i feel like if li!lando was an og islander, he’d be the type to have to really work to show his girl that he’d serious about them and their relationship.
kind of like melcere (without the toxicity bc ew), but he definitely has a playboy type aura about him that makes his girl second guess being in a couple with him or pursuing the connection.
oh boy, i fear i might've got carried away w this. li!lando you are dear to me.
from the second he steps onto the villa, lando is the hot topic. he's charismatic, effortless, and has that easy-going charm where he can hold intense eye contact without breaking a swear.
when you couple up with him on day one, the chemistry is instant, undeniable, and frankly, a little terrifying. he's attentive, funny, and immediately locks his focus on you.
but he has his red flags. when you watch him from a distance in the kitchen, he's bantering with other girls, dropping winks, and leaning in too close when someone makes a joke.
it's not that he's doing anything wrong, it's just that charm is his default thing. it's a language he speaks fluently, and it makes you feel like you're just the one holding his ticket for now.
the inner doubt starts eating you up. you start pulling back from him. you tell the girls, "he's lovely, but he's a smooth talker. i feel like i'm just his girl of the week."
sensing your sudden coolness, lando's usual tactics stop working. when he tries to pull you for a chat with his usual flirty, lighthearted banter, you don't instantly melt. instead, you call him out.
"you're very sweet, lando. but you're sweet to everyone. i don't want to be just another girl you managed to charm in under a day."
lando would laugh it off, "what do you mean? i only have eyes for you, you know that.
"do i? or do you just know exactly what to say to keep a girl interested?"
and to make matters worse, a new bombshell enters the villa. someone who's exactly lando's type. everyone expects his head to spin. the boys are teasing him, and you're internally preparing yourself to pack your bags and move on, expecting him to take the shiny new girl.
but lando surprises everyone. and instead of pulling the bombshell, he pulls you.
he doesn't do it with a grand, flashy gesture. he sits you down, looking visibly nervous, and fidgets with his water bottle.
"look, i know how i come across. i know i have this reputation, and i haven't exactly made you feel secure. but i don't care about who just walked through those doors. i just want to build this with you, and i'm willing to go at whatever pace you need to trust me. just don't write me off yet."
while he's polite to the bombshell, he draws a very respectful line. he spends his days cooking you breakfast, pulling you for chats that aren't just flirting but actually asking about your life, family, and goals.
you still have your guard up. you've been burned by guys like him before, so every time he takes a step forward, you take a step back.
lando has to constantly prove his intentions. when a challenge involves kissing other islanders, he keeps his kiss with you intense, but handles the others with a quick and respectful peck.
during an evening chat on the terrace, away from the noise, he finally lets the facade drop completely.
"i've never had to fight for someone's trust like this. and honestly? it's the first time in my life a relationship's felt real. i don't want the easy way out anymore. i just want you."
by the time casa rolls around, the entire villa (and the public watching at home) is obsessed with your journey.
when the boys are sent to the other villa, everyone expects lando to be tempted. instead, he spends the entire time sleeping outside, refusing to share a bed with any of the new girls.
he spends his days talking to the boys about how much he misses you (very bryce coded), realizing that the "game" of being a player holds absolutely zero appeal compared to what he has with you.
when he walks back into the main villa, you were half-expecting to see him with someone else. but he's there, standing alone, your photobooth kept in his pocket with the biggest, most relieved smile on his face.
you finally let the wall drop. he worked for it, he proved himself, and you both end up as the strongest, most genuine couple in the finals.
Look, I'm not going to pretend I wasn't in fandom spaces I had no business being in back in the wild west of early-aughts internet — but I at least knew to shut the fuck up and lay low.
Minors invading adult spaces have gotten way too bold about policing ADULT content.
in which lando takes a moment with his family to tell them what he plans to do over the summer break.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 1.3k ୨୧ warnings : language, implied sex ୨୧ note : something short and sweet to help prepare everyone (read: me) for the summer break coming up 😆 if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
part of the lando's heart series. kind of a sequel to take a slice.
lando hadn't fully told his family the plans he had set out for the summer break. not because he didn't want to tell them. no, but mainly because he was afraid that breathing too much of it would somehow ruin everything he has spent the last year trying to perfect.
so, when everyone was gathered for his sister's, cisca, 21st birthday. he knew this was the moment he would tell them the news.
lando was now world champion, and he was going to ask you to marry him.
so now he just needed to tell his family.
which was easier said than done, especially when you were often with his sisters on the rare moment he wasn't hanging off of you. or pulling you back into the large, plush bed of the room you were staying in so he could once more have his way with you.
lando isn't sure if the way the season has been going is making him more sentimental, or if he's just ready to fully bind and devote himself to you.
thankfully, right now he had the perfect moment to tell his family all at once. mainly because mila and athena had dragged you outside to go look at the butterflies that were currently floating around one of the vast, luxurious gardens the estate had to offer. he knew the butterfly hunt would last at least an hour before one of you three got tired. yes, he is definitely including you into the mix.
especially given your track record with any other bug on the planet.
it was now or never.
"i have something i want to tell you guys. especially since y/n isn't in here to hear me," lando says, gaining everyone's attention as he clapped his hands together from where was standing by the double doors that lead to outside. it’s where he had planted himself when he kissed you right before you were dragged away by the two little girls.
"what's wrong, lando?" oliver asked, eyebrows raised as the british driver made eye contact with his older brother.
"it's nothing... well, i can't really say its not serious because it kind of is," he says with a nervous laugh. he had been running his little announcement speech through his head for the past four days now.
"is it about y/n?" flo asked.
"umm, yeah, it is actually."
"is she pregnant?" cisca jr. asked which immediately earned her a slap on the arm from her older sister. "ow, sorry, it was just a joke..."
"no, she's not pregnant. i just..." he trails off, no longer able to find the words and he's thankful his family doesn't rush him. the nerves clearly written all over his face. "during the summer break... i'm– i'm gonna finally ask y/n to marry me. i've been planning it since last year and i had told myself that if i became world champion – that i would ask her to marry me."
the silence that came afterwards almost made him want to jump in the lake that wasn't too far from the grounds – hoping for whatever fish was there to swallow him whole.
and then the silence ceased.
"oh, lando, darling, that's wonderful," his mother says as she stands up and makes her way over to her youngest son. she engulfs him in a tight, warm hug as she holds him. "i had a feeling this was coming. oh, you know she'll say yes."
"thanks, mum," he says softly as he hugs her back, trying not to cry. he didn't want to worry you when you came back. "i... i love her so much. she does everything for me and i want to give her the whole world," he mumbles out softly. his heart pounding and the butterflies you were searching were located right in his stomach.
"where are you taking her?" cisca jr. asked, eyes bright as she looked towards her older brother. he could tell she was excited about the idea of him proposing and a wedding, the type of thing always did excite the twenty-one year old.
"i'm taking her to a few places a vacation before ending in bali and proposing there," he says with a smile. "she said she wanted to go to japan during the break, so i'm taking her there first for her birthday. after that its just kind of... wherever we feel like going. maybe rome, thailand, just where she wants."
"that's sounds lovely, lando, i'm sure she'll absolutely love it," savannah says with a soft smile and he nods his head – heart swelling at the thought of you.
"i've had the ring hidden in one of my drawers for months now. i'm worried she's going to find it one day by accident," he says, pulling his phone out in order to show his family the picture of the ring.
"damn, you're making me look really bad right now," oliver jokes after he and savannah look at the ring. lando only beams as he takes his phone back.
"you have no idea how confused i was the entire time i was researching about rings, and diamond cuts, and everything else. it’s more intimidating than talking about tire degradation in suzuka," his joke easily makes his family laugh.
"that ring is perfect for her, lan," flo assures him, easily able to see how worried he was about it – along with everything else – to be perfect.
he just wanted to make sure it all went according to his plans. you deserved perfect. actually, lando was convinced you deserved way more than just perfect.
he just wasn't sure what that word was yet.
"oh, looks like the girls are coming back," savannah says, catching lando's attention as he turns to see his two nieces coming up to the glass double doors. but his eyes easily flicker to where you are, walking between the two girls, mila marching proudly while athena holds your hand with her tiny one.
"we're back!" mila announces when lando opens the door for you three. the older of the two young girls comes barreling in like she owned the place. loud and proud as she seemingly skipped over to her parents.
athena held onto your hand a little longer before letting go and also making her way over to her parents.
when the doors closed behind you, you immediately turned to look at your lover with a fond smile. his arms opening up just enough for you to fall and melt into them. into him.
"guess how many butterflies we saw!" mila said.
"how many, dear?" his mother asked, looking at her granddaughter with a curious gaze.
"ten!" she answered immediately which was then followed by a softer "ten..." a split second later from athena.
"did you tell auntie ynnie thank you for taking you both out there?" oliver asked, looking towards both his young girls.
"course we did!"
soon enough lando's family all feel into a soft conversation amongst each other, leaving you and lando to be in your own little world. you still wrapped in his arms as you rested your head on his chest. "did you have fun hunting butterflies, princess?"
"yeah, the garden was really beautiful too," you tell him softly, "there was even a small maze that led to a hidden gazebo – we should take a walk through it tomorrow morning."
"you going to be able to get up early enough for that?" lando teases making you huff in response as you roll your eyes at him.
"i will as long as you don't keep me awake all night mister."
lando can't help the grin that takes over his lips, "can't help that my girlfriend is irresistible and gorgeous."
you and lando share a quick, chaste kiss – mindful that his family was still in the room before you went back to resting your head on him. with your back to his family, you completely missed the look of pure happiness that his family all shared as they watched the two of you exist together.
yeah, lando couldn't wait to ask you to marry him.
. The GACHIAKUTA men's reaction to you telling them you'll pay for the next date.
𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐪: Just Got Paid
𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠:: (SEPERATE) Enjin, Gris, Bro, Zodyl, Tamsy, August, Corvus, Follo, Jabber, Regto(Taken place in the past.), (AgedUp!)Zanka, and Rudo
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Here's another Gachiakuta SMAU based on the poll I put up 2 days ago. Sorry that this wasn't up yesterday, my wifi died on me until like 8pm and by then I couldn't be assed to upload anything. This SMAU is my least favorite. I think I might be getting burnt out already, I could kinda sense it with the first 3 that I wrote on one day I wrote the rest of these at like 6 in the morning. Either way I hope you enjoy this Gachiakuta SMAU bc Idk when I'll make another that isn't a request.
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. fluff, established relationship, post timeskip duh kids ages range in 1-6 at max, characters included: iwaizumi, oikawa, kuroo, atsumu, osamu, sakusa, kageyama, hinata, ushijima, bokuto
iwaizumi subconsciously rubs his thumb on your son's back when he taps his chest, asking for his lion plushie that your husband had forgotten, stuck in the bag you had brought whenever it was a day you'd go out with your son.
"and i would like to thank my-" - "papa!" the smaller version of himself basically pulling at his tie while he tries to answer properly. he'd stay perfectly in control though, just to set the scene.
he just tickles the little guy until he stops fussing, at least until he finishes the question. "god, the little man is incredibly eager today, aren't you?" the athlete walks over to your on the sides, escorted by a few bodyguards as you take the hazelnut-headed baby from his arms.
oikawa happily introduces both him and his little girl before answering a few questions. whether those questions are about his gameplay or hi personal life, he answers whatever he can. what people find most adorable is how identical the grin on his daughter face was to his own.
"ah, my spouse? they're actually sitting over there- no i'm not going to point so no one crowds them." the same enthusiasm you fell in love with made you sigh while a few of his teammates stand nearby to bodyguard you in a way.
"dada! wanna say hi to mama/papa!" - "go wave, sweetie, they're right there!"
kuroo has his carbon copy sat on his lap, the little boy having hidden his face for a while in his father's vest, you questioned if it was really a good time to show the world he had a child- well, that's before you knew that crow jr. was just fast asleep.
"ah you know kids, they sleep easy, a luxury i wish i could still have." - "da... i wan' mama/papa..." tugging at the hem of his clothes, you could feel your heart warm when the microphone picked up your son's words.
"we can go to 'em later, okay?" - "huuungry..."
atsumu was getting interviewed right after a game, getting caught offguard, he didn't have time to put his girls down. the older girl being two years more than the smaller girl, one stood and one sat respectively. at least that's the stance he took after tossing them both into the air at least thrice.
"ha? oh! ohohohoh- yeah, these are my kids! just the prettiest in the whole world, aren't they?" placing a kiss on both of their heads, "clearly they take after their mother/father, yeah?"
you could only feel your face heat up hours later when you're rewatching the interview for yourself. "what're ya blushin' 'bout?? was tellin' them the truth!"
osamu gladly introduced the twins you had blessed him with, the two boys that were finally revealed at onigiri miya; helping their father out with work and serving customers with the smile osamu only offered to the love of his life, you.
"mmhhmm, yeah, my boys are amazin' at everythin', aren't they? learned from the best, and look like the best. me and their mother/father respectively."
"'samu, you were so sweet up there but you know damn well they learned how to help you because i pushed them to?" - "yeah yeah. don't take all the credit, beautiful."
sakusa keeps his distance by himself, and it only worsens when his little girl is in the vicinity of cameras, and lights when he finally gets out the locker room post-game. despite the eyerolls and such, he really isn't gonna be a man above flexing about how pretty his little girl is.
"of course she is my daughter, beautiful and much more bearable than you all." is all he really gets out before leaving the limelight to go back to where the two of you were.
"wow, really wouldn't give them a chance?" you smoothly slid a smoothie into his freehand for him and the young lady to share; said little lady already reaching out for the shaved flavored ice. "god, you really want people to know about our life or what?" - "was just joking, 'omi!"
kageyama is... well both him and his barely one year old toddler didn't like the amount of questions being asked, and yearned only for one thing left; to go back to the arms of mama/papa...
"i- yes, she is my daught- no she hasn't been enrol... i..." the little girl looks up at him and blinks anticipatedly, as if telepathically communicatin with her father, she starts to fake a loud cry that successfully gets him out of the spotlight.
"aw is my baby- oh, she's already okay? i thought she was crying?" - "oh you know things babe, i'm just a great dad." he places a kiss onto the little girl's head that makes her babble happily.
hinata, one moment was tossing her up into the air, next thing five journalists and three cameramen are already in his face, asking whose child is it... well, they had the same orange hair... who else's kid would this be?
"uh, yeah, she's my kid. she, and my beautiful partner are my inspiration during matches yes." - "dada! i want hooome!!"
he reluctantly answered only the questions that concerned the games for the next five minutes before coming back to you. "jeez, so many interviewers, huh?" - "okay, mr. popular, our daughter seems hungry."
ushijima is on stage, mic and everything as per usual, but this time the cameras weren't really focused too much on him, rather on the little girl that grasped his jacket's collar with amazement. whispering little words that the mic would pick up, people couldn't help but 'aww' at her!
"yes, the match was very beneficial for the growth of our team." - "ba... pa... papa..." would echo silently right behind the athelete's firm words, he probably couldn't see it, but you could easily spot how easily the crowd faltered at the hands of your daughter.
holding your son's hand, you walk over to your husband as he comes back, "seems like someone's talkative tonight." - "i believe so, our daughter likes the press."
bokuto was pulled onto a stage to talk about his most recent match and how his fake spike came up as an option in his mind. be surprised but i believe he'd be the kind to answer while catering to his daughter. sitting on his lap while he had a large hand around her small body.
"yes! that spike- god it just, you should know... sweetheart, don't eat that; the adrenaline an athlete experiences during a match makes your brain work overtime! and- baby, you know your mother/father is gonna kill me for this-"
long story short he's kinda got it under his control until he realizes 'yooo im a good dad while answering questions professionally'.
husband!giyu is secretly a softie (but just for you ᨳଓ࿔)
most people think your husband is an... odd man. stoic at best, aloof at worse.
they all thought it was weird when the pretty new hashira started dating such a man, surely you could have whoever you want. imagine their surprise when you actually got engaged – who could imagine the stern water hashira getting on one knee?!
but they had it all wrong, you see, because with you? giyu was as soft as could be.
there was rarely a morning you didn't wake up all wrapped up in his arms, face squished against his chest. oh, were you cold? don't worry, giyu was pulling you in tight without a word, rubbing his hands all over your back and making sure the blanket was tucked just under your chin. he didn't care if it meant his feet were uncovered, at least you were nice and warm!
meals were always made by him, complete with breakfast in bed when you both happened to have more free time. giyu loved making you his favourites, bonding over food always a big thing for him, but the most important thing for him was learning your favourites
whenever you came home after a particularly tough training session, giyu was always ready for you. "you worked too hard again" he'd say in his monotone, pulling your tired feet onto his lap. "stop making me worry about you" he complains with a barely concealed pout, rubbing your soles with skiller fingers
but of course he'd never stop worrying about you. you were the most important person in giyu's life, and maybe he wasn't the best with words – but he made it damn sure to show you with actions every single hour of the day
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc )
⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED!
⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc )
⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED!
⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc )
⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED!
⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc )
⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED!
⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc )
⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED!
⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
ⓘ the moment you realized they were the one for you.
feat. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, max verstappen ⨾ fluff, 1.2k wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
LANDO NORRIS . ˚ You almost didn’t tell him.
Not because it wasn’t important.
It was.
You’d worked for it for months. Late nights, stressful meetings, moments where you genuinely wondered if you were good enough.
But when it finally happened, it didn’t feel as big as you expected.
It was just an email.
A promotion. A new title.
A few words confirming that all your hard work had paid off.
When you finally got home, you mentioned it casually.
“Oh, by the way, I got promoted today.”
There was a pause.
A very long pause.
“Wait. What?”
You laughed. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Lando sat up straighter from the couch, his whole expression changing.
“Y/n, you got promoted.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No. Don’t ‘but’ this.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Because suddenly he sounded more excited about it than you were.
“You worked so hard for this,” he continued. “Do you even understand how cool this is?”
“It’s just work.”
“It’s not just work. It’s something you wanted. Something you earned.”
You went quiet.
Because Lando wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better.
He genuinely meant it.
Lando was celebrating you in a way you never thought to celebrate yourself.
“It’s nothing, really,” you shrugged. “Just a small thing. I’d honestly be kind of mad at myself if I didn’t get it.”
His eyebrows immediately pulled together.
“Would you say the same thing to me?”
You looked at him. He didn’t let you speak.
“If I won another championship, would you tell me, ‘It’s basically nothing, Lan. You should’ve expected it’?”
The second he said it, you felt something twist in your chest.
Because no.
Never.
The thought alone felt wrong.
“That’s different,” you argued quietly. “Your work is not the same as mine. My work is not that serious.”
“Why?”
“Because, Lan… you’re literally a Formula One driver.”
“And?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
“It is serious, baby,” he said, softer this time. “Your work matters. Your goals matter!”
And somehow, that was the moment.
Not when you got the promotion.
Not when you saw the email.
But when Lando looked at something you had already dismissed and made you see it the way he did.
Yeah.
You knew you chose right.
OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You knew Oscar hated shopping.
He had never tried to hide it.
The first time you dragged him along, he made it very clear that he didn’t understand how anyone could spend hours walking around stores just to “look.”
And yet, somehow, he kept coming with you.
Even today.
You were already in the third shop, holding up another outfit in front of him while he stood there with your bags, giving surprisingly honest opinions.
“Okay, what about this one?”
Oscar looked up from his phone.
“It’s nice.”
“You said that about the last one.”
“Because it was also nice.”
You laughed. “That’s not helpful!”
He shrugged. “You asked if it looked good. It does.”
You looked at him for a moment.
Oscar Piastri, who hated long shopping trips. Oscar Piastri, who would rather be doing almost anything else.
And yet he was still there.
“Isn’t this boring to you?” you asked.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes. Very.”
You blinked.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
You laughed. “Then why are you here?”
Oscar looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you wanted to go shopping.”
“But you didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He looked at you for a second, like the answer was obvious.
“I like spending time with you.”
And somehow, that was it.
Not some huge romantic gesture.
Just Oscar willingly spending hours doing something he hated because he liked being around you.
That was the moment you realized.
Oscar wasn’t the type to say a lot.
He just showed up.
CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t think Charles was the kind of person who remembered small things.
Not because he didn’t care.
Actually, it was the opposite.
He cared about so many things that you assumed the little details would get lost somewhere between everything else.
So when you mentioned it once, you didn’t think anything of it.
You were sitting together after dinner, looking through the dessert menu, when you pointed at one of the options.
“Oh, I love that one,” you said casually. “But they never have it anywhere.”
Charles looked up from his menu.
“You like that?”
You shrugged. “Yeah. It’s probably my favorite.”
And then the conversation moved on.
You forgot about it.
Completely.
Weeks passed.
Life got busy. Schedules changed. You had a hundred other things to think about.
Until one evening, Charles showed up at your door with a small box in his hands and a smile on his face.
“I brought you something.”
You looked at the box, then back at him.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside was the dessert.
The exact one you had mentioned weeks ago.
For a second, you just stared.
“Charles…”
He looked slightly confused by your reaction.
“What?”
“You remembered this?”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Of course I remembered, chérie.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“You know I only mentioned it once, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you still remembered?”
He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You liked it.”
That was his entire explanation.
You looked at him for a moment, realizing something.
Charles wasn’t remembering things because he was trying to impress you.
He remembered because when you spoke, he actually listened.
MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You knew Max loved padel.
Everyone knew Max loved padel.
It was one of those things that made him genuinely happy. A few hours where he could forget about everything else, joke around with his friends, and just enjoy himself.
So when you texted him about your IKEA disaster, you weren’t expecting much.
I think I bought a wardrobe that’s too complicated for me.
His reply came almost immediately.
I have padel tonight.
You smiled.
I know. I’m not asking you to come.
A few minutes passed.
Good.
You laughed at his very Max-like response and put your phone down.
You weren’t expecting him to show up.
Which was why you were completely shocked when someone knocked on your door an hour later.
You opened it.
Max stood there.
With a toolbox in one hand.
You blinked.
“Max?”
“Hey, schat.”
“What are you doing here?”
He looked past you, directly at the half-built wardrobe taking over your apartment.
“I’m fixing that.”
You stared at him.
“Weren’t you supposed to be at padel?”
“I was.”
“And?”
“I cancelled.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
He shrugged, already walking inside.
“I can’t risk that thing falling on you.”
You looked at the wardrobe, then back at him.
“That’s your reason?”
“Yes.”
“You cancelled padel because you’re worried my wardrobe might attack me?”
“It looks unstable.”
You tried not to laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
He picked up the instructions from the floor.
“But I’m also right.”
And annoyingly, he was.
You watched him sit down on the floor, completely focused on building something he had no responsibility for fixing.
“You know you didn’t have to come, right?”
Max looked up at you.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
For a second, he looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you needed help.”
Simple. No dramatic explanation. No making it a big deal.
Just Max showing up because, in his mind, that was the obvious thing to do.
And as you watched him fight with IKEA instructions instead of playing padel with his friends, you realized something.
ⓘ the moment you realized they were the one for you.
feat. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, max verstappen ⨾ fluff, 1.2k wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
LANDO NORRIS . ˚ You almost didn’t tell him.
Not because it wasn’t important.
It was.
You’d worked for it for months. Late nights, stressful meetings, moments where you genuinely wondered if you were good enough.
But when it finally happened, it didn’t feel as big as you expected.
It was just an email.
A promotion. A new title.
A few words confirming that all your hard work had paid off.
When you finally got home, you mentioned it casually.
“Oh, by the way, I got promoted today.”
There was a pause.
A very long pause.
“Wait. What?”
You laughed. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Lando sat up straighter from the couch, his whole expression changing.
“Y/n, you got promoted.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No. Don’t ‘but’ this.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Because suddenly he sounded more excited about it than you were.
“You worked so hard for this,” he continued. “Do you even understand how cool this is?”
“It’s just work.”
“It’s not just work. It’s something you wanted. Something you earned.”
You went quiet.
Because Lando wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better.
He genuinely meant it.
Lando was celebrating you in a way you never thought to celebrate yourself.
“It’s nothing, really,” you shrugged. “Just a small thing. I’d honestly be kind of mad at myself if I didn’t get it.”
His eyebrows immediately pulled together.
“Would you say the same thing to me?”
You looked at him. He didn’t let you speak.
“If I won another championship, would you tell me, ‘It’s basically nothing, Lan. You should’ve expected it’?”
The second he said it, you felt something twist in your chest.
Because no.
Never.
The thought alone felt wrong.
“That’s different,” you argued quietly. “Your work is not the same as mine. My work is not that serious.”
“Why?”
“Because, Lan… you’re literally a Formula One driver.”
“And?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
“It is serious, baby,” he said, softer this time. “Your work matters. Your goals matter!”
And somehow, that was the moment.
Not when you got the promotion.
Not when you saw the email.
But when Lando looked at something you had already dismissed and made you see it the way he did.
Yeah.
You knew you chose right.
OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You knew Oscar hated shopping.
He had never tried to hide it.
The first time you dragged him along, he made it very clear that he didn’t understand how anyone could spend hours walking around stores just to “look.”
And yet, somehow, he kept coming with you.
Even today.
You were already in the third shop, holding up another outfit in front of him while he stood there with your bags, giving surprisingly honest opinions.
“Okay, what about this one?”
Oscar looked up from his phone.
“It’s nice.”
“You said that about the last one.”
“Because it was also nice.”
You laughed. “That’s not helpful!”
He shrugged. “You asked if it looked good. It does.”
You looked at him for a moment.
Oscar Piastri, who hated long shopping trips. Oscar Piastri, who would rather be doing almost anything else.
And yet he was still there.
“Isn’t this boring to you?” you asked.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes. Very.”
You blinked.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
You laughed. “Then why are you here?”
Oscar looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you wanted to go shopping.”
“But you didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He looked at you for a second, like the answer was obvious.
“I like spending time with you.”
And somehow, that was it.
Not some huge romantic gesture.
Just Oscar willingly spending hours doing something he hated because he liked being around you.
That was the moment you realized.
Oscar wasn’t the type to say a lot.
He just showed up.
CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t think Charles was the kind of person who remembered small things.
Not because he didn’t care.
Actually, it was the opposite.
He cared about so many things that you assumed the little details would get lost somewhere between everything else.
So when you mentioned it once, you didn’t think anything of it.
You were sitting together after dinner, looking through the dessert menu, when you pointed at one of the options.
“Oh, I love that one,” you said casually. “But they never have it anywhere.”
Charles looked up from his menu.
“You like that?”
You shrugged. “Yeah. It’s probably my favorite.”
And then the conversation moved on.
You forgot about it.
Completely.
Weeks passed.
Life got busy. Schedules changed. You had a hundred other things to think about.
Until one evening, Charles showed up at your door with a small box in his hands and a smile on his face.
“I brought you something.”
You looked at the box, then back at him.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside was the dessert.
The exact one you had mentioned weeks ago.
For a second, you just stared.
“Charles…”
He looked slightly confused by your reaction.
“What?”
“You remembered this?”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Of course I remembered, chérie.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“You know I only mentioned it once, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you still remembered?”
He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You liked it.”
That was his entire explanation.
You looked at him for a moment, realizing something.
Charles wasn’t remembering things because he was trying to impress you.
He remembered because when you spoke, he actually listened.
MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You knew Max loved padel.
Everyone knew Max loved padel.
It was one of those things that made him genuinely happy. A few hours where he could forget about everything else, joke around with his friends, and just enjoy himself.
So when you texted him about your IKEA disaster, you weren’t expecting much.
I think I bought a wardrobe that’s too complicated for me.
His reply came almost immediately.
I have padel tonight.
You smiled.
I know. I’m not asking you to come.
A few minutes passed.
Good.
You laughed at his very Max-like response and put your phone down.
You weren’t expecting him to show up.
Which was why you were completely shocked when someone knocked on your door an hour later.
You opened it.
Max stood there.
With a toolbox in one hand.
You blinked.
“Max?”
“Hey, schat.”
“What are you doing here?”
He looked past you, directly at the half-built wardrobe taking over your apartment.
“I’m fixing that.”
You stared at him.
“Weren’t you supposed to be at padel?”
“I was.”
“And?”
“I cancelled.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
He shrugged, already walking inside.
“I can’t risk that thing falling on you.”
You looked at the wardrobe, then back at him.
“That’s your reason?”
“Yes.”
“You cancelled padel because you’re worried my wardrobe might attack me?”
“It looks unstable.”
You tried not to laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
He picked up the instructions from the floor.
“But I’m also right.”
And annoyingly, he was.
You watched him sit down on the floor, completely focused on building something he had no responsibility for fixing.
“You know you didn’t have to come, right?”
Max looked up at you.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
For a second, he looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you needed help.”
Simple. No dramatic explanation. No making it a big deal.
Just Max showing up because, in his mind, that was the obvious thing to do.
And as you watched him fight with IKEA instructions instead of playing padel with his friends, you realized something.
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