Sunflower. @filmleclerc - Tumblr Blog

Tangerine Skies | Oneshot

Pairing: dad!lando norris × ex-wife!Reader

Description: You're an Academy Award-nominated film director living between London and Monaco, co-parenting three-year-old twins with your ex-husband, Lando Norris. Eighteen months after a divorce that left you both shattered, you've both managed to master the art of polite distance, scheduled drop-offs, texts about the kids, and very carefully maintained boundaries.

Until the night you show up at his apartment unannounced and walk in on him trying to move on with someone else. Three months of painful avoidance follow, until your twins' fourth birthday forces you back together in your French countryside home where decisions change the trajectory of forever.

Genre: second chance romance, divorced couple, angst with happy ending, great co-parenting, they fuck at da end bc i dont know how to write a story without it :)

Notes: the twins look exactly like lando, just two people who still love each other, i didnt proof read sorry, um idk how to write toddlers, these are probably the most articulate three year olds youve ever heard

WC: a cheeky 21k

You've learned to compartmentalize. It's a skill that's served you well—on set when actors are having meltdowns, when studio executives are demanding impossible revisions, and especially now, standing in the elevator of Lando's Monaco apartment building with two energetic three-year-olds who've just consumed their body weight in airplane snacks.

"Mummy, I need to wee," Mila announces, tugging on your sleeve with the urgency only toddlers can muster.

"We're almost there, baby," you say, adjusting your grip on the car seat you're carrying while simultaneously preventing your son from pressing every button on the elevator panel. "Thiago, hands to yourself."

"But Mummy, buttons!" Thiago argues, his green-blue eyes—so much like his father's—sparkling with mischief.

God, your heart aches.

The elevator dings on the penthouse level, and you usher both children out, their little suitcases rolling behind them. You'd packed them yourself this morning in your London flat before the flight to Nice—five days' worth of clothes, their favorite stuffed animals, Mila's collection of hair clips that she insists on wearing all at once, and Thiago's toy cars that he lines up in precise rows just like the ones he sees on his father's YouTube videos.

You knock on the apartment door, already hearing the chaos of tiny feet running toward it from inside.

"DADDY!" both children shriek in unison before the door even opens.

When it does, Lando's there in joggers and a Loewe hoodie—looking off-duty, relaxed, his hair messy in that way that used to make you want to run your fingers through it. Now you just notice it objectively, the way you'd note good cinematography in someone else's film.

"There they are!" He crouches down immediately, and both kids barrel into him with the force of small cannonballs. "I missed you guys so much. Was the flight okay?"

"Thiago kicked the seat in front of him for an hour," you say, stepping inside and setting down the car seat. "And Mila charmed the flight attendant into giving her three cookie packets."

"That's my girl," Lando says, scooping Mila up and blowing a raspberry on her cheek. She squeals with delight.

You're pulling their suitcases inside when you notice a makeup bag on the console table by the door. Not yours, you'd recognize your own things. This one is Louis Vuitton, with a small charm dangling from the zipper. Your eyes track almost involuntarily around the open-plan space. There's a women's cardigan draped over the back of the sofa.

Something in your chest tightens, and you refuse to open that Pandora box right now.

"Mummy, I still need to wee!" Mila insists, and you snap back to attention.

"Right, sorry, baby. Lando, can I—"

"Yeah, of course, you know where it is," he says, and there's something careful in his voice, like he's noticed you noticing.

You take Mila to the bathroom, helping her with her leggings while she chatters about the clouds she saw from the plane and how Thiago stole her crisps. You're on autopilot, making the appropriate listening noises while your brain is doing something you really wish it wouldn't.

He's seeing someone. Of course he's fucking seeing someone. You've been divorced for eighteen months, you've both moved on, you're both co-parenting successfully, splitting time between London and Monaco, managing schedules around race weekends and film shoots. You're adults about this.

You're fine.

Mila finishes and insists on washing her hands herself, which means water ends up everywhere, and by the time you emerge back into the living room, Lando has Thiago on his shoulders and they're doing a lap of the apartment while your son shouts, "Faster, Daddy! Like a race car!"

"Careful," you say automatically, because Thiago has already had one trip to A&E this year from climbing where he shouldn't, and you're not keen on a repeat.

"I've got him," Lando says, and he does—his hands are secure on Thiago's legs, and he's being cautious despite the running. "So, I'll bring them back Wednesday afternoon? That still works?"

"Wednesday's perfect. I've got a production meeting Thursday morning, so that's—yeah, that's good." You're pulling out the folder from your bag—the one where you keep their schedules, dietary requirements, emergency contacts. It's color-coded because you're that kind of person. "Mila's been having nightmares about sharks, so she's been wanting her nightlight on extra bright. And Thiago needs to practice his letters, he keeps writing his 'S' backwards."

"Like his dad," Lando says with a grin, taking the folder. "I still do that sometimes."

"I know," you say, and there's too much familiarity in those two words, too much history. You clear your throat. "Right. So. I should—"

"Mummy, don't go!" Mila appears at your side, attaching herself to your leg like a barnacle.

"Baby, you're going to have so much fun with Daddy," you say, crouching down to her level. She's got your dark hair but his eyes, and the combination is devastating. "And I'll see you in five days. That's not so long."

"But what if I miss you?" Her bottom lip wobbles.

"Then Daddy will video call me, and we can talk," you say, smoothing her hair back. "And you can tell me all about what you've been doing. Okay?"

She nods, but she's not happy about it. Thiago, meanwhile, has discovered his suitcase and is trying to open it, clearly having forgotten something crucial.

"Go on," Lando says softly. "I've got them. You'll miss your meeting."

You don't have a meeting. You finished your current project last month, and you're between films right now, taking a rare break. But he doesn't need to know that, doesn't need to know that you're going back to your London flat to sit in your editing suite and work on your passion project, the script you've been writing for two years that no one's seen yet.

You kiss both children goodbye—Mila clings, Thiago is already distracted by the toys he can see in his bedroom—and you're almost at the door when you glance back.

Lando's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The afternoon light is streaming through the windows, catching in his hair, and for just a second you remember what it felt like to be married to him, to share this space, to be a family.

Then Mila tugs on his hand, demanding his attention, and the moment breaks.

"Text me when they're settled," you say.

"Always do," he replies.

You let yourself out, and you're in the elevator before you let your shoulders drop, before you let yourself feel the weight of that makeup bag, the evidence of someone else in the space that used to be partly yours.

Your phone buzzes. It's a text from your agent about a Netflix show you're set to direct.

Work. You can focus on work. You're good at that. You've built a career on being able to compartmentalize, to separate the professional from the personal, to direct complex narratives while keeping your own feelings locked away behind the camera.

The elevator reaches the ground floor, and you step out into the Monaco sunshine, your sunglasses already in place.

You're fine. You're absolutely fucking fine.

Three hours later, you're supposed to be reviewing notes from your last production, but instead you're staring at your phone, at the text thread with Lando.

You open it, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You stare at the photo for longer than you should. At your daughter in your ex-husband's apartment, in a room you helped decorate before everything fell apart. The walls are still the soft blue you'd chosen together, and you can see the corner of the elephant painting you'd bought from a gallery in London when you were seven months pregnant and nesting hard.

You miss the life you had—the one where you'd come home from set and he'd come home from the racing, and you'd have dinner together as a family. You miss the mundane intimacy of it, the way he'd do the washing up while you gave the kids their bath, the way you'd collapse on the sofa together after they were asleep and he'd put his head in your lap while you both scrolled through your phones in comfortable silence.

You miss your family being whole.

You set your phone face-down on your desk and press your palms against your eyes. This is what you don't tell anyone—not your therapist, not your best friend, not your sister who keeps trying to set you up with eligible men in the film industry. You can't bring yourself to date. You've tried, once, a nice producer who took you to dinner at Sketch and was perfectly charming and utterly wrong because his eyes weren't green-blue and he didn't make terrible jokes and your children don't have his features carved into their faces.

Mila asks for Lando constantly. "Where's Daddy?" at least five times a day, even when she knows the answer. Thiago has started making this little sound in the back of his throat when he's playing with his cars—a sound that's unmistakably mimicking an engine, one he learned from watching his father's videos. They look so much like him it physically hurts sometimes.

The divorce nearly destroyed you. Not just emotionally, though that was bad enough, those first few months when the babies were so small and needy and you were trying to navigate separating your life from someone you'd built everything with. But publicly, it was a nightmare.

You're not just successful; you're award-winning, Academy-nominated at twenty-seven, with a career that includes box office hits and critically acclaimed independent films. The press had a field day. You'd left a premiere for your latest film and been swarmed by paparazzi outside your London home, all of them shouting questions about Lando, about the split, about whether you'd cheated (you hadn't), whether he'd cheated (he hadn't), why you were throwing away your perfect family.

Someone had gotten a photo of you crying in your car after dropping the twins at Lando's place, and it had been on the cover of three tabloids with increasingly invasive headlines. You'd had to hire additional security. You'd stopped going out unless absolutely necessary.

The UK doesn't have the same paparazzi laws as France or Monaco, and they'd taken full advantage.

Your phone buzzes again.

You go to the bathroom and fix your face—wash away the evidence of the tears you didn't realize you'd been crying, put on a bit of concealer, force a smile. When you FaceTime, both kids need to see Mummy being happy, being fine.

The call comes through, and suddenly your screen is filled with Thiago's face, so close to the camera that all you can see is his nose.

"Mummy!" he shrieks.

"Hi, baby! Back up a bit so I can see you properly."

Lando's voice in the background, "Thiago, mate, you have to hold it further away."

The camera pulls back, and then you can see both of them—Thiago in Lando's lap, Mila tucked against his side, all three of them squeezed together on what you recognize as the sofa in the living room. Your sofa, the one you'd picked out together.

"Mummy, Daddy made pasta but it was yucky," Mila announces.

"Oi, it was not yucky," Lando protests. "You ate three bowls."

"It was a little yucky," Thiago confirms, and you can't help but laugh.

"Traitors," Lando mutters, but he's smiling. "I'm getting better at cooking, for the record."

"I'm sure you are," you say, and your voice is softer than you intend.

You talk to the kids for fifteen minutes—about their day, about the books Lando bought, about the cars Thiago wants to show you in elaborate detail. Mila tells you she misses you but she's being a big girl about it. Thiago says he loves you approximately seven times.

And through it all, Lando is there, keeping them in frame, redirecting their attention when they get distracted, and occasionally catching your eye with this look that makes your chest tight.

When you hang up, your flat feels too quiet. Too empty and you want to rip your heart out so the aching stops.

Wednesday arrives faster than you expect and slower than you want—time doing that strange thing it does when you're both dreading something and desperate for it. You've been in your Monaco home since Monday, the one you bought six months after the divorce when it became clear that splitting time between London and Monaco wasn't just a temporary arrangement.

It's in Fontvieille, deliberately on the opposite side of Monaco from Lando's place, with a view of the port and enough space for the kids to have their own rooms. You'd decorated it yourself, making sure everything was perfect, soft colors, lots of natural light, a media room where you can work, a garden where the kids can play.

It's beautiful. It's also lonely as hell.

You're in your editing suite reviewing footage when your phone buzzes.

You spend the next hour trying not to spiral about what he might want to discuss. Is he moving? Is he getting serious with whoever owns that makeup bag? Is he going to ask to change the custody arrangement?

At 2:03, you hear the car pull up, and then the sound of the gate opening. You're at the door before they can ring, and suddenly both kids are there, launching themselves at you with the force of tiny missiles.

"Mummy!" Mila shrieks, and you're crouching down, pulling them both into your arms, breathing in the scent of their hair, feeling the weight of them solid and real against you.

"I missed you so much," you murmur into Mila's hair. "Did you have fun with Daddy?"

"We went to the marina and saw big boats," Thiago announces. "And Daddy let me have ice cream twice!"

"Did he now?" You glance up at Lando, who has the decency to look sheepish.

"It was a good week," he says with a shrug, and god, he looks good. He's in jeans and a navy blue polo, and he's got a tan from being outside with the kids, and you hate that you notice, hate that it still affects you.

"Go on inside," you tell the kids. "Your toys are exactly where you left them."

They don't need to be told twice, racing past you into the house, already arguing about who gets to play with what first. You stand, and suddenly it's just you and Lando on your doorstep, and the silence stretches awkward and heavy between you.

"You wanted to talk?" you prompt.

"Yeah, um—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Can I come in? Or we can talk out here, whatever you're comfortable with."

"Come in," you say, stepping aside.

He follows you through to the living room, and you can't help but notice the way he moves through your space carefully, like he's not sure he's allowed to be here, which is ridiculous because he's been here dozens of times for pickups and drop-offs. You can hear the kids playing in Thiago's room, their voices carrying through the open door.

"Coffee?" you offer, because you need something to do with your hands.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

You move to the kitchen, and he follows, settling onto one of the bar stools while you work the espresso machine—the nice one you'd splurged on because if you're going to be awake at 4am working, you're going to have good coffee.

"So," you say, your back to him while the machine hums. "What's up?"

"The Monaco Grand Prix is in two weeks," he says, and you can hear him shifting behind you. "And I wanted to ask if you'd bring the kids. To the race."

You freeze, your hand pausing over the cups.

"Thiago's obsessed with cars," Lando continues. "And Mila keeps asking to see Daddy's work. And I just—I think they'd love it. The garage, the cars, all of it. But I wanted to check with you first."

You turn around, leaning against the counter. "Lando—"

"I know it's a lot," he says quickly. "I know Monaco is crazy during race weekend, and there's media everywhere, and it's not exactly kid-friendly. But I'd make sure they're taken care of. They'd have ear protection, someone with them at all times, access to the motorhome if they need a break. And—and I'd really like them to see what I do. Properly."

You study him. There's something in his expression, something almost vulnerable. "This is about Thiago, isn't it? You want him to fall in love with it."

"Is that so wrong?" He's defensive now. "He's my son. This is my life. I want to share it with him."

"He's three, Lando."

"I was three when I started karting."

"I know," you say quietly, and you do. You know his whole history, how his dad recognized the talent early, how racing isn't just what Lando does but who he is at his core. "I just—"

"It's one race," he says. "Just—try it. If they hate it, if it's too much, we'll leave. But I think they'd love it."

"I'll think about it," you say finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You turn back to the espresso machine, pouring the shots. "Let me check my schedule. Make sure I don't have anything that weekend."

You both know you don't have anything that weekend, but he doesn't call you on it, just accepts the cup of coffee you hand him with a quiet "Thanks."

He takes a sip, and his eyebrows rise. "This is really good."

"I've had time to practice," you say, and you mean it to sound light, but it comes out sad instead.

The silence that follows is heavy with all the things neither of you are saying. You're both nursing your coffee, not quite looking at each other, and you're acutely aware that this is the longest you've been alone together since the divorce papers were signed.

"How's filming going?" he asks finally. "Claire mentioned you're developing something new."

"You talk to Claire?" You can't keep the surprise out of your voice.

"She calls sometimes," he says with a shrug. "Checks in. Makes sure I'm not—I don't know, falling apart or whatever she says."

Your agent calls your ex-husband to check on him. That's, you don't know what to do with that information.

"It's going well," you say. "It's a limited series for Netflix. Still in early development, but I'm excited about it."

"That's great," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "You're brilliant at what you do. They're lucky to have you."

The compliment sits warm in your chest, and you hate how much you've missed this—missed him being proud of you, being in your corner.

"How's the season going?" you ask, because fair is fair.

"Good. Car's quick. We're P1 in the championship, which is—yeah. It's good." He's downplaying it. You've been following the season despite yourself, watching race highlights on YouTube at 2am when you can't sleep, and you know McLaren is having their best season in years. "Lots of pressure, but good pressure."

"You always did work well under pressure," you murmur.

His eyes meet yours, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch. "Yeah. Well. Some kinds of pressure are easier than others."

You don't ask what he means. You're not sure you want to know.

From down the hall, you hear a crash, followed by Mila's voice, "It wasn't me!"

"I should—" You both say it at the same time, both moving toward the sound.

But it's just Thiago's car tower falling over, both kids already rebuilding it, and they barely glance up when you appear in the doorway. You and Lando stand there, watching them play, and the domesticity of it hurts.

This is what you gave up. These moments. This family.

"I should go," Lando says quietly. "Let you get them settled."

"Right. Yeah."

You walk him to the door, and he crouches down to say goodbye to the kids, both of them clinging to him, making him promise to FaceTime tomorrow. When he stands, he's closer than you expected, close enough that you can smell his cologne—the same one he's always worn, the one you used to steal his hoodies for because they smelled like him.

"Think about the race?" he says.

"I will."

"Okay." He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but then thinks better of it. "I'll text you the details. Just in case."

"Okay."

He leaves, and you close the door behind him, leaning against it for a long moment. From Thiago's room, you hear Mila call out, "Mummy! Come play with us!"

"Coming, baby," you call back.

But you stand there for another moment, your hand on the door handle, thinking about makeup bag and the way Lando had looked at you in your kitchen, and wondering when exactly your life became so complicated.

You're standing outside the Circuit de Monaco at 8:47am on race day Sunday, and you're having what might generously be called a crisis.

"We can still leave," your sister Margot says from the driver's seat of your Range Rover. She's flown in from London specifically for this—moral support and twin-wrangling—and she's looking at you with that expression that says she thinks this is a terrible idea but she loves you too much to say it out loud.

"Mummy, why aren't we going?" Mila asks from her car seat, already wearing her little papaya dress that matches her brother's McLaren shirt.

"We're going, baby," you say, taking a breath. "Just—just give Mummy one second."

The problem is this: you've kept the twins out of the public eye since birth. Completely, deliberately, ruthlessly private. No photos, no social media, no confirmation beyond a simple statement when they were born. The press knows you have children with Lando—the pregnancy had been impossible to hide—but they've never seen them. You'd both agreed on that, one of the few things you'd managed to agree on toward the end of your marriage.

And now you're about to walk through those gates with two three-year-olds who look exactly like their Formula 1 driver father, and the entire world is going to lose its collective mind.

"You don't have to do this," Margot says quietly. "Lando would understand if you changed your mind."

But you'd promised. You'd promised Thiago, who's been talking about nothing but race cars for a week. You'd promised Mila, who wants to see where Daddy works. You'd promised Lando, who'd looked at you with those eyes and asked if you'd come.

"No, we're doing this," you say, and you sound more certain than you feel. "We're just—we're going in."

Your phone buzzes and it's Lando.

You look at yourself in the visor mirror one more time. The white linen dress with navy embroidered flowers—elegant, understated, appropriate for Monaco in May. Your hair is down in loose waves, you have your favorite pair of Celine sunnies, and you look like someone who has her life together.

You look like a fucking lie.

"Right," you say, mostly to yourself. "Let's do this."

Margot drives to the VIP entrance, and even that is chaos—security, credentials being checked, people everywhere. You can see cameras already tracking your car, photographers recognizing your license plate. By the time you've parked and gotten the kids out of their car seats, there's a small crowd forming.

"Mummy, why are people taking pictures?" Thiago asks, and there's uncertainty in his voice.

"Because Mummy makes movies, remember?" you say, crouching down to his level. "And some people like to take pictures. But you just hold my hand and stay close, okay?"

"Okay," he says, but he's pressed against your leg now, suddenly shy.

Mila is less concerned, more interested in her dress and whether it's twirling properly. Margot has her hand, and you've got Thiago, and together you start walking toward the entrance.

The photographers notice immediately.

"Is that—"

"Oh my god, are those her kids?"

"She brought the children!"

"That's definitely Lando's son, look at him—"

The cameras explode into action. Clicking, shouting, people calling your name, asking you to look, asking about the kids, asking if you and Lando are back together. It's overwhelming and invasive and exactly what you'd been afraid of.

Thiago makes a small noise and buries his face against your leg. You bend down immediately, scooping him up even though he's getting too big for it, and he wraps his arms around your neck.

"It's okay, baby," you murmur into his hair. "We're almost inside. You're safe."

Margot has Mila, who's less scared and more confused about why everyone's so excited. Security is moving people back, creating a path, and you can see Lando now, he's appeared at the entrance in his race suit, his face shifting from casual to concerned the moment he sees the crowd.

He moves fast, closing the distance between you, and suddenly he's there, his hand on your back, his body between you and the photographers.

"Alright, that's enough," he says, and his voice has that edge it gets when he's not messing around. "Come on, let them through."

He guides you inside, one hand still on your back, and the moment you're past security, the noise dims. You set Thiago down carefully, and Lando immediately crouches in front of him.

"You okay, mate?" he asks gently. "That was a bit mad, wasn't it?"

Thiago nods, his face still pressed against your leg.

"They just wanted to take pictures of your mum because she's brilliant," Lando says. "But we're safe now. No more cameras, I promise."

"No more?" Thiago asks, his voice small.

"Not where we're going," Lando confirms. "The garage is a no-photo zone for them. It's just going to be the team, and they're all really nice, and they've been so excited to meet you."

He looks up at you then, and there's something in his expression, his brow furrows and he opens his mouth briefly before closing it again.

After a brief pause, he says quietly. "I'm sorry, I should have arranged better security."

"It's fine," you say, even though your heart is still racing. "We're fine."

Margot appears with Mila, who's now asking approximately twelve questions about why people wanted pictures and whether she's famous now.

"Margot," Lando says, standing. "Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it."

"Someone has to keep this disaster show running," Margot says, but she's smiling. She'd always liked Lando, even after the divorce. "Now, are you going to show us this fancy garage or what?"

The walk through the paddock is different with Lando beside you. People still look, still take photos, but they keep a respectful distance. Thiago relaxes enough to walk on his own, holding Lando's hand, and Mila is fascinated by everything—the colors, the people, the energy of it all.

You pass the Ferrari hospitality, and a woman calls out, "Good luck today, Lando!" You recognize her, one of the other drivers' girlfriends, you think. Then her eyes land on you and the children, and her expression shifts to delighted surprise. "Oh my god, you brought them! They're gorgeous!"

More people notice. More drivers, team personnel, WAGs. Everyone's respectful but curious, and you can feel the attention like a physical weight. The twins are absorbing it all with the adaptability of children, but you're hyperaware of every look, every whispered conversation.

The McLaren garage is a relief, it's climate controlled, organized, and as promised, no media allowed inside. The team is there, and they light up when they see the kids.

Oscar Piastri is the first to approach, crouching down to the twins' level. "Hey there," he says with that easy Australian charm. "I'm Oscar. I drive the other papaya car. You must be Thiago and Mila."

"How do you know our names?" Mila asks suspiciously.

"Your dad talks about you constantly," Oscar says, grinning up at Lando. "Like, all the time. We know everything about you."

"Oscar," Lando says, a warning in his voice, but he's smiling.

The team comes over to introduce themselves—engineers, mechanics, strategists. Everyone is kind and patient, and Thiago's shyness starts to fade when one of the mechanics shows him the steering wheel, explaining all the buttons in terms a three-year-old can understand.

Mila is more interested in the screens, asking what all the numbers mean. Andrea, Lando's trainer, fields her questions with impressive patience.

You stand back with Margot, watching it all unfold. Watching Lando with the kids, introducing them to his world, the pride evident in every gesture. Watching the team embrace them, understanding how much this means to their driver.

"He's good with them," Margot observes quietly.

"He always was," you say, and there's too much emotion in your voice.

Lando glances over, catching your eye, and something passes between you. Then Zak Brown appears, impeccably dressed as always, and he makes a beeline for you.

"You made it," he says, pulling you into a brief hug. "I have to say, when Lando mentioned you might come, I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't delusional."

"Zak," Lando protests from across the garage.

"But I'm glad you're here," Zak continues, ignoring him. "The kids too. This—" he gestures around, "—this is important. Family's important."

The word sits heavy between you. Family. Like you still are one, like you haven't spent eighteen months learning how to be separate people.

The morning passes in a blur. The twins are fascinated by everything, asking endless questions that the team fields with patience and enthusiasm. Thiago is obsessed with the car, running his small hands over the carbon fiber with reverent care. Mila has decided she wants to be an engineer when she grows up, a declaration that makes Lando's face do something complicated.

Around 11:30, Lando has to start his pre-race routine. He crouches down to the twins, explaining that he needs to get ready but they'll be able to watch everything.

"Will you be scared in the car?" Mila asks, touching his face with her small hand.

"Maybe a little bit," Lando admits. "But being a little bit scared means you're doing something brave, right? That's what Mummy always says."

He glances up at you when he says it, and you're hit with the memory of telling him that, years ago, when you were still together and he was nervous about a particular race. You'd been lying in bed, his head on your chest, and you'd run your fingers through his hair and told him that fear was just proof that what he was doing mattered.

"You'll be the bravest," Thiago declares with absolute certainty.

"Thanks, bub," Lando says, pulling both kids into a hug. "You two be good for Mummy and Auntie Margot, yeah? And I'll see you after."

He stands, and his eyes meet yours again. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For bringing them. For being here. It—yeah. Thank you."

"Win for them," you say, and it comes out softer than you intended.

Something flashes in his expression, and you realize it's a deep desire, a want to do well for his kids. "Yeah," he says. "I will."

Then he's being pulled away for final preparations, and you're being guided to where you'll watch the race, a prime spot in the garage with a clear view of the monitors and the pit lane. Margot has the kids, keeping them entertained, while you try to calm your racing heart.

The cars line up on the grid—Lando's in P4, having had a strong qualifying—and suddenly it's real. You're about to watch your ex-husband race through the streets of Monaco, one of the most dangerous circuits in the world, while your children watch.

"Mummy, I can't see," Thiago complains, and you lift him up, settling him on your hip despite the fact that he's getting too big for it.

The start is chaos. Cars flooding through Sainte Dévote, inches apart, the sound overwhelming even with the ear protection. Your heart is in your throat, your hand gripping Margot's arm, and you're watching Lando's car, tracking every movement.

He makes a brilliant move on the first lap, overtaking into P3. The garage erupts, and Thiago is bouncing in your arms, shouting, "Go Daddy go!"

The race unfolds with the particular tension of Monaco—every corner mattering, no room for error. Lando is driving aggressively but smart, defending his position, looking for opportunities. On lap 23, he makes another move, diving up the inside into Portier, and suddenly he's P2.

"Is Daddy winning?" Mila asks, tugging on your dress.

"Almost, baby," you manage, your voice tight. "He's in second place."

With fifteen laps to go, the leader makes a mistake—just a small one, running slightly wide at Rascasse—and Lando is there. He's through, taking the lead, and the garage explodes into celebration. You're not breathing properly. You're watching every corner, every braking zone, willing him to be safe, to be fast, to make it to the end.

Ten laps. Five laps. Three laps.

"Come on," you whisper, and you're not sure if you're praying or pleading. "Come on, Lando."

Final lap. He's through Sainte Dévote, through Massenet, through Casino, and he's going to win. He's going to win Monaco.

He crosses the line, and the garage detonates.

People are screaming, hugging each other, jumping up and down. Thiago is shrieking, "DADDY WON! DADDY WON!" and Mila is clapping and laughing, and you—

You're crying. Properly crying, tears streaming down your face, and you don't even care that people can see, that there are cameras in the garage catching this. Lando just won Monaco, and your children are here to see it, and everything you've been holding back for eighteen months is suddenly right there on the surface.

Margot takes Thiago from you, understanding without words that you need a moment. You press your hands to your face, trying to get yourself under control, but it's impossible.

Because you remember. You remember every late night conversation about this race, how it was the one he wanted more than any other, how winning Monaco would mean everything. You remember being his partner through the disappointments, through the near-misses, through every year he didn't quite get there.

And now he has, and you're not his partner anymore, and it hurts in a way you can't articulate.

The team is moving toward parc fermé, and someone's guiding you and Margot and the kids down, toward where Lando will be after he gets out of the car. The twins are vibrating with excitement, both of them talking over each other about how fast Daddy was, how he won, how he's the best.

You can see him now—climbing out of the car, standing on top of it, arms raised in victory. The crowd is roaring, and he's taking it all in, this moment he's worked his entire life for.

Then he takes off his helmet, and he's looking around, scanning the crowd, and—

His eyes find yours.

Everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the celebration. It's just him looking at you, and the expression on his face is so raw, so open, that you can't breathe.

He's off the car, moving through the crowd, and people are trying to stop him—media, team members, officials—but he's single-minded. He's walking straight toward you, and your heart is hammering, and the twins are shouting for him, and—

He reaches you. His race suit is soaked with sweat, his hair is matted from his helmet, and he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

He looks at you for one more second, and then he's scooping up both kids, one under each arm, spinning them around while they scream with delight. When he sets them down, he's grinning so wide it must hurt.

"Did you see Daddy's race?" he asks them.

"You were SO FAST," Thiago shouts.

"You won!" Mila adds, like he might have forgotten.

"I did," he says, and his eyes drift back to you. "I really did."

Someone's calling him—he needs to go to the cooldown room, then the podium, then media. But he hesitates, looking at you like he's afraid if he leaves, you'll disappear.

"Go," you say softly. "We'll be here."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He nods, pressing quick kisses to both kids' heads, and then he's being pulled away into the chaos of post-race procedures. You watch him go, your heart doing complicated things, and Margot's hand finds yours.

"You okay?" she asks quietly.

"No," you admit. "Not even a little bit."

Because you just remembered what it felt like to be his, to share his victories, to be the person he looked for in the crowd, and you're not sure you can forget again.

The podium ceremony is a blur of champagne and national anthems and Lando standing on the top step looking like every dream he's ever had just came true. The twins are mesmerized, Mila by the champagne spray ("Mummy, why are they spraying it?"), Thiago by the trophy that's nearly as big as he is.

You're standing with Margot and the McLaren team, and you can't stop watching him. The way he holds the trophy, the way he sprays champagne with Oscar who's finished P3, the way he keeps looking down at where you are with the kids like he needs to confirm you're still there.

When he finally makes it back down, he's drenched and grinning and has to do approximately seventeen million media obligations. You take the twins back to the hospitality suite, where they're given McLaren merchandise and more snacks than they need, and you try very hard not to fall apart.

"That was mental," Margot says, watching as Mila explains the race to her stuffed elephant in elaborate detail. "The cameras, the attention, all of it. You okay?"

"Fine," you lie.

"You're a terrible liar," she says. "You always have been."

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the message for a long moment. You'd planned to drive back separately, to give him space to celebrate with his team, to maintain that careful distance you've both been keeping.

But he's asking. He's asking for more time.

It's another forty-five minutes before he's finally free, showered, changed into McLaren team wear, looking exhausted and elated in equal measure. The twins have hit that overtired phase where everything is either hilarious or devastating, and you're running on fumes.

"Ready to go home?" Lando asks, and there's something in the way he says 'home' that makes your chest tight.

"Please," you say. "Before they have complete meltdowns."

The car is waiting outside, a massive black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows and enough space for all of you plus Margot. Lando's security team has already loaded his things, and there's a car seat situation happening that involves one of the team members and a lot of frustrated muttering about British versus European safety standards.

You're gathering the kids' things when you realize the crowd outside has grown. Significantly.

"There's a lot of people out there," you say to Lando, keeping your voice low so the twins don't hear.

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair. "It's been building all day. They know about—" He gestures vaguely between you. "About you being here. The kids."

"Right." Your stomach drops. "We'll just be quick, then."

"Security's going to create a path," he says. "Just stay close to me, okay? I'll have Mila, you've got Thiago, Margot's got the bags."

It's a military operation, basically. You scoop up Thiago, who's starting to get whiny, and Lando gets Mila, and Margot has approximately seventeen bags of kids' things and McLaren merchandise. Security opens the door, and the wall of sound hits you immediately.

There have to be at least two hundred people outside the barriers. fans with phones out, photographers, people shouting questions and congratulations. The security team creates a corridor, but it's narrow, and the noise is overwhelming.

"LANDO! Lando, over here!"

"Congratulations on the win!"

"Is that your son? Oh my god, he looks just like you!"

"Are you back together? Are you and—"

Thiago buries his face in your neck, his small body tense against yours. You hold him tighter, one hand on his back, trying to shield him from the cameras while moving as quickly as you can toward the Escalade.

"Lando, can you confirm you're back together?"

"When did you reconcile?"

"How long have you been seeing each other again?"

You can see the car now, just ten more feet. Lando's ahead of you, his body angled to protect Mila from the worst of the crowd. The security team is doing their best, but phones are being thrust over the barriers, cameras flashing, voices overlapping into incomprehensible noise.

"Are those your children? Can we get a photo?"

"Just one picture! Please!"

"Mummy," Thiago whimpers against your neck. "Too loud."

"I know, baby," you murmur. "Almost there."

Lando reaches the car first, carefully depositing Mila inside before turning back. He's at your side immediately, his hand on your lower back, creating a barrier between you and the crowd with his body.

"I've got you," he says quietly, and then you're at the car, and he's helping you get Thiago in while Margot throws bags into the boot.

Someone shouts, "Does this mean you're back together? For the kids?"

Another voice, "Are you giving your marriage another shot?"

You're climbing into the back seat, and Lando's right behind you, pulling the door shut, and suddenly it's quiet. Or quieter, at least, the voices are muffled now, the tinted windows providing a barrier.

"Jesus," Margot says from the front passenger seat. "That was intense."

"Sorry," Lando says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. "I should have arranged for you to leave earlier, before it got that bad."

"It's fine," you say, but your hands are shaking slightly as you buckle Thiago into his car seat. Mila's already strapped in on the other side, looking tired but okay.

The driver pulls away from the circuit, and you can still see camera flashes through the windows, phones tracking the car as you leave. It takes a full five minutes before the crowd thins, before you're out of the immediate chaos and onto the streets of Monaco.

The car is quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the air conditioning. Lando's sitting next to you in the back, there's a row of seats in the middle where Margot is, and then the back row where you and Lando have ended up, the twins in their car seats between you.

Thiago's eyes are already drooping, the combination of excitement and exhaustion catching up with him. Mila's fighting it, but you can see her losing the battle.

"That was a big day," you say softly, stroking Thiago's hair.

"Daddy won," he mumbles, his eyes closing.

"He did," you confirm. "Daddy won."

Within ten minutes, both kids are out cold, their heads lolling in their car seats in that boneless way children sleep. You carefully adjust Thiago's head so he's not at a weird angle, and when you look up, you catch Lando doing the same for Mila.

Your eyes meet for a brief second before you both look away.

The silence stretches. Margot's got her AirPods in up front, deliberately giving you space. The driver has the privacy screen up slightly. It's just you and Lando and two sleeping children and everything you're not saying.

You watch Monaco slide by through the tinted windows, the harbor with its absurd yachts, the narrow streets, the buildings stacked impossibly up the hillside. It's beautiful and familiar and feels nothing like home.

You're thinking about what happens now. Whether you go straight to your place in Fontvieille or to his place in Larvotto. Whether you say goodbye in the car or walk the kids up. Whether this is the end of today or the beginning of something you're not ready to name.

You're thinking about the crowd outside the circuit, the questions they were shouting, the assumption that you're back together. The photos that are probably already online—you and Lando and the twins, looking for all the world like a family.

You're thinking about—

His hand finds your knee.

Not in a deliberate way, not like he's making a move. It's almost unconscious, the way his hand just settles there on your bare knee, his palm warm through the thin linen of your dress. Like his body has forgotten you're not his anymore, like muscle memory has overridden conscious thought.

You freeze. You should move away, should say something, should maintain that boundary you've both been so careful about.

But you don't.

You sit there, feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of it, and you don't move.

Lando's looking out the window, his face turned away from you, and you can't tell if he's realized what he's done. His thumb isn't moving, isn't stroking or caressing, it's just there, this point of contact that feels monumental and terrifying and like the most natural thing in the world.

The car turns onto the coast road, the Mediterranean spreading blue and endless to your right. The late afternoon sun is turning everything golden, and you're acutely aware of every point where your body exists, the seat beneath you, the air conditioning on your skin, and especially, overwhelmingly, his hand on your knee.

Your heart is doing something complicated. Your brain is screaming at you to move, to break this moment before it becomes something you can't take back. But your body has other ideas, staying perfectly still, afraid that any movement will make him realize and pull away.

You can see his reflection in the window, the line of his jaw, the way he's frowning slightly at something only he can see. His race suit is unzipped at the top, and you can see the edge of his team shirt, papaya orange against his tan skin. He looks tired, the adrenaline of the race finally wearing off, and there's something vulnerable about seeing him like this, in the liminal space between public victory and private reality.

The car slows for a turn, and his hand shifts slightly on your knee, his fingers spreading fractionally wider, and it feels like every nerve ending in your body has relocated to that one point of contact.

This is dangerous. This is the opposite of the careful distance you've maintained. This is—

"Which home, Mr. Norris?" the driver asks, and the moment shatters.

Lando's hand disappears from your knee like he's been burned. He sits forward, putting space between you, and you can see the back of his neck has gone slightly red.

"Um," you say, and your voice comes out rough. You clear your throat. "Mine, please. Fontvieille."

"Actually," Lando says, and he's still not looking at you. "Could you drop me first? Larvotto. Then take them on to Fontvieille."

"Of course," the driver says.

The rest of the drive passes in painful silence. Lando's looking out his window, you're looking out yours, and there's about three feet of space between you that might as well be three miles. Margot's still deliberately oblivious in the front, and the twins are still sleeping, unaware of the tension radiating through the car.

When you pull up to Lando's building, he's out of the car almost before it stops moving.

"I'll—I'll text you about next week," he says, leaning back in to grab his bag. "About the schedule."

"Okay," you manage.

He looks at the twins, both still asleep, and something crosses his face—longing, regret, something you can't name. "Thanks for today. For bringing them. For being there."

"Yeah," you say. "Of course."

He straightens up, closes the door, and then he's gone, disappearing into his building without looking back.

The car pulls away, and you feel the absence of his hand like a physical thing—the place on your knee where it had been suddenly cold.

The rest of the drive to your place is quiet. Margot takes out her AirPods as you pull up to your building.

"You okay?" she asks, turning to look at you. "You've been really quiet."

"Just tired," you say, which isn't a lie but isn't the whole truth either.

She gives you a look that says she doesn't quite believe you but isn't going to push. "It was a huge day."

"Yeah," you agree. "It was."

You carry Thiago inside—he barely stirs—and Margot gets Mila, and you get them both into their beds without fully waking them. You stand in the doorway of Mila's room for a long moment, watching her sleep in her papaya dress with champagne still stuck in her hair, and you think about Lando's hand on your knee, and you think about the way he couldn't look at you when he left, and you think about how you're supposed to go back to normal after today.

You tell yourself a lot of things that you don't believe. Margot finds you an hour later, still sitting on the floor outside Mila's room, your phone in your hand.

"Come on," she says gently, pulling you up. "Let's get you some wine and a terrible reality show. You look like you need it."

"I can't do this," you say quietly as she guides you to the living room. "I can't—Margot, I can't keep doing this."

"What happened?" she asks, settling you on the sofa and heading to your wine fridge. "In the car, something happened. You both got all weird."

You're quiet for a long moment, accepting the glass of wine she pours. "He put his hand on my knee," you finally say. "For like fifteen minutes. And it just fucking sat there. And we both pretended it wasn't happening."

"Oh, babe," Margot says, sitting next to you.

"And the worst part is, I didn't want him to move it," you continue, and your voice cracks. "I wanted him to keep it there. I wanted—god, Margot, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," she says firmly. "You're in love with your ex-husband. That's not wrong, it's just complicated."

"We're divorced," you say. "We're divorced for a reason. We couldn't make it work."

"I know," she says. "But that doesn't mean you stopped loving him."

You take a long drink of wine, and you don't say anything, because what is there to say? She's right, and you both know it, and acknowledging it out loud feels like opening a door you've been desperately trying to keep closed.

The apartment is too quiet.

You've been sitting in your living room for the past two hours, working on script revisions for the Netflix series, but you've read the same page seventeen times and haven't absorbed a single word. Your laptop screen has gone dark three times from inactivity.

The twins left this morning. Your parents had picked them up at 6am for their annual trip to Greece, two weeks on Crete in the villa your dad rents every summer. Mila had been vibrating with excitement, chattering about the beach and the boat and whether she'd see dolphins. Thiago had clutched his stuffed car and asked approximately forty times if you were sure Mummy would be okay without them.

"I'll be fine, baby," you'd told him, crouching down to his level in the pre-dawn darkness. "Mummy has lots of work to do. You're going to have so much fun with Grandma and Grandpa."

He'd hugged you so tight your ribs hurt, and you'd breathed in the scent of his hair—still that little-kid smell of apple shampoo and something indefinably him—and you'd wanted to call the whole thing off, to keep them here, to not spend two weeks alone in this too-big apartment.

But your parents had been planning this for months, and the kids needed time with them, and you needed—

You don't know what you need.

You abandon the laptop and walk to the window. Your apartment in Fontvieille has a view of the port, and you can see yachts glittering in the late June sun. It's beautiful and expensive and exactly what you'd wanted when you bought it.

It's also profoundly lonely.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You check it reflexively, hoping for—you're not sure what. A text from your parents saying the kids arrived safely, maybe, even though they won't land for another hour.

Lando's been doing well. Really well. Three wins so far this season—Monaco, Barcelona, and Silverstone. The championship battle is tight, and McLaren is genuinely in the fight, and every interview he does, he's glowing with this focused energy that you remember from the early days of your relationship, when everything felt possible.

You've been texting about the kids, of course. Quick, functional messages about schedules and dietary requirements and Thiago's newest obsession with dinosaurs. Nothing personal. Nothing that acknowledges what happened in the car after Monaco, his hand on your knee, the way you both pretended it meant nothing.

You haven't seen him in person since then. The twins have been doing their time with him in between his race weekends, but you've arranged for your assistant to do the drop-offs and pick-ups. Clean, professional, maintaining boundaries.

You've been fine.

Except you're not fine. You're the opposite of fine. You're sitting in your apartment on a Friday evening in June with nothing to do and no one to do it with, and you're twenty-seven years old, and you're successful and wealthy and have everything you ever wanted professionally, and you're so fucking lonely you could scream.

You take in a deep breath and take a good look around your apartment. The kids' toys are still scattered in Thiago's room. Mila's hair clips are on the bathroom counter. There's a drawing of a race car stuck to your fridge with a magnet, Thiago's careful three-year-old scrawl spelling out "DADDY" in orange crayon.

You need to get out of here.

You'd bought the Porsche three weeks ago, right after Monaco. A 911 GT3 RS in white with a black interior, absurdly fast and completely impractical for Monaco's narrow streets. Your financial advisor had sent you a very polite email questioning the purchase. Your therapist would probably have questions about the timing and what you were trying to compensate for.

But god, it's beautiful.

It's sitting in your garage, and you grab the keys without thinking, without planning, just needing to move, to drive, to do something other than sit in your apartment thinking about everything you're trying not to think about.

The car roars to life, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. You pull out onto the street, and Monaco spreads out around you—the evening golden hour making everything look like a postcard. You don't have a destination in mind. You're just driving, following the coast road, letting the car eat up the curves.

You pass the casino, the hotel where you'd stayed when you first started dating Lando, back when everything was new and exciting and uncomplicated. You pass the harbor where you'd had your rehearsal dinner, back when you thought marriage was going to be forever. You pass the turnoff for the hospital where the twins were born, where Lando had cried holding Mila for the first time, his hands shaking with the weight of her.

You're not crying. You're just driving.

Except you're not just driving anymore. You're taking turns you know by heart, following a route you've driven hundreds of times, and you don't realize where you're going until you're pulling into the garage of a building in Larvotto, until you're putting the car in park and staring at the familiar concrete walls.

Lando's building.

Lando's garage.

What the fuck are you doing?

You should leave. You should reverse out of here and drive home and pour yourself a large glass of wine and go to bed and pretend this never happened.

But you're already out of the car. You're already walking to the lift. You're already pressing the button and watching the numbers climb.

You're standing in front of the keypad next to his door, and your hand is hovering over it, and this is insane. This is the opposite of maintaining boundaries. This is—

You punch in the code. Your birthday. The code he'd set when you moved in together, before the wedding, before the twins, before everything fell apart. The code he's never changed, apparently, because the lock actually clicks open.

The apartment is warmly lit, not dark like you'd expected. You can hear music playing softly from somewhere inside, something you don't recognize. Your heart is hammering as you step inside, and you're about to call out, to announce yourself, when you freeze.

Lando's in the kitchen.

Shirtless.

He's got his back to you, wearing only grey joggers that sit low on his hips, and he's doing something at the counter, chopping vegetables, you think, though your brain has mostly short-circuited. His shoulders move as he works, muscles shifting under tan skin, and you can see the curve of his spine, the lines of his back that you used to trace with your fingers.

You must make a sound—a sharp intake of breath, or maybe your keys jingle, or maybe he just senses someone's there—because he turns around.

His eyes go wide when he sees you. The knife in his hand freezes mid-air.

"What—" he starts, and his face cycles through about seventeen emotions in three seconds. Shock, confusion, something that might be hope, and then—

Fear. He looks so utterly fucking scared.

"I—" you begin, but your voice dies in your throat.

Because you hear it. The sound of a woman's voice from down the hall, from where the bedrooms are. Light, slightly accented, calling out, "Babe, did you open the wine yet? I can't find the—"

"Yeah, I'll be there in a sec," Lando calls back, not taking his eyes off you.

But his voice has changed. It's gone tight, careful, and the fear in his expression intensifies when he sees your face, when he watches you process what you've just heard.

Babe.

You take a step backward. Your hand fumbles behind you for the doorframe, for something solid to hold onto.

"Wait," Lando says, and he's moving toward you now, the knife forgotten on the counter. "Just—wait, please—"

But you're already taking another step back. And another. Your vision is doing something strange, tunneling, and you can't seem to get enough air into your lungs.

"I'm sorry," he's saying, and he's still approaching, hands slightly raised like he's trying to calm a spooked animal. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—I didn't know you were coming, I would have—"

Another step back and your spine hits the wall of the entryway.

"Please," he says, and his voice cracks. "Please just let me explain. It's not—it's not what you think. It's not serious, we've only been—"

"Stop," you manage, and the word comes out strangled. "Just stop."

He freezes a few feet away from you, and you can see it all on his face, the panic, the guilt, the desperate need to fix this. He looks like he's watching something precious shatter in slow motion and he's powerless to stop it.

"How did you get in?" he asks, and it's such a stupid question that you almost laugh.

"The code," you say and your voice sounds almost robotic. "It's still my birthday."

Something crosses his fac, "Yeah, I never changed it."

"I noticed."

The silence stretches and you can still hear the music still playing from the kitchen, soft and jazzy and it feels so fucking obscene given the circumstances. You can also hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

"I'm sorry," Lando says again, and this time his voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't want, I never wanted you to find out like this."

"Find out what?" you ask, even though you know, even though it's obvious. "That you're seeing someone? That you've moved on?"

"It's not—" He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "It's nothing. It doesn't mean anything."

"Then why is she here?" The question comes out sharper than you intended. "Why is she in your apartment calling you babe and —" You can't finish the sentence. Can't say out loud because it'll make it true, it'll make it real.

"Because I'm trying," he says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "I'm trying to move on, to be, to be bloody normal. To date people and not—"

He stops abruptly, like he's said too much.

"Not what?" you press, even though you're not sure you want to hear the answer.

"Not spend every fucking day missing you," he says, and the words come out rough, almost angry. "Not look for you in every room I walk into. Not check my phone hoping you've texted about something other than the kids' schedules. Not—" He breaks off, his jaw clenching. "I'm trying not to be in love with my ex-wife, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

The air leaves your lungs.

"Lando—"

"No, you know what? No." He's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, like he can't contain the energy suddenly coursing through him. "You don't get to show up here unannounced and look at me like that. You don't get to—" He stops, turning to face you. "We're divorced. You divorced me."

"We divorced each other," you correct, but your voice is weak.

"And I respected that," he continues, like he hasn't heard you. "I gave you space. I kept my distance. I did the whole fucking co-parenting thing exactly how you wanted. I didn't push, didn't ask for more and yeah, I started seeing someone, because I'm trying to—to figure out how to be a person who isn't completely fucking in love with someone I can't have."

Your back is still pressed against the wall, and you're staring at him, and every word he's saying is landing like a physical blow.

"I'm sorry I came," you say quietly. "I shouldn't have. I didn't—I wasn't thinking."

"Why did you?" he asks, and he's closer now, just a few feet away. "Why did you come here?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"I don't have a better one," you say, and your voice cracks. "The kids are gone and my apartment was too quiet and I was driving and I just, I ended up here. I'm sorry."

He's looking at you like he's trying to read something in your face, like he's searching for an answer you're not giving him.

"You can't do this," he says finally, and his voice has gone quiet again. "You can't just show up here and look at me like, like you're hurt that I'm trying to move on. That's not fair."

"I know," you whisper. "I know it's not fair. You're allowed to see people. You're allowed to have someone here. I have no right to be upset about it."

"But you are," he says. "You are upset."

You don't answer, because what's the point? He can see it written all over your face.

"She's nice," he says after a moment, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself as much as you. "She's really sweet. She doesn't have, there's no history, no baggage. It's just easy."

"That's good," you manage. "You deserve easy."

From down the hall, you hear movement. A door opening. You have a feeling she's going to come looking for him, and you cannot be here when she does. You push off from the wall, moving toward the door.

"I have to go," you say.

"Don't," he says immediately. "Please, just, can we talk about this? Properly?"

"There's nothing to talk about," you say, and you're fumbling with the door handle now, desperate to leave before she appears, before this gets any worse. "You're seeing someone. That's, that's really fucking good. That's what we're supposed to be doing. Moving on, being normal."

"Are you?" he asks. "Moving on?"

You finally get the door open.

"I'm trying," you say, which is the truth and also a complete lie.

"That's not what I asked."

You can't look at him anymore. If you look at him, you're going to fall apart completely, and you can't do that here, not now, not with someone waiting for him in the other room.

"I'm sorry I came," you say again. "I won't, it won't happen again. I'll change my number from the emergency contacts, use my assistant for drop-offs. I'll stay out of your way."

"That's not what I want," he says, and his voice is strained.

"What do you want, Lando?" you ask, finally meeting his eyes. "Because I can't figure out what you want from me."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. For a long moment, he just stares at you, and you can see him wrestling with something, trying to decide what to say.

"I don't know," he finally admits. "I don't fucking know anymore."

The honesty of it hurts more than any lie could.

"Okay," you say softly. "Okay."

You step into the hallway, and this time he doesn't try to stop you. You can feel him watching as you walk to the lift, as you press the button with shaking hands. The doors open immediately—a small mercy—and you step inside.

Just before the doors close, you glance back.

He's still standing in his doorway, shirtless and barefoot and looking completely devastated. And you realize that this—this moment right here—this is the actual end. Not the divorce papers, not the separation of your belongings, not the carefully negotiated custody schedule.

This. The moment when you both finally accept that you're not going to find your way back to each other.

The lift doors close, and you slide down to the floor, your legs giving out.

You sit there as the lift descends, hugging your knees to your chest, and you let yourself cry in a way you haven't let yourself cry since the divorce was finalized. Raw, gasping sobs that echo in the small metal box.

The wall is mocking you. It absolutely, 100, gazillion percent is.

You're standing in what will eventually be a playroom in your house in France, staring at the half-painted pale blue surface like it's personally offended you. Which, at this point, it basically fucking has. You've been at this for two hours, and somehow there are still patches you've missed, drip marks you need to fix, and that one corner near the ceiling that you can't quite reach even with the ladder.

The house is chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Your parents arrived yesterday with the twins, who've spent the morning "helping" by getting into everything they possibly could. There are birthday decorations scattered across the dining room table—papaya orange and white, because Thiago had very specific opinions about the color scheme. Mila had insisted on butterflies, so there are approximately seven hundred butterfly stickers that will need to be strategically placed tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The twins' fourth birthday party.

Which means Lando will be here. Today.

Your stomach flips in the way it's been doing for three months now, ever since that night in his apartment. Ever since you walked in on him with someone else and realized that the divorce might be final on paper, but emotionally you're still completely wrecked.

You haven't seen him since. Not in person. Your assistant Claudia has been handling all the drop-offs and pick-ups, and you've perfected the art of being "unavoidably detained" on set whenever he texts about wanting to talk. The twins FaceTime him regularly, and you make yourself scarce during those calls, letting your parents or Claudia supervise.

Professional. Cordial. Completely fucking falling apart.

Your phone buzzes on the drop cloth. You already know what it is before you look.

You stare at the message, then glance at your watch. 2:37pm. You have less than half an hour to finish this wall, shower off the paint you've somehow gotten in your hair, and transform into a version of yourself that can handle being in the same room as your ex-husband without falling apart.

It's not a no, but it's not a yes. It's the same answer you've been giving for three months.

You set the phone down and attack the wall with renewed vigor, like if you just paint fast enough, hard enough, you can somehow paint over the image that's been burned into your brain, Lando shirtless in his kitchen, a woman's voice calling him 'babe,' the look on his face when he said he was trying his hardest to not fuckingbe in love with you.

You're so focused on the wall that you don't hear the commotion downstairs at first. Then Thiago's voice cuts through, shrieking at a pitch that could shatter glass: "DADDY!"

Your hand slips. You leave a long paint streak across the wall that you'll have to fix.

You can hear the thunder of small feet on stairs, excited voices overlapping, and then Lando's voice, warm and bright and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache.

"There they are! Did you get taller? You definitely got taller."

"We're four !" Mila announces, like this is breaking news.

"Almost four," Lando corrects. "Still got one more day of being three. Are you ready for your party?"

"Mummy's painting the playroom!" Thiago says. "It's blue like the sky!"

"Is she? Can I see?"

"NO!" Both twins say it simultaneously, and you can hear the grin in Lando's voice when he responds.

"No? Why not?"

"Because," Mila says with four-year-old logic, "it not finished. You have to wait."

"Okay. Very professional gig you have going on here."

You hear your mother's voice then, greeting Lando warmly. Your parents never stopped liking him after the divorce, which is both comforting and terrible. Your dad appears in the doorway of the playroom a moment later.

"Lando's here," he says, like you couldn't hear the commotion. "Kids are giving him the full tour. We've got maybe five minutes before they drag him up here despite their promise about the reveal."

"Great," you mutter, trying to fix the paint streak you made.

"You know," your dad says carefully, "you can't avoid him all weekend. It's a small house."

"I'm not avoiding him. I'm painting."

"Right and you just happened to schedule painting for the exact time he was arriving."

You don't dignify that with a response.

Your dad sighs. "Sweetheart, I don't know what happened between you two, but—"

"Dad. Please. Not now."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay. But you should know, the kids have been talking about how Daddy needs to stay here, not at a hotel. They've got a whole campaign planned."

Your stomach drops. "What?"

"Apparently Thiago has decided that families should be together for birthdays, and Mila has prepared arguments. I'm just warning you."

He disappears back downstairs, and you're left standing there with a paint roller in your hand, trying to process this new information.

The kids want Lando to stay here. In your house. For three days.

You can't. You absolutely cannot have him staying under the same roof, sleeping down the hall, being domestic and present and—

"Mummy!" Thiago bursts into the room, Lando right behind him. "Daddy's here and he brought presents but we can't open them until tomorrow but he said they're really good and—"

You turn around on your ladder, paint roller still in hand, and there he is. Lando. In your house in France. Wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that fits him unfairly well, his hair slightly longer than the last time you saw him, and he's looking up at you with an expression you can't quite read, refuse to read.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," you manage, acutely aware that you're covered in paint, wearing your oldest clothes, and probably have blue streaks in your hair.

"The wall looks good," he offers.

"It's not finished."

"Right. Yeah. I can see that."

The silence stretches awkward and terrible between you. Thiago is oblivious, chattering about something, but Mila is watching both of you with those too-perceptive three-year old eyes that somehow miss nothing.

"We'll let you finish," Lando says finally. "I just wanted to, yeah. I'm here. If you need anything."

"I'm fine," you say, turning back to the wall.

You hear them leave, Thiago's voice fading as they go back downstairs, and you attack the wall with renewed intensity.

Dinner is a special kind of torture.

Your mother has made her famous coq au vin, and everyone's gathered around the long table in your dining room, your parents, Lando's parents, Cisca and Flo who flew in this morning, the twins, Lando, and you at the opposite end of the table because you're apparently twelve years old and can't handle sitting next to your ex-husband.

The twins are in high spirits, positioned between their Norris grandparents, talking over each other about their party tomorrow, about the games you've planned, about the cake that's being delivered in the morning.

You're pushing food around your plate, hyperaware of Lando's presence three seats down, of the way he laughs at something your dad says, of how natural he looks here, surrounded by both families like this is normal, like you all do this regularly instead of it being the first time since the divorce that everyone's been in the same room.

Cisca keeps catching your eye with this look that's too knowing, too hopeful. You focus very intently on your wine.

"This is delicious," Adam says to your mother, and she beams at him. Lando's dad has always been easy with compliments, warm in a way that made you feel immediately welcomed into their family all those years ago.

"I'm so glad we could all be here," Cisca says, looking around the table. "Together, and as a family."

The emphasis on 'family' is not subtle. You resist the urge to drain your wine glass.

"It's important," your mother agrees. "The children need to see everyone together, especially for important occasions."

"Exactly," Cisca says, and she's definitely looking at you and Lando now. "Family is everything."

Flo catches your eye and mouths 'sorry' with an eyeroll. At least someone at this table understands that this is excruciating.

"Daddy," Mila says suddenly, in that tone that means she's been planning this. "Where are you sleeping?"

Here it comes.

The entire table goes quiet. Even your mother stops mid-bite.

"At a hotel, baby girl," Lando says carefully. "Not far from here. Maybe fifteen minutes."

"But why?" Thiago asks, his face crumpling. "Why can't you stay here?"

"Because—" Lando glances at you, and you keep your eyes on your plate. "Because Mummy's house is for you and Mummy, and Daddy has his own place."

"But it's our birthday," Mila says, and her bottom lip is starting to wobble in that way that means tears are imminent. "And families should be together for birthdays."

You can feel multiple sets of eyes on you. Cisca's particularly intense.

"Bug, we'll be together," Lando says gently. "I'll be here all day tomorrow. The whole party, and I'm not going anywhere."

"But you'll leave at night," Thiago says, and now he's tearing up too. "You always leave at night."

Your dad was right, they've prepared arguments. Probably with help from their Norris grandmother, judging by the expression on Cisca's face.

"This house has so many rooms," Mila continues, gaining confidence. "Grandma and Grandad are in the blue room, and Nana and Papa are in the yellow room, and Aunt Flo is in the pink room, and we're in our room, and there's still the guest room that nobody's using, and—"

"Mila," you say quietly. "Daddy's already booked a hotel."

"But he could unbwook it!" she insists, turning those devastating eyes on you. The eyes she got from Lando, which is really unfair because you can't say no to those eyes. "Please, Mummy? Please can Daddy stay here? Just for our birthday?"

Thiago is fully crying now, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. "I want Daddy to stay," he says, his voice small and breaking. "I want us to be together."

You feel like you're being ambushed. By your four-year-olds. In front of both sets of parents and Lando's sister.

Lando looks physically pained. "Mate, don't cry. It's okay—"

"It's not okay!" Thiago says, louder now, working himself up into a proper tantrum. "You always leave! You always go away! And I want—I want—"

He can't finish because he's sobbing now, and Mila is crying too, and you feel like the worst person in the world. Across the table, Cisca is watching you with an expression that's part sympathy, part gentle pressure.

Your eyes meet Lando's. He looks as wrecked as you feel, and there's a question in his expression, it's your house, your call, but if you say no, he'll be the one who has to comfort two heartbroken children.

You can feel everyone waiting. Your parents, his parents, Flo. All of them carefully not saying anything, but the silence is loaded.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Okay. He can stay."

Both twins stop crying immediately, their tears shutting off like taps.

"Really?" Mila asks, her face transforming.

"Really," you confirm, even though every self-preservation instinct you have is screaming at you. "But Daddy has to be okay with it too."

Six pairs of adult eyes and two pairs of children's eyes turn to Lando. He's very carefully not looking at anyone except you.

"Yeah," he says finally, his voice quiet. "Yeah, if Mummy says it's okay, then I'll stay."

The twins erupt into cheers, and just like that, the crisis is averted. They're back to being excited, chattering about how Daddy can read bedtime stories and be there when they wake up on their birthday.

Under the table, you feel your mother squeeze your hand. When you glance at her, she gives you a soft smile that says 'you're doing the right thing,' but you're not sure she's right.

Cisca looks like Christmas came early. Adam is wisely staying out of it, focused on his food. Flo mouths 'you okay?' and you give her the smallest shake of your head.

Three days. Lando is going to be staying in your house for three days.

This is fine. Everything is fine. Fucking splendid actually.

"Can we play a game after dinner?" Thiago asks, tears completely forgotten. "All of us? Together?"

"That sounds lovely," Cisca says, before you can come up with an excuse. "What game were you thinking?"

And somehow you end up agreeing to a family game night, because apparently you've completely lost control of your life.

After dinner, you escape back to the playroom while the grandparents settle the twins in for the game they insisted on. You need to finish this wall, need something to focus on that isn't the fact that Lando is going to be sleeping down the hall for the next three nights, that you can hear his laughter drifting up from downstairs mixed with the children's giggles.

You're up on the ladder, trying to reach that impossible corner, when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Need help?"

You don't turn around. "I've got it."

"That corner's been driving you crazy for hours," Lando says, and you can hear him moving closer. "I've been watching you try to reach it."

"You've been watching me?"

"The twins pointed it out earlier," he says. "Said you kept saying bad words under your breath."

Despite yourself, you almost smile. "I didn't say bad words."

"Thiago said you said 'bloody hell' seventeen times."

"That's not a bad word."

"It is when you're three and you repeat it at dinner," he says, and now he's right below your ladder. "Come on. Let me help."

For a few minutes, you ignore him, continuing to stretch for that corner, your arm aching from the angle. You can feel him standing there, waiting, and the silence stretches heavy between you.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "About earlier. The whole hotel thing. I tried to tell Mum not to—"

"It's fine," you cut him off, still not looking at him.

"It's not fine. You shouldn't have been put in that position."

"Lando—"

"And I know this is weird, me staying here, but I promise I'll stay out of your way. You won't even know I'm—"

"Can you just hold the paint bucket?" you ask, your voice sharp with agitation. "Please. So I can reach this goddamn spot."

He's quiet for a second, then you hear him move. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

He climbs up a few rungs on the other side of the ladder, taking the paint bucket from your hand, holding it steady so you can dip the roller properly. You stretch again, and finally—finally—you can reach the corner.

"Little to the left," you mutter, leaning further.

"You've got it," he says, and his voice is encouraging in that way that makes your chest ache with familiarity.

You're stretching, focusing on getting the paint smooth, when your foot shifts slightly on the rung. Just a little. Just enough.

"Careful—" Lando starts.

But it's too late. Your foot slips, your weight shifts wrong, and suddenly you're falling, paint roller in hand, and—

Lando tries to catch you while also holding the paint bucket, which is a disaster waiting to happen. What actually occurs is you crash into him with the full force of gravity, the paint bucket goes flying, and you both go down hard, hitting the drop cloth with a thud that knocks the air from your lungs.

Paint goes everywhere. All over you, all over him, all over the drop cloth. The bucket rolls away, leaving a trail of pale blue across the floor.

For a second, you just lie there on top of him, winded and disoriented. Then you register the position you're in—straddling his hips, your hands pressed against his chest, his hands on your waist where they'd tried to catch you.

You're both covered in paint. It's in your hair, on your face, soaking through your clothes. Lando's black t-shirt is now streaked with blue, and there's a paint smear across his jaw, and—

You look down at him, and he's looking up at you, and those fucking eyes, green and blue and so familiar it hurts, are wide and startled and too close.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Yeah," you breathe. "Are you?"

"Yeah."

Neither of you move. His hands are still on your waist, your hands are still on his chest, and you can feel his heart hammering under your palm, matching the frantic pace of your own.

The playroom door is open. You can hear voices downstairs—the twins laughing, someone's phone ringing, the normal sounds of family. Anyone could walk up here and see you like this.

You should move. You should get up, put distance between you, go back to the careful boundaries you've been maintaining.

But you don't.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For, for everything. For that night, for not telling you I was seeing someone, for—"

"Don't," you say, and your voice comes out shakey. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I hurt you."

"You're allowed to move on, Lando. We're divorced. You're allowed to—"

"I'm not with her anymore," he interrupts. "I ended it. That same night, after you left."

The breath leaves your lungs. "What?"

"I couldn't do it," he says, and there's something raw in his voice. "I couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't be with someone when all I could think about was you showing up at my apartment, the look on your face when you heard her voice. Couldn't—" He stops, his jaw clenching. "I tried. I really tried to move on. But I can't. I don't know how."

You're staring at him, paint-covered and beautiful and saying things that are rearranging your entire understanding of the last three months.

"Lando—"

"I'm still in love with you," he says, and it comes out almost desperate. "I know I shouldn't be. I know we're divorced for a reason, that we couldn't make it work, that wanting it isn't enough. But I can't stop. I've tried, and I can't."

Your hands are shaking against his chest. Downstairs, you hear Flo call out something about finding the twins' favorite game.

"You can't say things like that," you whisper.

"Why not? It's true."

"Because—" Your voice breaks. "Because we already failed once. Because we have kids to think about. Because if we try again and it doesn't work—"

"What if it does work?" he asks, and one of his hands comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a streak of paint on your cheek. "What if we're different now? What if we learned from our mistakes?"

"What if we make new ones?"

"Then we make new ones," he says. "Together."

You can hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone's coming. You're looking at those eyes, at the paint in his hair, at the way he's looking at you like you're everything, and something in you just, breaks.

So, fuck it, you think.

You kiss him.

The kiss detonates between you like something long-buried finally clawing its way out. Paint smears wet against your skin as his mouth opens under yours, a low sound rumbling in his chest, hands sliding up your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

You feel his breath hitch when your hips sink down against him, nothing explicit yet, nothing obscene, just the kind of contact that sets every nerve in your body humming like an electrical wire about to snap.

He murmurs your name into your mouth, almost a plea, almost a warning, fingers threading into your hair, paint-slick and trembling. The footsteps on the stairs fade again—whoever it was turned back—and the silence that follows feels thick, charged, obscene in its own way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he breathes, voice uneven, forehead pressed to yours.

Your heartbeat hammers against him. “Lando…”

His hands slide down your back, slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of white paint across your shirt. He studies you like you’re a storm he wants to step directly into, one palm flattening against the small of your back and pulling you flush to him, bodies fitting together with a familiarity that shouldn’t still exist but does, violently.

“I’m not letting you run from me this time,” he whispers, low enough that only your pulse can hear it. “Not after this.”

Your fingers curl into the front of his ruined shirt, dragging him up into another kiss that’s messy, needy, paint-tasting and breath-stealing. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, not touching anything he shouldn’t, but close, close enough that your breath stutters in your throat and your whole body leans into him like gravity’s been rewritten.

The air between you vibrates with what you want to do. What he’s clearly seconds from doing. What you’ve both been starving for.

His lips trail down your jaw, slow like he’s relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your pulse.

You don’t. You can’t.

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like he’s anchoring himself. Like you’re the thing that keeps him steady.

“Then don’t say it,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop me.”

A door downstairs clicks, someone moving through the hallway, and you both freeze, not pulling apart, just breathing each other in, pressed tight, hearts slamming in sync.

The kiss churns through you like molten metal, blistering, clinging, reshaping the very structure of your bones as Lando drags your mouth open beneath his with the kind of hunger only a man who’s spent eighteen months pretending he didn’t need you could ever possess. His hands grip your waist hard enough that your breath shatters against his tongue, paint slick beneath your fingers as you clutch at his shoulders, bodies sliding together in a mess of color, need, and three months of biting back everything that’s burning through you now.

The floor is cold beneath him but his body is fire, every inch of him tense, straining up into you like he’s seconds from snapping. Your thighs bracket his hips, paint dripping from your knees onto the wood floor in slow pale rivers while his fingers dig into you like he can feel your heartbeat in the tips of them.

“Lando—” It comes out wrecked, scraped raw, not a protest in sight.

He kisses you harder, a low desperate growl vibrating up through his chest, rumbling against your ribs as his thumb strokes the underside of your jaw with a tenderness that contradicts everything else about the way he’s holding you. You feel the faintest tremor in his grip, and it does something catastrophic to your breath, because Lando Norris never shakes, never falters, never cracks.

Except under you.

“You have no idea,” he mutters against your lips, every word a ragged exhale, “how many nights I’ve wanted you like this how fucking impossible it’s been.”

Your hips move without thought, a slow involuntary grind down against him, your bodies aligning with obscene, devastating precision. The noise he makes is guttural, punched out of him as his head falls back against the floor with a muted thud, throat exposed, pulse hammering visibly.

A soft choked sound slips from his throat, and his grip on your hips tightens, fingers sliding under your shirt to the bare skin of your waist, paint smearing across you in pale streaks as his thumbs glide upward. Your breath seizes, spine arching instinctively when he skims just beneath your ribs, his fingertips tracing reverent slow lines that make your body bow toward him like he’s a magnet and you’re made of iron filings desperate to cling.

He breathes, your name unraveling in his mouth. Your nails rake through the paint in his hair, streaking more white into the messy curls as his hands finally—finally—slide fully beneath your shirt, palms scorching against your waist, your stomach, your ribs. His touch is almost worshipful, slow enough to be sensual, hungry enough to be maddening.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again, but this time his voice betrays him—he doesn’t want you to. Not even a little.

You lean down, lips brushing his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

“No.”

His lips trail down your jaw, slow like he's relearning you, relearning what pulls a gasp from your chest, relearning the map of your skin with reverent, devastating precision. His breath skims your throat and your hips rock helplessly, instinctively, a soft sound escaping you before you can swallow it.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against your pulse.

You don't. You can't.

Your forehead drops to his shoulder, paint and sweat and heat sticking you together. His hands hold your waist like he's anchoring himself. Like you're the thing that keeps him steady.

"Then don't say it," he murmurs. "Don't stop me."

Your fingers find the hem of his paint-soaked shirt, tugging upward. He helps, sitting up just enough to pull it over his head before his mouth finds yours again, hungrier now, less careful. His hands slide under your shirt, your painting clothes, ratty and old and now ruined with blue streaks—and his palms are warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

You arch into the touch, a broken sound catching in your throat, and he swallows it with another kiss.

"We can't—" you try, even as your hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift under your touch. "Lando, everyone's downstairs—"

"I know," he says against your mouth, and his hand slides higher, cupping you through your bra. "I know, but I—"

He doesn't finish. He just kisses you again, rolling you both so you're beneath him on the paint-splattered drop cloth, his weight pressing you down in a way that makes you feel safe and desperate and like you might fly apart if he stops touching you.

Your shirt comes off. Then your bra, his fingers surprisingly steady on the clasp despite the urgency in every other movement. He pulls back just enough to look at you, sprawled beneath him, paint-streaked and breathing hard, and something in his expression shifts.

"You're so beautiful," he says, quiet and wrecked. "You're so—"

You pull him back down, unable to hear it, unable to let him say things that will make this more than what it is—physical, necessary, the release of three months of tension. But he's kissing you softer now, more intentional, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the hollow of your throat, and lower.

His tongue traces your collarbone, teeth grazing gently, and your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly when he finds that spot that makes your back arch off the floor.

"Still sensitive here," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Shut up," you manage, but it comes out breathy, unconvincing.

He's taking his time now, despite the awareness that you're both on borrowed minutes, that someone could come looking for you. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding down to the button of your paint-covered jeans.

"Okay?" he asks, fingers pausing.

"Yes," you breathe. "God, yes."

The jeans come off, awkward on the drop cloth, and you'd laugh at the ridiculousness of it—stripping on the floor of an unfinished playroom, covered in paint, your entire family downstairs—but then his hand is between your thighs, and laughter is the furthest thing from your mind.

"Oh," you gasp, and his forehead drops to your shoulder.

"Still so responsive," he murmurs, and his fingers move in a way that suggests muscle memory, that suggests he knows exactly what you need. "Still so perfect."

You want to tell him to stop talking, stop saying things that make this complicated, but then he's shifting lower, pressing kisses down your stomach, and your brain empties of everything except the sensation of his mouth, his hands, the way he's touching you like you're something precious even as the urgency builds between you.

When he finally—finally—presses his mouth where you need him most, you have to bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. Your hand flies to your mouth, the other still tangled in his hair, and he's working you with the kind of focused attention that makes your thighs shake, makes heat coil tight and tighter in your core.

"Lando—" you gasp against your palm. "I'm going to—"

"I know," he says against you. "Let go. I've got you, baby."

And you do, falling apart with his name caught behind your teeth, your whole body tensing and releasing as he works you through it, gentle now, almost tender.

When you can breathe again, think again, he's kissing his way back up your body, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you.

"Your turn," you manage, your hand already moving to the button of his jeans.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you interrupt, and you push at his shoulder until he's on his back, until you're straddling him again, working his jeans and boxer briefs down his hips.

He's hard and perfect and familiar, and when you wrap your hand around him, his head falls back against the drop cloth with a muttered curse.

"Missed this," he groans as you stroke him slowly. "Missed you. Missed—fuck—"

You kiss him to stop the words, to keep this physical, uncomplicated. Your hand moves faster, and his hips are rocking up into your grip, and you can feel how close he is in the tension of his muscles, the raggedness of his breathing.

"Wait," he gasps, his hand catching your wrist. "Wait, I want—can we—"

He doesn't have to finish. You know what he's asking.

"Do you have—"

"Wallet," he manages. "Back pocket."

You find it, find the condom tucked inside, and he takes it from you with shaking hands, rolling it on while you watch, and then you're guiding him to your entrance, sinking down slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation.

"Oh god," you breathe, your hands braced on his chest. "Oh—"

"I know," he says, and his hands grip your hips, helping you move. "I know."

It's familiar and new all at once. The rhythm you find is instinctive, your bodies remembering even as everything else has changed. His hands guide you, pulling you down as he thrusts up, and the angle makes you see stars.

"Look at me," he says, and you do. Those eyes—green and blue and devastated—are fixed on your face, watching every reaction, every small change in expression. "Don't look away."

You couldn't if you tried. You're riding him on the floor of your playroom, both still streaked with paint, and you're looking into the eyes of the man you've loved for years, the man you've tried and failed to stop loving, and it's too much and not enough all at once.

"I love you," he says, and you should stop him, should tell him not to say it, but you're too close, too far gone. "I never stopped loving you."

"Lando—" It comes out broken.

"You don't have to say it back," he says, and one hand comes up to cup your face. "Just—let me say it. Let me—"

You kiss him, hard and desperate, and you're moving faster now, chasing that release, feeling it build at the base of your spine. His hand slides between you, finding where you need him, and that's all it takes.

You come apart again, biting his shoulder to muffle the sound, and he follows seconds later, your name a whispered prayer against your hair.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You're collapsed on his chest, both breathing hard, sticky with paint and sweat. His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.

"We should—" you start.

"I know," he says quietly.

But neither of you move. Not yet. You just lie there in the wreckage of your self-control, in the paint and the late afternoon light, and you let yourself have this moment before reality comes crashing back.

Before you have to face your family downstairs, before you have to explain why you took so long, before you have to figure out what the hell this means.

For now, you just breathe, and you try not to think about how right it feels to be in his arms again.

You separate slowly, reluctantly, the cool air of the playroom a shock after the heat of his body. Neither of you speak as you pull on your paint-ruined clothes, there's no saving them, but you need something to wear to get to the bathroom.

Lando stands, running a hand through his hair and leaving new blue streaks. "I'll use the guest bathroom," he says quietly. "You take the main one."

"Okay," you manage, your voice still rough.

He looks like he wants to say something else—something about what just happened, about what it means, but footsteps sound on the stairs. You both freeze.

"Just me!" Flo calls out before appearing in the doorway. She takes one look at you both—disheveled, paint-covered, definitely not looking like two people who just cleaned up a painting accident—and her eyebrows raise. "Right. So. Everyone's wondering what's taking so long."

"We spilled paint everywhere," you say, too quickly. "It was, there was a lot of paint."

"I can see that," Flo says, fighting a smile. "Mum's getting impatient about the game. You might want to shower quickly."

"We're going," Lando says, and you can hear the embarrassment in his voice.

Flo steps aside to let you both pass, and as you walk by, she whispers, "Your lips are swollen."

Your hand flies to your mouth, and she just grins.

The shower is both too long and not long enough. You stand under the hot water, washing blue paint from your hair, your skin, and you try not to think about what just happened. Try not to think about the way he said 'I love you' or the way your body responded to him like no time had passed at all.

Try not to think about the fact that you just had sex with your ex-husband on the floor of your playroom while both your families were downstairs.

When you finally emerge, dressed in clean clothes, soft lounge pants and an oversized jumper, you can hear the game in full swing downstairs. Laughter, the twins' excited voices, someone groaning about losing.

You take a breath and head down.

Everyone's gathered in the living room, your parents, Lando's parents, Flo, and the twins who are bouncing with energy despite it being nearly bedtime. Lando's there too, showered and changed into fresh clothes, his hair still damp. He glances up when you enter, and something passes between you before you both look away.

"Finally!" Mila shouts. "Mummy, you took forever!"

"Sorry, baby," you say, settling onto the floor next to where she's set up what appears to be a very complicated game involving cards and toy cars. "There was a lot of paint to wash off."

"You should be more careful," Thiago says seriously, and Adam laughs.

"Yes, you should," Cisca agrees, but she's looking between you and Lando with that expression again, the one that says she knows something's different and she's pleased about it.

The game is chaotic and makes absolutely no sense, but the twins are delighted, and you try to focus on that instead of the fact that you're hyperaware of Lando across the room, of every time his eyes drift to you, of the way Flo keeps smirking.

By the time bedtime rolls around, both twins are overtired and fighting it. They want a story, then another story, then water, then Mila can't find her specific stuffed elephant, and Thiago needs to line up his cars just right next to his bed.

"I'll do it," Lando offers when you're on the third story request. "You look exhausted."

"I'm fine," you start, but he's already settling between both beds, and the twins are delighted to have Daddy reading to them in Mummy's house.

You retreat to the hallway, leaning against the wall, listening to his voice drift out—doing different character voices, making the twins giggle even as their responses get slower, drowsier. Your mother passes by, pausing to kiss your cheek.

"It's good to see you both here," she says quietly. "Together, finally. Even if it's complicated."

You don't know what to say to that, so you just nod.

By the time Lando emerges, closing the door softly behind him, both twins are finally asleep. He looks tired, softer around the edges, and when his eyes meet yours in the dim hallway, you see the question there.

"We should talk," you say quietly.

"Yeah," he agrees. "We should."

You lead him downstairs to the kitchen, away from where your parents and his are still chatting in the living room. The room is quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of conversation.

"So," you start, then stop. What are you supposed to say? 'Thanks for the orgasm, let's pretend it didn't happen and go back to co-parenting'?

"I meant what I said," Lando says, leaning against the counter. "Earlier. I'm still in love with you. That wasn't, it wasn't just something I said in the moment."

Your heart does something complicated. "Lando—"

"I know you're scared," he continues. "I'm scared too. We fucked it up once already, and doing it again with the kids involved—I know the stakes are higher. But I can't—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I can't keep pretending I'm okay with how things are. I can't keep dropping the kids off and leaving. I can't keep seeing you and not being able to touch you, talk to you properly. It's killing me."

You're gripping the counter behind you. "What are you asking?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I just know I want more than this. More than scheduled drop-offs and texts about the kids. I want—" He stops, looking at you with those devastating eyes. "I want to try again. If you do."

The words hang in the air between you. This is the moment. You could say no, could protect yourself, could keep the boundaries you've so carefully maintained.

Or you could jump.

"I'm terrified," you whisper.

"Me too."

"What if we fail again?"

"What if we don't?"

It's the same question from earlier, but this time you're not covered in paint, not lost in the heat of the moment. This time you have to decide with a clear head.

"I don't know how to do this," you admit. "How to be with you again. How to trust that it won't fall apart."

"We figure it out," he says, and he takes a step closer. "Together. We take it slow. We talk about the shit we didn't talk about last time. We do therapy if we need to. We—we try, actually fucking try."

You look at him—at this man you've loved for so long, the father of your children, the person who still knows you better than anyone—and you think about the alternative. More years of this ache, of pretending you're fine, of being alone.

"Okay," you hear yourself say.

His eyes widen. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, and your voice is steadier now. "But slow. Really slow. And we don't tell the kids until we're sure. I won't, I can't have them hoping for something that might not work out."

"Agreed," he says immediately. "Whatever you need. Whatever makes you feel safe."

The relief on his face is palpable, and before you can second-guess yourself, he's crossing the space between you, pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. You wrap your arms around his waist and let yourself have this—his warmth, his solidity, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

"We should probably go to bed," you murmur against his chest. "Long day tomorrow."

"Yeah," he agrees, but neither of you move for a long moment.

When you finally separate and head upstairs, you pause outside the guest room where he'll be sleeping.

"Goodnight," he says softly.

"Goodnight."

You're in your own room for approximately twenty minutes before you accept that you're not going to sleep. You're just lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him down the hall. Thinking about how your bed feels too big, too empty.

Thinking about how you don't want to be alone tonight.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you're padding down the hallway in bare feet, your heart hammering. You knock softly on his door.

It opens almost immediately, like he wasn't sleeping either. He's in joggers and a t-shirt, his hair messy, and when he sees you, confusion and hope war on his face.

"Can I—" you start, then stop. This is ridiculous. You're twenty-seven years old. "Can I sleep here? With you? I just, I don't want to be alone."

His expression softens into something that makes your chest ache. "Yeah," he says, stepping aside. "Yeah, of course."

The guest room is smaller than yours, the bed a double instead of a queen, but when you slip under the covers and he slides in beside you, it doesn't feel cramped. It feels right.

He doesn't try anything, just opens his arms in invitation, and you curl into his side like you've done a thousand times before. His arm comes around you, holding you close, and you can feel the tension drain from your body.

"This okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," you whisper. "This is perfect."

His lips press against your hair, not a kiss, exactly, just a gesture of affection, and his thumb traces slow circles on your shoulder.

"I missed this," he murmurs. "Just sleeping next to you. Waking up and you're there."

"Me too," you admit.

You lie there in the dark, listening to his breathing even out, feeling more settled than you have in eighteen months. Tomorrow you'll have to navigate the twins' birthday, both families watching you with knowing eyes, the complexity of whatever this new thing between you is.

But tonight, you just let yourself be held and for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep feeling like maybe—just maybe—everything might actually be okay.

back, an arm draped over your waist, breath soft against your neck. For a disoriented moment, you forget where you are, when you are—and then it all comes rushing back.

Lando's guest room. His bed. You asking to sleep here.

The early morning light is filtering through the curtains, pale and gentle, and you can tell by the quality of it that it's early, probably not even seven yet. The house is silent. No sounds of the twins stirring, no footsteps from your parents' room.

Just you and Lando, tangled together like you used to be.

His arm tightens slightly around your waist, and you realize he's awake. You can feel it in the way his breathing has changed, no longer the deep rhythm of sleep.

"Hi," he murmurs against your neck, his voice rough and low.

"Hi," you whisper back.

Neither of you move for a long moment. You're acutely aware of every point of contact—his chest against your back, his legs tucked behind yours, his hand splayed across your stomach. It's intimate and familiar and terrifying all at once.

"What time is it?" you ask quietly.

"Early," he says. "Sun's barely up."

You shift slightly, turning in his arms so you're facing him. His hair is messy from sleep, there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and his eyes are soft and unguarded in the early morning light. He looks younger like this, vulnerable, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Did you sleep okay?" he asks, his hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Better than I have in months," you admit.

Something in his expression shifts, relief and tenderness and something deeper. "Me too."

The silence stretches between you, but it's not awkward. It's heavy with all the things you're both feeling, all the things you said last night and all the things you didn't say. His thumb traces your cheekbone, a feather-light touch that makes you shiver.

"We should probably talk more," you say. "About what this means. About how we do this."

"We should," he agrees, but his eyes are on your lips now, and you can feel the energy between you shifting, warming.

"Lando—"

"I know," he says softly. "We should talk. We should make a plan. We should be sensible and careful and—"

You kiss him.

It's different from yesterday in the playroom. Less desperate, less urgent. This is slow and deliberate, a choice you're making with a clear head in the soft morning light. His hand cups your face as he kisses you back, gentle and reverent, like he's savoring it.

"We really should talk," you murmur against his lips, even as you press closer.

"Later," he says, and his hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip. "We can talk later."

"Someone could come looking for us—"

"The twins won't be up for at least another hour," he says, and now he's kissing down your jaw, your neck, finding that spot that makes your breath catch. "Your parents sleep late. Mine too."

"Very optimistic of you," you manage, but your fingers are already threading through his hair, your leg hooking over his hip.

"I'm an optimist," he says against your collarbone, and you can feel him smiling.

His hand slides under your sleep shirt and his palm is warm against your ribs. You arch into the touch, a quiet sound escaping you, and he swallows it with another kiss.

"We have to be quiet," you whisper.

"I know."

"Really quiet."

"I know," he repeats, and his hand moves higher, cupping your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks. "I'll be good. Promise."

Your shirt comes off slowly, carefully, and then his follows. The covers pool around your waist as he rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs, and the weight of him is familiar and perfect and everything you didn't know you needed.

"Hi," he says again, looking down at you with eyes that are dark and soft and full of love.

"Hi," you breathe, and you pull him down for another kiss.

He's taking his time, relearning you in the gentle morning light, pressing kisses to places he used to know by heart. Your shoulder, the curve of your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and making you gasp. The soft skin of your stomach, your hip bone. Every touch is deliberate, worshipful, like he's trying to memorize you all over again.

When he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sleep pants, he pauses, looking up at you in question.

"Yes," you whisper.

They slide down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and then he's kissing his way back up, your ankle, your calf, the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, and you have to press your hand over your mouth to keep from making noise.

His breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him, and he groans softly. "Missed this," he murmurs. "Missed tasting you."

His tongue parts you slowly, a long, deliberate stroke that makes your hips jerk off the bed. His hands hold you steady as he works you with his mouth—slow circles around your clit, then lower, his tongue pressing inside you while his nose brushes that sensitive bundle of nerves.

"Lando," you gasp against your palm, and he hums against you, the vibration making you shake.

He's in no rush, alternating between his tongue and his fingers, sliding two inside you while his mouth focuses on your clit. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and you have to bite down on your knuckle to stay quiet.

"So perfect," he whispers against you. "So fucking perfect for me."

The praise combined with the pressure of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, it's too much. You're climbing higher, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and when he adds a third finger, stretching you, you come apart with his name caught silently behind your teeth.

He works you through it gently, then kisses his way back up your body, giving you time to catch your breath. When he reaches your mouth, you kiss him deeply, tasting yourself on his lips, on his tongue.

"Your turn," you say, but when you reach for his joggers, he catches your hand.

"I need—" his voice is rough, strained. "I need to be inside you. Please."

"Yeah," you breathe, and you help him push his joggers and boxer briefs down.

He's hard and flushed, a bead of moisture at the tip, and when he settles between your thighs, you can feel him hot and heavy against you.

"Wait," you say, and he freezes immediately, pulling back to look at you with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just—" You meet his eyes. "We don't have anything. A condom."

Understanding dawns on his face.

"I'm still on the pill," you say quietly. "And I haven't—there hasn't been anyone since—"

"Me neither," he says quickly. "No one. Just, just that one time, and we used protection, and I got tested after, and—" He's rambling, nervous. "But only if you want to. We can stop, we can—"

"I want to," you interrupt. "I want to feel you. All of you."

His eyes darken, and he dips his head to kiss you again, deep and consuming. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you whisper against his mouth. "Please."

He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance, and you both inhale sharply at the first contact, skin on skin, nothing between you. He pushes in slowly, so slowly, and the stretch is perfect, the fullness overwhelming.

"Oh god," you breathe, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Oh—"

"I know," he gasps, and he's trembling with the effort of going slow. "I know, baby. You feel, fuck, you feel incredible."

When he's fully seated inside you, he stops, both of you adjusting to the sensation. His forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Okay?" he asks.

"So okay," you manage. "Move. Please move."

He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and the drag of him against your walls makes you both moan quietly. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, just as deliberate, and it's perfect and devastating and too much and not enough all at once.

"Look at me," he says softly, and you do.

Those eyes—green and blue and devastating—are locked on yours, and there's so much emotion in them that it makes your chest tight. Love and want and hope and fear all mixed together.

"I love you," he says, his hips rolling in a steady, deep rhythm. "I never stopped. Even when I tried, even when I thought I should, I couldn't."

Your eyes are burning, tears threatening at the corners. He's moving inside you, steady and deep, hitting that spot that makes your breath catch with every thrust, and it's too much—the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the way he's looking at you like you're everything.

"I love you too," you whisper, and saying it out loud feels like jumping off a cliff. "I'm terrified, but I love you."

His hands tighten on your face, pulling you into a kiss that's somehow both tender and desperate. He's moving faster now, deeper, and you wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him impossibly deeper.

"God, you're so tight," he groans against your mouth. "So perfect. Made for me."

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure building at the base of your spine, spreading through your limbs.

"I'm close," you gasp. "Lando, I'm—"

"I know, I can feel you," he says, and his rhythm is getting erratic, losing the steady pace. "Come for me. Want to feel you come on my cock."

The words combined with the pressure on your clit, the stretch and fullness of him inside you, it pushes you over the edge. You come with your hand pressed over your mouth, your whole body tensing and releasing, clenching around him in waves.

"Fuck," he gasps, and his hips stutter. "Where—where do you want—"

"Inside," you manage through the aftershocks. "Come inside me."

He makes a broken sound and buries himself deep, his whole body going rigid as he comes. You can feel him pulsing inside you, the warmth of him, and something about it feels monumental—this intimacy you haven't shared in so long, this vulnerability, this trust.

He collapses onto you carefully, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. His face is buried in your neck, and you can feel his lips pressing soft kisses to your pulse point.

"That was—" he starts, then just laughs softly. "Yeah."

"Yeah," you agree, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

He lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is so tender it makes your heart ache. "I meant it," he says quietly. "About trying again. About doing this right."

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

"I'm scared," he admits.

"Me too."

His hand cups your face, thumb brushing away a tear you didn't realize had fallen. "But we're going to try anyway?"

"Yeah," you say, tilting your head up to kiss him softly. "We're going to try anyway."

He kisses you back, sweet and gentle, and you can feel him softening inside you. He pulls out slowly, and you both wince slightly at the sensitivity. He reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning you up with tender care before dealing with himself.

Then he's pulling you back into his arms, tucking you against his chest, and you settle there with your ear over his heart, listening to it beat steady and strong.

"We should probably get up soon," you murmur. "Before the twins wake up."

"Five more minutes," he says, his arms tightening around you.

"Lando—"

"Please. Just five more minutes."

You smile against his skin. "Okay. Five more minutes."

You both know you'll stay longer than that. You'll stay here wrapped up in each other until you hear the first sounds of the house waking, until reality creeps back in and you have to face what comes next.

But right now, in this quiet moment, it's just the two of you. And for the first time in eighteen months, you let yourself believe that maybe this time will be different.

Maybe this time, love will be enough.

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