(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)
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SUNDAY – MIAMI GRAND PRIX – PADDOCK ENTRANCE
The morning sun burned high and bright, casting long shadows across the concrete as engines buzzed in the distance. The paddock was already a circus — cameras flashing, media zones full, heat rising like static off the tarmac.
The cameras were already waiting. It wasn’t a surprise anymore — not since Barcelona. They stepped through the gates together again
It was only their second time walking in officially like this — hand in hand. Yet somehow, it still felt surreal. The flash of cameras. The buzz in the air. Media attention swung toward them like a spotlight.
She held her head high. Her linen button-down was open over a tiny black tank top, paired with a Prada Natté mini skirt and vintage McLaren sneakers the team had sent her two days before. A VIP Paddock pass knotted on the handle of her orange Birkin. Last night’s eyeliner still lingered soft and smoky beneath her lashes, not quite slept-off, not quite intentional.
Lando looked relaxed beside her – crisp McLaren polo tucked into black slacks, sunglasses on, cap low, but she could feel the tension in his palm. Not from nerves. Focus. That quiet edge he always had before a race. And yet, even with the storm of competition brewing behind his eyes, he still made space for her — like he always did.
It was strange. The last time she was at a race, it had been a secret. Her name hadn’t been in a single headline. Now?
Now she’s “Kpop Princess turned Paddock Queen.”
The walk toward McLaren’s hospitality unit was fast but punctuated — greetings, waves, a few shouted names. One Sky Sports interviewer did a not-so-subtle double take. Charles Leclerc called out a teasing, “Look who’s gone full team girlfriend!” from Ferrari’s side. Max Verstappen passed them with a grin and tossed Lando a thumbs-up.
She just smiled, tossed her hair back, and kept walking.
Lando nudged her playfully. “Still surviving?”
She glanced at him sideways. “Barely. You all do this every week?”
“You get used to it,” he shrugged. “Sort of like turbulence. Loud, disorienting, and no leg room.”
As they reached the McLaren hospitality suite, his manager and comms team were already waiting — friendly but slightly frazzled. She saw the moment coming, the way his posture shifted just a degree sharper, the way the team moved in like a pit crew with schedules and last-minute reminders.
But before they could pull him away completely, Lando tilted his head toward the second-floor balcony of the unit.
“Come on,” he said, and tugged her hand. “Five minutes. Just us.”
They found a quiet spot with a view overlooking the paddock. Fans pressed against the fences below, media darting between teams, drone cams buzzing in the sky. But up here, it felt calm.
He leaned against the railing, and she slipped in beside him, arms brushing. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just breathed.
“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low.
“Sort of,” she said. “Your mattress was trying to assassinate my spine. You?”
“Dreamt they fucked up my pit strategy,” he muttered. “Woke up sweating.”
She laughed softly and tilted her face toward the sun. “It’s weird being back here. Like déjà vu.”
He turned toward her. “What do you mean?”
“Last year, I was watching you race on my phone halfway across the world . Now I’m walking in next to you and getting dissected by Sky Sports Twitter.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, thoughtful, then reached out to brush a piece of hair behind her ear.
“You’re handling it,” he said quietly. “Better than most. You make it look easy.”
She leaned in then, kissed his cheek, lips lingering just a little longer than necessary. “You always make me feel safe, though.”
He smiled — that slow, crooked one reserved just for her.
“Good. Because after an hour of pretending to care about brake temps, I’ll need something real to look forward to. You in that skirt? That’s a start.”
She stepped closer, eyes flicking over his face. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I’ll be the distraction your engineers warned you about.” Her voice dipped lower, teasing. “Focus now. You can misbehave later. After you win.” He tilted his head, cocky. “But only if you promise not to ghost me afterward.”
“I always text you after the briefing.”
“Sometimes it’s just a thumbs-up emoji.”
“Still counts,” he grinned.
Below, someone called his name — sharp, clipped, urgent. Time was up.
He turned, pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head — then again, slower this time, lingering like he needed to draw from her, like she was his calm in the noise.
“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
She squeezed his hand. “Go win,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here.”
He gave her one last look — a look that said you matter more than any podium ever could — and then he was gone, swallowed whole by orange polos, headsets, and the blur of the McLaren team.
She stayed a moment longer, watching until the last glimpse of him disappeared into the crowd. Then she straightened her sunglasses, smoothed the hem of her skirt, and turned back toward the paddock — chin high, heart steady.
The Red Bull setup was bigger, brasher. White umbrellas. Custom espresso bar. Giant screens looping highlight reels. Every part of it screamed we win, and we know it.
Lisa was already waiting in the shade, perched on a lounge chair like she owned the entire team. Her outfit was… questionable. Possibly ironic. Space buns, and sunglasses with mirrored lenses that reflected the paddock like a warzone.
When Lisa saw her bandmate, she stood immediately. “Took you long enough,” Lisa said bring her into a hug
She sank into the seat beside her with a sigh. “The walk through the paddock felt like Coachella with engines. People are trying to guess if I was carrying baby Lando already.”
Lisa snorted, pulling a can of Red Bull from a nearby cooler. “You should’ve told them you’re debuting your own team.”
“Team Pink Punk,” she murmured, accepting a drink of her own. “Powered by starting fandom wars and praying we’re planning a comeback.”
Lisa took a long look at her, then softened. Her smirk faded, just slightly. “I missed you, you know,” Lisa said quietly.
She turned her head toward her. Her voice was gentle. “I missed you too.”
The words were heavier than they seemed. Because she hadn’t just missed Lisa. She’d missed them. All of them. The late-night rehearsals that bled into dawn. The smell of studio candles. The off-key laughter on long-haul flights. The way Rosé used to hum into her hoodie sleeves. The way Jisoo always knew when She needed to be left alone, and when she absolutely didn’t. The way Jennie would invite her out to eat with her, they always end up fighting for the bill.
She hadn’t seen any of them in almost a year.
She remembers all five of them going their separate ways, no drama, no explosions — just a quiet scattering. She remembers crying on her solo flight to Monaco, forehead pressed against the window, unsure of when or if they’d make music together again. The silence between them had grown—not cold, just distant. Time zones and obligations and new lives.
“I don’t even know how to say it right,” she admitted, the words barely above the low hum of the crowd. “But it feels like something cracked a little when we stopped. Like… we had been orbiting the same sun, and then suddenly—”
“We were floating,” Lisa finished, her voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know.”
she looked down, twisting the ring on her finger. “I think I was scared to say it out loud.”
Lisa nudged her shoulder. “We all were.”She paused, then leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Rosé sent me a voice note last week. It was just her, playing guitar in her hotel bathroom. She didn’t say anything. Just… played. It felt like home and heartbreak at the same time.”
Her throat tightened. “Jisoo sent me a selfie of her and that same dog she said she wouldn’t adopt.”
Lisa laughed under her breath. “Of course she did.”
The two of them sat like that for a moment, drinks in hand, sunglasses hiding everything that their smiles didn’t.
“I’m glad our paths crossed today,” she said finally, her voice full of that weight she rarely let anyone see. “Even if it’s brief. It reminds me that we’re still us. No matter what.”
Lisa reached over, laced their fingers together for a beat. “We’ll find our way back. You know that, right?”
she nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”
The big screens flickered again — Lando’s qualifying replay. He looked fast. Focused. Electric. A spark of pride stirred in her chest.
Lisa caught her glance. “So,” she teased, tone shifting back. “Walking in with Lando. Very casual. Very low-key.”
she rolled her eyes. “We’re being casual. That’s not a crime.”
They slipped into silence again, watching the pre-race shuffle build around them — pit crews rushing past, media swarming, camera operators sweating, influencers posing like it was fashion week. It was loud. Flashy. But strangely, not overwhelming. Not with someone like Lisa next to her.
“I’ll admit,” Lisa said after a beat, stretching her legs out, “I kind of like this. It’s different and loud and weird… but it suits you.”
She looked out at the garages, her gaze catching for a moment on the flash of papaya orange. Somewhere beyond the screen, beyond the fences, Lando was suiting up, calm and steady under pressure. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her drink.
“I just want to keep showing up for him,” she said. “And maybe… get the world used to the idea that I’m not going anywhere.”
Lisa grinned. “God, you’re sooo romantic. I love it. It’s gross. But I love it.”
She smirked, brushing her hair out of her face. “Gross love is still love.”
Lisa held up her can for a toast. “To gross love. And band reunions. And possibly stealing a race car later.” They clinked cans, and the world didn’t feel quite so far apart anymore.
Heat shimmered off the tarmac like a warning. Engines were silent but coiled, ready. Photographers lined the edges. VIPs clustered in designer sunglasses and exclusive passes. And in the middle of it all, they walked side by side — sunglasses low and completely unbothered.
She adjusted her ear cuff and scanned the grid. “So… this is what walking through the grid feels like.”
Lisa flicked her hair back, eyeing a cameraman already panning toward them. “You mean walking through a trap.”
“Same thing,” She said, waving a hand. “It’s like the Met Gala had a baby with a Red Bull can.”
A Sky Sports mic appeared in front of them. “Quick question—what brings you to Miami this weekend?”
She smiled politely, but her eyes were already calculating. “The weather,” she said smoothly.
Lisa added, “And our mutual obsession with carbon fiber.”
The reporter laughed. “Any predictions for today’s race?”
She tapped her chin. “Fast cars, sweaty drivers, and… um, champagne.”
Lisa threw in, “And maybe one of us fainting in the heat. Place your bets.”
They kept walking, the reporter falling behind as the grid swallowed him in tire blankets, cameras, and mechanics.
“God, it smells like testosterone,” Lisa muttered, fanning herself with her VIP pass.
She leaned in. “Probably the Ferrari fans.”
They passed Oscar mid-grid, who gave them a polite nod. Then Daniel Ricciardo, who greeted them with a cheerful “Hey!” and looked two seconds from asking for a TikTok cameo.
Lisa mimed zipping her lips and winked at him. “Oi!” Daniel called back, laughing.
Then came the familiar hum of McLaren orange. Lando, already in his race suit, jogged up from the front row — grin wide.
Her heart lifted instinctively. “Look who’s all dressed up.”
“Look who’s trying to outshine the cars,” he shot back.
He leaned in, kissed her cheek quickly, and pulled back just as a dozen cameras snapped. “Behave,” he warned with mock sternness before jogging off toward the national anthem lineup.
Lisa watched him go. “Is it weird that I feel like we just witnessed the cover shoot for GQ: Fast Boyfriend Edition?”
She snorted. “Wait until he wins a race. He’s going full Vogue spread.”
A woman from F1’s grid protocol team approached, trying not to look like she was herding cats. “Ladies, we need to clear the area—”
She gave her a perfectly measured look. “We know.”
Lisa raised both hands like she was surrendering. “We’re moving, ma’am. No need for the FIA.”
They reached the side barriers near McLaren’s section just as Martin Brundle came within ten feet. He was deep into his grid walk, practically beelining for them — until an AlphaTauri engineer stepped in the way.
Lisa leaned close. “That man wants us.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, he can’t have us.”
“Tell that to the internet,” Lisa muttered, spotting a boom mic floating just out of frame.
On the other side of the fence, fans shouted their names. Some held up Blackpink albums. One waved a hand-drawn poster that read: “From Kpop Star to Pitlane Royalty 💙🧡”
She smiled and waved. Behind them, mechanics started rolling tire carts away. The anthem was coming. The energy shifted — tension curling through the grid like smoke.
Lisa adjusted her sunglasses. “Okay, but if I pass out during the anthem, I expect a dramatic montage and at least one Ferrari team radio reaction.”
She deadpanned, “Only if it’s Charles saying ‘Mon dieu, someone get her an iced latte.’”
As the orchestra rose and attention swept toward the line of drivers, her eyes stayed fixed on the boy with the curls.
She slowed her pace as she and Lisa approached the Red Bull garage, the air humming with energy. The bass of a deep house track pulsed from hidden speakers, mingling with the rhythmic clang of pit gear and the scent of fresh rubber and sunscreen.
Lisa adjusted her bucket hat and smirked like she’d just been handed VIP access to mischief. “You sure you don’t want to come in for just five minutes? There’s air conditioning.”
She gave her a knowing look. “If I go in there, I won’t come out until lap 42.”
Lisa laughed, then pulled her into a quick hug. “Tell him If he doesn’t win, I’m photoshopping him into Twilight posters or tweeting ‘he tried his best’ with a suspicious amount of sarcasm.”
“I’ll let him know,” She laughed. “Behave in there.”
“Obviously,” Lisa said, winking as she turned and disappeared into the Blue Zone like a girl on a mission.
She turned back toward the main walkway, already hearing a few camera shutters nearby, and that’s when she spotted Lily Z weaving through the crowd like she was floating. Iced coffee in one hand, her sundress catching the breeze, white sneakers looking criminally clean for a race day.
“Hey,” Lily called with a grin, lifting her drink in greeting. “You’re alive!” 11They hugged quickly, melting into each other’s energy with an ease.
“Barely,” she sighed dramatically. “I lost Lisa to Red Bull. Pray for her.”
“They’ll feed her Red Bulls and propaganda,” Lily said with a mock-serious nod. “She’s done for.”
They fell into step, heading toward McLaren’s hospitality tent with no urgency. Heads turned, phones came up, and a Sky Sports producer practically tripped trying to follow them discreetly. Neither flinched. It was the strangeness of the paddock — be seen, don’t be fazed.
“How are you really?” Lily asked after a beat, voice gentle. “your travels, race weekends… dating a driver.”
She hesitated for half a second, then exhaled. “It’s… a lot. Amazing. But also… I feel like I’m living out of a suitcase and a WiFi signal. I don’t even know what city I’m waking up in half the time.”
Lily gave her a sympathetic side-eye. “Welcome to Formula 1. You’ll know you’ve fully adapted when you cry on a private jet while ordering a drink.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” she admitted, brushing a hand through her hair.
“Oh, I don’t,” Lily deadpanned. “I just pretend I’m not jet-lagged and sob into Oscar’s hoodie when no one’s looking. Yesterday I cried because I dropped my AirPods in the toilet. He thought I broke a nail.”
She laughed. “Relatable.”
“I mean, it looks good on the outside,” Lily continued, gesturing to everything around them. “But behind every good driver is a sleep-deprived girlfriend running purely on caffeine and repressed emotions.”
She nodded and smiled. “Last week I sent Lando a demo for a possible solo I was proud of and passed out before he even replied.”
Lily winced. “Oh no. Did he text back?”
“He sent back, and I quote, 3 fire emojis and “sounds pleasant.’ Which I think means he liked it.”
The noise of the paddock grew louder as the grid walk neared, but the moment between them was calm.
“Oh, that’s love. That’s modern-day Britain right there.”
The noise around them grew louder as the drivers were going to their positions on the grid
“Still,” Lily said, bumping her shoulder lightly, “You and Lando? You work. You soften him.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So he was feral before me?”
“Oh, absolutely. Still is. But now with slightly better time management.”
“Growth,” she said, mock-solemn. “We love to see it.”
They both cracked up, drawing a curious glance from someone in HAAS gear.
Lily sobered slightly, her tone softening. “I’m really glad you’re here. You belong here more than you think.”
Her throat tightened slightly at the sincerity. “Thanks. I think… I’m starting to feel that too.”
Ahead, McLaren’s garage shimmered in papaya orange like a safehouse in the middle of mayhem. The metallic heat of the paddock gave way to the cooler hum of the garage, where the air smelled faintly of engine oil, burnt rubber, and the lingering traces of sunscreen and energy drinks. Engineers in papaya polos moved with quiet urgency, radios crackling softly, and monitors flickered with telemetry data.
They stepped in together, their footsteps slowing instinctively as they crossed into McLaren territory. Someone handed them branded headphones with their initials and lanyards without a word—everyone was locked in. Focused. This was where it all happened.
A staff member guided them to a pair of seats just behind the main row of engineers. The chairs weren’t glamorous—more folding than plush—but the view was unmatched. A massive screen dominated the wall in front of them, already showing the pre-race feed: onboards, pit lane shots, the occasional dramatic camera sweep across the starting grid.
She slipped the headphones over her ears, the world going quiet except for the calm voice of the race engineer and the low murmur of comms. It was oddly grounding, like slipping below the surface of a storm into something steady.
Lily leaned closer, already fiddling with her mic toggle. “This is my favorite part,” she said softly, grinning. “The quiet before the chaos.”
She nodded, her eyes scanning the garage. Lando’s name blinked softly on a data screen nearby. She caught sight of his helmet in the car— neon green with black blobs. It made her heart stutter just a little.
Then the signal came through the radio: cars rolling out onto the formation lap.
The rumble from the track outside vibrated through the concrete floor beneath their feet.
Seated in the McLaren garage, headphones on, She watched the race unfold on the big screen. The atmosphere was electric, the tension palpable. She cheered as Lando climbed positions, her heart pounding with every overtake.
Starting from P5, Lando felt the familiar adrenaline surge as the lights went out. The initial laps were intense, with Max Verstappen leading the pack. Lando maintained his position, conserving his tyres and waiting for the right moment.
On Lap 29, a collision between Kevin Magnussen and Logan Sargeant brought out the Safety Car. Seizing the opportunity, Lando pitted and emerged in the lead, ahead of Verstappen. At the restart on Lap 33, he defended his position fiercely, then began to pull away as Verstappen struggled with tyre grip.
When the Safety Car emerged and Lando took the lead, she gripped her seat, barely breathing during the restart. Each lap felt like an eternity, but as the gap to Verstappen increased, hope blossomed. Tears welled up as Lando crossed the finish line, victorious. She whispered, “You did it,” her voice choked with emotion.
Each lap, Lando pushed the car to its limits, the McLaren responding beautifully. The gap widened, and with each sector, victory edged closer. The moment the checkered flag waved, Lando crossed the line, the world turned gold.
Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at the timing screen. P1. Her knees buckled slightly, and beside her, Lisa grabbed her elbow, steadying her.
“Holy shit,” Lisa, who left the red bull garage after Max dropped to second, said. “Your man just won a Grand Prix.” She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink.
The garage exploded into cheers. Zak was hugging everyone in sight. Mechanics vaulted over the pit wall. Papaya-clad arms reached for each other, some slapping backs, others wiping their eyes. The buzz of engines faded beneath the deafening roar of the crowd. The team erupted in celebration as Lando secured his maiden F1 victory. Lisa turned toward her, eyes wide, but she was already moving.
His voice cracked as he screamed into the radio—words slurred by joy, adrenaline, disbelief. “We did it! We actually fucking did it!” His engineer’s voice, half-choked with tears, came through the headset, but the rest was a blur. Mechanics flooded the pit wall. His team—his family—waited for him.
He parked the car, hands trembling as he ripped off his gloves. Helmet tossed aside, he broke into a sprint. Straight into the waiting arms of his crew.
They engulfed him. Cheers and swears and tears. Everyone yelling over each other. One arm around Zak Brown, another around his race engineer, and still—he kept searching the crowd, breath short, heart already pulling toward her.
Still in her team pass and headset, standing frozen just beyond the barrier, one hand pressed hard to her chest like she was trying to hold her heart in place.
Everything else—mechanics, cameras, microphones—melted away.
He broke from the huddle without a word. Ducking under the barrier, cleaving through the crowd with a singular focus.
They collided with a force that knocked the air from her lungs more than singing ever could. His arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her completely off the ground, her feet dangling as she let out a laugh that quickly turned into a sob, tucking her face into his neck.
“Jesus, Lando…” she whispered, overwhelmed. “You actually did it.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he breathed, his voice rough. “You’ve been with me through everything.”
Her hands curled into his hair, into the collar of his suit. “I’m so proud of you. So—so proud.”
He tightened his grip, held her as though letting go might wake him up. “You kept me steady. Every bad race. Every near-miss. Every stupid doubt I had about myself. You were there.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, face flushed with the sun and something far deeper. He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world.
And when he kissed her, it wasn’t shy or careful. It was months of holding back. Late nights in hotel rooms. Phone calls cut short. Dinners interrupted by strategy meetings. Every quiet sacrifice finally paid off in one, spine-tingling kiss. Some girl somewhere around the world fell to her knees at the sight.
Lisa, crouched a few feet away, phone in one hand, proper DSLR in the other, grinned like a cat. The media also caught it all.
The cameras clicked like fireworks. The feed jumped from garage celebrations to the shot of Lando holding her like she was oxygen. Every commentator fell quiet for a moment, letting the image speak for itself.
@/f1girlythings: SHE JUMPED INTO HIS ARMS I'M SOBBING 😭💔
@/wagscentral: her in the McLaren garage, her in parc fermé, Y/n in my heart 🧡
@/raceweekromance: This is their world. We’re just living in it.
@/formulalovee: LANDO JUST KISSED HER IN PARC FERMÉ?????? MY HEART
@/motorsportromantics: the way he ran to her. like a man possessed.
@/Landoandynsupremacy: I am not fine. I am sobbing in papaya-colored tears.
@/gridgirlchronicles: no matter where you stood on the grid today, love won. 🧡
He finally lowered her to the ground, slowly, reluctantly.
Her hands were still resting on his chest. His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek.
“I love you,” he said it so softly, as if the world might steal it away.
she blinked, then smiled like it physically hurt to hold that much emotion. “I love you too.”
From behind them, someone called his name—FIA official, maybe. He glanced back once, then leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.
“You’ll be there at the podium?”
“Of course,” she said again. Her voice was steady now. Sure.
He kissed her once more—quick, reverent—then turned and jogged toward the cool-down room, team members slapping his back, laughter echoing around him.
Lisa slung an arm around her shoulder once he disappeared down the corridor. “That was the most disgustingly romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”
she wiped her eyes with a laugh. “Shut up.”
she stood where he left her, her arms still crossed over her chest like she could hold the moment in place. She smiled through fresh tears, cheeks aching, breath shallow.
The steps to the podium felt like they went on forever.
Lando’s heart was hammering, not from adrenaline now — but disbelief. He was still drenched in sweat, curls damp under his cap, still breathing like he hadn’t taken a full breath since Lap 47, and his cheeks already hurt from grinning. He took the final step, squinting as the crowd exploded into cheers.
His name echoed from the grandstands to the marina. Papaya flags waved like fire. Phones pointed skyward. The McLaren crew punched the air.
He waved, a little dazed. Lando stood in the middle. For the first time. The middle. A little disoriented. It didn’t feel real until he looked down.
Wearing one of his team shirts, oversized and tied at the waist. Hair messy from the wind, makeup a little smudged from tears. Hands clutched to her chest. He’d never seen anyone look at him like that before.
Pure pride. Pure love. Like he was the sun and she'd just watched him rise.
She blew him a kiss, her fingers trembling slightly. He grinned wide.
The anthem started. Lando stood a little straighter as the British flag rose behind him, chest swelling. He bit his lip to keep it together.
All those years. All the near-misses. All the heartbreak. And now?
Gold confetti exploded into the air. Champagne time.
The cork launched skyward with a sharp pop, and the podium burst into a storm of white spray. Lando slams the bottle onto the floor making the spray shoot up. Max aimed straight for Lando, soaking him. Charles turned and doused Max back. Lando turned.
A wide arc of champagne sprayed across the barricade. She saw it coming a second too late. “No—no no no not again—Lando!”
She gasped, hands flying up. She laughed. Loud and unfiltered, even as the champagne mist splattered across her shirt and shoulders.
He beamed, soaking in the sound. He spun around to spray Max in the back.
McLaren crew nearby whooped. A camera caught it all—the race winner turning away from the formal chaos of the podium, grinning like a man with nothing to lose, just to drench his girl in his victory.
@/F1LoveAffairs: Lando spraying his girlfriend AGAIN with champagne from the TOP STEP. I’m sobbing. This is cinematic romance.
@/GridGossip: Forget the trophy. Lando just baptized his girlfriend in Moët.
@/McLarenFanatic: So this is what winning and being in love looks like. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.
As the ceremony wrapped, the drivers made their way off the stage, but Lando jogged down the last few steps, handing off his empty bottle. He didn’t care about the media. Didn’t care about protocol.
“You aimed right for my face.”
He leaned in and kissed her hard before she could argue, champagne and sunscreen clinging to both of them.
“Lando!” one of the press officers called from the side.
He pulled back slowly, reluctant, still buzzing. “I have to go lie about how calm I was. Wanna go to the club later”
She smoothed his soaked race suit. “Of course, let’s celebrate your first win”
He winked, turned, and jogged toward the media pen.
The door swung open, and they practically fell inside — Lando kicked it shut with his foot while she kicked her shoes in the middle of the floor like she’d been in boots for twelve hours.
She sighed dramatically. “You know what I need?”
“A second shower because you reek of champagne.”
She shot him a glare. “I was gonna say food.”
Lando laughed, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto a chair. “Room service it is, then.”
she flopped onto the bed face-first, muffled. “We’re going clubbing in two hours. I’m gonna die.”
“You can’t die. I just won my first Grand Prix. I need to show you off.”
“You already did. In front of the whole world,” she mumbled, still face-down.
He collapsed next to her and rolled her onto her back, grinning. “And I’m gonna keep doing it until they name a corner after you.”
She wheezed out a laugh and grabbed a pillow to swat him with. “You’re so annoying.”
She grinned. “Unfortunately.”
They laid there for a minute, just breathing, just smiling. Then Lando turned onto his side and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You looked really pretty today. In Parc Fermé. Even soaked in champagne and yelling at Lisa.”
She snorted. “You looked like a wet dog. I almost cried.”
She kissed him, quick and soft. “I couldn’t help myself.”
He kissed her again, longer this time, hand on her cheek. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She just held his gaze for a beat longer before whispering, “Let’s go be disgustingly hot and famous in a club now.”
Their hotel room turned into mild chaos.
She stood at the sink applying eyeliner over her sparkly eyeshadow, wearing his oversized McLaren t-shirt and blasting music from his big ass speaker. Lando walked past behind her, towel around his waist, still dripping water. He smacked her butt as he went by.
He peeked over her shoulder. “That’s not a wing. That’s a dagger.”
In the mirror, she watched as he walked behind her again, now fully dressed in a black button-down he hadn't bothered to button properly and trousers that fit him entirely too well.
She blinked. “Okay, no, you can’t look that good.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen what I look like in a helmet.” she shook her head.
When she finally emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later — hair curled and full of volume, Dolce&Gabbana sequin embellishment mini dress on, Satin Versace Medusa Aevitas in hand — he just stood there in silence.
“What?” she asked, self-conscious for the first time all day.
“You’re gonna start fights tonight,” Lando muttered from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over every inch of her. He couldn’t look away.
She turned just slightly, checking her profile in the mirror, her earring catching the light. “Good,” she said casually. “Let the weak fall.”
He exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair. “No, seriously, baby. You walk into that club and men are going to spontaneously combust. I might have to knock someone out tonight.”
She smirked. “Possessive much?”
“You wore that, knowing I’d lose my mind,” he said, pushing off the wall, walking over with zero self-control. His hands found her waist, his voice dropping. “And now I have to act like I’m not picturing getting you out of it every ten seconds.”
“Pretend all you want. I’ll still be the one going home with you and.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting, her heel dangled from her finger. “You’re stalling.”
He dropped to his knees with a half-laugh, half-growl. She arched a brow but perched on the edge of the bed, amused as he took the heel from her hand and carefully slid it onto her foot, his fingers brushing up her ankle to clasp the strap around, slow and reverent.
“Is this your Cinderella fantasy?” she teased, letting her knee nudge his shoulder.
He kissed the inside of her calf. “No. In mine, the clock never runs out.”
The second heel followed, just as gentle, just as charged. When he looked up at her, still crouched between her knees, she saw it—full, aching devotion burning behind those blue eyes.
He rose to his feet, slow and magnetic, hands finding her waist again. Now with heels on she was just below his chin. She tilted her head up at him, her hands sliding over his broad shoulders to clasp together around his neck, the smirk softening into something gentler. “You've won your first Grand Prix and you’re still obsessed with me. How tragic.”
“Hopelessly,” He groaned, leaning in to kiss her, deep and lingering, like he needed it to anchor himself. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed her cheek. She kissed him again—harder this time, the kind of kiss that promised they were already late and about to make even worse decisions. When she pulled away, breathless, she tugged him toward the door.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Before we get too carried away” before grabbing his face and kissing him again, hard.
“I know,” she said, already pulling him toward the door, “Let’s go give Miami something to talk about.”
He reached for the door handle, pausing just long enough to say, “With you on my arm, they’ll never shut up.”
And with that, they disappeared into the electric Miami night — golden, glowing, and completely in love.
The McLaren pulled up to the curb like a comet, low and gleaming under the Miami moonlight, its papaya orange catching every flash of paparazzi and phone screen like it was made to be seen. The thrum of the engine faded into the background roar of the club’s bass, but the car itself kept every eye on it.
Behind the tinted windows, she reapplied a coat of gloss with the casual confidence of someone who knew the world was about to watch her walk through it. Her legs were crossed, heels glinting under the streetlights, and her expression unreadable—until Lando cut the engine and glanced over at her.
“You ready?” he asked, voice low, but there was something boyish in his tone—a quiet awe that hadn’t faded since the hotel.
She turned to him, one brow raised. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
He chuckled, running a hand down his face like he needed a second to collect himself. “You’re gonna be the end of me tonight.”
Lando stepped out of the car first, straightening the collar of his black button-down. The second he appeared, the crowd shifted, the velvet rope pressing tighter as people leaned in for a glimpse. Miami was already buzzing about his win, and now it would buzz about this.
He circled around the McLaren like it was muscle memory, not a performance, and opened her door with a practiced sweep. Cameras fired. Lights popped. And then she stepped out.
She moved like she had all the time in the world—shoulders back, chin lifted, her dress hugging and slipping in the right places. The city heat curled around her, but she was the one setting it ablaze. Her hand found Lando’s, fingers threading easily, and the grin he gave her was pure worship.
The bouncer clocked them instantly, stepped aside without a word, and unhooked the rope. A handful of people in line gasped—one even dropped their phone.
Lando leaned in as they walked past the crowd. “I think someone just fainted.”
She barely blinked. “They’ll survive.”
They entered the club like a movie scene. The moment the doors shut behind them, the bass swallowed the world whole—pulsing lights, shimmering walls, and VIP lounges carved out like altars of neon and champagne. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed.
Every eye found them as they moved through the haze: Lando, fresh off his first win, glowing with adrenaline and unfiltered joy—and her, dressed like a siren in heels he’d knelt to put on, walking like she had him on a leash.
They were greeted at the VIP balcony with drinks already chilled and staff already grinning. Lando tugged her close with one hand on her lower back, whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, and the DJ dropped into a remix of something fast and electric—Miami’s unofficial welcome. And still, he couldn't stop looking at her.
She leaned into his chest, letting him hold her drink while she fixed her earring. He watched the curve of her jaw like it was divine geometry.
“Can I confess something?” he said into her ear.
“That you’re obsessed with me?”
“That’s not a confession, that’s common knowledge.” He grinned. “But I mean it. You—you’re all I’ve thought about since I crossed that finish line.”
She paused, her expression softening just slightly. “It was always going to be yours, Lando. The win. The moment.”
He shook his head, pulling her a fraction closer. “Nah. It was never just about the win. It was about getting off that podium and finding you.”
She blinked, then smiled slowly. “God, you’re getting sappy.”
“Tragically,” she admitted, taking a sip from her glass. “Now shut up and dance with me.”
And just like that, Lando Norris—F1’s newest Grand Prix winner—followed her into the center of the dance floor like a man willingly lost.
The beat dropped into something heavier, a rhythmic thump that vibrated through the soles of their shoes as she led Lando into the glowing pulse of the VIP dance floor. Neon lights flickered off glass, ice buckets glinted, and smoke machines curled mist around everyone like magic.
Just ahead, Lisa spotted them first—perched on the edge of a velvet couch with a cocktail in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a silver mesh top over a black bralette, her eyeliner sharp and a wicked smile. Lisa gives her a quick hug.
Just then, the rest of their circle appeared—Ethan and Morgan pushing through the crowd, both already a little flushed from drinking, followed by a couple of Lando’s McLaren crew and one of her backup dancers still in sequins from their last performance. Champagne was flowing like tap water. Someone handed Lando a bottle straight from the ice bucket, and someone else passed her a lemon drop shot.
“To Landos first Formua 1 win!” Max F. toasted, lifting his glass. The rest followed suit and cheering, downing whatever they had in their hands. All making faces at the strong drinks. They laughed—loud, open, unbothered.
Lando couldn’t stop smiling. He pulled her to his side again, arm draped around her waist like it belonged there. She glanced up at him, makeup flawless, eyes shining under the strobes. He leaned down just a little, brushing his mouth by her ear.
“I could stay like this forever.”
She tipped her head, amused. “Sweaty, tipsy, and surrounded by idiots?”
“I meant you next to me,” he murmured. “But yeah, that too.”
The camera clicked, catching her mid-laugh and Lando gazing at her like he’d already won more than any podium could offer.
The group exploded into another round of drinks and banter, she felt Lando’s hand slide down her back, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.
“Come dance with me,” he said, voice low and warm in her ear, already tugging her gently away from the booth.
The dance floor was a swirl of bodies and color, all bass and heat and pulsing light. Lando pulled her close the second they stepped into the crowd, hands finding her waist with zero hesitation. She turned toward him, arms slipping around his neck, the sound of the club fading into the electric buzz between them.
The rhythm slowed into something sultry, deep and rolling like thunder. SHe swayed against him, her body pressed fully to his now, hips moving in time with the beat—and with his.
Lando ducked his head, letting his forehead rest against hers for a breath. “You’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the music. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
She tilted her chin up, brushing her lips just beneath his jaw. “I have a pretty good idea,” she teased, smirking when she felt his grip tighten on her hips.
His hands slid lower, hands grabbing her ass through the sparkly fabric of her dress, holding her close—possessively. One hand traced its way up the bare skin of her back, slow and deliberate, until he was cradling the base of her neck.
She gasped softly into his ear, the feeling of his touch sending sparks up her spine. “Lando…”
“Mm?” His lips ghosted across the corner of her mouth.
“You keep touching me like that, we’re going to get kicked out.”
“Let them,” he said, his voice rough now. “You’re the only thing I want to get in trouble for tonight.”
She laughed, breathless, half-dazed from the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room. The kind of look that could start fights. That could ruin him. That already had.
Their hips stayed in sync, moving to the deep, seductive rhythm of the music. She let her fingers tangle in the curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly. He rewarded her with a soft groan, eyes fluttering shut.
She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper—right there under the lights, surrounded by strangers and stares. She didn’t care. Neither did he.
He pulled back just enough to say, “Let’s stay on this dance floor until your heels hurt and my hands stop knowing where to go.”
And for the next few songs, they didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Everything they needed to say was in the way their bodies moved together, in the hands that didn’t want to let go, and the eyes that kept saying mine.
It was way past midnight, and the club had hit its fever pitch.
The air was thick with perfume and sweat, flashing lights casting electric shadows over the crowd. She was flushed, her skin glowing, hair wild from dancing, the hem of her dress hitched slightly higher with every spin Lando pulled her into. Her laugh was a melody layered over the beat—unbothered, untamed.
They’d barely left the floor. Drinks had been brought to them now—delivered like tribute by grinning friends who knew better than to break the spell between them.
Lisa reappeared at one point, sliding in with a drink and a devilish grin. “You two are putting on a show,” she teased,
Lando, behind her now, wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder, the crowd moving around them like waves breaking around a rock. He was still grinning—but it had softened into something darker, needier.
“You’re the hottest person in this entire building,” he murmured, breath warm against her neck.
She looked over her shoulder at him, coy. “Yeah?”
“Don’t ‘yeah’ me like you don’t know,” he growled, hands drifting down to her thighs again, thumbs brushing under the hem of her dress as the music pounded through them. “I’m two seconds from telling everyone we’re leaving.”
“You won today,” she said, leaning back into him. “Don’t you want to celebrate?”
“I am,” he said, pressing a slow kiss to the space behind her ear. “I’m just greedy. I want you all to myself.”
Her heart stuttered. That voice—rough, low, too intimate for a dance floor. She turned to face him again, their lips nearly brushing. “After this song,” she whispered.
He smirked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, baby.”
“And you’re losing it,” she said with a wink, just as the beat dropped again.
More friends joined them—Oscar and Lily showing up with neon drinks, a few others from the McLaren team, some familiar paddock faces now loosened by alcohol and glittering under strobe lights. A circle formed around Lando and her, the dancing growing more chaotic, more reckless.
At one point, she climbed onto a low platform with Lisa, both of them raising their glasses like queens of the night, dancing with eachother. Lando looked up at her, a dazed, reverent grin on his face like he couldn’t believe she was his.
When she jumped down, he caught her mid-air without hesitation, hands splayed on her thighs, lifting her easily before sliding her back down against him, slow and deliberate. Their eyes locked. Breath mingled.
“No more songs,” he said, voice like gravel.
She traced a finger down his chest. “Lead the way.” He didn’t even grab their things. Just her hand.
As they pushed through the crowd, She caught Lisa’s eye. Her best friend gave her a dramatic salute and mouthed ‘good luck’. She blew her a kiss.
They stepped out into the humid Miami night, bodies still humming from bass and touch, hands still tangled like they'd forgotten how to separate.
The McLaren waited at the curb—sleek and purring, engine soft as silk. Lando opened her door, gaze flicking down her legs as she climbed in.
“Tell me,” he said, eyes darkening as he got in on the other side, “how bad would it be if I made this the night you never forgot?”
She smiled, sliding closer until their legs were touching. “I was counting on it.”
The McLaren’s engine purred low as they pulled away from the club, the lights of Miami streaking past the tinted windows in blurred, electric ribbons. Inside, the air was quiet—except for the low thrum of Lando’s uneven breathing and the heavy beat of both their hearts filling the space between them.
She sat with her legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest, the other dragging lightly along the hem of her dress like she could still feel the ghost of his hands there. Lando’s grip was tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw locked. His eyes never left the road, but every inch of him was wired—buzzing, burning. Her voice was soft but sharp when she finally broke the silence. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m trying not to wreck the car,” he muttered, shifting gears like it might somehow calm him down. “Which is hard when you keep looking like that.”
She turned her head, feigning innocence. “Like what?”
“Like you want me to lose control.”
He glanced at her then—just a flash—but it was enough to see the way her lips curled into a smirk, legs uncrossing slow, deliberate. “You already did. On the dance floor.”
He let out a breath through his nose. “babe.”
“What?” she said, voice dripping with faux sweetness. “You said you wanted to celebrate.”
“I didn’t mean in public,” he snapped, eyes fixed ahead, but his hand drifted, unthinking, to her thigh, fingers pressing into the skin like he needed to ground himself.
She covered his hand with hers, holding it there. “Then you’d better drive faster.”
That was all the permission he needed.
The rest of the ride was a blur. Every red light was a curse. Every second not spent with his mouth on hers was unbearable. By the time they pulled up to the hotel, the valet barely had time to open her door before Lando was rounding the car, grabbing her hand, and pulling her through the lobby like a man on the edge.
The elevator ride was silent.
Not because they didn’t want to speak—but because one wrong word would’ve had them stopping the lift between floors. She leaned against the mirrored wall, watching him through heavy lashes. Lando stood in front of her, jaw clenched, fists in his pockets, doing everything he could not to turn around and press her into the glass. The doors slid open with a soft chime. They didn’t speak. Lando swiped the key card with shaky hands and shouldered open the door to their suite.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, her heels were off, and Lando was on her—lifting her, kissing her, hands in her hair, down her back, gripping her like she was air and he’d been drowning all night.
Her legs wrapped around his waist. “You gonna pin me to the wall again?” she whispered, mouth grazing his ear.
He groaned, stumbling toward the bed with her still clinging to him. “I’m gonna ruin you.”
“Good,” she whispered, kissing him breathless. “Then we’ll be even.”
He laid her down gently, reverently, like she was breakable and burning all at once.
Lando kissed her like it was the only language he spoke. His hands cradled her face at first, gentle, like she might slip away if he wasn’t careful. But as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, something shifted—urgency replacing restraint.
They moved together in a blur of whispered names and held breaths. She unbuttoned and peeled his shirt off, fingers grazing the warm skin of his chest like she was memorizing it again. He trailed kisses along her collarbone, each one softer than the last, until she tilted her head back and exhaled his name like a secret.
“Look at me,” he said against her skin, voice rough and low.
She did. And what she saw in his eyes wasn’t just desire—it was worship.
He took his time. Every touch was deliberate, slow, like he was proving a point: that no matter how wild the club had been, no matter how many eyes had been on her, she was his. Here, now, and only his.
They moved like they’d done this a hundred times—but still, it felt brand new. Deeper. Like the high of his win was still pulsing in their veins, but this was the real prize.
Her hands slipped into his curls, pulling gently as he kissed down her stomach, his voice rasping, “You drive me mad.”
She smiled, breathless. “You love it.”
“I love you,” he said, so fiercely it stole the air from her lungs.
When he finally laid over her again, chest pressed to hers, he kissed her like they had forever. Their bodies fit together in that way they always had—familiar, electric, sacred. Nothing else existed.
The world outside their suite—the press, the fans, the cameras—none of it mattered here.
There was only him. Only her. Only the quiet symphony of skin and breath and love blooming between them.
And when they finally stilled, limbs tangled, his forehead resting against hers, he whispered, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”
She brushed her fingers down his spine and smiled. “Took you long enough to say it.”
“I’ll say it again,” he breathed, kissing her nose, then her lips. “As many times as you’ll let me.”
The first thing she registered was the sunlight—bright, merciless, and filtering through the sheer curtains like it had a personal vendetta.
The second was her hangover. Sharp behind the eyes, a low throb at her temples, and a mouth as dry as the desert. Somewhere, the bass from last night still echoed faintly in her bones.
She groaned, hand coming up to rub her temples.
From beside her, a muffled voice replied, “Please tell me that wasn’t you dying.”
She cracked one eye open.
Lando was lying flat on his stomach, half his face buried in the pillow, hair a tousled mess, the bedsheets tangled around his waist. One arm hung off the bed, the other flopped across her stomach like he was still claiming his territory even in unconscious misery.
“You’re the one who challenged Max to tequila shots,” she croaked.
“I didn’t think you’d actually win.”
He let out a broken laugh, immediately wincing. “Mistakes were made.”
She reached over the side of the bed and grabbed a bottle of water from the floor that had gotten knocked over from last night's activities, holding it out to him like an offering. “here”
Lando dragged himself up on one elbow, looking at her like she was a divine entity. “God, I love you.”
“Don’t try to flirt with me while you look like roadkill.”
He grinned, raspy and unbothered, then took a sip and collapsed again. “I’m serious. Even roadkill has feelings.”
She let her hand rest on his bare back, trailing absent-minded circles along his spine. “Do you remember trying to convince Lisa to a dance-off?”
“Do you remember grinding on me in front of, like, half the grid?”
Her head dropped back onto the pillow with a groan. “Oh my God.”
“Our best night but your PR team’s worst nightmare”
He laughed again, nose scrunching. “Worth it.”
Their limbs slid together like muscle memory, her cheek resting against his chest, his hand brushing through her hair with lazy affection. They stayed like that for a long while—bodies aching, heads pounding, but hearts light.
Finally, he whispered, “Let’s never do that many shots again.”
She smiled against his skin. “Agreed.”
“But let’s always wake up like this.”
She looked up at him, eyes soft despite the headache. “Deal.”
And in the mess of sheets and champagne-soaked memories, they kissed—slow, hungover, and completely in love.
