i can't stop thinking about you- LN4
SUMMARY: You end up spending the night with Lando after you ghosted him
FEATURING: Reader x Lando Norris
WARNINGS: Mentions of alcohol, drunkenness, mentions of sexual themes
The bass feels like a second heartbeat. It thuds up through the floor, rattles your drink, makes the lights strobe in your chest. The club smells of citrus and sweat, the kind of mix that only ever exists near the Riviera. You’re leaning on a velvet rail with your three friends, all laughter and too much perfume.
“Another round,” one of them says, already waving to the bartender.
You’ve lost track of how many you’ve had. Enough that the edges of the night are blurred. Enough that even though you're not a clubbing person, you have turned in to one for the night.
Someone shouts a story about the beach earlier, another jokes about the yacht guy who tried to flirt with your friend in Italian. She doesn't speak Italian. You laugh because everything feels easy here: the gold light, the glasses clinking, the idea that you are somewhere else, someone else.
Two of them give up around one. “We’re dying,” one yells, heels already dangling from her hand. They kiss your cheeks and vanish into the lights. That leaves you and your last remaining partner in crime—your boldest friend, the one who never ends the night early or alone.
“Another?” she asks, pointing to your glass.
You nod, maybe too eagerly, the bubbles sting your throat. The DJ switches to something older, something you know, and you shout along to the chorus, off-key.
When the song fades, your friend’s leaning close to a tall guy at the bar. He’s all easy grin and cuffed sleeves. Of course she finds him; she always finds a guy. You watch them talk, her hand brushing his arm, and you already know how this ends.
She comes back ten minutes later, lipstick smudged, smiling like she won something. “He’s staying just up the hill,” she says. “But I’m not leaving you—”
You wave her off, words spilling too fast. “I’m fine. Totally fine. Go have fun, you slut.”
She frowns. “You sure? You can come along, you could—”
You laugh too loud. “God, no, I'd rather die. I’m good. I’ll finish this, then stumble to the hotel like a responsible adult I am.”
She hesitates for another heartbeat, then hugs you and disappears into the crowd with him.
You last three songs before realizing you’re an idiot.
Your wallet—your card, your hotel key—are all in her bag. You dig through your pockets like maybe they’ll appear if you just try hard enough. Nothing. You mutter something that would’ve earned a stern look from your mother.
Outside, the air hits cold and sharp. The street glows in that Monaco way: clean, rich, beautiful. You lean against the wall, shoes biting at your heels, and let the world wobble around you.
Your phone feels heavy. You scroll aimlessly, half-hoping someone will magically appear to solve this. The contact list swims a little, but one name catches you anyway.
You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.
It’s been months since you last saw Lando. You’d met through friends—he was all easy jokes and smiles, the kind of charm that felt dangerous. For a while it was something—dinners, late night drives, that almost-more space that never got quite there. Then the warnings came: he’s fun but he'll break your heart, he’s like that with everyone. You’d believed them, or at least you’d let them scare you. So you ghosted him.
He never knew why. You never told him.
And now you’re drunk in Monaco with no wallet, calling him at three in the morning. Perfect.
He sounds half-asleep. “Hello?”
“Hi,” you say, too brightly. “You’re awake.”
“I am now.” There’s a rustle of sheets. “Who is—wait, huh?”
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s me. Don’t hang up.”
A pause, “You’re slurring.”
“I’m not—okay, maybe a little. I’m fine. Totally fine. Just mildly lost and kind of broke.”
You look around. “Define alone.”
“Stay there. I’m coming.”
“Lando, you don’t have to—”
You stare at the screen, then at the sea, then at your shoes, trying to remember which direction the hotel even is. The world tilts again when you move, so you sit down on the low curb and let the cold pavement steady you.
You’re halfway through texting your friend a string of incoherent vowels when headlights wash over you. A black McLaren slides to a stop, low and quiet like a cat stretching. The window drops.
He’s there—hoodie, grey joggers, curls everywhere, face soft with sleep. He looks unfairly good for someone you woke in the middle of the night.
You try to stand too fast. The world dips. His door opens before you can protest, and he’s already out, steadying you with one hand at your elbow.
“Whoa,” he says, half-amused, half-worried. “Easy.”
You blink up at him, cheeks hot. “I’m perfectly stable.”
He laughs, low and quiet, and guides you to the passenger side. You sink into the seat, everything suddenly softer, warmer. The car smells like him—clean and minty and faintly like his perfume.
He looks at you for a moment before starting the engine. “Your friends really left you alone?”
“Not on purpose. She met a guy. Happens, m'happy for her."
He shakes his head. “Still, she shouldn't leave you alone just cause she found a guy to bounce on. You shouldn't wander here alone this late.”
“Wasn’t wandering. Was… sitting decoratively.”
That earns another small laugh. “You always get this talkative when you drink?”
“Only when I call people I ghosted,” you mumble.
He glances over, eyebrows up. “Ahh, so we’re acknowledging that.”
You sigh. “Might as well. Liquid courage.”
The city slides past—reflections on the water and empty sidewalks. You watch him drive, the way his hands move easy on the wheel, the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking.
“I really am sorry,” you say after a while. “About… disappearing.”
He hums, not looking over. “You had your reasons.”
“Yeah, but I never told you what they were.”
He glances at you then, eyes flicking quick between the road and your face. “You didn’t owe me that.”
“I wanted to,” you admit. “I just—people said things about you.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Let me guess. That I’m terrible news.”
You stay quiet. That’s enough of an answer.
He sighs, the sound halfway between annoyance and resignation. “They’re not wrong, you know. I used to be. Maybe still am a bit.”
Another silence. Outside, the sea flashes silver. Inside, the heater hums.
He says finally, “You could’ve told me.”
He nods once, eyes on the road again. “Next time, just tell me, yeah?”
He smirks. “Assuming you keep losing your wallet, there’ll be a next time.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling out before you can stop it. “You’re very smug for someone who looks like a homeless bum.”
“Comfort over fashion. You should try it.”
“I’m a vision,” you protest, looking down at your crumpled dress.
“A very drunk vision,” he says, but his voice is warm.
You rest your head against the window, watching the city thin into quieter streets. The hum of the car, his voice, the faint salt smell through the vents—it all blurs together.
“Thanks for coming,” you say, eyes half-closed.
He glances at you, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. Anytime.”
You can feel the road turning beneath you, the lights flicking past. His fingers tap once on the steering wheel in rhythm with the music playing low on the radio.
Without thinking, you mumble, “You still drive too fast.”
He chuckles. “You worry too much.”
“You’re telling me I can’t go up?”
The poor man behind the front desk straightens a little. “Without a room key, mademoiselle, I am afraid not.” His French accent makes it sound like a line from a film.
You blink at him, trying to look serious. “But I am the person staying in the room. See—” You pat your pockets, then hold up your empty hands. “Okay, as we established, I don't have the key.”
Lando is standing just behind you, hands in his hoodie pocket, expression hovering somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “She really is staying here,” he says, leaning against the counter. “She just lost her key.”
The clerk looks from him to you. “If she can contact one of her roommates, they can confirm, yes?”
“Totally,” you say, already fumbling for your phone. “They love me. They'll answer instantly.” You stab at the screen. One ring. Two. Voicemail. You try another. Then another. All straight to voicemail. You glare at the phone like it betrayed you personally. “They’re unconscious.”
The clerk gives a small, polite smile that means still no. “I am very sorry, madame.”
Lando sighs, a sound that’s half laugh. “Right. Come on.”
“My place,” he says simply, steering you toward the door.
“I already have a place to stay,” you protest, tripping slightly on the carpet.
“Yeah, and which you're not getting in tonight."
The night outside has gone quieter, softer. The streets glimmer damp beneath the lights. He opens the passenger door for you again. “You can crash at mine,” he says. "There's a couch."
You cross your arms. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Too late. You already woke me up in the middle of the night, made me drive across town, and had me argue with a receptionist in three languages. Intrusion achieved.”
You try to glare, “Fine.”
His place is a few streets away from the harbor—modern, clean, more lived-in than you expected. The air smells faintly of coffee and the ocean through open windows.
“Shoes off,” he says as you stumble inside. “You’re going to face-plant.”
You obey, kicking off your heels with exaggerated care. They skid halfway across the floor. “See? Perfect control.”
“Uh-huh.” He disappears down the hallway and returns with a black T-shirt. “You can borrow this. You’ll be more comfortable than in that dress.”
You hold it up by the shoulders. “This is huge.”
You squint at him. “You sure you’re not just trying to get your merch in the wild again?”
He laughs, rubbing a hand through his curls. “Please, it’s laundry day, not marketing.”
You duck into the bathroom to change. The cotton’s soft and smells faintly like his detergent—clean, crisp, something unfamiliar that makes your chest tighten for a reason you don’t want to examine. When you emerge, he’s turned down the bed.
“You said couch,” you remind him.
“Changed my mind. You take the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
You shake your head, swaying slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your bed.”
“Fine,” he says, deadpan. “We’ll share.”
That makes you blink. “Share?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “It’s big enough. Promise I'll snore on the other side.”
You study him, trying to read if he’s joking. He is—but also isn’t. And you’re too tired to argue.
“Okay,” you mumble, crawling onto one side. You start gathering pillows, stacking them between you in a sloppy wall.
He watches, amused. “Wow. What kind of rumors did you hear about me to need a barrier?”
You grin sleepily. “All the best ones.”
“That you’re a menace. And that your bed is cursed.”
He laughs, genuine and startled. “Cursed?”
“Apparently.” You flop onto your pillow fortress, hair spilling across your face. “If I wake up with regret, I’ll know it’s true.”
For a moment he just looks at you, still grinning. Then his voice softens. “Seriously, though. What did you hear?”
You hesitate, the buzz in your head slowing just enough to let honesty in. “That you have… a rotation,” you say carefully. “Different girls in different cities. That you don’t really do serious.”
He leans back against the headboard, silent for a second. “Fair,” he says at last. “Wasn’t exactly a secret back then.”
You peek over a pillow. “Back then?”
He nods. “Yeah. I was twenty-something, stupid, busy convincing myself I didn’t care about anyone. It was easier.” He shrugs, eyes on the ceiling. “Then you showed up. And I thought, maybe I could try caring for real.”
You blink. The room tilts again, but not from the alcohol this time. “You don’t have to say that,” you murmur.
“I’m not saying it to make you feel better,” he says quietly. “I just wish you’d asked instead of disappearing.”
You hug a pillow to your chest. “I thought I was saving myself the trouble.”
He smiles without humor. “Did it work?”
“No.” You yawn, the edge of exhaustion finally hitting. “Turns out trouble follows me anyway.”
He chuckles softly. “Seems so.”
The quiet stretches between you, filled with the hum of the city outside and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the apartment. You feel the weight of the day catch up, heavy and warm.
“Hey,” he says after a while, voice low. “You should sleep. We can figure everything out in the morning.”
You nod, already half-gone, eyes closing against the dim light. “Lando?”
His reply is soft. “Yeah. Me too.”
The words fade into the sound of his breathing. You drift, the alcohol ebbing, your mind floating somewhere between guilt and comfort.
Half-asleep, you mumble, “For what it’s worth… I still like you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe he thinks you’re too far gone to remember saying it. When he finally speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “I know.”
The last thing you feel is the mattress shifting slightly as he turns off the light, and the warmth that lingers where his voice was.
Your phone is screaming before your brain is awake enough to care.
A dozen buzzes, one after another, drilling through the cottony fog in your skull. You pry open an eye. Morning sunlight is stabbing through the curtains, bright enough to make you groan.
You squint at the screen. Twelve missed calls, fourteen messages, and—oh, God—one photo you don’t remember taking. The group chat is a battlefield of punctuation and panic.
where ARE you
are u alive
did u get kidnapped by yacht guy
why did u text “gon wiht lano?” who the fuck is lano?????
You stare at the last one.
You meant gone with Lando, obviously. The drunken typo makes it sound like you joined a freaking cult.
A groan comes from next to you. You glance over. Lando’s sprawled on his stomach, hair a complete riot, half the blanket on the floor. He looks so peacefully asleep that you briefly consider pretending to still be unconscious.
Your phone rings again—your friend’s name flashing. You sigh and answer in a whisper. “I’m alive.”
You wince. “Long story. I’m fine. I’ll explain at brunch.”
Lando stirs, stretching. His voice is rough, sleepy. “Tell her I’m charging a rescue-fee.”
“Who was that?” your friend shrieks through the phone.
You end the call before she combusts.
He cracks an eye open, amused. “Morning, trouble.”
You groan and pull the pillow over your face. “Don’t. I’m suffering.”
“Good sign. Means you’re alive.” He sits up, hair pointing in every direction, and rubs the back of his neck. “Coffee?”
The kitchen is bright and too clean. He hands you a mug big enough to hide behind. The smell of coffee almost fixes you.
You take a cautious sip. “You’re disgustingly functional for someone who got no sleep.”
“Of course it is,” you mutter.
He leans against the counter, still in his hoodie, watching you over the rim of his mug. “Feeling better?”
“Not about to pass out on my floor?”
“Barely.” You look down at his T-shirt on you—it hangs to your thighs, soft and faintly creased. “Thanks for the rescue. Again.”
He grins. “Anytime. Though next time, try keeping your ID somewhere on yourself.”
You make a face. “Don’t start.”
For a minute, it’s quiet except for mugs clinking and the hum of the coffee machine. The awkwardness floats in, soft but obvious. You break it first. “So… about last night.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Which part? The hotel receptionist? The pillow fort? The part where you accused my bed of being cursed?”
You choke on coffee, laughing. “All of the above.”
He smiles, but it’s gentler than teasing. “You were funny.”
“An entertaining disaster.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth creeps in anyway.
By late morning you’ve managed to shower and tame your hair. Lando’s waiting by the door, keys in hand.
“You sure you don’t want me to drop you somewhere less public?”
“Brunch,” you say firmly. “With friends who think I died.”
The McLaren purrs to life, black paint catching the sunlight as you slide into the passenger seat again. You try to look composed, but the seatbelt still feels like an event.
He glances at you at a stoplight. “So you up for a date?”
You turn, surprised. “What?”
“Hard to forget when someone slurs that they like you before passing out.”
You groan. “Oh God. Delete me.”
He laughs quietly. “I’m taking it as a yes.”
You stare out the window, hiding a smile. “Maybe I didn’t mean it.”
“I’m willing to find out.”
The café is all wicker chairs and white umbrellas. Your friends are impossible to miss—clustered on the terrace, sunglasses on, scanning the street like detectives.
“Good luck,” Lando mutters as he parks.
You glance at him; daylight is unfair to him—it catches in his curls, softens the tired edges. He looks put-together in that casual way that isn’t fair to the rest of humanity.
He opens your door before you can. “You sure you’ll survive the interrogation?”
“Doubtful,” you mumble, stepping out and adjusting your bag.
“Text me when they’re done with you.”
“Assuming they let me keep my phone.”
He grins and pulls you into a quick hug. It’s warm, easy, nothing overthought—except you can feel the flutter in your chest when he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.
It’s meant to be friendly. Probably.
Unfortunately, your friends have seen everything.
From the terrace, three pairs of sunglasses tilt in perfect synchronization. You can practically feel the collective gasp.
Lando steps back, still smiling. “See you.”
“Yeah.” You try not to look flustered.
As you walk toward the café, you can see their expressions shifting—shock, glee, scandalized delight. They’re already whispering when you reach the table.
“Excuse me,” one says, leaning forward. “Was that Lando Norris?”
“Looked a lot like him,” another adds. “Looked like he just kissed you.”
You drop into your chair, groaning. “It was a cheek kiss. And he rescued me, that’s all.”
“Oh, sure,” one says, grinning. “Rescued you and tucked you into bed, huh?”
You shoot her a look. “Yes—literally. We slept. Like, actual sleeping. No verbs implied.”
They all exchange the same skeptical expression that says you’re not fooling anyone, and you throw your hands up. “You people are hopeless.”
“Hopelessly invested,” one corrects. “Now start from the beginning.”
You sigh, reaching for the menu. “Fine. But I’m eating first."
“You need to explain everything. Start from when we left you.”
You groan, resting your elbows on the table. “Okay, fine. So, after you left, Miss Spontaneous here”—you nod toward your friend, the one looking appropriately guilty—“vanished with Mr. Tall-and-Charming, and I realized too late that my wallet, my card, and the hotel key were all in your purse.”
“Oh yes.” You take a sip of water before continuing. “So I’m stranded outside the club at two-something in the morning, slightly tipsy, very stupid. I scroll through my contacts and—”
“You call him,” one friend finishes, already smirking.
You give her a flat look. “Yes, I called him. Don’t sound so smug. He was the only one awake enough to save me.”
“He was when he answered,” you admit, which earns you laughter from all sides.
The food arrives as you’re halfway through describing the hotel situation—the poor night clerk, your failed attempt at French, the sympathy in Lando’s voice as he decided, uninvited, that you were not capable of surviving the night alone.
“So he took you back to his place?”
“Yes. On a strictly humanitarian mission.” You slice into your toast pointedly. “He gave me water, a T-shirt, and approximately three lectures on personal responsibility.”
You blink. “Then we went to sleep.”
They stare at you like you’ve said something scientifically impossible.
“What?” you ask. “People sleep. It’s a thing.”
“People don’t usually sleep next to Lando Norris, I mean sure they do, after they've done something else.” one says, leaning in.
You roll your eyes, cheeks warming. “Well, nothing happened. We just talked. He was—” You pause, looking for the right word. “—really sweet, actually.”
That earns a round of soft, knowing groans. “Oh no,” one murmurs. “She’s in danger and has been corrupted.”
“I’m not in danger and no one corrupted me.”
“You are definitely in danger.” Another stabs her fork at you for emphasis. “He’s devilishly handsome, and you know it.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You make him sound like a cartoon villain.”
“He’s charming enough to be one,” another adds. “That smile? The curls? He could sell sin at wholesale prices.”
You choke on your coffee, laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“We’re just saying,” your friend says, softer now, “be careful, yeah? We’ve all heard stories. He’s nice, sure, but he’s also… him.”
“I know.” You toy with your napkin. “I heard the same things, remember? That’s why I disappeared the first time.”
They exchange looks. “And yet…”
“And yet,” you echo quietly. “He still came when I called and was in trouble.”
The table falls silent for a moment—just the hum of other conversations and the clatter of cutlery.
Finally, your friend clears her throat. “Maybe he’s different now.”
“Maybe,” you say, uncertain but hopeful. “I guess I’ll find out.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
You hesitate, thinking of the drive over, the quiet between songs, the way he’d smiled. You can still feel that cheek kiss like it happened five seconds ago.
“Yeah,” you admit. “I think so.”
You’ve spent the whole week pretending not to check your phone.
Beach days, market mornings, long dinners—every time your friends pull out their cameras, you smile and keep smiling, but your mind wanders. He said we’ll figure something out, and then the week vanished away.
Until today. The message comes while you’re packing.
7 pm? Dress nice.
I’ve got plans.
By the time the clock edges past seven, you’re standing outside the hotel, palms a little clammy, the evening light soft and gold. The car pulls up, low and familiar, and your heart does something unhelpful.
Lando steps out before you can wave. He’s traded hoodies for a crisp white button-down and black jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show his wrists. There’s a small bouquet in his hand—pale pink tulips, wrapped in brown paper.
You blink. “My favorite.”
He looks suddenly self-conscious. “You said once that they were."
“They’re perfect.” You take them carefully, the paper crinkling. “You didn’t have to.”
It’s simple, but it makes something in your chest loosen.
The restaurant overlooks the harbor—glass walls, candlelight, the kind of place that makes you sit up a little straighter. A waiter pulls out your chair; the sea glints dark beyond the windows.
He orders for both of you after asking what you like. You tease him for it, but you’re secretly grateful—your brain still stumbles over the French pronunciations.
Between sips of wine and shared bread, the conversation slides easily into the small things: how chaotic his schedule’s been, how your friends can’t go ten minutes without texting you and asking about the date.
“Do you ever stop moving?” you ask, smiling across the table.
He shrugs. “I’m trying. Maybe this is practice.”
“Dinner with me is practice for rest?”
“Something like that.” He smirks.
"I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing." You say with a small smile.
You laugh, the sound bouncing off the glass. The air feels comfortable, like you’ve both agreed to leave the heavy things behind.
He tells you about a disastrous cooking attempt—something involving burnt pancakes and a smoke alarm. You tell him about your failed attempt at French slang that made a shopkeeper nearly cry.
By dessert, you’ve stopped noticing how fancy everything is. You’re just watching the way he gestures when he talks, the small scar on his nose, the way the candlelight flickers in his eyes.
Outside, the air has cooled. The harbor glows with reflections—boats rocking gently, strings of lights trembling on the water. He reaches for your hand almost absently, and you let him. His fingers are warm, steady.
You walk in silence for a while, heels clicking against the wooden boardwalk, the tulips now wrapped in a napkin and tucked safely under your arm.
He breaks the quiet first. “So, did this count as a good date?”
You glance at him. “It’s not over yet I hope.”
“It’s factual,” you say, trying not to grin. He chuckles under his breath.
The wind brushes against you, carrying salt and the faint buzz of music from a bar nearby. He stops walking, still holding your hand, and you turn toward him.
There’s that small, uncertain pause—the one that lives between maybe and almost.
His voice is quieter now. “Can I—?”
You know what he means. You can see it in the way he’s watching you, waiting for any hint of hesitation.
For a heartbeat, you think about every warning you heard, every reason you told yourself no. Then you think about him standing half-asleep in a hoodie, coming to get you at three a.m., holding tulips tonight because he remembered a throwaway conversation you had months ago.
The first kiss is careful—soft, unhurried, like he’s afraid to startle you. You can taste the wine on his lips, feel the faint tremor of his breath when he pulls back.
He starts to say something—probably a joke, or maybe an apology—but you shake your head and kiss him again, surer this time. His hand finds the back of your neck, the other still holding yours. The world narrows to warmth and salt and the sound of water tapping the boats below.
When you finally break apart, he leans his forehead against yours, laughing quietly. “You’re full of surprises.”
“So are you,” you say, still catching your breath. “You remembered the tulips.”
You smile, brushing your thumb along his wrist. “This feels weirdly… normal.”
He grins. “That’s the goal.”
You start walking again, hand in hand, your steps falling into rhythm. The city hums behind you, the sea murmuring in front.
“Do you think this could work?” you ask, half to yourself.
He squeezes your hand. “We won’t know unless we try.”
You nod, smiling at the ground. “That’s a very un-Lando answer.”
“Maybe I’m a good influence.”
By the time you reach the end of the pier, the world feels a little smaller and a lot simpler. You don’t need to fill the silence—it’s comfortable, finally.
You bump his shoulder lightly. “For the record, this counts as a good date.”
He chuckles, eyes bright. “I’ll settle for good.”
It’s been four months since Monaco, and the world feels both exactly the same and completely different.
The sun in Mexico City burns brighter, louder, heavier than any you’ve known. The air is dry and electric—engines, music, and Spanish chatter bouncing off the grandstands. You tug at your team pass, the laminated badge catching the light, and smile every time you read the word Guest.
Officially, you’re his girlfriend now. Unofficially, you still wake up some mornings wondering if that’s real—if this version of him, of you, of this, will hold.
Lando’s been on his best behavior. Not because you asked him to, but because he wants to. You’ve seen it in the small things: the late-night calls, the texts after practice, the way he always introduces you with quiet pride. It’s been easy—mostly. Except for the small voice that sometimes whispers, People don’t really change.
You tell that voice to shut up, but it lingers anyway.
Today, he’s untouchable. Leading every session, smiling that effortless grin that lights up cameras and makes the engineers grin back. You watch from the garage, headphones pressing tight against your ears as his voice crackles through the radio. He sounds calm, sharp. Happy.
When the practice ends, the cheers from the crowd roll like thunder. You watch him pull into the pit lane, climb out, the sunlight hitting his helmet just right. For a second, it’s impossible not to feel proud—like some small part of his achievements belongs to you.
Later, you wait for him in the team’s hospitality area, a shaded terrace draped in orange and chrome. The scent of food mingles with fuel and desert air. Your phone buzzes with a text.
on my way. don’t eat all the tacos.
You’re still smiling when you spot him rounding the corner, race suit half undone, hair damp with sweat. You wave—then stop.
A group of women—models, influencers, whoever—have intercepted him. They’re all sun-kissed skin and bright smiles, their lanyards gleaming with Paddock Club passes. It’s not unusual. You’ve seen it before.
They crowd in, talking over each other. One touches his arm. Another laughs too loudly. You can’t hear every word from where you’re sitting, but you don’t have to. The scene is familiar enough to twist something small and unwelcome in your chest.
You force yourself to stay put. Don't be that person, you tell yourself. You trust him. You do.
Then you catch his voice—clear, polite, firm.
“Appreciate the support, really,” he says, smiling just enough to be kind but not enough to invite more. “But I’m on a tight schedule, and my girlfriend’s waiting for me.”
You can’t help it—you smile. The word lands somewhere deep, quieting every little doubt.
He excuses himself gently and strides toward you, shaking his head like he’s half amused, half exasperated. When he reaches the table, he leans down, presses a quick kiss to your lips.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Fan ambush.”
“Looked intense,” you say, trying for casual.
“They’re harmless.” He grins. “Good at blocking doorways, though.”
You hand him a glass of water. “Occupational hazard.”
“Jealous?” he teases, eyes flicking up.
“Maybe,” you admit, smirking. “Tiny bit.”
He laughs, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. “Don’t be. I told you—I’m a new man.”
He squeezes your hand once before letting go to grab a plate.
You both pick at tacos and rice, talking between bites—the travel chaos, his race engineer’s obsession with spreadsheets, the weird hotel that smelled like cinnamon. He listens when you talk, really listens, and you can see the difference in him—the calm that wasn’t really there before.
You tell him about your friends teasing you relentlessly after Monaco. “They still don’t believe we didn’t hook up that night,” you say, grinning.
He nearly chokes on his drink. “Seriously?”
“Guess we didn’t sell it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “No, apparently you don't really just sleep, whatever that means.”
His gaze softens. “You worried they’re right? About me?”
You pause. “Sometimes. Old habits, I guess.”
He nods, taking that in. “I get it. But I’m trying to make new ones.”
After lunch, he’s due for media before the race, but he lingers, still sitting across from you, half in sunlight, half in shadow. The paddock buzzes around you—team members hurrying by, cameras flashing, fans calling his name. But he doesn’t look.
"You're watching the race, right?” he asks.
“Good,” he says, standing and stretching. “I’ll try to make it worth it.”
You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Always so humble.”
You reach up as he bends toward you, straightening the collar of his undershirt. “Go. Be brilliant.”
He kisses you again, quick but sure, the kind of kiss that fits perfectly between words. “See you after the podium.”
“Big race, cheer for me!” he replies, walking backward a few steps before turning toward the noise of the pit lane.
You watch him go—orange race suit gleaming, sunlight glinting off his helmet as someone hands it to him. The roar of the crowd rises again, a living thing. And for once, you don’t feel that stab of fear. You just feel proud.
