summary: a 'how-to' journalist sets out to show women what not to do in relationships, an F1 driver strives to prove he can make anyone fall in love with him. wc: 3.7k
yn.howto
liked by amelia.lang, vogue, and 104,928 others
yn.howto Out for drinks with the Composure ladies <3
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user1 girl please we NEED a "how to become a journalist in new york"
yn.howto Trust me, I'm still figuring that out for myself
user2 what did yn ln write into her shifting script, i need it
user3 god has favourites
amelia.lang espresso martini warrior
yn.howto You know it
user4 did anyone else absolutely LOVE the composure cover last month?
user5 OMG I KNOW charlixcx looked so good
user6 i'd sell my kidneys (notice i said both) to see a charli and yn collab
user7 my wife is away at war (nyc)
mcmahonemma us when we're supposed to be working on the outline
jeanninesmythe I'll remember this at the next staff meeting :)
user8 SHE'S SO COOL
"Yn, I told you already," Jeannine says, walking alongside you into her office. The rest of the girls are already in their usual spots, Amelia on the corner of the couch, Emma leaning against the table in the center. "You work at Composure Magazine. We are fashion, trends, diets, cosmetic surgeries, salacious gossip... that's Composure."
"But Jeannine, I want to write things that matter, things I care about," you explain, closing the door behind you, "politics, the environment, foreign affairs."
Jeannine turns sharply on her expensive heel. The gentle chatter of the room hushes to a strong silence. "Look, Yn. The column is new for you. When you turn it into a must-read, then you can write about whatever you want. Until then, you can write about whatever I want." You catch Emma's eye--she shrugs empathetically.
"Alright people," the tone of Jeannine's voice shifts easily, from the stern one she used on you to the more casual one she tends to prefer. "What have we got for me today?" She looks around the room. What you've always liked about working at Composure was the familiarity. Unlike the stuffy meetings and harsh co-workers you imagine everywhere else, Composure is friendly. Any one writer can complain about their boyfriend or their dog and all writers will happily listen. It's noticeable in the atmosphere of the room. There's a relaxed nature to it that you could never choose to leave. Before Jeannine goes on, the glass doors are pushed open by a messy Michelle, whose green sweater has clearly not been ironed. "Michelle. Pitches for the new edition?"
Michelle takes a seat across from you, wiping at the corner of her eye. "Um, I'm sorry, Jeannine, I wasn't feeling very well..." The following silence speaks volumes.
"She got dumped," Amelia explains as she hands Michelle a few tissues. "You look great though, hon." The girls all nod, murmuring something about if she's been doing pilates or drinking that new green smoothie they saw on the internet.
Between blowing her nose, which, for Michelle, is always comically loud, and straightening out her sweater, she replies, "I haven't eaten since the split." Despite the community at Composure, there's moments like the one you know is about to transpire.
"Good for you!" Jeannine, with a wide smile, states. "Write about it." This gets a few laughs from the girls. You, too, grin a bit, hoping that it comes off as supportive rather than malicious.
Michelle puts down the tissues, her jaw being slightly slack. "Jeannine, I can't use my personal life for a story." You look between the editor and writer, all too familiar with the tension. Michelle's basically in a watered down version of the conversations you have weekly with Jeannine. 'I can't write that.' 'You have to write that.'
"I'd be happy to write about Michelle's personal life," quickly, Ryan raises her hand.
"What!" Michelle shouts. The worry apparent on her face is wholly understandable. Ryan's known for her hyperbolic writing. If you were Michelle, you wouldn't want that drama queen digging into your messy breakup, broadcasting it for all to see.
"Jeannine, with all due respect, I can't let Ryan muck around in my personal life for a story." Jeannine's eyes start to narrow. Brace for impact.
"I'll do it," the words leave your mouth before you can stop them, rolling out like they've got minds of their own.
"What!" You don't bother to look over at Michelle, sure of the face she's pulling. It's the same glaze of betrayal in her eyes as the one after breakups and fights. Only you're not consoling her this time; you might be adding to it.
"C'mon, would you rather I do it or Ryan? No offense, Ryan." Michelle seems to consider it, but only a bit. She's stubborn. "Plus, I won't write about you. You can be my inspiration. It'll be like a 'what not to do' early in relationships, you know?"
Michelle hasn't really moved, but Jeannine is nodding along, her smile growing wider with every passing second. "Sold," she says, adding, before Michelle can interrupt, "How to lose a guy in 10 days."
Amelia jumps in, "Why 10 days?"
"We go to print in 11," I realize. Jeannine, even though she is a grown woman, sends a finger gun my way.
"Okay, this has been productive," the editor claps her hands together. She looks over all of us, her mind probably halfway done with assembling the next layout. I love her as much as I can't stand her. It's a fun line to walk. "But I've got a meeting. Everyone who's on the Lando Norris profile--I forget who it is--let's go."
A larger than I expected group gets up, eager to go interview... I wanna say a race car driver? I'm not sure. I follow alongside them, trying to push through the two leads on the article to reach Jeannine. Before you commit to torturing some guy, you want to try to convince her that your Middle East text is perfectly good.
A few wide hallways, two and a half staircases, and a small trip thanks to your heels, and you still haven't reached Jeannine. The path is recognizable, meaning you know the group will reach their destination way too soon for you to make any progress.
Suddenly, a harsh stop. You bump into Madelyn's back, getting a small look over the shoulder from her. "Sorry we're late," you hear Jeannine say, just as you push past the two girls in front. "It's nice to finally meet in person."
The guy in front of you is kinda smaller than you expected him to be. He's not small per se, but you expected a race car driver (do they call them that) to be much less... normal looking. You can't be internally rude to the millionaire Composure contact.
"Nice to meet you as well," the guy's British voice responds. "You're... Jeannine Smythe, I assume?" They shake hands.
"Yes, and this is the team that's going to be working on your profile," she begins turning to introduce the writers. "This is Madelyn-- oh. Yn, what are you doing here?" Immediately acknowledging that this is slightly awkward, Jeannine pulls you by the arm (a bit harshly). "This is Yn Ln, our resident how-to girl."
Lando, you remember his name to be, shakes your hand as well, his smile seeming polite and genuine in a way you didn't anticipate. "My mom reads your blog," he tells you. "What are you working on now?"
Jeannine is quick to intercept you, putting her arm out in front of you. She's smart to do so, too, because you were about to say Middle East relations. "How to lose a guy in 10 days," she seems mighty proud of the title she came up with. "She's actually going to start dating a guy and then drive him away in a week-and-a-half."
"Sounds intriguing," he comments.
"Not as intriguing as our profile, though, hopefully." Madelyn has jumped in, severing any chance you had to get through to Jeannine. You return to your desk, at least having tonight's outing to look forward to.
But even that would be tainted by having to find and dupe a perfectly nice dude. Hook, line, and the opposite of a sinker.
oscarpiastri posted a story!
oscarpiastri Aussie lad in NYC mclaren, lando
Oscar's palms are really sweaty. Back in his hotel room, he spent at least ten minutes staring at his racing gloves, wondering if he should bring them along. Originally, he decided against it, out of fear that he'd look like a Soprano. Now, looking like a Soprano doesn't sound all that bad.
He's standing outside of the bar. Despite the large windows, he can't spot Zak or Lando, a crowd of people blocking his view. "Okay, Oscar, take a deep breath," he says to himself, garnering a few looks from passersby. "It's just an advertisement. It doesn't matter all that much." Wiping his hands against the side of his pants, Oscar takes another second to prepare before entering. Deep breaths do wonders when he’s waiting for lights out. No way they don’t work now, when no points are on the line.
Just opening the door, he can hear the chaotic volume of the crowd. Apparently, the tables are supposed to be further back but there's no way he can push through this many people and get there. Pitch is over before it even started. Oscar's never been one for the mosh pit. His nose scrunches up and he starts maneuvering around the people. It's his choir of 'excuse me, sorry' versus the uninterested attendants of the bar. Finally, he spots Zak, just a few feet away. He, and the people Oscar assumes are from the ad campaign, are in deep conversation with Lando, who's wooing them, as always. Oscar hurries up.
"Ouch!" a girl says, moving her foot out from his warpath. In the millisecond he has to look over, Oscar sees that she seems somewhat familiar. "Sorry!" he shouts back at her, almost through the crowd.
"Finally," Zak comments when Oscar reaches the table. He's out of breath, but he sits down regardless. Lando scoots over, but only slightly. "Ms. Greene, Ms. Philips, this is Oscar, he's one of our drivers. But I'm sure you know that." The women take turns in shaking his hand, which has gotten clammy again. "He asked to come to this meeting because he had some sort of pitch to make you." Oscar pretends not to see the amused look on Zak's face. "Take it away, Oscar."
Oscar clears his throat and adjusts the sleeves of his jacket. Even though the past 24 hours have consisted of him repeating the speech to himself, locked in a hotel room, the city beckoning him, Oscar's ming goes blank for a quick second. That girl does look familiar, it focuses on instead of the pitch. She's pretty. Like she should be in a magazine.
"Lando, no offense," he starts, already regretting his opening, "but people are kind of at their limit with you." The look on Zac's face makes Oscar rush to add, "In the advertisement-sense, not in the sport or anything, you're great." He's not super happy with this over-correction either. Lando raises his glass with an amused smile. "You've been at McLaren a long time. You've won the championship"--Oscar manages to get out through gritted teeth--"you've got a stand at Silverstone. You've sold all you have to sell."
"I'll cheers to that," jokes Lando, clinking beers with an equally cheery Zac. The two women take reserved sips, more honed in on Oscar's words than the men.
"And I just think that it would be more effective to let me do the campaign. People love you as much as they can. They're not there yet with me." Oscar's own words hurt, but he knows that his best bet is to appeal to ego. "Plus, like, this is Dior. Your image doesn't suit Dior."
"You can't call me broke, I make more than you--"
"It's not about money," Oscar says. It's always futile to argue with Lando. Plus, this isn't really up to him. There's a glint in Zac's eye that tells Oscar to go on. He adjusts a bit, facing his boss now. "When we had that collaboration with Monster, it was very clear that it should be Lando. That's his vibe. Energy. I'm more reserved. I wouldn't have fit with Monster, just like how Lando doesn't fit with Dior."
In a surprising move, Zac nods to the women, resigning the decision to them. Ms. Greene, the one in the green dress, turns to Ms. Phillips, shrugging slightly. Why not? Oscar assumes it to mean. He feels his stupid palms getting sweaty yet again. Stupid.
"Personally, I don't mind," Lando says. Okay, that adds one more thing to the to-do list: get ears checked. Noticing the surprise, he adds, "C'mon people, you really think my favorite way to spend my time is by posing in itchy sweaters?"
Under her breath, mixing with the music, Ms. Phillips comments, "It's a perfume and jewelry collection."
"I'd be happy to let Oscar do it. But there's just one thing?" He looks at Zac, then back to Oscar. "We know that I--my image--sells." Lando puts the beer down, leaning in a little too menacingly for a friendly bar chat. "Do we know if yours does?"
Zac affirms this, "Lando's got a point." Mimicking his golden boy, Zac, too, leans in. Oscar feels as though he's in a dead quiet zoo, being stared at by people who are about to throw apple cores at him, rather than a crowded bar where no food, not even the remains of it, is free. "Do you sell, Oscar?"
"I do." A small part of Oscar wonders if anyone caught his wavering.
"Okay, well, why don't you prove it?" Lando always has the dumbest ideas. Love the guy. "Let's bet on it."
Oscar actually laughs. Maybe not the best thing to do as the guy asking for something, but it's impossible not to. "Bet on what? Do you want me to prostitute myself or something, see how much I go for?" Lando's high-pitched laugh comes out, his chuckling almost harmonizing with Oscar's. There's been plenty of times when Oscar has considered, seriously, running Lando over with a rent-a-car. But every time he hears Lando's laugh, it's hard to forget that they're friends as well as rivals.
"As much enjoyment as that would give me," Lando starts, "I have a better idea. Get someone to fall in love with you. Then it's yours."
"HA!" Zac claps his hands together as he exclaims. "That's hilarious, I love it." It's not just Oscar's hands that are sweating, it's the whole of him. Already not the romantic, sell-able guy he swore he was. "What does Dior think about the world champion's idea, Ms. Greene, Ms. Phillips?" I hate how Zac talks.
Oscar receives an empathetic look from both of the women. And maybe that's what does it. The past year has been a transformation. People, fans, have gone from empathetic to pitying. He can practically see that same transformation happening here. Somewhere, deep down, Oscar knows he backed away in 2025. Subconsciously, he did. He's unwilling to be met with pity any time soon. The wound has yet to heal; right now, all these people are staring into it.
"Let's do it," Oscar announces. "Let's even pick someone right now." The women shrug. "Be kind, Lando. I have to spend time with this girl for... wait, how long do I have?"
"10 days," Ms. Greene smiles. "That's when the Dior party is."
"You bring a girl who is really in love with you, Piastri," Zac states, "and the campaign is yours."
"But how do we pick a the girl?" Oscar can hear Ms. Phillips ask, but her voice is muffled. Everything around Oscar slows. The clinking glasses echo, the slight spills seem preventable. He can spot the small actions of those beside him that he normally wouldn't. Or he's just trying to compartmentalize, find some benefit to the growing pit in his stomach. He runs a hand through his hair.
Lando waits to answer Ms. Phillips' question. Only when Oscar meets his eyes does he reply, "Her." Almost mechanically, all five of them turn, excitedly searching for Lando's woman of choice. The crowd that previously seemed overwhelming is now a barrier. Oscar can tell himself he's not insane for agreeing to this, so long as he doesn't see the girl who'll be on the receiving end.
Then, he sees her.
God, it's bad that Lando can read his mind. What a disadvantage on the track. He picked the girl. How could he have possibly done that? It's simply unfair. More for Lando than for Oscar. This might be the easiest thing Oscar's ever done, loving her. He doesn't even know her, Jesus, but he's sure. From how she breaks out into a laugh that can't be tamed. She moves gracefully, lightly tapping the bar for a refill. She pushes her hair behind her ears, but it keeps falling into her face. She smiles.
"Deal." He doesn't give it a second thought.
Big mistake.
yn.howto playing are you gonna be my girl - jet
yn.howto me when i love my friends and i love our barrrrr
You're leaning against the bar, pushing the ice in your drink around with your straw. Michelle and Amelia are off somewhere, searching for the guy you're about to con. The longer they take the better. You're not really sure why you agreed to this. It's not getting you where you want to be. None of the past articles have been, really. It's always the same story; write something stupid with the double stupid hope that you'll get to write something not stupid at all.
That's seeming further and further away now. Tricking some perfectly nice guy and bragging about it to the whole magazine world doesn’t seem like the stepping stone it’s presented as.
"Hey!" an accented voice says from your right. You blink away your thoughts, quick to straighten your back adjust your hair. You turn and holy shit you’re thankful you do. A strangely familiar, and indescribably beautiful, face, donning a sweetly intriguing smile, stares back at you. You’ve experienced a lot in your life—jet skiing, almost falling on the metro tracks, heartbreak—but you’ve never felt this frozen before. Even your fingers feel stuck to the cocktail in your hand.
“Hi,” you somehow manage to get out, although that’s a struggle in and of itself. Pull yourself together. “Yn Ln.”
“Oscar Piastri.” Those two words click everything into place for you, the embarrassingly simple puzzle comes together before your eyes. A literal F1 driver is standing in front of you, looking illegally good. I think this guy’s partner was at the office today, how crazy is that?
“Cute,” you say in an attempt to play off his introduction.
His smile lankily widens. Jesus help me. “Thank you.” You tilt your head, not wanting to make this too easy for him. He’s an athlete, after all. Flirting probably comes as naturally as breathing.
“I meant your name.” Oscar chuckles a bit, looking over at the bartender and raising his hand casually, mouthing his order and a ‘thank you.’
“Thank you two times,” he laughs even more.
“Unattached?” you swirl the liquid in your drink. Hopefully it masks just how invested you are in his answer.
Oscar nods, subtly ignoring the implications, “Currently.”
“Likewise.”
It’s his turn to be surprised. His eyes slightly widen and you pretend to miss it. Secretly, you know you’ll be imagining it for weeks to come. “Surprising.” You take a sip. Maybe that’ll cool the growing warmth spreading through your chest. It doesn’t.
“Psycho?” you ask. There is a certain reputation attached to people of his… is status the right word?
Leaning in ever so minimally, Oscar whispers, “Rarely.” Your drink disappears in one dangerous swallow. “Interested?” Is he kidding? He must be. The perpetual tapping of your foot and the excessive flush on your cheeks should be evidence enough.
On the off chance it’s not, you reply, “Perhaps.” It’s unlike you to fall head over heels and you’re not gonna let the fact that this wildly handsome guy drives 300 kilometers an hour change that.
“Hungry?”
You match him grin for grin. “Starving.”
“Leaving.” It’s a statement, not a question, and you hate how good that makes you feel.
“Now?” He’s moving fast, that’s for sure, but it’s definitely in character for him. You give it another second, seizing him up, possibly searching for something you missed the first time around. The glint in his eye, the small moles that pepper his face. This could be very bad, very bad indeed.
“Okay.”
guys i know i've been gone but i am BACK! this took so long because i've been unbelievably lazy, new LEVELS of lazy. but this series will be done soon! this was just chapter 1. kinda long and maybe even boring, i know, but i had to do intro. everything else will be super duper fun, promise. i also lifted a ton from the original film, tell me if you noticed <3
co𝓷tents. lando norris x fem! reader. enemies to lovers. forced proximity. fake dating -ish. slow burn.
The Maldives was supposed to be a dream honeymoon for Max and Pietra. Unfortunately, thanks to a seafood disaster and one non-refundable booking, it turned into a “nightmare” for you and Lando Norris.
soundtrack release date: 1.7. 2026
Lando didn’t even look at you. He just kept walking beside you like he hadn’t casually invented an entire fake marriage timeline out of thin air. No hesitation. No shame. No warning. Just two months tossed into the universe like it was a normal, reasonable answer.
The employee beamed at the both of you, completely fooled.
“How lovely! Newlyweds.”
“Yeah,” Lando replied smoothly, slipping into the role like he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Still getting used to it.”
You stared at him, your brain short‑circuiting.
Still getting used to it.
Still. Getting. Used. To. It.
Was he insane? Was he actually insane? Because that was the only explanation for the confidence with which he delivered that line. You caught the tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the smallest hint of amusement, like he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of your suffering.
The bastard was enjoying this.
“Oh, absolutely,” you said through gritted teeth, forcing a smile so stiff it could’ve cracked. “Every day is a surprise.”
Lando finally glanced at you, and for a split second, you saw it—the spark of amusement in his eyes, the quiet little I’m having fun and you can’t stop me glint.
You hated it.
You hated him.
But the villa was ridiculous.
Not just nice—insultingly nice. The kind of nice that made you question every choice you’d ever made in your life. The terrace stretched out over the water like it was showing off. There was a glass slide straight into the ocean, an infinity pool that blended into the horizon, an outdoor shower, two separate bathrooms (mercifully), and enough space to host three families, a wedding, and maybe a small cult.
It was paradise.
And you hated that you were seeing it with him.
The second the employees left, you spun toward Lando.
“What the hell was that?”
Lando dropped his bag onto the floor like he owned the place. “What was what?”
“‘Two months’?” you repeated, voice rising. “Where did you even get two months from?”
He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Sounded believable.”
“Believable?”
“What was I supposed to say?” he shot back. “‘Actually, we’ve known each other for years and can’t stand one another, but our friends got food poisoning and sent us on their honeymoon instead’?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“…Well, maybe not like that.”
“Exactly,” he said, like he’d just won a debate on national television.
“That doesn’t mean you get to invent an entire marriage!”
“Oh, come on,” he said, already wandering deeper into the villa like a man on vacation. “It’s harmless.”
“Harmless?”
“Yes.”
“You made me your wife.”
Lando paused mid‑step.
Turned.
Looked genuinely confused.
“You already were my wife.”
The room went still.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Three long, painful seconds passed.
Then something flickered across his face—realization, horror, embarrassment, all at once.
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
Word count: 5171
Author's note: I’m sorry if this came out so late but i’ve been so busy, probably not gonna publish much until monday as i’m going to the gp, sorry everyone!! xx
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The dawn over the Alpes-Maritimes did not break with a sudden surge of yellow light; instead, it arrived as a slow, glacial seeping of silver and slate through the high, ancient pine trees that perimetered the villa. The air at seven thousand feet was thin, sharp, and bitingly cold, carrying the clean, wet scent of frozen morning dew and crushed limestone. Inside the guest wing of the house, the silence was absolute, heavy, and sterile. You lay beneath a massive duvet of white goose down, your eyes fixed unblinkingly on the dark, whitewashed timber of the ceiling beams.
Your hand was pressed flat against your bare, lower stomach, the thin cotton fabric of one of Max’s oversized gray technical t-shirts, borrowed from his mother’s laundry basket the night before, swathing your frame in an anonymous, oversized comfort.
The adrenaline that had carried you from the Mercedes motorhome to the tarmac of El Prat had completely burned out, leaving behind a deep, bone-deep ache that made even the act of shifting your weight feel like an insurmountable physical negotiation. Every muscle in your neck felt locked, the phantom echo of George’s frantic, high-pitched voice still rattling around the inside of your skull like a loose piece of carbon fiber.
“You don't get to make this decision on your own! You don't get to ruin my life!”
The words were no longer just sounds; they had become a physical weight inside your chest, a toxic sediment that had settled into your lungs. You had altered your entire existence to fit the neat, uncompromising margins of his career. You had spent three years being the quiet, smiling shadow at the back of the Mercedes garage, the person who made sure his hydration drinks were at the exact correct temperature, that his physio notes were sorted, that his media schedule didn't overlap with his pre-session visualization loops. And the absolute second your body did something that wasn't on his strategic map, he had looked at you with a cold, panicked disgust that felt like a knife between your ribs.
A low, rhythmic rumble broke the morning quiet, the heavy, industrial hum of a diesel engine idling on the gravel courtyard below.
You pushed the heavy duvet aside, your bare feet meeting the ice-cold stone tiles of the floor as you moved slowly toward the deep-set window. Down in the driveway, the silver luxury saloon car from the night before had been replaced by a massive, matte-black custom commercial vehicle with diplomatic-grade tinted glass and Swiss registration plates. Willem was standing by the rear door, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a heavy black winter coat, checking his watch against the dashboard display. His collar was turned up against the mountain mist that was rolling off the peaks, thick and white like smoke.
When you reached the kitchen, the smell of fresh espresso and toasted rye bread filled the air, providing a small, grounding anchor against the sudden wave of morning nausea that hit the back of your throat. Sophie Kumpen was standing by the stove, her back to you as she monitored a small pot of boiling water, but it was Max who occupied the heavy oak bench by the window.
He had a massive, matte-black ceramic mug of black coffee cupped between both of his large, calloused hands, his eyes fixed on a highly detailed topographical map displayed on his tablet. He wore a simple black technical hoodie, the hood pulled slightly down, his hair still damp and messy from a quick morning shower. He didn't look like a three-time world champion preparing for a media blitz or a sponsor event; he looked like a mechanic preparing a car for an endurance race in the middle of winter.
"You are awake," Max said, his voice a low, gravelly morning drone that barely rose above the hum of the refrigerator. He didn't look up immediately, allowing you the space to slide into the heavy wooden chair opposite him without the pressure of an intense, searching gaze. "Good. Eat something small. The road through the mountain pass to Geneva can be bumpy if the wind is high."
You looked at the small plate of dry, unbuttered toast his mother set before you, your stomach twisting into a tight, defensive knot. "Geneva? Max, we talked about this in the car. I told you I am not going to that clinic. I’m not letting George’s managers or his PR people look at me. I won't let them make me feel like-"
"It is not his clinic," Max interrupted. He set his coffee mug down on the wooden table with a solid, deliberate clink that instantly silenced the room. He turned his blue-gray eyes toward you, their color flat, clear, and completely unyielding under the harsh morning light. "Do you think I would put you in a car and take you to a place his people paid for? Do you think I am that stupid?"
He reached across the table, his large, blunt finger tapping the glass screen of the tablet, showing a private medical itinerary that had nothing to do with the Brackley corporate machine or the Mercedes team.
"I called my own doctor last night," Max said, his voice dropping into that deep, protective register that felt like a iron door closing behind you. "Dr. Keller. He handled my knee rehabilitation after the karting accident in 2014, and his wife runs the private maternal clinic at the Hôpital de la Tour. It is three kilometers from the border. No one has access to their servers."
He zoomed in on the document, his finger tracing the lines of text. "This is for a full check-up. To see the growth. To make sure your blood pressure is normal after what that idiot did in the hospitality unit. You have been running on nothing but adrenaline, anxiety, and salt water for three weeks. We go to Switzerland to find out the truth, not to erase it."
You looked at the itinerary. Your name was spelled correctly, but the billing address at the bottom was listed under an anonymous corporate holding company based in Hasselt, Max’s personal management firm. There was no mention of the Formula One paddock, no mention of George Russell, and no mention of the Grand Prix Drivers' Association. It was an entirely clean slate, purchased with the absolute, uncompromising weight of Max’s personal resources.
"Max," you whispered, your throat closing as the sheer, terrifying scope of his protection hit you. "The cost... the logistics of setting this up on a Monday morning after a race weekend... it’s too much. I can't just let you-"
"I don't care about the money," Max said simply, leaning back in his chair and crossing his large forearms over his chest. His expression was completely devoid of the sharp, aggressive edge he usually showed the media, replaced by a flat, practical certainty. "And I don't care about the day of the week. The car is armored, the driver is silent, and the doctor was paid before the sun came up. The only thing you have to do today is sit in the seat and breathe the oxygen. That is it."
Sophie walked over from the counter, placing a small, linen-wrapped package of ginger biscuits into your lap. She leaned down, her lips brushing the top of your head with a quiet, fierce tenderness that felt completely foreign after months of living in George’s hyper-calculated world. "Go with him, darling. Max knows how to handle the roads when the weather is bad. And he knows what it means to keep a house safe from the outside."
Max didn't look at his mother, but the line of his jaw tightened until the skin over the bone turned white. He stood up, his massive frame blocking the light from the kitchen window as he grabbed his car keys from the counter.
"We leave in five minutes," he said, his heavy sneakers clicking with an absolute, heavy finality against the stone tiles as he moved toward the mudroom. "Put a thick coat on. The air in Switzerland is different from the coast."
The journey through the Route Napoléon and up into the Swiss plateau was a five-hour exercise in absolute isolation. The matte-black vehicle moved through the twisting mountain passes with a heavy, unshakeable stability, the double-paned acoustic glass completely drowning out the whistle of the alpine wind against the chassis.
Max sat in the front passenger seat, his seatback tilted slightly forward, his eyes never leaving the gray asphalt ahead. He didn't talk. He didn't play music, and he didn't check his phone for paddock news or race debrief summaries. He spent the entire journey monitoring the vehicle’s navigation system and communicating with Willem in short, monosyllabic Dutch phrases about tire pressures, fuel stops, and weather patterns over the mountains.
To an outsider, it would have looked like the cold, unfeeling behavior of a professional driver focused entirely on a destination. But you knew better. You could see the way his fingers constantly twitched against his right thigh, the precise, rhythmic pattern he used when he was visualizing a qualifying lap under immense pressure. He wasn't distant; he was on high alert. He was treating your safety like a world championship lead that had to be defended with every single microsecond of his attention.
When the car finally slowed, navigating the pristine, flower-lined avenues of Meyrin on the outskirts of Geneva, the sun was high but cold, reflecting sharply off the glass towers of the medical district.
The Hôpital de la Tour didn't look like a standard medical facility; it looked like a private, high-security bank tucked away near the lake. The entrance was a recessed pavilion of smoked glass and brushed steel, completely hidden from the main thoroughfare by a dense grove of silver birch trees. Willem didn't use the public drop-off lane; he drove the massive SUV straight down a concrete ramp into a private underground garage where a specialized security barrier clicked open the moment the car’s transponder registered on the network.
The car door was opened from the outside not by an orderly or a nurse, but by Dr. Keller himself, a tall, spare Swiss man with close-cropped gray hair and the calm, analytical eyes of a master watchmaker. He wore a crisp white lab coat over a dark grey suit, his expression entirely devoid of the sycophantic warmth that usually greeted sports celebrities in public spaces.
"Max," Dr. Keller said, giving the driver a short, professional nod of the head as Max stepped out onto the concrete. "The private elevator is ready. We have cleared the third-floor diagnostic suite for the next two hours. There are no other patients on the level."
"Good," Max said, moving immediately to your door. He reached in, his large hand wrapping firmly around your forearm with that same, unmoving stability from the night before, lifting you gently into the cool, sterile air of the garage. "This is her. She has had no medical tracking since the positive test in Monaco. No scans, no blood work, nothing."
"Then we begin from the absolute baseline," Dr. Keller said, turning to lead the way toward a brushed-steel elevator door that required a triple-factor keycard verification.
The diagnostic room on the third floor was a sanctuary of silent, high-end technology. The walls were paneled in light maple wood to soften the clinical edge of the machinery, and a massive, wide window looked out over the distant, snow-capped peaks of the Jura mountains. In the center of the room sat a leather examination table, surrounded by the sleek, white towers of the latest ultrasound systems.
A soft-spoken female technician with quiet eyes and a calm, deliberate manner entered the room, adjusting the lighting until the space settled into a dim, amber twilight that was easy on your strained, dry eyes.
"You can change behind the screen," she said softly, pointing toward a small alcove where a fresh, heavy linen gown was waiting. "When you are ready, please lie on the couch and adjust the paper blanket over your hips."
You walked behind the screen, your hands shaking so violently you could barely untie the laces of your sneakers. The fabric of the linen gown felt cold against your bare skin, a stark reminder of the sheer vulnerability of your position. You were no longer the elegant, composed partner of a Mercedes driver standing on a hospitality balcony; you were a patient, a mother, a woman whose entire internal world was about to be laid bare on a digital screen.
When you stepped back into the room, Max hadn't left. He was sitting in a heavy leather chair in the corner, his long legs stretched out before him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His face was set in a hard, protective scowl, his eyes tracking every movement of the technician as she adjusted the sterile gel bottles on the ultrasound tower.
You hesitated by the edge of the table, your fingers clutching the linen gown around your throat. "Max... you don't have to stay for this part. It’s... it can be weird if you’re not..."
"I'm staying," Max said. His voice left absolutely no room for negotiation. It was the same tone he used when his team principal asked him to drop his pace to save the engine, an absolute, unbending refusal based on his own internal assessment of the situation. "I told you in the car. I am not leaving you alone in a room with a monitor until we know everything is okay. Sit down."
The technician gave Max a brief, assessing glance, her eyes lingering for a second on the hard, unyielding line of his jaw, before she turned back to you with a reassuring smile. "It is fine. The father is always welcome to-"
"I am not the father," Max said, his voice dropping into a cold, flat line that cut through the clinical air like a scalpel. He didn't look away from the monitor screen. "The father is in England, looking at a computer screen. I am just making sure the work is done right here. Proceed."
The gel was ice-cold against the skin of your lower abdomen, causing you to flinch violently against the leather padding of the table. The technician muttered a soft apology, her fingers deft and practiced as she took the heavy transducer wand and pressed it firmly into the soft tissue just above your pelvic bone.
For the first thirty seconds, the room was filled with nothing but the dry, rhythmic clicking of the machine’s internal fan. The large monitor on the wall remained dark, a gray expanse of digital static that showed nothing but the reflection of the amber lights.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs with a frantic, suffocating speed. The anxiety was no longer about George, or the paddock, or the contract in Monaco; it was a pure, primal terror that the immense stress of the last twenty-four hours, the screaming, the shattered glass, the flight across the Mediterranean, had somehow damaged the tiny, fragile spark of life inside you. You closed your eyes, your fingers twisting into the paper lining of the table until the material ripped beneath your nails.
Then, the monitor flickered to life.
A dark, fluid-filled circle appeared on the gray screen, surrounded by the rough, white topography of your pelvic anatomy. In the center of that dark space sat a tiny, curved shape that looked no larger than a grain of river rice. It was static, silent, and incredibly small against the vastness of the digital display.
The technician moved the wand a fraction of a millimeter to the left, her thumb twisting a dial on the control panel.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The sound didn't come from the machine softly; it exploded from the high-fidelity speakers in the corner of the room with a raw, metallic power that filled every square inch of the clinical space. It was a fast, frantic, incredibly loud rhythm, the sound of a miniature freight train racing through the dark at 160 beats per minute. It was the sound of an absolute, uncompromised life, completely indifferent to the political ruin of the Mercedes team or the personal collapse of its parents.
You let out a sharp, choking gasp, your eyes flying open as the tears, hot, thick, and instantaneous, broke over your lids and tracked down into your ears. You reached out blindly with your left hand, your fingers searching for anything solid in the dim room.
Before your hand could fall back to the table, Max’s massive, calloused palm closed around your wrist.
He didn't take your hand with the delicate gentleness of a lover; he gripped your arm with the heavy, unyielding strength of a rescuer pulling someone out of a retaining wall. His large thumb pressed flat against the back of your hand, his skin warm and slightly rough against your cold fingers.
You looked across the space at him. Max was leaning forward in his chair, his laptop forgotten on the floor, his face completely illuminated by the gray light of the ultrasound monitor. His jaw was no longer clenched; his mouth was slightly open, his sharp blue-gray eyes fixed on that tiny, pulsing white dot on the screen with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.
For all his calculations, for all his millions of data points and fractions of a second, he had never stood in a room and listened to a telemetry trace like this. It was a loop that couldn't be optimized, a sector time that couldn't be shortened. It was just life, raw and violent and perfect, reasserting itself in the middle of his neat, mechanical world.
"Look at that," Max whispered, his Dutch accent rounding the words into a low, reverent murmur that was completely swallowed by the sound of the heartbeat. "It is loud, no? Like a little engine."
"The heart rate is 164 beats per minute," the technician said, her voice dropping into a warm, rhythmic cadence that matched the sound from the speakers. "The crown-rump length measures exactly twelve millimeters, which puts you at seven weeks and two days. The implantation is high in the fundus, completely clear of any subchorionic bleeding. Everything is perfectly healthy. Everything is exactly where it should be."
You buried your face in your free hand, your shoulders shaking as the heavy, suffocating layer of anxiety that had lined your chest for three weeks finally dissolved into the sound of that little train. The baby was okay. Despite the screaming, despite the terror, despite the cold rejection from the man who had promised to love you forever, the life inside you was fighting with the same fierce, stubborn tenacity that Max used on a Sunday afternoon.
Max didn't release his grip on your wrist. He sat there for the entire twenty minutes of the examination, his hand a heavy, unmoving weight that kept you anchored to the leather table while the technician took the necessary measurements of the gestational sac and the yolk tube. He didn't look away from the screen once, his face locked in that intense, protective focus that signaled to anyone who knew him that the perimeter had been drawn.
When the examination was over and you had changed back into your oversized clothes, Dr. Keller led you both into his private study at the end of the hall. The room was lined with dark leather books and silver models of old racing cars, the air smelling of pipe tobacco and old parchment.
"The blood work will take six hours to clear through the lab," Dr. Keller said, sitting down behind his heavy mahogany desk and adjusting his glasses. "But the ultrasound data is definitive. There is no structural reason for concern. The physical trauma of the emotional stress has not translated to the uterine wall. However, the cortisol levels must be brought down. You need four weeks of absolute quiet. No travel, no high-stress environments, and absolutely no presence in the paddock."
"She stays at the villa," Max said from his seat by the door. He was sitting with his boots crossed at the ankle, his laptop bag resting against his shin. "She does not go to any more races this month. I will tell my team that she is managing some private assets for my family in Europe if anyone asks why she is in the house."
Dr. Keller looked at Max over the rims of his glasses, his expression serious and analytical. "And the father? He will need to sign the medical disclosure forms for the Swiss registry if the child is to be monitored here."
Max’s face turned into a cold, flat stone. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping into that quiet, venomous register that always preceded an escalation.
"He does not sign anything," Max said. "He does not get his name on the paper, and he does not get the data. If he wants to see the reports, he can ask me, and I will tell him no. Write the file under her name only. The Brackley office does not exist for this child."
Dr. Keller hesitated for a fraction of a second, seeing the unyielding, dangerous light in the young driver’s eyes, before he nodded slowly and made a single, sharp notation on his tablet. "Understood, Max. The file will remain fully confidential under the Swiss federal privacy statutes. No one without your personal security code can access the server."
Once you were back in the underground garage, the heavy door of the black SUV shutting out the clinical silence of the hospital, the exhaustion returned with a vengeance. You slumped into the rear seat, your head resting against the cold leather of the headrest, your fingers tracing the glossy thermal printout of the ultrasound image that the technician had slipped into your bag.
The car moved out of the garage, navigating the clean, silent streets of Geneva before turning back toward the French border. The sky had turned a deep, bruised shade of charcoal, the first drops of a heavy alpine rain beginning to smear across the tinted glass of the window.
Max didn't sit in the front seat this time. He climbed into the back beside you, leaving the wide middle armrest down between you, his long legs stretched into the footwell. He looked at the paper printout in your hands, his mouth set in a straight, hard line.
"You are thinking about him," Max said plainly, his voice hitting the quiet cabin with the force of a direct impact.
"I'm thinking about how he could do it, Max," you whispered, your voice breaking as you looked at the tiny white grain of rice on the black paper. "He saw the same test I did. He knew it was real. How do you look at someone you’ve lived with for three years and tell them that this... that this heartbeat is a mistake?"
Max turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto yours through the twilight of the moving car. There was no pity in his face; there was only a deep, ancient anger that seemed to come from a place far older than his twenty-eight years.
"Because he is a coward who only knows how to look at himself," Max said, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly whisper that made the hair on your arms stand up. "My father... he was not a coward, but he was a hard man. When I was ten years old, if I lost a karting race, he would make me get out of the van and walk home through the rain in the dark. He would tell me that if I didn't want to win, I didn't deserve a place in his house."
He let out a short, sharp breath through his nose, his fingers clenching into hard fists against his knees.
"I know what it looks like when a man uses his child to make his own life feel big. Jos... he thought my racing was his second chance. He thought every trophy I won belonged to him because he didn't win them when he was a driver. And George... George is the opposite. He thinks the child will take his trophies away. He thinks if he has to be a father, he cannot be the perfect prince of the Mercedes team anymore."
He reached across the armrest, his large palm resting flat against the leather next to your hand, not touching your skin but offering a physical wall of protection that you could reach if you needed it.
"Both of them are wrong," Max said fiercely. "A child is not a tool for your career, and it is not a weight that pulls you down. It is just... it is the only thing that is real after the lights go out on the grid. If George is too small to see that, then he deserves to be left behind in the dirt. You keep that paper. You keep that little engine running. And I will make sure the wall stays up."
The return to the villa occurred under the heavy, drumming roar of a full alpine thunderstorm. The winding roads of the pass were slick with black water and fallen pine needles, the headlights of the black SUV cutting two long, yellow corridors through the gray mist.
When Willem finally brought the vehicle to a halt in the courtyard, the old stone walls of the house looked like a dark fortress against the lightning that was flashing across the peaks of the valley.
Max didn't let you walk up the stone steps in the rain. Before you could open your door, he had jumped out of the front, his large frame completely absorbing the downpour as he reached into the backseat and pulled you out by the waist, his heavy waterproof jacket shielding your head from the cold deluge as he guided you quickly through the heavy oak front door.
The interior of the house was warm, the fire having been maintained by Sophie before she retired to her own quarters. The only light came from the orange glow of the hearth, casting long, jumping shadows across the stone floor and the timber beams of the ceiling.
You stood on the rug in the mudroom, your shoes wet, your body trembling slightly from the sudden transition from the cold rain to the heat of the house. Max stripped off his wet jacket, tossing it onto the wooden bench with a heavy thud, his gray t-shirt soaked through at the shoulders where the rain had caught him.
"Go to the fire," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding command that had become your baseline over the last twenty-four hours. "I will bring the bags up from the car. Don't touch anything until you are warm."
You walked into the main salon, dropping your handbag onto the table and sinking into the deep cushions of the sofa by the hearth. You pulled the woolen blanket back around your shoulders, your eyes fixing onto the small thermal printout that you had laid flat against your knees.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The sound was still ringed inside your skull, a permanent frequency that had rewritten the entire architecture of your mind. You were no longer running; you had arrived. The future was still an immense, terrifying void filled with legal battles, media speculation, and the inevitable, ugly fallout when George Russell realized he could no longer control your silence. But looking at that little white dot in the firelight, the anxiety felt distant, like the thunder rolling across the peaks outside.
Max walked into the room a few minutes later, carrying a fresh log of oak for the fire. He dropped it into the hearth with a shower of orange sparks, his face serious and composed as he wiped his wet hands on his jeans.
He didn't sit on the sofa beside you. He walked over to the low table by the window, where his laptop and data charts were still laid out from the night before. He didn't open the screen; instead, he stood with his hands resting flat against the dark wood, looking out through the rain-streaked glass at the black valley below.
"The team called while we were crossing the border," Max said quietly, his voice carrying no emotion, just the flat delivery of a team brief. "Christian wanted to know if I was back in Monaco for the simulator loop on Wednesday. I told him I was staying in France until the weekend."
You looked up from the printout, your heart skipping a beat. "Max... you can't miss the simulator loop. The Canadian Grand Prix is next week. If you stay here because of me-"
"I am the driver," Max said, turning his head to look at you with a slow, confident line appearing at the corner of his mouth. "If I tell them the car is not ready for the loop, the car is not ready. They don't start the engine without my seatbelts buckled, you know? Don't think about the team. The team works for me; I don't work for the team."
He walked over, his heavy steps slow and deliberate as he stopped at the edge of the rug, looking down at you and the small paper image on your lap.
"We are friends a long time," he said softly, his voice dropping into that rare, unpolished sincerity that he never allowed the television cameras to catch. "Since the karting days in Genk, when we were twelve years old and had nothing but a tent and some old tires. I know who the real people are in this place. You were always good to me, even when George and I were crashing into each other every second weekend. You never looked at me like I was just the enemy from the other garage."
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his personal phone and setting it face-down on the mantlepiece above the fire.
"The gate is locked," Max said, his gray eyes fixing onto yours with an absolute, unshakeable finality that felt like the closing of a contract. "The doctor is paid, and the baby is healthy. You sleep tonight. Tomorrow, my mom is going to take you to the market in Vence to get some things that don't belong to a Mercedes motorhome. And if George calls again... he talks to the wall. Because that is all he is now. Just a name on a lap-time sheet."
He turned and moved toward the stairs, his large shoulders disappearing into the dark shadow of the upper corridor without another word. You sat alone by the fire, the sound of the rain against the ancient stone tiles matching the frantic, beautiful rhythm of the little engine inside you, finally safe within the perimeter he had built.
And now he has to look again. Urgently. Compulsively.
So he picks the phone back up from the sticky bartop, the screen already dark from inactivity, and unlocks it with fingers that suddenly feel weirdly clumsy against the display.
The picture is still there at the bottom of the chat. Slightly blurry. Clearly rushed. But devastatingly, undeniably, tangibly real.
It’s the McLaren jersey – his McLaren jersey, bright papaya orange and stamped with the number four across the chest – except the problem is that the body underneath it is objectively far too broad and muscular for a shirt that hangs comfortably loose on Lando himself.
The fabric stretches across Oscar’s shoulders obscenely well.
ZERO CYCLE, CHAPTER 2: Training/Bastion – fanart by elmocracy
Set in the Bestie Au but can be read as a stand alone
Pairing — Lando Norris x afab!Reader
Summary — Your best friend wasn't daft, not always anyway, but knowing you liked girls and seeing you with one for the first time was a whole different number...
Genre — fluff, best friends to lovers in the future au
Wordcount — 1.5k
Warnings — language, lgbtq themes, tell me if i missed sumn else
Rating — NC-17
A/N — being bi myself you'd think i'd be able to portray this better... definitly not a fav of mine and i'm very sorry its so messy but i guess here you go
Technically, Lando had known. Technically everyone knew because you had never made it a secret.
But there was a subtly difference between knowing and actually understanding what that would mean.
It had never been a big deal and neither had it been a sit-down kind of conversation that you had with Lando or Max, but it really wasn’t a secret.
It was way too obvious, the way you automatically talked about dating guys and girls and made it sound like you were talking about dinner or how you easily you mentioned talking to a girl on an app.
Or the time you had abandoned your boys completely during a karting weekend for a girl that had smiled at you near the kiosk.
The signs had definitely been there.
And looking back on it, Lando was a bit embarrassed that it took nearly 10 years until he too finally had it click in his brain.
Getting up in the morning Lando found himself alone in bed. Nothing that happened often as you somehow always ended up in the same bed as him, but something that did happen once in a while. And given that you had met up with some friends the night before to go out together, it really was no shock to him that you weren’t anywhere to be found.
You probably hadn’t come home until very late and with his strict Schedule of training, you must have decided to give him the rest he needed without disturbing his sleep.
At 8:30 in the morning the apartment was dead silent still. The only one causing ruckus was your cat Gremlin who was disgruntled at having to paw at your door to get his breakfast..
Weird. Your door was never shut precisely so Gremlin could wander in and out however he pleased.
Lando shrugged, clicked his tongue at the cat and called him to follow into the kitchen. At first the feline only looked at him weirdly but once Lando picked up his bowl and opened the cupboard where his food was stowed away, the cat had quickly followed and jumped onto the counter to supervise.
The brit had always wondered how you had trained Gremlin to not bother your hands as you prepared his food and instead watch until it was put down.
Once that was done and Lando had finished getting ready he vanished in his little home gym. The door fell shut and he started to play some music so it wasn’t as boring.
Around 11 am, he walked back out. Training was finished and he was sweating profoundly. Towel hanging around his shoulders.
During his exercises he had heard you getting up and leaving your room and since it was a Saturday, he was sure you were now in the kitchen, trying to get rid of a hangover you got even with the smallest amount of alcohol in your system.
“Had a good n—” Lando stopped in his tracks.
The woman sitting at his kitchen table, one leg pulled against her chest, dressed in what he knew was one of your oversized sleep shirts and her underwear, while sipping on a cup of what he guessed what be coffee, was very evidently not you.
“Oh, hi,” she smiled innocently, blue-green eyes flicking up from her toast and phone with curly chocolate brown hair wildly framing her face.
Lando felt like he might have been sent into a parallel universe as he considered calling the police for a breaking and entering.
“Y/n said you might show up. Lando, right?” she went on, ignoring the way he was acting as if he had never seen another human before.
Looking back into the hallway and hoping you’d somehow show up behind him he hummed, not trusting this at all. “Yeahhh, uhmm, where’s y/n?”
Taking a bite out of her toast, she answered: “Getting dressed still,”
That did nothing to reassure him.
Lando blinked at her once, then twice, before slowly setting his water bottle onto the counter and as if the universe truly enjoyed mocking him, your bedroom door opened and you stepped out wearing grey sweatpants and a black top he was sure was only for when you wanted to show off a little while rubbing sleep from your eyes.
“Morning,” you yawned and walked around him as if he was and obstacle just to walk over to the dinning table. The woman, whose name he still didn’t know, turned a bit, eagerly reciprocating the gentle kiss you pressed onto her mouth.
“Morning…” you whispered again, this time against her lips and Lando’s jaw almost fell onto the floor.
A very strangled sound left him, making you look up in amusement.
“Did you see a ghost, Lan?” you asked, falling into the chair next to your… girlfriend?
“Maybe?” Lando croaked out weakly, eyes darting between you and the woman currently smiling into her coffee.
You snorted softly. “Lan, this is Maya,” you introduced before nudging her knee with yours. “Maya, this is the dramatic roommate I warned you about.”
“Best friend,” Lando corrected automatically, still sounding mildly horrified as Maya grinned at him over the rim of her cup.
“Menace,” you corrected again with a wink.
Maya, grinning like a cat that caught the mouse, put the coffee down and held out her hand for him to shake over the table. “Nice to finally meet you!”
The movement shocked him out of his frozen state as he didn’t want to seem rude.
“Uhm, yeah, likewise?” he stammered and sat across Maya before looking at you in his search for help.
Help that you apparently were not willing to offer.
“Annnd you didn’t think to mention this… at any point?” he asked you, voice cracking slightly as Maya calmly continued eating.
You shrugged, entirely unbothered and leaned back in your chair. “I did tell you about this, like, a few months ago? You know? The woman I talked about meeting at the bakery?” Pointing at your girlfriend to make a point. “Maya.”
Lando needed a moment to process. Yes you did tell him about someone but somehow his brain had not made the connection between meeting someone and seeing someone.
“Listen, I know I said I wouldn’t bring someone over so you could have your privacy, but Maya’s sister has taken over her place for a few days and she needed a night to breathe. I honestly thought you weren’t going to be here so I’m sorry…”
The apology was sincere and the driver honestly didn’t even have a problem with you bringing someone over as it was you who had put that rule down in the first place.
Lando exhaled slowly. “No, y/n you know I never had a problem with that. It’s just that this is the first time you ever brought someone over,”
That and that you apparently bagged girls hotter than he could pull.
You opened your mouth to respond, but Maya beat you to it, glancing between the two of you with clear amusement.
“For the record, we only decided to meet again a few weeks ago.”
Lando blinked again, like that somehow made it worse and better at the same time. It meant that he wasn’t as out of the loop as he thought he was.
You leaned your chin on your hand, watching him spiral with obvious entertainment.
Maya simply smiled at him. “Loosen up, I don’t bite as lobg as you don’t keep her all to yourself.”
The underlying threat was very audible.
It made him want to laugh because, what? As if he were any kind of threat to her in terms of dating you!
Somehow he didn’t think that would be received well, tho.
Your girlfriend got up, shirt falling lower and covering her thighs before kissing your cheek to announce she would be getting ready to head out now.
You gave her a bright eyed smile, one that told Lando that you actually liked this woman.
Maya disappeared down the hallway with a quiet “be right back,” leaving her coffee half-finished on the table.
Lando let out a puff of air, still staring at the hallway where Maya had disappeared as if she might reappear with an explanation for everything.
You leaned back in your chair, completely relaxed, as though watching him struggle was the most entertaining part of your morning.
“So… how serious is this, exactly?” Lando asked carefully, wanting to know if Maya would be a future 5th member of your group soon.
“Pretty serious,” you answered without hesitation, taking a sip of your coffee as if you were discussing the weather.
He let out a quiet hum. “Good to know,” more to himself than to you.
You laughed softly at that, tilting your head as you judged hia reaction.
Maybe it was time to stop assuming he already knew everything about you, he thought.
“So how are you planning to break that to Max?”
The thought left you still.
Because while Lando was a simple being, Max had always been a tad bit more extreme.
You’ve always been a rule follower since the day you started primary school. Rules gave you structure, guidance, and a safe blueprint. When a PR nightmare forces you into a fake relationship with your friend and colleague Lando Norris, you immediately build a wall around your heart and disguise it as strict rules written down in a notebook.
It doesn’t take long for the lines to blur, leading to a messy tangle of feelings that neither you or Lando can control. It was only meant to be temporary, something to keep Lando’s delicate public persona safe but somewhere along the way, your feelings became real.
Suddenly you’re left trying to figure out how much you’re willing to sacrifice to follow the rules that you insisted on putting into place. You were the one who said that you didn’t want to deal with the mess of complicated feelings after all. Unfortunately, falling in love with one of you best friend in inherently messy and it scares you to death.
How long are you going to pretend that getting lost in wonderland was always going to drive both you and Lando mad?
Summary: Lando Norris is the mafia boss of Monaco. He’s used to violence, the high class life in Monaco, the usual. But once y/n, a highly trained assasin catches his attention, he tries to impress her. She dosent seem very interested in him, only the quick distracted she gets when she’s with him.
No strings attached part 1
❤︎ |11,5k| Summary: Y/n catches the attention of Lando Norris Monaco's mafia boss. They end up spending the night together and after that, Lando can’t stop thinking about her.
No strings attached part 2
❤︎ |13k| Summary: After three weeks Lando finally sees Y/n again, but it’s not at all how he expected to meet her. He fucks up and tries to make it right, but will she let him? An unspoken deal between them unfolds and Lando isn’t happy about it.
No strings attached part 3
❤︎ |12,8k| Summary: Lando and Y/n’s night together ends abruptly when she gets jealous. After that night, Y/n shuts Lando out. But suddenly Y/n comes up with a plan to prove something to herself, and the plan of course ends in Lando’s bed.
Summary ━━━ In a world where everyone is born with a soulmate mark, most people live their entire lives without ever finding the one person it binds them to. Some are lucky enough to discover their match in old age, often in their 70s or 80s. A blessed few find theirs early in life—and when they do, it’s considered a miracle. The universe offers no promises, only the mark itself.
Throughout all of recorded history, not a single person has ever rejected their soulmate.
But Y/N believes she will be the first to be rejected.
When Y/N, a shy but fiercely guarded woman haunted by childhood trauma and deep insecurities, discovers that her soulmate is Lando Norris—one of the most famous, charming, and emotionally unreachable men she’s ever met—she makes a decision that changes everything. She tells no one. Not even him.
For fourteen months, she carries this devastating secret while Lando unknowingly breaks her heart over and over again. He flirts with other women in front of her, maintains ties with his ex-girlfriend, and treats Y/N with a casual cruelty that cuts deeper than he could ever imagine.
What Y/N doesn’t know is that Lando feels something too—something that unnerves and confuses him. So he buries it beneath sharp words and cold shoulders, lashes out, and pushes away the one person he can’t seem to get out of his head.
He feels the pull. He just doesn’t understand what it means.
Until one moment, by pure accident, he sees the mark on her body.
The universe stops.
Suddenly, the girl he’s spent over a year pushing away is no longer just another name in his orbit—she’s his. His soulmate. The one fate carved into him before he was ever born.
As realization crashes down on him, Lando finally understands why she always looked at him like he was both everything she wanted and everything she feared.
And Y/N—fragile, angry, and terrified—must face the one thing she’s spent months trying to avoid: the truth that he knows.
But the cruelest truth of all? She still doesn’t believe he could ever want her back.
Because while no one in history has ever rejected their soulmate, Y/N has spent her entire life being rejected by everyone else.
And she’s convinced that not even cosmic destiny can make her worthy of love.
Pairing ━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader
Overview:
soulmate AU
enemies to lovers trope
loads of angst
loads of sexual tension and frustration
fuckboy Lando
complicated relationship with emotionally abusive parents (Y/N)
hyper-independent and emotionally guarded Y/N
jealous Lando
“I don’t need anyone” Y/N vs “I’d give her everything” Lando
protective Lando once he finds out the truth
unrequited love (but not really)
Y/N hiding her trauma behind success and control
slow burn
Y/N putting up walls Lando desperately tries to break through
yearning and longing
smut (at some point)
mutual pining
idiots fighting fate (mostly Y/N)
Lando falling first and harder
touch-starved but terrified Y/N
moments of softness that wreck them both
“I’m not good enough for you” trope
Each chapter contains its own content warnings.
Chapter 1: Fight
| 10.9k | Summary: A brutal fight erupts between Y/N and Lando at a friends' gathering, where he unknowingly destroys his soulmate in a way no one thought possible. His attack confirms every fear she’s carried alone for years, shattering the last piece of hope she had. That night, overwhelmed by heartbreak and years of buried trauma, Y/N suffers a panic attack more severe than anything she’s ever experienced.
Chapter 2: Breaking
| 4.8k | Summary: After the fight with Y/N, Lando is left reeling in guilt and self-loathing, realizing too late that his cruelty came from fear of how deeply he cared for her. Meanwhile, Y/N suffers a severe panic attack and is hospitalized, feeling irreparably broken and unloved.
Chapter 3: Spain
| 11.9k | Summary: Pietra persuades a reluctant Y/N to join a vacation in Spain, where a booking mix‑up forces her to share a room and a king‑size bed with Lando. All week, she must keep her hidden soulmate mark concealed from him while wrestling with her nerves and his unexpected closeness.
Chapter 4: Tension
| 16.8k | Summary: Y/N panics when she breaks her foundation, and Lando unexpectedly spends an entire day helping her search Spanish shops to find a replacement. Despite growing attraction and moments of connection, both misinterpret each other's signals—Y/N thinks Lando finds her repulsive while he's actually desperately attracted to her but hiding it.
Chapter 5: Realization
| 11.6k | Summary: Y/N secretly masturbates while listening to Lando jerking off in the shower. Later, he says something that completely devastates her.
Chapter 6: Truth
| 14.8k | Summary: Lando and Y/N see each other for the first time since the Spain trip—and the truth is finally revealed in a single, accidental moment.
Chapter 7: Conversation
| 25.3k | Summary: Y/N and Lando have a serious and heartbreaking conversation.
Chapter 8: Change
| 13.8k | Summary: Lando begins pursuing Y/N with thoughtful gestures and messages, making significant changes to his life to prove his sincerity. Despite being moved by his efforts, Y/N struggles to trust his intentions after being hurt before and chooses to protect herself rather than risk further disappointment.
Chapter 9: Dreamy
| 17.3k | Summary: Lando gets jealous during a dinner with friends. Later that night, a dream occurs.
Chapter 10: Exposed
| 10.4k | Summary: Paparazzi photos of Lando and Y/N leaving dinner together leak online, and Lando witnesses a phone call between Y/N and her mother.
Chapter 11: Cracks
| 21.5k | Summary: After her mother's call, Y/N breaks down in Lando's arms, but panic overwhelms her, and she pushes him away, unable to trust that his feelings are genuine. Later, she meets Pietra for coffee but still can't reveal the soulmate secret. Meanwhile, Lando drives to his parents and confesses everything.
Chapter 12: Shattered
| 20.5k | Summary: A confrontation between Lando and Y/N reaches a devastating breaking point that forces both to face painful truths. In the aftermath, Y/N begins to lower her walls for the first time, though she still can't promise him anything.
a most practical arrangement - part one (max verstappen x reader)
🏁pairing: max verstappen x reader.
🏁 word count: 69.9k total. this part: 14.8k.
🏁 genres/warnings: bridgerton au, marriage of convenience, strangers to lovers, slow burn, lots of mutual pining. one bed trope and miscommunication if you squint. max defo has a competence k!nk. reader is very emotionally intelligent and strong. love letters but about estates. soft angst. max is an orphan (sorry!) and reader's parents aren't great. all other drivers in the series make cameo's !! reader insert but no use of y/n, no descriptions of reader but they are referred to as feminine.
🏁summary: when max becomes the season’s most discussed gentleman, attention becomes an inconvenience rather than an advantage. a practical alliance offers freedom from expectation — until practicality proves dangerously capable of becoming devotion.
🏁 author notes: this fic has consumed me for 3 weeks straight, it's all i've written and thought about lol i needed it out my head. i apologise for the word count it really just kept coming, i keep building the world to ensure the other fics in this series have the continuity. i have neglected work whilst i wrote this so i cant promise the others will come out this fast as i dont want to lose my job lol. anyway, i poured my heart and soul into this so i really hope you enjoy it, i am now a max girlie ooops <3
PART TWO. PART THREE. PART FOUR.
This is part of the ton’s most eligible riders series. To read more, click here.
The gentleman’s club is quieter at this hour, its steady rhythm untouched by the approaching Season. Low conversation blends easily with the muted clink of glassware and the soft turning of newspaper pages. Racing circulars lie folded beside financial reports, ink still fresh from morning delivery. Here, reputations matter less than results, and conversation concerns performance rather than presentation.
Outside, society sharpens itself for scrutiny. Inside, very little changes at all.
Max appreciates that. Here, no one asks him to perform charm. No one requires flirtation. No one expects enthusiasm for things that feel strategically irrelevant. Conversation concerns track conditions, bloodlines of promising horses, investment yields tied to upcoming meets, the occasional political development that may or may not affect travel between counties once the Season begins in earnest.
Useful things. Predictable things.
Across the table, Oscar appears inconveniently content. Not cheerful. Not boastful. Simply settled in a way that suggests his thoughts are no longer occupied by calculations he once found unavoidable. Marriage has not diminished him. If anything, it has refined him.
Max finds this mildly suspicious. “You appear very comfortable,” Max observes at last, lowering the racing circular he has only half read.
Oscar does not appear offended. If anything, he looks faintly amused. “Comfort is not generally considered alarming.”
“It is,” Max replies evenly, “when recent circumstances would suggest disruption.”
“My circumstances are not disruptive.”
“That is unexpected.”
Lando, seated beside them, leans back in his chair with the ease of someone already entertained. “He is intolerably pleased with himself.”
“I am simply less preoccupied,” Oscar says calmly.
Max sets the circular aside with deliberate neatness. “That sounds inefficient.”
“That sounds peaceful,” Oscar corrects.
Max considers this briefly. “Peace is rarely productive.”
“Peace is occasionally clarifying.”
“Clarity is rarely dependent on marriage.”
Oscar lifts one shoulder slightly. “Marriage has not reduced my clarity.”
“It has not reduced his confidence either,” Lando adds dryly.
Oscar does not disagree. Max studies him a moment longer, attempting to identify the precise nature of the shift. Oscar is not distracted. Not restless. Not quietly evaluating exits from conversations that do not interest him. He is simply present. Max is unconvinced this is an improvement. “You are less distracted,” Max concedes.
“I am less uncertain.”
“That seems improbable.”
“That seems accurate.”
Max folds his hands loosely on the table. “I see no reason to introduce unnecessary complication into a functioning routine.”
Oscar’s gaze flickers briefly with something like understanding. “You assume marriage must be complicated?”
“I assume marriage requires attention.”
“It requires intention,” Oscar says.
“Intention is still attention.”
“Not all attention is unproductive.”
Max remains unconvinced. Beside him, Lando shifts slightly, expression thoughtful rather than dismissive. “I would not describe marriage as appealing either,” he adds lightly.
Oscar glances toward him. “You may revise that opinion.”
“I may avoid the need to revise it entirely.”
“You intend to avoid society indefinitely?” Oscar asked, amused by his two friends.
“I intend to avoid unnecessary obligation,” Lando replies.
Max nods once. “Obligation rarely improves performance.”
“That depends on what one considers performance,” Oscar replies mildly.
“I value racing,” Max says simply.
“I value autonomy,” Lando adds.
Oscar’s mouth curves faintly, as though recognising something familiar in both answers. “You may discover those priorities become negotiable.”
“I prefer priorities that remain stable,” Max replies.
“I prefer decisions that remain my own,” Lando adds.
Oscar does not argue. Experience, it seems, has rendered argument unnecessary. Instead, he folds the circular in front of him with careful precision. “The Queen will attend the opening practice.”
Max’s expression does not change. “She attends every opening practice.”
The opening practice marks the informal beginning of the Season’s sporting calendar, attended not only by enthusiasts of racing but by society at large. Invitations circulate widely. Wagers begin quietly. Alliances shift before the first official race has even been ridden.
“She has been particularly attentive recently,” Oscar adds.
“She enjoys influence,” Lando remarks.
“She enjoys competition,” Oscar corrects.
Max lifts his glass slightly, uninterested in the distinction. “Competition does not concern me.”
“Social competition may concern you,” Lando says.
“Social competition is not competition.”
“It is,” Lando replies mildly, “when society believes otherwise.”
“Society frequently believes incorrect things,” Max says.
Oscar inclines his head slightly. “Society occasionally enforces them nonetheless.”
Max does not appear troubled by this possibility. “You are behaving as though I should anticipate inconvenience,” he observes.
“I am behaving as though inconvenience occasionally arrives uninvited,” Oscar replies.
“That sounds speculative.”
“That sounds experienced.”
Lando exhales faintly through his nose. “You think we cannot entirely avoid notice forever?”
“We have avoided notice very effectively thus far,” Max says.
“You have avoided participation,” Oscar corrects mildly.
“We have prioritised relevance and avoided distraction,” Lando adds.
Oscar’s expression suggests he recognises the distinction but does not entirely accept it. “You may find society more persistent this Season.”
“I find society consistently persistent.”
“You may find it unusually focused,” Oscar adds, smirk dancing across his lips.
Max looks between them both, suspicion sharpening faintly. “You are enjoying this conversation more than necessary.”
“He is convincing me to anticipate entertainment,” Lando admits.
“I am anticipating adjustment,” Oscar corrects.
“I am not adjusting anything,” Max replies.
Oscar’s composure does not shift. “You may not be required to.”
“I am rarely required to do anything I do not intend.”
“That sounds optimistic,” Lando says.
“That sounds accurate.”
Oscar studies him a moment longer before nodding once, as though conceding a point he does not entirely agree with. “I will not be present for much of the early Season regardless,” he says.
Lando glances toward him. “You leave this week?”
“Yes, the travel has been arranged.”
“Honeymoons appear extremely inconvenient for scheduling,” Max remarks.
“Honeymoons appear extremely efficient for perspective,” Oscar replies calmly.
“That sounds reflective,” Lando says.
“That sounds unnecessary,” Max adds.
Oscar’s gaze shifts briefly between them. “You will both be quite capable of navigating society without me.”
Max lifts one brow slightly. “Everything will remain entirely controlled.”
Lando’s expression suggests less certainty. “Everything will remain entirely manageable.”
Oscar does not contradict either of them. Which feels faintly deliberate. Max reaches for the circular once more, tone calm with quiet finality. “I have no intention of marrying this Season.”
Lando gives a short breath of agreement. “Nor do I. Or any Season after it.”
Oscar does not argue. He merely looks faintly amused.
As though experience has rendered certainty an unreliable ally. And inevitability, inconveniently, has always preferred those most convinced they are immune to it.
Morning arrives with characteristic efficiency. Max prefers it that way. Routine requires little interpretation. The sequence of preparation proceeds without unnecessary deliberation — boots polished, coat selected, correspondence reviewed briefly before being set aside in favour of more relevant concerns.
Racing demands attention that society rarely earns. The Season tepidly begins today with the first open practice, an event attended as much for observation as competition. Invitations circulate widely, drawing both enthusiasts of the sport and those who simply wish to be seen observing it. The Queen has made a habit of attending the opening rides, her interest in bloodlines and performance as well documented as her preference for particular riders.
Max has been the beneficiary of that preference more than once. It has never altered his priorities.
He fastens the final cuff with measured precision, the quiet order of his Ton residence undisturbed by expectation. His household functions efficiently without intrusion. Everything operates as it should. Nothing requires explanation.
Independence has always suited him. He has maintained his own affairs for long enough that compromise rarely feels necessary. There has never been a moment in which he has wished to surrender decision-making to anyone else. The absence of obligation has always felt like advantage rather than lack.
Oscar’s absence for the beginning of the Season has been noted, though Max does not consider it particularly significant. Honeymoons, while apparently popular, appear strategically inefficient during active competition periods. And yet Oscar had not appeared concerned. Oscar had appeared satisfied.
Max adjusts the line of his gloves, considering this with mild curiosity. Marriage appears to have altered Oscar’s temperament less than anticipated. He remains disciplined. Focused. Entirely himself — simply calmer. Which seems unnecessary.
Still, Oscar has always been deliberate in his decisions. Max does not question outcomes that appear functional. Loyalty, however, he understands well.
It has never been theoretical for him. The absence of parents early in life had created a certain clarity regarding reliance. Some guidance had come instead from those within the racing world — individuals inclined toward performance rather than sentiment, more interested in results than reassurance.
It had been sufficient. More than sufficient.
The Norris household had provided consistency when required. The Piastri family had offered steady encouragement without interference. The Leclercs and Russells had provided familiarity that never demanded explanation.
Conversation had always been practical. Advice direct. Expectations reasonable. Chosen family, though rarely described as such, has proven entirely reliable.
He has never considered the absence of traditional structure a disadvantage. Rather — efficiency.
Marriage, by contrast, appears structurally inefficient. It introduces variables unnecessarily. It complicates schedules. It alters priorities. It creates negotiation where clarity previously existed.
Max does not object to marriage in principle. He objects to distraction.
Society’s fascination with attachment has always struck him as mildly curious, if not particularly relevant. Drawing rooms contain a great deal of conversation without producing proportionate results. Interest in romance appears to generate considerable emotional investment without reliably improving outcomes.
He attends when required. Observes when necessary. Participates when unavoidable. Investment, however, remains optional.
The carriage arrives promptly, conveying him through the familiar morning movement of the city as preparations for the Season unfold with predictable enthusiasm. Stable boys move quickly between yards. Tailors deliver last-minute adjustments to riding coats. Printed racing sheets circulate through coffee houses and private clubs alike.
Expectation hums quietly through the Ton this time of year. New alliances. New wagers. New reputations forming beneath careful scrutiny. None of this is unfamiliar. None of this is particularly concerning.
Max has built his reputation through consistency. Predictability properly applied, is advantage. Well, he thinks it is.
The Queen’s attendance at practice will generate discussion. It always does. Her favour has influenced speculation before, though Max has never considered royal interest especially useful beyond its capacity to discourage unnecessary interference.
Winning remains the most efficient solution to most problems.
He steps from the carriage to the muted activity surrounding the practice grounds, the scent of turned earth and polished leather settling easily into the atmosphere of anticipation. Grooms move between stalls with quiet efficiency. Riders confer in low voices beside the rail. Observers gather at a careful distance, conversation restrained but attentive.
Nothing appears unusual. Nothing appears unpredictable. Nothing suggests the Season will differ materially from those preceding it.
There will be races. There will be society. There will be expectation. He will meet those expectations as he always has, when he is required. And when he wishes to cause chaos. He has no intention of marrying. He has no intention of altering his priorities. He has no intention of allowing society to influence decisions better determined independently.
The Season will proceed as it always does. Structured. Ordered. Entirely manageable. Max expects nothing of consequence to occur this year.
Except, perhaps, winning. And winning, he understands very well.
You attend because attendance is expected.
Society treats the first open practice of the Season as both entertainment and informal declaration of alliances, wagers placed as confidently as reputations. The Queen’s presence alone ensures an audience eager to be seen observing what she observes. Invitations are rarely declined. Visibility, after all, functions as its own currency.
Your parents consider the event an opportunity. They consider most things opportunities.
The carriage slows along the outer approach, wheels settling into shallow grooves carved by earlier arrivals. Already the viewing stands begin to fill with familiar figures — ladies adjusting gloves with deliberate composure, gentlemen exchanging predictions with the confidence of men who rarely risk their own fortunes directly.
Below, grooms move between the horses with quiet efficiency, polished tack catching the morning light. Riders confer in small clusters, posture relaxed but attentive. Even at practice, performance is observed carefully. Every movement contributes to reputation long before official results are recorded.
Your father studies the track with keen interest. Your mother studies the other spectators with sharper focus. Neither of them studies you. “I am told Verstappen remains the favourite,” your father remarks, scanning the racing sheet as though the outcome might reveal itself early through sufficient concentration.
“He has remained the favourite for several Seasons,” you reply.
“Consistency is reassuring,” your mother adds lightly, though her tone suggests reassurance is less relevant than association.
“He rarely disappoints investors,” your father continues, clearly satisfied by the idea.
Investors. You glance toward the distant track, where early preparations unfold with quiet precision. “I believe you will find he disappoints very few people,” you say.
Your mother smiles faintly, pleased by the agreeable sentiment. “Success attracts attention.”
“Success attracts expectation,” you correct quietly.
Your father turns a page of the racing sheet, already calculating probabilities with visible enthusiasm. “Expectation creates opportunity.”
Opportunity. You resist the instinct to observe that the estate’s continued stability has been secured through careful management rather than speculation. Your careful management.
Your father adjusts his gloves, expression sharpening as he notes the arrival of a neighbouring family whose land has declined significantly in recent years. “They have not recovered from last winter’s losses,” he says with mild satisfaction.
“They relied on unsuitable advisors,” your mother replies. You had attempted to advised them otherwise. They had not listened.
Your father continues scanning the riders’ names, interest sharpening. “I am told the Queen has shown particular favour to Verstappen again this year.”
“She often does,” you reply. “He performs reliably.”
Reliability, it seems, is admired only when exhibited by men. Your mother glances toward you briefly. “It is unfortunate, of course, that reliability is not always sufficient.”
You do not respond immediately. Because the implication is familiar. Because your accomplishments are rarely discussed without qualification. “It is fortunate,” you say carefully, “that the estate continues to perform consistently.”
Your father does not look at you. “The estate performs adequately.”
Adequately. You had increased its yields twice over in three years. Stabilised its accounts after mismanagement threatened significant losses. Negotiated agreements with neighbouring properties that secured long-term viability.
Adequately.
“Consistency remains valuable,” your mother adds, as though generosity has been offered. You incline your head politely. Argument rarely alters conclusions already chosen.
“You understand,” your father continues, lowering his voice only slightly, “that long-term stability requires appropriate succession.”
You understand very well. He has explained the situation often. The estate will not pass to you without marriage deemed sufficiently advantageous. Advantage, in this context, is measured less by compatibility than by perception.
“We would not wish to see such a valuable property fall into uncertain hands,” your mother adds gently.
Uncertain hands. You fold your gloves more carefully than necessary. “I have not demonstrated uncertainty in its management.”
“That is not the concern,” your father replies.
The concern is inheritance. The concern is appearance. The concern is legitimacy granted by a husband’s name rather than a daughter’s capability. The male cousin in question has demonstrated limited interest in agricultural yield but considerable enthusiasm for acquiring the outcome of your work.
Marriage resolves this difficulty. Marriage converts labour into recognised authority. Marriage transforms competence into legitimacy.
The irony is not lost on you.
Movement gathers along the track as riders begin to appear, the quiet organisation of preparation settling naturally into anticipation. Horses are exercised carefully, hooves striking steady rhythm against packed earth. Assistants move with practised familiarity. Even informal practice carries consequence. Observers record impressions long before official competition begins.
You have always found racing easier to understand than society. Performance is visible. Preparation produces measurable outcome. Even spectators who pretend expertise must ultimately accept the clarity of the finish line.
Society, by contrast, prefers ambiguity.
Your mother gestures discreetly toward the gathering crowd. “The Season promises several promising introductions.” Promising introductions. The phrase is delivered with the same careful optimism she applies to any matter requiring strategic presentation.
“We would not wish suitable opportunities to pass unnoticed,” your father adds. Suitable.
You wonder briefly whether suitability might ever be defined by mutual respect rather than spectacle.
Below, riders begin taking position. Order emerges from quiet preparation. Control imposed upon unpredictability. Racing has always appealed to you for this reason. It acknowledges risk openly. It rewards discipline honestly. It does not pretend outcomes can be secured through performance alone.
A well-run estate operates much the same way. Investment requires foresight. Growth requires patience. Stability requires decision. You have made those decisions repeatedly. And yet— authority remains conditional.
The Queen’s arrival produces a subtle shift in the atmosphere, conversation softening as attention redirects instinctively toward the royal enclosure. The royal standard lifts in the light breeze. Expectation settles across the stands like early mist.
Beside you, your father studies the riders once more. “Verstappen appears confident,” he remarks.
“He usually does,” you reply, unable to conceal your distaste for the speculative enthusiasm that accompanies his name. Confidence built on preparation rarely requires display.
You find yourself watching the track with more attention than conversation strictly requires. Because racing, at least, remains honest. Because effort produces visible consequence. Because competence earns recognition eventually. Even if society prefers to delay its acknowledgement.
The first set of riders begin their opening circuit, pace measured but purposeful as observers track each movement with polite interest. Your father calculates probabilities aloud. Your mother considers alliances. You consider efficiency.
Marriage is not appealing. Marriage is necessary. And necessity, inconveniently, rarely consults preference.
You do not yet know how you will resolve the problem. Only that resolution will be required. Sooner rather than later.
The practice grounds hum with subdued anticipation as the first set of riders assemble near the track, familiarity softened by the formal awareness of royal attendance.
Opening practice has long functioned as both sporting preparation and social theatre. Riders test horses. Spectators test opinions. Wagers begin quietly, long before the first official race of the Season is called. Performance here does not alter rankings, but it influences perception — and perception, in the Ton, rarely remains without consequence.
The Queen has always enjoyed the opening practice. She claims it reveals more about character than the Season itself. Preparation, after all, allows fewer disguises.
Lando adjusts the fastening of his glove, gaze following the movement of grooms leading the horses toward the start. “She will choose Verstappen again,” he says, not sounding particularly invested in the outcome.
George studies the track conditions with analytical interest, attention drawn more to footing than ceremony. “Consistency appeals to her.”
“Consistency appeals to most people,” Charles adds mildly.
“It appeals less when one is repeatedly compared to it,” Lando replies.
Charles’ attention moves briefly across the assembled riders, pausing where absence is most noticeable. “Oscar’s absence remains apparent,” he observes.
Lando exhales quietly. “I have never known him to miss an opening practice voluntarily.”
“Marriage alters scheduling,” Charles says, not unkindly.
George nods once. “Marriage alters priorities.”
Lando glances between them, expression faintly suspicious. “He appears entirely unconcerned.”
“He appears entirely content,” Charles replies.
George adds, tone measured, “Are you not reassured that your sister is content also?”
Lando’s mouth twitches faintly. “That is not the point. He has developed remarkable discretion recently.”
“He has developed remarkable clarity,” Charles says. Lando does not respond, though his gaze lingers briefly on the track in thoughtful silence.
A short distance away, Max stands composed, attention directed toward the starting line with quiet focus. The presence of the royal enclosure does not materially alter his concentration. Preparation, once complete, rarely benefits from distraction.
George watches him briefly. “He does not appear particularly aware of the occasion.”
“He is always aware,” Charles replies. “He is rarely impressed.”
“He is never impressed by ceremony,” Lando adds.
Charles’ expression warms faintly. “That is perhaps why the Queen finds him interesting.”
The arrival of the royal carriage settled a hush across the viewing stands, conversation softening instinctively as the Queen takes her place within the elevated enclosure. The shift is subtle but immediate. Attention reorients itself without instruction. Her interest in racing is well documented. Her interest in those who ride, perhaps more so.
She observes the assembled riders with deliberate care, her gaze moving between them with the precision of someone accustomed to forming opinions that carry consequence beyond the moment in which they are expressed.
Max inclines his head politely when called forward for introduction, expression respectful but unembellished. Ceremony is acknowledged efficiently.
“Lord Verstappen,” the Queen says, her tone composed, curiosity resting just beneath the surface. “You continue to demonstrate admirable consistency. One begins to suspect you dislike surprises.”
Max inclines his head politely, neither encouraged nor discouraged by the observation. “I find preparation reduces unnecessary variables.”
“And you prefer variables reduced?”
“I prefer outcomes that can be influenced.”
A flicker of amusement touches her expression, the sort that rarely appears without purpose. “That sounds rather serious for someone so frequently described as thrilling.”
“I believe excitement is best produced through performance rather than circumstance.”
“Ah,” she says softly, studying him with increased interest. “So uncertainty holds little appeal?”
“I find uncertainty inefficient.”
“And yet society thrives upon it.”
Max allows the faintest pause before responding. “Society appears comfortable with inefficiency.”
The Queen’s mouth curves almost imperceptibly. “You have been most reliable in recent Seasons,” she observes, as though commenting upon weather patterns she finds pleasingly consistent.
“I aim to remain so.”
“You do not appear particularly flattered by my observation.”
“Flattery rarely improves performance.”
She tilts her head slightly, as though examining something newly interesting from an unexpected angle. “You find society distracting?”
“I find racing sufficiently engaging.”
“And society?”
“Society provides observation.”
“Observation alone?”
“I have not found participation strictly necessary.”
The quiet confidence of the statement invites rather than discourages her curiosity. “I have found the past several Seasons somewhat repetitive,” she says lightly. “Very little disruption. Very little unpredictability.”
“Predictability allows refinement,” Max replies. “It encourages improvement.”
“You do not care for unpredictability?”
“I care for competition.”
“And society offers no competition?”
“Society offers conversation.”
“And conversation does not interest you?”
“I prefer outcomes.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly now, interest no longer disguised as casual politeness. “You are not tempted by the Season’s opportunities?”
“My priorities are established.”
“And marriage?”
The question is delivered gently, almost idly. Max does not hesitate. “Marriage appears time-consuming.”
“And racing is not?”
“Racing produces measurable results.”
A brief silence follows, shaped not by disapproval but intrigue. “That is a remarkably confident position,” the Queen says at last.
“It is a practical one.”
Her attention lingers a moment longer than etiquette strictly requires, as though committing something to memory. “I suspect,” she says lightly, “that this Season may prove less predictable than you anticipate.”
Max inclines his head with polite composure. “I expect consistency.”
Her smile deepens just slightly. “Yes,” she replies. “I imagine you do.”
And in that moment, though neither of them acknowledges it— the Queen becomes quite certain she has found her entertainment for the year.
Her selection of the favourite rider is announced shortly thereafter, to no particular surprise among those gathered. Max accepts the acknowledgement with composed courtesy, acknowledgement given with no more enthusiasm than the moment requires.
Lando watches the exchange with poorly concealed amusement. George appears thoughtful. Charles appears unsurprised.
As the riders begin preparing to mount, Lando steps closer, voice pitched low enough to remain private. “You may have attracted attention.”
“I attract attention regularly,” Max replies calmly.
“Royal attention,” George adds.
“That appears unlikely to interfere with racing.”
Charles’ tone is mild. “It may interfere with your intentions.”
“I have no intentions requiring alteration.”
Lando studies him briefly. “You may wish to develop some.”
“I prefer reactive strategy.”
George’s mouth curves faintly. “You may find yourself reacting more than expected.”
Max adjusts his gloves with quiet precision, attention returning to the track where preparation resumes its natural rhythm. “As long as the racing remains unaffected,” he says evenly, “I do not anticipate difficulty.”
Charles exchanges a brief glance with George. Lando’s expression suggests restrained anticipation.
Because the Queen, when bored, rarely contents herself with predictability. And Max has just informed her he intends to remain entirely unchanged.
Which, unfortunately, has always been the most reliable way to invite disruption.
Your father does not return home in good humour. The racing sheets arrive folded sharply beneath his arm, the faint scent of brandy preceding him into the drawing room before he speaks.
“I do not understand how Verstappen continues to outperform expectation,” he says, removing his gloves with visible irritation.
“You placed your wager elsewhere,” you reply evenly.
Your mother settles delicately into her chair, composure intact in the particular way she reserves for financial inconvenience. “Charles has performed admirably in recent Seasons,” she says lightly.
“He did not perform admirably today,” your father replies.
“He performed consistently,” you say.
“Consistency does not compensate for lost capital.”
You close the ledger before you more firmly than intended. “Capital would be less vulnerable if speculative wagers were not placed against reliable outcomes.”
Your father’s expression sharpens. “I do not require instruction regarding risk.”
“The estate cannot absorb repeated losses.”
“The estate performs sufficiently.”
“The estate performs because I manage it carefully.”
A small silence follows. Your mother adjusts the lace at her sleeve. “There is no need for dramatics.”
“There is need for restraint,” you reply.
Your father’s mouth tightens faintly. “You speak as though responsibility rests with you.”
“It does.” Another pause. He does not contradict you immediately.
Your mother intervenes gently. “We have provided you with considerable freedom.”
“You have provided me with considerable responsibility,” you correct.
“Responsibility is not authority,” your father replies.
“It should be.”
“It will be,” your mother says smoothly, “once succession is resolved appropriately.”
Appropriately. The word has become familiar. Appropriate marriage. Appropriate alliance. Appropriate gratitude for opportunities never freely given. Otherwise, everything is removed. And transferred to someone who has never opened the ledger you balanced alone at twelve.
“You are aware,” your father continues, voice sharpening, “that inheritance cannot remain uncertain indefinitely.”
“It is not uncertain.”
“It is conditional.”
Conditional upon marriage. Conditional upon approval. Conditional upon surrendering independence in exchange for legitimacy already earned.
You hold his gaze steadily. “The estate thrives because of decisions I have made.”
“The estate thrives because of family legacy,” your mother replies smoothly.
“The estate thrives because it is managed correctly.”
Your father dismisses this with the smallest motion of his hand, as though the distinction is unimportant. “An heir will be required.”
“I am your heir.”
“You are not a son.”
“I am competent.”
“Competence,” he replies coolly, “is not lineage.”
“It should be.”
Your mother sighs softly, the sound edged with indulgence rather than sympathy. “You understand society’s expectations.”
“I understand society’s limitations.”
“You cannot expect society to rearrange itself for your preferences.”
“I am not asking society to rearrange itself. I am asking it to recognise practical outcomes.”
Your father gives a short laugh, entirely without humour. “You expect far too much.”
“I expect very little,” you reply quietly. “Only the right to maintain what I have already preserved,” silence gathers briefly. Because this is not speculation. This is record. Years of careful decisions. Years of quiet corrections made without acknowledgement. Marriage resolves legitimacy. Marriage converts labour into recognition. Marriage provides authority competence alone cannot secure. “I will not marry someone unsuitable merely to satisfy convention,” you continue, voice even.
“You will marry advantageously,” your father says.
“I will marry intelligently.”
“You will marry impressively.”
“I will marry someone who allows me to continue managing the estate.”
That gives him pause, if only briefly. His expression settles into something firmer. Less conversational. “You will marry someone acceptable,” he says at last.
“And if I do not?”
His gaze cools. “Society will choose for you.”
“I may prefer independence.”
“Independence,” your mother replies lightly, “is not extended to women indefinitely.”
“I have maintained independence thus far.”
“You have been tolerated thus far.”
The distinction lands with quiet precision. Tolerated. As though the estate’s recovery had been indulgence rather than necessity. As though competence were novelty rather than infrastructure. As though survival had been decorative rather than deliberate.
You still hold your fathers gaze, steady despite the familiar tightening in your chest. “I will not surrender the estate to someone incapable of maintaining it.”
“You will not determine inheritance.”
“I have determined its survival.”
Your mother’s patience begins to thin, composure sharpening at the edges. “Suitable husbands do not seek argumentative wives.”
“I do not seek a husband who fears discussion.”
“Men prefer agreeable wives.”
“Estates prefer competent management.”
Your father sets the racing sheet aside with quiet finality. “You will marry,” he says flatly.
“I will marry appropriately.”
Because appropriately, inconveniently, now requires strategy rather than sentiment. Because appropriately now means choosing someone who will not interfere. Because appropriately now means choosing someone who understands structure, autonomy, efficiency. Because appropriately now means choosing someone who will allow you to continue living the life you have already built.
Because without marriage— everything you have secured becomes vulnerable to people who have never once balanced its accounts. And you will not allow incompetence to inherit what competence preserved. Which means the decision is no longer theoretical.
It is simply necessary.
“You will marry soon,” he studies you briefly, expression hardening into something almost impersonal. “You may imagine independence appealing,” he says. “Society does not.”
“I do not require society’s approval to maintain accounts.”
“You require society’s approval to retain inheritance.”
A quiet pause. “I may choose not to remain here indefinitely,” you say.
Your mother’s brow lifts faintly. “Society does not favour unmarried women living independently.”
“Society rarely favours competent women either.”
Your father stands, irritation settling into finality. “You will find,” he says coolly, “that few men are eager to marry a woman who prefers ledgers to drawing rooms.”
“I am suited to both.”
“That remains to be demonstrated.”
“It has been demonstrated repeatedly.”
He collects his gloves once more. “You will marry someone impressive,” he repeats. “Or the estate will pass elsewhere.”
He leaves shortly thereafter. The door closes behind your mother with quiet finality. You remain seated beside the ledger you balanced only yesterday. The ink has barely dried on figures that secured another year of stability. Stability requires structure. Structure requires authority. Authority requires legitimacy.
Legitimacy, inconveniently, requires marriage. Marriage requires strategy. And strategy requires time you do not possess.
The gentleman’s club is less subdued than earlier, conversation gaining volume as the results of the day’s practice circulate freely among those confident enough to have predicted them correctly.
The club exists somewhere between refuge and theatre. Here, reputations are discussed without ceremony, wagers negotiated without wives, and racing debated with a seriousness rarely afforded to politics. Leather chairs soften the posture of men otherwise inclined toward rigidity, while newspapers and racing circulars pass from table to table bearing fresh opportunities for retrospective certainty.
Max recognises the man immediately when he enters. Volume often precedes him. The faint scent of brandy confirms the impression. He speaks loudly enough that several nearby tables adjust their attention accordingly, irritation contained beneath polite indifference.
Max does not recognise him personally. He recognises the type easily. Lando glances briefly toward the disturbance, expression tightening faintly with familiar impatience. “Society appears lively this evening,” Max remarks mildly.
“Society appears intoxicated,” Lando replies.
Max’s gaze lingers briefly on the man before returning to the table. “He appears dissatisfied.”
“He appears consistent,” Lando says.
Max studies him a moment longer. “You recognise him?”
“Unfortunately. He wagers enthusiastically and inaccurately.”
“That seems ridiculous."
“That has not discouraged him.”
Max does not inquire further. Discretion remains a useful habit. Conversation returns easily to racing, speculation surrounding early practice results producing familiar disagreement. Performance is dissected with the seriousness of men who consider prediction a form of expertise.
“Oscar’s absence remains unusual,” Max observes after a moment.
Lando exhales quietly. “He appears very committed to his honeymoon.”
“That may be related to the fact he married my sister,” Lando replies calmly.
Max inclines his head once in acknowledgement. “It may explain the confidence.”
“That explains the distraction,” Lando says. “He is in love, he has not willingly missed early races before.”
“He appears willing now,” Max grunts.
“That tends to accompany marriage,” Lando says but Max does not appear convinced. Lando watches him briefly, expression thoughtful rather than teasing. “You may find inevitability less avoidable than anticipated,” he adds.
“That seems speculative,” Max studies him more carefully now as he speaks. “You believe today’s events may produce consequence?”
“The Queen appeared interested.”
“The Queen frequently appears interested.”
“She appeared particularly interested.”
Max lifts his glass slightly. “Observation does not concern me.”
“Her interest rarely ends at observation.”
“That suggests unnecessary complication.”
“That suggests entertainment,” Lando corrects.
Max does not appear persuaded. “I do not anticipate difficulty.”
“The Queen rarely introduces anything else,” Lando replies lightly.
Max considers this briefly. “I do not object to being observed.”
“You may object to being discussed.”
“I am selective in what I engage with.”
“You may find selectivity restricted,” again Max does not immediately respond. “The Wolff ball is tomorrow evening,” Lando adds mildly. “Society will assemble. Society will speculate.”
“Society always speculates.”
“Society will speculate enthusiastically,” Lando corrects.
“That remains manageable,” Max sets his glass aside with quiet precision. “As long as racing remains unaffected,” he says evenly, “I anticipate no material inconvenience.”
Lando studies him briefly, faint amusement returning. “You may find the Season more interesting than expected.”
Lando does not argue. He simply looks faintly entertained. Because certainty, inconveniently, is most confident immediately before it becomes outdated.
The Wolff ball always announces the Season properly.
Lord and Lady Wolff have always preferred spectacle with purpose, their events known less for excess than for precision. Every invitation carries intention. Every guest understands their presence will be noticed — and more importantly, remembered.
The ballroom glows accordingly. Crystal scatters candlelight across polished floors, refracting warmth into soft constellations across silk and satin. Musicians perform beneath vaulted arches so the music travels elegantly through conversation rather than competing with it. Gentle movement circulates between carefully arranged conversational clusters, alliances forming with quiet efficiency beneath the appearance of leisure.
This is not merely a ball. It is the opening move.
Max arrives beside Lando, both appearing as composed as men accustomed to entering rooms without requiring announcement. “Nothing has changed,” Max observes mildly, gaze moving across the familiar choreography of the Ton.
“Everything has changed,” Lando replies, noting the subtle rearrangements of social gravity already underway.
Max follows his gaze. Charles stands beside his wife, expression softened by the ease of domestic certainty. George speaks with attentive composure to a gentleman whose daughter listens rather more closely than etiquette strictly requires. Carlos appears deeply engaged in conversation that seems to require very little effort on his part, which is rarely accidental. Marriage has not diminished any of them. If anything, it has steadied them.
Max finds this mildly inconvenient. “Oscar still appears very absent,” he remarks.
“That seems marital,” Lando replies, Max does not appear convinced. “The unmarried gentlemen are now in minority,” Lando continues.
Max glances toward Isack, who appears quietly overwhelmed by the scale of the evening, and Alex, already cornered by a determined young lady and her visibly hopeful mother.
“That seems unfortunate,” Max says.
“That seems inevitable,” Lando replies.
Max considers the room once more. “I have said that I do not object to marriage in principle,” he says after a moment.
“You object to marriage in practice,” Lando corrects.
“I object to expectation.”
“I object to performance,” Lando adds.
“Society encourages alliances with limited consultation.”
“Society encourages alliances with limited affection.”
Max nods once. “Both seem inefficient.”
“Both seem exhausting,” Lando agrees.
A familiar voice interrupts their quiet analysis. “You are both assessing the room as though preparing for litigation,” Lady Norris observes warmly as she approaches.
Max inclines his head politely. “Balls are negotiations.”
Lando smiles faintly. “He refuses to participate.”
“I participate selectively,” Max corrects.
“You both evade enthusiastically,” she replies lightly. Her gaze moves between them with unmistakable maternal awareness. “You will both dance at least once.”
“That seems unlikely,” Max replies.
“That seems avoidable,” Lando adds.
“You could always dance together,” she suggests serenely. Max blinks once. Lando exhales faintly.
“That seems strategically unwise,” Max says.
“That seems socially catastrophic,” Lando agrees.
“That seems entertaining,” she replies, entirely untroubled by their resistance. She departs before further objection becomes possible.
Max watches her go with mild suspicion. “Your mother appears committed,” he observes.
“She always is,” Lando replies.
Max’s attention returns to the room just as the atmosphere shifts. The Queen’s arrival does not interrupt conversation so much as reshape it. Voices soften instinctively, laughter grows more measured, and clusters of guests subtly reposition themselves within her orbit. She does not command attention. She simply reorganises it.
Her interest in the Season has never been purely ceremonial. Her selections have a habit of influencing alliances, fortunes, reputations. And occasionally, marriages.
“She appears thoughtful,” Lando murmurs beside him, watching the subtle rearrangement of society with practiced awareness.
“That rarely remains theoretical,” Max replies.
The Queen pauses briefly within one conversational circle, allowing herself to be addressed before moving on with unhurried composure. Her attention moves with deliberate curiosity, noting not merely who speaks, but who observes. Because influence rarely rests with those speaking loudest.
Her attention settles briefly on Max. Moves away. Then returns, as though confirming an earlier calculation.
“That appears inconvenient,” Max says mildly.
“That appears very inconvenient," Lando replies.
The summons arrives with quiet discretion shortly thereafter. A court attendant appears beside Max with a slight inclination of the head, as though requesting nothing more significant than a brief courtesy.
Lando’s mouth twitches faintly. “You have been noticed.”
“I am often noticed.”
“Not always this deliberately.”
Max crosses the room with measured calm, inclining his head respectfully as he approaches.
“Lord Verstappen,” the Queen says, her tone warm enough to be pleasant, cool enough to remain unmistakably evaluative. “You have enjoyed a remarkably stable series of Seasons.”
“I aim for consistency.”
“Yes,” the Queen says lightly, the word settling between them with quiet approval as she studies him more closely. One gloved finger traces the edge of her fan, the movement unhurried, deliberate. “Consistency is comforting,” she continues, as though discussing seasonal weather rather than human temperament. “Though one occasionally wonders whether comfort produces complacency.”
Max does not immediately respond. He considers the phrasing with the same care he affords track conditions, evaluating implication before answering. “Preparation discourages complacency.”
“And discourages surprise?” she asks, tilting her head slightly, interest sharpening just enough to suggest the question is not entirely idle.
“Surprise is rarely advantageous.”
The faintest smile touches her expression then, almost private, as though she has located something she had expected to find. “You find unpredictability inefficient?”
“I find it difficult to optimise.”
Her fan stills briefly. Candlelight glints along the lacquered surface before she resumes its slow, thoughtful motion. “And yet society delights in unpredictability.”
“Society appears comfortable with inefficiency.”
That earns a soft breath of amusement, subtle but unmistakable. Not disagreement. Appreciation. “You mentioned you find the Season inefficient?” she asks, tone light enough to sound conversational, though her attention has become noticeably precise.
“I find the Season observant.”
“Observant,” she repeats, tasting the word as though assessing its structural integrity. Her gaze flickers briefly toward the surrounding crowd, then returns to him. “And you do not prefer to be observed than to participate?”
“I prefer to compete.”
“In racing alone?”
“Racing provides measurable outcomes.”
“And society does not?” she asks, the question shaped with careful mildness, though her eyes remain intent.
“Society provides interpretation.”
“Interpretation,” she repeats softly, as though the concept itself amuses her. “And interpretation does not interest you?”
“I prefer clarity.”
For a moment she simply regards him, the faint curve of her mouth revealing more satisfaction than the conversation strictly warrants. Because clarity, she has long found, is most entertaining just before it dissolves. “The Season offers many opportunities for advancement,” she remarks lightly. “New alliances. New partnerships. New attachments.”
“My priorities remain established.”
The Queen studies him with composed curiosity, as though examining an object whose construction she already understands but enjoys confirming. “And none of them involve marriage?”
Max does not hesitate. “Marriage introduces variables.”
Her brow lifts faintly, not in surprise but in interest at the precision of the phrasing. “And you dislike variables?”
“I prefer variables I can influence.”
“How very careful of you,” she murmurs, the words touched with something warmer than approval. Her fan rests lightly against her wrist now, forgotten in favour of observing him directly. “You aim for efficiency in all things?”
“That is correct, Your Majesty," Max agrees evenly.
Her gaze lingers a moment longer than courtesy strictly requires, something speculative settling quietly behind the amusement. Around them, conversation resumes in softened currents, the ballroom continuing its careful choreography of alliances and impressions. She appears to consider this familiar order with mild dissatisfaction.
“The past few Seasons,” she says at last, almost thoughtfully, “have been rather orderly. Very few surprises. Very little disruption.”
Max inclines his head slightly, accepting the observation without concern. “Order improves performance.”
“But disorder,” she replies, the faintest note of interest sharpening her tone, “improves entertainment.”
He does not immediately recognise the significance of the distinction. “I prefer stability.”
“How disappointing,” she says mildly, though her expression suggests anything but disappointment.
Max’s composure does not alter. “I anticipate a calm Season.”
For a moment, something almost playful flickers beneath her composure — not visible enough to challenge propriety, but unmistakable to anyone accustomed to recognising intention beneath restraint. “How reassuring,” she replies softly.
The words linger between them, shaped like agreement but carrying the faintest suggestion of promise.
Max inclines his head politely, satisfied the conversation has concluded without complication. He withdraws with the quiet efficiency he applies to all social obligations, attention already returning to matters he considers more relevant. The Queen watches him go with unmistakable interest. Because nothing creates intrigue quite like a man entirely convinced he will not provide any.
Lando, observing from a discreet distance, studies Max’s expression with poorly concealed anticipation. “That did not appear reassuring,” he says quietly once Max rejoins him.
“That appeared conversational,” Max replies.
“That appeared consequential.”
Max adjusts the line of his cuff with habitual precision. “I do not anticipate consequence.”
Lando exhales faintly through his nose, amusement contained but unmistakable. “You may wish to begin anticipating it.”
Max glances briefly across the ballroom. “I do not intend to alter my plans.”
The music changes tempo sometime after the second supper is served, strings softening into something slower, more conversational. Candles have burned lower, wax gathering in pale pools beneath silver holders. Conversation has loosened accordingly, alliances relaxing just enough to appear uncalculated.
The Season has begun smoothly. Too smoothly.
The Queen rises. She does not raise her voice. She never needs to. Sound simply retreats. Conversation quiets in widening circles, like ripples smoothing across water. Fans still. Glasses pause halfway to lips. Gentlemen lean fractionally closer to ensure they do not miss whatever observation has captured royal attention.
“I find myself,” she begins pleasantly, “in need of diversion this Season,” a murmur of polite amusement moves through the room. The Queen is known for many things. Predictability is not one of them. “The Ton,” she continues lightly, “has been remarkably well behaved of late.”
A few knowing smiles appear. One or two cautious glances are exchanged between families whose scandals had perhaps been disappointingly minor. “I therefore feel it necessary,” she says, folding her hands loosely before her, “to encourage a little unpredictability.”
Interest sharpens instantly. Because encouragement from the Queen rarely resembles suggestion. “I have chosen my Diamond for this Season.”
The words settle with familiar weight. Every year, the Queen’s selection shapes the marriage market before it properly begins. The chosen Diamond becomes the centre of attention, admiration, speculation. Invitations multiply. Suitors materialise. Mothers reorganise their ambitions overnight.
Normally, the Diamond is a young lady of particular beauty, wit, or promise. Normally, the announcement produces delighted nerves rather than strategic alarm. Several young women straighten almost imperceptibly. Fans still entirely. A few hopeful mothers begin calculating before the name is even spoken.
Across the ballroom, Max is only partially listening, engaged in quiet discussion with Charles regarding track conditions expected later in the week. Lando, however, is watching the Queen. Then Max. Then the Queen again.
Because Lando recognises that expression. It is the expression of someone about to rearrange the board.
“Lord Max Verstappen,” the Queen says lightly, “whose composure I find most intriguing.”
Silence lands. Not polite silence. Not attentive silence. The sharp, collective stillness of a room forced to reconsider its assumptions.
Max does not react immediately. Because the statement does not appear to concern him. Charles’ sentence stops halfway through a perfectly reasonable observation about saddle balance. George’s brows lift with visible appreciation for the chaos unfolding. Carlos presses his lips together in what might generously be described as restraint. Lando’s hand pauses midway to his glass.
Max blinks once. Then again. His gaze shifts slowly toward the Queen, as though confirming the geometry of the room has not altered unexpectedly. “I beg your pardon,” he says quietly, to no one in particular.
Lando does not attempt rescue. “You,” Lando confirms helpfully.
Max studies the room as though expecting clarification. None arrives. “That seems incorrect,” he says after a moment.
“That seems official,” Lando replies.
Understanding arrives gradually. Because the Queen’s Diamond is not merely admired. The Diamond becomes the Season’s narrative. Admired. Pursued. Discussed. Evaluated. Relentlessly. Max, who has spent several years avoiding unnecessary society engagement with admirable efficiency, has just been placed at the centre of it.
Across the ballroom, reaction blooms in stages. Confusion. Recognition. Opportunity. Several mothers exchange meaningful glances with alarming speed. One lady’s fan stills mid-motion. Another immediately begins scanning the room for her daughter. A third appears to be calculating lineage compatibility with astonishing rapidity.
Because the Diamond does not merely receive attention. The Diamond attracts ambition. Max has long been considered an excellent match — successful, disciplined, reliably victorious — precisely the sort of husband society prefers to secure early. Until now, he has remained admirably difficult to obtain. The Queen has just rendered that difficulty largely theoretical.
George leans slightly toward Charles. “This,” he murmurs, “is inspired.”
Charles nods once, expression composed but eyes bright with unmistakable amusement. Carlos does not trouble himself with subtlety. “I believe,” he says softly, “we are about to witness a great deal of enthusiasm.”
Max exhales once, slowly, as though recalibrating expectations in real time. “This does not appear good,” he says.
“This appears historic,” Lando corrects.
“That appears impossible—” The first mother approaches before Max has fully completed the sentence. She arrives with determined grace and a daughter who looks as though she has been repositioned with military precision.
“Lord Verstappen,” the mother begins warmly, as though they have been previously acquainted rather than strategically introduced. “Allow me to present—”
Max nods politely, composure intact but clearly strained by the sudden multiplication of variables. Another mother begins adjusting course from across the room. A third subtly redirects her daughter’s conversational trajectory. Like migratory birds responding to invisible seasonal change, the marriage-minded population of the Ton begins to converge.
Lando watches with open delight. “You appear popular,” he remarks.
“I appear surrounded,” Max replies evenly.
“That is generally how popularity functions.”
“This appears temporary.”
“You appear optimistic.”
By the fourth introduction, Max has begun to angle his body strategically toward architectural features that may provide escape routes. “This appears persistent,” he corrects.
Across the room, the Queen observes the unfolding reorganisation of society with unmistakable satisfaction. Because nothing disrupts predictability quite like placing the least romantically inclined man in the Ton at the centre of it. And disruption, when applied precisely— is very entertaining indeed.
Across the ballroom, you observe the unfolding spectacle with quiet interest. The Queen’s announcement produces immediate consequence.
Mothers advance with coordinated optimism, expressions bright with calculation. Daughters arrange themselves with composed grace, posture carefully balanced between confidence and invitation. Conversations shift subtly, alliances reconsidered in real time as social momentum redirects toward a newly designated centre of interest.
Max remains encircled. Not trapped, exactly. Max is not easily trapped. But contained. Polite introductions arrive in orderly succession, each mother guided by the quiet urgency of opportunity newly presented. Daughters curtsy with varying degrees of composure. Smiles are deployed with strategic care. Max receives each introduction with measured courtesy, expression unchanged, tone perfectly civil, interest entirely absent. You suspect this equilibrium will not hold indefinitely.
Your mother follows your gaze, her fan moving in slow, thoughtful rhythm as she observes the quiet commotion forming around him. “He is considered extremely suitable,” she remarks at last, the words shaped less by romance than calculation.
Across the room, another hopeful introduction is already underway, a carefully positioned daughter guided forward with polite determination. “He appears extremely uninterested,” you reply.
“That rarely prevents arrangements,” she says mildly, attention still fixed on the shifting constellation of ambitious mothers.
“That rarely produces successful ones.”
Her fan stills for a fraction of a moment, as though the observation has struck closer to relevance than expected. “Happiness,” she says lightly, “is not always the primary objective.”
You allow a small pause, watching Max incline his head politely as yet another introduction is attempted. His composure remains intact, but his stillness has become more deliberate. “Function,” you say quietly, “is generally more reliable than performance.”
Your mother glances at you then, a flicker of curiosity passing briefly across her expression before she returns her attention to the scene unfolding across the ballroom. “He will marry someone impressive.”
“Impressive,” you repeat carefully, considering the word rather than rejecting it, “is often interpretative.”
“Impressive is visible,” she corrects, smoothing the line of her glove with quiet precision.
“Practicality is less visible,” you reply, “but more durable.”
Something in your tone draws her attention back to you more fully now. “He will not consider a woman without considerable advantage.”
“I possess considerable advantage.”
Her gaze sharpens faintly. “Not the kind society advertises.”
“I prefer advantage that functions.”
Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, the expression she adopts when confronted with arguments she does not entirely wish to validate. “He will marry someone admired,” she continues, as though reinforcing a conclusion already agreed upon.
“Admiration is not always useful.”
“Admiration attracts influence.”
“Competence sustains it.”
Across the room, Max extricates himself from one conversation only to find himself introduced immediately into another. His patience is admirable. His enthusiasm is not.
Your mother watches the exchange with quiet certainty. “You would not suit him.”
You consider this without offence. Perhaps she is correct. You do not offer ornament. You do not offer novelty. You do not offer effortless charm designed to soothe conversational discomfort. You offer stability. You offer capability. You offer outcomes.
“He will require refinement,” she continues, unaware she is assembling the argument piece by piece.
“He appears uninterested in refinement.”
“He will require distinction.”
“He already possesses distinction.”
“He will require admiration.”
“He appears uninterested in admiration.”
Her brow lifts faintly now, suspicion beginning to form. “He will not marry for practicality.”
Across the ballroom, Max inclines his head politely once more, listening with visible restraint to a description of musical accomplishment he clearly has no intention of investigating further.
He does not appear to want marriage. You do not appear to want marriage. He requires distance from society’s interference. You require legitimacy within it. His difficulty is intrusion. Yours is exclusion.
The symmetry is notable.
The idea does not arrive dramatically. It assembles itself. Marriage provides authority. Marriage provides protection. Marriage provides distance. Marriage provides access. Marriage provides legitimacy.
And, inconveniently— marriage appears to be precisely what neither of you wants and both of you require.
Your mother continues speaking, unaware the conversation has already moved beyond her. “He will choose someone ambitious,” she says.
You glance toward Max again, watching him endure yet another hopeful introduction with composed resignation. “Yes,” you say quietly. “He will.”
Because ambition, properly applied, does not always resemble ornament. Sometimes, it resembles survival.
Marriage requires strategy. Strategy requires calculation. Calculation requires opportunity. Opportunity, conveniently, has just presented itself.
And efficiency, properly applied— rarely wastes favourable conditions.
Max escapes the tenth conversational ambush with quiet efficiency.
He does not hurry. Haste invites pursuit. Instead, he withdraws with deliberate composure, navigating the shifting geography of the ballroom with the same precision he applies to racing lines. Conversation parts reluctantly, determined maternal optimism proving remarkably difficult to evade once encouraged by royal endorsement.
He has been congratulated. Evaluated. Intercepted. Cornered beside floral arrangements. Presented with daughters possessing varied combinations of agreeable disposition, musical accomplishment, and notable fertility prospects.
One mother had attempted to provide a written summary. Another had attempted to secure a future supper engagement before introductions had properly concluded. A third had simply remained beside him in determined silence, as though proximity alone might produce agreement.
Max does not enjoy inefficiency. He found himself briefly contained between a column and an enthusiastic discussion of pianoforte proficiency before identifying an acceptable exit vector toward the adjoining gallery.
The air there is cooler. Quieter. Conversation softens to a distant murmur filtered through carved doorframes and tall windows overlooking the darkened gardens. Candles burn more slowly here, their light undisturbed by constant movement.
He pauses only long enough to restore internal order. Marriage, he reflects, has never appeared especially appealing. Marriage under observation appears considerably worse.
He assumes the approaching figure intends similar negotiation. “I regret to inform you,” Max says calmly, without fully turning, “that I am unlikely to be persuaded by maternal enthusiasm.”
“I am not maternal,” you reply evenly.
That earns his attention. He turns to look at you properly then. You do not appear flustered. You do not appear strategically charming. You do not appear inclined toward performance of any kind. You appear purposeful. Which is unusual.
“I am not seeking introduction,” you continue.
“That is encouraging.”
“I am seeking discussion.”
Max shifts slightly, angling his body toward the gallery windows where the noise of the ballroom dulls into something distant and manageable. He studies you now with more deliberate interest, attention sharpening in the precise way it does when something presents itself as potentially useful.
“That is usually concerning,” he observes.
“I believe we may be of use to one another.”
That stills him. Not the words themselves, but the manner in which they are delivered — calm, considered, entirely without ornament. You are not attempting to attract him. You are attempting to convince him.
He finds this distinction unexpectedly compelling. “You are unusually direct,” he says.
“I find clarity reduces misunderstanding.”
“That depends on the subject.”
“I believe this subject benefits from efficiency.”
A faint flicker of interest passes across his expression. Behind you, the soft hum of the ballroom continues uninterrupted, mothers advancing with strategic optimism, daughters positioned with careful elegance.
“You do not appear discouraged,” he observes, glancing briefly toward the ongoing campaign being conducted in his general direction.
“I am encouraged by your difficulty.”
One brow lifts, almost imperceptibly. “That is remarkably candid.”
“I have found honesty saves time.”
He leans one shoulder lightly against the carved stone arch, posture relaxed without becoming informal. Evaluating rather than disengaging. “You are not seeking introduction,” he confirms.
“No.”
“You are not seeking flirtation?”
“No.”
“You are not seeking attention?”
“No.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “Then what are you seeking?”
“A solution,” the word settles between you with unexpected weight. “I am not competing for your affection,” you continue evenly. “I am proposing an arrangement,” that is not what he expected. Curiosity replaces polite tolerance entirely. “I believe we may assist one another.”
He folds his arms loosely, not defensive, simply thoughtful. He studies you more carefully now, reassessing initial assumptions. “That suggests confidence.”
“It suggests preparation,” a brief pause settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Analytical. “You believe marriage inconvenient,” you continue.
“I believe marriage introduces unnecessary variables.”
“I believe marriage may remove several.”
That draws his full attention. “How?”
“I require legal independence,” you say without hesitation. “I currently manage my family’s estate. Successfully. Profitably. Consistently. Yet my authority remains conditional,” you do not elaborate unnecessarily. He does not interrupt unnecessarily. “I require legitimacy society is unwilling to grant me alone.”
His head tilts slightly as he considers this. “And you believe marriage provides that legitimacy?”
“I believe marriage provides protection from interference.”
“And what,” he asks carefully, “do I gain from this protection?”
“You gain freedom,” that interests him. “You are currently being pursued with strategic determination,” you say calmly. “That attention will persist until you are considered unavailable.”
“That is already becoming apparent.”
“I do not require courtship. I do not require demonstrations of affection. I do not require proximity beyond necessity,” his attention does not waver now. “I require partnership,” you continue. “Autonomy. Discretion.”
“And you believe I am suited to provide those things?”
“I believe you are uniquely suited.”
A faint exhale escapes him, almost resembling quiet amusement. “That is a very specific assessment for someone I do not know.”
“I know enough.”
His curiosity sharpens further. “Explain.”
“You do not appear motivated by society’s approval.”
“That is accurate.”
“You do not appear interested in decorative marriage.”
“That is also accurate.”
“You appear motivated by performance, you require minimal disruption,” he studies you a moment longer. “I do not interfere with efficiency,” you say simply. That lands. “I have no interest in altering your routines. Your racing would remain entirely your own concern.”
“And your expectations of a husband?”
“Limited.”
He shifts his weight slightly, considering the architecture of the proposal as though mapping a course. “You think this would allow you to retain independence?”
“Yes.”
“You would retain control of your estate?”
“Yes.”
“You would retain autonomy.”
“Yes.”
“And what prevents this arrangement from becoming complicated?”
“I have no intention of complicating it.”
“You are certain.”
“I have examined every alternative available to me,” something quieter enters your tone now. Not uncertainty. Urgency. “I am two-and-twenty and remain unmarried not because I lack opportunity, but because managing the estate has always required priority over presentation. Suitors rarely favour women already occupied with ledgers,” understanding sharpens in his expression. “My parents intend to transfer authority elsewhere if I do not marry advantageously,” you continue. “I have secured that estate’s success for ten years. It will not survive poor management.”
“You care for it,” he says, not as question but recognition.
“I built it,” that, he understands immediately. Silence settles. Measured. Respect forming beneath calculation. “I do not require affection,” you say calmly. “I require mutual benefit.”
He watches you for a long moment now, recalculating entirely. “You are proposing marriage as a strategic alliance.”
“Yes.”
“You do not expect romance.”
“No.”
“You do not expect courtship.”
“No.”
“You do not expect emotional entanglement.”
“No.”
That seems to reassure him more than it should. “And you believe this resolves your situation?”
“I believe it resolves both of ours.”
Music drifts faintly through the gallery doorway. Laughter rises somewhere beyond it, distant and irrelevant.
“You are very composed,” he observes.
“I am very motivated.”
“You are not concerned by impropriety?”
“I am concerned by losing everything I have built.”
That clarifies matters considerably. He looks at you differently now. Not as interruption. Not as novelty. As possibility. “You are remarkably calm for someone proposing marriage to a stranger.”
“I am remarkably practical for someone without preferable alternatives.”
That almost produces a smile. Almost. “You would expect honesty?” he asks finally.
“Yes.”
“You would offer honesty?”
“Yes.”
He nods once, decision not yet made but very much underway. “I will consider your proposal.”
Not refusal. Not acceptance. Consideration. Which, from a man who prefers certainty, is already significant. Because consideration implies interest.
And interest, inconveniently— is how efficiency begins to resemble inevitability.
Max has never been particularly interested in society’s opinions. Unfortunately for him, society is extremely interested in his.
Three days after the Wolff ball, he discovers this interest has developed into something resembling organised pursuit. He is mentioned in newspapers. He is discussed in drawing rooms. He is evaluated in correspondence between families who have not previously demonstrated interest in racing but now demonstrate considerable interest in riders.
He is assessed in the gentleman’s club with the same speculative intensity usually reserved for bloodlines, shipping routes, and investments expected to produce reliable returns.
Max considers all of this deeply inefficient. Marriage, he has always believed, is something that happens to other people. People who enjoy discussing upholstery. People who find satisfaction in guest lists. People who possess enthusiasm for social choreography and the careful negotiation of familial alliances conducted across polished tables. Max finds satisfaction in winning. Everything else is supplementary.
And yet now, as he enters the gentleman’s club on a grey morning that smells faintly of rain and expensive tobacco, three separate men nod to him with expressions suggesting congratulations are in order. Max has not congratulated himself on anything. He has done nothing. Which, apparently, is the difficulty.
The gentleman’s club functions as an unofficial clearing house for information deemed unsuitable for domestic conversation. Here, speculation circulates more freely than brandy, and reputations are discussed with the brisk confidence of men who believe observation constitutes expertise.
This morning, observation appears focused entirely upon him. Lando is already seated at their usual table, turning a folded racing circular with unnecessary concentration. “You are being discussed,” Lando says mildly, without looking up.
“I am often discussed,” Max replies, removing his gloves with habitual precision.
“You are being discussed matrimonially.”
Max signals for coffee. Strong. Necessary. Several conversations lower fractionally as he passed by. A gentleman he does not know inclines his head with conspiratorial approval. Another offers an encouraging remark regarding excellent prospects. Max does not recall requesting prospects.
He notices, distantly, that your father occupies the far end of the room, already several glasses into what appears to be a determined misunderstanding of moderation. Max has observed him here before. Loud. Opinionated. Frequently incorrect. He is currently explaining to anyone willing to listen that managing an estate without a son is equivalent to attempting to race without reins. Max privately suspects reins are precisely what the man lacks.
“If I had been given a boy,” your father declares loudly, “matters would be significantly simpler.”
Max studies the rim of his cup before responding quietly, “I suspect his daughter is the reason the estate still functions.”
Lando glances toward the voice, unsurprised. “That is correct, my father always speaks to her, not him.”
“He appears unaware.”
“He is reliably unaware.”
Max nods once. Competence recognises competence. He thinks he has noticed you before. Not socially. Practically. You listen more than you speak. You do not exaggerate enthusiasm for the sake of politeness. You ask questions that indicate comprehension rather than curiosity for display. You do not perform uncertainty when certainty is available.
Max respects efficiency. Max respects precision. Max respects anyone capable of maintaining structural stability in circumstances designed to deteriorate. He had not expected to consider marrying you. He is still not entirely convinced he is considering it. He is simply not dismissing it. Which is unusual.
Max dismisses most things immediately. If something remains under consideration, it has passed at least one threshold of usefulness. He does not mention this to Lando. That silence is significant. Max discusses strategy with Lando constantly. Race lines. Track conditions. Horse temperament. Mechanical adjustments. Weight distribution. Margins for acceptable risk.
If he is not mentioning something, he is thinking about it. Repeatedly.
He dislikes being trapped. He dislikes being manoeuvred. He dislikes decisions made under observation. He dislikes variables introduced without consultation. And yet your proposal had been neither manipulative nor uncertain.
It had been structured. Rational. Alarmingly aligned with his own priorities. Marriage, presented as inconvenience, is easily dismissed. Marriage, presented as efficiency, becomes more difficult to ignore.
He takes a measured sip of coffee. Across the room, your father continues explaining loudly why daughters are structurally unsuited to responsibility.
Max does not look in that direction again. He does not need further evidence. He dislikes interference. He dislikes inefficiency. He dislikes preventable instability. He dislikes problems without practical solutions.
And, increasingly inconveniently, your proposal resembles a solution.
By the time the new Lady Russell hosts her garden luncheon two days later, Max has received four invitations delivered by mothers who did not previously know he existed. He attends because declining invitations encourages persistence. Accepting invitations discourages repetition. He hopes.
The Russell gardens are arranged with mathematical care, paths curved precisely enough to appear informal while ensuring all guests remain comfortably visible. Tables are placed to encourage conversation without allowing retreat. The Season excels at engineering proximity.
Max is seated between Lady Harcourt and Lady Dempsey, both of whom speak about their daughters with a degree of strategic emphasis usually reserved for trade negotiations.
“My daughter is extremely obedient,” Lady Harcourt explains warmly.
Max pauses briefly, considering the statement as though evaluating a horse described as unusually compliant. “That sounds concerning.”
Lady Dempsey’s smile brightens with increased determination. “My daughter is remarkably adaptable.”
Max takes a measured sip of wine. “That sounds exhausting.”
Neither woman laughs. He is asked whether he prefers musical accomplishments or needlework. He replies that he prefers silence. This is not interpreted as humour.
Across the table, you sit beside Lord Wolff, listening attentively to a discussion of land drainage with more interest than anyone else present. You ask a question regarding seasonal flooding patterns that suggests familiarity with long-term yield management rather than polite curiosity.
Max has heard similar questions asked during agricultural briefings attended by landowners considerably older than you. You do not look at him. You do not attempt conversation. You do not position yourself advantageously within conversational proximity. You are the only person present not attempting to attract his attention.
Statistically unusual. Max notices anomalies. He catalogues them. He has definitely encountered you before. Not socially. Professionally adjacent. A winter consultation regarding shared boundary drainage. A discussion of crop rotation yields with a neighbouring estate holder. A conversation at the edge of a practice field where you had asked precise questions about breeding durability rather than aesthetic quality.
He had not considered the encounters remarkable at the time. Competence rarely announces itself loudly. It simply functions. He recalls now that you had not seemed impressed then either. You had seemed occupied. Which he respects.
He returns his attention to Lady Harcourt, who is explaining the advantages of a daughter trained in watercolour. Max does not require watercolour.
The promenade walk the following morning is worse. Society has reorganised itself into observation patterns. Young ladies pass repeatedly. Too repeatedly. Coincidence becomes statistically unlikely when repeated six times within twenty minutes.
Lando appears deeply entertained. “You appear popular,” he remarks.
“I appear hunted,” Max replies.
“You did inform the Queen that marriage was inconvenient.”
“Marriage remains inconvenient.”
“You are now discovering consequences.”
“I am discovering inefficiency.”
They are intercepted three times before reaching the far path. Each interruption involves careful mention of family lineage and vague references to feminine accomplishments that appear unrelated to any practical function. By the fourth approach, Max has begun to calculate exit vectors with quiet urgency.
You pass them once, accompanied by an older relation. You incline your head politely. No hesitation. No adjustment of pace. No attempt to convert proximity into opportunity.
Confidence signals independence. Max appreciates independence. He distrusts desperation. You do not appear desperate. You appear resolved. And, increasingly inconveniently, he finds himself wondering how long you had been observing him with equal practicality before deciding he might be useful.
Which suggests the proposal had not been impulsive. Which suggests it had been planned. Which, to Max, is considerably more persuasive.
Practice days traditionally attract those who understand racing. The first race of the Season attracts those who wish to be seen understanding racing.
There is a difference.
The racing grounds are transformed by the presence of spectators who treat the track as theatre rather than discipline. Silk replaces practicality in the stands. Parasols tilt at angles designed for visibility rather than shade. Conversations carry farther than they should.
Racing, at its core, rewards concentration. Society rewards spectacle. The combination rarely benefits either.
Temporary viewing galleries have been erected along the outer boundary of the course, their pale canopies fluttering lightly in the early breeze. The scent of turned earth mixes with perfume and expensive starch. Servants circulate discreetly with refreshments as though this were merely another garden engagement rather than a test of timing, nerve, and control.
Max finds the atmosphere inefficient.
George adjusts the fastening of his gloves beside him, attention already narrowed toward the track. “You appear to have attracted a larger audience than usual,” he observes.
“I preferred the previous audience,” Max replies.
Charles follows the line of sight toward the crowded stands, expression faintly amused. “They seem enthusiastic.”
The horses are restless today, responsive to the unfamiliar noise. Increased movement at the edges of the track unsettles rhythm. Spectators shift too often, lean too far, speak too loudly. Racing depends upon consistency of environment as much as consistency of rider.
Max mounts with quiet efficiency, attention narrowing instinctively toward the course ahead. He does not perform for spectators. He performs for precision.
Practice had been manageable. Irritating, but manageable. The race is not.
The Queen attends. Naturally. The stands are full. Unnaturally. Movement gathers at the track’s edge as the riders take position. Fabric shifts. Voices lower. Attention sharpens.
The first race of the Season always carries symbolic importance, though its practical consequences remain limited. Symbolism, unfortunately, attracts distraction.
The opening stretch begins cleanly. Hooves strike turf with controlled rhythm, the formation tightening naturally as riders establish position. Max’s mount responds immediately, familiar pressure producing immediate adjustment. The world narrows to alignment of muscle, weight, timing.
Turn approaching. Shift left. Maintain line. The course curves along the outer boundary, fencing separating riders from the viewing enclosure where society observes what it does not fully understand.
A flicker of pale movement interrupts peripheral vision at precisely the wrong moment. A parasol dips forward. Too far forward. A figure leans beyond the boundary rope in an effort to see more clearly.
Or to be seen more clearly. White fabric loosens from her grip, slipping downward, catching briefly against the rope marking the edge of the enclosure.
The movement is small. Insignificant. But horses are creatures of instinct. The trailing mount startles fractionally, just enough to tighten the formation behind. The disruption travels forward like an echo.
Max adjusts immediately. Pressure shifts. Angle corrects. Balance compensates. Control is maintained. But momentum alters. Distance opens. Charles gains advantage. Not dramatically. Not catastrophically. But measurably.
Second place. Entirely unacceptable. Max does not lose races because of society. Society does not dictate performance. Society does not intrude upon discipline. And yet— society has just intruded.
The finish line arrives with polite applause rather than decisive silence. Spectators appear delighted by the increased excitement, unaware that excitement is often merely inefficiency disguised as drama.
Max dismounts with controlled precision, passing the reins to the waiting groom without comment. His composure remains intact. His satisfaction does not. Second place is not failure. Second place is interference. Interference is intolerable.
Congratulations arrive quickly, offered with carefully shaped sympathy.
“Well ridden.”
“Unfortunate disturbance.”
“Most exciting finish.”
Max acknowledges each with minimal inclination of his head, expression composed enough to discourage extended commentary.
He has no interest in discussing spectacle. He has interest in control. He removes his gloves slowly, folding them once before handing them to the waiting attendant.
The stands remain animated, conversation already transforming disruption into anecdote. Already exaggerating. Already misinterpreting. Already irrelevant. No one here understands the degree of precision required to win consistently. No one here understands how small a margin determines outcome. No one here understands that excellence depends upon eliminating unnecessary variables.
And now society has introduced itself as one. Max does not remain for interpretation of the result. He does not remain for polite consolation disguised as admiration. He does not remain for speculation regarding whether distraction has affected performance. He does not remain for mothers who have mistaken proximity for opportunity.
He leaves the enclosure with measured efficiency, attention already redirecting toward the only variable that now appears capable of removing the others.
Because the proposal you made had been logical. At the time, merely logical. Now it appears necessary. Marriage would end introductions. Marriage would end proximity. Marriage would restore distance. Marriage would restore control.
Max does not rush. Max does not panic. Max simply reaches a conclusion. And once reached— he does not reconsider.
He scans the dispersing crowd with focused intent. Locates you near the quieter edge of the enclosure, posture composed, attention directed not toward spectacle but toward consequence. You are not disappointed by the result. You are assessing it. Calculating. Understanding.
Max approaches directly. People notice. He does not care. “You made an offer,” he says evenly. Because suddenly— it is no longer theoretical. It is solution.
You turn toward him without visible surprise. “I did.”
“You proposed marriage.”
“I proposed a solution.”
“You described mutual benefit.”
“I described efficiency.”
He studies you carefully now, recalibrating variables in real time. “You require legitimacy in order to retain authority over your estate.”
“Yes.”
“I require society to lose interest in my personal circumstances.”
“Yes.”
“You believe marriage resolves both complications.”
“Yes.”
“You do not require affection and I do not require interference,” a pause settles between you, neither uncomfortable nor uncertain. Measured. Balanced. Logical. “I do not make decisions impulsively,” Max says.
“I did not make this proposal impulsively.”
He nods once. He believes you. “You understand such an arrangement will attract scrutiny.”
“I am already subject to scrutiny.”
“You understand society will speculate.”
“Society speculates regardless.”
“You understand this alters your circumstances significantly.”
“I am attempting to alter them.”
He considers this carefully. The course behind you continues to empty as spectators redirect attention toward refreshment and conversation. The disruption has already become an anecdote. Max does not intend to become an anecdote. “I prefer solutions that function,” he says at last.
“And does this function?” you ask quietly.
“Yes.” The answer arrives without hesitation.
Your breath stills almost imperceptibly. “Then we require terms,” you say.
He inclines his head once. “Clarity,” he agrees. Max’s mouth shifts faintly. Something steadier than agreement settling into place. Then, almost as an afterthought— “You will not fall in love with me,” he says calmly.
You meet his gaze without hesitation. “I would never behave so inefficiently.”
That nearly produces a smile. Nearly. Max nods once. Agreement reached. Entirely practical. Entirely rational. Entirely controlled. Which, historically, rarely prevents catastrophe.
Because the most dangerous arrangements are often the ones that make perfect sense. And neither of you notices the way the future has just rearranged itself quietly around the decision.
Because neither of you intends for this to become anything more than necessary. Which is precisely why it will.
Max calls precisely when he said he would. Promptness, in his experience, discourages complication.
The footman who opens the door studies him with poorly disguised curiosity before ushering him into the entrance hall, where polished floors gleam with the sort of careful maintenance that suggests the estate is managed far more competently than its master appreciates. Ledgers balanced on time. Repairs completed before they become visible. Staff trained to anticipate rather than react. As he knows well, competence announces itself quietly.
Voices carry faintly from the morning room. Your father appears first, expression shifting rapidly from surprise to calculation. “Lord Verstappen,” he says, enthusiasm arriving with suspicious speed. “We had not expected—”
“I requested the opportunity to speak with your daughter,” Max replies evenly, cutting through the pleasantry with surgical efficiency. No apology. No ornamental charm. Charm wastes time when clarity will suffice.
Your father glances briefly toward your mother, who is already reassessing the value of the entire room. “How unexpected,” she says carefully.
Max inclines his head once. “I apologise for the intrusion.”
“And what business,” your father asks, composure reorganising itself into something approaching paternal interest, “might you have with her?”
“I am considering proposing marriage,” silence lands with immediate force. Your mother blinks once. Your father straightens as though physically lifted by opportunity. Max continues, tone unchanged. “I would prefer to speak with her privately before confirming my decision.”
The phrasing is deliberate. Not a declaration. A consideration. Already controlled.
Your father studies him with visible calculation before gesturing toward the smaller study room. “Well,” he says slowly, “I suppose that may be arranged.”
Your mother’s gaze lingers on you as you cross the threshold, her expression subtly altered. A daughter previously tolerated becomes a daughter newly valuable. Max notices. He dislikes sudden increases in respect motivated by advantage. He dislikes miscalculation of competence.
He waits until the door closes before speaking. “It seems you were correct about it all,” he says simply.
You incline your head slightly, hands folded loosely before you. “That is encouraging.”
“You described the situation accurately,” Max allows his gaze to move briefly around the room. Nothing extravagant. Nothing wasteful. A writing desk positioned for light rather than display. Shelves containing practical volumes, not decorative ones. Papers arranged in structured stacks suggesting use rather than performance. Operational. “And you remain certain this arrangement would benefit you?” he says.
“Yes.”
The answer arrives without hesitation. Max considers this a positive indicator. “I do not wish to pretend affection,” he says plainly. “I do not enjoy deception, nor performing sentiment for public consumption.”
You nod once, unsurprised. “I dislike pretending also. I would not agree to an arrangement dependent upon theatrical declarations.”
Agreement settles quickly. Efficient. Uncomplicated. “This will be understood as a marriage of convenience,” Max continues.
“Yes.”
“I will not publicly declare myself in love with you nor engage in performative devotion.”
“That is preferable.”
The faintest shift touches his expression, something almost like approval. “You will reside at my residence,” he says. “Separate chambers will be arranged.”
“That is expected.”
“We will attend social obligations as required. Present unity where beneficial.”
“That is practical.”
Max studies your expression carefully, searching for hesitation he does not find. “You understand,” he says after a moment, “that society will speculate.”
“Society speculates already,” you say it without defensiveness, simply as fact, and Max studies the steadiness of your expression with renewed attention.
“You may be criticised,” he continues.
“I am already criticised.”
“You may be ridiculed.”
“I am frequently ridiculed.”
A brief silence settles between you. He adjusts the line of his cuff, not out of distraction but thought, the movement precise, habitual. “You may continue to be underestimated.”
A small breath leaves you then. Not surprise. Recognition. “I am underestimated often.”
Max nods once, gaze briefly lowering as though committing the statement to memory. “That is correctable.”
The simplicity of the answer catches you off guard. Not gallantry. Not reassurance. A problem identified. A solution implied. “That,” you admit quietly, “would be appreciated.”
He moves toward the window, hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture composed but attention very clearly occupied. Outside, the grounds show subtle signs of capable management. Gravel evenly distributed. Garden borders maintained without ostentation. Nothing extravagant. Nothing neglected. Competence again.
“I will not tolerate disrespect directed toward my household,” he says at last. The phrasing is deliberate. Not toward you. Toward my household. Protection offered without spectacle.
“That is reassuring.”
He inclines his head slightly, accepting the understanding before continuing. “My racing remains my primary professional obligation,” he says. “I compete full time. My schedule is structured around training, travel, and performance. I will not reduce participation, nor alter preparation unnecessarily.”
“I would not ask you to,” your answer arrives immediately, almost before he has finished speaking. “Your work is precisely the reason this arrangement functions.”
That draws a sharper look from him. “You understand the demands of competition?”
“I understand commitment,” you reply evenly. “I have maintained an estate through three consecutive poor harvests and two incompetent stewards. I do not expect others to neglect their responsibilities for my comfort.”
His gaze lingers a moment longer than courtesy requires. Recognition settles quietly behind restraint. “I employ capable stewards,” he says after a moment, tone measured. “My estate remains functional in my absence.”
The phrasing is careful. Functional. Not optimised. Not improved. Merely maintained.
“I imagine they do,” you reply. “Competent oversight prevents deterioration.”
The choice of wording does not escape him. Oversight. Not control. Not interference. Improvement. Something like interest flickers briefly across his expression before being contained. “You will not expect constant companionship,” he says.
“I value independence.”
“You will not expect romantic attention.”
“I value autonomy.”
The symmetry pleases him more than it should. “You will continue managing your estate,” he says, not as question but confirmation.
“Yes.”
“They will allow you to retain operational authority.”
“They will allow what they cannot prevent.”
That earns the faintest shift of his mouth. Not quite a smile. He recognises the strategy now. Marriage does not reduce your ambition. It shields it. “You would make use of my name where beneficial,” he observes.
You do not hesitate. “Yes.” The honesty is notable.
“You anticipate resistance?”
“I anticipate resistance regardless,” you reply calmly, smoothing an invisible crease from the cuff of your sleeve. “Marriage simply alters the structure of the resistance.”
Max watches the small movement, attention sharpening rather than softening. You are not asking permission. You are presenting a model. “You intend to expand your influence,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You intend to enter business circles not traditionally accessible.”
“Yes.”
No apology. No embellishment. Just intent. Max’s fingers tap once lightly against the back of the chair beside him before stilling again, a small physical indication of thought recalibrating. He had expected necessity. He had not expected strategy. “You believe association with my household will grant access,” he says finally.
“I believe association with your reputation will grant credibility.” There it is. Not flattery. Calculation. Precise. Controlled. Correct.
“You believe that credibility will allow expansion.”
“Yes.”
“You believe expansion will allow influence.”
“Yes.”
His gaze remains fixed on you now, expression carefully neutral despite the unmistakable shift in interest beneath it. “You intend to build something,” he says.
“I already have,” you reply simply.
He considers that. Reassesses. Recalculates. “You are not seeking protection,” he says slowly.
“I am seeking legitimacy.”
The distinction lands cleanly between you. He understands this entirely. Because reputation functions as currency. Because perception influences access. Because credibility alters outcome. “I respect ambition,” he says finally. A pause. “I object only to inefficiency.”
“I am rarely inefficient.”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am beginning to suspect that,” Another brief silence settles, less formal now. Less guarded. “You understand,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “that my estate operates with support. I retain final authority, but daily management is delegated during the Season.”
You incline your head slightly. “I understand delegation.”
“You would not interfere unnecessarily.”
“I would not permit decline unnecessarily.”
That answer lingers. Not presumptuous. Simply… confident. Max’s gaze shifts briefly toward the desk, then back to you. Something unspoken passes briefly between calculation and curiosity. “You believe this arrangement benefits us both,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you believe it will remain uncomplicated.”
“Yes.”
Another pause. Then, almost lightly— “You will not fall in love with me.”
Your expression does not change. “I would never behave so impractically.”
A flicker of something unreadable passes through his gaze. “Nor will I,” he replies. Which, of course— is the first miscalculation either of you has made.
“That is fortunate,” you reply evenly. Silence settles. Not empty. Structured. Two people accustomed to solving problems independently recognising the unfamiliar ease of shared logic.
“This arrangement allows me to focus more fully on racing,” Max says.
“And allows me to focus more fully on management,” you add.
His gaze sharpens slightly at that. “You have experience managing large estates and you understand labour structure?”
You nod softly. “You understand long-term yield strategy?” he continues.
“Yes.”
He studies you a moment longer. “You would be capable of overseeing mine, should the need arise.”
Not a request. An observation. You consider this carefully before answering. “Yes.”
Something settles into place between you then. Quiet. Significant. Marriage, inconveniently, is becoming useful in more ways than originally anticipated. “Marriage is not easily undone,” Max says after a moment.
“I do not enter agreements intending to abandon them.”
“You will not expect elaborate courtship.”
“I would distrust elaborate courtship.”
“You will not expect poetry.”
“I would distrust poetry even more.”
That almost produces a smile. Almost. “This arrangement provides freedom,” he says.
“Yes.”
The quiet that follows feels less like negotiation now and more like recognition. Then, almost as a repeated afterthought— “We will not fall in love.”
The statement lands somewhere between boundary and precaution. Your expression does not change. “I would never behave so impractically.”
He inclines his head once. “Nor will I.”
“Excellent.” The word is soft, but the relief beneath it is unmistakable. Not relief at him. Relief at the future becoming navigable again.
Max rises, decision settling with characteristic certainty. “I will speak with your father,” you stand as well, composure intact though something quieter has eased beneath it. “You understand I do not propose lightly,” he adds.
“I do not accept lightly.”
He inclines his head once. Formal. Certain. “Then we are agreed.”
“Yes.”
He studies you one final moment, curiosity still present beneath restraint. “You are very unusual.”
“That is often suggested.”
Max moves toward the door, decision already settling into place with characteristic certainty. He has never favoured hesitation. Hesitation invites inefficiency. And yet— he pauses. Only briefly. Only fractionally. But noticeably. As though something in this conversation has not aligned neatly into the category he had expected. As though the outcome has arrived more easily than anticipated. As though the simplicity of the solution feels unexpectedly compelling.
He turns back with characteristic directness. “Before I go,” he says, voice even, measured, entirely composed, “will you marry me?”
The question is delivered with the same calm precision he applies to every strategic decision. No flourish. No uncertainty. No performance. Only clarity.
Your answer arrives without hesitation. “Yes.”
The word settles quietly into the room. Efficient. Measured. Entirely sensible. For a moment, neither of you moves. Because nothing further appears required. Terms established. Expectations aligned. Outcome secured.
And yet— something almost imperceptible shifts in the air between you. Not romance. Not affection. Certainly not sentiment. But possibility.
Max inclines his head once, acknowledging conclusion rather than celebrating it. He has never particularly desired marriage. He has never required it. He has never sought complication where independence would suffice. And yet— he has accepted remarkably quickly. More quickly than he accepts most things. More quickly than logic strictly requires.
Because the proposal makes sense. Because the structure is sound. Because the outcome is efficient. Because you are competent. Because this will work. It will solve the problem. It will remove interference. It will stabilise expectation. It will allow you both to continue precisely as you are.
Independent. Uncomplicated. Unaffected. The arrangement is practical. The arrangement is rational. The arrangement is controlled. Which makes it particularly dangerous. Because the most inconvenient emotions rarely request authorisation before arriving. And neither of you has accounted for the possibility that proximity alters calculation. That familiarity alters perspective. That respect alters attachment. That partnership alters everything.
You have agreed to share a name. A household. A reputation. A future arranged carefully enough to avoid disruption. You have agreed not to interfere. Not to expect. Not to require. Not to feel.
Max opens the door, already considering the necessary conversations, the required legal structures, the efficient sequencing of events. Behind him, you remain entirely certain you have just secured the only viable solution available to you. Both of you are correct. This arrangement will function exactly as intended. It will be orderly. It will be stable. It will be logical. It will be entirely resistant to complication. For a time.
And then— inevitably— everything you have just promised not to want will become precisely what neither of you is willing to lose.
warnings: none this is straight romcom friends to lovers sweetness. they are lowkey idiots to lovers cause they think they're normal friends and they're so not...
author’s note: this took 86 years to post and for that I'm sorry but there will be a part two and it will be up WAY faster than this was. also there's a violent cliffhanger to this but i'm not sorry at all for that. in fact it made me laugh
masterlist
[yourusername posted a photo!]
liked by user11, yourbff, user16, user19, and others
yourusername i can’t believe i have to learn the difference between france & monaco now
[comments]
yourbff: every history & geography teacher you ever had is cheering
⤷yourusername: they should’ve made it more interesting when i was there…
⤷yourbff: it frightens me that you’re legally going to be allowed to be called a doctor in a few years
⤷yourusername: yeah doctor sexyyyyyy
⤷yourbff: alright
[maxverstappen1 followed yourusername!]
[yourusername followed maxverstappen1!]
[yourusername posted a photo!]
liked by extralia, tyyy21, maxverstappen1, and others
yourusername not a tourist, not a citizen, but a secret third thing
tagged: extralia, tyyy21
[comments]
extralia: 1/10 there should be more pictures of me
⤷yourusername: …
tyyy21: i have a better question
⤷yourusername: oh im not hungry thank you
⤷tyyy21: Address Me
[yourusername posted a photo!]
liked by extralia, tyyy21, maxverstappen1, and others
yourusername weekend in italy with the winner!!!!!! 🏆 🥰
tagged: maxverstappen1
[comments]
maxverstappen1: ❤️
extralia: oh em gee you are stunning in these pics
⤷yourusername: max’s real full time job is being my photographer :D
⤷extralia: oh i’m sure
tyyy21: MV1 🔥
⤷yourusername: ass kisser
⤷maxverstappen1: don’t be jealous just because he knows what understeer is
⤷yourusername: how dare you
⤷yourusername: you promised you wouldn’t use that against me
⤷tyyy21: yn i’ve spent 2 years talking about f1 how do you not know ANYTHING about it
⤷yourusername: WHY AM I BEING BULLIED ON MY OWN POST
[yourusername posted a photo!]
liked by extralia, maxverstappen1, tyyy21, and others
yourusername back home 🤍🇲🇨 ❤️
tagged: maxverstappen1
[comments]
maxverstappen1: Why do you take terrible photos of me
⤷yourusername: whaaatttt you look so cute 🙁
⤷maxverstappen1: fine
⤷extralia: brother stand up
tyyy21: i could’ve driven the boat
⤷yourusername: you don’t even have a driver’s license why would we let you drive a boat
⤷tyyy21: et tu, brute?
[yourusername posted a photo!]
liked by maxverstappen1, extralia, tyyy21, user32, user83, user19, and others
yourusername practicing my catwalk for when i go on stage to accept my doctorate, but i'm practicing in different climates to prepare for anything. this week, we're practicing in austria 🇦🇹 🤍
📸: my full time photographer
[comments]
maxverstappen1: How many times did you check to make sure you weren't putting the Monaco flag
⤷yourusername: i don’t pay you to bully me
⤷maxverstappen1: You don’t pay me at all??
⤷yourusername: so you admit you’re bullying me
⤷maxverstappen1: 😐
extralia: wifeeeee 😛😛😛
⤷yourusername: 😛😛😛😛
user11: HEY DIVA
user30: her and max’s comments are so… like why are they bullying one another as foreplay
⤷extralia: many such cases
⤷user30: LMAO???
user22: how is this level of serve friends with max “team kit and skinny jeans” verstappen
Description: You're Lando Norris's personal assistant, which means your job description includes three things: fixing his disasters, answering his calls at ungodly hours, and definitely not thinking about kissing your boss. The first two you're great at. The third one? That's becoming a problem.
Genre: lando being a little shit, he does not hide that he wants ur kitty, angst, fingering during meetings, fucking in hotel rooms, why are we fighting every 2 minutes
WC: 24k
IMPORTANT NOTE: hi friends, you might be wondering bella why is this not being posted on @landologged, i have been shadowbanned indefinetly (tumblr pls go fuck urself), all of my fics are going to STAY on there, but the new ones/updates will be posted on here, until i am unbanned (if, that even happens)
Your phone rings at 3 AM, which can only mean one thing. Lando Norris calling, which means this is going to be so much worse than any text could ever convey. You stare at the ceiling of your Monaco apartment, counting to ten in three different languages before you answer. It's a technique you've perfected over the past several years of working for Lando, which requires a special kind of patience-building exercise that keeps you from committing what would definitely be classified as justifiable homicide.
Not that you'd get away with it. You probably would, actually, but that's beside the point.
"Lando," you answer, voice flat as the fucking pavement. "Unless you're currently on fire or have been kidnapped, this can wait until morning."
"Wow, so you'd just let me burn?" His voice comes through warm and sleep-rough and far too chipper for 3 in the fucking morning. There's an echo to it, the telltale acoustics of an airport terminal, and you curse under your breath. He's supposed to be on a flight right now. He's supposed to be thirty thousand feet in the air, unconscious, not bothering you.
"That's cold," he adds, and you can hear the grin in his voice, "noted for future reference."
You close your eyes. "Where are you?"
"So , uhm, I'm in Bahrain—"
"You're supposed to be in Monaco."
"—yeah, about that," he continues as if you haven't spoken at all, and you can hear the grin in his voice. The bastard thinks this is funny. He thinks this is hilarious. "I might've gotten on the wrong plane."
You sit up. God, you hate your life. You hate your job. You hate that you're awake right now. Most of all, you hate that you aren't even surprised. "You might have what?"
"Okay, I definitely got on the wrong plane," he amends, and there's a rustling sound like he's shifting his phone to his other ear. "But in my defense, the vodka Red Bulls at the airport were really strong, and Oscar dared me to see if I could get through security in under thirty seconds, and then there was this really fit flight attendant who asked if I needed help finding my gate, so ya'know, being the gentleman I am—"
You cut him off before he can finish that sentence. "Lando."
"—and I said yes obviously, because I'm not rude, and she was smiling at me with that smile, you know the one the ladies use—"
"Lando."
"—where it's like, super flirty but also professional? And she had these eyes that were doing this thing—"
"Lando."
He stops. You can practically hear him smirking through the phone, can picture the exact expression on his face, the one that makes you want to strangle him with your bare hands. "Yes?" He says it so innocently, so fucking sweetly, like he hasn't just woken you up at 3 AM to tell you he's on the wrong continent. "That's my name, by the way. Love it when you say it like that. Especially when you're all angry and you do that thing where your voice gets all—"
"What," you interrupt, jaw clenched, "do you need."
"See? That. That right there." He's definitely smirking now. You want to throw your phone into the Mediterranean Sea. You want to throw him into the Mediterranean Sea. "Makes me feel things."
You don't dignify that with a response.
"Anyway," he continues, undeterred as always, "I need you to book me a flight back and maybe fix things with my sponsor who I was supposed to meet with—"
There's a pause. You hear him ask someone in the background, "Mate, what time is it? Cheers."
Then, back to you, far too casually, "Yeah, so about four hours ago."
"Stay where you are," you cut him off, already climbing out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you're already mentally running through which contacts you'll need to grovel to at this hour. "I'll handle it."
"Ooh, so commanding." His voice drops lower, teasing in that way that makes you want to reach through the phone and— "Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I special?"
"You're something."
"I'll take it." You can hear the smile in his voice, warm and infuriating and so fucking pleased with himself. "Knew you loved me."
"That's not what I said."
"Didn't have to," he replies, like it's obvious, like you've just confirmed something he's always known. "I can read between the lines. It's one of my many talents, actually, along with being really good at driving and also being really good at—"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait wait wait," he says quickly, and there's something slightly different in his voice now, less performative. "Will you actually fix it? With the sponsor? I know I fucked up."
You pause at your bedroom door. This is the thing about Lando that makes it impossible to actually hate him, just when you think he's completely oblivious, completely wrapped up in his own chaos, he does this, acknowledges the mess, trusts you to fix it. Doesn't apologize—he never apologizes—but asks anyway.
"I'll handle it," you repeat, softer this time. You shouldn't be softer. "Just stay at the airport, Lando. And please, for the love of god, do not get on any more planes."
"Yes, ma'am." He's back to teasing, just like that, the moment already gone. "Love it when you boss me around, by the way. Should I call you boss? Or do you prefer something else? I'm pretty flexible."
"Goodbye, Lando."
"Wait," But you're already pulling the phone away from your ear when you hear him say, "You're incredible, you know that?"
You pause and your thumb hovers over the end call button.
"I'm serious," he adds, but his voice hasn't gone soft. He sounds exactly the same—amused, chaotic, like he's grinning on the other end. Like he's always grinning. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm including my first win in that statement. Don't let it go to your head, though."
You exhale through your nose.
"Without me, you'd probably still be in Bahrain," you say finally. "Go drink some water. I'll text you the flight details."
"Aw, you care about my hydration levels." He sounds delighted. "That's basically a love language, ya' know."
You hang up and your apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of waves and your own heartbeat, which is doing something annoying in your chest. You pad into your kitchen with its view of the Mediterranean that you never get to enjoy because you're always putting out fires that Lando starts.
Metaphorical fires, mostly. Though there was that one incident in Singapore that the team agreed to never speak of again. Your laptop boots up as you make coffee, strong, black. The blue light illuminates your face as you pull up his schedule, his flight options, draft what will be a very apologetic email to the sponsor he's just stood up.
You've written variations of this email so many times you could probably do it in your sleep. Maybe you are doing it in your sleep. Is this a nightmare? It would make sense if this was a nightmare.
This is your life now. Has been your life for years, actually, and you still haven't figured out how you ended up here—awake at 3 AM, fixing problems for a man who gets on the wrong plane because a flight attendant smiled at him.
At least the pay is good.
Lando's apartment looks like someone gave a golden retriever a Black Amex and thirty minutes in an interior design showroom. You let yourself in with the key he gave you three months ago. The fifth time he'd locked himself out, he'd just shrugged and said "might as well" and handed you a spare.
The hallway opens into the main living space, there’s framed F1 car prints lining the walls in that papaya orange that's burned into your retinas at this point, there's a gym bag spilling protein powder across the hallway floor. His helmet collection sits in a backlit display case like he's running a museum dedicated just to himself. There's a DJ setup gathering dust by the windows, you've seen him use it exactly twice, both times drunk off his ass at 2 AM, and both times his neighbors complained.
"Lando?" You call out, toeing off your shoes by the door. "Meeting's in two hours. We need to go over your schedule."
There's a crash from deeper in the apartment, followed by a string of curses. "Fuck—shit—"
"Are you dying?"
"Kitchen! And don't come in, I'm basically naked!"
You head straight for the kitchen. When Lando Norris tells you not to do something, it's usually because he's already done that exact thing and it's gone horribly wrong.
The kitchen is all white cabinets and black marble countertops, which are pristine nine out of ten times because Lando doesn't cook. Can't cook, more accurately. He once tried to make toast and somehow set off the fire alarm. Yes, he texted you for help. No, you don't want to talk about it.
A single trainer sits in the sink for some reason, and you don't ask.
When you round the corner into the kitchen, you stop dead. He's at the island, fresh out of the shower. Water drips from his hair onto his bare shoulders, trailing down his chest, then his stomach, catching the morning light filtering through the windows. The towel around his hips is slung so low you can see the sharp V of his hipbones—that line of muscle that disappears beneath white cotton.
He's holding a yogurt container in one hand, spoon in the other, staring at both like he's forgotten how they work together.
"Ha! Told you not to come in," he says, grinning like he just won pole position, "but you did anyway, so this is on you."
You're staring. You know you're staring. His hair's dripping water onto the counter. There's a droplet sliding down his collarbone, another one trailing down his abs, and your brain has just completely fucking blue-screened.
"Put a shirt on."
"That's not an answer about the yogurt."
"Lando."
"What? I just got out of the shower, it's my apartment." He takes a step closer and you can smell his body wash. "You're the one who walked in on me. Why, is this distracting or something? Am I being unprofessional?"
Yes. Extremely fucking yes. Your brain has completely shorted out and you're having thoughts that would get you fired, probably sued, definitely escorted out of the building by security.
"The sponsor meeting is in two hours and we need to prep." You force yourself to look at his face. Just his face. Nowhere else. His face is safe, except his mouth is doing that thing where he bites his bottom lip and that's not safe at all.
"I'm listening. Go ahead, prep me." He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps flex and you watch the muscle move under his skin and forget how to breathe.
"Can you put on clothes first?"
"Can't, actually. All my clothes are in the bedroom, and if I walk away now you'll just follow me there, won't you? And then we'll really be in trouble." His grin widens and you can see the exact moment the idea takes root in his head. "Unless that's what you want? I'm not opposed to it, for the record. Bedroom's got a better view anyway."
Your face goes hot. The back of your neck prickles with heat and you know he can see it, the flush creeping up from your collar. He looks fucking delighted with himself.
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what, exactly? Standing in my own kitchen in my own apartment after taking a shower? I mean, that's not a crime last time I checked." He picks up the yogurt container, squinting at the label. "Pretty sure it's fine, honestly. Smell test?"
He holds it out. You don't move.
"I'm not smelling your expired yogurt, Lando."
"See, this is the problem with our working relationship, there’s no trust whatsoever." He digs the spoon in and takes a bite, keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time. Then proceeds to maintain eye contact while he swallows. "Tastes fine to me. Bit tangy, yeah, but could be the expiration date, could be the flavor. Who's to say, really."
"You're going to give yourself food poisoning and then I'm going to have to explain to Zak why you can't make it to testing."
"Probably, but you'll take care of me though, won't you?" He sets the yogurt down and takes another step closer. Your feet stay planted to the floor. "I mean, that's literally your job, isn't it? Taking care of me."
"My job is managing your schedule, not nursing you through a bout of salmonella because you can't be bothered to check expiration dates."
"That's the same thing, basically." Another step and he's suddenly close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off his skin, see the little scar above his eyebrow from that karting crash when he was twelve that he always brings up. Smell that fucking body wash. "You're really good at taking care of me, you know that? Like, really fucking good."
"You've mentioned it before."
"Yeah, but I don't think you get it, like, properly understand what I mean." His voice drops lower and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Like, really good. Better than anyone else I've ever worked with, honestly. Sometimes I do stupid shit just to see what you'll do, how you'll fix it. It's become kind of a thing for me."
"That's actually psychotic."
"Nah, that's half the fun of having you around." He tilts his head and his hair drips water onto your shoe. "You're blushing, by the way."
"I'm not blushing."
"You absolutely are, it's very cute actually. Goes all the way down your neck and," His eyes track down, following the flush of heat spreading across your skin, they linger at your collarbone and you feel on fire, everywhere. "Makes me wonder how far down it actually goes."
Jesus fucking christ. "Lando."
"That's my name, yeah. You know, you say it a lot when you're flustered, I've noticed. It's sort of hot, actually, the way your voice gets all tight and annoyed, like you're trying really hard not to tell me to fuck off."
"I am trying really hard not to tell you to fuck off."
"See? Exactly like that, perfect example." Water drips from his hair onto your shoulder. "Want to know a secret?"
"Not particularly, no."
"I think about you a lot." His voice shifts, goes softer. "Like, more than is probably normal for a boss-employee situation, if I'm being honest. Definitely more than my PR team would be comfortable with if they knew."
Your heart's slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. "You're jetlagged from the flight."
"I'm not jetlagged."
"You're delirious from expired yogurt, clearly."
"I'm completely lucid, I promise you." He reaches out and catches the hem of your shirt between his fingers. Doesn't pull you closer, just holds the fabric. His thumb brushes against your hip through the cotton. "You're avoiding the question."
"You didn't ask a question."
You've spent two years trying to resist this. This pull. This gravity. Lando Norris is a black hole and you've been orbiting him, getting closer and closer, knowing eventually you'll cross the event horizon and there will be no coming back.
"Do you think about me?" The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache. "When you're not working, when you're doing normal people shit, do you ever just think, 'Wonder what that dickhead Lando is doing right now?'"
"Jesus, Lando." You take a breath, trying to find some semblance of professionalism. "This is so unprofessional. You know that, right?"
"Maybe." He tips his head back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes, and there's something mischievous in his expression, a little pout, a lot of trouble. Like he knows exactly what he's doing and doesn't give a single shit about it. And, you hate to admit that you do think about him. Constantly. When you're at the grocery store and his favorite energy drink is on sale. When you're watching Netflix at 11 PM and some comedian makes a joke he'd absolutely lose his shit over. When you're lying in bed at 3 AM and your phone lights up and before you even look you know it's him.
But you're not giving him that, not a chance. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, wetting it, and your eyes track the movement before you can stop yourself.
"See?" His grin turns absolutely wicked. "You can't even resist me right now."
"Oh my god." You roll your eyes so hard it hurts and step back, pulling your shirt free from his fingers. "Clean up your yogurt. I'm getting you a shirt."
"Wait, no—"
"Lando."
"But I like being shirtless around you," he whines, actually whines like a child. "You're so fun to tease when I'm shirtless."
"Shirt. Now. Where are they?"
He sighs dramatically, slumping against the counter. "Second drawer. The tall one. But for the record, this is cruel and unusual punishment and I'm going to file a complaint with HR."
"You don't have an HR department."
"Then I'll make one just to file a complaint." He's grinning again as you head toward his bedroom. "Make sure you grab the tight one! The black one! You know which one I mean!"
You absolutely know which one he means and you're absolutely not grabbing that one. His bedroom is somehow even more ridiculous than the rest of the apartment. The bed's massive, unmade, sheets tangled like he's been fighting them. There's a sim racing rig in the corner, and trophies line the floating shelves on the wall. A Quadrant hoodie draped over his gaming chair.
You find the dresser and pull open the second drawer. It's full of McLaren team shirts and regular t-shirts. You deliberately avoid the tight black one you know he's talking about and grab a loose grey one instead. When you walk back into the kitchen, he's still leaning against the counter, yogurt untouched, grinning at you.
"That's not the shirt I asked for."
"Clean. Up. Your. Yogurt."
"So bossy." But he's already moving, grabbing paper towels, wiping up the mess. You toss the shirt at his head and it hits him square in the face.
"Ow. Violent."
"Put it on."
"What if I don't want to?" He's holding the shirt but not putting it on, just watching you with that infuriating smirk.
"Then I'm leaving and you can explain to Zak why you missed another sponsor meeting."
"Fine, fine." He pulls the shirt on and yeah, even the loose one looks good on him. His hair's now sticking up from where the fabric messed it up. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic. Do you want coffee?"
"You're really gonna make me coffee after I've been such a terrible boss?" He's following you to the coffee maker like a puppy.
"I'm going to make myself coffee and you can have some if you shut up for five minutes."
"I don't think I can shut up for five minutes. That's asking a lot." He watches you work, and you can feel his eyes on you. "You know how I like it though, right?"
"Two sugars, oat milk, unfortunately yes, I've memorized your terrible taste in coffee."
"It's not terrible, it's refined."
"It' tastes like ass."
"But you make it anyway." His voice has gone softer and you don't look at him. "Because you're sooooo good at taking care of me."
"Because I'm paid to take care of you."
"Yeah, yeah, same thing."
You hand him his mug and make your own. He takes a sip and makes a satisfied sound that you absolutely do not think about.
"So." You pull out your tablet, pull up your notes, try to look professional despite the fact that ten minutes ago he was basically naked and asking if you thought about him. "The meeting, let's go through the main talking points."
"Are you still thinking about it?"
"About the meeting, yeah obviously—"
"About kissing me."
Your face goes hot again. "Lando, I swear to god—"
"You've got all three tells going right now." He's grinning at you over his mug. "It's actually impressive. Didn't know you could do all three at once."
"Can we please focus?"
"I am focused. Very focused. Laser focused, actually." He sets his mug down. "Okay, tell you what. Let's make a bet."
"Absolutely not."
"If I'm perfect at this meeting and I mean perfect, no jokes, just straight on full professional Lando mode, you'll have to answer one question for me, and honestly."
You narrow your eyes. "What question?"
"That's the fun part. I'm not telling you until I win."
"You won't win. You're actually incapable of being professional for more than ten minutes."
"Bet." He holds out his hand, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Come on, unless you're scared."
You take his hand. His palm's warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel. He holds on just a second too long, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"You're gonna regret this."
"Maybe." His grin is absolutely feral. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"
The sponsor meeting is in a conference room at the McLaren Technology Centre, and you arrive fifteen minutes early because Lando's never early to anything, which means you need to be early enough for both of you. Except for the fact that when you walk through the door, he's already there.
Sitting at the table. In a button-down shirt. Looking through the presentation materials like he actually cares about the quarterly projections.
"You're early," you say, and trying your best to not sound surprised.
"Yeah, well." He glances up and grins, but it's not his usual grin. "Got a bet to win, don't I?"
The sponsors arrive, there's two executives from Monster, all business suits and firm handshakes. Lando stands, smiles, does the whole being offensively charming thing. But it's different, he's actually fucking trying. You can't believe your goddamn eyes.
You sit in the corner with your tablet, taking notes, watching him work and it's fucking unsettling. He answers their questions perfectly. He's articulate, focused on them, doesn't make a single inappropriate joke. Doesn't even bother to check his phone. You've genuinely never seen this version of him before. You've seen him hungover at sponsor brunches, making jokes about his own driving. You've seen him show up twenty minutes late with his shirt on backwards. You've seen him accidentally insult a CEO's tie and then somehow charm his way out of it.
But this? This is someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who's prepared. Someone who knows exactly what he's doing and how to do it. It's terrifying because if he can be this professional, this focused, this put-together, then every other time he's been a disaster, he's been choosing to be a disaster. Which means his chaos is intentional. Which means when he shows up at your apartment at midnight because he locked himself out, when he calls you at 3 AM from the wrong country, when he stands in his kitchen in a towel asking if you think about him.
Jesus, when did it get so hot in here? You take a deep breath, grabbing your notepad and begin to fan the paper in front of your face. It certainly does not help. When you come back to the conference room, Lando's leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the table, grinning at you. The real grin, the "I totally won this bet" grin, and you feel a sinking in the pit of your stomach.
"So," he says. "I win."
You take a deep breath, realizing you have to talk your way out of this. Lando Norris always wins, always gets what he wants, and you just handed him ammunition like the fucking idiot you are.
This is how it happens—not with you quitting, not with some dramatic resignation, but with you trapped in a conference room while he cashes in a bet you never should have made. You're going to lose your job. You're going to lose everything. You can already see it, the HR meeting, the severance package, the LinkedIn post about "pursuing new opportunities" that everyone will know means you fucked your boss and it ended badly.
"You didn't even last the full hour, there's still—"
"Nope. Meeting's over. come on, I mean I was perfect." He stands up, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up and you can see a strip of his stomach, the waistband of his boxers. "Which means you owe me an answer to one question. Honestly."
You open your mouth to protest, but he stops you. "Those were the terms." He's walking toward you now, and there's something predatory about it, like you're a corner he's about to take at full speed. "You shook on it."
"What's the question."
He stops right in front of you. Your throat tightens and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, dark against the tan of his skin. His goatee is slightly uneven, like he trimmed it himself this morning without really looking.
Your heart stops. Restarts. Stops again. "No."
"Liar." He takes a step closer. The movement is slow, deliberate, and you can feel the heat coming off his body. Your back hits the glass wall and it's cold, so cold compared to the warmth radiating from him. "Try again."
"Lando—"
"You promised to answer honestly." Another step and he's close enough now that you can smell his cologne properly—cedar and bergamot, but underneath there's something else. Something warm and slightly spicy. Amber, maybe, nonetheless, it makes your head swim, your chest ache. Water? You need water, holy water. "That was the deal."
"The deal was one question."
"And you didn't answer it." His hand comes up, bracing against the glass next to your head. Not touching you, but close enough that you can see the calluses on his palm, the white lines of old scars across his knuckles. "Do you want to kiss me? Yes or no."
Your mouth is dry. There's something throbbing low in your stomach, a pulse that matches your heartbeat. "This is so unprofessional."
"Uh-uh, not the right answer." His other hand comes up, caging you in. You can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat, the way his chest rises and falls. He's breathing faster than normal. "Come on. You're always so honest with me. So direct, let's not start lying now."
"I'm not."
"You are." He leans in and his nose brushes against your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and mint-fresh. "You're thinking about it right now. I can tell."
You realize you've stopped breathing. You inhale sharply and it's a mistake because all you can smell is him, that cologne, his own scent, it's consuming. Your head swirls, and you feel like at any moment now you might pass out. Bastard, what a fucking little shit.
"Lando, we can't."
"Why not?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. "Give me one good reason."
"You're my boss."
"Terrible reason. Next."
"This is the MTC, anyone could see us."
"Door's closed. Glass is tinted from the outside." His lips brush against your temple and you can feel your knees go weak. "Next."
"I—" Your voice cracks. There's heat everywhere he's close to you, like standing too near a fire. Your skin feels too tight and there's something pulsing between your legs and you press your thighs together. "This is a bad idea, very, very, bad idea."
"Probably." His hand moves from the glass to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. His skin is rough and warm and you can feel the drag of his calluses. "But you still haven't answered my question."
You can see the green in his eyes, flecks of blue catching the fluorescent light. His pupils are dilated, dark and wide. His lips are slightly parted and you can see the white of his teeth, the pink of his tongue when he wets his bottom lip.
"Yes." The word comes out broken, barely a whisper, and it feels like signing your own death warrant. You've just ended your career. You've just destroyed every carefully maintained professional boundary. You've just proven that you're exactly what people will call you when this inevitably falls apart—a personal assistant who couldn't keep her hands to herself, who thought she was special, who believed Lando Norris when he looked at her like she mattered.
"Yes what?" He's smiling now, that wicked grin that makes your stomach flip.
"Yes, I want to kiss you." Your hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. "Happy now?"
"Getting there." His thumb moves to your bottom lip, dragging across it slowly. You can feel every ridge of his fingerprint. "How long?"
"That wasn't the question."
A knock at the door shatters the moment like glass, and you both freeze. His thumb is still on your lip. His other hand is still pressed against the small of your back. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs.
You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Reality crashes back in like ice water. You're going to be sick. You're actually going to be sick.
"Lando?" It's Jon, his trainer. Another knock. "You in there? Got that debrief in five."
Lando closes his eyes and drops his forehead to yours. You feel him exhale, warm breath skating across your mouth.
"Yeah," he calls out, voice rough. "Be right there."
"Alright, mate. I'll head down, meet you there."
Footsteps retreat down the hallway and the silence that follows is deafening. Lando doesn't move. His thumb drags across your lip one more time, slower, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to bite back a sound. You're going to let him do this. You're going to let him ruin you in this conference room and you won't even fight it.
This is who you are now. This is what you've become. The personal assistant who spreads her legs when her boss decides he wants her. The woman who throws away everything she's worked for because Lando Norris smells good and knows exactly where to put his hands.
"We should," you start, but even you can hear how weak it sounds. How unconvincing.
"Yeah." But he still doesn't move. His eyes are so dark, pupils blown completely wide, and you can see yourself reflected in them, small and desperate and already lost. "We should."
Neither of you move. The moment stretches. You're waiting for him to step back, to release you, to let you salvage some microscopic shred of dignity. His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. You watch his throat work when he swallows, the muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers flex against your back, pressing in hard like he's restraining himself.
"Lando."
"I know." Finally, fucking finally, he steps back. Cold air rushes in where his body was and you almost whimper at the loss. "Debrief, yeah, it's fine, professional. We're professional." He runs a hand through his hair and it sticks up at odd angles. His shirt is wrinkled where your fists were twisted in the fabric. There's color high on his cheekbones, his neck.
You definitely look worse.
"You've got—" He reaches out and his thumb brushes your cheekbone. "Your makeup's smudged."
His touch is gentle but your skin feels like it's burning. You step sideways along the glass wall, putting distance between you, and your legs are shaking so badly you're amazed you're still standing.
"I'll fix it in the bathroom."`
"Yeah. Good. That's—yeah." He's staring at you like he's forgotten how to form sentences. "A good idea."
You smooth down your skirt with trembling hands. Your underwear is definitely ruined, you can feel how wet you are, slick and uncomfortable and god, you need to get out of this room before you do something stupid like beg him to finish what he started.
"I'll see you at the debrief," you manage.
"Yeah."
You make it to the door on shaking legs. Your hand is on the handle when he speaks again. "Hey."
You don't turn around. You can't turn around because if you look at him right now, you'll do something irreversible.
"This isn't over," he says quietly. "Just so you know."
Your fingers tighten on the door handle. "Lando."
"It's not." His voice is closer now. You feel him behind you, not touching but close enough that heat radiates between you. "I'm not going to push, but I'm not going to pretend that didn't just happen either."
You open the door and walk out without looking back, even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stay. The bathroom mirror shows exactly how fucked you are. Your makeup is smudged under one eye. Your lips are swollen like you've been biting them—you have been biting them. There are marks on your jaw, faint red patches where his stubble scraped against your skin. Your hair is messed up on one side. You look like you've been thoroughly compromised in a conference room.
You wet a paper towel and try to fix the damage, but your hands won't stop shaking. The cold water helps and you press wet palms to your cheeks, your neck, trying to calm the heat still racing through your body.
"Fuck," you whisper to no one.
Your reflection, however, doesn't provide any answers.
The debrief room is smaller than the conference room, it houses a table that seats maybe eight people, and when you walk in, Jon's already there, scrolling through his tablet. Zak's on a call in the corner. A few engineers you recognize but can't name, and Lando, sitting in the middle, looking completely normal, completely unphased.
He glances up when you enter and his face gives nothing away, like twenty minutes ago he didn't have you pinned against glass, asking you questions that made your brain melt.
"Hey," he says, easy and casual. "Saved you a seat." He taps the seat next to him and you want to barf. Instead, you sit your ass down and pull out your tablet. Your hands have stopped shaking. Your heartbeat has returned to normal. You've got this. You're totally, completely, fine.
Jon starts the debrief, pulling up performance data on the screen at the front of the room. Lando leans back in his chair, arms crossed, nodding along to whatever Jon's saying. He asks a question about the downforce. Proceeds to make a joke about Oscar's setup from the previous season and everyone laughs. He's completely normal, and a part of you is starting to think maybe you imagined the whole thing in the conference room when his hand lands on your thigh.
Not high up. Just above your knee, right over your skirt. Completely innocent if anyone looked. Except, his thumb has started moving in small circles. They're slow and deliberate, and the fabric of your skirt is thin enough that you can feel the heat of his palm, the exact pressure of each finger.
Your pen immediately stops moving, and while Jon is still talking, Lando continues to nod, asking more questions, all while his thumb keeps drawing circles.
Then his hand slides up, it's just an inch. Then another. Still over your skirt, still looks completely innocent, but it's higher now. Mid-thigh and the circles get wider, his thumb dragging across the fabric, and you can feel the heat spreading up through your body. You try to focus on Jon's words. Something about corner entry, but Lando's pinky finger stretches out, brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath stops completely.
His hand slides higher again and you reach down under the table and grab his wrist. Hard, and dig your nails into the flesh as a warning. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even look at you, just keeps nodding along to Jon's analysis, and his hand—his hand keeps fucking moving up, dragging yours with it now, until his fingers are high enough on your thigh that the edge of his pinky brushes against the hem of your skirt where it's ridden up.
"Thoughts on that setup change, Lando?" Jon asks.
"Yeah, makes sense. Should help with the understeer ." His voice is completely steady. His fingers flex against your thigh. "We can test it in the sim tomorrow, see how it feels." His thumb finds bare skin just above where your skirt has shifted, and the touch is like electricity straight up your spine.
You dig your nails harder into his wrist. He just turns his hand in your grip, twisting until his palm is up, and then his fingers thread through yours. Now you're holding hands on your thigh like this is something sweet, something innocent, except his thumb is stroking your bare skin in slow, deliberate circles and you know the fucker wants to go further.
Jon pulls up another slide. Lando shifts in his seat, angling toward you slightly like he's trying to see your tablet better. His knee presses against yours under the table. His fingers are on bare skin, halfway up your thigh, and if anyone looked under this table they'd see exactly what this is.
"What do you think about the tire strategy?" Zak's voice cuts through the haze in your brain.
You force yourself to look at your tablet. Force words to form. "The—uh—the medium-to-hard strategy should work for—"
Lando's thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner thigh and your voice cuts off.
"For the two-stop," you finish, and it comes out breathless.
Zak nods, and Jon begins talking about quali sims. Lando answers something about tire warm-up and his hand shifts higher, taking yours with it, and his pinky finger brushes against the edge of your panties. Your whole body goes rigid and as the fucker continues to talk, his pinky finger traces along the elastic edge of your panties. Then, just then, he hooks his finger under the elastic and pulls it aside.
Just barely. Just enough so that the cool air hits the wetness there, and oh god, you're so wet you can feel it, and his finger is right there, right at the edge, not touching where you need him but so fucking close. You're going to fucking kill him, actually kill him after this meeting.
"That sound good to you?" Jon's looking at you.
You have no fucking idea what he's asking about. "Yes. Sounds—sounds good."
Lando's finger slides through the wetness and you have to turn it into a cough, your hand flying to your mouth.
"You alright?" Zak asks.
"Fine. Sorry. Just," Lando's finger finds your clit and presses, and you actually make a sound, have to disguise it as clearing your throat. "Dry throat."
His finger starts moving in circles. "Someone get her some water," Zak says, and one of the engineers slides a bottle across the table.
You reach for it with your free hand, the one that's not trapped under the table tangled with Lando's while his other hand is between your legs. Your hand is shaking so badly water sloshes out when you try to drink. Lando's finger slides lower, dipping just barely inside you, and your thighs clench around his hand. He pulls back immediately and his thumb goes back to those slow circles on your inner thigh, over your underwear now, completely innocent again.
The message is crystal clear now: Stay still and behave, or I'll stop.
You force your legs to relax. Force yourself to breathe normally and his finger slides back, immediately pushing your underwear aside again, and this time when he touches your clit you manage to stay quiet, stay still, even though everything in your body is screaming.
Jon pulls up sector times. Lando adds commentary about his racing line through turn seven. His finger keeps moving in slow, devastating circles, and you're trying so hard to stay still, to stay quiet, but you're so wet you can hear it, and you're terrified everyone else can hear it too.
"I think we're good for now," Jon finally says. "Same time tomorrow for the sim session?"
"Sounds good." Lando's finger presses harder and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. "Looking forward to it."
People start standing up, gathering their tablets and personal belongings. Lando's hand disappears from between your legs so fast you almost whimper at the loss, but he's already standing, stretching casually like nothing happened.
Like he didn't just have his fingers on you in a room full of people. Like you're not sitting there soaked and shaking and desperate.
"Right, I'm starving," he announces. "Gonna grab lunch. You coming?" He's looking at you, and his eyes are dark and amused and absolutely wicked. "You look like you could use a break."
You can't speak. Your voice is gone, dissolved somewhere between his finger on your clit and the desperate need still pulsing between your legs.
"I'll take that as a yes." He grabs his phone off the table, slides it into his pocket. "Come on then."
You stand on shaking legs. Your skirt is wrinkled, riding up higher than it should be. You smooth it down with trembling hands and pray no one notices. Jon claps Lando on the shoulder as you both head for the door. "Good session today. See you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yep, bright and early." Lando's voice is easy, normal. He holds the door open for you and you have to walk past him, close enough to smell his cologne again, and your head swirls.
The hallway is empty, when Lando begins to speak. "You're very quiet," he says, falling into step beside you.
"Still thinking about the meeting?" His voice drops lower. "Or thinking about something else?"
"Fuck you."
"That's more like it." He sounds delighted. "There she is."
You jab the elevator button harder than necessary. The doors slide open immediately and you step inside, pressing yourself against the far wall. He follows, hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease. The doors close. you're finally alone, and you almost expect him to move. To touch you, to try and finish what he started.
He doesn't, instead he just stands there, leaning against the opposite wall, watching you with that infuriating smirk.
"You know what I realized?" he says conversationally.
You don't answer, so he continues. "You never actually answered my question. From before." The elevator descends. "About how long you've wanted to kiss me."
"I'm not doing this right now."
"Not doing what? Having a conversation?" He tilts his head. "I'm just curious. Was it really Barcelona? Or was it before that?"
The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open onto the lobby and you practically run out, but he's right behind you, matching your pace easily.
"I'll give you a ride home," he says and it's not a question.
"I have my car."
"Your car's in the shop, remember? That's why you got a ride in with Sarah this morning." He's already walking toward the parking garage. "Come on."
Fuck. He's right. You completely forgot.
"I can get an Uber."
"Don't be ridiculous." He glances back over his shoulder. "Unless you're scared to be alone in a car with me?"
You're not scared, you're fucking terrified. But not for the reasons he's implying. So, you do the totally sane thing, and follow him into the parking garage. When you get to his Lamborghini Urus, he opens the passenger door for you and the leather seat is cold against the back of your thighs where your skirt has ridden up.
Where his hand was ten minutes ago. He slides into the driver's seat and the engine roars to life, all that power barely contained. The sound vibrates through your chest, through your bones.
"Seatbelt," he says, glancing over. You fumble with it while he pulls out of the parking garage and the silence is suffocating. You can hear every breath, every small shift of fabric. The gear shift is right there, his hand wrapped around it, and you're staring at his fingers, remembering exactly how they felt. He reaches forward and turns on the music. The volume is just loud enough that conversation would be difficult, and you're grateful for it because you have no idea what you'd even say.
His hand rests on the gear shift. So close to your thigh, yet, he doesn't budge. Doesn't make a single move to touch you.
The city passes by in a blur. Streetlights and pedestrians and other cars, but all you can focus on is him. The way his jaw clenches slightly when he shifts gears. The way his fingers drum against the leather. The way he's so completely calm while you're falling apart in the passenger seat. Your underwear is still wet. You can feel it every time you shift in your seat, a constant reminder of what he did to you, what he didn't finish.
He pulls up in front of your building and puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine. It idles, a low purr that you can feel everywhere. He turns the volume down slowly, and the silence that follows is deafening.
You reach for the door handle.
"Hey."
You stop, not looking at him.
"Look at me."
You do. You shouldn't, but you do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you, like he's starving.
"You did really well in there," he says, voice low. "Staying quiet. Staying still." His tongue flicks across his bottom lip and your eyes track the movement. "It was very impressive."
Heat floods through you, pooling between your already-soaked thighs.
"Lando."
"When you get home," He leans slightly toward you. "When you're alone in your apartment, and you're thinking about what happened in that meeting."
"I won't."
"You will be." He's certain, so fucking sure of himself, it's insufferable. "And when you are, when you're touching yourself because you're so desperate you can't help it," His eyes drop to your thighs, then back to your face. "I want you to think about what would've happened if Jon hadn't knocked. If I'd had more time with you."
Your breath catches.
"Think about where my fingers would've gone. What I would've done to you in that conference room where anyone could've caught us." He reaches out and his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, the same way it did earlier, and your whole body responds. "Think about how quiet you would've had to stay while I made you come."
You're going to die. You're actually going to die right here in his passenger seat.
"Go inside," he says softly, pulling his hand back. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"You're—you can't just."
"Can't what?" That infuriating smirk is back. "Drive you home? I actually think I deserve a thank you."
You want to hit him. Want to kiss him. Want to pull him into your apartment and finish what he started. Instead, you get out of the car on shaking legs. He waits until you're at the door of your building before he drives off, engine growling as he disappears down the street.
You make it inside. Into the elevator. Into your apartment. You close the door and lean back against it, breathing hard. You head straight to your bedroom, already knowing exactly what you're about to do.
Hating that he knew it too, hating even more that he's right.
The rest of the week passes in agonizing normalcy. Lando shows up to the sim session on time, professional, focused. He discusses setup changes with the engineers like an actual adult. He doesn't call you at 3 AM. Doesn't text you anything inappropriate. Doesn't even look at you for longer than strictly necessary.
The night before you leave for Japan, you're in your apartment packing. Business casual for the events, comfortable clothes for the paddock, the McLaren team jacket that's mandatory for all personnel. You fold everything, checking items off your list.
Your phone sits on the bed, silent. Lando and Oscar are flying out on the McLaren private jet early tomorrow morning, 5 AM departure from Farnborough. You're on the commercial flight, business class, leaving three hours later from Heathrow. It's always been like this. The drivers get the PJ, the key personnel fly commercial but comfortable. You've made peace with it. It's not like you expected to be on the plane with them.
Except now you can't stop thinking about it. Lando in those grey joggers he always wears on flights. Lando stretched out across the leather seats, probably playing strip pocker with Oscar or watching old race footage. Lando twelve hours ahead of you, already in Tokyo while you're stuck in business class somewhere over Russia.
You zip your suitcase closed harder than necessary. This is stupid. You've done this a hundred times. Flown separately, met them at the hotel, had everything coordinated and ready by the time they arrived. It's your job. It's fine.
Heathrow at 8 AM is its own circle of hell. Security lines, overpriced coffee, flight delays announced in monotone over the intercom. You make it to your gate with twenty minutes to spare and find a seat near the window. Lando posted an Instagram story three hours ago, you saw it while brushing your teeth this morning, him and Oscar on the jet, Oscar sleeping with his mouth open. The caption said something about being ready for Japan.
You pull out your tablet and go through Lando's schedule one more time. Thursday: arrival, settle in, team dinner. Friday: media day, practice sessions, sponsor meet-and-greet. Saturday: quali, another sponsor event. Sunday: race.
You pull out your laptop. Open Lando's schedule again, stare at it without seeing it. Somewhere over the North Sea, you close the laptop. Somewhere over Poland, you lean your head against the window and watch clouds drift past.
This is unattainable. Whatever happened in that conference room, whatever almost happened before Jon knocked—it was a moment. A lapse in judgment. Lando Norris doesn't date his assistant. Doesn't have relationships with employees. He has models and influencers and people who exist in his world, not people who coordinate his calendar and fix his disasters.
Somewhere over Russia, you recline your seat and close your eyes. You don't think about Lando stretched out on the private jet. You don't think about his hand on your thigh in that meeting. You don't think about how his fingers felt or how his voice sounded when he told you to think about him. You don't think about any of it.
You're lying, but at least there's no one here to call you on it.
Japan is humid and overwhelming and beautiful. You arrive at the hotel Thursday afternoon, jet-lagged and exhausted. Lando and Oscar got in hours ago, you saw them in the lobby when you were checking in, surrounded by team personnel and looking refreshed in that way people who fly private always do.
The team dinner that night is at some expensive restaurant in Shibuya. You sit at the far end of the table, taking notes on your phone about schedule changes for tomorrow. Lando's four seats down, laughing at something Oscar said, drinking water because he's being responsible before a race weekend.
He doesn't look at you once, and when Friday rolls around, you're busy from 6 AM. Coordinating with the press officers, making sure Lando hits all his media obligations, adjusting timing when an interview runs long. You see him in passing and catch up to him.
"You've got Sky Sports in ten," you tell him between sessions.
"Yep, cheers." He doesn't break stride, already walking toward the media pen with his PR officer.
You stand there in the paddock, tablet in hand, and watch him go. This is your job. This is what you do during race weekends. You're not an engineer, not a trainer, not someone who's essential to the actual racing. You coordinate. You schedule. You make sure he's where he needs to be, when he needs to be there. The rest of the time, you're just there.
You're updating his schedule for next week. This is fine. This is normal. This is every race weekend. Except you keep catching yourself watching the timing screens. Watching his sector times. Watching the little dot that represents his car going round and round the circuit. FP1 goes smoothly. FP2 has a small lock-up in turn one but nothing serious. You see him briefly when he comes back to the garage, he's talking to his engineer, analyzing data, completely in the zone.
Friday night you have dinner alone in your hotel room. Room service, ESPN playing race coverage on the TV, your laptop open with his schedule for tomorrow. Saturday is qualifying and the energy in the paddock is different. Higher stakes with more tension. You do your job, make sure he's at the pre-quali briefing, coordinate with media for post-quali interviews, confirm timing for the sponsor appearance later.
You watch qualifying from the garage. He puts it P4. Good, but not great. He's frustrated when he comes back, you can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he pulls off his helmet.
"P4's solid," his engineer says.
"Should've been P2." Lando's already reviewing the data, pointing at the screen. "Lost time in sector two, if I'd just—"
On Sunday, the paddock is chaos, there's camera crews everywhere, fans pressed against the barriers, the energy electric and overwhelming. You've been awake since 5 AM coordinating last-minute changes, confirming grid walk timing, making sure everything runs smoothly. You see Lando in the garage during the pre-race prep. He's in his race suit, going through his routine with Jon. Stretching, visualization, the same ritual he does before every race.
The race starts and you watch from the garage, headset on so you can hear the team radio. Lando gets a good start, gains a position into turn one. P3.
"Good job, Lando, P3, keep it clean," his engineer says over the radio.
You watch the monitors. Watch his lap times. Watch the gap to the car ahead.
"DRS enabled," the engineer says. "Let's get him this lap."
You hold your breath. He's through turn one clean, right behind Leclerc. Turn two he's on the inside, they're side by side through the corner and then the radio crackles.
"Fuck—I'm okay, I'm okay—fuck—"
Your heart stops. The screen shows it in slow motion. Lando and Leclerc side by side, Lando on the inside, not enough space, the Ferrari comes across and Lando's got nowhere to go. He clips the Ferrari's rear tire and suddenly he's spinning, out of control, and then the sickening crunch of carbon fiber hitting the barrier. Hard.
The car bounces off the wall and slides back onto the track, rear end destroyed, front wing gone, debris everywhere. Red flag. The screen shows the wreckage and your stomach drops.
"Are you okay?" his engineer asks urgently. "Lando, are you okay?"
The relief hits you so hard your knees almost give out. He's fine. He's talking. He's fine. The medical car is already there. You watch on the monitor as Lando climbs out, waving to show he's okay. But the way he rips off his helmet, the way he stalks away from the car tells a different story.
"He's going to medical, can you ask if he still wants to do the interviews?" Zak calls out to you, and you nod. It's standard procedure for crashes that hard.
You're moving toward the medical center. The paddock is chaos, there's people rushing past, radios crackling, camera crews trying to get footage. You push through it all, heart still pounding, the image of that crash replaying in your head. The medical center is quiet compared to outside. Lando's sitting on an examination table, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist. There's a medical officer checking his shoulder, asking him questions about pain levels and range of motion.
"I'm fine," Lando says, and his voice is sharp. "It's fine, I'm fine."
You hover in the doorway. His hair is a mess from the helmet, sweat-damp and sticking up. There's a red mark on his cheekbone from where the helmet pressed during impact.
"They want to know if you're up for interviews," you say, keeping your voice professional. Steady. "Zak is asking, and there's the post-race media obligation but I can push it if you need."
"If I need?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "If I need time because I just binned it into a wall?"
"That's not what I said."
"I'm fine. I'll do the fucking interviews." He shrugs off the medical officer's hand. "I'm cleared, yeah?"
"You should really—" the medical officer starts.
"I'm cleared." It's not a question.
The officer sighs. "You're cleared. But you need to take care of that shoulder."
Lando's already sliding off the table, pulling his race suit back up, zipping it roughly. His hands are shaking. You can see it even though he's trying to hide it.
"Lando."
"What?" He rounds on you and his eyes are too bright, too intense. He's angry. You freeze and the words die in your throat because you don't actually know what you were going to say. That you're worried? That he doesn't have to do this? That seeing him crash made your heart stop?
"Nothing, I just—"
"Good." He's already moving past you, yanking the door open. "Let's go." He storms out into the paddock and you're left standing there in the too-bright medical room, watching him disappear into the chaos. You follow at a distance. Watch him walk through the paddock with his shoulders tight, his jaw set. People try to stop him, but he keeps moving, heading straight for the media pen.
Sky Sports is first. You stand just out of frame, watching him put on the professional face. The interviewer asks the standard questions, what happened, are you okay, thoughts on the incident. "Yeah, just racing," Lando says, and his voice is perfectly controlled. Perfectly fine. "Leclerc and I both going for the position, unfortunately we came together. That's racing sometimes. Just gutted for the team, they've worked so hard and we've thrown away good points today."
He says all the right things. Smiles at the right moments. Thanks the team, thanks the fans, talks about bouncing back next week. When he finally finishes the last interview, he walks straight past you without a word. Doesn't even look at you, just heads toward the McLaren garage, and you know he's going to debrief with the engineers, review the data, analyze what went wrong.
You stand there in the media pen, holding your tablet, and realize that the distance he's been keeping all week—the politeness, the normalcy, the acting like nothing happened, wasn't him moving on.
It was him holding on by a thread and that thread just snapped.
You give him two hours. Two hours to debrief with the team, to shower, to decompress. Two hours before you show up at his hotel room with the schedule changes for next week that absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow because there are flights to coordinate and sponsor obligations to reschedule.
Upon entering the hotel, you head to the front desk.
"Good evening, I need access to Lando Norris's suite," you tell the receptionist. "I'm his assistant." She checks her computer, verifies your credentials in the system. As his PA, you're listed as authorized personnel, can access his room for deliveries, coordination, emergencies. It's standard practice and makes the logistics easier during race weekends.
She hands you a key card. "Fortieth floor. Suite 4012."
The elevator ride up feels endless. Your tablet is clutched against your chest, the schedule changes pulled up on the screen. This is fine. This is professional. You coordinate with him in hotel rooms all the time during race weekends, it's easier than trying to find quiet spaces in the paddock. The fortieth floor hallway is quiet, the plush carpet muffles your footsteps and you find Suite 4012 at the very end.
You knock, and no answer. So, you knock again, and again. "Lando? I need to go over the schedule changes."
Still nothing. Here goes nothing. You swipe the key card and the lock clicks open, you push the door open and step inside. The suite is massive, there's a living area with large windows that overlook Tokyo, a separate bedroom through an open doorway, a bathroom, and a McLaren team jacket thrown over the back of the couch, his shoes kicked off by the door.
"Lando?" you call out. "I texted you, I need to—"
That's when you hear the sound from the bedroom. Low and rough and—oh god. Your brain catches up to what you're hearing a second too late. The kind of breathing that's unmistakable. The kind of sound that makes heat flood through your entire body. He's jerking off, oh my fucking god.
Another sound, a groan, muffled like he's trying to stay quiet, and your mouth goes dry.
You should leave. You need to leave right now. "Fuck—" His voice carries through the open bedroom door, rough and desperate, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to grab the back of the couch.
Leave. Leave now. But you can hear him so clearly. Can hear the rhythm of his breathing, getting faster. Can hear the slick sound of his cock, and your feet are suddenly planted, unwilling to move.
Jesus Christ. Your face is on fire. Your whole body is on fire. You're frozen in his living room listening to your boss getting himself off and you need to leave, you need to fucking leave.
"Fuck," he groans again, and then your name. Your name, breathless and desperate on his tongue and so fucking clear there's no mistaking it. He's saying your name, repeating it like it's the only thing getting him through this. "Please," His voice breaks on the word. "Fuck, please."
You're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel suite listening to him fall apart while thinking about you. The sounds get more desperate. His breathing harsher, you can hear the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, and your imagination is filling in all the details, his hand wrapped around his cock, his head thrown back, his abs flexing with each movement.
"God—fuck—" Another groan, louder this time, and you realize he's close. God, he's about to fucking come and he's saying your name. You hear him gasp your name one more time, broken and raw, and then a string of curses as he comes.
The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there trying to steady yourself as your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears. Your underwear is soaked, your whole body is shaking. You turn toward the door, moving too fast, and your hip catches the edge of the side table. The decorative vase on top wobbles, you reach for it but your hands are shaking too badly, and it tips over the edge. The crash is deafening in the quiet suite. Glass shattering against the floor, water spreading across the floor, flowers scattering everywhere.
"Fuck," you breathe.
Complete silence from the bedroom. Then—"Who's there?" Accompanied by footsteps, rapidly increasing. You freeze, staring at the broken vase, at the mess spreading across the floor. There's nowhere to go. The door is ten feet away but he's already on the way. Then, in a matter of seconds, Lando appears in the bedroom doorway. He's in grey joggers, no shirt, hair an absolute mess. His face is flushed, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are wide, startled and then he sees you.
You watch the realization hit him. Watch his expression shift from confusion to shock to something that might be horror. "How long—" His voice is rough, wrecked. "How long have you been here?"
You can't speak. Can't move, you can only stand there surrounded by broken glass and spilled water while your face burns and your heart tries to break out of your chest. His eyes drop to the mess on the floor, then back to your face. You watch him put it together, the broken vase, your expression, the way you can't look at him. "Oh fuck." He runs both hands through his hair. "Fuck. You—how much did you hear?"
"I'm sorry." Your voice comes out strangled. "I knocked, you didn't answer, I needed to—the schedule changes, I just—I'm sorry, I'll go."
"Don't." He crosses the room in three strides, making sure to avoid the glass splattered across the floor. "Don't move, you'll, there's glass everywhere."
He's right in front of you now and you can smell him, sweat and something else, and you know what that something else is and you're going to die. "How much did you hear?" He asks again, and his voice is quiet now, serious.
"Nothing, it's fine, I just got here."
"Oh my god." He starts laughing and it's that Lando laugh, the one that makes his whole face light up even though this is absolutely not funny. "Oh my god, you totally heard it. Look at your face, you're so red right now."
"I'm not."
"You are, you're like, properly red. That's amazing." He's still laughing, running a hand through his hair. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, by the way. Worse than the crash, significantly worse than the crash."
Despite everything, you feel a laugh bubble up in your chest. "It's fine, I'll just, I'll help you clean this up and we can forget it ever happened."
"Yeah?" He's grinning now, and there's something dangerous in it. Something that makes your stomach flip. "Just forget about it?"
"Completely."
"Right, because you're so good at forgetting things." He moves toward the bedroom to grab something to clean with. "Very convincing." You crouch down and start picking up the larger pieces of glass, trying to focus on anything other than what just happened. The flowers are scattered everywhere, water soaking into the expensive carpet.
He comes back with a towel and crouches down across from you. That's when you see the dark spot on the grey fabric of his joggers. A wet patch near the hem, and your brain immediately supplies exactly what that is, and heat floods through your entire body. He follows your gaze. Looks down. Looks back up at you with that fucking grin.
"See something interesting?"
Your face is on fire. "No."
"No?" He shifts slightly and the fabric pulls tighter. "You sure about that?"
"I'm just cleaning up the glass."
"While staring at my crotch, yeah, very subtle." He's laughing again as he picks up a piece of glass. "You're terrible at this."
"At cleaning?"
"At pretending." He wraps the glass in the towel. "At acting like you're not affected."
"I'm not affected."
"Yeah? Then why are you shaking?"
You look down. Your hands are trembling. "I'm not—"
"You are." He reaches across the mess and catches your wrist, stilling your hand. His fingers are warm and sure and you can feel your pulse hammering against his touch. "You're shaking. Your face is red, and you can't stop looking at me."
"That's not true."
"And you heard me say your name." His thumb presses against your pulse point. "Didn't you?"
The air feels too thick. Too hot, and suddenly you can't breathe properly. "Lando."
"Tell me you didn't hear that and I'll drop it right now." His eyes are locked on yours. "Tell me you don't know exactly what I was thinking about." You can't, can't lie, can't say it because you did hear it, and you do know, and your entire body is screaming at you to close the distance between you.
"That's what I thought." He lets go of your wrist and sits back on his heels. "So no, I don't think we're going to forget about this.
"We have to."
"Why?" He tilts his head, watching you. "Give me one good reason why we have to pretend this didn't happen."
"Because you're—" You stop yourself.
"I'm what? Your boss?" He laughs. "Yeah, we've established that's not stopping anything in the conference room. Try again."
You can't think of anything. Your brain has completely shut down, and he stands up, glass crunching under his trainers, and that's when you see it properly. The grey joggers are doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. The outline is obscene, obvious, and he catches you looking.
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "That's what you do to me. That's what you've been doing to me for months."
"So here's what's going to happen." He takes a step toward you, and there's something predatory in the movement. "I'm going to be very clear with you because apparently subtle isn't working."
Another step and suddenly you're backed up against the wall. "I want to fuck you. Right now. Here." His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense and completely serious. "Not date you, not take you to dinner, not have some long conversation about feelings and what this means."
He braces a hand against the wall next to your head. "I want you right fucking now. Tonight, and then we'll go back to normal tomorrow and pretend this never happened if that's what you want." His other hand comes up, fingers brushing against your jaw. "You can take it or leave it. But I need an answer right now because I'm losing my mind here."
Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your whole body is screaming yes, take it, stop thinking.
"Lando."
"Yes or no." His thumb brushes across your bottom lip. "That's all I need. One word, just tell me one word."
"Yes."
The word barely leaves your mouth before he's on you. His lips crash against yours, hard and desperate, and there's absolutely nothing gentle about it. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grabs your hip and pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is, pressed against your stomach, and the sound he makes when you gasp is absolutely obscene.
"Fuck—" He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. His mouth is back on yours, tongue sliding past your lips, and your hands find his bare shoulders, nails digging in. He tastes like mint and desperation and something that's just him, then, he presses you harder against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, and you can feel his cock through the thin fabric of his joggers. The heat of him, the hard length of his cock, and when he rolls his hips again you actually moan into his mouth.
"That's it," he breathes against your lips. "Wanna hear you."
His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your skirt up. His palm is rough and hot against your bare skin, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He hooks your leg over his hip and grinds against you properly now, right where you need him, and the friction is perfect and not nearly enough.
"You're so fucking—" He breaks off with a groan, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape against your pulse point and you arch into him. "So fucking perfect."
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear, and you actually whimper.
"These need to come off," he mutters against your skin. "Everything needs to come off. Right fucking now." He pulls back just enough to look at you and his eyes are absolutely feral. His hair is a mess from your hands, his lips red and swollen, his chest heaving.
"Bedroom," he says. "Now. Unless you want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could hear."
Your brain has completely short-circuited. You can only nod, and his grin is wicked. "Good." He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bedroom. The bedroom is dark except for the city lights, Tokyo glitters forty floors below, completely oblivious. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, and you can see exactly where he was lying when you walked in. He spins you around and his mouth is on yours again, walking you backwards toward the bed. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribs to cup your jaw. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he pushes you down.
You land on the sheets and they smell like him, and your brain supplies the image of what he was doing here twenty minutes ago and heat floods through you. He's standing over you, chest heaving, and his eyes drag down your body slowly. Your skirt is rucked up around your thighs. Your shirt is wrinkled from his hands. You're a mess and he's looking at you like you're something he wants to destroy.
"Take off your shirt," he says. Your hands are shaking but you reach for the buttons. He watches every single one come undone, and when you shrug it off his jaw clenches. "Skirt too." You shimmy it down your hips and kick it off, and now you're in just your bra and underwear and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.
"Fuck." He runs a hand over his mouth. "You're so," he stops himself, shakes his head. "Lie back."
You do and the sheets are cool against your overheated skin. He hooks his fingers in his joggers and pulls them down, and oh god. He's not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and already leaking, and you can't stop staring.
You let out a soft whimper, and Lando knows he’s gotten you right where he wants you. His cock aches, he’s so hard for you.
"See something you like?" There's that cocky grin, but his voice is strained. He climbs onto the bed, settles between your legs, and the weight of him is perfect. His hands bracket your head and he leans down, nose brushing against yours.
"Last chance," he murmurs. "Say no and we stop."
"Hell no." He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. His hips roll against yours and you can feel him, hot and hard against your soaked underwear, the friction makes you gasp into his mouth. His hand slides down your side, over your ribs, your waist, your hip. His fingers hook in the elastic of your panties.
"These are ruined," he says against your mouth. "Absolutely soaked. Were you this wet when you were listening to me?" Your face burns but you can't deny it.
"Thought so." He drags your underwear down slowly, tossing them somewhere off the bed. His hand comes back up, palm sliding up the inside of your thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, you both groan. "Fuck, you're so wet." He circles your clit once, twice, and your hips buck up. "This all for me?"
"Lando," you moan out.
"Answer the question." His fingers slide lower, teasing. "Is this from listening to me? Or from thinking about what I was saying?"
"Both," you gasp.
"Good answer." He pushes one finger inside you and your back arches off the bed. "So tight baby. Fuck, you're going to feel so good on my cock." He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and his thumb finds your clit. The combination makes you see stars.
"That's it," he breathes, watching your face. "Want to see you come before I fuck you. Want to watch you fall apart." His fingers move faster, harder, and you're already so worked up from earlier that you're embarrassingly close.
"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to bite at your neck. "Let me hear you. No one's going to interrupt us this time." That does it and you come hard around his fingers, gasping his name, and he works you through it until you're shaking. You're seeing stars, and he continues to rub on your clit.
"Fuck, that was beautiful." He pulls his fingers out and you watch him bring them to his mouth, licking them clean. "Taste even better than I imagined." He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. His hands are shaking as he rolls it on.
"You ready?" His voice is rough, barely controlled.
You nod and he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense, perfect, everything. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. "Fuck—so tight," he's barely halfway in. "You okay?"
"Yes—don't stop, fuck, fuck," you moan. He pushes in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. You both freeze, breathing hard.
"Need a second," he grits out. "Or this is going to be over waaay too fast." You can feel him shaking, the tension in every muscle as he holds himself still. You open your mouth to speak, but Lando stops you, "Give me a second—" He laughs, breathless. "This is embarrassing. I'm not usually, fuck, you just feel so good."
You roll your hips experimentally and he actually gasps. "Don't—if you do that I'm going to actualy cum."
You do it again, and he takes a deep breath before smiling. "Fuck it." He starts moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pace is brutal and perfect and exactly what you need.
He drives into you harder and you actually cry out. "That's it. Want everyone in this hotel to hear you." His hand grabs your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can go deeper. "Want them to know exactly what I'm doing to you." Each thrust hits something inside you that makes your vision blur. Your nails drag down his back, definitely leaving marks, and he groans.
"Mark me up," he breathes against your neck. "Want to see it tomorrow. Want to remember this." His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate. All teeth and tongue and gasping breaths between kisses. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the dual sensation makes you clench around him.
"Oh fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "Do that again." You clench deliberately and he actually growls, hips snapping harder. "You're going to make me come if you keep doing that." His thumb circles your clit faster. "But you're coming first. Want to feel you come on my cock."
The praise combined with his fingers on your clit and the relentless pace of his hips pushes you right to the edge. "Come for me," he demands. "Want to feel it. Come on, baby."
You shatter, clenching around him so hard he chokes on a moan. Your whole body goes rigid, pleasure crashing through you in waves, and you can hear yourself crying out his name but you can't stop. "Fuck—fuck," He slams into you twice more, rhythm gone completely, and then he's coming too, face buried in your neck, saying your name over and over like a prayer.
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and shaking. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse. After a moment he lifts his head, looking down at you. His hair is completely destroyed, his face flushed, lips swollen from kissing. He looks absolutely wrecked.
"That was—" He stops, laughs breathlessly. "Yeah. That was nuts."
"Yeah," you agree, because you can't form actual words yet.
He pulls out carefully and you both wince. He ties off the condom and tosses it, then collapses back onto the bed next to you, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Give me like, ten minutes," he says. "And then we're doing that again."
"Ten minutes?"
You laugh despite yourself, and he rolls toward you, hand finding your hip. "Stay," he says, and there's something vulnerable in it. "Tonight. Please, stay."
You should say no. Should get dressed, have that conversation about the schedule, go back to your own hotel room and pretend this was just a one-time thing. But his hand is warm on your hip and Tokyo is glittering outside the windows and you're not ready for this to be over yet.
The following morning, you wake up to sunlight streaming through windows and the immediate, horrifying realization that you're naked in Lando Norris's bed. Your body aches. That's the first thing you notice, a deep, satisfying soreness in your thighs, your hips, between your legs. The second thing you notice is the evidence scattered across your skin like a crime scene. Bruises on your hips, dark purple fingerprints that you can count. Marks on your thighs. Your neck.
There are scratches down your own arms from where you clawed at yourself, at him, at the sheets. You don't remember doing that but the evidence doesn't lie. The third thing you notice is Lando, still asleep beside you. Face-down in the pillow, one arm stretched across where you were lying moments ago. His back is a mess of red lines from your nails, and there's a bite mark on his shoulder that looks almost violent in the morning light.
7:43 AM
Shit. His flight to the next race is at noon. You have meetings scheduled, his entire day planned down to the minute. You slip out of bed as quietly as possible, gathering your clothes from where they're scattered across the floor. Your shirt is wrinkled beyond repair. Your underwear is, well it's somewhere. After looking for about three minutes, you find your skirt under the bed.
"Where are you going?"
His voice is rough with sleep, and it does something to you. Makes heat pool low in your belly even though you're sore, even though you should not be thinking about this right now. You turn and he's propped up on one elbow, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction.
"I have to, Lando, we have an entire schedule to go over. Your flight's at noon."
"So we have time." He pats the bed next to him. "Come back."
"Lando."
"Five more minutes," he murmurs, and suddenly you're against him, his body solid and warm against your back. His arm drapes over your waist, hand splaying across your stomach possessively.
You know this is a bad idea, horrible, idea. But goddamn it, you just can't bring yourself to say no to him. So, you drop your clothes and climb back into bed. He immediately pulls you against him, warm and solid, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.
This feels different than last night. Last night was frantic, desperate, angry almost. This feels completely dangerous in a different way. "We can't," you begin.
"We already did," he points out, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Multiple times, if I remember correctly."
Your face burns. You do remember. You remember all of it, every touch, every word, every time he made you come until you couldn't think straight. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His hand slides down, fingers tracing the marks he left on your hip. "Because it seems pretty clear what happened here."
You should move, you need to move, get dressed, re-establish the professional boundary that you obliterated last night. But his hand is moving lower, thumb brushing the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and your body is already responding. Traitor.
"We said one night," you manage, but your voice is weak.
"Did we?" His lips brush against your shoulder, exactly where he bit you last night. The mark is still there. "I don't remember saying that."
"You said," What did he say? You can't remember. Can't think when his hand is moving like that, when you can feel him hardening against your ass.
"I said a lot of things last night," he murmurs against your skin. "You want me to repeat them? Because I remember you really liked it when I said—"
"Don't," you interrupt, squeezing your eyes shut. You don't need him to repeat it. You remember. God, you remember the filthy things he said, the way his voice got rough and demanding. His hand slides between your thighs and you're already wet. Already ready for him even though you're sore, even though this is a terrible idea.
"You're thinking too much," he says, and there's that insufferable knowing tone. Like he can read your mind, like he knows exactly what you're spiraling about. Maybe he does. Maybe you're that obvious. His fingers find your clit and you gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. He makes a satisfied sound, like he's proven something.
"See? Your body knows what it wants even if your brain won't shut up about it." You want to argue but he's circling your clit now, slow and deliberate, and all the arguments die in your throat.
"We have—" you try, "—there's the schedule—"
"Tell me my schedule then," he says, and you can hear the challenge in it, the fuckning amusement. This is a game to him. This is always a game.
"Checkout is at eleven," His finger slides lower, teasing. "Car to the airport at eleven-thirty." He slides two fingers inside you and your words dissolve into a moan. You're so wet, so ready, and it should be embarrassing how easily your body opens for him.
"Keep going," he encourages, and his free hand comes up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "What else?" You're not going to be able to do this. Can't focus when he's touching you like this, when pleasure is already building low in your belly.
"You have—fuck—you have a call with sponsors at two."
"Uh-huh." He curls his fingers and finds that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "What time are we landing?"
"I can't," you gasp, grinding back against his hand. You need more, need him to move faster, but he's taking his time. Torturing you.
"You can," he says firmly. "You're good at this, remember? You know my schedule better than I do." His fingers pump slowly, deliberately, never quite enough to get you there. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing in rhythm with his fingers, and you're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel bed because Lando Norris won't stop touching you.
"Media obligations, Thursday morning," you're grinding against his hand now, chasing the orgasm that's just out of reach. "Prep for, oh god, oh my fuuuucking god."
"Keep going," he murmurs against your neck. You can feel him smiling.
"Practice Friday, quali Saturday," Your voice is barely recognizable, high and desperate. "Lando."
"Good girl," he praises, and those two words combined with his fingers curling inside you push you right to the edge. "What else?" You can't think. Can't remember. Can't do anything but feel, his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his body solid and hot behind you, his voice in your ear telling you how good you are, how well you take it.
Your phone buzzes again. Multiple times. Insistent and reality tries to crash back in but Lando doesn't stop, doesn't slow down.
"That's," you gasp, "that's probably Zak."
"Probably," he agrees, and his fingers move faster. "But you're not done yet."
"I need to, fuck, I need to answer."
"After," he says firmly, and adds a third finger. The stretch is perfect and terrible and you're so close, grinding back against his hand shamelessly now. You should be embarrassed by the wet sounds, by how desperate you are, but you can't bring yourself to care.
"Come for me," he says, voice dropping into that commanding tone that makes everything in you tighten. "Come on my fingers and then you can go be responsible." His thumb presses hard against your clit and that's it, you're coming, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name into the pillow while he works you through it. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, pushing his hand away because it's too much.
When you can breathe again, when your heart stops trying to break out of your chest, you become aware of several things at once: Your phone is still buzzing, Lando's still hard against your ass. You just let him finger you while quizzing you about his schedule. You are so unbearably fucked.
"Better?" he asks, and you can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.
Your phone is still buzzing and you grab it with shaking hands. There's three texts from Zak. Two from the PR team. One from logistics asking about Lando's luggage. Fuck, fuck, you're going to get fucking fired.
"Shit. I need to—I have to go." You're scrambling for your clothes again.
"Hey." He's out of bed, standing in front of you completely naked and completely unselfconscious about it. About the scratches down his chest, the bite mark on his shoulder, the fact that he's still obviously hard. Before you can move, before you can think, his hand catches your wrist. "Look at me."
You do, even though you know you shouldn't. Even though looking at him makes everything more complicated. He's gorgeous, his hair is sticking up where you pulled it. There's a hickey on his collarbone that you definitely put there. And he's looking at you like you're the entire world. And for just a second—one brief, stupid second—you let yourself think that maybe this means something.
Then his expression shifts. "You're spiraling," he says, and the warmth from moments ago is gone.
"I'm not."
"You are." His hand tightens on your wrist. Not painful, but firm enough that you can't pull away even if you wanted to. "You're doing that thing where you overthink until you talk yourself out of what you actually want.
"You don't know what I want."
"Don't I?" He's smiling now, and it's not nice. "You want me to tell you this means something. You want me to make this easy for you so you don't have to feel guilty about fucking your boss." He leans closer, still holding your wrist. "But I'm not going to do that."
Your stomach drops. "Then what are we doing?"
"Having fun," he says easily, like it's obvious. Like you're stupid for asking. "Isn't that enough?" It should be. You should say yes, should take what he's offering and not ask for more. But something twists in your chest, sharp and ugly.
"Let go of me."
"No." His thumb finds your pulse point, presses in. "Not until you stop lying to yourself."
"I'm not."
"You are. You're already thinking about how this was a mistake, how you need to put distance between us, how you're going to be professional again starting now." His eyes are too knowing, too green, too blue. "But you won't. Because you're going to show up at my room tonight anyway."
"You're being an asshole, Norris."
"Yeah," he agrees, finally releasing your wrist. "But you knew that already." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and for a split second something flickers across his face, something that looks almost uncertain. But it's gone before you can identify it, replaced by that insufferable smirk.
"Go do your job," he says, already turning away. "I'll see you at eleven."
You're in the lobby at 10:58, tablet in hand, going over the Singapore schedule one more time even though you've already memorized it. The SUV is idling outside, a black Mercedes, luggage already loaded. Driver awaiting the cataclysmic clusterfuck he doesn't even know he's going to be a part of.
At 11:00 exactly, the elevator doors open and Lando steps out, sunglasses on even though it's overcast outside. There's headphones around his neck and when he sees you, he doesn't break stride, just continues to walk past you toward the exit.
"Morning," you say, falling into step beside him. "Car's out front. I confirmed with the airport that—"
"Yep."
That's it. Just "yep." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't slow down. His jaw is set in that particular way that means he's decided something, and you know from experience that whatever he's decided, it won't be good for you.
Outside, the humid Tokyo air hits you both. The driver opens the door and Lando slides into the back seat without a word, without a glance, and you stand there for half a second too long.
The driver looks at you expectantly and you get in the other side. The door closes. The driver pulls away from the hotel, and Tokyo streams past the windows—grey sky, crowded streets, people living their lives. Normal lives. Lives where their boss doesn't fuck them and then ice them out twelve hours later.
You open your tablet, the screen glowing blue in the dim interior of the car. "So, Singapore. You've got the sponsor appearance Thursday night, and I wanted to confirm timing because—"
"I read the email."
His voice is flat. Bored, almost. Like you're a telemarketer who's caught him at a bad time.
"Right," you say carefully, "but I wanted to go over the specifics in person because the venue changed last minute."
"It's fine." He's scrolling through his phone now. Instagram, from the looks of it. Double-tapping photos. Liking photos of women in bikinis almost to anger you more.
The silence in the car is deafening, with both of you just breathing wordlessly. The air between you doesn't simmer, it's gone cold, crystallized into something sharp.
"Lando," you try one more time.
"What." Still not looking up.
It's unfair that it always has to be you that reaches out first, but this isn't your first fight with him, and it surely won't be your last. You're stubborn, but he's worse than you are. He'll let it fester, let you both suffer, until you break and try to fix it. Always you, never him.
Which is why, after two years, you're still at a stalemate about Barcelona. About the first time he'd looked at you like you were something other than staff. It's the one argument you've never conceded on, and you never will. Remembering that day does something to your chest that you were desperately trying to avoid, but that's an issue for another time.
It's the reason he pestered you about how long you wanted to kiss him. It's the reason you refused to give him the proper answer.
"Can you at least look at me while I'm talking to you?" You ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds.
He does look at you then. Finally. Turns his head, lowers his sunglasses just enough that you can see his eyes over the rim.
They're empty.
"I'm looking," he says. "What do you need?"
What do you need. Like you're a stranger asking for directions.
"I need to go over your schedule," you manage.
"So go over it."
"The Thursday appearance, do you want to do the full hour or should I tell them forty-five minutes?"
"Whatever you think is best." He pushes his sunglasses back up. Returns to his phone. "That's literally your job, isn't it? Deciding things for me."
The words land like a slap and you close your tablet. Turn to look out the window instead. Watch Tokyo blur into highway, highway blur into airport approach, and try very hard not to think about how his hands felt on you last night, how he'd looked at you this morning like you were the only person in the world.
That was twelve hours ago, this is now. Lando puts his headphones on and the rest of the ride is silent.
At the airport, he's out of the car before it fully stops. Long legs carrying him toward the private terminal like he's got somewhere important to be, someone important to see.
Not you, clearly.
You handle check-in with the McLaren rep, confirm the luggage, go through the motions of your job. By the time you make it through security, Lando's already in the lounge. He's in the far corner with his laptop open. Oscar's there too, and they're talking about something that doesn't involve you. Lando's gesturing with his hands the way he does when he's explaining a corner, and Oscar's nodding, engaged.
You approach slowly and when Oscar sees you first, he brightens. "Hey! Ready for Singapore?"
Lando doesn't look up from his screen.
"Lando," Oscar says, glancing between you both with growing confusion, "she's here."
"I can see that," Lando replies, still typing.
The air shifts. Oscar's smile falters, and he suddenly looks very interested in his phone. You stand there for a beat. Two. Waiting for, what? Acknowledgment? An apology? Some sign that the man who had you pinned against his bed yesterday still exists somewhere under this cold, indifferent exterior?
"Can you grab me a coffee?" Lando asks his laptop screen. "Black with two sugars."
The request hits you wrong. He's never asked you to get him coffee. Not once in all of the years you worked for him. He always gets his own, or he offers to get you one, or you go together while discussing the schedule.
Oscar's looking at you now with something that might be pity, and that somehow makes it worse.
"Sure," you say.
You walk to the coffee station on legs that feel disconnected from your body. Make his coffee exactly how he actually likes it, two sugars, oat milk, not black like he just said because he's testing whether you'll follow orders or whether you still think you know him.
You bring it back. Set it on the table beside his laptop, careful not to let your hand shake.
He glances at it. Then at you. Then back to it. "I said black."
"You always take oat milk," you reply quietly.
"Not today." He pushes the cup away, just slightly. Just enough to infuriate you. "But thanks anyway."
Oscar has fully retreated into his phone now, shoulders hunched like he wishes he could disappear. You stand there for one more second. Feeling battered and overwhelmed. You feel your throat close, and you swallow the ache away. Your eyes blur momentarily, and it feels unacceptable.
So you pick up the coffee. Walk back to the station. Pour it out, watching the pale liquid swirl down the drain. Make a new one. Black. Two sugars like he said, like he's never drunk it in his life.
When you bring it back, Lando takes it without looking at you.
"Thanks," he says to his screen.
You walk away. Find a seat on the other side of the lounge, as far from him as the space allows. Pull out your tablet and stare at the Singapore schedule until the words stop meaning anything at all.
You're in Singapore at 9 PM, sitting alone at a hawker center that's too loud and too bright and exactly what you need right now. It's the kind of place Lando would never come to. There's no reservations, no private rooms, just plastic stools and flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of chili crab and char kway teow thick in the humid air. You're surrounded by families and tourists and locals who don't know who Lando Norris is and wouldn't care if they did.
It's perfect. You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table.
It's perfect.
You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table. You've turned off notifications. For the next hour, Lando Norris can handle his own life.
The satay arrives, chicken and beef skewers with peanut sauce and cucumber. You eat slowly, deliberately, tasting things for the first time in what feels like days. The sauce is sweet and spicy. The meat is charred just right. It's good. Simple and good. You can't remember the last time you ate something without checking your phone, without one eye on the schedule, without being ready to jump up if Lando needed something.
A family sits down at the table next to you, parents, two kids, a grandmother. They're arguing about something in Mandarin, laughing, the kind of easiness that comes from people who know each other completely. The father reaches over and steals food from his wife's plate. She swats his hand and their kids giggle.
You look away and your phone starts ringing. The sound cuts through the noise of the hawker center, his ringtone, the one you set specifically for him so you'd always know when it was him calling. Some obnoxious song he'd picked out himself, thought it was hilarious.
You let it ring. Watch the screen light up with his name, his contact photo, him on the podium in Austria last year, champagne bottle raised, that stupid beautiful grin on his face. Figure it out yourself, asshole.
It rings out. Goes to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it starts again.
You decline the call. Take another bite of satay, even though you can't taste it anymore. Immediately, it starts ringing again.
Fourth call. You decline it. Fifth call. Sixth. Seventh, until the tenth call. Your jaw is clenched so tight it hurts. Your hand is wrapped around your beer glass hard enough that your knuckles are white. He's not going to stop.
You know him well enough to know that. Lando Norris doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't accept being ignored. He'll call a hundred times if he has to. He'll call until your phone dies or you answer, whichever comes first.
You snatch the phone off the table and answer it.
"What." Your voice comes out sharp, venomous.
"Oh, so you are alive," Lando says, and he sounds almost cheerful. "Been trying to reach you."
"I know. I can see my phone."
"Then why didn't you answer?"
You close your eyes. Take a breath that does nothing to calm you down. "What do you need, Lando."
"Where are you?"
"Out."
"Yeah, I got that part. Out where?"
"Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't," he says easily, and you can hear him moving around, the sound of a hotel room, a door closing. "Just curious. You're usually answering by now."
"Maybe I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
Your grip tightens on the phone. "Is there a reason you called me ten times?"
"Ten? Was it ten?" He sounds amused. Like this is funny. Like your phone vibrating itself off a table in the middle of a restaurant is entertainment. "Didn't count."
"Lando."
"I was just thinking," he interrupts, and his voice shifts into something casual, conversational, like you're just some friends catching up. "You know that thing tomorrow morning? What time was that again?"
Your whole body goes rigid. "Are you serious right now."
"What? I'm asking about my schedule."
"The sponsor breakfast that's been on your calendar for two weeks?" Your voice is rising. The family next to you has stopped eating. "That thing?"
"See, you do know what I'm talking about." You can hear the smile in his voice. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is you're calling me ten times to ask me something you already know."
"I wanted to hear you say it." He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact. "Wanted to see if you'd answer."
"And what was the name of that guy again? The one from Tag Heuer?"
"Lando."
"Starts with an M, right? Michael? Martin?"
"It's Marcus and you know it's Marcus."
"Right, Marcus. See? This is helpful. You're so good at this." His voice drops lower, intimate. "Always know exactly what I need."
"Stop."
"What's he there to talk about again? Contract renewal?"
"Read. The. Fucking. Briefing." You're gripping the phone so hard your hand is shaking.
"But you're already on the phone," he says reasonably, like he's being perfectly logical. "Might as well just tell me. That's what you do, right? Tell me things. Keep me organized. Make sure I don't fuck up."
"I'm hanging up now."
"No, you're not." And he sounds so certain, so fucking sure of himself. "You're going to tell me about Marcus and the breakfast and whatever else I need to know, because that's your job. Because that's what you do. Because—"
"Because what?" You cut him off, your voice shaking now with rage. "Because you fucked me? Because you think that means you own me?"
Silence.
Then, "I never said that."
"You didn't have to." Your voice cracks. "You ignored me all day. All fucking day, Lando. Didn't speak to me in the car, didn't look at me at the airport, made me get you coffee like I'm—like I'm nothing."
"You're not nothing." His voice has changed now, gone sharp and defensive. "Don't put words in my mouth."
"And now you're calling me ten times because what? You want to make sure I'm still here? Make sure I still answer when you call?"
"I called because you weren't answering," he says, and there's an edge to it now. "Because you always answer. Because that's what we, because that's how this works."
"How what works? Me being available 24/7? Me dropping everything when you need something?"
"That's literally your job."
"Fuck my job! And fuck you for calling me ten times to ask me shit you already know just to prove that you still can!"
"Are you done?" he asks finally, and his voice is cold now.
"Is there anything else you actually need?" You ask. "Anything work-related?"
"No."
"Then yes. I'm done."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow at seven-thirty."
He hangs up first and you resist the urge to light your phone on fire.
You wake up at 5:47 AM to your alarm, which means you got maybe four hours of sleep, maybe less if you count the hour you spent staring at the ceiling thinking about how Lando hung up on you, or wait—you hung up on him, didn't you? You did. You definitely did (you didn't). And then you ordered another beer and sat there until the hawker center started closing down around you, and the grandmother from the table next to you had given you this look that said oh, honey in a language you don't speak but somehow understood perfectly.
You shower. The water pressure in Singapore hotels is always too strong or too weak, never just right, and this one is too strong, pelting against your skin. You stand there longer than you should, letting it run cold, because you read somewhere once that cold showers are good for anxiety or depression or something, though you can't remember which and you're not sure it matters because you're pretty sure you have both at this point.
Your suitcase is still mostly packed because you've been doing this for years and you've gotten very efficient at living out of luggage. Black pants—the ones that don't wrinkle, because you learned that lesson the hard way in Bahrain when you showed up to a meeting looking like you'd slept in your clothes, which you had. White blouse—the silk one, not the cotton one, because the sponsors notice these things even if Lando doesn't. Blazer. The McLaren team jacket is folded on the chair, and you stare at it for a long moment before deciding you don't want to wear it today, don't want the papaya orange plastered across your back like a brand.
You're his assistant, not his property.
Except you let him fuck you in a hotel room in Japan, so maybe the line there is blurrier than you'd like to admit, but that's an issue for another time. For a time when you haven't slept and your hands aren't shaking while you try to apply mascara in a bathroom mirror that's slightly too high for you to see properly without standing on your toes.
It's 6:58 AM when you leave your room.
The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, and you're alone in it, watching the numbers descend—12, 11, 10—and thinking about how you used to feel nervous before seeing Lando but in a good way, in an excited way, like maybe today would be the day he'd look at you like you were something other than his assistant. And then he did look at you like that, in a conference room with glass walls where anyone could see, and then in a hotel room in Japan, and now you're back to being nervous but in a bad way, in a what the fuck happens now way.
Your car is already outside. Different driver than yesterday, thankfully, because you're not sure you could handle the same driver who witnessed yesterday's silent treatment. This one is older, and he smiles at you when you get in and asks if you'd like the air conditioning higher or lower, and you say lower even though you're not actually sure what temperature you want, you just know you need to say something.
You check your phone. 7:11 AM. Lando is meeting you at 7:30, which means you're going to be early, which means you're going to be sitting in the restaurant waiting for him like some kind of desperate whore.
Your phone buzzes with three texts from Lando, telling you he's running a bit late. Lando Norris is never on time to anything that isn't racing, and you're the one who's always early, always prepared, always waiting.
The restaurant is in a hotel different from yours, the Fullerton, which is the kind of place that has doormen in white gloves and floors that echo when you walk across them. The breakfast is in a private room on the second floor, and you're the first one there, which you knew you would be, standing in a room that's set for twenty people with tables arranged in a U-shape and place cards that you helped coordinate two weeks ago.
Your card is at the corner. Lando's is at the head of the table, obviously, because he's Lando Norris and he's always at the head of the table.
You sit down. Pull out your tablet. The briefing document is already open, you've read it four times but you read it again anyway because you need something to do with your hands, something to look at that isn't the door, that isn't waiting for him to walk through it.
7:38 AM. The sponsors start arriving. Marcus from Tag Heuer, who you've met three times before and who always shakes your hand too firmly like he's trying to prove something. Two executives from Singapore Airlines whose names you know but always mix up, one is David and one is Daniel, and you make a mental note for the fourteenth time to come up with a mnemonic device for them. A woman from DBS Bank who you've never met but who looks exactly like every other corporate executive you've ever met, black suit, pearl earrings, the kind of smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
They're all making small talk, getting coffee from the station at the back, and you're nodding and smiling and saying yes, Lando will be here shortly, yes, very excited for the weekend, yes, the car is looking strong this year.
Fifteen minutes later, Lando walks in, and the first thing you notice is that he looks tired. Not tired in the way that normal people look tired, Lando Norris doesn't get dark circles under his eyes or pillow creases on his face. But there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he's moving just slightly slower than usual, that tells you he didn't sleep well either.
Good. You hope he didn't sleep at all.
He's wearing the papaya team polo, the one that makes his eyes look impossibly green, and his hair is styled in that way that's supposed to look effortless but you know takes him at least fifteen minutes. He sees you immediately and for a fraction of a second, something crosses his face.
Then it's gone, and he's smiling, and he's Lando Norris again, and he's shaking hands with Marcus and making some joke that you can't hear from where you're sitting but that makes everyone laugh.
The breakfast starts, and you're taking notes on your tablet even though you don't really need to, even though you've done this exact breakfast seventeen times in different cities with different sponsors who all ask the same questions. How's the car feeling? What are your goals for the season? Can you tell us about your preparation routine?
You write down notes that you'll never read again.
Lando is in the middle of a story about Oscar, something about a prank involving someone's helmet, and everyone is laughing, and you can see the exact moment when his eyes start to drift toward you and then catch himself and look away.
It happens three more times during breakfast. Him starting to look at you, stopping himself, redirecting his attention to whoever's speaking or to his plate or to literally anywhere else.
The breakfast ends at 9:15 AM. People start standing, exchanging business cards, making promises to follow up. Lando is still shaking hands, still smiling, and you start gathering your things because that's what you do, you gather your things and you follow him to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing after that.
You're almost to the door when you hear him say your name. You turn and he's standing by his chair, hands in his pockets, and everyone else has filtered out into the hallway. It's just the two of you in this room with its white tablecloths and half-eaten fruit plates and the ghost of conversations that don't matter.
"Can we talk?" he asks.
And you have a choice. You could say yes. You could stay. You could let him explain or apologize or do whatever it is he's planning to do. Or, you could simply leave.
"I have to coordinate your transport to the track," you say. "You have media at eleven."
"I know what I have." His voice is quiet. "I'm asking if we can talk."
"About what?"
"About—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, messing up the styling he definitely spent fifteen minutes on. "About last night. About everything. I don't know, fuck—just talk."
This is the part where you're supposed to be the bigger person, supposed to hear him out, supposed to help him process his feelings or whatever it is that assistants-turned-something-else are supposed to do. But, you're tired, and quite frankly, irrigated with his phone call from last night, the past week.
And the only thing running through your head is that Lando Norris can go fuck himself.
"You've got thirty minutes before our car leaves," you say. "Don't be late."
You walk out before he can respond. In the hallway, your hands are shaking because no one tells Lando Norris no.
But you just did and somehow you make it to the elevator, make it down to the lobby, make it into the car that's waiting to take you both to the track—except Lando takes a different car, which the logistics coordinator apologizes for, says there was a mix-up with timing, and you know there wasn't a mix-up at all.
Lando Norris doesn't want to be in a car with you. Fine, so fucking be it.
The thing about working with Lando after Singapore is that it's exactly what you said you wanted. It's professional. There are boundaries now that are so clearly defined you could draw them on a map and submit them to the fucking FIA for track limits.
He starts to shows up on time, early, even, which is so unlike him that the first time it happens in Azerbaijan you actually check your watch twice to make sure you haven't gotten the schedule wrong. He reads every briefing you send him, responds to emails within ten minutes with perfect punctuation and "Thanks, appreciate it" sign-offs that make you want to throw your phone into the Caspian Sea. He says please and thank you to your face, confirms schedules without complaint, attends every meeting and every appearance and every obligation without a single emergency phone call at 3 AM or text thread about how he's lost his passport again.
It's perfect and it's absolutely killing you.
Because Lando Norris being professional and competent and respectful is somehow infinitely worse than Lando Norris being a disaster. At least when he was a disaster, he needed you. At least when he called you from the wrong country, when he missed flights, when he showed up to sponsor meetings with his shirt on backwards and that stupid grin that said I know I fucked up and you'll fix it anyway—at least then you mattered to him.
At least then you were something other than the person who books his hotels and coordinates his calendar and exists nowhere in his mind.
Now you're just another one of the staff. Azerbaijan comes and goes. He qualifies P3, finishes P4, solid points for the team. Does every single media obligation without you having to remind him once. Thanks the sponsors in his post-race interview, remembers all their names, makes that self-deprecating joke about the Safety Car that has everyone laughing. The Instagram content team gets usable footage of him and Oscar doing some challenge in the garage. He's perfect. Everyone loves Lando Norris.
You stand there with your tablet and watch him be perfect and your chest feels like someone's hollowed it out with a spoon.
Austin is somehow worse. Not because anything happens, that's the problem. Nothing fucking happens. Lando qualifies P2, finishes P3 after a brilliant drive where he overtakes Russel on the outside of Turn 1 and the entire garage loses their minds. You're standing there watching the screens, watching him celebrate, watching him spray champagne on the podium with that massive grin, and Jon claps you on the shoulder and says "Great weekend, yeah?" and you say "Yeah, great" even though you feel nothing at all.
Lando does his media rounds. You coordinate them all flawlessly because that's what you do, that's what you've always done. He thanks you once, in passing, on his way out of the paddock. Says "Cheers for everything today" like you're a volunteer marshal, like you're someone he's being polite to because that's what good people do.
That night you sit in your hotel room and eat room service that tastes like shit and watch some Netflix show you've already forgotten by the time you turn it off. Your phone sits next to you on the bed, silent. The episode ends. Another one starts. Your phone stays silent, and when you close your eyes, you dream of nothing at all.
Mexico. Brazil. Monaco.
The races blur together like watercolors left out in rain. Lando is perfect at all of them. Perfect driver, perfect ambassador, perfect professional who waves at fans and signs autographs and does Instagram stories with Oscar where they're both laughing and being the perfect team. He never once acts like anything is wrong, because maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe you were just a blip, a moment of extremely poor judgment that he's moved past completely.
Maybe fucking his assistant was something he did and forgot about, the same way he tried going vegan for a week last year or got really into padel tennis for three months. Just another phase. Just another thing Lando Norris tried and decided wasn't worth continuing.
In Brazil you have to ride in the same car to the track because logistics fucked up, only one car available, driver shortage, something about the local contractor. The coordinator apologizes profusely. You say it's fine. Lando says nothing at all.
So you sit in the back seat together in silence. He's on his phone, scrolling through something with his thumb, and you're on your tablet pretending to review the media schedule. The driver tries to make conversation about the weather, about the race, about literally anything, and gives up after both of you give one-word answers that kill the attempt dead.
Lando's knee is eleven centimeters from yours. You measured with your eyes, which is insane, which means you're absolutely fucking losing your mind. You can smell his cologne—the same one as always, the one that was on your skin for three days after Tokyo, the one you can still smell sometimes when you're falling asleep even though that's impossible.
He doesn't look at you once during the entire twenty-three-minute drive. You count that too. The minutes. Because apparently you're a person who counts things now, who measures distances and time and all the space between you and Lando Norris that keeps expanding like the universe, infinite and cold and just all to fucking far away.
Las Vegas is when you realize you can't do this anymore.
Not the job—you can do the job. You've been doing the job perfectly for years, and you could probably do it for two more, or ten more, or however long it takes for Lando Norris to retire or get bored of racing or spontaneously combust from holding in whatever it is he's holding in.
But you can't do this. This thing where you exist in the same space and pretend you don't. This thing where he's polite and professional and you're polite and professional and underneath it all you're both screaming. At least you are. You're not sure about him anymore.
You're not sure he thinks about Tokyo at all. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it really was just that easy for him to flip the switch, to go from having his hand over your mouth while he fucked you to saying "Thanks, appreciate it" in response to your calendar updates.
Maybe you're the only one who's drowning here.
The race is at night, which makes everything feel more surreal, more like you're living in some alternate dimension where Las Vegas has an actual Formula 1 circuit running through it. Lando qualifies P1, races well, finishes first after a late-race battle with Piastri that has everyone on the edge of their seats.
You watch from the garage. Feel nothing. He does his interviews, thanks the team, heads back to the motorhome to debrief. You coordinate his transport back to the hotel, confirm his Monday morning flight, send him the updated schedule for Qatar.
He responds: Got it, thanks.
That's it. Two words and a punctuation mark. You stare at the message for five full minutes, and that's when you decide, Qatar. You're going to make something happen in Qatar, because if you have to spend one more race weekend in this professional purgatory, you're going to lose your fucking mind.
It's been thirty-seven days since Singapore.
Thirty-seven days since he asked if you could talk and you walked away from him. Thirty-seven days of Lando Norris being exactly what you told him to be, professional, respectful, boundaried. Never calls after hours. Never texts about anything that isn't work. Treats you like a colleague, like staff, like someone whose opinion matters only in the context of his schedule and his obligations and nothing else.
You should be happy. You won. You set the pace, you told him no, you hung up on him, you walked out of that breakfast, and he listened. He learned. He gave you exactly what you asked for.
So why does it feel like you're suffocating?
Why do you lie awake at night in hotel rooms that all look identical and think about the way he looked at you in Tokyo? Why do you check your phone forty times a day even though you know he won't call? Why did you save that Appreciate it text like some kind of pathetic digital shrine to whatever this was?
Qatar arrives and you're done with this. Done with him, done with yourself, done with the performance you're both putting on. Done with being professional. Done with boundaries. Done with doing the right thing when the right thing feels like dying slowly.
You book your hotel room on the same floor as Lando's.
It costs an extra €900 that you pay out of pocket, which is insane because you're supposed to be saving money, supposed to be preparing for whatever comes after you finally submit that resignation letter you've rewritten forty-seven times. But you pay it anyway. Request room 4007 specifically because you know—you've always known, you coordinate his bookings—that Lando is in 4012.
Five doors down. Close enough.
The hotel bar on Thursday night is full of people from the paddock. You can spot them easily, their team polos, the branded jackets, the mechanics and engineers clustering in corners talking about setup changes and when their next vacation is. It's the kind of place Formula 1 always stays, all identical rooms and bars that serve €35 cocktails to people on expense accounts.
You order a gin and tonic you don't want and sit at the bar, scanning the room for something. A distraction. A catalyst. A way to make something happen because you can't stand another day of nothing.
That's when you see him.
He's tall with dark hair that's slightly too long. Wearing a Racing Bulls polo, so he's an engineer, probably, or data analyst, someone who works in the circus but isn't the show. Late twenties. Attractive in a conventional way that Lando isn't, none of the madness, none of the sharp edges, none of that gravitational pull that makes Lando the center of every room.
He's perfect, and he catches you looking. Smiles and you smile back. His name is James. Works in aerodynamics for Racing Bulls. British but lives in Milan now. In Qatar for the weekend. Thinks this bar is overpriced but at least the drinks are strong.
You laugh at his jokes even when they're not funny. Let him buy you a second drink. A third. Touch his arm when he makes some comment about your hair. You're performing—you know you're performing. The years with Lando Norris have made you exceptional at performing, at being charming, at making people feel like they matter.
"Want to get out of here?" James asks around 11 PM, hand on your lower back.
"Yeah," you say. "Let's go."
James walks you to the elevator. You press 4. His hand stays on your lower back, warm through your shirt, and it should feel good but it just feels wrong, like a placeholder for someone else's touch.
The elevator rises. 1, 2, 3, 4.
The doors open and there's Lando fucking Norris standing right in the hallway.
Grey joggers. Black t-shirt. Hair a mess like he's been pulling at it. He has a phone in one hand. He looks up when the doors open.
Sees you. Then sees James. Sees James's hand on your back.
His face does something complicated and then something much darker. His jaw clenches. His eyes, which haven't really looked at you in thirty-seven days, are suddenly locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"Oh," you say, voice deliberately light. "Hey, Lando."
"Hey," he says.
James on the other hand, doesn't care. "Which room?" he asks, breath warm against your ear.
"4007," you say.
Still looking at Lando. Still watching him. Watching his hands curl into fists at his sides. Watching his knuckles go white. Watching thirty-seven days of professional boundaries suddenly evaporate.
That's right, Norris. Two can play at this game.
"Have a good night," you say.
You walk past him. Feel his eyes on you like a physical weight. Feel him watching as you pull out your room key, as James says something you don't hear, as you laugh even though nothing's funny.
You open the door to 4007. James follows you inside, and the lights of Doha filter through the window, and James is already close behind you, hands finding your waist.
"Nice room," he says, which is a lie because it's aggressively mediocre, but you don't call him on it.
"Yeah," you say. He kisses you and it's fine. His mouth tastes like beer and spearmint gum, and his hands are moving up your sides, and you kiss him back because that's what you came here to do, isn't it? That's the whole point of this. You let him walk you backwards toward the bed, let him pull your shirt up slightly, let his hands find skin.
Your brain is somewhere else entirely. Counting seconds. Waiting for this to be over. You hope Lando is physically ill, you hope he's thinking about you getting fucked by another man as he's only a few doors down.
James is saying something against your neck—something about how he's wanted to talk to you all night, how he noticed you at the bar immediately—and you make a noise that sounds like agreement. His hand finds the button of your jeans.
That's when the banging starts. Not knocking.
Banging.
Fist against door, hard enough that it echoes through the room, hard enough that James jerks back and says "What the fuck?" Three hits. Four. Five. The sound is aggressive, violent almost, and your heart is suddenly racing for reasons that have nothing to do with James.
"Ignore it," James says, leaning back in, but the banging continues.
Six. Seven. Eight.
"Jesus Christ," James mutters, pulling away completely now. "Should you—"
"Yeah," you say, already moving toward the door, and your hands are shaking when you reach for the handle.
You know who it is. Of course you know who it is.
You open the door. Lando is standing there, and he looks—fuck, he looks fucking furious. His chest is heaving and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, and his eyes are wild. Darker than you've ever seen them. There's nothing professional about him right now, nothing controlled. He looks like he's about to either punch something or break something, and you're not sure which.
"Get out," he says, but he's not looking at you. He's looking past you at James, who's appeared behind you, confused and irritated.
"Excuse me?" James says.
"Get. Your shit. And get the fuck out." Lando's voice is low, dangerous, each word clipped and precise. "Now."
"Who the fuck do you think—" James starts, but Lando takes a step forward into the doorway, and there's something about the way he moves, the energy coming off him, that makes James stop talking.
"I'm not asking again," Lando says.
James looks at you, clearly expecting you to say something, to tell this psycho to leave, but you don't. You just stand there between them, heart pounding, because this is what you wanted, isn't it? This is exactly what you wanted.
"This is insane," James mutters, but he's already moving, grabbing his phone from where he set it on the desk. "Fucking McLaren people are all crazy."
He pushes past both of you into the hallway, and Lando doesn't move, doesn't step aside, makes James squeeze past him. The second James is gone, Lando steps inside your room and slams the door shut behind him.
The sound echoes. And suddenly you're both just standing there, staring at each other, and the air in the room feels electric, dangerous, like something's about to combust.
"What the fuck was that?" you say, finding your voice.
"What the fuck was that?" Lando repeats, his voice rising. "Are you serious right now? You bring some random fucking guy to your room."
"So what if I did?" You step closer to him, anger flooding through you. "What the fuck do you care? You've ignored me for over a month!"
"Because you basically told me to fuck off!" His hands are in his hair, pulling at it. "You're the one that walked away, you made it very fucking clear you wanted nothing to do with me, like you—" He stops himself, chest heaving.
"Like you didn't what?"
"Like you didn't fucking need me, okay?" The words explode out of him. "Then I have to act like I don't think about it every single day, like I don't want to," He stops again, jaw clenching. "And then I see you with him, with his hands on you."
"You don't get to be jealous," you say, but your voice is shaking now. "You don't get to ice me out for thirty-seven days and then show up here acting like—"
"Thirty-seven?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "You've been counting?"
"Fuck you."
And in the midst of it all, you kiss him. Or he kisses you. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly his mouth is on yours and his hands are in your hair and you're grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel something other than the past thirty-seven days of nothing. It's not gentle. It's desperate and angry and messy, all teeth and tongue, his hands rough as they yank at your clothes.
He walks you backwards until your legs hit the bed and you fall onto it, and he's on top of you immediately, pressing you down into the mattress with his full weight. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe that's your heart, or maybe it's both of you about to explode from the pressure of everything you haven't said.
"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, and his hands are shaking as they pull at your jeans. "Fuck, I've been going insane."
"Shut up," you gasp, yanking his shirt over his head, needing to touch him, needing to confirm he's real and here and not the ghost you've been living with for over a month. "Just shut the fuck up."
Your jeans are stuck on one ankle and he doesn't bother getting them all the way off, just pulls them down far enough and hooks your leg over his hip. His joggers are shoved down hastily, and then he's against you, hard and desperate, and you're so wet it's embarrassing but you don't care.
"Tell me you thought about me," he demands, one hand fisting in your hair, the other between your legs. "Tell me I wasn't the only one losing my fucking mind."
"Every day," you choke out as his fingers push inside you roughly, no patience, no buildup. "Every single day, Lando, I couldn't."
"Good." He sounds wrecked, fingers working you open, hooking into your cunt until you're squirming under him. "Good, because I haven't been able to think about anything else, haven't been able to focus, couldn't even look at you without wanting to fuck you."
His thumb finds your clit and the combination makes you gasp, hips bucking up into his hand. You're already so wet, so ready, and he knows it. Can feel it.
He lines his cock against your entrance and pushes inside you in one hard thrust that makes you both gasp. There's no finesse to it, no technique. Just need. Just two people who've been starving finally getting fed.
God, he's so fucking big. You've been thinking about his cock fucking you since Tokyo.
"Fuck," he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, and he's not moving yet, just breathing hard, like he needs a second to process that this is real. "Fuck, you feel so good."
"Move," you demand, nails digging into his shoulders. "Lando, fucking move."
He does. Hard and fast and completely graceless, hips snapping against yours with a desperation that borders on violent. This isn't romantic. This isn't making love. This is two people destroying each other because it's the only way they know how to communicate anymore.
"I couldn't do it," he gasps against your throat, and his rhythm is erratic, uncontrolled. "Couldn't keep pretending you didn't exist, couldn't watch you with someone else, couldn't fucking breathe without you."
"I know," you sob, because you do know, you've been drowning in the same thing. "I know, I know."
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb, and the combination of him inside you and his fingers on you makes your back arch off the bed. You're close already, wound too tight from thirty-seven days of nothing, and he can feel it.
"That's it," he breathes, and there's something broken in his voice. "Come on, let me feel it it baby."
"Lando—" Your voice cracks on his name.
“I fucking love you,” he hisses against the side of your throat, thrusting into you with reckless abandon.
Your heart stops.
"Don't," you gasp, but you don't know if you're telling him not to say it or not to stop saying it.
"I do." He's fucking into you harder now, faster, like he can make you believe him through sheer force. "I love you and I hate that I do, hate that you have this much power over me, I fucking hate it."
"I love you too," the words tear out of you, and you didn't mean to say them, weren't planning to, but they're true and you can't hold them back anymore. "God, Lando, I love you."
He makes a sound that's half groan, half something else, something that might be relief or might be agony. His thumb presses harder against your clit and you shatter, clenching around him as you come, gasping his name into his mouth as he kisses you through it.
"Fuck, yes," he growls against your lips. "Love feeling you come on my cock, love you, fuck."
His rhythm stutters, hips jerking erratically, and then he's coming too, spilling inside you with your name on his lips and his hand in your hair and his weight pressing you into the mattress like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.
For a few seconds, neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his breath hot against your skin, can feel the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks.
This is honest. This is the most honest either of you has been in thirty-seven days, maybe longer. No performance, no professionalism, just truth wrapped in sweat and desperation and words you can't take back.
He lifts his head slowly, and when he looks at you his eyes are soft, vulnerable, like he's just handed you something fragile and he's waiting to see if you'll crush it.
Your chest aches. Your whole body aches. You reach up and touch his face, and he leans into it, and for one perfect moment you think maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed.
Then his expression changes and the moment shutters closed like a door slamming, and he's pulling away before you can stop him. He gets up from the bed, shoving his clothes on with jerky, agitated movements.
He takes another look at you—really looks at you this time—like he's reasserting to himself that you're fine. That you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're real. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step forward.
synopsis: Family pressure begins to build and Carlos is not very helpful with easing it
warnings: Gender roles, pressure on women, lowk reader not taking no for an answer
A/n : this is so devastatingly late my b guys but inspiration struck again when I came across my own post on my feed lol 😛
Prologue Part 3
Carlos’s mother arrived in the early afternoon, her visit unannounced but carried out with the quiet authority of someone who had never needed permission in this house. You were seated in the sitting room when she entered, her presence immediately shifting the air. She greeted you warmly, hands resting on your shoulders as she kissed your cheek, her eyes already assessing you in a way that made you straighten your posture without thinking.
“My dear,” she said, stepping back. “Marriage has suited you.”
“Thank you,” you replied, smoothing your dress.
She took a seat and gestured for you to join her. Once you did, her gaze wandered around the room, lingering on the empty chairs, the unused corners. She sighed softly, not unhappily, but with a note of disappointment.
“This house was never meant to be so quiet,” she said. “When Carlos was young, there was always noise. His sisters running in and out, laughter echoing everywhere.”
You nodded, listening carefully.
She folded her hands together. “I used to trip over toys in the hallway. I complained at the time, of course.” A small smile touched her lips. “Now I would give anything to hear that again.”
Your heart began to beat faster. You lowered your gaze, unsure whether she expected you to respond.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she continued, her tone calm but deliberate. “I would like to see a grandchild in these halls. To know the family will continue.”
You felt warmth creep into your cheeks. “That’s… understandable.”
She reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “You would make a wonderful mother. I can see it in the way you carry yourself. In how patient you are.”
You swallowed, nodding. “Thank you.”
“I hope Carlos comes to see it as well,” she added, matter-of-factly, as if it were only a matter of time.
The words stayed with you long after she left. You went about the rest of your afternoon quietly, but her voice lingered in your thoughts. Legacy. Continuity. Expectation. None of it felt harsh when she said it, only inevitable.
That evening, Carlos returned later than usual. You heard him before you saw him, his steps measured as he crossed the hallway. He entered the room already loosening his jacket, clearly ready to retreat to his office.
“Your mother came by today,” you said gently.
He paused. “I thought she might.”
“She asked after you,” you added. “She worries.”
He gave a faint, tired exhale. “She always does.”
You hesitated, then continued. “She said the house feels empty.”
His expression barely changed. “And did she tell you why?”
“She spoke about when you were younger,” you said carefully. “About how lively it used to be.”
He met your eyes then, already understanding. “She talked about children.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
He did not raise his voice. He did not look angry. He simply leaned against the back of a chair, arms folded loosely, his posture closed but controlled.
“I’m going to be very clear,” he said calmly. “I don’t want children.”
The words felt final, even without sharpness. You felt a small ache in your chest but kept your expression composed.
“I understand,” you said.
He studied you for a moment, perhaps expecting resistance or argument. When none came, he continued, still measured.
“This marriage exists because it made sense. Because it stabilized things when my father died. Adding a child would complicate that balance. I’m not willing to do that.”
You nodded again. “Of course.”
“This isn’t something I’ll reconsider because my mother wants a grandchild,” he added. “Or because it would look good for the family.”
“I wasn’t trying to convince you,” you said quickly. “I only thought you should know what she was hoping for.”
“I do know,” he replied. “And my answer is no. Not now.”
The firmness in his voice left no room for debate, but there was no cruelty in it either. It felt like a boundary he had drawn long ago.
“That’s all,” he said, turning away. “I don’t want you to feel responsible for managing her expectations.”
You watched him leave the room, the conversation settling heavily in your thoughts. You had not expected agreement, but the certainty of his refusal still stung.
You did not bring it up again in the days that followed. Instead, you focused on being present in small, quiet ways. You joined him for meals when he was home. You asked neutral questions about his work and listened when he answered. You learned the rhythm of his days and adapted yourself around it.
His mother visited again later that week. You walked with her through the garden, listening as she reminisced. She spoke of Carlos as a boy, of scraped knees and laughter, of how his father used to carry him on his shoulders.
“He was softer then,” she said. “Life hadn’t hardened him yet.”
You smiled faintly. “He still has moments.”
She looked at you knowingly but said nothing more.
That night, at dinner, you spoke carefully, keeping your tone light.
“Your mother told me a story today,” you said. “About when you were learning to swim. She said you refused to get out of the water.”
He glanced at you. “I don’t remember that.”
“She said your father had to drag you out,” you added, almost shyly. “You cried the whole way home.”
A pause. “That sounds like something I’d do.”
You smiled, relieved. “She kept a photograph. You look very happy.”
He did not respond immediately. He finished his drink, then said, “She likes to live in the past.”
“Sometimes the past is comforting,” you replied softly.
He gave you a brief look, then returned to his meal. The subject was dropped.
Later in the week, you found yourself passing by the unused rooms in the east wing. The doors were closed, the space untouched. That evening, as you walked together down the hallway, you gestured vaguely toward them.
“Your mother asked if those rooms are ever used,” you said casually. “She said she remembered when they were full of things.”
He stopped, but only for a moment. “She’s trying again through you.”
You shook your head quickly. “I didn’t mean it that way. She was just reminiscing.”
He looked at you, searching your face. Your expression was open, almost apologetic.
“I meant what I said before,” he said evenly. “This isn’t something I want.”
“I know,” you replied. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Satisfied, he continued walking.
That night, alone in your room, you sat at the edge of the bed, thinking about everything that had been said and left unsaid. His refusal had been firm, unmistakable. And yet, you could not ignore the way he listened now, even when he disagreed. The way he no longer dismissed you outright.
You rested a hand over your stomach, not with expectation, but with quiet thoughtfulness. You were not trying to change his mind. Not directly. You were simply letting the idea exist, gently, around the edges of his life. In memories. In empty rooms. In his mother’s voice.
You had been taught that patience was a virtue. That some things required time. Whether that time would ever be enough, you did not know.
summary: y/n webber vettel swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind
a/n: I’ve had this piece rumbling about in my mind since like November so I’m really excited to actually start posting it!
a/n2: yeah this consumed my thoughts and demanded that I write it next
a/n3: art is by anastasia trusova
Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Private Messages, the Uncles
Private Messages, Hanna and yn
Private Messages, Sebastian and yn
Private Messages, Max and Victoria and Sophie
Private Messages, Mick and yn
not_yn🔒
liked by mick, gina, lance, and 19 others
not_yn: I shouldn’t find this charming…don’t tell the parental figures
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gina: ok but those are so pretty?
↳not_yn: they are — and he’s handwritten some poetry in each one
↳gina: oh he’s so down bad for you already…
↳gina: which poems?
↳not_yn: “I realized I was thinking of you, and I began to wonder how long you’d been on my mind. Then it occurred to me: Since I met you, you’ve never left” was the latest
↳gina: so cute! He’s been thinking of you since he met you?? I call maid of honor at the wedding
↳not_yn: not happening! No weddings 🙅🏼♀️
↳gina: 😂😂
mick: well at least he’s moved on from bad pick up lines
↳not_yn: that is a positive…
↳mick: admit it — you love it
↳not_yn: I’ll admit nothing of the sort
↳mick: so we’re resting in denial…
lance: You’re dating someone? Why am I the last to know?
↳not_yn: I’m not dating anyone Lance — I wouldn’t keep that info from you
↳mick: max is completely down bad for her
↳lance: verstappen?? You’re dating Verstappen??
↳not_yn: I’m NOT dating anyone
↳lance: a Vettel/Verstappen relationship…we’re all doomed liked by mick
↳not_yn: Lance…
Bluesky
user1: I feel…confused?
↳user2: didn’t he once say that he’s only read 2 books before?
↳user3: well now it’s 3?
user4: I didn’t know that was something he knew how to do…
user5: he’s reading…an art book?
↳user6: what kind of art book?
↳user5: I think it’s art history?
↳user6: …that’s kinda cool actually
user7: I bet it’s because of a girl
↳user8: it’s always because of a girl
↳user9: what kind of a girl is enough to get his attention from racing to…Art history?
↳user8: the kind you keep
↳user7: the forever kind
yn_vettel🔒
liked by seb5priv, lewis44, nando, jenson_priv, and 291 others
yn_vettel: some new inspiration and cat toys
view all comments
seb5priv: blümchen tell me you didn’t get 2 massive cat trees?
↳yn_vettel: ok
↳seb5priv: blümchen…
↳yn_vettel: you told me not to tell you!
nando: pequeña?
↳yn_vettel: ¡Estoy esperando el informe semanal! I’m waiting for the weekly debrief!
↳seb5priv: so there is something!
danric: those are looking good!
↳yn_vettel: thanks Dan! Got a piece ready for you!
↳danric: yes!
lewis44: is the lavender one available?
↳yn_vettel: how much are you offering?
↳lewis44: what?
↳yn_vettel: I’m an actual artist now — I’ve even got some commissions.
↳yn_vettel: so how much are you offering?
↳jenson_priv: I’ll pay double whatever he offers
↳nico_r: triple it!
↳nando: too late
↳lewis44: this is terrorism
↳yn_vettel: I think it’s capitalism actually
↳lewis44: 😑😑
↳seb5priv: I think you both need to go back to school…
Private Messages, the Uncles
not_yn🔒
liked by gina, mick, and 16 others
not_yn: my studio has been taken over by flowers and poems…
view all comments
gina: and you’re…complaining?
↳not_yn: I’m not saying anything
↳gina: so you’re absolutely loving this!
↳not_yn: stop talking
mick: he’s winning you over isn’t he?
↳not_yn: go away!
↳mick: so when do I get to say I told you so?
↳not_yn: never!
Private Messages, Max and yn
Private Messages, Nando and yn
Taglist
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⠀⠀max verstappen x brianna hoffman (driver!female oc)
author begs you: send a request ʚɞ masterlist here
angst/fluff — it's been a long time coming; brianna and max have been racing each other for years. watch as they grow into their seats and hate grows into love.
📻 lele's radio: this was living in my drafts for months bc i wanted to make it longer but i left it for long enough. i want to make a part two if you guys like it so here it is!
warnings:: angsty somehow, abuse of power by a third part, max and brianna being reckless teenagers, jos verstappen trigger warning, google translated german and dutch, a few making out sessions, poorly timed but easy to understand. would def work on a part 2 of this.
Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the hot-headed Dutch boy or the too-passive-aggressive German girl. Maybe it was just their teenage blood, pumping full of adrenaline.
Or maybe it was a racing thing — the kind of emotions that only surfaced on the karting track. They liked to think of it that way.
"Don't start! Don't get me started." the curly-haired girl snapped, heading in the opposite direction, helmet in hand as she climbed out of the purple-pink kart she had just raced in. "Go cry or whatever, feel free. Just don't even talk to me."
The sky was falling, rain making it even harder to hear each other. Max didn’t need to catch every word to know she was bitching at him.
"C'mon! C'mon, Brianna! Do you have no shame? You almost ran me over!"
"Welcome to motorsports, Verstappen! What, did you expect me to sit behind you the whole time? We’re not on the streets — that's my job! You creep."
They didn’t know it yet, but this argument would go down in history. Their lives were already on record, every race documented, every rivalry captured on camera. One day, this fight would be clipped, edited to some overplayed pop song, and go viral on Twitter as a throwback moment.
But right now, all they could do was go through their usual post-race routine, burning off whatever adrenaline was left.
"Next time you pull a move like that on me, I’m fighting back. Mark my words." Max spat, rushing to keep up with her as they both sprinted toward the covered part of the kart track, drenched from the downpour.
"Yeah? Good." Brianna shot back, faking a yawn as she dropped her helmet into a staff member’s hands. "I’m dying to have some fun. It’s getting boring out here."
Anyone watching them fight would assume the argument had cost them the race. But no — it was P1 and P2 yelling at each other. This was just what they did.
And every time, Max got irrationally pissed off at how effortlessly calm she was. Her brown skin glistened under the rain, her hair tied low, her expression steady, unfazed.
Meanwhile, he was red in the face, cheeks burning, eyebrows furrowed, a near-pout tugging at his lips. Brianna caught sight of his expression and laughed.
"Get over it, Max. Try harder next time, and maybe you won’t end up on my back."
She clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, heading toward her team and parents.
Max, as always, was left hanging.
Teenage years were a hot take. Brianna always made sure she was making the best out of them.
Winning in karting was sometimes just fun, something she did because she could. She had two loving parents watching over her, through the good and the bad, and in her young mind, that seemed like the bare minimum.
Apparently, it wasn’t.
She was searching for her mom when she caught sight of Max Verstappen, sitting in a plastic chair, shoulders hunched, eyes red. A man towered over him, speaking harshly.
It only took her a second to recognize the man in question — Jos Verstappen. He had never looked friendly, and today was no exception.
"And you can’t even win this? This shitty championship? Losing to a girl? How do you—" He stopped, dragging a hand over his face before continuing. Brianna couldn’t understand much after that.
"Verdomme! Je bent een pijn in de kont, dat is toch basis! Dat zou gemakkelijk voor je moeten zijn, hoe kun je—Hoe plan je op deze manier de Formule 1 te bereiken? Teleurstelling." (Fuck! You're a pain in the ass, that’s basic! That should be easy for you to do, how do you—How do you plan to reach Formula One that way? Disappointment.)
Her chest tightened. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Max was coping with that, and she could only wonder what race Jos had been watching.
Fine, Max had lost his position to her, and after she passed him, everything had spiraled — he had barely held onto his podium. But still, he was Max Verstappen. He was leading the championship. He was ruthless. How could someone talk to their own son like that?
The words were brutal.
"Max! Gooooood-old Maxie!"
She almost couldn’t believe she was doing this. Showing sympathy for him felt like being stabbed, yet at the same time, it felt like the best thing to do.
"Did you know I have more podium pictures with you than with anyone else? It’s truly concerning." The words were foolish, but they served their purpose — to shift the focus away from the screaming. "Sorry, Sir Verstappen. I’m stealing your son for a moment, I promise!"
She barely thought about it. Brianna grabbed Max’s arm and led him away toward one of the small resting rooms.
"What the fuck, Brianna?"
"Saved you a lecture. Now save us some time and don’t bitch about it." She shoved a plastic cup of water into his hands. "Drink. You need to look good at my podium."
Max stared at her, still in his race suit, water dripping from his hair, looking completely lost.
Was she… being nice?
And worse — or maybe better — she wasn’t making it weird. She kept up the swearing, the jabs, as if she hadn’t just overheard his father tearing him apart.
He hadn’t seen it coming. Honestly, neither had Brianna.
So, it was almost a relief when the door burst open and two excited voices filled the room.
"Wir haben dich gefunden! Wo ist das Nummer-eins-Mädchen der Welt?" (Oh, we found you! Where is the number one girl in the world?)
She bounced on her heels, laughing as her dad pulled her into a hug, while her mother wrapped her arms around her.
Did she do that on purpose? Was this meant to be rubbed in Max’s face — that, besides winning, she also had a happy home? Supportive parents?
"Dein Nummer-eins-Mädchen der Welt!" (Your number one girl in the world!) She corrected them with a playful smile before glancing back at Max. "Did you guys see him overtaking me in one of the first laps? I didn’t think I’d win after that."
Weird. This whole day was full of surprises.
"He got you good with that one, huh? You two are like a movie playing out in real-time." Her dad chuckled, making Max even more confused.
No one was going to fight? No yelling? No insults?
He had expected it — from anyone in this room. From parents, because that’s how his worked. And from Brianna, because that’s how they worked.
Instead, she was being… nice. Supportive. It was unsettling.
"You’re doing great, Max." Brianna’s mom added. "Sad we can’t have you win all the time, but you’re a good one."
Something warm and unfamiliar settled in his chest.
"Thanks." he murmured. He hesitated, then added, "You guys did a great job with Brie, too. She’s a handful, but… I guess that’s the fun."
"She only teases the ones she likes, son."
"DAD!" Brianna snapped, brows furrowing.
The ones she liked.
This day just kept getting weirder.
"Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry, sweetie. Now let’s go to the podium celebration." Her father clapped his hands together. "Where’s your dad, Max? Maybe you guys can have lunch with us today."
The years passed. Formula Three became the new battleground, but Max Verstappen and Brianna Hoffman still put on the same old show.
Only now, it was even more heated.
They stormed out of their freshly crashed cars, marching toward each other with foul language already sitting on the tips of their tongues.
It wasn’t surprising — everyone saw it coming. Their teams in the pit boxes had barely flinched. Everyone knew fire would ignite the moment Max reached the back of the still-purple-pink car.
"You bastard!" Brianna shouted, ripping off her gloves and shoving them against Max’s chest. "You’re an asshole! A bitch! Who the fuck do you think you are, for fuck’s sake?!"
Oh, and it was raining. Their best scenario. The downpour only added to the drama.
"Hi, nice to meet you." Max quipped, his grin all sharp edges and mischief. "I’m Max Verstappen. Thought you’d know me by now."
"Cut the bullshit! You had plenty of room! Why did you do this? Look at my car! My fucking car! You fucked up — seriously!" Brianna’s voice rose with every word.
She wasn’t usually like this. The whole point of her attitude was making people lose their minds without even raising her voice.
But not this time.
Max had a clear path. He didn’t need to put her in the wall but he did it anyway. And that was the difference between them now.
He had high-profile opportunities knocking on his door — his path to Formula One practically set. Brianna, on the other hand, was still fighting for every single point, proving herself over and over again. And still, it wasn’t enough.
Worse — rumors had it; she was losing her F3 seat.
"Did I?" Max tilted his head, unimpressed. "Set a meeting so we can talk about it." He shrugged, already turning to leave. "See ya."
Brianna stomped her foot like an angry child, gripping her balaclava and safety gear in her arms as the rain plastered her hair to her skin. Maybe it was a good thing. No one could see the few stray tears slipping down her face.
Minutes later, she found herself sitting in the back of the karting complex, staring blankly at the man in front of her while she fidgeted with her balaclava between her fingers.
"You fail to attack, you fail to defend, and you lose your mind over stupid shit!" the man snapped. "Why the hell would you yell at Max like that? He’s better than you! He’s just better. You gonna whine about it? Seriously?"
Brianna didn’t say a word.
Yes, Max was better. She knew that. He had been trained for this since childhood, shaped into near-perfection by the age of seventeen. She could never be him. And she knew that, too.
"Huh? What do you have to say?" The man leaned forward, voice dripping with condescension. "Your car is wrecked! Again! I can’t be out here paying for you to wreck expensive shit every other weekend!"
Sponsorships worked like that. No matter how many results she delivered, they always expected more. Always found something to criticize.
"I take your brand to the podium every other week!" she shot back. "Hell yes, you can pay for me to wreck expensive shit!"
Too slow.
"Brianna, that’s not how this works." His voice turned dangerously low. "It’s like I own you, right? You’re here because of me. So start acting like it. And start avoiding Max Verstappen every time you see him on track. It’s clear you won’t be able to in a few years."
She was sure he kept talking. But she wasn’t listening anymore.
Because at that moment, Max Verstappen walked past.
And there was no avoiding him.
He was staring at her, expression unreadable, like he was trying to put together a puzzle. And maybe he could, because the second she wiped at her damp cheeks, his gaze hardened.
"Are you listening, Brianna?" The voice in front of her grew impatient. "One more chance. You either pull off a perfect performance next weekend, or you start applying to college."
"Yeah, I’ll take the perfect performance." She muttered.
She grabbed her things and left, the heavy rain drumming against the metal roof as she walked away and toward the resting complex, Max right behind.
"Going through some shit, huh?"
"Get lost, Max." Brianna exhaled deeply, gripping the water bottle she had just grabbed. "Get fucking lost."
"I just came to check in… You don’t seem okay."
"My car is broken. Do you really think I should be okay right now?"
"I mean… my car is also broken." He shrugged as if that made things better. It didn’t.
"Yeah, Max? Damn, fool you. Don’t worry, you’re getting a fresh and pretty F1 car in a few months. I’m the one taking the L." She wasn’t yelling anymore. Just letting it all out. "Please, just go."
"Alright." Max hesitated. "I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but… you know… you’re pretty decent. I might make it there faster, but you’ll be there too."
Brianna frowned, taking a sip from her water.
This wasn’t Max. "Quit the pity talk."
"No pity. I’m being honest." He shrugged again. "You just struggle when I’m around. You get all nervous and freak out."
And there it was. That familiar, insufferable tone.
Sure, they helped each other sometimes. But the rivalry—that was the only thing keeping everything in place.
"Yeah, in your dreams, Verstappen."
Max rolled his eyes but didn’t leave. Instead, he stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied Brianna’s face. Exhaustion was written all over her.
The rain had done nothing to mask the weight pressing down on her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture, the way her fingers clenched around the bottle like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
"You’re doing that thing again." he said simply, arms crossed over his chest.
"What thing?"
"Where you act like none of this affects you when you’re clearly two seconds away from collapsing." His voice wasn’t teasing now. It was steady. Unshakable. "Just breathe, Brie."
Brianna huffed out a breath, rolling her shoulders back. "I am breathing."
"Not properly," he countered, stepping even closer. "Come on, let’s get you out of this wet suit. You’ll get sick."
"Oh, so now you care?"
He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he reached out and, for the first time in forever, touched her without it being some kind of challenge. His fingers brushed against the zipper of her race suit, his touch hesitant, giving her space to push him away.
But she didn’t. She was too tired to fight him off, too drained to pretend she didn’t want to let go just for a moment.
"You’re a mess." he muttered, pulling the zipper down slowly. "You drive like a maniac, you take risks that would terrify anyone else, and you let people talk to you like you’re not the best damn driver out there."
Brianna exhaled, barely reacting as he peeled the soaked fabric off her shoulders, leaving her in just her undershirt. "I don’t let people talk to me like that."
"Yeah? Sounded like you did just now." His eyes flickered to where her sponsor had been just minutes ago, and for the first time, there was something protective in his stance. A quiet, simmering rage that — for once — wasn’t directed at her. "They don’t see it, but I do. You deserve to be here just as much as anyone else. And you’re not going anywhere."
She hated how much that affected her. How much she wanted to believe him.
"Max—"
"Let me take you back to the hotel." He cut in. "You’re exhausted. You’ll get sick if you stay out here, and you know I’m right."
Brianna hesitated, her pride screaming at her to argue. But then Max did something unexpected. He reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair away from her face, his fingers gentle against her skin.
"Just this once, let me take care of you."
The air between them shifted. This was new. This was something neither of them knew how to navigate. But she was too damn tired to fight him on this.
"Fine." She muttered. "But if you start acting all smug about this, I swear to God—"
"I’d never." He said, a smirk playing at his lips as he grabbed her bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Come on, hotshot. Let’s get you out of here."
And for the first time, Brianna let him lead the way.
The ride to the hotel was quiet. Brianna was half-asleep against the window, and Max didn’t even try to tease her for it. When they finally arrived, he checked them in with a quick nod to the receptionist, then nudged her forward toward the elevator.
"Shower first." He ordered the moment they stepped into her room. "You smell like wet asphalt."
"Charming." She muttered, kicking off her shoes. "I don’t need you bossing me around."
"Then move faster."
She shot him a glare but didn’t argue, grabbing her things before disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the space, and Max sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face.
He didn’t know why he was still here. He should have gone to his own room, should have left her alone, but—
"Max?"
He looked up just as Brianna emerged, her damp hair falling over her shoulders, drowning in a hoodie that was definitely too big to be hers. Probably a team-issued one. She hesitated, eyeing him as he sat stiffly on the mattress.
"You’re just gonna sit there all night?"
"I was planning on it."
"That’s dumb."
"You’re dumb."
She rolled her eyes, then sighed as she climbed into bed, throwing the covers over herself. "Just get in."
He froze. "What?"
"This is already weird enough. If you just sleep here, it won’t make it worse."
Max blinked at her, unsure if this was a trap. "Pretty sure that’s not how it works."
"Max. I’m tired. You’re tired. Just—stop being weird about it and sleep."
He hesitated for another second, then exhaled sharply before kicking off his shoes and sliding under the covers beside her. There was a cautious distance between them, a line neither of them was willing to cross, but the warmth was grounding.
"Nothing changes." She mumbled, her eyes already closed.
"Nothing changes." He echoed.
"We still hate each other."
"Obviously."
She hummed sleepily, already on the verge of unconsciousness. "You’re a pain in the ass, Verstappen."
Max let his head sink into the pillow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep, hotshot."
And for the first time in a long time, they both did.
summary: Lando Norris runs his empire with precision. As the head of The Reaper's Circle —the most influential mob in Monaco— he must be ruthless, untouchable, and always ten steps ahead. But when a chance encounter at a quiet coffee shop leads to an unexpected connection, he finds himself treading dangerous ground. She’s ordinary, too sharp for her own good, and completely unaware of the world he operates in. Yet, he keeps going back. It starts as an indulgence, a curiosity—until suddenly, it’s not. Because while Lando may be watching her, he’s not the only one keeping an eye on them.
lando norris was a preppy asshole in secondary school, and you were the girl he despised. years later, you're a hot-shot sports lawyer rewriting the rules of the sport he calls home, and your paths cross, whether you want them to or not.
pairing: lando norris x fem! lawyer! reader
୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅
chapter one: twists and turns
chapter two: driver no. 4
chapter three: blast from the past
chapter four: snappy conversation
chapter five: inner-workings
chapter six: weapons down
chapter seven: miami, the city that keeps the roof blazin'
chapter eight: emilia
chapter nine: monaco munchies
chapter ten: Desmadrarse
chapter eleven: truce
chapter twelve: dagger eyes and other jealousy tactics
chapter thirteen: don't be a bitch
chapter fourteen: fucked up, but interesting
chapter fifteen: greec-ers
-> part one | part two
chapter sixteen: picking up the pieces
chapter seventeen: a soft interior
chapter eighteen: calm before the storm
chapter nineteen: brake failure
chapter twenty: championship
chapter twenty-one: the dam breaks
chapter twenty-two: listening won't help
chapter twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, and the epilogue (unnamed)
