some things stay between pit walls

your a

[betweenpitwalls]

second chapter of things we never edited out finished:

heya people (my 20 followers), sorry for completely ghosting and leaving things we never edited out on pause, but… i have finally finished writing the second chapter!!!

literally just need to do some quick proofreading/corrections tomorrow to fix my chaotic typos and it will be out by tomorrow evening (btw rn wordcount is aprox over 10k.

again, i am so incredibly sorry for making you wait. i am deeply, genetically incompetent at being organised, working without the absolute terror of a deadline, or having any form of consistency lmao. but the tension in this one? it will worth the wait, i promise (aka really hope).

see you tomorrow evening xx

[verstarris]

ACROSS THE COURT¹

Lando Norris, brilliant and cocky, pushed you to your limits on court and off, and when your federation paired you for mixed doubles at the Australian Open, rivalry turned into something dangerously close to desire.

pairing. tennis player! Lando Norris x tennis player! fem! reader.

warnings. non-f1 au; tennis au. romance, angst, sports drama 21,3k words; out of 36,9k, part one of two. rivals/enemies to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity. set in Melbourne, Kimi as Toto’s son. tennis/grand slam inaccuracies, medical injury, implied mental struggles, high ambitions, pet names (baby, darling), alcohol use; profanity. part two here.

soundtrack. love all, an official playlist.

THIS IS PART ONE OF ACROSS THE COURT. FIND PART TWO HERE.

ONE DAY, IT WOULD GET BETTER. That’s what you kept telling yourself, over and over, like a quiet promise whispered into the dark. You said it in the mornings, when your knee throbbed before your feet even touched the floor. You said it after long matches, when the ache in your body made it hard to breathe.

Maybe one day the pain would ease. Maybe your body would stop reminding you of every match you’d played through when you should’ve rested, every time you’d ignored what it was trying to tell you. Maybe one day you’d wake up and feel like yourself again.

You were ranked sixth in the world now. People smiled when they said it, like it was something to be proud of—and it was, you knew that. But your eyes always drifted to the names above yours, to the top five, to the players who seemed just out of reach. It was right there, close enough to taste, and yet every time you stretched for it, it slipped through your fingers like a damn mist.

You’d made it to the Australian Open. That should’ve felt like a win. But as you stood there, sweat drying on your skin, your muscles tight and your thoughts heavier than they should be, all you could think about was how much it had taken to get here. How much it still cost. And how long you could keep pretending that none of it mattered.

There wasn’t supposed to be space for doubt here. Not with Max. Not when you were training with your mixed doubles partner—the one person who was supposed to match your pace, your drive, your hunger to win. On paper, it made sense. Two top-ranked players, both sharp, both relentless. It should have been easy. It should have worked.

But lately, training with him felt less like a partnership and more like something you had to survive. He kept hitting balls at you with that same ruthless precision, never easing up, never checking in. Normally, you could keep up without thinking. Today, though, your timing was off. Your legs felt heavy. Your body wasn’t listening the way it used to.

“You’re late on it,” Max said, his voice flat, eyes already on the next shot.

Like you didn’t already know.

You exhaled slowly, biting back the sting in your chest. “Thanks for the reminder,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you bent to pick up another ball. The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn’t take them back. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t bother you.

He looked at you then—just for a second. His expression was tight, unreadable, the kind of glance that didn’t ask questions or offer anything close to concern. Just a flicker of irritation, like your mistake had thrown off his rhythm. Like you were a problem to work around, not a person trying to hold it together.

“Again,” he said, already tossing the next ball into the air.

You didn’t argue. You adjusted your grip, shifted your stance, and forced your body to move faster. Your knee screamed in protest the moment you pushed off, a sharp, familiar pain that you’d learned to ignore. You chased the shot anyway, stretched too far, and barely managed to flick the ball back over the net.

Max sighed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough. Just enough to land like a slap, quiet and cutting.

“Keep up,” he muttered, already turning his back, like the drill was more important than you were. Like you weren’t standing there, trying not to fall apart.

You swallowed hard, the words burning at the back of your throat. But you didn’t say them. You just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking. Even though it didn’t matter. Quitting wasn’t an option. Slowing down wasn’t either. You told yourself you could handle it. That you’d get through this. That you always did.

Even if it was getting harder to believe.

After a few more shots, Max stopped. No warning, no signal—just stopped. The balls rolled to a quiet halt at your feet, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the drill ever had. It wasn’t just the end of a session. It felt like something else. Like he’d made a decision. Like he’d given up—not just on the practice, but maybe on the partnership. Maybe on you.

He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Look, Y/n,” he said, voice clipped. “The Open starts tomorrow. You need to get your shit together.”

Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice steady, even though it cost you. “Yeah. I’m trying, Max.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t soften. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stood there for a beat too long. Then he said, “Good,” like it was final. Like that was all there was left to say.

And then he walked off the court, leaving you standing there alone, staring at the baseline, your racket hanging loosely at your side. The ache in your knee pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but it was the quiet that hurt more. You’d been trying. You were always trying. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being enough—and you didn’t know when that happened. Or how to fix it.

“Y/n!”

You turned at the sound of your name, and there she was—Lily. Your doubles partner, your best friend, the one person who could still make you smile without trying. Just seeing her standing there, sun in her hair and concern in her eyes, made something in your chest loosen. That was the thing about Lily. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.

She walked over and handed you a water bottle, shaking her head with a small, crooked grin. “You look awful.”

You let out a tired laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I feel like that too,” you said, taking the bottle and pressing it to your forehead before unscrewing the cap.

Lily didn’t say anything right away. She just watched you, her expression softening as she took in the slump of your shoulders, the way you were holding your weight off your left leg. “What happened?” she asked gently. “Is it about Max?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t matter. “Just him being grumpy, as usual. Nothing serious.”

“You can’t take him seriously. You know that,” Lily said, shaking her head like it was obvious, like Max’s mood didn’t still cling to your skin.

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at the court, jaw tight, the silence between you stretching a little too long.

Lily didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she shifted gears, her voice lighter. “Come on. Oscar’s on Court Four,” she said, her eyes brightening as she mentioned him—her boyfriend, her mixed doubles partner, the one person who always seemed to make her laugh, even on the worst days. At least someone had figured out how to make it work.

You glanced up. “With… Norris?”

The name came out sharp, bitter on your tongue. Lando Norris. Just saying it made your shoulders tense.

That man was everything you couldn’t stand. Ranked fourth in the world. Always smirking. Always talking. Loud, cocky, flirty—and somehow, impossibly, good. The kind of good that made it hard to ignore him, no matter how much you wanted to.

You grimaced, the thought of sharing a court with him making your chest tighten. But Lily didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She reached for your arm and tugged gently, already pulling you toward the other courts.

“Come on,” she said again, smiling like she knew something you didn’t. “It’ll be fun.”

You weren’t so sure.

You followed her anyway, even though every step felt heavier than the last. Training had wrung you out, left your limbs sluggish and your knee aching with that familiar, stubborn throb. It wasn’t sharp enough to stop you—never was—but it lingered, a quiet reminder of everything you’d pushed through to get here. Walking toward Court Four felt like walking straight into something you weren’t ready for. Something you didn’t want to face, but couldn’t avoid either.

You sank onto the edge of the stands, letting your bag drop beside you with a dull thud. Your eyes drifted to the court before you could stop them. Oscar and Lando were already mid-rally, moving like they shared a brain. Their rhythm was easy, practiced. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need words. Every shot was clean, every return precise. It looked effortless. Like they’d been doing this forever.

Your gaze caught on Lando for a moment too long. His curls were damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, his movements sharp and sure. He looked like he belonged out there—confident, focused, completely in control. You clicked your tongue softly and looked away, annoyed at yourself. Idiot.

They noticed you then. Both of them paused, rackets dropping slightly as they turned. Lando’s eyes found yours instantly, like they always did. Like he’d been waiting. You rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate, making sure he saw it.

“Hey, baby!” Lily called out, her voice bright as she waved at Oscar, completely unfazed by the tension simmering beside you.

Oscar lit up the moment he spotted Lily, lifting a hand in greeting before jogging over to the stands. He looked so at ease—sweat-slicked and flushed from the rally, but smiling like the world hadn’t asked anything of him today. Like he hadn’t just spent an hour under the sun, chasing points. That kind of ease made something twist in your chest, sharp and quiet. You didn’t want to name it.

Lando followed behind him, slower, spinning his racket in one hand like it was second nature. He stopped a few steps from the bench, his eyes flicking over you in quick, practiced glances—your stiff posture, the way you leaned ever so slightly off your left leg, the tension in your jaw. He didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of his attention, and it made your skin prickle.

“Didn’t think you’d come watch,” he said, voice light, almost teasing.

You didn’t bother softening your tone. “Trust me, I didn’t plan to.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath, clearly unfazed. “Nice to see you too.”

Lando’s smile tugged wider, just enough to be annoying. “Rough session?”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’m fine.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. And from the way Lando’s eyes lingered on yours, you had a feeling he knew that.

Lando leaned against the fence, casually tossing a ball from one hand to the other. The sun caught the edge of his , casting a flicker of light across the court. “So,” he said, voice light, almost lazy, “Open starts tomorrow. Last meeting with the coaches, final schedule, all that fun stuff.”

You tilted your head slightly, keeping your tone as even as you could manage. “Yeah. I know. Don’t need another reminder.”

He didn’t flinch. Just kept that same maddening smirk on his face. “Just making conversation,” he said, like it was nothing. “I’d hate for you to forget.”

Your jaw tightened. The way he said it—like he was amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—made your pulse tick faster. “I can handle it,” you said, arms folding across your chest. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant coaching tips to function.”

He raised an eyebrow, the ball still spinning lazily in his hand. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were the only one capable of surviving a Grand Slam.”

You opened your mouth, the retort already forming—sharp, fast, something that would land clean and cut deep. He’d done this too many times. Pushed just far enough to make you snap. And maybe that was the point.

But before the words could leave your mouth, Lily’s voice cut through the tension—sharp, bright, and unmistakably hers.

“Enough,” she said, stepping between you with a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. “We’re here to watch, not start a war. Save the drama for the court.”

You and Lando both froze, glancing at her like kids caught misbehaving. Her eyes were wide, but there was steel behind them—serious now, even if her tone still carried that familiar edge of teasing. She looked between you, arms crossed. “Seriously. You two look ridiculous. Stop glaring at each other like you’re about to throw rackets. The tournament hasn’t even started yet.”

You muttered something under your breath—something unkind, probably—but the heat in your chest had already started to cool. Lily had a way of doing that. Of stepping in just before you said something you couldn’t take back. You leaned back on the bench, jaw still tight, but your hands unclenched. For now, at least, you could sit still and watch instead of letting the frustration boil over.

Even if Lando was still standing there, smirking like he’d won something.

────────────

There were only thirty minutes left until the final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers. You stood near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for one familiar face. But Toto wasn’t there. No clipboard in hand, no calm voice cutting through the noise, no steady presence to anchor you. Your stomach tightened. He was never late. And that kind of silence didn’t feel like a good sign.

Without thinking, you turned and made your way down the hallway, pushing open the door to his office with more force than necessary. “Toto?” you called, stepping inside.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Kimi.

You blinked, caught off guard. Kimi—Toto’s son. The boy who used to sit on the sidelines with toy cars while you learned how to serve. The one who used to fall asleep in the stands with his head on your shoulder, juice box still in hand. He was taller now, older, but still Kimi. Still the kid who felt like your little brother.

“Kimi!” you shouted, a grin breaking across your face as you jogged over and pulled him into a tight hug. “What the fuck!”

He laughed, hugging you back without hesitation. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“Plans changed,” he said with a grin. “I couldn’t miss my big sister playing at a Grand Slam.”

You laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been all day. You squeezed him once more, holding on for a second longer than you needed to. Somehow, just seeing him—his familiar face, his easy smile—made the pressure in your chest ease. Not all the way. But enough to breathe again.

“I’m so glad you came,” you said, and you meant it—but your mind was already drifting, scanning the room again. “Do you know where Toto is?”

Kimi shrugged, leaning back against the desk. “He said he’d be back in five minutes. That was a while ago, though. Haven’t seen him since.”

You let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down your face, the weight of the day pressing harder against your shoulders. Of course. The final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers was about to start, and the one person you needed most—your anchor, your constant—was nowhere to be found. Just your luck.

“Anyway,” Kimi said, nudging your arm with his elbow, trying to pull you back to the present. “How’s Australia treating you so far?”

You snorted. “Horrible,” you muttered. “It’s too hot. Lily and Oscar are being disgustingly cute, and Max is acting weirder than usual.”

Kimi grinned, arms folding across his chest like he’d been expecting that answer. “That’s why I’m here,” he said, eyes warm. “To make it better.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

The door creaked open behind you, and you turned just in time to see Toto step inside. His face was unreadable—calm, composed, but set in that way you’d come to recognize over the years. The kind of look he wore when something was wrong and he hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. Your stomach dropped before he even spoke.

“Kimi,” he said, voice low but steady, “can you give us a minute?”

Kimi hesitated, glancing between the two of you. His brow furrowed, like he didn’t want to leave, like he could feel the shift in the air too. But after a beat, he nodded. He gave you one last look—quiet, reassuring, the kind that said I’m still here—before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

Toto crossed the room and sank into the chair across from you as you sat down too. He didn’t waste time. Just leaned forward, eyes fixed on yours.

“We’ve got a problem, kid,” he said.

And just like that, the room felt smaller. Heavier. Like the walls had moved in a little closer, waiting to hear what came next.

“What is it, Toto?” you asked, the words catching in your throat as a knot began to form in your stomach.

Something was off. You could feel it in the way he looked at you—steady, serious, like he was bracing for impact. And suddenly, you were too.

He didn’t waste time. “Max doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”

The words hit harder than you expected. For a second, you just sat there, blinking, like maybe you’d misheard him. Like maybe if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d take it back.

But he didn’t.

What the fuck.

Everything you’d been working toward—the endless drills, the long hours on court, the pressure you’d carried like a second skin—suddenly felt like it had been for nothing. Max, the one person who was supposed to be in this with you, had walked away before the match even started. Just like that.

You sank back in your chair, hands gripping the edge like it might keep you grounded. But your chest was tight, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. Anger flared first, hot and sharp. Then disbelief. Then something colder, heavier—exhaustion that settled deep in your bones.

“What?” you said again, the word sharper this time, cutting through the silence like glass. As if saying it out loud might change something. As if it might make this feel less real.

But it didn’t.

“He and Horner told the ITF he can’t play with you anymore,” Toto said, his voice low, steady in that way that only made it worse. He let out a slow breath, like he hated saying it out loud. “No explanation beyond that.”

You stared at him, the words echoing in your head, refusing to settle. So that was it. That’s why Max had been so off yesterday—the clipped tone, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the drills that felt more like punishment than practice. It hadn’t just been a bad day. It had been a warning. You just hadn’t seen it.

Your stomach twisted. “What the fuck,” you muttered, dragging a hand through your hair, fingers catching in the tangles. “Is it because of my knee? Or—” your voice sharpened, rising with the heat in your chest, “—because he couldn’t handle playing with someone just as good as him?”

The words hung in the air, bitter and raw. You didn’t know which answer would hurt more.

Toto shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “You know how he is.”

“No,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. “No, I don’t, Toto. Not at all.”

Your voice cracked at the edges, tight with disbelief. “I’ve trained. I’ve pushed through every session, every drill. I’ve done everything he asked—everything—and he just walks away? Just like that?”

Toto didn’t flinch. His voice stayed calm, steady in the way it always was when everything else felt like it was falling apart. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, firm. “This isn’t on you. Sometimes people—”

“Sometimes people?” you cut in, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “He’s my partner. He’s supposed to show up. He’s supposed to work with me, not—” your voice caught, your throat tightening, “—not bail when it gets hard.”

You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your palms against your face like you could hold it all in. The anger, the confusion, the ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your knee. It wasn’t just about the tournament. It was about trust. About being left behind by someone who was supposed to be in this with you.

And now, you were alone.

“Look, kid, we have to go to the meeting,” Toto said, already reaching for his jacket. “The ITF will definitely bring it up.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The last thing you wanted was to sit in a room full of officials and coaches, all of them dissecting what had just happened—your partner’s betrayal dressed up as a scheduling change, a strategic shift, a footnote in someone else’s press release. You could already feel their eyes on you, waiting to see how you’d react. Waiting to see if you’d crack.

“But Toto—”

“No arguments,” he cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. “We’ll find someone for you. Or you play singles and women’s doubles. That’s still a full load.” He paused, meeting your eyes. “Not everyone has to play all three categories.”

But that wasn’t you.

You weren’t here to do the bare minimum. You weren’t here to coast. You were known for showing up in every bracket, every match, every damn point. You and Lily were ranked number one in women’s doubles. You’d clawed your way to the top of singles. And mixed doubles? That was supposed to be the final piece. The one you’d been grinding for. Giving it up wasn’t just a change in schedule—it was surrender. And surrender had never been part of your game.

If Max didn’t want to be your partner? Fine. You didn’t want him either.

You wouldn’t beg. Not for a spot. Not for a second chance. And definitely not for someone who didn’t even have the decency to say it to your face. He could walk away. You’d find another way forward.

Or you’d win without him.

You followed Toto down the hall, each step heavier than the last. The glass-paneled doors of the meeting room loomed ahead, silhouettes shifting behind them—coaches, officials, players. The hum of low voices filtered through the glass, a quiet storm already in motion. Your stomach twisted.

Inside, the room was a square of tension and strategy. Lando and Oscar sat with their coach, Zak, deep in conversation. Across from them, Max and Horner had already taken their seats, their expressions unreadable. Lily was there too, waiting for you and Toto, her posture relaxed but her eyes tracking everything.

As you slid into your seat beside her, she leaned in just enough for her voice to reach you. “What took you so long?” she murmured, offering a small, knowing smile.

“Business,” you said, keeping your tone even, your face unreadable.

Your gaze swept the table, instinctively searching for the cracks. Lando’s eyes found yours almost immediately—sharp, steady, like he was trying to read something off your skin. You met his stare for a beat, then rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how close you were to unraveling.

Max didn’t even glance your way.

He sat stiffly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on some distant point on the table. Like you weren’t even there. Like none of this mattered. And somehow, that burned more than anything he could’ve said.

The room held its breath.

For a moment, no one spoke. Just the quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a chair shifting, the low hum of tension pressing in from all sides. It was the kind of silence that made your skin prickle, your nerves coil tighter with every second it stretched.

Then, finally, an ITF official cleared his throat. “Let’s begin,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Today’s focus is the upcoming Australian Open. We’ll review schedules, training adjustments, and—” his eyes flicked toward you, just for a beat, “—mixed doubles pairings.”

Your stomach dropped.

There it was. The thing you’d been dreading. The thing everyone in the room knew was coming. You straightened in your seat, spine stiff, jaw set. You kept your face neutral, your hands still, even though every part of you wanted to get up and walk out. Run, maybe. Anything but sit here and let them talk about you like a problem to be solved.

Across the table, Lando shifted in his chair, slow and deliberate. His gaze never left yours. There was something in it—sharp, unreadable. Not quite smug, not quite concerned. Just… watching. Measuring. You felt the familiar flicker of irritation rise in your chest, tangled with something else. Something quieter. Something you didn’t want to name.

Max didn’t look at you. Not once.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. You didn’t need words to feel the wall he’d built between you—cold, final, impenetrable.

The meeting began with the usual rhythm of formality—schedules, regulations, court assignments. The kind of logistical noise that could lull you into a daze if you let it. ITF officials took turns reading from their notes, outlining start times, warm-up slots, dress codes. The words blurred at the edges, a steady drone of structure and protocol.

Beside you, Toto leaned in every so often to murmur reminders—small things, practical things—but your mind kept drifting. To Max, silent and distant across the table. To Lando, still watching you like he was waiting for something. To the quiet truth that tomorrow, every person in this room would be watching your next move.

Then the tone shifted.

“Let’s move on to women’s doubles,” one of the officials said, tapping a finger against the chart projected on the screen.

The room stilled, just slightly. Eyes flicked toward the display.

“Here we have the rankings,” another added, gesturing toward the list.

Your name appeared at the top. And right beside it: Lily Zneimer.

“Y/l/n and Zneimer,” the official announced, voice even but unmistakably clear. “Ranked number one in women’s doubles. The pair has demonstrated exceptional synergy and dominance throughout the past season. They are expected to perform at the highest level.”

You felt the words land in the room like a quiet drumbeat. Not boastful. Not dramatic. Just fact.

You turned your head slightly, catching Lily’s eye. Her smile was small, tight at the corners, but proud. The kind of smile that said we earned this. The kind that made you want to reach under the table and squeeze her hand, just to say I know. I feel it too.

Even here, surrounded by the best of the best, the words carried weight.

You were the best.

And no one could take that from you.

The praise for you and Lily still lingered in the air, a faint echo of something steady and earned. But it didn’t last.

One of the ITF officials cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet. “And now, on to mixed doubles,” he said, his voice noticeably tighter. “There’s an issue we need to address regarding pairings.”

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

Beside you, Toto went still, his posture sharpening in that subtle way that told you he already knew what was coming. Across the table, Max shifted—arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the far wall like it held something more interesting than the fallout he’d just detonated.

You didn’t need him to look at you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the cold wall he’d built between you. It was already there yesterday, in the clipped words and the silence between drills. You just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

Lando noticed it too. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked between you and Max, sharp and calculating. Like he was watching a match unfold before the first serve had even been hit.

The official continued, reading from the paper in front of him like it was just another line item on the agenda. “Max Verstappen has informed the ITF that he will not be participating in mixed doubles with Y/n Y/l/n. No further explanation has been provided.”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s gaze snapped to you, unreadable. Oscar’s followed, his brow furrowed. And Lily—Lily turned to you with wide eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

Before you could speak, one of the officials cut in, his voice brisk. “Mr. Wolff, have you started looking for a replacement?”

Toto didn’t flinch. “We’re exploring options, yes,” he said, calm as ever. “But you need to understand—we’re not just filling a slot. We have to find someone worthy to play alongside Y/n.”

Your jaw tightened at the word worthy. It wasn’t meant as a slight, not from Toto. He was defending you, holding the line. But still, the word scraped something raw. Like your value needed to be justified. Like you were a risk now, a question mark.

You stayed quiet, letting Toto’s steadiness anchor you. If he hadn’t been there, you might’ve said something you couldn’t take back.

The official didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Wolff,” he said, his tone turning sharp, almost smug. “We’ll find the perfect match for Miss Y/n.”

Your hands curled into fists beneath the table.

Perfect match, you thought, the words sour in your mouth. As if Max had been perfect. As if this wasn’t a mess of his making. As if you were the one who needed fixing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay still. The insult was subtle, but it landed all the same. You weren’t the one who walked away. You weren’t the one who quit.

But now you were the one being discussed like a problem to solve.

The official cleared his throat again, the sound slicing through the room like a blade. “We’ll continue discussing logistics,” he said, tone clipped, “but please remember: we need all players ready and committed by tomorrow’s first practice session.”

He turned his gaze toward you and Toto, eyes steady, voice firm. “Miss Y/n, Mr. Wolff, a replacement for mixed doubles must be confirmed before then.”

The words landed with finality, like a door clicking shut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. The pressure was familiar—this was the sport, after all—but today it felt different. He wasn’t just talking about logistics. He was talking about your future. Your reputation. Your ability to adapt, to survive, to prove that you weren’t the one who broke the partnership.

────────────

The next day, you stepped onto the court with Lily, racket in hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you loosened. Just a little. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less like a stone, more like something you could carry.

The sun hung high overhead, warm but not punishing, casting long shadows across the court. The ball moved between you in a steady rhythm—clean, sharp, familiar. Back and forth, like breath. Like memory. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the thud of sneakers on clay, the soft grunt of effort, the satisfying pop of the ball off your strings. No Max. No ITF. No headlines or whispers or meetings. Just this.

“Nice shot!” Lily called, laughing as you sent a cross-court winner skimming past her reach. She jogged after the ball, scooping it up with practiced ease and tossing it back without missing a beat.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you win today,” you said, grinning as you twirled your racket in your hand.

“You wish,” she shot back, eyes gleaming. Then she returned the next ball with a speed that made your legs scramble and your breath catch.

And for a while—an hour, maybe two—you weren’t thinking about the mess waiting outside the court. You weren’t thinking about Max’s silence or the way the ITF official had said perfect match like it was a threat. You were just here. With Lily. Your partner. Your friend. Laughing, sweating, pushing each other to move faster, hit harder, stay present.

You both paused at the baseline, breath catching in your chests, sweat cooling on your skin. Lily tossed you a bottle of water with a flick of her wrist, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she watched you.

“So,” she said, voice light but laced with curiosity, “about mixed doubles… who would you want to play with if Max is out?”

You took a long sip, letting the water cool your throat while your mind spun. The question was simple enough, but the answer wasn’t. Not anymore. Anyone else felt like a gamble—an unknown rhythm, a new language you’d have to learn mid-match. And after everything, you weren’t sure how much more risk you could take.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, leaning on your racket. “It has to be someone I can actually work with. Someone who won’t make everything harder than it already is.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be someone out there who’s good—and maybe even tolerable.”

You let out a dry laugh, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Tolerable? That narrows the list down to zero.”

She grinned. “What about Sainz?”

Carlos Sainz. You blinked. The image of him flashed in your mind—perfect hair, perfect smile, that infuriatingly smooth confidence.

“Definitely not,” you said, shaking your head. “He looks like he spends more time on his hair than his serve.”

Lily burst out laughing, tossing the ball lightly toward you. “Fair. Noted. No Sainz.”

You caught the ball with one hand, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded. Just a little.

Before you could answer Lily, a shadow fell across the edge of the court. You turned to see Toto standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low and clipped. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

You frowned, the shift in his tone enough to make your pulse skip. You set your racket down slowly, brushing the sweat from your brow. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Just tilted his head toward the far side of the court, away from Lily, away from the easy rhythm you’d just found again. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s important.”

That word—important—landed like a stone in your gut. When Toto said it like that, it never meant something small. Never meant something you could brush off.

You glanced at Lily, and she gave you a quiet nod, her expression soft with understanding. No questions. Just support.

You followed Toto without a word, each step across the court making your chest feel tighter, your breath a little shallower. The sun felt hotter now, the air heavier.

You followed Toto through the maze of courts and corridors, the noise of bouncing balls and shouted drills fading behind you. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back, just kept walking with that purposeful stride that always meant something was coming. Something big.

He stopped near a shaded corner of the facility, tucked behind a row of benches and a half-empty water cooler. It was quiet here—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle.

His face gave nothing away.

“So?” you asked, trying to sound steady, though your foot tapped against the concrete, betraying you.

“I have news,” he said, voice low and even.

You swallowed, the tension in your chest winding tighter. “Good or bad?”

Toto looked at you for a long beat, unreadable. “Depends,” he said finally.

And just like that, your pulse kicked up, sharp and fast. Because when Toto said depends, it never meant simple.

“So, basically, the ITF found you a partner,” Toto said, his voice even, like this was just another update. Nothing special. Nothing explosive.

For a second, your heart lifted. That sounded like good news. A solution. A way forward. Maybe this whole mess was finally turning around.

“Who?” you asked, eyes flicking up, hope creeping in before you could stop it.

“Lando.”

Your brain stalled.

Your jaw actually dropped, like in a bad movie. “Norris?!” you blurted, too loud, too fast. It felt like the words had been yanked out of you before you could catch them. No. No way. This had to be some kind of fever dream. Any second now, you’d wake up in your hotel bed, drenched in sweat, heart racing, and laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

But Toto didn’t blink. “Lando Norris,” he said again, calm as ever, like he was telling you the weather.

You just stared at him, frozen. Your thoughts were a mess—half-formed, tangled, loud. Of all the people. Him? The cocky, smug, insufferably talented top-four player who never missed a chance to get under your skin? The one who always had something to say, always with that smirk, always acting like he knew better?

You could barely stand him on a good day. And now you were supposed to play with him?

Your mind spun, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find the part where this made any kind of sense. But it didn’t. It just didn’t.

“No. No, no,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Panic rose fast and hot in your chest, tightening everything. “I’d rather die than play with him.”

Toto didn’t flinch. “And the best part?” he said, voice flat. There wasn’t even a hint of amusement in his face.

You let out a single, sharp laugh—dry, disbelieving. “What? It can’t possibly get worse than this.”

He didn’t blink. “Zak and Lando already confirmed it.”

You stared at him, your breath catching.

“They’re waiting for your confirmation,” he added, calm as ever.

Your mind reeled. What the fuck.

This wasn’t just a hypothetical. This wasn’t a joke or a bluff or some cruel twist of fate waiting to be undone. It was real. Lando—Lando—had said yes. Zak too. They’d already agreed. And now it was on you.

You felt the ground shift beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down. You weren’t just being asked to tolerate him. You were being asked to trust him. To share the court. To rebuild something with someone who’d spent the last year getting under your skin every chance he got.

“No, Toto. I won’t confirm.”

The words came out fast, sharp, before you could stop them. Your voice was too loud, too final, but you didn’t take it back. You couldn’t. As soon as you said it, your body seemed to catch up with everything you’d been holding in. Your knee throbbed. Your shoulders ached. Even your head pulsed with a dull, relentless pressure. Like your body had finally decided it was done carrying the weight of all this—of Max, of the meetings, of the expectations pressing in from every side.

“Find me someone else,” you said, quieter now, but no less certain. Even though deep down, you already knew. There wasn’t anyone else. Not really. But saying it out loud would make it real, and you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

Toto exhaled, and for the first time, the edge of frustration cracked through his calm. “I can’t, kid,” he said, voice low. “There is no one better than him.”

You flinched, the words landing harder than you expected. “Yes, there is,” you snapped. “What about Leclerc? Sainz?” You could still hear Lily’s voice from earlier, teasing, hopeful.

But Toto just shook his head. “Leclerc’s already paired with Mleux. And Sainz doesn’t play mixed doubles. Never has.”

And just like that, the list was gone. The excuses ran out. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, like the air before a storm.

You looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight. Because the truth was settling in now, slow and unwelcome.

It was Lando… or no one.

And you weren’t sure which was worse.

“Toto, this won’t work,” you said, shaking your head, voice low and frayed at the edges. “We hate each other.”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that steady, unshakable calm he always carried, like nothing you said could surprise him. “Y/n,” he said, “you don’t need to love each other.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “We can barely stand being in the same room.”

Toto didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He just let the silence stretch for a moment before answering, voice quiet but certain. “You’re both the greatest,” he said. “That’s what the ITF sees. Not your arguments. Not your egos. Your results.”

You swallowed hard, the truth of it landing like a weight in your chest. Because that was the part that stung the most—he was right. On paper, it made perfect sense. Two top players. Two names that carried weight. Two people who knew how to win.

“They don’t care how you feel,” Toto added, softer now. “They care about what you produce on court.”

You closed your eyes, just for a second. Long enough to feel the exhaustion settle in your bones. It wasn’t just about Max or Lando anymore. It was everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant need to prove yourself, to hold it all together, to pretend like none of it touched you. But it did. And it was catching up.

“What if I say no?” you asked, your voice low but sharp, like you were daring him to give you a way out. “What if I decline the partnership?”

Toto didn’t even blink. “You’ll be disqualified from the Grand Slam.”

The word slammed into you. “WHAT?!” It tore out of you before you could stop it, loud and raw and full of disbelief.

But even as it echoed in the quiet space between you, you already knew. Of course they’d do this. Of course the ITF would back you into a corner, smiling politely while they took away your choices one by one. They didn’t want your comfort. They wanted your compliance. Walk away, and you’d lose everything you’d worked for. Stay, and you’d have to do it with him.

“That’s what the ITF told me,” Toto said, softer now. “That’s why Lando already confirmed. He didn’t have a choice either.”

The fight drained out of you all at once, like someone had pulled the plug. The anger, the panic—it all gave way to something heavier. Something quieter.

So this wasn’t arrogance. This wasn’t Lando going behind your back or trying to one-up you. He hadn’t chosen this any more than you had. He was stuck too. Just like you.

Now you couldn’t even hate him for it.

“Y/n,” Toto said, his voice firm, steady, and final. “Either you put your ego aside and play this Grand Slam with Norris—prove to Max that you can win without him—or you get disqualified completely.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, the words sinking in like slow poison. They didn’t hit all at once. They settled, heavy and cold, curling around your ribs and tightening your chest until it was hard to breathe.

“It’s all or nothing,” he added, softer now, but no less certain.

And just like that, every exit you’d been clinging to vanished. All the ways you’d tried to delay, to deflect, to pretend there might be another option—they were gone. There was no middle ground. No loophole. No one coming to save you from this choice.

You looked down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the morning’s practice. Callused fingers, taped knuckles, wrists that had carried more weight than they should’ve. You’d built your whole life with these hands. Match by match. Win by win. Loss by loss. And now, they were shaking.

You looked up at Toto. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He was just… steady. Concern flickered behind his eyes, but it didn’t soften the truth. He was here to help you stand, but he wasn’t going to carry you.

Winning without Max Verstappen. Winning with Lando Norris.

You let out a breath, shaky and uneven, like your body was trying to make space for the decision already forming in your chest. This wasn’t just about tennis anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. This was about pride. About survival. About proving—to Max, to the ITF, to yourself—that you were still standing. That you could still fight.

And somewhere deep down, you realized the choice had already been made.

“Fine,” you said at last, lifting your head. The word came out steady, clear, even though your insides still felt like they were shaking. “Tell the ITF I’ll do it. I confirm.”

For a moment, Toto didn’t speak. He just looked at you, something shifting in his expression—less relief, more recognition. Like he saw the cost of what you’d just agreed to. Like he knew exactly how much it had taken to say it out loud.

His voice was quiet when it came. “That’s my girl.”

────────────

You stayed on the court after Lily left, even though the sun was starting to dip and the shadows were stretching long across the baseline. She and Oscar had plans—dinner, a movie, something that sounded like a life untouched by chaos. You waved her off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes and told her you’d be fine. A lie, but an easy one. One she didn’t press.

You weren’t supposed to be alone for long anyway. Zak, Lando, and Toto were on their way. A meeting, they’d said. A conversation about your “future partnership.” The phrase alone made your jaw clench. You could think of a hundred better ways to spend a Monday afternoon than waiting for the guy you could barely stand.

So you stayed busy.

You picked up a ball and hit it across the court. Then another. And another. No rallies. No rhythm. Just you and the silence and the sting in your arm as each shot landed harder than the last. Your breath came faster. Your muscles burned. But you didn’t stop.

Anger bled into every swing. Not just at Max, or the ITF, or Lando. At the whole damn situation. At how unfair it all felt. You were ranked sixth in the world. Sixth. And still, somehow, you were the one being forced to prove yourself. To adapt.

And now you were supposed to play mixed doubles with someone who lived comfortably in the top five. Someone who made it all look effortless. Someone you’d spent your whole career trying to catch—and never quite reaching.

The thought lodged in your chest like a splinter. No matter how many hours you trained, how many sacrifices you made, it always felt like you were one step behind him. Always chasing. Always just short.

Your knee twinged as you lunged for another shot. You ignored it. Hit harder.

If this was what it took to prove you belonged—next to him, not beneath him—then fine.

You’d burn yourself out trying.

Better that than letting anyone think you weren’t enough.

“You should take a break,” a voice said, low and familiar.

You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice. Kimi.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the court, your grip tightening around the racket. You tried to make your voice sound firm, unshakable. But even to your own ears, it rang hollow.

“You say that a lot,” he said, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. Observant. His gaze moved over you—your stiff shoulders, the way your weight shifted to protect your knee, the tension you couldn’t quite hide.

You clenched your jaw. “Because I am fine. Don’t read too much into it.”

Kimi didn’t flinch. “That’s what you said last year,” he said gently. “And the year before that.”

You let out a breath, sharp and frustrated. “Things are different this time.”

“Are they?” he asked, voice calm, even. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks the same. You’re not just angry about Max. Or the ITF. You’re still carrying that injury. Still pushing through it like it’s not there. Still trying to outrun something that’s already inside you.”

You looked away, blinking hard. Because he was right. And hearing it out loud made something twist in your chest. You hated how much it stung. Hated how much it felt like truth.

Kimi crouched down a little, bringing himself to your eye level. He didn’t touch you, didn’t crowd you. Just looked at you with that quiet steadiness of his. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re strong. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But even the strongest players need to breathe. You don’t have to prove everything all at once.”

You stared at the ground, your fingers clenched around the racket handle like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You didn’t know if you wanted to yell at him or lean into his words and let them hold you up.

“Just… think about it,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Before you meet them.”

You watched him walk away, and couldn’t help the thought that slipped in, uninvited and sharp.

He sounded just like Toto.

You stood there for a moment after Kimi left, the court stretching out around you, suddenly too wide, too quiet. The silence pressed in, broken only by the steady thud of your heartbeat and the echo of his words in your head. Take a break. As if it was that simple. As if stopping didn’t feel like surrender. Like letting go of the only thing holding you together.

You bent down, picked up a ball, and served it hard. Too hard. It clipped the net and rolled back toward you, slow and mocking. You stared at it, chest rising and falling faster than it should have. Your knee pulsed with pain—a sharp, familiar warning you’d been ignoring all afternoon.

You dropped onto the bench, elbows on your knees, racket dangling from your fingers. For a moment, you let your head fall forward, eyes closed. Just a breath. Just a pause. The anger that had carried you through the day began to slip away, leaving something heavier in its place. Not rage. Not even frustration.

Fear.

Fear that Max had been right to walk away. Fear that this new pairing—this forced partnership with Lando—wasn’t a second chance, but a spotlight. One that would show everyone just how far you’d fallen. How much you were still hurting. How much you were still trying to pretend you weren’t.

You glanced at your phone. 6:56 p.m.

Time to go.

You wiped the sweat from your face with a towel, grabbed your bag, and started walking. Out of the facility, down the quiet path toward the café where Toto, Zak, and Lando would be waiting.

The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from the courts, tucked behind a row of hedges like a secret only the players knew. It was the kind of place where people pretended, for an hour or two, that their lives weren’t ruled by rankings and press conferences and the weight of expectation. Just coffee, quiet, and the illusion of normal.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the cool hush of the room. The air smelled like espresso and something sweet, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around you. Relief and dread twisted together in your chest, tight and tangled.

They were already there.

Toto saw you first. He lifted a hand in a small, steady wave—reassuring, grounding. Zak sat beside him, posture easy but eyes sharp, already reading you like a stat sheet. And then there was Lando.

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cap turned backwards like always. He looked relaxed. Effortless. Like this wasn’t a meeting about a forced partnership or a career-defining gamble. Like he hadn’t been dragged into the same mess you had.

Of course he looked fine.

You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and dropped your bag beside the empty chair across from him. You didn’t sit. Didn’t look at him. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch a little too long.

“Sorry,” you said finally, voice flat. “Training ran late.”

Lando’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Yeah. I can tell.”

You turned then, sharp and fast, eyes narrowing. The look you gave him was a warning—don’t.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his gaze didn’t waver. Still watching you. Still too calm. Still too curious.

“I’m glad you came,” Zak said, turning toward you with that smooth, practiced tone of his.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Zak Brown. The most infuriating man on the planet—second only to the player sitting across from you. There had always been something about him that rubbed you the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he smiled like he already knew the outcome. Or maybe it was the fact that, years ago, he’d told Toto you were too “unruly” to manage. You’d been seventeen. Fiery. Determined. And apparently, too much.

You kept your expression neutral, fingers tightening around the strap of your racket bag like it might anchor you to the floor. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this still grated.

“Thanks,” you said, voice even, polite. Controlled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Zak smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that said he was already five steps ahead, already moving the pieces into place. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk about this partnership, shall we?”

You nodded once, slowly, and finally took your seat. The chair felt too stiff. The air too still. Across from you, Lando hadn’t said a word.

Toto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice low and steady. “Let’s be clear,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “This partnership isn’t about liking each other. It’s about results. The ITF made the call. Now it’s our job to make it work.”

You didn’t look up. Just stared at your hands, fingers curled tight around the strap of your racket bag like it might hold you together. “I get it,” you said quietly. The words came out flat, thin. Even you could hear how hollow they sounded.

Across from you, Lando shifted in his seat. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you. You could feel it—like a weight pressing against your skin.

“Funny,” he said, voice light, almost amused. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I highly doubt that.”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, that faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like this was all a game to him. Like none of it mattered.

Zak raised a hand before either of you could say more, his voice cutting clean through the tension. “Enough,” he said, sharp but calm. “We’re not here to rehash old drama. We’re here to make a plan—practice schedules, match strategy, communication on court. Every detail matters if you two want to win.”

You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, heart still pounding. You weren’t sure what was worse—Lando’s smirk, or the fact that Zak was right.

Toto leaned back slightly, his voice calm but clipped. “We don’t have much time. You play singles tomorrow. There won’t be much time. You need to train together in the meantime.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound sharp in your throat. “Oh, yes. Waited for that my whole life.”

Across the table, Lando’s smirk bloomed before he even opened his mouth. “Excuse me?” he said, voice light and needling. “That sounded suspiciously like complaining.”

You snapped your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Well, it is complaining,” you said, the words landing hard. “I didn’t spend years clawing my way up the rankings just to be forced into a partnership with someone I can’t even stand.”

Lando leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his expression shifting from amused to something sharper. “Oh, come on. You act like I begged for this. The ITF picked me. I didn’t pick you.”

“That makes it worse!” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t ask for Max to walk away either, but here we are!”

He raised an eyebrow, tone cooling. “So what?” he said. “You’re mad at me for being good at my job?”

You shot him a look that could’ve burned through concrete. “I’m mad?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re cocky, infuriating, and you walk around like the world owes you something.”

Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, like he was enjoying this far more than he should. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, eyebrow arching. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Y/n. You’ve got an ego the size of Australia.”

Your hand slammed down on the table before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp and sudden. Zak flinched. “Better an ego than being a pain in everyone’s ass every time you show up,” you snapped, heat rising in your chest.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Pain in the ass, huh?” he said, grin widening. “You’ve clearly spent a lot of time thinking about me.”

You leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’ve spent way too much time thinking about you already,” you shot back, the words landing harder than you meant them to.

The silence that followed was thick and electric, both of you breathing hard, neither willing to back down.

Toto cleared his throat, voice low but firm. “Enough,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “If you two can’t start with some professionalism, this partnership won’t survive a single training session.”

“Training starts in fifteen minutes,” Toto said, standing up. Zak followed him out without a word, leaving you and Lando alone.

You didn’t move. Neither did Lando. You just stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff, the air between you charged and unyielding.

Zak exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is going to be… interesting,” he muttered.

The silence that followed was thick—awkward and bitter, stretching too long to ignore. You shifted in your chair, arms crossing tightly over your chest, gaze fixed on the table. You refused to look at him. Not yet.

Lando leaned back, the edge in his posture softening. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “Look,” he said, voice lower now, less sharp. “I didn’t want this either. I didn’t ask to be your partner.”

Your arms tightened around yourself, a reflex you couldn’t stop. “Glad we’re being honest,” you said, the words clipped, brittle.

He let out a breath, then shrugged. “But… I did save us both from getting disqualified. So… you’re welcome, I guess.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that,” you said, the sarcasm barely masking the exhaustion underneath.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even peace.

But it was something.

A crack in the wall, maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, the court was already a disaster.

“You call that a forehand?!” Lando shouted across the net, his voice echoing through the empty stands. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips as the ball zipped past you, just out of reach.

You spun around, breathless, glaring. “It’s fine! You just aim like a toddler!”

He laughed—loud, unbothered, infuriating. “Fine? That’s hilarious!” He tossed another ball into the air and hit it with ridiculous ease. “Seriously, Y/n, do you even know which way to swing that thing?”

“Shut up!” you snapped, stepping into the next shot and yanking it back over the net with more force than necessary. The ball cracked against the baseline, but you barely registered it. Your pulse was too loud in your ears.

Toto’s voice boomed from the sidelines. “Enough! Both of you!”

Zak’s voice followed, sharper, clipped. “Focus. This isn’t a playground—it’s training.”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring across the net at each other.

And yet, neither of you moved to apologize.

You and Lando barely registered the shouting from the sidelines. Too caught up in your own storm, too busy hurling balls across the net like weapons, swinging with more spite than strategy, arguing over every single point like it mattered more than the match itself.

“Your backhand is worse!” Lando shouted, his voice echoing across the court.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you could even touch mine!”

He scoffed, sending another ball flying your way. “In your dreams!”

You lunged, returned it with a sharp crack. “Only when they’re nightmares!”

Toto’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “Stop shouting!” he barked, marching toward the net, his patience clearly fraying. “You’ll wear yourselves out before the first match!”

Toto’s whistle cut through the chaos like a blade. The ball skidded to a stop between you and Lando, the silence that followed almost louder than the shouting had been.

“Enough,” Toto said, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the headache away. “We’ll deal with the attitude later.”

You scoffed under your breath, turning away. Lando muttered something low and sharp that you didn’t quite catch—but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat still radiating between you.

Toto pointed between you both, his voice firm. “Tomorrow, you each play singles. Y/n, your match is first. After that—no excuses. You train together again.”

Zak crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “And not just drills.”

Toto nodded. “You’ll train against Oscar and Lily.”

That made you look up.

Lily and Oscar. Calm, in sync, terrifyingly efficient. They moved like they shared a brain, like they’d been playing together since birth. Watching them was like watching choreography—fluid, precise, unshakable.

“They’re one of the best doubles pairs here,” Toto continued. “If you want to survive mixed doubles, you’ll learn from them. Communication. Movement. Trust.”

Lando let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So we get destroyed on purpose.”

“Exactly,” Toto said, not missing a beat. “And you’ll thank me later.”

You didn’t respond. Neither did Lando.

But for the first time all day, neither of you had anything to argue about.

────────────

You sat alone in the locker room, the silence pressing in around you like a second skin. The hum of the stadium was distant, muffled by thick walls and the weight of your own thoughts. Your elbows rested on your thighs, head in your hands, leg bouncing restlessly. You hadn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.

The Australian Open. The one that always slipped away. You’d won everything else—Wimbledon, the US Open, Roland Garros. But Melbourne had always found a way to break your rhythm. A bad draw. A rolled ankle. A match point that vanished in the heat. It had become a ghost you couldn’t shake. And now, here you were again. Minutes from walking out. Minutes from trying—again—to rewrite the ending.

You told yourself this time would be different. You were stronger now. Sharper. You’d survived heartbreak, injury, Max leaving, the ITF’s games. You were still standing. That had to count for something.

Still, your chest felt tight. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

A soft knock broke through the quiet.

“Come in,” you said, voice low, not bothering to lift your head.

The door creaked open. “Just checking on you,” came a voice you knew by heart.

Kimi.

Of course it was him.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. He just knew. Always had. Like he could feel it in the air when you needed someone to show up.

Kimi stepped closer, his presence calm and steady in the way it always was. “You got this,” he said simply.

And somehow, that meant more than any speech ever could. Because if there was anyone who still believed in you—truly, without conditions—it was Kimi. He didn’t need you to win to believe in you. He just did.

You looked up at him, your voice soft. “Thanks, Kimi. I hope so.”

He gave a small nod, then added, “Lily couldn’t make it. She’s got training. But she told me to tell you she’s wishing you luck.”

You tried to smile. “I’ll see her after the match,” you said, but the words felt thinner than you meant them to. The thought of training with Lando later, of facing Lily and Oscar on the other side of the court—it crept in like a shadow, dulling the edges of your focus.

Kimi opened his mouth to say something else, maybe to ground you again, maybe just to stay a little longer.

But the loudspeaker crackled to life, cutting him off.

“Welcome to the first women’s singles match of this year’s Australian Open! Y/n Y/l/n versus Alexandra Saint Mleux!”

The words echoed through the locker room, sharp and final.

It was time.

You stood slowly, gripping your racket like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You gave it a few light swings, trying to shake the tension from your arms, but your muscles still felt tight, coiled like springs. From somewhere beyond the locker room walls, the roar of the crowd filtered in—louder than you expected. It hit you in the chest, sudden and real, and your stomach twisted.

Kimi stood just off to the side, arms folded, calm as ever. He gave you a small nod, his voice low and steady. “Focus,” he said. “You know what to do.”

You nodded back, not trusting yourself to speak. Then you turned and walked down the long hallway toward the court, each step echoing in the narrow space. You passed Toto near the entrance, his expression unreadable but his voice warm.

“Good luck, kid,” he said. “Remember Mleux’s weaknesses.”

You managed a quiet, “Thanks,” as you stepped past him and into the light.

The sun hit you like a wave—bright and hot, wrapping around your skin. The stadium opened up in front of you, vast and humming with energy. The crowd’s cheers rolled over you in waves, and your heart kicked up, faster than it should’ve been. You blinked against the brightness, against the noise, against the weight of it all.

This is it, you thought. This is finally your Australian Open.

You walked to your baseline, the court beneath your feet familiar and foreign all at once. You took a deep breath, let it fill your lungs, and exhaled slowly. The racket settled into your hands like it belonged there.

You bounced lightly on your toes at the baseline, trying to shake the nerves from your limbs. Your eyes stayed locked on the other side of the net, where Alexandra stood like a statue—calm, composed, her expression unreadable. She looked like she was waiting for a warm-up rally, not the start of a Grand Slam match. Of course she did. That was her thing. Ice in her veins. No cracks in the armor.

The umpire’s voice broke through the hum of the crowd. “Time.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying your breath. The racket felt solid in your hand, familiar. You tossed the ball into the air, eyes tracking it as it rose against the bright sky.

Focus.

The ball met your strings with a clean, satisfying snap. It flew wide and fast, clipping the line. Ace. The crowd erupted, a wave of sound crashing over you, and for a moment, it lit something in your chest. A spark. A reminder. You were here. You were ready.

The next point didn’t come as easy. The rally stretched long—baseline to baseline, shot for shot. You felt your knee twinge, a dull ache that flared with each push off your right foot. You ignored it. There was no space for pain today. You moved sharper, hit deeper, pulling from every drill Toto had hammered into you. Attack her backhand. Drag her wide. Don’t let her settle.

Point by point, the match found its rhythm. Brutal. Demanding. Sweat rolled down your spine, your grip tightening with every swing. The world narrowed to the ball, the lines, the breath in your lungs. Everything else fell away.

The first set had taken everything out of you. Long rallies, sharp angles, your knee screaming every time you pushed off just a little too hard. You’d won it—barely. And now, standing at the baseline in the second set, the heat pressed down heavier than before. The sun clung to your skin, sweat pooling at the base of your neck, soaking into your wristbands. You bounced the ball, trying to find your breath, trying to find your focus.

One point at a time.

You returned serve cleanly, chased the next shot, sent it down the line with just enough spin to pull it out of reach. The crowd responded, a low murmur rising into something louder, warmer. You didn’t let yourself react. Not yet.

But as you walked back toward the baseline, towel draped around your shoulders, your eyes drifted—just for a second. You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

And there he was.

Lando.

Sitting in the stands, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just stillness. Focus. Watching you—not like a teammate, not like a rival. Like someone trying to understand something he hadn’t seen before.

Your grip tightened around the racket handle.

Why is he even here?

You shook the thought off, forced your gaze back to the court. It didn’t matter. He was just another face in the crowd. Just another distraction.

But the next rally dragged long—brutal, punishing. You chased a wide ball, stretched too far, and your knee flared in protest. Sharp. Immediate. You bit down on the pain, forced yourself through the motion, barely masking the wince.

And from the corner of your eye, you saw him move.

Lando straightened in his seat, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

Like he felt it too.

You’d taken the second set, but your heart was racing for all the wrong reasons. Not from the heat or the effort or the pressure of the match—but from something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

As the applause rolled over the court, you let your eyes drift—just for a second, just long enough to betray yourself. And there he was.

Lando.

Still in the stands. Still watching. Elbows on his knees, cap pulled low, gaze fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away once.

You turned quickly, heading for the sidelines. The crowd was loud, the sun relentless, sweat dripping down your temple as you moved straight toward Toto. You didn’t wait for him to speak.

“What is he doing here?” you asked, voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t he have his own match?”

Toto handed you a bottle of water, calm as ever. “He already played,” he said. “He won.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He’d finished his match. And he’d still come to watch yours.

The thought landed in your chest with a strange weight. Not heavy, exactly. Just… tight. Unsettling. Maybe he was here to see you fall apart. Maybe he wanted proof that you weren’t as good as everyone said.

Or maybe—worse—he wanted to see for himself just how good you really were.

“Focus, kid,” Toto said, his voice low and even, cutting through the noise like a metronome. He gave you a steady look, the kind that didn’t waver, didn’t rush. “You’ve already taken two sets out of three. You’ve got this in the bag.”

You nodded, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your heart was still racing, your body humming with adrenaline and heat and something else—something harder to name. Pressure, maybe. Or fear. Or the weight of knowing how close you were to finally breaking the curse of this tournament.

You looked down at your hands, fingers wrapped tight around the water bottle, knuckles pale. You’d done the hard part. You were ahead. But the finish line always felt the farthest when it was right in front of you.

Still, Toto’s voice stayed with you. Calm. Certain. Like he believed in you even when you weren’t sure you could believe in yourself.

You took a breath. Then another.

And when you stood, racket in hand, the world narrowed again—to the court, the ball, the next point.

Just one more set.

The whistle blew, sharp and final, slicing through the heat-soaked air.

You stepped to the baseline, and something inside you shifted. Not snapped, exactly—more like something uncoiled. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Or maybe it was the image of Lando, still watching, still there, etched into the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

Whatever it was, it lit a fuse.

You served with more bite, more speed. The ball cracked off your strings and kissed the line. Your returns came cleaner, heavier, each one landing with purpose. Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, your body slipping into that rare, elusive rhythm where everything just worked.

The crowd roared, but it barely registered. Their cheers blurred into a distant hum, like waves crashing somewhere far away. All you could hear was the thud of the ball, the scrape of your shoes, the steady beat of your breath.

Focus. Timing. Instinct.

It all clicked.

Each point you won fed the next—momentum building, confidence blooming in your chest like something wild and overdue. The anger, the nerves, the noise—they all faded, burned away by the fire in your blood and the clarity in your mind.

And then, between points, as you turned to towel off, your eyes flicked to the stands.

Lando was still there.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you. No smirk. No smugness. Just focus. Just… attention.

The rally stretched on, longer than you thought your body could handle. Sweat dripped into your eyes, your muscles screamed with every lunge, every pivot, every desperate reach. Your breath came in ragged bursts, the court blurring at the edges as you chased one more shot, then another, refusing to let go.

Alexandra lunged for your return, her body fully extended, racket slicing through the air. The ball clipped the edge of her strings—then spun wide.

Out.

The stadium erupted.

For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sound hit you like a wave, crashing over your shoulders, and then your knees gave out. You dropped, the racket slipping from your hand, your fists clenched and raised as you let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

You’d done it.

The Australian Open. The one that had always slipped through your fingers. The one that haunted your off-seasons and whispered in your dreams. You’d won the first round. And this time, it was real.

Toto was there in an instant, dropping to your level, gripping your shoulder with both hands. His eyes were bright, voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like pride. “You did it,” he said, shaking you gently. “You did it, kid!”

You laughed, still catching your breath, the weight of the last few months crashing down all at once. The pressure. The burnout. The doubt. The noise. It all spilled out in one long, shaking exhale. “We did it,” you said, voice cracking. “We actually did it.”

Toto pulled you into a quick, fierce hug. “No,” he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You did it. That’s all you.”

And in the middle of the chaos—the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the blur of movement—you let yourself feel it.

Not relief. Not survival.

Triumph.

Real, unfiltered, earned.

You had won the first round of the Australian Open.

You and Toto stepped into the hallway, the buzz of the crowd still echoing faintly behind you. You didn’t have to look to know he was smiling—that quiet, proud smile he only wore when words weren’t enough. The kind that said I knew you could without needing to say it at all.

And then you saw them.

Lily, Oscar, Kimi… and Lando.

Lily was the first to reach you, arms already outstretched. “You did it, Y/n!” she beamed, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You laughed, still catching your breath, still riding the high. “Thanks, Lil. It’s—God, it’s unbelievable.”

Oscar clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and easy. “That was insane. You dominated out there.”

Kimi didn’t say much— he never did—but his smile was warm, steady. “Told you,” he said simply. “You’ve got this. Always.”

And then your eyes found Lando’s.

He stood a little apart from the others, hands in his pockets, cap still low over his brow. His expression was unreadable—no smirk, no teasing glint. Just something quieter. Something still.

“Congrats,” he said.

Just that. One word. No fanfare. No sarcasm.

And honestly, you hadn’t expected more.

But somehow, it lingered. The way he said it. The way he looked at you when he did. Like it meant something. Like he’d seen something out there—something real—and couldn’t quite put it into words.

You’d won today. That much was clear.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d also proved something.

To yourself. And to him.

“Training in one hour,” you said, glancing at Lando, Lily, and Oscar as you reached for your bag.

Toto’s voice followed, calm but edged with quiet disapproval. “You should take a break.”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t wanna,” you muttered, brushing past, fingers already curling around your racket.

Lando raised an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Seriously? You just crushed your singles match and now you’re jumping straight into doubles?”

You turned, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Yeah. Seriously.”

He didn’t push, but the look he gave you lingered—half impressed, half questioning.

“No rest for the best,” you added, tugging your shoes on with quick, practiced movements.

Lily let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know how to relax, do you?”

You paused for half a second, then shrugged. “Relaxing’s for people who aren’t chasing Grand Slams,” you said, tightening the laces. “I don’t have that luxury.”

No one argued with that.

────────────

An hour later, you were back on court.

The adrenaline from your win still pulsed through your veins, sharp and heady, like a second heartbeat. Your limbs buzzed with leftover energy, your mind still half caught in the echo of the crowd. Only your knee whispered its quiet protest, a dull throb you refused to acknowledge. Not now. Not in front of them.

Across the net, Oscar and Lily were already in motion—laughing, tossing balls back and forth, their movements fluid and in sync. They looked like they belonged together on and off a court—in which, they did. Like they didn’t even have to speak to know what the other was thinking.

It was annoying, honestly. How easy they made it look.

Meanwhile, you stood near the baseline with Lando, Zak, and Toto, the four of you in a loose circle that felt more like a standoff than a strategy session.

“You two need to communicate,” Toto said, his voice clipped, no room for argument.

Zak chuckled, hands on his hips. “And not argue, by the way. Just to be clear.”

He was the only one who found that funny.

Toto didn’t even blink. “Communication doesn’t mean yelling,” he added, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “Call your shots. Trust each other.”

You scoffed before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your gaze snapped to Lando, heat rising in your chest. “You think I can trust someone like him?”

Lando let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. Starting strong, aren’t we?”

Toto pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “This,” he said, “is exactly what I mean.”

“Take example from Oscar and Lily,” Toto said, nodding toward the other side of the court.

You followed his gaze. There they were—laughing, bumping shoulders, moving like they shared the same rhythm. They looked relaxed, completely at ease, like this was just another afternoon. Like they weren’t about to run drills in the heat. Like they weren’t being watched. It was effortless. Disgustingly effortless. And, of course, they were in love. That probably helped.

“Toto, please,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “They’re dating.”

“And?” Toto shot back without missing a beat. “They communicate. They know each other’s next move before it even happens.”

You opened your mouth, but Lando beat you to it, his voice dry. “That’s because they’ve been playing together for, like, four years.”

Toto sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this entire setup. “Exactly my point. They didn’t start like this. They learned. They worked at it.”

Lando let out a quiet scoff, not even trying to hide it. “Yeah. Over four years. We’ve had—what—twenty-four hours?”

You turned toward him, heat rising in your chest. “And half of that,” you snapped, “you spent mocking my forehand.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because it was late.”

You glared at him, jaw tight. “It won the match.”

“Barely,” he said, and though his voice was even, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

Toto clapped his hands once, the sound loud and sharp. “Enough,” he said, stepping back. “On court. Both of you. Now.”

You didn’t argue. Neither did Lando.

But as you walked to your side of the net, you could feel the tension still crackling between you—sharp, stubborn, and not going anywhere anytime soon.

The first rally hadn’t even properly begun before it all fell apart.

Oscar’s serve came fast and clean, skimming just over the net. You moved to cover your side, expecting Lando to shift with you—but he didn’t. The ball flew past him, bounced once behind you, and rolled to a stop near the fence.

Lando groaned, spinning around with his arms outstretched. “Seriously?!”

You turned too, already bristling. “What was that?” he snapped, glaring.

“What was that?” you shot back. “You weren’t ready!”

He didn’t answer—just lunged for the next ball that Oscar had casually returned to keep the rally going. You stepped forward to help, swung too late, and clipped the net. The ball dropped dead at your feet.

“You’re late again!” Lando barked, breath short. “Move your ass!”

You whipped around, eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You’re the one standing there like a statue!”

He didn’t respond. Just dove for another shot, barely keeping it in play. You tried to recover, swiped at the return, and missed entirely.

From the sidelines, Toto and Zak were shouting—something about spacing, about communication—but their voices barely registered. The court had shrunk to just the two of you, locked in a rhythm of blame and frustration, every word sharper than the last.

“You’re impossible!” you shouted, voice sharp and raw as another ball zipped past you, missing your shoulder by inches.

Lando didn’t miss a beat. “You think you’re perfect?” he snapped, slamming the next ball toward your side with a little too much force, like he wanted to make a point with the sound of it hitting your half of the court.

You lunged, off balance, barely getting your racket to it. “Fuck!” you hissed as the ball clipped the strings and dropped straight into the net, limp and useless.

“Shit!” Lando barked, scrambling after the next shot, his foot catching awkwardly as he stumbled, barely staying upright.

The rally kept going, but it was a mess. Every shot felt like a fight. Every movement turned into a complaint. You weren’t playing together—you were playing around each other, like two magnets repelling on contact.

“Move your feet!” he yelled, frustration bleeding into every word.

“You’re blocking me!” you snapped, trying to sidestep him and nearly colliding instead.

“Watch the net!”

“How the hell did you miss that?!”

The ball skidded out of bounds, and you both stood there, breathing hard, glaring across the court like enemies instead of teammates. Somewhere on the sidelines, you could hear Zak groaning and Toto muttering under his breath, but it all felt distant.

The shouting had reached a boiling point—sharp, fast, and full of heat. Every word felt like it was meant to hurt. You missed two more volleys in a row, your timing completely off, your head spinning with frustration. And then you heard Lando’s voice, panicked and too late.

“I—shit—watch out!”

But you were already moving. Both of you lunged for the same ball, and the collision was loud and jarring. A solid thunk of shoulder against ribs, racket against thigh.

“Ow!” you gasped, stumbling back, clutching your shoulder as the sting bloomed deep and fast.

“Fucking hell,” Lando muttered, bent over slightly, rubbing his side with a grimace. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and angry. “What the hell was that?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away. Your chest was tight, your breath shallow, your body aching in more ways than one. And then you looked across the court.

Lily and Oscar were still playing—still laughing, still moving like they shared the same heartbeat. They bumped shoulders, exchanged a high-five, and didn’t even glance your way. The contrast was brutal. It made your stomach twist.

You threw your racket down, the sound loud and final against the court. “I can’t,” you said, voice cracking. “This is impossible.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “Impossible?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re the one yelling at everything!”

You took a step forward, anger flaring. “You think I’m the problem? You’re a—”

“—a cocky idiot?” he cut in, eyes blazing. “Yeah. I know. You’ve said it enough times.”

The words kept coming, fast and sharp, like neither of you could stop. Insults, blame, frustration—spilling out until your throat burned and your chest ached from the effort of it all. You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. The match? The pressure? Each other?

All you knew was that it hurt.

Toto stormed onto the court, arms raised like he was trying to physically push the tension back into place. “Enough!” he barked, voice cutting through the heat and noise. “Both of you!”

You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring at each other like you were seconds away from swinging your rackets at something other than tennis balls. And then, slowly, you both looked down—realizing at the same time that your grips were too tight, your stances too sharp. You weren’t holding rackets. You were holding weapons.

Toto’s voice dropped, low and firm, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. “Take a break. Sit down. Drink some water. And calm the hell down. Because whatever this is—it’s not doubles. It’s a screaming contest.”

You didn’t argue. Just turned and walked to the bench, legs heavy, lungs still burning. You dropped onto the seat like your body had finally remembered it was tired, water bottle clutched in your hand like it might keep you from unraveling. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts still tangled in the last ten minutes of chaos.

Across the court, Lando didn’t sit. He leaned against the fence instead, arms crossed, head tipped back like he was trying to breathe through whatever storm was still brewing inside him. He didn’t say a word. But the tension coming off him was thick enough to feel from where you sat, like heat rising off the pavement.

You and Lando had finally cooled down enough to approach Oscar and Lily, rackets in hand, the silence between you still heavy but no longer sharp. The earlier shouting had drained something from both of you, leaving behind a kind of raw quiet. Not peace, exactly—but maybe the start of it.

Lily glanced up as you approached, bouncing the ball gently on her racket. Her tone was light, but kind. “So,” she said, “watching you two out there… maybe try calling your shots before swinging. It really helps.”

Oscar nodded beside her, his expression easy but sincere. “Yeah. And trust each other. You don’t have to chase every ball alone. Let the other person take their shot.”

You nodded slowly, the words settling somewhere in your chest. It still felt tight, like your ribs hadn’t quite relaxed since the last argument. But you were listening. “Call our shots,” you repeated under your breath. “Right. And… trust. Sure.”

Lando let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Sounds easy when you two say it.”

You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “It’s not. Trust doesn’t just show up.”

“No,” he agreed, and for once, there was no edge in his voice. “It doesn’t.”

Lily smiled gently, stepping closer. “Exactly. It takes time. You’ll get there. Just… breathe. And listen to each other.”

While Lando nodded along to Lily and Oscar’s advice, you shifted slightly to the side, adjusting your grip on your racket. That’s when you heard it—Zak’s voice, low and curious, just behind Toto.

“Was she always like this?” he asked. “I mean… with Max?”

The words hit like a sudden gust of wind. You froze mid-step, heart thudding once, hard and loud. You didn’t turn around, didn’t move. Just listened.

Toto’s voice came a moment later, calm and even, but softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s always been like this. Fiery. Stubborn. Unrelenting.”

There was a pause, and you could almost hear the memory in his voice when he added, “Max knew it. And honestly, that’s why he respected her. She drove everyone else crazy, but he never flinched. He always saw the good in her—even when she couldn’t see it herself.”

You swallowed, the air suddenly thicker in your lungs.

“She pushed him,” Toto went on, his gaze distant now. “Hard. He had to adapt, trust her instincts, keep up. And he did. Because he knew what she was capable of. He never doubted it. Not once.”

You shifted your weight, fingers tightening around the handle of your racket. The words settled deep, stirring something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a while. Pride, yes. A flicker of irritation, maybe. But mostly… something quieter. Something that ached.

Longing, maybe.

Or the echo of something you hadn’t quite let go of.

“Why did he bail on her though?” Zak asked, his voice low, curious in that way people get when they think you’re not listening.

But you were.

God, you were.

No. No. No. You didn’t want to hear this. You weren’t ready. But your feet stayed planted, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, and your ears strained for every word.

Toto let out a slow breath, the kind that carried weight. “She had a knee injury a few months ago,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “Max probably thought she wouldn’t be the same after that.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your stomach twisted, breath catching. You stared straight ahead, but your vision blurred at the edges.

He thought you wouldn’t be the same.

Like you were broken. Like you were less.

Toto kept talking, his tone dipping into something darker. “But I don’t know for sure,” he added, jaw tight. “You know Horner. That piece of shit probably twisted something, planted doubts in Max’s head. God knows what he told him.”

You clenched your jaw, teeth grinding together as the heat rose in your chest. Anger flared, sharp and sudden, curling around the old ache in your knee and the deeper one in your chest. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. It all tangled together, heavy and bitter and impossible to swallow.

Zak’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough resting. Back to work.”

You didn’t need to look to know he’d caught you listening. The way he said it—clipped, pointed—made it clear. But you didn’t flinch. You just exhaled, slow and steady, letting the anger and anxiety settle somewhere low in your chest.

Something shifted then. Maybe it was the leftover fire from the earlier chaos. Maybe it was the sting of hearing Max’s name spoken like a closed chapter. Or maybe it was just the simple, stubborn truth: if you didn’t figure this out—if you and Lando couldn’t find some kind of rhythm—this whole doubles thing was going to crash and burn.

“Let’s do this,” you muttered, stepping back onto the court beside him.

Lando didn’t say anything, but he followed.

The first serve came fast, skimming low over the net. You didn’t hesitate.

“Mine!” you called, loud and clear, lunging forward with purpose. Your racket met the ball with a clean, satisfying thwack, sending it deep into the corner.

“Got it!” Lando barked, shifting behind you, his stance sharp, alert. He moved like he was actually paying attention this time—like he trusted you to hold your ground.

The second volley came quicker, a blur of motion. “Backhand, yours!” you called, already pivoting to cover the other side.

“On it!” he replied, and this time, he was. He stepped in, met the ball with a clean return, and for once, you didn’t have to roll your eyes or bite back a curse.

You adjusted without thinking, sliding low to intercept a drop shot that barely cleared the net. “Switch!” you called, already pivoting.

“Yeah, yeah, I see it!” Lando shouted, his voice tight with focus as he sprinted to cover the other side.

And somehow, it worked.

The next rally came, and then another. Each one steadier than the last. The rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was there—hidden in the chaos, waiting to be found. You started calling your shots more clearly, your voice cutting through the air with short, sharp commands.

“Net, mine!”

“Middle, yours!”

“Don’t rush, hold it!”

“Got it, don’t worry!” Lando called back, his tone clipped but not biting. Focused. Present.

Then came a tricky volley—fast, low, aimed right between you. For a split second, you both moved. But this time, there was no hesitation.

“Mine!” you shouted, stepping in.

“Good!” Lando called, grinning as he followed up, slamming the ball over the net with just the right amount of force.

You caught the return cleanly, your body moving before your brain could catch up. “Yours!” you called, already shifting to cover the next angle.

And he was there.

The small victories started to stack up. Clean hits. Fewer mistakes. A kind of coordination that hadn’t been there before. The bickering still hummed beneath the surface—old habits didn’t vanish in an hour—but it didn’t get in the way. Not this time.

Across the court, Zak had stopped pacing. He stood still, arms folded, one eyebrow raised as he muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable: surprise, maybe even a little relief.

Toto stood beside him, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You and Lando paused at the baseline, both bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath. Sweat clung to your skin, your chest rising and falling in heavy bursts, but the air between you felt different now. Less sharp. Less combative. There was still tension, sure—but it had shifted. Smoothed into something closer to rhythm. A kind of truce, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

Across the court, Lily grinned, bouncing the ball lazily on her racket. “Well, would you look at that,” she called, her voice light with amusement. “They’re actually talking to each other. Miracles really do happen.”

Oscar leaned on his racket beside her, smirking. “Yeah, I can’t decide if I’m impressed or mildly horrified.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

For the first time all day, it didn’t feel like the court was a battlefield.

It just felt like tennis.

────────────

You hated media day. Always had, always would.

The questions never changed. Same dull rhythm, same tired faces. Who do you think will win? Who’s the better player? How much sleep did you get? You could practically mouth the answers before the reporters even opened their mouths. It was all noise—predictable, exhausting noise.

“Gosh… I really don’t wanna do this,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your feet behind Toto as he led the way down the corridor toward the press room.

“You tell me,” Toto said, not even turning around, though there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.

Up ahead, Zak and Lando were already waiting by the entrance. Zak stood with his arms crossed, scanning something on his phone. Lando leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, curls a mess, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth like he actually enjoyed this circus.

Zak looked up as you approached, his expression shifting into something sharper. “Alright,” he said, gesturing between the two of you, “don’t argue. Don’t yell. If someone asks how you’re doing, just say ‘fine.’ Got it?”

He paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat.

“They’ll be annoying,” he added, voice flat. “Be ready for that.”

You exchanged a glance with Lando. He raised an eyebrow, still smirking.

You stepped into the room behind Lando, moving quietly, like slipping into a space you didn’t really want to enter. The setup was exactly as you remembered—two long rows of tables, each seat marked with a neat little name card, everything lined up in perfect, press-friendly order.

Your eyes scanned the row, already bracing for the worst.

And then you saw it.

Two empty seats.

Side by side.

Your name on one. Lando’s name was on your left.

And on your right?

Max.

Your chest tightened, breath catching for just a second. Of course. Of course they’d put you next to him. Like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like you were still a team.

Right. Of course you were stuck in the middle.

You and Lando made your way toward the table, walking side by side, both a little too quiet, a little too stiff. Your nerves buzzed just beneath your skin, making your steps feel heavier than they should’ve.

You kept your eyes down, focused on the floor, the chairs, anything but him. God forbid you looked at Max. You didn’t want eye contact. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But somehow… it happened anyway.

A flicker of movement. A shift in your peripheral vision. And then—his eyes met yours.

“Hey,” he said, soft and casual, like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t left.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. “Hey,” you said, sharp and flat, sliding into your seat without another glance.

The space between you felt like a live wire.

And the press hadn’t even started yet.

The first question came fast, before you’d even fully settled into your seat.

“Y/n, congratulations on your singles win yesterday. How are you feeling heading into the rest of the tournament?”

You straightened, smoothing your expression into something calm, composed. The cameras were already clicking. “Good,” you said, offering a polite smile. “Focused. It’s a long tournament, so I’m just taking it one match at a time.”

Another hand shot up. “You’ve won every Grand Slam except the Australian Open. Does that add extra pressure?”

You let out a slow breath, measured and even. “Pressure’s part of the job,” you said. “If I couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

A few reporters nodded. Someone murmured approval. The cameras clicked again.

Then came the question you’d been waiting for.

“And how’s the knee?”

The tone was too casual, like they were asking about the weather. You didn’t blink.

“It’s fine,” you said, voice steady. Firm.

Beside you, Lando shifted in his seat. You felt his glance, quick and quiet, but you didn’t look his way. You kept your eyes forward, your posture still.

Another voice chimed in. “Do you see yourself as the favorite this year?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I see myself as prepared,” you said. “That’s all that matters.”

The room quieted for a beat, the weight of your words settling in.

The camera shifted slightly, its lens angling just enough to frame you and Lando side by side. You didn’t need to look up to know what was coming. You could feel it in the way the room shifted, in the way the air seemed to pause for a beat.

“Lando,” a reporter began, voice smooth and practiced, like he’d been waiting for this one, “how do you feel about your partnership with Y/n? Especially considering the history you two have.”

Your shoulders tensed. You kept your eyes on the table in front of you, jaw tight. Of course they’d go there. Not the matches. Not the training. Not the actual tennis. Just the story. The drama. The past.

Beside you, Lando let out a quiet breath. You could hear the way he shifted in his seat, leaning slightly toward the mic. “I mean,” he said, with a shrug that sounded more tired than casual, “we’ve definitely had our moments.”

You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. But you held still, biting back the urge to scoff. Moments was one way to put it.

“But we’re both competitive,” he went on, and this time his voice was steadier, more grounded. “We both want to win. And at the end of the day, that matters more than whatever history people think we have.”

You didn’t look at him. But something in his tone—calm, honest, maybe even a little tired—made the knot in your chest loosen just a little.

The reporter didn’t waste a second.

“Y/n, do you agree?”

You lifted your head slowly, schooling your features into something neutral. Not cold, not warm—just steady. “We’re professionals,” you said, voice even. “We don’t have to like each other to play well together.”

The room stilled for a beat, that kind of pause reporters lived for. The kind that made every word after feel heavier.

Another voice jumped in. “And do you think this partnership can actually work?”

You felt the smallest shift beside you—Max, adjusting in his seat. You didn’t look, but you felt it. Lando, on your other side, glanced at you, just for a second. You caught it in your peripheral vision, but kept your gaze forward.

“Yes,” you said, clear and firm. “I do.”

There was no hesitation. No room for doubt.

Lando leaned forward slightly, his voice low but certain. “Same.”

You blinked.

That was… unexpected.

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet agreement, like he meant it.

The questions had started off simple. Predictable. You almost let yourself believe it wouldn’t be so bad.

But of course, that didn’t last.

“Max,” a reporter said, leaning forward just enough to make it feel personal. The camera clicked, the flash catching the edge of your vision. “There’s been some controversy around your sudden withdrawal from mixed doubles. Care to explain?”

Your mouth twitched. A flicker of something—disgust, maybe. Annoyance. You swallowed it down, kept your eyes forward, your hands folded neatly in your lap. But your heart had already picked up speed.

Max didn’t miss a beat.

“Singles are my priority,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. Sharp in that way he always was when he didn’t want to be questioned. “I decided to focus on myself this Grand Slam. Simple as that.”

You stared at the table in front of you, jaw tight. The words landed like a slap, even though you’d heard them before. Even though you’d lived them.

Focus on myself. Simple as that.

You clenched your fists just enough to feel your nails press into your palms. Not enough to show. Just enough to stay grounded.

Beside you, Lando shifted. You didn’t look, but you felt it—the way his body turned slightly, the way the air changed. Then came the glare. You could feel it radiating off him, sharp and unfiltered, aimed straight at Max.

Another journalist leaned forward, voice calm but loaded. “Do you regret your decision?”

Max didn’t even blink. “No. I don’t,” he said, smooth as ever. “Mixed doubles can be limiting if you’re not perfectly aligned…”

You blinked. What does that even mean?

Your stomach twisted, a slow, sour knot forming deep in your gut. The words echoed in your head, looping in that same clipped, careless tone. Limiting. Like you were a weight. Like you’d held him back. Like the months of training, the hours of work, the trust you’d built—meant nothing now. Just a footnote in his story.

Before you could even process that, another reporter jumped in, voice sharper now. “And what do you think of this new pairing? Y/l/n–Norris? Do you think they’ll do better than you and Y/n? You two were top three before—no one reaches that level easily.”

Your breath caught.

What the fuck.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails digging into your palm. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Didn’t trust yourself to move. The heat in your chest was rising fast, too fast, and you could feel it pressing against your ribs like a warning.

Beside you, Lando’s jaw clenched. You saw it in your peripheral vision—the way his whole body tensed, the way his eyes snapped toward Max, sharp and furious.

Max just shrugged, like none of this mattered. “I think they’ll do fine,” he said, voice light, almost bored. “It’s not my problem anymore.”

And just like that, he tossed the words out like they were nothing. Like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at your feet.

Fucking idiot.

You didn’t say it out loud. But the words burned in your throat, bitter and hot.

Suddenly Lando’s head snapped to Max, sharp and unflinching. “You know what’s funny, mate?” he said, voice tight. “You didn’t just walk away. You dumped everything on me. All the pressure, all the expectations—like it was nothing. That’s for that. Really.”

Max didn’t flinch. He raised an eyebrow, his tone smooth, almost amused. “And? That’s your problem now, isn’t it?”

The words landed like a slap.

Lando’s hand hit the table with a dull thud, loud enough to make a few heads turn. He leaned forward, the smirk gone, replaced by something sharper. “No,” he said, voice low and steady. “No, that’s our problem, and you walked out like it meant nothing. You think it’s easy being stuck cleaning up your mess?”

You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to say stop. Not here. Not now. But he didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on Max, jaw tight, breathing hard.

Max didn’t blink. “I don’t see it as my mess,” he said, calm as ever. “I made the decision that was best for me. Don’t blame me for that.”

Lando let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m not blaming you, mate,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “I’m just saying… it’d be nice if you owned up to it instead of pretending it’s nothing. You shot everything at me, and now you act like you’re better off alone. Well, congrats. You’re not.”

You cleared your throat, the sound small but sharp in the heavy silence. “Hey…” you said, voice steady, even if your chest was tight. “He made his choice, alright? I get why he did it. It sucks, yeah. But it’s not the end of the world.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe because someone had to. Maybe because, deep down, it still stung to hear Lando tear into Max like that—even if you had every reason to be angry too. Even if you weren’t sure you’d ever forgive him.

Lando turned to you, eyes wide with disbelief, frustration flickering just beneath the surface. “Seriously?” he said, voice low but sharp. “You’re defen—”

“Enough,” Zak snapped, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Out. Both of you.”

The word landed hard.

You didn’t argue. Just stood, slow and stiff, your chair scraping quietly against the floor. Lando rose beside you, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at his sides. The cameras clicked in a frenzy, flashes popping like fireworks as you made your way toward the door.

You could feel the weight of every stare, every whispered comment. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. You didn’t need to check your phone to know what tomorrow’s headlines would say.

Almost at the door, Lando stopped.

You turned just in time to see him spin on his heel, eyes locked on Max, voice rising above the hum of the room.

“You’re a selfish piece of shit, Max!”

The words rang out, sharp and clear, echoing off the walls and straight into every microphone in the room.

Zak and Toto exchanged a look as the door shut behind you, the noise of the press room fading into a dull hum. Both men let out quiet scoffs, the kind that said this again?

“You two are impossible,” Zak muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you even realize how that looked? Cameras everywhere. Journalists hanging on every word. Do you care what kind of mess you just made?”

“Impossible? Me?!” Lando snapped, his voice sharp as he turned toward you, finger jabbing through the air. “I just called him out! Someone had to say it!”

You crossed your arms, stepping in closer, heat rising in your chest. “Oh, please. You think yelling in front of every camera makes you some kind of hero? You’re just as ridiculous as he is.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But at least I’m not sitting there pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. At least I say what I mean.”

You shook your head, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Spare me. You’re not some moral crusader, Norris. You’re just loud idiot.”

“Oh, and you’re what? Enlightened?” he shot back, voice rising. “Defending the guy who bailed on you like it was nothing? Are you stup—”

“Enough!” Zak barked, cutting him off before the sentence could land. “My head hurts just listening to you two. You’re like children.”

Toto stepped in then, his voice quieter but firmer. “Go to the hotel. Take a shower. Sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.”

No one argued.

You just turned and walked, the silence between you and Lando louder than anything either of you had said.

────────────

Sleep wouldn’t come.

You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the press conference, still playing on a loop in your head. Maybe it was the match tomorrow, the weight of it pressing against your chest like a stone. Or maybe it was just your body—too wired, too used to adrenaline and noise and movement to understand that it was finally allowed to rest.

You lay flat on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like they might spell something out. The hum of the air conditioning filled the room, soft and steady, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made the silence feel louder.

Then your phone lit up on the nightstand.

The buzz was sharp in the quiet, startling in its suddenness.

You groaned, already bracing yourself. Probably Lily, checking in. Or Kimi, sending some half-asleep meme. Maybe Toto, reminding you to hydrate.

You reached for it lazily, thumb swiping across the screen.

One message.

norris u asleep?

Your eyebrows lifted.

What the hell?

You glanced at the time. 11:07 p.m.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

For a moment, you thought about ignoring it. Pretending you hadn’t seen the message. Just going back to staring at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch on.

But instead—before you could talk yourself out of it—you typed a reply.

yn no. why?

Short. Dry. On purpose.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Then disappeared. Then came back.

You watched it, heart ticking a little faster for reasons you didn’t want to name.

norris me neither was thinking maybe we should train? court one’s free

You blinked at the screen.

Of all the things he could’ve said—that wasn’t what you expected.

Not an apology. Not a joke. Not some half-hearted attempt to explain the press conference.

Just… train? At 11 p.m.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering again.

yn it’s late.

And it was. The kind of late that made your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts a little slower, your body unsure if it wanted rest or movement.

norris that’s the point. no zak. no toto. no cameras. just tennis.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering. He wasn’t wrong. You did need the practice. There was still so much to figure out—timing, rhythm, trust. The match tomorrow wasn’t going to wait for you to feel ready.

Still, something about this felt… off. Or maybe just unexpected. Lando reaching out like this. Not to argue. Not to gloat. Just to play.

You hesitated for a second longer. Then typed before you could overthink it.

yn fine. see you there in 15.

You set the phone down, heart ticking a little faster now.

What could possibly go wrong?

Plenty, if history was anything to go by.

But you were already pulling on your hoodie.

The court was washed in the harsh white of the floodlights, every corner lit too brightly, every shadow stretched long and strange across the surface. The city murmured in the distance—cars, wind, the occasional far-off siren—but here, it was mostly quiet. Just the soft thud of tennis balls echoing in the stillness.

Lando was already there, leaning on his racket like he had all the time in the world. His silhouette cut a sharp line against the light, curls messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked over as you stepped onto the court, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Wow,” he said, voice light. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You rolled your eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Don’t be so surprised,” you said, walking toward your bag. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Right,” he said, flipping a ball into the air and catching it again, his gaze following its lazy arc. “Can’t exactly win a Grand Slam sitting on our asses, can we?”

You didn’t answer. Just bent to lace your shoes, the weight of the day still clinging to your shoulders.

Lando flicked a few switches on the ball machine, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alright,” he said, stepping back with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first ball shot out like a bullet.

You swung—and missed.

The second came even faster. Another miss.

“Oi! Watch it!” Lando shouted, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Your forehand’s still a disaster!”

You glared at him, breath already short. “Maybe if you didn’t hog the settings like a control freak, I’d have a chance!”

You swung at the next one—missed again. The frustration boiled over, and you slammed your racket down against the court with a sharp crack that echoed under the floodlights.

The machine didn’t care. It kept firing, relentless and mechanical, balls flying at you both like it had something to prove. You and Lando kept shouting over the noise, blaming each other, tossing insults mid-rally like they were part of the drill.

“You’re late on it!” he snapped, ducking a ball that whizzed past his shoulder.

“No, you’re late on your—”

CRASH.

You collided mid-swing, shoulders slamming together, rackets clattering to the ground. You stumbled back, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding from the impact and the sheer absurdity of it all.

The machine kept going, balls bouncing wildly across the court.

You both froze, glaring at each other, chests heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

If Toto or Zak had been watching, they’d be having a full-blown meltdown.

Lando finally threw up his hands. “Alright! Break! Now!”

He sounded so much like Zak that you almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, you nodded, dragging your sleeve across your forehead as you walked off court, muttering under your breath.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable. You sipped your water slowly, the coolness of it grounding you as your eyes traced the white lines on the court. They looked sharper under the floodlights, like they’d been drawn just for you to stare at while you questioned every decision that had led you here. The press conference. The match tomorrow. The fact that you were out here, in the middle of the night, training with someone who drove you absolutely insane.

Then Lando’s voice cut through the quiet. “Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

It came out flat, automatic. You weren’t in the mood. Not for more questions. Not for whatever was brewing behind that tone of his.

But of course, he ignored you. That was just who he was—always pushing, always poking, always talking even when you told him not to. You rolled your eyes, already regretting showing up. And yet, despite yourself, a small laugh slipped out. Just a breath of amusement, soft and tired.

“Why do you keep defending him?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. You kept your eyes on the court, pretending you didn’t know exactly who he meant. “Who?”

Lando didn’t take the bait. “You know who,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost teasing. “Max. At the press conference. You jumped in like you were his lawyer.”

You sighed, the weight of it catching in your chest. Jesus. Why does he care? Why now, after all the yelling, after all the tension, after everything that had gone unsaid for weeks?

“Because he didn’t deserve what you said,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Yeah, he messed up. He made a shitty call. But that doesn’t mean you get to tear him apart in front of the world. It was unnecessary.”

Lando turned toward you, eyebrows raised like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Since when does Y/n Y/l/n empathize with anyone?”

You shot him a look, sharp and tired, but there was a flicker of something else behind it. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, despite everything. “Maybe I’m full of surprises, Norris.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, that familiar smirk creeping back onto his face. “Oh, you definitely are.”

The quiet settled again, heavier this time. Not the kind that felt peaceful, but the kind that pressed down on your chest, made the air feel thicker. You could hear the soft hum of the lights above, the distant buzz of the city beyond the fences, but between the two of you, there was nothing. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Then Lando spoke, and his voice was different now. No teasing. No edge. Just quiet confusion. “No, seriously,” he said. “I don’t get it. Why would you defend someone who bailed on you?”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes—judgment, pity, curiosity. You weren’t sure which would be worse. “You’re reading into it too much, Norris,” you said, trying to keep your voice flat, dismissive. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

But something in you shifted. The way he was looking at you—soft, searching, not smug or sarcastic—made something twist in your chest. It caught you off guard. You almost felt bad for brushing him off. Almost.

What the fuck is happening to you?

You exhaled slowly, your eyes dropping to the court, to the lines you’d been staring at all night. You didn’t mean to say it. Not really. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and raw.

“It’s because I got injured.”

And there it was.

The truth, sitting between you like a stone dropped in still water. No excuses. No spin. Just the thing you hadn’t said out loud until now.

You didn’t look up to see his reaction. You weren’t sure you could.

Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, racket hanging loosely at his side, the ball resting by his shoe like it had been forgotten. His face was hard to read—no smirk, no sharp comeback, just stillness. And that somehow made it worse. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting, trying to make sense of what you’d just said.

“Injured?” he asked finally, and his voice was quieter now. Not accusing. Just… unsure.

You felt your stomach twist. Of course. Even him. Even Lando Norris, who never shut up, who always had something to say—now he was looking at you like he didn’t know what to believe. Like maybe you were making it up. Like maybe you were just another excuse.

But something in your chest shifted. You didn’t want to lie. Not this time. Not about this. You didn’t want to brush it off or change the subject or pretend it didn’t matter. Because it did. It mattered more than anything.

“It happened last year,” you said, your voice soft, almost like you were telling the story to yourself. “Wimbledon. One wrong step. That’s all it took.”

You paused, swallowing hard. The memory was still sharp, still vivid—the way your foot slid, the way your knee twisted, the way everything changed in a second. You hadn’t even screamed. Just laid there, stunned, knowing something had gone very, very wrong.

“I didn’t tell anyone at first,” you went on, eyes fixed on the court. “Not the doctors. Not the federation. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. I thought I could push through it. But it didn’t get better. It got worse. And by the time I finally told Toto, it was already too late.”

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Max knew, though. He could tell something was off. He always could.”

Lando didn’t say anything. He just stood there, still and quiet, his expression unreadable. But you could feel him listening. Really listening. And somehow, that made it harder to keep talking.

Still, the words kept coming.

“So when he left,” you said, your voice steady but worn thin at the edges, “I understood why. I didn’t like it. I hated it, actually. But I got it.”

You stared down at the court, the white lines blurring slightly under the harsh lights. The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It didn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It just felt… full. Like everything you hadn’t said until now was finally catching up to you.

“So yeah,” you said, softer now, “that’s why I defended him.”

You paused, the words sitting heavy in your chest.

“Because in the end…” You swallowed. “It’s kind of my fault.”

There it was. The truth, bare and quiet and a little bit ugly. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, not like that. But once it was out, you didn’t take it back. You just sat there, heart thudding, waiting to see what he’d do with it.

“That’s bullshit. It’s not your fault,” Lando said at last, his voice low but firm, like he’d been holding it in and couldn’t anymore.

You let out a soft scoff, but there was no humor in it. Just bitterness. “Sure it is,” you muttered, eyes still on the ground. “I hid it. I kept playing like nothing was wrong. If I’d just been honest—”

“Shut up, Y/n.”

The words hit you like a slap, not because they were harsh, but because of how suddenly they came. You blinked, startled, and looked up.

Lando had stepped closer, his expression tight, serious in a way you rarely saw. No smirk. No teasing glint in his eyes. Just something raw and real.

“If you’d been honest,” he said again, slower this time, “you would’ve been benched. You wouldn’t have played singles. You wouldn’t have won. You would’ve been sidelined, and you know it.”

You stared at him, heart thudding a little harder now. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because he wasn’t saying it to hurt you—he was saying it like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed you to stop blaming yourself for something that was never really yours to carry alone.

To be honest, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind was still catching up, still trying to make sense of the version of Lando standing in front of you now—calm, steady, almost gentle. It didn’t fit the version of him you’d been arguing with just hours ago. It didn’t fit the version who yelled across press rooms or snapped at you mid-rally. And yet, here he was. Saying things that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“Just so you know,” he said, voice low, words careful, “I won’t bail on you because of an injury. I can promise that.”

You stared at him, heart ticking a little faster. Lando Norris, making promises. Since when did he do that? Since when did he say things that made your throat tighten?

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “What does that mean for me?”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His eyes met yours, steady and clear. “It means I want you to promise me something,” he said. “That if it gets worse—if anything feels off—you tell me. No more pretending it’s fine. Got it?”

You blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Something warmer. You weren’t used to this version of him. You weren’t sure what to do with it. But you knew one thing—you believed him.

“Got it,” you whispered, nodding slowly.

And just like that, something shifted between you. The weight of the night, the tension, the rivalry—it didn’t disappear. But it softened. Just a little.

“Now…” Lando said, his voice lighter again, like he was trying to shift the mood, to pull you both back into something that felt more familiar. “Let’s train again, shall we?”

He held out his hand.

You were still sitting on the bench, water bottle resting loosely in your grip, legs stretched out in front of you, muscles cooling too fast in the night air. You looked at his hand for a moment, unsure. Not because you didn’t want to take it—but because something about the gesture felt different. Not performative. Not sarcastic. Just… simple. Steady. Like he meant it.

Against your better judgment, you smiled. A small one, barely there. Then a quiet laugh slipped out, soft and surprised, like it had caught you off guard. Like it had been waiting for a reason to surface.

And then—without really thinking—you reached out and placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Like muscle memory. Like something you hadn’t realized you missed until it was there again. His fingers curled around yours, not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to hold you steady.

Something flickered in your chest. A strange little flutter that didn’t belong here. Comfort, maybe. Or reassurance. Or something else entirely—something you didn’t have a name for. You weren’t supposed to feel it. Not with him. Not like this.

This was supposed to be a late-night training session. That’s all. Just two players trying to find their rhythm again. Just you and the guy who’d driven you insane for years, who knew exactly how to get under your skin.

So why did your heart skip a beat at his touch?

You didn’t know.

© verstarris 2025

babsie radio ! so here it is, my dearest child </33 this was so much fun to write!! also sorry for the possible inaccuracies, but I played tennis, like, twice in my life, and one time my friend nearly broke my nose! So if you spot any mistakes, just pretend you don’t see them! thank you! Hope y’all like it anyway and see you in part two, which will be available in few seconds <3 big thanks belongs to @lvrclerc for allowing me to take inspo from her graphic and layout in general. Without A Dent In The Ice this fic wouldn’t exist!!!

taglist. @haniette @amyelevenn @clovermoters @zariacore @darling-suee @wwwynette @landosaints @piestri @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @basicchelsea @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @biscuitjuice @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @taetae-armyyyyy @jewelsm481

[verstarris]

thinking about them while watching *czech* women wimbledon finale <3🇨🇿

[betweenpitwalls]

just watched the wimbledon final and was thinking about a lando tennis player fic … then ten minutes later i open tumblr and see this 🥹🥹 @verstarris never disappoints

[trashytracktales]

Achilles’ Heel ✶ LN⁴ & OP⁸¹

✶ summary ──── Caught between old wounds and the fear of what lies ahead, she must revisit the love she cannot let go of, while trying to keep close the one who brought light into her life when she needed the most.

✶ pairing ──── Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri x she/her reader

✶ rating ──── explicit

✶ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, action moves between present and fragments of the past, complicated relationship dynamics, teammate’s ex trope (no cheating involved), breakup scenes, swearing, angst, arguing and verbal tension, guilt, internal conflicts, toxic patterns + unhealthy attachment, emotional dependence, mentions of smoking as a coping mechanism, alcohol consumption, conflicted loyalties, character flaws, reader has sex with both love interests (separate timelines), teasing, power dynamics, possessive!Lando, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms.

✶ word count ──── 14.1k

✶ date ──── Jul. 1, 2026

✶ a/n ──── This was originally requested by @biancathecool in December of last year, but by the time I finished writing it (what a ride, I’ll tell you that much), it had sunk somewhere towards the bottom of my inbox. Lovey, I am sooo sorry, hope this was worth the wait. For everybody else, enjoy the tragedy 🩵

📍 Monaco, April 2026

LANDO MADE SURE to disappear before any of his friends noticed.

Downstairs, some of them are singing terribly over the music, causing an eruption of laughter. A glass breaks somewhere near the kitchen and it’s followed by more laughing that only rich, very drunk young people seem capable of producing. In this world, carelessness isn’t followed by consequence because everything can be replaced.

Anyone can be replaced, if anything.

The cigarette trembles faintly between his fingers as he pushes through the balcony door upstairs. Not from the cold, since April has been kind with the weather so far, but from the exhaustion of pretending not to look over his shoulder every few minutes. He had come to the party with every intention of forgetting himself for a few hours. To drink, maybe, to have a good time with his friends, and to finally shake off the pressure that had been clinging to him for months now.

Seeing her there had not been part of the plan, but luckily, she hadn’t noticed him, which gave Lando enough time to swallow the immediate pull of old feelings before they surfaced too obviously on his face. Unfortunately, the fragile balance he’d manage to build up until then, cracked like eggshells the moment he realized she hadn’t arrived alone. Standing beside her, all lean and far too comfortable in her orbit, was his teammate, of all people.

That way, the very mood he’d come here to escape settled back over him, twice as heavy.

His teammate, of all people.

Looking somewhere far in the distance, he presses his forearms against the iron railing and inhales deeply, until the smoke scratches the back of his throat. It feels like punishment, as it should. He’s aware it is a disgusting habit and he keeps meaning to quit, but in the months since December, he has found himself collecting various, ugly little addictions: the occasional nicotine, insomnia, memories.

So many memories.

The balcony door remains slightly cracked open behind him, letting the noise spill out in tiny fragments; the bass is vibrating through the walls, there’s too much shouting, then someone calling for tequila.

He realizes it’s a terrible idea to close his eyes only when her image materializes underneath his eyelids. For the life of him, Lando can’t think of how she was at the end, sad and exhausted, with mascara smudged under her furious eyes. That’d still hurt, but it would be a favor to him, and his mind is crueler than that. It offers him the good versions instead, the ones that he should’ve hold on to more when he stormed out of the conference room, without looking back.

Her, asleep on his chest during a flight to Singapore.

Her hands fixing his crooked collar before every boring event.

Her laugh echoing through hotel hallways at two in the morning.

He takes a couple more absent drags from his cigarette, mostly habit than intention, the smoke dissolving into nothingness in the night air. The same thoughts pull him under too quickly, spiraling in places he’d rather be, until the sting of heat against his fingers jolts him back to reality. He looks down blankly at how it burned nearly to the filter but then, as he decides to go back inside, the door to the room swings open hard enough to rattle in its frame.

Someone stumbles through it in a mess of laughter and half-whispered giggles, their voices disturbing the semi-quiet he’s harvested in the past few minutes.

“Are you sure?” asks the first voice, causing Lando’s entire body to react to the Australian accent he grew to know so well.

His heart starts slamming inside his ribcage, breath caught midway in his lungs. Fuck, no.

“Yes,” her unmistakable voice answers right away. “What, are you afraid?”

“No. Should I be?” Oscar shoots back.

The corner beside the balcony wall is dark enough to hide him as long as neither of them looks too carefully. Which turns to be his only salvation since he cannot move. Although he tells himself he should just walk back in, force the door open wider or make enough noise for them to notice they’re not alone, he simply can’t move. So he stays still, while the hushed sounds land one after another like premeditated blows.

Every kiss and every murmur makes her giggle all over again. It is torturous the way Lando remembers those sounds, but how can he not, considering they once belonged to him?

A rustle of fabric, then the sound of lips meeting fills the silence that follows. Lando presses his back against the nearest wall, thinking that even now, it is still not too late to save himself. He could clear his throat and let them see him. He could step out now.

Right now.

Now!

The door is still ajar, they haven’t looked out yet, and his legs won’t. Fucking. Move.

“There’s no one else I would trust,” she tells Oscar.

Sick to his stomach, Lando stops breathing.

The confession warns him of what is to come; there is another kiss, deeper than the last, that leaves her breathless and forces him to press the heel of his palms against his eyes. Mortified, he knows that now it’s too late and there will be no version of this in which he keeps his dignity. They will look at him in horror, then pity, and that would kill him faster than anything else ever could.

Punished by timing, he remains in the shadows and, behind him, the girl he once saw spending the rest of his life with, moans softly his teammate’s name.

OSCAR INHALES HER breath like he’s a sick man and it has healing properties. He feels her lips curl against his mouth, all the desire inside him snapping loose at once. He’s already used to the soft contours of her face, the way she looks up at him, right before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. It’s a silly thought, ridiculous even, but he’s convinced that he would recognize her among billions of stars. All she has to do is stand there, just as she is, and Oscar would still be able to point at the night sky in her direction. Blindfolded.

His hands tighten around her waist as he walks her backward toward the bed, stumbling together in fits of laughter and half-finished kisses until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She falls onto it with a breathless sound, consumed by his sole presence, and he follows right away, bracing himself above.

“Are you sure?” asks Oscar.

The girl nods. “Yes,” she replies, “What, are you afraid?”

He lets out a strained chuckle, his back stiffening in anticipation at the thought. “No. Should I be?” it comes out like a joke meant to lighten the mood, but it still sounds like he’s at least somewhat concerned.

She nods again, then laughs at the way his eyes widen, his pupils so dilated that the ring of his brown irises is barely visible around them anymore.

There is a strange freedom in the way everything panned out for them. It wasn’t out of hatred, revenge, defiance, or even carelessness. The night that brought them close was a different kind of honesty that none of them knew how to handle at the time. It was stripped clean of any trace of hesitation because, for her, there was nothing left to lose. And Oscar didn’t believe there was anything to gain from it either.

After that, they have spent weeks of circling one another carefully. Restrained by timing, encouraged by a new-found friendship and oblivious to the consequences that might catch up with them, they managed to build their own rhythm.

“There’s no one else I would trust,” her words come out quietly, a little heavier than she initially expected.

With Lando in the back of her mind, she’s aware that Oscar would never risk the fracture that a reckless fling could cause, so it has to go deeper than that. It has to. Plus, it’s not in his blood to gamble people’s trust in such way.

In turn, Oscar hears it for what it is: more honesty. And acknowledgement that whatever this is, it already exists on borrowed time. At some point, they will have to speak up. Despite that, neither gives it language but the truth lingers there, always present, and even though no one dares, they both know the fall is inevitable. Tragic in its context, but beautiful in the way it feels in the moment.

With his heart racing, Oscar lowers his head, kissing slowly beneath her jawline while she tangles her fingers in the soft waves at the nape of his neck. It’s different from anything she’s ever known, but finding out how quiet he gets when he wants someone warms every cell in her already heated body. The silence that settles over him doesn’t come from uncertainty, though. It’s too intense for that. It’s rather concentration, every thought focused toward touch.

And gods, his hands.

They move over her in a brush so gentle, as if he had suddenly gone blind and now he must learn a new language through memory alone. His fingers start skimming the line of her neck, thumb caressing the rapid pulse underneath. Pushed by instinct, they curl around it just to make her breath catch, and the muffled sound she lets out through her parted lips is enough to rouse the last of his dormant senses.

“Oscar…” she breathes hot over his cheek, the name surrounded by longing from all directions.

With his hand around her neck, he hums in response but doesn’t give her more, which forces her to melt beneath him with embarrassing ease.

She catches him before his mouth drifts lower, impatient to get rid of his shirt. Quick with the buttons, Oscar shrugs it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. His chest is lean, carved from hours in the gym and the constant stress of forces that aims a driver’s core; she can’t help but run her hands over his skin, his collarbones, down to the dip of his waist.

The moment he kisses her again, minds go quiet. She reciprocates it with a whimper that only deepens the desire. His tongue slides against hers, tasting the last remnants of a classic Shirley Temple and her cherry lip balm. One of his hands moves back to her neck, forcing a gasp from her mouth, then right into his. The other one finds her blouse and the incredibly tiny buttons decide to test his patience, but Oscar allows himself to pull at it a little harder, his knuckles grazing her sternum with each attempt.

It makes her shiver because for one fleeting second, she catches another trace of his being. A sharper side, hidden right under the surface. Although it’s not supposed to be violent in any way, what makes it exciting is the fact that the danger comes from keeping that edge under control at all times. So, he must be aware of it.

Without meaning to, Oscar reveals himself to her over and over again, and she’s able to understand that if someone pushed him far enough, wherever that line truly lives, he could be aggressive with the same terrifying precision he applies to everything else. And somehow, she thinks, that might just be the most intoxicating thing about him.

The air is cool on her skin while he finally parts the fabric, exposing the white lace of her bra. Instead of removing it as she expects him to, Oscar pushes the cups aside with his thumbs, only to tease. Next thing she knows, he kisses a trail across her chest, then lower.

When his mouth closes around her nipple, her fingers go back to threading through his hair, slightly arching her back to push herself more into him. His mouth is warm and wet and sucks just as gently as his touches, tongue circling the peak until it’s tight and aching. His right hand mirrors the motion on her other breast, squeezing and rolling the sensitive flesh between his thumb and index finger. The sensation drivers her right up, lifting on her elbows in order to see what he’s doing to her.

Worship, that’s what it is. His eyes are darker than usual, heavy-lidded and secured entirely on her; she stops breathing just to observe. The defined line of his jaw is still noticeable in the poor light that comes from the balcony windows. It’s the way his shadow almost looks like it’s moving in slow motion that leaves her transfixed, and the fact that Oscar possesses the kind of beauty that is so devastatingly painful, solely because he never seems aware of it.

“What are you staring at?” he asks, studying her. His cheekbones are sprinkled with a pale shade of pink that spreads quickly up to the tip of his ears and down his neck.

She smiles, and Oscar can swear the room just got a little brighter.

“You’re very pretty like this,” the girl admits.

He makes a small noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. “Shut up,” he mumbles before adding a in a silky voice, “Please.”

She chuckles when she feels a palm suddenly plastered on her stomach, pushing her back onto the bed. She obeys him with no protest, letting herself fall into the mattress, the skirt she wears bunching around her hips. Oscar follows, crawling over her with an unexpected familiarity, as though he had done it a thousand times before and this is just muscle memory to him.

His body is complete heat and has a foreign weight to it. It’s heavy enough to make her aware of him, to grow attached to the comfort of being held down so effortlessly. When her eyes close shut, somewhere behind her eyelids, the unavoidable thought that she will miss it the moment it’s gone appears in a flash that forces her to open them back up immediately. Just to witness him.

Far too patient, Oscar kisses her neck, her jaw, the hollow behind her ear. At this rate, there won’t be a single inch of skin left that his mouth hasn’t touched. The thought gives her goosebumps that only intensify once his hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip, then under the skirt.

He grips her waist and lifts her exactly how he needs in order to position himself where she wants him.

Her hands fly to the button of his jeans with a reaction that surprises Oscar. She manages to work it open, pull down the zipper and slide her hand inside in record time, finding him warmer there, semi-hard and heavy against her palm. He hisses once she wraps her fingers around his cock, letting a sharp intake of breath breaking against her neck.

It’s easy for her to learn the shape of him, allowing herself to take in the rigid length and the way he twitches when she squeezes. She does it just as patient as he kissed her earlier, finally understanding Oscar’s need to take his time. Why every touch from him feels unbearably calculated. Now, she gets to watch it happen in reverse; she sees the subtle change in his expression, notices the tension gathering along his jaw and the way pleasure begins to reshape the composure he wears so smoothly. Being at the receiving end of it only leaves her wanting more. And once she starts building a rhythm, his hips roll into her hand like they have a mind of their own.

“Fu…ck,” he sighs, the word half-swallowed at the way she runs her thumb over the head, pressing into the slit to feel the tremor that travels through his entire body.

He buries his mouth further into the crook of her neck and, next time Oscar groans, it comes out on the verge of desperation, which encourages her to do it again, sliding her thumb over the slick tip. He can’t stay passive for long, though. His hand moves between her legs to push her panties aside and, sliding his middle and ring finger through her folds, he finds her already soaked.

The girl gasps, the rhythm faltering once her senses are invaded by a new force. Luckily, Oscar pushes her hands away in order to take the lead. Unable to look away, he fucks his fist once, two times, then three, his eyes glued to hers in a moment of pure connection as he’s gently guiding himself to her entrance.

They both hold their breath while he teases her hole, letting her adjust to the pressure first. But it’s not what she needs, so she bucks her hips in instant reaction, trying to take him in.

A smirk ghosts across his lips. “Tell me,” he begins slowly, “You’re always this eager or just for me?”

Her voice cracks on his name, the only word she seems to have left in her once vast vocabulary, now reduced to just that, plus a small collection of onomatopoeic sounds.

Oscar pushes in on her next inhale, just the head to stretch her. She writhes in his arms with a silent cry caught in her throat that makes him pause. At that, he gives her body a few moments to fine-tune to him then sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried inside all the way.

From there on, pure bliss.

His patience starts slipping away in quiet increments once he’s finally feeling her properly around his length. She’s also aware, noticing it in the way Oscar exhales deeply, in the loss of that measured control and, ultimately, the way she feels him throb inside her, without ever moving. But even with want steadily overtaking him, he’s still able to observe a tiny shiver that runs through her.

“You’re shaking.”

“So are you,” she whispers back, snaking her arms around his neck.

Oscar smiles, then leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. A kiss so small and airy that she barely has time to feel, let alone to process. Instead, she sighs in a failed attempt to say more, the noise able to weaken the knees of the strongest of men.

“All this time…” his voice is huskier when he speaks again. There’s a hesitation in it too, as though he’s weighing the exact moment to admit something he’s already decided. A while ago, actually. “I couldn’t help but wonder how you’d sound like if you were full of me. I thought about it every time I saw your face. And every time I closed my eyes. When I was trying to sleep.”

A shaky laugh escapes through her lips. “That’s a lot of thinking.”

“Right?” he agrees, dipping his head to place more kisses all over her shoulder. She moans in return, her fingers tangling back in the hair at the back of his head. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

Slowly, he begins to retreat, the head of his cock touching tiny euphoric mines inside her on its way out. The stretch is maddening, a fullness that steals her breath when she moves with it. Halfway through, she can still feel him pulsing, a solid presence that makes every cell in her body cry out for more. The slick embrace of her channel tries to cling to him, but the moment it slides out catches them both whimpering at the loss.

Oscar doesn’t waste a second after that. His hand slips down between them to tug at the lace of her panties, working them down her thighs while being careful to steal more not-so-accidental touches on the way. She lifts her hips without being asked, then in the same manner, her legs wrap around his waist, hooking at the ankles to yank him closer.

“Easy there,” he breaths deeply, followed by a satisfied chuckle.

Taking her in, he can’t help but go still: the glistening sheen of her pussy, then the way her body invites him in, promising that it’s ready. His eyes move up to search for hers, needing further reassurance that she wants this and him, specifically him. She can practically see the thoughts moving behind his gaze in real time, she can feel the restraint he’s carried for weeks cracking under relief, the disbelief that this is finally happening.

She can’t name the feeling she catches on his face, but understands how tender it is. Without breaking eye contact, Oscar grips her hip with one hand, the other guiding himself back to her opening. His lips part, a sign of absolute focus, then he drags the tip through her folds to tease her.

She whimpers, impatient to let him fill the void.

“What do you need?” he asks before moving another inch.

“This… you.”

Oscar’s eyebrows arch in a challenging manner. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Need is a curious thing. In their case, it pulls at everything that could complicate their lives, everything Oscar is trying not to acknowledge, especially the shadow of her with a particular curly-haired teammate.

“Then I need your eyes on me the entire time,” his gaze holds hers with intensity. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” she repeats, just as eager.

“Of course you can,” he nods, the hand on her thigh squeezing lightly, knowing that if he can anchor her attention for long enough, nothing else will exist in this room but the two of them.

He pushes forward in one thrust, sinking back into her welcoming heat. The tension she’s carrying is blinding, his girth stretching her as he goes, meeting new spots deep within. The girl lets out a broken whine that’s half pleasure, half relief, legs shaking around Oscar’s waist while struggling to pull him even deeper.

“That’s it,” he praises in a rich accent. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he adds more quietly, stilling for a beat.

Her brain turns to mush at his words and all she can do is clutch at him, nails raking across his back, her breath coming in short gasps. “Please, move,” she barely manages.

Oscar grunts at her sweet demand, then begins to move. Initially, his thrusts are meaning to collect as much information as possible. He uses slow strokes that grind against her walls at the same time he’s studying her face like it’s scripture, registering every reaction: her eyes rolling back when he reaches a certain angle, her mouth falling open when he picks up the pace, her hands squeezing at his shoulders when he circles his hips. Like that, he’s able to learn her body as he goes, making sure to check in with her after every change in movement.

“Right there?” he asks, hitting a spot that makes her whole body arch off the bed.

“Yes, there. Don’t stop,” she begs, bringing one of her hands to cup his cheek.

Leaning into her touch, Oscar fucks her with more life he’s ever felt. The sound of their bodies meeting is wet yet able to keep alive the flames that are threatening to swallow them both as the bedsprings creak in protest. He’s on another level aware of how far he’s sinking into her, how his entire cock disappears into her heat with each thrust, how she sucks him in, deeper with every clench of her inner muscles. She feels too good, so perfect that he knows he won’t last much longer.

But she isn’t far behind either. Her hand clenches somewhere where his jawline meets the carefully sculpted muscles of his neck, breath catching every time he drives inside. Each time with more force than before. It’s so good that she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming at him to fuck her harder.

She closes her eyes instead, so that all she feels is him.

“Stay with me,” Oscar whines, snaking a hand between them, thumb finding her clit to rub tight circles that match his thrusts. “Please,” he breaths, “Eyes on me.”

“Holy shit, Oscar…”

He shifts onto his knees, pulling her with him, and the new angle drives him deeper. In response, her orgasm builds like a wave, cresting and crashing under his relentless touch.

She shatters with a cry, body shuddering through the convulsions. Oscar watches the ecstasy twist her features, urging himself to memorize every second of it in the time that he follows her over the edge. The sensation makes him grunt, derailing his rhythm as he fills her in hot pulses.

He stays inside, collapsing on top and unwilling to break the connection until she pushes him away, if that’s what she needs. Apparently not. His lips brush her temple in a kiss that gives them more time to come back from the high. But after he finally pulls out, she turns her head, a big smile decorating her face. It’s the image of him that causes it. His skin is flushed, changing color from the exertion, from the pleasure. From the peace. She loves how open he looks, how undone and how… relieved.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” she speaks quietly. “I needed to get out of my head for a sec,” the girl explains, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw.

Oscar catches her hand, pressing his lips to her palm, just to keep them there for a moment. “Did you?”

She laughs. “I’m still out, yeah.” She shifts closer to place one last kiss to his lips before she gets up; this one’s tamed, with no urgency left in it.

The absence she leaves behind in his space is immediate, making the bed feel larger without her weight beside him. Looking around, she leans over to gather her panties and Oscar’s shirt from the floor, throwing the latter lightly at his chest.

“Gotta clean up,” she informs him, smoothing her skirt back into place. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Oscar is still in a trance, a half-dazed expression still lingering in his sharp features. When he smiles, it softens his whole face. “Okay,” he says.

Her heart grows a little in size at the sight of it and how easy it is for him to simply exist like this, with messy hair falling into his eyes, resting his broad frame on the mattress, half-naked and pants still undone.

He stays seated for a moment, looking down at his shirt as his ears pick up on the sound of her steps fading down the corridor. Only then does he move, pulling the fabric over his shoulders, threading himself back into order, piece by piece. It feels a bit strange, like he has to come back to his body, returning to a version of himself that doesn’t quite fit this world anymore. There is a particularly noticeable before and after her in the air now.

Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Oscar pauses at the sound of someone sneezing outside. The noise is dull enough that he almost dismisses it entirely, until he turns on instinct and sees that the balcony door is slightly ajar. A thin slice of crisp air and lingering smoke is cutting through the room, moving the curtains back and forth.

It is almost absurd how quickly it happens, how the warmth still clinging to his skin seems to evaporate once the instant cold air meets him. It’s just posture at first, but he senses stillness where there should not be stillness. Then, the recognition comes in pieces, the outline of a man he knows too well taking shape right before his eyes.

Oscar’s mouth goes dry at the memory of what he just walked away from.

“Bless you,” he says unsure, the words coming out too polite. And wrong, in every possible way, which is why his jaw clenches at the sound of it.

Lando doesn’t answer. If anything, he looks like he doesn’t want to acknowledge his teammate’s presence yet. Awkwardly, the Aussie positions himself a few paces away, mirroring the posture unconsciously, with forearms resting on the railing, fixing his gaze on the dark horizon as though the void of the night has suddenly become the most interesting thing in existence.

“Looks like I’ve missed quite the chapter,” he finally hears Lando speaking. “Is that normal occurrence now or?”

“It’s not… like that,” replies Oscar, carefully sorting through his brain, yet no matter how hard he tries, what explanation would be appropriate in this situation?

“Aha,” the Brit seems lost in thought, “Piece of advice,” adds Lando, continuing to avoid looking anywhere near his teammate, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Oscar frowns, turning to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I know how fucking good it gets with her,” Lando admits. “You think you won’t ever need anything else. But the second it gets bad…” he trails off, but doesn’t finish his sentence. On purpose. Instead, he insists, “Because it will. Get bad, I mean.”

The Aussie listens in silence while Lando talks with infuriating certainty. Behind the warning, he believes history alone gives him permanent insight into the way she loves, breaks, then leaves. A cycle that she’s endlessly repeating, according to his insinuation.

Oscar knows they had years together. He knows their relationship started not long after he and Lando became teammates, therefore long enough for habits and scars and intimate knowledge to root deep into both of them. He understands all of that. But on the other side of the spectrum, he doesn’t think it’s fair to simply assume that whatever he has with her now is somehow lesser, simply because it’s newer.

Lando is only speaking about it like some kind of prophecy, firing his experience like it’s a loaded gun just because he once knew how to survive her worst days. Despite that, Oscar remembers what the last few months with her have looked like, especially the past few weeks. He knows about the softness that she hides from people, the trust she places carefully into his hands, and he definitely feels the way she reaches for him like she means it. And maybe he’s an idiot for believing that matters, but he refuses to let Lando reduce her to a disaster waiting to happen, only because he can’t imagine his ex becoming something entirely different with someone else.

“But maybe you’ll succeed where I failed, who fuckin’ knows, mate,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head and extending his arm to pass Oscar what seems to be a third cigarette, judging by the bits scattered on the ground.

Oscar shakes his head, politely disregarding him. “Yeah, well. She’s not a fucking mission on a video game, mate,” he makes sure to accentuate the last word, which catches Lando’s attention for a brief second. Careful, is what Oscar means with it.

“She’s not,” Lando’s jaw works as he thinks, then continues, “When you fuck up in a video game, they tell you exactly what you did wrong. You get feedback and you can adjust. With her, I was constantly supposed to guess.”

Oscar’s hand curls around the railing, an involuntary gesture he only notices when his knuckles start hurting. “What, you mean she played you?”

Lando’s expression turns shallow, the exhaustion clearly visible behind his eyes. “I’m saying, if she decided that we were going to fight, that’s what we did. She didn’t even need a reason most of the times. Not one worth sharing, at least.”

“Well, I’m not you,” says Oscar almost as if he has to remind himself that.

“Exactly,” Lando points out. “I vividly remember you saying she wasn’t your type.”

“She wasn’t,” the Aussie agrees, half-nodding. He swallows a small lump in his throat, turning his gaze back on the horizon.

Lando laughs, but there’s no amusement behind the noise that comes out. “What changed?”

A good question, that takes Oscar by surprise. He realizes he never actually stopped to ask himself that. It hadn’t feel like a single moment nor a conscious decision. It was simply a slow, apparently irreversible shift that happened while he wasn’t paying attention, until she had become threaded into his routines and thoughts.

Oscar opens his mouth to answer, but finds nothing clean enough to explain it. You fucked up, he thinks to himself.

📍England, December 2025

“DON’T BE FUCKING selfish,” Lando grunts while keeps driving into her, hips snapping forward without pause even as her walls clamp down around his cock in the aftermath of her second orgasm. “So close, come on,” he breathes roughly, tightening his jaw at the way she squeezes him.

Before hands start sliding lower, he grips her waist a little harder from behind and the simple gesture steals the air from his lungs. His wide palms settle against the curve of her hips as though they were made for that exact purpose, making him painfully aware of how naturally she fits there, full of him; the simple visual sends his heart ricing in a wild beat beneath his ribs.

His, his, his.

The girl moans into the pillows, any rational thought long gone, at the same time her body jerks with every brutal push. Her thighs started trembling minutes ago and haven’t stopped yet, overstimulation sparking in quick electric vibrations through her core. She chokes on a gasp when he reaches down to slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, then circles her swollen clit only to see if she’s got one more for him. The sensation is too much, forcing her to twist away even though her body craves that exact touch.

With a restrained whimper and enough force in one hand, Lando manages to hold her steady; it’s the familiar possessiveness that has her voicing his name, the sound breaking in breathless fragments.

“Stay right there,” he orders calm yet commanding, a tone that she could recognize anywhere. “You can take it, see?” he continues rubbing, faster, every new thrust sending a fresh gush of arousal down her thighs that manages to struck her endlessly. 

She finds comfort in being known so thoroughly because, in time, Lando has learned how to read her reactions before she fully understands them herself. With that, the same feeling starts building inside once again.

Behind her, Lando’s breathing turns heavier, grumbles punching out of his chest with each drive of his hips. Lately, he’s noticed that it takes more out of him to reach that blissful release, as though his mind insists on holding onto every thought until the very last second. He can’t tell whether he’s prolonging the moment out of greed for a few more beats of it, or whether the destination itself has drifted away because she did.

Questioning himself like that only leaves Lando exhausted in ways he can’t quite explain, wringing him out completely before finally letting him to rest.

The aftermath is worse: he spends long minutes staring at the ceiling, limbs heavy and uncooperative, while a restless energy continues to hum beneath his skin. The perception alone has him suspended somewhere between satisfaction and longing, too drain to move but too awake to truly settle.

“Come on, fuck,” he says out loud, urging himself.

He shifts his angle, dragging the head of his cock over her sensitive spots on every stroke.

“Lan…do,” she pants, voice keep breaking several times more on his name.

He leans over her back to press his lips on the curve of her shoulder. “Gonna come again?” asks Lando, punctuating the words with three hard thrusts in a row. His free hand slides up her body to palm her breast, while the other keeps teasing her clit, never letting the pressure ease.

A third orgasm erupts quickly under the assault, walls fluttering tighter this time.

“Yeah, that’s it. Show me how greedy I’ve made you.”

Lando changes the angle again, keeping her exactly where he wants her, tilting her hips so his cock drags against her front wall with every stroke. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, grinding deep before repeating the motion, each one forcing another sweet cry from her throat. He manhandles her easily, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades as her body shakes under him, overstimulated and dripping.

“Touch yourself,” his words are followed by panting, and she obeys.

Together they work the swollen nub, and the combined pressure makes her vision blur with tears.

Lando’s thrusts get shorter, harder, more desperate once he nears the edge.

“Baby, please,” she whines in a hoarse voice, her weeping plea enough to make his pace falter.

He drives in deep one more time and stays there, cock throbbing as he spills thick inside her. His final groan is loud and long, hips twitching with each spurt.

When the last wave subsides, he stays buried, tickling the skin of her back with his sharp exhales. Now that he’s taken what he needed, one hand strokes slowly down her spine, then presses a wet kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Lan?” she calls out in a whisper, turning her head slightly.

Lando lets out a heavy sigh that seems to pull from the depths of his chest while his eyes close briefly. “Yeah, baby. Just a bit tired,” he replies, the worn-down cadence of his voice sounding more like he speaks from reflex rather than genuine reflection.

He shifts his weight off her, pulling out in a slow drag that makes her breath catch in her throat one final time. He slips free, half-softened and slick with the evidence of their release, and lets it rest above the curve of her ass before he slaps it against her skin, the wet sound ricocheting against the bedroom walls. A playful smack follows, the flat of his palm connecting with the swell of her ass cheek. It’s a gesture that might have once felt charged with mischief, an invitation for more, but tonight it lands in a strange space between habit and afterthought.

Without another word, Lando swings his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress moving in time with his weight. He doesn’t look at her as he reaches for the bunched-up covers, pulling them back in order to slide underneath. The sheets rustle as he settles, his back pressing against the headboard, his arm already reaching toward the nightstand.

Blindly, his fingers find his phone and the screen blazes to life in a cold glow that cuts through the obscure room like a scalpel. She watches him patiently, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his profile as the light from the screen paints purposeful shadows across his features. His jaw is tight, the muscle there ticking faintly as he scrolls, his thumb moving in a mechanical swipe-swipe-swipe.

Entranced by his figure, the girl pulls the covers over her chest and rolls onto her side to face him better.

The small light catches on the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone and the stubborn lock of hair that keeps falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it back. That always happens after he showers, when his curls are much softer than when they’re loaded with hair product. 

In the silence, she notices, she can find it deeply unfair of how fond she used to be of these quiet moments. But tonight, more than anything, she wishes he would simply give in to sleep. After all, Lando said he was tired. She can easily imagine him abandoning whatever has captured his attention, setting the phone aside with a sigh before shifting closer until his head comes to rest on her stomach. She would thread her fingers through his curls, slowly untangling it one strand at a time, feeling him grow heavier beneath her touch as exhaustion finally claimed him. It is such a small thing to think of, yet it fills her with a strange nostalgia. 

A lump forms in her throat when she realizes she actually misses him, even though Lando is sitting only a few centimeters away from her.

What happened to them?

He has never stopped calling, never stopped reaching for her hand in crowded rooms, never stopped looking for her first after a race. However, she can feel a tiny shift in the tides, almost as if the moon had moved one millimeter farther away and, over time, the distance had grown large enough to violently stir the waters. 

Lando used to orbit her naturally, bringing every single one of his thoughts, every frustration, every victory and loss back to her as though she were his true north. Now, there are moments like this when she catches him retreating in places she can’t follow, simply because he won’t invite her there.

The strange thing is that none of it feels like a lack of love or negligence. If anything, those parts remain painfully unchanged. He still looks at her with the exact same expression he wore the first time they met. The same look from the first trembling I love you. Whatever is changing between them, it is not that. She knows it with the same certainty she knows that the sky is blue. So maybe, after almost four years together, the routine of being with each other has finally caught up and this is how it looks like.

Or maybe it’s all in her head.

Lando acknowledges her again the moment the screen finally goes dark, the harsh light replaced by the softer amber glow of the streetlamp filtering shyly through the curtains. He places the phone back on the nightstand, then turns toward her with a tired smile. His hand hovers in the space between them, leaning in to lightly press his lips to her forehead — a perfunctory touch that lands and lifts in the span of a heartbeat; a goodnight kiss; a sacred ritual reduced to muscle memory — then he rolls away, settling on his stomach.

Don’t be fucking selfish, she wants to say, the memory from minutes ago invading her mind. Quietly, she moves closer instead, sliding an arm around his waist to remind herself he is there.

SHE WAKES UP to an empty bed the next day. Vaguely, she remembers that last night Lando had told her there was something he needed to take care of, but promised he’d be back in plenty of time for the Christmas party at the MTC. That’s why she doesn’t think much of it. Still, she instinctively reaches across the sheets anyway, fingertips brushing the cool fabric where his warmth should have been.

With a sleepy sigh, she rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling for what it feels like a small eternity.

The morning stretches into afternoon, and the afternoon slips quietly toward evening. Much to her growing irritation, the apartment remains empty in the meantime. Each passing hour leaves behind a strange residue of unease she can’t and doesn’t want to justify yet. Her stubbornness had often disguised itself as faith whenever it came to Lando. If he’s running late, she’s convinced he has a good reason for it.

It doesn’t make the wait easier, though.

She’s standing in front of the mirror, fastening earrings with increasingly impatient fingers when he finally replies to her texts.

Even though she would have so much more to say, she eventually stops replying. Especially after noticing how her phone screen lights up every few seconds, taunting her, announcing more messages crowding her notifications. 

The temptation is there, but the quiet dissonance that settled inside her acts like a STOP sign, preventing her to potentially make things worse when, maybe, it’s not the case.

With every little misunderstanding that accumulated lately, she knows she’s prone to no longer react to the actual situation but to weeks of bottled discomfort. And resentment, she believes, is far more dangerous than anger. At least that burns fast, but resentment roots itself in spaces where love is supposed to live and, without noticing, it could poison them from the inside out. That’s why, despite the growing sense that something has drastically changed right under their noses, the last thing she wants is to become someone who looks at Lando and sees a collection of grievances instead of the man she fell for.

When he finally makes it back home, he doesn’t come in with excuses or explanations ready. He simply stands by the window, waiting, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Under different circumstances, he would have smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Would have teased her for spending too long getting ready and would have crossed the room just to steal a kiss before they left. 

Tonight, the compliments die before they manage to reach his lips, deciding at the last moment to keep them locked in the mental drawers of his brain. On the other side, she’s just as quiet, letting the silence stretch between them, expecting Lando to break it first. 

“Can you stop being so difficult?” he asks at last, but it’s not at all the sound of regret she expected to hear from him. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Oh? I’m difficult?”

“Yes, you are. I said I was sorry, alright? Can’t you just believe me? We won’t be too late if we leave now, so let’s just get this over with.”

The girl shakes her head in disbelief and, with a frustrated exhale, she pushes herself off the bed to turn toward the door, concluding that maybe the distance between them is now a blessing and it’s better than letting the discomfort break into actual anger on both sides.

She barely makes it two steps and Lando’s right there, blocking her path in a heartbeat, close enough that she has to stop. 

Letting another breath out, she chews on the inside of her cheek before lifting her gaze to his face. It’s the only way she was always able to find answers. This time is no different: his eyes are slightly unfocused in the same cloudy look he gets after a few drinks. The realization unsettles her more that anger would have because it means that, whatever that foreign feeling might be, he is aware of it too, and at least at some subconscious level, he tries to suppress it because it is just as uncomfortable.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No…” he closes his eyes, then rectifies, “Just a couple of shots, I’m fine. Stay,” Lando insists.

A humorless laugh escapes through her lips. “You’re gone the entire day, you come back late, drunk, then you expect me not to be difficult?”

“I’m not drunk. And I said I was sorry,” he repeats and, before he can continue, she cuts in.

“I genuinely don’t have to put up with any of this,” the girl scoffs, her voice growing louder, “But I’m trying to be here for you, so how about help me a little!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me,” he raises his voice in return. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

She rolls her eyes at how ridiculous the situation is, then instead of shooting more remarks, she walks back into the room with a determination that’s more instinct than a decision per se. She grabs her bag from the chair and starts throwing things inside without any real order. Realistically, she knows that finding a flight this close to Christmas will be nearly impossible, that the airport will be packed and every reasonable option has probably disappeared hours ago. When she was waiting for him.

Suddenly, the thought of staying for another night feels unbearable. 

What happened to them?

“I feel so stupid,” she murmurs to herself.

“You’re not, don’t talk like that,” he steps toward her, closing the tiny gap once again. “What are you doing?”

“Going home,” she replies simply, as if ‘home’ is right next door and not over a thousand kilometers away.

Lando’s jaw clenches. “Come on, you’re not serious.”

“I’m afraid I am,” she counters. “I really don’t have the energy to deal with this.”

“Right, me neither,” he agrees. “It’s fine if you don’t want to go, I’ll make something up. But quit this shit, alright? I’m sorry that I wasn’t back sooner. If it were the other way around, I’d be mad too. I’m sorry, baby.”

Against her better judgment, she feels herself soften. In the end, meeting Lando halfway when every instinct tells her to run has kept her exactly where she is now. Loving him has taught her that grace comes easy if it’s the right person. It is second nature to make excuses for him, to extend patience long after it has stopped being returned in equal measure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like middle ground but compromise.

He takes the opportunity immediately, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “I’m sorry,” he repeats quieter, understanding that this isn’t about being late or unanswered calls but all the little moments that led them here. “I’ll do better. Let’s just go, please.”

She turns to look up at him then, frustration becoming harder to hold onto. There is so much familiarity in his face that holds her back from staying mad for too long. At the same time, she can’t bring herself to look away. Ultimately, the same person that argues with her is also the person who still looks at her like she’s the most precious thing, even when they are falling apart.

Eyes don’t lie.

Glaring back at her, she understands with painful clarity that Lando Norris is, and perhaps will always be the one weakness capable of undoing every defense she has ever built. The one person she has never learned how to protect herself from. What frightens her most is the realization that the foreign, burning feeling that lives now in the pit of her stomach is not temporary. It will not disappear with time or sleep or another difficult conversation. The one person able to put an end to it it’s him. For all her pride, stubbornness and all the promises she makes to herself in moments of anger, she knows she’s not strong enough to walk away from him first. If they were ever to end, the final page will have to be written by Lando himself. 

Hesitantly, she closes the remaining space until she’s pressed against him. The girl rises enough to reach him properly, leaving a kiss on his lips. Lando melts into it, his arms tightening around her small frame, but she pulls away before he can chase after more, since there’s no time.

“This isn’t over,” her voice sounds weird in her own ears. “Now go wash your face to sober up.”

“You sobered me up,” he shoots back, the corners of his mouth curling into a boyish smirk.

At last, they manage to leave, but not before snapping some pictures first.

In one of them, Lando stands behind her, his body close enough that she can feel his warmth. The height difference between them is comically obvious as he looks down at her while she tries to keep a straight face.

The second one is a little softer, his hand finding its way around her neck, fingers resting there naturally. She looks up at him this time, smiling.

He’s on his knees in the third one, with arms around her waist while resting his head against her hip. She catches it mid-laugh, capturing a piece of happiness to which she’ll find herself returning to, times and times again in the upcoming weeks.

She takes the last picture outside, while they wait for their car to arrive. Snow has started falling around them. Standing beneath the streetlights, little flakes catch in their hair, melting against their skin.

Everything in the near vicinity feels impossibly quiet despite the endless thoughts that are running at 300kph in her mind.

We’re fine, she tells herself as she captures the two of them kissing, then turns around to wipe the gloss that transferred to his lower lip.

Would they have held on a little longer to that kiss if they had known it was their last?

BY THE TIME they arrive at the MTC, the party is already in full swing, exactly as she expected. The enormous glass-fronted building glows like a star against the darkness outside, every floor illuminated with strings of Christmas lights reflected in the polished surfaces. 

She can already hear the hum of conversations from the door, each punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. Employees from every department are crowding the space, from engineers, mechanics and marketing staff to factory workers and executives. Role is not as important inside a team like McLaren because, at the end of each year, they either mourn or celebrate together. Always together.

Lando slips away the moment they step inside. He’s one of the main characters in pretty much every room he enters and here, more than anywhere else, it’s impossible to keep him glued to one spot; people are greeting him from all directions, lifting their hands in recognition and calling out for him.

Leaning over, he squeezes her hand briefly. “I’ll go say hello to everyone. Stay close, yeah?” he instructs her before he gets trapped in dialogues elsewhere.

She nods and, within seconds, Lando is swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into a cluster of bodies eager to congratulate him for the season he’s had, joke with him, or simply claim a moment of his attention. How she’d love that for herself, too.

Left to her own devices, the girl drifts toward the buffet tables lining on one side of the room, grateful she has an excuse to occupy herself. The spread looks extravagant, laden with festive desserts, canapés and enough alcohol to ensure nobody remembers the end of the night. She picks up a drink, then adds a few snacks to a plate, determined to at least enjoy the food, since she skipped dinner. 

For a long while, she simply watches the room around her, taking in the sea of semi-familiar faces. Then, just as she’s reaching for another canapé, a voice she knows well enough to make her turn appears right beside.

“They actually outdid themselves with the food this year.”

“Yeah, they did,” she agrees.

Oscar’s mouth is already curved into a smile when she looks up. Somehow, despite the hundreds of people surrounding them, he manages to make the crowd feel a little less overwhelming with his sole presence.

“Why are you alone? Where’s Lando?” he asks, more conversational than actual interest.

She returns the smile, abandoning her plate on the table, pushing it into a corner. “He’s…” she trails off, looking around to see if she can spot her boyfriend, “Somewhere.”

The Aussie nods, understanding all too well how easily a room like this can consume someone. Being one of the main faces of the team means that a simple greeting rarely remains just that. People will always pull them from one conversation to the next, eager to share a story, to ask questions or reminisce about a particular race weekend. Before they realize, hours can pass. Still, part of him thinks it’s unfair to leave her alone at a party. In this case, the distinction between responsibility and intentionally forgetting is small, perhaps insignificant to her at the moment, but it’s enough to keep Oscar from judging his teammate too harshly.

They exchange a few words after that, falling into an effortless banter, joking and commenting about sports, until he eventually notices the way she keeps glancing around. 

“Alright,” he says, stepping back, “I’ll let you enjoy the night. Don’t want to steal you away.”

“You’re not,” she assures him, making room for him to pass. “But thanks for the company.”

Collecting a full glass from the table, Oscar lifts it in her direction. “I’ll see you around, then. And if Lando’s still lost in half an hour, maybe put him on a leash.”

She laughs, nodding. “I’m considering it.”

Later in the night, after wandering around, she finally finds Lando upstairs, tucked away in one of the quieter rooms where the noise isn’t that disturbing. He is surrounded by a small group of work friends and a couple of girls she vaguely recognizes from previous events. They’re all gathered around a table with cards spread between them, completely absorbed in their own small papaya world, arguing over rules, accusing each other of cheating and jumping from debates about golf to cars to video games.

He made space for her in the meantime, and now they’re close enough that their shoulders touch every time he shifts next to her. Somehow, though, she feels further away than she has all night. Lando laughs at something someone says, his unmistakable giggle making it impossible for her not to notice how his attention moves around the room, never quite settling on her. 

It makes her wonder: if she quietly disappeared downstairs, would the game continue?

Her mind answers that too fast for her liking, but it’s the way Lando reaches across the table to take the deck of cards, and his hand lingers for a second too long above one of the girls’ fingers that pushes her over the edge of her patience. She’s aware that it’s barely even a moment. However, she tried to overlook everything he did in the past twenty-four hours, maybe even past month, and this is simply the final thread snapping.

“I want to go, I don’t feel well,” she leans closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear.

Lando turns to face her, surprise flickering across his face. “Now?” he asks; there is no accusation in his voice, but he sounds hesitant. She already knows. “We’re in the middle of the game.”

Exactly.

She looks at him for a few seconds, waiting for something she isn’t even sure Lando can give her right now. A sign that he understands. That he notices her, and she’s not helplessly blending somewhere in the background of his busy life. 

“I want to go,” she insists.

“Baby, come on…”

Shaking her head and without stopping to explain herself, she gets up and steps away, leaving the room just as she entered it: alone. The door closes behind her, taking with it the last bit of patience she had left. But the peace doesn’t last long enough for her to gather her thoughts. A few moments later, Lando’s footsteps catch up.

The man who appears beside her is nothing like the one who had been laughing earlier, leaning back in his chair and throwing words around like it he had no worries. The warmth has vanished, his expression is tense, with jaw tight and irritation already plaguing his stance.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

His question makes her stop abruptly. “Excuse me?”

Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been in a mood all day. You barely talk to me and now you leave without saying anything.”

“First of all, you were away all day, so it’s impossible for you to know how my mood has been,” she reminds him, then copies his tone, barely holding it together, “And without saying anything? Lando, I said I wanted to go.”

“Yeah, after sitting there looking miserable for like an hour.”

She scoffs. “So you do notice me, after all. Yes, I am miserable.”

Her affirmation makes the corridor suddenly feel too public for the conversation Lando knows they’re going to have in the next few minutes. 

“Can you blame me? I’ve been constantly waiting for you,” she tells him, voice shaking a little despite her effort to keep it steady. “I had to wait for you to come home, wait for you to come find me here, wait for you to finish your stupid card game!”

Lando’s eyes sparkle with disbelief. “Don’t put in on my back like that,” he says, tensing his shoulders. “I told you I could have solved this with a phone call. You insisted we come.”

She glances up at the ceiling with a sigh, avoiding to look at him. “Because I didn’t want to ruin your night, and I don’t want to fight with you either. But you’re making it really, really difficult for me right now.”

The silence that follows isn’t as easy to read as it used to be. Lando cannot understand it in a glance, and she’s just too caught up in her side of the story to explain it to him better. Arguing is the last thing he wants to be doing, but from his perspective, every word she throws at him seems to gather every disappointment from the past few weeks and lay it at his feet. As if he alone is responsible for the growing distance neither of them has been brave enough to acknowledge yet.

Perhaps that is what frightens him most: the realization that they are no longer fighting about their current situation but something much larger.

For a heartbeat, Lando looks like he might make it all better — he always do, when he tries to —, but then he steps closer so his voice won’t echo against the walls. “Can we not do this here?”

She shrugs, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why? Because your friends or bosses might hear?”

Deliberately ignoring her question, Lando’s hand reaches out, gently catching her by the elbow. “Come on,” he says.

Her eyes fall straight on the spot where they’re making contact, then back at him. It feels more like a warning, and Lando seems to decipher the message, loosening his grip.

“Please,” he gestures toward the nearby conference room.

It’s not like she has a choice but to do as he says, letting him guiding her inside. 

After closing the door behind him, Lando leans against the sleek glass table, his jaw clenched, eyes searching her with a mixture of his earlier frustration and now concern. 

“Tell me what this really is about,” he demands, massaging the back of his neck.

There is a bitter smile curling at her lips when she replies, “You’re a smart boy. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Even though her voice drips with sarcasm, her eyes are weary, shadowed with exhaustion.

“Humor me,” argues Lando, exhaling through his nose. “Just… talk. Please, talk to me.”

Her shoulders drop. “Alright, you want the whole list?” the girl asks rhetorically before adding, “You barely look at me anymore unless you’re horny. Last night you came home, fucked me into oblivion, then went straight to your phone like I wasn’t even there. The week before, you canceled dinner twice because ‘work ran late’, but I know what work means to you when you’re with those guys. Plus, last time I checked, you were supposed to be on a break, but what the fuck do I know, right?”

Lando winces, his face draining of color. “You think I’m avoiding you on purpose?”

“I’m not done,” she talks back. “Turns out, you can find time to attend all these superficial events, but I have to beg for your attention. I mean, yeah,” she lets out a laugh, “You’re there, but not really there.”

“You’re so fucking unfair, you know I’ve been drowning in work ever since the season ended,” he explains. “I’ve got millions of deadlines stacking up, a business to run, meetings, then racing, which you know damn well it’s a nonnegotiable to me. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but I still come home to you every night. And every night I still consciously want you. It’s not like we haven’t been through all this already. You know how the pressure gets, so what exactly bothers you so much this time?”

“Pressure,” she parrots, her voice rising an octave. “Is it really pressure or is it just you getting bored? Because I see you don’t even bother lately. I orbit around you to fill a space and that’s about it. You used to text me stupid shit in the middle of the day when I knew you were busy, but you were making an effort because you wanted to. The only time you initiate anything now is when your dick’s hard, and I’m tired of pretending it’s all just in my head. Do you even remember what it’s like to be with me?”

Lando’s eyes darken, hurt flashing through his expression. “Yes, I do. But you’re not the same either. This used to be fun before you started turning every conversation into a fucking interrogation. That when you want to talk, of course. Otherwise, you shut down the second I walk through the door. How the fuck am I supposed to try to fix anything when you already decided I’m the villain?”

“I didn’t say you’re the villain.”

“Well, I’m not the hero, so I’m just assuming, yeah? If you weren’t so distant, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing you.”

Her eyes flash with surprise. “Losing me? Why would you even go there?”

“You send me there,” Lando accuses her. 

She shakes her head, pointing a finger at him. “No, you send yourself there because you feel it too,” her voice is trembling with tears she refuses to shed. “This is not… I love you, but this is not what I want. I don’t like us anymore. Not like this.”

Her admission is enough to silence the argument entirely. 

Lando stares at her, anger dissolving into a softer feeling. He never doubted her love, but hearing it now doesn’t feel like reassurance. His mind races through late-night calls, plans cancelled at the last second, conversations spent discussing logistics and how can they make it better without compromising what they have.

But what do they have, really? 

He thinks about how often he misses her and how that missing has slowly but surely become the foundation of their relationship. Sure, they knew the costs from the beginning, but loving each other was effortless, therefore inevitable. 

Was.

Across from him, she feels the weight of her own words settle like a mountain on top of her chest. It sounds cruel when spoken out loud, but she’s not sure she wants to take it back.

Lando’s breath catches, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions, feeling as though something inside him just fractured. “So… what? You want me to drop everything for you all of a sudden, just so you feel like you have a boyfriend?”

No.

“Yes,” she ends up saying with a frown, “That’s exactly what I want. I want your life to revolve around me.”

The sarcasm is very evident in her voice, yet hearing Lando reduce her feelings to something so simple and selfish forces her to dive in, head first. It hurts that, after all the years they’ve had together, he could look at their relationship and think that poorly of her.

“Tough one there, then,” he replies quickly. “You know exactly what I can and can’t do for you. And every time I feel like I’m doing enough, it turns out I’m not,” his voice looses some of its sharpness. “No matter what, I’m the bad guy. I miss a call, I don’t prioritize you. I’m exhausted after a twelve-hour day, I’m selfish.”

Her jaw tightens in frustration, not understanding how is it possible for them to keep circling around the same point without actually touching it.

“Stop making it about whether you’re a bad person,” she says. “I’m not saying you are, Lando.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She pauses for a heartbeat, then glares at him with teary eyes. “I’m saying I miss you when you’re right next to me. How fucked up is that?”

Lando stays quiet, watching her carefully. Suddenly, he can’t figure out where the line is anymore. Whenever he thinks he has finally understood what she needs, whether it’s space, reassurance, patience or simply showing up, the ground shifts beneath his feet, leaving him uncertain all over again. He isn’t sure if they are changing or if he’s only now beginning to notice all the ways he stopped paying attention. 

“I genuinely don’t know what you want from me,” he admits, his eyes dropping to his shoes. “Whatever this bullshit is,” says Lando, vaguely gesticulating at the space that separates them, “It feels like you’re just looking for reasons.”

“Reasons?” she echoes. “You think I want to break up?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, you just don’t know how to ask for it. And you won’t do it because you don’t want to hurt me. So, I guess I have to be the bad guy one last time.”

She takes a small step toward him, voice filling with panic. “Don’t do this, Lando.”

He pushes himself off the table, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

Her face falls, a single tear finally slipping down her cheek.

“Lando,” she calls out, but he’s already at the door, closing it behind him with a force that neither of them expects.

The slam echoes through, her whole body reacting even though she cannot move. She just stares at the door, heart racing, hoping, waiting for him to walk in. In all those instances one of them has left angry before, they always found each other, in the end. But seconds turn into minutes, the hallway remains silent, and it is only then that she understands Lando isn’t coming back this time.

She exhales shakily, then presses the heels of her hands over her eyes, wiping away the tears. Turning her head, she checks herself in the darkened conference room window, pinching the skin beneath her eyes, willing the redness to fade before anyone notices.

She barely reaches the staircase when she nearly walks straight into Oscar. He slows immediately, his expression changing the moment he takes in her features.

“You alright?” he asks, a little hesitant.

Her voice isn’t as convincing when she replies, “Yeah.”

“I just saw Lando… if you’re still looking for him?”

“No, I found him,” she says, letting the words hang between them.

“Oh, okay. I thought he looked…” Oscar searches for the right one before settling on, “Upset.”

The girl forces a smile, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “We had a disagreement, it’s nothing.”

Oscar studies her as she walks past him. He has never been particularly intrusive, but he has always been observant and insanely good at noticing things people hope will go unseen. Like the slight tremble in her voice, the shine in her eyes and the way she keeps blinking rapidly, as if trying to push something back.

Instead of insisting that she tells him what’s wrong, he tilts his head toward the stairs leading back downstairs.

“My mother sent me some homemade Christmas cookies,” slightly croaky and uneven, Oscar’s voice catches her off guard.

She turns around reluctantly, finding him standing in the same spot with an expression that she would rather ignore. She considers pretending she didn’t hear, but he holds her gaze. There is no pressure in it, no expectation for her to explain herself or open up or talk about it. 

He isn’t trying to pry into a situation that clearly isn’t his to fix, but is simply giving her an option. 

Caught between wanting to disappear and a strange relief of not having to be alone, she ends up nodding. “Okay.”

Oscar offers her a quiet smile before falling into step beside her, saying nothing else as they descend the stairs together. 

Sometimes, he has learned, silence is far kinder when it is shared. Also, the cookies taste better that way too.

📍 Miami, May 2026

DROPLETS OF WATER are still tracing paths down Oscar’s chest and arms after he steps out of the steaming bathroom with a white towel slung low around his hips. His hotel room carries the scent of his body wash mixed with the evening breeze drifting through the half-open balcony door. The noise coming in is much louder than at home, but it won’t be a problem for him to fall asleep, considering what a busy Sunday he had.

He settles onto the edge of the bed with a sigh and props his phone against a pillow, waiting for the FaceTime call to connect. A couple of beeps later, her face fills the screen, all sleepy yet happy to see him.

“Hey, you,” says Oscar, reciprocating the smile. “I’m sorry it’s late, just got out of the shower. Were you asleep?”

“No,” she replies with a yawn, leaning closer to her own screen. “I was waiting for you to call. Congrats on the podium!”

He chuckles quietly, rubbing a hand over his damp hair. “Thanks, very nice to be up there after the quali I’ve had.”

“Then what are you doing inside? Podium in Miami and you’re choosing room service instead of celebrating?”

Oscar shrugs, shifting to lie back against the headboard. The towel slips a little lower, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. “I’d rather be talking to you, I’m too tired anyway.”

He hears her hum on the other end, the sound landing right between his lungs, stealing the air from his chest.

They talk about anything but racing after that, asking what she ate for lunch and whether her meeting ran late. The screen shows her looking slightly off to the side, fingers tracing the edge of her phone.

He watches her for a long moment, unsure, then clears his throat to ask: “Was I wrong to tell you about it?” Her eyes flick back to the camera once Oscar continues, reluctant but determined to get to the bottom of it. “You’ve seemed a bit in your head when I left and if it’s me, I’d rather know.”

“No, Oscar,” she closes her eyes for a moment, “It’s not you. It’s…”

It’s Lando. Around everyone else, she knows where her boundaries begin and end. She knows when to walk away, when to protect her peace and when to choose reason over emotion — that’s exactly what she did with Oscar all this time. Of course, he told her about the conversation he had with his teammate on the balcony, two weekends ago. About the warning that Lando had fired at him about her.

He was quick to brush it aside, assuring her that nothing about it changes the way he sees her. That she has done nothing to diminish his respect for her. Still, Oscar recognizes the gray cloud that settled above her head, draining the light from moments that should be theirs. He recognizes it because he has seen it before: the same distant look, the same careful smiles that never quite reach her eyes, the same invisible weight pressing on her shoulders. She wore it for weeks after the Christmas party, convinced that if she ignored it long enough, it might eventually go away. But it never truly did.

“I know,” says Oscar at last. “I wish you found me when you weren’t still waiting for him. Would’ve been easier.”

The screen goes black without warning, the call still active, but the video feed cut. Oscar hears the muffled rustle of sheets as she sets the phone face-down on her pillow, so he stays silent for a while, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing.

Placing a palm over her chest, she can’t help but feel the shift inside.

Oscar has never asked her to sail toward him. Just like a lighthouse, he stayed in one place, casting light without demanding that she follow it. He didn’t rescue her from the sea but reminded her that there is still shore beyond it. For a short while, she was lost. Perhaps that is why she was so drawn to him in the first place. But a lighthouse doesn’t chase ships through violent waters, nor does it promise calm seas. Its purpose is not to save, but to guide. 

“I’m so sorry,” it’s all she says, picking the phone up again. 

Oscar exhales, shoulders loosening for a fraction. “Are you okay? I hate that I can’t be there.”

“I just… I wonder if I’m dragging you into something you don’t deserve.”

“This isn’t about protecting me, you know that,” he says, voice going up just a notch. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

She shifts on the bed, the camera tilting with her. 

There is nothing to dispute about that. They are both adults. She and Lando have been over for months and no lines were crossed. But it would be foolish of them to believe their lives could remain untouched forever. They do not exist in a world where relationships stay private for long and, the moment it goes public, they will become a headline.

“Maybe not, but I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” she whispers.

Oscar doesn’t rush to fill the silence after her confession. He knows she needs him to simply exist with her in the same space, to stay. On his screen, he moves around slightly, resting his head back on the pillows.

“I think,” he begins carefully, “You’re still trying to find the exact moment where everything went wrong.”

She lays on her side, facing him. “And?”

“And maybe there isn’t one.”

“There must be,” the girl counters, “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation right now.”

Oscar sighs, suddenly looking uncertain, which is rare enough that it catches her attention. “Look, I’ll be back tomorrow night. Could I come over?”

The question is so gentle it almost breaks her heart. Even now, when she feels like she has spent weeks trying to understand where she truly belongs, Oscar is willing to give her the space she needs, regardless of whether her response might hurt him.

“You’re asking?” she teases.

“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth curve upward a little. 

A fondness she cannot hide softens her expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” his smile widens.

Twenty-four hours later, Oscar is sitting on the couch in her living room. The TV plays a show on the background, its volume turned down so low that the sound is barely filling the empty spaces neither of them feels obligated to occupy. 

Dinner is simple: takeout, hastily ordered after Oscar arrived from the airport. They speak about inconsequential things like his flight, the race weekend and the last book she read. Only once the last wrapper has been folded in half does reality begin to slowly creep back into the room.

Oscar gathers everything into a neat pile before standing, carrying the empty containers into the kitchen. She picks up the sounds of the cupboard opening, the bin closing, then the tap running for a few seconds, finding an odd comfort in how ordinary all of it is.

When he returns, he doesn’t immediately sit; he feels content to linger behind the couch, one hand resting on the back of it as if deciding whether to disturb the peace they’d managed to build over the last hour. From the moment they ended the call yesterday, his mind started running. He imagined every version of the conversation they’re about to have, every time coming to the same conclusion. 

Eventually, he lowers himself beside her.

“How are you feeling?”

She exhales, fixing her eyes on the TV screen where people laugh at jokes neither of them can hear. “I’m not sure.”

She finds it very difficult to make sense of the flood of emotions that overwhelms her. There are too many feelings gathered in the same space inside her to separate one from the other; relief, guilt, love, affection, grief, hope, fear. They all exist together in a knot, so tightly woven that tugging on one only seems to tighten the rest.

Oscar’s thumb absentmindedly brushes over the seam of the cushion beneath his hand. Next time he speaks, his voice is careful which makes him sound disturbingly reserved. “I’m not saying this to put any pressure on you. It’s the last thing I want, and I know that we’re both equally involved, so it’s not that I don’t want to take any blame for it.”

The girl turns to look at him, their knees touching as she shifts.

“But I hope you know,” he pauses, searching for the right words instead of the easy ones, “Us… this only works for as long as you want it to.” Oscar smiles, but she notices the sadness tucked into its corners. “The circumstances won’t ever let me fight for you the way I’d like to,” he continues, gaze dropping to his hands. “Because I know you’ll always love him. I can’t hold that against you, I don’t think anyone could.”

She looks away before she can answer. “Yeah, but all that love… it’s just a burden if I have nowhere to put it.”

“Maybe it’s better if you try, and then you’ll know,” says Oscar, nodding. “You were together for a long time,” he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know this will probably come back to bite me, but I think you should start putting it somewhere else. Starting with yourself.”

The simplicity of it catches her off guard. So much that it makes her laugh through her emotion, already sensing where their night is going to end.

“Are you breaking up with me too, Piastri?”

There is nothing selfish about what he’s asking of her. Nor can she blame him for refusing to become the person she turns to every time she finds herself running from Lando. If anything, she understands that it is the kindest thing he could have done for her. For himself too, and for whatever this peaceful, unexpected, beautiful thing between them has quietly become. 

He chuckles. “It’s really fucking hard. I don’t know how Lando did it.”

It would have been easier for Oscar to ignore that gray cloud. To accept the pieces of her she was able to offer and hope that, one day, they would be enough. But choosing honesty over convenience makes her admire him more. It reminds her that Oscar has never loved by possession. He’s the type of guy that does it by presence, by giving without demanding.

With a sigh, she lets herself drift closer, until the weight of her head comes to rest against his shoulder. Her hand, lying beside on the couch, searches for his instinctively, and Oscar doesn’t hesitate before intertwining his fingers with hers as though they have always known the shape of her hand. A moment later, she feels his body relaxing, his head settling atop hers.

“He’s a good guy,” says Oscar, no bitterness in his voice. “And a constant part of my life for as long as we’re teammates. If…,” he trails off, squeezing her hand for a fraction, “If we keep doing this while you’re not completely here, then eventually every day at work becomes about avoiding each other.”

She nods, thinking back at what he told her the night before. “Maybe I did find you while I was still waiting for him, but I also found you when I needed someone beside me the most. And for that…”

The moment he looks down at her, every conviction he has spent the past twenty-four hours painstakingly assembling begins to crumble. The urge to take it all back is so strong; he wants to tell her that he doesn’t care how complicates it is, that he’ll gladly endure every awkward glance, every impossible circumstance if it means having the chance to choose her anyway. He wants to close the small distance, kiss her and spend however long it takes proving that it can work. Not perfectly, but close enough. 

The thought dies before reaching his lips, though. For the first time all night, the words that usually come so effortlessly abandon him completely. He can only look at her in silence, carrying everything he cannot bear to say in the softness of his gaze, hoping she understands that choosing this version of the story is the hardest kindness he has ever offered.

“I don’t regret you,” she adds, reaching to cup his cheek in the palm of her hand.

Gently, she presses a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, an expression of gratitude more than affection.

Oscar’s jaw tightens as a new thought starts to take root in his mind right away. Mostly because of what it reveals about him. He thought he understood the boundaries, the risks, the impossible timing of it all and, ultimately, he thought he understood himself. He knew Lando was her Achilles’ heel, but he never, for one second, expected her to become his.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2026

[betweenpitwalls]

lost for words

[l444ndojpg]

everybody stfu just yesterday i was listening to commitment issues and i thought of lando AND NOW HE POSTS THIS OMFG 😭😭😭😭😭

i feel like i’m going crazy

[betweenpitwalls]

always love a man with commitment issues (i also love to be self destructive)

[betweenpitwalls]

quick update

hi babes! first of all, i’m really sorry that the new chapter is taking so long.

luckily, i finished all of my finals in the best way possible (yay!), but then i ended up going on an unplanned vacation with my besties. i honestly thought i’d be able to finish writing while here, but... well, you know how it goes!

what’s happening next:

this friday: i'm flying back home.

next monday: i am leaving for a week-long trip to barcelona!

😭 side note: it's literally the day after the barcelona gp... please let’s all pray that i somehow casually run into an f1 driver in the city. 🤞🏎️

after i get back from spain, i promise i am getting right to work to upload the new chapter.

thank you all so, so much for waiting, and a huge thank you for all the love and reactions on the story lately—they honestly mean everything to me.

love ya, xx

[betweenpitwalls]

things we never edited out l ln4/1

previous l chapter 1

tw: english is not my first language

notes: sorry for the long wait, exam season is trying to actually kill me and i am terrible at time management, so the next chapter will probably be in another few weeks unless a miracle happens. also if you want to be added to the tag list, just put it into the comments. also thank you for every reaction! love you, a. xx

--------------------------------------------------------------

It was 2:15 a.m.

For Lando, too late to sleep and too early to wake up.

But he couldn’t fall asleep.

He thought that after years of travelling the world, adjusting to the Formula 1 calendar, jet lag would eventually stop existing for him. Like his body would just learn. Adapt. Become immune.

But tonight, somewhere in Asia, it didn’t care.

He had tried everything that usually worked. The usual tricks. The usual routine. Even the things he didn’t admit he relied on—white noise, breathing patterns, scrolling until his brain gave up.

Nothing worked.

No matter how many times he shifted position, no matter how many times he told himself just sleep, his body refused to cooperate.

So here he was.

Phone glowing in the dark. Thumb moving out of habit more than interest. Scrolling through TikTok, trying to exhaust the part of his brain that still felt awake.

At this point, he had already seen hundreds of videos.

Cat memes. Fail compilations. Random edits of himself he didn’t remember agreeing to. Even clips of his rivals doing something dramatic enough to make the algorithm think it mattered.

But then he stopped.

A cooking video—something about a recipe he didn’t even recognise—faded into something else.

A girl on a screen.

“uni deadline in 16 hours and i’ve written 12 words. one of them is ‘however’. fuck it, i deserve prison.”

The camera was slightly tilted, like it had been set down without care. The girl was sitting in the middle of what looked like controlled chaos—books piled like collapsing towers, a Red Bull can on its side, a mug stained with what looked like an unhealthy amount of espresso.

Her laptop was open, brightness too high for the dark room, a forest of tabs flashing like she’d given up trying to organise them.

And she didn’t even look fully awake. Just… surviving.

Her voice came again from off-camera, sharper this time, half-joking but not really:

“And you’re asking me when the next vlog is out while you should be asking how long I’m going to survive before I drop out or die from caffeine overdose.”

Lando laughed.

Not the polite kind. Not the media-trained one.

A proper, unfiltered laugh that surprised even him in the silence of the hotel room.

It was purely instinctive.

Something about it felt too real for a video that short.

He lingered on it longer than he meant to.

Then he did something he didn’t usually do.

He opened the comments.

They were exactly what he expected—and somehow worse.

“this is literally me 😭” “she is one espresso away from collapse” “girl please sleep” “protect her at all costs” “why is this me during exam season and I’m not even in uni”

And then there were the ones that made him pause for half a second longer than necessary.

“she’s actually so real for this” “i feel like she would insult me and I’d say thank you” “why do i trust her more than my therapist”

He didn’t know why he kept reading.

But he did.

Eventually, TikTok did what it always did—it moved on without him.

The next video should’ve erased her.

It didn’t.

A few seconds later, he found himself doing something even more unnecessary.

He searched her.

Her Instagram loaded quickly.

Over 150k followers.

Not massive in the world he lived in—but not small either. Enough to mean people were paying attention. Enough to mean she wasn’t just random noise in the algorithm.

Her profile wasn’t curated in the way he expected.

It wasn’t polished in the influencer sense. It wasn’t trying too hard.

It was… lived in.

He scrolled.

A carousel: her sitting on a tube in the morning, eating a kebab like it was normal breakfast behaviour. Another: her attempting a handstand in high heels, mid-fall, laughing at herself before she even hit the ground. Another: her with friends, blurry lighting, too much movement, too much noise captured in still frames. And then one where she looked completely different—put together, almost unfamiliar. Hair done properly, outfit clean, posture controlled. The caption underneath read something like:

and if you think a miracle happened it did. just don’t ask how I made it here on time.

There was something about her.

Not loud in an obvious way.

Not performative.

Just… present.

Like she didn’t realise she was being watched the way she was.

Lando scrolled further without really thinking about it.

And that was the problem.

The newest post loaded.

The first few slides were just a rapid blur of reckless energy. There she was in a crowded elevator mirror selfie with her friends, followed by a snapshot of a marble bathroom counter buried under a makeup and a stray stiletto. Then came a photo of her laughing under a heavy red light while lying on a leopard-print pool table, a violently smashed laptop screen, and a tray of completely burnt pizza. Just pure, chaotic collateral damage of a wild night.

And then, tucked right between all of the mess, was the last picture.

She was standing in a cluttered hallway, holding a heavy, oversized bottle of vodka like a strange prize, her hand wrapped firmly around its neck. Her black leather jacket was pulled up high, the thick collar swallowing her jawline and framing her face. White wired headphones snaked down her front, completely tangled and ignored. Behind her, the background hummed with chaotic noise and messy shapes, but her expression defied it all. She looked entirely, stubbornly calm. It definitely wasn't due to the background, but she looked like everything had just... paused.

He pauses. Really pauses this time.

His gaze drifts over her—face, eyes, lips—taking in details without meaning to, like his brain hasn’t caught up to why he hasn’t scrolled yet.

He shouldn’t have. He knew that.

But he commented.

you look way too peaceful for someone who clearly left a trail of absolute destruction behind them 

And then he kept scrolling.

Curiosity settling somewhere he couldn’t quite place.

And somewhere between the endless posts, the flickering screen, and the weight of a body that still refused to sleep—

he didn’t notice when his eyes closed.

Or when the phone slipped slightly in his hand.

Or when the girl he had seen for the first time that night, far too messy to mean anything at all—

became the last thing in his head before he fell asleep without even realising it.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Back in London, Y/N woke up to silence.

Not peaceful silence.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that meant she had slept through every single alarm.

Her eyes opened slowly, head heavy against the pillow as sunlight pushed weakly through the gap in her curtains. For a moment she just stared at the ceiling, disoriented, still stuck somewhere between sleep and whatever disaster waited for her once she checked the time.

Then she looked around.

Her room somehow looked even worse than it had the night before.

Clothes everywhere. Half-open books. An empty packet of crisps balanced dangerously close to the edge of her bed. Her laptop still open beside her like it had passed out too. One shoe near the door. The other nowhere to be seen.

She groaned into the pillow.

And then—

Her eyes snapped toward her phone.

10:42.

“Fuck.”

She shot upright so quickly the room spun for a second.

She was supposed to be in a lecture.

Like—currently.

“Are you joking,” she muttered to absolutely nobody, already stumbling out of bed.

There was no time to actually get ready.

A basic grey shirt and loose, light-washed baggy jeans were grabbed straight from the floor pile with absolutely no quality control involved. She shoved a green baseball cap over her tangled hair, deciding chewing gum counted enough as dental hygiene for today, then pulled a massive denim jacket over everything like it could somehow disguise the chaos underneath.

Her bag took another two minutes to find.

Mostly because it was underneath three hoodies, a tote bag full of unopened mail, and somehow a hairdryer.

Laptop. Charger. Wallet. Half-dead phone at thirty percent.

Good enough.

Without looking back once, she ran out of the apartment.

London air hit her instantly—cold enough to wake her up properly as she hurried through crowded streets, nearly getting clipped by a cyclist while trying to answer a text and cross the road at the same time.

By the time she slipped into the lecture hall, slightly breathless and very late, the room was already mostly full.

Luckily, the professor didn’t notice.

Or pretended not to.

Y/N quietly moved down the steps before dropping into the empty seat beside her best friend.

Her friend looked at her once and immediately started laughing.

“Thought you wouldn’t make it.”

“I can’t not make this,” Y/N whispered, pulling her laptop out. “It’s my last semester. Imagine if I ended up without a degree after all this.”

Her friend snorted.

“Honestly? Would fit your brand.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, still trying to catch her breath.

Then her friend suddenly leaned closer.

“Did you see your Instagram?”

“No?” Y/N frowned. “Why?”

“There’s a British driver under your post.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“I’m serious. Look.”

Y/N grabbed her phone, opening Instagram with the brightness still painfully high from last night.

And there it was.

Verified account.

Millions of followers.

A stupidly familiar name.

Lando Norris.

Her eyes moved to the comment again.

 you look way too peaceful for someone who clearly left a trail of absolute destruction behind them 

Y/N stared at it for two full seconds before letting out a surprised laugh loud enough that two people in front turned around.

“No fucking way.”

“He stalked the entire carousel.” her friend whispered.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head.

“Why does that sound weirdly personal?”

“Because,” her friend said, grabbing the phone closer, “that is NOT a random man comment.”

She obviously knew who he was. Everyone did.

British golden boy. Current championship contender after the third race of the 2025 season. National obsession. Constant headlines.

But she had never really paid attention to Formula 1.

To her, it was mostly just expensive cars driving in circles for concerning amounts of time.

Still—

Out of all people, him ending up on her account felt weirdly random.

Weirdly specific.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary.

Then, still laughing quietly to herself, she simply liked the comment and locked her phone.

No reply.

No follow.

No interaction beyond that.

And yet somehow, for the rest of the lecture, she kept thinking about it anyway.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday morning came too early.

Lando was tired—obviously—but not in the way he expected to be.

Not the heavy, jet-lagged exhaustion that usually came with the fact he fell asleep after 4am probably. This was lighter. Restless. Like his body had technically slept, but his brain hadn’t fully logged off.

He dragged himself into the hotel breakfast area, still half-awake, hoodie on, hair messy in a way he couldn’t be bothered to fix. The smell of coffee and warm food hit him instantly, grounding him a bit more than he liked to admit.

And before he even had time to properly register anything—

“Mate.”

Lando Norris looked up.

Max Fewtrell was already there, sitting like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. Way too awake for someone at this hour.

Lando barely had time to sit down before Max leaned forward, eyes immediately sharp.

“I had a call with Pietra.”

That alone made Lando pause.

“…okay?”

“Unexpected,” Max continued, ignoring him. “Her friend sent her your comment under that girl’s post.”

Lando blinked slowly.

“My what?”

“The comment,” Max said, like it should’ve been obvious. “Under that girl’s Instagram. The messy one. The chaotic one.”

Lando sighed, dropping his head slightly.

“I mean, you know you can’t do anything without it going around,” Max replied, taking a sip of his coffee.

Lando rubbed his face. “Yeah. But why does Pietra even know her? Or why is she talking about it to you?”

“She doesn’t—well, kind of does,” Max said, shrugging. “She said she’s seen her a few times at fashion weeks.”

Lando gave a small, tired laugh. “I mean, in London you see everyone at some point.”

“Yeah,” Max agreed, “but apparently they were at the same London Fashion Week afterparty once. And one of the girl’s friends threw up on Pietra’s friend.”

Lando blinked.

“No shit.”

“Yeah,” Max nodded. “Apparently it wasn’t exactly a nice situation, but the girl—your girl—apparently handled it pretty normally. Apologised, helped out, didn’t make it weird.”

That made Lando pause for a second longer than he expected.

“…right,” he muttered, stirring his coffee again.

Then Max leaned back a little, watching him more carefully now.

“But seriously,” he said. “How did you even end up under her post?”

Lando exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

And then he told him.

The insomnia. The scrolling. The TikTok. The video. The comments. The Instagram. The six photos. The comment.

Max listened without interrupting once.

When Lando finished, there was a beat of silence.

Then—

“You like her.”

Lando scoffed immediately. “No.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a no.”

“I mean—” Lando hesitated, stirring his coffee again, slower this time. “She’s just… interesting. And funny. And—yeah, I don’t know. She’s pretty as well, obviously.”

Max smirked instantly. “Right.”

“Don’t start,” Lando muttered.

“I’m not starting anything,” Max said, leaning forward again. “I’m finishing it. Follow her.”

That made Lando look up properly.

“What?”

“Follow her,” Max repeated simply. “And DM her.”

Lando stared at him like he’d just suggested something completely illegal.

“She didn’t even reply to my comment.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want your crazy fans under her posts,” Max said, shrugging, “or maybe she just doesn’t reply to people in general. She seems too messy for that anyway.”

Lando let out a short breath, leaning back in his chair.

“What am I even supposed to DM her?” he muttered. “Hi, I live a chaotic life but yours looks even worse, and by the way, under all that mess you’re kind of cute?”

Max snorted immediately. “Yeah. Definitely not that.”

“Exactly.”

“But something,” Max continued, unfazed. “Mate, you know how to flirt. Don’t start acting like you don’t.”

Lando shook his head, pushing his coffee away slightly.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “End of discussion.”

----------------------------------------------------------------

Lando had just finished sponsor obligations with the team.

Photos, handshakes, rehearsed answers. Smiles that lasted exactly as long as they were supposed to. The kind of day that didn’t feel difficult, just… draining in a quiet way.

Now he was in the back seat of the car on the way back to the hotel.

Hoodie loosened. Earphones on. Phone already back in his hand before he’d even registered picking it up.

The city blurred past the window in soft streaks of light.

At first, he wasn’t really thinking about anything.

Then, without much intention, he opened YouTube.

Her name was already there.

He didn’t even remember searching it properly the first time.

A vlog.

One of the first ones that came up.

He clicked it.

The screen flickered to life, the title 'back in manchester for 48 hours (escaping london uni life)' fading out to reveal her face. 

The camera was slightly tilted, shaking a bit as she sat against a violently grey northern sky.

"Hi people!"

Her words came out incredibly fast, a breathless, high-energy ramble with a soft northern lilt slipping through the quiet of the car.

"So, if you can’t tell by the incredibly miserable weather behind me, I am officially back in Manny. I’m literally just sitting at the train station right now waiting for my dad to pick me up—he’s running late, classic, so I’m just freezing on a bench."

She let out a short, sharp laugh. Not fully caring about the camera angles. Just... talking.

"Basically, London uni life has been completely frying my brain this term, so I’ve officially escaped for forty-eight hours," she continued, her voice speeding up as she rattled off her plans. "First mission is surprising my mum at her work because she has absolutely no idea I'm even in the north right now. And then later tonight, I’m meeting up with my old college mates for a proper night out."

A faint, reckless smile crossed her lips as she looked directly into the lens.

"It will probably end in absolute disaster, but I am buzzing for it."

The video cut sharply to a much more frantic clip, the camera propped up precariously on the dashboard of a car.

The background was a rainy blur of Manchester streets as she navigated a tight roundabout with a bit too much confidence and too much speed.

"Right, slight change of plans because I am actually an idiot," she gasped, checking her mirrors quickly, her hair falling into her face. "Literally just got home and realized I left my makeup bag back in London. No foundation, no lipliner, no mascara, nothing. So I’ve hijacked my dad's car and I'm currently on a high-speed rescue mission to the Sephora before they close."

She took a sharp left corner, the camera tilting wildly on the dash as she flashed a smug grin into the lens.

"Honestly, the way I just avoided that lorry? Flawless. Exceptional reaction times. I’m basically setting lap records down the bypass right now."

And Lando didn’t even notice how long he’d been watching until the video ended and YouTube auto-played another clip.

He stopped himself that time.

But not fully.

Later, still in the car, phone warm in his hand, he opened Instagram.

Found her again.

And this time, he didn’t overthink it. He just slid into her dm’s.

@lando: idk who told you dodging a lorry counts as a lap record but that driving looked like mclaren might have a reserve seat open for you... if you fancy a career change x 

Sent.

No overthinking.

No rewriting.

Just instinct.

Then immediately—like his brain caught up with his fingers—he locked his phone and turned his head toward the window.

Darkness outside. Bahrain lit in scattered streaks. The hotel skyline slowly getting closer in the distance.

He exhaled through his nose, half amused, half confused at himself.

Because what was that, really?

A Formula 1 driver—someone whose entire life was built on precision, control, timing—sending a random Instagram DM because of a girl in Manchester traffic dodging a lorry like it was part of her daily routine.

It made no sense.

And yet, it did.

Because it wasn’t really about the driving.

It was the way she spoke in the video like she wasn’t trying to be watched. Like she wasn’t performing anything. Like the camera just happened to exist in her world, not the other way around.

That stuck more than it should have.

His phone vibrated.

Once.

Then again.

He didn’t open it straight away.

He waited.

Not long.

Just enough to annoy himself.

Then tapped in.

@y/n.unfilterd: well i feel like i would go quick from reserve driver to stealing your seat, so i think i will rather stay at uni so you dont have to lose a job and become a pizza delivery guy 

@y/n.unfilterd: also i was NOT dodging a lorry. i was strategically avoiding british infrastructure issues 

Lando let out a quiet laugh before he could stop it.

The kind that surprised even him a bit.

He leaned back in the seat, thumb hovering.

@lando: strategically avoiding british infrastructure is a diplomatic way of saying you nearly became a traffic statistic

Sent.

He didn’t lock his phone this time.

Just held it loosely, watching the screen like he already knew it was going to light up again.

And it did.

@y/n.unfilterd: a traffic statistic is CRAZY coming from someone who drives in circles for a living

That one made him properly laugh now.

He shook his head slightly, smiling to himself in the dim car light.

Then typed back.

@lando: circles is a very simplified view of elite motorsport engineering thank you very much x

A beat.

Then another message came through almost instantly.

@y/n.unfilterd: elite motorsport engineering or elite nap schedule because i saw your sport and you all look like you need a blanket and a snack

He let out a laugh again, staring down at the screen. He was completely used to people constantly blowing smoke up his ass, walking on eggshells and trying entirely too hard to say the right thing just because of what he did for a living. But she didn't sugarcoat a single thing. Her replies were just sharp, funny, and slightly insulting—and she clearly didn't give a shit about who he was. And he liked that.

@lando: we do have snacks actually. very important part of performance. don’t underestimate it

The car slowed slightly as they neared the hotel entrance, lights growing brighter ahead.

Bahrain heat pressed against the windows even at night.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Starbucks was too bright for how tired Y/N felt.

The kind of fluorescent, aggressively clean lighting that made everyone look like they needed sleep and better life choices.

She and her friend, Elaia, were sat in the corner, textbooks technically open but completely ignored, iced lattes in hand that tasted more like sugar milk than anything resembling coffee.

Overpriced. Obviously.

Same with the sandwiches. Dry, slightly tragic, wrapped in paper that made them feel more important than they were.

Still—standard post-lecture ritual.

Y/N had her phone on the table, tilted so both of them could see it.

And right there—

was the message.

@lando: we do have snacks actually. very important part of performance. don’t underestimate it

There was a pause.

Then her friend slowly leaned closer.

“…he’s still on about snacks.”

Y/N smiled. “He’s committed.”

“That’s insane,” her friend said, taking a sip of her latte. “What kind of snacks do athletes even eat? Like celery sticks?”

Y/N snorted. “Probably. Sad little cucumbers in a lunchbox.”

Her friend laughed. “Imagine him mid-race just thinking about hummus.”

Y/N was already typing.

@y/n.unfilterd:  what kind of snacks do athletes eat, celery sticks???

She sent it immediately and pushed her phone slightly forward like she was presenting evidence in court.

Elaia watched the screen like it was a live broadcast.

“This is actually entertaining,” she admitted.

“I know,” Y/N said, stirring her drink. “It’s like… weirdly easy.”

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

Both of them leaned in.

@lando: cereal bars. bananas. sometimes biscuits if we’re feeling reckless x

Her friend made a face.

“Biscuits if they’re feeling reckless is crazy.”

Y/N laughed. “That’s the most British answer possible.”

She typed again.

No hesitation now. It had already become a rhythm.

@y/n.unfilterd:  “feeling reckless” = eating a hobnob under extreme pressure

Send.

They both laughed again.

Elaia pointed at the screen. “This is actually more productive than a nutrition lecture.”

“Yeah,” Y/N said. “I’m learning about elite nutrition in real life.”

Her phone buzzed again.

@lando: don’t underestimate a hobnob under pressure. life changing experience x

Her friend nearly choked on her drink.

“He’s funny,” she said again, like it still surprised her.

“He actually is,” Y/N said, smiling down at the screen.

She typed back immediately.

@y/n.unfilterd: noted. will add hobnob to emergency survival kit

Send.

Another buzz almost instantly.

@lando:  good. glad we’re aligning on performance strategy x

Y/N stirred her melting ice cubes, her thumb already moving over the screen.

@y/n.unfilterd: my performance strategy currently consists of an overpriced iced latte that is basically just vanilla syrup and milk. elite athletes could never

Send.

Her friend leaned in, watching the little typing bubbles appear almost instantly. "He is literally waiting by his phone. It’s kind of hilarious."

"He’s probably just bored out of his mind," Y/N said, though she couldn't hide the smirk on her face.

A buzz.

@lando: 90% sugar sounds like a massive crash waiting to happen. what grueling sport are you actually training for right now? x

@y/n.unfilterd: surviving my next lecture. it requires extreme mental fortitude.

@lando: highly doubt it’s harder than a triple header. but fine. what’s the lecture?

@y/n.unfilterd: international security. currently learning about nuclear latency and global threats. a very lighthearted afternoon topic. 

@lando: sounds like a proper nightmare ngl. pretty sure i’d rather crash into a barrier at 200mph x

@y/n.unfilterd: honestly? after reading the syllabus, sometimes same.

@lando: see? we’re basically the same person. except i drive a rocket ship and you are the actual life danger on normal streets x 

"The cheek of him," her friend laughed, reading over her shoulder. "Tell him he wishes he had your academic brain."

Y/N started typing a reply, but before she could hit send, her friend suddenly gasped, dropping her plastic straw right onto her open textbook.

"Oh my god."

Y/N paused, her thumb hovering. "What?"

"The lecture. It started ten minutes ago."

Y/N’s eyes flew to the top corner of her phone screen. 14:10. "Shit," Y/N muttered.

Without even thinking, she grabbed her phone, shoved it face-down on the table without hitting send, and frantically started jamming her highlighted notebooks into her tote bag.

Leaving him completely on seen.

----------------------------------------------------------------

taglist: @hannahbananababybanana

[betweenpitwalls]

things we never edited out l ln4/1

prologue l chapter 1

tw: english is not my first language

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On one side, there was the golden boy.

The kind people don’t question.

A Lando Norris type of name—spoken easily, comfortably, like it had always belonged somewhere important. He wore success the way some people wore cologne: subtle, expensive, impossible to ignore if you got close enough. Perfect smile, the kind that made headlines feel believable. Clean edges. Polished interviews. Proper British charm wrapped neatly in privilege that no one ever really asked him to explain.

He had grown up around money, around structure, around a life that made sense on paper. The kind of life parents pointed at and said, that’s what stability looks like. The kind of man your mum would approve of before even meeting him.

And yet—he wasn’t untouchable.

Still young. Still reckless in quiet, expensive ways. Too fast, too confident, too used to getting away with things because the world had always adjusted around him. There were pictures of him everywhere—stepping out of cars, laughing in paddocks, standing next to girls who looked like they had never had a bad day in their lives. Sun-kissed, effortless, curated.

Golden.

On the other side, there was her.

Y/N didn’t arrive anywhere polished—she spilled into places.

Manchester-born, London-shaped, but never really softened by either. If anything, both cities carved something sharper into her. Manchester gave her the accent, the bluntness, the refusal to filter herself. London gave her the chaos—the constant movement, the noise, the feeling that if she slowed down for even a second, she’d be swallowed by it.

She wasn’t built for perfection. Not even close.

No “clean girl aesthetic,” no 7 a.m. routines, no quiet mornings with green juice and matching sets. Her eyeliner was always slightly smudged—not on purpose, not editorial, just… real. The kind that came from rubbing her eyes at nearly four in the morning while rewatching footage she hated, stress-eating Tesco meal deals because she forgot to eat earlier.

She didn’t plan her success.

It happened the way most messy things do—by accident.

One video. Shot on her phone. Hair greasy, voice too loud, ranting about uni deadlines she hadn’t even started. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. It wasn’t meant for anyone.

But people watched.

Then they kept watching.

Because she didn’t edit out the parts everyone else did. She left in the pauses, the swearing, the moments where she went too far or said too much or laughed at the wrong thing. She was late, chaotic, sometimes rude in that brutally honest way that felt almost refreshing in a space built on pretending.

She didn’t wake up early.

She didn’t go to Pilates.

She ran for the Tube like her life depended on it and called it cardio.

And visually—she didn’t make sense at first glance. Small. Blonde. Soft in a way that should’ve made her blend into the background. The kind of girl you’d expect to disappear in a room full of louder people.

But she didn’t.

Because nothing about her stayed quiet for long.

Her hair was almost always a mess—curly, unpredictable, like she’d fallen asleep with it wet and hoped for the best. She spilled things. Coffee on white shirts, drinks on nights out, words she maybe shouldn’t have said. She forgot things. Showed up late. Left early. Laughed too loudly, especially when she shouldn’t.

And when she was tired—or drunk—or pushed just a little too far—that thick Manchester accent slipped out, sharp and unapologetic, cutting through everything else.

Weekends were never just “one drink.”

They were pavements at five in the morning, heels in her hand, mascara halfway down her face, sitting with her friends and eating something greasy out of paper wrapping, laughing like nothing in the world was watching.

And somehow—

everyone was watching.

Because she wasn’t pretending not to fall apart a little. She wasn’t packaging herself into something easier to consume. She didn’t smooth out the edges.

She was the edges.

Now she sat front row at fashion weeks she used to watch on someone else’s laptop, still texting her friends things like, why is everyone so quiet here? are we allowed to laugh?

Still slightly late.

Still out of place.

Still entirely, stubbornly herself—just with better lighting, better clothes, and far too many eyes waiting to see what she’d do next.

—

And the problem wasn’t who they were.

It was what happens when two people like that— one built to be perfect, the other built to ruin it—

end up in the same story.