soon the flights were booked, the villa chosen, and playlists made. This time, you were going. And you had no intention of blending into the background.
The island that had only ever been a dream, a place of reckless abandon that you’d spent countless nights imagining yourself in. And now, you were finally here, standing at the front of the villa with your suitcase in hand, staring up at the imposing stone walls and the vast stretch of sparkling ocean in the distance. The place was exactly as you had imagined—vibrant, chaotic, and utterly alive.
But what really made your heart race wasn’t just the fact that you were on the island you’d always dreamed about. No, it was the thought of him. Lando was here. With Max, with the group, and they had no idea what you were about to bring to the table.
There was a subtle excitement in the air that you couldn’t shake off, a charged anticipation that hummed through your veins. Every summer, you watched from the sidelines, only allowed to catch glimpses of Lando and the others as they had fun without you. But now, at twenty, everything was different. You weren’t a little girl anymore. You were ready to prove to him that you weren’t just Max’s little sister. It wasn’t even about impressing him, not really. It was about finally being seen and being noticed.
As you stepped inside the villa, the cool air hit you, mixing with the salty scent of the sea that had already started to crawl onto your skin. Max, George, and the rest of the crew were lounging in the common area, chatting and laughing.
You took a deep breath, adjusting your sunglasses as you walked toward them. Max caught sight of you first and smiled, but it was Lando who made your stomach do a flip. He looked… different.
He had always looked confident, sure, but now there was a touch of something more—something she wasn’t used to seeing. The way he leaned back on the sofa, his arm stretched across it, his gaze lazily drifting around the room before landing on you. That moment, that slow sweep of his eyes, made your pulse quicken.
“Sunshine,” He called out, his lips curving into that playful grin you knew so well. But there was something about the way he said it now—something warmer, more knowing. “Finally made it to the famous Ibiza trip, huh?”
You smiled, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you stepped closer. “Had to wait a little longer but I think it was worth it.” You answered, your voice a little lighter than you intended.
Lando chuckled. “Well, we’ve been waiting for you. Ibiza’s not the same without you.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them made you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to the statement. Like he actually meant it.
Max shot you a playful glare as you took a seat, clearly not happy to see you join the group. “You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?” He teased. “This is supposed to be our time.”
You just smiled, sitting back on the couch, trying not to look too eager. Lando, though—he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed happy to see you. And that little twist in your stomach? It was definitely not from nerves.
You couldn’t help yourself. The longer you sat there, watching them all joke and laugh, the more you realized just how much he had always been the missing piece. The way he moved, the way he laughed—God, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
Your fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the chair, your mind spinning with the possibilities. Could you finally make your move? Now that you were here, now that you were no longer just Max’s little sister?
Lando caught you looking at him. His lips twitched, a small, amused smile playing on his face. There it was again—that subtle warmth. That pull, that thing that made you feel like you could reach out and touch him, even though he wasn’t exactly within your reach.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Lando asked, his voice smooth but teasing, the corner of his lips curving just enough to make your heart skip a beat.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking down to your lips before he looked back up, meeting your gaze. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you two were. Of how dangerous the moment felt.
The moment lingered for a beat too long before Max cleared his throat loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Can you fucking move a bit?” He asked, clearly annoyed. “You’re taking up the whole couch. Maybe go to your room or something.”
Lando chuckled, a deep sound that made your pulse flutter. “Max,” He said, his tone light but firm, “Don’t be a buzzkill. She’s allowed to hang out. Plus, we could use her company.”
The way Lando defended you, made your stomach flip again. But Max wasn’t having it. “Ehh, whatever.” He muttered, rolling his eyes as he went to grab another drink.
He didn’t understand, he didn’t see. But Lando? Lando seemed different. There was something else there now, something unspoken.
As the evening progressed, the group gathered around the large table on the patio, everyone sharing drinks and laughing as the sun dipped below the horizon. Music pulsed in the background, and Lando kept glancing over at you, his eyes following your every move. You caught him once, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary, before he quickly averted his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line.
But it was when they were all standing by the pool, the moonlight reflecting off the water, that everything changed. Lando was standing a little too close. His hand brushed yours by accident when he reached for his drink, and that simple touch was enough to send a jolt through your body.
Your breath caught. God, he was so close. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle weight of his gaze on you as he turned slightly, eyes darkened under the dim lights.
“Having fun?” Lando asked, his voice low, his lips curling slightly.
“Yup,” You replied, your heart pounding in your chest. “And you?”
His grin widened, but there was something else there now. Something you hadn’t seen before. “Even more now as you’re here.” He said softly, his gaze trailing over you again.
And then it hit you. This wasn’t just some random flirtation, and he wasn’t just being nice. He wanted you. But something held him back. Maybe it was Max, maybe it was your history. But you could feel the tension between you two, the unspoken words, the crackling electricity that only intensified the closer you stood.
Your mind raced, heart pounding as you slowly let yourself get lost in the moment. This was your time, and your chance. And you weren’t going to let it slip away.
────୨ৎ────
The night had settled in, the air warm with the sounds of laughter and the low hum of music from the speakers by the pool. The villa had transformed into a lively, almost chaotic place as everyone mingled, drinks in hand, the weight of the sun finally fading as the stars took over the sky.
You stood with the group of girls, but your attention was fully on Lando—how could it not be? The way he moved, the way he interacted with everyone else so effortlessly—it was impossible to ignore. He was so comfortable here. So at ease, like the place belonged to him.
But tonight, you weren’t just the little sister, the girl lingering on the outskirts. You were here to make your presence finally known to everyone. You had been biding your time, testing the waters with every conversation, every touch, every glance. But tonight, you felt bolder.
You casually walked over to the edge of the pool, the cool water reflecting the soft glow of the lights. Lando was standing nearby, chatting with some of the others, but when you stepped closer, he seemed to feel your presence.
His eyes flicked to you, that same little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the kind of smile that made your heart race. “Everything’s okay, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.
You nodded, but your gaze didn’t leave his. “Yeah, just enjoying the view.” You said, your voice teasing.
You stepped a little closer, just enough that the distance between you two was almost nonexistent. Lando glanced at you sideways, an eyebrow raising, his lips curling into that familiar grin that always made your stomach twist. But this time, you weren’t backing down. You weren’t just the girl who stood at the edge of the group, hoping for a chance to be noticed.
You took a deep breath, leaning in slightly. “And you?” You asked, your tone light, but your eyes holding a challenge. “Enjoying the view too?”
The way his eyes flickered down to your lips made your heart skip. And just like that, the playful tone in his voice shifted, becoming a little more serious, a little more heated.
“Always, it’s Ibiza, after all,” He replied, voice low and almost too smooth. “And I must say I like the view better when it’s you in it.”
It was the first time he’d said something like that, and you felt the rush of excitement surge through your veins. This was it. The moment you had been waiting for. The line between teasing and truth had blurred, and you weren’t going to let it slip away.
You smiled, your lips curving with a newfound confidence. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I think I’m starting to like the view here, too. It’s Ibiza, after all.” You added, mocking his words with a small smirk wandering on your lips.
He watched you, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. It was just you and him, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off each other, the air between you charged with something undeniable.
But then, just as quickly as it started, the tension broke. Max walked over, clapping his hand down on Lando’s shoulder, pulling him back into the conversation. “Lando, stop flirting with my sister and come help me with the music.”
You felt the air leave your lungs as the moment shattered. Max had ruined it, again. He always did. But Lando, at that moment, did something unexpected. He gave you one last lingering look, his gaze flicking to Max, then back to you, as if weighing something in his mind.
With a grin, Lando answered, “I’m not flirting, mate. Just having a good chat with your sister.”
Max shot him an incredulous look but shrugged, unaware of the tension that was still hanging in the air between you and Lando. It felt like a victory, even if only for a moment. You had gotten his attention. And now, you knew for sure—he was also paying attention to you.
The night wore on, and as the group started to get louder, more rowdy, you couldn’t help but feel the electric charge between you and Lando grow. He didn’t leave your side for long. Every time you turned around, he was there, standing just a little too close, his gaze holding a bit more than the usual friendly banter.
At one point, you found yourself near the bar, chatting with the others when Lando casually leaned against the counter beside you. He was so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, hear the rhythm of his breathing as he watched you. You could sense the shift in the air.
“Do you always get this close to everyone?” You asked, trying to keep your voice light, but there was a trace of something else underneath.
Lando chuckled, his eyes narrowing playfully as he shifted closer. “Only to people I actually want to talk to.” Your heart raced at his words, and before you could respond, he added, “And sometimes, it’s nice to be close to someone you can trust.”
You paused, the weight of his words sinking in. Was he talking about you? Or was it just him being Lando—flirty and charming without even realizing the effect he had?
But before you could overthink it, he stood up straighter, his attention momentarily diverted by something else happening around the villa. The air seemed to shift again, and for the briefest of moments, you felt something crackle between you both—an unspoken understanding.
The night continued, full of music, dancing, and laughter, but you couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he seemed to seek you out, how every time he looked at you, there was that spark, that quiet intensity. It wasn’t just a game anymore, and you knew it. He knew it.
But there was something in the way he always pulled away, something that kept him from crossing that final line. Max—the friendship. His own internal battle between his desire and his loyalty. And yet, even as he tried to distance himself, every glance, every word told you the truth. Lando was fighting it too.
As the night wore on, you found yourself alone, sitting by the edge of the pool again while the moonlight casted long shadows over the water. It was quieter out here, the only sound being the soft lap of the water against the tiles and the occasional murmur of voices drifting from the house. For a moment, it felt like time had paused. Like the world was holding its breath. The group had already moved inside the villa except him, and you.
Lando was watching you from the doorway, leaning against it. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were what gave him away.
You turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. “You know,” You started, your voice bold, “I’ve been sitting here long enough, wondering when you’d stop staring and come over. I think it’s your turn to make the move, Lan.”
Lando’s head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes didn’t meet yours right away—instead, they flicked toward the pool, where moonlight danced across the water like it was in on the secret too.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, casual as ever, but his tone was just a little too careful, too practiced.
His jaw tightened as he fought the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at you, and there it was—that familiar, maddening smile. The one that made your stomach twist and your thoughts scatter.
“But I think,” Lando murmured, low and smooth, “I’ll keep you waiting a little longer, Sunshine.”
But there was something in his eyes—something that said it wouldn’t be much longer before that waiting was over. And that made the anticipation all the sweeter.
With that, he disappeared into the house, leaving you sitting there, heart pounding, every nerve on edge. You stayed by the pool, your mind racing with everything that had just happened. The way his eyes had said more than his lips ever could. You knew. He felt it too.
But there was something else there. Something you hadn’t quite figured out. What was he so afraid of?
The night continued, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Lando’s presence, even though he was no longer nearby. Every glance you caught from him, every moment where his eyes met yours across the room—it was like a game, a dangerous, thrilling dance you both seemed to be playing. But Lando was trying so hard to hold himself back, and then you realized, for the first time, that it wasn’t just about Max anymore.
Lando was afraid of what could happen if he let go—afraid of the consequences.
And that only made you want him more.
────୨ৎ────
The villa was heavy with sleep. The kind of quiet that sinks deep into the walls after a long day—after too much sun, too much wine, and just enough laughter to leave the air still buzzing, even if the house itself had gone still.
When you stepped out of the bathroom, the echo of laughter and music from earlier was replaced with the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of old floorboards. The party had gone late, but you’d peeled off early, skin sticky from the saltwater pool, and the Ibiza heat.
You were freshly showered—towel wrapped tightly around your body, hair damp against your shoulders—and you realized, with a tiny internal scream, that in the emotional packaging you’d forgotten to pack your pajamas. It was a rookie mistake, but you couldn’t face crawling into bed with just a towel wrapped around you.
You stepped quietly out of the bathroom, your skin still damp and goosebumps prickling along your arms from the cool night air inside the villa. The halls were dark, except for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the large windows. The house was silent, everyone else either asleep or lost in their own worlds.
With careful steps and the towel clutched tighter around you, you tiptoed down the hallway, soft-footed on the tiles. Max’s room was just a few doors away. You told yourself it was harmless. Just one oversized shirt—he’d never even notice.
You opened the door softly and slipped inside, closing it behind you without a sound. The room was dark, moonlight spilling in through the open window and casting soft silver patterns across the bed, the walls. It smelled faintly of Max—a mix of soap, cologne, and the salty air from the beach.
You moved over to his dresser and pulled open a drawer. There was no need to be picky, just a shirt big enough to cover you for the night.
Your fingers rifled through shirts until you found one soft and loose, smelling faintly of detergent and someone else. Familiar. You didn’t question it, just pulled it over your head, feeling the fabric drape over your damp skin.. It hung low on you, grazing mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The hem brushed your bare legs, and for some reason, it felt more intimate than it should.
You exhaled, almost a laugh. Whatever. It was just a shirt. You didn’t care.
Quiet as a shadow, you slipped out of Max’s room and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. The villa was dead silent, moonlight pooling through the windows, casting silver paths across the tile floor. Your bare feet made almost no sound, but your heart thundered too loud in your ears.
The fridge door creaked softly as you opened it, cool air brushing your face. You grabbed a bottle of water, taking a slow sip. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and herbs left from the day’s cooking And then you felt it—that subtle shift in the air. Before you could turn around, you heard him behind you.
“Is that my shirt?”
You froze, heart catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned. And sure enough, there he was. Lando. Standing at the edge of the kitchen, barefoot, his hair still damp from the pool, curls a little messy and his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His voice was quiet but not sleepy. Not surprised, either.
You blinked, looking down at yourself instinctively. “Is it?” You feigned surprise.
“You didn’t know?” His eyes didn’t leave you, a smirk already spreading on his lips.
“I grabbed it from Max’s room,” You answered, shrugging. “I didn’t know it was yours.”
Lando nodded once but he didn’t take his eyes off you. “I must have left it in his room the last time we stayed here,” He said. “Figured he’d steal it, not you.”
You felt your skin prickle under the fabric, heat crawling up your neck. You bit your lip, trying to keep your voice even. “Well, I’m sorry but I forgot my pajamas, and it was the first thing I found. Didn’t stop to sniff it and guess which boy it belonged to.” You sipped the water, trying not to let your hand shake.
“Sure,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You’ve got good taste, at least.” You rolled your eyes at him, but your heart was a mess.
You raised a brow, looking at him questioningly. “Excuse me?”
He smiled. That slow, teasing smile that made your breath catch and your legs feel less than stable. “You could’ve taken anything. But you picked mine.” His voice dropped slightly, velvet smooth. “You sure that was just an accident?”
“I didn’t look that hard,” You mumbled. “It was the first thing I saw. I wasn’t exactly thinking—”
“No?” He asked, stepping a little closer. He looked at you differently now—like he could see through you. Like he knew.
His eyes dragged down your body, slow and deliberate. “You’ve got nothing underneath, haven’t you.”
Your heart kicked up a notch. “You don’t know that.” You crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the fabric clung to your thighs. “Why are you even here, huh?”
“I was heading to bed but saw the light in the kitchen.” He paused, tilting his head as his eyes narrowed just a little. “And then I saw you, Sunshine.”
Your breath came slower now. Your hand still rested on the edge of the counter, knuckles white. He took one more step, close enough that you could smell the faint hint of his cologne, the same clean citrus and sea air scent from the shirt.
The silence between you stretched—thick, electric, and hot enough to burn. You glanced up at him, tilting your head. “Oh my god, if it bothers you so much I can take it off.”
His mouth twitched like he was about to laugh, but it died before it could come out. His eyes darkened instead. “Careful.”
“Or what?” You challenged, heart pounding. “You’ll tell Max I stole your shirt?”
Lando took one step closer—just one. But it was enough to fill the space between you with something. “Nah. I’m more worried about what I’d do about it. You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” He went on, his voice dropping, low and teasing. “Walking around the villa in nothing but my shirt.”
You smiled despite yourself, but it trembled. “I wasn’t planning to run into anyone.”
“Lucky me.” He snickered.
The way he said it—playful, and hungry. Yet still, he didn’t move any closer. Like he was daring you to do it instead.
Your breath hitched. “Should I take it off, then?”
His gaze flickered to your lips, your collarbone, the hem of the shirt swaying around your thighs. “Don’t.”
The air pulsed between you. Every breath, every look—it felt like you were already touching. “Why not?” You whispered, suddenly reckless.
He closed his eyes like you’d just cursed him. “Sunshine…” He whispered, like it hurt. His soft side suddenly returned as if reminding him that he was going way off the limits set by his best friend, crossing the invisible lines between you.
And then a shuffle came from the house—footsteps. Fast and clumsy down the hall.
Your stomach dropped. You both turned your heads sharply just in time to see Max emerge, yawning, scratching the back of his neck, eyes still hazy with sleep.
“What are you two doing up?” He asked, blinking slowly.
You backed away from Lando as if your skin had caught fire. “Couldn’t sleep.” You said quickly, the lie almost too easy.
“Yeah,” Lando added, voice calmer now, like a switch had flipped. “Just grabbing water.”
Max grunted, barely registering you as he passed. He pulled open the fridge, cracked open a bottle, and drank in silence. You didn’t move.
Lando’s eyes met yours for one fleeting moment—just long enough to remind you that your pulse was still out of control.
And as Max turned to head back down the hall, Lando leaned in ever so slightly, voice a whisper only you could hear. “Keep the shirt. It looks better on you anyway.”
Then he was gone, retreating down the hallway, his steps light but urgent, like if he didn’t walk away right now, he wouldn’t walk away at all.
You stood in the kitchen, the cool air licking at your bare legs. Your pulse was still thundering, and the shirt suddenly felt too thin to contain everything you were feeling. You clutched the fabric tighter. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh, cry, or run after him.
But one thing was certain—you were past the point of pretending this was nothing.
────୨ৎ────
The night was alive with music, the kind that vibrated through your bones and made every inch of your body feel electric. The club you decided to go to was packed with people, their bodies moving in sync to the pulse of the beat. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and alcohol—a heady mix that made your mind spin with anticipation.
You stood with the group outside, the warm night air brushing against your skin, feeling the heat of the moment on the horizon. Tonight was different. The black dress you wore clung to your body in all the right ways, cut just low enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving too much away. The heels were higher than you were used to, but they made you feel powerful, confident—a version of yourself that wasn’t the quiet little sister anymore.
Lando, of course, looked like he belonged on a runway. His sharp jawline was highlighted by the dim glow of the neon lights, and his dark shirt was tight enough to accentuate his muscles, the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. His eyes caught yours when he turned toward you, and for a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade away. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, his lips curling into a subtle smirk.
You caught it. The way his eyes tracked your every move. You weren’t sure if it was because the alcohol—which you decided to drink back in the house for some courage—was starting to buzz through your veins or if it was the fact that tonight felt different, more intense. The air around you was charged, and every step you took toward the club made your heart race faster.
Inside, the music blasted so loud it rattled your bones, the lights flashing in time with the beat, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that swirled around you. You let the music take over, moving in time with it, surrounded by the chaos of the crowd. But through it all, you could feel Lando’s eyes on you, watching you as you danced, his body close, but never quite close enough.
The drinks kept coming. You weren’t one to shy away from a little fun, and tonight, you were feeling particularly bold. One shot, then another. A cocktail to wash it down. The alcohol was starting to warm your body from the inside out, the edges of your thoughts becoming a little hazy, but the clarity of one thing—the one thing you couldn’t shake—remained. Him.
It was like everything around you had blurred into a haze, and he was the only clear thing left. The way his eyes followed you across the room, the way his body leaned closer when he spoke to you. He wasn’t exactly avoiding you, but he wasn’t exactly encouraging anything either. And that only made you want him more.
The group had dispersed, everyone off to their own little corners of the club, but you didn’t care. You were focused on him. You needed to know.
You took another shot and felt the heat spread through you, making your skin tingle. The alcohol started to make you feel bold, fearless even. And it was then that you decided—tonight, you weren’t going to let anything stand in your way.
You spotted him at the bar, broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned in to say something to one of the guys. The neon lights painted his profile in shifting colors, his chain glinting against the open collar of his shirt. Your pulse thrummed harder the closer you got, each click of your heels echoing in your chest like a countdown.
As you walked up to him, your heels clicked against the floor, your heart pounding in your chest. By the time you slid up beside him, you were already trembling with anticipation. Your bare arm brushed against the fabric of his sleeve, deliberate but subtle, just enough to make him turn.
His head whipped around, brows lifting in mild surprise, but then his gaze caught yours. That spark you knew too well flickered instantly in his eyes, like a flame reigniting. His eyes lingered a second too long, dropping from your mouth to the curve of your throat before snapping back up to your eyes.
You swallowed hard, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of him so close it made your skin prickle. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until the words tumbled out, slurred slightly from the alcohol but crystal clear in intent.
“Lando…” You mumbled, his name leaving your lips like a secret, low and ragged.
He stilled, every trace of amusement draining from his face. His eyes sharpened, scanning you with something caught between warning and curiosity.
You stepped closer, your body grazing his—just the whisper of contact, but enough to set you alight. Tilting your head back, you let him see the desire shining in your eyes, and the way your lips parted, trembling with words that tasted dangerous.
“I want you to fuck me.”
The words hung in the air between you two, raw and unapologetic. It was as if everything stopped at that moment. The music faded, and conversations dulled into white noise. For a heartbeat, it was just him and you. The air between you crackled, charged, like the universe itself was holding its breath.
Lando’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face before it quickly shifted into something unreadable. His lips parted, his throat bobbing as he exhaled a sharp breath. A soft, nervous laugh, his voice thick with disbelief.
“What did you just say?” His voice was tight, husky, as though he already knew but needed to hear it again, needed to give you a chance to take it back.
But you didn’t back down. You were beyond caring whether he was surprised or not. You had made up your mind, and you were tired of playing games.
You leaned in, letting your lips nearly brush his ear as you repeated, firmer this time, dripping with reckless desire. “I said, I want you to fuck me, Lando.”
For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move. He just stared at you as you moved away from him a bit, eyes dark and unreadable. His body locked like every muscle inside him was bracing against what you’d just said. The seconds stretched unbearably, each one dragging like molasses, and your pulse pounded louder with every flicker of hesitation on his face.
His jaw tightened, lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. You could see the battle in his eyes—the struggle between the attraction he clearly felt, and the boundaries and limits he had set for himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, almost like it hurt him to say the words. “Sunshine…” The pet name slipped out instinctively, tender and broken. “You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
The dismissal cut sharper than you expected, making your chest ache. But you weren’t about to back down. Not when his voice cracked like that, not when his hand gripped the edge of the bar so tightly the tendons strained.
You stepped closer, lifting your chin to lock your eyes with his. “I know exactly what I’m saying, Lando. I’m not drunk, and I know what I want.”
For the briefest second, something in his expression faltered. His shoulders sagged, and his gaze darted down your face to linger on your lips before tearing away like it burned him. Lando turned his head, jaw clenched, dragging a shaky breath through his teeth as though he needed air before he drowned. His hand gripped the edge of the bar, his knuckles white. The tension between you two was so thick that you could practically feel it suffocating you both.
Lando let out a breath, trying to regain his composure. “Fuck… you’re Max’s little sister. I can’t do this, and I won’t.” He muttered, sharper this time, but even that sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
The words were final, his voice laced with restraint, but you could hear the hint of something else underneath it. The attraction was still there, raw and desperate, but so was his guilt. His loyalty to Max—the barrier he’d been trying to maintain between you—was slipping. You could see it in the way his body reacted to you, in the way his gaze flickered over you like he was fighting an inner war. And you weren’t going to let him win this time.
“I don’t care, Lando,” You whispered, closing the space, your voice steady despite the racing in your chest. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m asking you to fuck me. And I’m not going to stop until you actually do it.”
The words made him flinch like you’d struck him—not out of disgust but out of want. Out of restraint snapping, just a little, around the edges.
His gaze dropped to your mouth again, and for a fraction of a second, you thought he’d finally break. That he’d grab you, kiss you mindlessly, do something reckless and irreversible. But then Lando shook his head, almost violently, his hands coming up as though he physically needed to hold himself back.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” He repeated, his voice shaking a little more than before, though there was something else in his eyes now. Something darker, filled with regret and desire. “You’re not thinking straight.”
You smirked faintly at his response, because you knew him. You knew he was lying.
You pressed your palm to his chest, heat radiating beneath your fingertips, his heartbeat hammering fast and frantic against your touch. His body betrayed everything his words denied.
“But I’m thinking perfectly straight, Lan,” You murmured, softer now, more intimate. “I’ve been thinking about this for years.”
He flinched slightly at your words, his lips parting, but no words came out. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and wrecked. The struggle was written all over his face. He wanted this—he wanted you. But he was holding back, clinging to whatever moral line he had drawn between you. And it was clear that you were getting under his skin.
You leaned back just slightly, letting your fingers trail down his shirt, your voice dipping into something teasing, dangerous.
“Maybe I’ll ask you again tomorrow,” You said, your voice softening, the teasing returning to your tone. “When I’m sober, and you can’t hide behind the excuse that I’m just a drunk, little girl. But don’t think I’ll forget this, Lando. And don’t pretend you will either.”
And with that, you swiftly turned around. The click of your heels echoed through the haze of music and chatter as you walked away from him, spine straight, every step deliberate. You didn’t look back—you didn’t have to. You felt his eyes follow you, heavy and searing, as if memorizing the sway of your hips and the tilt of your head.
The air between you two had shifted—charged with something dangerous, inevitable, and forbidden.
And deep down, you knew. Next time, he wouldn’t let you walk away.
────୨ৎ────
The sun filtering through the curtains was casting soft light over everything in your room. The group was still recovering from the night before, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you as you tried to slip into the background.
You had hoped that the discomfort would fade away by morning, that the weight of yesterday’s night would lift as easily as the hangover, but it didn't. It was like the moment you’d said those words to Lando had somehow become a part of the air in this house, invisible yet so undeniably present.
You had asked him—no, you demanded from him—something you weren’t sure you even had the right to. As bold as you may have acted yesterday, now you were just overpowered by the feeling of embarrassment. But the desire and the need still smoldered within you, making everything feel ten times more complicated.
It felt like you were walking through a dream, as if everything was happening in slow motion. You could still feel the heavy beat of the club music in your chest, hear the sound of your own voice breaking through the haze of alcohol, and see the way Lando had looked at you. The shock, the disbelief, and then that careful laughter as he’d deflected your words, made them feel small, as if it hadn’t been important at all. But to you, it was crucial.
Max had dragged everyone out of beds to spend some time by the pool. With your head still hurting slightly, you settled on sitting at the edge, your feet skimming the water as your thoughts were miles away. You hadn’t meant to retreat into yourself, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to face Lando, to face what had happened the night before.
That’s when you felt it—a shadow falling over you, stopping the scorching hot sensation from Ibiza's sun. And when you looked up, there he was. Lando’s figure blocked out the sun, and your heart skipped a beat, your stomach doing that anxious somersault it always did when he was near.
“Hi Sunshine,” He said softly, his voice calm but something unreadable in his tone. “Do you mind helping me prepare some lemonade for the group?”
Your stomach dropped. The last thing you wanted now was to be alone with him, but at the same time, you couldn’t say no to him. You nodded quickly in response, pushing yourself up from the poolside and following him away from the group, your heartbeat louder in your ears than the sound of the others.
Lando led you inside the villa, his movements slower than usual, like he didn’t want to crowd you or rush anything. The two of you walked quietly through the living room, passing the others without a word, until you found yourself in the kitchen—just far enough from the others to be alone. He took the big, glass jug from the counter, and started pouring cold water inside it. You reached for the lemons that were in the fruit basket, and went to wash them in the sink before slicing them.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you both, thick with unspoken words and thoughts that neither of you could find the courage to voice. It felt like you were both caught in the aftermath of something fragile, something that had the potential to either shatter or grow stronger, depending on how you navigated this.
While you were busy cutting the lemons, Lando finished pouring the water. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before it softened. There was a hint of something behind his eyes. Guilt? Concern? Or maybe a little bit of both.
Finally, Lando was the first to break the silence, his voice quiet but steady. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”
There was a hesitation in his tone, a carefulness, like he didn’t want to overstep, but also like he was waiting for you to do or say something.
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak at first. When you did finally speak, your voice was a little too quiet, your words too shaky to hide the vulnerability behind them.
“I’m fine.” You answered shortly, focused on slicing the lemons. But even as you said it, you could hear the lie in your own words. You weren’t fine, not at all.
The moment you had asked him for something so raw, so real, had felt like it shattered something inside you, and now you weren’t sure how to piece it all back together.
You didn’t look at him even for a second, unable to meet his gaze. The air between you felt so thick, and your nerves were on edge.
You put the already cut lemons inside the jug. “Really. I just… I don’t even know what I was thinking last night.”
There it was—the admission. The guilt that had been eating at you all day. You couldn’t even look at him without feeling heat creeping up your neck.
“You were right, I was drunk,” You muttered, almost too quietly. “And I didn’t mean it.”
You did.
Lando didn’t speak right away. He just watched you as you squeezed the lemon juice into the jug, his gaze soft but intense, like he was trying to read you, and your every word. It was like he was searching for something in you, something that he didn’t quite know how to find.
“I just… don’t want you to think that what happened last night was nothing,” He finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you were drunk, Sunshine. But you don’t need to say things like that to get my attention.” His lips twisted in something close to a half-smile, but it was strained. “You’ve always had it.”
Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment you wondered if he just confirmed what you’d been secretly hoping—that he felt it too. But then the doubt crept in. Maybe you were reading too much into it?
You didn’t respond right away, afraid of saying something wrong again. So you just let the silence stretch on between you, as the moment hung in the air, thick with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Lando said eventually, his voice low. “I know you, and I know that now the regret is probably eating you alive, but… I just want you to know that it’s okay. I mean it.”
You swallowed hard, halting your movements. His words should have comforted you, but they didn’t. They only made the whole situation more complicated for you, and more confusing. The things you said, and the things you wanted—it was all too much now, too close, and too real.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” You uttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “That I said it, or that you brushed it off like it was nothing.” You added, before going back again to squeezing the lemon juice.
Lando flinched at your words, his face flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. It was almost like a mixture of surprise, guilt, and something else.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Sunshine,” He countered quickly, his voice thick with sincerity. “I just— fuck, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed or pressured to anything.”
You wanted to argue, to tell him that you didn’t feel pressured, but the words caught in your throat. You couldn’t explain it, not in a way that made sense. You felt something for him, something that was impossible to ignore, and even now, with the space between you, the tension still hung there—sharp, and palpable.
Lando shifted closer, his movements slow, almost like he was testing the waters, making sure you were okay with his proximity.
“Look,” He started, and you finally moved your eyes on him, immediately noticing the hesitation in them. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me now. But also, I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you away.”
His words struck something deep inside you. It was like he was tiptoeing around the truth, just as you had been. You knew he was holding something back, but you didn’t want to push it. Not yet.
“I’m not… mad, Lando.” You said, your voice a little more steady now, but there was still a vulnerability in it that you couldn’t mask.
Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking with yours. “I get it. I’m not going to bring it up again. But just so you know…” He paused, his voice thick with something unspoken. “I’ll forget about it if you want me to.”
You looked up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. “Lan,” You murmured, your voice barely audible, but thick with meaning. “You don’t have to forget about it.”
Your words hung in the air, neither of you saying anything. After a heartbeat, you finally felt the weight of them, heavier than you had expected.
The distance between you two—both emotional and physical—felt too wide, and yet at the same time, you could sense the quiet longing between you. It wasn’t something that would just go away.
Looking away from his overwhelming gaze, you came back to making the lemonade. You started mixing the water in the jug with the juice, adding some sugar to it.
You weren’t ready to dive into the complexity of what this whole conversation meant. Not yet. But somewhere deep inside, you knew this wasn’t over. You hadn’t even begun to figure out what it all meant for you both.
“The lemonade is done,” You announced, the words barely above a whisper. “Let’s get back to the others.”
Lando gave you a soft smile, but it was filled with so much more than just reassurance. It was an unspoken promise.
And even if neither of you acknowledged it outright, you both knew the truth—neither of you could forget about what happened.
────୨ৎ────
The villa was silent in the aftermath of laughter and thudding footsteps, the echo of the group’s excitement still lingering in the warm night air as the cars pulled away. Ibiza nights were never quiet—unless you chose for them to be. And tonight, you did.
The others had left twenty minutes ago, off to the club downtown, heat and music waiting to swallow them whole. You were supposed to be with them. You even got dressed for it, makeup on, heels clicked against the tile as you floated through the rooms. But the moment you saw Lando in that loose white shirt, the top few buttons undone, the chain around his neck catching the golden light… something in you snapped.
You couldn’t go.
“Guys… uh,” You started, your voice purposely casual, like you weren’t about to combust, “I think I’ll actually stay in tonight. My head hurts, and I don’t think too good.” You added a small laugh, waving your hand as if that would make it less suspicious. It didn’t.
“What?” One of the girls spun around, looking at you with a dramatic pout. “Nooo, babe, you can’t stay in! We already got all dressed up and ready to go, don’t be lame!”
“Yeah, come on, just take a painkiller and you’ll be just fine.” Another chimed in, already half-drunk and swaying to the music.
Max, who was digging through his jacket for his car keys, didn’t even look up. “Do as you want.” He said over his shoulder, tone dismissive, too focused on corralling the group into the cars. You knew him—he was in his herding cats mode. As long as you weren’t actively causing trouble, he didn’t have the bandwidth to care.
But there was one person who cared. One person who wasn’t fooled by you.
Lando stood frozen. He was mid-buckle with his watch, but his fingers had stilled. His head lifted, eyes finding you across the room, narrowing slightly—not in judgment, but something softer, something curious. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.
“You sure?” His voice was low, barely audible over the chatter, but it sliced through everything else like a blade. His gaze held yours, heavy, lingering, like he could see every thought swirling behind your fake smile. The concern in his tone made your stomach flutter. You’d forced a small smile, waving him off like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just consumed your entire body with one look.
The last time you’d been to a club with him… oh god. You still felt the scorch of humiliation creep up your neck when you thought about it. The moment that spilled out of you, reckless and desperate—the way you grabbed his arm, leaned into his ear amidst the chaos and blurted out words you hadn’t even planned to say.
But that was in the past. And now, tonight, he was standing there again—looking devastatingly perfect while doing absolutely nothing, and you knew if you stepped out of this house and into that club, you’d do something you couldn’t undo. So you didn’t.
You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah,” You answered quickly, forcing your lips into a curve. “I’ll be fine. You guys go.”
But Lando didn’t move. He stood there for another beat, eyes flickering over you—your flushed cheeks, your fidgeting fingers, the way you avoided looking directly at him for too long. You could tell he was working it out in his head.
“Alright then,” He answered, voice tighter than before, finally tearing his gaze away. But there was something in his eyes, a flicker of tension, like he knew damn well you were lying.
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving you alone in the villa. You stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, pulse racing as the silence wrapped around you like a velvet blanket. You exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.
You couldn’t take it anymore. You had spent years holding back. Watching him, trailing behind conversations like a ghost. You’d perfected the art of stealing glances, of laughing too loudly at his jokes, of brushing against him like it meant nothing. But it had always meant everything. Every little thing he did sunk into your skin, settled into your bloodstream.
You knew his habits, his moods. Even the way his eyes changed when he was tired, when he was buzzed from two drinks or when he was focused. And this year he had been looking at you like he finally saw you. Not as Max’s little sister, and not as the awkward teenager who once blushed whenever he sat too close. He finally saw you as a woman, and you felt it. And yet… nothing. Always nothing.
You couldn’t blame him, though. Max was his best friend, and you understood the unspoken rule. But God, how long could you be expected to live in this tension? How long could you take being this desperate?
You pressed your fingers against your temples, trying to will the ache in your chest away. The tight, burning throb that had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with want.
Slowly, you walked back to your bedroom, immediately taking your dress off and leaving it on the floor behind you. Left only in a thin cotton thong and a bralette, you climbed onto your bed. The sheets were cool at first, sending a shiver across your thighs, but your body warmed them quickly. Or maybe it was the heat beneath your skin, your pulse pounding in places you couldn’t ignore anymore.
Your skin was warm, almost feverish, and you could still smell his cologne in your clothes. Fuck. You felt him like a presence, even when he was gone.
The air conditioner hummed faintly in the background, and some cicadas chirped outside. Everything else was quiet.
You laid on your back, arm slung over your eyes. But the moment you let yourself relax, his image returned. Lando in that white shirt, buttons open, collar falling lazily across his collarbone. That chain glinting against his warm skin. The veins on his forearms, his smooth hands and long fingers, and that damn smirk.
The sound of your name on his tongue, the way he looked at you during dinner. The moment your fingers brushed when you passed him a drink. The way he laughed, head tilted back, mouth open, throat exposed.
Your hand drifted lower, grazing over your stomach. Your skin was already tingling, goosebumps spreading beneath your touch. You closed your eyes and let out a breath, imagining his hand instead of yours. Bigger, rougher, warmer and stronger. The way his hands would explore you, slap you, and fuck you mindlessly.
You slid your fingers down to the heat between your legs, shoving aside your underwear, hissing softly at how wet you already were. The moment your fingers finally found your pussy, you gasped quietly. You spread your legs wider, your thighs brushing against the sheets, heat pooling between them.
Your fingers started to move slowly at first, tracing gentle circles around your clit, your breath growing unsteady as you gasped softly, already embarrassingly wet. It didn’t take much, to be fair. It never did, not when you were thinking of him. Your other hand moved to your chest, slipping under the bralette, squeezing your breast as you imagined him doing it. The way his hands would be so much larger than yours, more sure.
Your back arched slightly, the tension in your belly winding tighter. “Fuck— Lando…” You breathed, the name falling from your lips before you could stop it. And you kept saying it softly, but desperately.
However, while being lost in the sensation, you didn’t hear the click of the front door opening, and you didn’t hear the soft creak of floorboards. You were too far gone. What you didn’t know, was that about a minute after leaving, Lando realized he’d forgotten his wallet. That he came back, keys still hanging in his hand.
When he came inside the villa again, Lando didn’t expect to hear it—his name, trembling and breathless, coming from behind your door. He froze immediately. He should’ve walked away, left it alone, as it was none of his business.
But the door to your room wasn’t fully closed, it was cracked open just enough to peek inside. And curiosity? It got the better of him.
He moved slowly, each step quieter than the last, every nerve ending screaming at him to stop, to turn around and leave before he saw something he couldn’t unsee. But when he reached the doorway and looked through the small sliver, the breath caught inside his throat. There you were—spread out on the bed like a goddess, one hand between your legs, the other gripping your breast. Your back was arched just slightly, eyes shut, and mouth parted.
He could see everything.
Lando stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth opened. The wallet in his hand dropped noiselessly onto the floor as he stared at you. He should have left, he knew that. Every fiber in him screamed that this wasn’t right, that this was a boundary he couldn’t cross, that this was his friend’s younger sister. But there you were, bathed in the warm golden light of your bedside lamp, glistening with sweat and need while whispering his name over and over again. Your hips kept rocking into your hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.
As he gripped the doorframe, Lando’s knuckles went white. His heart was thundering in his chest, louder than the sound of your moans. It was wrong. So fucking wrong. But he couldn’t look away from your breath-taking figure. You were beautiful—stunning, undone, and raw.
Lando felt like he was dreaming.
He had no idea how long he stood there. Minutes, maybe. Long enough to feel like he was going to lose his mind. But then, he finally snapped, not being able to stop himself anymore.
His voice was low when it came—rough and broken. “Fucking hell, Sunshine.”
You froze. Every muscle in your body tensed as you gasped, eyes flying open. You scrambled for the blanket, your heart hammering in your chest. “What the fuck! Lando, what are you—”
His eyes were dark, and unreadable as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I forgot my wallet,” He explained, a smile wandering over your lips, and voice barely above a whisper. “But then I heard you.”
Your face burned from the embarrassment. “Oh my God…” You hid your face in your hands.
“You moaned my name, Sunshine,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You were thinking of me.”
Lando’s words hung in the air like a challenge, a command, and your breath caught in your throat. You looked up to face him, his eyes never left your face. The heat between your legs was unbearable now, your entire body on fire from the tension, from the way your pulse hammered in your chest.
You didn’t need to hear him say anything more, but when he knelt beside your bed, his hand pressed against the mattress, his weight sinking just a fraction, everything in you screamed for more.
“Tell me to leave, love,” He murmured, the words strained, but his body was still drawn toward you, close but not yet touching. “And I will.”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry with both nerves and desire, but the ache inside you was more powerful than any shame.
“Stay.” You whispered, your voice trembling as you gave in. You wanted this, you needed this.
A sharp intake of breath followed as he exhaled shakily, eyes dragging slowly down your body. His gaze was almost possessive now, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, soaking in the vulnerability you offered, and the hunger he saw reflected in your eyes.
His hand reached up then, lifting your chin gently with his fingers, his thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip as if he was tasting you without touching.
“Good girl.” He whispered, the words thick with a mix of approval and something darker.
The moment those words left his mouth, a tremor ran through you, like a live wire snapping into place. It wasn’t just the compliment—it was the fact that he said it, that he saw you, truly saw you for what you were—his, in that moment. And that thought sent a shock of heat straight to your core.
Without another word, he let his hand fall from your face, trailing slowly down your neck, brushing over your collarbone, your chest. His fingers, long and soft, brushed over your breast, just teasing the sensitive skin of your nipple before moving lower, across your stomach, and finally to where you needed him most.
You gasped at the first touch of his fingers against your wetness, a sound you couldn’t hold back if you tried. The simple touch sent a ripple of pleasure straight through you. Instinctively, you arched into his hand, your back pressing further into the bed as you exhaled in a shuddering breath.
He wasn’t gentle, but neither was he rough. His touch was slow, deliberate—almost like he was testing you, pushing you to the edge without fully breaking you. His fingers worked skillfully, tracing the outline of your folds, sending shocks of pleasure with every calculated movement.
You were trembling, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your belly, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of the fire that built each time he brushed against your most sensitive spots. His fingers never rushed, each stroke sending waves of heat through your body as your chest heaved with every breath.
You were a whimpering mess beneath him, your body wanting more, desperate for him to push you further. “P-please, Lan—” You gasped, your words strangled, unable to hide the need in your voice.
You didn’t know how much longer you could hold back from completely breaking apart. His gaze stayed unwavering, never leaving you as he worked his fingers against you, each stroke coaxing a moan from your throat.
“Please, what?” He teased, his voice low and rough with the tension that clung to him.
He could feel your pulse under his fingertips, could sense the way your body responded to his touch, but he wasn’t done yet. Not yet.
You couldn’t stop the whimper that left your lips. “Fuck… don’t stop,” You breathed, the words escaping in a rush. “I need you.”
A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips, and he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You’ve been so patient, sunshine,” He murmured, his voice a velvet promise of something more, something even deeper. “You deserve this, don’t you?”
You nodded right away, your head spinning, not even aware of how your hips were grinding into his hand now.
“Y-yes, Lan! Fuck, please…” You begged, the desperation in your voice a mixture of need and want, the ache inside you unbearable as he continued to move his fingers inside you, slow but steady.
And then, without warning, he slipped deeper, his slim fingers curving just right as he found that one, sweet spot that made your whole body jerk against him.
“Oh,” He chuckled mischievously, “There is it.”
The breath left your lungs in a strangled gasp as he worked you closer and closer to the edge, the tension so tight now it felt like you might snap at any second. You clung to the bed, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you, as your body fought against the pleasure he was pulling from you.
“Look at me.” He ordered, and you did, your eyes locking with his, but there was nothing playful in his gaze now.
His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed with barely controlled hunger, and for the first time, you saw the restraint he was holding back, the way he was keeping himself on the edge—just like you.
You moaned again, a broken sound this time, your body unable to hide how much you craved him. You gasped his name like a lifeline, a desperate plea for something you didn’t even fully understand.
The way his fingers worked inside you sent shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire body, and your hips pushed into his hand, needing more, needing to feel him in a way you couldn’t put into words.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” He rasped, his voice so low you barely heard him over the sounds of your own desperate moans. “In the club that night? You were fucking insane for saying those words, right next to your brother.”
His words were dark, edged with a raw hunger that sent another wave of heat through you. The admission made you tremble harder, the thought of him wanting you that badly sending your mind into overdrive.
The pressure built and built until you couldn’t hold back anymore, your whole body tensing as the release you had been so desperate for finally came crashing over you in waves.
“That’s it,” He whispered, his voice rough with desire, his thumb brushing against your clit in teasing circles as he continued to thrust his fingers inside you. “Cum for me, baby. Let me see your pretty face.”
You cried out, your back arching off the bed as your body quivered with the intensity of it, a blissful shudder taking over every part of you. Lando’s name tumbled from your lips in a broken cry, and he only watched, his gaze dark, almost possessive as he continued to finger you through your orgasm, making sure to stretch it out, to draw every ounce of pleasure from you.
When the final wave of pleasure ebbed, you were left breathless, trembling beneath him, your body feeling like it was on fire.
You have never come so hard in your entire life.
Lando didn’t move away immediately. Instead, he stayed close, his breath coming as heavily as yours, his fingers slowly pulling out of you, leaving a lingering ache behind. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, but it wasn’t awkward. It was charged, thick with the tension that had been building for so long.
Finally, Lando kissed your forehead gently, his lips lingering there for a moment as if trying to anchor both of you in this fragile moment. You were still too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed by everything that had just happened.
And then, without another word, Lando stood up, pulling away, his fingers still glistening from your juices.
“See you later, Sunshine.” He whispered, his voice soft. And then he put his fingers into his mouth, licking every bit of your release off his finger.
That view, alone, could make you come again.
He didn’t look back as he turned and left you lying there, the weight of what had just happened still pulsing through your veins, and your body still humming with pleasure.
Lando left the house with the wallet in his pocket. The weight of your sweet moans still echoing in his head as a smirk wandered on his lips.
could you write something about lando and y/n talking about their future. he keeps talking about wanting kids even public but also knows she isn't ready now and she's pulling away being pressured about it. he still wants to be the little party boy he is wich makes her uncomfortable and not sure about the dad role
Learning the quiet
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: emotional pressure, discussions about kids, anxiety, lifestyle clashes, angst with a hopeful ending
Summary: Feeling suffocated by Lando's public comments about wanting a family and his relentless party lifestyle, you begin to pull away. A breaking point forces him to realize he must grow up before planning a future together.
Requested: Yes/ Anon
Word count: 5230
Author's note: Writing this one really hit deep. I hope you love watching Lando grow as much as I did!! xx
Masterlist
The afternoon sun beats down on the terrace of the Monaco apartment, baking the terracotta tiles until the heat radiates right through the soles of your shoes. There is no breeze coming off the Mediterranean today, just a heavy, motionless warmth that makes the air feel thick and difficult to breathe. Below, the harbor is a crowded grid of white yachts and shimmering water, but the usual glamour of the view feels flat, almost suffocating. You stand by the railing, your fingers curled tightly around the cool metal, staring out at the horizon where the blue of the sea melts into the pale blue of the sky.
Inside the apartment, the sound of electronic music thumps softly through the closed glass doors, a low, rhythmic bassline that has been vibrating in the background of your life for months. Lando is in the living room, sorting through a pile of neon-colored caps and racing merchandise that his team sent over earlier in the week. He is moving with his usual high energy, humming along to the beat, completely oblivious to the weight that has been settling over you like a second skin.
You take a slow breath, trying to clear the tightness in your chest, but it doesn't work. The pressure has been building for weeks, an unspoken tension that sharpens every time the conversation veers too close to what comes next. It isn't that you don't love him, because you do, with a fierce, quiet intensity that has sustained you through the chaotic whirlwind of his rising career. But lately, the future has started to feel like a trap, a pre-written script that you are expected to follow without ever having a say in the plot.
The glass door slides open behind you, the sound of the music growing slightly louder before the door clicks shut again. Two arms wrap around your waist from behind, warm and familiar, and Lando rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like the expensive cologne he started wearing recently, mixed with the faint, sharp scent of an energy drink.
“What are you looking at,” he asks, his voice bright and buzzing with the residual adrenaline of a morning spent doing simulator work. “There is a massive boat coming into the harbor. Look at the size of the deck on that thing. We should get one like that when I win the championship. Imagine the parties we could throw on a deck that big.”
You try to smile, forcing a small nod, but your body remains slightly stiff in his embrace. “It is huge,” you say, keeping your voice level. “Probably belongs to some billionaire who only uses it two weeks a year.”
“Then we will use it for three weeks,” Lando says, laughing against your neck before kissing the skin just below your ear. He doesn't notice the lack of warmth in your response, he rarely does when he is in one of these moods, flying high on the momentum of his own life. He spins you around in his arms so you are facing him, his blue eyes wide and clear, full of an innocent enthusiasm that usually charms you completely. Today, it just makes you feel tired. “Listen, I was talking to the media team earlier. They asked me this random question about where I see myself in ten years. And you know what I said?”
Your stomach does a familiar, uncomfortable flip. “What did you say, Lando?”
“I told them I want a whole squad of mini-racers running around,” he says, his grin widening as he talks, his hands moving down to rest on your hips. “I said I want at least three kids, maybe four. Imagine it, a little army of Norris kids in tiny overalls, running around the paddock, causing chaos. The journalists loved it. It is going to be in the big interview package for the next race weekend.”
The words hit you like a physical weight, making it hard to maintain your expression. “You told the press that,” you state, your voice flat. “Without even talking to me about it first.”
Lando blinks, his smile faltering just a fraction, though his tone remains light. “Come on, it is just a fun question. Everyone knows we are together. It is cute, isn't it? People like seeing that side of me. They like knowing I want the big family life eventually.”
“But you are saying it publicly, Lando,” you say, gently stepping back so his hands drop from your hips. The distance between you on the terrace feels instant and vast. “When you tell millions of people that you want a big family, it puts all the eyes on me. Everyone starts looking at my stomach, everyone starts asking when it is happening. And we haven't even figured out what we are doing next week, let alone in ten years.”
Lando sighs, running a hand through his curls, looking more confused than defensive. “Why are you getting stressed about it? It is just a dream. It is what people do, they grow up, they get married, they have kids. I want that with you. I thought you wanted that too.”
“I never said I didn't want a family someday,” you reply, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper because the weight of it is too heavy to carry loudly. “But someday is the keyword. I am not ready for that now. I am nowhere near ready for that. Every time you bring it up, whether it is to me or to a camera, it feels like a clock ticking down. It feels like you are pulling me toward something I am not prepared for.”
Lando steps forward again, trying to close the gap, his expression softening into something genuinely affectionate. “But you don't have to be ready right this second. I am just saying, I want it. I want to be a dad. I think I would be a great dad. Think about how much fun we would have.”
You look at him, really look at him, taking in the youthful lines of his face, the casual way he stands, the bright clothing. Your mind flashes to the videos from last weekend, the social media clips of him sprayed with champagne in a packed nightclub, surrounded by a crowd of shouting people, dancing on a table with a bottle in his hand until five in the morning.
“Would you,” you ask softly, the doubt finally leaking out into the open air between you. “Would you really be a dad, Lando? Or would you just be the guy who plays with them for an hour and then leaves to go to another afterparty?”
The question hangs heavily in the hot afternoon air. Lando freezes, his eyes narrowing slightly as the playful light leaves them, replaced by a sudden defensive edge. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you want the idea of a family, but you don't want the reality of it,” you say, the words rushing out now that the dam has broken. “You still want to be the little party boy, Lando. You want to spend every free weekend flying to Ibiza or hosting huge parties here until sunrise. You want the freedom to just drop everything and do whatever you want because you are Lando Norris. A baby doesn't fit into a nightclub. A baby doesn't care about your VIP access.”
“That is not fair,” Lando says, his voice rising a bit, his chest expanding as he takes a defensive stance. “I work incredibly hard. When I am at the track, I give one hundred percent. If I want to let off some steam with my friends on the weekends off, I am allowed to do that. It doesn't mean I wouldn't care about my kids.”
“I am not saying you wouldn't care,” you clarify, your voice trembling slightly as you try to control the rising emotion. “I know you have a huge heart. But being a parent means sacrificing that lifestyle. It means staying home when you want to go out. It means being the responsible one. And right now, when I look at you, I don't see a father. I see a boy who is still trying to live out his twenties as loud as possible. And that makes me uncomfortable, Lando. It makes me terrified to think about having a child with you, because I feel like I would be the only one actually doing the growing up.”
Lando looks down at the tiles, his jaw tightening. He kicks at a small stray pebble with the toe of his trainer. “You are making me sound like I am irresponsible. I am an adult. I run a business, I drive a Formula One car at two hundred miles an hour. I know about responsibility.”
“Professional responsibility is different from emotional responsibility,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulls back slightly, hurt by your words. The rejection stings, but you press on because this needs to be said. “You are under so much pressure at work, I get that. I know you need to escape sometimes. But your way of escaping is to revert to being a teenager who doesn't have any rules. If we have a child, you can't just escape whenever it gets too heavy. You can't just fly away to a villa with ten of your mates and leave me here to handle the reality.”
“I wouldn't do that,” he mutters, though his voice lacks the absolute certainty it had a few minutes ago. He looks up at you, his eyes clouded with a mix of frustration and vulnerability. “Why are you pulling away from me lately? Every time I mention our future, you get this look on your face like you want to run out the door. It makes me feel like you don't see a future with me at all.”
“I am pulling away because you are pushing too hard,” you confess, the honesty painful but necessary. “Every time you talk about it to the press, it feels like you are locking me into a room and throwing away the key. You are creating this narrative that we are this perfect, settled couple ready to start a family, when in reality, we are still trying to figure out how to be together in this crazy world. I need space to breathe, Lando. I need to know that my choices matter, not just the ones you decide to share with the world.”
Lando turns away from you, walking to the edge of the terrace and leaning his forearms on the railing. He looks out at the sea, his shoulders hunched, looking smaller than he usually does. The silence stretches between you, long and heavy, filled only by the distant hum of traffic from the streets below and the muffled beat of the music inside.
You walk over to stand beside him, not touching him, just offering your presence. The heat of the day is starting to mellow into the late afternoon, the shadows lengthening across the balcony.
“I just want to know that we are on the same team,” Lando says after a long time, his voice quiet, stripped of the bravado he had earlier. “When I think about the future, I think about you. Everything I want, the success, the house, the family, it is all because I picture you there with me. I don't mean to pressure you. I just get excited, and I talk before I think. You know how I am.”
“I do know how you are,” you say, your voice softening as you look at his profile. “And I love your excitement. But this isn't something you can just rush into because it sounds like a fun next step. It is a completely different life. And until I see you start to value the quiet moments as much as you value the loud ones, I can't think about making that life with you. I need to see the man who can stay, not just the boy who loves to party.”
Lando doesn't answer immediately. He watches a seagull glide over the water, his face thoughtful and unusually serious. The conversation hasn't solved everything, the divide between where he is and where you need him to be is still wide, but the air feels a little lighter now that the truth is out between you.
“I don't want you to pull away,” he says softly, finally turning his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours for some sign of reassurance. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it.”
“You don't have to fix it today,” you reply, stepping close enough to let your hand rest against his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin. “You just need to listen to me. Stop talking to the cameras about our life before we have even lived it. And think about what you are actually willing to give up to get the things you say you want.”
Lando looks at your hand on his arm, then moves his own hand to cover yours, his fingers locking between yours. He doesn't make any promises, he doesn't give you another quick, easy answer, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a small glimmer of hope that he might actually be starting to understand. The music inside continues to play, but out here on the terrace, the silence between the two of you feels a little more like a shared breath than a barrier.
The next few weeks pass in a blur of European races, a relentless cycle of packing suitcases, boarding private jets, and sitting in the back of dark hospitality units while the world outside shouts Lando’s name. You try to keep your promise to stay present, to support him through the grueling demands of the triple-header, but the conversation on the Monaco terrace remains an invisible line drawn between you.
You see him on the grid, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and VIP guests, his face hidden behind the dark visor of his helmet, a figure of absolute focus and precision. Then, you see him a few hours later, the race over, sitting in a circle of his friends at the airport terminal, laughing loudly over an inside joke, his phone flashing with notifications from group chats planning the next Sunday night getaway. The contrast is jarring, and every time you see him slide back into the role of the carefree, unbothered twenty-something, the knot in your stomach tightens.
It is mid-August when the tension breaks again, this time in a rented villa in the hills above Silverstone. The race weekend had been a massive success, a podium finish that left the entire team in a state of euphoria. Lando had been riding the wave of public adoration for days, his face plastered across every sports page, his name trending worldwide.
The villa is supposed to be a sanctuary for the two of you to spend a few quiet days before the summer break truly begins, but by Monday evening, the peace is shattered. Lando had invited five of his closest friends over, along with a couple of content creators he frequently collaborates with. The large kitchen is covered in empty bottles, plastic cups, and the wrappers of takeaway food. The sound of a techno playlist is thumping through the integrated speakers, vibrating through the floorboards of the bedroom upstairs where you have retreated to find some quiet.
You sit on the edge of the large bed, your laptop open on your knees, trying to focus on an article you are reading, but the bassline makes it impossible. Every burst of loud laughter from the garden downstairs feels like a reminder of the distance between your reality and his. You look at your watch, it is past midnight, and the noise shows no signs of slowing down.
A knock sounds at the door, soft enough that you almost miss it over the music. Before you can answer, the door opens and Lando slides in, holding two drinks in plastic cups. His hair is messy, his cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and the excitement, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. He looks happy, radiant even, but to you, he just looks exhausting.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him and walking over to the bed with a slight sway in his step. “Why are you up here? Everyone is asking where you are. Max is about to start a game of poker, and we need you downstairs.”
“I am tired, Lando,” you say quietly, closing your laptop and setting it on the nightstand. “And I have a headache from the music. I thought this week was supposed to be just the two of us.”
Lando’s face falls slightly, a shadow of disappointment crossing his features before he hides it behind a pout. “Come on, it is just one night. We had such a good weekend, I wanted to celebrate with the boys. We don't get many chances to just hang out without people bothering us.”
“You celebrate every weekend, Lando,” you say, the exhaustion making your voice sharper than you intended. “Whether you win, lose, or finish in the middle, there is always a party. There is always a reason to turn the music up and invite ten people over. I am glad you had a good race, really I am, but I am exhausted from the noise.”
Lando sets the drinks down on the dresser, his movements a little more deliberate now as he senses the shift in the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to you, the scent of alcohol and sweat rolling off him. “You are doing it again,” he says, his voice dropping into that quiet, defensive register you have come to dread. “You are pulling away. You have been like this since Monaco. Every time I try to have fun, you make me feel like I am doing something wrong.”
“You aren't doing anything wrong if this is the life you want,” you say, looking at him, feeling a deep, aching sadness in your chest. “If you want to spend your twenties being the guy who never sleeps, who always has to be the center of the party, that is your choice. But you can't have that life and keep telling the world you are ready to be a father. You can't keep talking about building a family when you can't even spend twenty-four hours alone with your partner without needing an audience.”
Lando winces, the words hitting him cleanly despite the alcohol in his system. “That is harsh. I love spending time with you. You know that.”
“Do I,” you ask, your voice cracking slightly. “Because lately, it feels like I am just an accessory to your lifestyle. I am the person who waits in the hotel room while you do your media, the person who sits upstairs while you party with your friends, and the person whose future you plan out on live television without asking her permission. I am feeling so much pressure from you, Lando, and from everything around you, and I am telling you right now, I am suffocating.”
Lando looks at his hands, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the mattress. The music from below filters through the floor, a muffled, mocking reminder of the world he loves. “I don't mean to make you feel like that. I swear I don't. I just, I look at the guys like Seb or Checo, they have these amazing families, their kids are at the track, and it looks so grounding. I want that grounding. Sometimes my life feels so loud and so fake, and I think if I have a family, it will make everything real.”
“A baby isn't an anchor to fix your life, Lando,” you say, tears finally stinging your eyes, though you refuse to let them fall. “A baby is a human being who needs you to be grounded before they even get here. You can't use a child to force yourself to grow up. You have to do that on your own. And right now, you are still looking for an escape from the pressure of your career, and your escape is to act like a kid yourself. How can you take care of a baby when you still need your managers, your trainers, and your friends to manage your entire life for you?”
Lando stands up, walking over to the window that looks out over the dark garden. He presses his forehead against the cool glass, his shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breathing. “You don't think I can do it,” he says, his voice tight, thick with an emotion he is trying hard to suppress. “You don't trust me.”
“I trust you to drive a car,” you say honestly. “I trust you to be a good friend. But I don't trust that you understand what you are asking for when you talk about our future. You want the highlight reel. You want the cute photos on Instagram, the kids wearing your number, the fans cheering for the perfect family man. You don't want the sleepless nights, the spit-up on your expensive clothes, the cancellation of your holiday plans because the baby is sick. You don't want the part where you aren't the most important person in the room anymore.”
The silence that follows is different from the one in Monaco. It is sharper, cut through with the realization that the gap between your expectations isn't just a misunderstanding, it is a fundamental difference in maturity.
Lando stays by the window for a long time. Downstairs, the music suddenly cuts out, followed by the sound of muffled voices and the front door opening and closing. His friends are finally leaving, or perhaps they realized the atmosphere in the house had shifted. The sudden quiet in the villa feels immense, almost echoing.
Lando turns around slowly. The flush has left his cheeks, leaving him looking pale and tired under the harsh overhead light of the bedroom. “They are gone,” he says quietly. “I told them to leave.”
“You didn't have to do that,” you say, though a part of you is immensely relieved.
“Yes, I did,” Lando says, walking back to the bed and sitting down, this time leaving a significant space between the two of you. He looks at you, his eyes raw and vulnerable. “You are right. About a lot of it. I do think about the highlight reel. Because my whole life is a highlight reel right now, and it is hard to imagine anything else. I am terrified of getting old, I am terrified of losing my spot, and I think I talk about the future so much because I want to believe there is something good waiting for me when the racing stops.”
Hearing him admit his fear softens the anger in your chest, replacing it with a profound empathy. You slide across the mattress, closing the distance between you, and place your hand over his. “There is something good waiting, Lando. But we have to get there naturally. You can't force the future to happen before we are ready for it. And you definitely can't force me to be ready just because you are feeling insecure about your life.”
Lando leans his head against your shoulder, his heavy sigh deflating some of the tension that has held his body stiff for hours. “I am sorry,” he whispers into the fabric of your shirt. “I am sorry for the press stuff. I am sorry for making you feel pressured. I will stop talking about it. I will tell the media team to block those questions.”
“Thank you,” you say, running your fingers through his messy curls, feeling the familiar warmth of him, the boy you fell for before the world decided he belonged to them. “But you also need to think about what we talked about. The lifestyle, Lando. I love that you have fun, I really do. But if we are going to stay together, if we are ever going to build that future you keep dreaming about, I need to see you choose me over the crowd more often. I need to know that you can handle the quiet.”
“I can do the quiet,” he says, his voice small, sounding more like the young man from Bristol than the global superstar. “I want to do it with you.”
“Then show me,” you say softly, kissing the top of his head. “Don't just tell me. Show me.”
The remainder of the summer break passes in a quieter rhythm. Lando keeps his word, the villa stays empty of large crowds, and the constant thumping of music is replaced by the sound of the wind through the trees and the murmur of television shows you watch together on the sofa. There are moments when you catch him looking at his phone, his thumb hovering over group chats where his friends are posting pictures from yachts in Mykonos, and you see the momentary flash of FOMO in his eyes. But he locks his phone, sets it face down on the table, and asks you what you want to do for dinner. It is a small change, a tiny step, but to you, it feels like a mountain moving.
By September, the circus of the paddock returns, and with it, the intense scrutiny of the championship battle. The pressure on Lando increases tenfold as the point gap at the top of the standings narrows. You are back in the hospitality units, back in the hotels, but the atmosphere between the two of you has shifted into something more guarded, more deliberate.
It is the Thursday before the Italian Grand Prix in Monza. The media center is packed, the noise of journalists and television crews creating a low, constant roar in the paddock. You are standing near the back of the team hospitality building, holding a bottle of water, watching Lando sit on a high stool in front of a dozen microphones for his main press session of the weekend.
The interview goes smoothly at first, the questions focusing on tire degradation, team strategy, and his relationship with his teammate. Lando handles them with his practiced ease, flashing his trademark grin, dropping in the occasional joke that makes the journalists chuckle. You find yourself relaxing slightly, leaning against the wall, thinking about the quiet dinner the two of you had planned for later that evening at a small trattoria away from the track.
Then, a veteran British journalist raises his hand, holding a microphone tightly. “Lando, just going back to an interview you gave a few weeks ago where you mentioned wanting a big family, a squad of mini-racers, as you put it. The fans went wild for that. Is that the ultimate goal for you now, balancing the championship drive with becoming a family man? Are we going to see some big news from you and your partner soon?”
Your heart drops into your throat. The air in the room suddenly feels freezing cold. Your grip tightens on the water bottle until the plastic crumbles loudly in your hand. You look at Lando, your breath catching, waiting for the familiar, easy response, the joke that would feed the narrative and slam the door on your boundaries once again.
Lando shifts on his stool. The easy grin disappears from his face, replaced by a expression that is serious, calm, and entirely focused. He looks directly at the journalist, then his eyes flick briefly to the back of the room, finding yours for a split second before returning to the crowd of cameras.
“You know,” Lando says, his voice steady and clear through the speakers. “I think I talked a bit too much in that previous interview. I get excited about the future, like anyone does, but the reality is that I am twenty-six years old. I have a lot of growing up to do myself before I can even think about being responsible for another human being. My partner and I are really happy just focusing on our lives right now, supporting each other through the madness of this season, and keeping our private life private. So no, there is no big news coming, and I would appreciate it if we kept the questions focused on the racing from now on.”
A quiet murmur goes through the press room, the journalists surprised by the sudden boundary set by a driver who is usually so open and eager to please. The interviewer nods, muttered an apology, and the moderator quickly moves on to a question about the asphalt layout of the first chicane.
You stand in the back of the room, your hand shaking slightly as you let go of the crushed water bottle. The relief that washes over you is so intense it makes your knees feel weak. It wasn't just that he stopped the question, it was the honesty in his voice, the public admission that he wasn't ready, that he understood the weight of what he had been playing with.
When the press conference ends, Lando stands up, untangling the microphone wire from his shirt, and walks through the crowd of media personnel. He doesn't stop to chat with the journalists who call out his name, he keeps his head down, walking straight toward the back exit where you are waiting.
He steps out into the quiet corridor behind the hospitality unit, the door closing behind him to shut out the noise of the paddock. He looks at you, his eyes wide, a little anxious, searching your face for approval.
“Was that okay,” he asks, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. “I didn't mean to bring it up again, but he asked, and I wanted to make sure I said it right.”
You don't say anything at first. You step forward, closing the small distance between you, and wrap your arms tightly around his neck. You bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, holding him with a fierce, desperate gratitude that you haven't felt in months.
Lando’s arms wrap around your waist immediately, holding you close against him, his chin resting on your head just like it had on the terrace in Monaco. “I am trying,” he mutters into your hair. “I am trying to learn how to be the man you need.”
“I know,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. For the first time, you don't see the little party boy trying to escape his life, and you don't see the global superstar feeding the cameras. You see Lando, the real Lando, standing firmly in the present, willing to take the slow, difficult steps toward a future that belongs only to the two of you. “You did perfectly, Lando. Thank you.”
He smiles, a soft, genuine expression that doesn't need a crowd to validate it. He takes your hand, his fingers locking tightly with yours, and leads you away from the noise of the track, out into the quiet evening air of the park, toward a future that you are finally ready to build together, one day at a time.
I have an idea because lando keeps saying "that's life"
people always tell y/n that she is naive and always will stay on his side no matter how much of an idiot he might be. she never listened to that but after he kinda ignores her from his life and only doing his stuff alone she realizes and also goes for a girls trip or something. He is of course not being happy about it after seeing pics of her at a club with other men. So he's trying to get her back not understanding why she does all that now and she's just like "well that's life lan" finally being able to show him her rebellious but also toxic side
That's life
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: emotional neglect, jealousy, toxic behavior, angst with a happy ending
Summary: After Lando constantly ignores you, you escape to Ibiza to live your own life. Seeing you move on breaks his pride, forcing him to spend weeks proving he will never take your presence for granted again.
Requested: Yes/ Anon
Word count: 6693
Author's note: Heyy, I absolutely loved writing this rebellious era for you. Let me know what you think, enjoy xx
Masterlist
The relentless hum of the paddock was something you had grown to love, or perhaps it was just something you had grown used to. For the past three years, your life had revolved around the Formula One calendar, dictated by race weekends, qualifying sessions, and the mercurial moods of Lando Norris. You had been there through the podium droughts, the frustrating technical failures, and the glorious victories, always standing just outside the immediate spotlight, ready with a water bottle, a warm smile, and an unwavering belief that he was the best driver on the grid.
Everyone around you, from the marketing team to the mechanics, and even some of your closest friends back home, told you the same thing. You were naive. They said you would stay by his side no matter how much of an idiot he might be, no matter how many times he forgot your anniversary because of a simulator session, or how often he brushed off your plans to hang out with his gaming friends. You never listened to them. You always defended him, telling them that they just did not understand the pressure he was under, that he was just a boy living his dream and you were happy to be his safe harbor.
But lately, the safe harbor felt more like a deserted island.
The shift had been subtle at first. A dinner canceled here, a text message left on read there. Then, it became the norm. Lando started doing everything alone or with his new circle of high profile acquaintances. He went to golf tournaments without inviting you, flew out to fashion shows in Paris while you stayed at his apartment in Monaco to feed his plants, and spent his rare weeks off surrounded by people who only knew him as Lando the F1 driver, not Lando the boy who used to get nervous before media briefings. When you tried to bring it up, to ask if something was wrong between you two, he would just shrug his shoulders, offer a distracted smile, and say his favorite phrase.
“That’s life, babe.”
He said it when he forgot your birthday dinner because he was stuck in a engineering meeting that had actually ended three hours prior, though you found out later he had gone out for drinks with the team instead. He said it when he decided to stream until four in the morning when you had an early flight the next day. It was his ultimate shield, a way to dismiss your feelings without actually having to address his own shortcomings.
The turning point came on a Tuesday in late May. You had spent three hours preparing a home cooked meal, his favorite, to celebrate a rare three day break before the triple header began. The clock ticked past eight, then nine, then ten. When he finally walked through the door, his eyes were glued to his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he laughed at something someone had sent him.
“Hey,” you said, rising from the couch where the food had already gone cold on the table. “I made dinner.”
Lando did not even look up. “Oh, sorry, I already ate with Max and the guys. We grabbed burgers after the sim. I am absolutely exhausted, I am just going to go straight to bed.”
You stood there, looking at the plates you had meticulously arranged, and felt something snap inside you. The naivety that everyone had warned you about did not vanish, but it transformed. It turned into a cold, hard realization that you had spent years pouring your energy into a cup that had a hole in the bottom. You looked at his retreating back, the slouch of his shoulders that you used to find endearing, and realized you were entirely invisible to him.
The next morning, while he was still fast asleep, you packed your bags. You did not leave a tearful note, nor did you throw a tantrum. Instead, you called your three best friends, girls who had been begging you for months to join them on a trip away from the racing world.
“Is that offer for Ibiza still open?” you asked the moment your friend picked up.
“Always,” she replied, her voice filled with sudden excitement. “Are you finally coming?”
“I am at the airport in an hour,” you said.
By the time Lando woke up and noticed the apartment was unusually quiet, you were already boarding a flight to the Balearic Islands. You turned your phone on flight mode, leaning back against the headrest, and for the first time in three years, you did not feel the crushing anxiety of wondering if Lando needed you.
The first two days in Ibiza were a blur of sunlight, salt water, and absolute freedom. Your friends did not mention Lando once, respecting the unspoken boundary you had set by simply showing up without him. You spent the afternoons lounging on yachts, drinking sangria, and letting the warmth of the sun burn away the lingering resentment. You bought new clothes, dresses that were far shorter and more daring than anything you wore in the paddock, where you always felt the need to look presentable and modest as the supportive girlfriend.
On the third night, you went out to one of the most exclusive clubs on the island. The bass vibrated through the floorboards, the lights flashed in vibrant hues of purple and gold, and you felt alive in a way you had forgotten was possible. You wore a backless black silk dress that clung to your curves, your hair fell in loose waves, and your eyes held a new, sharper spark.
You were standing at the VIP bar, waiting for a round of shots for your friends, when a couple of guys approached you. One of them was a handsome Spanish promoter named Mateo, with a quick smile and an easy charm. He struck up a conversation, and for once, you did not politely mention your boyfriend within the first thirty seconds. You laughed at his jokes, let him lean in close so you could hear him over the music, and when your friend pulled out her phone to take a flash photo of the group, you did not shrink away. You posed, leaning against Mateo with a drink in your hand, a mischievous, smoky smile on your lips.
Your friend posted the photos on Instagram, tagging the location, tagging you, and ensuring the world could see exactly how much fun you were having.
Back in Monaco, Lando had just finished a brutal training session. He was sitting on his couch, scrolling through his phone out of sheer habit, expecting to see a text from you asking how his day was or telling him what time you would be home. There was nothing. His brows furrowed. He had noticed you were gone, of course, but he had assumed you were just visiting your parents or doing some shopping. He had sent a lazy text yesterday saying, where are you, to which you had simply replied, out with the girls. He had shrugged it off. That’s life, people do their own things.
But then he opened Instagram.
The first post on his feed was from your friend. Lando froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. The image was bright, loud, and entirely unfamiliar. There you were, looking absolutely stunning, but it was not the version of you he knew. This version looked wild, untamed, and very much single. You were laughing, your hand resting casually on the forearm of a tall, dark haired man who was looking down at you with unmistakable interest.
Lando felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest, a sickening drop in his stomach that he usually only felt right before a high speed crash. He stared at the man’s hand, which was hovering just above your waist. Who the hell was this guy? Why were you in Ibiza? Why had you not told him?
He immediately tapped on your contact and hit call. It went straight to voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail. He switched to WhatsApp, typing out a message with furious speed.
“Where are you? Who is that guy in the photo? Call me right now.”
The blue ticks appeared almost instantly. You were online. But no reply came.
Lando paced up and down his living room, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a burning anger, mixed with a terrifying wave of insecurity. You did not do things like this. You were the sweet, dependable girl who waited for him. You were the one who tolerated his absence and his moods. You did not go to Ibiza and let foreign men touch you in crowded clubs.
He did not sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash photo of you smiling at someone else. By the next afternoon, unable to handle the silence any longer, Lando did something he rarely did during a race prep week. He booked a private charter straight to Ibiza. He told his manager it was an emergency, ignoring the raised eyebrows and the warnings about his schedule. He needed to find you. He needed to fix whatever this madness was.
Through a mutual acquaintance who knew the club scene, Lando managed to find out which villa your group was renting in the hills of San Antonio. By the time his rental car pulled up the winding driveway, the sun was beginning to set, casting a deep crimson glow over the infinity pool.
You were sitting on a sun lounger, a book in your lap, wearing a white bikini and oversized sunglasses. You heard the gravel crunch under the tires, but you did not stand up. You knew exactly who it would be. Your friends had already gone inside to get ready for another night out, leaving you alone by the water.
Lando slammed the car door shut and marched across the terrace. He looked disheveled, his curls wild, his eyes bloodshot, and his usual easygoing demeanor entirely replaced by a tense, vibrating fury.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, stopping at the foot of your lounger.
You slowly lowered your sunglasses, looking up at him with total calmness. The naivety they all talked about was completely gone from your eyes, replaced by a cool, detached amusement.
“Hi, Lando,” you said, your voice smooth. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a simulator session tomorrow?”
“Don’t give me that,” he snapped, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You vanish for four days, you don’t answer my calls, and then I see you all over social media with some random guy in a club. What are you playing at? Who is he?”
You picked up your drink, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. “His name is Mateo. He is very nice. He actually listens when I talk, which is a refreshing change of pace, to be honest.”
Lando flinched as if he had been slapped. He stared at you, his chest heaving. “Are you doing this to hurt me? Is this some kind of revenge because I was busy last week? You know how hard the season is right now. You know I have to focus.”
“I do know,” you said, leaning back against the cushions. “And I decided to let you focus. I am just doing my own thing now, Lando. I am living my life.”
“By grinding on strangers in Ibiza?” his voice cracked, a mixture of anger and desperation breaking through. “That is not you. You don’t do this. You are supposed to be home. You are supposed to be with me.”
You let out a soft, mocking laugh that cut him deeper than any shout could have. It was a sound he had never heard from you before. It was sharp, a little toxic, and entirely unbothered.
“Supposed to be?” you repeated, tilting your head. “According to who? You ignored me for weeks, Lan. You pushed me out of your life because it was convenient for you, because you thought I would just sit around forever waiting for you to notice me again. Well, I got bored.”
Lando took a step closer, his hands dropping to his sides, his expression shifting from anger to a pleading confusion. He truly did not understand. In his mind, he had just been busy being a Formula One driver, doing what he always did. He did not see how his neglect had eroded the foundation you had built.
“I didn't mean to ignore you,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, trying to find the charm that usually worked on you. “You know how it is. It is just the way things are right now. The pressure, the media, the team. It is just life, you know?”
You stood up then, stepping out of the lounger. You were shorter than him, but in that moment, as you looked him dead in the eye with a cold, beautiful smile, you felt entirely dominant. You reached out, patted his cheek gently, a gesture that was patronizing and entirely deliberate.
“Well,” you whispered, your eyes glinting with a dangerous, rebellious light. “That’s life, Lan.”
Lando froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He recognized the phrase instantly. It was his own weapon, his own excuse, used against him with devastating precision. He watched you walk past him toward the villa, the white fabric of your cover up swaying with every step.
“Wait,” he called out, turning around to follow you. “You can’t just say that. We need to talk about this. You can’t just change overnight.”
You stopped at the glass sliding doors, looking back over your shoulder. “I didn’t change overnight, Lando. You just weren’t looking. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go get dressed. Mateo is picking us up in an hour.”
“You are not going out with him again,” Lando said, stepping forward, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist, though he stopped himself before making contact, sensing the invisible wall you had built around yourself.
“Watch me,” you said smoothly, and with a final, devastating smile, you walked inside and slid the door shut, leaving him standing alone by the pool as the darkness settled over the island.
Lando stood on the terrace for a long time, the cool evening breeze doing nothing to soothe the burning chaos in his chest. He looked through the glass doors, but the sheer curtains were drawn, blocking his view. He could hear the faint sound of music and laughter from inside, the muffled voices of your friends as they got ready. He felt like an outsider, a spectator to a life he used to own the starring role in.
He did not leave. He walked back to his rental car, sat in the driver’s seat, and waited. His mind was spinning. How had he lost control of this so quickly? He had always assumed you would be there. You were the one constant in his chaotic world. When the engineers yelled at him, when the fans criticized him, when the pressure became too much, he always knew he could come home to your quiet, unquestioning support. He had taken that support for granted, treating it like a piece of furniture that would always be in the room no matter how many times he rearranged the rest of the house.
An hour later, the front door of the villa opened. Lando sat up straight, his eyes widening.
You walked out first. You wore a striking red dress that cut low at the front and had a daring slit up the thigh. It was a loud dress, a statement dress, something that screamed for attention. Your friends followed you, all of them laughing and talking excitedly. A sleek black SUV pulled up the driveway just then, and the driver’s door opened.
It was Mateo. He looked just as handsome in person as he did in the photos, wearing a crisp linen shirt and tailored trousers. He smiled warmly as he saw you, stepping forward to open the passenger door.
Lando could not sit in the car anymore. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the driveway, the gravel crunching loudly under his sneakers. All eyes turned to him. Your friends stopped talking, their expressions turning uncomfortable, while Mateo simply looked confused.
You, however, did not look surprised at all. You turned your head slowly, looking at Lando with that same detached amusement.
“Lando,” you said, your voice carrying easily across the quiet driveway. “Still here?”
“We need to talk,” Lando said, ignoring the others entirely. He walked toward you, his eyes fixed on your red dress. “Please. Just five minutes. You can’t go out like this.”
“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head. “I think I look great. Don’t you think so, Mateo?”
Mateo looked between you and Lando, sensing the heavy tension. “Yes, you look beautiful. Is there a problem here?”
Lando glared at the Spaniard, his jaw clenching. “Yeah, there is a problem. I am her boyfriend.”
You let out a soft, sharp chuckle, stepping into the space between Lando and Mateo. “Were, Lando. You were my boyfriend when you actually remembered I existed. Right now, I am not really sure what you are. An uninvited guest, maybe?”
The toxicity in your tone was intoxicating to yourself, but agonizing for him. For years you had been the bigger person, the mature one, the one who swallowed her pride to keep the peace. Now, you realized how much power there was in simply not caring, in throwing his own negligence back in his face. It felt good. It felt liberating.
“Please,” Lando whispered, his anger melting away into pure desperation. The presence of another man, the reality of you leaving in a car with someone else, broke through his stubborn pride. “Just come back to Monaco with me. We can fix this. I will change, I promise. I will make time.”
You looked at him for a long moment. For a split second, a tiny part of the old you wanted to give in, wanted to hug him and tell him it was okay. But then you remembered the cold dinners, the ignored messages, and the dismissive phrase he used to wipe away your tears.
“You had months to make time, Lan,” you said softly, your voice devoid of the anger he expected, leaving only a cold finality. “Now, I am making time for myself.”
You turned around, stepping into the passenger seat of Mateo’s SUV. Your friends quickly scrambled into the back, none of them daring to look at Lando. Mateo gave Lando a wary, final glance before getting into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
Lando stood in the driveway, watching the red taillights of the SUV disappear down the dark, winding road. He was completely alone.
The next three days were a living hell for Lando. He did not return to Monaco. He checked into a hotel in Ibiza, spending his days staring at his phone, waiting for a message that never came, and his nights trying to find out which clubs you were attending. He caught glimpses of you a few times, always surrounded by people, always laughing, always looking radiant and completely detached from him. Every time he tried to approach you, your friends would form a barrier, or you would simply walk away into the VIP section where he could not follow without causing a public scene that would ruin his career.
He was losing his mind. The realization that you could survive without him, that you could actually thrive without him, was a concept he had never considered. He had been so secure in your love that he had let it die from starvation.
Finally, the trip came to an end. Lando found out through a contact at the airport what time your flight back to Nice was. He checked out of his hotel, boarded his own private flight, and made sure he landed just before you did.
When you walked through the arrivals terminal at the Nice airport, your bags in tow, you were tired but happy. The trip had been exactly what you needed to break the spell Lando had cast over you. You felt strong, independent, and entirely in control of your own destiny.
You didn’t expect to see him standing near the exit, leaning against a pillar, looking exhausted and worn out. He was wearing a simple hoodie, his cap pulled low, trying to avoid recognition from the public, but his eyes were locked onto the sliding doors, waiting for you.
Your friends saw him first and sighed. “Do you want us to stay?” one of them asked softly.
“No,” you said, looking at Lando. “Go ahead. I can handle this.”
You walked toward him, your suitcase rolling smoothly behind you. As you approached, Lando stood up straight, his face pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear.
“You’re back,” he said, his voice raw.
“I am,” you replied, stopping a few feet away. “I live here, remember?”
“Can I please take you home?” he begged openly, not caring about his pride anymore. “Just let me drive you back to the apartment. Let me talk to you properly, without the clubs, without your friends, without anyone else.”
You looked at him, assessing the damage. He looked truly miserable, a complete contrast to the confident, cocky driver who had dismissed you just a week ago. You felt a twinge of satisfaction, a dark, toxic thrill that you had been able to break him down just by doing exactly what he had done to you.
“Fine,” you said casually. “You can drive me home.”
The car ride back to Monaco was silent. Lando tried to start a conversation several times, asking about the flight, asking if you were hungry, but you gave him short, one word answers, keeping your eyes fixed on the scenery outside the window. You were not going to make this easy for him. The naive girl was dead, buried under the white sands of Ibiza.
When you finally arrived at the apartment, you walked in and set your suitcase by the door. The place looked exactly as you had left it, the plants you had watered before leaving still green against the modern decor.
Lando closed the door behind him and immediately took off his cap, throwing it onto the counter. He turned to you, his eyes pleading.
“Tell me what I need to do,” he said, his voice breaking. “Tell me how to fix this. I can’t lose you, y/n. I realized it this week. The apartment is empty without you, my head is completely messed up. I can’t even focus on the simulator. I need you.”
You walked over to the kitchen island, leaning against it with your arms crossed. You looked at him, your expression unreadable.
“You need me?” you repeated, your voice dangerously soft. “Or you need the version of me that sat in this apartment like a loyal dog, waiting for you to throw me a scrap of attention between races?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer, reaching out to touch your hand, which was resting on the marble counter. This time, you did not pull away, but your hand remained cold, unresponsive under his warm palm. “I need you. The real you. I am sorry I was an idiot. Everyone told me I was taking you for granted, and I didn’t listen. I thought we were fine. I thought you understood.”
“I did understand,” you said, looking down at his hand on yours. “I understood that I was at the very bottom of your priority list. Behind the car, behind the team, behind golf, behind your streaming friends, behind everything. And I accepted it because I loved you. But then you started doing it all alone. You didn’t even want me around for the ride anymore.”
“I was just trying to manage everything,” Lando argued, his voice rising slightly in defense before he caught himself and softened it again. “It is so hard, y/n. You have no idea what it is like out there. The pressure from Zak, the pressure from the fans, the constant media scrutiny. It drains me. When I come home, I just want to shut down.”
“And you shut me out in the process,” you countered, your eyes lifting to meet his, flashing with a sudden, sharp anger. “You used your career as an excuse to be selfish, Lando. And every time I tried to tell you it hurt, what did you say to me?”
Lando opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He knew exactly what he had said.
“You told me it was just life,” you said for him, a cold smile touching your lips. “You told me that’s life, Lan. Over and over again. You used those words to invalidate everything I felt, to make me feel like I was the one being unreasonable for wanting a boyfriend who actually looked at me when I spoke.”
“I am sorry,” he whispered, a tear finally escaping his eye, tracking down his cheek. He looked completely defeated, his shoulders slumping. “I am so sorry. I won’t ever say it again. Just please, don’t go back to Ibiza. Don’t go back to that guy.”
You looked at the tear on his cheek, feeling a strange mixture of pity and power. You liked this power. You liked knowing that you held the steering wheel of his emotions now, the same way he had held yours for years. You stepped closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies. You could smell his familiar scent, a mix of expensive cologne and the faint trace of hotel soap. You reached up, your fingers gently wiping the tear from his cheek, your touch soft but your eyes remained entirely calculated.
“I might go back,” you murmured, your voice a teasing, toxic whisper right against his ear. “Mateo said he would love to show me Madrid next month. During the summer break, actually. When you are supposed to be off.”
Lando gripped your waist tightly, pulling you flush against his chest. His eyes were dark, fierce with a possessive desperation. “No. You are staying here. With me. I will take you wherever you want to go. We can go to Madrid, we can go to Bali, anywhere. Just don’t leave me.”
You looked up at him, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, rapid beat of his heart. You had won. You had broken through the armor of the golden boy of Formula One, showing him that you were no longer the naive girl he could pick up and put down at his convenience.
But you weren’t ready to make it completely better just yet. You wanted him to sweat a little longer, wanted him to feel the lingering insecurity that had been your constant companion for the past year.
“We will see, Lando,” you said, pulling back slightly, breaking his grip on your waist with an easy, fluid movement. You picked up your suitcase, turning toward the bedroom. “I am tired from the flight. I am going to take a shower. Don’t disturb me.”
Lando stood in the middle of the kitchen, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, watching you walk away once again. He knew he hadn't fully won you back. He knew the relationship had changed forever, that the power dynamic had shifted in a way he could never reverse. You had shown him your rebellious, toxic side, and the worst part for him was that he knew he deserved every single bit of it.
He sat down on the couch, burying his face in his hands, the silence of the apartment louder than it had ever been before. He had no choice but to wait, to play by your new rules, and to hope that eventually, you would let him back into your heart. But for now, as he looked at the empty hallway where you had disappeared, he could only think of the words you had thrown at him by the pool.
That’s life, Lan. And for the first time in his life, he absolutely hated it.
The silence that settled over the apartment that evening did not lift for a long time. Lando stayed on the couch for hours, his head resting in his hands, listening to the faint sound of the shower running from the master bedroom. For the past three years, that sound would have brought him a sense of peace, a sign that you were home and that his world was in order. Now, it just felt like a countdown to an uncertain future. He knew he had pushed you to the brink, and the cool, detached version of you that walked out of the bathroom an hour later, wrapped in a plush gray robe with your hair up in a towel, was proof that he could not use his old tricks anymore.
You did not look at him as you walked into the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water. You did not ask him if he had eaten, nor did you offer to make him anything. You simply took your glass, walked back into the bedroom, and closed the door firmly behind you. Lando did not try to follow. He slept on the couch that night, the tight leather beneath him a harsh reminder of the distance he had created between you.
The next morning, the real work began for him.
When you woke up around eight, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries was already drifting through the apartment. You walked into the living area, fully dressed in a casual linen shirt and denim shorts, ready to head out for a walk by the harbor. Lando was standing by the kitchen island, his hair messy, wearing his training gear, but his phone was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was carefully arranging a plate of warm croissants and fresh berries that he must have walked down to the local bakery to get at dawn.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice quiet, almost timid as he looked up at you. “I made coffee. Exactly how you like it, with the oat milk and just a tiny bit of honey.”
You stopped, looking at the spread, then at him. The old you would have smiled, hugged him around the waist, and thanked him profusely. The new you simply walked over, picked up the coffee cup, and took a sip.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice polite but entirely neutral. “It is good.”
“Are you going out?” he asked, his eyes scanning your outfit, a faint hint of nervousness in his posture. “I don’t have to be at the factory until midday. I thought maybe we could take a walk together. Just down by the water. No phones, no racing talk.”
You looked at him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until he began to shift his weight from one foot to the other. You liked seeing him like this, a little desperate, completely eager to please. It was a sharp contrast to the boy who used to grunt answers at you while staring at a screen.
“Sure,” you said casually, setting the coffee down. “You can come.”
That walk was the beginning of a pattern that Lando maintained with fierce discipline over the next four weeks. The triple header of races was grueling, with events in Spain, Austria, and Great Britain back to back, but the way Lando managed his time shifted entirely. In the past, a triple header meant you barely saw him except for brief FaceTimes where he looked exhausted and distracted. Now, things were different.
During the Spanish Grand Prix weekend, he flew you out to Barcelona, but instead of leaving you in the hospitality suite to fend for yourself while he hovered around the engineers, he made sure you were included in everything that was not strictly confidential. Before the media sessions, he would find you in his private room, sit next to you on the small couch, and just talk. He would ask about your day, ask what book you were reading, or tell you a stupid joke just to hear you laugh.
“I have to go do the TV pen now,” he said on Friday afternoon, standing up and reaching for his cap. He paused, looking down at you, his hand hovering over yours. “Will you be here when I get back? It should only take twenty minutes. I told the PR team I am not doing any extra interviews today.”
You looked up at him, a small, knowing smile on your lips. “I will be here, Lan. Go do your job.”
He smiled, a genuine, relieved expression that brightened his entire face, before quickly heading out the door. True to his word, he was back in exactly nineteen minutes, turning down an invitation to an extra sponsor event so he could take you out to a quiet seafood dinner in the city.
At the restaurant, sitting outside under the warm Spanish night sky, you watched him closely. His phone remained faced down on the table the entire evening. When it buzzed with a notification from one of his gaming friends, he didn’t even glance at it. He just pushed it further away, focusing his entire attention on you as you recounted a funny story about your friends back home.
“You’re really trying, aren’t you?” you asked suddenly, swirling the white wine in your glass.
Lando froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He set it down, his expression turning serious, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat, though you refused to let it show.
“I am,” he said softly, reaching across the table to cover your hand with his own. This time, you did not pull away, letting the warmth of his skin seep into yours. “I told you I would. I know I was an idiot, y/n. I know I almost lost you. The thought of you going off to Madrid or Ibiza with someone else, the thought of you just not caring about me anymore, it terrified me. I don’t ever want to feel that way again. And I don’t ever want you to feel the way I made you feel.”
You looked down at his hand, feeling the first real crack in the icy armor you had built around yourself. The toxicity you had enjoyed wielding in Ibiza was starting to melt, replaced by the familiar warmth of the affection you had always carried for him. But you still kept a small part of yourself guarded. You needed to be sure.
“Words are easy, Lando,” you murmured, looking back up at him. “We have had good weeks before. It is the consistency that matters.”
“Then let me show you,” he pleaded, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles. “Just give me the chance to keep showing you.”
And he did. In Austria, despite a stressful weekend on track that involved a frustrating penalty and intense battles, he did not lock himself away in his room to sulk. After a tough Sunday race, he walked straight back to the motorhome, found you sitting in the corner, and simply buried his face in your neck, letting you hold him while he decompressed. He did not push you away, he did not say that’s life to dismiss the bad result, he just stayed close to you, drawing strength from your presence.
By the time the British Grand Prix arrived, the tension that had defined your return from Ibiza had almost entirely evaporated, replaced by a new, tentative tenderness. He spent his few days off before Silverstone entirely with you at his house in the English countryside. There were no high profile guests, no large groups of friends, just the two of you cooking together, watching movies, and taking long walks through the green fields.
On the Thursday evening before the track action began, you were sitting on the back porch of the country house, wrapped in a large knitted blanket as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of deep orange and pink. Lando walked out, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, and sat down on the bench beside you. He slid his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and for the first time in a month, you did not hesitate. You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
“Just how much has changed in a month,” you admitted, watching the shadows lengthen across the grass. “If you had told me four weeks ago that we would be sitting here like this, I probably would have laughed and booked another flight to Spain.”
Lando tightened his grip on you, a small shudder running through his frame. “Don’t joke about that. I still have nightmares about that red dress you wore.”
You let out a genuine laugh, the sound clear and bright in the quiet evening air. “It was a great dress, Lan. You have to admit that.”
“You looked beautiful,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a soft, vulnerable whisper. “But you looked like you didn’t belong to me anymore. And that was the worst part.”
You turned your head slightly, looking up at his profile in the fading light. The sharp, rebellious edge that had driven you to Ibiza was still there inside you, a new sense of self worth that you knew you would never lose again, but the desire to punish him was gone. He had proven himself. He had spent every single available second of the last month making sure you knew exactly how important you were to him. He had learned his lesson, and you had learned yours, you would never let yourself become invisible again.
“I never belonged to you, Lando,” you said softly, causing him to look down at you with a sudden flash of worry in his eyes. You reached up, placing your hand against his cheek, your fingers tracing his jawline. “But I chose to be with you. And I think I am ready to choose that again. To start over. Properly this time.”
Lando blinked, his breath catching in his throat as your words sank in. The heavy weight he had been carrying in his chest for weeks suddenly lifted, replaced by a rush of pure, unadulterated relief.
“Really?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “You mean it? You are giving me another chance?”
“Yes,” you smiled, your eyes softening completely as the last of the icy distance disappeared. “A real chance. But the moment you start ignoring me for a simulator or telling me that’s life when you forget our plans, I am back on a tight flight to Ibiza. Do you understand me?”
Lando let out a breathless, happy laugh, his entire face lighting up as he wrapped both arms around you, pulling you tightly into his lap, burying his face in your shoulder.
“I understand,” he promised fervently, his voice muffled against your neck. “I swear, I understand. No more ignoring you. No more stupid excuses. Just us.”
You held him tightly, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against yours. The road ahead would still be challenging, the F1 calendar would still be demanding, and he would still have his moments of stress and distraction. But as you sat together in the quiet English countryside, watching the stars begin to appear in the night sky, you knew things were different now. You were no longer the naive girl waiting in the shadows, and he was no longer taking your presence for granted. You had started over, on your own terms, and this time, you were both all in.
𐙚 . pairing ⎯⎯ boxing coach!lando x journalism student!reader
𐙚 . summary ⎯⎯ when the grade you need to graduate with a journalism degree is jeopardized by your lack of interest in any other area, it's probably not the best idea to enlist a frustrated ex-boxing champion to save your career. lando norris isn't what he used to be; he's a coach without passion or humility, who pushes his students to the point of injury, and most importantly, he doesn't train women.
𐙚 . warnings ⎯⎯ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (MDNI) bad language??? idk if that's even a warning. sport terms poorly explained or inaccurate. slow burn. eventually smut. p in v. kinda hate sex. kinda dirty talk??? except is not THAT dirty. unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it (i always wanted to say that, lmao)). lando is reaaaaally ooc. angst, i highly doubt this has a happy ending i'm sorry. isack hadjar is kinda haunting the narrative.
𐙚 . word count ⎯⎯ 20k.
𐙚 . a/n ⎯⎯ ok first of all, i've spent the last 6 months trying to finish this draft so i'm sorry if this is absolute garbage. second of all, english is not my first language, so i'm also sorry if this sounds off, so any suggestions regarding the writing or translation will be welcome. and lastly i'll use this space to mention a person that asked me to tag them when i finish this, so here we are. @fuckingsimp4azriel girl i was only able to finish this thank to you, hope you like it!
The chatter of the keyboard was already needling at your nerves, and you hadn’t even been in the café for a full hour. Your nail kept tapping the space bar, gentle and relentless, only for you to erase everything with a furious swipe a second later. The cup beside you —a hot latte, even if autumn still refused to fully arrive— had long gone cold, forgotten while your mind clung to the blank document before you. The open email in the tab above seemed to mock you with its silent impatience.
Four hours and thirty-eight minutes. That was how long the assignment had been sitting on the university’s webpage. The final assignment, the last offering of your entire degree before graduation. A sprawling project meant to consume your remaining two semesters.
With a frustrated exhale, you dragged a hand across your forehead, pushing your hair out of your sight. You were screwed; there was nothing in you. Not a single idea sprouting through the cracks. So much dedication poured into the degree you had dreamed of, only for you to feel yourself collapsing under the weight of one task.
The last damn task.
“Can I get you anything else?” You lifted your head and tore your gaze from the screen for a few seconds, startled by the soft voice of the girl who’d been tending to you all afternoon.
Your eyes ached from spending so long folded inside your own mind while pretending to stare at your work. You sighed, offering the girl —Karin, said her name tag— a belated smile. You really shouldn’t order anything else, not after the ham-and-cheese croissant you had already devoured.
And yet you found yourself answering:
“One of those cheesecake slices in the display would be great.”
“Berry or caramel?” she asked.
“Caramel, please.”
“Right away.” And just like that, Karin vanished again.
You were free to return to your misery for a few more minutes. She came back with a generous slice of cheesecake, and you granted yourself fifteen minutes of harmless indulgence, eating in silence and finally finishing the cold —yet still delicious— coffee.
You stretched your neck, feeling the dull ache blooming from sitting too long in the same position.
Curse this compulsive hunt for perfection.
Clearing your throat, you closed your laptop. You tried to convince yourself that you still had at least three hundred days left to work on the project. To at least begin it. Sometimes the best ideas refused to arrive when you chased them too hard. So you packed your things, paid for everything —and tried not to cry at the numbers on the receipt, the tax of a broke student in her final year— and left the café with the bitter taste of stagnation on your tongue before heading home.
“Hey, sweetheart. How was university?” Your father greeted you as soon as you stepped through the door, kissing your forehead while you slipped off your bag.
“Fine,” you sighed, dropping the bag on the couch, where he sat down again to continue watching TV.
“That doesn’t sound fine,” he teased.
“It’s just this long-term project. I still don’t know how to start it.” You smiled weakly as you took off your jacket. You could hear your mother moving around in the kitchen.
“What’s it about?” he asked, torn between the fight on the sports channel and your academic struggles.
“That’s the problem. It’s completely free-topic.” You shrugged, sinking onto the couch and staring at the TV without really seeing it. “I have no idea what to research.”
“Do it about boxing,” your father said instantly, making you roll your eyes with amusement.
“Okay, I'm going back to mom now,” you mocked, rising to your feet.
“I’m serious, babe. There are fascinating topics. Look! That one there used to be a superstar and retired after his last fight with a rookie. He was disqualified after landing a blow that—”
At some point, you stopped listening. You adored your father, but sometimes his enthusiasm swallowed entire rooms, and it felt like the whole world —his world— orbited only the things he loved, leaving little space for anything else. And he loved boxing so much that he’d talked your older brother into going pro when he was barely out of childhood… and he had tried the same with you.
The truth was that boxing had never really interested you, and there were so many fields you could explore for your final project. Could boxing truly cover everything you needed, when the pressure to deliver something perfect was clawing at your ribs?
“I expect great things from you,” your professor had said earlier that morning when you approached her after class to ask for more details. “You always make your assignments personal. I expect the same for this final project. Don’t disappoint me.” Then she walked away, leaving an even heavier weight on your shoulders.
“You look like you’re trying to solve your entire life in one afternoon,” was the first thing your mother said when you stepped into the kitchen. She loved spending time there, baking pastries and cakes whenever she had a spare hour.
“Because I have to solve the rest of my life today, if possible,” you whimpered, hugging her as she patted your back and kissed the top of your head.
“Don’t force it. Breathe,” she murmured.
It didn’t help much, if you were honest. But she was your mother and you loved her, and you would never say that aloud. So you only smiled faintly. You stayed chatting with her until the hour grew late enough that you reluctantly returned to your room to keep being frustrated at a project you didn’t know how to even begin.
“Come here, sit with me,” your father called out the moment you emerged from the kitchen.
“I have to study, Dad—”
“Five minutes. Give it five minutes, stay a little.” He insisted until you sighed. “You’re always studying. A five-minute break won’t kill anyone.”
You let out a soft laugh and indulged him, sinking onto the couch. You knew enough about boxing to follow the fight on screen, even if you didn’t enjoy it with the same feverish devotion as the old man beside you, who flinched dramatically at every punch.
“There he is, that’s the one I was talking about,” your father said, pointing at the screen just as the camera showed a trainer speaking to his fighter in a corner, probably planning the next round.
“What about him? I thought coachs were older.”
“He was a beast five years ago, but he retired,” he explained, earning an “ah” of understanding from you.
“And why did he retire?”
“Rumors, mostly. Nothing confirmed,” your father hesitated. “In his last fight he practically knocked out a rookie. The rookie retired right after too, but no one knows why, the family refuses to talk.”
“Isn’t knocking your opponent out normal in boxing? Comes with the territory,” you teased.
“Some say the kid might have suffered an injury that kept him from ever fighting again. But Norris never said a word.”
Your eyebrow arched, that spark of curiosity twitching to life at the base of your skull. Genuine, insistent.
You stood up before your father could protest and hurried to your room, opening your laptop again as you dove into column after column written about Lando Norris.
Columns from 2015, columns from 2019, just before he retired. Very few after that, from the years he dedicated himself to teaching. Many pieces about his last fight, and even more criticizing his attitude. None offering anything truly relevant. All riddled with speculation that didn’t feel remotely close to truth. Most were nothing but hollow tirades disguised as journalism, weak narratives built on sand.
It was almost pathetic.
“Illegal Strike, Gentle Consequence,” written by Hill West.
We’ve witnessed hard blows, dirty blows, blows argued about in bars for years. But last night reminded us that sometimes the rulebook sits prettily on the table and nowhere else.
The veteran threw an illegal so blatant even the referee seemed startled to actually react. And still, the punishment was light, almost courteous.
The fighter slipped out of the ring minutes later, as though the disqualification were a footnote in his autobiography. But many will remember this bout as the final mark of someone who forgot greatness requires boundaries.
You frowned, scrolling and scrolling through more opinion pieces, feeling your mind bruise beneath the emptiness of them all.
The last column, the most recent one, was more than three years old.
And you realized this might not be a bad place to start.
The corridor reserved for the victors was narrow and grimy, the kind of passage that clung to the walls of a third-rate gym hosting a fight barely worthy of a flickering spotlight. You had left your father behind a few minutes earlier, keeping watch over the car while you claimed you needed the bathroom.
Except you weren’t going to the bathroom at all.
You quickened your steps, clutching your bag, and slipped in beside Lando Norris himself, matching his pace as if borrowing his shadow. He wasn’t much taller than you; his height was unremarkable, but his body was broad and emanated a self-assurance that pushed you instinctively toward retreat.
“It was a good fight,” you offered, uncertain how to catch his attention in a way that wouldn’t bounce off him like a dull coin.
How did one speak to a man with whom you shared no interests when all you needed from him was information?
Lando turned at the sound of your voice, as though only now noticing the presence walking beside him. You watched his brow furrow, genuinely puzzled.
“What? Do I owe you something?” The question rattled you.
“No,” you answered, as if it should have been obvious.
“Then what? What do you want?”
You lifted your shoulders a fraction, your mind stalling for a few extra seconds as it tried to stitch together a lie convincing enough to save you. You were impulsive by nature, and you knew—given the infuriating lack of information about this man online—that he had absolutely no inclination to talk to any journalist looking to siphon off a few quotes.
No, that approach was doomed.
“I saw your fight,” you blurted out. “Well, your boxer’s fight. It was incredible.” You corrected yourself immediately.
“Right.” His tone was flat, bored.
“I thought you might be interested in training someone else,” you ventured. “I boxed when I was a kid, and I’d like to—”
“I don’t train women.” He cut you off without hesitation.
“Why not?” you asked, offended and disappointed in equal measure.
“Simple lack of interest. Don’t take it personally.” He shrugged.
It wasn’t personal, but you needed this man if you wanted a strong project. You were already obsessed with the scraps of information available about him, and with the idea of how much more you could uncover if you could only stand beside him long enough.
“It’s not personal, but I’m very good,” you insisted. A lie. You hadn’t touched a pair of gloves since you were eleven. “I won all my matches when I fought at flyweight.”
“Hooray. Congratulations. Still not interested.” Lando grew tense, walking faster, eager to shake you off.
“I’m sure I can—”
“Nope. Good night.”
You growled under your breath as he strode ahead, carried by those damn athlete’s legs and graceless efficiency. Maybe you needed more exercise after all; a life spent folded behind a computer screen was taking its toll, and you were only twenty-three.
Still, you were nowhere near giving up.
The leggings felt uncomfortable, squeezing your legs in all the wrong ways, but you forced yourself to ignore it as you pushed open the heavy gym door. The smell of sweat and cheap air freshener rolled over you, though at least the air conditioning breathed a cool, crisp relief across your skin as the door swung shut behind you. Anywhere else the noise might have drawn attention, but the sharp rhythm of punches, the ragged breaths, the shouts echoing off the walls drowned it beautifully.
The entrance was carpeted. Bags cluttered the shelves on the left, and a heap of foul-smelling sneakers claimed the corner. Half-empty water bottles stood abandoned like little monuments to exhaustion.
As you stepped farther in, you collided straight into the sight of the ring: a raised platform, half a meter tall, roped in and holding two people trading blows in a sparring session. You tore your eyes away only to crash into your reflection in the large mirror, and then into the cluster of men gathered around it, all of them watching what seemed to be a demonstration.
You felt so out of place it tightened around your lungs. When you boxed as a child, you never had to stand among grown men, never had to reckon with their size or their presence. Of course you felt uncomfortable in a gym built out of nothing but male sweat and feral energy.
You set your bag down and planted yourself in front of a heavy bag. Maybe it was just your imagination, but you could feel the weight of their stares burning into the back of your neck. They knew you didn’t belong, and somewhere beneath your stubbornness, you knew it too—your posture awkward, your gaze skittering over the room every few seconds, alert in that brittle way prey learns to be.
Still, you told yourself this was a thousand times better than giving up and starting from zero again. Better than chasing a new idea.
So you began hitting the bag. You had no wraps, no gloves, nothing. Not yet. Your scholarship money always arrived at the end of the month, and there were still twelve long days to go. You had no idea how to stretch your monthly budget far enough to add two new purchases with the fifty dollars the state threw at you.
Working wasn’t an option, you thought as your poor technique sent a dull pain through your knuckles. Classes drained too much time and energy already, and your scholarship didn’t allow you the luxury of easing your workload. You couldn’t afford fewer credits. And now you’d be spending even more time training.
This final project would devour you alive. But it was the last one.
“What are you doing here?” It took you a few seconds to realize the question was meant for you.
Lando had a strange, suffocating presence. He was young—likely nearing thirty—but the way he moved, the way he stood, was nearly frightening. He demanded to be looked at, admired even, and he probably knew it.
“I’m training,” you answered, as if it were obvious.
“Not in my gym,” he snapped. “People will think I’m training you.”
“And is that such a terrible thing?” you asked with a smile.
“With that technique, yes.” Your smile died, and heat flushed your cheeks.
Fine. You were terrible.
“I’ll pay you.”
“I don’t want your money.” He said it easily, carelessly.
“Please, I’m genuinely interested. I want to see how far I can go.” You tried to insist.
“I don’t care. I’m not training you.”
You sighed, frustration coiling tight in your chest.
“I promise I won’t be a nuisance.”
“You already are.”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
“I’ll stay in a corner. I won’t bother anyone. I’ll pay for every hour.”
“The gym isn’t set up for you.” Lando folded his arms, and you tried desperately not to stare at the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin.
“What?”
“We don’t have women’s bathrooms or showers. This has been a men-only space since it opened. I’m sorry, there’s no place for you here.” He shrugged. “And I’m not making an exception. Renovations cost money.”
“I don’t need exclusive bathrooms. I just need you to train me. I can shower at home.” Lando frowned, and only then did he actually look at you, as if seeing you for the first time.
“That’s gross.”
You rolled your eyes at the jab, trying to ignore the fresh rise of heat in your cheeks. This was bordering on humiliating. You had never sounded so pitiable.
“I don’t know how else to ask.”
“I don’t care. I already said I’m not training you.” His posture settled back into something fortified, his gaze sweeping you like he was hunting for flaws. “You know where the exit is.”
You bit the inside of your cheek and stood frozen for a moment, unable to believe that was truly all he had to offer. With a long exhale, you turned and walked away, a knot of disappointment sinking under your ribs.
But that wasn’t the end. Because you returned the next morning, far earlier.
It was 10 a.m. when you stepped into the gym, now completely empty. You tossed your bag into a corner near the punching bags, slipped off your shoes at the entrance, and began striking the bag with clumsy, inexperienced blows, trying to imagine how you were supposed to approach this man and convince him to train you.
You knew you couldn’t come to Lando as a journalism student. Given his reputation and his history with the press, he would tell you to fuck off before you even finished saying the word “project.” No, the only way to reach him was through what he still loved, even if that passion didn’t quite beat in your own blood.
How hard could it be? Ten months tethered to boxing, just long enough to uncover who he was, what he’d lived, and all the things the internet refused to say about Lando Norris. Then you’d graduate. Then you could build something stable. You only needed the idiot to soften—maybe if he saw how persistent you were, he would eventually say yes—
“You again. Classes start in four hours.”
Lando’s voice cracked across the empty gym, and you heard his footsteps rushing down the stairs.
You followed the sound and caught sight of his curls descending from what looked like a raised office before he closed in on you, barely three meters away, his stride sharp, his expression carved from ice.
“I’m not enrolled in any of your classes,” you said.
“Of course not. Which is exactly why you need to leave.”
“I’m paying for the hours I use.”
You said it as though the logic were unbreakable, turning back to the bag even though you had no idea what you were actually doing.
Lando stared at you in silence for a few seconds. You tried your best not to feel like an idiot dissolving under his gaze.
“You need wraps. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Oh, brilliant,” he mocked. “You claim to care about boxing and don’t own the basic essentials.”
“Lend me yours. I’m sure you have extras.”
Lando let out a short laugh, almost surprised.
“Get out of my gym, kid.”
His voice held no room for discussion.
You ignored him, focusing on your hopeless punches. Sweat was already gathering on your skin, your breath uneven, your knuckles reddening painfully. You heard Lando click his tongue before stepping closer.
“Spread your feet.” His leg slid between yours, nudging you into a shoulder-width stance. You swallowed a startled sound. “Chin down.” Before you could react, obey, he pushed your chin down with a single finger. “And you hit from your hips.” His hands rested on your hips, respectful but firm, guiding the movement you lacked. His body radiated warmth against your back.
There was nothing improper in his touch, nothing predatory. And yet a spark lit deep inside you, unwelcome and undeniable.
“Hit with my hips?”
“From your hips,” he corrected. “Your whole upper body moves when you punch, whether it’s your right or your left. Using your whole body gives you more power, and it keeps you from injuring yourself if you rely only on your arms or wrists.”
You nodded awkwardly, copying each instruction. Lando stared back with a flat expression when you lifted your head, almost as if you were expecting praise.
“Now get out of my gym.” That was all he said before turning away.
You left that morning with more than disappointment. You carried a thin thread of hope with you too. Maybe if you kept pushing, something—anything—might give.
What did you have so far?
Nothing.
Only the certainty that he really did have the shitty attitude all the other journalists complained about.
The following days unfolded much the same. Lando had no intention of yielding, and neither did you. Sometimes you arrived later, when the gym was busier, and Max —the man who worked with him, as you’d learned— would watch you from afar with that amused little grin that declared you won’t last as long as you think before turning away to mind his own business. Lando remained a perpetual headache, always telling you to get out of his gym yet never truly lifting a finger to remove you. Most of the time you gave in anyway, only to return hours later.
The Thursday of the next week you had early classes, so you couldn’t be at the gym at ten. But you were there at three in the afternoon, when the place teemed with students and men training in every corner. You slipped off your shoes near the entrance, pulled your water bottle from your bag, and returned to the same spot you’d claimed over the past days, punching the heavy bag with the only scrap of instruction Lando had begrudged you once.
Your knuckles throbbed against the canvas, and your stance felt clumsy. You felt small, inelegant, and painfully aware of yourself every time your gaze drifted and caught someone watching you with mild, mocking amusement.
You swallowed it whole. You’d already begun this. Even if you still had time to change your idea and the angle of your project, you were far past retreat. It was a sport, and Lando didn’t speak to journalists, which meant there was little recent information circulating about him. Perfect, you thought. A personal project.
“You’re going to injure yourself if you keep that up.”
You could already recognize Lando’s voice when it cut through the noise, forever serious, forever weary, as if speaking to you cost him something.
“If you’re that worried, you could always teach me,” you replied, a sly little smile tugging at your mouth.
“I’m sure there are plenty of trainers willing to work with you. Boxers who actually train women. Go to them,” he insisted.
“I don’t want them. I want you.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Fine.” You shrugged, but kept punching.
You saw Lando roll his eyes before he walked off, and then Max approached you for the first time since you’d begun this idiocy.
“I’m not a coach, but you might want to move,” Max Fewtrell said, nearly laughing at the confusion on your face. “The whole point of hitting a bag is eventually leveling up to fight an actual person. And a real person won’t stand still waiting to be hit.” He lifted his shoulders in a mild shrug.
You glanced at the bag, then at your feet. He seemed to hear the gears squealing inside your head as you tried to piece the idea together.
“Move around. Your opponent will move with you. You don’t want to hit them as they come in or you’ll lose your balance. Circle the bag and hit it,” he explained, patient and kind.
“Oh.”
You nodded.
“Come,” he said, guiding you to the back of the room.
You understood where you were once he switched on the light inside a small shed-like storage room, revealing shelves stuffed with equipment. Gloves, wraps, speed bags, more heavy bags, cones for drills, everything you could imagine. He reached the section with the hand wraps and pulled out a black pair, simple and tightly rolled, the label noting approximately four meters.
“If you keep hitting the bag barehanded, you’ll injure your knuckles or your wrists.” Max held the wraps out to you, and you took them almost instantly. “Do you know how to put them on?” You shook your head, quick and sheepish. He smiled, as if the obvious one here was him for even asking.
He stepped closer and held out a hand for the wraps. He unrolled one until it was a long ribbon of cloth and took your right hand, extending it between you both as he began wrapping it with strategic precision.
“Two turns around the wrist. Wrap each finger so your knuckles are protected. Two more horizontal passes. And whatever’s left goes back around the wrist,” he said as he worked, showing you visually how it should be done. “Now the other.”
Max was strangely gentle as he held your wrist with one hand and wrapped the fabric with the other. He felt so much more approachable than Lando, and you thought maybe he could give you what Lando refused.
“You said you’re not a trainer… so you’re a boxer?” you murmured, lifting your gaze to study his face as he passed the wrap over your knuckles.
“Not really. I just work with Lando.”
You nodded.
“As friends?” you tried again.
“As friends, yes.”
Max finished adjusting the wrap on your other hand, and you flexed your fingers, testing how it felt. You nodded, approving the sensation.
“How do I convince him?” you asked after a few quiet seconds, just before he could speak. You saw him hesitate, weighing whether to answer.
“Look. He’s right. If you’re genuinely interested, there are plenty of great trainers, even better than Lando, with more patience and better tempers,” he said, rolling his eyes, “who would happily train you. I think you’re wasting your time.”
You exhaled, heavy.
“But you’re just as stubborn as he is,” Max added with a shrug. “So I have no idea which one of you will crack first.”
He walked out of the equipment room and you followed a moment later. Returning to your spot, you noticed the wraps made everything infinitely more comfortable. They were rough against your knuckles, but they softened the impact and kept the bag from biting into your skin. A makeshift cushion.
You stayed there for a long while, replaying the corrections you’d been given as you occasionally watched Lando instruct the others, the younger kids, the teens, the young adults who stood around him eager to learn. You almost envied them, seeing how naturally Norris behaved with them. Less tense, more playful. Good grief, you even saw him smile. He looked younger like that, lighter.
“Take those off. Where did you get them?” His tone was not the one he used with the others.
“Max gave them to me,” you replied, frowning slightly.
“They’re mine, and I don’t want you using them. People will think—”
“That you’re training me?” you cut in, raising a brow as he hummed a curt confirmation. “Heaven forbid someone thinks that.” You rolled your eyes.
But you were already peeling off the wraps, frustrated. You were lucky you liked things difficult; otherwise you’d have thrown in the towel long ago and told both the project and Lando —especially Lando— to go to hell.
“You’ll live,” he muttered, taking the first wrap while you removed the second. “Besides, you need to buy your own things if you plan on staying.”
You looked up at him immediately.
“I thought you wanted me gone.”
“Max told me you paid six months in advance.” Lando grumbled, and you frowned.
“That's…” something in you warned you to shut up. “You said you wouldn’t take my money. What changed your mind?” you asked, brow lifted.
“He already spent it, so I can’t return it,” he muttered through his teeth, snatching the second wrap and walking away, his broad back retreating across the room.
Only then did you allow yourself a quiet, incredulous laugh. When you glanced up, Max was already watching you from the second floor, wearing a conspiratorial smile. You mouthed a thank you toward him, soft and secret, meant only for him to understand.
At least someone's on your side.
Lando didn’t bother you again after that. In truth, he simply proceeded to ignore you… most of the time.
Which suited you well enough. It allowed you to keep training, even if you were still nowhere near your true goal. The weeks crawled forward, slow and stubborn. You managed to hand in the first draft of your final project to your professor, correcting the loose threads you hadn’t fully understood, all while continuing to train on your own every afternoon.
Eventually you had to tell your parents about your extracurricular adventures, once they began asking why you were getting home later than usual. Your father, of course, was more than delighted by your decision, because you hadn’t been able to confess that all this was only to secure that final grade. You blamed his earnest excitement for your cowardice, for the way the truth stuck to the back of your tongue and never made it out.
Which brought you to today. You’d gotten out of class an hour later than usual, which meant training later, and leaving the gym later as well. You sat on the carpeted floor, slipping on your shoes while you waited for your father to text you that he was outside, after insisting on picking you up because of the hour.
It was dark outside, and Lando was beginning to close the gym when you were finishing up.
“I need to lock up, and you’re in my way.” You rolled your eyes at Lando’s voice.
There was something almost amusing about how he always seemed particularly sour around you, as if your very existence grated on him. Ever since he’d given up and grudgingly allowed you to use the gym whenever you pleased, instead of kicking you out and forcing you to surrender, you’d grown slightly more comfortable. Looser. Less on edge.
You couldn’t say the same for him.
“Sorry. I’m just waiting for my ride,” you said as you tightened your laces.
“Then wait outside.”
“It’s dark and freezing.”
“Do I look like I care?”
You laughed, but didn’t argue, and for some reason, Lando didn’t push further. You could feel his gaze on you as you texted your father, sitting on his grimy carpet with sweat in your hair and your cheeks flushed from exertion.
“Why do you push yourself so hard?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence you hadn’t even noticed had thickened between you.
You looked up, startled by the almost intimate air that had settled there. You raised a shoulder.
“Once an idea lodges itself in my head, it’s hard to shake it off. I… fixate, I suppose,” you answered truthfully.
A controlled honesty. A half-truth.
“You’re a real pain in the ass.”
“I’ve been told.”
Silence. You returned your attention to your phone.
“Here.”
Before you even lifted your gaze, something soft yet firm hit you square on the head, bouncing into your lap while you let out a startled yelp. The wraps. The ones he’d taken from you days ago because it annoyed him to see you using them.
“Why—?”
“Monday to Friday. Six a.m. I want you here, and you better be on time,” he said, deadly serious.
“But I have classes at ten…”
“Do you want me to train you or not?” His stare somehow hardened, as if he already regretted the offer.
“Yes sir!” You shot up from the floor like a spring, clutching the wraps awkwardly in your hands.
“Then don’t argue. Six a.m., we start. You’ll be doing strength work, and I’ll teach you how to hit the heavy bag properly. After that, I’m putting you to spar with my other fighters.”
You nodded at every word he spoke. Because the closer he allowed you to stand, the more bridges you could build with the people around him, and the easier your work would become.
“But if you miss a single day, it’s over.”
His tone was iron.
“If you skip even once, that’s it. You’ll take your things and leave, and you won’t bother me again.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Yes s— yes.” You cleared your throat, mildly embarrassed.
“Now get out.” He turned his back to switch off the lights.
“My dad isn’t here ye—” you began.
“Out of the gym. I need to close,” he growled before plunging the room into complete darkness.
You stepped back reluctantly, stumbling a little as you fumbled toward the faint outdoor light and slipped through the heavy door, shutting it behind you.
You had to wait for your father in the cold bite of late autumn, under the thick darkness of seven in the evening. Lando didn’t come out, and you didn’t ask to go back in.
You just went home.
Waking up early the next day was the hardest part. You were never the type to rise before dawn for your classes; one spare hour was usually enough to shower, get dressed, and grant your body and mind the sleep they truly hungered for. Now the sun hadn’t even considered lifting its face from the horizon when you stepped out of your dad’s car. Two minutes to 6 a.m. The gym lights were already burning, which meant Lando was awake. And waiting.
“Good luck, sweetheart. I’ll be back in two hours.”
You kissed your dad’s cheek before climbing out. You clutched your hoodie closer, shielding your neck, and pushed the gate open to slip inside. The cold was nearly identical to the air outside; Lando always kept the place cool, never warm enough to make the world beyond feel like a shock.
You kicked off your shoes in the entrance, staring at the empty gym and feeling like a stranger once again. You left your things in the same cubby as always and walked in.
“Did you eat breakfast?” Lando’s voice startled you. You watched him descend the stairs with that measured, deliberate pace.
He already looked fully awake, energized, composed. His curled hair perfectly kept, his jaw freshly shaved.
“Nope,” you replied honestly, without thinking.
“First mistake. You need to eat before training or you’ll burn out. Less energy, shorter stamina.” His tone had an edge as he passed you, heading toward the second wing of the gym.
An area you had never seen before.
“When I eat before training my stomach hurts. Then i wanna throw up.” Lando turned to you, almost affronted.
“Then wake up earlier and eat two hours before training, but eat.” You grimaced but didn’t argue.
No point in picking a fight with him.
He guided you through the second wing, filled with weight machines like any conventional gym. Same orderly rhythm as the rest of his space; two of the four walls were enormous mirrors. Machines for legs, machines for arms. Some you couldn’t make sense of, others you vaguely recognized from photos or half-watched videos online.
“Routine matters. Every day we’ll do the same thing.” He stopped beside a leg press. “Weights first. Build strength. Add muscle mass. Then we move to the bag. Then sparring.”
You nodded, shifting anxiously.
“I’m going to fix your technique, because right now it’s atrocious,” he continued. “And eventually, when you make decent progress, you’ll join the others in the afternoon. I don’t care that they’re men and you’re a woman. I’ll tell them to hit you like an equal.” You swallowed and nodded. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Lando narrowed his eyes, and you rushed to correct yourself. “Yeah. Yes, I understand.”
“Now watch.”
The next hour unfolded exactly as you feared. He forced you to lift weights until your arms and legs shook, until fatigue wrapped itself around you like a stubborn fog. And he did everything alongside you, twice your weights, flawless form, a quiet elegance that sparked a sting of envy. Halfway through, you realized you were intruding on his usual routine.
He did this every day; staying in shape, training for himself rather than teaching. And now you were part of that cadence.
After weights, he guided you through footwork, the basic lower-body movements you had to internalize. He made you use your own body weight to build control and force for later strikes. He even put you through a circuit that left you sweaty and gasping like your lungs had shrunk, humiliation prickling under your skin each time you caught him biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing outright.
“Enough for today,” he said when you were collapsed on the floor, catching your breath. Sweat dripped from your hair, your face prickled with heat.
“But you said I’d hit the bag and we’d spar.” You attempted to protest, nearly tripping over yourself as you tried to stand. Your arms trembled uselessly.
“You’ll faint if you keep going.” There was teasing in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. “Besides, you have plenty to master before we advance to sparring.”
You let your body fall back onto the mat, grumbling at your racing heartbeat. He almost made you regret your choices. Almost. Because you were sure he was doing it on purpose, the bastard.
Pushing you to the edge, draining you so thoroughly you’d start believing quitting was your own idea.
“Same time tomorrow?” you asked.
“Same time,” he confirmed, turning his back.
You watched him position himself before one of the punching bags, and the urge to leave, to give him space, swept through you. So you obeyed it.
You peeled yourself off the floor with clumsy effort.
“You can use the showers. You stink,” he said casually.
“You said the gym isn’t set up for women,” you reminded him.
“It's just you and me now. Nobody's going to see you using the men's showers.”
You shrugged, taking it as permission, and dragged yourself to the showers. Men’s showers, obviously. You winced at the lack of curtains, locked the door, and finally let the hot water rinse away the sweat and heat that had begun to cling to you like a second skin.
Your arms ached as you washed your hair, but there was a strange glow around you, some kind of quiet revelation. You still knew very little about Lando, but only three weeks had passed.
Three weeks out of almost ten months. You could do this. Truly. The goal no longer felt unreachable from where you stood.
You took your time drying off and slipping into fresh clothes. When you walked out, clean and light and tired in a pleasant way, you noticed Lando was still training. He moved with the certainty of someone shaped by years of repetition. His feet quick, his movements deliberate, almost premeditated.
“So...” you began.
“See you tomorrow.” He cut you off before you could ask anything.
“Yep.” You swallowed the awkwardness and headed to the exit.
Maybe another day.
You put your shoes back on and left the gym without complaint, settling outside to wait for your dad to pick you up.
Over the following month, you slipped into a routine that was almost pleasant. Lando was, to your delightful surprise, just as structured as you—if not more. You trained every single weekday morning without fail, from six to eight. Then, you would leave the gym and head straight to your university classes. Most mornings, you found yourself with time to spare, giving you a quiet window to polish upcoming assignments or study for exams. The afternoons became the sole pocket of the day where you allowed yourself to chip away at your research before drifting off to an early sleep.
Your classes droned on as they always had. Listen, take notes, research, present, repeat. The narrative thread had always been the most captivating part of your degree, even if you still had professors who accused you of being far too poetic in every assignment. But you were so thoroughly consumed by this new rhythm—by the obsessive training and the desperate need to keep performing at your usual standard—that you failed to notice how quickly everything else began to fray at the edges.
And it was, quite literally, *everything* else.
Soon, you forgot to cook in the evenings, only remembering your empty kitchen when you unzipped your bag at university to find nothing inside. In that same quiet drift, you let slip the planned outings with your friends, and the cozy evenings spent with your mother watching movies. Slowly, your entire world narrowed, orbiting solely around your studies and the sweat of the gym.
Every time things began to feel a fraction easier, Lando pushed harder. He stacked more weight on the machines, introduced new techniques, or demanded a faster pace. Perhaps that was precisely what made it so addictive—the knowledge that he was constantly, relentlessly forcing you past your own boundaries, offering no reprieve.
And yet, he never offered a single word of praise.
Lando was inherently a man of few words, or so it seemed to you. He had a way of cleanly cutting off any attempt you made to converse or pry, which was terribly frustrating. This assignment was dragging you far outside your semi-professional comfort zone; while you were used to people opening up easily once you knew which questions to ask, Lando was an emotional brick wall. Thick, imposing, his sheer presence made you want to take a step back.
It wasn't something you were used to. And that only made it more intriguing. You became obsessed with how much you could pull from this story, how much you could evolve as a journalist if you could just break through. At some point, the level of dedication you were pouring into this should have probably been alarming, but there was no one around to pull the reins.
The only time you managed to draw your father's attention was when you started leaving practice later and later. You went from keeping him waiting for fifteen minutes outside the gym to making him honk his horn repeatedly before you finally emerged. Yet, he would always greet you with a sweet smile as you rushed out, cheeks flushed and hair damp, jogging to hop into the passenger seat. Eventually, the delay grew even longer. There were days you’d ask him to pick you up thirty minutes later than usual just to save him from waiting anxiously outside. Other days, you simply forgot the time entirely.
You had been living in this haze for two weeks when your father finally ran out of patience. You were mid-workout when he walked straight into the gym to find you. Lando was guiding your technique, holding up the focus mitts inside the ring, when the heavy thud of the door closing echoed through the space. Both of you snapped your heads toward the sound, as if it were the only thing capable of breaking the trance you were under.
"Dad," you gasped, a sudden, hurried squeak as your old man slowly approached the ring. He wasn't even looking at you directly, too busy marveling at his surroundings to care about anything else. "What are you doing here? It's still early—"
"It's almost nine in the morning," he interrupted, his tone distracted.
"Really?" you mumbled under your breath, scrambling to find your phone to check. 8:48 AM. *Shit.* "Sorry, I lost track of time. Let me get changed and—" You began gathering your things in a frantic rush.
"Good morning. I'm John. Father to this creature." Before you knew it, your dad had stepped up to extend a hand to Lando, who—you only just realized—was no longer standing beside you in the ring, but had already hopped down to greet him.
"Lando Norris," he introduced himself politely, shaking your father's hand.
"Yes, I know who you are." The grin on your dad's face was almost embarrassing; he was looking at Lando with the kind of awe you usually only saw when he was watching sports on television.
"Dad," you muttered through gritted teeth, climbing down from the canvas. That was when you saw Lando smile—a genuine, amused curve of his lips that felt so entirely out of character it threw you completely off balance.
"My daughter and I used to watch you on TV," your father said, offering it up as a crucial piece of trivia. Lando had the decency to look genuinely flattered.
"No, we didn't," you rushed to interject.
"Well, *I* followed your career almost from the very beginning. Back when you were younger and training under Zak." Lando let out a soft "Ah," which would have been comical if you weren't currently on the verge of dying of embarrassment. "It’s an honor that you're the one training my girl. She loved boxing when she was a kid, and her mother and I are thrilled to see her taking it up again."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. She used to be quite good." Your dad nodded with a pride that made you feel incredibly small. "How is she doing now? Is she keeping up?"
You averted your eyes the moment Lando looked over at you. You had rarely seen that particular smirk on his face—the one whose meaning you could never quite decode. He kept his professional boundaries so strictly defined that he rarely smiled or laughed with you; seeing this side of him as he conversed with your father felt surreal.
"She's doing well. She's good," Lando said carefully. His voice carried a rare, soft note of genuine honesty. It was far too gentle for someone who hadn't given you a single direct compliment since your training began. You could swear your father's eyes lit up with pure joy.
"Is she?" your dad sighed, sounding utterly delighted.
"Dad," you almost growled, desperate to snap him out of his reverie.
It worked. Your father pulled his gaze away from Lando and frowned at you, a mix of confusion and mild irritation crossing his face.
"What are you still doing standing there? You're going to be late for class," he scolded, leaving you mildly offended and scowling. "Go take a shower, you stink." You opened your mouth to protest, but your father was already shooing you away with his hand as if you were merely blocking the view, his attention already drifting back to Lando.
You had no choice but to obey.
You rushed into the showers, moving in a blur. You could faintly hear the low murmur of your father's voice mixing with Lando's, but from where you stood with the water rushing down, you couldn't make out a single word. Every now and then, a burst of laughter drifted through, making you scrub faster—driven by both the panic of leaving them alone together and the sharp reminder that you were incredibly late. More than ever.
You managed to shower in ten minutes and throw your clothes on in another five. You were still shoving things into your bag as you emerged from the locker room.
"I'm done! Ready to go," you announced, stumbling your way back to them.
Fortunately, your dad seemed to be wrapping up the conversation.
"A pleasure to finally meet you. Now, I must go drop my baby off at university." You tried to offer a tight smile. You were past the age of being genuinely embarrassed by your father babying you in front of people, but having Lando’s amused gaze fixed on you made the moment feel deeply mortifying anyway.
It was the most relaxed and normal you had ever seen him.
"Of course. Likewise, have a great day," Lando said, stepping forward to shake your father’s hand once more.
"You should come over for dinner sometime," your dad chuckled.
"You invited him to dinner?!" you gasped, the words finally registering in your brain.
Your father clicked his tongue and nudged you by the shoulders to get you moving before you could protest any further. Lando simply gave a polite nod of farewell, leaving you to wrestle your way out of the gym while trying to pry answers out of your father.
"Why would you invite him to dinner? Are you crazy?"
"Relax," your father sighed, rolling his eyes as he used your name like a gentle weight. "I was just being polite."
"Polite," you muttered, sliding into the passenger seat and quickly clicking your seatbelt into place. "What did you even tell him? Did you talk about me?"
"I just met one of the most brilliant stars in boxing, and your biggest worry is that I spent fifteen minutes talking about you," your father remarked, dripping with sarcasm. You let out a huff, your cheeks burning slightly as you looked out the window, finally shutting your mouth.
Perhaps he was right.
Perhaps you were just being incredibly paranoid.
But you remained paranoid for another week.
The training sessions with Lando began to feel a bit more like a chore, mostly because you were far too busy trying to keep the anxiety from registering on your face. You practically vibrated in place whenever you didn't have something to occupy your hands. You never quite knew if Lando simply didn't notice, or if he was just being polite enough not to pry. What you did know was that your gaze was heavy and entirely lacking in subtlety; he caught you staring more than once—long past the point of politeness—as you analyzed and weighed his facial expressions and body language, trying to decipher whether he was annoyed with you or not.
Then again, Lando looked angry about ninety percent of the time. But he never seemed exceptionally angry about anything involving you.
Nothing, at least, that suggested he had discovered some displeasing truth about your motives.
By the end of the week, you had convinced yourself that he was simply grumpy at a level that was... well, entirely normal for him. Nothing more.
Except Lando wasn’t just in a bad mood. While you had grown accustomed to his natural curtness and strict professionalism inside the gym, it had always been just that—until now. For over a month, you were fairly certain he hadn't been taking you seriously; that he was merely testing you, waiting for you to quit so your presence wouldn't claim too much of his time. But during this past week, it was almost... as if you both genuinely enjoyed each other's company.
Almost.
He was still an insufferable coach, carrying that disgustingly arrogant attitude typical of a retired star who still kept in peak condition. You absolutely loathed the way he demonstrated how to throw punches—making it look effortless, almost fluid and stylish—while your own body was left broken, patterned with the occasional dark bruise.
You managed to complete four and a half months of training before the university's Christmas break arrived.
It surprised you when Lando claimed the days surrounding Christmas as a definitive rest period; the gym would remain closed for the week. A few days later, Max mentioned that they would both be traveling to visit their parents, so you didn't question the decision.
Mostly because, in truth, the timing was perfect.
Upon returning from the holidays in January, you were required to present a draft progress report on the research project you were so desperately focused on. In reality, you had barely scraped together any of the investigation or the actual writing. Lando was excessively guarded with any information regarding himself—undoubtedly a habit born from years of dealing with gossips and reporters. It didn't help that the internet offered very little about his sudden retirement or the reasons behind it. Nor was there any trace of information regarding Isack Hadjar, the rising star Lando had knocked out in his very last fight before stepping away from the ring.
Though you were beginning to piece together where the threads might lead, you couldn't build a thesis on mere assumptions and whispers. You needed hard, concrete facts.
The gym closed on December 22nd, leaving you with exactly five days of actual rest to make headway on the project. You sat for hours in front of your computer, staring at a semi-empty document that you eventually filled with hollow, rushed words born of sheer panic. You had nothing. Absolutely nothing.
To make matters worse, you had grown so accustomed to the daily grind of training that you had to admit to feeling a strange, hollow ache during those five days of stillness.
But after the blur of Christmas family traditions—feasting extravagantly for three consecutive days, opening small, mutual gifts, and torturing yourself for hours in front of your university laptop—the gym finally reopened.
You knew this because your desperation had mounted to the point where, since the afternoon of December 25th, you had begun patrolling the block just to see if Lando had returned.
By the 27th, the world had corrected itself.
"You're back," was the first thing you said as you pushed the heavy entrance door open and saw Lando wrapping his hands.
He looked up, caught off guard for a fleeting second. And perhaps it was just your imagination, but his expression seemed to soften slightly the moment he saw you standing there.
"What are you doing here? We're closed until the New Year."
"Well, the door was open," you shrugged, stepping closer and burying your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket. It was warm inside, a stark contrast to the biting frost painting the streets outside. "And you're here before the New Year, too."
"Couldn't stay at my parents' place for that long," he said simply, his focus returning to the scarlet wraps in his hands.
The detail might have slipped out by accident, but you pretended not to know about it anyway.
"So you visited your parents," you smiled, leaning back against the ropes of the ring.
"Yeah. Max and I went together."
You knit your brows slightly.
"You're in a good mood," you let slip without thinking. The comment earned you a bewildered look from Lando, but the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying to suppress a smile. "You don't usually talk this much."
You watched him roll his eyes before he countered, "That’s because we aren't friends."
"Right," you sighed. "Still, you're in a good mood. I mean, I just learned you actually have parents, and we've known each other for nearly half a year."
"Everyone has parents," he said, as if stating the most obvious law of nature, looking at you as though you were an idiot while he finished fastening the wrap on his left hand and began on the right.
"No kidding," you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Shut up and wrap your hands."
Lando shook his head gently, but you caught the faint smile lingering on his face. You didn't want the conversation to end; it was the warmest interaction you’d had in months. Perhaps visiting his family had relaxed him enough to let his guard drop, if only a fraction.
"Are we training?" you asked, stepping through the ropes into the ring.
"What else did you come here for?" He arched an eyebrow, and you merely shrugged, shedding your jacket and bending down to pick up a hand wrap from a gym bag overflowing with them.
You were just beginning to wind the fabric around your left hand when Lando stepped close.
"You're doing it wrong," he said, taking the wrap from your fingers and beginning to wind it himself. "You're still quite incompetent, considering we've been training together for almost half a year."
And just like that, he was back.
"First, you wrap each of your knuckles like this. Not too tight, not too loose," he explained, threading the cloth behind each of your fingers, crossing over your knuckles in precise, protective patterns. "Leave enough room so you can close your fist." He squeezed your fingers closed to test it, then made you open them again. "Then the thumb... then the wrist..."
You let him work in silence, simply watching him. His hands were slightly rough, but not nearly as calloused as you would expect from a professional fighter. He probably used some sort of lotion. He likely cared for his skin, because standing this close, you were certain you caught the faint, clean scent of melon cologne. You inhaled quietly as he finished your right hand and tossed you another roll of slightly soiled white wrap.
"Now you do the other."
You made a face as he stepped away, but you tried your best to mimic his handiwork. It wasn't nearly as neat—especially since you had to use your non-dominant hand—but it was something. If you did a poor job of it, Lando didn't say a word. He simply walked away, his back to you, until he turned around holding a pair of gloves.
Only when he tossed them to you and headed to the corner to retrieve another pair did the realization hit you.
"Are we sparring?" you inquired, your muscles tensing slightly.
Until now, the closest you had come to combat in the ring was hitting the focus mitts. It was a dance of shadow-sparring where Lando was fully engaged—feigning strikes, demanding constant eye contact, forcing you to follow his movements like a moth drawn to a flame.
But you had never, ever sparred with him directly.
Sure, you had sparred with some of the newer guys who joined the gym—the scrawniest, most clumsy of the lot.
But this was an immense leap.
Lando looked up, his gaze carrying a playful, teasing edge that sent a nervous flutter to the pit of your stomach.
"What, are you scared?" he smirked, stepping forward as he pulled on his gloves.
"No," you shot back quickly. "It's just... we haven't sparred until now." You hurried to slip your gloves on, your movements clumsy, fueled by a sudden rush of adrenaline.
"From now on, we're splitting our training hours evenly," he explained, beginning to circle you, slipping into a flawless defensive stance. You quickly copied him, facing him down. "One hour of lifting and conditioning. One hour of sparring."
"You and me?"
"And any of your other classmates. Not just the fresh, clumsy ones."
You barely managed a nod before Lando connected a sharp, light blow to the center of your stomach. You weren't ready, and that was all the invitation he needed to begin pushing you.
"Focus. Eyes on me."
"But we aren't wearing headgear!" you squeaked almost immediately, taking a hasty step back. He closed the distance instantly, hunting you down.
"Then keep your hands up and protect your head."
Despite the warning, Lando barely touched your head. It was unsafe to do so, and he knew that better than anyone. Instead, he chose to land precise taps on your arms, intentionally slipping past your guard to give you playful nudges against your forehead—gentle reminders to protect your face whenever you spent too much time defending your ribs.
It was as frustrating as it was exhilarating. He was so incredibly trained, disarming you with an ease that made you feel utterly helpless; you probably only managed to land about seven clean hits during the entire session. Yet, Lando laughed every time he caught you off balance, looking genuinely amused rather than just dutifully teaching, though he still took the time to instruct you amidst the exchange of blows.
"Keep your elbows in."
"Watch your chin."
"Stop crossing your feet or you'll lose your balance!"
"Remember to breathe with every punch. Inhale, exhale."
"From the hips, throw it from the hips."
By the time Lando decided you had had enough, you were drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as you struggled to find air.
"Catch your breath," he ordered, as if breathing weren't a desperate biological struggle at that moment. "Water comes after."
To be fair, he was sweating too. Considerably less, but sweat nonetheless—hardly surprising, considering he had kept you moving at a relentless pace for nearly twenty or thirty minutes when standard rounds rarely lasted more than five. He was forcing you to control your breathing so you wouldn't collapse, conditioning you to survive three minutes of absolute, unyielding action.
It was... brilliant.
You watched him take a long draught from a water bottle before capping it and tossing it to you to drink once your breathing finally steadied. Your chest ached with a dull, warm burn.
"You have to learn to breathe through your nose. You're breathing too much through your mouth," he explained, gesturing to the lower half of his face. "A real round is three minutes, but you have to be active the entire time. They can attack you at any second, and if you don't control your breathing, you're finished."
You swallowed hard, panting heavily before twisting the cap off the bottle and drinking deeply to soothe the dry scratch in your throat.
"You're terrible at this," he remarked, his brow furrowing. "How did you convince me that you won all your fights in flyweight?"
You let out a breathy laugh.
"I might have... exaggerated a little," you finally confessed, sliding down to sit cross-legged on the canvas floor.
"Why?" he asked suddenly, his expression turning serious, yet laced with an undeniable curiosity.
A cold weight settled in the pit of your stomach. A flicker of anxiety, a quiet warning that perhaps you were letting too much slip.
"I did win a lot of my flyweight fights. Most of them," you said, opting for a half-truth. "But that was years ago. I'm out of practice." You shrugged. "You've seen how much of a boxing fan my dad is. I guess I still do it because of him. It’s why I keep trying, even though we both know I suck."
Lando made a quiet face of understanding, and for a moment, you thought the conversation would end there.
"I was awful when I started, too. I was four years old. But everyone is absolute garbage when they don't know what they're doing," he said, and you nodded along. "You can't compare someone who is picking it back up in their twenties to someone who has been doing it since they were old enough to go to school."
You pressed your lips together, quietly touched by his words. It was almost sweet—a side of him you rarely, if ever, saw.
"My dad always wanted me to follow in your footsteps," you confessed. "At first, it was because I'm his only daughter, and I suppose fathers always want to know their girls can defend themselves. You know, to be self-sufficient so no one can ever lay a finger on them." Lando nodded, listening intently. "But he’s always loved boxing. He always wanted a son who boxed, and my older brother quit. So, it was me. It had to be me."
"But you like it now, don't you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
You gave a soft nod, wetting your lips before answering.
"The way you teach it..." You hesitated for a beat. "If I liked it before, I think you've made me love it twice as much. You're... a really great coach."
Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking onto yours for a few silent seconds. It was a long, suspended moment; you didn't look away either, waiting to see what he would say next. But nothing came. Not until he straightened up, and instead of addressing your compliment, he simply spoke with his usual authority:
"We're done for today. Go home, and don't come back until after the New Year," he commanded, already pulling off his gloves without looking at you. You followed suit, unstrapping your own.
"Yes, sir."
"I told you not to call me sir."
"Yes, Lando."
The days that followed were a living hell. Not only did you spend concerningly long hours glued to your laptop screen trying to force some progress on your project, but Lando had also forbidden you from training until after the New Year. And so, you found yourself trapped within the four walls of your home, compelled to keep digging into your own mind in a desperate bid to drag something useful to the surface.
As it turned out, working on the project was fun—until you actually had to work on the project.
You loved training with Lando and seeing your own progress, but when you compared your actual research notes to those of the rest of your class, you had absolutely nothing. A void, essentially. Not a single shred of the information you actually hoped to uncover. With every passing second, a quiet, suffocating anxiety bloomed inside you, fed by the looming threat of the progress draft presentation awaiting you right after the holidays.
You had two weeks.
Two. Miserable. Weeks.
And there was nothing.
Nothing in your head, and nothing on the page.
Minutes stretched into hours, and with each passing day, the stress tightened its grip because you couldn't shake the persistent feeling that you were constantly bleeding time. Sometimes your mother would slip into your room just to check on you, placing a soft, supportive kiss on your forehead; other days, she would quietly leave a plate of pancakes to lift your spirits when she saw how tense you were. But nothing truly seemed to work.
You wrote, and you erased. You spent hours spinning aimlessly in your chair, utterly paralyzed.
Celebrating the New Year felt like a temporary reprieve, even if your anxiety dragged your focus right back to the stagnant project the moment you started to actually enjoy yourself.
Seeing Lando again on January 2nd did nothing to ease the weight. You were so desperate you felt as though you might show up at the gym with a wiretap hidden on you, catching him off guard with a barrage of questions. But doing that would mean burning whatever fragile bridge you had built so far, and you couldn't afford that. You just needed a little more time. You needed to stop being so distracted, too.
"[Name]," Lando called out once more, snapping the focus mitts together to catch your eye. "Focus," he said sharply the moment you looked up.
You nodded, slipping back into position, but your mind was only half-present; the other half was drifting far away, and it showed. You felt a wave of nausea wash over you when you saw Lando sigh and look away.
"We're done for today."
"No, I'm fine, I'm just a little distracted," you finally admitted, letting out a heavy sigh. You wiped away the sweat stinging the skin beneath your nose and raised your guard again.
"I'm not going to waste my time with you if you don't want to train. I told you that from day one," he reminded you, pulling off the mitts. You inhaled sharply, deflating a little as he turned his back on you. "Go home and come back tomorrow. Rest."
You felt like you could cry.
It was stupid, really—you were just overwhelmed by university and the deadline rushing toward you like a freight train. Lando could have at least tried to show a sliver of compassion.
"Fine, yeah," you muttered under your breath, swallowing whatever passive-aggressive retort was fighting to escape.
You stripped off your gloves and wraps and called it a day.
But a single day of rest was never going to untangle the knot of stress you were carrying. You were like a guitar string being wound tighter and tighter to play a note, right on the verge of snapping.
And on the day of the review, you finally did.
Lando gave you absolutely nothing over the next two weeks. In fact, it felt like the small amount of ground you had gained with him was actively slipping away, doubling your frustration. When you finally turned in your draft, it was embarrassing. And your professor was not kind.
"What is this?" she asked, pointing to the document on her screen.
The classroom was quiet, everyone quietly focused on their own work. She had decided to call everyone up in alphabetical order to personally review the submissions sent the night before.
You leaned down beside her desk, feeling a hot flush creep up your cheeks and ears.
"I know it's not finished—" you began, but she cut you off immediately.
"It's more than that. It's poor. Frankly, it's embarrassing. Don't think I don't notice how you're trying to convince me—and yourself—that you know something through your writing." You sighed, hanging your head slightly. Your stomach ached; you had never turned in such a terrible piece of work in your entire academic life. "Your concept is brilliant, [Name], truly. But you have nothing here. What have you been doing these past few months? Because you certainly haven't been working on this document."
You pressed your lips together, wanting to scream that it was hard. Lando was a difficult, fortress of a man, and you couldn't just pivot to a new topic at the start of the second semester. If you failed this course, you wouldn't be able to present your portfolio to graduate. She seemed to read the heavy stress radiating off you, and seeing your silence, she sighed.
"I'll give you a 5.0 and mark it as incomplete. For the final submission, you need to give me something far better than a single page of text, or you won't pass my class."
You simply nodded, the severity of her words settling like lead in your mind and chest. The pressure felt like a physical weight, forcing your shoulders straight as you walked back to your desk.
That pressure stayed with you for the rest of the day. You had rescheduled your session with Lando to the afternoon that week because, honestly, your brain wouldn't let you wake up early to train when your mind was consumed by the dread of the review. Though, in hindsight, training with him after a humiliating evaluation was a thousand times worse.
Maybe it was the accumulated stress, or maybe it was the fact that when you arrived, there were still students from his previous class lingering around—people who definitely heard every sharp correction he threw your way and saw every time he tapped your nose with the mitts to force you back into the present.
"Focus, or I'm sending you home," he threatened, his voice dead serious before he snapped the mitts and held them up in front of your face.
Frustration made your punches wild and erratic. You weren't controlling your breathing, your shoulders were stiff, and at some point in the combination, the only thing you wanted was to plant a clean right hand dead center on his face.
"What the hell is wrong with you today?" Lando barked, dodging your strike with insulting ease before catching your wrist mid-air, forcing your guard down.
Bastard.
"Nothing," you spat through your teeth.
"Don't give me that shit. You're acting like a throwing-a-tantrum toddler, and you're an adult. Behave."
"Just shut up and let's keep training," you finally snapped, your voice echoing in the now-empty gym.
The last person had slipped out no more than three minutes ago, leaving the two of you entirely alone.
"Excuse me?" He tilted his head, his voice dangerously low. You'd be lying if you said it didn't frighten you a little, but anger and frustration won the fight.
"You heard me. You're being unnecessarily dense today, and I'm not in the mood. I'm tired." You finally let some of the defensive wall crumble, sounding almost small, embarrassed.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Is your life too difficult for you to focus for two hours a day on boxing?" His sarcastic, condescending tone sent a sharp spark of fury through your veins.
You rolled your eyes before shooting back, "Go to hell, Lando. Not all of us can box all day long. Some of us actually have lives and things we have to worry about. You could try being a little nicer."
"Nicer? Oh, come here, sweetheart. If you need me to, I can gently stroke your hair," Lando sneered, stepping toward you slowly, his eyes flashing with irritation and mockery. "Do you think this is a social club? You didn't come here to make friends. In fact, you were the one who begged me for weeks to train you, and now it turns out it's too much for you."
"I begged you to train me because I thought beneath all that bitterness, there was still a real boxer left. But I see I was wrong," you snapped, completely losing your filter. "You're just a frustrated coach who couldn't cut it, and now you take it out on your students."
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
"Repeat that," Lando said, his eyes narrowing. You saw how tight his jaw was, the way he stalked you, forcing you to step back with every step he took toward you. It reached a point where you could feel the heat radiating off his skin—from the training, from the venomous words hanging between you. The silence was so heavy you could hear your own ragged breathing, and his too. "Stop shaking, and repeat exactly what just came out of your mouth."
You clenched your jaw, too. You were shaking; his observation only made you ball your hands into tight fists, wanting nothing more than to disappear. But you didn't. It was far too late to back down now, so you took a breath, muttering through your teeth.
"You're just a—"
Lando didn't let you finish. For a fraction of a second, you braced for a physical blow, but what crashed into you instead was his mouth.
It was a punishing, rough kiss, entirely stripped of any tenderness. A gasp of surprise escaped you, which he immediately smothered, consuming your lips with a desperate, aggressive hunger. You tried to push him away, but his free hand gripped your jaw with iron firmness, forcing your mouth open to receive his tongue. The invasion was wet, hot, and so entirely dominant it forced your neck to arch back.
Never in all the months you had spent training with him had the thought of his tongue in your mouth crossed your mind—and certainly not the realization of how much you would crave it.
You bit down on his lower lip until the metallic tang of blood filled your mouth, earning a low, gravelly growl from him. The rough stubble of his days-old beard scraped against your chin, and his hands, calloused and firm, slipped beneath your training shirt, squeezing your hips with a breathless urgency. He pressed you hard against his pelvis, forcing you to feel the rigid length already straining against his pants.
Oh.
"Max—" you stammered, trying to speak without moaning as Lando dragged his lips down to press feverish kisses against your neck. "Wait—Max—"
"Stop talking about Max." His hands slid down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling your legs to wrap around his waist before he dropped to his knees on the canvas, guiding you down onto your back with him looming hot between your thighs. "Max is gone. It's just you and me."
The wave of relief that washed over you was instantly cut short as he set to work on your sweatpants, tugging the fabric down along with your underwear.
"I'm all sweaty," you protested, trying in vain to stay his hands. But Lando was stronger, driven by a singular, unyielding focus.
"Good. Slips in easier," he murmured, his voice thick and breathless. "I'm going to put that pretty mouth of yours to better use than complaining."
You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath about what an asshole he was even now, your cheeks burning with a cocktail of exertion, anger, and desire. He gave a mocking tilt of his head as he kicked your shoes aside, finally leaving you bare from the waist down.
"Oh? Did the princess get upset?" he teased, gripping your hips to drag you flush against him. It was only then, as you saw his face hover near your knees, that you realized he was at least attentive enough not to just plunge right in.
"Learn to shut up," you rasped, grabbing a handful of his curls and pulling him down against your center.
For a second, you thought he might offer some sarcastic retort, but instead, he simply went to work. He forced your legs wider apart and parted you with a low groan, his flat tongue sliding over your clitoris before sucking on it aggressively. Your back arched off the mat at the sensation, bordering on a delicious ache, and your hips shifted restlessly.
"Stay still," he murmured, pulling back for a brief second before diving right back in. His hands clamped down on your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he drank you in greedily.
You let your head fall back onto the canvas, gripping his dark curls and pulling hard. You weren't gentle either; you gave him no room to breathe, more than once trying to lock your legs around his head in retaliation. But every time you did, he seemed to take it as a personal challenge, lapping at you with a fierce intensity that shattered your resolve.
He offered no mercy. He fought back against every squeeze of your thighs, his rough stubble scratching against your sensitive skin while his tongue moved frantically, shifting between overstimulating your center and dipping low into your heat to gather your slick.
Just as your climax began to build—sharp and demanding—Lando pulled away, leaving you to let out an frustrated groan at the sudden loss.
"What were you saying?" Lando asked, his voice raw and completely out of breath. His dark gaze remained fixed on you as you watched him pull at his own clothes. "Just a frustrated coach?"
You let out a breathless laugh, completely disbelieving, as you watched him free himself and stroke his length. The sight was dizzying.
The corners of Lando's mouth glistened with your wetness, his eyes dark and heavy. His training shirt was damp with sweat around the collar, hitched up just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his lower abdomen. His erection disappeared into his fist with every solid stroke. He wasn't small by any means, nor intimidatingly large, but he was thick—thick enough to make you wonder if you could slide him into your mouth without trouble.
The skin of his shaft was flushed a deep red, the head swollen with blood. He was circumcised, a detail that struck you as remarkably aesthetic.
"What's the matter? Can't handle it?" The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and you took the bait.
"Is this your way of asking if I'm a virgin?" You arched an eyebrow, almost smiling as he shrugged with supreme arrogance. He was so incredibly full of himself.
"Maybe."
"I'm not."
"Good." Lando gripped your thighs again, dragging you down to meet him. "Because I didn't plan on being gentle even if you were."
You felt the blunt head of his length graze against your wet folds before pressing firmly against your entrance. You were surprised by how slick and open you were, yielding to him with the slightest push of his hips. Against all expectations, Lando went slowly, burying himself to the hilt with a cautious deliberation, as if—for a fleeting second—he was genuinely afraid of hurting you.
It didn't last.
"Nothing to say now?" he let out a breathless chuckle, looking down at you. His body was heavy against yours, solid and muscular. "Come on, say it again. What am I?"
You rolled your eyes, your chest rising and falling erratically before you gasped, "I said you're just a—uh... Uhm..."
His hips cut your sentence short, drawing back and driving in deep until his pelvic bone slammed against you, forcing you to bite your tongue.
"Again. I didn't hear you," the bastard taunted.
Then his pace shifted into a rhythm that became critical almost instantly. His hand pressed firmly against your lower abdomen, forcing you to tilt as he leaned in, finding the perfect, devastating angle to strike that sweet, sensitive spot inside you. It sent a violent shiver down your legs, forcing you to cling to his arms.
"That's it," he muttered. You could tell he was trying to keep his voice flat and detached, but he was breathless, thoroughly undone, watching every inch of himself slide in and out of you. "Not so talkative now, are you?" He stared down at you, and you gritted your teeth.
"The punching bag hits harder," you managed to gasp out, offering a breathless, mocking smile.
He let out a sharp laugh, but you knew you had struck his ego when he folded you back until your knees practically touched your chest, driving into you so hard that all you could do was cling to his shoulders and let out a broken whimper.
You wanted to scream at him, but you could only claw at his bare back, digging your nails deep into his skin as a quiet punishment. Lando didn't seem to care that you were leaving marks, which only frustrated you more. You hated that he held a power over you that you couldn't match, and above all, you hated how incredibly well he moved inside you. The bastard knew exactly what angle to use to keep you completely soft and unraveling; the sound of your skin meeting with every deep thrust was utterly obscene.
You could feel your release building again—fast, sharp, and overwhelming. Every thrust sent a tremor through your thighs, and you couldn't help but sink your teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder as the climax shattered inside you. Your walls clamped tight around him, and you heard him let out a sharp hiss. He gave two more heavy, desperate thrusts before pulling out of you in a frantic rush.
You watched Lando stroke himself once more before spilling into his own hand with a low, muttered curse.
Your legs trembled as you drew them together and began to sit up, thoroughly satisfied but slightly dazed. Lando seemed to feel the exact same awkwardness as he turned his back to you, pulling his sweatpants up his legs with some difficulty with his occupied hand.
The silence fell heavy between you as you reached for your underwear with clumsy, distracted fingers.
You realized then that the anger and frustration had completely evaporated from your chest. You let out a quiet sigh, the warm haze of the orgasm still clinging to you.
"I didn't mean to scream at you earlier," you finally spoke up, cutting through the thick quiet. Lando didn't look at you; you heard him sniff quietly, just to do something, while you finished pulling up your pants. "I was just stressed about school, okay? If I don't turn this project in, I won't graduate, and I have absolutely nothing. My professor gave me an ultimatum today and... I don't know, I've just been frustrated and distracted. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."
You heard him let out a dry chuckle, and for a second, you genuinely expected a mocking reply.
"I know what it's like to be knee-deep in shit," he said. You hadn't expected an apology, and you were certain Lando had no intention of offering one anyway. "But next time, leave your shit outside the gym doors when you come to train. Trust me, it's better that way."
You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. You thought that would be the end of it, but Lando continued.
"I don't care about your personal frustrations. But if you're in a fight, you can't have your head somewhere else, or you're going to get hurt. You can't just check out when you have an opponent in front of you who actively wants to do you damage." Finally, he turned to look at you, now that you were both decently dressed.
"Is that what you did when you boxed?" you asked, slipping on a shoe. "Clearing your mind and keeping distractions out, I mean," you added quickly.
You saw him nod.
"But I didn't have a coach as good as me," he smirked, a familiar trace of self-assurance returning to his voice.
You saw the perfect opening to ask.
"Zak? What was he like?" you inquired, resting your chin on your knee as you tied your laces.
"A thousand times worse than me," Lando replied bluntly. "He was cruel." The sheer weight in his voice made you look up to study his face. "He was never satisfied. He made us train at least four hours a day and gave us barely any rest. I had a teammate who fainted once during training, and Zak just said, 'It's a hazard of the trade.' I was glad when he retired."
"That sounds horrible. Why would you ever let someone treat you like that?" You arched your eyebrows.
"I used to think Zak was a genius for pushing all of us to our absolute limits." Lando shrugged, seemingly unaware of how much he was opening up, or perhaps he simply didn't care anymore. "Later on, I realized that to him, everything was just money. Even the people."
"Is that why you retired?" The words slipped past your teeth before you could stop them.
The instant the question left your mouth, you knew you had ruined it. Lando locked his eyes onto yours in a heavy, freezing silence. You could swear you physically saw his walls go up, stone by stone, sealing him away once more.
"Go home," he said flatly, before stepping down from the ring.
And, having no other choice, you simply did as you were told.
By the time you got home, you were finally be able to open the poorly written document, and started writing.
Sleeping with Lando was never supposed to become a routine, but it did.
It all started the first day you managed to rearrange your schedule to train early in the morning. You were taking a quick shower in the men's locker room—the only place with genuinely hot water at that hour—your eyes closed under the stream, mind still hazy with sleep, when you heard the heavy metal door click shut. Before you could even react, Lando was already inside your stall, pressing you against the cold tiles. His rough, eager hands contrasted sharply with the warmth of the steam, and he gave you a morning orgasm so intense it left your legs trembling over the drain.
After that day, the gym's hot water began running out suspiciously fast almost every morning.
The boundaries simply dissolved. If it wasn't the showers, it was the metal desk or the couch in his second-floor office, where you had to cling to his shoulders just to keep from falling. And if it wasn't there, Lando always found a way to drag you back to the canvas of the ring when the building was empty, using it as a rough, makeshift mattress.
You couldn't complain. Sex with Lando was addictive—a wild, selfish rush of adrenaline that you both desperately needed. But the best part came afterward.
It was in the haze of exhaustion and release, when he lay beside you with ragged breath and his defenses down, that you found your finest opportunities. A lazy question tossed into the air while you fastened your bra was all it took for Lando, too exhausted to build his usual walls of distrust, to let slip some bitter phrase about his past. Small crumbs of information that you devoured in silence, memorizing them before his coldness took over once more.
"You have a scar..." you mentioned once, after you both had showered. Lando had his back to you, and you stepped closer to trace the mark on his right shoulder blade. You felt him tense slightly beneath your touch.
"Training," he said shortly, as if wanting to lay the conversation to rest.
But you still hadn't learned when to stop asking.
"Back when you trained with Zak?" you inquired, seeking his gaze over his shoulder.
"Yeah," he replied, pulling on a clean t-shirt. "With him, it never ended with a knockdown."
"That means leaving your opponent on the canvas with a single blow, right?" you tried to verify, watching him nod. "Isn't that illegal? I mean, to keep hitting someone who's already down?"
You watched him move toward the door.
"You always have a few seconds before the referee notices." And with that, he was gone.
It was only later that you allowed yourself to feel guilty, when you were locked in your bedroom at night, typing away the secrets Lando was confiding in you, using his trust to advance your professional career. Every time that guilt crept in, you forced yourself to drown it. You told yourself it was necessary, that it was just a university assignment, and that he never had to know.
But it was hard.
Mainly because every time Lando mentioned anything about Zak, your stomach turned. You could picture him—a much younger, clumsier, more naive version of himself—trusting every single word that man said, training until his muscles collapsed under the promise of a professional career in the sport he loved.
It was impossible not to empathize when you spent nearly three hours with the same man every single day, when you caught yourself looking at him just a little longer than politeness allowed. When you began to notice how he interacted with others, how he scratched his stubble when he spoke, making faces, and how everyone seemed to orbit around him and adore him, despite how insufferable he could be as a coach.
And when his walls began to fall, it only grew worse.
Guilt was no longer the only thing twisting in your stomach when Lando started joking with you more often, when you noticed he didn't seem so bitter most of the time. Suddenly, it became much easier to see all his other qualities.
The way his face lit up when you teased him, his eyes crinkling into a smile. The way he had a rather peculiar, endearing laugh that didn't align at all with the persona you had first met. How he bit his lip whenever he had to explain something to you, watching you intently while you spoke.
It was a beautiful torment.
"When is Lando coming over for dinner?" You looked up from your breakfast to find your father staring at you, snapping you out of your daydream.
It was six in the morning, and he was already awake, fully prepared to drive you to your daily training session—simply because it gave him the perfect excuse to talk to one of his favorite ex-boxers.
"Huh, I don't know. Why don't you ask him yourself?" you tried to dodge the question.
The truth was, you didn't want to ask Lando. You didn't want to invite him in the first place, because it implied things were getting serious. Even if your father had invited him before your relationship had shifted, there was still an invisible line crossed when meeting the parents.
Especially over a dinner.
"You're right, that's a great idea."
You watched your father pace around the kitchen before walking out with a knowing, clever little smile.
"Let me know when you're ready!"
You sighed, knowing there was no escape. Your father was a true boxing fanatic; any chance to be near Lando would be thoroughly exploited, and he lost no time.
Later, when he dropped you off outside the gym, he didn't leave right away. He waited until the moment Lando unlocked the gate to approach him with a wide smile.
"My wife and I want to know when you're coming over for dinner."
You saw Lando frown for a few seconds before seemingly recalling a promise made weeks ago.
"Oh, right. I remember," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't know. When works for you?"
"How about tonight?"
"Tonight?!" you interrupted, only to be brutally ignored by both men.
"Sure, yeah. I'll bring dessert," Lando smiled at your father before your dad gave him a playful tap on the arm and turned back to you.
"Give him our address later. Don't forget!" he threatened playfully before walking away, pleased with himself.
You rolled your eyes, hearing Lando's soft chuckle before he guided you inside, his hand resting gently against your lower back.
"Did you seriously just agree to dinner with my parents?" you asked, knitting your brows, pretending the idea didn't terrify you to no end.
"Your old man is funny," he shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. You had to look away just to keep yourself from smiling back.
You spent the rest of the day tense and anxious. You finally gave Lando your address before heading to your classes, but your mind remained hyper-focused on one thing: you had to get home early, tidy your room, and hide every trace of your essay—any clue that might tip Lando off that you were studying to be a journalist in the near future. You would have to talk seriously to your parents about avoiding the subject entirely, or at least dodging it as much as possible in front of him.
The rest of the afternoon was a frantic blur. You rushed home after classes, sweeping every corner of the living room with your eyes before locking your laptop and notebooks away in your bedroom wardrobe. By the time you finished getting ready, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen signaled that your moment had arrived.
You hurried down the stairs, finding your parents putting the finishing touches on the table setting.
"Listen to me for a second," you said, intercepting them before they could pour the wine. "Could you please avoid mentioning my studies or anything about my university work? Nothing about my thesis, my college, or my research. Do you think you can do that?"
Your father frowned, pausing with the silverware in his hand.
"Why all the secrecy? It's your career, sweetheart, you should be proud of it. Besides, I wanted to ask him about his old boxing days; maybe that could help with your research..."
"No, that's exactly why!" you cut him off, trying to suppress the rising panic in your voice. "He doesn't know anything. Lando is incredibly guarded and bitter about his past. If he finds out I'm writing about boxing or studying journalism, he won't say another word. He'll walk out. Please, let's just pretend I'm studying something else if he asks, or just change the subject. Do it for me, Dad."
Your parents exchanged glances, bewildered by your urgency, but the sheer gravity in your expression made them give in. Your mother nodded first, placing a reassuring hand on your father's arm.
"It's alright, darling. We'll talk about anything else," she promised. "We won't ruin your research."
A heavy sigh of relief escaped your lips, but before you could thank them, the doorbell echoed sharply through the ground floor. Your heart took a violent leap inside your chest.
"I'll get it," you called out before heading to the front door.
You smoothed down your shirt before opening it, offering an uncomfortably polite smile to Lando, who stood there holding a dark bag.
"Hey," he greeted with a small smile—one that felt much truer, much more relaxed. "I brought dessert," he noted, lifting the bag and shaking it gently.
"Oh, wonderful!" your mother interrupted from behind you, forcing you to step aside as she approached to let Lando in. "Thank you so much, I'll put it in the fridge."
She took the bag and vanished into the kitchen while you shut the door.
"My mother," you sighed, a half-hearted introduction. You heard Lando let out a quiet laugh.
"She seems nice." He was in a good mood.
"Come on. Dinner is almost ready." With a slight tilt of your head, you led him toward the kitchen.
From that moment on, you became a mere spectator to everything that unfolded. You watched them chat; your father poured him a glass of fruit wine, and the two of them simply drifted into their own world of boxing, reminiscing about the old days. Once everyone took their seats, it was inevitable that the conversation would shift back to you.
"You've done an incredible job with my daughter," your father said. "Her fitness has improved immensely." You flushed under the sudden spotlight.
"I've been giving it to her hard," Lando replied.
His words made you choke on your wine. Unnecessary. Utterly unnecessary for him to use that double meaning at the table.
"I can tell," your father nodded, spearing a few vegetables from his plate while he finished chewing and swallowing. "And how do you see her now? Has she improved enough?"
Lando shot you a slightly mocking, playful glance before turning back to your parents.
"She’s improved, yeah. A bit distracted these past few weeks, but she’s doing well. I think I’ll be submitting the formal application for her license to the board soon, so she can start competing."
You did your best to pretend the idea didn't terrify you, while your father looked absolutely thrilled.
"That's wonderful, thank you. Anything you need from us, just say the word," he said, genuinely impressed, before adding, "I'm really glad you're my daughter's coach, Norris. You're a very grounded guy despite everything. Honestly, I didn't think you would be... considering what happened with Hadjar."
The air seemed to vanish from the dining room. You stiffened completely in your seat and glared at your father.
"Dad," you warned in a sharp whisper.
"No, it's fine," Lando interjected, a soft smile on his face that looked more like a practiced grimace. "What happened to Isack was an accident."
You swallowed hard. You never would have thought Lando would address the matter so directly. You had danced around that name for months at the gym, and now your father was asking, without a shred of fear, the very thing you had been dying to know for ages.
"I'm just saying..." Your father shook his head, oblivious to the invisible alarm that had been tripped. "You seemed pretty sure of what you were doing in the ring for it to be a simple accident. Mind you, I'm not trying to blame you for anything!"
"Don't worry, I don't feel guilty," Lando replied almost instantly, cutting him off mid-sentence.
His voice was too quick, too clean—a mechanical response that froze the room entirely. He locked his dark eyes onto your father, drawing a sharp boundary.
"I know perfectly well that what happened was an accident, sir."
Your father blinked, caught off guard by the boxer's sudden coldness, and simply nodded.
"Please, let's drop the subject," you requested gently, stepping in before the thread could snap completely. You could feel Lando's discomfort; it radiated off him in heavy, dense waves. After months of knowing him, you preferred him in a good mood. "Let's just have a normal dinner."
"Yeah, of course."
Fortunately, dessert served as the perfect lubricant to dissolve the awkwardness that had settled over the dining room. Your mother, with her usual warmth, monopolized the conversation by talking about the London weather and some light neighborhood gossip, giving Lando the perfect opportunity to retreat into his short, polite answers without having to speak about himself. Your father, having caught the implicit warning in the air, limited himself to nodding and enjoying his food, keeping his questions strictly away from the ring for the rest of the night.
Slowly, the tension in Lando's shoulders gave way. He didn't relax completely, but the room regained a peaceful normalcy that allowed you to breathe easy again.
When the plates were cleared and the living room clock ticked past ten, Lando laid his linen napkin on the table and squared his shoulders, dictating the unwritten end of the evening.
"Ma'am, sir, dinner was excellent," he said, standing up. "Thank you very much for the invitation, but it's about time I head out. I open the gym early tomorrow."
Your parents stood up immediately to say their goodbyes with warm smiles and affectionate handshakes. Your mother even insisted on packing the leftover vegetables into a container for him—a domestic gesture that left Lando blinking, visibly out of his element, though he managed a gruff "thank you."
"I'll walk him down," you intervened quickly, before your father could offer.
Lando, holding the container of cold, sautéed vegetables in his hand, followed you down the hallway to the door. Once outside, you both walked toward the elevator and made your way out of the apartment complex in absolute silence.
"I'm sorry about my dad acting like that," you spoke up once the elevator doors slid shut behind you and you led him outside the building to say goodbye. "I tried to tell him before you arrived that you don't like talking about it, but he's so nosy—"
"I lied," he interrupted, turning to look at you with a grimace. "I still think about it. I do feel guilty."
You felt your stomach knot, and for a few seconds, you truly didn't know what to say. Nothing had prepared you for this sudden burst of honesty, for this piece of his trust. He kept speaking before your brain could formulate a response.
"Isack ended up in a really bad way after our fight... He went into a vegetative state." The truth settled deep inside you like a sickening ache.
"Oh," was all you managed to say.
"His parents took him off life support after a few months," Lando continued, and you felt a wave of dizziness wash over you. "Zak paid them a stupid amount of money to keep them quiet. So the journalists wouldn't ask questions."
"It wasn't your fault, Lando. It was an accident," you managed to repeat his own words back to him.
If there was one thing you had learned from everything Lando had told you, it was that Zak had been a terrible trainer.
"But I should have said no when Zak told me where to hit him. I knew what that would do. I'm just as responsible."
"You were a kid," you tried to reason.
"I was of age. I knew what I was doing."
"But you didn't know any better than you do now," you interrupted him once more. "You were under the care of a man who only cared about you winning and how much money he could make off you. You believed him, and that doesn't make you guilty."
You heard Lando sigh, and the only thing you knew how to do was wrap your arms around him. It felt strange—hugging him, that is. He was stiff in your embrace at first, before finally surrendering and wrapping his arms tightly around you.
"You're a better coach than he ever could have been." You felt him relax against you, and that brought you an immense sense of relief.
"Thank you," Lando murmured over your shoulder before slowly pulling away.
You looked up at him with a soft smile, trying to reassure him. He looked shattered, his eyes bright and rimmed with red, surely from holding back tears. He reached out and stroked your cheek, cradling the side of your face before leaning down to kiss you squarely on the mouth.
He had never kissed you outside of sex, and more importantly, he had never kissed you with such tenderness. He was usually unnecessarily rough and teasing, but he was none of those things now. The stubble of his beard still pricked your skin, but it was deeply comforting when his lips weren't trying to punish you. You managed to return the kiss before he pulled back.
"Early tomorrow."
"Early tomorrow," you repeated, nodding.
You stood outside for a few seconds longer, watching him walk away with a knot twisting in your stomach. And the moment his silhouette faded into the night, you ran back upstairs.
You forgot all about helping your mother with the dishes, locking yourself in your room just to write.
And if you were late for training the following morning, it was merely because you had stayed up until dawn, finishing a nine-page essay.
Good morning!
Apologies for the hour. I know there is still a week left before the final project deadline, but I wanted to check if there was any chance I could get one last review before that day.
Thank you so much in advance!
[Attached file]
Good morning, [Name],
After reading through the 10 pages of your essay, I don't think there is much to correct, except for a couple of phrasing adjustments and some minor punctuation fixes. Let's meet at the end of Monday's class to go over those details before the deadline, does that work for you?
Have a great weekend!
The relief you felt after submitting the essay felt exactly like shedding a coat of lead from your shoulders.
Ten pages of beautifully structured secrets finally rested in the professor's inbox, leaving you with a wonderful sense of lightness. The double game was over; everything was back to normal. A normalcy where the gym was no longer a journalistic research ground but your new sanctuary, and the man in front of you was no longer a subject of study but... well, Lando.
"If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to start charging you by the hour for contemplation therapy," his husky voice snapped you out of your thoughts, laced with a light mockery that made you smile instantly.
You blinked, focusing your gaze on the weathered leather focus mitts he held loosely against his chest. Lando wasn't wearing his usual rigid posture; his shoulders were relaxed and one eyebrow was slightly raised, looking at you with an amusement that made his dark eyes gleam.
"I am focused," you lied, adjusting your gloves with a swift movement.
"Right you are. That'll be why you nearly tripped over your own feet two minutes ago," he teased, taking a lazy step forward. He gently tapped the side of your headguard with one of the mitts, just a playful touch. "Your body is here, but your little head is still floating off somewhere. What’s the matter? Why so cheerful today? Did you finally finish saving the world with your university assignments?"
A tiny prickle of adrenaline—the last lingering ghost of the secret you had just buried—tickled your stomach, but you brushed it away with a flirtatious smile. You raised your fists to your chin, slipping back into your guard with renewed energy.
"Something like that," you replied, throwing a quick jab that landed with a sharp thud! against his left mitt, followed by a subtle sway of your hips. "Let's just say I closed a pending chapter. No more pressure, so I can focus entirely on winning a round against you."
Lando let out that short, peculiar chuckle you loved so much, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and instantly wiped away any trace of the bitter guy he pretended to be to the rest of the world. He licked his lips, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat of his chest almost brushing against your gloves.
"Ambitious," he murmured, lowering the mitts completely to rest his hands on his hips. His eyes raked over you, lingering a second too long on your lips before meeting your gaze again with a roguish little smile. "Glad to know your precious free time belongs to me now. But if you really want to win a round against me, you’re going to have to work harder than that... Come on, guard up," he said, lifting the mitts back into position. "One-two, slip to the left... and if you do it right, maybe I'll reward you in the showers."
You burst out laughing, ducking the mock punch he threw your way.
The training session was tougher than other days, and true to his word, Lando rewarded you later in the showers. The relief you felt was beyond compare; it finally felt like your life was falling into place. You had found a hobby you never thought you’d love so much, and you were only months away from finally graduating.
However, when you walked into the gym the following day, you weren't greeted by the same warmth as the day before.
"What the fuck are you doing in my gym?"
"Huh?" You lowered your gym bag carefully, a confused little smile on your face. Lando looked angry. No, beyond that. He was furious. "What do you mean? Didn't we have a session today?"
"You don't train in my gym anymore." He wasn't even looking at you, throwing things blindly into a duffel bag.
"Is this a joke?" You felt your heart hammer wildly against your chest. A sickening sensation settled deep in your stomach.
"After what you did? You've got some nerve showing your face here again," you heard him let out a humorless laugh. "This is exactly why I don't train women. I should've known I'd feel like knocking your bloody teeth out one day."
You swallowed hard.
"Lando, what are you talking about?" Your voice sounded incredibly small when you asked.
"I’ve already read your little piece. In fact, the whole country could have read the utter shit you wrote about me."
You felt your stomach drop at his words, and your hands began to tremble.
"Takes some real guts to write all that crap, but to actually publish it and then come crawling back to me like a desperate bitch? You've truly outdone yourself." You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat.
"I didn't publish it—"
"Oh, right, so you only wrote it. You only came to my gym to bleed me for information, you only made me—" He cut himself off before he could say another word, and you felt your eyes sting as they filled with tears. "Get out of my gym and don't you ever come back."
"Lando, please. I swear there's an explanation."
"Yeah, maybe there is. But I couldn't care less to hear it." Finally, Lando snapped his head around to look at you.
His eyes were bloodshot and puffy—the living proof of his vulnerability. But they were also filled with pure hatred, entirely hollow. There wasn't a single shred left of the affection you had managed to build over the past few months. Everything lay shattered on the floor.
"Leave before I call the police."
Your chest heaved as you tried to breathe.
"I'm sorry," you managed to choke out before grabbing your things and rushing out.
The moment you got back into your father's car, you decided you wouldn't be going to classes that day. And when you walked back into your bedroom, lying right there on your desk was the living proof of your descent into hell. An email from your professor, sent yesterday afternoon, which you hadn't managed to read until now.
Good morning, [Name]!
Apologies for the hour, but I wanted to let you know that I managed to get in touch with a publisher to edit and release your opinion column about Lando Norris. The insight and the phrasing are exquisite—a deeply personal project under your name, and one that I am certain will open doors for your career in the future.
By the time you read this, it will already be published! We can discuss the details tomorrow after class. As always, I am so proud of your results. You are going to be an incredible journalist.
genre | angst, fluff, friends to lovers, childhood best friends au, hurt-comfort
word count | 11.7k
warnings | no use of y/n, heartbreak, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, abandonment themes, low-key manipulation themes??, use of alcohol, cursing, crying.
inspired by: sydney rose - we hug now, conan gray - memories, the kid laroi - bleed
summary: you told yourself you’d moved on. that you didn't care, and your heart had mended. but when he came back, all ruined and raw, you realized some hearts don’t forget who they were meant to beat for.
a/n: PART TWOOOOO!!!! as soon as i saw the requests for part two i started working on this, and actually, it turned out to be longer than i expected- OOPSIE but y'all.. writing this kinda broke me :,) i'm so happy that at least they got their happy ending </3 hope you'll enjoy !!
The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that wraps itself around you, like the silence after a storm—where everything feels too calm, too heavy with unspoken words. You could hear the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway, the distant hum of the fridge, the muffled sound of your parents’ breathing in their room down the hall.
You padded across the hallway in thick socks, dressed in your oversized sleep shirt with sleeves tugged down over your fingers. The exhaustion from the day had settled into your bones, dull and familiar. You’d brushed your teeth, put your hair up, wiped the smeared mascara from under your eyes—and still, somehow, you felt heavy.
Not even tired. Just… drained. Hollow in a quiet way. The kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep, but with the ache in your chest that had been there since that night.
The night when you sat under the stars, knees drawn to your chest. When he was crouching in front of you with that lopsided smile, and made you feel like you could hope again.
The night you almost said it. The night he almost knew.
But after that night, there came the distance. Not cruel, not sharp, just drifting. Like smoke through fingers, like something slipping underwater.
And you were trying. Trying so hard to be okay with it. But god—you were exhausted.
However, it wasn’t the physical kind of exhaustion. It was something deeper, a kind of tiredness that came from the emotional weight of trying to convince yourself that everything was fine, that things were normal. But every time you opened social media and saw Lando’s name, or caught a glimpse of him in the halls at school laughing with Olivia, leaning in close, his hand in hers, her lips on his cheek—it all felt like a cruel reminder that the world had moved on, and you hadn’t been included in it. You were stuck in a loop of saddness and regret.
When you reached your bedroom door, hand resting on the knob, a strange noise came from downstairs, making you stop mid-step.
Clink.
You wanted to brush it off, taking for granted that it was just the wind, or the house creaking. But then it came again—the scrape of a drawer, the distinct sound of a cup hitting the counter, the slight clink of something being set down.
You sucked in a breath, heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Your first thought? Someone broke in.
You tiptoed out of your room, pulse quickening, each creak of the floorboards beneath you feeling like an alarm bell. The hallway was dark, save for the faint glow of the nightlight near the stairs. You could hear the rustling louder now, the sound of something being knocked over, maybe.
A breathless moment of hesitation, then you flicked the light on, your hand trembling slightly. The glow of the kitchen illuminated the open doorway.
And there, leaning against the sink, was no one other than Lando himself. A glass of water in his hand, his back hunched slightly like he’d been holding up too much weight for too long.
When his eyes set on you, he blinked a few times like he wasn’t sure if you were real or if he was dreaming you up.
Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Lando… what the hell are you doing here?” You blurted out, your voice far sharper than you intended. “It’s fucking one in the morning! You scared the shit out of me.”
He observed you, eyes bleary, and half-lidded. He didn’t seem surprised—just tired. His lips curled up slightly, almost forming a smile, but also an apology.
Your chest tightened at that sight. “You broke into my house?” You said with your voice trembling, not from fear anymore, but from confusion. Anger. Sadness. Everything at once.
He didn’t seem bothered by your accusation. Instead, he just shrugged, “The key,” Lando muttered. “Was still under the orange flower pot.”
That flower pot. The one your mom had left by the doors years ago. The one he used to hide candy under for you in middle school. The one that had, unknowingly, never switched places.
You stepped closer, the light casting his figure in sharper detail. His hair was a mess—curls flattened on one side, wild on the other, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked, stained slightly with something you didn’t care to identify. And his eyes—god, his eyes. Always so bright and beautiful, in that aquamarine color, but now bloodshot, tired and wrecked.
You blinked, still trying to process what was happening, what had led him to your kitchen at this hour. “Lando, what happened?” You took a step closer.
Your anger melted into something else—worry, and concern. You had never seen him like this. Drunk, disoriented. Not even the usual playful charm he wore like armor.
Your heart clenched at the sight. What happened to him?
“Lando… what’s going on? Why aren’t you with Olivia?” Saying her name left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, like his knees had given out. Slowly, he slid down the cabinets until he hit the floor, back against the drawers, legs stretched out carelessly.
You panicked for a second as he looked pale, dizzy, and lost. “Lan— hey.. are you okay?” You crouched beside him instinctively, heart pounding.
Then he slumped into you without warning. His head fell to your shoulder, the warmth of his skin pressing into yours. And for a long, drawn-out moment, you just let him rest there. His breath was slow, ragged, like he had been running a marathon, like he had been fighting something for a long time.
But all of it—the tension, the pain, the confusion—had finally spilled over in this one vulnerable moment.
Lando sighed against your collarbone. “M’tired.” His hot breath tickled your skin, making you shiver at the sound of his voice.
And you stayed like that. There, on the kitchen floor. Tiles cold beneath your legs, your body stiff beside his slumped frame while letting the boy rest on your shoulder. The silence settled again, but heavier now, thick with questions you didn’t know how to ask.
His breath was slow and warm where it met your neck. You stared ahead at the fridge, heart unraveling in your chest.
This was still Lando. Your Lando.
The boy who used to throw pebbles at your window at 2 a.m. just to see if you wanted to go stargazing. The boy who once tried to braid your hair in sixth grade and ended up tying it in a knot. The boy who almost said he loved you once—and you didn’t hear it in time.
And now he was here, on your kitchen floor.
“I don’t wanna leave you.” Lando mumbled, his words barely audible, his voice thick and muffled against the fabric of your shirt.
Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”
But he didn’t repeat it. He just exhaled like he’d been holding that in for years. Like that sentence had broken out of him by accident, cracked through whatever wall he’d built around himself.
You held him there, on the cold kitchen floor, unsure of what to do with his confession. Your heart pulsed violently in your chest, because what did he mean? Did he mean tonight? Or forever?
Why wasn’t he with Olivia? Why wasn’t she the one holding him now? Why did he come here like you were still his safe place?
But you didn’t ask, not knowing how. You just sat there with him—shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same air, memories thick in the space between you.
But the weight of his presence, of him leaning into you, of him saying those words that you didn’t know what to do with, was unbearable. And it broke something inside you. Something that you hadn’t realized was still holding on.
You closed your eyes, the tears threatening to spill again. You didn’t know what you wanted from him—or from yourself. You just held him. You held him because you couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Not when he was still here.
And you didn’t know it yet, but that moment would stay burned into you—into your soul.
Days after the kitchen night, the silence between you and Lando grew so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin. You thought maybe he’d text. Apologize. Mention what he said. Explain this whole situation.
But he didn’t.
And so, you convinced yourself that it was a mistake—drunken words said in a foggy haze. Words meant for the moment, and not especially for you.
Still, you couldn’t forget the way his head had rested on your shoulder, like he belonged there. You couldn’t unhear the slurred, soft-spoken “I don’t want to leave you.” Those six words looped in your head like a broken record.
Were they meant to be comforting? A warning? A confession?
But even worse than that was how everything returned to normal or, at least, seemed to.
You stopped bumping into him at school. He stopped showing up in the group chat.
Olivia posted more often now—the two of them posing in bookstores, going to brunch, prepping for their “future.” She seemed so perfect on his arm, so carefully curated. Their relationship was like a photo in a museum: admired by everyone, but no one really understood it.
And you—you felt like a visitor. A stranger peering into a life you used to be a part of. You didn’t go to the group hangout in the woods. You skipped the movie night that once used to be your thing. Your friends texted, called, asked where you were. But you always had an excuse: studying, babysitting your cousin, or just being tired.
Anything but the truth.
The truth was that it hurt to exist in a space where Lando no longer looked for you. Even when you did see him, it was… different. He was quieter, more distracted by being new version of him. He even laughed less than he usually would when he was around you. He didn’t hold eye contact like he used to—not the way he did when it was just you two in the corner of a room, stealing glances across dinner tables or hiding giggles behind shared inside jokes.
It was like watching a star dim slowly, day by day, losing its uniqueness.
You’d pass each other in the halls sometimes. There was a flicker in his eyes—like maybe he wanted to say something, even the smallest thing. But the moment always passed and you’d look away first, because it felt safer that way.
One afternoon, you found yourself sitting by the window, the same one you both used to lean against when you studied together. The sky outside was soft and grey, and the silence in the room felt like it was screaming at you.
You clutched your phone in your hand, screen still open on the last video you ever took together—blurry, spontaneous, just you two laughing over some dumb joke, your laughs loud and vibrant. You looked at your smile in it, and how easy it had been to smile with him. How full you had felt back then.
But then came a new notification. A tagged photo on Olivia’s Instagram.
“Couldn’t be happier to start this chapter with you. Amsterdam, here we come <3”
The picture was beautiful, in that staged kind of way. Lando kissing her cheek, his arm around her waist as she held her passport and their tickets. The luggage was behind them, and departure gate in the background.
You blinked once. Twice. Then your chest caved in.
He hadn’t told you. Again. But this time he hadn’t even said goodbye.
There had been no message, no last knock on the door, no final look.
The disbelief washed over you in waves. First it was confusion, then came the bitterness. And then that slow, aching pain—like someone had reached inside and quietly rewired your heart. And it would knock the breath out of you, because suddenly it would make sense.
“I don’t wanna leave you.”
But he did. And he was already gone, taking his future with Olivia, leaving you with nothing but the words he’d whispered to you on that kitchen floor. Words you still didn’t understand, but somehow knew were real.
────୨ৎ────
The airport was too bright.
Everything felt like it was glowing under harsh, white light—the floors, the departure signs, the rows of metal benches where people sat with neck pillows, their luggage beside them, and some even taking a nap.
Lando could hear Olivia's voice next to him, cheerful and animated, chatting with her mum as they went over last-minute plans. He smiled, or at least tried to, but it didn’t feel right on his face. It didn’t stick.
He stood a little outside of it all—just off to the side of the check-in area, surrounded by people but entirely elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting toward the entrance doors. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked there—searching.
It had been weeks since that night. The kitchen. The water. Your shoulder. The words he wasn’t supposed to say out loud.
You hadn’t texted him since. Not even once. He had tried writing a couple of short, awkward messages but he always changed his mind, immediately deleting them.
And yet, some stupid, desperate part of him believed you’d still come.
Maybe you’d rush in, sleeves of your favourite hoodie pulled up your arms, out of breath, pretending you just happened to be nearby. Maybe you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like “figured you’d want a dramatic send-off, loser.”
He would’ve smiled, laughed even. He would’ve known what you meant. So he kept looking. Every flash of the color which your favourite hoodie had. Every girl which walked a little too fast through the crowd. His stomach turned every time he thought—that might be you.
But it never was.
“Boarding group A, you’re now welcome at gate 27.”
The announcement echoed through the terminal. Olivia squeezed his hand, excited, practically buzzing with it. “Ready?” She asked, sending him a warm smile. Lando nodded, but his eyes were still locked on the doors. Still waiting, hoping, hurting.
Olivia tugged his hand gently, and he looked one last time, but you weren’t there. It felt like something inside his chest folded in on itself.
────୨ৎ────
The house was quiet. Your parents were already gone for the day, hanging out with their friends which came to your city. The sun was filtering in through the curtains, soft and golden.
You were still in bed. Blankets pulled up to your chin, phone in your hand, screen dark. You hadn’t looked at his Instagram story. Not yet. Seeing Olivia’s post was enough for you.
You didn’t want to see the gate, again. The luggage. Olivia’s arm looped through his. You didn’t want confirmation that this was real. That he was really leaving. That he was no longer just not here, but truly, physically and emotionally gone.
Your chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid. And now you laid in your bed, curled under your blanket, breathing through the quiet kind of grief that doesn’t come with sobs or screams—just this low, constant ache in your chest. Like your ribs were too tight. Like your heart was trying to remember how to exist without him.
You stared at the ceiling—eyes wide, dry. You weren’t crying, you just felt… hollow.
Somewhere in a crowded airport, Lando was still looking for you in a sea of people. But now it was too late.
He had left. And you had let him.
────୨ৎ────
a few months later
The sky hadn’t been blue in weeks. Months.
Every day carried a quiet grayness, like the world had slipped into a version of itself that was somehow dimmer—dull and breathless. The leaves had started to curl at the edges, the sun set earlier now, and everything seemed to echo more, especially the silence in your chest.
You didn’t realize how much you had gotten used to him being part of your days until the days went on without him. Not suddenly—not like a door slammed shut, but like a faucet that dripped until the sink overflowed. Now, the drip was gone, the tap turned off. But you were still soaked in the memories.
He was gone. And you hated how easily everyone had accepted it.
It was late afternoon, the kind of cloudy-gray sky that made everything look softer, like the world had been rubbed with a layer of dust. You sat outside the library, on that same bench tucked beneath the skeletal arms of a tree that had long since shed its leaves. The wind moved gently through the branches, dry and cool, like fingers brushing against your skin, but you barely even felt it.
Your textbook lay open in your lap, untouched. You weren’t reading—you hadn’t been reading for a while. You were just… sitting. Existing. Or something like it.
Students moved past in waves—laughing, talking, balancing coffees in one hand and phones in the other. Their lives felt fast, full, like they were already becoming something. Moving forward, getting somewhere. But you? You felt stuck in the same still frame, like time had stretched out for you but kept moving for everyone else.
Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. You didn’t reach for it. You already knew it wouldn’t be him.
It hadn’t been him in months.
Lando was gone. Not just in the physical way—though yes, he was hundreds of miles away in Amsterdam, probably stretched out in a dorm bed beside someone who wasn’t you. But he was also gone in the invisible, intimate, excruciating way. In the way someone disappears from your days, not all at once, but in pieces. One text not sent, one weekend not spent together, one secret not shared until all that’s left is pure silence.
You saw all the stories, posts, sunlit selfies. Blurry party photos, Olivia’s cherry gloss smudged on his cheek, and his hand around her waist like it belonged there. His smile—it looked so familiar, yet no longer yours.
He had everything he had ever wanted.
A new city. A new life. A new girl.
And you were still here, feeling as if you’re basically wasting your time. Staring at the same sidewalk cracks, listening to the same sad songs and playing the same night in your head—the one where you almost told him everything. The one where he looked at you like you were the only person in the universe, only to walk away and give his world to someone else.
Sometimes, in quiet moments, you thought back to that night in your kitchen. When he showed up drunk, lost, whispering he didn’t want to leave you. You hadn’t understood what he meant back then. Not fully. Maybe you didn’t want to, but now, in the echo of his absence, it haunted you.
It wasn’t even the relationship that hurt the most. It was the way it all disappeared—like you had never mattered, never been chosen, never been even considered.
You remembered finding out about him and Olivia. You didn’t sleep that night. You just lay there, eyes burning, heart breaking in this small, quiet, invisible way—where you weren’t allowed to scream or sob or say this isn’t fair because technically, nothing had been promised.
But it had felt like a promise. Hadn’t it?
In the shared glances, in the laughter, in the way he used to text you when something dumb happened and say you were the first person he thought of. In the memory of him crouching in front of you at the party, brushing a tear from your cheek and saying he missed you.
Damn. Had you been that easy to forget?
Now, months later, you still carried that grief, that quiet ache but one else really noticed it. You’d gotten good at pretending—at laughing when you were supposed to, convincing that everything was great when people asked about school, often responding “yeah, I’m okay” with just the right smile to convince them.
But deep down, you were stuck, you couldn’t move on, and that’s what scared you the most. Because he had already moved on.
His heart had mended so quickly, while yours was still bleeding.
You saw it every time you opened Instagram. The way he glowed in those photos, new hair suiting him so goddamn good, looking like nothing ever haunted him. Like you had never haunted him. Like the version of himself that only existed when he was with you had vanished—as if it never mattered in the first place.
And yet you still remembered.
You remembered the time he fell asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling half-dreamed thoughts about how safe he felt with you. The time you screamed the lyrics of your favourite songs in your room, both of you out of breath from laughing too hard. The moment, months ago, when he almost confessed—voice low, eyes soft, something hidden in the way he touched your hand. But you had brushed it off. Laughed, and teased him about it, not taking him seriously because back then you hadn’t known.
You hadn’t realized, and now it was too late.
It wasn’t fair, how one person could move on and build a life, while the other lived with an ending that never truly ended.
You looked up from your textbook and blinked into the gray sky. Your chest ached—dull and constant. It had become part of you now, the same way a scar settles into skin.
Sometimes, you wondered if he ever missed you. If he ever thought back to the version of his life that included you. But you knew the truth. For him, it was just something that happened. Something small. But for you? It was everything. And it felt like the world ended when it did.
Some mornings, you stared at your phone for too long. You’d open your messages and scroll to his name, only to lock your screen again. His contact was still saved—still with the dumb nickname he’d given himself when you finally saved his number. Still with the photo of him pulling a face, mid-laugh, cheeks pink from the cold. You couldn’t bring yourself to change or delete it because deleting it would make it all real, and you weren’t ready for that.
You still carried all of the conversations in your head. Those little ones, and stupid ones. Like what he would say if he saw you after going to the hairstylist, how he’d tease you for the playlist you’d made for studying or how he’d groan dramatically about missing your mom’s cooking if he walked through your front door again.
You still remembered the way it all slipped. The last few months of high school had felt like they were lined with fog—slow, delicate, full of things unsaid. You had started keeping your emotions in a box, tucking them beneath small smiles and empty reassurances. You didn’t want to be a weight on his shoulders, didn’t want to make things harder. And most importantly, you didn’t want to lose him by telling him how much you needed him to stay. But you lost him anyway.
When you got to know that he was going to university with Olivia, it felt like your heart had been held above a flame. Slowly, gently burning.
He had made his choice, and it hadn’t been you.
You never told anyone how much that night broke you. How you cried in the shower with your hand pressed over your mouth, not to muffle the sobs, but to hold yourself together. You didn’t want anyone to know that you’d fallen apart over someone who, to the outside world, had never been yours to begin with.
But he had been yours. In the stolen glances, in the late-night conversations, in the inside jokes that no one else understood. He had been yours in every way that mattered—until he wasn’t.
Now, time was moving without him. He was off in a new city—Amsterdam, with new friends, new routines and new loves. And you? You were left behind with the echoes.
You never told him how often you still wore the hoodie he left at your place after one of many movie nights. Or how your chest still clenched every time you passed his old house, how sometimes you swore you could hear his laugh in the crowd, only to remember he wasn’t here anymore. The worst part? No one knew you were still grieving. Because you decided to just smile through it as it had never been said what you two were.
Some days, the sadness came in small waves—manageable, dull, like a bruise. Other days, however, it felt catastrophic, like you were drowning in everything unsaid. Everything he’d taken with him, everything he’d left behind.
You wondered—deeply, painfully—if he thought of you at all. If there were nights when he missed your voice, if he ever wished, even just for a second, that he’d done it all differently.
But you didn’t ask, you didn’t reach out because if he had wanted to stay he would’ve.
Right?
And yet, even now, all this time later, with the silence between you stretching wider and wider from one day to another, you still dreamed of him sometimes. Still woke up with tears on your pillow and his name lodged somewhere in your throat. Still felt like he was right at your fingertips.
Close enough to remember, but too far to touch.
────୨ৎ────
Amsterdam had been covered with heavy, dark rain clouds for a week now. Thin, cold rain that didn’t fall in sheets, but misted the air like grief that never stopped clinging. The kind that soaked into the seams of your hoodie and stuck to your eyelashes.
He’d been in this city for eight months now. Everything should’ve felt like a new chapter. Everything should’ve felt like the freedom he once craved — the escape he told himself he needed. Instead, he felt… off. Out of place in his own life. Like he had walked onto someone else’s path and didn’t know how to find his way back.
He had new friends here, a schedule, a routine, a girlfriend. He even made sure to decorate his room with little posters, like you once told him to. But even then—even with those pieces of color and personality—it felt hollow. He felt hollow. Olivia filled the space beside him, but not within him. That space had been carved out slowly, over the last year. And it hadn’t been carved for her. It had been carved for you.
Lando hadn’t been able to sleep properly in weeks. His room was too clean, too beige. He missed the cute mugs you used for drinking tea with him and the way your socks never matched. He even missed the ridiculous alarm tone you used—that one song you claimed was the only thing aggressive enough to get you out of bed. Now his alarm was Olivia. Waking him up with a practiced kiss to the cheek and a to-do list for the day already in her hand. Organized and efficient, but distant.
She always smelled expensive and her hair was always perfect. Her perfume clung to his hoodies now, replacing the faint vanilla and lavender scent that used to make his chest clench unexpectedly. She fit the picture—but not the frame.
He didn’t notice how much he was unraveling until he stopped recognizing himself. Everything he said felt like a script, everything he did felt like it was on autopilot. He went to class., he sat through lectures, then he answered Olivia’s questions, and he smiled when he was supposed to smile.
But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the Lando he had been all his life, this was a new, artificial version of him. He’d laugh at something someone said at a party, and the sound would feel different. He’d catch himself zoning out at lunch, his eyes drawn to things that reminded him of home—a chipped tile, a girl wearing her hair like you used to, the specific color of a hoodie like the one you always borrowed from him. It has never stopped.
You were a ghost that followed him everywhere, not haunting him maliciously—but softly, and quietly. Just present enough to hurt.
And every time Olivia asked him what was wrong, he’d lie.
“Nothing. Just tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s just adjusting to a new place, that’s all.”
Sometimes, when Olivia was out late with her friends, he’d sit on the cold tile floor of the kitchen—like he had that night in your kitchen, and he’d let the silence settle.
He remembered what he said to you, slumped against the cabinets, head spinning, your shoulder warm beneath him. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood what that meant. But now? Now he did because he had left, and it had ruined him.
He checked his phone before the flight, over and over. Desperately hoping for a message. One of your typical, low-effort, high-meaning texts:
“Don’t forget your passport, idiot.” or “You’re gonna do great, Lan.”
But it never came.
He’d hoped—selfishly—that you’d come say goodbye. That you’d be there at the airport, even if just standing in the back. That maybe, just maybe, you’d catch his hand, say something like “Stay.” But you didn’t.
He’d looked for you anyway. Chest tight, heart racing, his eyes scanning the faces of every person who showed up to send him off. Laughing, hugging, cheering. But not you. And in that moment, he felt something twist deep in his chest—a mix of guilt and disbelief. Because even after everything… some part of him truly believed you’d be there. You always were, until now.
And something inside him snapped quietly in that moment. Like a string too tight for too long finally giving way.
She didn’t come.
She didn’t come.
She didn’t come.
She didn’t—
Lando never deleted your messages. He couldn’t. They were still there, buried deep in the chat log. All those late-night voice notes, the blurry selfies, the playlists you made, the “tell me you got home safe, idiot” texts. Now they sat untouched, blue and gray bubbles frozen in time.
One night, he tapped on one of your voice notes and hit play, and your voice filled the room. It broke him. He sank to the floor—knees pulled to his chest, face in his hands—and cried. Really cried. Not the frustrated kind, or the angry kind, but the kind that came from loss. From deep, heavy regret because now, with the noise of this new life screaming around him, he realized how quiet you had been when you left.
You didn’t beg, you didn’t argue. You didn’t even try to convince him to stay. You simply stepped back, and he let you.
Everything with Olivia started to rot after that. Not all at once—but slowly. He stopped laughing at her jokes, she started noticing how distant he’d become, they argued more. She asked why he wouldn’t touch her like he used to, why he stayed up late when she went to bed. Why didn't he try. He didn’t have an answer she wanted to hear. Because the truth was that he was still in love with someone else. And he’d left her behind.
He tried. God, he tried. Olivia was everything on paper—beautiful, perfect body, intelligent, well-spoken. She had a plan for her future, a five-year vision board, a curated Spotify playlist for every mood. But she didn’t know how to read his silences like you did.
She didn’t call him out when he was spiraling in his thoughts, having anxiety attacks. She didn’t remember how he hated fish or how he picked at the skin on his thumb when he was overthinking. She didn’t feel like home, and over time, he stopped trying to force it. He stopped texting her when he stayed on campus later than planned, he started noticing how tight her grip was on his arm, how her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when he mentioned your name—which he always did by accident.
You had a way of slipping into his sentences, even when he wasn’t trying.
“Oh yeah, she always said that movie was mint!”
“We used to listen to this song in the summer.”
Each time, Olivia would go quiet, and Lando would pretend he didn’t notice—but he did.
He just didn’t know how to stop it.
The nights were the worst. When the city noise finally died, and all that was left was the glow of streetlights bleeding through the blinds. He’d lie awake, the bed too big, the air too thin, your voice still echoing faintly in the back of his mind.
It wasn’t even the last time he saw you that haunted him—not really. It was everything before that. The look in your eyes when you told him you were fine, the way you nodded, even though your voice cracked. The way you smiled for him even while your heart broke quietly behind your ribs.
He’d never forget the weight of your head on his shoulder in that quiet kitchen. The warmth of your presence, the familiar rhythm of your breathing, the silence between you that somehow said everything he wasn’t brave enough to. You just let him rest there, drowning in the alcohol, the ache, and the guilt.
Lando has thought about messaging you so many times. Late at night, early in the morning, after a fight with Olivia, after a dream that felt too real. He even typed out a few drafts, but he always deleted them because it felt too selfish. Because what right did he have to pull you back when he was the one who walked away?
So instead, he stayed silent—and hoped you’d reach out first. Yet days passed, and you didn’t.
He scrolled through your Instagram more often than he wanted to admit. You’d changed your profile picture, and even cut your hair shorter. You posted photos with friends, laughing in golden sunlight, and yet your eyes still carried something heavy, something distant. He zoomed in on one photo once, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it—that slight sadness you always tried to hide behind your smile.
You looked okay. But not happy. And it wrecked him to know that he was probably the reason why.
At the four-month mark, he started skipping more classes, stayed in bed longer and let his favorite lego sets collect dust. Olivia noticed, of course, but she didn’t ask the right questions—and even if she had, he wouldn’t have told the truth. Because the truth was simple and devastating: he missed you more than he ever thought possible. Not just in the romantic sense—but existentially. Like something about his very being had gone numb without you there to ground him, like he couldn’t find the version of himself he liked anymore. The version who laughed too loudly, who stayed up late talking about nothing, who said stupid things just to make you roll your eyes and smile.
He felt like a stranger to himself, and the more he tried to fit into this new life, the more he realized he didn’t belong here.
He hadn’t told Olivia yet about the truth of what he was feeling. About the growing distance in his chest every time she kissed him. About how every time he said “I love you,” it felt like a lie wrapped in an apology. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about how he got here. And how he should’ve never left you behind.
────୨ৎ────
The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glare of a paused movie screen and the glow of Olivia’s phone. Outside, the city murmured its usual midnight song—distant traffic, wind brushing windows, occasional laughter from people who still had somewhere to be.
However, inside, it was dead quiet.
Lando sat slouched on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, thumb pressed hard into the side of his temple. His jaw ached from clenching. He’d been this way for the past hour—motionless, burning silently.
Olivia didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but chose not to care. Her legs were tucked beneath her, wrapped in that gray blanket she bought when they were picking things for the apartment. She scrolled on her phone, her thumb moving in slow flicks, laughter bubbling from her lips every now and then at something on her screen.
It didn’t even feel like they were in the same room.
“You’re really not gonna talk again tonight?” She finally said, not even looking at him, too busy replying to someone on Instagram.
He blinked slowly, taking a deep breath. “There’s nothing to say.”
Her eyes snapped to him. “That’s bullshit, Lan. You’ve been weird for weeks.” She tilted her head, getting a better look at him. Lando opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling through his nose.
“Is this about college?” She asked, more pointed now. “Or is this about her?” He stiffened at her last words.
There it was—the unspoken name, hanging in the air like a match above gasoline.
“Of course it is,” She scoffed, throwing her phone down. “You’ve been floating since we got here. You barely try anymore. Like your body’s here, but your head’s somewhere else—always looking back to Bristol. You need to understand that this city and every memory that is connected with it is already long gone.”
He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, really looked—and didn’t recognize the person staring back. She wasn’t the Olivia he had first met, full of ambition and spontaneous affection. She was different now. Controlled, and expectant. Like she wanted to mold him into someone else.
How could he forget about Bristol, about you?
“Because I don’t feel like myself anymore, Liv!” Lando finally snapped, voice sharp, loud and desperate. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am when I’m with you.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed, “Wow,” She snickered, voice trembling with disbelief. “That’s a shitty thing to say to the person who moved hundreds of kilometers to a foreign country with you.”
“No. You moved here,” He snapped, his voice finally rising. “And I just followed. I followed after you here because I thought that maybe it would fix whatever I was feeling. But it didn’t. It just made it worse.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. She blinked a few times before finally letting out a scoff and replying, “Okay, so this is my fault, huh?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Bullshit!” She stood now, the blanket falling off her lap. “You’ve been checked out for months. Is this really about her, Lando? Just say it. Have balls and say it, straight to my face, that this is true.”
Lando’s chest tightened. He ran a hand through his curls, pacing in quick, tight circles. He could feel the frustration building in his throat, like it was choking him.
“I haven’t spoken to her in months, Olivia.”
“But you still think about her. I see it on your face every time we walk past something that reminds you of home. Every time someone says her name. You go quiet, and get lost in your little, stupid head again, overthinking everything.”
Her words landed like a punch in the stomach. He stopped pacing, his back was turned to her. Softly, he answered, “Maybe I am.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Her breath hitched, hands trembling, knotted into fists.
“You’re such a coward, Lando,” She whispered in disbelief. “You couldn’t even admit you loved her. You just kept pretending, and now that this life isn’t perfect, you want to run back like a scared little boy.”
He turned around, eyes shining now, but not from tears. From fury. “I never wanted this life, can’t you understand it?!” He shouted, gripping his fists tightly, his nails digging deeply into the skin of his hand. “You planned it all out and I just… I went along. I left my family, my best friend, my home. I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. I don’t even know who I am anymore, Olivia.”
“So what now?” She spat, a non-chalant grimace visible on her face. “You’re gonna crawl back and expect her to just be waiting for you with open arms? Like none of this happened? Pretend like you didn’t break her heart too?”
That brought him to a halt. He hadn’t let himself think of it that way—how much damage he might’ve caused. How you had stayed quiet while he disappeared into someone else’s world.
Lando felt sick.
“I don’t know what she’ll say,” He admitted, softer now. “But I can’t keep doing this. Not when I feel like I’ve lost everything that made me who I was.”
Olivia stared at him for a long time. Then, her expression hardened. “Then go. And don’t bother coming back.” She added coldly.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Go ahead. Pack all of your shit, dickhead. Go chase your fucking dream girl. Just don’t expect me to wait around while you figure out who you are.”
He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes stinging. “I wouldn’t even ask you to.”
And just like that, he turned around and walked into their shared bedroom. He pulled out the old bag from under the bed—the one with his initials stitched into the side from when he was sixteen. It hadn’t been touched in months.
He threw in clothes without thinking. Chargers. Toothbrush. Photo strip he’d once tucked into a side pocket—the one with the two of you, silly grins and bright eyes, back when life had been simple. With all the necessary things, he zipped the bag up, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped back into the living room.
When he came back out, Olivia stood there, arms crossed over her chest, tears in her angry eyes. She was bitter, not even trying to stop him.
“Lando.” She called him one last time, and he turned to look at her for the last time. “You’ll regret this,” She continued, voice low and furious. “She won’t take you back, and you’ll be left with nothing.”
But Lando didn’t say a word, he just walked out, slamming the door behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, he felt it—like breathing after holding it too long. Like grief and relief tangled into one.
For the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like something new beginning.
────୨ৎ────
You weren’t expecting anything—just the usual hum of silence broken only by the rain pounding on the windows. It had been a quiet evening. Too quiet, actually.
You’d brushed your teeth, turned the lights low, your skin still warm from a shower, wrapped in a worn hoodie far too big for you. A movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really watching. You never did anymore. Everything had dulled around the edges. You went through motions now. You existed in between hours, in between memories of what used to be and the aching of what could’ve been.
It was close to 1:00 AM. You hadn’t planned on staying up this late, but sleep never came easy these days. Not since he left. So when the knock came—three distinct raps followed by a silence so heavy it filled the room—your stomach dropped.
You froze mid-step, heart punching your ribs, unsure whether it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then it came again—three more knocks, slower this time. Heavier. Like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they had the right to be there.
Your feet moved before you realized it. Soft, tentative steps across the hardwood. The kind you take when your heart is at your throat. When everything in you says, “Don’t hope. Don’t you dare hope.”
You reached the door and slowly peeked through the peephole. And in that moment, everything inside you fell apart.
It was him. Lando.
Soaked from head to toe, rain dripping from his curls, hoodie clinging to him like the weight of every decision he’d made. His face was pale, exhausted. His eyes locked on the doormat like he couldn’t bear to look up. He looked like regret had come to life.
You stared, frozen in place. Every nerve in your body screamed. Every instinct said this isn’t real, that it was just a trick of your mind conjured out of all the times you’d cried yourself to sleep.
You didn’t even think twice as your fingers already fumbled at the lock, breath shallow, pulse racing. When the door finally creaked open, the rain surged in, bringing cold and memories with it.
Lando slowly lifted his head, making your eyes meet, and in that moment it felt as if everything around stopped. The storm behind him blurred into white noise, and the air between you buzzed with everything unspoken.
Your throat tightened, and you felt as if your knees threatened to give out any second. You hadn’t seen him in eight months. Just glimpses, pictures with Olivia that felt like salt in a wound you never asked for. But now here he was, Lando in the flesh, standing right in front of you. And you couldn’t breathe.
Lando didn’t speak. He just stood there, rain running down his face, mixing with something that might’ve been tears—but you couldn’t tell. He looked older somehow. More tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, maybe weeks. Like life had eaten him alive.
You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to scream, and cry. To ask him why—why he left, why he never looked back, why he let you shatter without a single word.
The pain hit you all at once—heavy, violent, and consuming—making you break apart. Your throat burned as you moved towards him. You shoved him back once, then again. Your fists thudded against his chest, angry, raw, messy and real.
“You bastard—” Your voice broke into a sob as you hit him again. “You goddamn— selfish coward—” Lando flinched at your words, but still didn’t move away.
You shoved him harder. “You— you left me! You said nothing, not even a single word! You just disappeared! You think you can show up here after months and what? What?!”
Your fists pounded his chest as anger boiled over into pure heartbreak. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much it hurt?” Still, he took it. He didn’t raise a hand. He let you hit him. “You just left! Like I was nothing to you. Like I wasn’t even— God, I hate you!”
Each word broke more of you apart. Hot tears blurred your vision as your fists pounded against him with every ache you’d buried for months. You were crying now, properly crying. Ugly, broken sobs tearing through your chest. The kind of crying that made your knees weak, that shook your whole body.
“You fucking asshole! You didn’t even say goodbye—” Your voice cracked. “I waited, Lando. I waited for you to say something. To make it make sense. And you just— you were gone.”
Still, he said nothing. His breath was shaking, lips parted, eyes wet from more than just the rain. And then finally—finally—he moved. Slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, he wrapped his arms around you in a strong embrace. You struggled at first—your fists still weakly hitting at his chest, but his arms only tightened more. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, grounding you.
“Shhh… I know. I know.” He whispered, his throat tightening, “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked on the last word, and that’s what finally shattered you.
You stopped fighting.
His arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go. Tight and desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing you against him like he was terrified you’d disappear. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest—fast and scared. He was shaking, and so were you.
You sobbed into his hoodie, the fabric soaking up your tears and rain and months of silence. He didn’t say a word. His chin dropped to rest on the top of your head as he held you there, like if he let go, the world would fall apart again. You gripped at him like a lifeline, hands fisting into his hoodie, face pressed into the warmth of his chest as your body trembled. You missed him so much.
No words were needed. Not yet. Just the rain and the sound of your heartbeat against his. The thud of two souls colliding after too long apart.
You cried into his chest while he stood in your doorway, dripping rainwater and regret, your name probably sitting at the edge of his tongue.
And still, nothing. Nothing except the unshakable feeling that even now, even after everything—this was still home.
────୨ৎ────
Some time had passed before you finally led him inside.
The house was still quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hummed peacefully—but the breathless kind. The kind where the walls still echoed with everything left unsaid.
Rain had soaked into the hallway carpet beneath your feet, his clothes leaving wet spots behind him that you didn’t have the heart to care about. Your hand trembled slightly as it held onto the railing while you climbed the stairs. Behind you, Lando followed wordlessly, his movements hesitant—like he wasn’t sure he belonged here anymore.
Your room hadn’t changed much. Same soft light from the lamp on the bedside table, same books piled up on your desk, same blanket folded at the end of the bed. And yet, when he stepped in behind you, something shifted. The air tightened.
Lando stood in the doorway, dripping, still breathing like he hadn’t figured out how to do it properly since he saw your face again. And you didn’t say anything. Not yet. You just turned around to face him, heart pounding in your ears like a warning, and the second your eyes met again in that dim golden light, something collapsed inside you. Not with noise, but with a softness that hurt.
You crossed the room slowly. No rush, no desperation, just the ache of every second that had passed since he had left. Every second you’d spent trying not to miss him, trying not to hate him, trying not to wish for this exact moment.
He looked down at you when you stopped in front of him. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His shirt clung to his skin, knuckles were scraped, and his eyes held centuries of regret. And you reached for him—not with certainty, but with instinct.
Fingers brushed his sleeve, then his hand, and finally, without a word, he let out the quietest exhale and stepped closer to you, forehead pressing to yours like he’d finally made it home.
You stood like that for a while, eyes closed, neither of you moving. The sound of the rain bleeding through the walls.
“I…” He started to whisper, voice cracking—but you shook your head against him.
“Don’t,” You breathed, your voice trembling. “Not yet, Lan.” The nickname made his heart squeeze painfully, remembering all the happiest times when you called him that.
Lando nodded as he understood what you meant. This wasn’t the time for words, for answers—not tonight.
You took his hand and pulled him gently toward the bed. It wasn’t romantic nor filled with lust. It was the comfort and longing that made you do that.
You handed him a towel from the dresser, watched as he clumsily dried his hair, and peeled off the hoodie that stuck to him like a second skin. Then you passed him one of your old sweatshirts—the navy one he used to steal during movie nights, and the one you could never bring yourself to throw away. He hesitated, but eventually he took it, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled it over his head.
You turned away to give him space. But when you sat down on the bed, you felt the weight shift beside you. He was close, but not touching. Like he was scared to ruin the fragile thing you’d just begun stitching back together.
Not knowing what to say, you lay down, and he followed your steps. It was awkward at first, like learning again a language you used to speak fluently. His arm grazed yours and you shifted slightly, making him mirror your moves. The duvet settled over you both like a secret, warm and heavy and sacred.
It took time—slow, aching minutes—for your body to relax. But it happened, eventually. Your head found its way to his chest, just above his heart, and his arm found your waist. Your legs tangled together under the covers like they’d never forgotten how to fit. And still… you said nothing.
You listened his breathing—to the gradually slowing thump of his heart. To the rain whispering against your windows. You felt the warmth of his skin through the borrowed fabric. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
He held you like you were made of glass. Carefully, and reverently. Your fingers curled in the hem of his sleeve and didn’t let go. And finally—finally—you allowed yourself to breathe.
You didn’t want to sleep. You were afraid all of this would vanish if you closed your eyes. That if you let go, he’d disappear again. That the morning would come and this would all be just another cruel dream. But your body betrayed you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you fell asleep wrapped in the arms of someone who knew you. Who had broken you, and had come back.
You didn’t dream You just slept—heart pressed to heart, hands entwined in quiet forgiveness.
And Lando? He stayed awake, watching the way your face softened in sleep. The faint frown that still lingered, even now. He studied every inch of your skin like he was afraid he’d forget it again. His thumb brushed your back, up and down, slow and reverent.
He couldn’t believe that he’d left this, that he’d chosen to leave you.
You stirred slightly, breathing shifting against his chest, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear so gently it almost broke him.
And that was when he knew.
No matter what it took—no matter how long it would be—he wasn’t leaving again. He couldn’t. You were his home. And this? This was just the beginning.
────୨ৎ────
The next morning the rain hadn’t stopped. It painted the windows in soft streams, whispering against the glass like an old lullaby, a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Slow, gentle and unrelenting. The world outside was hushed, dulled beneath a curtain of gray skies and water-soaked streets, but in the stillness of the apartment, it felt safe. Wrapped in that soft kind of silence that only rain brings—where time slows, and nothing demands to be done except existing.
The bedroom was still dim, bathed in the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp that was left on throughout the night. Its golden light caught on the edges of things—the half-empty glass of water on the dresser, the corner of a blanket trailing off the bed, the framed photo next to the books which depicted you and Lando, laughing at something neither of you remembered now. Younger, lighter, unaware of the ache the years would bring.
But now, your older selves lay beneath the covers, wrapped up in warmth and each other. Skin against skin, his arm draped around your waist, your legs tangled naturally beneath the duvet. As if you’d always belonged in this shape. Like the spaces you left in each other had only ever been waiting to be filled.
His thumb moved slowly against your side—back and forth, back and forth. A silent check-in. A promise, a reminder that he was there.
When you woke up, you didn’t move at first. Just let your eyes follow the soft pattern of shadows across the ceiling, let the sound of the rain blur into the quiet thudding of your heart.
Lando shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His curls were messy, and his eyes—blue and familiar—were half-lidded but awake. “Are you okay?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep and something deeper.
You hesitated, then shrugged, your voice soft. “Just thinking.”
“About?” He questioned, his tone careful. Like he already knew the answer might sting.
You blinked slowly, and swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “You know… I don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet,” You whispered. “Not fully.” The words cracked slightly on their way out, and you hated how vulnerable they sounded. How fragile they made you feel.
Lando didn’t flinch, nor pulled away. He just held your gaze. “I know.” He said quietly.
You turned onto your side to face him fully, his hand now resting on the curve of your hip. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement, the duvet sliding down your shoulder. Your skin cooled instantly in the air, but it wasn’t why you shivered.
“I told myself I had,” You continued, a little more steadily now. “I wanted to. But I still remember the silence. The way it felt when you left, Lan. Like— like I’d been erased from your life overnight. Like I didn’t matter.”
Lando’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at your words. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, as if trying to memorize you all over again, his eyes full of regret.
“I think about that too,” He murmured. “Every single day.” There was no defense in his voice. No excuses. Just the truth, bare and broken.
“I was a coward. I was scared, and I let that fear decide everything. I left you without a word and convinced myself it was the right thing. That you’d be fine, and that you didn’t need me. But it wasn’t about you. It was about me—and I hurt you because I didn’t know how to stay.” He shook his head, like the memory made him sick. “I was selfish. I chose a version of myself that made me feel safe, even if it meant becoming someone I didn’t recognize. Even if it meant walking away from the one person who ever really saw me.”
His eyes searched yours, shimmering. “And I’m sorry.”
The words hung between you, bare and trembling.
“I’m sorry for the silence. I’m sorry for every night you waited, every time you wondered what you did wrong, every piece of yourself you had to stitch back together without me. I should’ve been there. I should’ve fought for you.”
You felt your throat tighten. Your chest ached with the force of how badly you’d needed to hear those words.
“I think I didn’t deserve your love,” He continued, “but I had it. And I broke it. And that’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. But if there’s a chance—any chance—that I can still be the person you trust again… I’ll spend every day trying.” His voice cracked. “I just want you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”
You blinked, and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks again—warm, unstoppable.
You sat up slowly, mirroring him now, the duvet pooled around your waist. And for a moment, you just looked at him. Looked at the boy who had left, and the man who had come back.
You whispered, “Thank you.” as a wave of relief ran down you.
You never knew how much you needed to hear that apology. And though forgiveness wasn’t something that could be wrapped in a single moment, it lived in that breath. In the way your body leaned into his without fear. In the way he exhaled like he’d been holding that apology in his lungs for a year.
You didn’t need a grand gesture. You needed this. The truth, laid bare. Between two people who had shattered each other once—and were now choosing, quietly, to try again.Together.
Your eyes met his. “Do you regret it? All of it?”
He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the weight of the question. “Not everything,” He said finally, “But most of all, the time I wasted pretending I didn’t love you.” That cracked something wide open inside you.
“I thought if I stayed gone,” He continued, voice shaking now, “if I became who Olivia wanted me to be, then maybe I’d forget how much I needed you. But I didn’t. I never did. And one morning, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.” He paused for a second, his throat tightening at the recall of all the memories, “I missed you so much it made me sick.”
Your breath caught. That was the moment you let the tears fall once again—not loud or gasping, just silent, and honest. They slipped down your cheeks like the rain on the window, blurring everything.
“I missed you too,” You whispered, your hand finding his beneath the blanket, your fingers curling around his like a lifeline. “Even when I told myself I didn’t.”
When you said that, Lando smiled. It was small, soft—nothing like the wide grins he used to wear when the world was still simple—but it was real. Tired and tender and entirely yours.
He leaned forward until your foreheads touched, his breath warm against your skin. Neither of you spoke for a while, there was no need to. Just that quiet, precious stillness—the kind that only came after the storm, after the wreckage, when you realized you were both still here. Still breathing. Still reaching for each other.
When he finally whispered, “Can I stay?” it wasn’t a question about just staying at your place. It was about everything that came after—your future.
You nodded, voice barely audible. “You never have to leave again, Lan.” And you meant it wholeheartedly.
His hand curled around your side again, anchoring you close, and your body folded into his like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had. But never like this. Never with the knowledge that tomorrow wouldn’t take him away again.
The rain outside kept falling, steady and quiet, but the storm between you had broken. And in that little apartment, tucked beneath layers of blankets and bruised apologies, two people who had once been torn apart by time and distance had finally found each other again.
Not in grand confessions. Not in desperate pleas. But in the way his thumb still moved against your hip. In the way your fingers clutched his like they couldn’t bear to let go.
This wasn’t about going back to the beginning, rather about starting from here. Where the pain had already been named. Where the truths had already been spoken. Where love, battered but burning, had quietly survived.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow could wait because right now, in the amber light and the hush of falling rain, you were home.
────୨ৎ────
3 years later
Your shared apartment smelled like warm vanilla and the candle you lit hours ago—something earthy, sandalwood maybe, that had slowly wrapped itself around the quiet of the afternoon.
Outside, the sky was beginning to shift into early evening—dusted pinks and soft oranges stretching across the skyline like a watercolor bleeding into paper. A soft breeze drifted in through the cracked balcony door, swaying the white curtains like waves.
You were nestled into the couch, legs stretched out, a blanket tossed haphazardly over both your bodies. Your head rested on Lando’s chest, his hoodie swallowing you up, the fabric worn-in and smelling like him—clean cotton and a scent you could never name but always recognized. He was absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, slowly, over and over again, untangling the strands with gentle care like it was the most important task in the world. And in that moment, maybe it was.
A record played low in the background, some old song he loved that you’d grown to love too. Lando had his arm wrapped around you, his hand trailing slowly through your hair. Over and over. Fingertips catching in soft strands before sliding free again, curling around them like he never wanted to stop touching you.
You were laying there, head on his torso, the quiet rise and fall beneath your cheek like a lullaby. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. It was one of those moments where everything was said in the silence—in the closeness, the steady breathing, the way your fingers rested against the inside of his wrist, your thumb brushing the faint line of a scar you both knew the story of.
Lando shifted a little, just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. No words, just that.
You smiled into the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers tracing slow circles over the inside of his wrist. “You’re gonna make me fall asleep, Lan.” You mumbled, your words softened by the weight of comfort, eyelids heavy.
He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hairline. “Then fall asleep,” He whispered, voice laced with that familiar warmth that always made your chest flutter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You smiled into his shirt, your heart swelling, a quiet little ache blooming behind your ribs. “You always say that.”
He smiled, too. “Because I mean it. And would it be so bad?” He said softly, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile. “I like having you like this, pretty girl.”
You tilted your head to look at him, chin resting against his chest. “Like what?”
He met your eyes, all warm honey and quiet adoration. “Close.”
And then he leaned down, connecting your lips in a kiss. Not in that rushed, desperate way he used to when everything was still uncertain—when love felt fragile and maybe temporary. No, this kiss was slow. Anchored. Like he was still choosing you, over and over again, even now.
You kissed him back, one hand curling into the collar of his shirt, the other still resting against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat under your palm. He pulled back just enough to brush your nose with his, grinning against your mouth. Lando looked at you like you were something precious—like he still couldn’t believe you were real, like even in all the time that had passed, he hadn’t gotten used to having you close again.
Your fingers slid up to his jaw, thumb brushing along the line of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. “You know, sometimes I still feel like I’m dreaming,” You said softly. “Like I’ll wake up and you’ll still be gone.”
His brows knit together, and his free hand came up to cup your cheek gently. “Hey,” He said, voice suddenly serious, “you’re not dreaming. I’m here.”
You nodded, but your throat felt thick, full of memories you hadn’t spoken aloud in months. The silence between you shifted—still soft, but a little heavier now.
“You know I love you, right?” He asked, quiet and sure.
You nodded again, slower this time, your eyes starting to sting. “I know.” His eyes searched yours, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone like he couldn’t bear to lose contact.
His hand slipped back into your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear. “I don’t think I knew how much until I almost lost you.”
You blinked, your lips parting, but no words came. Instead, you just laid your head back against his chest, curling in tighter, wrapping your arm around his waist. You didn’t need to say it—he could feel it in the way you held him like he was home.
“You know,” He murmured after a while, “I could do this forever.”
You pretended to think about it. “Do what?”
“This,” He whispered. “Be with you. Like this. Wake up next to you. Watch you fall asleep on me before we finish a movie. Let you steal all the covers.”
“That sounds a lot like a lifetime commitment.” You smirked, making the man beside you grin at your words.
“That’s kind of the point, love.”
You looked at him then—really looked—and it hit you again, how much love had filled the quiet spaces in your life since that night he came back. Since the rain, the doorstep, the apology. Since everything shifted.
You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek. “You know,” You said softly, “I never thought we’d make it here.”
He leaned into your touch, gaze steady. “Well, I did.” And with that, the silence wrapped around you both again—no pressure, no need to rush. Just comfort, and peace. The quiet knowledge that love didn’t need to be loud to be real.
It was here. In the way your body curved into his, perfectly fitted. In the way his eyes softened every time they landed on you. It was here. Always.
You didn’t say anything. Instead, you melted further into him, burying your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. You stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing. Loving.
The light outside faded into dusky blues. The candle flickered, the music looped. And still, you stayed like that—wrapped in each other. Lando’s fingers never stopped moving through your hair, slow and thoughtful, like he was memorizing the feel of you. And when the night time finally came, when the only light was the glow of the kitchen lamp left on across the room, Lando gently scooped you up—blanket and all—and carried you to bed.
Because this wasn’t the beginning of something new. This was the finally. Finally together, finally home. Finally, always.
Everything that had once been right at the fingertips, was now fully grasped.
genre | angst, fluff, friends to lovers, childhood best friends au, hurt-comfort
word count | 11.7k
warnings | no use of y/n, heartbreak, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, abandonment themes, low-key manipulation themes??, use of alcohol, cursing, crying.
inspired by: sydney rose - we hug now, conan gray - memories, the kid laroi - bleed
summary: you told yourself you’d moved on. that you didn't care, and your heart had mended. but when he came back, all ruined and raw, you realized some hearts don’t forget who they were meant to beat for.
a/n: PART TWOOOOO!!!! as soon as i saw the requests for part two i started working on this, and actually, it turned out to be longer than i expected- OOPSIE but y'all.. writing this kinda broke me :,) i'm so happy that at least they got their happy ending </3 hope you'll enjoy !!
The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that wraps itself around you, like the silence after a storm—where everything feels too calm, too heavy with unspoken words. You could hear the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway, the distant hum of the fridge, the muffled sound of your parents’ breathing in their room down the hall.
You padded across the hallway in thick socks, dressed in your oversized sleep shirt with sleeves tugged down over your fingers. The exhaustion from the day had settled into your bones, dull and familiar. You’d brushed your teeth, put your hair up, wiped the smeared mascara from under your eyes—and still, somehow, you felt heavy.
Not even tired. Just… drained. Hollow in a quiet way. The kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep, but with the ache in your chest that had been there since that night.
The night when you sat under the stars, knees drawn to your chest. When he was crouching in front of you with that lopsided smile, and made you feel like you could hope again.
The night you almost said it. The night he almost knew.
But after that night, there came the distance. Not cruel, not sharp, just drifting. Like smoke through fingers, like something slipping underwater.
And you were trying. Trying so hard to be okay with it. But god—you were exhausted.
However, it wasn’t the physical kind of exhaustion. It was something deeper, a kind of tiredness that came from the emotional weight of trying to convince yourself that everything was fine, that things were normal. But every time you opened social media and saw Lando’s name, or caught a glimpse of him in the halls at school laughing with Olivia, leaning in close, his hand in hers, her lips on his cheek—it all felt like a cruel reminder that the world had moved on, and you hadn’t been included in it. You were stuck in a loop of saddness and regret.
When you reached your bedroom door, hand resting on the knob, a strange noise came from downstairs, making you stop mid-step.
Clink.
You wanted to brush it off, taking for granted that it was just the wind, or the house creaking. But then it came again—the scrape of a drawer, the distinct sound of a cup hitting the counter, the slight clink of something being set down.
You sucked in a breath, heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Your first thought? Someone broke in.
You tiptoed out of your room, pulse quickening, each creak of the floorboards beneath you feeling like an alarm bell. The hallway was dark, save for the faint glow of the nightlight near the stairs. You could hear the rustling louder now, the sound of something being knocked over, maybe.
A breathless moment of hesitation, then you flicked the light on, your hand trembling slightly. The glow of the kitchen illuminated the open doorway.
And there, leaning against the sink, was no one other than Lando himself. A glass of water in his hand, his back hunched slightly like he’d been holding up too much weight for too long.
When his eyes set on you, he blinked a few times like he wasn’t sure if you were real or if he was dreaming you up.
Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Lando… what the hell are you doing here?” You blurted out, your voice far sharper than you intended. “It’s fucking one in the morning! You scared the shit out of me.”
He observed you, eyes bleary, and half-lidded. He didn’t seem surprised—just tired. His lips curled up slightly, almost forming a smile, but also an apology.
Your chest tightened at that sight. “You broke into my house?” You said with your voice trembling, not from fear anymore, but from confusion. Anger. Sadness. Everything at once.
He didn’t seem bothered by your accusation. Instead, he just shrugged, “The key,” Lando muttered. “Was still under the orange flower pot.”
That flower pot. The one your mom had left by the doors years ago. The one he used to hide candy under for you in middle school. The one that had, unknowingly, never switched places.
You stepped closer, the light casting his figure in sharper detail. His hair was a mess—curls flattened on one side, wild on the other, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked, stained slightly with something you didn’t care to identify. And his eyes—god, his eyes. Always so bright and beautiful, in that aquamarine color, but now bloodshot, tired and wrecked.
You blinked, still trying to process what was happening, what had led him to your kitchen at this hour. “Lando, what happened?” You took a step closer.
Your anger melted into something else—worry, and concern. You had never seen him like this. Drunk, disoriented. Not even the usual playful charm he wore like armor.
Your heart clenched at the sight. What happened to him?
“Lando… what’s going on? Why aren’t you with Olivia?” Saying her name left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, like his knees had given out. Slowly, he slid down the cabinets until he hit the floor, back against the drawers, legs stretched out carelessly.
You panicked for a second as he looked pale, dizzy, and lost. “Lan— hey.. are you okay?” You crouched beside him instinctively, heart pounding.
Then he slumped into you without warning. His head fell to your shoulder, the warmth of his skin pressing into yours. And for a long, drawn-out moment, you just let him rest there. His breath was slow, ragged, like he had been running a marathon, like he had been fighting something for a long time.
But all of it—the tension, the pain, the confusion—had finally spilled over in this one vulnerable moment.
Lando sighed against your collarbone. “M’tired.” His hot breath tickled your skin, making you shiver at the sound of his voice.
And you stayed like that. There, on the kitchen floor. Tiles cold beneath your legs, your body stiff beside his slumped frame while letting the boy rest on your shoulder. The silence settled again, but heavier now, thick with questions you didn’t know how to ask.
His breath was slow and warm where it met your neck. You stared ahead at the fridge, heart unraveling in your chest.
This was still Lando. Your Lando.
The boy who used to throw pebbles at your window at 2 a.m. just to see if you wanted to go stargazing. The boy who once tried to braid your hair in sixth grade and ended up tying it in a knot. The boy who almost said he loved you once—and you didn’t hear it in time.
And now he was here, on your kitchen floor.
“I don’t wanna leave you.” Lando mumbled, his words barely audible, his voice thick and muffled against the fabric of your shirt.
Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”
But he didn’t repeat it. He just exhaled like he’d been holding that in for years. Like that sentence had broken out of him by accident, cracked through whatever wall he’d built around himself.
You held him there, on the cold kitchen floor, unsure of what to do with his confession. Your heart pulsed violently in your chest, because what did he mean? Did he mean tonight? Or forever?
Why wasn’t he with Olivia? Why wasn’t she the one holding him now? Why did he come here like you were still his safe place?
But you didn’t ask, not knowing how. You just sat there with him—shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same air, memories thick in the space between you.
But the weight of his presence, of him leaning into you, of him saying those words that you didn’t know what to do with, was unbearable. And it broke something inside you. Something that you hadn’t realized was still holding on.
You closed your eyes, the tears threatening to spill again. You didn’t know what you wanted from him—or from yourself. You just held him. You held him because you couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Not when he was still here.
And you didn’t know it yet, but that moment would stay burned into you—into your soul.
Days after the kitchen night, the silence between you and Lando grew so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin. You thought maybe he’d text. Apologize. Mention what he said. Explain this whole situation.
But he didn’t.
And so, you convinced yourself that it was a mistake—drunken words said in a foggy haze. Words meant for the moment, and not especially for you.
Still, you couldn’t forget the way his head had rested on your shoulder, like he belonged there. You couldn’t unhear the slurred, soft-spoken “I don’t want to leave you.” Those six words looped in your head like a broken record.
Were they meant to be comforting? A warning? A confession?
But even worse than that was how everything returned to normal or, at least, seemed to.
You stopped bumping into him at school. He stopped showing up in the group chat.
Olivia posted more often now—the two of them posing in bookstores, going to brunch, prepping for their “future.” She seemed so perfect on his arm, so carefully curated. Their relationship was like a photo in a museum: admired by everyone, but no one really understood it.
And you—you felt like a visitor. A stranger peering into a life you used to be a part of. You didn’t go to the group hangout in the woods. You skipped the movie night that once used to be your thing. Your friends texted, called, asked where you were. But you always had an excuse: studying, babysitting your cousin, or just being tired.
Anything but the truth.
The truth was that it hurt to exist in a space where Lando no longer looked for you. Even when you did see him, it was… different. He was quieter, more distracted by being new version of him. He even laughed less than he usually would when he was around you. He didn’t hold eye contact like he used to—not the way he did when it was just you two in the corner of a room, stealing glances across dinner tables or hiding giggles behind shared inside jokes.
It was like watching a star dim slowly, day by day, losing its uniqueness.
You’d pass each other in the halls sometimes. There was a flicker in his eyes—like maybe he wanted to say something, even the smallest thing. But the moment always passed and you’d look away first, because it felt safer that way.
One afternoon, you found yourself sitting by the window, the same one you both used to lean against when you studied together. The sky outside was soft and grey, and the silence in the room felt like it was screaming at you.
You clutched your phone in your hand, screen still open on the last video you ever took together—blurry, spontaneous, just you two laughing over some dumb joke, your laughs loud and vibrant. You looked at your smile in it, and how easy it had been to smile with him. How full you had felt back then.
But then came a new notification. A tagged photo on Olivia’s Instagram.
“Couldn’t be happier to start this chapter with you. Amsterdam, here we come <3”
The picture was beautiful, in that staged kind of way. Lando kissing her cheek, his arm around her waist as she held her passport and their tickets. The luggage was behind them, and departure gate in the background.
You blinked once. Twice. Then your chest caved in.
He hadn’t told you. Again. But this time he hadn’t even said goodbye.
There had been no message, no last knock on the door, no final look.
The disbelief washed over you in waves. First it was confusion, then came the bitterness. And then that slow, aching pain—like someone had reached inside and quietly rewired your heart. And it would knock the breath out of you, because suddenly it would make sense.
“I don’t wanna leave you.”
But he did. And he was already gone, taking his future with Olivia, leaving you with nothing but the words he’d whispered to you on that kitchen floor. Words you still didn’t understand, but somehow knew were real.
────୨ৎ────
The airport was too bright.
Everything felt like it was glowing under harsh, white light—the floors, the departure signs, the rows of metal benches where people sat with neck pillows, their luggage beside them, and some even taking a nap.
Lando could hear Olivia's voice next to him, cheerful and animated, chatting with her mum as they went over last-minute plans. He smiled, or at least tried to, but it didn’t feel right on his face. It didn’t stick.
He stood a little outside of it all—just off to the side of the check-in area, surrounded by people but entirely elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting toward the entrance doors. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked there—searching.
It had been weeks since that night. The kitchen. The water. Your shoulder. The words he wasn’t supposed to say out loud.
You hadn’t texted him since. Not even once. He had tried writing a couple of short, awkward messages but he always changed his mind, immediately deleting them.
And yet, some stupid, desperate part of him believed you’d still come.
Maybe you’d rush in, sleeves of your favourite hoodie pulled up your arms, out of breath, pretending you just happened to be nearby. Maybe you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like “figured you’d want a dramatic send-off, loser.”
He would’ve smiled, laughed even. He would’ve known what you meant. So he kept looking. Every flash of the color which your favourite hoodie had. Every girl which walked a little too fast through the crowd. His stomach turned every time he thought—that might be you.
But it never was.
“Boarding group A, you’re now welcome at gate 27.”
The announcement echoed through the terminal. Olivia squeezed his hand, excited, practically buzzing with it. “Ready?” She asked, sending him a warm smile. Lando nodded, but his eyes were still locked on the doors. Still waiting, hoping, hurting.
Olivia tugged his hand gently, and he looked one last time, but you weren’t there. It felt like something inside his chest folded in on itself.
────୨ৎ────
The house was quiet. Your parents were already gone for the day, hanging out with their friends which came to your city. The sun was filtering in through the curtains, soft and golden.
You were still in bed. Blankets pulled up to your chin, phone in your hand, screen dark. You hadn’t looked at his Instagram story. Not yet. Seeing Olivia’s post was enough for you.
You didn’t want to see the gate, again. The luggage. Olivia’s arm looped through his. You didn’t want confirmation that this was real. That he was really leaving. That he was no longer just not here, but truly, physically and emotionally gone.
Your chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid. And now you laid in your bed, curled under your blanket, breathing through the quiet kind of grief that doesn’t come with sobs or screams—just this low, constant ache in your chest. Like your ribs were too tight. Like your heart was trying to remember how to exist without him.
You stared at the ceiling—eyes wide, dry. You weren’t crying, you just felt… hollow.
Somewhere in a crowded airport, Lando was still looking for you in a sea of people. But now it was too late.
He had left. And you had let him.
────୨ৎ────
a few months later
The sky hadn’t been blue in weeks. Months.
Every day carried a quiet grayness, like the world had slipped into a version of itself that was somehow dimmer—dull and breathless. The leaves had started to curl at the edges, the sun set earlier now, and everything seemed to echo more, especially the silence in your chest.
You didn’t realize how much you had gotten used to him being part of your days until the days went on without him. Not suddenly—not like a door slammed shut, but like a faucet that dripped until the sink overflowed. Now, the drip was gone, the tap turned off. But you were still soaked in the memories.
He was gone. And you hated how easily everyone had accepted it.
It was late afternoon, the kind of cloudy-gray sky that made everything look softer, like the world had been rubbed with a layer of dust. You sat outside the library, on that same bench tucked beneath the skeletal arms of a tree that had long since shed its leaves. The wind moved gently through the branches, dry and cool, like fingers brushing against your skin, but you barely even felt it.
Your textbook lay open in your lap, untouched. You weren’t reading—you hadn’t been reading for a while. You were just… sitting. Existing. Or something like it.
Students moved past in waves—laughing, talking, balancing coffees in one hand and phones in the other. Their lives felt fast, full, like they were already becoming something. Moving forward, getting somewhere. But you? You felt stuck in the same still frame, like time had stretched out for you but kept moving for everyone else.
Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. You didn’t reach for it. You already knew it wouldn’t be him.
It hadn’t been him in months.
Lando was gone. Not just in the physical way—though yes, he was hundreds of miles away in Amsterdam, probably stretched out in a dorm bed beside someone who wasn’t you. But he was also gone in the invisible, intimate, excruciating way. In the way someone disappears from your days, not all at once, but in pieces. One text not sent, one weekend not spent together, one secret not shared until all that’s left is pure silence.
You saw all the stories, posts, sunlit selfies. Blurry party photos, Olivia’s cherry gloss smudged on his cheek, and his hand around her waist like it belonged there. His smile—it looked so familiar, yet no longer yours.
He had everything he had ever wanted.
A new city. A new life. A new girl.
And you were still here, feeling as if you’re basically wasting your time. Staring at the same sidewalk cracks, listening to the same sad songs and playing the same night in your head—the one where you almost told him everything. The one where he looked at you like you were the only person in the universe, only to walk away and give his world to someone else.
Sometimes, in quiet moments, you thought back to that night in your kitchen. When he showed up drunk, lost, whispering he didn’t want to leave you. You hadn’t understood what he meant back then. Not fully. Maybe you didn’t want to, but now, in the echo of his absence, it haunted you.
It wasn’t even the relationship that hurt the most. It was the way it all disappeared—like you had never mattered, never been chosen, never been even considered.
You remembered finding out about him and Olivia. You didn’t sleep that night. You just lay there, eyes burning, heart breaking in this small, quiet, invisible way—where you weren’t allowed to scream or sob or say this isn’t fair because technically, nothing had been promised.
But it had felt like a promise. Hadn’t it?
In the shared glances, in the laughter, in the way he used to text you when something dumb happened and say you were the first person he thought of. In the memory of him crouching in front of you at the party, brushing a tear from your cheek and saying he missed you.
Damn. Had you been that easy to forget?
Now, months later, you still carried that grief, that quiet ache but one else really noticed it. You’d gotten good at pretending—at laughing when you were supposed to, convincing that everything was great when people asked about school, often responding “yeah, I’m okay” with just the right smile to convince them.
But deep down, you were stuck, you couldn’t move on, and that’s what scared you the most. Because he had already moved on.
His heart had mended so quickly, while yours was still bleeding.
You saw it every time you opened Instagram. The way he glowed in those photos, new hair suiting him so goddamn good, looking like nothing ever haunted him. Like you had never haunted him. Like the version of himself that only existed when he was with you had vanished—as if it never mattered in the first place.
And yet you still remembered.
You remembered the time he fell asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling half-dreamed thoughts about how safe he felt with you. The time you screamed the lyrics of your favourite songs in your room, both of you out of breath from laughing too hard. The moment, months ago, when he almost confessed—voice low, eyes soft, something hidden in the way he touched your hand. But you had brushed it off. Laughed, and teased him about it, not taking him seriously because back then you hadn’t known.
You hadn’t realized, and now it was too late.
It wasn’t fair, how one person could move on and build a life, while the other lived with an ending that never truly ended.
You looked up from your textbook and blinked into the gray sky. Your chest ached—dull and constant. It had become part of you now, the same way a scar settles into skin.
Sometimes, you wondered if he ever missed you. If he ever thought back to the version of his life that included you. But you knew the truth. For him, it was just something that happened. Something small. But for you? It was everything. And it felt like the world ended when it did.
Some mornings, you stared at your phone for too long. You’d open your messages and scroll to his name, only to lock your screen again. His contact was still saved—still with the dumb nickname he’d given himself when you finally saved his number. Still with the photo of him pulling a face, mid-laugh, cheeks pink from the cold. You couldn’t bring yourself to change or delete it because deleting it would make it all real, and you weren’t ready for that.
You still carried all of the conversations in your head. Those little ones, and stupid ones. Like what he would say if he saw you after going to the hairstylist, how he’d tease you for the playlist you’d made for studying or how he’d groan dramatically about missing your mom’s cooking if he walked through your front door again.
You still remembered the way it all slipped. The last few months of high school had felt like they were lined with fog—slow, delicate, full of things unsaid. You had started keeping your emotions in a box, tucking them beneath small smiles and empty reassurances. You didn’t want to be a weight on his shoulders, didn’t want to make things harder. And most importantly, you didn’t want to lose him by telling him how much you needed him to stay. But you lost him anyway.
When you got to know that he was going to university with Olivia, it felt like your heart had been held above a flame. Slowly, gently burning.
He had made his choice, and it hadn’t been you.
You never told anyone how much that night broke you. How you cried in the shower with your hand pressed over your mouth, not to muffle the sobs, but to hold yourself together. You didn’t want anyone to know that you’d fallen apart over someone who, to the outside world, had never been yours to begin with.
But he had been yours. In the stolen glances, in the late-night conversations, in the inside jokes that no one else understood. He had been yours in every way that mattered—until he wasn’t.
Now, time was moving without him. He was off in a new city—Amsterdam, with new friends, new routines and new loves. And you? You were left behind with the echoes.
You never told him how often you still wore the hoodie he left at your place after one of many movie nights. Or how your chest still clenched every time you passed his old house, how sometimes you swore you could hear his laugh in the crowd, only to remember he wasn’t here anymore. The worst part? No one knew you were still grieving. Because you decided to just smile through it as it had never been said what you two were.
Some days, the sadness came in small waves—manageable, dull, like a bruise. Other days, however, it felt catastrophic, like you were drowning in everything unsaid. Everything he’d taken with him, everything he’d left behind.
You wondered—deeply, painfully—if he thought of you at all. If there were nights when he missed your voice, if he ever wished, even just for a second, that he’d done it all differently.
But you didn’t ask, you didn’t reach out because if he had wanted to stay he would’ve.
Right?
And yet, even now, all this time later, with the silence between you stretching wider and wider from one day to another, you still dreamed of him sometimes. Still woke up with tears on your pillow and his name lodged somewhere in your throat. Still felt like he was right at your fingertips.
Close enough to remember, but too far to touch.
────୨ৎ────
Amsterdam had been covered with heavy, dark rain clouds for a week now. Thin, cold rain that didn’t fall in sheets, but misted the air like grief that never stopped clinging. The kind that soaked into the seams of your hoodie and stuck to your eyelashes.
He’d been in this city for eight months now. Everything should’ve felt like a new chapter. Everything should’ve felt like the freedom he once craved — the escape he told himself he needed. Instead, he felt… off. Out of place in his own life. Like he had walked onto someone else’s path and didn’t know how to find his way back.
He had new friends here, a schedule, a routine, a girlfriend. He even made sure to decorate his room with little posters, like you once told him to. But even then—even with those pieces of color and personality—it felt hollow. He felt hollow. Olivia filled the space beside him, but not within him. That space had been carved out slowly, over the last year. And it hadn’t been carved for her. It had been carved for you.
Lando hadn’t been able to sleep properly in weeks. His room was too clean, too beige. He missed the cute mugs you used for drinking tea with him and the way your socks never matched. He even missed the ridiculous alarm tone you used—that one song you claimed was the only thing aggressive enough to get you out of bed. Now his alarm was Olivia. Waking him up with a practiced kiss to the cheek and a to-do list for the day already in her hand. Organized and efficient, but distant.
She always smelled expensive and her hair was always perfect. Her perfume clung to his hoodies now, replacing the faint vanilla and lavender scent that used to make his chest clench unexpectedly. She fit the picture—but not the frame.
He didn’t notice how much he was unraveling until he stopped recognizing himself. Everything he said felt like a script, everything he did felt like it was on autopilot. He went to class., he sat through lectures, then he answered Olivia’s questions, and he smiled when he was supposed to smile.
But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the Lando he had been all his life, this was a new, artificial version of him. He’d laugh at something someone said at a party, and the sound would feel different. He’d catch himself zoning out at lunch, his eyes drawn to things that reminded him of home—a chipped tile, a girl wearing her hair like you used to, the specific color of a hoodie like the one you always borrowed from him. It has never stopped.
You were a ghost that followed him everywhere, not haunting him maliciously—but softly, and quietly. Just present enough to hurt.
And every time Olivia asked him what was wrong, he’d lie.
“Nothing. Just tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s just adjusting to a new place, that’s all.”
Sometimes, when Olivia was out late with her friends, he’d sit on the cold tile floor of the kitchen—like he had that night in your kitchen, and he’d let the silence settle.
He remembered what he said to you, slumped against the cabinets, head spinning, your shoulder warm beneath him. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood what that meant. But now? Now he did because he had left, and it had ruined him.
He checked his phone before the flight, over and over. Desperately hoping for a message. One of your typical, low-effort, high-meaning texts:
“Don’t forget your passport, idiot.” or “You’re gonna do great, Lan.”
But it never came.
He’d hoped—selfishly—that you’d come say goodbye. That you’d be there at the airport, even if just standing in the back. That maybe, just maybe, you’d catch his hand, say something like “Stay.” But you didn’t.
He’d looked for you anyway. Chest tight, heart racing, his eyes scanning the faces of every person who showed up to send him off. Laughing, hugging, cheering. But not you. And in that moment, he felt something twist deep in his chest—a mix of guilt and disbelief. Because even after everything… some part of him truly believed you’d be there. You always were, until now.
And something inside him snapped quietly in that moment. Like a string too tight for too long finally giving way.
She didn’t come.
She didn’t come.
She didn’t come.
She didn’t—
Lando never deleted your messages. He couldn’t. They were still there, buried deep in the chat log. All those late-night voice notes, the blurry selfies, the playlists you made, the “tell me you got home safe, idiot” texts. Now they sat untouched, blue and gray bubbles frozen in time.
One night, he tapped on one of your voice notes and hit play, and your voice filled the room. It broke him. He sank to the floor—knees pulled to his chest, face in his hands—and cried. Really cried. Not the frustrated kind, or the angry kind, but the kind that came from loss. From deep, heavy regret because now, with the noise of this new life screaming around him, he realized how quiet you had been when you left.
You didn’t beg, you didn’t argue. You didn’t even try to convince him to stay. You simply stepped back, and he let you.
Everything with Olivia started to rot after that. Not all at once—but slowly. He stopped laughing at her jokes, she started noticing how distant he’d become, they argued more. She asked why he wouldn’t touch her like he used to, why he stayed up late when she went to bed. Why didn't he try. He didn’t have an answer she wanted to hear. Because the truth was that he was still in love with someone else. And he’d left her behind.
He tried. God, he tried. Olivia was everything on paper—beautiful, perfect body, intelligent, well-spoken. She had a plan for her future, a five-year vision board, a curated Spotify playlist for every mood. But she didn’t know how to read his silences like you did.
She didn’t call him out when he was spiraling in his thoughts, having anxiety attacks. She didn’t remember how he hated fish or how he picked at the skin on his thumb when he was overthinking. She didn’t feel like home, and over time, he stopped trying to force it. He stopped texting her when he stayed on campus later than planned, he started noticing how tight her grip was on his arm, how her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when he mentioned your name—which he always did by accident.
You had a way of slipping into his sentences, even when he wasn’t trying.
“Oh yeah, she always said that movie was mint!”
“We used to listen to this song in the summer.”
Each time, Olivia would go quiet, and Lando would pretend he didn’t notice—but he did.
He just didn’t know how to stop it.
The nights were the worst. When the city noise finally died, and all that was left was the glow of streetlights bleeding through the blinds. He’d lie awake, the bed too big, the air too thin, your voice still echoing faintly in the back of his mind.
It wasn’t even the last time he saw you that haunted him—not really. It was everything before that. The look in your eyes when you told him you were fine, the way you nodded, even though your voice cracked. The way you smiled for him even while your heart broke quietly behind your ribs.
He’d never forget the weight of your head on his shoulder in that quiet kitchen. The warmth of your presence, the familiar rhythm of your breathing, the silence between you that somehow said everything he wasn’t brave enough to. You just let him rest there, drowning in the alcohol, the ache, and the guilt.
Lando has thought about messaging you so many times. Late at night, early in the morning, after a fight with Olivia, after a dream that felt too real. He even typed out a few drafts, but he always deleted them because it felt too selfish. Because what right did he have to pull you back when he was the one who walked away?
So instead, he stayed silent—and hoped you’d reach out first. Yet days passed, and you didn’t.
He scrolled through your Instagram more often than he wanted to admit. You’d changed your profile picture, and even cut your hair shorter. You posted photos with friends, laughing in golden sunlight, and yet your eyes still carried something heavy, something distant. He zoomed in on one photo once, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it—that slight sadness you always tried to hide behind your smile.
You looked okay. But not happy. And it wrecked him to know that he was probably the reason why.
At the four-month mark, he started skipping more classes, stayed in bed longer and let his favorite lego sets collect dust. Olivia noticed, of course, but she didn’t ask the right questions—and even if she had, he wouldn’t have told the truth. Because the truth was simple and devastating: he missed you more than he ever thought possible. Not just in the romantic sense—but existentially. Like something about his very being had gone numb without you there to ground him, like he couldn’t find the version of himself he liked anymore. The version who laughed too loudly, who stayed up late talking about nothing, who said stupid things just to make you roll your eyes and smile.
He felt like a stranger to himself, and the more he tried to fit into this new life, the more he realized he didn’t belong here.
He hadn’t told Olivia yet about the truth of what he was feeling. About the growing distance in his chest every time she kissed him. About how every time he said “I love you,” it felt like a lie wrapped in an apology. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about how he got here. And how he should’ve never left you behind.
────୨ৎ────
The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glare of a paused movie screen and the glow of Olivia’s phone. Outside, the city murmured its usual midnight song—distant traffic, wind brushing windows, occasional laughter from people who still had somewhere to be.
However, inside, it was dead quiet.
Lando sat slouched on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, thumb pressed hard into the side of his temple. His jaw ached from clenching. He’d been this way for the past hour—motionless, burning silently.
Olivia didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but chose not to care. Her legs were tucked beneath her, wrapped in that gray blanket she bought when they were picking things for the apartment. She scrolled on her phone, her thumb moving in slow flicks, laughter bubbling from her lips every now and then at something on her screen.
It didn’t even feel like they were in the same room.
“You’re really not gonna talk again tonight?” She finally said, not even looking at him, too busy replying to someone on Instagram.
He blinked slowly, taking a deep breath. “There’s nothing to say.”
Her eyes snapped to him. “That’s bullshit, Lan. You’ve been weird for weeks.” She tilted her head, getting a better look at him. Lando opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling through his nose.
“Is this about college?” She asked, more pointed now. “Or is this about her?” He stiffened at her last words.
There it was—the unspoken name, hanging in the air like a match above gasoline.
“Of course it is,” She scoffed, throwing her phone down. “You’ve been floating since we got here. You barely try anymore. Like your body’s here, but your head’s somewhere else—always looking back to Bristol. You need to understand that this city and every memory that is connected with it is already long gone.”
He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, really looked—and didn’t recognize the person staring back. She wasn’t the Olivia he had first met, full of ambition and spontaneous affection. She was different now. Controlled, and expectant. Like she wanted to mold him into someone else.
How could he forget about Bristol, about you?
“Because I don’t feel like myself anymore, Liv!” Lando finally snapped, voice sharp, loud and desperate. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am when I’m with you.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed, “Wow,” She snickered, voice trembling with disbelief. “That’s a shitty thing to say to the person who moved hundreds of kilometers to a foreign country with you.”
“No. You moved here,” He snapped, his voice finally rising. “And I just followed. I followed after you here because I thought that maybe it would fix whatever I was feeling. But it didn’t. It just made it worse.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. She blinked a few times before finally letting out a scoff and replying, “Okay, so this is my fault, huh?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Bullshit!” She stood now, the blanket falling off her lap. “You’ve been checked out for months. Is this really about her, Lando? Just say it. Have balls and say it, straight to my face, that this is true.”
Lando’s chest tightened. He ran a hand through his curls, pacing in quick, tight circles. He could feel the frustration building in his throat, like it was choking him.
“I haven’t spoken to her in months, Olivia.”
“But you still think about her. I see it on your face every time we walk past something that reminds you of home. Every time someone says her name. You go quiet, and get lost in your little, stupid head again, overthinking everything.”
Her words landed like a punch in the stomach. He stopped pacing, his back was turned to her. Softly, he answered, “Maybe I am.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Her breath hitched, hands trembling, knotted into fists.
“You’re such a coward, Lando,” She whispered in disbelief. “You couldn’t even admit you loved her. You just kept pretending, and now that this life isn’t perfect, you want to run back like a scared little boy.”
He turned around, eyes shining now, but not from tears. From fury. “I never wanted this life, can’t you understand it?!” He shouted, gripping his fists tightly, his nails digging deeply into the skin of his hand. “You planned it all out and I just… I went along. I left my family, my best friend, my home. I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. I don’t even know who I am anymore, Olivia.”
“So what now?” She spat, a non-chalant grimace visible on her face. “You’re gonna crawl back and expect her to just be waiting for you with open arms? Like none of this happened? Pretend like you didn’t break her heart too?”
That brought him to a halt. He hadn’t let himself think of it that way—how much damage he might’ve caused. How you had stayed quiet while he disappeared into someone else’s world.
Lando felt sick.
“I don’t know what she’ll say,” He admitted, softer now. “But I can’t keep doing this. Not when I feel like I’ve lost everything that made me who I was.”
Olivia stared at him for a long time. Then, her expression hardened. “Then go. And don’t bother coming back.” She added coldly.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Go ahead. Pack all of your shit, dickhead. Go chase your fucking dream girl. Just don’t expect me to wait around while you figure out who you are.”
He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes stinging. “I wouldn’t even ask you to.”
And just like that, he turned around and walked into their shared bedroom. He pulled out the old bag from under the bed—the one with his initials stitched into the side from when he was sixteen. It hadn’t been touched in months.
He threw in clothes without thinking. Chargers. Toothbrush. Photo strip he’d once tucked into a side pocket—the one with the two of you, silly grins and bright eyes, back when life had been simple. With all the necessary things, he zipped the bag up, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped back into the living room.
When he came back out, Olivia stood there, arms crossed over her chest, tears in her angry eyes. She was bitter, not even trying to stop him.
“Lando.” She called him one last time, and he turned to look at her for the last time. “You’ll regret this,” She continued, voice low and furious. “She won’t take you back, and you’ll be left with nothing.”
But Lando didn’t say a word, he just walked out, slamming the door behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, he felt it—like breathing after holding it too long. Like grief and relief tangled into one.
For the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like something new beginning.
────୨ৎ────
You weren’t expecting anything—just the usual hum of silence broken only by the rain pounding on the windows. It had been a quiet evening. Too quiet, actually.
You’d brushed your teeth, turned the lights low, your skin still warm from a shower, wrapped in a worn hoodie far too big for you. A movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really watching. You never did anymore. Everything had dulled around the edges. You went through motions now. You existed in between hours, in between memories of what used to be and the aching of what could’ve been.
It was close to 1:00 AM. You hadn’t planned on staying up this late, but sleep never came easy these days. Not since he left. So when the knock came—three distinct raps followed by a silence so heavy it filled the room—your stomach dropped.
You froze mid-step, heart punching your ribs, unsure whether it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then it came again—three more knocks, slower this time. Heavier. Like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they had the right to be there.
Your feet moved before you realized it. Soft, tentative steps across the hardwood. The kind you take when your heart is at your throat. When everything in you says, “Don’t hope. Don’t you dare hope.”
You reached the door and slowly peeked through the peephole. And in that moment, everything inside you fell apart.
It was him. Lando.
Soaked from head to toe, rain dripping from his curls, hoodie clinging to him like the weight of every decision he’d made. His face was pale, exhausted. His eyes locked on the doormat like he couldn’t bear to look up. He looked like regret had come to life.
You stared, frozen in place. Every nerve in your body screamed. Every instinct said this isn’t real, that it was just a trick of your mind conjured out of all the times you’d cried yourself to sleep.
You didn’t even think twice as your fingers already fumbled at the lock, breath shallow, pulse racing. When the door finally creaked open, the rain surged in, bringing cold and memories with it.
Lando slowly lifted his head, making your eyes meet, and in that moment it felt as if everything around stopped. The storm behind him blurred into white noise, and the air between you buzzed with everything unspoken.
Your throat tightened, and you felt as if your knees threatened to give out any second. You hadn’t seen him in eight months. Just glimpses, pictures with Olivia that felt like salt in a wound you never asked for. But now here he was, Lando in the flesh, standing right in front of you. And you couldn’t breathe.
Lando didn’t speak. He just stood there, rain running down his face, mixing with something that might’ve been tears—but you couldn’t tell. He looked older somehow. More tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, maybe weeks. Like life had eaten him alive.
You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to scream, and cry. To ask him why—why he left, why he never looked back, why he let you shatter without a single word.
The pain hit you all at once—heavy, violent, and consuming—making you break apart. Your throat burned as you moved towards him. You shoved him back once, then again. Your fists thudded against his chest, angry, raw, messy and real.
“You bastard—” Your voice broke into a sob as you hit him again. “You goddamn— selfish coward—” Lando flinched at your words, but still didn’t move away.
You shoved him harder. “You— you left me! You said nothing, not even a single word! You just disappeared! You think you can show up here after months and what? What?!”
Your fists pounded his chest as anger boiled over into pure heartbreak. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much it hurt?” Still, he took it. He didn’t raise a hand. He let you hit him. “You just left! Like I was nothing to you. Like I wasn’t even— God, I hate you!”
Each word broke more of you apart. Hot tears blurred your vision as your fists pounded against him with every ache you’d buried for months. You were crying now, properly crying. Ugly, broken sobs tearing through your chest. The kind of crying that made your knees weak, that shook your whole body.
“You fucking asshole! You didn’t even say goodbye—” Your voice cracked. “I waited, Lando. I waited for you to say something. To make it make sense. And you just— you were gone.”
Still, he said nothing. His breath was shaking, lips parted, eyes wet from more than just the rain. And then finally—finally—he moved. Slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, he wrapped his arms around you in a strong embrace. You struggled at first—your fists still weakly hitting at his chest, but his arms only tightened more. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, grounding you.
“Shhh… I know. I know.” He whispered, his throat tightening, “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked on the last word, and that’s what finally shattered you.
You stopped fighting.
His arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go. Tight and desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing you against him like he was terrified you’d disappear. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest—fast and scared. He was shaking, and so were you.
You sobbed into his hoodie, the fabric soaking up your tears and rain and months of silence. He didn’t say a word. His chin dropped to rest on the top of your head as he held you there, like if he let go, the world would fall apart again. You gripped at him like a lifeline, hands fisting into his hoodie, face pressed into the warmth of his chest as your body trembled. You missed him so much.
No words were needed. Not yet. Just the rain and the sound of your heartbeat against his. The thud of two souls colliding after too long apart.
You cried into his chest while he stood in your doorway, dripping rainwater and regret, your name probably sitting at the edge of his tongue.
And still, nothing. Nothing except the unshakable feeling that even now, even after everything—this was still home.
────୨ৎ────
Some time had passed before you finally led him inside.
The house was still quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hummed peacefully—but the breathless kind. The kind where the walls still echoed with everything left unsaid.
Rain had soaked into the hallway carpet beneath your feet, his clothes leaving wet spots behind him that you didn’t have the heart to care about. Your hand trembled slightly as it held onto the railing while you climbed the stairs. Behind you, Lando followed wordlessly, his movements hesitant—like he wasn’t sure he belonged here anymore.
Your room hadn’t changed much. Same soft light from the lamp on the bedside table, same books piled up on your desk, same blanket folded at the end of the bed. And yet, when he stepped in behind you, something shifted. The air tightened.
Lando stood in the doorway, dripping, still breathing like he hadn’t figured out how to do it properly since he saw your face again. And you didn’t say anything. Not yet. You just turned around to face him, heart pounding in your ears like a warning, and the second your eyes met again in that dim golden light, something collapsed inside you. Not with noise, but with a softness that hurt.
You crossed the room slowly. No rush, no desperation, just the ache of every second that had passed since he had left. Every second you’d spent trying not to miss him, trying not to hate him, trying not to wish for this exact moment.
He looked down at you when you stopped in front of him. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His shirt clung to his skin, knuckles were scraped, and his eyes held centuries of regret. And you reached for him—not with certainty, but with instinct.
Fingers brushed his sleeve, then his hand, and finally, without a word, he let out the quietest exhale and stepped closer to you, forehead pressing to yours like he’d finally made it home.
You stood like that for a while, eyes closed, neither of you moving. The sound of the rain bleeding through the walls.
“I…” He started to whisper, voice cracking—but you shook your head against him.
“Don’t,” You breathed, your voice trembling. “Not yet, Lan.” The nickname made his heart squeeze painfully, remembering all the happiest times when you called him that.
Lando nodded as he understood what you meant. This wasn’t the time for words, for answers—not tonight.
You took his hand and pulled him gently toward the bed. It wasn’t romantic nor filled with lust. It was the comfort and longing that made you do that.
You handed him a towel from the dresser, watched as he clumsily dried his hair, and peeled off the hoodie that stuck to him like a second skin. Then you passed him one of your old sweatshirts—the navy one he used to steal during movie nights, and the one you could never bring yourself to throw away. He hesitated, but eventually he took it, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled it over his head.
You turned away to give him space. But when you sat down on the bed, you felt the weight shift beside you. He was close, but not touching. Like he was scared to ruin the fragile thing you’d just begun stitching back together.
Not knowing what to say, you lay down, and he followed your steps. It was awkward at first, like learning again a language you used to speak fluently. His arm grazed yours and you shifted slightly, making him mirror your moves. The duvet settled over you both like a secret, warm and heavy and sacred.
It took time—slow, aching minutes—for your body to relax. But it happened, eventually. Your head found its way to his chest, just above his heart, and his arm found your waist. Your legs tangled together under the covers like they’d never forgotten how to fit. And still… you said nothing.
You listened his breathing—to the gradually slowing thump of his heart. To the rain whispering against your windows. You felt the warmth of his skin through the borrowed fabric. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
He held you like you were made of glass. Carefully, and reverently. Your fingers curled in the hem of his sleeve and didn’t let go. And finally—finally—you allowed yourself to breathe.
You didn’t want to sleep. You were afraid all of this would vanish if you closed your eyes. That if you let go, he’d disappear again. That the morning would come and this would all be just another cruel dream. But your body betrayed you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you fell asleep wrapped in the arms of someone who knew you. Who had broken you, and had come back.
You didn’t dream You just slept—heart pressed to heart, hands entwined in quiet forgiveness.
And Lando? He stayed awake, watching the way your face softened in sleep. The faint frown that still lingered, even now. He studied every inch of your skin like he was afraid he’d forget it again. His thumb brushed your back, up and down, slow and reverent.
He couldn’t believe that he’d left this, that he’d chosen to leave you.
You stirred slightly, breathing shifting against his chest, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear so gently it almost broke him.
And that was when he knew.
No matter what it took—no matter how long it would be—he wasn’t leaving again. He couldn’t. You were his home. And this? This was just the beginning.
────୨ৎ────
The next morning the rain hadn’t stopped. It painted the windows in soft streams, whispering against the glass like an old lullaby, a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Slow, gentle and unrelenting. The world outside was hushed, dulled beneath a curtain of gray skies and water-soaked streets, but in the stillness of the apartment, it felt safe. Wrapped in that soft kind of silence that only rain brings—where time slows, and nothing demands to be done except existing.
The bedroom was still dim, bathed in the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp that was left on throughout the night. Its golden light caught on the edges of things—the half-empty glass of water on the dresser, the corner of a blanket trailing off the bed, the framed photo next to the books which depicted you and Lando, laughing at something neither of you remembered now. Younger, lighter, unaware of the ache the years would bring.
But now, your older selves lay beneath the covers, wrapped up in warmth and each other. Skin against skin, his arm draped around your waist, your legs tangled naturally beneath the duvet. As if you’d always belonged in this shape. Like the spaces you left in each other had only ever been waiting to be filled.
His thumb moved slowly against your side—back and forth, back and forth. A silent check-in. A promise, a reminder that he was there.
When you woke up, you didn’t move at first. Just let your eyes follow the soft pattern of shadows across the ceiling, let the sound of the rain blur into the quiet thudding of your heart.
Lando shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His curls were messy, and his eyes—blue and familiar—were half-lidded but awake. “Are you okay?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep and something deeper.
You hesitated, then shrugged, your voice soft. “Just thinking.”
“About?” He questioned, his tone careful. Like he already knew the answer might sting.
You blinked slowly, and swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “You know… I don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet,” You whispered. “Not fully.” The words cracked slightly on their way out, and you hated how vulnerable they sounded. How fragile they made you feel.
Lando didn’t flinch, nor pulled away. He just held your gaze. “I know.” He said quietly.
You turned onto your side to face him fully, his hand now resting on the curve of your hip. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement, the duvet sliding down your shoulder. Your skin cooled instantly in the air, but it wasn’t why you shivered.
“I told myself I had,” You continued, a little more steadily now. “I wanted to. But I still remember the silence. The way it felt when you left, Lan. Like— like I’d been erased from your life overnight. Like I didn’t matter.”
Lando’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at your words. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, as if trying to memorize you all over again, his eyes full of regret.
“I think about that too,” He murmured. “Every single day.” There was no defense in his voice. No excuses. Just the truth, bare and broken.
“I was a coward. I was scared, and I let that fear decide everything. I left you without a word and convinced myself it was the right thing. That you’d be fine, and that you didn’t need me. But it wasn’t about you. It was about me—and I hurt you because I didn’t know how to stay.” He shook his head, like the memory made him sick. “I was selfish. I chose a version of myself that made me feel safe, even if it meant becoming someone I didn’t recognize. Even if it meant walking away from the one person who ever really saw me.”
His eyes searched yours, shimmering. “And I’m sorry.”
The words hung between you, bare and trembling.
“I’m sorry for the silence. I’m sorry for every night you waited, every time you wondered what you did wrong, every piece of yourself you had to stitch back together without me. I should’ve been there. I should’ve fought for you.”
You felt your throat tighten. Your chest ached with the force of how badly you’d needed to hear those words.
“I think I didn’t deserve your love,” He continued, “but I had it. And I broke it. And that’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. But if there’s a chance—any chance—that I can still be the person you trust again… I’ll spend every day trying.” His voice cracked. “I just want you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”
You blinked, and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks again—warm, unstoppable.
You sat up slowly, mirroring him now, the duvet pooled around your waist. And for a moment, you just looked at him. Looked at the boy who had left, and the man who had come back.
You whispered, “Thank you.” as a wave of relief ran down you.
You never knew how much you needed to hear that apology. And though forgiveness wasn’t something that could be wrapped in a single moment, it lived in that breath. In the way your body leaned into his without fear. In the way he exhaled like he’d been holding that apology in his lungs for a year.
You didn’t need a grand gesture. You needed this. The truth, laid bare. Between two people who had shattered each other once—and were now choosing, quietly, to try again.Together.
Your eyes met his. “Do you regret it? All of it?”
He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the weight of the question. “Not everything,” He said finally, “But most of all, the time I wasted pretending I didn’t love you.” That cracked something wide open inside you.
“I thought if I stayed gone,” He continued, voice shaking now, “if I became who Olivia wanted me to be, then maybe I’d forget how much I needed you. But I didn’t. I never did. And one morning, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.” He paused for a second, his throat tightening at the recall of all the memories, “I missed you so much it made me sick.”
Your breath caught. That was the moment you let the tears fall once again—not loud or gasping, just silent, and honest. They slipped down your cheeks like the rain on the window, blurring everything.
“I missed you too,” You whispered, your hand finding his beneath the blanket, your fingers curling around his like a lifeline. “Even when I told myself I didn’t.”
When you said that, Lando smiled. It was small, soft—nothing like the wide grins he used to wear when the world was still simple—but it was real. Tired and tender and entirely yours.
He leaned forward until your foreheads touched, his breath warm against your skin. Neither of you spoke for a while, there was no need to. Just that quiet, precious stillness—the kind that only came after the storm, after the wreckage, when you realized you were both still here. Still breathing. Still reaching for each other.
When he finally whispered, “Can I stay?” it wasn’t a question about just staying at your place. It was about everything that came after—your future.
You nodded, voice barely audible. “You never have to leave again, Lan.” And you meant it wholeheartedly.
His hand curled around your side again, anchoring you close, and your body folded into his like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had. But never like this. Never with the knowledge that tomorrow wouldn’t take him away again.
The rain outside kept falling, steady and quiet, but the storm between you had broken. And in that little apartment, tucked beneath layers of blankets and bruised apologies, two people who had once been torn apart by time and distance had finally found each other again.
Not in grand confessions. Not in desperate pleas. But in the way his thumb still moved against your hip. In the way your fingers clutched his like they couldn’t bear to let go.
This wasn’t about going back to the beginning, rather about starting from here. Where the pain had already been named. Where the truths had already been spoken. Where love, battered but burning, had quietly survived.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow could wait because right now, in the amber light and the hush of falling rain, you were home.
────୨ৎ────
3 years later
Your shared apartment smelled like warm vanilla and the candle you lit hours ago—something earthy, sandalwood maybe, that had slowly wrapped itself around the quiet of the afternoon.
Outside, the sky was beginning to shift into early evening—dusted pinks and soft oranges stretching across the skyline like a watercolor bleeding into paper. A soft breeze drifted in through the cracked balcony door, swaying the white curtains like waves.
You were nestled into the couch, legs stretched out, a blanket tossed haphazardly over both your bodies. Your head rested on Lando’s chest, his hoodie swallowing you up, the fabric worn-in and smelling like him—clean cotton and a scent you could never name but always recognized. He was absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, slowly, over and over again, untangling the strands with gentle care like it was the most important task in the world. And in that moment, maybe it was.
A record played low in the background, some old song he loved that you’d grown to love too. Lando had his arm wrapped around you, his hand trailing slowly through your hair. Over and over. Fingertips catching in soft strands before sliding free again, curling around them like he never wanted to stop touching you.
You were laying there, head on his torso, the quiet rise and fall beneath your cheek like a lullaby. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. It was one of those moments where everything was said in the silence—in the closeness, the steady breathing, the way your fingers rested against the inside of his wrist, your thumb brushing the faint line of a scar you both knew the story of.
Lando shifted a little, just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. No words, just that.
You smiled into the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers tracing slow circles over the inside of his wrist. “You’re gonna make me fall asleep, Lan.” You mumbled, your words softened by the weight of comfort, eyelids heavy.
He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hairline. “Then fall asleep,” He whispered, voice laced with that familiar warmth that always made your chest flutter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You smiled into his shirt, your heart swelling, a quiet little ache blooming behind your ribs. “You always say that.”
He smiled, too. “Because I mean it. And would it be so bad?” He said softly, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile. “I like having you like this, pretty girl.”
You tilted your head to look at him, chin resting against his chest. “Like what?”
He met your eyes, all warm honey and quiet adoration. “Close.”
And then he leaned down, connecting your lips in a kiss. Not in that rushed, desperate way he used to when everything was still uncertain—when love felt fragile and maybe temporary. No, this kiss was slow. Anchored. Like he was still choosing you, over and over again, even now.
You kissed him back, one hand curling into the collar of his shirt, the other still resting against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat under your palm. He pulled back just enough to brush your nose with his, grinning against your mouth. Lando looked at you like you were something precious—like he still couldn’t believe you were real, like even in all the time that had passed, he hadn’t gotten used to having you close again.
Your fingers slid up to his jaw, thumb brushing along the line of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. “You know, sometimes I still feel like I’m dreaming,” You said softly. “Like I’ll wake up and you’ll still be gone.”
His brows knit together, and his free hand came up to cup your cheek gently. “Hey,” He said, voice suddenly serious, “you’re not dreaming. I’m here.”
You nodded, but your throat felt thick, full of memories you hadn’t spoken aloud in months. The silence between you shifted—still soft, but a little heavier now.
“You know I love you, right?” He asked, quiet and sure.
You nodded again, slower this time, your eyes starting to sting. “I know.” His eyes searched yours, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone like he couldn’t bear to lose contact.
His hand slipped back into your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear. “I don’t think I knew how much until I almost lost you.”
You blinked, your lips parting, but no words came. Instead, you just laid your head back against his chest, curling in tighter, wrapping your arm around his waist. You didn’t need to say it—he could feel it in the way you held him like he was home.
“You know,” He murmured after a while, “I could do this forever.”
You pretended to think about it. “Do what?”
“This,” He whispered. “Be with you. Like this. Wake up next to you. Watch you fall asleep on me before we finish a movie. Let you steal all the covers.”
“That sounds a lot like a lifetime commitment.” You smirked, making the man beside you grin at your words.
“That’s kind of the point, love.”
You looked at him then—really looked—and it hit you again, how much love had filled the quiet spaces in your life since that night he came back. Since the rain, the doorstep, the apology. Since everything shifted.
You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek. “You know,” You said softly, “I never thought we’d make it here.”
He leaned into your touch, gaze steady. “Well, I did.” And with that, the silence wrapped around you both again—no pressure, no need to rush. Just comfort, and peace. The quiet knowledge that love didn’t need to be loud to be real.
It was here. In the way your body curved into his, perfectly fitted. In the way his eyes softened every time they landed on you. It was here. Always.
You didn’t say anything. Instead, you melted further into him, burying your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. You stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing. Loving.
The light outside faded into dusky blues. The candle flickered, the music looped. And still, you stayed like that—wrapped in each other. Lando’s fingers never stopped moving through your hair, slow and thoughtful, like he was memorizing the feel of you. And when the night time finally came, when the only light was the glow of the kitchen lamp left on across the room, Lando gently scooped you up—blanket and all—and carried you to bed.
Because this wasn’t the beginning of something new. This was the finally. Finally together, finally home. Finally, always.
Everything that had once been right at the fingertips, was now fully grasped.
hello! i adore ur writing 🙂↕️🩷 a bit of angst for ya- maybe lando and reader have an argument in the car (you can choose what about) and lando starts unintentionally driving really fast and erratically out of anger. reader gets scared and basically tells him to stop so she can get out of the car and walk home. happy ending, but def don’t let lando off too easy!
Summary: After a rough session, Lando lets his anger take control behind the wheel, terrifying you. To regain your trust, he must learn to manage his temper instead of taking it out on you.
Requested: Yes/ Anon
Word count: 5938
Author’s note: Hey guys! This one got a bit emotional, but I really hope you enjoy watching Lando grow. Let me know what you think!! xx
The sun was beating down on the concrete outside the team motorhome, baking the paddock in a heavy, muggy heat. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, taking a slow sip of water and watching the chaotic swarm of mechanics, journalists, and fans moving down below. The weekend had been exhausting already, and the heat was doing nothing to help anyone’s temper. Behind you, the glass door slid open, and Lando stepped out onto the deck. He was still wearing his race suit pulled down to his waist, the flame retardant undershirt soaked through with sweat around his neck. He didn’t say anything at first, just walked past you and grabbed a bottle of electrolyte drink from the mini fridge, tossing the cap onto the small outdoor table with a loud plastic click.
You turned your head slightly to look at him, noticing the tight line of his jaw and the heavy scowl pulling at his brows. He had qualified fourth for tomorrow’s race, which was far from a disaster, but to Lando, anything short of the front row felt like a personal insult from the universe.
“Are you ready to go back to the hotel?” you asked quietly, trying to keep your voice neutral. You knew better than to poke at him when he was in one of these moods, but you had been standing around for two hours waiting for him to finish his debriefs, and your head was beginning to throb.
Lando didn’t look at you. He took a long gulp of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of damp fabric against his chin. “Yeah, I suppose,” he said, his tone flat and dismissive. “Unless you want to stick around and tell me more about how I ruined sector three, because I’m sure you’ve got a whole list of expert opinions ready.”
You blinked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in his voice. “Lando, I didn’t say anything about sector three,” you said, keeping your hands steady as you set your water down on the table. “I haven’t even talked to you since you got out of the car.”
“Well, you were looking at the telemetry screen with Jon like you were trying to figure out where I lost my mind,” he snapped, stepping past you to head back inside the air conditioned room to grab his gear bag. “You don’t need to do that, you know. It’s annoying. I know where I made the mistake.”
You followed him inside, watching as he shoved his trainer shoes into his duffel bag with far more force than necessary. “I was looking at the screen because I care about how your session went,” you said, feeling the first spark of heat rising in your own chest. “I wasn't judging you, Lando. I was just watching.”
“Whatever,” he muttered, zipping the bag up with a sharp, violent tug. “Let’s just go. I don’t want to sit around here all evening listening to people talk.”
The walk to the driver’s car park was filled with a thick, suffocating silence. Lando walked two paces ahead of you, his shoulders rounded and his eyes fixed squarely on the pavement. Fans called out his name from behind the barriers, holding up hats and giant posters for him to sign, but he merely gave a brief, tight wave without stopping or smiling. You felt a pit of unease settling in your stomach. It wasn’t the first time he had turned his post session frustration onto you, but usually, he caught himself after a minute or two, offering a quick apology or reaching out to take your hand. Today, the cloud around him seemed darker, heavier, and far more jagged.
He unlocked the rental sports car with a harsh click of the key fob, throwing his heavy gear bag into the back seat without taking any care. You pulled open the passenger door and slid in, pulling your seatbelt across your chest and clicking it into place. The interior of the car was boiling from sitting under the sun, the leather seats hot against the back of your legs.
Lando got into the driver’s side, slammed his door shut, and hit the start button before he had even put his own seatbelt on. The engine roared to life with a deep, aggressive rumble that echoed off the concrete walls of the underground garage. He shoved the gear shift into drive, slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and the car lurched forward, tires squealing loudly on the smooth floor as he rounded the first pillar toward the exit ramp.
“Lando, take it easy,” you said, putting a hand on the dashboard as the car jerked sharply around the steep curve leading up to the street level.
“I am taking it easy,” he replied, his voice laced with venom as he hit the open road. The speed limit sign flashed fifty, but the digital display on the dashboard was already climbing rapidly past sixty, seventy, eighty. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white.
You looked over at him, your heart beginning to thump harder against your ribs. The city roads were narrow, lined with thick concrete barriers and stone walls, and the traffic was light enough that he had far too much open space to press the pedal down. “You don’t need to drive like this,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, though the edge of strain was obvious. “You’re mad at the qualifying result, fine, but don’t take it out on the road.”
“I’m not taking it out on the road,” he snapped, jerking the wheel to the left to whip around a slower sedan, the engine screaming as he downshifted aggressively. “I’m just driving. You always do this. You always act like I don’t know what I’m doing in a car. I do this for a living, in case you forgot.”
“This isn’t a racetrack, Lando,” you said loudly, your grip tightening on the door handle as he took a sharp right turn, the tires protesting with a sharp screech that sent a jolt of panic straight through your chest. “You’re angry, and you’re driving like an idiot because you’re mad at yourself.”
“I’m not mad at myself,” he shouted, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of his palm as he accelerated down a long, straight stretch of road, the digital speed reader flashing dangerously high numbers. “I’m annoyed because everyone keeps asking me stupid questions, including you. I come out to the car to get away from it, and you immediately start lecturing me about my driving.”
“You’re driving like a maniac,” you yelled back, the fear completely overtaking your anger now. The trees and streetlights outside the window were blurring together into a messy streak of color. Every time the car jerked to switch lanes or brake sharply behind another vehicle, your stomach dropped into a sickening void. “Please, Lando, just slow down.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be so dramatic,” he laughed, though there was zero humor in the sound, just pure, boiling aggravation. “You’re fine. The car is fine. I have complete control. Stop trying to control everything I do.”
“Lando, stop,” you pleaded, your voice cracking slightly. The world outside felt like it was moving far too fast, the noise of the engine booming in the small cabin, vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your teeth. Memories of a bad accident you had seen years ago flashed unbidden through your mind, mixed with the sheer terror of being trapped in a enclosed box with someone who was letting their temper drive a two ton machine. “Stop the car, Lando.”
“I’m driving us to the hotel,” he said, his tone still hard, dismissive, completely oblivious to the way your hands were beginning to shake violently against your lap. “We’ll be there in five minutes if you just let me drive.”
“No, now,” you choked out, your breathing turning rapid and shallow. You couldn't get enough air into your lungs. The heat in the car suddenly felt overwhelming, smothering you like a wet blanket. Your chest felt tight, as if a heavy iron band was being squeezed around your ribs, restricting every breath. “Please, Lando, pull over right now.”
He glanced over at you, opening his mouth to shoot back another sarcastic remark, but the words caught in his throat.
Your eyes were wide with genuine, unadulterated terror, tears spilling over your lower lids and tracing hot lines down your cheeks. Your fingers were clawing at your own knees, your chest heaving in short, jagged gasps as you struggled to inhale. You weren't just annoyed or arguing back anymore, you were completely undone, spiraling into a full blown panic attack.
“Lando, let me out,” you sobbed, your voice barely a whisper now as you pressed your spine flat against the passenger seat, trying to shrink away from the speed, from him, from everything. “Pull over. Let me out. I’ll walk. Just stop the car.”
The anger drained out of Lando’s face in a single, terrifying instant, replaced by a sudden, cold wave of panic of his own. His eyes darted from your pale face back to the road ahead, his brain finally registering the speed display, the aggressive maneuvers, and the absolute terror he had just inflicted on you.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice dropping instantly. He immediately lifted his foot off the gas pedal, letting the engine brake reduce their speed, and indicated sharply to pull onto the paved shoulder of the road near a quiet suburban sidewalk.
The car glided to a halt under the shade of a large oak tree. Before the speedometer even hit zero, your hand was on the door handle. You yanked it open, unclipped your seatbelt with trembling fingers, and stumbled out into the warm evening air, practically collapsing against the grass embankment by the curb.
“Hey, hey, wait,” Lando called out, unbuckling his own belt and leaning across the console to look out the open passenger door. “I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry. Get back in, I’ll slow down. I swear, I’ll drive twenty miles an hour. Just get back in.”
You couldn't answer him. You sat on the grass, clutching your knees to your chest, your head tucked down as you tried to regulate your erratic breathing. The feeling of the solid ground beneath you was the only thing keeping you from completely fainting. Every breath felt like inhaling glass, hot and painful and utterly useless.
“Please,” you managed to whisper between gasps, waving a hand weakly to push him away. “Don’t come near me. Just leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving you on the side of the road,” Lando said, his voice laced with panic now as he realized the weight of what had just happened. “We’re four miles from the hotel. You can’t walk that. It’s too hot out. Come on, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize you were actually scared. I thought you were just nagging me.”
That single word, nagging, sent a cold spike through your panic, shifting it back into a dark, painful anger. You lifted your head, tears streaming down your face, your skin blotchy and pale. “Nagging,” you repeated, your voice shaking uncontrollably. “I was terrified, Lando. You used a car as a weapon because you were throwing a tantrum over a qualifying lap. You didn't care that I was uncomfortable until I started crying.”
“Look, I fucked up, okay,” he said, stepping out of the car now and standing by the driver’s door, looking across the roof at you with desperate, guilty eyes. “I lost my temper. I’m sorry. Just get back in the car. I promise I won’t go fast.”
“I am not getting back in that car with you,” you said firmly, forcing yourself to stand up on wobbly legs. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, taking a deep, shuddering breath of the hot air. “Do not touch me, and do not tell me what to do. I am walking.”
You turned your back on him and started walking down the concrete pavement, keeping your head down and your hands shoved deep into your pockets. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, but the movement helped ground you.
Lando stood by his open door for a long moment, watching you walk away. He let out a harsh breath, slammed his hand down on the roof of the car, and then climbed back into the driver’s seat. He didn’t speed off. Instead, he put the car into gear, turned on his hazard lights, and began to crawl down the road parallel to you, moving at five miles an hour, keeping pace with your footsteps.
Through the open passenger window, you could hear the low hum of the engine and the sound of his voice calling out every thirty seconds.
“Please just get in,” he called out softly, all the bite gone from his tone, replaced by an anxious, pathetic edge. “You don’t have to talk to me. You can just sit there. It’s too hot to walk, you’re going to get heatstroke.”
You ignored him, refusing to look to your right. You kept your eyes fixed on the concrete ahead, counting your steps to keep your breathing steady. One, two, three, four. Inhale. Five, six, seven, eight. Exhale.
“I’m really sorry,” he tried again, the car creeping along beside you like a heavy, metallic shadow. “I know I was being a total idiot. I lost my head. You know how I get after a bad session, I just... I get so angry at everything.”
You kept walking. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the street, but the heat of the day was still trapped in the asphalt, rising up to warm the soles of your shoes.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Lando insisted, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he kept one eye on you and one eye on the empty road ahead. “I swear to God I didn’t think you were actually scared. I thought you were just arguing back. I’m so stupid. Please, just let me drive you the rest of the way.”
You stopped walking and turned to face the car. Lando immediately slammed on the brakes, looking up at you through the open window with hopeful, wide eyes.
“Stop following me,” you said, your voice cold and steady now, though your eyes were still red and swollen from crying. “If you don’t drive away and leave me alone right now, I will turn around and walk in the opposite direction where you can’t turn the car around.”
Lando flinched at the sharpness in your voice. He opened his mouth to argue, but seeing the absolute rigidity in your posture, he swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I’ll go to the hotel. But please... please call me when you’re close, or just text me so I know you’re safe.”
You didn't answer. You just turned back around and kept walking. Behind you, you heard the engine rev slightly as Lando finally pulled away, driving agonizingly slow down the road until he disappeared around the far corner.
It took you nearly an hour to walk the remaining distance to the hotel. By the time you pushed through the glass sliding doors of the air conditioned lobby, your shirt was clinging to your back with sweat, your feet were aching violently inside your shoes, and your head was throbbing with a dull, persistent migraine.
You took the elevator up to the room you shared with Lando, holding your key card in your hand for a long moment before pressing it against the electronic lock. The light flashed green, and the latch clicked open.
The room was dark, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the twilight outside. Lando was sitting on the edge of the large king sized bed, his head buried in his hands. As soon as the door clicked shut, he snapped his head up, standing up so fast he nearly tripped over his own gear bag lying on the carpet.
“You’re back,” he said, stepping toward you quickly before stopping himself, seeing the way you immediately stiffened near the doorway. “Are you okay? Do you need water? I ordered some food, it’s over there on the desk if you want any.”
“I’m fine,” you said, keeping your voice level as you locked the door behind you and set your purse on the side table. You walked straight past him into the bathroom, turning on the faucet to wash your face with cold water.
Lando followed you, leaning against the doorframe, watching you through the mirror as you dried your skin with a hand towel. “I am so, so sorry,” he began, his voice raspy and choked with genuine guilt. “I don’t even know what to say. I was an absolute nightmare in the car. I lost my mind because of qualifying, and I took it out on you, and that’s completely unacceptable.”
You turned around, leaning your back against the sink counter, crossing your arms over your chest. You looked at him, really looked at him. He looked miserable, his hair messy where he had been pulling at it, his shoulders slumped, his blue eyes filled with remorse. But you felt no inclination to comfort him.
“It’s not just today, Lando,” you said quietly, your voice echoing slightly against the tile walls.
He blinked, looking confused. “What do you mean?”
“It’s every time,” you said, stepping past him out into the main bedroom so you had more space between you. “Every time you have a bad practice, or a bad qualifying, or a bad pit stop, or a penalty. You get frustrated, and instead of dealing with it like an adult, you turn it into a cloud of rage that suffocates everyone around you. Usually, it’s just snarky comments or snapping at me for small things. But today you put us in actual danger because you couldn't handle coming fourth.”
“I wasn’t going to crash,” he protested weakly, raising his hands in defense. “I had control of the car, I swear—”
“That doesn’t matter,” you shouted, finally letting your anger break through your calm facade. “It doesn’t matter if you think you had control! I told you I was scared, I begged you to stop, and you laughed at me! You called it nagging! You didn’t care about my feelings at all until I was having a full blown panic attack on the side of the road!”
Lando winced, looking down at the carpet as if he had been physically struck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really am. I was wrong.”
“You take your anger out on me because I’m the easiest target,” you continued, tears threatening to spill over again, though this time they were hot with anger rather than fear. “I am your partner, Lando. I am here to support you, to root for you, to be in your corner. But I am not your punching bag for when racing doesn’t go your way. I don't trust you when you’re mad. I genuinely don’t. Because when you’re mad, you don’t care about anyone else’s safety or feelings, only your own rage.”
Lando stepped forward, trying to reach out to grab your hand, his face pale with panic at the word trust. “No, don’t say that. Please. You can trust me. I would never hurt you, you know that.”
You stepped back, pulling your hand out of his reach. “You did hurt me today,” you said softly, the quietness of your voice carrying far more weight than the yelling. “You terrified me. And right now, I don’t want to be near you.”
“Where are you going,” he asked desperately as you picked up your purse and grabbed the spare room key off the desk.
“I’m going to book my own room for the rest of the weekend,” you said, keeping your hand firm on the door handle. “I need space, Lando. And you need to figure out how to deal with your own emotions without making me suffer for them.”
Before he could answer, you pulled the door open, stepped out into the hallway, and let it click firmly shut behind you.
---
The next morning at the track was tense and suffocating. You showed up to the paddock late, stepping into the hospitality suite just as the drivers were gathering for the parade. Lando was sitting in the back corner with his trainer, Jon, who was talking to him in quiet, measured tones. Lando wasn’t listening. His eyes kept darting to the entrance, and the moment you walked in, his entire body went rigid.
He tried to approach you twice before the race, but both times you smoothly drifted toward the engineering desk or engaged in conversation with one of the media team members, keeping a clear barrier between the two of you.
The race itself was a chaotic affair. Lando drove brilliantly, pushing through the field to secure a second place finish after a late safety car restart. Under normal circumstances, the garage would have been a scene of absolute jubilation, and you would have been the first person waiting at the bottom of the podium stairs to jump into his arms.
Instead, when he stepped off the podium, covered in sweat and spraying champagne, his eyes immediately scanned the crowd for you. You were standing near the back, behind the mechanics, clapping politely with a quiet, distant expression on your face. When his eyes met yours, you didn't smile. You gave him a brief, respectful nod, turned around, and walked back toward the motorhome to pack your things.
The next two weeks were agonizingly quiet.
Back in Monaco, the tension in the apartment was palpable. You didn't move out, but the warmth that had defined your home was completely gone. You slept on your side of the bed, turning away from him before he even turned off the lights. When he tried to talk to you about his day, you gave polite, short answers. You cooked together, you ate together, but the intimacy had been completely shattered.
Lando was tormented by it. The realization that he had destroyed your trust, that he had made you feel unsafe in his presence, chewed away at him every single hour of the day. He tried buying you flowers, he tried apologizing again, but every time he brought it up, you gave him the same steady, unwavering response.
“Words don't fix it, Lando,” you told him one evening as he sat at the kitchen island, staring down at a cold cup of coffee. “You’re sorry now because you’re calm. What happens next time you lose a podium? What happens when a pit stop goes wrong and you come back into the room angry? I’m not going to sit around waiting to see if you’re going to snap at me again.”
He knew you were right. And that was the hardest part.
---
Three weeks later, the paddock moved to Silverstone for the British Grand Prix. The pressure on Lando was immense, magnified tenfold by the home crowd, the endless press obligations, and the thousands of fans draped in papaya yellow screaming his name from every grandstand.
On Friday afternoon, during the second practice session, a hydraulic failure sent his car sliding into the gravel trap at high speed, ending his session prematurely and leaving the mechanics with hours of repair work ahead of Saturday morning.
You were sitting in the back of the garage, watching the monitor as the red flags came out. You felt a familiar, cold knot tie itself tight in your stomach. Here it comes, you thought to yourself. The dark cloud, the stomping feet, the flying helmet, the sharp words. You braced yourself, pulling your phone out of your pocket and keeping your eyes glued to the screen, preparing to retreat to your own corner as soon as he returned.
Ten minutes later, the back door of the garage slammed open. Lando walked in, his helmet still on, his fists clenched tight at his sides. His shoulders were high and tight, his chest heaving with furious, shallow breaths. You could feel the heat of his anger from ten feet away.
He didn't look at the engineers. He didn't look at the telemetry screens. He walked straight past the front desk, straight past the catering area, and headed into his private driver room, slamming the door shut behind him with a loud, metallic bang that made several people in the hallway flinch.
You sat still at the desk, your heart pounding quietly. You waited for the sound of something being thrown, or the muffled shouting that usually accompanied these moments.
Instead, there was absolute silence.
Inside the small driver room, Lando was standing in the center of the space, his heart hammering in his chest like a jackhammer. His first instinct had been to rip his helmet off and slam it against the floor, to kick the wall, to scream at the bad luck that seemed to follow him whenever he stepped foot on home soil. His jaw was clenched so hard his teeth felt like they were going to crack.
Then, his mind flashed back to the car. To the sound of your sobbing. To the terrifying image of you clutching your knees on the side of the road, begging him to let you out.
Lando closed his eyes tightly. He forced his hands to unlace from their tight fists, flexing his fingers out flat. He took a long, trembling breath in through his nose, counting silently in his head. One, two, three, four, five. He held it for a second, feeling the terrible, hot surge of rage burning in his chest, and then exhaled slowly through his mouth. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
He did it again. Inhale for five. Hold. Exhale for five.
He leaned his forehead against the cool surface of the full length mirror, letting out a long, shuddering sigh. He felt the anger shifting, losing its violent edge, dissolving into simple disappointment and exhaustion. It didn't disappear completely, but the blinding red haze cleared out of his head, leaving him present, grounded, and aware.
He slowly unbuckled his helmet, pulling it off and setting it down carefully on the table. He unzipped his race suit, stepping out of it and pulling his undershirt off, wiping the sweat from his neck with a clean towel.
Outside the room, you were still sitting at the desk, nervously tapping your fingers against your water bottle. You were surprised he hadn't come out yet, or that no one had been called in to talk to him.
The door opened quietly.
Lando stepped out, wearing a simple pair of track pants and a loose black t shirt. His hair was damp, his face pale and tired, but his posture was soft. There was no glare in his eyes, no tight line to his jaw. He looked around the hallway, spotted you sitting by the desk, and walked over.
You immediately braced yourself, turning slightly in your chair, your body language defensive and guarded.
Lando stopped two feet away from you, noticing the way you pulled your arms in close to your chest. He didn’t push forward. Instead, he dropped down onto his knees right beside your chair, bringing himself down below your eye level.
“I’m angry about the car,” he said, his voice quiet, steady, and entirely free of sharp edges. “I’m really frustrated that we lost the session. But I’m not angry at you. I’m never going to take it out on you again.”
You looked down at him, your breath catching in your throat. He looked up at you with wide, sincere eyes, holding his hands out flat, palm up, offering them to you without demanding you take them.
“I breathed,” he whispered, a small, sad smile touching the corner of his lips. “I stood in there and I breathed until I wasn’t mad at the world anymore. I’m trying, Y/N. I swear to you, I’m trying so hard.”
Your throat felt tight, a lump forming as you looked at him kneeling on the concrete floor of the motorhome hallway. For three weeks, you had built a thick, protective wall around your heart, terrified to let him back in, terrified of being hurt or frightened again. But seeing him here, consciously breaking his own worst habit, kneeling at your feet to show you he had changed his response, made the first real crack appear in that wall.
You didn't say anything for a long moment. You reached out, slowly laying your hand on top of his open palm.
Lando let out a shuddering breath of relief, closing his fingers gently around yours, holding your hand as if it were made of delicate glass. He leaned his forehead against your knee for a second, just resting there, feeling the steady anchor of your presence.
“It’s a start,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the back of his hand. “It’s a good start, Lando.”
---
The true test came two races later, in the scorching heat of the Hungarian Grand Prix.
It was a nightmare of a race for McLaren. A botched pit stop strategy mid race dropped Lando from second place down to fifth, stuck behind a wall of slower traffic on a track where overtaking was notoriously nearly impossible. For forty laps, he pounded around the circuit, screaming into his radio at his race engineer, his frustration boiling over the airwaves for the entire world to hear.
In the garage, you watched the telemetry screens with a heavy heart. You could hear the raw, biting fury in his radio messages. Every word was sharp, bitter, and furious. You felt that old, familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. The memory of the car ride flashed back into your mind, the feeling of high speeds and closed spaces making your pulse race.
When the checkered flag finally fell, Lando crossed the line in fifth place. He didn't say a word on the cool down lap. He didn't answer his engineer's radio check. He parked the car in the pit lane, pulled himself out of the cockpit, and practically sprinted away from the television cameras, ignoring the reporters reaching out with microphones.
You were standing near the back of the driver room corridor, your hands stuffed into the pockets of your jeans, watching the entrance. You knew he was coming. Part of you wanted to turn around and hide in the hospitality suite, to protect yourself from whatever storm was about to roll through. But you forced yourself to stand your ground.
The door swung open hard. Lando stormed down the narrow hallway, his face red, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with pure, unadulterated rage.
Mechanics and staff scrambled out of his path, sensing the nuclear blast of anger radiating off him. He locked eyes with you as he marched down the hall, and for a terrifying second, your instincts told you to step back, to brace for the shouting, to brace for the sharp words.
Lando saw the subtle flinch in your shoulders. He saw the flicker of apprehension in your eyes.
He stopped dead in his tracks five feet away from you.
His breathing was ragged, loud, and shallow. His hands were shaking at his sides, his fists clenched so tight his arms were trembling. You could see the internal war raging inside his mind, the old habit of screaming and throwing things fighting against the conscious choice to be better.
Lando closed his eyes.
He stood right there in the middle of the crowded corridor, completely ignoring the people walking past, and took a massive, deep breath through his nose. His chest expanded, his shoulders rising high, holding the air inside his lungs for one, two, three, four, five seconds.
He blew the air out slowly, his shoulders dropping down. He took another deep breath, letting the steady rhythm of his lungs slow down the racing pulse in his neck.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
He opened his eyes. The wild, dark storm in his blue eyes had quieted, replaced by a deep, weary sadness and exhaustion.
Without saying a single word, Lando stepped forward. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't complain about the pit stop. He didn't talk about the strategy.
He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulled you firmly against his chest, and buried his face into the crook of your neck.
You froze for a split second, surprised by the sudden, overwhelming warmth of him. His body was hot from the race suit, his skin slick with sweat, but his hold on you was soft, desperate, and gentle. He squeezed you tight, resting his entire weight against you, hiding his face in your hair as he let out a long, trembling breath that fanned warm air against your collarbone.
He didn't shout. He didn't rage. He just hugged you.
He held you like you were the only solid, safe thing in a world that was spinning entirely out of control. His hands smoothed over the back of your shirt, gripping the fabric gently, anchoring himself to your quiet rhythm.
“I’m so mad,” he whispered into your skin, his voice muffled, small, and utterly vulnerable. “I’m so, so mad about the race.”
“I know,” you whispered back, slowly bringing your arms up to wrap around his shoulders, resting your chin against his head. “I know you are, Lando.”
“I wanted to scream,” he admitted softly, his arms tightening around you just a little bit more, pulling you flush against his chest so you could feel the steady, slowing thud of his heartbeat. “I wanted to smash everything in the room. But I didn't want to make you scared. I don't ever want to make you scared of me again.”
You closed your eyes, feeling a warm, heavy tear slip down your cheek, but this time, it wasn't a tear of fear or frustration. It was the feeling of relief, of a heavy wall finally crumbling away to reveal something real, something rebuilt with care and effort.
You ran your fingers through his damp hair, holding him close as the noise of the paddock buzzed around you.
“You did so good,” you said softly, kissing the side of his head. “You handled it, Lando. I’m so proud of you.”
Lando pulled back just enough to look down at your face. His eyes were soft, searching your expression for any remaining trace of fear or hesitation. Finding none, a small, genuine smile broke through his exhaustion, lighting up his face for the first time all day.
“Are we okay,” he asked quietly, his voice hopeful, almost timid.
You looked at him, feeling the solid, calm weight of his hands on your hips, remembering the effort he had put in over the last few weeks to break a lifetime of bad habits just to make sure you felt safe in his world.
“We’re getting there,” you said, a soft smile spreading across your lips as you reached up to wipe a smudge of dirt from his cheek. “But you still owe me a very slow, very boring car ride home.”
Lando let out a bright, breathless laugh, leaning down to press his forehead gently against yours. “Deal,” he whispered. “Ten miles an hour, all the way back. I promise.”
Pairing: for this part george Russell x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: pregnancy, angst, mad george, bad words, arguing, mention of abortion (i believe that is a woman’s right)
Summary: Bound by a flawless Monaco romance, you and F1 star George Russell have the perfect life—until a failed birth control test leaves you pregnant with the child of a man whose brutal championship ambition labels a baby his ultimate downfall. Trapped in the high-stakes paddock, you must hide a secret that could destroy his lifelong dream in a single breath.
Requested: No
Requests open
Word count: 5207
Author’s note:
Masterlist
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The hospitality suite of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team was a masterpiece of temporary architecture. It was a three-story monolith of tinted glass, brushed steel, and soundproofed panels, erected in the heart of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya paddock. Inside, it smelled of expensive leather, freshly pressed team kit, and the sharp, clean scent of high-end catering. Outside, the world was a cacophony of air guns, roaring power units, and the relentless, low-frequency hum of thousands of people moving with singular, frantic purpose.
You sat at the corner table of the private driver’s lounge on the third floor, staring out through the one-way glass at the paddock below.
Down there, the world was simple. Down there, people knew their variables. If a car understeered, you adjusted the front wing flap angle. If the tires overheated, you managed the surface degradation through the diff settings. Everything had a metric. Everything had a dedicated engineer whose sole purpose in life was to find a solution to the problem.
But there was no engineer for the quiet, catastrophic storm brewing inside your own body.
Your hands were tucked between your knees, partly to keep them from shaking and partly because they were ice-cold. The leaden, suffocating weight of the secret had grown heavier over the last twenty-four hours. George had finished the Grand Prix in second place, a brilliant, gritty drive that had brought him within a mere five points of the championship lead. The team had been ecstatic. The garage had been a riot of high-fives, sprayed champagne, and backslapping.
And you had been there, playing your part perfectly. You had smiled for the cameras, hugged Toto, given George a breathless, celebratory kiss when he climbed out of the car, and stood by his side during the endless media loops. You had worn the mask so well that it felt as though it had been stapled to your skin.
But now, the adrenaline of the race weekend was draining away, leaving behind a raw, hollow exhaustion that made your chest ache.
The door to the lounge clicked open, and the silence was instantly broken by the sound of George’s voice. He was talking to his media officer, his tone bright, rapid, and sharp with the post-race high that always lasted for hours after a podium finish.
"Yeah, make sure we emphasize the tire management in the second stint," George was saying, his hand gesturing emphatically as he walked into the room. "The degradation on the softs was much better than we anticipated. If we carry that into Monaco, we’re in a fantastic position."
"Will do, George. Enjoy the post-race dinner," the media officer said, offering a polite nod before closing the door behind her.
George turned to you, his eyes bright, his face still flushed from the heat of the cockpit and the rush of the podium ceremony. He looked entirely alive, vibrating with the kind of absolute certainty that only comes from knowing you are one of the best in the world at what you do.
"God, I'm starving," he sighed, unzipping his team jacket and tossing it onto the leather sofa. He walked over to you, leaning down to press a firm, warm kiss to the top of your head. "The debrief went on forever, but Toto is over the moon. The upgrades worked exactly as the tunnel predicted. We have a genuine championship car, darling. A genuine shot."
"I'm so proud of you, George," you whispered, your voice sounding thin, even to your own ears. You forced your eyes to meet his, trying to project the absolute devotion he expected, the devotion you had always given him so freely.
"I couldn't do it without you," he said, and the terrifying thing was that he meant it. He looked at you with a fierce, possessive love that made your throat tighten. "You're my rock. When everything else out there is complete chaos, I look at you in the garage and I know exactly who I am and what I'm fighting for."
Every word he spoke felt like a beautifully wrapped gift that contained a razor blade. He loved you because you were his anchor, because you kept his world stable, because you didn't create complications in a life that required absolute, razor-sharp focus. You were the perfect partner for a future World Champion because you didn't demand anything that would pull his eyes off the apex.
"Come on," George said, clapping his hands together, his boyish charm radiating through his exhaustion. "The catering team went all out for the post-race celebration. I asked them to set up a private spread for us up here before we head to the airport. Your absolute favorite."
He walked over to the side sideboard, where a massive, pristine platter had been delivered moments before.
Your stomach did a violent, sickening flip before you even saw it.
It was a masterpiece of high-end Japanese culinary art. A sprawling, ice-chilled black slate covered in the finest bluefin tuna sashimi, delicate rolls of spicy salmon, unagi nigiri glistening with sweet soy glaze, and mounds of fresh, pale-green wasabi. Beside the platter sat a perfectly chilled bottle of vintage Prosecco, condensation tracking down the green glass into a silver bucket of crushed ice.
It was your ultimate meal. For three years, this had been your traditional celebration after a successful race weekend. George would log his macros meticulously, but he would always allow you to indulge, pouring your wine, laughing as you tried to eat a massive roll in a single bite, watching you with an affectionate, relaxed warmth that he only showed when the garage doors were shut.
"Look at that," George said, pouring a pale, bubbling stream of Prosecco into two crystal flutes. The sharp, yeasty, alcoholic scent of the sparkling wine drifted across the small room, hitting your nostrils like a physical blow. "They flew the fish in from Tsukiji this morning. Only the best for the team. Here you go, darling. A toast to second place, and to closing the gap."
He held out the glass to you, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
You stared at the bubbling liquid. Your mouth went completely dry, a metallic, sour taste pooling at the back of your throat. The smell of the raw fish, rich and oceanic, was suddenly suffocating, filling the small lounge until you felt as though you couldn't breathe.
"I... I'm okay for now, George," you said softly, keeping your hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your hoodie so he wouldn't see them shaking. "You go ahead."
George blinked, his hand remaining extended in the air, the crystal flute catching the fluorescent light of the lounge. His brow furrowed in slight confusion. "What do you mean? It's your favorite. You’ve been talking about having a proper glass of wine and sushi all week."
"I'm just not that hungry right now," you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "My stomach is a bit turned over from the heat in the paddock today. I'll just have some water."
George set his glass down on the table with a soft, distinct clink. The easy, post-race warmth in his demeanor slightly receded, replaced by that keen, analytical look he used when a data trace didn't make sense. He looked at the platter of raw fish, then at the untasted wine, and finally back at your face.
"You've been 'off' for three weeks," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its boyish light. He walked closer, stepping into your personal space, his eyes scanning your pale skin, the dark circles you had tried so hard to hide with concealer, the way your posture was hunched, protectively curled inward. "First it was the espresso in Monaco. Then you couldn't finish your dinner on Thursday. Now you’re turning down Tsukiji fish and vintage wine? Darling, what is going on with you? Are you sick? Truly?"
"I told you, George, I'm just tired," you said, your voice rising in a slight pitch of panic. You stood up from the chair, wanting to create distance, but your head swam with a sudden, vicious wave of vertigo. You had to grip the edge of the table to steady yourself.
"You're not just tired," George said, his tone shifting from concern to a strange, defensive sharpness. He didn't move toward you to comfort you; instead, he stood his ground, his shoulders squaring under his team shirt. "You're acting completely detached. You've been asking me these bizarre, hypothetical questions about having a family, about what would happen if things changed... and now you're refusing to eat, you're looking at me like you're terrified of me, and you're avoiding a celebration we've shared since our Williams days."
He stepped closer, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt entirely interrogative.
"What are you not telling me?" he asked, his voice low, clipped, and dangerous. "Are you unhappy? Is there something wrong with us? Because if you're pulling away from me right now, in the middle of the most critical part of my career, I need to know why."
The sheer irony of his words—the absolute, blinding selfishness of his perspective—shattered something fragile inside your chest. He thought you were pulling away from him. He thought your illness, your silence, your profound distress was a threat to his stability, his career, his perfect little ecosystem.
"It's not about us being unhappy, George," you whispered, the first tear spilling over your lower lid, burning hot against your cold skin.
"Then what is it?" he snapped, his impatience finally breaking through the PR-trained exterior. "Spell it out for me, because I am too exhausted to play guessing games after driving sixty-six laps at the limit."
You looked at him. You looked at the perfect, pristine, untouchable George Russell. The man who had a definitive answer for every strategy call, the man who had told you three nights ago that a child would be a massive distraction and a definitive no.
You closed your eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath that smelled entirely of raw fish and sparkling wine, and let the truth fall into the space between you like a bomb.
"I'm pregnant, George."
The silence that followed was not a normal silence. It was the kind of heavy, pressurized vacuum that occurs right before a massive pressure chamber ruptures.
The low hum of the paddock outside seemed to instantly vanish. The ticking of the small wall clock became deafening. George froze entirely, his body locking into a rigid, unnatural stillness. The color drained from his face so fast it looked as though he had been struck. His eyes, usually so sharp and expressive, became completely blank, wide and unblinking as his brain scrambled to process a piece of data that lay completely outside his calculated matrix.
He stared at you. He looked at your face, your trembling lips, the tears tracking through your makeup, and then his gaze dropped slowly, terrifyingly, to your stomach.
"What?" he whispered. The word didn't sound like him. It was a hollow, breathless rasp.
"I'm pregnant," you repeated, your voice stronger this time, carrying the raw, bleeding weight of the reality you had been carrying alone for days. "The protection failed. In Spa. The night after the podium. I... I took two tests while you were in Brackley last week. They were both positive. I'm about six weeks along."
George didn't move. He stood there, looking at you as if you were a stranger speaking a language he had never heard before. Then, slowly, the shock began to curdle. You could see the exact moment the realization hit him, the exact moment his brain connected your symptoms, your questions, and your tears over the past weeks into a definitive, unavoidable truth.
He didn't take you in his arms. He didn't tell you it was going to be okay.
Instead, he took two steps backward, away from you, his hands rising to grip his own hair, pulling at the short brown strands as a sharp, angry breath hissed through his teeth.
"No," he muttered, his voice shaking with a sudden, volatile current of denial. "No, no, no. That's... that's impossible. We were careful. We're always careful. You told me we were fine."
"The protection failed, George!" you cried out, the frustration and fear that you had suppressed for days finally bursting through your resolve. "It was raining, we were rushed, it was a split second of a mistake! It happens! It happened to us!"
"Right now?" George’s voice cracked, turning into a harsh, defensive roar that echoed off the glass walls of the lounge. He spun around, his back to you, slamming both hands down onto the marble sideboard, making the platter of sushi and the flutes of Prosecco rattle violently. "Right now?! Of all the times, of all the seasons, of all the months in my entire life... now?!"
The raw fury in his voice made you flinch, stepping back until your spine hit the glass window.
"George..."
He spun back around to face you, and his expression made your heart drop into your stomach. The man you loved, the gentle, protective partner who held you so softly in the dark, was entirely gone. In his place stood a terrified, furious athlete whose entire world had just been derailed by an uncalculated variable. His face was flushed, his jaw clamped so tight the muscles were jumping, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, cornered-animal panic.
"Is this why you were asking me those questions?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a venomous, accusatory register. He stepped toward you, pointing a trembling finger at your face. "In Monaco? On Thursday night? You already knew! You sat there, watching me eat, watching me prepare for a race, knowing this, and you played games with me? You tested me?!"
"I didn't play games!" you sobbed, the tears pouring freely now, your chest heaving as the angst and isolation of the past week completely crushed you. "I was terrified, George! I wanted to know where your head was! I wanted to see if there was any room for me, for us, before I told you something that I knew would scare you!"
"Scare me?!" George shouted, his chest heaving under his team polo shirt, his aristocratic composure entirely shattered. "You haven't just scared me, you’ve completely ruined my focus! You’ve put a bullet in the middle of my championship season! I told you, I literally told you three nights ago, that a child right now would be a definitive no! I told you it would be irresponsible, that it would be a massive distraction, and you stood there knowing you were already carrying it?!"
"Don't call our child a distraction!" you screamed back, the word tearing out of your throat with a raw, primal agony. You had spent three years being the quiet one, the supportive one, the one who stepped into the shadows so he could have the spotlight. But you would not let him reduce the life inside you to a negative metric on a telemetry screen. "It is a baby, George! It is a human life! It is our family! How can you stand there and look at me with so much hatred for something we created together?!"
"I don't hate you!" George roared, his voice cracking with the sheer volume of his panic, his hands flying through the air as he paced the small room like a trapped beast. "But I hate the timing! I hate that you kept this from me for a week while I was driving a car at 200 miles an hour! Do you have any idea what this does to a driver's head? Do you have any concept of the mental margins required to compete at this level? If I am thinking about nappies, and doctors, and PR disasters while I am trying to out-brake Max Verstappen into Turn 1, I am going to crash the bloody car!"
"Then don't think about it on the track!" you wept, your hands gripping your own elbows, trying to hold yourself together as your world splintered into sharp, un-reconstructible pieces. "I didn't choose the timing, George! Do you think I wanted this right now? Do you think I wanted to spend the last three weeks dry-heaving in hotel bathrooms, hiding tests from the media, and listening to my boyfriend tell me that a family with me would be a 'mistake'?! I have been completely alone in this! I have been drowning, and you didn't even notice because you were too busy looking at your bloody lap times!"
"Because my lap times are our entire life!" George yelled, stepping directly into your space, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. The proximity was terrifying; he looked so large, so imposing, his lean athletic frame vibrating with a desperate, furious energy. "Everything we have, this apartment in Monaco, this lifestyle, this future, it is all paid for by those lap times! If I drop the ball now, if Mercedes loses faith in my ability to lead this team because I'm distracted by a domestic crisis, it's over! The contract negotiations, the legacy, everything I have sacrificed my entire childhood for... gone!"
He turned away from you, running his hands over his face, his breathing ragged and shallow. He looked at the platter of sushi, the sight of it seemingly making him sick now.
"You should have told me immediately," he muttered, his tone shifting into a cold, transactional bitterness that hurt worse than the shouting. "The moment you suspected. You shouldn't have let me go out there for Free Practice, for Qualifying, for the Race, with this ghost hanging over us. It was incredibly selfish of you."
The word selfish felt like a physical strike to your sternum. It took your breath away, leaving you gasping for air in the air-conditioned cold of the lounge.
"Selfish?" you whispered, your voice trembling so hard it could barely carry the weight of the word. "You are calling me selfish? I protected you, George. I kept it inside so you could have your perfect race weekend. I suffered in silence so you could stand on that podium and smile for your sponsors. And the moment I tell you the truth, the moment I ask for a shred of comfort, a shred of partnership, your only concern is your legacy?"
You looked at him, and for the first time in three years, the illusion of the "dream" relationship completely vanished. You saw the truth. You saw the terrifying, unyielding core of a top-tier racing driver. To win, they had to be sociopathic in their focus. They had to eliminate every variable, every vulnerability, every human emotion that didn't contribute to the pursuit of speed.
And right now, you and your unborn child were a vulnerability. You were an anomaly in the data.
"What do you want to do, George?" you asked, your voice suddenly dropping into a flat, terrifyingly calm register. The tears had stopped falling; your eyes felt dry, hot, and empty. "Tell me. Since you have an answer for everything. What is the team strategy for this? What does Toto suggest we do with a positive pregnancy test?"
George stopped his pacing. He stood in the center of the room, his back to you, his shoulders hunched. The silence crept back into the space, heavy and suffocating.
When he spoke, his voice was low, monotone, and entirely devoid of the warmth that had once defined your life.
"We can't have it," he said.
The air inside the driver’s lounge didn’t just feel cold anymore; it felt sharp, like inhaling powdered glass.
The plate of Tsukiji fish sat beneath the fluorescent lights, its sleek, pink-and-white flesh suddenly looking like a corpse on a slab. The bubbles in the two glasses of Prosecco had died, leaving the liquid flat, stagnant, and amber. He stood with his arms slightly away from his sides, his chest rising and falling in short, violent jerks, his eyes fixed on you with a terrifying blend of absolute panic and a dark, territorial fury.
He wasn't just a man who had received bad news. He looked like an empire builder who had just watched his cornerstone crack in half.
"Say something," he commanded. The boyish lilt that usually softened his Kings Lynn accent was entirely gone, replaced by a low, gravelly rasp that felt like iron dragging over concrete. "Don't just look at me like I’m a monster for stating the bleeding obvious. Say something."
You couldn't. Your tongue felt like a dry weight in your mouth, glued to the roof by the taste of stomach acid and bile. You looked down at your hands, which were clenched so tightly into the fabric of your hoodie that your knuckles were stark, bloodless white points.
"You want me to get rid of it," you whispered. The words didn't even sound human. They came from a dark, hollow cave deep inside your throat.
"I want you to be rational!" George roared. The sheer volume of his voice slammed into the small, glass-walled room, vibrating the cabinet doors behind him. He took three massive, aggressive strides toward you, his taller frame completely blocking out the light from the paddock window, casting you in his shadow. "Do you think I’m enjoying this? Do you think this is what I wanted to handle five minutes after getting off a podium? I am trying to save our lives! I am trying to save everything we have spent three fucking years building!"
"Our lives?" You looked up, and the look in your eyes must have been horrific, because George actually stopped his advance, his jaw twitching violently. "You mean your championship. You mean your clean PR record. You mean your perfect, sterile, untouchable little world where nothing ever goes wrong unless a front wing flap fails."
"Don't you dare minimize what I do!" he barked, his face turning a dangerous, mottled red, a thick vein on his neck pulsing beneath the collar of his Mercedes kit. He slammed his fist onto the leather back of the sofa, the thud heavy and resonant. "Don't you dare sit there and act like this is just a game to me! This is my life’s work! If I lose focus now, if the media gets a hold of this, 'George Russell’s domestic crisis, George Russell’s accidental pregnancy', the vultures will tear me apart before the summer break! The team will look at me and see a liability, not a leader!"
"A liability," you breathed, a tear finally cutting a clean line through the dust and dried sweat on your cheek. "That's all this is to you. A mistake on a data sheet. A track limit violation."
"Yes!" George shouted, his eyes wide, flashing with a manic, cornered anger that you had never seen in him before. He was entirely unspooled, the PR veneer ripped away to reveal the raw, ugly, unyielding selfishness of a top-tier athlete. "In the context of this season? In the context of my career? Yes, it is a catastrophic mistake! And the fact that you’re sitting there, looking at me with those pathetic, accusing eyes like you had nothing to do with it, like you didn’t keep it from me for a week, makes me bloody furious!"
He stepped even closer, his shadow swallowing you whole against the window. He didn't touch you, he looked too angry to touch you, as if his hands would leave bruises if he let them close around your skin, but his proximity was an assault of its own. He smelled of the podium champagne, bitter and stale, and the sharp, hot sweat of a man who had just spent two hours wrestling a carbon-fiber beast at 200 miles an hour.
"Why didn't you tell me last Sunday?" he hissed, his voice dropping into a venomous, quiet register that was somehow worse than the shouting. "When we were in Monaco. Before I flew to Brackley. Why did you let me sit in that simulator for forty hours, looking at telemetry, while you were carrying this... this time bomb around?"
"Because I knew you would react like this!" you screamed back, your voice cracking, the agony finally fracturing your restraint. You stood up, forcing yourself into his space, your small frame trembling with the sheer force of your heartbreak. "Look at yourself, George! Look at the look on your face! You look like you want to kill me! You look like you hate me for having a body that can get pregnant! I was terrified! I wanted to see if there was a single, solitary ounce of the man I loved left inside that team uniform, or if you had completely turned into a machine!"
"And what did you find?" he sneered, his lips curling into a cruel, defensive smirk that made your stomach completely die. "Did you find out that I’m a man who wants to win? Did you find out that I’m not some romantic idiot who thinks a baby solves everything? I am twenty-eight years old, and I am five points off the championship lead. I don't have time for your little loyalty tests! I don't have time for your drama!"
"It's not drama, it's our child!" You reached out, your open palm striking his chest, hard enough to make a wet, smacking sound against the synthetic fabric of his shirt. He didn't even flinch. He stood there like a statue of granite, his eyes drilling into yours with cold, dark contempt. "It’s a living thing inside me, George! And you’re talking about it like it’s a bad set of tires we can just throw into the back of the garage and forget about!"
"Because it has to be handled!" he roared back, grabbing your wrist before you could strike him again. His grip wasn't meant to hurt, but it was unyielding, iron-hard, his fingers locking around your small bones like a pair of handcuffs. "Listen to me! If you think for one second that I am going to let this derail my life, you are completely out of your mind. I will not be the driver who threw away a world title because he couldn't keep his private life under control. Do you understand me? I will not do it."
You stared down at his hand on your wrist. The skin was rough, calloused from the steering wheel, the hand that had held you so gently when you were crying over your grandmother’s death, the hand that had traced your spine in the quiet of the Monaco mornings.
Now, it felt like the hand of a jailer.
"Let go of me," you whispered, the coldness returning to your voice, a dead, gray winter settling over your heart.
George looked down at his own fingers, as if surprised by what he was doing. He released you instantly, taking a step back, his chest heaving as he rubbed his face with both hands, a dry, choked sound escaping his throat. But the anger didn't leave him; it just hardened, turning from a flame into a block of black ice.
"The clinic in Zurich is private," he said, his voice entirely transactional now, his tone flat and administrative. "I’ll have my personal assistant book the appointment under a pseudonym. We’ll take a private charter on Tuesday morning. You’ll be back in the apartment by Wednesday night. No one will ever know."
You looked at him, really looked at him, through the blur of your tears.
This was the man everyone dreamed of having. This was the golden boy of the paddock, the articulate, polite, perfectly styled driver that young girls had posters of on their walls and sponsors poured millions into. This was the man who had knelt on the floor of your kitchen two months ago to help you clean up a broken jar of honey, laughing as he wiped your sticky toes with a paper towel.
He was gone. The cockpit had eaten him alive. The championship had consumed whatever soul he had left, leaving nothing but an empty shell driven by lap times and sector pieces.
"No," you said.
The word was small. It didn't have the volume of his shouts, but it had the weight of an anchor dropping into the deepest trench of the ocean.
George’s hands dropped from his face. His brow twitched, his eyes narrowing into two sharp, dangerous slits. "What do you mean, no?"
"I am not going to Switzerland," you said, your voice steady now, iron-clad in its despair. "I am not going to erase this because it's inconvenient for your career. I am going to keep this baby, George. With or without you. But i can now see that it will be without you."
The silence that followed this time was violent.
You could actually hear the air conditioning unit in the ceiling clicking, the distant, muffled sound of a mechanic dropping a wheel gun in the pit lane below. George’s face went through three distinct shifts of color—from the red of his fury, to a sickly, pale yellow of sheer terror, and finally into a dark, purple rage that looked almost lethal.
"You're threatening me," he whispered, his voice trembling so hard the words almost broke apart. "You're trying to destroy me."
"I am trying to survive you," you said, reaching down to grab your bag from the floor. Your body felt like it was made of old wood, creaking and fragile, but you forced your legs to move. "I am trying to protect the only thing in this room that actually matters."
"If you walk out of that door," George said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on your arms stand up, "if you go to the media, if you make a scene out of this-"
"I’m not going to the media, George," you said, stopping at the door, your hand resting on the cold steel handle. You didn't turn back to look at him. You couldn't bear to see the hatred in his face for another second. "I don't want their money, and I don't want your money. I don't want anything from you ever again. You can have your championship. You can have your five points. You can have your empty apartment in Monaco."
"Don't you walk away from me!" he screamed, his voice breaking entirely, turning into a raw, ugly shriek of absolute, impotent rage. "You owe me! We are a team! You don't get to make this decision on your own! You don't get to ruin my life!"
Behind you, there was a loud, shattering crash as George kicked the sideboard, his heavy racing boot splintering the wood, sending the platter of Tsukiji fish and the two crystal glasses of Prosecco flying across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, a sharp, explosive sound that signaled the absolute, irrevocable end of everything you had ever known.
You pulled the door open and stepped out into the bright, noisy corridor of the Mercedes hospitality building, the smell of raw fish and broken glass clinging to your clothes like soot from a fire. You didn't look back as the door clicked shut behind you, sealing the future World Champion inside his own golden, screaming cage.
or: lando norris hadn't just been your friend. he'd been your best friend. and you couldn't have imagined that three years would go by without a single word, or that your reunion would reignite sparks you thought you'd left long buried. fem!childhood!best!friend!reader x lando norris
warnings: ANGST. INSANE LEVELS OF IT. reader is in a relationship here! cheating, first loves, i did not kiss the brick before i threw it sorry guys im so sorry the first work im publishing after my break is THIS im so so so sorry (no i'm not!!), OFC THERE'S SMUT MINORS DNI!!
♡
you’re never really prepared for the breadth of paddock noise. it’s the way it settles under your skin, vibrating through rib and marrow, so much louder than you remember from when you used to sit trackside with lando—sunburnt and laughing, feet dangling over the barrier, sneakered feet tangling halfway to the ground. "i'm going to win this circuit someday," he used to whisper into your hair, turning his head to stare so deep into your irises you could've sworn he saw your soul. "and you'll be right here with me."
it's three years since you last spoke, and you’d almost convinced yourself that was enough time. enough time to sand down the sharp edges of old hope, to become someone who could watch him race (proper champion, he was) and not ache to be the one he came home to at night, and kissed on the forehead, and, and, and, and. there was always an 'and'. you had never stopped wanting things from him. (even when he'd proved he would never give them to you.)
but then there's the paddock—crowded, chaotic, humming with the kind of energy that makes you feel fifteen and small and scared. threatened. you’re careful, you tell yourself. you’re here for the race, for the thrill, for the person holding your hand. (matthew. sweet, stoic matthew. always with a hand in the crook of your elbow or a note in the back pocket of your jeans, 'i love you' written in his slanted, unreadable handwriting. you love him. you really, really, really love him.)
the checkered flag comes faster than you want it to. stupidly.
matthew had told you to meet him by the hospitality entrance—where was that, again? you shoulder (clumsily) through the crowd, head down, sunglasses slipping down your nose as the adrenaline sends your nervous system into a chattery thunder of butterflies. thinking about dinner, about the way matthew will kiss your temple and tell you you looked beautiful in the grandstand, about how lando fucking norris got out of his fucking car and waved to the stands like he was waving to you after his first race at mclaren, eyes wide, heart open—
the collision startles you. more than it should. your phone slips out of your hand before you can catch it, catching the pavement with a sharp cling. “shit, sorry—” you start, and then you see him.
lando.
he’s right there. in front of you. fresh from the car, suit half-unzipped, hair still plastered to his forehead, curling daintily at the ends. he looks the way you remember and nothing like it. sharper. older. eyes the same impossible shade you spent half your life memorizing. (eyes you find yourself dreaming about whenever matthew goes on business trips and leaves his side of your bed cold.)
lando's hand flies out instinctively to steady you—a palm to your elbow. simple. but it tightens when your eyes fly to his, mouth gaping. (you wish it was an exaggeration, the way his brow furrows like he's staring at fine art, like he's looking directly at the sun.) his voice is rough when he speaks, not quite breathless, but close. (he’s always run too hot, too fast.) "you alright?"
three years. three fucking years of dead silence. broken by two words.
you nod, stupidly. you can’t seem to make your mouth work, despite the words rising like smoke to the surface. where were you, why haven't you called, i thought about you two nights ago and cried, i haven't ever stopped thinking about you because you broke my heart and you seem perfectly fucking fine with it—
he lets go of your elbow, but not all the way. his thumb lingers, just for a second, like he’s making sure you’re real. his other hand reaches downward to pick up your phone, pressing it into your palms. “you’re... here.”
you want to say something clever. something biting, and sharp, and insistently cruel. something to make him hurt the way he so effortlessly hurt you. instead you blurt, “matthew—my boyfriend—got the passes." as if that explains anything. as if that explains everything.
lando's mouth twists—half smile, half something else you fight to understand. “matthew walker, right?” he asks, as if the words tastes strange. his eyes go dark as you nod. “i saw him earlier. didn’t realize you were… together.”
your throat is dry. “yeah. it’s… new. well, not new. just—” you cut yourself off. (you have nothing to prove to him. you're not available. and even if you were, it would never be for lando norris. never again.) “it’s good. really good.”
lando's answering smile doesn't reach his eyes. “good,” he says, softer now. “you deserve good.”
you resist the urge to crawl into the ground. "oh. thanks." (thanks for pushing me to meet him, you mean. thanks for being the reason i couldn't get out of bed for four weeks because all i wanted to do was talk to you, and i couldn't, because you broke my heart into a million pieces.) "congrats on p3, by the way."
he laughs. it’s low, private. “thanks. wasn’t sure i’d pull it off.” you remember when he used to talk in circles after every karting final, dissecting every lap for hours on end, searching your eyes for reassurance. did i do okay? he used to ask you. are you proud of me? you suddenly find yourself feeling sick to your stomach.
you could tell him you always believed in him. you could tell him you missed him. but “you did great,” is all you can manage.
he looks at you then—really looks. “i’ve missed you,” he says, quiet and unguarded, the way he always was with you and no one else. the way he was after a race when you were laying in your childhood bed together, sun setting through the window. your phone buzzes. you glance at the screen (cracked, now. how apt): it's matthew, asking where you are. lando's expression goes cold in your periphery—regret, or maybe just recognition. that old, familiar ache. the words unsaid snap like a tight rubber band between you.
“i should go." (your feet refuse to move, an anchor dropped in the middle of an ocean you can't escape from.)
lando lets his hand finally fall away. you resist the urge to flinch. "yeah. yeah, of course. i'll see you.”
"right. yeah." your answering smile is sad. you can feel it cracking under his scrutinizing stare, the green of his eyes picking apart the wavering corners of your lips. "see you later."
you don’t look back. (you never do. you always want to.)
♡
dinner with matthew is always nice. always safe, soft. you let his hand curl around yours as the waiter sets down thickly-cut sourdough and garlicky olive oil, nod and smile as he asks about work, and venture capital, and something, something, something, something. it is always something with matthew. but he's kind, and sweet, and caring. and your heart has been numb since the second lando norris broke it three years ago.
your phone rings once, then twice, in your bag near your feet. you still.
you know it’s not your mom (she only ever texts, and only in emojis, and never more than one), and you know it’s not work (it’s a goddamn sunday) and you know, in that place that still aches like crystal salt in a wound, that it’s lando. you ignore it. you have to. that's the strong thing to do. the brave thing to do. because you're brave, and you're strong, and you miss him.
you last about fifteen seconds.
"i'm sorry," you tell matthew, voice a little too bright, scraping the edge of panic. "it's probably my mom." (lie. you’re always lying, these days). he nods, squeezes your hand, goes back to cutting his meat with steady hands. nothing to worry about. nothing to fear. you reach for your bag with fingers that won't stop trembling and scramble out of your seat, passing laughter ricocheting off walls, forks clattering against ceramic, wine-drunk birthday parties and unhappy anniversaries; the bathroom is a sanctuary.
you press play on the last voicemail he left you—8:45 P.M. two minutes and thirty-six seconds.
lando’s voice is soft. frayed. “hey. it’s me. lando.” (as if you could mistake him for anyone else.) there’s a pause, a breath. “i know it’s late. i just… can't stop thinking about you since i saw you. i keep thinking about the old days, you know? the beach house, and you, and me, and... i miss that. i miss us.” another pause. you press the phone harder to your ear, like you could crawl through the line and find him waiting on the other side, knees drawn up, eyes wide, hope blooming sticky and childish in his chest. “i’m gonna be there next week. at the house. if you want to come. no pressure or anything. anyways. see you. bye." click.
you stare at your reflection above the sink when the voicemail ends, fluorescent light flickering halo-bright over eyes gone red at the edges. you run the water, splash your cheeks, pretend it will help. (it won’t.) you want to throw your phone away. you want to call him back. you want to go home.
you do none of those things.
back at the table, matthew looks up, concern flickering behind his eyes. he's always concerned about you. if you've eaten enough, if you're busy this weekend, if you'd want to see him. it's funny, how his concern bleeds into control. control you know you don't have the capacity to take back. “everything okay?”
you nod, too quick. “fine. just—she wanted to remind me about a package i need to send her. USPS messed up the shipping address.” (lies, lies, lies, lies.)
matthew's brow tightens. "i can drop it off at her place after work tomorrow, if you'd like?" he chuckles awkwardly. "though i don't think she likes me very much."
you force a smile. "that's not true." (it is. your mother still thinks lando fucking norris is going to be your husband, like you'd proclaimed at fifteen years old after six hours straight of watching him drive in circles and dedicate every lap to you. she still remembers the days you'd spent curled up in your childhood bed, nose pressed to the sheets like they'd still smell like him.) "she loves you."
matthew's laugh edges on condescending as he meets your eyes. "whatever you say."
you make it through dinner, somehow. you laugh at the right times, finish your wine like it'll save you, let your heart break quietly, piece by piece, under the table where no one else can see. (where no one but the guilty glare of your phone, left open on the last voicemail he sent you, stares silently at the fidgety shifting of your hands.)
when you finally get home, matthew shrugs off his leather jacket (a birthday present from last year), hangs it neatly by the door. you let him. you let him kiss your cheek, soft and perfunctory, let him ask if you're okay, if you want to watch something, if you want to talk. you say you're tired. you say you have a headache. you say, "maybe tomorrow." you say, "i love you."
in bed, you lie with your back to him, eyes open in the dark, the city humming restlessly beyond the curtains. matthew's breathing slows beside you (steady, safe, reliable) and you stare at the ceiling, replaying lando's voice until the words blur into something desperate and hopeful and dangerous. you think about the beach house. the way the air always smelled like salt and pine, the way you'd walk aimlessly for hours along the shore and sink into the ocean at dusk, just to watch lando scramble to join you. c'mon, he used to goad you. it's not that deep. i'll catch you if you fall.
your eyes don't flutter shut until the edges of morning creep into the corners of the bedroom, a vivid painting dancing behind your eyelids.
lando might not be able to catch you.
but you were still going to fall.
♡
the beach house porch groans under your weight as you climb the stairs, old wood shifting like it remembers you. remembers every summer, every secret, every moment caught in between light and dark. you stand in front of the door, heart in your throat, bag dangling loosely from your hand. you hesitate. stare at the chipped paint, the rusted handle of the front door, the faded “NO SHOES” sign lando’s mum hung when you were twelve. you peel your flip-flops off obediently at the entrance, flex your toes against the welcome mat.
the ocean is so close you can taste the salt when you breathe. (can taste strawberry ice cream after dusk, legs tangled with lando's on the couch with a movie droning on in the backround, your breaths mingling to form one, singular train of being.)
your phone is slick in your palm. you move to type, but your thumb hovers, almost deletes the contact entirely, almost turns and runs—but you press send. i'm here, you said. blue bubble, delivered. no going back. you resist the urge to run your fingers mindlessly over his contact photo—three years old, and yet exactly the same. you were right where he left you.
you raise your fist to knock—(knuckles grazing the splinters lando used to pull out of your palms with excruciating softness)—but the door swings open before you touch it.
lando. right there. framed by the half-shadowed hallway, barefoot, hair wild, wearing a shade of grey that makes your eyes cross. he looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks, mouth gaping once, then twice, as if the words refuse to make it past his throat. you’re close enough to see the freckles dotting his nose, the small scar at his temple you once kissed after he crashed his bike, the way his throat bobs when he swallows. (you want to lick it. you hate yourself.)
“hey,” he says, voice low, rough-edged, too intimate for daylight. the word hangs there, heavier than it should be.
you can’t move. can’t breathe. (your heart is a live wire, and he is coming closer, and closer, and closer, and you want to warn him, but you don't—) his eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“hi,” you manage. you hate how small it sounds.
he smiles, almost shy. “you came.”
you nod. (you want to say, i always do. you want to say, i never stopped. you want to say, please, please, please, touch me, do something other than stand there. actually, do nothing. do nothing. do everything.)
lando steps back, just enough to let you in, but his hand brushes your arm as you pass—deliberate, lingering. you feel it everywhere, from the tips of your toes to the back of your neck. you feel it like you did the last time you were standing in this very hallway, holding his face in your hands like you'd have him forever. (you were stupid to think that.)
"how was the drive over?" he asks casually as he shuts the door behind you. "not too bad, i hope."
you try to breathe normally.
you fail.
"it was fine," you answer, trying to keep your voice level. "had to get gas on the way up, though."
lando snorts, and your chest tightens. "makes sense."
conversation falters as your eyes wander, suspended in the sort of silence that makes your stomach clench. sunlight slants through salt-streaked windows, catching dust speckles in slow-motion orbit. the house smells the same as it always did—sea air, lando's favorite lemon dish soap, the faint trace of coconut sunscreen and something distinctly sweet. you stand in the entryway, toes curling into the hardwood floor. (unable to take any more steps forward, lest the past engulfs you further.)
the living room, scattered with old throw pillows, sun-bleached and sagging (screaming pillow fights, cheeks pressed to the softest ones as you fell asleep with his chest to your back). a pair of battered trainers by the stairs, caked with sand. on the wall, a crooked photo—lando, sixteen, grinning wide with your arm slung around his shoulders, both of you a strange blur of sunburn and seawater. (he kept it. he kept it. he kept it.)
you peek into the kitchen through the archway, counters cluttered with half-finished mugs of tea, a bowl of ripe strawberries, a forgotten pair of his mum's sunglasses. you spot the old, chipped mug you’d always claimed, still perched by the sink. you wonder if he washed it for you. your throat tightens.
lando watches you, silent, hands shoved in his pockets. the gold light catches his hair and for a second, you could swear you’re sixteen again, and he's about to lean in and bury his nose in the crook of your neck as he wraps his arms around you in that way that is so distinctively lando norris. (he isn't sixteen, and you're barely touching him, but you feel him everywhere.)
“it’s the same,” you murmur, not not sure if you mean the house or the way your entire body aches for him.
his breath catches. "yeah. 'm not here a lot anymore, so. no need to change anything, i guess."
he shifts his weight upon your silence, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes. his lips upturn when you drop your bag on the ground next to your feet. some habits die harder than others. “your room’s still the same," he continues. "i washed the sheets. hope you don’t mind the quilt, mum brought it over. she said it—”
"—gets cold at night," you finish before you can help yourself. "i remember." lando's expression is unreadable, save for the millisecond of pain you wonder if you're projecting.
he leans down to pick up your bag, and you swear the smell of his skin tightens your thighs automatically. (you tell yourself it's just a reflex. you're just on edge, that's all.)
your feet thud softly on the worn wood to your bedroom as he wordlessly leads you up the stairs. you pass the bathroom (the pink toothbrush you always left behind is gone, but the seashell soap dish is still there), and the morning room you used to watch the sunrise from (he's moved the chair further back. as if to stare at the ocean, too, and not just the sky).
the door to your bedroom is slightly ajar, and you inhale sharply. lando shoots you a look, but it isn't accusatory. understanding lines the corners of his mouth and the slight tick in his jaw.
he pushes the door open and stands aside, letting you go in first. “i didn’t touch your stuff, i promise.” he accompanies the words with a laugh, but it doesn't land quite right.
the room is smaller than you remember, but it smells the same: lavender from the sachets his mum used to tuck into your pillowcase, chamomile tea, old vent air. your books, a few sea glass jars, a faded postcard taped to the mirror. the quilt is new, but the rest is heartbreakingly familiar. he sets your bag down on the edge of the bed, and lingers by the doorway. afraid to move, afraid he'll break the spell.
he rocks on his heels, eyes flicking between you and the view out the window. “there’s tea. if you want. or coffee. or—” he shrugs, sheepish. "we could go out. i've heard the marina is really pretty this time of year."
you look at him. stare through the bravado, through the layers of skin he uses to bandage bruises you know exist. "you... really don't come back here anymore?"
his answering hum is vague. "wish i had the time." (wish i had the courage, you want to parrot. you press your lips shut.) the silence grows between you, stretching thinner, and thinner, and thinner until lando's voice breaks it.
"how's matthew?" the question lands like a bullet. your eyes go anywhere but him—the ceiling, the floor, the twisting of your hands behind your back. you run your thumb over your left ring finger and exhale at the emptiness there. you could lie. you could tell him you’re happy, that you’ve moved on, that the only reason you’re here is nostalgia and not the ache that’s lived in your chest for three years. you could. but you don’t.
"he's..." you hesitate. "fine. good."
the words taste sour the second they leave your mouth. (you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. you don’t look at him. you can’t. if you do, you’ll fold, and lando norris has always been your breaking point.)
he hums, low in his chest. you let the sound wash over you, let yourself believe you're safe, let yourself turn towards the window for a single second when—
"do you love him?" lando's voice is gentler than you've ever heard it.
you flinch. your mouth opens, closes. you should say yes. you should say it without hesitation, without second-guessing, because it’s true—because matthew is nice, and safe, and kind, and he’s done nothing but love you with steady hands. because he's what you're supposed to want. "i—" you stop yourself, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. "yeah. of course."
(of course. like it’s obvious. like it’s simple.)
lando doesn’t answer right away. when you finally glance at him, lower lip caught between your teeth, his jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the wall like he’s memorizing every crack in the pastel paint just to keep from looking at you. (look at me, you want to scream. goddamnit, lando, just look at me.)
"good," he says eventually. the word is sharp, cut-clean and cold. he always did know how to hurt you. "i'm glad."
the silence this time feels like blood.
♡
the next day crawls by. as does the next.
you spend them together (but not really). you move through the same rooms, orbit the same sun. slink through the afternoons like ghosts. he reads the paper at the kitchen table while you make tea you don’t drink. you walk along the shoreline with the soles of your feet stinging against the sand, his shadow always a pace behind yours. (he doesn’t touch you. he doesn’t have to. the weight of him is everywhere.)
the walks into town almost convince you to leave. his shoulder brushes yours only when the sidewalk narrows, hand hovering near the small of your back as if muscle memory betrays him. (like it did when you were both on your bikes and he bought you flowers to put in the wire basket of yours. or the time he snuck you a peach from your favorite farmer's market stall and held it to your mouth, eyes fluttering back when you leaned forward to bite into the fleshy side.)
he doesn't let you buy anything. just hands you cartons of strawberries he hand-picked himself, silently slips his card to the cashier when you softly point out a scarf in the storefront window. it unnerves you, how easy it is to fall back into old patterns. to stare at his profile as he carries your bags, and packs extra towels in the beach bag, and makes your coffee just the way you like it.
evenings are... different. looser.
he asks about your best friend over dinner, laughs when you tell him about how her little dog barks at the mailman. he narrates how the team makes fun of him for not eating his vegetables. you play your favorite song on the radio when it gets too quiet. he sings along off-key, hands folded in his lap when you sink into the couch next to him. you pretend not to notice the restless tapping of his fingers against the worn denim of his jeans, and he pretends not to notice the uneven cadence of your breath.
by the third night, you are tired of holding your breath, and tired of releasing it when the sun falls.
lando is clearing the plates from another dinner of burnt pancakes and copious amount of maple syrup, henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows, when your phone buzzes against the table. matthew.
your throat closes before you can help yourself. anxiety spikes your blood pressure, leaves your skin tingling. (this is matthew, you remind yourself. this is the same man you say you love every day. this is the same man who loves you.)
lando’s eyes flicker toward the screen, then back to you. he doesn’t say a word—he doesn't need to—but you feel the weight of it anyway, pressing heavy against your ribs.
“i should—” you start, and the guilt in your voice shocks you. “it’s matthew.”
lando hums, low and noncommittal, but his jaw tightens so hard you see the muscle shake. you swipe the phone up, pressing it to your ear as you scramble out of the kitchen, voice pitched too bright. you duck into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind you. “hey! yeah, i’m—i’m at my mom’s still."
(the lie leaves your mouth too easily. it had left easily when you'd pitched the trip to him, spinning fallacy after fallacy after fallacy. and not a single one had named lando norris.)
matthew goes on about work, about a meeting tomorrow he's nervous for, about gala invites you’ve already forgotten about but he promises will change your life. your voice feels like it belongs to someone else: someone different. someone who wasn't currently standing in a beach house bathroom hundreds of miles from the city wishing you never had to go back.
"when do you think you'll be home?" matthew asks, and you hear the shuffle of papers across a desk. he's working. you glance at the clock above the door: 8:54 pm. "i'll make us a dinner res for then. something fun. i've missed you."
"soon," you mumble, clearing your throat. "my mom's still not feeling well. i don't want to get you sick, too."
he chuckles, and your chest relaxes, for a moment. (he sounds a lot like lando when he laughs.) "i'll see you whenever 'soon' is, then. love you."
"love you, too," you manage, hanging up, you escape the suffocating darkness of the bathroom, lingering in the hallway longer than you need to. your reflection stares back at you from the dark window in your periphery, flushed and guilty. (guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty.)
your brows furrow when you patter back into the kitchen—lando's still seated at the table, elbows braced on the wood, fingers tapping out some rhythm you can’t place. his eyes lift to yours as you hover in the doorway.
“everything okay?” he asks. his tone is casual, but there’s a sharpness underneath it, glass hidden in sand. you nod too quickly, as if that would fix anything.
"yeah." you shrug, simple. subtle. "he just wanted to check in.”
lando’s mouth twists. not a smile, not exactly. “right. of course."
(he knows something, your mind screams. he knows something, and he's taunting you, and he's playing you like a puppet, and you're letting him because somewhere deep in the depths of your soul, you're still in love with him.)
you take a singular step further into the room, but the darkness in lando's eyes pins you in place. "sorry if it took too long. i just—"
“the vents carry,” lando interrupts, voice quiet, deliberate. somehow, it is far more frightening than an explosion, than if he were to confront you the same way he drove his car—brutal, and fast, and rough. “from the bathroom. remember?"
your stomach drops straight through the floor.
“‘my mom’s not feeling well,’” he parrots softly. not condescending, no. just truthful. “that’s what you told him, isn’t it?”
your cheeks burn, fingers twitching against the hem of your shirt, twisting, tugging, useless. “lando, i—”
"you didn't tell me she was sick," he continues. "or that you were at her house right now. funny."
"if you'd just let me—"
"you said you loved him."
"i do."
"but you're lying to him."
"that's not—"
"how long have you been together? two years, right?"
"lando—"
"why hasn't he proposed?" lando's chuckle is humorless, meant to cut deep. a razorblade under his tongue. "if he loves you so damn much, why aren't you his wife?"
"that's not the point—"
"right, of course." his eyes flash. anger, longing, a hint of fear. you fight the urge to take a step back. "because you love him. because he loves you. because you two are fucking perfect together, so it doesn't fucking matter when he puts a ring on your finger."
your chest heaves. “don’t do this.”
lando scoffs, bitter. “do what? tell the truth?"
"just—just shut up before—"
“no,” he snaps, standing now, chair legs screeching against the floorboards. (the silence that hangs mirrors the emptiness in your chest, save for the pounding of blood in your ears). “i’ve shut up for three years. i’ve let you go, i’ve let myself believe you were better off without me, and then you show up here and lie to his face just to stay a little longer—”
“you think this is easy for me?” your voice cracks, too loud, too raw. “you think i don’t fucking hate myself every time i pick up the phone and lie to him?"
lando's voice slices through the air. "then why are you here?"
you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. (because you don’t know. because you do. because the truth is lodged in your throat and it sounds like his name, over and over and over again, haunting you, because that's what he does. he haunts. he takes. and he already has you.)
he steps closer, close enough that the heat of him makes your skin prickle. you could touch him now, if you wanted to. (but you don't. you won't.) his voice drops, hoarse. “say it. if you love him, say it.”
your lips part to prove him wrong, to prove that you're loyal, and faithful, and that he doesn't still hold tremendous, inescapable power over you. (every single nerve-ending in your body points to him, to this moment, to the impossible demand you cannot meet. touch, touch, touch, touch, please, i'm begging you—)
lando exhales sharply, a requiem for your resolve. “that’s what i thought.” his voice crackles at the end, just enough to undo you.
“no—” you start, desperate, but his hand is suddenly in your hair—not pulling, not yet—just holding. anchoring. his forehead presses to yours, and in that singular second you feel your entire body collapse in on itself, as though it had been starving for something you didn't understand how to name.
“you drive me insane,” he mutters, low, like a confession and a curse all at once. his thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw, not soft, not kind—just enough to keep you. (but he's had you forever, hasn't he? he'd have you for the rest of your life.)
“don’t,” you whisper, but your hands betray you. they fist into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white, trying to push him away and pull him closer all in one. the fabric lifts as he yields to your demand, nose brushing yours. the hard line of his torso makes your breath catch as your eyes flutter downwards.
his mouth is right there. right there, waiting for you. (you'd bet money that he'd taste like maple syrup.) “you lie to him," he whispers into the space between you, rough. "but you’ve never been able to lie to me.”
and then he's kissing you.
he's not careful. he's brutal. hungry. inevitable. like the whole world caving in around you, like every locked door inside your chest bursting open at once. his mouth crashes against yours and it’s all teeth, heat, desperation—three years of painfully dead radio-silence poured into one impossible, suffocating breath. (he's breathing life into you, you notice. he's bringing you back.)
you were right.
he tastes like syrup.
his hand tightens in your hair as your back hits the counter, the jolt knocking the air out of your lungs. "sorry," he mutters, body pressing against yours, solid, unyielding, here, here, here, here. he groans into your mouth as his hands wander across your skin, across the small of your back, the back of your neck, the hollow of your throat.
when he pulls back for air, his voice is wrecked, a vein beginning to sharpen on his neck. “i fucking hate you.”
“i know,” you whisper, low and guttural, your teeth catching his bottom lip, sharp enough to sting. his entire body loosens against the counter, welcoming the surrender. welcoming the way your words leave your mouth like a prayer, like a curse, like something he owns. "i hate you too." you barely finish the phrase before he's smiling into your mouth, tongue running across your upper row of teeth.
"you hurt me," you whisper raggedly as he reaches forward to slot a knee in between your thighs. your breath stutters, embarrassingly loud in the echo of the kitchen. your fingers claw at his shirt, desperate, like you’re trying to rip the years apart with your bare hands. (you want to fuck him. you want to fight him. you want him to kiss you so hard you forget your own name.)
"i know," he answers, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he lifts you onto the counter. "and i'll never fucking forgive myself for it."
he's messy, lines of saliva caught in between your lips, sweat-slick and desperate as his fingers pull your shirt over your head, skimming up your ribs, greedy and unsteady. your nails scrape lines across his scalp when he unhooks your bra, letting it meet the floor near his feet.
your hands still when he groans, head tipping back like the sound is being torn out of him. “fuck, you don’t even know—" his mouth drags down your jaw, your throat, teeth sinking hard enough into the column of your neck to make you squirm, eyes rolling back in your head. his tongue is filthy when it returns to your mouth, swallowing your efforts to exhale.
the counter moans beneath you as he steps closer, hands spreading across your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he shoves them further apart, stepping between them. his hips slot against yours, heavy, deliberate, and the heat of him bleeds through denim like a brand.
your breath snags on impact, sharp and humiliating in the silence. he catches it with a crooked smile against your mouth, tasting your reaction before you can bury it. "oh," he murmurs, voice low and taunting. "you like that." his hips roll forward once, obscene in the slowness of the movement. the hard line of him against your core pulls you forward, hands grasping at the sleeves of his shirt.
he's pulling you apart.
and you're letting him.
“shut up,” you rasp, and you think you say no. you think you shake your head. but your thighs tighten around his waist, and that betrays you more than words ever could.
his answering laugh is jagged, not amused so much as desperate. his hands are everywhere—the underside of your breasts, your waist, your ribs, your thighs—like he can’t decide where to keep you, like he wants all of you at once. (it suddenly occurs to you that he still has all his clothes on, and you don't.)
"you're so—" he’s turning you before you can finish the sentence, shoving you down against the counter hard enough that the marble bites into your hips. you gasp, palms scrambling for purchase on cold nothingness, fingers catching on a stray fork, a crumpled napkin, nothing steady enough to ground you. nothing steady enough to make the ache of his body against yours subside. "you're so mean," you finally get out.
a vicious laugh vibrates against your spine as he kicks your legs apart with his knee, one hand splayed over your lower back, pinning you to the counter while the other fumbles at your waistband, unhooking the buttons of your jeans with a ferality you can't believe is coming from him.
“three fucking years,” he mutters like it’s a curse, like it’s killing him. “three years and you still—fuck—” his fingers finally shove your jeans down, rough, impatient, knuckles scraping your skin in his haste.
your body jerks forward into the marble when he palms you over your panties. “jesus christ,” he grits, dragging his middle finger across the soaked patch beginning to bleed through the soft cotton. "'m sorry i made you wait so long, baby, 'm sorry."
your nails claw at the countertop, head tipped back against his shoulder. "y-you should be sorry."
his laugh is broken, choked out against your ear. “nah. don't think sorry cuts it.” his hand shoves your panties aside in one brutal drag, the elastic snapping against your thigh. his mouth is right by your ear when he whispers: "i'll do you one better, yeah?"
you don't even need to ask. his zipper's already down, the scrape of denim against the curve of your thighs, hot skin pressed flush where your jeans still cling low against your hamstrings. there’s no warning, no pause—just the blunt head of him forcing its way past soaked cotton and slick heat.
you cry out in surprise, scrambling against the countertop as one of lando's hands comes around your waist to settle at your navel, thumb rubbing comforting circles into the skin there. you're barely conscious, barely making out the words he's whispering into the junction between your neck and shoulder—look at you, so good for me, baby, fuck, i missed you, i missed you, baby, jesus—
your whimper cracks into a sob when he bottoms out, every inch of him stuffed inside you with a single, devastating thrust. your walls spasm around him, tight, too tight, and it only drags a broken laugh out of his throat.
“jesus christ,” he groans, forehead pressed against the back of your neck, sweat already slicking his hairline. “you’re chokin' me out—c'mon—" the hand at your navel dips lower for a second, grazing the swollen bud of your clit, and you jolt, the sting of stone biting into your pelvis, your thighs, the crescent moons of your hipbones. "there we go."
“lando—” you gasp, half plea, half protest. “'s too—"
"nah, baby." his teeth scrape down the shell of your ear, hand slipping from your stomach to clamp around your throat, using the leverage to drag you upright against him. "nothing's too much for you."
the sound of you both is obscene—slick and messy, punctuated by the ragged moans he swallows against your skin. his grip shifts, baring your throat for his tongue to run a filthy line up the tendon there. your entire body twitches, a shiver crawling its way up your spine. the tell-tale tightness growing in your pelvis only heightens when he kisses your shoulder, runs a thumb over the hard peaks of your nipples. (he knows you. he knows what you like, he knows how to make you come, he knows every single fucking thing—)
your back arches into a half moon, stuck between the cage of his body and the hard marble of the counter. his thumb circles your clit, sloppy, relentless, every nerve-ending sparking white-hot as he pants half-broken syllables into your shoulder, filthy words spilling out like he can’t stop like he's been dying to say them. “so fuckin' tight, my girl, always my girl, don’t fuckin' lie to me—”
you sob when he angles your body on your tip-toes, pleasure hitting sharp and unbearable at the base of your spine. he muffles your protest against the countertop as his hand slams down between your shoulder blades. pinning you in place. keeping you there, molded to how he wants you. “lando, just—”
"yeah, baby," he snarls, thumb pinpointing vision-blurring circles around your clit, the sound of your own moans humiliating in their need. your knees nearly give when he presses his forehead to the back of your spine, tongue swirling over the curve. "yeah, i know."
“i can’t—fuck, 'm gonna—” your vision whites out, a kaleidoscope of stars bursting behind your eyelids as your orgasm (finally, finally, finally) tears through you. you can hear yourself babbling—his name, over and over and over again. your body stills for a moment before you're seizing around him, turning his thrusts sloppy and desperate. frantic, almost. he shoves you higher onto your toes, deeper, rougher, chasing it like he’s starving. chasing you.
"lando," you whimper as his body shudders against yours, hands grappling clumsily at your skin, forehead crashing to your shoulder. (you wish you could see him, wish you could see how beautiful he looks when he comes.) "i-i missed you."
his hips stutter, erratic, a strangled groan clawing its way out of his chest as every muscle in his body goes tight (trembling), his mouth panting into your shoulder blade as he floods you with warmth. the sound of him—wrecked, undone—fills the kitchen like it belongs there. like you belong there. like you were always meant to do this, to be with him, to be utterly undone by him.
then—his voice. quiet. raw. cracked in half. “i missed you too.”
♡
note: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR READING!! and for stayin w me here while i was on my break! funnily enough this story was actually inspired by something that happened w a boy next door recently (as in we fought, we're done, im heartbroken LFMAO we did not fuck tho i wishhhh) so it needed some time to crank out!! i love u guys kisses from gracie mwah mwah mwah!!
ALWAYS YOU ! ln1
— lando norris breaks up with you because you're ‘too soft’. as an aspiring journalist, you're not fit for a life of partying—of constant celebration. he breaks up with you, and yet when you come back, your hair dyed black and a whole new person, he just can't seem to stay away.
CONTAINS: fem!reader, usage of alcohol, cigarettes, highly toxic relationship, cheating (i do not condone this behaviour irl!!!), heavy jealousy, smut, p in v, oral, fingering, overstim, both lando and reader will piss you off at some point, lando is cocky, includes magui corceiro, angst-ish but don't worry it's not that bad, second chances, marriage, 'baby/babe' used, no usage, of y/n
RADIO CHECK: after about a millenia this fic is FINALLY finished. i highkey hate the start of this but absolutely love the middle + ending. this is the first long fic i'm posting on here, and i hope you guys like it as much as i loved making it!
WC — 17k (17,524)
The break up hurt.
Of course it did. Two years down the drain, two years of smiling by his side, two years of sitting there in the paddock surrounded by cameras that questioned your relationship as a whole.
Lando Norris was a force to be reckoned with. You knew that, everyone in the paddock knew that, and yet he’d decided to stay with a girl like you—a journalist, with your light colored hair and even lighter personality. You stayed home while he went out and drank until six in the morning, you sat quietly in McLaren’s hospitality while he risked his life on a track and called it sport.
“You’re too soft.”
He’d won that very same night he’d said the words to you. Winning meant celebration—meant clubs and alcohol. You only ever went when you had to, something he and everyone else had noticed.
“And I don’t think this is working anymore.”
So on the first day of Formula 1’s summer break, he’d single-handedly ended two years with a couple of sentences.
You’d dyed your hair completely black the next day without telling anyone. It wasn’t a change for him, in attempt to finally be the girl he wanted, but a change for yourself. You’d started going out more, drinking more, replacing the flowy dresses with miniskirts and tops that revealed more than they covered. Hell—you’d even picked up smoking.
“Interview’s in five.”
You’d never originally planned to move into journalism in Formula 1, but here you were, standing in the media pen, mic in one hand, a smile on your face as you waited patiently. No one had recognized you yet, but that was the point.
You were here as you, a journalist, an interviewer, and no longer Lando Norris’s girlfriend.
“Congratulations on your win, Charles,” you’d rehearsed this countless times, interviews flowed as easily as blinking. “How are you feeling now that this puts you in an advantage for next weekend?”
Charles Leclerc stands in front of you, race suit pulled down halfway, still not entirely looking at you as he answers, “Yeah—I mean, it’s great. car was great today, pace was amazing, and…”
He looks up.
You smile, mic pointed at him, relishing in the recognition that flashes across his features.
“And?” you prompt, and he blinks, eyebrows furrowing as he scrambles to finish answering.
“And I think if things run the same as they did today, next weekend could be a huge success for myself and this team.”
“Any comments on that incident between you and Norris on turn three?”
“Norris?” Charles repeats, and you’re unsure if he’s surprised at the question itself or your usage of Lando’s last name. “Just an incident. Nothing major—he managed P2, great job to him. You’ll be interviewing him next, won’t you?”
“Looks like it,” you smile, and he cocks his head again, like he’s debating adding something. “Thank you for your time, Charles. we’ll see you on the podium.”
The camera’s pan to someone else, and you know you’ve got at least five more minutes until the next interview.
“Hey.”
“Mm?” you switch off the mic, hand dropping back down to your side as you look at Charles. “Something wrong?”
“You…you’re here.”
“I am.”
“And your hair—I mean, it looks great, really does, just a drastic change to the blonde.”
“Isn’t it?” you play with the end strands, smiling. “Amazing job today, by the way. Well deserved win.”
“Thank you,” he nods, and his gaze switches somewhere else before focusing back on you. “Good luck on this next one. It was nice to see you again.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, and he smiles back, turning to leave. “Thanks.”
Lando sees you before you do.
His eyes are wide, one hand clenched around a can of Monster, frozen on the spot in the media pen. You want to lie and say your heart doesn’t stop when you see him too, but it does, and you hate yourself for it.
“Next interview starts in two.”
“Yeah,” you say, staring back at him. “Got it.”
No matter how much you’d prepared yourself for it, the drop in your chest when he moves closer is inevitable. He looks the same—same face, hair, personality, only this time it’s you who doesn’t.
“Lando,” he’s managed to stand in front of you now, still practically frozen as you start the interview. “P2 after starting on the grid P5. how are you feeling?”
He stays silent. You’re looking up at him, smiling, posture straight.
“Lando?”
“Oh—um, yeah. P2. It’s good.”
“Good?”
“Really good. Sorry—I can’t focus, um, can we…” he glances to the camera crew behind him, and your smile falters as they put down their equipment. “What the hell are you—”
“My job,” you say, carefully. “And you’re supposed to be doing yours, and interviews come with it. You can’t just cancel an interview.”
His jaw flexes, hand clenching tighter, “you can’t just show up here like that.”
“Like what?”
“Why aren’t you blonde?”
“Why aren’t you doing the interview?”
“Least of my concerns,” he leans closer, and you don’t have the heart to move away. “So we break up, you dye your hair black, and come back here to make some kind of statement?”
“Everything I do is a statement.”
“It wasn’t like that before.”
“It is now.”
He stares at you, at your hair, the mic in your hands, your eyes, like he can’t even tell who you are anymore.
“Do the interview, Norris,” you say, raising your mic again. “And do it properly.”
The rest of it goes as smooth as it can be. He responds with tighter answers, laced with tension, but still good enough to pass off as post-race frustration. As soon as it’s over, you turn away, but he lingers.
“Let’s go,” you hear one of his managers say, and only when you can see him on the broadcast in the cooldown room, you turn back around for the next interview.
Max stops in front of you, eyebrows raised as he gives you a once over.
“Jesus. You look good.”
“I try my best.”
“Journalist and interviewer now too,” he nods. “Is this permanent?”
“Until the end of the season, pretty much.”
“Nah, the hair.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, head tilting, “Sure.”
“Hope so,” you both ignore the call of one minute until interview. “Suits you.”
Your interview with Max goes the best out of any. He answers perfectly, while acting like nothing had ever changed. You don’t know if it’s to make you feel more comfortable, or because he simply hated interviews that much.
“I’ll see you around,” he says, waving as he leaves. “Promise I’ll give you as much interviews as you need.”
You laugh in response, turning back to where the media crews are starting to prepare for the other driver’s interviews. Your agency only needed interviews for the podium finishers, along with the conference with all three at the end.
You watch the podium celebration on the large TV screens of the paddock club. Max is smiling, so is Charles, and when you focus on Lando, his jaw is clenched. He’s trying, for the sake of the cameras, to smile and crack a joke, and everyone else is falling for it but you. A month away from him didn’t erase the two years of knowing.
“Charles, once again, huge congratulations on the first win of the second half of the season,” you’re sitting on the couch of the conference room now, all three podium finishers seated alongside each other. “Reflections on this weekend as a whole?”
“Like I said before, it’s amazing,” Charles answers, hand running through his hair. “Felt good to reset during that break but coming back and winning the first race feels redeeming. Clearly everyone, reset during that break, I think.”
“I’d imagine so,” you say, trying to ignore the way Max snorts out a laugh and unsubtly looks over at Lando. “Any thoughts on how the championship might progress?”
You go through each question with precision. You get answers, responses, a joke here and there. Your questions with Lando are quick—efficient more than anything.
“Any celebrations planned tonight?” you ask no one in particular as the cameras shut off. “Or is this finally a quiet win?”
“Of course there’ll be celebrations,” Charles says, and then he raises his eyebrows, leaning closer. “You interested?”
“Depends,” you pretend you’re busy with packing notes into your bag, but your attention is wholeheartedly on his words. “What kind of celebrations are we talking?”
“Clubbing,” Max cuts in, standing right beside Charles. “Tradition. Most drivers are going—it’s the the first race, technically. What’s better to wish on good luck than alcohol?”
You’re well aware that Lando’s still there, in range of hearing the entire conversation.
“In or out?” Max asks, and you look up fully, pulling your bag onto your shoulder. Charles is slightly leaned forward, like it’d coax an answer out of you. Max has his arms crossed, face passive, but still waiting.
“In.”
“We’ll see you later tonight then,” Charles says, tapping his phone. “Got a group chat for this. Expect a text somewhere around ten.”
Once they’re gone, leaving you alone with just a media crew and your ex-boyfriend that’s looking at you like he has no clue who you are, you let out a small sigh and make to leave as well.
“You said yes.”
The voice stops you.
“I did,” you say, looking over at lando. “Of course I did.”
“You never say yes.” You never said yes when we were together.
You’re too aware now. Too aware of the media crew still packing up, whose entire job was to record this kind of thing.
“Great job today,” you say, turning away. “Hope you’ll be able to sit through another interview with me sometime.”
And he’s still standing there, staring after you, like you’re some kind of ghost he can’t seem to get rid of.
Privacy wasn’t a thing in Monaco. especially not in Monte Carlo.
That was the reason you’d spent the entirety of the summer break in New York, a city too busy to care about anyone else.
Your new apartment feels empty, spacious, but not lonely. Your neighbors consist of an older, incredibly rich couple, and another girl who isn’t even in the country half the time. The windows outside reveal the clearest view of the Monaco hairpin, and you occasionally hear the roar of a sports car passing by that sounds familiar and foreign all at the same time.
“Hey, you up for dinner tonight?” you’ve got your phone balanced on your shoulder as you open your fridge for a Red Bull. Max’s voice comes out of the speakers, and you shut the fridge again with your hip. “Practically the entire grid, plus girlfriends. 6:30.”
“I’m not a girlfriend anymore,” you say, cracking open the drink. You smile, though he can’t see. “Why is it that you’re the one inviting me to everything?”
“I think everyone else is too scared."
Your eyebrows raise, letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“Seriously?”
“Maybe cause of Lando. I don’t know.”
“Huh,” you move to your lounge, switching on your tv for background noise. The windows are directly to your left, and you glance out of them as you answer. “So they’ve made you the messenger?”
“Exactly, and a messenger needs a message to bring back.”
You watch as a Ferrari F430 passes by, mindlessly trying to put a name to the owner before tearing your gaze away.
“Yeah, I’ll come.”
“We’ve got a seating arrangement. Safe to say you won’t be seeing any papaya.”
You laugh again, head tilting back on the couch, “Yeah, thanks, Max.”
The line goes dead, and you shut your phone, tossing it beside you. It lights up again, no doubt messages with details on time and location, but you don’t pick it back up.
You said yes.
The words, Lando’s face, the way he’d stared after you, all keeps replaying in your head. It was ironic really. You’d become the exact girl he was looking for as soon as you’d left.
“Notre bien-aimé Charles Leclerc remporte la victoire à Zandvoort!”
Before you know it, the TV is switching to the interviews you’d hosted. You watch, silently, blocking out the noise and focusing on the expressions on everyone faces.
Charles’s face on his interview holds confusion, Max’s holds what looks like delight, and Lando?
“On dirait que l’ex-petite amie de Lando Norris—”
You switch the TV off then. Right as the reporter moves onto the topic of you and him. You haven’t opened any of your social media platforms in almost twelve hours—you don’t need to.
The clock on your wall ticks to exactly 5pm.
Your phone is still buzzing, still lighting up with notifications, and yet your focus stays on the now black TV screen in front of you. Another car passes by, a McLaren, Spider, 765LT, and you know who exactly brunette, curly-haired man it belongs to.
You sigh, eyes shutting as you lean further into the couch.
Privacy wasn’t a thing in Monaco. Especially not in Monte Carlo.
“Did you see her?”
“Who? Lando’s ex? She interviewed almost all of us last race, didn’t she? I’d be surprised if someone hadn’t seen her.”
“She looks good. Really good. Black suits her.”
“She’s coming tonight.”
“Really? Didn’t think she’d say yes.”
Lando’s seated at the table, on his phone, when the conversation floats past him.
The other nineteen drivers are either standing, deep in conversation, or not even there yet. Everyone’s girlfriends are on the other side of the table, laughing with drinks in their hands, and he can see the empty chair they were purposely saving.
Lando hadn’t seen you since that day. He was glad he hadn’t. The way his heart had dropped when he’d seen you for the first time in months wasn’t something he’d like a repeat of.
You were almost unrecognizable. You would’ve been, if not for the fact Lando had already memorized every single one of your features for the past two years, and the fact all those features clouded his head more than he wanted to admit.
“Lando.”
“Huh?”
He glances over at his side, at Carlos.
“What?” he repeats, blinking and slowly setting down his phone.
“Nothing. You just look—”
When you walk in, it’s like his whole world goes dark and you’re the only source of light left.
Lando’s focus shifts completely off of Carlos. You’re in a black dress, the kind he’d always loved but you never used to wear. Your eyes meet his first, coated in that same dark eyeshadow he’d seen you in a few days ago, and the eye contact stays.
“You made it!”
The three words tear your attention away from him, and instead towards Ollie who’s rushed towards you. You smile, saying something out of Lando’s earshot, and Ollie laughs.
You talk for a few minutes, all cheerful smiles, subtle confidence, before patting Ollie on the shoulder and making your way down the table. You pass by him, and the scent of vanilla, jasmine, and something richer fills his nose. You’d always opted for floral when you were with him, but that was the thing. You weren’t with him anymore.
“You look amazing!” he hears someone’s girlfriend say, and he blocks out the conversation, turning back to his phone.
“You’re not sulking, right?” Max pulls back a chair, sitting beside him. “Don’t ruin the dinner.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“You’re pouting, then,” Carlos adds. “Quite obvious.”
“I’m not sulking or pouting,” Lando shuts his phone, pocketing it. “Why should I be?”
“Cause your ex came back looking better than ever.”
All three of them look towards you again, where you’ve situated yourself next to Alexandra, right on the line between girlfriends and drivers. George ends up beside you, who you start talking to immediately.
“So what?” Lando says, quieter than he would’ve liked. “She’s not mine anymore.”
“But your face says you wish she was,” Max reaches for a glass of champagne. “Cheer up, mate.”
Lando doesn’t answer this time, too busy with not-so-subtly stealing glances at you.
On the other hand, you were doing fine.
“So is it dye?” George was saying as you hold up a strand of your hair. “Like…box dye?”
“Nah, it’s proper color,” you answer, letting the strand fall back onto your shoulder again. “Done at a salon and everything.”
“Took new season new me seriously, huh?”
“Of course,” you smile, picking up the glass in front of you. “Everyone reset during the break, like Charles said”
“That interview was absolutely painful to watch,” Ollie cuts in from opposite you. “Could feel the tension through the screen.”
You laugh, and Lando immediately glances over.
“Seriously though, how’ve you been?” George asks. “Trying to get the big question out of the way for the rest of the dinner.”
“I’ve been…” you trail off, frowning. “Good. As good as I can be.”
“Y’know, you’re always welcome here,” he says, and Ollie nods along. “In the paddock. Doesn’t matter if you’re a wag or a journalist or just you.”
“We like you for you,” Ollie says, and he abruptly sits up straighter. “Can you still bake? Those cookies you used to bring were incredible.”
“My hair being a different colour doesn’t affect my baking skills,” you answer, smiling again. “I’ll make some if I have the time.”
The rest of the dinner is relaxed. No one forces answers out of you, Lando keeps to his end of the table, and you keep to yours. Until—
“Lando! Are you two back together?”
The voice makes you and everyone else at the table freeze.
You glance to the window at the same time everyone else does. People have swarmed the entire restaurant, the flash of cameras illuminate the space, voices reach you even in the private dining room. Alexandra reaches for your hand, squeezing it once in comfort. Ollie gives you a smile that looks more like a wince, and George lets out a heavy sigh.
“Why did you two break up?! Lando!—”
“Excuse me,” you mutter, pushing back your chair and standing. Your fingers are inching for the pack of cigs in your purse, and you’re slipping through the door with your head down, heading towards the back exit.
Cold, night air hits your skin, oxygen fills your lungs, and you lean against the deserted back wall of the restaurant. You blame the slight tremble of your fingers on the wind as you flick open your lighter, lighting the end of the cigarette just to have something to do with your fingers.
The door beside you bursts open, and you scramble to stand up straighter, almost putting out the cig until you lock eyes with the very reason you’d just left.
“Lando—”
“Why are you smoking?”
Lando’s standing there, hood pulled over his head, but doing nothing to hide the expression on his face.
“None of your concern.”
“That’s unhealthy.”
“Why would you care?”
“Don’t act dumb,” he says, and you scoff out a laugh, bringing the cig to your lips. “With that why would you care bullshit.”
“Go before someone sees us,” you say, looking away. “Might start up gossip.”
“Since when have I ever cared about gossip?”
You blow out smoke, and he reaches for your wrist, forcing your attention towards him.
“Stop it,” he says, and you blink at him. “Stop acting like you’re—”
“Like what?” you say, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence, Norris."
He physically flinches at the name, fingers tightening around your skin.
“I thought you left,” he says, voice quieting with each word. “You did, and you didn’t even tell me—”
“You were the one who ended it. You don’t get to turn it all around and—”
“I regret doing that, you know I regret it.”
“Why?” you tug out of his grip. “Because I’m finally who you wanted me to be?”
He stays quiet, and the silence is answer enough.
“If I’d stayed the same, would you have cared this much?” you say, the cig still burning between your fingers. “If I showed up the exact same—”
“I would—I do. I care. I’ve been regretting ending this ever since you left. I miss you, I love you—”
“You love being loved,” you say, and the look on his face makes a small part of you want to take the words back. “You miss having someone waiting there for you at home with praise and a hangover drink, Norris.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop acting like you care!”
The silence that rings after the words is deafening.
He’s still looking at you with hurt, with frustration, with pure, raw emotion mixed into one. Fans are still screaming on the other side of the building, no doubt at the sight of other drivers starting to leave.
“It’s over,” you say, softer. “You ended it. Learn to be okay with that.”
The door swings open again, and Max steps out, Charles’ voice audible behind him.
“We’re heading home,” Max says, addressing you and completely ignoring Lando. “We were wondering if you needed a ride?”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” you say, putting out the cig and brushing past Lando. “Thanks.”
Lando hasn’t turned around yet, frozen in place, but you don’t glance back as you step back inside the restaurant.
Charles looks at you with knowing, Alexandra smiles and acts like everything is okay. You appreciate it more than you realise, especially when you walk out and the constant shout of Lando’s name follows you like a mantra.
You wonder if he’s still standing there, you wonder if the sound of your name haunts him the rest of the night like his does to you.
“I miss you, I love you.”
And the scariest bit is that part of you knows he isn’t lying.
There’s a half-finished coffee in one of your hands, you’ve got folders pressed against your chest, and your hair is pinned up as you step into Ferrari’s hospitality. You’re set to host another interview with both Lewis and Charles in fifteen minutes, along with a few more with Williams and one with Toto afterwards.
Cameras already being set up, and you can see Ferrari’s communications manager off to the side. Other than that, the room isn’t as busy as it usually is.
“You’re an interviewer?”
You blink, turning to the voice.
A man stands there, dark brunette hair, features that scream Italian, and in the same Ferrari shirt majority of staff wore.
“Nic,” he holds his hand out, smiling, and you shake his hand with a slightly surprised look on your face. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I don’t think so,” you answer, hand retreating back to the folders you were holding. “I’m an interviewer—journalist, actually.”
“Journalist,” his eyebrows raise, glancing over at the camera crew that was still setting up. “Have you always been in F1? I haven’t seen you around before.”
Your mind scrambles for an answer.
Yes, my ex-boyfriend is Lando Norris and I changed my hair so you probably don’t recognize me. No, I recently just got into the sport but not really because—
“No,” you end up saying, and he smiles. “First season.”
It’s a lie. You know its a lie, anyone who knows you knows it’s a lie, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Why are you here?” you ask, switching your attention on putting your belongings on a nearby table. “Work?”
“I’m an analyst. For Ferrari."
“So you’re smart?”
“I guess so,” he shrugs, and you let out a soft laugh. “It isn’t as hard as it sounds, I swear.”
“Do you sit at the pit wall every session?” you feel him move beside you, the scent of cologne filling the space. “Or are you more of a background kind of guy?”
“Background,” he says. “I’m in the garage for sessions—prefer it that way, actually.”
Nic leans against the table, and you glance over at him again.
“Got a favorite team?” he asks, like he doesn’t want the conversation to end. “Or a least favorite?”
“Least favorite? McLaren.”
“Got some bad history there?” he laughs, and you fight back your urge to wince. “Like their drivers refusing to do an interview?”
“Something like that.”
The doors to the hospitality swing open, and Lewis and Charles are walking in, leaving cameras and reporters in their wake.
“I guess that’s my cue to go,” Nic says, standing up. “Enjoy the interview.”
“Thank you,” you say, and your heart drops a little at the thought of him leaving so soon. “I’ll see you around.”
“Why don’t we grab lunch sometime?” he asks, stopping. “Or dinner. Whatever you prefer.”
You can see Charles staring with mild curiosity from the corner of your eye, and you run Nic’s words through your head a couple times.
“Yeah—dinner, that’d be great.”
“Yeah?” Nic pulls out his phone, clicking onto contacts and passing it to you. “I’ll text you later then.”
“For sure,” you say, handing the phone back with your number. “Talk to you then.”
Once he’s gone and you’re being handed a mic, Charles sidles up next to you.
“Nic?”
“You know him?”
“I know my team,” Charles says, following as you sit on a chair the cameras were facing. “What’d he want?”
“Just conversation,” you smile at Lewis, who sits beside Charles on another chair. “Why? Is there something I should be worried about?”
“No, he’s a good guy,” Charles says, mindlessly turning the mic over in his hands. “It’s good you’re talking to someone.”
“He invited me to dinner or something,” you say, fixing your hair. You glance up again, and Charles is practically grinning. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, leaning back and his chair. “Interview. Let’s go.”
“You’re currently leading the championship by thirty points. Are you confident going into this week’s race?”
Lando’s sitting on one of the chairs in McLaren’s motorhome, an interviewer on the other side of him.
“I mean—yeah, I’m not sure. Thirty could switch to ten really easily, and I can’t say much until I’ve been on track.”
The interview’s been going on for what seems like hours now. He’s more focused on his surroundings than the questions, and anytime someone walks past, he glances up and thinks it’s you.
He knows you’re here today. He knows because majority of the questions thrown his way have all been: are you here with your girlfriend?
Your last conversation with him from last week is still playing on loop in his head. Your face still flashes in his mind whenever he shuts his eyes.
He hates you for it.
Hes hates the way you manage to stay in his life, when he’d been the one to push you out. He hates how good you look, even with your hair dark, and how fine you are with the whole situation.
But above all, he hates how he’d left in the first place.
The interview ends like all of them do. He signs a few autographs, takes pictures, thanks the interviewer even though he doesn’t actually mean it.
“You good?” Oscar asks him as they’re in one of the private rooms of the motorhome. “You look more bothered than usual.”
“I’m good,” Lando answers, because it’s the only thing he actually can. “ Just tired.”
“Fair enough,” Oscar says, leaning back in his chair. Zak and Andrea are going through some kind of strategy plan, but neither drivers are paying attention. “Sorry about last week.”
“It’s fine,” he says, glancing away. “Still got second place.”
He knows that wasn’t what he meant, but the topic of you wasn’t something he was willing to bring up again.
“I know we had this conversation last week,” Zak says, dragging Lando’s attention to the front of the room. “But I’ll say it again. New half of the year, new mindset. Erase whatever happened last month and put it behind you.”
His speech lasts about ten minutes, and by the end of it Lando feels even more drained. It’s 6:15 now, reporters are still outside, cameras are still waiting to be shoved into his face.
There’s nothing more he wants to do than walk into a club for a few hours, drink everything away and pretend any responsibility didn’t exist. But he can’t.
He walks out of hospitality with Oscar beside him, his PR manager on his left, and Zak and Andrea a few steps ahead.
“Lando—can you sign this?”
He stops, smiles as the fan rants on about good luck and I love you, signing the cap with muscle memory.
“And don’t listen to anyone talking about your ex or whatever. You could do better than her.”
Just like that, Lando’s smile drops.
“What?”
“Okay!” his PR manager says, taking the pen and cap out of his hands and back towards the fan. “Tight schedule. Let’s go.”
“No—repeat that—”
“Lando,” Oscar says, and when he glances up, his teammate shakes his head ever so slightly.
The fan is staring with wide eyes, and Lando can’t help the glare that escapes him.
“The fuck was that?” Lando mutters once they’re in the carpark, hood now pulled over his head. “Seriously. You could do better than her—what does he know about any—”
“Lando,” Oscar sighs, stopping at his car. “You broke up with her.”
“So?”
“You’re acting like she broke up with you.”
Lando frowns, sliding his hand into his pocket for his car keys.
“I’m not.”
“Then why do you care this much?”
“I don’t—I hate her.”
“You hate her?” he repeats incredulously. “Do you hear yourself right now?”
He can still hear noise from the paddock, the fans and the reporters, but his mind goes quiet for a brief second.
“I hate her,” he ends up repeating, turning away. “I do.”
The drive home is silence.
He doesn’t turn on music, he doesn’t open the windows, he drives back to his hotel in pure, unbreakable silence. You’re not sitting next to him, playing the playlist he’d memorized by heart. You’re not there, talking about your plans for the race weekend which consisted of hanging out with other drivers’ girlfriends.
By the time he parks his car and checks into his room, his mind is set on one thing.
He hated you, and he’d do anything to convince himself that the sentence was true.
It’s been three months. Five since the break up.
You’re with Nic now, a guy who buys you flowers whenever he can, a guy who parties hard when needed but quietly cooks dinner in your apartment when you wanted him to. He stands behind cameras with his arms crossed, a smile on his face as he watches you go through interviews. He wakes you up with kisses and falls asleep with his arm around your waist. The title of Lando Norris’s ex is fading, replaced with every driver’s favorite interviewer, or simply just your own, regular name.
With him, it should be perfect. It should be anything a girl would ever want, and yet it isn’t.
Four months isn’t enough to erase the sting of the past. Especially when you run into said ‘past’ almost every week and come face to face with him for interviews. He acts like you’re just some random journalist, some stranger that doesn’t hold the weight of two years behind them. He doesn’t look you in the eye when you ask him questions anymore. He doesn’t stare, or linger, or pause when you walk by, and for some stupid reason, it hurts.
You told Nic you’d lied about it being your first season a week into dating him. He hadn’t cared—he’d said it didn’t change a thing. The relief that’d flowed through you was something you’d chased ever since.
“Thank you, Lando,” you’re saying now, smiling with that same professional look you always have on. “Congrats on your win tonight.”
“Cheers,” he mutters, and before you can see him turn away, you do it first.
Nic is standing there, waiting, and when you move closer to him he pulls you in by the waist.
“Flawless.”
“Liar,” you smile, setting down your mic and opening up your schedule in one of your notebooks. “That was the worst.”
“I’d never associate the word worst with you,” he says, kissing your forehead. “What else do you have for today? I need dinner.”
“That was the last of it, “ you say, shutting the notebook. “You don’t have to wait for me all the time if you don’t want to.”
“If I didn’t want to I’d be gone by now,” he says, making you laugh. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
You pick up your bag, glancing back out of habit to the media area.
Instead of the empty space you’re used to, only filled with camera crews and other reporters, someone’s standing there, staring right back at you.
Lando’s jaw is clenched, his posture stiff as his gaze flickers to Nic who’s already walking away. When he looks back at you, the first time in months that he’s done so, something in your chest physically drops.
It’s not because he’s staring—it’s the way he is. The way you see him bite the inside of his cheek like he’s grounding himself, the way he swallows and something in his eyes changes like he’s realized something.
You don’t know if he’s realizing you’ve moved on, or if he’s realizing deep down you never have.
“Nic,” you say, your eyes still on Lando. “I forgot one of my folders in William’s motorhome. Can I meet you back in twenty?”
“I can come with—”
“A Ferrari analyst in another team’s area?” you say, smiling and hoping it reaches your eyes. “I think not.”
Nic’s eyebrows raise, but then he nods, “I’ll see you in twenty then.”
You don’t check if Lando’s still standing there as you move. You push past crowds of other journalists and reporters, finding your way through the paddock and towards the familiar garage you know so well.
Someone grabs you by the wrist, tugging you off to the side, and you don’t have to look up to know who it is.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“What are you doing?!”
“No, what are you doing?”
Lando’s grip is firm, and you don’t make any attempt to move away.
“Nicolai? Seriously?”
“You don’t get to dictate who I date.”
“But I’m allowed to share my opinion,” he practically glares as he says the next words. “You and him? Shittiest decision I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, whatever—”
“Does he even know you?” he cuts you off. “At all? Cause it seems like he doesn’t. Barely scratched the surface.”
“What would you know?”
Lando pauses, and you think he’s about to let go, but he pulls you closer.
“Do you love him?”
“What?”
“Do you love him?” he repeats, and he’s so close all you can smell is the cologne that you keep telling yourself you don’t miss. “Does he love you?”
“He says he does,” you stare up at him. “And I do.”
“So why are you here?” his tone isn’t cocky or smug, it’s genuine. When you don’t answer, stuck between him and the rest of the world, he scoffs out a laugh. “Fuck, I hate you.”
You stay silent, focused on trying to sort out the onslaught of emotions running through you.
“I hate how I can’t get rid of you,” he continues, hand still on your wrist. “I hate the fact you look like you’re doing fine.”
“And you hate that you left, don’t you?” you say, disbelieving. “How long are you going to do this, Norris? How long are you going to say you hate me then pull something like this? How long are you—”
“I don’t fucking know!” he says, louder than he intended. You both immediately look over to the side, where you can hear reporters and the flashing of cameras in the media pen. His voice lowers again, “You have no idea how hard it’s been acting like I don’t give a shit.”
Someone passes by, loud as they talk on the phone, and he tugs you further away from the main pathway. You fight the urge to check the time. Nic was probably still waiting, and when Lando sees you think about, he lets out a bitter laugh.
“He doesn’t know you like I do.”
“Norris.”
“He doesn’t know you hate having someone wait for you like that, does he?” Lando’s voice drops slightly as he says it. “He doesn’t know your favorite type of flower—I’ve seen your Instagram posts. He keeps getting your drink order wrong, you hate your coffee black. You can pretend you do to fit this whole persona of yours, but you never will.”
Despite the wave of nausea you get at the words, you let him continue.
“You like cocktails, sweeter not bitter,” he says. “Everytime you went out with me you’d refuse anything else. You still refuse anything else when you go out. I noticed—I always fucking notice, and you’re getting the complete opposite whenever you’re out with him.”
“Maybe you don’t know me anymore.”
It’s another lie. That’s all you felt like you did these days—lie until you couldn’t tell what a truth was anymore.
“I know you better than anyone else will, and you know me better than I’ll allow anyone else to.”
That truth hits you harder than it should.
“You look exhausted,” he says, and you swear you feel his fingers trace over your skin. “It’s killing me.”
“It isn’t your job to care anymore.”
“Isn’t it?” before you know it, he’s leaning closer, face dangerously close to yours. “Feels like it still is.”
“Lan,” you practically whisper. “I can’t. I really fucking can’t.”
“I know,” he answers. “I know that.”
You’re so close now. So close to closing the last remaining gap between you, so close to giving in.
“I can’t,” you repeat, and instead of kissing you, he shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against yours. “Fuck.”
“Why’d you have to come back?” he says, but his tone isn’t harsh anymore. “Gives me more reasons to hate you.”
“You don’t hate me, Norris,” you pull away, and his hand finally falls away from your wrist. “You never have.”
You see the unspoken question left in the air, the what ifs and the possibilities.
“I have to go.”
“Stay.”
His response is immediate. The paddock is still alive with energy, soon enough you know he’ll get a call asking why he isn’t back in the garage, and you’ll get a call from Nic asking what’s taking so long.
“Are you just gonna leave this?” he says, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s debating reaching for you again. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not her, Lando,” you look away, like you can see past walls to where Nic is standing. “I’m not who you’ve been chasing after. I changed for a reason.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care if I have to relearn you. I don’t care what color your hair is or how many times you go out a week. I just need you.”
Your phone rings.
“Please,” he says, voice cracking slightly at the end. “I love you.”
The three words might as well have stabbed you straight in the heart.
“I have to go,” you say, quiet, and before you can second guess yourself, you’re walking away.
You don’t answer Nic yet, focused on making it far enough you don’t turn right back around again.
You know Lando’s still standing there, that he probably will be until someone else finds him. You tell yourself you don’t care, like you have for the past four months.
It doesn't work. It never has.
Lando swears he hates social media.
He swears that he hates the concept of having people obsess over how other people live their lives, the way people overanalyse things and make assumptions.
He hates social media, and yet he’s stuck staring at your latest Instagram post. The one where the very first picture is you and him. You and Nicolai.
He’s stuck studying everything in the photo. The way Nicolai’s hand is on your waist, the way you’re leaned into him, smiling, eyes shut like you’re the happiest you could ever be, but Lando knows you’re not. Nicolai’s staring at you with pure adoration in his eyes, like you’re the only thing that mattered in the world, like he’s falling for it.
Lando’s been stalking his posts too. The candid stories where you’re sitting across from him at a restaurant, where you’re on a yacht, lying on his lap. The posts that take up 99% of Nicolai’s feed, making Lando think he was only with you to show you off.
He sighs, swiping onto the next photo, one of you in an apartment he doesn’t recognise.
Your last conversation with him kept playing on a loop in his head.
The way he’d begged, the way he’d said I hate you and I love you in the same breath, the way he’d almost kissed you and the way you’d almost kissed him back.
You don’t hate me, Norris. You never have.
You were right. You were so unbelievably right that it made him want to rip his hair out.
He glances at the picture again, at the lines of your face pressed against Nicolai’s shoulder.
Fuck.
“Lando.”
One of his managers knocks on the wall next to the door of his driver’s room. “You’ve got interviews.”
“Yeah,” Lando says, mindlessly, and the manager disappears. “Thanks.”
He stares at the pictures again, before shutting his phone and shoving it into his pocket.
“What about dinner? Surely you can’t be busy for dinner.”
“I don’t know—I’m sorry. I’m just—”
Like some cruel joke, as soon as Lando steps into the hallway, he runs straight into you.
You’ve got folders clutched against you like you always do, your hair is pinned up, and you’re simultaneously balancing your paddock pass on top of everything. Your eyes are tired, stressed, and when he glances to your side, it’s no other than Nicolai standing right beside you.
His hands are free. He’s in his Ferrari uniform, hands in his pockets, looking like the epitome of relaxed whereas you’re the definition of exhausted.
“Just one dinner, c’mon. We haven’t made plans in a while. I don’t want people thinking we’re not together or something.”
“We went out last week.”
“Last week.”
“Nic, I wish I could, believe me. I’m just—”
You see him then. Lando.
You pause, stopping dead in your tracks, and Nicolai stops too. Lando’s frozen at the doorway, focused entirely on you.
“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Hey.”
“Hi,” he answers, swallowing.
Nicolai glances between you and him, before tugging you closer. Lando almost scoffs, but holds it back for the sake of you.
“Ferrari analyst in Mclaren’s motorhome,” he says instead, and you tense even more. “Isn’t a good look, is it?”
Nicolai laughs, but it comes out strained, fading away awkwardly at the end. He casts another glace at Lando, at the Mclaren team polo shirt, the jeans, and the way all he’s looking at is you.
“I’ve gotta get back to the garage,” he mutters, looking away to kiss your forehead. “Text me later.”
“Yeah,” you answer, and you don’t even look at him when he walks off.
Heavy silence follows. The hallway is deserted, leaving only you and Lando behind. It’s then he realises this might be the first time you’ve been alone together since that night. Since you’d walked away from him.
“You look good.”
“Don’t start.”
You press the folders tighter against you with one hand, tugging down the edge of your skirt with your other.
“No, I mean it,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m not teasing you.”
“Sure seems like it.”
“Why? Just cause of what I said to Nicolai?” he smirks. “It’s true. Wouldn’t want him to loose his job.”
“You couldn’t care less about Nic and his job.”
“But you care.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
The word pierces through the air like a declaration. Like a reminder.
“Your boyfriend,” he repeats. “Right. How are you and him?”
“Fine.”
“That conversation I walked in on didn’t seem fine.”
You sigh, “He’s—it’s difficult. I’m working it out.”
“Are you?”
“I am,” You shift again, fingers wrapping around your drink to steady it. “That’s how you make relationships work, right? By figuring it out together?”
His eyebrows raise, “You’re saying if we figured it out together we might’ve worked?”
“No,” you answer. “We would’ve never worked.”
You’re so certain of it.
Lando studies your face like he’d studied that picture, every detail, every microexpression, and all he concludes is that you mean it. You really believe the two of you could’ve never worked out.
“You’re not ignoring me anymore,” you say, and it isn’t a question. “Surprising.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“It’s fine, Norris,” you smile, polite. God he hated when you were polite, like he was just another one of the drivers you had to interview for work. “I don’t blame you.”
“No, I—”
“It’s good you’re moving on. Or trying to—.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he repeats, taking a step closer. “I wasn’t—I didn’t want to ignore you. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
You stare at him, like you’re studying his face too.
“But—”
“I haven’t moved on.”
The confession spills from him before he can stop it.
“I can’t move on.”
“Lando.”
“I can pretend all I want, but I can’t do it,” he says, heartbeat racing in his chest. “You should be with me.”
“We tried. For two years. It didn’t work—”
“You’re saying it’s working now? With Nicolai?”
“It’s—”
“Are you happy?”
The three words make you pause.
“What?”
“Because if you’re seriously happy with him—if you love him, then I’ll fuck off for the rest of your life.”
“That’s not—”
“Are you?”
He knows you’re not. You know that you’re not, and that conversation he’d walked in on you and Nicolai having didn’t help.
“I’m trying,” you land on, looking away again. “For the sake of me and you. I’m trying to move on. I’m trying not to be known as just your ex, but you’re making it so incredibly hard.”
“Why?” he asks, moving closer, until he’s right in front of you. “Why am I making it hard?”
“I don’t know!” you say, sharp, full of truth. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know if I should be breaking up with Nic, getting back with you, or doing neither. Stop asking me because I don’t know.”
His jaw clenches, fingers curling around nothing. You’re still standing there, in the hallway, all of your responsibilities and priorities waiting outside of the building.
“You don’t have to know,” he says, softer. You try step back, try and force yourself to be mature and walk away, but it doesn’t work. It’s like there’s some kind of physical string, connecting you to him, refusing to let you leave.
He stares at you, your eyes, with the look that makes you think he sees through to your soul. Then it switches, focusing on your lips instead.
“Lando,” you say, almost a whisper.
“Break up with him.”
“I can’t.”
Then he’s leaning forward, and before you know it, he’s kissing you.
For a split second, you’re frozen. The world tilts, falls around you, and then there’s nothing but him. His lips on yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin, the smell of his cologne. You kiss him back before you realise it, eyes shutting, giving in without even thinking to pull away.
“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, breathless. He moves his hands to your waist, pulling you against him, tugging you away from the hallway and back into his driver's room. The door shuts, locking, and everything in your hands drop.
“This is—” your hands come up to his hair, your head tilts to let him kiss down your jaw. “So stupid. So—”
“I know,” he answers, fingers almost bruising on your waist. “Fuck.”
His hands slide up your sides, just barely reaching under your top. You let out a small sound at that, something that you can’t tell is a whine or a plea.
“I can’t,” you say, but you make no move to push him away. “I can’t do this.”
“You don’t have to,” he answers, hands sliding higher. “Tell me to stop.”
You don’t. For some stupid reason, you don’t.
“Tell me you miss me too.”
“Lan.”
“I know you do,” he kisses you again, with pure desperation and want. It’s rougher this time, needier around the edges. Your hands move from his hair, to his shoulders, to the hem of his shirt, tugging to pull him impossibly closer.
“I shouldn’t be—” you stop, letting him press kisses down to your collarbone. “Lan—Lando.”
“Yeah?” he says, but you know he isn’t listening. He moves you with the ease of blinking, until you’re sitting on the top of the desk against the wall. “Shouldn’t be what?”
Your rationality is dissolving with every kiss, every touch.
“I’m…” you don’t finish your sentence, caught up in the way he tastes, the way his teeth graze the bottom of your lip.
“Off,” you say instead, somewhere between kisses and breathless words. You tug at his shirt, trying to ignore the heat pooling at your thighs when you feel how hard he is against you. “Take it off.”
“Say please.”
Before you can glare, he’s already shrugging it off, discarding it behind him.
He looks exactly like you remembered.
You stare. You stare at his tan skin, the defined shape of his shoulders, his arms, the lines that disappear beneath his jeans. Then you stare up at him, his face, his eyes that are solely trained on you.
“I miss you,” he breathes, hands sliding down to rest on your thighs. “I miss you so much.”
You don’t protest when he hitches up your skirt, palm hot and steady against your skin.
“I hate him with you,” he continues, fingers sliding higher. “I hate the way he uses you just to make himself look good.”
The words don’t register in your head.
His fingers pause, grazing the edge of your panties.
“You want this, right?” he asks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You want me?”
The double meaning stabs you in the heart.
“Right now?” you answer, fighting the urge to moan when he moves closer to kiss your neck. “I need you.”
His fingers tug at the waistband of your underwear, sliding them down until they’re off your ankles and thrown somewhere behind him. You whine at that. At the sheer desperation of him, at the heat of his fingers tracing over your core, at the way he groans too when he’s not the one being touched.
“Fuck,” he mutters, low and guttural. You gasp when he slowly pushes a finger into you, steady but the opposite of hesitant, like he’s savoring every second. “Look how fucking wet you are.”
You can hear it. The obscenity, the sound of him pressing a second finger inside of you. You moan, loud, thighs coming together before he forces them apart again.
“Stay still for me,” he murmurs, eyes trained on your cunt. “Yeah?”
You nod, eyes glazed over, arching into him when he curls his fingers in just the right way.
It’s too much.
The feeling of him—his fingers, the feeling of looming regret and guilt, and the overwhelming pleasure shooting through you.
It’s too much, and yet when he moves his hand, sliding all the way out just to slam back in again, you moan his name like it’s the only thing that matters.
“Fuck—Lan,” you breathe when he finally speeds up, fingers working in and out, relearning you. “I can’t—”
“You can,” he says, hitting that one specific spot inside of you. Your eyes flutter shut, head tilting back, and he lets out a hoarse laugh. “Shit, you don’t change, do you?”
It sounds condescending, and yet you only clench around his fingers at the words. He’s stretching you out so well, filling your thoughts with nothing but him.
“You still love whenever I kiss you on your jaw, right on that spot right beneath your ear. You still love when I fuck you like this, with my fingers,” you feel yourself growing closer as he talks, moving closer to press his lips against your neck. “You gonna come? Yeah?”
“Lando—”
His thumb grazes your clit, so soft compared to the rest of his pace. You whine something incoherent, hips bucking up, chasing that high you’ve craved from him for months.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, relentless. “You’re so pretty, falling apart on my fingers for me.”
Fuck.
The words send you over the edge. You’re whimpering beneath him, completely wrecked, your hair messy and undone as you come. He groans at the sight of you, at the slick coating his fingers, at the way you’re shaking just because of him.
“Good girl,” you think you hear him say, but it’s muffled.
You gasp for air, eyes opening, just in time to see him slide his fingers out and into his mouth.
It’s filthy. Absolutely filthy, and all it does is make you want him even more.
“Lan,” you repeat, and he hums in response, taking his fingers out again just to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixing with mint and something else—something undeniably him that you’ve been missing.
He pulls away. Your gaze flickers to the prominent bulge at his jeans, at the Calvin Klein peeking out around his waist.
“I—”
“Lando!”
The door handle rattles, making you both snap your heads towards it.
“Interviews! You’re behind schedule a—why’s your door locked!?”
He shudders, moving away from you to lean against the desk instead.
“Yeah! Shit, I’m coming. Just give me a sec.”
The weight at the door disappears, footsteps retreating down the hall.
Just like that, the world starts up again around you. The bliss fades, the overwhelming pleasure turning into panic.
Lando sees the change on your face, and he’s immediately reaching for you again.
“No—fuck, no, don’t—”
You’re already scrambling off of the desk, almost stumbling. His fingers are warm around your arm, but you shrug him off, rushing to pull down your skirt.
“Baby—please—”
“I can’t,” you say. “Oh god. What did I—Nic. I can’t—”
“We can work this out. I told you we could work this out. You can’t just leave!”
“Then what do you want me to do?!” you turn around, staring at him. He’s still shirtless, still hard, and you hate how you notice. “Break up with Nic? Tell him I cheated when he was less than five minutes away from me?!”
You turn away again, “What did I—where are my panties?”
“You can’t just go back to him.”
“I am.”
“After this? After letting me—”
“Yes. After letting you give me an orgasm, yes. It was a stupid fucking mistake. I shouldn’t have—” you run your fingers through your hair. “Where are my panties?”
“You can’t go.”
He moves closer, spinning you around to face him.
“Please. You can’t just—”
“We’re over, Lando!”
Your eyes are wide now, gaze darting to the door, before landing back on him.
“We’re done. You broke up with me—fuck, you broke up with me months ago! Months, Lando!”
“That was a mistake.”
“This was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a—”
You pull yourself away from him again, snatching your panties up and tugging them back on.
“I can’t keep doing this with you,” you say, moving past to grab your things from the ground. “I can’t. I can’t keep sneaking around. I cheated on him—on Nic. Do you know how shit that feels?”
“He’s not good for you.”
“And you are?”
You’re still breathless, cheeks flushed with something that screams sex. He’s still shirtless, still hard, and you’re still fucking noticing.
“Baby.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
You unlock the door before you can second guess yourself.
“I love you.”
You’ve never hated those words more than you did now.
“I know.”
You slam the door shut behind you.
Lando loses the championship six months after that last conversation. Nic proposes to you four months after that.
It’s sudden—rushed. When you interview Lando after that one, career-changing race—when you stare at him, at his eyes that are a mix of loss, anger, but above all want, it’d been so hard to go back home with Nic. You wondered what you might’ve done if the two of you were still together. You wondered if he would’ve cried in your arms, or if he would’ve gone to a club and drank everything away like he usually did.
A part of you wanted to believe he’d changed like you had. The other, rational part knew he probably hadn’t.
You’d barely been keeping up with the demands of life recently—the demands of work, and yet when Nic proposes, you say yes.
It should be right. You think it’s what’s right. The proposal is perfect, in Rome, Italy, next to a beautiful expanse of water and the lights of the city behind you. The ring is gorgeous, fitting perfectly around your finger though you’d never once mentioned rings or marriage once to him.
“I know this is rushed,” he’d said to you, as you’d stood there, tears spilling down your face. To this day, you weren’t sure if they were out of shock or stress, you just knew they weren’t out of happiness. “But this—I just, it feels right. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
You’d taken what felt like eternity to respond.
“Nic,” you remembered saying. “This is fast. This is so—you know it’s fast.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I know you love me, but we’re—” you’d stopped, staring at his face. You’d wanted to talk about work, about how you were both at the height of your careers, about how you had no time for wedding planning or house hunting.
You’d wanted to talk about Lando, about that day, about how even though it’d been over a year and half, he’d never once left your head. You wanted to admit you’d cheated, that Nic deserved someone better, someone who loved him as much as he loved you.
“I hate the way he uses you just to make himself look good.”
The words, words that’d never once crossed your head again since he’d said them, had run through your head.
“Okay,” you’d told Nic instead. “Alright.”
“Alright?” Nic had repeated, and you’d hated the relief on his face. “You’re saying yes?”
“I’m saying yes.”
Then you’d let him kiss you, hug you, and slip that beautiful ring onto your finger.
The next week in Italy almost convinced you this was the right decision. You’d drank, a lot, under the ruse of celebration. You’d let Nic shout from rooftops that you were engaged, while the two of you were drunk out of your minds.
That same week, Lando is spotted with another girl out in Monaco.
Magui Corceiro.
Every night, when Nic was asleep, you’d sit out on the balcony smoking, staring at the name, at her account, at her latest post that had liked by Lando on the bottom.
He hadn’t texted or called. He’d merely liked your Instagram announcement post, leaving it as that. You wondered if it meant he’d accepted it as it was, if him being spotted with her wasn’t enough. That is, until you step foot into the Formula 1 paddock for the first time since the proposal.
“Congratulations on pole,” you’re standing in front of Lando now, no barrier between you, staring straight at him while he stares right back at you. “How are you feeling?”
“Congrats on your engagement.”
You freeze, fingers clenching around your mic. His gaze flickers to your hand, at the ring sitting there, and he smiles.
Bastard.
It’s not genuine. It’s practically mocking, and definitely not appropriate for a post-quali interview.
“Must be exciting.”
Any words you try say get stuck in your throat.
“Yeah,” you manage to answer. “Thanks. It is.”
He spends the rest of the interview with a small smirk on his face, and you’re half expecting him to be petty. Instead, he answers exactly how you need him to, he gives you every reply you want, and he never once takes his eyes off of you, or the ring.
When the interview is over, and you’re rushing to put the mic down, he speaks up again.
“Mrs Leone, huh? Rolls off the tongue nice.”
“Leave, Norris.”
“No,” he says, flatly. “I don’t want to.”
You don’t answer, busy with shoving things with unnecessary force into your bag.
“Where’d he propose, again? Italy? That’s nice.”
“St—”
“I would’ve done it in Italy too, I think. Lake Como, maybe? Or maybe I should save that for our wedding.”
“I’m engaged,” you snap, glaring at him. “I’m not yours anymore. You don’t have to save anything.”
“You haven’t been mine in over a year,” he follows you when you start to walk away. “A year and three months, to be exact.”
When you speed up, turning the corner, he easily reaches for your wrist, tugging you back.
“C’mon,” he says. “I’m kidding. I’m happy for you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I’m not,” he smiles, arrogant. “Y’know, this hair is growing on me.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m being serious this time,” he reaches up, playing with the end strands. “Suits you.”
Just as you try bat his hand away, insults on the tip of the tongue, he switches the topic again.
“Why’d you say yes?”
“I love him.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” he laughs. “You’ve barely been dating him a year.”
“It’s been a year and a half,” you say, quietly. “It was bound to happen.”
He goes silent. Then—
“See, this is what I’m talking about,” he says, amusement simmering. “You don’t talk about him with love or that bullshit you say you do. You talk about him like work! Like your engagement is some kind of duty you have to fulfill—like an obligation.”
“I—”
“You don’t love him. I can’t sit here and watch the only girl I’ve ever loved marry someone else when she clearly doesn’t want to.”
“I’m going to marry him, Lando,” you say, equally as soft. “You don’t get it.”
Your heart breaks when he stares at you. The ring on your finger feels heavy, burning into your skin.
“I can’t keep doing this with you,” you continue. “I can’t keep dancing in circles. You had all the time in the world to get me back—I would’ve let you back then! You had two whole months before I met him. Two, and then an entire year, and now I’m engaged.”
He turns away, running his hands through his hair.
“Call it off.”
“No.”
“Call it off,” he repeats. “I guarantee it won’t work out anyway. Have you seen his posts? Do you ever wonder why he makes the two of you go out so often? Why he insists the two of you are seen together? He just—”
“You don’t get to dictate my life of all people!” you say, and your sudden anger makes him raise his eyebrows. “You’re my ex for a reason! I don’t get why it’s so hard to just stay out of my life—you had no problem staying out of your other exes lives—you’ve got a new girlfriend, for fucks sake!”
“She’s not—” he pauses, something like hurt flashing across his face. “You’re not just one of my others exes.”
“Then why’d you break up with me?” you ask, not expecting a real answer. “If you love me so much, if you care enough to ask me to break off my engagement, why’d you break up with me?!”
He looks at you again.
You hate him. You hate him so much.
“You’re a cocky piece of shit, Norris.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re so incredibly full of yourself that it pains me to watch. You think you can go around telling people what to do—you think you can get away with it just because you’re Lando Norris. You have the nerve to break up with me, end two whole years of us, then come right back to me just because you know I’ve changed.”
“Mm.”
“And I fucking hate how unbelieveably unprofessional you are. I hate the way you stare at me during interviews—how you stare at me when my fiance is right there.”
He cocks his head at that, and you don’t register him moving closer until he’s right in front of you.
“If you loved him that much,” he says, once again glancing at your lips. “You wouldn’t give a shit if I stared at you while he was around. You wouldn’t care because you trusted yourself around me.”
Your breath catches in your throat, fingers curling around nothing.
“Stop it,” you say, but the words barely come out.
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me like you want to have sex with me.”
“I do.”
You knew he’d answer that. Of course he’d fucking answer that.
“I miss you,” he says, and before you can move away, he’s reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I miss you so bad it hurts. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? Ages ago. Ten months ago. Hasn’t changed one bit.”
You can’t breathe. The space between you two is almost non-existent, and despite everything, there’s nothing more you want to do then close it completely.
“C’mon,” he says, and instead of moving his hand away, it moves to your jaw. “I know you know I’m not lying.”
“Do I?”
He scoffs, the sound low and amused. You’re frozen on the spot, trying not to melt into his touch. His hand is warm against your skin, and when his thumb grazes against your cheek, you almost collapse against him.
“Lan—”
“Lando!”
The name is sharp, cutting through the space.
“Babe,” Lando answers, stepping away from you with enough casualty you think you’ve imagined everything. “Hey.”
Magui smiles, arm linking through his, attention shifting to you.
“Hi,” you say, standing straighter.
It’s only when she stays smiling, extending a hand to shake yours, you realise.
She has no clue who you are.
“You’re…?” She trails off, glancing to Lando.
“Journalist,” you answer, clearing your throat. You reach up, brushing your hair back, that beautiful diamond on your finger glinting in the light. “Was just wondering when I could grab the next interview with him.”
“Right,” Magui nods, and you wonder how she doesn’t feel the tension emitting between you and Lando. “Your ring is gorgeous, by the way.”
You look at it, at the silver, the reminder.
“Thanks.”
“You’re engaged?”
“Since two weeks ago.”
“Oh—congratulations!”
She moves, arm sliding away from Lando to hug you. The scent of something rich, floral, him envelops you, and you try not to shove her away.
“I bet your wedding will be gorgeous, judging by the ring.”
“I hope so.”
“Invite us if you can!”
Your heart drops. You know Lando’s does too, because he snaps his head to his girlfriend.
“Babe—”
“I think it’d be nice.”
“We’re busy.”
“Are we?” she looks at him, fingers wrapping around his bicep. “I doubt it.”
Just before she starts to feel the awkwardness, you laugh, politely.
“I will if I can.”
You shift your bag on your shoulder, nodding at Lando.
“See you next tomorrow for that interview."
“Yeah,” he says, and you turn away. “See you then.”
“Where’ve you been?” you hear her ask him as you’re walking away. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Got held up with something.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course.”
You don’t bother trying to listen. You were moving on, from him, from the possibilities and the what ifs.
You hoped he could too.
The invitation comes half a year later, during the start of winter break.
Lando’s standing outside his apartment, sifting through the mail at his mailbox, majority of them labeled Margarida Coceiro and not Lando Norris.
Magui’s at the kitchen table. He can hear the music she always plays while she makes breakfast, the sound of her talking to herself in sleepy portuguese.
The invitation comes in cashmere card, cursive lettering. Your name, then Nicolai’s then ‘invite you to their wedding’ with the date underneath.
His fingers trace over the letters, like he’s trying to make sense of it though he knows very well what it is.
“Hey,” Magui leans against the door, a plate of breakfast in her hands. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” he answers, sliding the invitation into his pocket and turning to her. “I’m fine.”
She’s in one of his shirts, using his boxers as shorts, and the only thing Lando sees is you.
He kisses her forehead as he walks back into the apartment, the invitation a heavy weight at his side.
He breaks up with her a week later. It’s soft, sudden, filled with I’m sorry and the typical it’s not you, it’s me. She cries, trying to figure out what she did and why it didn’t work, and Lando doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s because he’s still in love with you. His engaged ex of two and a half years.
He feels like absolute shit after. Right up until your wedding.
It’s is in Italy, in Nicolai’s hometown. The venue is beautiful, stone terraces, the altar positioned right in front of a deep blue expanse of water.
He shouldn’t be here. The invite was for him and Magui. Out of respect, out of friendliness because she’d asked. And yet he’d come alone.
The place is packed. There’s people he recognises. Your parents, your best friends, faces he used to know. There’s also unfamiliar ones. New people, new friends and relationships that he’d missed over two and a half years.
You’re nowhere to be seen yet. He’s glad that you aren’t.
“Hey.”
Lando’s standing at the end of the courtyard, against one of the stone pillars. Nicolai stops beside him, in a suit, his engagement band on one of his fingers.
“Hey,” Lando answers, eyes focused on the altar. “Congrats.”
“Thank you,” your fiance answers, also turning to look in front of him. “Thanks for making it.”
“Yeah,” Lando says, scoffing out a laugh. “That’s…yeah. No worries.”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to hear that you’re here,” he tilts his head to the left, presumably where you were inside getting ready. “I know the two of you are still friends—friendly, at least. She was hesitant about inviting you, but I convinced her.”
Nicolai looks back at him.
“Is your girlfriend not here?”
“Magui? We’re not—” he stops, winces at the memory. “No. She’s not.”
“I see,” Nicolai says, nodding slowly. He smiles at someone who passes, who congratulates him on his new chapter. “It must be hard though.”
Lando glances over, “what?”
“Coming here. Showing up and watching your ex get married when you’ve just broken up with someone else,” Nicolai shrugs. “Takes a lot of…I don’t know. It must be hard.”
Lando slowly looks away again, at the altar, at the image of you standing there looking like his favorite dream and biggest nightmare in one.
“But you aren’t in love with her or anything anymore, so I guess it doesn’t matter that much, right?”
He shouldn’t have come here.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Nicolai nods, smiles, claps him on the shoulder.
“Thanks again for coming.”
“Congratulations on getting to marry her.”
Nicolai doesn’t hear the bitterness of the words, the harsh way it comes out. Instead, he walks away, towards people who are happy for him, who don’t resent him in every way possible.
Lando feels like shit.
The wedding ceremony starts half an hour after he arrives. He sits towards the back, between faces that he doesn’t recognise and faces that don’t recognise him. He watches as Nicolai stands up at the altar, as the doors open, as you walk out in a dress of lace and white fabric.
You look so beautiful that it hurts. Sunlight casts a glow on the side of your face, behind your veil, catching on your perfect features. It physically aches with every step you take, closer to that altar, closer to someone that isn’t him.
You reach Nicolai. He smiles, says something that makes you laugh, stares at you like you’re the best thing that’s every happened to him. You probably are.
The officiant starts talking, but Lando doesn’t hear a thing. He’s too focused on you, on how radiant you look, marrying someone else. He’s too focused on regretting everything.
You tear your eyes away from Nicolai, to sweep them over everyone watching—everyone you love.
Your eyes land on him.
He sees the way your breath hitches, even as the officiant continues on about devotion, about sickness and health. He sees the way your hands clench around Nicolai’s.
Fuck. He really shouldn’t have come.
You look away again, shifting on the spot, smiling when Nicolai starts to say his vows.
I do comes quicker than Lando would’ve liked. It all blurs together, in one big mess of promise and beginnings. By the end of it, he feels hollow.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
He snaps out of his trance, looking beside him. An older woman stands there, smiling as she stares, her grey hair glinting under the sun.
“She’s beautiful,” he agrees, watching as you and Nicolai kiss for the hundredth time. “Really beautiful.”
“You’re on her side?”
“Huh?”
“You’re on the brides side? Invited by her.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
The woman nods, looking at him.
“You should let her go.”
The words take a few seconds to register in his head.
“What?”
“Let her go,” she repeats. “You love her. Not in the way everyone else in here loves her. You love her. I can see it.”
Lando blinks, fingers curling around air, searching for the words to answer.
“You look at her like she’s the love of your life.”
“She is.”
“But are you hers?”
He freezes, running the sentence through his head.
“How?” he lands on. “How am I supposed to let her go?”
“By accepting the fact that she’s moved on. That she’s now married, and happy,” she turns to where you’re standing, where you’re making your way down the aisle with Nicolai by your side. “It’s what’s best for you, and it’s what’s best for her.”
He looks as well, studying the way your face is glowing with laughter, with the joy of marriage.
You pass by him, smiling, locking eyes just as you did on the altar. He nods, barely, and you look away again.
“I can’t,” he says, quiet. “I really can’t.”
He feels a hand on his arm, warm and comforting.
“You can.”
“I love her.”
“I know.”
“I love her so much.”
“Let her go. I promise you, it’ll be okay.”
He shuts his eyes, blowing out a breath, facing away from the aisle. The woman’s hand falls away from his arm, and she turns back to face in front of her, like nothing had ever happened.
Lando leaves twenty minutes after you say I do.
He’s got his hands in his pockets, slipping past the crowds of people, avoiding anyone he remotely recognises. He’s halfway down the steps of the venue, where his car is waiting, when you call his name.
He stops immediately, but he doesn’t turn. He waits until you’re halfway down the steps too, still in your dress.
“You came.”
“I did.”
Your eyes are wide, waiting, unsure of what to say.
“Congratulations.”
“Lando—”
“You two look good together.”
“Lando.”
He shuts up, looking over at you. There are tears in your eyes now, your lips parted like you want to admit something but don’t know how. He tilts his head.
“Are you happy?”
The question hangs in the space between the two of you.
“I don’t know.”
He studies your face again, as if he were ever capable of forgetting. He studies the curve of your jaw, the slope of your nose, your eyes. Then he leans forward, tilting your face towards him, kissing you. It’s soft, tender, and this time he doesn’t feel relief. All he feels is finality.
“Lando,” you say when he pulls away. His hand drops from your face, sliding back into his pocket. “I—”
“I love you,” he says. “So much. I think I always will.”
You swallow, eyes red, unable to form a reply.
“Congratulations,” he smiles, polite. “I hope he treats you well.”
He’s walking away before he can even see your face, your reaction to his words. He hears his name again, and it takes everything in him not to turn back around.
He doesn’t start sobbing until he’s on the plane, halfway back to Monaco.
It’s three in the morning, and you’re still awake.
Nic is asleep beside you. He’s shirtless, hand draped over your waist, quiet but weighted. You stare at him, at the smooth planes of his back, his brunette, messy hair, the way his chest moves up and down as he breathes.
It’s been a long few months.
You’re almost never in Monaco anymore. You live in a new hotel—a new country every week, following the F1 schedule like your life depends on it. The only familiarity keeping you sane is Nic. Your husband.
Marriage is everything you expect it to be.
You wake up to him, to perfect mornings where he makes you coffee while you obsess over works and deadlines. You fall asleep to him right beside you, holding you against him. You’ve started saying we a lot more often, because that’s how it worked now.
“No, we’re busy.”
“Sorry, we’ve got plans that day.”
You weren’t your own person anymore, but that’d been your decision, at an altar in Italy.
Your wedding day replays in your head everyday, for all the wrong reasons. You knew Lando would show up—of course he’d show up. But you didn’t think he’d leave. You didn’t think he had the nerve to kiss you, to smile the most neutral, polite smile you’ve ever seen him do, wish you happiness, and leave.
Your interviews with him had turned bland. He’d respond with perfect, polite, media trained answers. No extra smiles, no stares that linger longer than they need to. Just a Formula 1 race winner answering a journalist’s questions, the way he was meant to.
You don’t hold your breath in anticipation around him anymore. You don’t wait for a stupid remark, or a sentence with double meaning. It shouldn’t bother you. You were married now, to a guy that might’ve just been the best possible person you could’ve called your husband. And yet it does.
“Hi,” Nic says, voice rugged with sleep. He opens his eyes, turning to you. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking at him too. “I am. I can’t sleep. Probably jet lagged.”
“We’ve been traveling a lot,” he says, pulling you closer. “It’s understandable. But we’re back home for a few weeks, it’ll wear off soon."
You sit in silence, taking him in, your fingers tracing over the rings on your finger you never took off.
“Can’t believe I’m here right now,” he says, sighing. “With you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say, smiling as he kisses your jaw. “You can’t believe what?”
“I got so lucky,” he says. “With you. Marrying Lando Norris’s ex. Isn’t that crazy?”
With just three words, your whole world goes crashing back down again.
“Lando Norris’s ex?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“What else is it supposed to mean?” you say, sitting up. “Have you just been looking at me like I’m only his? His ex, his past relationship, Lando Norris’s—”
“I was just—” he reaches over, turns on the light. “Baby. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re my husband!” you say. “My husband, Nic! You were supposed to marry me for me. Not because I was the ex of a Formula 1 driver—”
“That’s not why I married you,” his voice is desperate, pleading. “I swear. I swear to you—”
“Is this why you wanted him at our wedding so bad? To show off? To prove to him you had me?”
He goes silent. Your mouth opens, then closes, and then you’re laughing, everything clicking in your head,
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No—” he scrambles after you. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you—”
“You love the idea of me.”
“I love you for you.”
“You love having me by your side because of the recognition it gets you, Nicolai,” you snap, reaching for the nearest hoodie without even checking to see if it’s yours. “And you’re the one person who knows better than anyone else how much I hate being associated with him!”
He reaches for you, pulling you towards him.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We can talk this out, right?”
“I don’t want to talk things out.”
“I know it was different when you were with him. I know you never talked things out, but we can. It’s—”
“Stop mentioning him!” you say, letting out a frustrated sound and tugging out of his hold to reach for a pair of sweatpants. “I’ve worked so hard trying to get rid of him! I practically did until you—”
You stop yourself, letting out a deep breath and shutting your eyes.
“Baby,” Nic says, softer, still pleading. “C’mon.”
“Do you want to leave or should I?
He blinks, “What?”
“Fine.”
You snatch up your phone, your keys, your wallet, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then move to the door.
“You’re seriously leaving?”
“This is your apartment, not mine.”
“No—you’re leaving me?”
You pause, hand on the door handle. He’s standing in the hallway, eyes wide, still shirtless, and you almost feel bad.
“I don’t know,” you answer, walking out and slamming the door shut behind you. You half expect him to run out after you, but you know he won’t. Nic was too perfect for that. If you needed space, he’d give you it. Maybe that was why it never felt right with him.
Monte Carlo is quiet at three in the morning. When you walk out of the apartment complex, you reach for your car keys, before deciding against it. Instead, you walk, tugging the hood of your hoodie over your head. Your fingers shake when you reach for a cigarette, and when you light it, you think you’re crying.
You’re unsure of where you’re going. You’ve got the vague picture of another apartment, one you’ve been to so many times you could get there with your eyes closed.
It’s still dark outside, right between night and sunrise. The air is cold, making you second guess your decision of walking. The cigarette is warm between your fingers, the only thing grounding you. Your thoughts are over the place, jumping from work, to Nic, then to Lando.
You seemed to fixate on Lando the most.
The day of your wedding, the conversation you’d had that his other ex had interrupted, the day you’d let him kiss you and give you an orgasm, before panicking and leaving. Your mind goes back to almost four years ago, to when he’d broken up with you, to when you’d dyed your hair black and kept with it even until now.
You’re caught up in the thought of him when someone bumps into you. The cigarette in your hand drops when you stumble, you feel a hand steady you by gripping your arm, and you turn, apologies on the tip of your tongue.
When you glance up, the whole world stops.
Lando is staring back, his hand still on your arm, his eyes wide. Both of you are frozen on the spot, staring at each other. You look away, just for a split second, and realise you’ve brought yourself right outside his apartment building.
Of fucking course you have.
“Hey,” he says, quiet, carefully. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to your hand, to the rings. “You…you’re…”
He doesn’t continue, waiting for an answer, a small sign of anything on your face.
“Lando,” you say, voice breaking at the end. “Lan, I don’t—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I don’t—” you try pull away, tears threatening to spill again, but he holds firm. “I can’t—Nic, he—I don’t know what to do.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just as you want to run again, leave him and his apartment behind, he pulls you closer, arms wrapping around you.
“It’s okay,” he says as you bury your face in his shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”
You don’t know how long you’re standing there for, his arms around you, muttering soft words of comfort that you barely hear, like those months after your wedding didn’t happen. You don’t know a lot of things these days.
He wipes your tears with his thumb, and it’s so soft—so loving that it feels wrong.
“It doesn’t mean anything. Coming up to my apartment doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does. It always means something when it comes to you.”
He stills, pausing his movements, before starting again.
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“I’m married.”
“I know that.”
“Fuck,” you say, eyes shutting. “I still love you. I’m married, and I still love you.”
Something on your shoulders lifts at the confession. The pressure on your chest lessens, and for once, you feel like you can finally breathe.
Lando moves again, bringing you closer. You don’t protest at it. You don’t push him away like you should.
You never did anything you should when you were with him.
“I regret getting married,” you say. “I regret it. I regret meeting him and giving him a chance. I regret a lot of things, and they all circle back to you.”
“You regret meeting me?”
“I think life would be easier if I hadn’t.”
“I think so too.”
“But I did.”
“And you still love me.”
“I still love you.”
He sighs at the words, resting his head on your shoulder this time.
“Come upstairs,” he repeats. “Please.”
You reach up, running your fingers through his hair.
“Okay,” you whisper, giving in. “Okay. I will.”
His apartment hasn’t changed a bit.
You stand in the doorway, waves of nostalgia hitting you, taking in the space that feels so foreign yet so familiar. His helmets still line one of the walls, in the same order you’d put them in because you’d thought they looked better. The paintings you’d put up are still on every wall, untouched. There’s flowers in each of the vases you’d bought. Fresh flowers.
“Coffee?” he asks, sliding a hand around your waist and leading you to the kitchen.
“It’s three in the morning,” you answer, but still take a seat at his kitchen counter anyway.
He shrugs, opening up one of the cabinets you know holds all of his beverages, “I feel obligated to make you something. You’re in my apartment.”
You play with the rings on your finger, twisting them, fingers tracing over the engravings. He turns around, pouring something into a mug, glancing at your hands.
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
Your drop your hands, like the rings have burned you.
“No. I mean—” you lean forward, against the countertop. “It’s fucking stupid.”
“Doubt it.”
“It’s stupid because saying it out loud means admitting you were right.”
His eyebrows raise.
“Right about what?”
“About him. My husband.”
You slowly look over at his face, at his reaction. You’re expecting a smirk, a scoff, and a reply along the lines of I told you so. Instead, he keeps his attention fixed on the cup in his hands, merely listening.
“He called me your ex,” you say. “He said ‘I got so lucky. Marrying Lando Norris’s ex’ and I left.”
Lando still doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if you want him to.
“It’s stupid,” you sigh, sitting upright. “I can’t throw away my marriage because of something like that.”
“You can.”
“It’s marriage. I made vows, Lando. I made a promise to him that we’d stay together no matter what happened. I can’t throw it all away when it’s barely been half a year. I can’t run as soon as something shitty happens. How am I ever going to manage a relationship?”
He turns away again, towards the sink.
“Here,” he says when he moves back to the kitchen island, sliding a mug towards you. “Hot chocolate.”
“Not coffee?”
“Hot chocolate’s supposed to make people feel better, apparently,” he shrugs. “Drink.”
You take it, letting it warm your hands, as if it could distract you from everything else.
“I don’t blame you for leaving.”
“I don’t blame myself either.”
“But you can’t stay with him.”
“I’m supposed to.”
“Says who?” he watches you take a sip of the hot chocolate. “Nicolai? The officiant at your wedding that I know you never wanted?”
“I did want it,” you say, fingers clenching around the mug. “In that moment, I wanted it. I wanted to marry him because I thought it was what was best. I thought it’d help me.”
“And did it?”
“No,” is your immediate answer. “Because I still love you.”
Your phone starts ringing in your pocket. Lando’s glances at it, like he can see through the fabric to the Nic that’s flashing across the screen. You reach for it, putting it onto the counter, just to watch it ring.
“He’s perfect, Lando,” you say, like you have many times before. “He’s everything a girl would want in a guy.”
“But not what you want in a guy.”
“He could be.”
“But he isn’t.”
Lando reaches forward, switching the ringer off on your phone.
“He used you.”
“But he treats me so well,” you say, hands coming up again to rest on your temples. “Would it really matter? If he used me for recognition? I didn’t notice it before and it was—”
“Baby,” he cuts you off, and the name sends heat down your neck. “You deserve better than that.”
“He’s my husband.”
“He’s nothing but a man. He could be your husband one day, and your ex the next hour. You owe him nothing after he used you.”
He moves again, stopping beside you.
“You deserve better than that,” he repeats, brushing back your hair from your face. You stay still, watching him with careful eyes, torn on the border of rationality.
“You’re saying you’re better than him?” you say, but it comes out quiet. “You’re saying I deserve you?”
“I’m saying you deserve someone you really love.”
His thumb brushes against your cheek again, soft, like it’s barely there.
“I love you,” he says, and you slowly set down the hot chocolate on the counter. “I always have and I always will.”
The kiss feels inevitable.
His lips are on yours first, his hand still cupping your jaw to tilt your face towards him. Your eyes shut, and you practically melt into him. He’s warm against you—comforting. The usual rush of need isn’t there this time. There’s no harsh pulls, no desperation. There’s only him, and sweet, sweet relief, and all your rationality crumbling around you.
“Lan,” you manage to say against him. “Lando.”
“I love you,” is all he answers, moving away from your lips to breathe. “I need you.”
Your hands trail to the edge of his hoodie, tugging softly. He gets the memo, tugging it along with his shirt over his head.
He’s kissing you almost immediately after, like he can’t go more than a few seconds without touching you, without tasting you.
“Shit,” he groans, low, pulling you up and off of the chair. His hand brushes against your cheek again, before sliding down underneath your sweater. He pauses, “you’re not wearing anything under this?”
“I rushed,” you say, almost whining at the heat of his palm on your skin. “I’m wearing a bra. A—”
“You wear a bra to sleep?”
“Not a—” you sigh, and he raises his eyebrows, starting to kiss down your jaw. “Lingerie. Whatever you want to call it.”
“For him?”
“He’s my husband.”
“Not for long,” Lando mutters, moving to kiss you again. “You still haven’t repaid me, by the way.”
You let him back you into the wall, his fingers sliding higher.
“For what?”
“That day. In my drivers room,” he kisses you harder, his teeth grazing your lip. “When I gave you what might’ve been the best orgasm of your life, and you ran aw—”
You pull away, panting, staring up at him.
Then, before you can second guess yourself, you slowly drop to your knees, fingers fumbling at his sweatpants.
“Baby—” he says, eyes wide. “I didn’t—”
“Thought you wanted me to repay you.”
“I know—I do, I was—”
“Off,” you say, and he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his sweatpants, tossing them elsewhere. You lean forward, kissing the edge of his boxers, so dangerously close to where he wanted you. You can feel how hard he is, how desperate he was becoming.
“Fuck,” he breathes, shuddering when you mouth at his cock, over the fabric. “Oh, fuck.”
Your hands move up his thighs, tugging at the edge of his boxers.
“You don’t h—”
“Lan,” you say, taking out his cock with the kind of gentleness that made this seem all too filthy. “Let me.”
You start stroking him, slow, deliberate, like you have all the time in the world. He braces his forearm against the wall, looking down at you, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning.
“Please,” he eventually breathes, eyes fluttering shut. “Please, baby. Fuck.”
“Please what?” you say, smearing his pre across his tip. You lean forward again, just to tease, tongue darting out to taste him. “Please what, Lan?”
“I—” he stops, making a sound in the back of his throat that sounds like a whimper. “I can’t—I need—”
“You gonna come?” you ask, and it’s almost mocking, a repeat of the words he’d said to you months ago. “Yeah?”
“Fuck,” he groans as you move faster, hand sliding up and down, relentless. “Baby—I’m—”
He comes hard, all over your hand and his stomach, letting out a shattered moan as he does. You don’t move your hand away, stroking him through it, staring up at his pretty face.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, eyes opening. “That was too quick. Fuck. I’m sorry. I—”
You cut him off with a smile, kissing the tip of him again.
“What are you doing?” he says as you trail kisses along him. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
“Repayment.”
You take him into your mouth, hands still on the base of his cock. His hand flies to your hair, tangling in the strands, gasping.
“Wait—” he chokes out. “Too much, s-shit, I just—”
You don’t listen, taking him deeper, throat relaxing around him.
“I can’t,” he whimpers, overwhelmed with the warmth of your mouth, the feeling of your tongue. “Oh fuck.”
The floor is cold and harsh on your knees, but you don’t care. The look on his face, his whines as you pull off just to sink all the way back down again, makes it worth it. Your underwear is soaked, your stomach flutters every time he moans.
“You feel so good,” he says, breathless. “Fuck. I think I’m—”
His second release comes almost as quickly as his first. He bucks his hips into your mouth, whimpering, head tilting back. You look at him through your lashes, letting him come in your mouth.
“Jesus,” he says when you pull off, swallowing. “I love you.”
You laugh, soft and unfiltered, giving his cock another kiss before standing on shaky legs. His hands come around your waist, kissing you, tasting himself on your tongue.
“Take this off,” he says, and you shrug off your sweater, leaving you in just your bra. He stops, gaze flickering over you, and you think he’s holding back a groan. “You wore that? For him?”
“Don’t get jealous.”
“I’m always jealous.”
His fingers loop at the waistband of your sweats, tugging them down too, until you’re left in your underwear.
“I’m jealous of the fact someone like him got to marry you. I’m jealous that he gets to see you like this every night.”
You scoff out another laugh, cut short by him gently biting at your neck.
“Couch,” he says, and you don’t protest when he pulls you along with him.
You practically fall onto it, straddling him, his head resting against one of the pillows that you remember buying. He watches, almost in a daze, as you reach down to slide your panties and bra off.
“Can’t believe I lost you,” he says when you grind down, lining up his cock with your cunt. “I should’ve never left in the first place—fuck!”
You sink down without any warning, both of you moaning as he slides in deeper. His cock fills you so well, like it was made for you, like those years apart never meant anything. His hands grip your waist, almost bruising, holding you still.
“Wait—shit,” he says, stopping you when you try and move again. “I’m still sensitive.”
“And?” you answer, grinding down on him again. He makes another sound deep in his throat, low and guttural, grip tightening. “You’re saying you, Lando Norris, can’t last—”
He scoffs, moving his hips, fucking deeper into you. You moan at that, at the warmth inside of you, the feeling of his skin on yours.
He smirks, “You were saying?”
“Fuck you.”
“I will.”
His hips jerk again, and you hold them down with your thighs.
“So much for being sensitive,” you say, settling further into you’ve bottomed out on his cock. “Fuck.”
“I’m—” he tilts his head back when you rise up again, just to sink back down. “I am.”
Your cunt clenches around him, and his eyes roll, letting out a choked groan.
The sound of skin against skin fills the space. His muscles tense underneath your fingers, trembling beneath you. You bounce up and down on him, finding a rhythm that makes him whimper and instinctively try slow you down.
“Baby,” he says, thrusts meeting yours halfway. “Oh, fuck. You’re so wet.”
“Lan,” you gasp, panting. “Lan.”
He hums in response, and before you know it he’s flipping you over.
You whine as his pace speeds up, cock hitting all the right spots inside you like he’s memorized them. He moves down to kiss your stomach, your tits, sucking marks into your skin you know will last for days. You trace the lines of his shoulders, the touch making him let out a hoarse groan.
A familiar pressure starts building low in your stomach, your cunt clenching harder in response. He presses his forehead to yours, never slowing down, fucking you into the cushions.
“I love you,” he says at one point, and you arch into him. “I love you so much. I’m gonna—”
Your release hits you as he says the words, hard and fast, tears springing at your eyes. He follows only a second later, spilling deep into you.
He collapses, careful not to put too much weight on you, still buried deep in your cunt. You try catch your breath, remnants of your orgasm still flowing through your body.
You lay there in silence for a few minutes.
He starts kissing you, lazily, like he knows he’s got time.
“I love you too,” you answer, and when he reaches for your hand, the cold metal of your rings meet the warmth of his skin. “Fuck.”
He slides them off, setting them on the coffee table nearby. You stare at them, and they seem to stare back, like an accusation.
“Hey,” he says, and you tear your gaze away. “It’s okay.”
“Is it really?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He sits up, both of you wincing as he pulls out of you.
“I’m on birth control,” you say when he opens his mouth, eyes trained on his come messily covering your body. “Promise.”
“Birth control?” he repeats, lying back on the cushions. “Thought Nic would want you off it.”
“He does,” you answer, crawling to lie on top of him. “He thinks I’ve stopped.”
“Do you seriously want to go back to that—to him?”
You stare up at the ceiling, sighing. His hand runs through your hair.
“We’ll figure it out,” he repeats, kissing your forehead. “Today, tomorrow, next week. Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out together.”
You nod, letting him wrap his arms around you.
The rings still sit on the coffee table. Your phone still buzzes on the counter with calls and messages, and the only thing running through your head is that word.
Together.
The break up hurt.
Of course it did.
You’d told Nicolai the morning after. He’d cried, said something about vows, about promises that you regretted making. He’d begged, saying a million different variations of an apology, while not really apologizing at all.
“It’s Lando,” you’d told him, rings on the table in front of you. “It’s him.”
Nicolai had stared at the rings, jaw clenching and unclenching.
“It’s always going to be him, isn’t it?”
You’d nodded, and he’d taken off his ring too, putting it next to yours.
“I still love you,” he’d said, halfway out the door. “You were—”
He’d stopped, sighed and rubbed his temples with his hand, “I loved you.”
“I know,” you say, leaning against the doorframe. “And I’m sorry too.”
You hadn’t gotten back with Lando until two months after your divorce.
It wasn’t to make yourself look better, to change the narrative and make it seem like you hadn’t still been in love with him for years. It was to learn how to live without him, without anyone else.
“Lando. Words must be unexplainable to you right now—you’ve just won the championship. How are you feeling?”
You’re standing opposite him now, the widest smile on your face, a matching one on his. His race suit is still soaked with champagne, his cap is barely put on right, and his eyes are still red with tears.
It’s been a whole season since then. Since Nicolai, since that night in his apartment.
“I’m—” he stops, looks up to try find the words. Then he looks back at you, a grin on his face. Before you know it, your boyfriend is reaching for you, bringing you close, kissing you in front of cameras and millions of eyes from all over the world.
“We did it! We fucking did it, baby. Fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”
You laugh, mic discarded beside you, arms thrown around his neck. He rests his head on your shoulder, breathing you in, laughing in what sounds like disbelief.
“Congratulations,” you say, making him look at you. Tears stream down your face, and you think tears are running down his own too. “I love you too. I love you so much.”
He kisses you again, smiling against your lips.
“Marry me.”
“What?”
“Marry me,” he whispers in your ear, still grinning, still basking in the glow of winning the championship. “I planned to do this somewhere else—I still do, but I want to know if you’re ready.”
You blink, eyes wide. There are cameras still on him, on the both of you, but they don’t pick up his words. Your heart races, mind going blank at the two simple words.
“I need you with me. I can’t see myself with anyone else. For four fucking years I’ve tried to get over you—four. I’ve watched you get married to someone else, I’ve watched you ignore me and move on with your life, and it’s never worked. I love you. Every part of you. Every single aspect. I don’t care what color your hair is—fuck, I love your hair dark. I love you in every way, shape and form.”
He lets out a laugh, like he can’t believe himself.
“Marry me.”
It feels right. This time, you know it feels right. You feel it in your head, your heart, your very soul.
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” you repeat, and he laughs, forehead resting against yours in relief. “Holy shit, Lan.”
“I love you,” he says, pulling away to cup your jaw. “So much. I want you as my wife. I want you with me for the rest of my life. I want to know I’m never going to loose you again.”
“You have me,” you say, not even trying to hide the tears falling down your face. “Always. You’ve always had me.”
He’s still covered in champagne. All eyes in the paddock are still focused on him, his name is flashing on every screen you look at, shouted from crowds and reporters, yet when he looks at you, it’s like you’re all he can see.
“I love you.”
You don’t think you’ll ever get sick of the words.
“I love you too.”
When you kiss him again, underneath the flashing lights of cameras, through the cheers and chants of his name, you know you always will.
hi lovies here is an angsty fic tw!! miscarriage final part is out here
The first time you bring it up it’s soft.
Careful.
Like something fragile you’re afraid might break if you hold it too tightly.
“Lan have you ever thought about having kids.”
The question lingers in the air between you and Lando quiet but heavy.
He doesn’t look up immediately. His eyes stay glued to his phone his thumb scrolling lazily like you’ve just asked something insignificant like what he wants for dinner.
“Not really.” he says after a second. Casual. Detached.
Your stomach tightens but you smile anyway. “Not even someday.”
That gets his attention.
He glances up at you his brows knitting slightly not in curiosity but in mild irritation.
“Why.”
The word is sharp. Suspicious.
And just like that the warmth you had carefully built inside yourself flickers.
You swallow. “I don’t know just think about it sometimes.”
You don’t tell him the truth.
That you’ve been thinking about it constantly.
That every quiet moment every time you picture your future he’s there and so is a child. A life you built together something real something lasting.
Something more than fleeting weekends and half present conversations.
You don’t tell him that you already know.
That there’s a tiny fragile heartbeat growing inside you.
That this this conversation is you trying to understand whether that heartbeat will be welcomed or resented.
“Oh my god.” he exhales tossing his phone onto the couch like he’s already annoyed. “You’re not going to start that are you.”
Your chest tightens. “Start what.?”
“This whole settle down have kids domestic life thing.” He gestures vaguely like the idea itself exhausts him. “We’ve talked about this.”
“No.” you say quietly. “You’ve avoided talking about it.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Because it’s not something I want right now.”
Right now.
You cling to that.
“Right now.” you repeat softly. “But later.”
He runs a hand through his hair frustration bleeding through his movements. “Why does there have to be a later right now. Why can’t things just be good.”
Because they’re not you want to say.
Because you’re lonely even when he’s right next to you.
Because you’re carrying his child and you don’t even know if he would want it.
But instead you whisper “Because I need to know where this is going.”
That’s when something in him snaps.
You see it.
The shift.
The way his expression hardens the way his posture stiffens like he’s bracing for something like you’re the threat.
“Where this is going.” he repeats incredulous. “Seriously.”
Your heart starts to race.
“I’m your wife.” you say your voice trembling despite your effort to stay calm. “I don’t think it’s crazy to want to know if we’re building a future together.”
“We have a future.” he shoots back. “Why are you trying to complicate it.”
“I’m not trying to complicate it.” you say a little louder now. “I’m trying to understand it.”
“No.” he cuts in standing up abruptly. “You’re trying to control it.”
The word hits like a slap.
“Control.” you echo stunned.
“Yes.” he says pacing now agitated. “This is exactly what people do. They start pushing for kids for commitments for things that lock everything in place.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“Lando.”
“And it’s always the same.” he continues talking over you. “It starts small just questions just curiosity and then suddenly it’s expectations and pressure.”
“I’m not pressuring you.” you insist tears pricking your eyes now. “I’m talking to you.”
“Oh come on.” he scoffs. “You don’t just randomly start bringing this up unless you want something.”
The words hang in the air.
Heavy.
Ugly.
Your voice drops “Of course I want something”
He stops pacing.
Turns to you.
“And what’s that.” he asks his tone cold now.
You hesitate.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
Because in that silence he decides for you.
“A baby.” he says the word almost mocking. “That’s what this is about.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
Not the truth.
Not the denial.
Just silence.
And he takes it as confirmation.
A bitter laugh escapes him. “Wow.”
Your heart starts to shatter.
“I think.” he says slowly his gaze cutting through you. “that you’re trying to tie me down.”
Your breath catches.
“No.”
“That you think if there’s a kid involved I won’t be able to leave. That I’ll be stuck.”
Every word is a knife.
A hot blazing knife.
“That’s not.”
“And honestly.” he interrupts his voice turning sharper crueler. “it’s a bit convenient don’t you think.”
You freeze.
“What.”
He shrugs but there’s nothing casual about it. “You pushing for something that would guarantee you a certain lifestyle.”
Your stomach drops.
“Lando.”
“What.” he challenges. “You think I haven’t seen this happen before. Girls who latch on who want the security the money the.”
“Stop.” you choke.
But he doesn’t.
“The safety of knowing they’ll never have to worry again.”
The room feels like it’s closing in on you.
“Stop.” you say again louder this time your voice breaking.
But he looks at you like he doesn’t even recognize you.
Like you’re someone else entirely.
“Is that what this is.” he presses. “You trying to lock me in with a baby. Because if it is it’s not going to work.”
Tears spill down your cheeks now uncontrollable.
“I would never.”
“You’re acting like a gold digger.” he snaps.
And everything stops.
Just like that.
The world.
Your breathing.
Your heart.
Gone.
Because that word.
that word destroys something in you beyond repair.
“I didn’t marry you for your money.” you whisper your voice hollow.
“Then what is this.” he demands gesturing between you.
“This is me loving you.” you cry. “This is me wanting a life with you.”
“Well I don’t want that.” he fires back. “Not like this. Not now. And definitely not because you’re trying to force it.”
Force it.
Force it.
Force it.
The word echoes in your head over and over again.
You can’t breathe.
You can’t think.
All you can feel is the crushing weight of everything you were too afraid to tell him.
and the horrifying certainty that you were right to be afraid.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words almost come out.
They sit on the tip of your tongue desperate trembling.
But you swallow them.
Because now.
now they would sound exactly like what he accused you of.
Manipulation.
A trap.
A lie.
So you say nothing.
And that silence seals everything.
You leave without another word.
You don’t slam the door.
You don’t scream.
You just go.
Because there’s nothing left to say.
It’s raining.
Of course it is.
The kind of rain that soaks through everything in seconds cold and relentless mirroring the way your chest feels like it’s being torn apart from the inside.
You don’t know where you’re going.
You just walk.
Tears blur your vision mixing with the rain your breaths coming in uneven broken gasps as his words replay over and over again.
Gold digger.
Trap him.
Force it.
You press a hand to your stomach without thinking.
A reflex.
A quiet instinctive need to protect.
“I’m sorry.” you whisper your voice barely audible over the storm. “I’m so sorry.”
For bringing you into this.
For not choosing better.
For loving someone who couldn’t love you the way you deserved.
The streets grow quieter the further you walk.
Darker.
Emptier.
You don’t notice when you turn into the alley.
You don’t notice the footsteps behind you.
Not until it’s too late.
“Hey.”
The voice is wrong. Too close. Too sudden.
You turn your heart lurching but before you can react there’s a hand grabbing your arm yanking you back.
“Give me your bag.”
Panic surges through you.
“I-please.”
“NOW”
You fumble hands shaking violently as you try to pull it off your shoulder but your fingers won’t cooperate.
“Please.” you choke. “Just take it.”
He grabs it but it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
Your foot slips on the wet ground.
Everything happens too fast.
A shove.
A struggle.
A flash of metal.
And then.
pain.
Blinding.
White hot.
It tears through your abdomen stealing the air from your lungs as you gasp collapsing onto the cold pavement.
For a second you don’t understand.
You just lie there staring up at the rain as it hits your face your body going numb in all the wrong places.
Then you feel it.
The warmth spreading beneath you.
The blood.
Your hand moves instinctively pressing against your stomach desperate frantic.
“No.” you whisper.
No no no.
Not this.
Not like this.
“Please.” you sob your voice breaking apart completely now. “Please.”
But there’s no one there.
No one to hear you.
No one to save you.
And as the world starts to fade as the pain dulls into something distant and heavy.
your last thought isn’t about yourself.
It’s about the tiny life you never got to protect.
Lando doesn’t realize how wrong he was until it’s too late.
He replays the argument over and over again pacing the house anger slowly dissolving into something uneasy.
Then into guilt.
Then into dread.
Because you’ve never walked out like that before.
You’ve never not come back.
He calls you.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
No answer.
And then the call comes.
Not from you.
From the hospital.
He’s never felt fear like this before.
Not on the track.
Not in any moment of his life.
But this.
this is different.
This is suffocating.
“Where is she.” he demands the second he arrives his voice shaking despite his attempt to hold it together.
They lead him to your room.
And nothing.
nothing could have prepared him for the sight.
You’re pale. Too pale.
Lying still against stark white sheets machines beeping softly around you.
Fragile.
Broken.
And suddenly all the words he threw at you feel monstrous.
Unforgivable.
“What happened.” he chokes stepping closer his hands trembling.
There’s a pause.
A glance between the doctor and nurse.
And then.
“She was attacked.” the doctor says carefully. “Stab wound to the abdomen. She lost a significant amount of blood.”
His knees nearly give out.
“No.”
“There’s something else.” the doctor continues.
And the way he says it.
The weight of it makes Lando’s entire world stop.
“she was 4 weeks pregnant”
Silence.
Deafening.
Absolute.
“And we couldn’t save the baby.”
Something inside him shatters completely.
“No.” he whispers shaking his head stumbling back slightly. “No that’s not true she would have told me it’s not true.”
But it is.
It is.
And suddenly every moment replays with horrifying clarity.
Your question.
Your hesitation.
Your silence.
Oh God.
Oh God.
“She didn’t tell you.” the doctor asks gently.
Lando lets out a broken hollow laugh that sounds nothing like him.
“No.” he chokes. “No I.”
Because I called her a gold digger.
Because I accused her of trapping me.
Because I destroyed her before she could even tell me.
His hands come up to his face tears slipping through his fingers as the reality crashes down on him.
He didn’t just lose a child.
He destroyed the moment you needed him most.
He pushed you out into the dark.
Alone.
Broken.
And now.
now he’s left with nothing but the unbearable weight of it.
When you wake up he’s there.
Sitting beside your bed.
Looking like a ghost of himself.
Red eyes. Shaking hands. Guilt etched into every line of his face.
“Hey.” he whispers his voice breaking the second you stir.
You don’t respond.
You just stare at the ceiling.
Empty.
“I’m so sorry.” he chokes. “I didn’t know I swear to God I didn’t know.”
You turn your head slowly.
Look at him.
And the distance in your eyes.
it terrifies him more than anything else.
“I tried to tell you.” you whisper.
Your voice is weak.
Hollow.
“But you didn’t want to hear me.”
Tears spill down his face freely now.
“I would have.”
“No.” you cut in softly. “You wouldn’t have.”
Because if he would have.
he would have listened.
He would have trusted you.
He would have loved you better.
“I lost our baby.” you continue your voice cracking just slightly. “And the last thing you ever said to me before that was that I was trying to trap you.”
He flinches like you hit him.
Good.
He deserves it.
“I didn’t mean it.” he pleads. “I was scared I was stupid I.”
“You meant it enough to say it.” you reply.
And that’s the truth.
The devastating irreversible truth.
Silence falls.
Heavy.
Final.
“I don’t think I can come back from that.” you whisper.
His heart stops.
“Please.”
“I needed you.” you say tears slipping quietly into your hair. “And you made me feel like I was the worst thing that ever happened to you.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.” he promises desperately.
who is bens girlfriend? In the picture? Where did you get that picture
The girl in the photo is called Sara Ellen, it appears they broke up in November of last year but she posted that photo in February of this year on her TikTok but an hour later she deleted it. In May she went on TikTok live and basically just talked about how he's obsessed with her and how the live was glitching so much because he was calling her
could you write something about lando and y/n talking about their future. he keeps talking about wanting kids even public but also knows she isn't ready now and she's pulling away being pressured about it. he still wants to be the little party boy he is wich makes her uncomfortable and not sure about the dad role
Learning the quiet
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: emotional pressure, discussions about kids, anxiety, lifestyle clashes, angst with a hopeful ending
Summary: Feeling suffocated by Lando's public comments about wanting a family and his relentless party lifestyle, you begin to pull away. A breaking point forces him to realize he must grow up before planning a future together.
Requested: Yes/ Anon
Word count: 5230
Author's note: Writing this one really hit deep. I hope you love watching Lando grow as much as I did!! xx
Masterlist
The afternoon sun beats down on the terrace of the Monaco apartment, baking the terracotta tiles until the heat radiates right through the soles of your shoes. There is no breeze coming off the Mediterranean today, just a heavy, motionless warmth that makes the air feel thick and difficult to breathe. Below, the harbor is a crowded grid of white yachts and shimmering water, but the usual glamour of the view feels flat, almost suffocating. You stand by the railing, your fingers curled tightly around the cool metal, staring out at the horizon where the blue of the sea melts into the pale blue of the sky.
Inside the apartment, the sound of electronic music thumps softly through the closed glass doors, a low, rhythmic bassline that has been vibrating in the background of your life for months. Lando is in the living room, sorting through a pile of neon-colored caps and racing merchandise that his team sent over earlier in the week. He is moving with his usual high energy, humming along to the beat, completely oblivious to the weight that has been settling over you like a second skin.
You take a slow breath, trying to clear the tightness in your chest, but it doesn't work. The pressure has been building for weeks, an unspoken tension that sharpens every time the conversation veers too close to what comes next. It isn't that you don't love him, because you do, with a fierce, quiet intensity that has sustained you through the chaotic whirlwind of his rising career. But lately, the future has started to feel like a trap, a pre-written script that you are expected to follow without ever having a say in the plot.
The glass door slides open behind you, the sound of the music growing slightly louder before the door clicks shut again. Two arms wrap around your waist from behind, warm and familiar, and Lando rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like the expensive cologne he started wearing recently, mixed with the faint, sharp scent of an energy drink.
“What are you looking at,” he asks, his voice bright and buzzing with the residual adrenaline of a morning spent doing simulator work. “There is a massive boat coming into the harbor. Look at the size of the deck on that thing. We should get one like that when I win the championship. Imagine the parties we could throw on a deck that big.”
You try to smile, forcing a small nod, but your body remains slightly stiff in his embrace. “It is huge,” you say, keeping your voice level. “Probably belongs to some billionaire who only uses it two weeks a year.”
“Then we will use it for three weeks,” Lando says, laughing against your neck before kissing the skin just below your ear. He doesn't notice the lack of warmth in your response, he rarely does when he is in one of these moods, flying high on the momentum of his own life. He spins you around in his arms so you are facing him, his blue eyes wide and clear, full of an innocent enthusiasm that usually charms you completely. Today, it just makes you feel tired. “Listen, I was talking to the media team earlier. They asked me this random question about where I see myself in ten years. And you know what I said?”
Your stomach does a familiar, uncomfortable flip. “What did you say, Lando?”
“I told them I want a whole squad of mini-racers running around,” he says, his grin widening as he talks, his hands moving down to rest on your hips. “I said I want at least three kids, maybe four. Imagine it, a little army of Norris kids in tiny overalls, running around the paddock, causing chaos. The journalists loved it. It is going to be in the big interview package for the next race weekend.”
The words hit you like a physical weight, making it hard to maintain your expression. “You told the press that,” you state, your voice flat. “Without even talking to me about it first.”
Lando blinks, his smile faltering just a fraction, though his tone remains light. “Come on, it is just a fun question. Everyone knows we are together. It is cute, isn't it? People like seeing that side of me. They like knowing I want the big family life eventually.”
“But you are saying it publicly, Lando,” you say, gently stepping back so his hands drop from your hips. The distance between you on the terrace feels instant and vast. “When you tell millions of people that you want a big family, it puts all the eyes on me. Everyone starts looking at my stomach, everyone starts asking when it is happening. And we haven't even figured out what we are doing next week, let alone in ten years.”
Lando sighs, running a hand through his curls, looking more confused than defensive. “Why are you getting stressed about it? It is just a dream. It is what people do, they grow up, they get married, they have kids. I want that with you. I thought you wanted that too.”
“I never said I didn't want a family someday,” you reply, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper because the weight of it is too heavy to carry loudly. “But someday is the keyword. I am not ready for that now. I am nowhere near ready for that. Every time you bring it up, whether it is to me or to a camera, it feels like a clock ticking down. It feels like you are pulling me toward something I am not prepared for.”
Lando steps forward again, trying to close the gap, his expression softening into something genuinely affectionate. “But you don't have to be ready right this second. I am just saying, I want it. I want to be a dad. I think I would be a great dad. Think about how much fun we would have.”
You look at him, really look at him, taking in the youthful lines of his face, the casual way he stands, the bright clothing. Your mind flashes to the videos from last weekend, the social media clips of him sprayed with champagne in a packed nightclub, surrounded by a crowd of shouting people, dancing on a table with a bottle in his hand until five in the morning.
“Would you,” you ask softly, the doubt finally leaking out into the open air between you. “Would you really be a dad, Lando? Or would you just be the guy who plays with them for an hour and then leaves to go to another afterparty?”
The question hangs heavily in the hot afternoon air. Lando freezes, his eyes narrowing slightly as the playful light leaves them, replaced by a sudden defensive edge. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you want the idea of a family, but you don't want the reality of it,” you say, the words rushing out now that the dam has broken. “You still want to be the little party boy, Lando. You want to spend every free weekend flying to Ibiza or hosting huge parties here until sunrise. You want the freedom to just drop everything and do whatever you want because you are Lando Norris. A baby doesn't fit into a nightclub. A baby doesn't care about your VIP access.”
“That is not fair,” Lando says, his voice rising a bit, his chest expanding as he takes a defensive stance. “I work incredibly hard. When I am at the track, I give one hundred percent. If I want to let off some steam with my friends on the weekends off, I am allowed to do that. It doesn't mean I wouldn't care about my kids.”
“I am not saying you wouldn't care,” you clarify, your voice trembling slightly as you try to control the rising emotion. “I know you have a huge heart. But being a parent means sacrificing that lifestyle. It means staying home when you want to go out. It means being the responsible one. And right now, when I look at you, I don't see a father. I see a boy who is still trying to live out his twenties as loud as possible. And that makes me uncomfortable, Lando. It makes me terrified to think about having a child with you, because I feel like I would be the only one actually doing the growing up.”
Lando looks down at the tiles, his jaw tightening. He kicks at a small stray pebble with the toe of his trainer. “You are making me sound like I am irresponsible. I am an adult. I run a business, I drive a Formula One car at two hundred miles an hour. I know about responsibility.”
“Professional responsibility is different from emotional responsibility,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulls back slightly, hurt by your words. The rejection stings, but you press on because this needs to be said. “You are under so much pressure at work, I get that. I know you need to escape sometimes. But your way of escaping is to revert to being a teenager who doesn't have any rules. If we have a child, you can't just escape whenever it gets too heavy. You can't just fly away to a villa with ten of your mates and leave me here to handle the reality.”
“I wouldn't do that,” he mutters, though his voice lacks the absolute certainty it had a few minutes ago. He looks up at you, his eyes clouded with a mix of frustration and vulnerability. “Why are you pulling away from me lately? Every time I mention our future, you get this look on your face like you want to run out the door. It makes me feel like you don't see a future with me at all.”
“I am pulling away because you are pushing too hard,” you confess, the honesty painful but necessary. “Every time you talk about it to the press, it feels like you are locking me into a room and throwing away the key. You are creating this narrative that we are this perfect, settled couple ready to start a family, when in reality, we are still trying to figure out how to be together in this crazy world. I need space to breathe, Lando. I need to know that my choices matter, not just the ones you decide to share with the world.”
Lando turns away from you, walking to the edge of the terrace and leaning his forearms on the railing. He looks out at the sea, his shoulders hunched, looking smaller than he usually does. The silence stretches between you, long and heavy, filled only by the distant hum of traffic from the streets below and the muffled beat of the music inside.
You walk over to stand beside him, not touching him, just offering your presence. The heat of the day is starting to mellow into the late afternoon, the shadows lengthening across the balcony.
“I just want to know that we are on the same team,” Lando says after a long time, his voice quiet, stripped of the bravado he had earlier. “When I think about the future, I think about you. Everything I want, the success, the house, the family, it is all because I picture you there with me. I don't mean to pressure you. I just get excited, and I talk before I think. You know how I am.”
“I do know how you are,” you say, your voice softening as you look at his profile. “And I love your excitement. But this isn't something you can just rush into because it sounds like a fun next step. It is a completely different life. And until I see you start to value the quiet moments as much as you value the loud ones, I can't think about making that life with you. I need to see the man who can stay, not just the boy who loves to party.”
Lando doesn't answer immediately. He watches a seagull glide over the water, his face thoughtful and unusually serious. The conversation hasn't solved everything, the divide between where he is and where you need him to be is still wide, but the air feels a little lighter now that the truth is out between you.
“I don't want you to pull away,” he says softly, finally turning his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours for some sign of reassurance. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it.”
“You don't have to fix it today,” you reply, stepping close enough to let your hand rest against his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin. “You just need to listen to me. Stop talking to the cameras about our life before we have even lived it. And think about what you are actually willing to give up to get the things you say you want.”
Lando looks at your hand on his arm, then moves his own hand to cover yours, his fingers locking between yours. He doesn't make any promises, he doesn't give you another quick, easy answer, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a small glimmer of hope that he might actually be starting to understand. The music inside continues to play, but out here on the terrace, the silence between the two of you feels a little more like a shared breath than a barrier.
The next few weeks pass in a blur of European races, a relentless cycle of packing suitcases, boarding private jets, and sitting in the back of dark hospitality units while the world outside shouts Lando’s name. You try to keep your promise to stay present, to support him through the grueling demands of the triple-header, but the conversation on the Monaco terrace remains an invisible line drawn between you.
You see him on the grid, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and VIP guests, his face hidden behind the dark visor of his helmet, a figure of absolute focus and precision. Then, you see him a few hours later, the race over, sitting in a circle of his friends at the airport terminal, laughing loudly over an inside joke, his phone flashing with notifications from group chats planning the next Sunday night getaway. The contrast is jarring, and every time you see him slide back into the role of the carefree, unbothered twenty-something, the knot in your stomach tightens.
It is mid-August when the tension breaks again, this time in a rented villa in the hills above Silverstone. The race weekend had been a massive success, a podium finish that left the entire team in a state of euphoria. Lando had been riding the wave of public adoration for days, his face plastered across every sports page, his name trending worldwide.
The villa is supposed to be a sanctuary for the two of you to spend a few quiet days before the summer break truly begins, but by Monday evening, the peace is shattered. Lando had invited five of his closest friends over, along with a couple of content creators he frequently collaborates with. The large kitchen is covered in empty bottles, plastic cups, and the wrappers of takeaway food. The sound of a techno playlist is thumping through the integrated speakers, vibrating through the floorboards of the bedroom upstairs where you have retreated to find some quiet.
You sit on the edge of the large bed, your laptop open on your knees, trying to focus on an article you are reading, but the bassline makes it impossible. Every burst of loud laughter from the garden downstairs feels like a reminder of the distance between your reality and his. You look at your watch, it is past midnight, and the noise shows no signs of slowing down.
A knock sounds at the door, soft enough that you almost miss it over the music. Before you can answer, the door opens and Lando slides in, holding two drinks in plastic cups. His hair is messy, his cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and the excitement, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. He looks happy, radiant even, but to you, he just looks exhausting.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him and walking over to the bed with a slight sway in his step. “Why are you up here? Everyone is asking where you are. Max is about to start a game of poker, and we need you downstairs.”
“I am tired, Lando,” you say quietly, closing your laptop and setting it on the nightstand. “And I have a headache from the music. I thought this week was supposed to be just the two of us.”
Lando’s face falls slightly, a shadow of disappointment crossing his features before he hides it behind a pout. “Come on, it is just one night. We had such a good weekend, I wanted to celebrate with the boys. We don't get many chances to just hang out without people bothering us.”
“You celebrate every weekend, Lando,” you say, the exhaustion making your voice sharper than you intended. “Whether you win, lose, or finish in the middle, there is always a party. There is always a reason to turn the music up and invite ten people over. I am glad you had a good race, really I am, but I am exhausted from the noise.”
Lando sets the drinks down on the dresser, his movements a little more deliberate now as he senses the shift in the room. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to you, the scent of alcohol and sweat rolling off him. “You are doing it again,” he says, his voice dropping into that quiet, defensive register you have come to dread. “You are pulling away. You have been like this since Monaco. Every time I try to have fun, you make me feel like I am doing something wrong.”
“You aren't doing anything wrong if this is the life you want,” you say, looking at him, feeling a deep, aching sadness in your chest. “If you want to spend your twenties being the guy who never sleeps, who always has to be the center of the party, that is your choice. But you can't have that life and keep telling the world you are ready to be a father. You can't keep talking about building a family when you can't even spend twenty-four hours alone with your partner without needing an audience.”
Lando winces, the words hitting him cleanly despite the alcohol in his system. “That is harsh. I love spending time with you. You know that.”
“Do I,” you ask, your voice cracking slightly. “Because lately, it feels like I am just an accessory to your lifestyle. I am the person who waits in the hotel room while you do your media, the person who sits upstairs while you party with your friends, and the person whose future you plan out on live television without asking her permission. I am feeling so much pressure from you, Lando, and from everything around you, and I am telling you right now, I am suffocating.”
Lando looks at his hands, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the mattress. The music from below filters through the floor, a muffled, mocking reminder of the world he loves. “I don't mean to make you feel like that. I swear I don't. I just, I look at the guys like Seb or Checo, they have these amazing families, their kids are at the track, and it looks so grounding. I want that grounding. Sometimes my life feels so loud and so fake, and I think if I have a family, it will make everything real.”
“A baby isn't an anchor to fix your life, Lando,” you say, tears finally stinging your eyes, though you refuse to let them fall. “A baby is a human being who needs you to be grounded before they even get here. You can't use a child to force yourself to grow up. You have to do that on your own. And right now, you are still looking for an escape from the pressure of your career, and your escape is to act like a kid yourself. How can you take care of a baby when you still need your managers, your trainers, and your friends to manage your entire life for you?”
Lando stands up, walking over to the window that looks out over the dark garden. He presses his forehead against the cool glass, his shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breathing. “You don't think I can do it,” he says, his voice tight, thick with an emotion he is trying hard to suppress. “You don't trust me.”
“I trust you to drive a car,” you say honestly. “I trust you to be a good friend. But I don't trust that you understand what you are asking for when you talk about our future. You want the highlight reel. You want the cute photos on Instagram, the kids wearing your number, the fans cheering for the perfect family man. You don't want the sleepless nights, the spit-up on your expensive clothes, the cancellation of your holiday plans because the baby is sick. You don't want the part where you aren't the most important person in the room anymore.”
The silence that follows is different from the one in Monaco. It is sharper, cut through with the realization that the gap between your expectations isn't just a misunderstanding, it is a fundamental difference in maturity.
Lando stays by the window for a long time. Downstairs, the music suddenly cuts out, followed by the sound of muffled voices and the front door opening and closing. His friends are finally leaving, or perhaps they realized the atmosphere in the house had shifted. The sudden quiet in the villa feels immense, almost echoing.
Lando turns around slowly. The flush has left his cheeks, leaving him looking pale and tired under the harsh overhead light of the bedroom. “They are gone,” he says quietly. “I told them to leave.”
“You didn't have to do that,” you say, though a part of you is immensely relieved.
“Yes, I did,” Lando says, walking back to the bed and sitting down, this time leaving a significant space between the two of you. He looks at you, his eyes raw and vulnerable. “You are right. About a lot of it. I do think about the highlight reel. Because my whole life is a highlight reel right now, and it is hard to imagine anything else. I am terrified of getting old, I am terrified of losing my spot, and I think I talk about the future so much because I want to believe there is something good waiting for me when the racing stops.”
Hearing him admit his fear softens the anger in your chest, replacing it with a profound empathy. You slide across the mattress, closing the distance between you, and place your hand over his. “There is something good waiting, Lando. But we have to get there naturally. You can't force the future to happen before we are ready for it. And you definitely can't force me to be ready just because you are feeling insecure about your life.”
Lando leans his head against your shoulder, his heavy sigh deflating some of the tension that has held his body stiff for hours. “I am sorry,” he whispers into the fabric of your shirt. “I am sorry for the press stuff. I am sorry for making you feel pressured. I will stop talking about it. I will tell the media team to block those questions.”
“Thank you,” you say, running your fingers through his messy curls, feeling the familiar warmth of him, the boy you fell for before the world decided he belonged to them. “But you also need to think about what we talked about. The lifestyle, Lando. I love that you have fun, I really do. But if we are going to stay together, if we are ever going to build that future you keep dreaming about, I need to see you choose me over the crowd more often. I need to know that you can handle the quiet.”
“I can do the quiet,” he says, his voice small, sounding more like the young man from Bristol than the global superstar. “I want to do it with you.”
“Then show me,” you say softly, kissing the top of his head. “Don't just tell me. Show me.”
The remainder of the summer break passes in a quieter rhythm. Lando keeps his word, the villa stays empty of large crowds, and the constant thumping of music is replaced by the sound of the wind through the trees and the murmur of television shows you watch together on the sofa. There are moments when you catch him looking at his phone, his thumb hovering over group chats where his friends are posting pictures from yachts in Mykonos, and you see the momentary flash of FOMO in his eyes. But he locks his phone, sets it face down on the table, and asks you what you want to do for dinner. It is a small change, a tiny step, but to you, it feels like a mountain moving.
By September, the circus of the paddock returns, and with it, the intense scrutiny of the championship battle. The pressure on Lando increases tenfold as the point gap at the top of the standings narrows. You are back in the hospitality units, back in the hotels, but the atmosphere between the two of you has shifted into something more guarded, more deliberate.
It is the Thursday before the Italian Grand Prix in Monza. The media center is packed, the noise of journalists and television crews creating a low, constant roar in the paddock. You are standing near the back of the team hospitality building, holding a bottle of water, watching Lando sit on a high stool in front of a dozen microphones for his main press session of the weekend.
The interview goes smoothly at first, the questions focusing on tire degradation, team strategy, and his relationship with his teammate. Lando handles them with his practiced ease, flashing his trademark grin, dropping in the occasional joke that makes the journalists chuckle. You find yourself relaxing slightly, leaning against the wall, thinking about the quiet dinner the two of you had planned for later that evening at a small trattoria away from the track.
Then, a veteran British journalist raises his hand, holding a microphone tightly. “Lando, just going back to an interview you gave a few weeks ago where you mentioned wanting a big family, a squad of mini-racers, as you put it. The fans went wild for that. Is that the ultimate goal for you now, balancing the championship drive with becoming a family man? Are we going to see some big news from you and your partner soon?”
Your heart drops into your throat. The air in the room suddenly feels freezing cold. Your grip tightens on the water bottle until the plastic crumbles loudly in your hand. You look at Lando, your breath catching, waiting for the familiar, easy response, the joke that would feed the narrative and slam the door on your boundaries once again.
Lando shifts on his stool. The easy grin disappears from his face, replaced by a expression that is serious, calm, and entirely focused. He looks directly at the journalist, then his eyes flick briefly to the back of the room, finding yours for a split second before returning to the crowd of cameras.
“You know,” Lando says, his voice steady and clear through the speakers. “I think I talked a bit too much in that previous interview. I get excited about the future, like anyone does, but the reality is that I am twenty-six years old. I have a lot of growing up to do myself before I can even think about being responsible for another human being. My partner and I are really happy just focusing on our lives right now, supporting each other through the madness of this season, and keeping our private life private. So no, there is no big news coming, and I would appreciate it if we kept the questions focused on the racing from now on.”
A quiet murmur goes through the press room, the journalists surprised by the sudden boundary set by a driver who is usually so open and eager to please. The interviewer nods, muttered an apology, and the moderator quickly moves on to a question about the asphalt layout of the first chicane.
You stand in the back of the room, your hand shaking slightly as you let go of the crushed water bottle. The relief that washes over you is so intense it makes your knees feel weak. It wasn't just that he stopped the question, it was the honesty in his voice, the public admission that he wasn't ready, that he understood the weight of what he had been playing with.
When the press conference ends, Lando stands up, untangling the microphone wire from his shirt, and walks through the crowd of media personnel. He doesn't stop to chat with the journalists who call out his name, he keeps his head down, walking straight toward the back exit where you are waiting.
He steps out into the quiet corridor behind the hospitality unit, the door closing behind him to shut out the noise of the paddock. He looks at you, his eyes wide, a little anxious, searching your face for approval.
“Was that okay,” he asks, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. “I didn't mean to bring it up again, but he asked, and I wanted to make sure I said it right.”
You don't say anything at first. You step forward, closing the small distance between you, and wrap your arms tightly around his neck. You bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, holding him with a fierce, desperate gratitude that you haven't felt in months.
Lando’s arms wrap around your waist immediately, holding you close against him, his chin resting on your head just like it had on the terrace in Monaco. “I am trying,” he mutters into your hair. “I am trying to learn how to be the man you need.”
“I know,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. For the first time, you don't see the little party boy trying to escape his life, and you don't see the global superstar feeding the cameras. You see Lando, the real Lando, standing firmly in the present, willing to take the slow, difficult steps toward a future that belongs only to the two of you. “You did perfectly, Lando. Thank you.”
He smiles, a soft, genuine expression that doesn't need a crowd to validate it. He takes your hand, his fingers locking tightly with yours, and leads you away from the noise of the track, out into the quiet evening air of the park, toward a future that you are finally ready to build together, one day at a time.
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