I have an idea because lando keeps saying "that's life"
people always tell y/n that she is naive and always will stay on his side no matter how much of an idiot he might be. she never listened to that but after he kinda ignores her from his life and only doing his stuff alone she realizes and also goes for a girls trip or something. He is of course not being happy about it after seeing pics of her at a club with other men. So he's trying to get her back not understanding why she does all that now and she's just like "well that's life lan" finally being able to show him her rebellious but also toxic side
Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: emotional neglect, jealousy, toxic behavior, angst with a happy ending
Summary: After Lando constantly ignores you, you escape to Ibiza to live your own life. Seeing you move on breaks his pride, forcing him to spend weeks proving he will never take your presence for granted again.
Author's note: Heyy, I absolutely loved writing this rebellious era for you. Let me know what you think, enjoy xx
The relentless hum of the paddock was something you had grown to love, or perhaps it was just something you had grown used to. For the past three years, your life had revolved around the Formula One calendar, dictated by race weekends, qualifying sessions, and the mercurial moods of Lando Norris. You had been there through the podium droughts, the frustrating technical failures, and the glorious victories, always standing just outside the immediate spotlight, ready with a water bottle, a warm smile, and an unwavering belief that he was the best driver on the grid.
Everyone around you, from the marketing team to the mechanics, and even some of your closest friends back home, told you the same thing. You were naive. They said you would stay by his side no matter how much of an idiot he might be, no matter how many times he forgot your anniversary because of a simulator session, or how often he brushed off your plans to hang out with his gaming friends. You never listened to them. You always defended him, telling them that they just did not understand the pressure he was under, that he was just a boy living his dream and you were happy to be his safe harbor.
But lately, the safe harbor felt more like a deserted island.
The shift had been subtle at first. A dinner canceled here, a text message left on read there. Then, it became the norm. Lando started doing everything alone or with his new circle of high profile acquaintances. He went to golf tournaments without inviting you, flew out to fashion shows in Paris while you stayed at his apartment in Monaco to feed his plants, and spent his rare weeks off surrounded by people who only knew him as Lando the F1 driver, not Lando the boy who used to get nervous before media briefings. When you tried to bring it up, to ask if something was wrong between you two, he would just shrug his shoulders, offer a distracted smile, and say his favorite phrase.
He said it when he forgot your birthday dinner because he was stuck in a engineering meeting that had actually ended three hours prior, though you found out later he had gone out for drinks with the team instead. He said it when he decided to stream until four in the morning when you had an early flight the next day. It was his ultimate shield, a way to dismiss your feelings without actually having to address his own shortcomings.
The turning point came on a Tuesday in late May. You had spent three hours preparing a home cooked meal, his favorite, to celebrate a rare three day break before the triple header began. The clock ticked past eight, then nine, then ten. When he finally walked through the door, his eyes were glued to his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he laughed at something someone had sent him.
“Hey,” you said, rising from the couch where the food had already gone cold on the table. “I made dinner.”
Lando did not even look up. “Oh, sorry, I already ate with Max and the guys. We grabbed burgers after the sim. I am absolutely exhausted, I am just going to go straight to bed.”
You stood there, looking at the plates you had meticulously arranged, and felt something snap inside you. The naivety that everyone had warned you about did not vanish, but it transformed. It turned into a cold, hard realization that you had spent years pouring your energy into a cup that had a hole in the bottom. You looked at his retreating back, the slouch of his shoulders that you used to find endearing, and realized you were entirely invisible to him.
The next morning, while he was still fast asleep, you packed your bags. You did not leave a tearful note, nor did you throw a tantrum. Instead, you called your three best friends, girls who had been begging you for months to join them on a trip away from the racing world.
“Is that offer for Ibiza still open?” you asked the moment your friend picked up.
“Always,” she replied, her voice filled with sudden excitement. “Are you finally coming?”
“I am at the airport in an hour,” you said.
By the time Lando woke up and noticed the apartment was unusually quiet, you were already boarding a flight to the Balearic Islands. You turned your phone on flight mode, leaning back against the headrest, and for the first time in three years, you did not feel the crushing anxiety of wondering if Lando needed you.
The first two days in Ibiza were a blur of sunlight, salt water, and absolute freedom. Your friends did not mention Lando once, respecting the unspoken boundary you had set by simply showing up without him. You spent the afternoons lounging on yachts, drinking sangria, and letting the warmth of the sun burn away the lingering resentment. You bought new clothes, dresses that were far shorter and more daring than anything you wore in the paddock, where you always felt the need to look presentable and modest as the supportive girlfriend.
On the third night, you went out to one of the most exclusive clubs on the island. The bass vibrated through the floorboards, the lights flashed in vibrant hues of purple and gold, and you felt alive in a way you had forgotten was possible. You wore a backless black silk dress that clung to your curves, your hair fell in loose waves, and your eyes held a new, sharper spark.
You were standing at the VIP bar, waiting for a round of shots for your friends, when a couple of guys approached you. One of them was a handsome Spanish promoter named Mateo, with a quick smile and an easy charm. He struck up a conversation, and for once, you did not politely mention your boyfriend within the first thirty seconds. You laughed at his jokes, let him lean in close so you could hear him over the music, and when your friend pulled out her phone to take a flash photo of the group, you did not shrink away. You posed, leaning against Mateo with a drink in your hand, a mischievous, smoky smile on your lips.
Your friend posted the photos on Instagram, tagging the location, tagging you, and ensuring the world could see exactly how much fun you were having.
Back in Monaco, Lando had just finished a brutal training session. He was sitting on his couch, scrolling through his phone out of sheer habit, expecting to see a text from you asking how his day was or telling him what time you would be home. There was nothing. His brows furrowed. He had noticed you were gone, of course, but he had assumed you were just visiting your parents or doing some shopping. He had sent a lazy text yesterday saying, where are you, to which you had simply replied, out with the girls. He had shrugged it off. That’s life, people do their own things.
But then he opened Instagram.
The first post on his feed was from your friend. Lando froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. The image was bright, loud, and entirely unfamiliar. There you were, looking absolutely stunning, but it was not the version of you he knew. This version looked wild, untamed, and very much single. You were laughing, your hand resting casually on the forearm of a tall, dark haired man who was looking down at you with unmistakable interest.
Lando felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest, a sickening drop in his stomach that he usually only felt right before a high speed crash. He stared at the man’s hand, which was hovering just above your waist. Who the hell was this guy? Why were you in Ibiza? Why had you not told him?
He immediately tapped on your contact and hit call. It went straight to voicemail. He tried again. Voicemail. He switched to WhatsApp, typing out a message with furious speed.
“Where are you? Who is that guy in the photo? Call me right now.”
The blue ticks appeared almost instantly. You were online. But no reply came.
Lando paced up and down his living room, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a burning anger, mixed with a terrifying wave of insecurity. You did not do things like this. You were the sweet, dependable girl who waited for him. You were the one who tolerated his absence and his moods. You did not go to Ibiza and let foreign men touch you in crowded clubs.
He did not sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash photo of you smiling at someone else. By the next afternoon, unable to handle the silence any longer, Lando did something he rarely did during a race prep week. He booked a private charter straight to Ibiza. He told his manager it was an emergency, ignoring the raised eyebrows and the warnings about his schedule. He needed to find you. He needed to fix whatever this madness was.
Through a mutual acquaintance who knew the club scene, Lando managed to find out which villa your group was renting in the hills of San Antonio. By the time his rental car pulled up the winding driveway, the sun was beginning to set, casting a deep crimson glow over the infinity pool.
You were sitting on a sun lounger, a book in your lap, wearing a white bikini and oversized sunglasses. You heard the gravel crunch under the tires, but you did not stand up. You knew exactly who it would be. Your friends had already gone inside to get ready for another night out, leaving you alone by the water.
Lando slammed the car door shut and marched across the terrace. He looked disheveled, his curls wild, his eyes bloodshot, and his usual easygoing demeanor entirely replaced by a tense, vibrating fury.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, stopping at the foot of your lounger.
You slowly lowered your sunglasses, looking up at him with total calmness. The naivety they all talked about was completely gone from your eyes, replaced by a cool, detached amusement.
“Hi, Lando,” you said, your voice smooth. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a simulator session tomorrow?”
“Don’t give me that,” he snapped, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You vanish for four days, you don’t answer my calls, and then I see you all over social media with some random guy in a club. What are you playing at? Who is he?”
You picked up your drink, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. “His name is Mateo. He is very nice. He actually listens when I talk, which is a refreshing change of pace, to be honest.”
Lando flinched as if he had been slapped. He stared at you, his chest heaving. “Are you doing this to hurt me? Is this some kind of revenge because I was busy last week? You know how hard the season is right now. You know I have to focus.”
“I do know,” you said, leaning back against the cushions. “And I decided to let you focus. I am just doing my own thing now, Lando. I am living my life.”
“By grinding on strangers in Ibiza?” his voice cracked, a mixture of anger and desperation breaking through. “That is not you. You don’t do this. You are supposed to be home. You are supposed to be with me.”
You let out a soft, mocking laugh that cut him deeper than any shout could have. It was a sound he had never heard from you before. It was sharp, a little toxic, and entirely unbothered.
“Supposed to be?” you repeated, tilting your head. “According to who? You ignored me for weeks, Lan. You pushed me out of your life because it was convenient for you, because you thought I would just sit around forever waiting for you to notice me again. Well, I got bored.”
Lando took a step closer, his hands dropping to his sides, his expression shifting from anger to a pleading confusion. He truly did not understand. In his mind, he had just been busy being a Formula One driver, doing what he always did. He did not see how his neglect had eroded the foundation you had built.
“I didn't mean to ignore you,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, trying to find the charm that usually worked on you. “You know how it is. It is just the way things are right now. The pressure, the media, the team. It is just life, you know?”
You stood up then, stepping out of the lounger. You were shorter than him, but in that moment, as you looked him dead in the eye with a cold, beautiful smile, you felt entirely dominant. You reached out, patted his cheek gently, a gesture that was patronizing and entirely deliberate.
“Well,” you whispered, your eyes glinting with a dangerous, rebellious light. “That’s life, Lan.”
Lando froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He recognized the phrase instantly. It was his own weapon, his own excuse, used against him with devastating precision. He watched you walk past him toward the villa, the white fabric of your cover up swaying with every step.
“Wait,” he called out, turning around to follow you. “You can’t just say that. We need to talk about this. You can’t just change overnight.”
You stopped at the glass sliding doors, looking back over your shoulder. “I didn’t change overnight, Lando. You just weren’t looking. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go get dressed. Mateo is picking us up in an hour.”
“You are not going out with him again,” Lando said, stepping forward, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist, though he stopped himself before making contact, sensing the invisible wall you had built around yourself.
“Watch me,” you said smoothly, and with a final, devastating smile, you walked inside and slid the door shut, leaving him standing alone by the pool as the darkness settled over the island.
Lando stood on the terrace for a long time, the cool evening breeze doing nothing to soothe the burning chaos in his chest. He looked through the glass doors, but the sheer curtains were drawn, blocking his view. He could hear the faint sound of music and laughter from inside, the muffled voices of your friends as they got ready. He felt like an outsider, a spectator to a life he used to own the starring role in.
He did not leave. He walked back to his rental car, sat in the driver’s seat, and waited. His mind was spinning. How had he lost control of this so quickly? He had always assumed you would be there. You were the one constant in his chaotic world. When the engineers yelled at him, when the fans criticized him, when the pressure became too much, he always knew he could come home to your quiet, unquestioning support. He had taken that support for granted, treating it like a piece of furniture that would always be in the room no matter how many times he rearranged the rest of the house.
An hour later, the front door of the villa opened. Lando sat up straight, his eyes widening.
You walked out first. You wore a striking red dress that cut low at the front and had a daring slit up the thigh. It was a loud dress, a statement dress, something that screamed for attention. Your friends followed you, all of them laughing and talking excitedly. A sleek black SUV pulled up the driveway just then, and the driver’s door opened.
It was Mateo. He looked just as handsome in person as he did in the photos, wearing a crisp linen shirt and tailored trousers. He smiled warmly as he saw you, stepping forward to open the passenger door.
Lando could not sit in the car anymore. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the driveway, the gravel crunching loudly under his sneakers. All eyes turned to him. Your friends stopped talking, their expressions turning uncomfortable, while Mateo simply looked confused.
You, however, did not look surprised at all. You turned your head slowly, looking at Lando with that same detached amusement.
“Lando,” you said, your voice carrying easily across the quiet driveway. “Still here?”
“We need to talk,” Lando said, ignoring the others entirely. He walked toward you, his eyes fixed on your red dress. “Please. Just five minutes. You can’t go out like this.”
“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head. “I think I look great. Don’t you think so, Mateo?”
Mateo looked between you and Lando, sensing the heavy tension. “Yes, you look beautiful. Is there a problem here?”
Lando glared at the Spaniard, his jaw clenching. “Yeah, there is a problem. I am her boyfriend.”
You let out a soft, sharp chuckle, stepping into the space between Lando and Mateo. “Were, Lando. You were my boyfriend when you actually remembered I existed. Right now, I am not really sure what you are. An uninvited guest, maybe?”
The toxicity in your tone was intoxicating to yourself, but agonizing for him. For years you had been the bigger person, the mature one, the one who swallowed her pride to keep the peace. Now, you realized how much power there was in simply not caring, in throwing his own negligence back in his face. It felt good. It felt liberating.
“Please,” Lando whispered, his anger melting away into pure desperation. The presence of another man, the reality of you leaving in a car with someone else, broke through his stubborn pride. “Just come back to Monaco with me. We can fix this. I will change, I promise. I will make time.”
You looked at him for a long moment. For a split second, a tiny part of the old you wanted to give in, wanted to hug him and tell him it was okay. But then you remembered the cold dinners, the ignored messages, and the dismissive phrase he used to wipe away your tears.
“You had months to make time, Lan,” you said softly, your voice devoid of the anger he expected, leaving only a cold finality. “Now, I am making time for myself.”
You turned around, stepping into the passenger seat of Mateo’s SUV. Your friends quickly scrambled into the back, none of them daring to look at Lando. Mateo gave Lando a wary, final glance before getting into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
Lando stood in the driveway, watching the red taillights of the SUV disappear down the dark, winding road. He was completely alone.
The next three days were a living hell for Lando. He did not return to Monaco. He checked into a hotel in Ibiza, spending his days staring at his phone, waiting for a message that never came, and his nights trying to find out which clubs you were attending. He caught glimpses of you a few times, always surrounded by people, always laughing, always looking radiant and completely detached from him. Every time he tried to approach you, your friends would form a barrier, or you would simply walk away into the VIP section where he could not follow without causing a public scene that would ruin his career.
He was losing his mind. The realization that you could survive without him, that you could actually thrive without him, was a concept he had never considered. He had been so secure in your love that he had let it die from starvation.
Finally, the trip came to an end. Lando found out through a contact at the airport what time your flight back to Nice was. He checked out of his hotel, boarded his own private flight, and made sure he landed just before you did.
When you walked through the arrivals terminal at the Nice airport, your bags in tow, you were tired but happy. The trip had been exactly what you needed to break the spell Lando had cast over you. You felt strong, independent, and entirely in control of your own destiny.
You didn’t expect to see him standing near the exit, leaning against a pillar, looking exhausted and worn out. He was wearing a simple hoodie, his cap pulled low, trying to avoid recognition from the public, but his eyes were locked onto the sliding doors, waiting for you.
Your friends saw him first and sighed. “Do you want us to stay?” one of them asked softly.
“No,” you said, looking at Lando. “Go ahead. I can handle this.”
You walked toward him, your suitcase rolling smoothly behind you. As you approached, Lando stood up straight, his face pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear.
“You’re back,” he said, his voice raw.
“I am,” you replied, stopping a few feet away. “I live here, remember?”
“Can I please take you home?” he begged openly, not caring about his pride anymore. “Just let me drive you back to the apartment. Let me talk to you properly, without the clubs, without your friends, without anyone else.”
You looked at him, assessing the damage. He looked truly miserable, a complete contrast to the confident, cocky driver who had dismissed you just a week ago. You felt a twinge of satisfaction, a dark, toxic thrill that you had been able to break him down just by doing exactly what he had done to you.
“Fine,” you said casually. “You can drive me home.”
The car ride back to Monaco was silent. Lando tried to start a conversation several times, asking about the flight, asking if you were hungry, but you gave him short, one word answers, keeping your eyes fixed on the scenery outside the window. You were not going to make this easy for him. The naive girl was dead, buried under the white sands of Ibiza.
When you finally arrived at the apartment, you walked in and set your suitcase by the door. The place looked exactly as you had left it, the plants you had watered before leaving still green against the modern decor.
Lando closed the door behind him and immediately took off his cap, throwing it onto the counter. He turned to you, his eyes pleading.
“Tell me what I need to do,” he said, his voice breaking. “Tell me how to fix this. I can’t lose you, y/n. I realized it this week. The apartment is empty without you, my head is completely messed up. I can’t even focus on the simulator. I need you.”
You walked over to the kitchen island, leaning against it with your arms crossed. You looked at him, your expression unreadable.
“You need me?” you repeated, your voice dangerously soft. “Or you need the version of me that sat in this apartment like a loyal dog, waiting for you to throw me a scrap of attention between races?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer, reaching out to touch your hand, which was resting on the marble counter. This time, you did not pull away, but your hand remained cold, unresponsive under his warm palm. “I need you. The real you. I am sorry I was an idiot. Everyone told me I was taking you for granted, and I didn’t listen. I thought we were fine. I thought you understood.”
“I did understand,” you said, looking down at his hand on yours. “I understood that I was at the very bottom of your priority list. Behind the car, behind the team, behind golf, behind your streaming friends, behind everything. And I accepted it because I loved you. But then you started doing it all alone. You didn’t even want me around for the ride anymore.”
“I was just trying to manage everything,” Lando argued, his voice rising slightly in defense before he caught himself and softened it again. “It is so hard, y/n. You have no idea what it is like out there. The pressure from Zak, the pressure from the fans, the constant media scrutiny. It drains me. When I come home, I just want to shut down.”
“And you shut me out in the process,” you countered, your eyes lifting to meet his, flashing with a sudden, sharp anger. “You used your career as an excuse to be selfish, Lando. And every time I tried to tell you it hurt, what did you say to me?”
Lando opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He knew exactly what he had said.
“You told me it was just life,” you said for him, a cold smile touching your lips. “You told me that’s life, Lan. Over and over again. You used those words to invalidate everything I felt, to make me feel like I was the one being unreasonable for wanting a boyfriend who actually looked at me when I spoke.”
“I am sorry,” he whispered, a tear finally escaping his eye, tracking down his cheek. He looked completely defeated, his shoulders slumping. “I am so sorry. I won’t ever say it again. Just please, don’t go back to Ibiza. Don’t go back to that guy.”
You looked at the tear on his cheek, feeling a strange mixture of pity and power. You liked this power. You liked knowing that you held the steering wheel of his emotions now, the same way he had held yours for years. You stepped closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies. You could smell his familiar scent, a mix of expensive cologne and the faint trace of hotel soap. You reached up, your fingers gently wiping the tear from his cheek, your touch soft but your eyes remained entirely calculated.
“I might go back,” you murmured, your voice a teasing, toxic whisper right against his ear. “Mateo said he would love to show me Madrid next month. During the summer break, actually. When you are supposed to be off.”
Lando gripped your waist tightly, pulling you flush against his chest. His eyes were dark, fierce with a possessive desperation. “No. You are staying here. With me. I will take you wherever you want to go. We can go to Madrid, we can go to Bali, anywhere. Just don’t leave me.”
You looked up at him, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, rapid beat of his heart. You had won. You had broken through the armor of the golden boy of Formula One, showing him that you were no longer the naive girl he could pick up and put down at his convenience.
But you weren’t ready to make it completely better just yet. You wanted him to sweat a little longer, wanted him to feel the lingering insecurity that had been your constant companion for the past year.
“We will see, Lando,” you said, pulling back slightly, breaking his grip on your waist with an easy, fluid movement. You picked up your suitcase, turning toward the bedroom. “I am tired from the flight. I am going to take a shower. Don’t disturb me.”
Lando stood in the middle of the kitchen, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, watching you walk away once again. He knew he hadn't fully won you back. He knew the relationship had changed forever, that the power dynamic had shifted in a way he could never reverse. You had shown him your rebellious, toxic side, and the worst part for him was that he knew he deserved every single bit of it.
He sat down on the couch, burying his face in his hands, the silence of the apartment louder than it had ever been before. He had no choice but to wait, to play by your new rules, and to hope that eventually, you would let him back into your heart. But for now, as he looked at the empty hallway where you had disappeared, he could only think of the words you had thrown at him by the pool.
That’s life, Lan. And for the first time in his life, he absolutely hated it.
The silence that settled over the apartment that evening did not lift for a long time. Lando stayed on the couch for hours, his head resting in his hands, listening to the faint sound of the shower running from the master bedroom. For the past three years, that sound would have brought him a sense of peace, a sign that you were home and that his world was in order. Now, it just felt like a countdown to an uncertain future. He knew he had pushed you to the brink, and the cool, detached version of you that walked out of the bathroom an hour later, wrapped in a plush gray robe with your hair up in a towel, was proof that he could not use his old tricks anymore.
You did not look at him as you walked into the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water. You did not ask him if he had eaten, nor did you offer to make him anything. You simply took your glass, walked back into the bedroom, and closed the door firmly behind you. Lando did not try to follow. He slept on the couch that night, the tight leather beneath him a harsh reminder of the distance he had created between you.
The next morning, the real work began for him.
When you woke up around eight, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries was already drifting through the apartment. You walked into the living area, fully dressed in a casual linen shirt and denim shorts, ready to head out for a walk by the harbor. Lando was standing by the kitchen island, his hair messy, wearing his training gear, but his phone was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was carefully arranging a plate of warm croissants and fresh berries that he must have walked down to the local bakery to get at dawn.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice quiet, almost timid as he looked up at you. “I made coffee. Exactly how you like it, with the oat milk and just a tiny bit of honey.”
You stopped, looking at the spread, then at him. The old you would have smiled, hugged him around the waist, and thanked him profusely. The new you simply walked over, picked up the coffee cup, and took a sip.
“Thank you,” you said, your voice polite but entirely neutral. “It is good.”
“Are you going out?” he asked, his eyes scanning your outfit, a faint hint of nervousness in his posture. “I don’t have to be at the factory until midday. I thought maybe we could take a walk together. Just down by the water. No phones, no racing talk.”
You looked at him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until he began to shift his weight from one foot to the other. You liked seeing him like this, a little desperate, completely eager to please. It was a sharp contrast to the boy who used to grunt answers at you while staring at a screen.
“Sure,” you said casually, setting the coffee down. “You can come.”
That walk was the beginning of a pattern that Lando maintained with fierce discipline over the next four weeks. The triple header of races was grueling, with events in Spain, Austria, and Great Britain back to back, but the way Lando managed his time shifted entirely. In the past, a triple header meant you barely saw him except for brief FaceTimes where he looked exhausted and distracted. Now, things were different.
During the Spanish Grand Prix weekend, he flew you out to Barcelona, but instead of leaving you in the hospitality suite to fend for yourself while he hovered around the engineers, he made sure you were included in everything that was not strictly confidential. Before the media sessions, he would find you in his private room, sit next to you on the small couch, and just talk. He would ask about your day, ask what book you were reading, or tell you a stupid joke just to hear you laugh.
“I have to go do the TV pen now,” he said on Friday afternoon, standing up and reaching for his cap. He paused, looking down at you, his hand hovering over yours. “Will you be here when I get back? It should only take twenty minutes. I told the PR team I am not doing any extra interviews today.”
You looked up at him, a small, knowing smile on your lips. “I will be here, Lan. Go do your job.”
He smiled, a genuine, relieved expression that brightened his entire face, before quickly heading out the door. True to his word, he was back in exactly nineteen minutes, turning down an invitation to an extra sponsor event so he could take you out to a quiet seafood dinner in the city.
At the restaurant, sitting outside under the warm Spanish night sky, you watched him closely. His phone remained faced down on the table the entire evening. When it buzzed with a notification from one of his gaming friends, he didn’t even glance at it. He just pushed it further away, focusing his entire attention on you as you recounted a funny story about your friends back home.
“You’re really trying, aren’t you?” you asked suddenly, swirling the white wine in your glass.
Lando froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He set it down, his expression turning serious, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat, though you refused to let it show.
“I am,” he said softly, reaching across the table to cover your hand with his own. This time, you did not pull away, letting the warmth of his skin seep into yours. “I told you I would. I know I was an idiot, y/n. I know I almost lost you. The thought of you going off to Madrid or Ibiza with someone else, the thought of you just not caring about me anymore, it terrified me. I don’t ever want to feel that way again. And I don’t ever want you to feel the way I made you feel.”
You looked down at his hand, feeling the first real crack in the icy armor you had built around yourself. The toxicity you had enjoyed wielding in Ibiza was starting to melt, replaced by the familiar warmth of the affection you had always carried for him. But you still kept a small part of yourself guarded. You needed to be sure.
“Words are easy, Lando,” you murmured, looking back up at him. “We have had good weeks before. It is the consistency that matters.”
“Then let me show you,” he pleaded, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles. “Just give me the chance to keep showing you.”
And he did. In Austria, despite a stressful weekend on track that involved a frustrating penalty and intense battles, he did not lock himself away in his room to sulk. After a tough Sunday race, he walked straight back to the motorhome, found you sitting in the corner, and simply buried his face in your neck, letting you hold him while he decompressed. He did not push you away, he did not say that’s life to dismiss the bad result, he just stayed close to you, drawing strength from your presence.
By the time the British Grand Prix arrived, the tension that had defined your return from Ibiza had almost entirely evaporated, replaced by a new, tentative tenderness. He spent his few days off before Silverstone entirely with you at his house in the English countryside. There were no high profile guests, no large groups of friends, just the two of you cooking together, watching movies, and taking long walks through the green fields.
On the Thursday evening before the track action began, you were sitting on the back porch of the country house, wrapped in a large knitted blanket as the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of deep orange and pink. Lando walked out, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, and sat down on the bench beside you. He slid his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side, and for the first time in a month, you did not hesitate. You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
“Just how much has changed in a month,” you admitted, watching the shadows lengthen across the grass. “If you had told me four weeks ago that we would be sitting here like this, I probably would have laughed and booked another flight to Spain.”
Lando tightened his grip on you, a small shudder running through his frame. “Don’t joke about that. I still have nightmares about that red dress you wore.”
You let out a genuine laugh, the sound clear and bright in the quiet evening air. “It was a great dress, Lan. You have to admit that.”
“You looked beautiful,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a soft, vulnerable whisper. “But you looked like you didn’t belong to me anymore. And that was the worst part.”
You turned your head slightly, looking up at his profile in the fading light. The sharp, rebellious edge that had driven you to Ibiza was still there inside you, a new sense of self worth that you knew you would never lose again, but the desire to punish him was gone. He had proven himself. He had spent every single available second of the last month making sure you knew exactly how important you were to him. He had learned his lesson, and you had learned yours, you would never let yourself become invisible again.
“I never belonged to you, Lando,” you said softly, causing him to look down at you with a sudden flash of worry in his eyes. You reached up, placing your hand against his cheek, your fingers tracing his jawline. “But I chose to be with you. And I think I am ready to choose that again. To start over. Properly this time.”
Lando blinked, his breath catching in his throat as your words sank in. The heavy weight he had been carrying in his chest for weeks suddenly lifted, replaced by a rush of pure, unadulterated relief.
“Really?” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “You mean it? You are giving me another chance?”
“Yes,” you smiled, your eyes softening completely as the last of the icy distance disappeared. “A real chance. But the moment you start ignoring me for a simulator or telling me that’s life when you forget our plans, I am back on a tight flight to Ibiza. Do you understand me?”
Lando let out a breathless, happy laugh, his entire face lighting up as he wrapped both arms around you, pulling you tightly into his lap, burying his face in your shoulder.
“I understand,” he promised fervently, his voice muffled against your neck. “I swear, I understand. No more ignoring you. No more stupid excuses. Just us.”
You held him tightly, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against yours. The road ahead would still be challenging, the F1 calendar would still be demanding, and he would still have his moments of stress and distraction. But as you sat together in the quiet English countryside, watching the stars begin to appear in the night sky, you knew things were different now. You were no longer the naive girl waiting in the shadows, and he was no longer taking your presence for granted. You had started over, on your own terms, and this time, you were both all in.
