Behind the Counter- Lando Norris #4 x Employee!Reader
Authors Note: Part two finally out! Hope y’all like it! Soz if there are mistakes, I’ve been exhausted lately xX
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader
Word Count: 3.6k
Miami was loud in every possible way.
The engines were one thing, but the city had its own pulse—bass-heavy music spilling from open doors, helicopters chopping the air above, the scent of fried food and sunscreen clinging stubbornly to the humidity. Even the hospitality suite felt brighter, busier, more restless than usual.
You’d worked this job long enough to get used to the chaos. But Miami pressed in on you differently—the heat sticking your shirt to your back, the clatter of cutlery on porcelain, the steady stream of VIPs who thought a smile was optional when ordering.
Somewhere in that noise, you spotted him.
Cap backwards, sunglasses hooked onto the collar of his McLaren kit, curls damp from either the Florida humidity or some brutal morning training. He was grinning before he’d even reached the counter, like this was the part of his day he’d been waiting for.
“Anything ice-cold back there.” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter.
You held up a sweating bottle of water. “Always. But it’s for drivers only.”
“Good thing I qualify,” he replied, taking it from your hand—fingers brushing yours in a way that made your chest tighten for reasons you refused to examine.
As he twisted the cap open, his eyes flicked to yours. “You gonna watch practice?”
“Of course,” you said lightly, like it wasn’t the truth every single time.
He grinned. “Knew I could count on you.”
It was nothing.
It was always nothing.
From the corner of your eye, you caught Oscar glancing between you as he walked past, helmet bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t comment—just raised his brows like he’d seen something worth filing away before disappearing toward the driver’s room.
Maggie, of course, was less subtle.
By the time you turned back, she was at the counter, smirking like a cat that had caught a mouse.
“What?” you asked, already bracing yourself.
“Nothing,” she said, which in Maggie-speak meant everything. “Just nice to see the boy wonder knows where the real VIP section is.”
You rolled your eyes, fussing with the espresso machine. “It’s called customer service.”
“Mm-hmm,” she drawled, making it sound like the least believable thing she’d ever heard.
Later, when the rush died down and you were restocking pastries, your thoughts betrayed you.
Was it stupid? That small thrill when you saw him walk in. The way you replayed conversations in your head, wondering if he meant something more. You weren’t supposed to stand out here—you were background. A piece of set dressing in the endless travelling circus that was Formula 1.
Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you wanted to be noticed so badly you’d convinced yourself he saw you differently.
When he came back after FP2, hair a mess, face flushed, and spotted you instantly across the room—ignoring everyone else to head straight for the counter—you felt that dangerous flicker again.
“Think you could sneak me one of those muffins before they disappear?” he asked, voice low, just for you.
Without thinking, you slid one to him over the counter.
“Were you watching?” he added, halfway through peeling the wrapper.
“Obviously,” you said, smiling before you could stop yourself. “Sector two was nice.”
He grinned. “I knew that was you on the timing screens, willing it faster.”
“Like a lucky charm.” You tested.
His grin widened, boyish and easy, and your stomach betrayed you completely.
From the far end of the counter, Maggie caught your eye and mouthed, Uh-huh.
Saturday, after qualifying
The sun dipped low, washing the paddock in gold and shadow. McLaren’s quali had been decent—not perfect, but respectable. You were clearing away empty glasses when someone stepped up beside you.
He didn’t speak right away, just leaned against the counter, hands buried in his pockets like he was weighing his words.
“You and Lando seem… friendly,” he said finally, his tone mild but pointed enough to make your stomach turn.
You frowned. “We work in the same paddock. Everyone’s friendly.”
He gave you a look that said he wasn’t buying it. “Right. Friendly.”
Before you could reply, Maggie appeared with a tray of clean cups. “Oh, Oscar, don’t start. She’s in denial—let her live there a little longer.”
“Maggie!” you hissed, heat rushing to your face.
Oscar smirked, shaking his head. “Got it. Denial. Noted.” He pushed off the counter, strolling toward the driver’s room. Over his shoulder, he tossed, “Careful—you sure you want to open that door?”
You pressed your lips together, pretending you didn’t understand exactly what he meant.
By the time the last generator hummed low and the fan zone music had faded, the paddock was nearly still. You and Maggie wiped down counters, stacked cups, and clicked off the espresso machine in practiced silence.
Outside, the air was cooler, sea salt mingling faintly with asphalt. You locked the hospitality doors and fell into step beside her.
“I’m so fucked,” you murmured.
Maggie arched a brow. “Define fucked.”
You exhaled. “What do I do?”
Her mouth twitched. “About the fact you’ve got it bad for a certain papaya-clad menace? Admit it to yourself first. Then maybe—maybe—do something about it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your stomach still flipped.
“Fine,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. “If I see him tonight—which I won’t—I’ll tell him.” You said it like you were daring yourself. Like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Sure you will,” she teased.
The paddock was all long shadows and echoing footsteps when you heard another set behind you.
Lando. Cap backwards, hoodie loose over his race kit bottoms, faint smile tugging at his mouth when he saw you.
“Hey. You leaving?” His gaze flicked to Maggie, but landed—and stayed—on you. “I’m heading to the parking garage. I can walk you.”
“Sure,” you said, hoping your pulse didn’t give you away.
You’d barely made it ten steps before Maggie stopped. “Crap—I forgot something back at the suite. Go on without me.”
You shot her a glare. Little shit. She just smirked and turned back, leaving you and Lando in the quiet.
For a few moments, it was just the sound of your shoes on asphalt.
“Long day?” he asked, glancing over.
“Always,” you smiled faintly. “You?”
“Not bad. Did better, but…” he shrugged, “at least I didn’t bin it into Turn 14 like yesterday.”
You laughed softly. “Yeah, that wasn’t your best moment.”
“Ruthless,” he grinned. Then, almost as an afterthought: “So… did you watch?”
“Yeah,” you admitted. “Start was messy, but you pulled it back.”
He gave you that warm, almost shy smile you weren’t used to seeing from him. “Guess I’ve got to keep earning your approval.”
The conversation stayed light—jokes about the hospitality food, him teasing you for not saving pastries, you accusing him of never paying for the ones he stole. But beneath it, something tighter wound itself between you. Your mind was racing trying to decide when it’s the best time to tell him.
Before you knew it, you were at your car.
He lingered, hands in his hoodie pocket. “Well… guess this is you.”
Your chance. Just say it. ‘I like you.’
Instead: “Thanks for walking me.”
His smile warmed, slow and genuine. “Anytime.”
You shut the door before you could change your mind, watching him walk back toward the garage in your rearview mirror—like a chance you’d just let pass by.
The kind of heat that didn’t wait until midday to punch you in the chest — it was already there when you stepped out of the hotel, clinging to your skin before you even hit the paddock.
Race day heat was different.
The air was thicker, charged with the kind of tension that sat in your bones. The streets around Hard Rock Stadium were already a sea of fans in orange bucket hats, the hum of engines and music bleeding into the humid morning air.
You’d barely stepped into hospitality when Maggie pounced.
“Well, well, sunshine,” she sing-songed, sidling up beside you as you restocked the croissant tray. “How was your romantic moonlit walk last night?”
You gave her a flat look. “We walked to the parking garage, Maggie.”
“Mmhmm,” she said, like that somehow made it more romantic. “And? You tell him?”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “No.”
Her gasp was loud enough that one of the McLaren engineers looked over. “You what? Why! You literally said — and I quote — ‘if I see him tonight, I’ll tell him.’ And then you saw him.”
Because it’s complicated. Because you weren’t sure. Because the words felt too heavy in your mouth.
You shrugged instead. “I panicked, okay?” you muttered. “I said thank you and goodnight. Look, even if I had said it, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”
“Why wouldn’t it matter?” she asked, genuinely confused now.
You gave a small, humorless laugh. “Because I’m not… y’know. I’m not glitz and glamour. I’m not one of those people who gets photographed walking into the paddock with perfect hair and a designer bag. I’m the one pouring their coffee. I’m background. And guys like him…” You trailed off, shaking your head again. “They don’t stick around for background characters.”
Maggie’s expression softened. “Classic. Y/N the Heartbreaker strikes again — except you’re breaking your own heart.”
You threw a dish towel at her. “I hate you.”
“Sure you do... Just don’t wait so long that the window shuts” she said, starting to line up pastries.
“Yea, yea.” You sighed, trying to busy yourself with stocking cups —like the conversation hadn’t just scraped something raw. But your mind kept skipping — flashes of last night’s walk, the way he’d glanced sideways at you under the dim paddock lights. It was harmless, you told yourself. He was just being nice.
Maggie laughed softly, shaking her head at you.
“What!” you said feeling embarrassed about how well your friend could read you.
She groaned like you’d ruined her favorite TV show. “You had one job, y/n!”
Before you could defend yourself, a burst of laughter erupted from the crew table, and you caught yourself scanning the crowd.
Across the room, Lando’s voice carried in bursts—laughter with a mechanic, a quick word with Zak. He caught sight of you once, and for a second, the grin faltered. Not because he didn’t want to see you—quite the opposite. But the more he liked you, the more a quiet, unwelcome thought crept in: you don’t need my kind of trouble.
He turned back to Zak before you could notice.
A moment later, he laughed at something one of the mechanics said, but his eyes kept drifting toward the counter. Toward you.
You looked busy—head down, hands moving, Maggie talking animatedly beside you. But there was a tightness in your posture he couldn’t name, like whatever Maggie had said had settled wrong in your chest.
He knew he should stay focused. It was race day. He should be thinking about strategy, tyres, his start. But instead, he caught himself wondering—again—if talking to you more would make you smile the way you had last night… or if it would just drag you into the kind of circus you didn’t deserve.
It was easy to imagine the headlines, the noise, the pressure. You didn’t need that. And he didn’t trust himself not to be selfish about it.
So, he stayed where he was, letting you finish whatever Maggie was saying without interrupting. Still, when you glanced up for half a second, he was already looking.
When he finally made his way over, it was mid-morning. Race suit half-unzipped to the waist, fireproof top clinging to him in the Miami heat. He was mid-conversation with Oscar when he saw you.
The grin this time was instant, like you were the only person in the room, and your stomach twisted.
“You’re early,” you said, sliding him a bottle of water before he could even ask.
“Am I?” He leaned against the counter, unbothered by the heat or the chaos outside. “Maybe I just wanted to see you before the race.”
You pretended to busy yourself with the pastry display, but your hands were clumsy, and you could feel Maggie’s stare burning into the side of your head, silently trying to will you to tell him.
Before you could, a call crackled over his radio, and he was gone—walking backwards for three steps just to ask, “So… will you be watching?”.
Your mouth opened, closed. You nodded, which earned you one last smile before he disappeared toward the garage.
By the time the national anthem echoed through the paddock and the drivers were heading to the grid, you were still rattled.
Maybe Oscar was right. Maybe you weren’t ready to open that door.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Y/N was quieter today. Not in the busy-hospitality, pre-race chaos way. Not in the Maggie-stole-my-favourite-pen way.
More like she was somewhere else entirely, head full of things she wasn’t saying.
And maybe that shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.
He’d been thinking about last night more than he’d admit. That walk to the parking garage — Maggie disappearing halfway, leaving just the two of them. You looked like you wanted to say something. He was sure of it. The way your lips parted, the little crease in your brow.
And then… just a thank you and a goodnight.
It shouldn’t have stung. But it did.
Between pre-race meetings, the driver parade, and media duties, he caught himself looking for you — at the counter, in the corner of hospitality, walking with Maggie toward the paddock gates.
Each time, you smiled. Each time, it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
He told himself not to overthink it. But he knew what the problem might be.
Maybe I’ve been too much.
It wasn’t hard to imagine the fallout if there was something between you — fans dissecting every glance, reporters sniffing for a story, Zak pissed he was mixing work with… whatever this was. The power dynamic alone would make it a PR nightmare.
It was enough to make him wonder if it’d be kinder to just… step back.
But then, in the driver’s room, Oscar walked in, phone in hand, and Lando found himself blurting, “Hey — uh — you think I’m annoying?”
Oscar looked up slowly. “…Yes?”
“No, I mean—” Lando huffed out a laugh. “Not you annoying. Like… do you think I’m too much? Around people?”
Oscar leaned against the wall. “This about Y/N?”
Lando’s silence was all the answer he needed.
Oscar shrugged. “She doesn’t seem bothered. If anything, she’s the one in her head.”
“Look,” Oscar cut in, “if you’re worried about her, just… talk to her. You’re both walking around like it’s the final lap and nobody wants to pit.”
Lando gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”
It was perfect— Oscar P1, Lando P2. A midfield fight, a few overtakes, a finish that was headline-grabbing and solid. Another McLaren double podium for the season.
On paper, anyway.
By the time the champagne had been sprayed and the team debrief wrapped, most of the hospitality crowd had thinned. You were wiping down the last few tables when he appeared—hair damp from the post-race shower, race suit swapped for a team tee and joggers.
“You closing up?” he asked, leaning an elbow on the counter.
“Pretty much,” you said. “Congrats on the points.”
He gave a half-shrug, like P2 wasn’t what he’d wanted but he’d take it. “P2, easy peazy… but, hey—” His eyes caught yours, the corner of his mouth curving. “Did you watch?”
For a second, you thought about all the things you hadn’t said last night. All the reasons you’d told yourself it wasn’t the right time. But mostly, you thought about how you were just the girl behind the counter—coffee stains on your sleeves, hair pulled back because it got in the way—not the kind of girl who ended up in his story. Not the kind of girl who stayed in his orbit once the paddock lights went out.
Still, you didn’t even try to hide the smile. “From lights out to checkered flag.”
Something in his expression shifted—softened—like the noise of Miami fell away. Maybe he’d been waiting to hear you say it. Maybe it was proof you still cared, even if neither of you was saying as much out loud.
“Good,” he said quietly, like it mattered more than he’d admit. And maybe it did.
He straightened, tapping the counter lightly before turning to leave. You watched him go, feeling that same tug from last night—the almost. The window you weren’t sure was still open.
Halfway to the door, he glanced back. Just once.
Long enough for your chest to tighten.
Long enough for him to think, if she wanted this, she’d say it.
Long enough for you to think, if he wanted this, he’d stay.
Then the moment was gone.
Lando walked out of the restaurant with that restless ache sitting low in his chest, the kind that made the night air feel heavier. He’d walked you to your car the night before, convinced—absolutely convinced—you were about to say something. When you didn’t, he’d told himself not to push. Not to ruin the comfortable, fragile thing between you.
But tonight, during the dinner, after an hour of polite smiles, clipped conversation, and avoiding each other’s gaze for longer than a few seconds, it felt like that invisible door had closed.
He left the team dinner early. Said he was tired, that he needed an early night. Truth was, he couldn’t stand the thought of sitting there for another hour pretending nothing was off.
The Miami air wrapped around him as soon as he stepped outside—warm, thick with salt from the ocean and exhaust from the traffic still pulsing through the city. He didn’t go back to the hotel. He just… walked.
By the time he looked up again, the neon glow of a rooftop bar was calling him in, bass already rattling through the sidewalk. He climbed the stairs into a haze of strobe lights and cigar smoke, the skyline stretching out like a glittering ocean beyond the glass railings. Drinks were already in people’s hands. Laughter cut through the music like broken glass.
One drink turned into three before he even thought about leaving. The alcohol smoothed the edges in his mind, just enough to stop thinking about the way you’d looked at him earlier—like you wanted to say something and decided against it.
That was when she appeared. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Her perfume hit before her smile did—sweet, sharp, expensive. She leaned into his ear to say something, voice drowned by the music, but he smiled anyway. Because she was pretty. Because she was easy. Because she was not you.
And maybe that was the point.
She laughed at something he didn’t hear, touching his arm in a way that told him she’d done this before. He let himself kiss her, tasting nothing but vodka and the intent to forget. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of the flash. A camera. Maybe two. He didn’t pull away.
If the world wanted a headline, he’d give them one.
Let them see it.
Y/N’s POV — Later That Night
Your hotel room was quiet except for the low hum of the AC. You sat curled beneath the covers, hair damp and skin still warm from the shower, scrolling through your phone without really taking anything in. It was supposed to be mindless—just a distraction before you finally got some sleep.
A trending tag. His name.
You told yourself you didn’t need to click. That whatever it was, it wasn’t your business. Your thumb tapped anyway.
The first photo was grainy, shot through the blur of a crowd, but you’d know him anywhere—Lando at a Miami rooftop, the city skyline behind him like a postcard. The next was sharper. His smile turned toward a blonde in a low-cut dress, her hand on his arm like it belonged there. Then another. And another. One of them kissing, lit by the harsh, unflinching glare of a camera flash.
You stared until the photos blurred into a wash of color.
Your chest felt hollow, like someone had taken something out of you and left nothing in its place. The AC hummed on, too loud now, the sheets too heavy and the air far too warm. You set your phone down slowly, deliberately, as if it might burn you if you held on too long. But it didn’t matter—the images were already burned into your mind.
You pulled the covers tighter around yourself, curling in smaller, like you could block the world out.
You told yourself you didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. That he could kiss whoever he wanted.
But each time, the lie broke a little more, until all you were left with was the truth—
you cared. You cared so much it hurt.
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