hey, i'm gaia ✦ in my 20s ✦ she/they ✦
writer. fangirl. chaos enthusiast. and not really a grown-up
currently spiraling over Devil’s Night series (send help... or don't) and working on my own book.
this blog is my safe space for fanfics, late-night obsessions, and emotional damage via fictional characters.
expect unhinged thoughts on Formula 1, Squid Game, K-Pop breakdowns (especially BigBang), and more fandom deep-dives than asked for.
welcome to my chaotic corner of the internet
Summary: Lando is a dad of a very feisty teenage daughter, fighting for his life to discipline the same behaviour that he loves in her mom.
a/n: buckle up, this one is long...
>>>>
You push open the glass door to the McLaren strategy room, data tablet clutched to your chest like a shield. It's your first day as lead strategist, and the room falls quiet as you enter. Engineers and technicians glance up, curious about the new addition to their team. At the front of the room stands Lando Norris—McLaren's star driver, racing prodigy, and according to the paddock gossip, notoriously stubborn about race strategy. He's mid-sentence when he notices you, pausing just long enough to offer a quick nod before continuing his point about tire management. His confidence fills the room, but as he outlines his plan for the upcoming race, you spot three critical flaws in his logic that no one else seems willing to address.
"So I think if we push in the first stint, really attack those opening laps," Lando continues, gesturing at the projected simulation, "we can build enough of a gap to cover the undercut. Their pace on hards isn't comparable."
You slip into an empty chair, taking a moment to assess the room dynamics. Team principal Andreas watches Lando with patient attention. The engineers nod along, though you notice a few exchanging uncertain glances.
"The sim data from yesterday backs this up," Lando adds, scrolling through charts with casual authority. "Twenty laps on mediums, then switch to hards for the longer middle stint."
Your finger taps against your tablet screen, pulling up your own analysis. The numbers don't support his conclusion – not even close. You wait for someone else to point this out, but the room remains a sea of polite nods and murmured agreement.
"Questions?" Lando asks, scanning the room with a smile that suggests he doesn't really expect any.
Your hand rises before you can second-guess yourself. First impressions matter, but accuracy matters more.
"Yes?" Lando's eyes find yours, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. New faces rarely speak up in their first meeting.
"I have concerns about the tire strategy," you say, your voice steady despite the sudden attention from every person in the room. "The temperature forecast for Sunday has changed overnight. We're looking at five degrees hotter than your simulation accounts for."
A small crease appears between Lando's eyebrows. "We've factored in a temperature variance."
"Not enough of one." You stand, walking toward the front of the room with your tablet. "May I?"
He hesitates for a beat before stepping aside, allowing you access to the main screen. You quickly pull up your data and project it alongside his.
"Your strategy assumes optimal performance from the medium compound through twenty laps, but with the revised forecast, you'll hit the cliff around lap sixteen." Your finger traces the degradation curve. "And starting the hard stint that early compromises the entire middle section of the race."
Lando crosses his arms, hip cocked slightly as he studies your projection. "We've run this compound in similar conditions in Barcelona."
"Barcelona has nine fewer high-speed corners and significantly different surface abrasion," you counter, pulling up side-by-side track comparisons. "The stress profile is entirely different."
The room has gone utterly still. You're aware of Andreas watching the exchange with intense interest, but your focus remains on the data—and on Lando, whose expression has shifted from dismissive to calculating.
"Even if you're right about the degradation," he says, leaning forward to examine your numbers, "pushing in those early laps gives us track position. That's worth the trade-off."
You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze directly. "Not if it costs you twelve seconds per lap when the tires fall off. Track position means nothing if you're a sitting duck."
A few engineers inhale sharply at your bluntness. No one speaks to Lando Norris this way—especially not on their first day.
"What would you suggest then?" There's a challenge in his voice, but curiosity too.
You swipe to your alternative strategy. "Start more conservatively. Preserve the mediums for eighteen laps, then switch to hards when the fuel load has lightened. The time lost early will be minimal compared to what you'd lose with severe degradation."
"That puts us behind the Ferraris from the start," Lando argues.
"Temporarily," you reply with calm precision. "Their strategy chief consistently overreacts to gap management. When their tires start to fade, they'll push harder to maintain the gap—which will only accelerate their degradation. That's when you'll have the advantage."
Lando's eyes narrow slightly. "You seem pretty confident about what Ferrari will do."
"I studied three years of their strategy calls before accepting this position," you say simply. "Their patterns are consistent. Unlike your tire management, which changes based on whether you're feeling aggressive or patient on any given Sunday."
A stunned silence blankets the room. You've just implied that one of Formula 1's top drivers lets emotion affect his driving strategy—a cardinal sin in the analytical world of racing.
For a moment, you wonder if you've overplayed your hand on day one. Then something unexpected happens: Lando's lips twitch upward at one corner.
"You've been here less than an hour and you're already claiming to know how I drive?" There's no anger in his voice—only a spark of something that might be amusement.
"I'm not claiming anything," you respond, holding his gaze. "The telemetry from your last six races shows the pattern clearly. When you start aggressive, you overwork the front left by an average of six percent compared to your more measured starts."
Andreas clears his throat. "Perhaps we should consider both strategies and run additional simulations."
"No need," Lando says, surprising everyone. His eyes haven't left yours. "Let's run her strategy."
A murmur ripples through the room.
"You're sure?" Andreas asks carefully.
"Yeah," Lando answers, his expression unreadable as he continues to study you. "Let's trust the numbers instead of my ego, just this once."
The meeting concludes shortly after, the team dispersing with curious glances thrown your way. As you gather your tablet, you feel a presence beside you.
"Bold move for your first day," Lando says quietly, close enough that only you can hear. "Most people just nod along until they get comfortable."
You glance up at him. "I wasn't hired to nod along."
"Clearly." A smile plays at his lips—genuine this time, reaching his eyes. "I'm still not convinced you're right about Ferrari's reaction times."
"Then I look forward to proving it on Sunday," you reply, matching his smile with a confident one of your own.
His eyes linger on yours a moment longer than necessary, that same curious spark evident in them. "See you tomorrow, then. Early sim session?"
"I'll be there."
As he walks away, you notice a subtle change in his posture—a new awareness. You've done something rare: you've made Lando Norris reassess his assumptions. Not just about race strategy, but about the kind of challenge he finds interesting.
Your fingers brush against the tablet screen, and you feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts you nonetheless. Something has started here, something neither of you had anticipated when the meeting began. Not just a professional relationship, but a connection forged in the heat of intellectual challenge.
And from the way he glanced back at you before leaving the room, you're certain he felt it too.
You squint at the telemetry data glowing on your screen, the garage eerily quiet at 1 AM. Everyone else left hours ago, but here you are, still debating corner entry speeds with Lando like your lives depend on it. The circuit lights cast long shadows across his face as he leans over your shoulder, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne mixed with the lingering scent of carbon and rubber that clings to all drivers.
"You're wrong about turn seven," he says, not for the first time tonight, his finger tracing the line graph on your screen. "I can carry more speed through there."
What started three months ago as professional obligation has somehow evolved into these late-night sessions that neither of you seems willing to end.
"The data disagrees," you reply, zooming in on the corner analysis. "Look at your last three attempts. Each time you tried to push harder, you lost two tenths on exit."
Lando makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "That's because the setup wasn't optimized."
"It was perfectly optimized." You swivel your chair to face him directly, forcing him to step back slightly. "You're overdriving it."
These nocturnal strategy sessions have become your new normal. What began as post-race debriefs expanded into detailed planning sessions, which evolved into these marathon discussions that stretch well into the night. The pattern established itself so gradually that you can't pinpoint exactly when it became routine—or when it started feeling less like work and more like something else entirely.
"I'm not overdriving," Lando says, dropping into the chair beside yours. "I'm exploring the limits."
"There's a very fine line between exploring limits and ignoring them." You slide your tablet toward him, displaying side-by-side comparisons. "Your fastest sector time came when you were actually more conservative on entry."
He studies the data, brow furrowed in concentration. The Lando who first walked into that strategy meeting four months ago would have dismissed your analysis outright. This Lando—the one who's spent countless hours debating racing lines with you until sunrise—actually considers your perspective.
"Maybe," he finally concedes, though the smirk tugging at his lips suggests he's not entirely convinced. "But conservative isn't exactly my style."
"Trust me, I've noticed." You reach for your coffee cup, finding it empty. "Your style is giving our tire engineers heart palpitations."
Lando laughs, a genuine sound that fills the empty garage. "They should thank me. I keep them employed."
"Such generosity," you deadpan, and he nudges your chair with his foot in response.
These small moments of playfulness have been creeping into your interactions more frequently—a teasing comment here, a shared joke there. The rigid formality that once defined your relationship has softened into something more comfortable, though no less intellectually challenging.
"I've got a counter-proposal for Monaco," Lando says, pulling up a new simulation. His shoulder brushes against yours as he leans in, and neither of you moves away. "What if we qualify on softs but start the race on mediums?"
"Bold strategy for a track where overtaking is nearly impossible," you say, studying his suggested plan. "But you'd lose position immediately."
"That's where you're wrong," he counters, tapping through the projected race scenarios. "If we nail the setup for mediums, we can defend well enough to stay in position. Then when everyone else pits early—"
"We extend the stint and gain track position," you finish his thought, already seeing the potential. "It's risky."
"The best strategies always are." His eyes meet yours, bright with enthusiasm. "You're always telling me to think beyond the conventional approach."
"I'm surprised you've been listening," you tease, though something warm unfurls in your chest at the realization that he values your perspective enough to incorporate it.
"I always listen," Lando says, more seriously than expected. "I just don't always agree."
"That would be too easy." You hold his gaze. "And you don't like easy."
The air between you shifts subtly. What was professional admiration has been evolving into something more complex—a mutual recognition that your challenge to each other extends beyond lap times and tire compounds.
"Speaking of not easy," you continue, breaking the moment, "your braking points in sector two need work."
Lando groans dramatically. "We're back to this again?"
"We'll keep coming back to it until you stop trying to defy physics." You pull up his braking telemetry. "Look at this. You're braking five meters later than optimal in turn four."
"That's called confidence," he argues, leaning back in his chair with casual defiance.
"That's called stubborn." You raise an eyebrow. "It worked at Silverstone because of the track surface. It won't work here."
"You don't know that until we try."
"I know because I've analyzed every corner of this track and calculated optimal braking points based on grip coefficients that actually exist in reality, not in your imagination."
Instead of being offended, Lando's smile widens. "Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly sexy when you're dismantling my ego?"
The comment catches you off guard, and for a moment, the professional façade you've maintained slips. Heat rises to your cheeks.
"I'm not trying to dismantle your ego. I'm trying to optimize your performance."
"Same thing, according to you." His eyes dance with amusement. "And you're very good at it."
You try to redirect to safer territory. "The simulation for the alternate strategy—"
"Can wait five minutes," he interrupts, rolling his chair slightly closer. "We've been at this for six hours straight."
He's right. The garage clock reads 1:27 AM, and your eyes are starting to strain from staring at screens. You stretch, feeling the tightness in your shoulders from hunching over data for too long.
"There's a good all-night café two blocks from here," Lando says casually. "They make decent coffee that doesn't taste like the garage floor."
"Are you suggesting we take a break?" you ask, surprised.
"I'm suggesting we continue this discussion somewhere with better lighting and actual food." He shrugs, trying to look nonchalant but not quite succeeding. "Unless you'd rather stay here and argue about braking points until dawn."
You consider him for a moment. This would be crossing an unspoken line—moving your professional debates into a more personal setting. Yet you find yourself nodding. "As long as you promise not to spend the entire time defending your indefensible corner entries."
"I make no such promises." He grins, standing and grabbing his jacket. "But I will buy you whatever sugary monstrosity you want to order."
As you gather your things, you realize how easily you've fallen into this pattern with him—the challenging, the pushing, the mutual respect layered with something that feels increasingly like attraction. It's in the way he listens to your analysis, the way he pushes back just enough to keep you engaged, and the way his eyes linger on yours when he thinks you're focused on the data.
The walk to the café is quiet, the cool night air a welcome change from the stuffy garage. Lando walks close beside you, occasionally pointing out features of the city as you pass them. When his hand brushes against yours, neither of you pulls away immediately.
"You know," he says as you approach the café's warm glow, "I used to dread strategy meetings before you joined the team."
"And now?"
His smile is softer than his usual cocky grin. "Now they're the highlight of my week. Even when you're telling me I'm completely wrong."
"Especially then," you reply with a knowing look.
"Especially then," he agrees, holding the door open for you.
As you step inside, you realize that what began as professional respect has evolved into something neither of you planned for but neither seems willing to stop. The intellectual sparring has become foreplay—challenging, stimulating, intoxicating. And judging by the way Lando's eyes follow you as you find a table in the corner, he feels it too—this connection forged through the push and pull of minds that refuse to back down.
You hide your smile behind your coffee mug as you watch the scene unfold at your kitchen table. Your fifteen-year-old daughter, Lia, sits across from Lando, her posture a perfect mirror of the one you adopt during serious discussions—straight-backed, chin slightly raised, one eyebrow arched in polite skepticism. The resemblance is uncanny, from her dark hair to the way she tilts her head just before delivering what will inevitably be a perfectly reasoned argument. Lando hasn't noticed yet, too focused on explaining his new "reasonable" curfew proposal, but you recognize the familiar glint in Lia's eyes. She's about to dismantle his logic piece by piece, and you're torn between warning him and enjoying the show.
"Ten-thirty on weeknights, midnight on weekends," Lando says, spreading jam on his toast with the precision of someone who thinks he's being incredibly fair. "That's generous for your age. Most of your friends have to be home by ten."
"That's factually inaccurate," Lia replies calmly, her voice carrying the same measured tone you use when presenting race strategy. "Emma's curfew is eleven. Zoe's is midnight on weekends. And Lucas doesn't have a specific time, just a check-in requirement."
Lando's butter knife pauses mid-air. "Lucas is a boy. That's different."
Lia's eyebrow inches higher. "Different how, exactly? Is his safety less important because of his gender? Or he’s just less of a prey to predators?"
The kitchen falls silent except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator. You take another sip of coffee, watching this exchange with a mix of amusement and déjà vu. After sixteen years of marriage, Lando still hasn't learned that logical fallacies won't survive in this household.
"That's not what I meant," he backpedals, setting down his knife. "Boys just don't face the same risks that girls do at night."
"If you're referring to statistical crime data," Lia counters, reaching for the orange juice, "men are actually more likely to be victims of violent street crime than women. I can pull up the latest Home Office statistics if you'd like."
You nearly choke on your coffee. How many times had you used almost identical language in strategy meetings, offering to pull up telemetry data when Lando insisted his gut feeling trumped the numbers?
Lando shoots you a quick glance, silently pleading for backup. You simply shrug, unwilling to interfere in what is becoming an increasingly familiar parent-daughter dynamic.
"Look, darlin’," he tries again, switching tactics, "it's not just about statistics. It's about us knowing you're safe and not having to worry."
"But setting an arbitrary time doesn't actually increase safety," she replies, methodically cutting her pancakes into precise squares. "Wouldn't a more logical approach be to establish check-ins and transportation plans? The time itself is meaningless if the safety protocols are consistent."
You watch Lando's expression shift from confident to bewildered. The same look he wore in Monaco twelve years ago when you calmly explained why his preferred racing line through Casino Square was costing him two-tenths of a second.
"We're not debating safety protocols," Lando says, his voice rising slightly in frustration. "We're setting a curfew. A simple, reasonable curfew."
"But if the underlying goal is safety," Lia persists, her voice maintaining that infuriatingly calm tone, "then the method should align with the objective. A static time doesn't account for variables like distance from home, available transportation, or event schedules."
Lando opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. "The objective is also to get adequate sleep on school nights."
"Studies show that enforcing sleep schedules for teenagers is counterproductive," Lia replies without missing a beat. "Our natural circadian rhythms shift during adolescence. Forcing an early bedtime actually results in poorer sleep quality and academic performance."
Your husband stares at her, recognition finally dawning in his eyes. He's not just arguing with his teenage daughter—he's arguing with a younger version of you, armed with the same precise logic and unflappable composure that he once found both maddening and magnetic across a conference table.
"When did you become such an expert on sleep science?" Lando asks, the corner of his mouth twitching despite his attempt to maintain parental authority.
"Last month's issue of Scientific American had a fascinating article on adolescent neurology," she says, taking a sip of juice. "I bookmarked it for you, but I guess you haven't had time to read it yet."
The déjà vu intensifies. How often had you left research papers on his seat before races, confident he would benefit from the information even as he insisted he already knew everything he needed to know?
"So your counterproposal is...?" Lando asks, recognizing the pattern enough to know that Lia isn't just critiquing—she's building toward an alternative.
She straightens slightly, exactly as you do when presenting a winning strategy. "Weeknights: flexible curfew based on activity, with mandatory text updates if I'll be later than eleven. Weekends: midnight standard, with advance notice for special events that might run later. Plus, I'll use the tracking app so you can verify my location if you're concerned."
“How the fuck do you know about the tracking app?”
You watch Lando's face as he absorbs her proposal, clearly torn between parental instinct and grudging respect for her reasoning. This is the man who once outmaneuvered Max Verstappen through Eau Rouge, who held his nerve through rain-soaked races at Suzuka—now completely outmatched by a fifteen-year-old at his own breakfast table.
"We'll consider it," he finally says, which both you and Lia recognize as a tactical retreat rather than a surrender.
"Great." She flashes a quick smile—Lando's smile, the one he gives when he knows he's won but is trying to be gracious about it. "I have debate team practice after school, so I'll be home around five-thirty."
She rises from the table, rinses her plate at the sink, and kisses your cheek before heading upstairs to finish getting ready, leaving a contemplative silence in her wake.
When her footsteps fade, Lando turns to you with an expression of bewildered realization. "Have we created a monster?"
You can't hold back your laugh any longer. "We created a carbon copy."
"She got that from you," he says, pointing his fork accusingly in your direction, though there's no real frustration in his voice. "That whole calm-rational-argument thing. The head tilt. Even the eyebrow."
"And the stubbornness is all yours," you counter, reaching across to steal a piece of his toast. "Along with the refusal to concede until the very last moment."
Lando shakes his head, a mixture of pride and exasperation crossing his features. "It was easier when she just shouted 'no' and slammed doors like a normal teenager."
"Was it? Or was it just less effective at getting under your skin?" You smile knowingly. "You never could resist a well-constructed argument."
His eyes meet yours, warm with shared history. "It's how I ended up married to you, isn't it? You argued me into submission over tire strategies, and somehow that led to this."
"Not submission," you correct him, the same way you have for sixteen years. "Optimization."
He laughs, reaching for your hand across the table. "God help me when she starts dating. I'll never win another argument in this house."
You squeeze his fingers, enjoying this moment of shared recognition. "You never really did, love. You just occasionally got lucky with the timing."
As if on cue, Lia reappears in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. "By the way, Dad, Emma's parents are hosting a party next Friday, and it doesn't end until midnight. I've already arranged a ride home with Emma's older brother." She pauses, then adds with perfect timing, "I'll text you when we leave."
Before Lando can respond, she's gone, the front door clicking shut behind her.
"And so it begins," Lando murmurs, but the smile tugging at his lips tells you he's not entirely unhappy about raising a daughter who knows exactly how to stand her ground.
You sip your coffee, savoring both its warmth and the irony of the situation. The very traits that drew Lando to you years ago are now the ones testing his patience as a father. There's a beautiful symmetry to it all—a continuity that neither of you planned but both can appreciate in these quiet morning moments.
You lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, as Lando paces the living room floor. Lia stands by the window, her expression infuriatingly calm despite arriving home forty-five minutes after her curfew. The soft glow of the table lamp catches the determined set of her jaw—your jaw—as she waits for her father to finish his lecture. The tension in the room feels familiar, a bizarre echo of strategy disagreements from years ago, except now you're the spectator rather than the participant. Three weeks into the new curfew arrangement, and already the battle lines are being redrawn.
"Forty-five minutes, Lia," Lando says, checking his watch for emphasis though he clearly knows the exact time. "That's not a small margin of error. That's not even getting caught in traffic. That's complete disregard for the rules we agreed on."
"We had an agreement based on communication," Lia replies evenly. "I texted at 11:30 to let you know the movie ran late."
"The agreement was midnight on weekends," Lando counters, his voice rising slightly. "Not 'text us whenever you decide to come home.'"
Lia tilts her head—that same slight angle you use when you're about to deliver a particularly devastating point.
"Actually, if you recall our exact agreement, it was 'midnight standard with advance notice for special events.' I provided advance notice."
"Forty minutes isn't advance notice!"
"The movie unexpectedly ran long. I couldn't have known that beforehand." She shrugs one shoulder, a casual gesture that somehow makes her look even more composed. "I communicated as soon as I had the information."
You watch Lando's face shift through emotions—frustration, disbelief, and the dawning realization that he's being outmaneuvered by his own daughter's precise recall of their verbal contract. It's a face you've seen countless times across racing paddocks and strategy rooms.
"That's not how this works, Lia," he tries again, running a hand through his hair. "The spirit of the agreement was that you'd be home by midnight unless we had specifically approved a later time in advance."
"Interesting." She crosses her arms, mirroring your posture perfectly. "Because when you told me about sneaking into that nightclub in Monaco when you were nineteen, you specifically said rules need flexibility for unexpected opportunities."
Lando's eyes widen slightly, then dart toward you with an expression that clearly says, *Why did I ever tell her those stories?*
You suppress a smile. For years, Lando had regaled Lia with tales of his racing days—including some carefully edited stories of his more rebellious moments. Now those same stories are ammunition in her arsenal.
"That was—" Lando sputters, "That was completely different. I was a professional athlete in a controlled environment."
"A nightclub is a controlled environment?" Lia's eyebrow arches perfectly. "Because according to the story, you climbed out a bathroom window to avoid security."
You can't help the small laugh that escapes, earning you an angry look from Lando.
"You're not helping," he mutters in your direction.
"I'm observing," you reply, enjoying this reversal more than you probably should. "Continue."
Lando sighs heavily, redirecting his attention to Lia. "The point is, we had an agreement about curfew, and you broke it. There need to be consequences."
"What do you suggest?" Lia asks, her voice carrying that same reasonable tone you use during disagreements—the one that makes people feel slightly foolish for getting emotional.
"No phone for the weekend," Lando declares, seemingly relieved to finally establish some authority.
Lia doesn't immediately protest, which you recognize as a warning sign. Instead, she considers for a moment before responding.
"That seems disproportionate to the offense," she says finally. "Especially considering that without my phone, I can't text you updates about my whereabouts, which was the primary safety mechanism in our agreement."
You watch Lando falter slightly, recognizing the logical trap. She's using his own concern for her safety against his punishment.
"Fine," he concedes. "You can keep the phone, but no social media for the weekend."
"That's still problematic," Sophia counters calmly. "My debate team coordinates through Instagram. We have regionals next week. Cutting me off from communication channels actively harms my academic performance."
You remember using almost identical arguments when Lando wanted to change communication protocols during races. *"If you cut that radio channel, you actively compromise our strategic flexibility."* The parallel is so perfect it's almost eerie.
"Then what exactly would be an appropriate consequence in your mind?" Lando asks, frustration evident in his voice.
"Something proportional," she replies. "I was forty-five minutes late after providing notice. Perhaps I come home forty-five minutes early tomorrow night."
"That's not a consequence. That's basic math."
"It's logical equivalence," she corrects. "The time lost equals the time gained."
Lando throws his hands up. "This isn't a negotiation!"
"Everything is a negotiation," Sophia says quietly. "That's what you always taught me."
The room falls silent. It's true—this has been Lando's mantra throughout her life, from bargaining over bedtimes when she was small to teaching her about contract discussions as she grew older. Once again, his own wisdom is being reflected back at him.
You decide to intervene before this goes further in circles. "How about this: Lia comes home thirty minutes early tomorrow, and we revisit the curfew agreement to clarify expectations around communication and exceptions."
Both turn to look at you—Lando with relief, Lia with careful consideration.
"I can accept those terms," she says after a moment, formal as a lawyer concluding a settlement.
Lando nods, clearly grateful for the resolution but still looking somewhat shell-shocked by the entire exchange. "Go to bed, Lia. We'll talk more tomorrow."
She nods, her posture relaxing slightly. Before heading upstairs, she pauses beside Lando.
"I really did text as soon as I knew, Dad. I wasn't trying to be disrespectful." Her voice softens, offering the first glimpse of the child beneath the poised teenager.
Lando's expression softens too. "I know, kiddo. I just worry."
"Statistically speaking, I'm safer at Emma's house watching movies than anywhere else." A small smile plays at her lips—Lando's smile.
"Good night, you little data analyst," he says, ruffling her hair affectionately.
Once she's gone, Lando collapses onto the sofa, looking at you with bewildered exhaustion. "What just happened?"
You join him, patting his knee sympathetically. "You just got strategized by a fifteen-year-old who learned from the best."
"It's like arguing with a tiny lawyer who knows all my secrets," he groans. "How did you put up with me all those years?"
"Who says I put up with you?" You smirk. "I enjoyed dismantling your arguments piece by piece. It was foreplay."
"Well, there's nothing sexy about being outmaneuvered by your own offspring," he mutters, though a reluctant smile tugs at his lips. "Did you see how she threw the Monaco story back at me? I told her that when she was twelve!"
"She has your memory for details," you observe. "And my gift for using them at precisely the right moment."
Lando runs a hand over his face. "It was easier when she was little and thought I was the smartest person in the world."
"She still thinks you're smart," you assure him, leaning against his shoulder. "She just thinks she's smarter."
"The worst part is," Lando sighs, wrapping an arm around you, "I can't even be properly angry because she makes such damn good points. Just like someone else I know."
You smile against his shoulder. "It's strange watching from the sidelines. All these years, and I never realized how it looked from the outside—that calm dismantling of someone's position."
"Terrifying," Lando supplies. "It looks terrifying."
"And yet you married me."
"Glutton for punishment, I guess." He kisses the top of your head. "Though I did think that particular trait would stay with you and not replicate itself in our children."
You laugh softly. "Genetic lottery. You got her stubbornness, I got her precision, and together we created a formidable opponent."
As you sit there in comfortable silence, you can't help but appreciate the perfect symmetry of it all. The traits that once drew Lando to you—your confidence, your precision, your refusal to back down—are now testing his patience daily. What was once the spark in your relationship has become the challenge of parenthood.
"You know what's really unfair?" Lando says after a moment.
"What's that?"
"When you did it, I at least got to kiss you afterward." He sighs dramatically. "When she does it, all I get is a headache and the sneaking suspicion she's right."
You turn to face him, amusement dancing in your eyes. "Welcome to parenthood, Mr. Norris. The only race you're guaranteed to lose."
His laughter fills the room, a reminder that beneath the frustration lies deep pride in the fierce, articulate young woman you've raised together—even if she does drive him absolutely crazy in the process.
You're helping Lando sort through old racing memorabilia in the study when his phone chimes with a notification.
"Can you check that?" he asks, elbow-deep in a box of trophies.
You pick up his phone to find an Instagram alert—a photo tag from Carlos Sainz showing Lando's old teammate at some charity event. But as you unlock the screen, your attention catches on something else: an open text from Andrea Stella, McLaren's former team principal, with a photo attached.
"Thought you'd want to know—the kids were getting cozy at the F1 Legacy fundraiser." The image shows Lia, elegant in a blue dress, laughing beside a tall, handsome boy with unmistakable features. Even without the caption, you'd recognize those eyes anywhere—Alex Hamilton, Lewis's seventeen-year-old son.
Your stomach tightens. Lia mentioned attending the fundraiser with friends from school, but conveniently omitted this particular detail.
"What is it?" Lando asks, noticing your prolonged silence.
You hesitate, weighing whether to show him or have a private conversation with Lia first. Before you can decide, he's already standing beside you, peering over your shoulder.
The change is immediate. Lando's relaxed expression hardens, his body tensing as if preparing for a race start. "When was this taken?"
"Last night, judging by the timestamp." You study the photo more carefully. There's nothing inappropriate about it—just two teenagers laughing together—but the easiness of their body language suggests this isn't their first interaction.
"She told us she was going with Emma and the debate team." Lando takes the phone from your hand, zooming in on the image with increasing agitation.
"She did go with them," you remind him, keeping your voice measured. "Alex was probably just there with his father."
"Look at how he's leaning toward her." Lando's thumb swipes frantically through the photo gallery that Andrea sent. "And here—his hand is practically on her waist."
You glance at the second photo. Alex stands close to Lia, but his hand is respectfully at his side, not touching her at all. Lando's seeing ghosts that aren't there, projections of his own concerns.
"Lando," you say gently, "I think you're overreacting."
"Overreacting?" He looks at you incredulously. "She's fifteen, and that's Lewis’ son. You know what Lewis was like in his younger days—the parties, the models. Like father, like son."
You raise an eyebrow. "That's hardly fair. We've met Alex at paddock events before. He's always been polite."
"Surface charm," Lando mutters, pacing now. "Just like his father. Smooth and calculated."
This isn't about Alex, you realize. This is about his daughter growing up and him not being ready to accept that. Lando might have matured beyond most of it, but seeing his daughter with Hamilton's son has triggered something primal.
"We should talk to her calmly when she gets home," you suggest, trying to defuse the situation. "Find out the full story before jumping to conclusions."
"There's nothing to find out. She's not seeing him. She’s too young for dating. End of story." Lando's voice has that rare tone of finality that he seldom uses at home—the one reserved for absolute lines in the sand.
You recognize the futility of arguing right now and instead focus on damage control for the inevitable confrontation. "Just promise me you'll listen to her side before making declarations."
Lando doesn't answer, his attention fixed on the phone as if it contains evidence of a betrayal rather than a normal teenage interaction.
Three hours later, the front door opens and closes with Lia's distinctive rhythm—quick steps followed by her backpack dropping onto the entryway bench. You're in the kitchen preparing dinner, deliberately giving Lando time to cool off, but his purposeful stride from the study tells you he hasn't.
"Dad? Mom? I'm home," Lia calls, her footsteps approaching the kitchen. She appears in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the autumn air, looking relaxed and happy—until she sees Lando's expression. Her posture subtly shifts, straightening in unconscious preparation.
"How was your study group?" you ask, trying to establish a normal tone.
"Good. We finished the history project." She glances between you and Lando, clearly sensing tension. "Is everything okay?"
Lando holds up his phone, displaying the photo. "Want to explain this?"
Lia's expression flickers between surprise and wariness. "It's a picture from the fundraiser. What about it?"
"You didn't mention you were spending the evening with Alex Hamilton."
She tilts her head slightly—that familiar angle that precedes a logical counterargument. "I didn't spend the evening with him. He was there with his dad, just like half the F1 community."
"Andrea says you two looked pretty cozy."
"Andrea should mind his own fucking business," Lia replies evenly.
“Liana Elizabeth Norris!” Lando’s voice strikes through the house.
"And 'cozy' is a subjective interpretation. We were talking about the engineering program at Oxford."
You notice the slight defensive edge in her voice—not guilt, but the irritation of someone being questioned about something they don't believe warrants scrutiny.
"How long have you been seeing him?" Lando demands, ignoring her explanation.
"I'm not 'seeing' anyone," Lia says, making air quotes. "We're friends. We talk sometimes."
"Friends," Lando repeats skeptically. "Since when?"
"Since the Monaco charity gala last spring," she answers with the precise recall that always reminds you of yourself. "We exchanged numbers after discussing university programs. He's considering mechanical engineering, like I am."
Lando's jaw tightens. "You've been texting Lewis Hamilton's son for six months and never thought to mention it?"
"I don't catalog every friendship for parental approval," Lia replies, her composure beginning to crack. "And what does it matter whose son he is? Alex is his own person."
"He's Hamilton's son," Lando insists, as if this alone is damning evidence.
"So?" Lia challenges, genuine confusion in her voice. "You and Lewis are friends. You were at his retirement party. You played golf with him last month."
"That's different."
"How?" The word hangs in the air, sharp and demanding.
You step in, attempting to redirect the conversation. "What your father means—"
"I can speak for myself," Lando interrupts, his voice rising. "What I mean is, you're fifteen. You're too young to be getting involved with anyone, especially someone with his background."
Lia's eyes narrow dangerously. "What background would that be, exactly? The honor student who volunteers at STEM programs for underprivileged kids? That terrible influence?"
The precision of her counterattack is so familiar it almost makes you proud, despite the escalating tension.
"You know exactly what I mean," Lando says firmly. "The racing world, the pressure, the spotlight. It's not what I want for you."
"It's exactly what you wanted for yourself," she fires back. "And for Mom. You literally married someone from that world."
"That was different. We were adults."
"Different rules for different people," Lia says coldly. "How convenient."
Lando's patience visibly snaps. "Enough, Lia. I don't want you seeing him anymore. That's final."
The room falls silent. Even the kitchen appliances seem to hold their breath.
"You can't do that," Lia says finally, her voice quiet but hard. "You can't just forbid me from having friends because of your weird competitive issues with Lewis Hamilton."
"This isn't about Lewis—"
"It's entirely about Lewis!" Her composure shatters completely. "You're projecting your ancient rivalry onto two people who have nothing to do with it. Alex isn't his father, and I'm not you!"
"This isn't up for debate," Lando says, his voice rising to match hers. "While you live in this house—"
"Then maybe I don't want to live in this house!" Lia shouts, tears springing to her eyes. "Maybe I'm tired of living with someone who makes arbitrary rules based on his own insecurities instead of actual reasons!"
You step forward, trying to create physical space between them. "Both of you need to calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down," Lia snaps, her eyes never leaving Lando. "He's being completely unreasonable, and you know it."
"Watch your tone," Lando warns.
"Or what?" she challenges. "You'll ban me from having more friends? Ground me forever?"
You see the hurt flash across Lando's face before he masks it with anger.
“When mom talks to you this way, she’s praised. When I talk this way, I should watch my tone? God forbid I’m like my mom.”
"Go to your room. We're done discussing this."
"We haven't discussed anything," Lia says bitterly. "You've dictated terms without a single valid reason."
"I don't need to explain myself to you. I'm your father."
"A title isn't an argument." Her words are precise, cutting—your words, from countless strategy debates. "But fine. I'll go to my room. It's better than standing here watching you turn into exactly the kind of parent you always promised you wouldn't be."
She turns to leave, but Lando calls after her. "This conversation isn't over, Lia."
She pauses at the doorway, turning back with eyes bright with unshed tears. "Yes, it is. And for the record? I hate you right now."
The words hang in the air like physical objects, heavy and sharp. Before either of you can respond, she's gone, her footsteps pounding up the stairs, followed by the decisive slam of her bedroom door.
The kitchen feels eerily quiet in her absence. Lando stands frozen, his face a mask of shock and hurt. You've seen him lose championships by fractions of a second, crash out of races in spectacular fashion, face down the most brutal press conferences—but nothing has ever made him look as wounded as those four words from his daughter.
"She doesn't mean it," you say quietly, reaching for his hand.
He pulls away, turning toward the window. "Yes, she does." His voice is hollow. "And the worst part is, I'm not sure she's wrong."
You want to offer comfort, to remind him that teenage emotions run hot and words spoken in anger aren't permanent. But as you watch him stare out at the garden where Lhia once played, shoulders slumped in defeat, you realize this is different from their usual arguments. This time, the damage feels deeper, the divide wider, and neither of your usual strategies for conflict resolution seems adequate for the pain written across his face.
You adjust your sunglasses against the bright afternoon sun, scanning the crowded paddock area of the charity karting track. The annual Drivers' Legacy Foundation event is always a who's who of Formula 1 past and present, but this year feels different. The usual easy camaraderie has an undercurrent of tension—at least from where you stand beside Lando, who hasn't smiled properly since arriving. His eyes keep tracking Lia as she moves through the crowd in her volunteer t-shirt, clipboard in hand, helping coordinate the junior races. The fact that she's professional and composed after three days of icy silence at home only seems to make Lando more unsettled. When Lewis arrives with Alex in tow, you feel Lando stiffen beside you, his hand unconsciously tightening around his water bottle until the plastic crackles in protest.
"Easy," you murmur, gently touching his forearm. "Everyone's watching."
Indeed, several photographers are circulating, capturing the former champions for publicity shots. The last thing the charity needs is an awkward moment between two of its biggest supporters.
"I'm fine," Lando says, though his posture suggests otherwise. "Completely fine."
Lewis spots you across the paddock and raises a hand in greeting. Always the consummate professional, he navigates through the crowd with Alex following, both impeccably dressed in matching team gear—a reminder of the new father-son racing academy Lewis launched after retirement.
"Deep breath," you whisper to Lando. "Remember why we're here."
He nods stiffly, plastering on his media smile as Lewis approaches.
"Lando, good to see you, mate." Lewis extends a hand, which Lando takes after the briefest hesitation. "And the brilliant strategist herself," he adds, turning to embrace you warmly. "Still keeping him in line after all these years?"
"Someone has to," you reply with genuine warmth. Despite Lando's complicated feelings, you've always respected Lewis, both on and off track.
Alex steps forward, tall and poised with his father's easy confidence but a gentler demeanor. "Mr. Norris, Mrs. Norris, thank you for organizing today's event. The junior drivers are really excited."
His politeness only seems to increase Lando's discomfort. It's harder to dislike someone who's unfailingly courteous.
"Lia's handling most of the organization," Lando says stiffly. "She's over by the timing wall."
Alex's eyes briefly scan the area, finding Lia instantly despite the crowd. Something in his expression softens, so subtle that only someone watching closely would notice. But you notice—and so does Lando, whose jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Dad, I should check in with the volunteer coordinator," Alex says to Lewis. "We're supposed to do the demonstration laps in twenty minutes."
Lewis nods. "Go ahead. I want to catch up with these two anyway."
As Alex makes his way toward the timing wall—and consequently, toward Lia—you watch the inevitable unfold. Lia looks up from her clipboard, and even from this distance, you can see her entire demeanor brighten. She doesn't run to him or make any grand gesture, but her body language shifts completely—turning toward him like a flower tracking the sun.
"They've got the timing down perfectly," Lewis comments, following your gaze. "Just far enough apart to look professional, but gravitating toward each other as soon as they think no one's watching."
Lando's head snaps toward Lewis. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Lewis raises an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by Lando's tone. "Just an observation. Teenagers think they're subtle, but they rarely are."
"They're just friends," Lando says firmly.
A knowing smile crosses Lewis's face. "Of course. Just like you and your strategist were 'just colleagues' for those months before you finally admitted what everyone else already knew."
You can't help the small laugh that escapes you, earning a betrayed look from Lando.
"That was completely different," Lando insists.
"Was it?" Lewis asks mildly, his eyes drifting back to where Alex and Lia now stand with their heads bent together over her clipboard, a respectable distance between them but an invisible connection practically vibrating in the air. "Ambitious, intelligent young woman who isn't afraid to speak her mind, paired with a boy from a racing dynasty who's got something to prove? Sounds familiar to me."
The comparison hangs in the air, uncomfortably accurate. You watch Lando process it, conflict evident in the tense line of his shoulders.
"Alex is a good kid, Lando," Lewis says more seriously. "I know you and I had our moments on track, but that's ancient history. Our children deserve to make their own stories."
"They're too young," Lando mutters, but there's less conviction in his voice.
"They're the age we were when we started in Formula 3," Lewis reminds him. "Old enough to drive race cars but not old enough to choose their own friends?"
Before Lando can respond, Carlos calls Lewis over for a photo with the other champions, leaving you alone with Lando as he watches Lia and Alex walk toward the karts together.
"He's doing this on purpose," Lando grumbles, though there's a hint of uncertainty beneath his irritation.
"Doing what? Having a polite son who gets along with our daughter?" You slip your hand into his, squeezing gently. "That monster."
Lando doesn't answer, his attention fixed on the young pair as they reach the karting area. Alex says something that makes Lia laugh—a genuine, unguarded laugh you haven't heard since the argument three days ago. Then he does something unexpected: he helps her adjust her racing gloves, showing her a technique for getting the proper fit. The gesture is practical, not romantic, but there's a care to it that speaks volumes.
"She looks happy," you observe quietly.
"She looked happy before she met him," Lando counters, but there's less edge to his voice.
"Different kind of happy," you note. "That's the face of someone who feels seen and understood."
Lando glances at you, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He knows that feeling—the electric connection of finding someone who challenges and accepts you simultaneously. It's what drew him to you all those years ago across strategy tables and pit walls.
Across the track, Alex steps back respectfully as a race official approaches Lia with questions. You watch him wait patiently while she handles her responsibilities, never interrupting or inserting himself. When she finishes, he offers a fist bump instead of anything more demonstrative—aware of their public setting and, perhaps, her father's watchful eyes.
"He's not what I expected," Lando admits reluctantly.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone more..."
"More like Lewis was during your rivalries?" you suggest. "Or more like you were at that age?"
The question hits its mark. Lando falls silent, watching as the demonstration preparations continue. When Lewis rejoins you, his expression is carefully neutral, but there's a knowing gleam in his eyes as he observes Lando watching the kids.
"History has a funny way of repeating itself, doesn't it?" Lewis says casually. "One minute you're the young hotshot challenging the establishment, the next you're the old guard wondering where the time went."
Lando's mouth tightens. "I'm hardly the old guard."
"Old enough to have a daughter making choices you don't control," Lewis responds with gentle precision. "Trust me, it's a special kind of torture, watching them navigate the world you used to own."
Something in Lewis's words penetrates Lando's defenses. You see his expression shift as he watches Lia confidently directing the junior racers, her natural leadership evident in how they respond to her instructions.
"She's so much like her mother," Lewis adds, nodding toward you. "Same quiet authority. Same ability to make everyone listen without raising her voice."
"Too much like her mother," Lando mutters, but there's grudging pride beneath the complaint.
As the demonstration laps begin, you stand beside Lando at the pit wall, watching Alex and Lia work seamlessly together coordinating the young drivers. They move around each other with the easy awareness of two people perfectly attuned to each other's presence—never in each other's way, anticipating movements before they happen.
"Remind you of anyone?" you ask softly.
Lando doesn't answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He's seeing what you see: the echo of your own early relationship, the same charged awareness, the same mutual respect beneath the surface attraction. And judging by the conflicted expression on his face, he's struggling to reconcile his protective instincts with the uncomfortable realization that he's become exactly what he once resisted—the authority figure trying to control something organic and natural.
When Lia looks up and catches his gaze across the track, her expression remains neutral, the hurt of their argument still evident in her distant politeness. Lando raises his hand in a small wave, which she acknowledges with a nod before turning back to her duties.
"She still hates me," he says quietly.
"She doesn't hate you," you assure him. "She hates feeling mistrusted and misunderstood."
As you watch him struggle with this realization, you see the familiar look he once wore when resisting your race calls—frustrated, stubborn, but beginning to recognize the uncomfortable truth he's trying to avoid. It's the face of someone confronting their own contradiction, and for the first time since the argument erupted, you see a glimmer of potential resolution in his thoughtful silence.
You find Lando on the terrace, nursing a glass of whiskey in the soft evening light. The house is quiet—Lia went straight to her room after returning from the charity event, the silence between her and Lando still thick with unresolved tension. He doesn't look up as you slide the door closed behind you, but his shoulders relax slightly at your presence. After sixteen years together, your bodies have developed their own silent language. You can read the defeat in the slope of his back, the confusion in how he turns the glass between his fingers, the invitation in the slight shift to make room for you on the bench.
"She still won't talk to me," he says as you sit beside him. "Not a word the entire drive home."
You rest your hand on his knee, feeling the familiar warmth through the fabric of his jeans. "She's hurt. And stubborn." A small smile touches your lips. "Wonder where she got that from."
He doesn't return the smile, his eyes fixed on the garden where twilight has begun to soften the edges of everything. "I saw them together today," he says finally. "Really saw them."
"And?" you prompt gently.
"And he's not what I expected." The admission comes reluctantly, pulled from somewhere deep. "The way he treated her, the way they worked together—it was..." He trails off, searching for words.
"Respectful? Considerate? Natural?" You offer the adjectives he seems unwilling to voice.
"All of that." He takes a sip of whiskey, wincing slightly at the burn. "Lewis said something that's been bothering me."
You wait, knowing better than to rush him when he's processing something difficult.
"He said they reminded him of us." Lando glances at you, his expression troubled. "In the early days."
"I saw it too," you admit. "The way they anticipate each other, how they communicate without words sometimes."
Lando's fingers tighten around the glass. "That's what scares me."
Now you're getting to the heart of it. "Why would that scare you?"
"Because I remember what I was thinking at that age," he says with a short, humorless laugh. "Racing, yes, but also—" He stops, uncomfortable with articulating his teenage thoughts.
"Sex, rebellion, pushing boundaries?" you finish for him. "Doing everything your parents and team principals warned against?"
He nods, the tension in his jaw visible. "And now I'm the parent."
"It's called poetic justice," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "But Lando, have you considered that you're not just seeing what you fear—you're seeing what you lived?"
His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
You turn to face him more fully, tucking one leg beneath you. "You fell in love with a woman who challenged you, who refused to back down when she knew she was right, who made you a better person by not letting you get away with easy answers or comfortable habits."
Recognition flickers in his eyes, but he doesn't speak.
"And now you've raised a daughter who embodies those exact traits," you continue. "She's strong-willed, articulate, and unwilling to accept authority without reason—just like I was. Just like I am."
"It's different," he protests weakly.
"Is it?" You tilt your head, using the gesture that both you and Lia deploy before delivering a critical point. "Or is it just harder to appreciate those qualities when they're directed at you instead of supporting you?"
Lando stares at you, the truth of your words visibly settling in. He sets down his glass, running both hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration you've seen countless times over the years—in garages after difficult qualifying sessions, in strategy rooms when plans went awry.
"Remember Monaco 2026?" you ask suddenly.
He looks puzzled by the change in subject. "The year I took pole but finished fourth?"
"The year you insisted on an aggressive strategy despite changing weather conditions," you correct him. "You were so certain you knew better than the data. When I presented the conservative option in front of the entire team, you dismissed it outright."
Understanding begins to dawn on his face.
"After the race, when the aggressive strategy cost you the podium, you were furious," you continue. "Not because I'd challenged you, but because I'd been right and you hadn't listened."
"You cornered me in the motorhome," he recalls, a reluctant smile forming. "Told me that my ego had just cost us fifteen championship points."
"And you said—"
"I said I'd never doubt your judgment again," he finishes, the memory clear in his voice. "And then I kissed you for the first time, right there between the telemetry screens."
"Not the most romantic setting," you note with a soft laugh.
"No, but the most honest one." His eyes meet yours, warm with shared history. "I kissed you because your conviction was the sexiest thing I'd ever encountered."
"And now Lia challenges you with that same conviction," you point out gently. "The only difference is that you can't kiss her to resolve the tension."
He laughs despite himself, some of the heaviness lifting from his expression. "God, no."
"So what frightens you more," you ask, taking his hand, "that she might make a mistake with Alex, or that she's found someone who appreciates her strength the way you appreciated mine?"
Lando is quiet for a long moment, staring at your intertwined fingers. When he speaks, his voice carries rare vulnerability. "I'm afraid of losing her."
"To Alex?"
"To time," he clarifies. "To growing up. To not needing me anymore." The admission costs him, evident in how his voice roughens. "In racing, I always had control—of the car, the strategy, my career. But with her, I'm watching from the sidelines as she makes decisions I can't influence."
Your heart aches for him, for this man who dominated one of the most precise sports in the world now struggling with the beautiful chaos of raising a strong-willed daughter.
"You're not losing her," you assure him, squeezing his hand. "You're seeing her become exactly who we raised her to be. Remember what you always told her when she was learning to ride a bike?"
A small smile touches his lips. "You have to let go to see if they can balance on their own."
"Exactly. But letting go doesn't mean abandoning—it means trusting that what you've built together is strong enough to withstand distance."
Lando leans back, looking up at the emerging stars. "When did you get so wise about parenting?"
"Around the same time you got so insecure about teenage boys," you tease gently.
He laughs, the sound more relaxed than anything you've heard from him in days. "I just want her to be careful. To not rush into anything she's not ready for."
"Like you did?" you remind him. "Racing Formula 1 at twenty, proposing at twenty-nine after knowing me for less than two years?"
"That was different," he insists, but with less conviction than before.
"Yes, because you were the one making the decisions, not watching someone else make them." You soften your voice. "Lando, the traits you're fighting against in Lia—her independence, her conviction, her refusal to be intimidated—those are the exact qualities that will protect her, in relationships and in life."
He's quiet, absorbing your words.
"You didn't fall in love with me because I followed rules or did what was expected," you continue. "You fell in love with me because I stood my ground when it mattered."
"And argued with me until I saw reason," he adds with a rueful smile.
"And stood beside you when you took risks," you remind him. "That's who we are together. Is it really surprising that's who she is too?"
Lando looks toward the house, toward the upstairs window where a faint light indicates Lia is still awake. "I owe her an apology, don't I?"
"At minimum," you agree. "But more importantly, you owe her your trust. The same trust you gave me when I tore apart your race strategies in front of the entire team."
"She called me out on my hypocrisy," he admits. "About Lewis. About living by different rules than I expect her to follow."
"She was right."
"I know." He sighs deeply. "That's the most annoying part. Just like with you, she's usually right."
You laugh softly, leaning against his shoulder. "Another family trait."
Lando wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer against the evening chill. "So what do I do now? I can't just say 'okay fine, date whoever you want' after I made such a big deal about it."
"No," you agree. "But you can acknowledge that your reaction was more about your history with Lewis and you letting her grow up than about Alex himself. You can establish reasonable boundaries that show you trust her judgment while still being her father. And you can actually get to know Alex as a person, not just an extension of his father."
Lando nods slowly, the tension in his body gradually easing as he accepts the inevitable. "When did our little girl become so grown up?"
"She's been growing up all along," you remind him. "We just notice it most when she challenges us."
As you sit together in comfortable silence, watching night settle fully over the garden, you feel Lando coming to terms with this new phase of parenthood. The competitive driver who never backed down from a challenge on track is learning the hardest lesson of fatherhood—that sometimes the greatest act of love is stepping back rather than pressing forward.
"I'll talk to her tomorrow," he says finally. "Try to fix this."
"That's a good start."
"And maybe..." he hesitates, the words clearly difficult to form, "maybe invite Alex over properly. Get to know him without projecting twenty years of rivalry onto a seventeen-year-old kid."
You smile against his shoulder, recognizing what this concession costs him and loving him all the more for it. "Who are you and what have you done with my stubborn husband?"
His laughter rumbles through his chest and into yours. "Still here. Just evolving, apparently."
"About time," you tease, but your voice carries all the affection of sixteen years spent loving this complicated, competitive, ultimately good-hearted man.
As the evening deepens around you, Lando's arm secure around your shoulders, you're struck by the perfect symmetry of your family story—how the very qualities that drew you together are now being passed to the next generation, challenging you both in ways neither could have anticipated when you first locked eyes across that strategy room all those years ago.
You lean against the kitchen doorframe, watching Lando pace the living room for the third time in as many minutes. He's rehearsing what to say to Lia—you can tell by the way he gestures to himself, muttering phrases under his breath that range from overly formal ("I've reconsidered my position") to awkwardly casual ("So, about that Hamilton kid..."). When Lia's door finally opens upstairs, he freezes mid-stride, looking momentarily panicked. You give him an encouraging nod as her footsteps descend the stairs. This is his conversation to navigate, his bridge to rebuild, though you can't help but feel both sympathy and amusement at how thoroughly uncomfortable he looks—the man who once negotiated multi-million dollar contracts now terrified of a conversation with his fifteen-year-old daughter.
Lia appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed for school in jeans and one of her debate team hoodies. Her expression is guarded, the hurt from their argument still evident in the careful way she holds herself—slightly distant, braced for another confrontation.
"Morning," she says neutrally, heading for the kitchen.
"Lia, wait," Lando calls, his voice catching slightly. "Can we talk for a minute?"
She pauses, turning slowly. "I need to catch the bus in twenty minutes."
"I'll drive you," he offers quickly. Too quickly. "If... if that's okay."
Something in his obvious discomfort softens her stance. "Fine." She sits on the arm of the sofa, backpack still slung over one shoulder—ready for a quick exit if needed.
You step back, giving them space while remaining within earshot. This is their moment to reconnect, but you want to be available if things derail.
Lando takes a deep breath. "I've been thinking about our conversation. About Alex."
"And?" Her voice remains neutral, but her fingers tighten around her backpack strap.
"And I may have... overreacted." The words come out stiffly, as though extracted under duress.
Lia's eyebrow inches upward in a perfect imitation of your skeptical expression. "May have?"
Lando sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Did overreact. Definitely overreacted."
"Because of Lewis," she states, not a question.
He nods, seeming relieved that she's cutting to the heart of the matter. "Partly. And partly because..." He struggles, glancing toward you for support.
"Because you're growing up," he continues finally. "And that's terrifying."
Something in his honest vulnerability catches Sophia off guard. Her posture relaxes slightly.
"I saw you two together yesterday," Lando admits. "Working with the junior drivers. You were..." He searches for the right word. "Synchronized."
"We work well together," Lia says carefully, testing the conversational waters.
"I noticed." Lando sits on the coffee table, facing her directly. "Look, darlin’, I'm not going to pretend I'm completely comfortable with this. I'm not. But I'm trying to separate my old rivalries from your friendship."
"It is a friendship," she confirms, though something in her eyes suggests potential for more. "Alex isn't his dad, you know. He's actually kind of a science nerd. He wants to design race cars, not drive them."
Lando blinks, clearly surprised by this information. "Really?"
"His room is full of engineering books and half-built prototypes." A small smile touches her lips. "Last month he showed me this suspension design he's working on. It's actually brilliant."
You watch Lando process this new perspective of Lewis’ son—not a playboy or a rival, but a fellow engineering enthusiast who shares his daughter's interests.
"I didn't know that," he admits.
"You never asked." The words carry weight, but not accusation.
Lando takes another deep breath. "I'd like to get to know him better. Properly, without all my... baggage getting in the way."
Hope flickers across Lia's face, quickly tempered with caution. "What exactly are you saying, Dad?"
"I'm saying..." He straightens, clearly having reached the part of his mental script he's most uncomfortable with. "I'm saying you can see him. Under certain conditions."
"What conditions?" Her voice sharpens with immediate suspicion.
"Reasonable ones," Lando assures her quickly. "Group activities at first. Supervised."
"Supervised?" Lia repeats incredulously. "I'm not five, Dad."
"I know that," he counters. "But you're not eighteen either. This is me meeting you halfway."
You can see her weighing the offer, calculating whether to push for more or accept this initial concession. It's the same expression you wear when evaluating race strategy options—measuring risks against potential gains.
"Define 'supervised,'" she says finally.
"Public settings. Home visits where one of us is in the house. No closed doors if he's in your room."
Lia rolls her eyes. "We're studying calculus, not anatomy."
"Lia," Lando warns, though there's a hint of reluctant humor in his voice.
"Fine," she concedes. "Public settings and home visits with parental presence. But no hovering, no interrogations, and no embarrassing baby stories."
"I reserve the right to share at least one embarrassing baby story," Lando negotiates, a smile beginning to form. "It's in the dad handbook."
For the first time in days, Lia's expression fully softens. "One. Choose wisely."
"Deal." Lando extends his hand formally, which she shakes with equal gravity, though both are fighting smiles now.
"And before you start with the lecture about being careful and making good choices—" she begins.
"That's important, darlin’," Lando interrupts. "There are things you need to understand about—"
"About respect and boundaries and not rushing into situations I'm not ready for," she finishes for him. "I know, Dad. You've given me that speech twice already this year."
Lando looks momentarily thrown off balance. "I have?"
"Once before Emma's birthday party, and again before the debate team overnight trip." She adjusts her backpack. "Your speeches have distinct patterns. Opening with 'you're growing up so fast,' middle section about 'choices that impact your future,' and closing with 'I trust you, but...'"
You stifle a laugh from your position by the kitchen, recognizing in her precise breakdown of Lando's parenting speeches the same analytical mind that once dissected his driving patterns lap by lap.
"Well," Lando says, clearly unsure whether to be impressed or offended, "as long as you're listening to the content, even if you're critiquing the delivery."
"I always listen," Lia assures him, standing up. "I just don't always agree."
The echo of your own words to Lando years ago hangs in the air between them. He hears it too, evidenced by the way he glances toward you with a mixture of resignation and amusement.
"We should go if you want me to drive you," he says, reaching for his keys.
"Actually," Lia replies, checking her phone, "Alex texted last night. His dad's dropping him off and offered me a ride too. They should be here in about five minutes."
Lando freezes. "Lewis is coming here? Now?"
"Is that a problem?" she asks with perfect innocence, though the slight tilt of her head suggests she's well aware of the sudden complication.
"No," Lando manages, though his expression says otherwise. "No problem at all."
"Great!" Lia brightens, heading toward the door. "Maybe you two can catch up while I grab my science project from upstairs."
Before Lando can respond, she's already halfway up the stairs, leaving him standing in the living room looking like a man who's just realized he's been outmaneuvered yet again.
You finally step forward, unable to contain your amusement any longer. "Well played," you murmur. "She didn't waste any time testing the new boundaries."
"Did you know about this?" Lando asks, gesturing toward the door with mild panic.
"No, but I'm not surprised," you admit. "She's efficient. Gets two birds with one stone—establishes the new normal and forces you to practice what you just preached about setting aside old rivalries."
Lando sighs, but there's a reluctant smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "She's too smart for her own good."
"For your good, maybe," you correct him with a grin. "Seems to be working out fine for her."
When the doorbell rings five minutes later, you watch Lando square his shoulders like he's preparing for a press conference after a difficult race. Lewis stands on the doorstep, casual in jeans and a simple button-down, offering a coffee cup as a peace offering.
"Thought you might need this," he says with the easy confidence that's always been his trademark. "Alex mentioned Lia might be getting a ride with us. Hope that's okay."
You observe from a distance as the two former rivals engage in surprisingly comfortable small talk while waiting for Lia. Something about seeing these two men—once the fiercest of competitors—now united in the shared experience of raising teenagers strikes you as both funny and profoundly right.
When Lia reappears, science project in hand, she pauses at the foot of the stairs, clearly assessing the situation. Finding Lando and Lewis laughing over some shared memory rather than engaged in awkward silence, she visibly relaxes.
"Ready?" she asks, approaching them with cautious optimism.
"All set," Lewis confirms, then turns to Lando. "We should get the families together sometime. Proper dinner, not just charity functions."
"I'd like that," Lando says, and to your surprise, he sounds genuine.
Lia glances between them, then at you, a small smile of satisfaction crossing her face. She knows exactly what she's orchestrated here—a first step toward normalizing her friendship with Alex by forcing her father to engage with his.
As she turns to leave, she gives Lando a quick, unexpected hug. "Thanks, Dad," she murmurs, and for just a moment, she's his little girl again—the one who used to sit on his shoulders in the garage, listening wide-eyed to his racing stories.
"Be good," he tells her, his voice gruff with emotion he's trying to hide. "Learn something."
She rolls her eyes, the teenager instantly returning. "That's the point of school, Dad."
After they've gone, Lando stands in the doorway watching the car disappear down the street. You join him, slipping your arm around his waist.
"That wasn't so bad," you offer.
"She played me like a fiddle," he says, but there's admiration in his voice rather than resentment. "Set the whole thing up perfectly."
"I wonder who she learned that from," you muse, thinking of all the times you've watched Lando set up complex strategic plays, both on and off track.
He turns to you, a mixture of pride and resignation in his eyes. "We really did create a monster, didn't we?"
"No," you say, resting your head against his shoulder as you close the door. "We created something much more dangerous—a young woman who knows exactly what she wants and exactly how to get it." You smile up at him. "I believe the technical term is 'chip off the old block.'"
Lando laughs, wrapping his arm around you as you walk back to the kitchen. "God help Alex Hamilton."
"God help all of us," you correct him gently.
As you settle into your morning routine, you catch Lando glancing at the family photos on the refrigerator—Lia through the years, from toddler to teenager, her smile always the same blend of his charm and your quiet confidence. You recognize the complex emotion on his face: the strange pride of raising someone strong enough to challenge you, independent enough to forge their own path, and confident enough to stand their ground.
He may still grumble and overprotect and worry, but in that moment, watching him study those photos with a mixture of bewilderment and love, you know he's taken the most important step a father can take—choosing to trust his daughter's strength rather than control her choices.
"She'll be fine," you assure him, handing him a fresh cup of coffee.
"I know," he says quietly. "She's got your brain and my nerve. Poor world doesn't stand a chance."
You kiss him lightly, tasting the familiar blend of coffee and contentment. "And neither do you, darling. Neither do you."
A friends-to-lovers classic, that follows the blurred lines between you and Lando . From heavy whispers from the next room through walls that are way too thin to heavy moans into eachothers ears without any space left between them.
🧡 a´s favs · 🏳️ popular (1K+)
Part 1: Nothing Personal
Part 2: Morning Problems
Part 3: Pregame Paddock Entertainment 🏳️
Part 4: Classified Bassline.
Part 5: Look At You. 🏳️🧡
bonus chapter: Keep Your Hands To Yourself
Part 6: Almost Fooled. 🏳️
Part 7: Thin Walls. 🏳️
Part 8: Is It Casual Now? 🧡🏳️
Part 9: Just the Two Of Us 🧡🏳️
Part 10: No More Words
Part 11: When The World Holds Its Breath
Part 12: Empty Spaces
Part 13: The Gap
Part 14: Monaco Baby
Part 15: Weight Of What Is Left
Part 16: Tell Me Where It Hurts
Part 17: All The Stuff That Still Needs Fixing
FINISHED
PS: do we like the divider? i made it myself and i kinda love it tbh — let me be proud for a sec 😌🧡
GO READ THIS MASTERPIECE. Also @papayainsectorone does such cool dividers and covers, it gives me chills just looking at them. CAN YOU IMAGINE HOW COOL IS HER WORK?
a while ago i read a Lando fanfic (it was series) about him being best friends & roommates with the reader and them becoming friends with benefits. i clearly remember there was a mirror scene and at some point, both of them where scared of feelings for each other, so they started dating other people and when Lando started dating a girl (maybe named Cloe or something from C?), the reader would hear them having sex over the wall and felt into a depression.
i can’t find it anywhere on my likes or comments (my bad, i know, i didn’t show enough love for the author and i’m really sorry about that)
does anyone know how it’s called or who wrote it?
i remember crying while reading it and i want that again.
UPDATE: it’s walls are way too thin by @papayainsectorone. go read and show love to that masterpiece!
genre | fluff, lots of angst, friends to lovers, idiots in love, childhood best friends au, slowburn (trust the process), hurt-comfort
word count | 22.5k (i know- my hand slipped)
warnings | no use of y/n, suggestive in some moments, emotional tension, jealous!lando, mentions of insecurities, use of alcohol, cursing, kissing, pet names (sweetheart), lots of tension, pinning, reader and lando being certified yappers, bantering and lots of teasing
summary: "practice makes perfect" or whatever they say. but who would have thought, that simple love lessons which he decided to give his best friend would turn into something much more. something much more complicated.
a/n: SURPRISEEEE !! happy bday to my dearest @norristrii !! 🧡 love u girlie xoxo, hope you’ll enjoy it ! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
“Fucking hell, I quit this shit.”
As you got into the car, you slammed the door shut and let out an exaggerated groan, throwing your bag onto the backseat. Slumping into the seat, you crossed your arms and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at Lando, who already had this annoying, amused look on his face. Damn it.
“Well, hello to you too, sweetheart.” He smirked from the driver’s seat and raised his eyebrow at you.
“Never again.” You muttered, and his lovely laughter filled the whole car.
You both knew that what you said wasn’t true. In a few days, you’d go on another date, say the same words, and laugh it off with him. The life of a hopeless romantic wasn’t easy.
“Well, that bad, huh? Come on, what was it this time?” He asked curiously, biting his lower lip as you sighed dramatically.
The memories from a couple of minutes flooded your head, still vivid, and it made you want to scream from embarrassment.
“He spent the entire date explaining the plot of his favorite sci-fi series. In excruciating detail!” You started, Lando’s mouth slightly going open, “And you know, it’s not bad! But now I know more about space wars and intergalactic trade agreements than I ever wanted to.” A whine escaped from you as you looked out the window at the restaurant you were still in a few minutes ago.
Lando burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the car. “Wait, wait— he actually talked about space wars and explained trade agreements? On a date?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
You looked at him with a withering glare. “Oh boy, let me tell you that it only gets worse.” You added, what made the grin of your best friend only go wider. At this point, listening to all the absurd things your dates did was Lando’s passion.
“When I told him I wasn’t really into sci-fi, he was baffled and said I clearly ‘didn’t understand the complexities of worldbuilding.’ Mate, I didn’t understand anything you said, and you complain that I don’t understand worldbuilding. Nah, that’s just crazy.” There was nothing else left for you but to sigh while sliding down the seat.
Lando doubled over, gripping the steering wheel for some support. “No. Fucking. Way.”
“Yes way,” You groaned, sitting back and throwing your head back against the headrest. “And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, he pulled out his phone—mind you it was mid-date—and started reading me a fanfic he wrote. His own fanfiction!” You threw your hands in the air as the ridiculousness of the situation finally kicked in.
Lando’s laughter filled the car, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Oh my God. Please, tell me that it was a romance.”
You glared at him, and your lips twitched despite trying to stay serious. “Of course, it was, even with some smut scenes! Can you imagine?” The audacity of that man still made your skin crawl.
Lando put his hands on his face, cackling uncontrollably. “And you actually sat through all of that? Before you finally texted me to save you from this madness?” At this stage, he was shedding tears from laughing too hard.
“What was I supposed to do? Walk out, just like that? ” You replied, chuckling at the end as you looked at him, “Mind you, it wasn’t easy to even get out now. For fucks’s sake, man.” You closed your eyes as a sigh left your mouth, a smile still wandering over your lips.
Lando shook his head, his soft curls bouncing slightly as he still giggled. “Honestly, I don’t know where you find these people. You must have some sort of a gift.”
You smacked his arm, unable to stop yourself from laughing now. “Oh, shut up, you muppet. It’s not my fault he seemed normal on the app!”
“Normal?” Lando repeated, his voice full of mockery, “The man brought his fanfiction to a date. That’s a new low, even for you.” He snickered, not being able to stop himself from teasing you.
“I’m never dating again.” You groaned again, covering your face with your hands. “How is it possible that I always meet the biggest twats in Monaco? I swear, all of the best men are already taken.” You crossed your arms over your chest.
Lando scoffed while giving you a side-eye. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart.” He commented as you also alluded to him (still) being available on the love market.
After a while, he looked at you, again. Lando was grinning, and his voice softened just slightly. “But don’t worry, you’ll bounce back. You always do.”
He patted your thigh and gave it a small squeeze as he used to do. “Besides, you’ve got me as a backup.”He added teasingly while sending you a wink.
You glanced at him, rolling your eyes but smiling. That freaking muppet. Your muppet.
“Yeah, yeah. Just drive, will you?” You responded while concentrating on the scenery outside the window, still feeling his eyes on you.
As Lando drove away from the restaurant, his chuckles still echoing in the car, you couldn’t help but feel lighter in your heart. Somehow, even the worst nights didn’t seem so bad with him. He had this ability to make even the worst moments feel less draining.
────୨ৎ────
When you got to Lando’s apartment, without much thought you changed into some of his clothes. You couldn’t wait any longer to take this uncomfortable dress off of you and put something cozy on while also removing the makeup you wore that night. In the meantime, Lando took the takeout he ordered for both of you to the living room, and prepared two glasses for the wine.
After every failed blind date, Lando would save you, take you to his place, eat, and talk about the ridiculous date you had while drinking some cheap wine. He was always there for you, after every shitty day and even worse dates.
You’ve known each other for most of your lives as you met in primary school. It all started pretty innocently—barely audible “hi”, cute smiles here and there, then having fun together after school. Just you two being youthful kids.
With time, everything progressed and so did you.
The two of you became inseparable. You hung out with Lando most of your days, staying at his house more than at your own.
Every new thing that was known to you was tried together with Lando. With him you went through the tough time of puberty, you skipped school, you snuck out of your house at night, you went to your first parties, you tried alcohol for the first time, and of course, he was your first kiss (which turned out to be pretty awkward).
It was Lando and you against the world. And the shitty dates.
But as you both grew up, things started to change. You both always insisted that there was no romantic tension between you, even though all of your friends, your families, and even strangers constantly mistook you for a couple. But that was just how it was between you two; non-stop bantering with friendly flirting. You’ve never overthought it too much as you considered it a closed case.
The two of you sat cross-legged on the couch, a half-empty bottle of wine standing on the coffee table, right beside the takeaway boxes. Lando leaned back, getting comfortable on the couch as he watched you swirl your glass like some sort of wine connoisseur.
“So,” He said with a teasing smirk, “Mister Fanfiction is officially out of the list, huh?”
You groaned, hiding your face behind your glass. “Don’t remind me. I can still hear him narrating those battle scenes like he was auditioning for an audiobook.”
Lando laughed, shaking his head. “To be honest, I don’t know how you do it. At this point, it’s almost impressive. You’ve got a talent for finding the weirdest men in Monaco.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Careful, Norris. You’re on thin ice.” Lando grinned as you stuck out your tongue at him, clearly enjoying himself.
“I’m just saying, that maybe…” He paused, observing your face with a smirk, “Maybe you’re the problem.”
You blinked at him, “Excuse me?” A snicker left your mouth. “So now suddenly all of the failed dates are my fault?”
“No, no! Think about it,” He continued, shrugging as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Clearly, you need someone to teach you how to date properly.”
You raised a brow, your lips twitching. “Oh, really? And who’s going to do that? You?”
Lando took another sip of his wine, smirking behind the glass. “Maybe I should. You know I have some experience, and God knows I’ve watched you crash and burn enough times to know how to handle you. Practice makes perfect after all.” He chuckled, still oblivious to what was going on in your head.
To his surprise, you suddenly leaned forward, setting your glass down with a decisive clink. “Okay then. Teach me, Mr. I-know-everything-about-love.”
He froze in his spot, staring at you while holding his breath. “Wait. What?” He tilted his head questioningly, flabbergasted at your reaction.
“You heard me,” You said, crossing your arms. “Teach me how to date. If you’re such an expert, show me what I’m doing wrong.” A smirk appeared on your lips as you noticed how taken aback he was by your directness.
His grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of nervousness. “Hey, I was just joking.” Lando excused himself quickly, scratching the back of his head.
What he didn’t expect was for you to counter. “I’m not.” Your tone daring him to back out.
The boy hesitated, the tips of his ears turning pink. He cleared his throat before finally speaking, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You must have drank too much wine tonight.” He reached to take your glass, but you moved your hand away, making it impossible for him to reach.
“Why not?” You challenged him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Too afraid you’ll fail?”
Lando scoffed, quickly straightening up his position. “Please. If anyone can turn your love life around, it’s me, sweetheart.”
“Then prove it.” You said, leaning in.
Even you were quite shocked with yourself. But frankly, you weren’t sure if it wasn’t speaking the side where all the emotions toward him accumulated in you. And seeing him this flustered was worth risking it all.
For a moment, Lando just stared at you, caught between amusement and sheer disbelief. Where did this sudden change in you come from? However, he had to agree, he enjoyed it.
Then, with a dramatic sigh, he finally answered, “Fine. But we need some ground rules.”
You laughed, bringing your knee close to your chest, “Rules? Oh, this is going to be good.” You tilted your head while looking at him curiously.
“Rule number one,” He said, pointing at you, “No falling in love with your teacher.”
You scoffed and looked at him pityingly, “Oh please,” You rolled your eyes at him, “Trust me, Norris, that is not happening—never.”
“We’ll see,” He shot back, smirking. “Rule number two, I’m in charge. You do what I say.”
You grinned at his words, “Bossy, aren’t you?”
“Hey, you asked for my help,” He retorted, his confidence returning. “Now, are we doing this or not?” His aquamarine eyes were stuck on you, searching for an answer.
A bright grin adorned your lips as you raised your glass for a toast. “Deal.” You said, “Teach me how to date, muppet.”
He clinked his glass against yours, though the faint blush on his cheeks betrayed his bravado. “Oh, you're going to regret this.”
“Bet.”
The two of you burst into laughter, but as the conversation moved on, neither of you could shake the unspoken tension that lingered in the air. Something new, something electric. Something that could only end up in two ways. Perfectly right or terribly wrong.
────୨ৎ────
The faint glow of morning sunlight seeped through the blinds, casting soft stripes across your cluttered room. A half-empty glass of water sat precariously on the edge of your nightstand, next to a book you promised yourself you’d finish weeks ago. Outside, the distant hum of traffic mingled with the chirping of early birds, a cruel reminder that the world was already awake.
And then came the shrill ring of your phone, piercing the peace like a dagger.
You groaned, blindly reaching for the offending device. When your hand finally found it, you squinted at the screen through bleary eyes.
Lando. Of course.
You contemplated letting it ring, but with his persistence, you knew better.
Sliding to answer, you muttered, “What?” Your voice was hoarse, scratchy from sleep.
His unmistakably cheerful voice came from the other end of the line, far too chipper for this hour. “'Morning! Hope you’re ready for your first lesson.”
You blinked at the ceiling, your brain struggling to process his words. “Lan, it’s nearly eight in the morning. Have you gone crazy?”
“Nope,” He replied, completely unbothered. “And that is the perfect time to start our lesson. Come on, get out of bed, stinky.”
You groaned again, pulling the blanket over your head in protest. “Just let me sleep, dickhead.”
“Nope. I’ll be at yours in ten.”
Your eyes snapped open, the phone slipping slightly in your grasp. “Ten minutes?! Lando, I swear—”
“Get ready, you can’t miss your first lesson.” He chortled, making you groan at his words.
“Fuck you.” You hissed in frustration.
His laughter rang through the line, light and unbothered. “Love you too, sweetheart.”
The call ended before you could respond, leaving you staring at the ceiling in disbelief. The soft ticking of the clock on your wall mocked you as you groaned loudly into your pillow.
For a brief moment, you debated ignoring him, but you knew Lando too well. If you didn’t answer the door, he’d just bang on it until the entire building woke up.
────୨ৎ────
Lando ended up sticking to his word and arrived in the next ten minutes. You were barely awake when the loud, obnoxious knocking jolted you from your bed. Groaning, you dragged yourself to the door, still wrapped in your blanket. You opened it to find Lando standing there, annoyingly bright-eyed and grinning like the devil himself.
“Morning, sweetheart!” He said, way too chipper for 7 AM.
You squinted at him, clutching your blanket tighter. “It’s not morning. It’s an ungodly hour, and I hate you.”
“Nah, you love me. Now come on, get dressed. We’ve got lessons to start.”
“Lessons on what? Torturing me at ungodly hours?” You grumbled, stepping aside to let him in.
Lando strolled in like he owned the place, collapsing onto your couch. He propped his feet up on your coffee table, looking entirely too comfortable.
“Nope. Lessons on how to become a dating pro, obviously.” He shot you a grin, his dimples on full display. “And step one is not looking like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
You grabbed a pillow from the couch without hesitation and launched it at his head. Laughing, he dodged it effortlessly as he leaned back into the cushions.
“I’m not doing this,” You grumbled, standing with your arms crossed. “Find another victim.”
Lando laughed, patting the spot next to him. “Oh, come on. You know you’re going to have fun. And besides, you were the one who insisted on me teaching you.”
You groaned, finally giving in and sitting next to him, your blanket still draped around your shoulders. “I take it back. This was a terrible idea.”
He nudged your shoulder with his. “No take-backs. Now, let’s get started. First lesson is about showing up on time and looking cute.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “Says the guy in sweatpants and a hoodie.”
Lando laughed, a boyish grin spreading across his face. “Fair point. But you’re still the one who needs lessons, not me. And I’m setting the rules here, aren't I?”
“That’s not a rule. That’s just you being annoying.” You mumbled, burying yourself in the cushions as you leaned back.
“Hey, you want to get better at this or not?” Lando teased, “Now, sit up. Lesson One starts now.”
You groaned but sat up begrudgingly, rubbing your eyes. “Fine.”
Lando crossed his arms, his grin widening. “Lesson One is also about your confidence. The way you carry yourself is everything. If you go on a date looking like you just crawled out of bed—”
“But I did just crawl out of bed!” You snapped.
“Exactly my point.” He said smugly.
You scowled at him, but he was already pulling you to your feet. “Alright,” He said, taking you to your bedroom and spinning you toward the mirror. “Let’s start with posture. Shoulders back, chin up like you want to be here.”
“But I don’t want to be here.” You muttered.
“Fake it till you make it.” Lando quipped.
Reluctantly, you stood up straighter, mimicking his instructions. It looked so weird. You were still in your pyjamas and the blanket now unfortunately lying on the floor.
He moved to stand behind you, gently adjusting your shoulders. His touch was firm but light, and it made your heart do a little flip—not that you’d want to admit it.
“Better,” He said, nodding at your reflection. “Now, confidence isn’t just how you look. It’s how you speak. Give me your best ‘Hi, nice to meet you.’”
You cleared your throat, feeling ridiculous. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
Lando winced dramatically, tilting his head to look at you in your reflection. “Ugh, no. That sounded like you were apologizing for existing. Try again—this time, like you’re happy to meet me.”
You rolled your eyes but tried again, adding a bit more energy to your voice. “Hi, nice to meet you!”
He raised an eyebrow. “Better, but now you sound like a game show host.”
You groaned. “Lando, this is stupid.”
“No, this is important,” He said, laughing. “You’ve got to find the balance—confident but natural.”
You tried again, narrowing your eyes at him as you said, “Hi, nice to meet you.”
Lando smirked. “There it is. See? Not that hard, is it?”
“You’re so lucky I haven’t had my coffee yet, or I’d kill you for this.” You muttered, glaring at him.
“Which brings me to the second part of Lesson One,” He said, ignoring your threat. “Eye contact. If you want someone to feel like they matter, you look them in the eyes.”
You crossed your arms nonchalantly. “That’s easy.”
He stepped closer, spinning you around to face him. “Okay, prove it.”
Your breath was caught in your lungs as his blue-green eyes locked onto yours. He held your gaze steadily, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. Suddenly, eye contact didn’t feel so easy.
“See? Not so simple, huh?” He said, his voice lower now, but still playful.
You scoffed, breaking eye contact and turning away. “Whatever. You’re just distracting.”
Lando chuckled. “That’s the point. A good date is gonna test your confidence. If you can hold your ground with me, then you’re more than ready.”
Despite your initial grumpiness, you found yourself smiling. His teasing felt less like mockery and more like encouragement, and as you practiced a few more scenarios—bantering the entire time—you started to feel a little less self-conscious.
By the time you were both laughing too hard to continue, your stomach growled loudly.
Lando raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Alright, I think we’ve earned a break. Let’s go get breakfast. My treat—since I’m such a generous coach.”
“You? Generous?” You questioned, grabbing your bag. “You’re a menace.”
“A menace who’s gonna make you a dating pro.” He shot back, winking at you as he held the door open for you.
You rolled your eyes but followed him out, feeling oddly lighter than you had in days. Maybe this “lesson” thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
────୨ৎ────
As your second lesson, Lando took you this afternoon to your favourite café.
The café bustled with the quiet hum of chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the clinking of ceramic cups. A group of teenagers laughed at a corner table, while an older couple sat by the window, sharing a croissant.
You sat across from Lando, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the edge of the table, his grin infuriatingly smug.
“This is ridiculous,” You said, glancing around the room. “What am I even supposed to do?”
He smirked, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “Easy. Pretend I’m a random guy you’re interested in. Strike up a conversation—charm me.” A smug smile appeared on his lips.
Your eyes narrowed. “You realize you’re not exactly a random guy, right?”
“Exactly my point. If you can charm me, you can charm anyone.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the flicker of a smile. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you’re left speechless.”
“That’s the spirit.” He sat back, crossing his arms, his expression all too amused.
Taking a deep breath, you leaned forward, mimicking what you thought was an effortless smile. “Hi there,” You said sweetly, your voice dripping with mock charm. “I couldn’t help but notice your incredibly obnoxious smirk from across the room. Do you always look this punchable, or is it just today?”
Lando choked on his coffee, holding back his laughter as people around already looked in your direction from his sudden slam of the cup against the coffee plate.
“Okay, okay,” He said, wiping his mouth. “Not bad, but maybe dial it back a bit. Save the insults for date three.”
You groaned, sinking back into your chair. “This is stupid. What’s even the point?”
“The point,” He started, leaning forward, his eyes suddenly serious, “is to get you out of your head. You’re overthinking everything.”
You frowned, his words hitting a little too close to home. “I’m not overthinking. I’m just… bad at this.”
“You’re not bad at this,” He said softly. “You just don’t trust yourself.” The warmth in his voice caught you off guard.
His gaze softened, his blue-green eyes holding yours in a way that made your stomach flip. You looked away, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, the way his knee brushed yours under the tiny table.
“Alright, let’s switch it up,” He said, breaking the tension. “We’ll role-play, but I’ll start this time. Watch and learn.”
He straightened in his chair, his playful smirk returning. “Excuse me, miss,” He said, his voice smoother than you’d ever heard it. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re sitting here all alone, looking like you could use some company.”
You raised an eyebrow, struggling to hide your grin. “That’s your line? Seriously, Norris?”
“Hey, usually it works,” He shot back, chuckling. “Now play along.”
“Fine.” You leaned forward, your lips twitching as you tried to stay in character. “Well, that depends. Are you always this confident, or are you just pretending because you’re at a café?”
He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Only when I meet someone worth talking to.”
Your heart skipped a beat, the playful banter taking on an undercurrent of something deeper. The air between you shifted, the teasing smiles lingering a little too long, your gazes locked a little too intensely.
“See?” He said finally, “You’ve got this.”
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
The moment lingered, the conversation forgotten as silence fell between you. Lando’s fingers tapped against his cup, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second before his eyes were back on yours. He sent you one of the innocent smiles as he took his cup of coffee and took a sip from it.
Gosh, he’s going to be the death of you someday.
────୨ৎ────
The walk back from the café had been a peaceful one, with the sun setting slowly behind the buildings, casting the streets in a warm, golden light.
Lando, always with that easy confidence, walked beside you, humming a tune under his breath while you quietly scrolled through your phone. Every now and then, your shoulders brushed as you walked, and you couldn’t ignore the warmth that spread through you every time.
Eventually, though, Lando broke the silence. “I’m starving,” He announced, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “Let’s grab some snacks.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Snack run? You’re not getting chips again, are you?”
He shrugged casually, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, “I could eat chips for days, but no, I was thinking something different this time.”
“Uh-huh. You’re definitely getting chips.”
He grinned, pulling you toward the nearby grocery store. “You’ll see.”
The store filled a quiet hum of its own, the soft overhead lights buzzing faintly as you both entered with a bell ringing above you. A few late-night shoppers wandered the aisles, their footsteps quick and quiet. You two, however, were a whirlwind of chaos.
You immediately lined in for the snack aisle, while Lando—naturally—dashed off to the drink section, presumably for his endless supply of energy drinks.
You grabbed a bag of chips and stared at the labels, debating between your usual choice or something more adventurous. Suddenly, Lando appeared next to you, his basket full of neon-colored cans.
“Seriously?” You asked, eyeing his choice of drinks—five different kinds of energy drinks, none of which were remotely good for a person.
“What?” He shrugged, grinning. “I need my fuel. I don’t know how you live without these.”
“I’m more concerned about how your insides haven’t exploded yet.” You glanced at his cart again and shook your head. “You’re going to rot your teeth with this crap.”
Lando laughed, tossing a can of the brightest energy drink into his cart. “I’m fine. This stuff keeps me going. It’s your snacks that I’m worried about.” He grabbed your bag of chips and held it up, his face twisted in mock disgust. “See, this is why no one dates you.”
You snatched the chips back, pointing at his basket with a dramatic sigh. “And this is why you’re single, you muppet. Candy and caffeine? Really?”
He looked at the kinder chocolates in his cart and then back at you, eyes narrowing. “Hey, I can’t help it if I like a little sugar rush now and then.”
“Sure, because we all know sugar rushes are the key to true love.” You replied sarcastically.
You both continued down the aisles, and before you knew it, you had found yourselves near the instant food section, where an impromptu race had begun.
Lando, looked at you with that mischievous glint in his eye. “Race me to the candy aisle.” He challenged, grinning brightly.
“You’re on.” You replied with a smug smile on your face.
A blur of movement and laughter followed as you both sped down the aisles, dodging random items and barely avoiding a collision with a display of cereal boxes. You both nearly lost control a few times, but you managed to get into the candy aisle. You could hear Lando laughing behind you, the sound louder than your own heart pounding in your chest.
“Too slow!” You yelled, looking over your shoulder and laughing, feeling a rush of freedom you hadn’t expected.
But just as you were about to win, you swerved too sharply, bumping into a shelf with your arm. Packs of gum and chocolate bars cascaded onto the floor in a loud crash. You let out a loud gasp as your hand flew to your mouth in shock.
“Nice one.” Lando teased, stopping beside you. He was giggling and you stood there, caught between wanting to be mad and laughing with him. “I’m blaming you for this.” You said.
“Of course you are.” He teased you.
“But you know I won, right?” You added, raising your eyebrow at him, “I don’t think that counts when you caused a mini disaster.”
You both spent the next few minutes putting everything back in place, much to the amusement of the other customers in the store.
Finally, you made your way to the checkout counter, where the middle-aged, woman cashier gave you both a disbelieving look as she scanned your wildly mismatched purchases.
“Is this your dinner?” She asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Not sure what we’re having yet, but we’ll figure it out.” Lando replied smoothly, grinning at you. You rolled your eyes at him. “At least we’ll have fun while we starve.” He added.
After the chaotic trip to the store, you were both exhausted, but the laughter still lingered. The cool evening air was refreshing as you walked home, each of you carrying a bag full of questionable snack choices. Every now and then, your hands brushed, but neither of you said anything about it.
“See?” Lando started, glancing at you. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He sent you a bright grin.
You smiled, a little breathless from the adrenaline. “It was a disaster, but I’ll admit, it was fun.”
He glanced at you sideways, his grin softening. “Well, next time, I’ll win the race.”
“Oh, please. You cheated.”
“Can’t blame me for taking advantage of your terrible operating skills.” Lando said with a wink.
You laughed, playfully nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“But you like it.” He added, nudging you back.
And suddenly, the air between you shifted. The easy banter was still there, but now it felt heavier, like something unspoken was hanging in the silence. You both stopped walking, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
It was Lando who broke the quiet, his voice softer than usual. “You’re the best part of my day, you know that?”
You blinked, your heart giving an unexpected leap in your chest. “I— what?”
“Just saying.” He chirped, smiling brightly but there was something vulnerable in his eyes now.
You swallowed, unsure of how to respond. It felt like everything had changed, but you didn’t know how.
Before you could say anything, he nudged you with his shoulder again, snapping you back to reality. “Anyway, time for our questionable snacks.”
You laughed again, trying to push down the rising feelings inside you. “Yeah, yeah. Lead the way.” You said as you both strolled to your apartment.
────୨ৎ────
Lando kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket onto the couch, walking into his apartment, but it didn’t feel like home tonight. The place was too quiet, too still. His thoughts were loud, buzzing like an electric current through his mind, and he couldn’t seem to shut them off.
He plopped down on the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. His mind kept wandering back to the day with you, your lesson at the cafe, the grocery store, the spontaneous shopping race, and hanging out at your place while eating the snacks you bought.
The way you laughed at him, how easy it was to be around you, and how, for some reason, he found himself feeling… more than just amused.
The smile on your face earlier that day—genuine and warm—kept replaying in his mind, over and over. And he hated it. It was ridiculous how a simple smile, something so normal, could make his stomach twist in a way that left him more confused than he’d ever been.
He glanced at his phone. No messages. But then a notification popped up from no one other than you. You’d sent him a message after he’d dropped you off.
You:
thanks for today, Lan
i had fun
even though you’re a cheating dickhead :p
Lando smiled at the screen like a teenager in love, but quickly slapped his face, trying to stabilize his facial expression. Even though he was alone, it felt a little absurd to smile over a text. But that was from you. You always knew how to make him feel something, even in the smallest moments.
His fingers hovered over the screen. He had a million things he could say—some sarcastic, some teasing, some that maybe he really wanted to say. But he chose the simplest one, the kind of response that still had a little bit of that playful energy between the two of you.
Lando:
you’re welcome, sweetheart
glad i could teach you another lesson today
let me know when you’re ready to graduate to full-on grocery shopping ;)
It was light, harmless, but he felt a small jolt in his chest after sending it, like he was waiting for something. For what? He wasn’t sure.
He leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The silence of the room almost felt suffocating. He didn’t know what to make of this… whatever it was that was happening between you two.
He liked you—he knew that, and it wasn’t just because you’ve known each other since primary school, made him laugh or challenged him. It was deeper than that, wasn’t it?
He didn’t want to admit it, but it felt like you’d somehow slipped into the space in his life where no one else had been allowed.
It was annoying, really. Why was it so hard to admit? Why was he so afraid of what it meant?
Just as he thought about getting up and going to freshen up, his phone buzzed again.
You:
i’ll keep that in mind lol
btw, thanks for another lesson
He laughed softly to himself, biting back a smile. You were always so quick with your words, so playful. It made everything seem… easier.
For a moment, he let the conversation sit there, letting the words linger in his mind. He felt something stirring—something different—but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Something that maybe had been there for a while, but that he hadn’t noticed until now. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d been choosing not to notice it.
And then, as though his brain couldn’t stop itself, his mind wandered back to those stupid moments from today—your laugh, the way your eyes lit up when you’d teased him during the lesson. The way his chest tightened when he caught your hand brushing against his while cleaning up the shelf, even if it was just for a second. The way he couldn’t stop thinking about how natural it all felt, how right it felt to be with you.
But you were still just his friend, right?
He sighed, glancing at his phone again, watching the screen go dark as the conversation faded. It was nothing. Nothing more than a friendship. Nothing more than today, anyway.
Lando stood up abruptly and walked over to his kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water. But the second he opened the fridge, he froze.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel about all of this. And it was driving him mad. Maybe it was just because you were such a huge part of his life—maybe it was just that. Maybe the little jokes, the constant teasing, the weird way he found himself thinking about you all the time. It was all just normal to him.
But the more he tried to convince himself of that, the more the doubt crept in. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you.
“Fuck.” He muttered to himself, leaning against the door of the fridge, gripping the bottle tightly in his hand.
He’d been so determined not to let anything change, to keep this whole thing casual, lighthearted. But now? Now he wasn’t sure what it was anymore.
Lando took a long drink from the bottle and shook his head. He needed to stop. He needed to focus on something else—anything else. He needed to stop thi.
Oh, but it didn’t stop. The question lingered like an itch he couldn’t scratch. What was this?
He grabbed his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen, and then deleted the text he was about to send you. What could he even say? The words wouldn’t be enough. Maybe he just needed to sleep on it. Maybe tomorrow would make everything clearer.
Or maybe, deep down, he knew exactly what this was, but he wasn’t ready to face it yet.
────୨ৎ────
After a few weeks of playful lessons, things had been going surprisingly well. Lando’s tips—however smugly delivered—seemed to make sense, and you’d actually started to feel more confident. So, when a cute guy from a bookshop asked you out, you decided to test the waters without telling Lando.
Now, standing in front of him as he stared at you with narrowed eyes, you regretted not mentioning it.
“Wait— you what?” He asked, his voice sharp.
You winced at him. “I went on a date. Just to see if your advice was actually working.”
Lando leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His usual teasing grin was gone, replaced by something tense and unreadable. “So, let me get this straight—you didn’t trust the lessons, and you went behind my back to… fact-check me?”
You frowned. “No, Lando. I wasn’t questioning you or your advice. I just wanted to— I don’t know, see if I could actually do this.”
His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped slightly. “And? Did it work?” He asked nonchalantly.
You hesitated, suddenly unsure why you felt guilty. “Well… yeah, actually. He said I seemed confident and easy to talk to.”
Lando let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Glad I could help you land another date.”
You blinked, confused by his sudden bitterness. “Why are you being so weird about this? Isn’t this exactly what we were doing? You teach me, I try it out. What’s the big deal?”
He sighed deeply while looking away to the side. His jaw was tight, his arms still crossed.
“The big deal,” He said, his voice low, “Is that I thought this was about us working on something together, not you taking what I gave you and— ...and running off with it like it doesn’t matter.”
Your brow furrowed as you crossed your arms. “But it does matter! I wouldn’t have done half as well without you and your help. I just didn’t think I needed to check in with you before trying it out. ”
Lando scoffed, looking away as if to gather his thoughts. Then, almost too quietly, he muttered, “It’s not about the lessons.”
You froze. “What?”
He ran a hand over his face, frustrated. “Nah, never mind.”
“No, Lando. What do you mean it’s not about the lessons?” You pressed, stepping closer.
He hesitated, his eyes meeting yours for a moment before darting away. “It’s just… I didn’t think you’d actually go out with someone else, alright? Not after—” He cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek.
Your heart thudded loudly in your chest. “Not after what?”
He let out a long breath, finally looking at you with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and something softer. “Not after this.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you.
You stared at him, confused and a little breathless. But then it struck you. “You’re jealous.”
“No, I’m not jealous.” He shot back quickly, but his tone betrayed him.
Your lips twitched into a smirk. “You’re totally jealous, Lando.”
“You’re missing the point!” He snapped, getting up from the chair, his frustration rising. But then he paused, realizing how close he was to you, and his voice softened. “I just— I thought maybe…” He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, and suddenly the air between you felt impossibly heavy.
“Thought what?” You whispered, your heart racing.
Lando hesitated for a moment too long, then shook his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
But you knew it did matter. And now, for the first time, you were starting to understand why.
────୨ৎ────
You were standing in front of Lando’s apartment door, feeling strangely nervous for a reason you couldn’t quite place. Sure, you were used to the lessons by now—playful banter, lighthearted mockery, the usual. But today felt different.
It had been weeks since that conversation where Lando seemed to hint at something deeper, and even though neither of you had addressed it directly, you felt the weight of it every time you saw him.
Your hand hovered over the doorbell, and just before you could press it, the door swung open, revealing Lando standing there, a small, knowing smirk on his face.
“Look who’s here early.” He teased, but there was something almost warm in his tone.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t ignore the way your heart fluttered at the sight of him. “Let’s just get this over with.” You muttered, trying to dismiss the uneasy feeling in your stomach.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You seem tense. That’s new. I thought we were past the awkward stage by now.”
You hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, keeping the mood light. “Maybe it’s because your lessons are starting to feel like a bad rom-com.”
Lando chuckled, leading you to the living room. “I told you I was a genius. Just wait. You’ll thank me when you’re out there with some hot guy and you’re getting all the attention.”
You rolled your eyes again, but your stomach fluttered, imagining what it would feel like to actually be seen like that. Confident, poised, able to captivate someone’s attention.
“Alright,” Lando said, suddenly more serious. He turned to face you, his posture shifting as he adopted a more intense, focused air. “Today’s lesson is about vulnerability.”
“Vulnerability?” You blinked as you repeated, trying to sound nonchalant, but you could already feel the walls in your chest start to rise. “Isn’t that a bit heavy for a lesson about dating?”
Lando nodded, his eyes serious now. “It’s important, though. People can sense when you’re holding back, when you’re not being real with them. If you want something deeper than just a casual fling, you need to be willing to be vulnerable. Not just with them—but with yourself.”
You stood still, his words sinking in slowly. This felt like it was crossing a line into something deeper, something far more personal. You weren’t sure if you were ready for it, and yet, a part of you knew that you had to be.
“Fine.” You said, trying to sound confident even as you felt the already said vulnerability creeping up inside you. “What do we do? Cry in a circle? Share our deepest fears?” You asked as you said on the floor, in front of the couch.
He sat down beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat from his body. It made the air between you crackle with tension, and you suddenly became hyper-aware of everything. His scent. His proximity. The way his eyes lingered just a little too long on you.
“Simple,” Lando replied, his voice dropping a little lower. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and this time—no dodging, no deflecting. Just be honest, okay?” He questioned to which you replied with a soft nod.
Lando was silent for a moment, as if picking his words carefully. “What’s something about yourself you don’t let other people see? Something you’ve been hiding because you’re scared to show it?”
You froze. You hadn’t expected a question like that. There were so many things you kept buried deep—things you didn’t even like to think about, let alone talk about with anyone.
“I—” You faltered, not sure how to answer. “I don’t know. Maybe… I guess I keep everyone at arm’s length. I don’t let anyone get too close.”
Lando’s eyes softened, his gaze intense, as if he was trying to read you in a way no one else ever had. “Why do you do that?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “Because… I don’t want to get hurt. If I let someone in too far, I know they could leave. I’ve seen it happen before.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just nodded, as if taking in everything you had just said.
Then, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “I get that. But you know, if you don’t let anyone close, you’ll never know what it’s like to have someone who truly cares. To experience something real.”
The weight of his words settled heavily between you, and you felt your heart race, your pulse pounding in your ears. It was almost like you could hear your own fear in the way he spoke, and the vulnerability you had tried to guard so carefully was slowly cracking open.
You looked at him, your eyes locking, and for the first time in weeks, there was no joking, no playful teasing. Just raw, unspoken understanding.
Lando’s gaze softened, “Alright, second question. What’s your biggest relationship fear?”
The question hit you like a punch to the gut. You weren’t ready for this. You thought the first question was hard, but this actually hit too close to home. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Guess he really wanted to make you feel vulnerable.
Lando’s gaze softened as he leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. His casual demeanor was a stark contrast to the tension that seemed to have settled between you two.
You shifted uncomfortably under his stare, feeling the weight of his question hanging in the air.
He raised an eyebrow, his voice coaxing but still playful. “Trust me,” He teased, leaning a bit too close. “You’ve learned enough already to get by, now I want to know, what’s your biggest relationship fear?”
You hesitated, your mind spinning with the potential answers. Could you really tell him? Could you really let him see this side of you?
The weight of his gaze made your stomach tighten, and you instinctively looked away. Your throat tightened as the words got stuck. But Lando was persistent, his tone softening as he urged you on.
“C’mon, don’t hold back on me, alright?” He smiled, though there was an edge of concern beneath the teasing.
You sighed, feeling the vulnerability slip through your defenses like a crack in a dam. The question was simple, but it dug deeper than you expected.
Your biggest fear? It wasn’t the fear of being alone, or of having bad dates, or of not being good enough. It was something much more raw.
You turned your gaze to the window, as if the quiet night outside could offer you some comfort.“I’m afraid of being too much,” You said softly, barely above a whisper. “Too loud, too emotional, too difficult to handle. I think that sometimes people get overwhelmed by me, and I always end up pushing them away without meaning to.”
The confession hung in the air, a weight you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying. You nervously fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, avoiding Lando’s gaze. You didn’t want to see his judgment, didn’t want to see pity.
But then, you heard him move. His presence shifted beside you, and you blinked in surprise when you felt the light pressure of his hand on your thigh, where he gave you a small squeeze.
“Hey,” His voice was quieter, almost tender. “That’s not something to be ashamed of. Being a lot, or feeling deeply, doesn’t make you any less worthy of love. It makes you real.”
You swallowed hard, and finally dared to meet his eyes. There was no judgment there, no pity—just a quiet understanding that you weren’t sure you deserved.
“And I can assure you, you’re not the only one.” He said softly, his hand still resting on your arm, the warmth of it grounding you. “Tell me something I don’t know. I’m usually too much for some people. And I’ve got my own stuff I keep hidden too. Things I’m scared of showing because they might make people leave.”
You frowned, glancing at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”
Lando smirked but there was something in his eyes—a vulnerability that he rarely showed. “Guess we’re both pretty good at pretending everything’s fine, huh?”
His honesty was a jarring contrast to his usual banter. You felt a flutter in your chest, your emotions swirling, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was saying more than he was letting on. But the moment was fragile, so you held onto it—this quiet, raw connection that seemed to be growing between you two..
But then, before either of you could say anything more, there was a loud knock at the door, and the moment shattered. You both pulled back almost instinctively, like the world had shifted around you, leaving you both caught in the silence that followed.
“Right on cue.” He muttered, standing quickly and walking to the door.
You took a few moments to compose yourself, trying to shake off the rawness of the conversation, but it lingered like a storm cloud between you both.
As the door opened, Max stepped in, cans of beer in his hands while grinning. He glanced between you and Lando, his eyes flickered in curiosity, sensing the tension in the air but not quite understanding it.
“Did I interrupt something?” Max asked, his tone playful but a little teasing.
You gave him a tight smile, shaking your head. “No, you’re good. I was just heading out.”
Max raised an eyebrow, obviously skeptical, but he didn’t press the matter further. He nodded and flashed a quick smile at you. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you two to it. Catch you later.”
You nodded, muttering a quick goodbye to both of them before walking toward the door. Lando stood by the entrance, watching you go with a guarded expression, but something in his eyes—something soft, something unspoken—made your heart flutter, and you almost felt like turning back. But you didn’t.
You left his apartment, stepping out into the cool night air, the streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. As you walked, your thoughts raced.
What had just happened?
Your heart still thudded loudly in your chest, your mind replaying the vulnerable words you’d both shared.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Lando—how close he had been, how it felt like you were on the verge of something monumental, but then it all had been pulled away so abruptly.
You wanted to understand it, but it was like trying to grasp smoke with your bare hands. You were certain you had just glimpsed something real between you—something that you both hadn’t acknowledged yet—but what was it?
Your steps slowed as you walked, the cool air biting at your skin, the questions swirling in your head. Why did it feel like something had shifted between you two? You weren’t sure, but you couldn’t deny the feeling that there was something more there. Something that was suddenly too real to ignore.
Was it the way his voice softened when he talked about his struggles? Or maybe it was the way his eyes had stayed on you for just a moment too long before the interruption of Max? You shook your head. It wasn’t that simple. But what if it was?
You reached your apartment building, your feet carrying you without much thought as you tried to put the evening into perspective. It wasn’t just the lessons anymore. It was about him. Lando.
You walked into your building and up the stairs, but all you could think about was that moment, when everything had nearly cracked open between you two.
What now?
────୨ৎ────
It had already been three months since Lando started these “dating lessons.” At first, you hated every moment of it. The early mornings, the awkward tips on what to say, the forced banter that seemed like it was straight out of some romance movie. You had thought the whole thing was ridiculous, a waste of time.
You never signed up to learn how to date—it was just supposed to be you figuring it out. But now? Well, now it was different. You found yourself looking forward to it. The lessons didn’t feel like lessons anymore, they felt like moments spent with him.
Lando’s sarcasm was easier to swallow, his teasing was less annoying, and you found yourself actually learning—not just about dating, but about the person you were becoming with each interaction.
The lessons had evolved from mere exercises in how to behave on a date to something more. There was the grocery store adventure where you both raced around the aisles, the heated debates about the best snack brands, the quiet nights spent in his apartment watching movies where you’d catch yourself laughing too hard at his jokes.
And then there was the way he had started to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—the moments when his hand brushed against yours, the small smiles that lingered longer than usual. You weren’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere between his casual insults and your joking comebacks, something had shifted.
You found yourself wanting him more and more. Wanting to be around him, laugh with him, touch him. But you couldn’t tell him that, could you? You were supposed to be learning, not falling for him.
The night before, you’d spent hours talking in his kitchen over a takeout, sharing a bottle of wine. The banter was still there, but it was different. There was an electricity in the air, a tension that neither of you seemed to want to acknowledge. You laughed, but there was something softer about the way you looked at each other now.
Tonight, your group of friends decided to hit the club and chill out together.
The night was electric as you entered the club with your friends. The music thumped in your chest, the bright lights flashing in time with the beat, and the laughter of your group filled the air as you made your way to the VIP section.
Alex was by your side, pulling you along, while Lando and Charles were chatting up with the staff, trying to get the best spot. Carlos and Rebecca were already ahead, eagerly chatting with the bartender about the best drinks of the night.
You were dressed up to the nines—a bold, black dress that hugged your figure just right, makeup that added to your confidence, and heels that made you feel like you were walking on air.
Every movement was self-assured, purposeful, but underneath it all, you felt the familiar flutter of nerves. It was a big night—your first real night out since those dating lessons with Lando, and small practice blind dates after deciding later with Lando that it was, indeed, practical.
You caught a glimpse of Lando in the crowd, looking effortlessly cool in a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his signature smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. But as you locked eyes for a moment, something shifted between you. He stared for just a beat too long, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too. His gaze darkened with something unreadable, something that made your heart skip.
The club was alive with energy, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Lando was watching you—really watching you. Every time you moved through the crowd, you felt his eyes follow your every step, and you knew it wasn’t just about the way you looked. His gaze was intense, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry or just… interested.
As the night wore on, Alex and you had mingled with the others, having fun, drinking, laughing, and meeting new people. You felt the buzz of alcohol loosening your usual inhibitions, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but still feel Lando’s presence, like an electric current running through the air. Every now and then, you’d catch him looking your way—his jaw tight, lips pressed together, as if he was holding something back.
One guy, a charming stranger with a cocky grin, approached you while you were chatting with Alex. He made some casual comment about your dress, a compliment that felt a little too insistent for your liking. You tried to brush him off politely, but he was persistent. And that’s when you saw it. Lando’s posture stiffened from across the room. His jaw clenched as he observed the whole exchange. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was a raw, protective energy that you couldn’t ignore.
Your heart raced in your chest. Why was this affecting you so much? Lando was just a friend, and the alcohol in your veins was making you feel about this differently. That’s all. But the way he was looking at you— no, the way he was staring, it made you feel things you weren’t prepared for.
“Hey, are you alright?” Alex asked, breaking through your thoughts.
“Yeah, just… a little tired,” You said quickly, waving it off. “Let’s just get another round, yeah?” You suggested, trying to shake away the thoughts of a certain, aquamarine eyed man.
The night continued, the drinks flowed freely, and you eventually found yourself standing in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by the heat of the crowd. Lando had suddenly joined you, and as if it was all part of some unspoken plan, he pulled you closer, hand at the small of your back. Your breath hitched as he led you into the rhythm, the music pulsing around you like the beating of a shared heart.
The chemistry between you was undeniable, and on the dance floor, it felt like everything fell away. All you could feel was him. His movements were fluid, confident, and his hands—oh, his hands. They were occupying your waist, guiding you, but also holding you in a way that felt almost intimate.
Your body swayed against his with the music, each movement a little more daring than the last, a little more intimate. The space between you two closed, and suddenly, it wasn’t just dancing anymore—it was something much, much more. Every subtle shift of his body, every moment when he pressed a little closer, felt like a promise. Your chest brushed against his with every step, the air between you electric.
Lando’s lips were close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re really good at this, sweetheart,” He murmured, his voice rough, as though he was struggling to keep himself composed. “I don’t remember teaching you this.”
You tilted your head back, catching his gaze, and you were met with something that made your stomach flutter. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and you could see the flicker of something unsaid in them.
Your pulse quickened as his hand slid lower down your back, pulling you even closer. The music swirled around you, but in that moment, all you could hear was the sound of your own heart racing.
“I’m just following your lead.” You whispered back, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. But your voice betrayed you, breaking just a little as you felt a rush of heat flood through you.
Lando’s grip tightened, his hand now resting against the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing the soft skin just below your ribcage. He was so close. Your lips were inches apart, your breath mingling in the small gap between you. You could feel the heat of his body, the tension that was growing, pulling you in. It felt like an inevitable pull, like everything had been leading to this moment.
But just as you leaned in, as your lips were just about to meet, a loud voice cut through the noise of the club.
“Hey! Another round of shots, guys!” Carlos yelled from across the dance floor, completely oblivious to the burning tension that had just built between you and Lando.
Both of you froze, stepping back slightly, your heart thundering in your chest. Lando cleared his throat awkwardly, giving you a half-smile, but his eyes couldn’t hide the frustration, the want that had been building just moments ago.
“Yeah— shots. Right.” He muttered, still catching his breath.
You felt the cold air hit your face as the space between you widened. The magic of the moment shattered, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air.
As you both made your way back to the group, there was an unspoken tension between you, thick and unresolved. Your thoughts were a mess, and it felt like your body was still alive with the electricity of that almost-kiss. But now, as you rejoined the others, it was as though nothing had happened.
You both put on your masks—smiles, laughter, easy banter. But underneath, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of what was left unsaid and undone.
────୨ৎ────
The late afternoon sun streamed into the cozy living room of Alex and Charles’ apartment, casting warm hues over the array of half-empty snack bowls and scattered magazines.
You sat cross-legged on the couch, a fuzzy blanket draped over your lap, while Alex leaned against the armrest, gently stroking Leo who slept next to her.
Charles was out for work related things, and Lando was thank God busy hanging out with his friends from Quadrant. That left a perfect opportunity for both of you to finally meet and for you to escape from him.
Hanging out with Alex was so comfortable and effortless for you. She was a great friend, and you always felt like you didn’t have to pretend to be someone you weren’t when you were with her. Laughter filled the room as the two of you gossiped about everything and nothing.
“I’m telling you, the barista at that café definitely has a thing for Charles,” Alex said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “She’s been giving him extra foam hearts in his coffee for weeks now. As if she doesn’t know he’s already taken.” She added chuckling at the end.
You laughed, holding a cup of tea. “Please, and he probably thinks it’s just good customer service.”
Alex snorted. “God, you’re so right. That man’s clueless unless it’s about racing, Leo or what tie matches his suit.”
The conversation flowed easily, as it always did with Alex. It wasn’t until there was a lull that she glanced at you with a curious tilt of her head.
“So… how are things going with Lando?”
Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you froze. Did she know about what happened in the club? Or what have you two been doing recently?
Memories of the lessons, the banter, and the night at the club with almost kissing each other flashed through your mind. You had to stop yourself from blurting it all out then and there. Instead, you swallowed hard, forcing a casual smile.
“Oh, you know,” You said, waving a hand dismissively. “Same as always. He’s still… Lando.”
You skipped the detail that since the night out, you two haven’t hung out or had your lesson yet. You barely texted each other, the unspoken words and tension from that memorable night still vivid in your minds.
Alex raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “And the dates? How’s the whole ‘finding the one’ thing going?”
You scrambled for an answer, laughing nervously as you tried to keep your cool. “Oh, still terrible. Absolute disasters every time. Honestly, it’s like a bad rom-com at this point.”
Alex laughed, thankfully buying your excuse. She reached for a piece of chocolate from the coffee table and popped it into her mouth. “Well, maybe that’s about to change.” She suggested, a sly smile spreading across her face.
You furrowed your brow, tilting your head. “What do you mean?” You asked, taking a sip of your tea.
“Joshua,” She said, leaning closer as though she was letting you in on a secret. “He’s coming to Monaco in a month.”
“Joshua?” You asked, the name unfamiliar.
“My lifelong friend,” Alex explained, her excitement bubbling over. “He’s absolutely lovely. Smart, funny, sweet, and charming. Basically, the perfect guy you could’ve thought of. I’ve always thought he and you might hit it off.”
Your stomach twisted uncomfortably at her words, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “Oh,” You blurted out, trying to sound nonchalant. “That’s— nice.”
“Nice? Are you kidding me?” Alex said, sitting up straighter while also watching out not to wake up Leo. “He’s perfect for you. And he’s single. I’ll introduce you when he gets here.”
You hesitated, feeling a strange heaviness settle over you. “I don’t know, Alex…”
“Come on!” She urged, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “What’s the worst that could happen? One date, just one. And if it’s a disaster, I’ll never bring it up again. But I really think you’ll like him.”
After a moment of silence, you sighed, relenting under her hopeful gaze. “Alright, fine. One date.”
Alex clapped her hands, grinning from ear to ear. “Yes! You won’t regret this, I promise. Joshua is amazing.”
You laughed lightly, but as the conversation shifted back to lighter topics, a nagging feeling lingered in your chest. The thought of going on a date with someone new felt… strange. Unsettling. You told yourself it was just nerves, but deep down, you couldn’t shake the image of a certain someone’s lopsided grin and teasing eyes.
As Alex continued to talk, you found yourself half-listening, your thoughts drifting elsewhere.
What would Lando think about this? Would he even care?
The uneasy feeling in your stomach didn’t fade, and as Alex’s laughter filled the room, you couldn’t help but wonder if agreeing to the date was a mistake.
────୨ৎ────
The warm night air was thick with tension as you leaned against the hood of Lando’s McLaren, the Monaco skyline stretching out behind you in a sea of glittering lights.
This was supposed to be just another lesson, but something had shifted between you. Every touch, every lingering look—it all felt heavier, like you were teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t name.
Lando stood a few feet away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching you with a strange mix of curiosity and hesitation. He was always so confident, so sure of himself, but tonight there was an unspoken weight in the way his gaze lingered on you.
“Alright,” He finally said, breaking the silence. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper. “Tonight’s lesson is about the end of date scenarios. The big moment—to kiss or not to kiss.”
You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way your heart fluttered at his words. “Haven’t we already covered this? Or are you just using this as an excuse to make me feel awkward again?”
He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Awkwardness is part of the process. Trust me, it builds character.”
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. Teach me, Norris.”
Lando stepped closer, leaning against the car next to you. The air between you grew charged, the familiar push-and-pull of your dynamic shifting into something more.
“Okay,” He said, his voice dropping slightly. “Picture this—the end of a date. You’ve had a good time, he’s dropping you off, and you’re standing there wondering if he’s going to make a move. What do you do?”
“I don’t know,” You replied honestly, feeling the weight of his gaze. “Wait for him to do something, I guess.”
Lando made a sound of a wrong buzzer with his mouth, “Wrong,” He said, shaking his head. “You don’t wait. You take control, muppet. If you want to kiss him, you make it happen.”
You hesitated, the memory of the club flashing through your mind. The way his hands had gripped your waist as you danced together, the heat of his breath against your ear, the way his eyes had burned into yours like there was no one else in the room.
You’d been so close—too close—and yet, something had pulled you apart before it could happen.
Lando must have noticed the way your expression shifted because his tone softened. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning in slightly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing,” You lied, forcing a smile. “Just trying to keep up with your endless wisdom.”
He studied your face for a moment, then tilted his head, his smirk returning. “Alright, let’s see if you’ve actually been paying attention. Lean in like you mean it. Show me that you’re not afraid to go for what you want.”
Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, his body just inches from yours. He raised a hand, lightly brushing a strand of hair away from your face, and the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you.
“Eye contact,” He reminded you softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t break it.”
You swallowed hard, your heart racing as your eyes locked with his. The memory of the club resurfaced again—how close you’d been to kissing him, how much you’d wanted it. And now, standing here under the Monaco sky, it felt like history was repeating itself.
“Lan...” You uttered, your voice trembling slightly.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. The air between you was electric, every inch of your skin buzzing with anticipation.
“I need to tell you something.” You mumbled, trying to steady your voice. Lando hummed in question, his eyes still locked on yours.
And then, like a splash of cold water, you blurted out, “Alex is setting me up with her friend. Apparently, he’s perfect and coming to Monaco in a month.”
Lando froze, his hand dropping back to his side. He stepped back a little. The tension between you shattered, replaced by a strange, almost palpable stillness.
“Perfect?” He repeated, his tone sharp. “That’s a strong word. What makes him so perfect?”
You shrugged, trying to keep your tone casual, though you felt the weight of the conversation pressing down on you. “I don’t know, but Alex seems convinced. She’s been hyping him up.”
Lando’s eyes darkened, and he let out a mocking laugh. “Oh... great. Another guy with a glowing resume. Does he like long walks on the beach, too?”
You couldn’t help but laugh, though the sound felt more nervous than amused. “Why are you being so weird about this? It’s not just any date, Lan,” You continued, your voice a little quieter now. “Alex practically thinks he’s my soulmate.”
Lando forced a laugh, but it didn’t sound genuine. “Sounds like your soulmate’s got a packed calendar if you had to book him a month out.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to keep it light. “He’s flying in from New York, okay? It’s not like I picked this date on purpose.”
Lando’s expression darkened even further, and his gaze flickered toward the ground. He shifted on his feet, a frown tugging at his lips. “You really think this guy’s perfect, huh?”
You nodded, though you couldn’t quite explain why you weren’t sure about it yourself. “I mean— I guess we’ll see.” You fiddled with your hands, stress creeping in.
His voice was low, almost bitter. “Whatever. Hope Alex’s golden boy doesn’t disappoint.”
You blinked, shocked by the sudden shift in his tone. His words stung, more than you expected. Before you could respond, he turned toward the car, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.
“Lesson’s over.” He muttered, not looking back as he opened the car door and got inside.
You stood there, still by the hood of the McLaren, staring after him. Your chest felt tight, your mind spinning with confusion and something else you couldn’t quite identify.
Something had shifted between you tonight—something that felt like it couldn’t be undone. You had no idea where this was heading, but for the first time, you were afraid that the lessons weren’t just about dating anymore
They were about something more.
And you didn’t know if you were ready to face it.
With a sigh, you came up to the car door and got in the car. Lando didn’t even bat an eye at you, driving away with a screech of the tires.
────୨ৎ────
You were curled up on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through your phone when it buzzed with a call. Alex’s name lit up on the screen, and you hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Hi Alex.” You said, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjusted your blanket.
“Hi girl, what’s up?” Alex’s cheery voice greeted you, the familiar sound instantly making you smile.
“Not much. Just a quiet night in.” You replied, settling back into the cushions.
“Perfect timing then,” Alex said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Guess who asked about you again?”
You already knew who she was talking about, but you feigned ignorance. “Umm, Leo?”
Alex laughed. “Not even close. Joshua! I showed him your Instagram, by the way.”
“You what?” You asked, sitting up slightly, startled.
“Relax,” Alex reassured you. “He said you’re even prettier than I described. Which, by the way, is saying a lot because I hyped you up a lot.” Her warm laugh echoed in your phone.
Your stomach did a small flip, but you forced a faint smile, even though Alex couldn’t see it. “That’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” Alex teased. “That’s all you’ve got to say? This guy is a total catch, you know. And he’s so excited to meet you. I’m telling you, he’s perfect for you.”
You let out a small laugh, hoping it masked the unease creeping in. “You’ve got your matchmaking hat on full-time now, huh?”
“I’m just saying,” Alex replied, her tone softening. “You’re not freaking out, are you? He’s seriously a great guy.”
“No, I’m fine,” You lied, trying to sound more certain than you felt. “Just… a lot going on, you know?”
There was a pause on Alex’s end, then a softer tone. “Hey, if you’re nervous, that’s okay. But trust me, Josh is worth it. You don’t have to rush into anything, but I think you’ll really like him.”
You exhaled, leaning your head back against the couch. “Thanks, Alex. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good,” Alex said, and you could practically hear her smile. “We’ll talk more soon, okay? Just wanted to check in.”
“Alright. Thanks for calling.” You replied.
As the call ended, you placed your phone down and stared at the ceiling. Alex’s words hung heavy in the air. Joshua was great—you had no reason to doubt that. But as much as you wanted to feel excited, all you felt was… unsettled.
Your thoughts drifted, unbidden, to someone else entirely. Someone who wasn’t always perfect in the ways Alex described but who somehow felt more real, more right.
And that thought only made your chest tighten as you sat there, wondering why everything felt so much more complicated than it needed to be.
────୨ৎ────
Your date was almost knocking at your door, as another weeks went by.
You hadn’t heard from Lando all day, and that alone was enough to have your mind racing. It wasn’t like him to go silent without a reason, especially after a night out in a club. He'd usually send you a “i'm home” text, yet this time—nothing.
You had tried texting and calling, but there had been no reply. You could feel your concern growing, a gnawing feeling settling in your stomach. So, without a second thought, you grabbed your jacket and headed to his place.
You knew where he kept the spare key. He had told you once when you’d been joking about breaking in if he ever locked himself out. You hadn’t expected to actually use it, but tonight, something in you told you that you needed to check on him.
When you arrived at his apartment, you grabbed the key from its usual hiding spot under the small flower pot near the door. It was a small moment of normalcy, but it made your heart beat a little faster.
The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, immediately sensing the quiet. “Lan?” You called softly, your voice echoing through the empty hallway. No answer.
You moved through the apartment, calling his name again, but it was only when you reached the living room that you found him. He was laying on the couch, eyes closed. His face was flushed, and the faint smell of alcohol hung in the air. It was clear that he’d had more than a few drinks.
“Lando?” You asked again, this time more urgently as you stepped closer.
He didn’t respond, and for a moment, panic flickered in your chest. You rushed to his side, carefully placing a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake.
“Mhm?” His voice was barely a whisper, and he opened his eyes slowly, blinking as though the light bothered him. His gaze focused on you, a weak, hazy smile tugging at his lips.
“Hi,” He mumbled, his words slurring a little. “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried. You haven’t replied to any of my texts for the whole day,” You answered, kneeling down in front of him to get a better look at his face. “How much did you drink?”
Lando waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fine.” He replied to your question, but the way he swayed slightly as he sat made it clear he wasn’t.
“Right,” You said with a forced smile, trying not to sound too concerned. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You moved to help him, but Lando suddenly swatted your hands away, blinking up at you in frustration. “I don’t need your help.” He grumbled. His words were hard to understand as his speech slurred, but you could tell he was stubborn even in his drunken state.
“You can barely stand, you muppet,” You said, trying to hide the irritation in your voice. “Let me help.”
But he shook his head, his voice bitter. “Why does it even matter? You don’t care, not like that.”
His words took you by surprise. “What are you talking about?” You asked, trying to steady him.
He looked at you, eyes unfocused, and let out a bitter laugh. “You’re just here to check on me because you have to. You don’t really care. You’ve got a date coming up, right?”
You paused, taken aback by his words. “Lando, you’re drunk. This isn’t—”
“Sure,” He interrupted, his tone harsh. “I’m drunk, so it doesn’t matter, right? It’s fine. But I don’t want you to go.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you just stayed quiet, your mind racing. This wasn’t like him—he was normally so teasing, so sarcastic. But right now, there was something raw and vulnerable in his voice. It was like the alcohol had loosened something inside him that he kept hidden.
You helped him stand, gently guiding him to his bedroom. He didn’t resist this time, but as you helped him onto the bed, his gaze stayed locked on you.
“Why are you doing this?” Lando asked suddenly, his voice weak and tired. He wasn’t fully coherent, but there was something in his eyes that made your chest tighten.
You hesitated for a second. The question threw you off guard. You were just trying to make sure he was okay, weren’t you?
“Because you’re my best friend,” You said after a beat, hoping the answer would be enough. “And I care about you.”
Lando studied your face for a moment, as if trying to understand your answer, before giving you a tired, half-smiling nod. His eyes started to flutter closed, but not before he muttered, “Thanks for always looking out for me.”
You couldn’t help but smile faintly, feeling a strange warmth in your chest. But then, just before he drifted off, his voice came again, quieter, almost like a whisper.
“You’re always looking out for me but... I just don’t want to lose you.”
You froze.
His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you stood there, staring at him as his breath evened out and he fell asleep. Your heart raced in your chest, confusion swirling in your mind. What did he mean by that?
You quietly turned to leave, but as you closed the door behind you, you felt a strange heaviness in your chest. You couldn’t stop thinking about Lando’s words, but you quickly shook your head.
No, it didn’t mean anything. He was drunk. It was just a slip of the tongue.
You pulled out your phone, glancing at the message from Joshua about your date. You couldn’t let yourself get distracted. You had a date. A very good date. And you had a plan.
But even as you walked back to your own apartment, the words from Lando lingered in your mind.
“I just don’t want to lose you.”
You tried to push the thought away, but it wouldn’t leave.
────୨ৎ────
The morning light pierced through the blinds, casting an almost painful brightness across Lando’s apartment.
His head throbbed in protest as he slowly opened his eyes, the remnants of last night’s alcohol still lingering in his system. He groaned and buried his face in the pillow, trying to drown out the faint, nagging voice in his head. The bed felt colder than it had before, and there was an emptiness in his chest that he couldn’t shake.
He dragged himself up, rubbing his temples and trying to piece together the fragmented memories of the night. The drinks, the loud music, the laughter with his friends and other unknown girls. And then you. You had shown up, of course. You were always there when he needed you. But… something had happened.
His breath hitched as a flash of the night’s conversation resurfaced—your voice, soft and distant, asking why he was being like this. His own words echoed in his mind, although they sounded different now, like a stranger had said them.
I just don’t want to lose you.
He couldn’t remember exactly what else he’d said, but he could feel the weight of it, like it had been too much to bear. Why had he said that?
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the memory of your shocked expression. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, but now, sober and humiliated, he wanted to crawl under the blankets and disappear.
Lando took a deep breath and stood up, pacing around his apartment, trying to get his bearings. He couldn’t let that mess be the thing that defined him. He’d always been in control, and now was no different. Besides, you were probably already over it.
There was no point in worrying about it. Not when he had other things to focus on. Like the fact that you were going on a date soon. With Joshua.
The name felt like a punch in the gut. His stomach twisted, and he quickly pushed the thought away. Focus, Lando. He needed to act normal. He was always calm, collected. He wasn’t going to let his feelings mess things up.
When he texted you, it was simple, his usual teasing tone, though underneath it, there was a tension that only he could feel.
Lando:
you still alive after last night or did police arrest you for breaking into someone’s apartment?
The reply came quickly, as expected.
You:
haha, you wish.
still alive after taking care of someone’s stupid ass who was being an emotional mess
guess that’s what friends are for lmao
His thumb hovered over the phone screen for a moment. Emotional mess. He hated how true that was. He was an emotional mess, especially when it came to you. But you had a date with Joshua coming up, and he couldn’t let it show. He couldn’t let it ruin the dynamic between you two. Not when things had been going so well between you.
Lando pushed his phone aside and took a quick shower to clear his head. When he was done, he put on his usual grin and got to work, focusing on anything that would take his mind off what was coming. He needed to get back to his usual self. The confident, carefree guy who never let anything get to him.
But then you sent him a message about meeting up for your next lesson, and his stomach sank again. The timing couldn’t have been worse. He was already wound tight, and now, the pressure was building even more.
When you arrived at his place, there was a brief but noticeable pause before you greeted him. It was subtle, but Lando caught it. He tried to push the lingering anxiety aside—keep it cool.
You gave him a quick smile, but there was something else in your eyes. A certain hesitance that hadn’t been there before. The lessons had been going well, so why the change in energy?
“You alright?” He asked, trying to sound casual as he leaned against the counter.
You nodded but didn’t look at him fully. “Yeah. Just… a lot going on.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. A lot going on? The words struck a nerve. Of course, you were thinking about Joshua.
He swallowed hard, not letting it show. “You’re still planning on going on that date, right?” The words escaped before he could stop them, and as soon as they did, he regretted it.
You glanced at him, surprised by the sharpness in his tone. “Yeah, I am. Why?”
He shrugged, pretending to be unaffected. “No reason. Just wondering if you were still sticking to it.”
You gave him a look, like you knew something was off. But you didn’t push. Instead, you cleared your throat and moved to the couch, sitting down as if to signal that the lesson was about to begin. Lando tried to focus, but all he could think about was the date.
What if Joshua was the guy you were supposed to be with? What if he was the one who could give you everything Lando couldn’t?
The thought gnawed at him, and he couldn’t shake it. You had told him that you weren’t sure about Joshua, but deep down, Lando knew that if you were really unsure, you wouldn’t be going at all.
“Alright, today’s lesson is all about instincts,” He started, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual. “I want you to stop thinking so much. Trust yourself. Sometimes, you just need to listen to your gut.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been trying to do that. But sometimes my gut says the wrong thing.”
Lando chuckled softly, his gaze briefly softening. “I get that. But on a date? You can’t overthink everything. You need to trust what feels right in the moment. You are capable of doing that, you know?”
You bit your lip, a little uncertain. “I don’t know. Sometimes I just freeze, or I say the wrong thing and everything feels awkward.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes intense. “That’s the thing. Everyone feels that way. The best thing you can do is not let that fear control you. You can’t let your mind take over. Focus on how you feel in the moment and act on it.”
You swallowed, feeling a knot form in your stomach. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or something else. “But what if— what if it’s the wrong feeling?” You asked, hesitating.
Lando’s gaze softened as he took a step closer to you, his voice quieter. “There’s no such thing as the ‘wrong’ feeling, not in the beginning. You just have to go with it. Be in the moment.”
The air between you seemed to thicken, and you suddenly realized how close he was. You could feel his warmth, his breath even, and it made your heart race.
Lando’s eyes flickered down to your lips for a moment before quickly meeting your gaze. “You’ve been so careful with everything. But sometimes, you have to stop being careful and just… feel.”
You looked down at your hands, unsure of what to say. The lesson was starting to feel different—more personal, more intense than usual.
“Tell me,” Lando started, his voice now lower, “When you’re on a date with... Joshua, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”
You took a deep breath, feeling a little nervous. “I— I don’t know. Maybe just let myself relax? Be myself?”
Lando nodded slowly, almost as if thinking about something, before meeting your gaze again. “That’s a good start. Trust yourself, and don’t second guess yourself. You’ve got everything you need.”
His words were grounding, but they also felt like a weight on your chest. For a second, you could almost imagine being with someone else, letting go of all the doubts you’d held onto for so long.
You stood up suddenly, feeling antsy. “I— I think I get it. Thanks, Lan.”
Lando watched you, but something flickered behind his eyes. “You’re welcome,” He replied quietly, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment too long. “But remember, it’s more about trusting yourself than anything else.”
Before you could respond, Lando’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed, like he was already distracted by whatever it was.
You couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest, a feeling that you weren’t sure you understood. Why did the thought of him not being there for you—for this—suddenly feel so heavy?
“Alright,” You said, forcing a smile, “I think that’s enough for today.” You turned to leave, but as you reached the door, Lando’s voice stopped you.
“Hey,” He said, standing up. “One last thing. If you get nervous, or if things start to feel like they’re going wrong, just take a moment and breathe. Don’t let anyone rush you. You’ll know what’s right when you feel it.”
You smiled faintly, nodding. “Got it. Thanks again, Lan.”
As you left his apartment, you couldn’t help but replay his words in your head. Trust yourself. Was it really that simple?
But then, a thought flashed through your mind. What if you trusted him instead?
And just like that, the confusion was back. But you pushed it down.
After all, you were preparing for that date with Joshua, and that was what mattered, right?
────୨ৎ────
You stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection as a wave of panic rolled over you. Your dress was.. perfect. It hugged your curves perfectly, fitting you like a glove. Your makeup was flawless, the jewelry you picked was immaculate, and yet you felt completely and utterly wrong.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, constantly reminding you about how close you were from the time where you had to leave for your date with Joshua. Each passing second made your breathing feel more shallow.
You grabbed your phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media, notifications, anything to distract yourself. But the one notification you were hoping for—a message from Lando—was nowhere to be found.
“Stop it,” You muttered under your breath. “You’re fine. You’re fine.”
Okay, the pep talk didn’t help. You weren’t, indeed, fine.
Without thinking, you opened your chat with him and fired off a quick message.
You:
omfg
i’m freaking the fuck out
can you call me?
please
Your phone buzzed almost immediately. Of course.
You swiped the incoming call from Lando to answer, and put the phone to your ear. “I can’t do this.” You didn’t even bother to greet him.
“Hello to you too, sweetheart,” He said, his voice teasing but warm. “Now, let’s take a deep breath and tell me— what’s going on?”
“Lan, I feel sick,” You said, emphasizing the last word as you were pacing around the room. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. This is so stupid. I’m stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” He replied, his tone softening. “You’re just nervous. It’s normal before a date you’re looking forward to.”
“But it doesn’t feel normal,” You muttered, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Well, don’t,” He chuckled lightly. “That’d be a bad first impression, and as far as I remember I didn’t teach you to do that.”
You groaned, throwing yourself on the bed. “Lando, this isn’t funny.”
“Okay, okay,” He snickered, and you could hear the slight shuffle of movement on his end. “Look, it’s just a date. You’re not marrying the guy tonight, are you?”
“That’s not helping!” You snapped, straightening quickly on the bed.
“Alright, let’s try this,” He said, his voice taking on the calm, steady tone he always used when you were on the verge of losing it. “You’ve been on the practice dates before, yeah?”
“Yeah, because of you!”
Even when you couldn’t see him now, you knew he rolled his eyes humorously at you. “And how did those go?” You hesitated, before finally answering, “Fine.”
“Exactly. “You’re a pro now, sweetheart.” He laughed on the other side of the call.
“Lan,” You mumbled, your voice dropping into something almost pleading. “What if I mess this up? What if he hates me?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough to make you wonder if he was still there. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “He’s not going to hate you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” He said, his tone firm. “Because you’re funny, you’re smart, and beautiful. If this guy can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
You blinked, his words settling over you like a soft blanket. Your heart twisted in your chest, a pang of something unnameable making it hard to breathe.
“You really think that?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, I know that,” He replied, and for a moment, his usual teasing edge was gone.
The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten, and you had to turn away from the mirror to keep from crying.
“Okay,” You said, exhaling shakily. “I’ll give it a shot.”
“That’s my girl,” He giggled, his tone lighter now. “And hey, think of it as a test. See if all those lessons I gave you paid off.” Lando added.
“Right,” You said, though your chest felt heavier at his words. “The lessons.”
“Well, this might be the last one.” He added softly, and something about the way he said it made your stomach drop.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” He replied quickly. “Just… you know, if it goes well with Joshua, you won’t need me anymore, right?”
Your heart clenched painfully, but you forced a laugh. “Yeah... no pressure, then.”
“Exactly,” He said, and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Now go knock his socks off, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, though your voice wavered. “Thanks, Lan.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” He replied, and you hung up before you could change your mind.
As you stared at your reflection again, you felt a pang of guilt twisting in your chest. His words were supposed to calm you, and they did—sort of. But the idea of this being the last “lesson” you’d ever have with Lando felt like a loss you weren’t ready to face.
────୨ৎ────
You stepped out of the cab in front of the restaurant you both decided to meet at, your heart pounding heavily in your chest. The air was crispy against your bare legs, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the cobblestone street, and the faint sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air.
Joshua was already waiting by the entrance, looking effortlessly put-together in a black, unbuttoned shirt with black pants. He spotted you almost immediately and waved with a bright smile, his easy charm already on display.
“Hey!” He said as you approached, his warm, inviting tone doing little to calm your nerves.
“Hi.” You replied, forcing a smile as you adjusted the strap of your bag.
Your name rolled out of his mouth smoothly, “You look amazing.” He said, his eyes flicking over your outfit appreciatively.
“Thanks.” You murmured, heat already rising to your cheeks.
He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses filling the cozy, upscale restaurant. The hostess led you to a small table by the window, where the view of theMonaco’s harbor sparkled under the moonlight.
It was romantic, picturesque—the kind of setting that should have made your heart flutter.
But it didn’t.
Joshua was polite, funny, and attentive, just as Alex had promised. He asked you about your work, your favorite travel destinations, even your guilty-pleasure movies. He laughed at your jokes, nodded along to your stories, and seemed genuinely interested in everything you had to say.
And yet, your mind kept drifting.
As he talked about his plans to sail around the Greek islands next summer, you found yourself thinking about how Lando always teased you about your terrible sense of direction. When Joshua laughed at a joke you made, you couldn’t help but compare it to Lando’s laugh—the one that was louder, freer, and always made you laugh harder. And when Joshua leaned in slightly, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for his glass, your stomach twisted, not in excitement, but in unease.
You excused yourself to the restroom, needing a moment to breathe. The second you stepped inside, you leaned against the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror.
“What is wrong with me?” You whispered to yourself.
Joshua was perfect. Objectively, undeniably perfect. So why did you feel so… empty?
You closed your eyes, gripping the edge of the sink as memories of Lando flooded your mind. His voice, his smile, the way he always knew how to pull you out of your head and make you laugh. The way he’d given so much of himself to help you. The way he looked at you sometimes—like you were the only person in the room.
Your eyes stung, tears threatening to spill. It wasn’t Joshua. It wasn’t the date. It was you, and Lando had been right all along. It was always about you. But it wasn’t the way you’d thought. The problem wasn’t that you were bad at dating or incapable of having normal dates with someone. The problem was that you’d been blind to what you really wanted.
And what you wanted wasn’t here. It was him.
You washed your hands in cold water, trying to push the irritating thoughts away and compose yourself before heading back to the table.
“Everything okay?” Joshua asked, his expression kind but concerned.
“Yeah.” You said, forcing a smile as you sat back down.
Joshua quickly launched into another story—something about a hilarious misunderstanding during a work trip—but you barely heard him. Every word he said was drowned out by the realization that had taken root in your chest, growing stronger with every passing second.
When the bill came, Joshua insisted on paying, and you didn’t argue. As he walked you outside, the cool night air hit you like a wake-up call.
“I had a really great time tonight,” He said, his smile genuine. “You’re incredible.”
“Thank you,” You replied, and you meant it. “You’re really great too.”
He hesitated, his eyes searching yours. “Maybe we could do this again sometime?”
Your heart sank, but you wanted to say yes. You wanted to want to say yes. But the words just wouldn’t come for you.
Instead, you smiled sadly. “I— I’ll think about it.”
Joshua seemed to understand, his smile dimming slightly but still warm. “Now let me give you a ride back home. Shall we?” He insisted, leading the way to his car.
As Joshua opened the door for you, you got into the car quickly, sinking in the passenger seat. Your eyes wandered outside the window, observing the couples that still sat in the restaurant. They looked so happy together, and someone might have thought the same while staring at Joshua and you a few moments ago. But deep down you knew that you were far from being happy now.
────୨ৎ────
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his monitor and the bright neon sign behind him. Max’s voice came through the headset, lighthearted and teasing as always, but Lando could barely hear him. His hand gripped the computer mouse, and the other hand was focused on the keyboard, yet his movements were sluggish, half-hearted.
“Lando, mate, what are you doing?” Max’s exasperated tone broke through the haze. “You’re playing like a grandpa. Are you even trying?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lando muttered, forcing himself to focus on the screen. But the truth was, he wasn’t trying. He couldn’t concentrate.
Because all he could think about was you.
You on that date. With him.
The thought made his stomach churn, a bitter taste settling at the back of his throat. He hadn’t been able to stop picturing it since the moment you’d left. You, in that dress, looking absolutely stunning. You laughing at some joke that wasn’t his. You leaning in, your attention fully on someone else.
“Lando?” Max’s voice came again, a mix of confusion and concern now.
“Yeah, sorry,” Lando said quickly, clearing his throat. “I’m just tired, man. Think I’m gonna call it a day.”
“Already?” Max sounded genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, I’m knackered,” Lando lied, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Catch you later.”
“Alright,” Max said after a pause. “But get some sleep, okay? You’ve been weird all night.”
“Yeah, yeah. Bye chat.” Lando mumbled, saying goodbye to Max’s chat. He has never shut down the game and logged off so quickly in his entire life.
The silence that followed was deafening. He leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall against the headrest as he stared at the ceiling.
You were still out. On the date. And he had no idea how it was going.
Was he good enough for you? The question gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. Was he making you laugh? Was he listening to you the way he always did? Did you feel comfortable with him, safe? Did you feel… happy?
Lando squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms against them as if that could stop the flood of thoughts.
He’d seen your nervous smile as you managed to send him videos of the outfit you chose before you left. He noticed how excited you were before the date, how your eyes sparkled with nervous anticipation. You’d been so worried, so unsure, but he’d reassured you. Told you it would be fine. Told you that Joshua would be lucky to have you.
What you didn’t know was that those words now tasted like ash in his mouth. Because he didn’t want Joshua to have you. He wanted you to stay. With him.
Lando let out a shaky breath. He dragged a hand through his curls, tugging at the roots in frustration. The memory of the night he’d gotten drunk hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d tried to bury it, pretend it didn’t matter, but the truth was, it had been eating him alive.
“I don’t want you to go.” He’d said, the words slurred but raw, his heart on his sleeve for once.
You’d stayed quiet, brushing it aside as drunken nonsense. But it hadn’t been nonsense. It had been the truth, stripped bare and vulnerable in a way he’d never been before. However, he let you believe that, because admitting it outright, while sober, was terrifying.
But it was true. Lando didn’t want you to go. He didn’t want you to meet someone else, fall for someone else, leave him behind. Because the thought of you choosing someone else when he loved you—truly loved you—was unbearable.
His chest ached, the pain sharp and suffocating. It might already be too late.
Maybe you’d come back tonight, smiling and giddy, and tell him how great Joshua was. How perfect the date had been. The thought made him want to throw something. Instead, he leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, as if he could push the feelings away, but it didn’t work. It never worked.
Because the truth was, he’d been falling for you for months. Years even.
He remembered every laugh, every smile, every quiet moment you shared as kids, as teenagers at school, and now between lessons where the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you. He remembered the way your nose scrunched up when you were concentrating, the way you teased him when he got flustered, the way you always seemed to bring light into every room you entered.
You were perfect for him.
But you didn’t know. And maybe you never would.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping him out of his spiral. His heart leapt, hope surging through him. “Maybe it’s her,” He thought. “Maybe she’s texting to say the date didn’t go well. Maybe—”
He grabbed the phone, the screen lighting up.
It wasn’t you.
The breath he’d been holding escaped in a rush, his shoulders sagging as disappointment washed over him. He tossed the phone back onto the bed, raking a hand through his hair again.
The silence of the room felt suffocating now. He thought about calling Max back, telling him he felt better now and distracting himself with another game, but he knew it wouldn’t help. His mind was a storm, and you were at the center of it.
He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his chest heavy with the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled hopes.
He was losing you. And he had no one to blame but himself.
────୨ৎ────
The door of Joshua’s car clicked shut as he drove away, leaving you standing alone in the dim glow of the streetlights outside your house. You watched his car until it disappeared around the corner, your mind buzzing but your heart strangely still.
He’d been sweet, funny, and attentive, just as Alex had promised. Everything about the date had gone smoothly—on paper, it was perfect. So why did you feel so… hollow?
The thought of stepping into your empty house felt unbearable, the silence inside too heavy for the chaos in your chest. Your feet moved before your mind caught up, leading you down the familiar streets of Monaco. Stumbling a few times, you took your heels off, cursing them under your nose. The brisk night air bit at your skin, but you hardly noticed.
You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself standing in the small park near the water. A bench beneath an old tree caught your eye—the same bench where one of your first “lessons” with Lando had taken place. You sank down onto it, the memory washing over you with startling clarity.
You could almost hear his voice, teasing and full of life. “See, you can’t just talk about yourself on a date. Ask questions, keep it balanced, like a tennis match.”
You’d laughed so hard that day, mostly at how earnestly he mimed playing tennis in front of you. The image played in your mind now, vivid and bright, and before you could stop yourself, your chest tightened, and tears welled up in your eyes.
Why did thinking about him hurt so much?
Your hands clenched in your lap as the memories kept coming, unstoppable and relentless. The way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he spoke to you with that stupid nickname–sweetheart. The way he always had just the right thing to say when you doubted yourself. His endless patience, his unwavering presence.
And his laugh—God, his laugh. The one that echoed in your mind now, making your tears spill over as you realized with horrifying clarity that you’d heard it more times than you could count, but never enough.
You pressed your hand to your chest, as if it could steady the ache inside. How had you been so blind?
All this time, you’d been searching for someone who made you feel seen, heard, and valued. Someone who challenged you but still made you feel safe. Someone who gave a damn about you in ways you hadn’t even noticed until now. It had been right in front of you all along.
Lando. Your Lan.
The tears came harder now, unstoppable and unrelenting, as your mind replayed every moment with him like a cruel, beautiful montage. Every smile, every lingering glance, every sarcastic comment that hid something deeper. He’d been there for you, every step of the way, sacrificing his time and energy to teach you how to love—how to date—without once showing how much it must have hurt him.
You wiped at your eyes, but it was useless. Your heart felt like it was breaking open and healing all at once.
You had to tell him.
The thought hit you like a jolt of electricity. Sitting here, drowning in memories, wasn’t going to change anything. You couldn’t keep pretending, couldn’t keep lying to yourself.
Lando deserved to know the truth. You deserved the truth.
You stood abruptly, the sudden movement making your head spin. Your legs carried you out of the park and back toward the streets, your pace quickening with every step.
What were you going to say? You didn’t know yet. All you knew was that you couldn’t keep this inside any longer.
────୨ৎ────
The night was unnervingly quiet as you stood at Lando’s door, the hum of the distant city muffled by your pounding heartbeat. Your fingers hovered over the wood before you finally knocked, your stomach churning with anxiety.
It took a moment, but when the door opened, Lando stood there, his expression unreadable, his eyes flickering with a hint of surprise and something else—something guarded.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, his voice rough.
“I needed to talk to you.” You replied, your voice trembling despite your best effort to sound confident. You stepped inside, your heels, that you wore on before knocking on his door, clicking softly against the floor as you passed him.
He shut the door behind you, leaning against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s late,” He said flatly. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating with Joshua? What, did the date end early?”
You flinched at his tone, biting back the sharp retort bubbling at the tip of your tongue. “Lando, please—”
“No, go ahead,” He interrupted, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Tell me everything. All about how perfect he was. I’m dying to hear it.”
Your patience snapped. “Why do you do this?” You demanded, looking him deeply in the eyes.
“Do what?” He shot back, his jaw tightening.
“This!” You exclaimed, throwing your arms in the air. “You get all moody and sarcastic and— ugh, you don’t even listen to me, Lando!”
“Oh, I am listening,” He countered, his voice rising slightly. “You’re the one who barged in here looking all… flustered, expecting me to what? Clap and cheer because your perfect little date didn’t work out the way you wanted?”
“God, you’re impossible!” You said, taking a step closer. “Do you really think I’m here to talk about him? Do you really think I’d come here, in the middle of the night, just to—”
“Well, then why are you here?” He demanded, his voice cutting through the room.
“Because it wasn’t perfect, okay?” You shouted, your voice cracking. “Because it didn’t feel right! Because the entire time, all I could think about was… you.” The hesitation before saying the last word made you want to cry again.
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, reverberating between you. His sharp expression softened, his mouth parting slightly as he stared at you, completely stunned.”
“What?” Lando whispered, his voice barely audible. He couldn’t believe his own ears. You felt your chest tighten, a mix of anger, heartbreak, and longing overwhelming you.
“It wasn’t about Joshua—it never was. It was always about you, Lando. Your stupid ass. Your lessons, your dumb pep talks, your stupid jokes, the way you acted so fine with me going out with someone else when you clearly weren’t.” Your words caught in your throat, but you pushed forward, the weight of it all crashing down on you.
“It’s you, Lando. It’s always been you. Ever since we were little.”
His face softened in an instant, the tension in his jaw melting away, replaced by a vulnerability you rarely saw in him. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched yours, as though he was afraid to trust what he was hearing.
“Are you serious?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion.
His hands hung at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
“God, yes,” You blurted out, stepping closer to him. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. “I’m serious, muppet. And I know it’s a mess, and I know I probably ruined everything, but—”
Before you could finish, his hands were on you, his fingers trembling as they cupped your face. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could take another breath, he closed the distance between you and kissed you.
His lips pressed against yours with a fervor that made your knees go weak. It was desperate and raw, filled with all the tension, emotions, and unspoken words that had been simmering between you for weeks. His lips moved against yours with urgency, as though he’d been holding back for far too long, and now that the floodgates were open, there was no stopping it.
Lando’s thumbs brushed over your cheeks, wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling, and you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.
Your hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his hoodie as if letting go wasn’t an option. You could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms, matching the wild rhythm of your own. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and you melted into him, losing yourself in the moment.
When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, Lando’s forehead rested against yours. His hands still gently cradled your face as though he was afraid you might disappear. Lando’s breath was ragged, his lips red and swollen from the kiss, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears, looking at you as you were the most precious thing in the world.
“I’m so sorry,” He whispered, his voice cracking. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve said something before... before all of this. But I was terrified—of losing you, and of screwing everything up.”
You shook your head, your hands sliding up to cup his face in return. “No, Lan. I should’ve seen it, I should’ve known.”
His lips quirked into a small, trembling smile, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, a mixture of relief and disbelief shining in them.
“And you didn’t ruin anything, sweetheart,” He murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “You never could. You’re— you’re my everything.” He uttered softly.
A tear slipped down your cheek, and he leaned in to kiss it away, his lips lingering on your skin as though trying to memorize the moment.
“Are you really crying?” He teased softly, his voice shaky but warm.
You let out a choked laugh, rolling your eyes even as your cheeks flushed. “No, I’m not. Shut up.”
“Liar,” He murmured, his smile widening as he kissed you again but softer this time. “But you must’ve cried before since your eyes and nose are red.”
You smacked his chest lightly, heat rising to your cheeks. “Shut up.”
“Hey, it’s cute.” He said with a grin, though his voice was still thick with emotion.
You tried to glare at him, but the look on his face—the mix of relief, affection, and something deeper—made it impossible to stay mad. Instead, you found yourself laughing softly, leaning into him as the tension finally began to disappear.
“You’re such an idiot.”
His lips curled into a small smile. “Takes one to know one.” He teased, his voice soft but warm.
You both stayed there, wrapped up in each other, the weight of weeks of tension and unspoken feelings finally lifting.
It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t neat, but it was yours. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. For the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.
────୨ৎ────
The soft glow of early morning sunlight poured through the blinds, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. The light touched everything—the sleek lines of Lando’s apartment, the scattered clothes on the floor from last night, and most notably, the two of you tangled in the bed.
You blinked awake, the slow pull of consciousness drawing you from sleep. For a moment, you couldn’t quite remember where you were, but then the warmth next to you, the familiar scent of his cologne, and the steady rhythm of his breath made everything clear.
Lando was lying beside you, his face relaxed in sleep, his curls framing his features in the softest, most endearing way. Sunlight rested over his face, kissing his skin, highlighting the sharpness of his jawline and the curve of his lips.
It was unreal—this scene, this moment, the peacefulness of it all.
You couldn’t help but smile, your heart swelling in your chest. You were finally here. Finally with him.
You didn’t know how long you lay there, just watching him, savoring the moment, drinking in the fact that you were in this space with him. This was what you’d always wanted. And now that you were here, you didn’t want it to end.
The way his eyelids fluttered as he stirred slowly, bringing him out of his dreams, sent a jolt through your heart. His eyes slowly blinked open, adjusting to the light. His expression softened, and when his gaze met yours, his lips quirked into that familiar, lazy grin.
“Morning, sweetheart.” He muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You just smiled, leaning in closer, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. “Hi.” You replied, voice barely a whisper, as if you were afraid speaking too loudly would ruin this moment.
His eyes sparkled with the slightest hint of mischief, and he stretched, rolling his shoulder. “I think I could stay here forever,” He said, his voice a little husky. “But we’re supposed to be at Charles’ in a couple of hours for lunch, remember?”
You frowned, suddenly feeling the pressure of the real world creeping in. “Ugh, yeah. Charles and the whole group. It’s like I can already hear the chatter about how we’ve been hiding this whole thing.”
He smirked, looking at you with a mixture of fondness and amusement. “I don’t mind.” He said casually, rubbing your shoulder. “But we should get up soon, don’t you think?”
But as soon as the words left his lips, something inside you shifted. You weren’t ready to leave this bed, not yet. Not when everything between you felt so new, so fragile, like a dream that could slip away any moment. Without thinking, you moved swiftly, swinging a leg over him, straddling his waist, your hands coming to rest on his bare chest as you looked down at him, a teasing smile playing at the corners of your mouth.
His eyes widened in surprise, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. “What are you—?”
“Hi.” You whispered softly, the power of your position making his pulse race.
“Hi.” He whispered back, biting his lower lip.
His eyes scanned your face, the mix of confusion and amusement in his gaze quickly shifting to something more heated. “You’ve lost it, haven’t you?” He murmured, still a bit flustered from the sudden shift.
His hands instinctively went to your bare hips, but he didn’t push you off. Instead, he looked up at you with a raised eyebrow, clearly caught off guard but not entirely unhappy about it.
Before he could say anything else, you leaned in, closing the space between you, and kissed him. It wasn’t slow or gentle—it was a kiss full of heat and desire, reminding you about your last night. The distant memory of your soft gasps, shared moans and hot kisses flooded your both heads.
The world seemed to fall away as you lost yourselves in the kiss. His hands roamed to your bare back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until you were a breathless mess, your heart pounding in your chest.
When you finally pulled away, the quiet of the room seemed almost too loud. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, both of you catching your breath.
“Did you even realize how fucking good you look right now?” You muttered, voice husky with the remnants of sleep.
Your gaze roamed over him—the way his curls caught the golden morning light, the relaxed curve of his lips still faintly swollen from your earlier kisses, and the lazy glint in his half-lidded eyes.
Lando blinked at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he broke into a quiet laugh, low and rough. “You’ve got a way with words, don’t you, sweetheart?” He teased, his voice thick with sleep. “Or are you just trying to kill me first thing in the morning?”
You shook your head, smiling as you trailed your fingers gently along the line of his jaw, tracing every perfect imperfection of his face. “No games,” You whispered, pressing your palm flat against his chest where his heart beat steadily. “You just look… unreal.”
The weight of your words seemed to catch him off guard. His hands found your bare waist under the tangled sheets, thumbs brushing gently along your sides as his gaze locked onto yours.
“Coming from you? That’s rich,” He said, his voice dipping low. “You’re literally glowing right now, sweetheart.”
You rolled your eyes, unable to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. “Nice try, Norris. But flattery isn’t going to distract me.”
“Oh?” He murmured, the corners of his lips tugging upward in a smirk. “So what’s your plan? Keep staring at me until I melt?”
You grinned, leaning down until your lips were an inch away from his. “Maybe.”
Before he could respond, you kissed him—slow and unhurried, savoring the moment. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer until your bare skin was flushed against his, the sheets pooling around your bodies.
When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, his breathing heavier. “Now who’s playing games?” He muttered, a trace of amusement in his tone.
You laughed softly, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not. I just—” You hesitated, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “I can’t believe this is real. That I’m finally yours, and you’re mine.”
Lando’s expression softened, the teasing edge replaced by something infinitely more tender. “I’ve always been yours, sweetheart,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers trailed up your spine, sending shivers through you. “You just took your sweet time realizing it.”
You laughed, burying your face in the crook of his neck to hide the warmth flooding your cheeks. He smelled like sleep and sunshine mixed with a faint scent of his perfume. You couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to the soft spot beneath his jaw.
“I’m never getting out of this bed, am I?” Lando murmured, his voice teasing but laced with an unmistakable truth.
You smiled against his skin, your hands sliding over his shoulders to rest on his chest. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
His laugh rumbled against your lips, but when you shifted your hips slightly downwards, his breath hitched. “Careful.” He warned, his voice a mix of amusement and something darker.
You tilted your head, feigning innocence as your lips brushed against his ear. “What? Just getting comfortable.”
“Right,” He murmured, his hands gripping your waist more firmly. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You kissed him again, this time deeper, slower, letting the quiet morning dissolve into something entirely different. By the time you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, his eyes were locked onto yours with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine.
“We’re never going to make it to breakfast at this rate.” He chuckled, though there was no trace of complaint in his voice.
You grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Who said I’m hungry for food?”
His groan was soft as you slid down his body, his hands tightening their hold on you as the sunlight continued to bathe the room, turning the morning into a memory you’d never forget.
────୨ৎ────
The morning had been perfect—the lingering warmth of your shared kiss, the quiet laughter over breakfast—but now, reality was tugging at you both.
After the breakfast, Lando quickly freshened up and you both drove to your place as you also needed to get ready. You stood in front of the mirror, applying a final swipe of lipstick, your reflection staring back at you as if in disbelief. How had you gone from nervousness to this moment? How had you gotten here, with Lando, after everything? Lando, on the other hand, had been unusually quiet, his gaze lingering on you as you finished getting ready. When you finally stepped out of the bathroom in the dress you had chosen, the one you knew would turn heads, you saw the way his breath caught in his chest.
“Wow, sweetheart…” He breathed, looking you up and down, his eyes lingering on every part of your body. His expression was a mixture of admiration and something more—something that made your heart beat faster. “You look… absolutely gorgeous.”
You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips at his reaction. It was hard to tell if you were more proud of how stunning you looked or how much he was checking you out.
“Glad you think so.” You replied, your voice teasing as you turned slightly, letting the fabric of the dress swirl around your legs. It wasn’t just any dress. It hugged you in all the right places, the sweetheart neckline drawing attention to your collarbones and the flowy skirt adding an effortless elegance. You knew it would drive him crazy.
Lando stepped forward, walking up behind you and gently brushing your hair away from your neck. He leaned in close, placing a soft kiss just below your ear. The warmth of his lips sent a shiver down your spine.
“You sure we have to go?” He murmured, his voice low and teasing. “I’d rather just stay home and do… other things. With you.”
You chuckled, not able to keep the smile from your lips as you glanced at him in the mirror. “This morning, you were the first one to get ready for that lunch,” You teased, turning to face him. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now.”
He looked at you with a soft, almost desperate expression. “I’m not backing out. But I’d much rather stay here… with you. Alone.”
You raised an eyebrow playfully. “Well, if you don’t want to go, I can always text Joshua. I still haven’t messaged him since yesterday.”
The mention of Joshua’s name was enough to make his jaw tighten. “You’re really going to do that?” He asked, his tone suddenly darker, but there was something undeniably possessive in it.
You couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at your lips as you pulled out your phone. “Well, you know, I never replied—”
Before you could even unlock your phone, Lando was kissing you, hard and fast, pulling you into him with a hunger that left you breathless. His hands moved to your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground as he deepened the kiss.
When you pulled away, both of you breathless, you looked at him with a glint of amusement. “Fine,” You muttered, “I guess we’re not texting him.”
Lando gave you a satisfied smile. “That’s what I thought, sweetheart.”
You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your bag. “Let’s get going then, before you change your mind again.”
The drive to Charles’ place was quiet, the tension between you thick with unspoken feelings. As you sat in the passenger seat, you typed out a quick message to Joshua, your fingers moving with a purpose.
You:
Hey Joshua, I just wanted to thank you for yesterday. I really appreciated it, but I don’t think we’ll be able to meet in the future. I wish you the best of luck, and it was very nice to meet you.
You hit send and immediately felt a weight lift off your chest. It was over, and it was a decision you were glad to have made.
When you two arrived, Lando opened the car door for you, offering you his hand. Before you had time to dwell on the message you sent, you felt his hand gently squeezing yours. You looked over at him, seeing a small, satisfied grin on his face. Lando didn’t say anything, but you could feel his approval.
When you arrived at Charles’ place, the moment the door opened and Rebecca, who was already there, saw you both, her eyes widened. Then, without warning, she screamed, “Oh my God! Finally!”
You and Lando couldn’t help but laugh, sharing a knowing look as you entered the house together, hands still intertwined. As you walked into the living room, everyone was already smiling, congratulating you both with big, happy grins.
Lando leaned in close to your ear as Carlos and Rebecca were busy showering you with congratulations. “I guess this is the part where we’re supposed to pretend we’re not completely obsessed with each other, huh?” He whispered with a teasing grin.
You grinned, squeezing his hand. “If that’s what you think, you’re wrong.”
At some point during the evening, Alex pulled you aside, a sheepish look on her face. Her usual confident energy was replaced with something softer, more apologetic.
“Hey,” She started, shifting awkwardly. “I just wanted to say… I feel kind of bad about the whole Joshua thing. I mean, I was pushing you into that, and now you and Lando—” She gestured vaguely, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I didn’t mean to make things more complicated for you.”
You smiled warmly, shaking your head. “Alex, it’s fine. Really. If anything, it was kind of a wake-up call for me and Lando. We were both so stubborn about admitting how we felt. So, honestly, thank you for that little push. Even if it was unintentional.”
Alex let out a laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “Okay, good, because for a second there, I thought I’d ruined everything.”
“Oh— no, you definitely didn’t,” You reassured her, your smile widening. “If anything, you might’ve saved us from circling each other for another six months.”
She laughed again, louder this time, the tension between you dissolving into lightheartedness. “Well, I’ll take credit for that, then. You two are disgustingly cute, by the way. It’s almost unbearable.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” You quipped, giving her a playful nudge before heading back toward Lando.
As you approached, he looked up from his conversation with Carlos, his eyes immediately locking onto yours, shining at your sight.
“What were you two talking about?” He asked, his curiosity evident.
“Girl talk,” You said with a smirk, waving off his question. “It’s a secret.”
“A secret, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, but the smile on his face showed he wasn’t really bothered.
“Yep.” You chuckled, leaning in closer and placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. “And you’re not getting a word out of me.”
Later in the evening, after the buzz of congratulations and teasing from your friends had started to die down, you found yourself standing out on Charles’ balcony. The stars above were faint against the warm glow of Monaco’s city lights, and the air was cool, carrying the faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from inside.
Lando joined you quietly, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. You leaned into him instinctively, your hands resting on his. The weight of his touch felt grounding, comforting.
“You alright, sweetheart?” He asked softly, his voice low in your ear.
“Yeah,” You uttered, tilting your head back to look up at him. “Just needed a minute to catch my breath. It’s been a lot tonight.”
He chuckled, his chin resting against your shoulder, hands warm against your waist. “They’re relentless, aren’t they? I don’t think Carlos and Charles will let this go for months. They’ll always try to tease me about it.”
“Same with Rebecca,” You added with a laugh. “She screamed so loudly, I think half the neighborhood heard it.”
He smiled at that, but his expression softened as his gaze lingered on you. “They’re just happy for us,” He said. “I mean— I get it. I’m happy too.”
Something about the way he said it made your heart swell. You turned in his arms to face him, your arms resting lightly against his shoulders.
“Me too,” You murmured, your eyes searching his. The words were right there on the tip of your tongue, and for the first time, you didn’t feel scared to say them. “I love you, Lan.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, his touch impossibly gentle.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” He said, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I’ve been wanting to tell you that for so long.” He hid his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent that felt like home for him.
You let out a shaky laugh, “Why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t you?” He countered, grinning against your skin.
“Touché.” You admitted, burying your hand in his soft curls as both of you laughed softly. The sound was light, effortless, and full of relief.
Then, Lando pulled back to look at you again. After giving you a soft smile, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that felt like a promise.
It wasn’t rushed or heated—it was warm and tender, the kind of kiss that made you feel like you’d finally found home.
When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he whispered, “You’re my everything, you know that?”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. “You’re mine too.” You whispered back.
The rest of the night passed in a happy blur. Your friends teased you endlessly, but their smiles were genuine, their excitement contagious. And when it was time to go, Lando’s hand found yours without hesitation, holding it tightly as you said your goodbyes.
As the two of you drove back through the quiet streets of Monaco, a comfortable silence settled between you. Lando reached over, lacing his fingers with yours as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.
The day had been perfect, and as you rested your head against his chest when you finally laid in your bed, you couldn’t hold a smile anymore.
Looking back, it had been a whirlwind—a rollercoaster of emotions, misunderstandings, laughter, and moments so charged you could hardly breathe.
What started as a series of lessons had turned into something far greater than either of you could have anticipated. It wasn’t perfect, not always smooth, but it was real. Every stolen glance, every near-miss, every argument and heartfelt confession had led you here, to this life you were building together.
And as Lando’s hand rested comfortably over your waist, his warm smile mirroring your own, one thought stood out above the rest.
Lando was right from the beginning—practice makes perfect.
lando norris x !childhood bff/driver reader x max fewtrell (smau + written)
you don’t remember a time when it wasn’t the three of you — you, lando, and max. the terrible trio. the karting kids who swore you’d take over the world one day. you did. sort of.
now, you’re standing in the paddock, your race suit half-zipped, watching your childhood best friends laugh together like nothing ever changed — except everything did. you don’t know that both of them have been in love with you for years. in love with each other for years. and they don’t know that you’ve always loved them back.
and maybe that’s the tragedy of it all — you three have always been so close, yet never close enough to tell the truth.
fc : lea elui
(day 13 of chef’s tea party series!) (happy halloween guys 🎃👻✨) (reader is a ferrari driver! charles is her teammate. lewis is back w mercedes and kimi is reserve. all your faves r still on the grid, do not fear!) (changed up my usual spacing on this one- knew it was going to be a long one!)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️
yourusername
silverstone📍
liked by lando, maxfewtrell, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 3,470,000 others.
yourusername : my home race was so kind to me <3 (and so was the weather and ferrari strategy calls (surprisingly))
tagged : yourbf, lando and maxfewtrell
—
view 89,000 other comments.
lando : 1-2 for norris and yln🤏🏻 exactly where we should be! so proud bub
liked by yourusername and maxfewtrell
↳ yourusername : maybe next time you could share pole position🤷🏻♀️
liked by lando and maxfewtrell
↳ yourusername : kidding! but thank you for the flowers lan🤍 love you bunches
liked by lando and maxfewtrell
↳ username005 : the flowers were from LANDO and not her boyfriend? pls someone just kill me. they belong together
liked by lando
↳ username005 : i saw that
charles_leclerc: i would like to thank the strategy team personally 🫡
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername: small miracles every weekend charlie boy
liked by charles_leclerc
↳ charles_leclerc: do not jinx it.
liked by yourusername
lewishamilton: yellow looks good on you ☀️ proud of you as always.
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername: thank you lew 🖤
maxfewtrell : both of my best friends on the podium for our home race :,) could never be more proud of you both
liked by yourusername and lando
↳ yourusername : don’t make me cry again max😭 love you forever
liked by maxfewtrell and lando
alex_albon: pretty sure i saw lando trying to sell a hoodie he designed five years ago 💀
liked by lando and yourusername
↳ lando: and you bought it.
liked by yourusername and alex_albon
↳ alex_albon: …yeah but that’s not the point.
liked by yourusername and lando
↳ yourusername : he is a business man. what can i say?
liked by lando and alex_albon
alexandrasaintmleux : queen of ferrari and my heart 🤭💛💐
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : we are the reigning queens of ferrari and charles is our butler
liked by alexandrasaintmleux and charles_leclerc
↳ charles_leclerc : …yeah that sounds right
username107 : god her and lando’s matching cars. these two are in LOVE. always have been.
username009 : everyone ignoring that bf pic (me too)
↳ username007 : he didn’t even clap for her. when the camera panned to him in the garage he was stone cold.
↳ username002 : meanwhile max was in literally tears and lando carried her on his shoulder even though HE WON THE RACE. he made it about her
↳ username005 : and lando’s family going crazy over her. cisca had them both in her arms at once
↳ username010 : we need that man GONE.
liked by lando and maxfewtrell
ciscawaumannorris : so proud of you darling 🥹💛 you’ve come so far
liked by yourusername and lando
↳ yourusername : love you so much😭 wouldn’t be here today without your support !
Silverstone hums beneath your feet — the low thrum of engines, the chatter of mechanics, the distant roar of a crowd that’s already chanting your name. Your home race. The one you dreamed about since you were barely tall enough to reach the pedals in a kart. The one you’d imagined sharing with the same two boys who used to push your kart when the chain slipped — Lando and Max.
Now, you’re here. Ferrari red stitched across your chest, yellow details glinting under a rare stretch of English sun. And beside you… Ethan.
He’s got his arm around your waist, firm and possessive, like he’s afraid the crowd might pull you away. Cameras flash, fans scream, and you can’t help the small smile that rises when you spot posters with your name, your face, little cutouts of your helmet design. You slow down, untangling yourself gently from Ethan’s hold.
“Just a minute,” you tell him softly, and before he can argue, you’ve stepped over to the barrier.
You sign hats and photos, scribble your number across flags. Someone holds out a homemade sign that reads OUR GIRL, OUR DRIVER, and you feel your throat tighten. You’ve always loved this part — the humanity of it. The reminder that little girls with messy ponytails still dream of being here one day.
“Can we take a photo?” a girl asks, voice trembling with excitement. You nod instantly, crouching down beside her, smiling wide.
And that’s when you feel it — fingers curling around your wrist.
“Alright, that’s enough.” Ethan’s voice is calm, but there’s a steel edge beneath it. He pulls you gently — too gently to make a scene, too tight to be kind. “You’ll be late.”
You turn to apologize to the fans, but he’s already steering you down the paddock. What you don’t see — what you never see — is the way two figures across the way have frozen mid-conversation.
Lando’s half in his McLaren polo, curls messy, sunglasses perched on his head. Max stands beside him, arms folded loosely, watching the same scene unfold with a look that flickers between disbelief and anger.
Lando’s jaw tenses. “He really just—”
“Yeah,” Max cuts in quietly, eyes narrowing. “He did.”
They don’t say anything else for a moment, just stand there watching you disappear around the corner, your smile gone. Lando swallows hard.
“She doesn’t even look like herself around him,” he mutters, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
Max exhales, long and slow. “No. She doesn’t.”
Later that afternoon, the paddock buzzes louder — engines warming, radios crackling. You’ve just finished briefing with Ferrari and sneak your way over to the McLaren garage like you always do before quali. It’s tradition.
You catch them both off guard — Lando sitting on a counter, helmet in his lap, Max leaning against the wall beside him.
“There she is!” Lando grins, hopping down instantly. “I was just saying how you’d show up five minutes late and pretend it was traffic.”
You roll your eyes, smiling for the first time all day. “I was in traffic. You’ve seen the crowd.”
“Excuses,” he teases, poking your arm. “Admit it — you can’t start your weekend without your lucky charm.”
You raise a brow. “Interesting. I always remember being yours."
He laughs — that same boyish, unguarded sound you’ve known since he was five and missing two front teeth. Max shakes his head at both of you, fighting a smile.
“Unbelievable,” he says, voice dry. “Still arguing over who’s luckier. Some things really don’t change.”
You look at him then, really look — his smile is soft, familiar. It makes something warm bloom in your chest.
For a fleeting moment, it’s like you’re nine again — standing on a muddy kart track, helmets too big, hands clasped tight in the middle.
“We’ll all make it, yeah?” Lando had said, his grin missing a tooth but still bright as the sky.
You’d nodded solemnly, little fingers hooked with theirs.
“No matter what. We stick together.”
“And no one gets between us,” Max had added, his small voice fierce, protective even then.
You’d believed it. All three of you had. But the years got longer, the spaces between weekends grew wider, and somewhere along the way, you forgot what it felt like to be untouched by everything else — by pressure, by fame, by people like Ethan.
“Hey,” Lando says now, reaching out to brush a strand of hair off your face, the gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“Good luck out there,” Max says softly, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something unreadable there. “You always were the fastest of us three.”
You grin, a little shyly. “Still am.”
He laughs, and for a moment, everything feels right again.
Then you hear it.
“YN!”
Ethan’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and impatient. He’s walking toward you, expression tight, eyes already scanning the boys beside you.
“There you are,” he says, slipping his hand around your wrist — not gently this time. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to talk before quali.”
You start to reply, but he’s already pulling you away, his grip firm. Your breath catches — just a flicker of discomfort — and that’s when Max’s expression hardens completely. He sees it. The way Ethan’s fingers press into your skin. The way your smile falters.
Lando’s watching too — he doesn’t say anything, but his knuckles whiten as his fists curl at his sides. He wants to shout, wants to step forward, but he doesn’t. You’re looking down, murmuring something to calm Ethan, and that alone stops him.
As you disappear around the corner again, silence settles between the two boys.
Max runs a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “He treats her like she’s a thing he owns.”
Lando’s jaw twitches. “Yeah.” His voice is low, dangerous. “And one day, he’s going to forget that we’ve known her since she couldn’t even reach the pedals.”
They both stare toward the Ferrari garage — where you’ve gone, where their childhood promise feels like it’s slipping through their fingers. Because once upon a time, at nine years old, they swore no one would ever come between the three of you. And now, standing under the humming lights of Silverstone, they realize someone already has.
You’re sprawled across the couch in Lando’s hotel suite, your legs tossed over Max’s lap, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your stomach. The night is easy — laughter echoing off the walls, camera batteries charging on the coffee table, the faint buzz of London lights beyond the balcony doors.
They’d roped you into filming a Quadrant video earlier that week — something chaotic and harmless about go-kart challenges and who could make the worst milkshake combination. It ended with Max gagging, Lando crying from laughter, and you promising to never trust either of them again. Now, you’re filming the outro — or trying to.
“Okay,” you say, holding the camera steady as Lando leans in beside you, eyes bright. “What did we learn this week?”
“That Max can’t cook,” Lando says immediately.
Max glares at him. “That’s rich coming from someone who burns toast.”
“I was experimenting!”
“With fire, apparently.”
You giggle, snorting into your sleeve, which only makes them worse. Lando’s laughing too hard to finish his sentence; Max grabs a throw pillow and chucks it at him. It hits the lamp instead.
“Boys,” you warn, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “If you break something, I’m telling the hotel it was Charles.”
Max grins. “Perfect. Everyone believes it.”
The camera’s still recording as Lando tugs you closer, slinging his arm over your shoulder. The three of you fit together like muscle memory — laughter and warmth and a kind of comfort that feels like home.
For a moment, you forget everything outside that room. The noise, the pressure, the expectations. For a moment, it’s just the three of you again — kids on a couch, hearts untouched.
You’re wiping tears of laughter from your eyes when your phone buzzes against the table. The screen lights up. Ethan ❤️
Your chest tightens immediately. You hesitate for a fraction of a second before picking it up. “Hey,” you answer softly, trying to keep your voice even.
“Where are you?” His tone is sharp, impatient. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.”
You blink. “Waiting? For what—?”
“For dinner, YN. With my parents. Did you forget?”
The boys exchange a glance instantly, the air around you shifting. Max’s smile fades; Lando straightens up a little.
“I—no, I didn’t forget,” you lie quickly, standing from the couch, walking toward the corner of the room for privacy. “I just—got caught up filming. I’ll be there soon, okay?”
“‘Caught up filming,’” he repeats, voice dripping with irritation. “With them, I’m assuming?”
You close your eyes. “Ethan—”
“I told you this dinner was important,” he cuts in. “You can’t just—disappear with those two every time you feel like it.”
Behind you, Lando and Max are silent, but you know they can hear every word. Lando’s gaze is fixed on the floor; Max’s jaw is tight, knuckles pale where his hands grip the edge of the couch.
“I’m on my way,” you say quietly, forcing the words out before he can keep going. “I’ll see you soon.”
You end the call before he can answer. Silence fills the room. The hum of the air conditioner, the faint clicking of the still-recording camera. You tuck your phone into your pocket, smile wavering.
“He’s… he’s just stressed,” you murmur, as if trying to convince yourself.
Lando’s voice is careful. “You don’t have to go, you know.”
You look up at him — his eyes soft, concerned.
“Yeah,” Max adds, his tone quieter, lower. “If you don’t want to. We can handle the excuse. Say you felt sick. They’ll understand.”
You shake your head, smiling faintly even though your stomach feels heavy. “You guys are sweet. But it’s fine. It’s just dinner.”
Lando stands up, stepping closer. “It’s never just dinner when he talks to you like that.”
You freeze. For a second, you think he might say more — that he might finally cross the line from friendship into something more, something you’ve both avoided for years. But he stops himself, teeth sinking into his lip as if holding it back.
Max stands, too, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells just to make someone happy, YN.”
The way he says your name makes your chest ache.
“I’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I always am.”
You move to hug them both — Max first, his arms wrapping around you tight and safe, then Lando, who presses a kiss to the top of your head before he can stop himself.
“Text us when you’re done,” he says quietly.
You nod and slip out the door, forcing yourself not to look back. Dinner is unbearable. Ethan’s parents are kind enough, polite smiles and polite questions, but he’s on edge the entire time. His hand stays glued to your knee beneath the table, more like a reminder than affection. When they finally leave the restaurant, the tension snaps.
“What was that?” he demands as soon as you step outside. “You show up late, barely say a word, and I have to explain to my parents why my girlfriend was too busy playing YouTuber with her friends to show up on time.”
You flinch. “That’s not fair. You know I was filming—”
“With them.” He spits the word like poison. “It’s always them, YN. Always Lando, always Max. Don’t you see how that looks?”
“How what looks?”
“That you can’t go five minutes without one of them hanging all over you!”
Your eyes widen, hurt flashing through you. “They’re my friends. My best friends. They’ve been there since—”
“Since before me, yeah, I know,” he snaps. “And you think that makes it okay? You think I don’t see the way they look at you? The way you look at them?”
You step back, breath trembling. “Ethan—”
“They’re using you,” he continues, voice sharp and rising. “They don’t respect you. They just want—”
“Enough,” you say quietly, cutting him off.
He blinks, startled by the firmness in your tone.
“You don’t get to talk about them like that,” you say, your voice breaking even as your spine straightens. “You don’t know them. You don’t know what we’ve been through together.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. Maybe that’s the problem.”
You look away, blinking fast against the sting in your eyes. Somewhere deep down, you can still hear Lando’s voice from earlier — you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.
But you did. Because that’s what you do: you choose the path that hurts you quietly, the one that keeps everyone else from getting angry. Ethan mutters something under his breath, opening the car door. You follow without a word, staring out the window as street lights blur by.
All you can think about is how safe you felt just an hour ago — sitting on Lando’s couch, laughing with Max until your stomach hurt, their voices soft and steady in a world that’s grown too loud. You remember being nine years old again — three hands joined in the dirt, whispering promises you thought would never break. But now, as Ethan drives in silence beside you, you realize they are already broken.
Race day at Silverstone always had a pulse of its own — you could feel it before you even reached the paddock. It wasn’t just the sound of engines or the distant cheers; it was that collective heartbeat of home. Silverstone was your track — the one where you grew up chasing Lando around hospitality, where Max taught you how to sneak snacks from the drivers’ lounge, where all three of you first said, “One day, we’ll all be here together.”
You just never imagined it would feel like this.
Ethan’s hand sits heavy on the small of your back as you walk through the crowd. His parents trail close behind, polite smiles plastered on their faces as photographers snap pictures. You keep your own smile steady, your body perfectly aligned beside his — you’ve learned how to make it look effortless, even when his grip tightens every time someone calls your name.
“YN! Can we get a photo?”
“YN, over here! You’re our favorite Ferrari driver!”
You pause instinctively, waving, signing a cap, taking a quick selfie with a little girl in a Lando Norris hoodie — and Ethan’s jaw tightens.
“Babe,” he says sharply, “we don’t have time for this. Come on, your team’s waiting.”
“She’s fine,” the little girl’s dad says, smiling, but Ethan doesn’t even glance his way. He just reaches out and tugs you by the wrist — not hard enough to draw attention, but enough that you stumble slightly and the light leaves your smile.
You glance back once as you’re pulled away — and you see them.
Lando and Max, standing just by the McLaren motorhome, watching silently.
Lando’s hands are shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, his face unreadable but his shoulders stiff. Max’s eyes narrow slightly — that cold, controlled anger that only ever surfaces when he sees something wrong and knows he can’t intervene. They say nothing. But both of them see everything.
A few hours later, Ethan gets caught up showing his parents around the paddock — eager to impress them with his connections, his girlfriend the Ferrari driver. You finally breathe freely for the first time all day and slip away under the excuse of checking in with your PR team. Instead, you head straight Lando and Max near the Landostand.
When they spot you, the reaction is immediate. Lando’s grin breaks wide open, Max’s eyes soften.
“Look who’s escaped captivity,” Lando teases. “We were about to send out a search party.”
“More like a rescue mission,” Max mutters under his breath, earning himself a glare from Lando and a poorly-hidden smile from you.
You lean on the counter, pretending to inspect one of Lando’s new orange bucket hats. “You two seem to be doing well for yourselves,” you say, tone light. “Entrepreneurs, huh?”
“Trying to pay for your inevitable therapy bills after dating him,” Lando fires back with a smirk.
“Lando,” Max warns under his breath, but the moment the crowd realizes who you are — chaos. Fans scream your name, phones shoot up, flashes pop. People are cheering, shouting, waving Ferrari and McLaren merch side by side.
You take photos, sign things, even help Lando sell a few shirts, holding them up dramatically while Max shouts, “Limited edition — buy it because she touched it!”
It’s chaos, laughter, nostalgia — the three of you slipping effortlessly back into what used to be. The videos flood social media within minutes.
Ethan sees. And Ethan is furious.
An hour later, Lando and Max make their way down to the Ferrari garage. They’re still laughing about a fan who tried to get them to arm wrestle when the laughter dies as soon as they see you — tense, arms crossed, voice quiet but trembling.
Ethan is standing close, too close, his expression sharp.
“I told you to stop undermining me in front of people,” he hisses. “You think it’s cute? Making me look like some jealous idiot?”
“I wasn’t— Ethan, I was literally helping—”
“Helping Lando,” he cuts in. “Always Lando. Or Max. Never me.”
“Because they’re my friends!” you finally snap, the exhaustion in your voice making both Lando and Max’s stomachs twist.
Ethan notices them at last, straightens up immediately, his demeanor flipping into something performative. “Oh — hey, guys. Sorry, just a little pre-race nerves.”
He pats your arm like nothing happened. You flinch just slightly.
Lando notices.
Max’s jaw flexes. “We came to wish her luck,” he says coolly.
Ethan gives a polite nod and, without another word, turns and disappears down the paddock, muttering something about needing to meet his parents.
You let out a shaky breath the moment he’s gone.
“You okay?” Lando asks, stepping closer.
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Max gives you a look — the kind that says we both know that’s a lie — but he doesn’t push. Instead, he rests a hand briefly on your shoulder. “You’ll crush it today,” he says simply.
You look between them — two boys who’ve been constants your whole life — and despite everything, you smile softly. “You better be ready to eat my dust,” you say, and Lando laughs, the tension finally breaking.
“Not a chance, sunshine,” he grins.
The race is chaos. The crowd deafening. The final laps a blur of speed and adrenaline. And then it happens. Lando crosses the line first.
You, half a second behind. Charles right after.
P1. P2. P3.
The British fans erupt. Before you can even climb out of your car, Lando is sprinting across the pit lane. He scoops you up effortlessly, spinning you around and shouting something incoherent over the noise. Max is right there too, phone in hand, eyes glassy and voice cracking when he yells, “I told you both you’d do it!”
Lando’s mum, Cisca, is crying openly, hugging both of you at once, while Adam claps Max on the back. For a moment — just a moment — it’s perfect. A blur of love and history and belonging.
But then your eyes catch Ethan’s in the crowd. He’s standing still. Expression cold, arms crossed.
You pull back from Lando and approach him. Cameras are flashing, the whole world watching. He gives you the faintest, stiff smile and pulls you into a quick, meaningless hug for the press.
“Congrats,” he murmurs flatly, his tone making your stomach sink.
After the podium, Lando and Max corner you by the paddock entrance, both grinning, still buzzing.
“Come out with us,” Lando urges. “We’re going for drinks — just the three of us. Like old times.”
You hesitate. “Ethan wanted to—”
“Ethan can survive one night without you,” Max interrupts.
You open your mouth, but Ethan appears again, hand on your shoulder. “We’ve got dinner plans with my siblings,” he says, tone smooth but possessive. “You promised, remember?”
You glance between them — the boys’ hopeful faces, Ethan’s expectant one — and your heart twists painfully. “I’ll see you later,” you say quietly. “I promise.”
When you return to the hotel that night, the post-race high has faded into something quieter — exhaustion and a faint ache in your chest. The room smells faintly of roses.
Light yellow and pink — your favorites. A soft note tucked beneath the bouquet:
P2 looks good on you, sunshine.— L.
You smile, small and fragile but real. It’s such a Lando thing to do — always remembering the little things, always knowing when to say something without words.
You’re still arranging the flowers in a glass vase when the door opens.
Ethan steps inside, still in his suit from dinner. His expression isn’t one of pride or love — it’s tight, simmering. “Where’d those come from?”
You hesitate. “…Lando. He always sends flowers after a podium—”
“Of course he does.” His voice is sharp now. “You think that’s normal? You think that’s appropriate?”
“Ethan, please don’t do this,” you say softly, trying to diffuse it. “It’s just a gesture. He’s my friend.”
He scoffs. “Your friend? You mean the one who can’t take his eyes off you? The one who clearly wants you?”
“Stop.”
He takes a step closer. “You make me look like an idiot in front of everyone.”
“Ethan—”
The vase hits the wall before you can stop him. Glass shatters, water splashes across your legs, petals scattered across the floor like confetti from some cruel celebration.
You flinch instinctively, heart pounding. For a long second, the only sound is the water dripping onto the tile.
Ethan exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t—”
But you’re already kneeling down, silently gathering the broken glass. The small slice across your finger blooms red almost immediately, and you hiss softly, pressing it to your palm.
“YN—”
“Just—go,” you whisper. “Please.”
For once, he listens. He mutters something under his breath, grabs his jacket, and storms out, the door slamming behind him.
In the hallway, Lando and Max are just stepping off the lift, still in their club attire, laughter fading when they see him. Ethan’s face is flushed, his fists clenched, his eyes avoiding theirs.
Lando’s jaw tightens immediately. “What the hell happened to you?”
“None of your business,” Ethan snaps, brushing past.
Max doesn’t even respond — he just looks at Lando, eyes narrowing, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Something’s wrong.
They don’t even knock when they reach your door. Max uses the spare card you gave them both in case you lost yours.
And when the door opens — it’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re kneeling by the bed, surrounded by water and broken glass, your hands trembling as you try to pick up the pieces. Tears streak your cheeks, a thin line of blood running down your finger.
“YN,” Max breathes, already kneeling beside you. He gently catches your wrist before you can reach for another shard. “Hey, hey—don’t. You’ll cut yourself worse.”
“I just… I didn’t want to leave it like this,” you whisper, voice breaking.
Lando crouches on your other side, his hands careful as he starts gathering the pieces into a towel. “You don’t need to clean anything. We’ve got it, okay?” His voice is soft, steady — the same tone he used when you fell off your bike at age seven and tried to insist you weren’t hurt.
The moment his hand brushes yours, something inside you cracks. The sob you’ve been holding back finally escapes — quiet and painful and raw.
Max pulls you gently into his chest without hesitation. You grip his shirt, shoulders shaking, and Lando sits close beside you, his hand rubbing slow circles over your back.
“You’re safe now,” Max murmurs.
Lando’s voice is low, firm, and full of something fierce. “We've got you. He can't hurt you."
You nod weakly, closing your eyes as they hold you — the two people who’ve known you longest, the two you've loved forever but have been too shy to say. And look at the mess that landed you in.
Morning light creeps through the thin hotel curtains, cutting soft gold across the carpet and the half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the steady rhythm of your breathing. You’re curled up in bed, finally asleep — deep, peaceful, undisturbed.
Across the room, Max and Lando are slumped on the small couch, both still in yesterday’s clothes. At some point in the night, you’d stopped crying. Max had wiped away the last tear, Lando had covered you with the blanket, and the three of you had sat there for hours in silence until exhaustion pulled them under too.
It’s early — not even seven — when Lando’s phone buzzes. He groans quietly, rubbing his eyes, and then glances at your nightstand. Your phone is lighting up too. Again and again and again. Hundreds of notifications.
He frowns. “Max,” he whispers. “Look.”
Max stirs beside him, his voice still heavy with sleep. “What’s going on?”
“Her phone’s blowing up.”
Max sits up, blinking the sleep away. When he sees the sheer number of alerts — social media notifications, message previews, news pings — his stomach tightens.
“She’s still asleep,” Lando says quietly. “You check it. You’ve got her passcode.”
Max hesitates for a moment — it feels invasive — but the worry in Lando’s face wins out. He picks up your phone and unlocks it. The screen fills instantly with headlines and tagged photos.
F1 WAG DRAMA AT SILVERSTONE? Ethan Hayes Spotted Leaving Club with Mystery Blonde!
Ethan Hayes Caught Kissing Another Woman Hours After Girlfriend’s Podium Finish
There are dozens of pictures — Ethan outside a bar, his hand around someone else’s waist, his mouth pressed to hers. The timestamps are all from last night, while you were crying on the floor. Lando goes pale.
“Tell me that’s not real.”
Max doesn’t answer. He just scrolls slowly, jaw tightening. “It’s real. Every outlet’s picked it up. Fans are tagging us in everything — they’re begging us to check on her.”
Lando stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll kill him. I swear to god, Max, I’ll—”
“Lando.”
“He threw a vase at her last night, Max! And now this? While she was crying over him?!”
“I know,” Max says quietly. “But right now she needs us, not a headline about you punching him.”
Lando stops pacing, chest heaving. He looks over at you, still asleep, hair messy, lips parted softly. There’s a band-aid on your finger now — the cut from last night. His anger twists into something else. Protectiveness.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But when she’s ready, I’m not holding back.”
They order breakfast — your favorite. Croissants with strawberry jam, a fruit bowl, black coffee for Max, oat milk latte for you, orange juice for Lando. It’s all they can think to do — something normal, something kind. Then they wait. The knock comes twenty minutes later.
Lando perks up, relief flickering. “That was quick. Must be room service.”
But when he opens the door, it isn’t.
Ethan stands there — rumpled, red-eyed, and already angry. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Lando’s face goes blank. “What did you just say?”
“I asked why you’re in my girlfriend’s room.”
Max’s head snaps up from the couch, his entire body going still.
“Your what?” Lando spits, stepping out into the hallway before his voice can wake you. “You don’t get to call her that anymore.”
Ethan sneers. “Oh, so what, you’re her bodyguards now? Because you care so much?”
Lando’s voice drops low. “You don’t want to finish that sentence.”
Inside, you stir slightly at the sound. Max is instantly by your side, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair from your face.
“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Just stay here, yeah?”
You blink awake slowly, still hazy. “Max? What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he says gently, thumb tracing soothing circles along your temple. “We just ordered breakfast. Lando’s talking to someone outside.”
You sit up slowly, confusion knitting your brow. “Someone?”
Before he can answer, Lando walks back in — tense, jaw tight. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, exhaling sharply.
“Who was that?” you ask softly.
Lando’s voice is quieter now, almost breaking. “Ethan.”
Your stomach drops. “What did he want?”
Max exchanges a look with Lando — that same silent conversation they’ve been having since you were all ten years old.
Lando moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours. “YN, there’s something we need to tell you.”
He hesitates. His voice cracks. “We saw the news this morning.”
“What news?”
Max hands you your phone. You unlock it, scroll once, twice — and freeze. The photos blur, your chest tightening as the captions sink in.
He’s with another girl. Smiling. Kissing her. The whole world knows.
“Oh,” you whisper. Your throat burns. “Oh my god.”
“YN—” Lando starts, but you can’t even look at them. The tears come hard, fast, unstoppable.
Everyone knew before you. Everyone saw before you.
“I look so stupid,” you choke out. “He was with her while I was— while I was—”
Max cuts in softly. “Don’t. Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You shake your head, hands trembling. Lando’s already pulling you into his arms, your cheek pressed against his chest. Max wraps his arm around your back, resting his chin on top of your head. They stay like that until your sobs turn into quiet hiccups, until your breathing evens out.
When room service finally knocks, Max handles it silently, tipping the attendant and setting the tray down by the couch. The scent of coffee and butter fills the air.
“C’mere,” Lando murmurs. He pulls you gently into his lap, one arm around your waist, the other brushing a stray tear from your cheek.
“You have to eat something,” Max says softly, holding out a croissant. You shake your head weakly, and he just smiles a little. “C’mon. You’ll feel better.”
You take a tiny bite, mostly to make him stop worrying, and he grins faintly. “See? Not so bad.”
You end up nestled between them on the couch, Max feeding you small bites between sips of coffee, Lando’s hand rubbing slow circles on your thigh. It feels fragile — like glass balancing on the edge of breaking — but for a moment, it’s enough.
And for just a second, you remember another morning, years ago —
The three of you at age ten, sitting on a swing set in Lando’s backyard. You’d scraped your knee falling off your bike. Max had handed you a melting popsicle. Lando had promised, mouth full of sugar, “We’ll always take care of you. No matter what.”
You’d laughed back then, called him dramatic. Now, sitting here with your head against his shoulder and Max’s hand brushing the back of yours — you realize he meant it. And they never stopped.
It had been weeks since Silverstone — weeks since the noise, the chaos, and the headlines that painted your heartbreak across every feed. Weeks since the hotel hallway, the broken glass, and the flowers that once smelled like comfort but now only reminded you of how easily love can bruise. Now it was race weekend again, and you were finally breathing.
Lando and Max had taken it upon themselves to guard your peace like it was something sacred. They’d practically built a little world around you — movie nights, post-run coffees, late-night drives with music turned up too loud. They were your constants. Your reminders that life could still be good.
And maybe, in some quiet corner of your chest, they were also your undoing.
The morning sun spilled through the glass of the building, soft and golden, filtering through the faint hum of paddock noise. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch in Lando’s driver’s room, wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours (and he didn’t bother to take back), eating half of his breakfast burrito while scrolling through notes for press.
He was sprawled on the opposite end, hair still damp from his shower, scrolling on his phone until he wasn’t — because you’d said something under your breath and he looked up, smiling without even realizing it.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you said, not looking up.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you stare like you’re memorizing my face.”
He grinned, slow. “Maybe I am.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart tripped over itself anyway.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. There was only the soft hum of air conditioning and the faint clatter of media crews setting up outside. He leaned his elbow on the back of the couch, chin resting on his hand as he watched you scroll, watched the small lines of concentration gather between your brows.
He’d missed this version of you — the easy laughter, the way your energy filled the room instead of shrinking into corners. The you that had been buried under the weight of someone else’s expectations.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You hummed.
“You’re really okay, yeah?”
You looked up, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. His gaze was steady — warm, protective, unflinching. The kind of look that held things unsaid.
You smiled, small. “I’m getting there.”
He nodded once, like that answer meant more than you realized. And then there was silence again. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was charged. A quiet hum in the air that neither of you wanted to acknowledge because you both knew what it was.
Your knee brushed his. Just lightly. A flicker. And suddenly, you both stilled — eyes meeting, breath catching. It lasted seconds, but it felt like falling.
Then, like clockwork, someone called from the hall — media time. You blinked first, exhaling shakily and forcing a laugh. “Guess it’s time to go pretend everything’s fine.”
Lando swallowed hard, looking away as he stood. “You don’t have to pretend.”
You grabbed your cap, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Then you better not, either.”
Later that afternoon, after press duties and endless cameras, you found yourself back in the McLaren hospitality lounge with Max — who was currently scolding you for not eating enough.
“Max,” you sighed, pushing the plate back toward him. “You sound like my mum.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll listen,” he teased, but his tone softened when you shot him a look. “Hey, I’m serious, YN. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks. Just… take care of yourself, yeah?”
“I am taking care of myself,” you said, quieter now.
He looked at you for a long moment, then smiled — that small, boyish grin that had been a part of your life since you were fifteen. He reached across the table, fingers brushing yours when he pushed the plate back toward you.
It was the smallest touch, barely there, but it froze you in place. You looked up, met his eyes, and it was there again. That spark. That unbearable ache of what-ifs and maybes that you’d been pretending not to see.
You’d both felt it before — fleeting, messy moments through the years that always ended the same way. Laughter to hide the tension, silence to bury it.
You pulled your hand back gently, clearing your throat. “You know this isn’t fair,” you whispered.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know.”
The moment passed. It always did. And still, it left you with that hollow ache — not of longing, but of knowing that some people were meant to hold you up, not hold you close.
That night, you sat on the hotel balcony alone, phone buzzing with messages from both Max and Lando asking if you were okay, if you needed company.
You typed I’m fine, then deleted it.
Typed come over, then deleted that too.
Instead, you set the phone face down and looked out at the glowing paddock below — the hum of a world that kept spinning, no matter who got hurt in the process.
And somewhere deep down, you felt the first quiet flicker of peace. Because you weren’t healing for anyone else this time. You were healing for you.
Belgium dawned soft and pale — the kind of early morning that carries the faint chill of mist and the promise of something new. The hotel room was quiet. No frantic laughter echoing through the adjoining walls. No boys knocking on your door with breakfast they insisted you eat. Just… silence.
You moved through it with a strange sort of calm. There was no rush, no noise, no voice tugging you into motion. For the first time in months, you weren’t adjusting your heartbeat to match anyone else’s pace.
You slipped on a flowy white sundress, simple and soft against your skin. The kind of thing you hadn’t worn since before Ethan — something easy, something you. You let your hair dry naturally, no fuss, no overthinking, just that quiet kind of peace that sits beneath your ribs when you stop trying to perform for the world.
The paddock car arrived downstairs, and you went alone. No Lando teasing you for making them late. No Max blasting music in the car. It was just you and the hum of the tires on the asphalt, winding your way to Spa.
When you stepped out at the circuit, the crowd erupted — flags, posters, a sea of red and yellow and your number scrawled across every other sign. It almost knocked the air out of you, the sound of your name echoing like a chant.
You smiled — for real this time. Not the polite, picture-perfect kind. The genuine one that reached your eyes and made the security guard beside you grin, too. You stopped for everyone who called your name, took every photo, signed every cap.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like anyone’s possession. You were just you.
Somewhere down the paddock walkway, Lando and Max arrived together — mid-conversation, laughing, before they froze mid-step.
Lando nudged Max, whispering, “Wait. Is that—?”
Max nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s her.”
It was jarring — seeing you there, without them, radiant and whole. Your hair glinting in the sunlight, that dress catching the breeze. You looked… untouchable. Like the girl they’d grown up with but hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
“She didn’t tell us she was coming this early,” Max said, frowning slightly.
“Yeah,” Lando murmured, eyes still on you. “Or that she’d actually—”
He trailed off, swallowing the word smile.
By the time you made it down to the garages, your drivers’ energy was electric. Ferrari had nailed qualifying the day before, and you were set to start on pole.
You stopped by McLaren before the driver’s parade — your ritual, one that had never been missed. Lando was standing by the rear wing of his car, Max perched on the pit wall beside him, both of them looking up when you appeared.
“Morning,” you said softly, tucking your pass into your lanyard.
Lando’s face softened immediately. “You okay?”
You nodded, smiling faintly. “Just wanted to say good luck before the chaos.”
“You always do,” Max said, hopping down to wrap an arm around your shoulders. “But you’re quiet today. Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe you didn’t.
Lando tilted his head, studying you for a beat longer before letting it go. “Okay. Just don’t go disappearing again.”
You rolled your eyes, the smallest hint of your old sass slipping through. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Still, they exchanged a look behind your back — one that said we’ll keep an eye on her. When the lights went out, everything else ceased to exist. Spa has always been unpredictable — a monster of a track that demands everything. But today, it bowed to you.
From the first corner, you were gone. Your Ferrari looked untouchable. Smooth, ruthless, perfectly dialed in. The radio crackled with praise from the pit wall as you widened the gap — five seconds, then twelve, then twenty.
Lando was P2, doing everything to close in but grinning inside his helmet because, truthfully, he didn’t want to. He just wanted to watch you fly.
Even Max, standing on the pit wall with his headset, muttered under his breath, “Holy shit, she’s flying.”
Every lap was a statement. Every corner, a reclamation. Every heartbeat, proof that you didn’t need anyone’s permission to be great.
When the checkered flag waved, you crossed the line thirty-two seconds ahead of Lando. The roar from the crowd shook the fences.
“P1, YN. That’s a domination,” your engineer shouted. “You’ve done it again!”
You laughed breathlessly over the radio. “I missed this.”
Post race was chaos — laughter, adrenaline, sweat still clinging to you. Lando dropped his water bottle when he saw you, launching himself across the room to scoop you up, spinning you in circles until you squealed.
“Put me down!” you laughed, shoving him lightly.
“Not a chance, champ!”
Max burst through the door seconds later, jumping on both of you in a ridiculous group hug that knocked the wind out of you.
“You’re insane!” he yelled, though his voice cracked like he was proud enough to cry. “Thirty-two seconds?! Are you trying to humiliate him?”
“Always,” you teased, glancing at Lando, who just laughed harder.
Cisca and Adam were there too, pulling you into an embrace that made your chest tighten. You weren’t their kid, but you might as well have been. For a few precious minutes, everything was exactly how it should be — simple, happy, home.
Later, when the crowds thinned and the cameras dimmed, you were packing up your things when the boys appeared at the doorway, identical mischievous grins on their faces.
“What are you two up to?” you asked suspiciously.
Lando crossed his arms. “So. We have a surprise.”
“Oh god.”
Max laughed. “Don’t make that face. You’ll like this one.”
Lando stepped forward, pulling a folded paper from his pocket and waving it like a ticket. “We were thinking… since summer break’s coming up and you’ve been, you know, actually alive again—”
“—barely,” Max added with a grin.
“—we thought we’d get away,” Lando finished. “Just us three. Somewhere warm, no cameras, no schedules. Just… us.”
You blinked, eyes darting between them. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” Max said. “We already booked it.”
You stared for a second, then laughed — the kind of laugh that made your stomach hurt and your chest feel lighter. “You idiots,” you said, voice cracking a little.
“Your idiots,” Lando corrected gently.
And you didn’t even try to deny it.
You stepped forward, pulling them both into a hug — tight, messy, all tangled arms and heartbeats. For once, it didn’t hurt to feel this much. Maybe this was what healing looked like — not silence, not pretending. Just this. Just them.
The air smelled like salt and sunlight when you arrived. The coastline stretched out beneath the villa like something painted — sun-bleached cliffs, lemon trees, sea glittering beyond the stone wall. It was beautiful in the sort of way that almost hurt to look at.
The three of you had travelled light: one suitcase each, a bag of cameras and Polaroid film, and Lando’s insistence on bringing his ridiculous inflatable flamingo.
Max carried your luggage inside while Lando ran ahead to open all the balcony doors, letting the ocean breeze spill through the house. You stood in the entryway for a moment, bare feet on cool tile, sunglasses perched on your head, just breathing. It was quiet, and for the first time in months, the quiet didn’t scare you.
“YN,” Lando called from the terrace. “You need to see this view!”
You followed the sound of his voice out into the sunlight, and there it was — the sea, endless and gold. Lando was leaning on the railing, hair blowing messily, and when he turned and saw you, his grin went soft. Max stepped up behind you, sliding his sunglasses onto his head. “Told you it’d be worth the trip.”
You smiled. “You two might actually have good taste.”
By the afternoon, the villa felt lived in: towels draped over chairs, sunscreen and water bottles scattered everywhere, the smell of espresso clinging to the kitchen. You’d changed into a bikini top and linen shorts, sprawled across a lounger while Lando tried to teach Max how to properly blow up the flamingo without passing out.
“Why do we need this thing again?” Max groaned.
“Because it’s tradition,” Lando said, muffled around the air pump.
“It’s stupid.”
You looked over your sunglasses. “It’s hilarious,” you said, barely hiding a smile. “I’m documenting this for future blackmail.”
“Traitor,” Max muttered, but his grin betrayed him.
When the flamingo finally took shape, Lando threw himself onto it triumphantly and drifted across the pool. You dipped your feet in the water, watching him float, watching the sunlight dance across his face. He caught your eye and splashed water at you until you shrieked and jumped in after him, laughter echoing off the walls.
Max watched from the edge — laughing too, but quieter, fond. He’d seen this version of you before, years ago, before everything complicated the simplicity of being young and fearless. Seeing you happy again twisted something in his chest.
Dinner that night was a mess of pasta and wine and sunset. You sat at the long outdoor table, hair still damp from the shower, legs pulled up in your chair. Max had taken over cooking, Lando was claiming credit for the playlist, and the evening melted into the easy rhythm of old jokes and too much laughter.
“Remember when YN decided she could skateboard down that giant hill?” Lando said, smirking.
“I made it halfway,” you protested.
“You made it halfway before you crashed into my mum’s car,” Max said.
You gasped. “You said you’d never bring that up!”
They both burst out laughing, and for a moment the years fell away — it was the three of you at ten years old again, barefoot, sunburnt, invincible.
After dinner, you ended up on the couch with Lando beside you and Max stretched on the floor, talking about everything and nothing. The villa hummed with quiet music and the cicadas outside.
Lando reached up, absently brushing a curl from your face when you leaned over to grab a blanket. His hand lingered a second too long. You both felt it — that small spark that had been buried under years of friendship. You met his eyes, something unspoken flickering between you, until Max’s voice broke the moment.
“Hey,” he said softly, looking up from the floor. “Don’t fall asleep on us yet.”
You blinked, sitting back quickly, cheeks warm. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Lando gave a low laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The air felt thicker now, full of things no one wanted to say.
Later, when you were finally asleep, Lando stood by the open balcony door, watching moonlight ripple on the water. Max joined him quietly, holding two glasses of water.
“She’s glowing again,” Lando said after a while, voice low.
Max nodded. “Yeah. She’s… herself.”
They stood there in silence, the waves breaking softly below.
Neither of them said what they were thinking — how it terrified them to feel this way again, how every smile from you pulled them closer to something they shouldn’t want.
Lando exhaled. “You think she ever—”
“Feels the same?” Max finished for him. They both looked back toward the couch where you slept, curled up beneath a blanket, peaceful.
“Yeah,” Lando whispered.
Max gave a small, sad smile. “Maybe she does. But that doesn’t mean we should.”
Lando nodded, but his gaze lingered anyway. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The next morning, you woke early and padded out to the terrace. The sun had just climbed above the sea, painting everything in gold. You rolled out your yoga mat — one you’d brought from home — and stretched, eyes closed, breathing in the ocean air.
Inside, Max and Lando stirred awake almost simultaneously, both drawn by the quiet sound of your laughter from your friend on the other line of the phone.
Lando leaned against the doorway, watching you move. Max joined him, mug of coffee in hand.
“She’s back,” Lando murmured.
“Yeah,” Max said softly. “She is.”
And maybe that was the hardest part — seeing you healed, happy, radiant again. Because loving you had never stopped being easy. Letting you go was going to be the impossible part.
The next morning unfolds slow and golden, sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains of the coastal villa. You wake first — barefoot, hair tied up loosely, wearing one of Lando’s oversized t-shirts you’d stolen from his suitcase. The salty air drifts through the open doors, carrying the gentle crash of waves and the faint call of gulls. For the first time in a long time, you feel… light. Free.
You step out onto the terrace. The ocean stretches endlessly before you, glinting under the sun, and for a moment it feels like everything — the heartbreak, the noise, the weight — has finally quieted.
Lando appears a few minutes later, curls messy, half-asleep but smiling softly at the sight of you. “Morning,” he says, voice still gravelly. Then Max joins you, already more awake than either of you, holding three coffees like a hero.
“Alright,” Max says, handing you one. “Beach day. No arguments.”
You grin, tipping your head playfully. “You say that like I wasn’t already planning to destroy you both in beach volleyball.”
“Confident,” Lando hums, stepping closer, his eyes flickering briefly down to your lips before darting away. “You forget I’m the one who taught you to serve.”
“And I’m the one who won last time,” Max fires back, smirking.
You roll your eyes, laughing, the sound light and bright.
By midday, the three of you are down on the beach, sun warm against your skin, volleyball net set up unevenly in the sand. You’re wearing a bright bikini under a linen shirt, the hem fluttering around your thighs, and Lando keeps pretending he’s not staring. Max pretends not to notice him pretending. You and Lando team up against Max, which he immediately declares unfair.
“You’re basically the same brain,” Max protests.
“That’s just your excuse for losing,” you tease.
It’s chaos. It’s perfect. The three of you dive, yell, and laugh until you’re breathless. Max’s “competitive streak” turns into him tickling you for cheating, which turns into Lando accidentally tripping over the both of you. Sand everywhere. Screaming laughter echoing over the waves.
Eventually, you collapse in the sand, chest heaving, hair sticking to your forehead. Max drops beside you, head falling lazily against your shoulder. Lando flops down on your other side, brushing your arm — it’s nothing and everything all at once.
“God,” you sigh, staring at the endless sky, “I missed this.”
The words hang in the air, delicate and unguarded. Both boys fall silent. They know exactly what you mean — not the beach, not the game. The real you. The version of you that laughs like this. The one who doesn’t flinch when someone reaches for her hand. The one they both love more than they should.
Max nudges your ankle softly. “It’s good to have you back, sunshine.”
You turn to look at him, and your smile — warm and unfiltered — knocks the air right out of his chest. Lando notices it too, glancing away quickly, pretending to watch the waves.
That night, you all get ready to go out. The villa hums with easy noise — Lando’s music playing from a speaker, Max calling dibs on the shower, you teasing them both for taking too long. You wear a sleek, short dress that glitters faintly under the light, and when you step out, both of them just… stare.
“You look—”
“—insane,” Max finishes for Lando.
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re both dramatic.”
But their eyes linger a little too long.
At the club, everything feels hazy and warm. The music pulses, the drinks flow, and for the first time in ages, you let yourself be in the moment — laughing, dancing, glowing again. The three of you find yourselves on the dance floor together, bodies close, lights flickering over your faces.
Lando’s hand is on your waist. Max’s fingers brush yours when you reach for him. You turn your head — and suddenly you’re inches from Max. He looks at you like he’s been holding his breath for months.
You almost kiss him. You want to. The air is thick, and everything inside you is begging to give in—but you freeze.
Reality slams back. Ethan. The heartbreak. The cameras. The fallout. You pull away abruptly, shaking your head, your throat tightening. Before either of them can say a word, you turn and bolt.
“YN!”
They call after you, panic rising in their voices, but you don’t stop until you reach the beach — the one in front of your villa, now dark and quiet. The ocean looks endless, reflecting the club lights in distant glimmers.
You’re sitting in the sand when they finally find you. Max stops a few feet away, breathless. Lando kneels beside you.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears streaking your cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have— I’ve just— I’ve always felt something for both of you and I don’t know what to do with it and—”
Before you can finish, Lando leans forward and kisses you.
It’s soft. Desperate. Real.
You freeze for half a second before melting into it, your hand clutching his shirt. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “Stop apologizing,” he murmurs.
Max drops to the sand on your other side, voice low but steady. “You think we haven’t felt it too?”
You look between them, eyes glassy, chest trembling. “But it’s wrong. It’s confusing, it’s—”
“—it’s us,” Lando interrupts. “And maybe that’s enough.”
The three of you sit there under the moonlight, waves crashing quietly against the shore. The air feels charged, fragile, alive. You rest your head on Lando’s shoulder, Max’s hand finding yours in the sand. None of you know what comes next. But none of that matters in the moment.
You were maybe eight, the boys a year older, sitting in the Norris’ backyard in that rickety little treehouse Lando’s dad built for him and Oliver.
You remember the way Max sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a little toy car while Lando peeked through the window slats at the sky turning gold.
“YN?” Max said suddenly, in that tiny, nervous voice only kids have when they’re about to say something big.
You looked up from your coloring book, crayon in your mouth. “Yeah?”
He looked at Lando, who immediately looked away and blushed bright pink.
“We, um,” Max stammered. “We both like you.”
You blinked. “Like… like-like?”
Lando nodded quickly, hair sticking to his forehead. “Yeah. We both said we were gonna tell you today. So now we did.”
You stared at them — two little boys sitting there, awkward and red-faced and earnest — and then you grinned so wide it made your cheeks hurt. You dropped your crayon, reached out your hands, and grabbed theirs.
“Well that’s perfect,” you said, matter-of-factly. “Because we’re all going to get married one day.”
Both boys froze.
Lando’s eyes went huge. “All of us?”
“Mhm,” you hummed proudly. “You two are my best friends. And I’m not picking. So we’ll just all get married. Easy.”
Max looked at Lando, who looked at you, and then they both burst into giggles — the kind that made your stomach hurt.
Lando finally said through his laughter, “Okay then. It’s a deal.”
“Deal,” you echoed, pinky-swearing with both of them at once.
And that night, under the soft hum of summer crickets, the three of you fell asleep shoulder-to-shoulder in that little treehouse — the world still small, the future still kind.
The sun slips in gently through the sheer white curtains — soft, golden, unhurried. You wake slowly, tangled in the warmth of two bodies beside you, the air in the villa still carrying the faint smell of salt and night.
Your cheek is pressed to Lando’s chest, his arm heavy and protective around your waist. Behind you, Max breathes evenly, his arm draped lazily across both of you, fingers brushing Lando’s shoulder in his sleep. The three of you fit like puzzle pieces that have spent years trying to find their way back together.
You don’t move for a while — just listen to the sound of the waves outside, the soft rhythm of Lando’s heartbeat under your ear. Every so often, he stirs, murmuring something sleepy and unintelligible, his hand tightening at your hip.
Then Max shifts behind you, nose brushing the back of your neck. “You awake?”
“I wouldn't say fully,” you whisper, smiling to yourself.
He hums, thumb drawing lazy circles against your arm. “Good. Stay like this, then.”
Lando chuckles quietly, voice muffled. “Of course you’d say that. You’re practically drooling on her.”
Max groans, throwing a halfhearted slap over your shoulder that hits Lando’s chest instead. “Jealous, mate?”
Lando only grins, looking down at you. “Maybe.”
You laugh softly, the sound so natural between the three of you again. You shift slightly, propping yourself up so you can see both of them. Their hair’s a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep, and they both look so content — so free.
And suddenly it hits you all over again. Last night. The beach. The confession. The kiss. The words you’d buried for years finally said aloud.
You swallow, glancing between them. “So… that wasn’t a dream, right?”
Max opens one eye, smiling. “No dream, sunshine.”
Lando stretches out beside you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Unless we all had the same one.”
You look between them, heart racing. “I meant what I said. On the beach. I’ve loved you both for as long as I can remember.”
There’s a pause — that soft, sacred kind of silence where the world holds its breath.
Lando sits up, reaching for your hand, fingers intertwining with yours. “You don’t have to pick,” he says quietly. “Not with us. We’ve never wanted you to choose.”
Max nods, sitting up on your other side. “We’ve loved you together before. We can love you together again.”
Your throat tightens. You look between them — the two constants in every version of your life. Every memory. Every victory. Every heartbreak.
“I really did mean it,” you say softly, smiling through the lump in your throat. “When we were kids. That I’d marry you both one day.”
Max laughs, that low, familiar sound that always makes your chest ache. “I remember. You were so bossy about it.”
“You both agreed!” you protest, smacking his arm lightly.
Lando grins. “Because you told us we’d all get matching rings and a big cake. How were we supposed to say no?”
You laugh so hard you nearly fall back into the pillows, and they both follow you down, laughter mixing with yours until it turns to something quieter — tender.
Lando leans in first, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Max follows, his lips brushing your shoulder. You sigh, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of them both settles around you.
It’s easy, the way you all move together — soft touches, quiet smiles, fingers lacing and unlacing as though testing this new rhythm.
Lando’s hand finds your cheek, his thumb tracing along your jaw. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, voice low but sure. “Whatever this is — however it looks.”
Max nods, resting his chin on your shoulder. “We’ve already spent years together. Might as well make it forever, yeah?”
You giggle, leaning back against him, reaching for Lando’s hand. “You two are ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you,” Lando corrects, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth.
You turn your head slightly — just enough that the kiss deepens for a moment before you pull back, cheeks flushed, heart light.
Max grins at the two of you and then leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “She really did mean it,” he murmurs to Lando. “About the three of us.”
Lando hums in quiet agreement. “Guess we better start saving for that cake.”
You roll your eyes, laughing, but they both kiss your cheeks at the same time, and for a fleeting second — tangled in sunlight and laughter and the familiar smell of sea salt — you feel that same certainty you did at eight years old in that little treehouse.
The house feels alive in a way you haven’t felt in years. It’s all laughter and sunshine and the faint smell of something baking in the kitchen. Lando’s family home has always felt like a second home to you, Cisca’s soft warmth, Adam’s quiet humor, the sound of the garden fountain trickling somewhere beyond the open windows. But this time, it feels different. This time, it feels complete.
You’ve been here for a few days now, hiding away from the world in your tiny trio-shaped bubble. After months of figuring yourselves out—of whispered “I love yous,” of balancing three careers, of learning how to fit together again—you finally found your rhythm. It’s not perfect. It’s not traditional. But it’s yours.
And you’ve never been happier.
You’re sitting at the dining room table with Cisca, sipping tea and helping her sort through some old photos. She’s been showing you pictures of the three of you—tiny, sunburned faces, scraped knees, toothy grins. There’s one of you sitting between Lando and Max in that same little treehouse out back, both of them kissing your cheeks while you giggle into the camera.
“Oh, I remember this day,” Cisca says, her voice soft and nostalgic. “You three were inseparable. Lando cried when you had to go home.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “He still does.”
Cisca chuckles knowingly. “He always loved you, you know. Both of them did. It was impossible not to.”
You blush a little, but she reaches out and squeezes your hand gently. “I’m glad you’ve all found your way back to each other.”
Before you can answer, Adam’s voice carries from the garden. “Cisca! Come see the roses!”
She smiles and excuses herself, leaving you alone in the kitchen. You stand, stretching a little, and pad barefoot toward the sound of quiet voices coming from around the corner.
And then you stop.
In the kitchen, sunlight pours through the big window, catching the dust motes in the air. Lando stands at the counter, sleeves rolled up, laughing quietly as Max tries—and fails—to crack eggs without breaking the yolks. There’s flour on the counter, flour in Lando’s hair, flour on Max’s cheek.
“Mate,” Lando snorts, brushing at Max’s face with a dish towel. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly charming,” Max counters, grinning. “Admit it—you love me.”
Lando rolls his eyes but leans forward anyway, kissing him lightly, sweetly, without hesitation. “Yeah. I do.”
You can’t help the soft smile that spreads across your face as you lean against the doorframe, just watching. The way they move together, laugh together—it’s everything. They haven’t noticed you yet, and you let yourself soak in the moment a little longer.
Your heart feels full to the brim.
Finally, you step forward, clearing your throat dramatically. “If you two are done making out, I’d love some pancakes.”
They both spin around, startled and red-faced, and you burst into laughter.
“YN!” Lando groans, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been standing there?”
“Long enough to know Max still can’t cook,” you tease, walking over and swiping a bit of batter from the bowl to taste.
Max narrows his eyes. “Careful, sunshine. I might withhold your pancakes.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He grins, shaking his head. “You’re lucky we love you.”
“I know,” you say softly, and when they both look at you, you feel that familiar little spark—the same one you felt on the beach, the same one you’ve carried since you were kids.
Later that evening, after dinner and too many stories from Adam about Lando's younger days, the three of you wander out into the garden. The air smells like lavender and sea salt, the horizon brushed in gold as the sun dips low. And there it is—the treehouse.
It’s smaller than you remember, the wood worn and sun-faded, but it’s still there. Still sturdy. Still yours.
You look between the boys and grin. “Think it’ll hold us?”
“Only one way to find out,” Lando says, already climbing the ladder.
You follow, Max close behind, the three of you laughing like children as you squeeze inside. It’s cramped, limbs tangled and knees bumping, but none of you care.
“Wow,” Max says softly, looking around. “It’s exactly the same.”
There’s a moment of silence—the good kind, the kind filled with memory. The treehouse creaks faintly beneath you, the air warm and still.
Lando reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. Max does the same on your other side. You rest your head against Lando’s shoulder, Max’s chin coming to rest atop your hair.
“Do you remember what we said here?” you whisper.
They both hum softly.
“That we were all going to get married someday,” Lando says, voice barely above a murmur.
You smile, tears pricking at your eyes. “I meant it.”
“We know,” Max says gently, squeezing your hand. “And so did we.”
You look up at them—two faces that have been the backdrop of your whole life, two hearts that have always held pieces of yours.
Lando leans down and kisses your forehead, slow and soft. Max follows, pressing one to your cheek.
The three of you sit there for hours, talking about everything and nothing—the races ahead, the ridiculous things you did as kids, the way the world feels less scary when you’re together. The stars come out one by one, and the night hums quietly around you.
At some point, Lando wraps his arm around your shoulders, Max shifts closer, and you close your eyes.
“Feels like home,” you murmur sleepily.
“It is home,” Lando whispers.
And somewhere between laughter and whispered promises, the three of you drift off—tangled up, hearts steady, the world below you quiet and small.
Just like it was back then. Just like it will always be. Three hands still intertwined under the same soft sky. Still together. Still home. Always.
Summery - You fall asleep live on Lando’s stream. - Fluff 💕
Warnings- None. Just Fluff
——————————————————————
The familiar hum of Lando’s stream filled the living room—keyboards clacking, laughter bubbling out as he joked with his teammates through his headset, and the constant flood of messages darting down his second monitor. You barely noticed it anymore. You had yourself curled up on the sofa behind him, legs tucked under a blanket, your nose buried in a book you’d been trying to finish all week.
You insisted on keeping him company even though you weren’t really into gaming— you just liked being near him. The soft golden glow of the lamp cast shadows across your face, and Lando couldn’t help but glance back every few seconds, grinning at how serene you looked.
Oi, Lando, focus!” one viewer typed, “you’re about to lose to that corner!”
He chuckled, shouting at the screen, “I’m fine, alright? Chill!” His hands moved quickly, but part of his mind kept drifting back to you.
You hummed softly to yourself as you read, and lando found himself taking note of the faintest smile kept tugging at his lips as you did.
At first, the chat’s attention was on Lando’s gameplay, but as the night went on messages began to flood in and they weren’t about the game.
“LANNNDO look behind you.”
“ y/n is falling asleep 🥺”
“Protect her at all costs.”
“We are witnessing THE CUTEST THING.”
Lando glanced at his second monitor, brow furrowing at the barrage of heart emojis and soft warnings. He turned slightly in his chair, and there you were —head tilted to the side, book slipping from your hands, eyes closed. The faintest rise and fall of your shoulders told him that you were deep in that peaceful kind of sleep that made you look even softer.
He smiled without meaning to.
“Aw, babygirl…” he murmured under his breath, forgetting the mic would pick it up. The chat went wild.
Pushing his chair back, he padded over to you, his voice gentle. “Hey, love… you wanna go to bed or stay here?”
Your eyelids fluttered, but you didn’t fully wake. “Stay… with you…” you mumbled, the words barely audible.
The smile on his face turned into something that made the chat collectively melt. He grabbed a fluffy blanket from the armchair and draped it over you, tucking it under your chin with the care of someone handling the most precious thing in the world.
“There,” he said softly, crouching beside your body. “All cosy.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face, then leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I love you,” he whispered, not realizing—or maybe not caring—that thousands of people had just heard him say it.
And though the chaos of the stream carried on, every so often his eyes flicked back to the sofa, back to you, Just to check. Just to smile again.
Because, in that moment, winning the game mattered a lot less than making sure that you stayed warm and safe, right there behind him.
a little writing of Samba do Brasil with Lando before I drop a big one
You could still feel the humidity of São Paulo clinging to your skin as you stepped out of the car in front of the restaurant, exhaustion from media day humming beneath your ribs. Lando had practically begged you to come to Brazil with him this year, insisting that "it wouldn’t feel right" doing this one without you. After a year together, you knew how to read him—how he tried to hide that soft part of himself behind jokes and cocky grins. The truth was he just wanted you close.
The restaurant glowed warm and golden, all dark wood and laughter spilling between tables. A group of drivers and partners had gathered—Lewis, George and Carmen, Alex and Lily, Charles and Alexandra, even Oscar who claimed he "doesn’t do dinners longer than ninety minutes" yet somehow always stayed till midnight.
Lando slipped his hand to the small of your back as the two of you joined the table. You felt him relax when you sat beside him. Pressed close. Within reach.
You were all deep into the second course when the conversation drifted into hobbies. The plates were still warm, steam curling upward, the scents of garlic, grilled citrus, and fresh herbs mingling in the air. Soft golden lights reflected off polished wine glasses, casting small halos across the table as chatter overlapped in warm, easy waves.
“Come on, everyone’s got something,” Lily insisted, pointing her fork playfully at the group. “Alex paints, Carmen gardens, Alexandra sometimes knits, Charles plays piano—badly—”
“Hey!” Charles objected with theatrical pain, pressing a hand to his chest. Alexandra giggled and kissed his cheek in apology.
George jumped in without missing a beat. “And Oscar collects reasons to say no to things.”
Oscar didn’t even look up from slicing his steak. “Correct.”
The table rippled with laughter.
Carmen leaned toward you, eyes warm. “What about you? We don’t actually know what you do for fun besides putting up with Lando.”
You shrugged lightly, swirling your drink. “Nothing interesting. I used to dance, but that was years ago.”
Lando perked up beside you like someone hit a switch, turning fully toward you. “Ballroom,” he said proudly, nudging your shoulder. “She was actually crazy good.”
Your cheeks warmed. “I wasn’t crazy good. I just competed as a teen.”
Alexandra’s eyes widened. “Wait—ballroom ballroom? With coordinated routines and sparkly dresses and all that?”
You laughed. “Yes, with sparkly dresses. And too much hairspray.”
Lewis leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes bright. “And you never told us? Ballroom is beautiful. There's so much control and emotion in it. That’s sick.”
Lando groaned dramatically. “You say that until she tries to teach you. I suck at it. Fully. Painfully.”
“You do not suck,” you said automatically.
He gave you the most betrayed look. “You literally said I have the rhythm of wifi connection in a hotel basement.”
The table exploded with laughter. Even Charles had to wipe his eyes.
“Well,” you said, lifting your glass, “sometimes I do miss it. The music. The energy. The movement.”
“And sometimes,” Lando muttered into his drink, “I miss my dignity.”
Lily snorted. “You? Dignity? When?”
“Okay, first of all—rude,” Lando shot back, but his smile was soft. His thigh pressed lightly into yours beneath the table, fingertips brushing your knee as if he couldn’t help seeking contact.
Everyone was still chuckling, the teasing warm and affectionate, but you felt a subtle shift—Lando watching you more closely now, eyes thoughtful, maybe even a little proud.
And the laughter only grew louder as the night carried on, the energy bright and easy, unaware of the jealousy and heat brewing quietly beside you—the spark that would ignite everything later.
Somewhere between dessert and drinks, the restaurant began playing livelier music—Brazilian rhythms that filled the room with warmth and motion. The percussion rolled like a heartbeat, sharp and teasing, layered with bright strings that made the air itself seem to shimmer. A few couples drifted toward the open floor, hips swaying, bodies folding easily together as though gravity had changed just for them.
Lewis’ eyes sparkled as he glanced at you, the beat already tugging at his shoulders. “You want to?” he asked, voice warm, inviting but not presumptuous.
Before you could answer, Lando stiffened beside you.
Lewis extended a hand politely. “Just one dance.”
You looked at Lando—his face arranged into something that resembled casual indifference, but his jaw betrayed him, flexing tight with every passing second. His hand, once loose around his glass, had tightened to the point his knuckles blanched.
“It’s just dancing,” you murmured to him softly, brushing your knee against his under the table.
He nodded, gaze fixed straight ahead. “Yeah… yeah, go ahead.” The words were light. His voice was not.
Lewis, ever the gentleman, guided you to the dance floor just as a perfect samba track kicked in—fast, playful, sensual. The kind of song that didn’t ask you to move, it commanded you to.
Your feet reacted on instinct, your body flowing into familiar patterns you had thought were long lost. Heat bloomed in your chest as the rhythm slid beneath your skin, awakening muscle memory you hadn’t tapped into in years.
Lewis let out an impressed laugh. “Oh, you really weren’t kidding. You’ve got it.”
“If I step on your foot, blame the years off,” you joked.
“You won’t,” he said confidently. “You lead beautifully. You’ve got precision—look at that footwork.”
His praise wasn’t flirtatious, just appreciative, but it still sent warmth curling through you. The movements were intoxicating—the quick switches, the sharp hip motions, the spinning turns that sent your hair lifting in the warm air. Lewis matched your timing effortlessly, guiding you through a fast cross-body lead that sent you right back into the rhythm, laughter bubbling out of you.
“You’ve done this more recently than you admit,” he teased.
You grinned. “Just muscle memory.”
But even with the music pulsing around you, you didn’t miss it—
Lando watching.
His eyes were locked on you with an intensity that could have lit the entire restaurant. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his shoulders rigid, his hand fisting on his knee like he was physically holding himself back.
You could practically feel the jealousy radiating off him—hot, sharp, electric.
George leaned toward him, whispering something teasing. Whatever it was, Lando snapped, “I’m fine.” His voice cracked, betraying just how not fine he was.
The table burst into laughter.
Lily leaned over, loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. “You look like you’re about to start a fight with a national treasure.”
“He’s Lewis,” Lando hissed, eyes never leaving you. “Lewis! Of all people!”
Oscar smirked without glancing away from his drink. “Would you prefer it be Verstappen?”
“NO.” Lando nearly choked on it.
Carmen giggled. “Oh, sweetheart… you’re jealous.”
“I’m not— I’m just— it’s—” Lando gave up entirely.
But your favorite part—the part that tugged at your chest—was the way his expression softened whenever your eyes met. Even through jealousy, annoyance, and possessiveness, you could see it clearly: he adored you. Entirely and helplessly.
Lewis spun you out for the final measure of the song and pulled you back in smoothly, guiding you through the closing step with effortless grace. When the music slowed, he bowed with a dramatic flourish.
“You’re incredible,” he said warmly, breath slightly uneven.
You laughed breathlessly. “Thank you for the dance. That felt… amazing.”
Lewis squeezed your hand once before letting go. “You should do it more often.”
You returned to the table glowing, pulse still fluttering from the dance.
And Lando—
Lando was absolutely feral. His eyes dark, his posture stiff, his jealousy barely contained beneath the surface tension of a strained smile.
The driver opened the car door but Lando didn’t wait; he guided you inside with a hand on your waist, a little firmer than usual. His touch wasn’t rough—just charged, pulsing with an energy that hadn’t been there when you’d arrived at dinner. The moment the door shut behind you, the world outside faded. The interior of the car felt small, warm, dim, every breath between you steeped in the remnants of samba rhythms and the sharp tang of jealousy still clinging to him.
He slid in beside you, thigh pressed flush to yours, his arm draped across the back of the seat as he leaned in. The scent of his cologne—clean, citrus, familiar—wrapped around you.
He tried to sound casual.
He did not succeed.
“So,” he said, voice low and tight, “you had fun.”
You bit back a smile. “Are you upset?”
“No.”
You raised an eyebrow.
His head dropped back dramatically against the seat. “Okay, maybe a little.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning. “Ugh, I hate this.”
“Lando…”
He turned to you with wide, frustrated eyes, pupils blown just a bit wider than normal. “He had his hands all over you.”
“He was leading a dance,” you said softly, trying—and failing—not to smile at the raw honesty in his voice.
“Well I want to lead a dance.”
You brushed a hand along his jaw, feeling him lean into your touch like he couldn’t help it. “Baby… you don’t even like dancing.”
“I’d learn,” he muttered.
Your heart pulled tight. “Because you’re jealous?”
“No.” His voice dropped, quiet but firm, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again. “Because I want to be the one who gets to hold you like that.”
Warmth spread through your chest—and lower—curling through you like a slow burn.
“You already do,” you murmured.
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, the tension in his shoulders softening for a beat. Then he leaned closer—so close you felt the heat of his breath ghost against your cheek. The space between you thinned into nothing.
“I didn’t like watching someone else touch you,” he admitted, words spilling out like they’d been clenched behind his teeth all night. “Didn’t like watching you move like that with someone who wasn’t me. You looked…” His voice faltered, his gaze dropping to your body, then back to your eyes. “You looked incredible.”
You traced slow circles on his thigh, feeling the muscle jump beneath your fingertips, the fabric warm from his body heat. His breath hitched.
“Lando…” you whispered, teasing, “you’re being a little possessive.”
He inhaled sharply, chest rising. “Maybe I am.”
“Yeah?” You tilted your head, your lips inches from his. “What are you gonna do about it?”
His eyes darkened—not with anger but with something molten and hungry, jealousy mixing with desire until you could feel it radiating off him.
He leaned in until his lips almost brushed yours, his voice a low, rough whisper. “Get us back to the hotel. And then show you exactly how much I missed having you to myself tonight.”
Your breath faltered, your pulse stumbling.
“Is that so?”
He gave a crooked, hungry smile, the kind that made your stomach flip. “Oh, you have no idea.”
The rest of the drive passed in a charged silence—your fingers tangled with his, his thumb brushing your palm like he was claiming pieces of you one by one. Every bump in the road nudged your bodies closer; every streetlight cast shadows across his face that made his expression look even more intense, more focused on you.
When the hotel lights finally came into view, Lando exhaled—a low, rough sound that seemed pulled from somewhere deep.
in which you’re on vacation with your ex boyfriend, the only man who’s been able to make you cum in recent times.
warnings; smut, unprotected sex, eavesdropping, cocky lando, ex lovers, conversations of masturbation and inability to orgasm, hair pulling, oral both receiving, overstimulation, praise, slight degradation, choking ect.
it was a throw away question. one lando probably shouldn’t have brushed off.
“you’re sure you’re fine with her coming?” max had asked so casually despite it being on this tip of his tongue for the last hour, eyes not lifting from his phone to see the way lando looked at him with raised eyebrows.
the driver said your name in confusion, even chuckled. “of course. why wouldn’t i be?” lando followed; a rhetorical question. he knew why max was asking such thing.
he watched as max shrugged, hummed mindlessly as if he didn’t have a response prepared.
“wouldn’t catch me wanting to share a roof with my ex,” max mused; putting his phone down and finally meeting lando’s eyes, glare more so, quick to put his hands up in defence. “just saying. something to think about,” max quickly added.
he had his best friends best interest at heart.
“so what? we tell her she can’t come?” lando scoffed, shaking his head as he leant back into the seat he was occupying. “we’re friends. hasn’t been an issue before.” lando dismissed.
and he wasn’t lying. you’d broken up almost a year ago, which was concerning at first considering you shared the same friend group. were friends before lovers.
but it worked, you’d remained friends. saw each other every now and then, in a group setting. you weren’t as close, obviously, but it wasn’t awkward.
“no i know,” max huffed; even rolling his eyes. “maybe two villa’s is something to think about, that’s all.” max shrugged once more. he wasn’t just thinking of lando, but you as well, his other dear friend.
the brit shook his head, not giving in to the worry max seemed to hold. “not necessary. no different than being at the same hotel.” lando concluded.
he’d seen you on nights out, had conversations with you on boats; you still got an invite and paddock pass to his home race.
there was nothing to worry about. if you two weren’t capable of being friends, such thing would’ve been exposed.
that’s what lando thought anyways.
standing on the deck of a ten bedroom villa in the south of france however, he realised maybe he should’ve considered max’s words more carefully.
small doses of you seemed to differ from your constant presence.
the break up was civil, lando was grateful for such thing. it’d been him who ended things, purely because he felt as if he couldn’t give you the time you deserve. it was a cop out, he feared, realising things were almost too good between the pair of you.
he wasn’t sure he could commit to putting you through a relationship where you wouldn’t get the time and treatment you deserved.
you took it well, an angel in fact; you wanted to hate him for it. but you couldn’t bring yourself too. selfless enough to put the peace of your mutual friends and him first. plus, losing him entirely left a bitter taste in your mouth.
you’d mourned the relationship, cried in private and cursed him to your best friend; and moved on. well, appeared to have.
it went unspoken, amongst the group; in front of you two at least, and between you two as well. not exactly something you were ready to laugh at yet. it just seemed to go… unaddressed.
until it was night two, dinner at a fancy restaurant with maybe a few too many bottles of wine meant piling into ubers to get back to the villa.
it sort of just happened, lando shuffling into the car behind you; leaving you in the middle of him and max; pietra on max’s lap and tom in the front.
your senses were consumed of him immediately, not able to avoid him considering you were practically pressed into his side in an attempt to give pietra enough room.
you glanced up at him once, smiling sheepishly to see his eyes already on you.
“you still wear it,” lando hummed casually, pinky finger reaching to brush over the bracelet he’d bought you a few months into your relationship, grazing your wrist as he did so.
your cheeks went a shade of pink at the observation, and if it weren’t for the fact you were wine drunk you probably would’ve made up an excuse as to why the piece of metal still found it’s way onto your wrist everyday.
“it’s my favourite,” you replied; glancing down at the piece as your hand moved to fiddle with it, small smile playing on your lips.
you missed the grin spread on lando’s face, a sense of pride fulfilling him as he recounted the stress it had caused him just picking out the damn bracelet. he was relieved to see you still wearing it, for some reason.
“i’ve got good taste.” lando bragged, eyes practically begging for yours to meet his again; smiling in amusement when they did as you nudged him.
you were suddenly even more aware of the closeness, the way your knees were touching, how his arm had stretched to rest over the headrest behind you. it was forced proximity sure, but an odd sense of familiarity that you hadn’t felt in a while was accompanying it.
“most of the time,” you mused, earning a nudge back ━ which had a giggle escaping you, one you attempted to hush; not wanting to draw attention to you and lando’s conversation.
if it did, the others in the car would’ve seen the way lando’s face lit up at the sound. he hadn’t made you laugh like that in months, he’d forgotten how good it felt to do so.
he’d almost forgotten how easy you were to be around. how easy it was to fall for you in the first place.
it was as if the universe was punishing him for such thing, because suddenly you were all he could think about once more.
that night, he was simply relaxing in his room; when you came waltzing in.
“p,” your voice hummed as you knocked; pushing the door open before lando could muster a response from inside. “do you have my top━ oh shit, sorry!” you’d cut yourself short when you found yourself standing in lando’s room. not pietra and max’s.
who was luckily just lounging on the bed in his joggers, not far from switching the lamp off and going to sleep.
but he had been shocked to see you enter his room in just a towel.
“you’re fine,” lando chuckled; having sit up. “we swapped rooms this morning… figured they should have a private bathroom,” lando explained; watching as your face softened in some sort of relief.
you hadn’t been crazy. regardless, still embarrassed; the redness on your cheeks clear as you nodded, cringing ever so slightly.
“right; my bad, sorry,” you repeated; not even wanting to imagine what else you could’ve walked in on.
lando simply chuckled, shaking his head as his eyes glanced over your figure just once; unable to help himself. having to swallow to not let himself think back to what he knows is underneath the towel keeping you modest.
“i’m gonna go,” you declared; sheepishly smiling as you turned on your heel; cringing once more now that you were out of sight, not hiding the urgency as you practically fled his room and slammed the door behind you.
lando hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until you left, body relaxing as he flopped back onto the mattress; a curse leaving his lips.
the next morning, you were there again. obviously. yet he couldn’t see you, nor could you see him. so technically he was eavesdropping; but it hadn’t been on purpose.
lando was out on his balcony first, which was above yours it appeared; mindlessly scrolling through his phone before arabella’s voice became audible, who you were rooming with this trip.
“since when did nicolas get ripped,” she’d posed to you, peering at the man who was dipping in the pool; your eyes following her gaze from where you both sat in deck chairs; smoothies in hand.
“he’s always been cute,” you pointed out; shrugging ever so slightly as you adjusted the sunglasses atop your head, rolling your eyes the moment you caught glance of arabella’s grin.
“and he’s always been into you.” arabella chimed, and you should’ve expected her to steer the conversation in such direction.
lando whoever, who hadn’t scrolled past the tik tok which was playing for the fourth time now, had not expected such words.
his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. you and nicolas? yeah right. you two were close friends, he knew that much. but nothing more. surely not.
“we’re friends bella,” you dismissed; shaking your head. slightly flirty friends as of recent, you’d admit. but just friends.
“so? doesn’t have to stay that way,” arabella had grinned ━ and lando felt betrayed; as if it should be him the pair of you were talking about. not nicolas.
“yes it does.” you laughed. “i’m not dating within the friend group ever again,” you spoke in such certainty it had lando confused, he didn’t think it faired that bad the first time.
but he also wasn’t opposed to your declaration. not that he was close to nicolas, in fact he probably knew him the least. but he was a brother of a childhood friend, who’d tagged along the last few trips. and lando had no complaints of the guy.
“don’t be silly,” arabella huffed. “i’m not saying fall in love with him. just that he could end the sex drought you’re stuck in.” arabella hummed, your eyes widening as you hit her softly.
“what? no one can hear us!” arabella spoke dramatically, and you rolled your eyes; no argument because you figured she was right.
however she wasn’t, because lando was still listening. and his interest had suddenly spiked.
“i am not… stuck in a sex drought,” you huffed; not sounding one bit convincing as you glanced at the pool. “men just suck. i’ve given up on having an orgasm.” your words were dramatic, and playful, but still a bit of truth to them.
suddenly lando felt guilty for overhearing, or purposefully listening, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued.
your words made no sense to him; considering nights with you would always lead to multiple orgasms for both of you.
and it wasn’t as if you were short on options.
“gotta do everything yourself these days,” arabella sighed out dramtically in agreement; but she had a boyfriend, and your friendship with the girl wasn’t one for many secrets; you knew she was only ‘relating’ out of sympathy.
truth was; since lando, nothing or no one could compare. not even your own damn fingers.
“can’t even get myself off.” you huffed out almost ashamed, and you only whined when you met arabella’s shocked eyes and slack jaw.
lando suddenly felt intrusive, and flustered from the idea of you touching yourself; one he’d grown familiar with due to long distance. suddenly he was standing and ready to walk himself inside in his room.
“is your body like… broken?” arabella sounded bewildered, and you could only huff.
you’d blame it on stress, or any of your medication if it was possible; you’ve heard stories, knew there could be many reasons as to why your sex drive and urges have suddenly changed. none aligned with your circumstances however.
“just deprived i think,” you sighed.
lando needed to get his mind off your sexual need’s immediately, deciding to go on a run with max to occupy himself. to get you off his mind.
and it worked, until he got back to the villa. hot and out of breath, he found himself in the kitchen ━ pouring a glass of water with ice, eyes wandering out the fold out doors that exposed the luxurious back yard. decking, sun lounges, a pool; and his closest friends.
and his ex girlfriend. in a little bikini. with another man’s hands on her.
he couldn’t help but scoff at the sight, you resting on your stomach as nicolas rubbed sunscreen into your back ━ watching as you grinned and spoke up to him momentarily. you were flirting, he knew that look.
his takeaways from his… eavesdropping, was that you didn’t plan to pursue nicolas. so what the fuck was this?
he wanted to laugh, you were going to seek answers to your problems in nicolas? he almost felt offended; if you needed good sex so badly he felt as if he was the obvious candidate.
“careful mate, you’re staring,” max’s words snapped lando out of his thoughts; causing him to glare at the man quickly, bringing his glass to his lips, unaware that his grip was so tight his knuckles were white.
max’s amusement only escalated, eyebrows raising as he chuckled quietly.
“i wasn’t.” lando murmured, leaning back against the counter. “just didn’t know that was a thing,” he tried to shrug off; eyes returning to where you now sat up, rubbing sunscreen into nicolas’s back now.
had he been oblivious to the pair of you?
“i don’t think it is.” max shrugged, following lando’s gaze momentarily, not overanalysing the sight. everyone was friends here.
lando looked to max in doubt, to check if he was being serious.
“does it matter if it is?” max questioned, sassily too, almost a challenge; and lando was quick to scoff ━ mustering up the best chuckle he could to appear as unbothered as he wanted to be.
“no,” the mclaren driver answered almost too quickly, clearing his throat slightly. “i hope it is. would be a good match,” he overcompensated; left to only flip max off as he chuckled and hummed unconvincingly.
“whatever you say,” max mused.
lando wished he was being honest, but as time passed by it became quite clear he was lying.
dinner that night you were sat at opposite ends of the long table, like usual; regardless, lando’s eyes were trained on you for the majority of the night.
you and nicolas of course. who’d snagged the seat next to you.
forced to watch as you shared food, laughed and chattered away in your own little world.
lando felt sick from the sight; that used to be him. should be him. and while he could only blame himself for it not being him, it was a cruel reminder of what he’d lost.
he felt utterly helpless however, because there was nothing he could do.
he couldn’t even express his dismay to anyone as he watched nicolas help you in the car. left to watch as you both giggled and stumbled up to the villa ahead of the group.
he wanted to intervene, to make his presence known to hopefully at least make it awkward. but he couldn’t bring himself too.
not when you’d been such an angel in the breakup, made things so easy for him from the start of the relationship to now. it just wouldn’t be fair to ruin this for you.
even though it was all he wanted to do.
he noted how you two were first off to go ‘sleep’ that night, halfway through the movie that had been put on. and he suddenly wished he’d downed a few more glasses of red at the restaurant, maybe then he wouldn’t have the capacity to brainstorm up everything and anything you and nicolas could be doing tonight.
he wasn’t going to say it was what kept him up, tossing and turning and unable to fall asleep; but it definitely played on his mind.
it was starting to make sense to him at least; he hadn’t been around you without distractions since the breakup. it suddenly became clear how helpful those distractions are.
3:42 the clock read.
lando hadn’t gotten a second of shut eye, and after two hours of laying there; he conceded. deciding to get a glass of water as if that would be the solution to all his problems.
instead he was just met with the problem itself; you.
surprise, surprise. nicolas was not the answer to your prayers.
you were already keen to tell arabella ‘i told you so’ when you returned to your room. having spent the night in nicolas’.
he was a nice guy, until the clothes came off.
it was nothing new, you on top; he came. you didn’t. he then tried to get you to finish with his fingers, and you faked an orgasm when it became clear he wasn’t finding your clit any time soon.
your frustrations had now multiplied, it felt pathetic. you were ready to give up.
you snuck out the moment he fell asleep, in the kitchen to get a glass of water and for a few moments to yourself.
“shouldn’t be surprised you’re up,” lando made his presence known, having debated running back to his room when he noticed you occupying the kitchen.
typical.
“needed a drink,” you hummed sheepishly; and for some reason when your eyes met his you felt intimidated; as if you needed refuge, turning back around to the fridge to fill your cup up with ice.
maybe it was because you were already sexually frustrated. or the fact you were stood with your ex boyfriend after sneaking out of another guys room.
“same,” lando hummed; moving behind you to grab a glass for himself, and you could feel him waiting behind you as you poured water into the glass.
“nice night?” lando asked when you moved aside so he too could fill his glass, not looking at you for the time being so you wouldn’t decipher the motives in the question. he didn’t need you to know how concerned he was with your night.
you nodded quickly, humming as you still had a mouth full of water, leaning against the counter now.
“yeah, yeah,” you spoke; pursing your lips. it had been. until it wasn’t. “restaurant was lovely,” you smiled; shifting on your feet slightly as you took in his appearance, even in the dull lightly.
his messy curls that look slept on, slightly tired eyes. he looked cozy.
lando nodded, so much on the tip of his tongue. maybe if it was a different hour of the day he’d have the common sense to not speak his mind, but he was slightly sleep deprived and going insane from his own thoughts.
“you know my balcony is above yours,” lando told you; randomly, your eyebrows furrowing ━ coughing out a slight laugh. you weren’t sure where this conversation was going to lead, your guess was awkward silence. not him blurting out something… irrelevant.
it took a few moments for it to dawn on you, the slight curve of lando’s lips into a smirk causing your eyes to widen in realisation.
you’d only been out on the balcony once today.
“oh my god,” you mumbled; cringing as he chuckled, shaking his head ever so slightly. “shut up!” you whisper yelled, leaning forward to whack his arm, which only had him laughing once more as his hands flew up in defence.
“i wasn’t eavesdropping! i swear,” lando mused, shaking his head as your eyebrows raised.
“great, so you just happened to hear all about my sad sex life,” you huffed, and lando couldn’t help the small smile that was refusing to leave his lips; always having adored the sight of you flustered and sheepish.
it didn’t help, the sight of you wearing what seemed to be just an oversized shirt. reminiscent of how his shirts would drape over your body.
“yeah,” lando confirmed sympathetically, causing you to whack him again; no force in your actions as you groaned audibly.
you couldn’t think of anyone you’d rather not hear that conversation; ever so grateful you hadn’t been completely honest with arabella.
you would die of humiliation if you’d told her how you compared every man to lando, how you found no one was able to make you feel anywhere near as good.
but regardless, there was a level of comfort. you trusted the man in front of you.
“nicolas though hm?” lando spoke light heartedly, reminding you of the man you’d just been in bed with.
was it bad he’d slipped your mind completely? having forgotten that he was who sparked such conversation this morning.
“did he make you cum?” his follow up question had you dumbfounded, having not expected such blunt words as your lips parted. “can i ask that?” lando added with a reassuring laugh. but you knew that look in his eyes.
they were darker than usual, he was staring at you intently; practically begging you to step closer.
“no,” you cleared your throat, opting for honesty. “he didn’t.” you huffed, eyes avoiding his for a moment as if you were ashamed. as if it was your fault.
the relief lando felt was pathetic, not that he wished a bad time upon you. or anyone for that matter. but god it felt like the door had been swung right open for him.
he was right; of course nicolas wasn’t going to do it for you.
“i know you can make yourself cum.” lando chimed, pushing himself off the counter and taking a couple steps towards you; ridding any distance as he stood in front of you. “used to be able to at least, seen it myself,” he told you as if you could forget.
you swallowed intently, the tension now almost suffocating. sleeping with an ex was something you swore against; recipe for disaster. but it seemed awfully appealing when it looked like lando did right now.
your cheeks were pink, thinking about the countless times you’d gotten yourself off on facetime calls with the driver, purely because neither of you could wait any longer to see one another again.
“not the same anymore.” your voice was barely above a whisper, it didn’t need to be; not when he was only centimetres away, looking down at you as if he was ready to ravish you.
lando’s eyebrow raised at that, eyes flickering across your face.
it wasn’t the same, you’d worked out the hard way. you only relied on your own devices when you had no other choice; and with that would be lando on the of phone with words of encouragement and direction.
“what, need me to talk you through it again?” his words were teasing as his hand moved to cup your cheek; your stomach turning at the thought. at the fact he seemed like he knew that would do it for you.
you let out a slight breath, shaking your head but you held little confidence in doing so.
“need me to touch you?” he added on, offer sounding almost like a request; words so hushed you could’ve missed them. but you didn’t, you heard him loud and clear.
his eyes were pouring into yours as if he pitied you, but the smirk on his face showed he wanted nothing more than to be the one to solve your problems.
you didn’t even need to think about it, no ifs or buts entering your mind; nothing could make the idea of him seem unappealing.
“please,” you mumbled; eyes pouring up into his, watching as a wicked grin spread on his features; one that made your knees weak.
it was all lando needed to hear, lips pressing against yours in an instant; it coming back to the pair of you quickly. feeling so natural, the way your body melted into his touch; the way your lips moved against each other.
your hands finding a grip on his shirt as his spread across your hips.
lando didn’t waste any time; he wanted to make you cum.
he wasn’t sure if it was because it seemed like a challenge, or because he missed you; but god did he want nothing more than to make you feel good:
his knee pushed between your thighs first, your legs spreading; immediately aware of the finger he was tracing up your inner thigh.
as much as lando missed the feeling of your lips against his, he loved watching you react to every touch and feeling. pulling away but not creating much distance as his fingers brushed over your clothed folds.
you took a sharp breath, shifting your weight to lean against the counter as the anticipation built within, eyes locked on his as he teasingly brushed your clothed clit as well.
he could feel your soaked panties, a wet patch that you knew wasn’t there when you first entered the kitchen.
“you know it doesn’t make sense,” lando started speaking through a breath; his fingers pushing your panties aside with ease, swiping through your folds; spreading your wetness to your clit. “because you’re always so easy for me baby,” he practically cooed as he slipped two fingers inside you.
your jaw fell slack, hips pushing against his hand lightly as you whimpered; cheeks hinting at his taunting words which you’d almost forgotten about and how crazy they drove you.
his free hand returned to your cheek, cupping the side of your face and adjusting your head to ensure you were looking up at him; his head tilting ever so slightly as he gazed down at you.
“so responsive,” he added in a hum; looking incredibly smug, thumb settling on your clit ━ and the moan that escaped you as he circled your sensitive bud had lando’s jaw clenching. he’d missed your pretty sounds.
he was toying with you, teasing. his fingers moving slowly, thumb only lightly circling your clit. yet you hadn’t felt this good in fucking forever, face contorting in pleasure proving such thing.
lando could get lost in the sight, not able to help himself from wanting to give you more.
his fingers gradually picked up the pace, thumb applying more pressure now; but it was when he curled his fingers, grazing that spot he never failed to miss, that you hadn’t been able to find, that a slightly louder moan escaped you.
“ah, ah,” lando hushed you; tapping your cheek lightly. “gotta be quiet baby,” lando hummed through heavy breaths, hating that he had to ask such thing of you.
he wanted to hear you lose control, hear you scream his name like you had countless of times. but he’d hate to be interrupted and have the current sight cut short.
you whined quietly at the request, biting down on your bottom lip as you tried to keep any noise at bay; knowing you had no choice. waking anyone up would be less than ideal.
but somehow, the thought of being caught was the least of your concerns.
your back arched when he added a third, thumb still expertly playing with your clit; your quiet whimpers and moans were growing in volume once more.
lando took matters into his own hands, the hand cupping your cheek shifting so he could tap his pointer finger on your bottom lip; and he had to shut himself up this time as you invited two digits past your lips without second thought.
“fuck,” he mumbled out; eyes fixated on the way you looked up at him with his fingers in your mouth; so similar to the sight of when you’d suck him off. his hard on was almost painful.
your moans were muffled now, thankfully, as your hips pushed forward once more; slowly losing control over your body as the pleasure continued to build.
you’d made a mess on your thighs, his fingers working in and out of you perfectly; beginning to curl his fingers repeatedly had your eyes rolling back.
“yeah, right there baby?” lando mumbled; despite you unable to respond. “gonna make a mess on my fingers yeah? think you deserve to cum,” he smirked ━ and if you could’ve you would’ve cried out, nodding quickly at his words.
your stomach tightened, it was sudden; more sudden than you remembered, lando having caught on to the fact you were cumming before you did; squeezing his fingers as you came undone.
his body was practically holding you up against the counter, vision going white for a moment as your muffled moans filled the air, hips bucking involuntarily once more.
lando wanted to curse himself for ever depriving himself of such thing, watching as you shook in front of him; fingers moving to let you ride out your high, until he was pulling them from your panties, and mouth respectively.
your eyes fluttered open, nothing but awe as you gazed up at him through hooded eyes; panting ever so lightly.
he was smiling cockily, if he didn’t know the root of your issue before, he did now. the way you needed him.
you couldn’t even crush his inflating ego, not when he’d made you cum so hard in a matter of minutes; giving you what you’d been chasing the past few months.
he was about to kiss you again, after moments of admiring your face; but the sound of a door shutting had the moment ruined, reminding both you and him of where you are and what you’re meant to be.
definitely not meant to be caught having a moment at 4 in the morning.
lando was quick in taking a few large strides across the kitchen, positioning himself on the other side of the island as you quickly tugged your shirt down and ran your hand through your hair.
when pietra walked in, it was an innocent sight. plenty of distance between the pair of you, not enough lights on to expose your flushed cheeks or lando’s glistening fingers.
you pretended to be surprised as you brought your glass to your lips, leaning against the counter because your legs were still shaky, lando nodding towards the blonde.
“can’t sleep?” lando hummed in question.
“need to fill my water up.” pietra nodded with a smile, eyes flickering between you in suspicion for a brief moment as she realised this was almost an awkward thing to walk in on. you and him.
if only she knew.
you nodded in agreement, raising your glass of water as lando let out a small chuckle.
“if you need a late night snack, the donuts are great,” lando spoke again; your eyes falling onto him, and you were sure your face was bright red as you watched him bring his fingers to his lips; licking them clean.
you coughed on air, playing it off as if your water went down the wrong way; pietra oblivious as she nodded with a smile.
“i’ll keep that in mind.”
the smirk he’d sent you was sickening, and with that he was saying good night and excusing himself.
lando ended up needing a cold shower that night, with his own hand and images of you burned into his mind.
you were hoping your head would be clear when you woke up, but it was only more scrambled.
you’d gotten what you wanted, was it greedy to only want more?
“good night?” arabella had questioned you, sitting next to you on the long dining table; bowls of cereal in front of pair of you; and the smirk on her face was quite telling.
except she didn’t know the half of it.
“yeah, yeah it was good,” you hummed; eyes shifting to the other end of the table; where lando sat, already staring at you. the mischievous glint in his eye had you looking away quickly, the sly smirk not helping you in trying to play it cool to arabella.
you knew he was listening.
“did your… problem get solved?” arabella attempted to ask without outing you, so oblivious to the fact lando could easily piece together her words.
your eyes narrowed towards her, as if to say ‘shut up.’ which she only looked back at you with wide eyes, finding herself quite discrete.
“well?” arabella pushed, whisper yelling.
“yes,” you huffed; in hopes she would shut up, you could feel lando’s eyes burning into you. the man who solved your problem, unbeknownst to arabella who thought it was nicolas who was responsible.
“ah! how exciting,” arabella grinned; standing up and taking her bowel to the kitchen, only then did you let your eyes fall back on the british driver.
who looked oh so amused, you had to flee; following in the girls steps.
it set the tone for the next few days; longing looks, tempting smirks and lingering touches.
you couldn’t bring yourself to go out of your way and seek more of him; despite how much you wanted it. nicolas had been forgotten about, failing to explain your sudden interest and now lack of in the guy.
lando was all you could think about. how couldn’t you? he’d fingered you in the kitchen, bringing you to a mind blowing orgasm you’d been craving; one you hadn’t experienced since him. and once again, it had gone unaddressed.
the tension was clear; you got peace from the fact he was in the same boat as you.
you hated that he’d walked off so smug that night and you yourself had nothing to brag about, left to accept the fact that you needed him. had missed him.
and he knew it.
so maybe you were tactical, every day the dresses got shorter. bikini’s got smaller. you wanted to see him squirm.
which was easy.
it was ridiculous, how often you felt his gaze burning into you; feeling the heat on your skin from such thing. you’d blame the hot summer sun for the the constant blush on your cheeks but in reality it was him.
made to feel better by the way his jaw was constantly clenched. hands fiddling with one another. leg bouncing impatiently because he was furious with the fact you were no longer his, he couldn’t whisk you away and tear your clothes off like he wanted too.
left to simply stare. dwell on the facts. wish that he somehow gets a moment alone with you again.
there were sliding doors.
two minutes alone underneath the cabin on a boat, both trying to find something to drink. he swore you were about to kiss him before max came bouncing down the stairs.
you’d all gone out one night, somehow it was only you two left at the bar. lando was convinced this was it, he was going to drag you off to the bathroom.
but then arabella appeared, demanding shots.
you’d never admit that you went out to the kitchen most nights, hoping he too would be awake at such ridiculous hour again.
you tried not to get frustrated, even with the knowledge there was only a couple days till you’d be flying back home to reality.
finally however, you got lucky.
lando had gone on a run; unbeknownst to you, who had slept in.
you rejected plans of going to a winery, choosing for a day by the pool to save energy to go out tonight like planned.
your group of friends had attempted to protest your decision, but you insisted. bribed them with a promise you would do some baking while they were out.
that’s where lando found you.
stood in the kitchen. of course.
tiny bikini. typical.
and no one else in sight. lovely.
“smells fucking amazing.” lando hummed; slightly breathless as he sauntered into the kitchen, moving to stand against the island ━ a safe distance between the pair of you.
the voice had startled you, jumping slightly as you turned around.
you smiled appreciatively at his words, attempting to not stare at his exposed torso. tanned skin, beads of sweat decorating it. his muscles only more prominent as he crossed his arms, flexing invitingly.
“would feel bad letting such a big kitchen go to waste,” you explained; shrugging ever so slightly as your eyes returned to the chocolate chip cookies you were currently making. refuge from the sight of him.
he chuckled, and nodded; not that you saw. but his eyes didn’t leave you.
he should go up to his room.
“who’s home?” he couldn’t help but ask, feet planted. he wasn’t going anywhere.
the question had you facing what you were trying to ignore; the fact it was just the pair of you. it was dangerous knowledge.
“just us,” you spoke through a breath. if the tension wasn’t clear before, those two words had it falling upon the pair of you like bricks.
lando nodded once more, lips pursing. you were so tempting. this was what he’d been hoping for. he was impressed he even had the mental strength to consider running off. hiding in his room till your friends returned.
that idea didn’t last long though. moving towards you, you heard him approaching; his presence was demanding.
he was behind you, causing you to freeze. breath stuck in your throat.
“you’re driving me crazy.” he’d whispered, despite no fear of anyone overhearing; and you had to shut your eyes for a brief moment when his lips grazed your ear, ensuring you knew just how in reach he was.
you found some solace in his words, confirming your suspicions. reassuring to know you weren’t the only one going crazy. the only one feeling nostalgic.
“how so?” you played dumb, bottom lip rolling through your teeth ━ regardless your head tilted aside as his lips grazed your skin again, his breath fanning your skin.
you heard him grunt, and it would’ve made you giggle if you weren’t fighting off the urge to jump his bones.
“don’t act like it’s not on purpose.” lando huffed, hands moving to play with the fiddling strings of your bikini, fingertips only just brushing your skin.
you had to draw in another breath, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. you needed some sort of power, just a physical reminder that he too was struggling despite his admission.
so you turned on your feet, eyes flickering up to his as you shrugged your shoulders; breaths slightly irregular from the closeness. right in front of you. trapping you against the counter.
“know you haven’t forgotten that all you need to do is use your words if you want me to fuck you,” lando spoke before you could, oozing cockiness despite his wandering eyes and tense jaw; his patience wearing thin.
once more you were cornered in the kitchen by his attractive frame and blunt words that had your thighs squeezing together.
“goes both ways,” you chimed; worried if you didn’t speak now you wouldn’t get a word in. you knew how this went; it was only a matter of time till you were a mess in his hands.
his eyebrows raised, he even scoffed; if he wasn’t so eager for you to go on he would’ve reminded you it didn’t.
lando always had a kink for making you beg.
“i already got what i wanted,” you hummed; hands moving to rest on his toned abdomen, running down and across the muscles before finding the waistband of his joggers. “something you want?”
your teasing tone had lando remembering just how worked up you got him, how frustrating and almost annoying you were. how annoying it was to deal with your antics that was.
“the other night was more than enough for me baby,” lando mused; not cracking, even with your hands on his body. “always look so pretty when you cum.”
you wish his words didn’t have such a visible effect on you. how flustered you got clear by the way the blood rushed to your cheeks, even while you stood here playing with the waistband of his pants.
it was pathetic; neither of you wanting to crack first, wasting precious time because you both really thought you were above this.
able to be friends. exes who wouldn’t go back to each other.
you knew he wasn’t entirely lying; of course you could remember how you were gifted a man who got off from getting you off. how he’d spent nights with his head just buried between your thighs. making you cum countless of times before he got his dick wet.
“cold shower treat you well?” you huffed; not letting him get away with such thing. as if he wasn’t standing here with the need to fuck you.
he smirked at your words, your attitude more so; the playful banter having been something he’d missed. something that wasn’t the same since things became platonic.
“did the job.” he laughed, hands still ghosting over your hips. “jealous i can still get myself off?” he couldn’t help but chuckle; and your jaw dropped at him using confidential information against you.
your hands still on his stomach, whacking lightly which he only chuckled harder at; and if you weren’t embarrassed you’d be taking in the way the smile was lighting up his face.
“that was not something you’re meant to use against me,” you practically grumbled; eyes narrowing up at him and he practically awed at the sight, adoring eyes and all as his hand moved to cup your cheek. his grin not matching the sympathetic eyes.
“i’m sorry,” he mumbled jokingly as he leant forward; not giving you time to reply as he put the both of you out of your misery, lips connecting with yours.
it wasn’t what you’d both expected, the kiss to finally ease the tension that had been building ever since a few nights ago in the same spot; the kiss was slow. passionate and deep, but not rushed.
it didn’t last long; but was nice in the moment however. to feel him.
the urge to feel more however was soon too prominent.
your hands that had linked behind his neck soon tangled in his hair. the grip he had on your waist soon moved to your ass, squeezing the flesh within his hold which had you leaning into him.
he lazily dragged you back with him, his back hitting the kitchen island as he practically held you against his body; lips moving in sync.
you felt his hard on with the movement, contained by his joggers; your own excitement jumping as your hands left his hair to snake down between your bodies; palming him.
the groan against your lips only motivated you; and while you wish you could do what he does, stand here and tease him; you were too keen to get your hands on him. to hear more of those pretty sounds he makes.
so you simply smiled up at him as you pulled away; bending down and settling on your knees; hands tugging his pants and underwear down with you; revealing his cock.
his breaths were a lot heavier as he watched you, leaning back against the counter ever so slightly, gaze fixed downwards as a small smirk tugged on the corner of his mouth.
he hissed as your small hand wrapped around him; thumb swirling the precum ━ you loving every bit of knowing how turned you got him from just a few words and the sight of you.
he wouldn’t ever deny it either; no one did it for him like you did.
“look so pretty on your knees,” lando praised; eager to gain back some control, despite knowing he’d do anything you asked of him right now; your hand feeling much than his did the other night.
you were eager to continue to please, so you didn’t waste any time in taking him in your mouth. it was as if he knew such thing, by the way his eyes were peering down at you.
his head fell back at the sensation, one he’d missed ━ arms flexing as he gripped the counter; a few curses strung together tumbling from his lips as you practically took him in whole first go.
his tip hitting the back of your throat did little to deter you. it was natural, as if you’d done such thing only a few days ago; not months ━ second nature as your tongue swirled his cock.
your eyes remained up, looking through your lashes as your head bobbed ━ knees uncomfortably shifting against the tiles but it was the last thing on your mind with the beautiful man above you.
taking in the way his abs flexed, neck strained and lips parted as you sucked him off ━ gagging occasionally but both of you knew that was no issue.
“missed this fucking mouth,” lando grunted, hand moving to tangle in your hair; both to keep it out of your way and to just have some sort of hold on you.
he was blindsided with pleasure, more than he remembered he’d be. your bikini did little to leave much to the imagination from his angle, watching as your breasts bounced with every movement. matched with your doe eyes, his jaw was slack.
you hummed as he tugged your hair lightly, the sensation one you always welcomed; and he too was reminded of such as he felt the vibrations around him. tugging again with a little more force.
his groans were gradually becoming more regular, hips bucking once or twice ━ pushing his cock further down your throat each time.
“just like that baby, always so good for me,” lando breathed, eyes screwing such momentarily as his head fell back once more.
you almost whined at the vision, wanting to scramble to your feet and kiss at his skin, feel all over him.
and he’d be happy to let you, he was hesitant in having you get him off first regardless; you hadn’t left much room for argument with good reason.
but right now he had no complaints, moans growing slightly louder in volume ━ grip tightening on the strands of your hair. he didn’t give you any warning as he came, but you didn’t need any.
the way he twitched in your mouth, you didn’t miss a beat ━ swallowing all you could; revelling in the way your name left his lips.
your mouth left him with a pop, gazing up at him to meet his adoring eyes, staring down at you as if you were the greatest thing to grace the earth.
because he did think of you as such. you continued to amaze him, he didn’t grow immune to such thing; just had managed to avoid the fact for a while now.
you stood to your feet, relieving your knees of the discomfort; a coy smile plastered on your lips at him panting and flustered.
you felt even, for the other night; reassured you weren’t the only one in need.
lando couldn’t complain either, couldn’t throw a playful comment towards you ━ not when you stood there with messy hair and swollen lips. all he could think about was turning you into a whiny mess, desperate to have you at his mercy again.
it was clear neither of you knew what to say in the few moments of silence; shamelessly admiring the other, catching your breaths. it wasn’t awkward however.
you were happy to feel his lips on yours once more ━ his hands not shy in wandering your body this time, sliding down to your thighs and hoisting you up immediately.
he was swift in turning around and placing you on the counter, stood between your legs as he hummed against your lips.
it wasn’t until his mouth ducked to your neck, then your collar bones, becoming harder to ignore as your head fell back, growing hot from the kisses he placed where-ever he could, that you spoke up.
“should go to your room,” you managed to get out, watching him through hooded eyes as he simply grabbed the material of your bikini to let your breasts fall free, kissing at the skin of them afterwards.
it wasn’t that you were worried on being walked in on, you had the house to yourselves for at least a couple more hours. you knew that. more so just the knowledge this wasn’t your house.
his eyebrows raised as he looked back up at you, hand sprawling over your stomach as he pushed you back slightly; your body blindly following the suggestion as you leant back on your hands.
“i paid for this villa baby, if i wanna fuck you on the counter i will,” lando murmured, hands spreading your thighs further apart; putting you in no position to argue you.
how could you? his words sounded like a promise, one you could only hope he would keep.
you nodded pathetically, suddenly aware of his hands resting high up on your inner thighs; suddenly aware of your own arousal and need for him.
he discarded of your bikini bottoms with ease, admiring your frame for a few moments as his hand reached to squeeze your breast, nipple rolling through his fingers moments later.
“lando,” you breathed; almost in warning, almost a whine. your legs were still spread and you were already resisting the urge to squirm. your patience non existent.
he only grinned, a slight chuckle maybe as his hands pushed your legs further apart once more.
“i got you baby,” lando hummed. “always so needy for me, you need me yeah? don’t you?” he spoke teasingly, tone painfully sweet as his fingers traced over your soaked folds.
you wanted to curse his obvious teasing, point out how you hadn’t been so cruel. but you knew it’d be no use.
you were scared to admit such thing, huffing as your hips bucked upwards momentarily.
“want to hear you say it.” lando grunted when he realised you weren’t planning on speaking; pinching your clit to get his point across, a strangled moan escaping you as your lips parted, falling into submission.
“need you.” you whined almost shamefully, head falling back as if the ceiling would offer you refuge from his hard stare. “please,”
your pleas were always music to his ears, so much so he debated with the idea of teasing you some more; to draw more whines and please out of you. but the way you were spread for him, so ready; he couldn’t help himself any longer.
you yelped at the sudden feeling of his mouth on your clit, sucking at your sensitive bud; not expecting such feeling as your eyes rolled back.
his hands manoeuvred your thighs to place your legs over his shoulders; giving him full access to your core as sweet moans started to escape you.
“o-oh my god,” you whimpered; eyes flickering to the sight of his head between your thighs ━ back arching as his tongue swiped through your folds, assaulting your cunt relentlessly as if he was starved.
you’d been reminded of how good his fingers were; so much so you hadn’t even considered getting his tongue again.
his large hands were squeezing your thighs, a bruising grip to keep you in place; eating you out expertly.
“lando━ feels so good,” you moaned as if that wasn’t clear by the way your hips were pushing against his hold. your right hand left the counter, moving to tangle in his curls, something to grab.
his blue eyes ventured to the sight of you momentarily, and he groaned into your cunt as he took note of the way your face was contorting in pleasure, how your body flinched with every move he made.
whimpers and moans were free falling, lando enjoying every single one ━ glad you could be as loud as you wanted, as loud as he made you.
you knew you were approaching your high shamefully fast, but had little room to care when you’d failed to reach it so much recently.
lando knew your body too well, could tell by the way you were tugging on his curls and creating more force against the hold he had on your thighs that you were about to cum.
he wanted you to let go, tongue flicking and nose bumping your clit ━ you orgasmed hard, suddenly; cumming on his tongue with what almost sounded like a squeal.
he didn’t stop, letting you ride out your high ━ before pulling away, wiping at the corners of his mouth.
you were mistaken however in thinking you would have time to catch your breath, not getting a word out before lando was moving only one leg off his shoulder and sliding two fingers into your entrance suddenly; thumb landing on your sensitive clit.
your body almost didn’t know how to react, falling back onto your hands that found the counter you sat upon once more to stabilise yourself.
“s’ too much,” you whimpered ━ legs attempting to squeeze shut, failing with the angle caused by one leg draped over lando’s shoulder, which allowed his fingers to hit deep within you.
lando hummed in amusement, knowing how much you could take. knowing you always said that, just to whine and cry out if he were to stop.
“too much?” he mocked; fingers curling and your body jerking. “want me to stop?” he breathed; smirking oh so cockily because he knew the answer. chuckling as you shook your head ‘no’ incredibly quickly.
“didn’t think so,” he huffed; thumb speeding up on your clit, rolling over the bud continuously. it was pure ecstasy, the overstimulation overwhelming your entire body.
his breaths were heavy as he admired you, the way you were shaking beneath him. reminiscent of how easily he could you like this, of the nights he made you cum four or five times before fucking you.
it killed him he didn’t have the time to do so again. but he couldn’t possibly complain right now.
“making a mess baby, all over my fingers,” lando spoke; the filthy sounds of his fingers moving in out of you filling the room, and you weren’t sure you’d last much longer when he entered a third. “so greedy. gonna cum again aren’t you?”
it was like he was three steps ahead of your body, leaving you to whine and nod pathetically.
“yeah? that what you want? to cum again?” lando spoke once more; watching as your head fell back, your eyes screwing shut and it satisfied him to see you feel the pleasure he was giving.
he was hard again, purely from his name sounding so fucking incredible as you moaned and moaned, from the perfection you were.
his hand grasping your cheek had your eyes flying open as lando tilted your head forwards to look at him, eyebrows raised in expectance.
“words pretty girl,” lando reminded, chin still between his thumb and index finger ━ struggling to focus on him with the numbing pleasure that was causing tears to form.
you nodded, before processing what he’d said. words. right.
“please lando,” you gasped; eyes pouring into his, pleading with his as your back arched and legs shook. you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself. “gonna cum,” you whined.
lando felt it had been far too long to be cruel, so he simply hummed in appreciation; smiling lazily as he pushed you over the edge as he curled his fingers once more.
your vision went white, screaming his name as you came again, all over his fingers.
lando’s bottom lip rolled through his teeth at the sight, able to take in every moment, no restraint for either of you and it felt fucking amazing.
his hands gently moved your leg off his shoulder, stood between them as his hands massaged your thighs comfortingly, giving you a few moments to come down and catch your breath.
your eyes fluttered open, and immediately you were smiling stupidly at the sight of lando; his own grin mirroring yours as he hummed quietly.
“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered; unable to stop the compliment from escaping him, and your smile only grew; knowing you’d disagree if you caught sight of your tangled hair and flushed cheeks. 
it had your stomach flipping, men compliment you all the time. only lando would gain such a reaction.
“got another one in you?” his question was gentle; the sparkle in his eye daring, and you had no hesitation in nodding.
“need you inside me,” you mumbled, causing the driver’s smirk to return to its rightful place ━ glad your wants were shared.
you may have gone a long time without, but your stamina hadn’t faulted.
lando was tugging you to the edge of the counter at that, and you easily got lost in the kiss that he placed upon your lips; rough and messy as you melted into his hold.
it’d caught you by surprise, when he tugged you down onto your feet, spun your round and bent you over the marble surface; a gasp escaping you.
“missed you so much,” lando sighed; ushering your legs apart as your breath hitched in your throat. you didn’t know what to focus on, his words, your position or the feeling of his hands on your ass.
the confession wasn’t one you’d hold onto, you knew better than to cling to words uttered during sex. but god it felt great to hear.
“missed you too,” you assured him back, moan slipping past your lips as you felt his tip press against your folds; but he made no further movements.
your hips shook slightly, attempting to entice him ━ so needy despite having cum twice already. you just wanted him. all of him.
his hand moved up your back, tangling in your hair and creating a makeshift pony tail ━ one he tugged on immediately, your head snapping up.
“what did i say earlier? about using your words?” lando leant forward, lips grazing your ear; cock pressed against your entrance, causing you to cry out.
your body was overstimulated, tired; tired of his teasing. out of practice to predict his wants.
“want you to fuck me,” you whined quickly, rushing your words out as your hips pressed backwards. “need you lan, please,” you whimpered; sounding oh so desperate lando couldn’t possibly deny you.
he entered you without any more warning, bottoming out as your walls wrapped around him; your gasps intertwining as you gripped the counter below you.
the cool surface against your front did little to cool you down, moaning at the feeling of being so full. full of him again, after so long.
too long.
“always take me so well,” lando grunted in your ear; giving you a few moments to adjust before he was dropping your hair and standing up straight ━ hands finding your hips now.
his thrusts were harsh, rough and deep; not too slow or too fast, ensuring you felt every inch of him as your aching cunt squeezed him.
every move had your body jolting, moans escaping you; the counter and lando the only reason your legs were able to stay upright.
“so-so good,” you stumbled out, eyes rolling back as your body fell limp, unable to process the pleasure you were feeling. what you’d been deprived of and craving.
the driver too was losing himself in the feeling, head thrown back as he moved in and out of you ━ sounds of skin slapping filling up the large and empty space.
it was a mutual feeling, as to why the fuck this didn’t happen sooner. how on earth you two had been in such close proximity throughout the months and not gotten to this point yet.
safe to say keeping your distance now would be difficult.
lando felt the need to be closer, as if he needed more of you despite having you already at his mercy.
his hand found your neck with ease, wrapping around your throat and guiding your head up ━ causing you to stand up right, back against his chest.
he didn’t apply pressure, yet, but just the feeling of his large hand wrapped around the base of your neck had your legs feeling weaker; split open on his cock meaning lando’s body was the only thing holding you up now.
“feel good?” lando’s question was just him chasing praise, knowing you were fucked stupid; but he couldn’t help but want to remind you just who was the reason you could barely form sentences.
you nodded as much as you could in his hold. always nodding, he could ask or say anything and you’d find a way to say yes.
“only i can make you feel this good hm? only i can make you cum?” lando didn’t stop running his mouth, basking in the fact it was him that had the tears spilling out of your eyes. a sense of pride washing over him.
you choked out a yes, his thrusts having only gotten faster ━ and when his hand applied pressure to your neck you were almost certain you were in heaven.
“so perfect, so fucking perfect for me baby,” lando grunted in praise; and the kiss he pressed to your shoulder blade was a vast contrast to the treatment of your cunt.
it really was too much, the few tears and whimpers made that clear to lando; you were only moments away from cumming again and the thought alone had his own high dawning on him.
“come on angel, cum on my cock. cum for me,” he was speaking in your ear again; and you practically screamed as your third orgasm hit ━ body falling limp in his hold.
the way your walls squeezed him had him cumming with you, groaning as his forehead rested on your shoulder ━ erratic breaths filling the room as he stilled inside you.
all his touches were suddenly delicate, pulling out of you as he moved you to lean against the counter, still holding you up slightly as you caught your breath.
it was a comfortable silence, his hands ghosting over your waist as you pressed your eyes shut for a few moments.
you’d expected some sort of regret. an immediate now what? for one of you to panic or flee.
but instead, neither of you wanted the moment to end.
“want to join me for a shower?” lando broke the silence, a half smile that had you feeling an odd sense of relief.
one he felt too when you smiled right back, and nodded in agreement.
he’d chuckled, you would even go as far as to say he was grinning; hands grasping your thighs and picking you up with ease, carrying you off towards the bathroom.
when your friends returned you had been on the sofa, lando out by the pool ━ strategically placed to avoid suspicion, already under the assumption someone would’ve brought up the fact it happened to be you two who stayed back today.
chatter filled the room immediately, lando trudging in to greet everyone. you having stayed seated, purely because you didn’t trust your legs.
“burnt cookies y/n?” max had spoke across the room; having been first to stumble upon the overdone batch sat on the kitchen island you’d spent the last 15 minutes sanitising.
your cheeks flushed, purely because you could sense lando’s eyes burning into you.
you could picture the cocky smirk plastered on his face.
“yeah. my bad,” you laughed sheepishly.
and you were glad to be the only one paying attention when lando passed the back of the couch, finger grazing your shoulder as he did so.
“my bad,” he corrected; your eyes meeting his smug ones in passing.
━━
a/n: did y’all miss my shitty endings???
anyways idk what this is but here it is
unedited atm so apologies xox
as always appreciate feedback so so much, love u all and hope u enjoy 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
soo, i got hooked on idea given by @nickie-amore to have a little series of snippets about dogs and Lando. here you go, how they got Hades to join the family <33
this is happening in the same AU as Milo and Game over, Honey
>>>>
The Monaco morning unfurled like a dream—soft sunlight spilling over the sea, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and fresh croissants from the bakery downstairs. You were still half asleep when Lando nudged your shoulder gently, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he said, voice warm but vibrating with that telltale excitement that meant he was up to something.
You groaned, pulling the pillow over your head. “If this isn’t coffee or an F1 win, I’m going back to bed.”
He laughed quietly, tugging the pillow away. “Better. Come on. I have a surprise.”
That got your attention. Lando and surprises were a dangerous combination. You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “If you brought home another racing simulator, I swear—”
“Not a simulator.” His grin widened, boyish and secretive. “Come on, trust me.”
You followed him barefoot through the flat, the morning light glinting off the glass walls. As he opened the terrace door, you heard it—a soft whimper. You froze, eyes darting toward the sound.
There, nestled in a small basket lined with a fluffy blanket, was a black-and-tan Doberman puppy. His paws were too big for his body, his ears floppy, his eyes a deep, curious brown. He looked up at you, tilted his head, and let out a tiny bark.
Your hands flew to your mouth. “Lando… you didn’t.”
“Oh, I did,” he said proudly, crouching beside the basket. “Meet Hades. He’s… well, kind of your new bodyguard. And Milo’s future partner in crime.”
You knelt beside him, reaching out a trembling hand as the puppy wobbled over, sniffed your fingers, and then immediately climbed into your lap like he’d been there forever.
“He’s beautiful,” you whispered, voice catching. “You got him… for me?”
Lando’s grin softened into something tender. “For us. But mostly for you. You’ve been so busy, staying home more, working remotely… I figured you could use a little extra company. And maybe some backup.”
You looked up at him, still stroking the puppy’s velvety head. “Lando, Monaco’s safe. You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently, his hand resting on your knee. “But that doesn’t stop me from worrying. The world’s not always safe, love. And if I can’t be here every race weekend, I want to know you’re protected.”
You sighed, meeting his gaze. There was no dramatics in his tone, just quiet sincerity. That soft kind of love that wrapped around you without asking permission.
“Okay,” you said finally, smiling. “But he’s sleeping in the bed.”
Lando groaned, falling back dramatically onto the lounge chair. “Not this again! We said no dogs on the—”
Hades barked once, sharp and decisive, as if taking your side.
You smirked. “See? He agrees with me.”
Lando sat up, laughing. “Great. Two against one already.”
A few weeks later, Milo had taken to the new addition like a proud older brother. The two Dobermans were inseparable—playing tug-of-war, chasing tennis balls across the terrace, curling up together by the sliding doors in the afternoon sun.
One evening, as the sky bled orange and gold, you found Lando sitting on the floor between them, his hair messy, his hands busy rubbing both their bellies at once.
“You know,” he started, eyes on the dogs, “I’ve been thinking about getting them proper training.”
You raised an eyebrow, sitting cross-legged beside him. “Proper training? You mean like obedience?”
“More than that,” he said, looking at you seriously now. “Protection training. Scent tracking. Search drills. I talked to a friend—there’s a specialist who trains dogs for service and security. They can teach them to respond to emergencies, find you if you ever get lost, track objects, even alert others if something’s wrong.”
You blinked, surprised by the intensity in his voice. “Lando, that sounds… a bit much. Monaco’s one of the safest places in the world. You’ve got security downstairs. And I’m not exactly wandering into the wilderness.”
He gave a small, lopsided smile, but there was something earnest behind it. “I know. But it’s not about danger. It’s about peace of mind. For me—and maybe for you, too.”
You tilted your head. “You really worry that much when you’re gone, don’t you?”
He nodded slowly. “Every time. When I’m halfway across the world, I still check to see if you’ve texted me after dinner. And when you don’t answer for a few hours, my brain immediately assumes something stupid. I can’t help it.”
You softened, reaching for his hand. “Lando…”
He chuckled, squeezing your fingers. “I’m not trying to turn this into a movie plot, I promise. I just… if something ever happened, I want them to know what to do. They’re not just pets, you know? They’re family. Our family. And they should be able to protect it.”
You were quiet for a moment, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the dogs. Milo’s head rested on Hades’ back, the puppy twitching slightly in his sleep. The sight tugged at something in your chest.
Finally, you nodded. “Alright. We’ll train them. Not just for protection—but because they’d love the work. It’ll keep them sharp.”
Lando’s smile returned, bright and boyish. “You’re serious?”
You leaned in, kissing his cheek. “I’m serious. But you’re doing the early-morning sessions.”
He laughed, pulling you close. “Deal. As long as I get cuddles after.”
You snorted. “You always get cuddles.”
Training days began early—too early for your liking. The mornings were cool, the Mediterranean sun still stretching over the horizon as you and Lando arrived at the training facility just outside Monaco. The place sat tucked between rolling hills and vineyards, an expanse of green fields and obstacle courses.
Hades was only six months old when he started, full of energy and curiosity. Milo, calm and focused, moved through drills like a seasoned pro, guiding his younger brother by quiet example. The trainer, a kind but firm woman named Elise, met you with a smile every morning.
“He’s clever,” she said about Hades after the first week. “Too clever. You’ll have to stay one step ahead.”
Lando laughed, tossing a ball into the air. “Story of my life.”
Training days stretched into routines. Commands came in short, crisp tones—Sit. Stay. Find. Guard. The dogs responded with enthusiasm, tails wagging, eager to please. You’d watch them race through tunnels, leap over low barriers, and freeze at a single hand gesture. Lando loved joining in, whistling commands from across the field and cheering every success.
“Look at that!” he’d shout, clapping when Hades located a hidden pouch by scent. “He’s faster than half my pit crew!”
You’d roll your eyes, laughing. “Maybe we should get him a helmet.”
One memorable afternoon, Elise arranged a mock exercise—finding a lost item. She handed you Lando’s hoodie, instructing you to hide it somewhere in the field. You jogged off, tucking it behind a bush near the fence. When you returned, you found Lando kneeling beside the dogs, whispering, “Okay, boys. This is Mum’s test. Don’t let her down.”
You crossed your arms. “Mum?”
He grinned without shame. “You’re the mum now. They listen to you more than me anyway.”
Elise gave the signal. “Find it!”
Milo’s nose hit the ground first, moving methodically, while Hades bounced impatiently before catching the scent. Within seconds, they were off—darting across the field, tails straight, determination in every stride. You and Lando jogged behind, laughing breathlessly as Hades skidded to a stop near the bush, muzzle buried in the fabric.
“Good boy!” you cried, running over to praise them. Milo trotted up beside his brother, clearly proud. Lando crouched to ruffle both their ears.
“That’s my lads,” he murmured.
Over time, the dogs learned advanced drills—how to track a person by scent, how to recognize specific objects, how to respond to voice commands in English or subtle gestures. Lando often filmed parts of their sessions, planning a montage for Quadrant’s socials.
“People need to see this,” he’d tell you. “They’re amazing. And so are you.”
But it wasn’t all serious. Between drills, there were play fights and shared water bottles, Milo stealing Hades’ ball just to start a chase, Hades retaliating by sitting squarely on his brother. Lando would fall into the grass laughing, calling them “chaos with legs.”
One evening, as the sun dipped low, the four of you sat side by side near the fence—two humans, two dogs, watching the sky fade from gold to violet. Hades rested his head on Lando’s knee; Milo leaned against your leg.
“You know,” Lando murmured, eyes following the horizon, “I used to think racing was the only thing that made me feel alive. But this… this is different.”
You turned to him, smiling softly. “This is home.”
He nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. You, them… it’s everything.”
As the stars appeared, you felt Milo’s breathing steady beside you, Hades’ small paw pressing against your shoe. And in that quiet, endless moment, surrounded by warmth and love, you realized that maybe what they were building wasn’t just training.
Monaco’s spring carried a kind of golden quiet—the sea shimmering like glass, the hum of the city softened by salt air and sunlight. Months had passed since the Battlefield 6 video released, and life had fallen into a steady, joyful rhythm. Lando was back and forth between races, Quadrant was thriving, and home was alive with laughter and the familiar echo of paws padding across marble floors.
The world loved the story of you, Lando, Milo, and Hades—the family that seemed straight out of a film. Fans commented endlessly about marriage rumors, teasing that it was only a matter of time. But Lando had already made up his mind.
He wanted to ask.
It started as a quiet thought that grew louder each day. He’d catch himself looking at you across the breakfast table as you scrolled through emails, sunlight dancing in your hair, and his heart would whisper, it’s time.
The plan began in the most Lando way possible—poorly disguised curiosity. He casually borrowed one of your rings, pretending it was for a photoshoot idea. He asked Max for opinions on diamond cuts, which Max turned into a week-long meme campaign. He whispered to Milo and Hades during late nights in the living room, as if they were his accomplices.
“You two have to help me,” he said one night, sitting cross-legged on the floor while the dogs watched him intently. “This has to be perfect. No mistakes, no chaos—well, okay, maybe a little chaos.”
Hades tilted his head. Milo sighed, stretching out across Lando’s lap as if already resigned to his dad’s ridiculousness.
Lando grinned, rubbing their heads. “You know what to do when the time comes, yeah? You’re going to help me ask the biggest question of my life.”
Hades barked once, sharp and confident. Lando laughed. “See? He’s in. Milo, you’ll handle logistics. You’re the calm one.”
Milo blinked slowly, which Lando decided meant ‘fine, but you owe me snacks.’
It was set. The mission had begun.
For weeks, Lando worked in secret. When you thought he was busy with a Quadrant shoot or a strategy call, he was actually huddled in the garage with Max and Ria, drawing up plans like they were plotting a heist.
Small pouches were designed—sleek black leather with gold stitching, perfectly sized for a velvet ring box. Elise, the dogs’ trainer, joined the plan to teach Milo and Hades how to deliver items gently and on cue.
“They’re naturals,” she said proudly one afternoon as Lando crouched nearby, camera in hand. “It’s like they already know it’s something special.”
Lando smiled, that quiet kind of joy that only surfaced when he thought of you. “They do. They always know.”
He practiced with them in the evenings after dinner while you were on calls. The balcony became their secret training ground. Hades would trot toward him, delivering the pouch with exaggerated care, while Milo followed behind, making sure his little brother didn’t get too excited.
Max filmed snippets on his phone, whispering dramatically, “Day 14. The mission continues. Commander Hades is learning to carry classified jewelry. Commander Milo remains unimpressed.”
Lando nearly threw a cushion at him. “You’re going to ruin the element of surprise, mate.”
Ria laughed. “You’re doing a whole movie for this proposal, aren’t you?”
He grinned. “It’s her. Of course I am.”
You woke to an empty bed, the faint rustle of curtains in the breeze, and the rhythmic sound of waves. The space beside you was warm but vacant, and your heart fluttered instantly. It was unusual—Lando never left without waking you, even if only to murmur a sleepy goodbye or press a soft kiss to your forehead. He was the kind of man who needed that small moment of connection before stepping away, his lips always lingering a second longer as if to promise he’d be back soon. The absence of that gentle ritual made the quiet feel strange, charged with both curiosity and a hint of anticipation. Lando wasn’t one to disappear quietly.
On the nightstand was a note in his messy handwriting:
Meet me where it all started.Bring Milo and Hades.Love, your favorite muppet.
You smiled, shaking your head, feeling that mix of affection and anticipation that only he could summon. You dressed quickly, pulling on a soft jumper and jeans, clipping the dogs’ collars before heading out. The morning air was crisp, the sea glittering under the rising sun.
As you reached the familiar hillside just outside Monaco—the same place where you’d first trained Milo and Hades—the dogs started acting strangely. Milo sniffed the air, tail wagging, while Hades let out a low, eager whine. Then, without warning, they took off up the path.
“Hades! Milo! Wait!” you called, chasing after them through the grove. The laughter bubbled out of you as their paws kicked up small clouds of dust.
Then the trees parted, and you stopped dead.
The training field was unrecognizable. Soft golden ribbons swayed between the trees, lanterns glowed faintly in the daylight, and white rose petals were scattered across the grass. At the center of it all stood Lando, hands clasped behind his back, sunlight haloing him like a dream.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
The dogs slowed, trotting toward him like they’d done this a hundred times. Lando crouched and whispered, “Go on, boys. Mission time.”
Milo padded over first, tail wagging, the black pouch secured to his collar. You knelt, unclipping it with shaking hands. Inside was a folded note.
You once gave me the family I never knew I needed.Now I want to make it forever.
Tears stung your eyes. When you looked up, Hades was already approaching, his pouch carrying the small velvet box. Lando took it carefully, rising to his feet.
He smiled—a soft, nervous, utterly Lando smile—and dropped to one knee.
“I could stand here and tell you a thousand things,” he began, voice shaking slightly, “about how much I love you, about how you changed everything. But the truth is, words never feel big enough. You’ve given me peace when I didn’t know I needed it, chaos when I was too calm, and love that feels… infinite.”
You covered your mouth, tears slipping down your cheeks.
He opened the box, revealing a simple ring that sparkled in the morning light. “So, will you make it forever? Will you marry me?”
Your laughter broke through your tears, shaky and joyful. “Of course I will.”
He laughed too—pure relief, pure happiness—and pulled you into his arms as the dogs barked, tails wagging furiously.
“See?” he whispered against your hair. “They knew you’d say yes.”
You smiled up at him through tears. “You trained them well.”
He grinned, eyes shining. “Nah. They just know their mum.”
Later that evening, the house glowed with warmth. Max, Ria, and the rest of the Quadrant team had been waiting under the guise of a ‘casual dinner.’ When you walked in, hand in hand with Lando and the ring glittering on your finger, the room erupted.
Max’s voice was the first to cut through the cheers. “Finally! The dogs were in on it before we were!”
Ria grinned. “I demand to be a bridesmaid and dog-wrangler.”
Lando raised his glass, laughing, cheeks flushed from happiness. “You can be both, Ri.”
The celebration was everything—laughter, stories, too much champagne, and Hades trying to steal canapés off the counter while Milo pretended to look innocent. Every so often, Lando’s hand would brush yours, grounding you in the dizzy, beautiful blur of it all.
As the night quieted, the two of you slipped away to the balcony. The city glimmered below, and the sea whispered against the shore. Milo and Hades lay curled together by the doorway, fast asleep.
Lando turned to you, eyes soft. “You know, I didn’t plan most of my life. But I planned this. Every bit of it.”
You leaned into him, smiling. “You did well, Mr. Norris.”
He laughed, kissing your forehead. “So… Mrs. Norris, then?”
Your heart fluttered. “I could get used to that.”
Milo stirred, lifting his head just as Hades’ paw fell over his back. You smiled, brushing your thumb over Lando’s ring finger. “We’ve built something special, haven’t we?”
He nodded, eyes shining with that quiet joy that only came when he looked at you. “The best thing I’ll ever build.”
The night wrapped around you like a promise—warm, endless, and full of love.
And somewhere between the sea breeze and the soft sound of sleeping dogs, forever began.
When everyone had finally left and the laughter had faded into the quiet of the night, the house felt different—peaceful, intimate, and charged with a new kind of warmth. The balcony lights dimmed to a soft glow, and the city hum outside faded beneath the rhythm of the waves. You and Lando stood there for a moment, fingers intertwined, basking in the afterglow of the day’s joy.
He brushed his thumb across your hand, voice low and affectionate. “I still can’t believe you said yes.”
You smiled, stepping closer, your head resting on his chest. “You say that like there was ever a chance I’d say no.”
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I don’t know. My competition was pretty strong.” His eyes flicked toward the sleeping dogs, and you laughed softly.
The laughter faded into a tender silence. Lando lifted your chin gently, his gaze searching yours.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words carrying the kind of weight that made your heart ache in the best way.
You smiled up at him, voice barely a breath. “Show me.”
He kissed you then—slow, warm, reverent. The world beyond the balcony fell away until it was just the two of you, the quiet sound of the sea, and the faint hum of the night. The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to your waist, your fingers curling in his shirt as the warmth between you grew. Each movement was gentle but deliberate, every breath mingling as if the universe had narrowed to this heartbeat. When you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, he whispered your name like a secret, his voice full of awe.
He took your hand and led you inside, the soft glow of the living room lights wrapping around you both. The couch caught your knees as you sank into it, laughter slipping between kisses that were now slower, deeper—filled with a promise of forever.
He whispered between kisses, teasing softly, “You have no idea what you do to me,” and you giggled, fingers curling in his hair. His praise came in murmured words against your skin—“You’re perfect, you know that?”—and the way he traced your jaw as if memorizing every detail.
You whispered back playful things that made him laugh—teasing about his hair, about how nervous he still seemed, about how you could feel his heart racing against yours.
“Is that your driver’s heart, or your fiancé heart?” you teased softly, breathless between kisses.
He chuckled against your lips. “Fiancé heart. The other one’s too slow for you.”
You laughed quietly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours, “are everything. My good luck charm, my chaos, my peace.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Maybe,” he whispered, his voice dropping lower, “but it’s true.”
He grinned into the kiss, his breath shaky with laughter and want, murmuring compliments that melted you all over again, calling you beautiful, calling you his everything, while you kept trading whispers that made both of you smile even more, and the kisses deepened again, soft and searching. Each moment was laced with affection, an easy rhythm of tenderness and love, the kind that made time stretch and blur. The world outside didn’t matter; it was just you and him, the quiet rhythm of love and the hum of the sea through the open window.
Then—just as his hand brushed your cheek and the moment balanced between breathless and perfect—there was a thump, followed by a soft whine. You both froze. Another noise came next: claws clicking against the marble floor.
Lando broke the kiss, forehead falling to your shoulder as laughter bubbled out of him. “They never let me have one dramatic moment,” he muttered.
You turned, half exasperated and half amused, as Milo trotted into view, stretching with an innocent yawn, while Hades appeared right behind him, tail wagging proudly as if he’d just accomplished a mission.
You sighed, laughing against Lando’s shoulder. “Your sons have impeccable timing.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, grinning. “Guess they’re not ready to share the spotlight yet.”
You reached down to ruffle their fur, both dogs leaning into your touch, and Lando crouched beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Looks like the celebration will have to wait,” he murmured teasingly.
You smiled, glancing at him with a sparkle in your eyes. “Then we’ll just have to make every day after this one a celebration.”
He kissed you again, gentler this time, laughter mingling with the quiet joy between you. Outside, the sea whispered its approval, and within the soft chaos of love, warmth, and two mischievous dogs, forever found another reason to begin again.
Summary: a sass-sharp reader with a knack for chaos accidentally becomes best friends with Formula 1 driver Lando Norris — and then falls hopelessly, inconveniently in love with him.
Between Twitch streams, paddock passes, late-night voice notes, and one tequila-blurred night that leaves her neck looking like a crime scene
Warnings: once used "y/n l/n", suggestive content, alcohol mentions, hickeys (many), swearing, public scrutiny, insecurity, light angst, and one chaotic Max Fewtrell.
>>>
The first time you met Lando, you almost walked into a camera. Not just any camera either—the kind worth more than your entire car, with a giant lens and a terrified cameraman attached. You’d been craning your neck to see over a small crowd at a karting event, heart thumping with the kind of excitement usually reserved for concerts or rollercoasters, when someone’s hand closed around your elbow and yanked you sideways.
“Careful,” a voice said, half amused, half exasperated. “Can’t have you taking out Sky Sports’ finest, can we?”
You stumbled, caught your balance, and turned to see him properly for the first time. Lando, in real life, was somehow both exactly like the guy you’d watched on TV and streams, and also nothing like him. The hair was the same—curlier up close, slightly flattened by the cap—but his eyes were sharper, warmer. And he was taller than you’d imagined. Of course he was. Your brain chose that moment to freeze; your mouth, tragically, did not.
“Sorry,” you blurted. “I was just, uh—trying not to be poor.”
His brows knit. “What?”
You gestured helplessly at the camera. “If I break that thing, I’m going to be in debt until I die. I’m way too attached to my future lack of mortgage to risk it.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he laughed—one of those surprised, bubbling laughs that sounded like it had punched its way out of his chest. The cameraman shot both of you an annoyed look and moved, and the little pocket of space you stood in suddenly felt like the only quiet place in a loud, echoing building.
“Fair enough,” Lando said, still smiling. “I feel like McLaren would also be a bit annoyed if you wrote them an email like, ‘Hey, sorry, can’t pay my rent because your driver saved a camera.’”
“I mean, that’d be a pretty solid story,” you said, and when you finally met his eyes properly, your brain did that weird static thing again.
You’d been a fan for years—one of those quiet online ones, more lurker than loud stan. You watched the races, the interviews, the ridiculous Twitch streams with Max and the others. You’d known he was funny. You hadn’t known it would feel like this, up close. The event staff bustled around you, drivers walked past in suits and trainers, engines echoed from outside, but in that moment it was just you and a driver who should’ve been miles out of your league, and his hand still wrapped loosely around your elbow.
“You here alone?” he asked, letting go like the contact had just occurred to him.
“Yeah,” you said. “Came to watch, not to… ya know.” You waved vaguely at the crowd of influencers with laminated passes and ring lights. “I don’t have the budget for a personality brand.”
That made him laugh again. You hadn’t meant it as a joke, but you’d take the win.
“Come on,” he said. “You can stand over here. Better view, less chance you commit financial homicide.”
You followed him. You didn’t know then that one stupid, throwaway moment would turn your life sideways. You didn’t know that a few months later, your username would pop up in chat during one of his and Max Fewtrell’s late-night streams, and he’d go, “Wait, is that the camera assassin?” like he’d been waiting to spot you again. You didn’t know that Max would immediately drag you onto a Discord call, that you’d be sitting there, mic crackling, heartbeat loud in your ears as their faces popped up on your monitor.
“Yo!” Max said. “This is the girl who almost demolished a broadcast camera?”
“For the record,” you’d said, “I was defending my financial stability.”
Lando had looked at the camera, then at his chat. “Told you she was funny.”
The stream had gone on for hours. You’d chirped them both, sassing Lando for losing at whatever game they were playing, laughing until your ribs hurt at Max’s dramatic commentary. Somewhere along the line, you stopped feeling like the fan who’d accidentally gotten invited into the inner circle. They treated you like you’d always been there—like the only weird thing was that you hadn’t been.
After that, it became a thing. Late-night streams with chaotic lobbies. Group calls where your Discord notification sound started to feel like someone knocking at your front door. Clips of you yelling at Lando for running you off track in some sim race became memes on Twitter. Your follower count ticked up. People called you “Lando’s friend,” like it was a title.
But the part that actually mattered was quieter, subtler. It was the way Lando would DM you after races, sending voice notes at stupid o’clock. It was the random photos—his food, his shoes, a cloud that looked like a snail. It was the way you’d catch him watching you, not like a celebrity watching a fan, but like a guy watching someone he genuinely liked listening to.
You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself it was just friendship. You were so, so sure of that—for a while.
The months blurred into a montage of flights and streams and group chats that never really went quiet. In between your normal life—your job, your rent, your grocery lists—you slipped into a parallel one where race weekends were a calendar anchor, and the names on your phone belonged to people who got recognized in airports. Somewhere in there, Lando convinced McLaren to get you a paddock pass “for content,” and you tagged along to a race like it was the most casual thing in the world.
You didn’t live in his world exactly, but you orbited it now, pulled in by a gravity you pretended not to notice. The more time you spent with him, the easier it became to forget there’d been a before. And somewhere between laughing on streams and leaning against pit wall barriers, the stupid, inconvenient realization started prying its way into your chest: you wanted more than his notifications.
Silverstone was loud in a way that didn’t make sense until you were there. On TV, it was commentary and engine noise and the occasional cheer. In person, it was everything at once: the whine of power units, the thud of music from fan zones, the murmur of thousands of conversations layered on top of each other. The air smelled like rubber, fuel, and overpriced burgers.
You tightened your grip on your lanyard as you walked along the paddock, still not entirely used to the fact that you could just… be here. People moved in practiced lines around you—mechanics in team gear, media people with cameras, drivers pushing bikes with helmets dangling from the handlebars. You kept to the edge, trying not to look like a tourist.
“Why do you walk like security’s about to tackle you?”
You turned to see Lando matching your pace, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, cap pulled low. Even off-duty, he moved like he knew people were watching. Maybe he’d just accepted they always were.
“Because I’m ninety percent sure this is illegal,” you said. “Like, I must’ve clicked ‘I accept’ on Terms & Conditions that said, ‘You agree to feel like an imposter at all times.’”
He bumped his shoulder lightly into yours. “You’re with me. That’s the opposite of illegal.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is today.” His grin flashed, crooked and easy. “Besides, everyone here knows you. I literally had a mechanic ask me if you’re coming to the race tomorrow so he can get you to bully me into not locking up into Turn 1.”
You made a face. “I’m not just your emotional support insult machine.”
“You’re very good at it, though.” He tilted his head toward the McLaren hospitality building. “Come on, we’ll grab coffee. Or tea. Or whatever it is you drink to function like a human.”
Inside, the hospitality unit was cooler, quieter, the air smelling faintly of espresso and something buttery from the kitchen. You’d been here enough times now that the staff smiled when they saw you, handing you a mug without asking. That still did something weird to your chest.
Lando leaned against the counter next to you as you waited. “You okay?” he asked, voice dropping slightly under the hum of conversation.
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Why?”
He shrugged, eyes searching your face. “I dunno. You’ve been… I mean, you’re here, but you’re also not. In your head. Which is dangerous, because what if you walk into a camera again? I can’t keep being the hero of that story. It’s exhausting.”
You snorted, grateful for the out he gave you. “Sorry I’m not performing to your minimum chaos standards.”
Your coffee arrived. You wrapped your fingers around the mug like it would steady you.
You’d realized it a few weeks ago. The feelings. The stupid, messy, inconvenient crush that had quietly mutated into something heavier. It snuck up on you in moments like this: the quiet in-between ones, where he wasn’t “Lando Norris, McLaren driver and content gremlin,” but just Lando, who noticed when you went quiet, who texted you when he saw something he knew would make you laugh.
And ever since you’d put a name to it, your brain had turned into a glitchy mess around him.
You were hyper-aware of everything now. The way his hand brushed your lower back when he guided you through a crowd. The way he leaned a little closer when you talked, like you were telling him secrets. The way your phone lit up with his name so often it was like a second heartbeat.
It made you awkward. You hated it. You were usually quick, sharp, good at giving him shit when he needed it. But lately, your tongue tripped over itself, your jokes landed a beat too late, your eyes skipped away from his mouth when you realized you were staring.
He noticed. Of course he did. Lando wasn’t always the most emotionally articulate person on earth, but he was weirdly perceptive when it came to you.
“Seriously,” he said now, nudging your foot with his sneaker. “What’s up? You didn’t even roast me for calling Turn 3 ‘Turn 2’ earlier in the track walk. That’s like, prime content.”
“Maybe I’ve grown as a person,” you said, blowing on your coffee.
He narrowed his eyes. “Nah. Don’t like that. Change it back.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “I’m fine. Just tired. And trying not to embarrass myself in front of your entire industry.”
“You couldn’t embarrass yourself if you tried.” He paused. “Actually, no, you absolutely could, but you haven’t yet. So we’re good.”
You laughed, the sound coming out looser than you felt. “Wow. Such faith.”
He watched you for a moment, something flickering behind his eyes. Like he wanted to say more. Then someone called his name from across the room, snapping the moment in half.
“Come with me?” he asked. “Got media, but you can sit in the back and judge my answers.”
“Isn’t that your PR’s job?”
“Yeah, but you’re meaner.”
You shook your head and followed him anyway.
You sat through interviews and cameras and too-bright lights, watching him switch into media mode like flipping a switch. Confident, charming, polished enough to be professional but still goofy enough to be himself. Every time his gaze skimmed over the room, it found you. It felt like you were the anchor point on some invisible map.
Your heartbeat didn’t get the memo that this was nothing.
That night, you hung out in his driver room after everything wrapped, half-watching some random show on his laptop. Max spammed the group chat with memes; you and Lando sat side by side on the narrow sofa, shoulders touching, legs stretched out. Every time he laughed, your body did this stupid little echo of it, like it had set itself to his frequency.
You went back to your hotel eventually, lying in the dark with the hum of the air conditioner and the sound of cars on the road outside. Your phone lit up with a text from him—thanks for today. you make all this less weird xx—and you stared at it until the words blurred. Admitting how you felt felt like standing at the edge of a very tall thing. So you did what you’d always done best: you made a joke.
happy to professionally bully you whenever x, you wrote back.
You put the phone face down after that. You didn’t see the dots appear and disappear on his end.
Summer break sounded like ice cream and naps. In F1 reality, it was more like group chats deciding to use the handful of free weekends to cram in as much chaos as possible. When Max suggested a villa in Ibiza—“just a few of us, chill, couple of nights, nothing crazy”—you’d known it was a lie. You went anyway.
The villa sat on a hill overlooking the sea, white walls glowing in the late afternoon sun, pool water catching the light in shards. Music drifted from a speaker someone had connected to a playlist. The air smelled like sunscreen, sea salt, and the faint sizzle of something on the grill.
You sat on the edge of the pool, feet in the water, watching Lando attempt to flip a burger with all the confidence of a man who had never cooked a day in his life. Max stood next to him, loudly offering unhelpful advice.
“You’re going to give us all food poisoning,” you called.
Lando glanced over his shoulder. “I’m a professional.”
“Professional what? Disaster?”
Max snorted. “She’s got a point, mate.”
Lando flipped the burger. It landed mostly where it was supposed to. You clapped slowly.
“Wow,” you said. “Incredible. That patty moved about as much as your car did at Monaco.”
He pressed a hand against his heart like he’d been shot. “You’re banned. No burger for you.”
“Cool, less chance I die.”
He shook his head, but you saw the way his mouth quirked, the way his eyes lingered on you for a second too long before he turned back to the grill. You looked away first, staring out at the horizon where the sky met the sea.
The others arrived in waves—some of the usual stream crowd, a few of Lando’s old karting friends, a girl Max had been talking about for weeks. The villa filled with overlapping conversations, clinking bottles, someone yelling from inside about not being able to find the ice.
You were good at this part. The crowds, the banter, the feeling of being in on the joke. You flitted between groups, laughing, matching energy, doing the thing you did best: being the fun friend.
But underneath the jokes, under the warmth of the sun on your skin, something itchy and restless paced.
You watched Lando more than you meant to. The way he threw his head back when he laughed at something Max said. The way he absently rested a hand on your bare shoulder when he squeezed past your spot at the kitchen counter. The way his gaze snagged on you when someone made a comment that had everyone roaring, like he was checking you’d found it funny too.
At some point after sunset, the party shifted. The music got a little louder, the lights dimmer, the air thicker with heat and alcohol and that indescribable slow-motion feeling of a night tilting into something else. Someone suggested a drinking game. Of course they did.
You ended up on the sofa, leg pressed against Lando’s, a circle of people around a low table littered with cards and shot glasses. The game was simple: answer the question or drink.
“Okay,” Max said, reading from a card with exaggerated seriousness. “Have you ever had a crush on someone in this room?”
The circle erupted. Groans, laughter, someone wolf-whistling. You snorted, reaching for your drink out of reflex.
“Ohh no you don’t,” Max said, pointing at you. “You answer.”
“Why me?”
“Because you look guilty.” He smirked. “And because chat would kill me if I didn’t ask you the messy ones.”
“We are not streaming this,” you reminded him.
“Yeah, but like, in my heart we are.”
You rolled your eyes, buying yourself a second. Lando’s knee bounced against yours, just once, like a question.
You could feel his attention like a hand on your neck. The old version of you—the one who hadn’t realized she liked him—would’ve leaned into the bit, made some joke, pointed at Max just to see him go red. The current you felt like someone had replaced your blood with carbonated water.
“Yeah,” you said lightly, forcing a smile. “Of course I have. Have you seen some of you? You’re all disgustingly attractive. It’s very rude.”
“That’s not an answer,” Max crowed.
“That’s totally an answer.” You took a sip anyway, the burn of the alcohol giving you something else to focus on. “Next card.”
The game moved on, attention drifting. You could feel Lando’s gaze on the side of your face.
Later, when the circle dissolved and people drifted off—to the kitchen, to the balcony, to the pool—you ended up on the rooftop terrace. The air was cooler up there, the sea spread out below like a dark, breathing thing. The music was muffled, just a bass thump under the sound of waves.
Lando found you leaning against the low wall, fingers tapping an aimless rhythm on the stone.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey,” you echoed.
He came to stand next to you, hands resting on the wall, shoulders almost touching. You didn’t move away.
“You okay?” he asked after a moment.
“You have to stop asking me that,” you said, trying for lightness.
“Yeah, well. You have to stop looking like you’re either about to cry or start a revolution.”
You huffed out a laugh despite yourself. “Pretty big spectrum.”
“Yeah. You’re dramatic.” He turned his head, studying your profile. “You dodged that question earlier.”
You stared out at the horizon. “It was a stupid party game.”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t a real question.” His voice softened. “You could’ve just said no.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “Or I could’ve not been bullied into a public therapy session.”
“So that’s a yes, then.”
You swallowed. The air between you thickened. He shifted closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you felt the warmth of him along your arm.
“Is this you fishing to be flattered?” you said, grasping for familiar territory. “Because I hate to break it to you, Norris, but the world does not revolve around your ego.”
He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “Didn’t say it was me.”
Your heart thumped once, hard.
You thought about lying. About laughing it off, rolling your eyes, saying something about Max’s stupid face or the hot guy from the Red Bull junior program who’d been here earlier. But the words got stuck somewhere behind your teeth.
You could feel the edge of something big in front of you. One step, and everything changed. You’d never been more aware of how much you could lose.
So you did what you always did when you were afraid.
You turned it into a joke.
“Relax,” you said, bumping his shoulder with yours. “If I had a crush on one of you, you’d never hear the end of it. I’d be insufferable.”
He watched you for a long, quiet moment. Then he nodded, pushing off the wall.
“Yeah,” he said, something tight in his voice. “Guess I should be grateful, then.”
Before you could figure out what the hell that meant, someone shouted his name from below, and he left with a half-smile and a, “Come down before Max sets the house on fire.”
You stayed on the roof long after, staring at the dark sea and listening to the thud of your own heartbeat.
After Ibiza, things shifted by degrees. Nothing dramatic, nothing you could point to and say, There. Right there. That’s when it changed. It was smaller than that. A slower reply here. A missed call there. The streams still happened, but sometimes you declined the invite because you were “busy,” even when busy meant sitting on your couch thinking too hard.
Lando didn’t push, but you felt him pulling back in tiny steps—like he’d reached for something that wasn’t there on that rooftop, and now he was guarding his hands. You told yourself this was good. Space was good. Space meant you could starve the feelings into something manageable.
It didn’t work.
The night you finally stopped pretending was not special, at least not on paper. It wasn’t a hometown win or a championship decider. It was Austin, sticky-hot and buzzing, the city pulsing with music and neon. The race had gone well enough for Lando—solid points, some good overtakes, nothing spectacular, nothing disastrous.
“Podium next time,” he’d said in the pen, smile practiced. “We’ll get there.”
By the time the debriefs and media duties wrapped, the sky had gone dark and the team had shifted into celebration mode anyway. Points were points. The music in the hospitality unit was louder, the drinks stronger, the laughter looser.
You perched on a high stool near the bar, nursing something cold and citrusy, watching Lando work his way through conversations. Sponsors, engineers, friends. He moved through them all with an ease that made your chest ache.
He looked good tonight. The post-race scruff, hair still damp from the shower, a t-shirt that clung in ways you didn’t let yourself linger on. Every time he smiled, something in you tightened, like an elastic band stretched too far.
Max slid onto the stool next to you, following your gaze. “You two are idiots, you know that?”
You blinked. “Wow. Hi to you too.”
He took a sip of his drink. “You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For my honesty.” He nodded toward where Lando was laughing at something one of the mechanics said. “Just… watching you both circle each other like confused pigeons. It’s entertaining.”
“Okay, one, rude. Two, you’re hallucinating.”
He gave you a look. “Am I?”
You stared at your drink. “Drop it, Max.”
He sighed, but let it go. The music outside was louder than in here, the thud of bass filtering through the glass doors that led to the makeshift terrace. The city lights glittered beyond the paddock fence, like a whole other world.
At some point, the group migrated to a bar downtown. You found yourself in the back of a car, crushed between Max and a window, Lando in the front seat arguing with the driver about the best taco spot in the city.
“You’ve been here twice,” you pointed out.
“And both times I had good tacos,” he said, turning in his seat to grin at you. “That makes me an expert.”
“Pretty sure that makes you a tourist with strong opinions.”
He laughed, and the sound threaded through the cramped space, wrapping around you. You looked away, out at the blur of streetlights.
The bar was loud and dim, the kind of place that smelled like spilled beer and too many bodies, with neon signs buzzing near the ceiling. You stuck close to the group, to Lando. Some part of you had decided that if this night was going to hurt, you at least wanted a front-row seat.
Hours blurred. Drinks came and went. Someone dragged you to the dance floor; you went, laughing, letting the music thump through your bones. Lando danced badly, which somehow made him hotter, because he didn’t seem to care. He spun you once, both of you nearly tripping, and you ended up chest to chest, your hands braced on his shoulders.
For a second, the rest of the world went fuzzy. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and faintly tasting of tequila. His hands tightened on your waist, and his eyes flicked to your mouth.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Then someone bumped into you, jostling you apart. The moment shattered. You laughed it off, stepping back, making some joke about his two left feet. He laughed too, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Later, when the night thinned and the group shrank, you found yourself outside on the sidewalk, the city air warm and muggy around you. You sat on a low wall, heels dangling, phone in your hand as you pretended to scroll through something important.
Lando came to stand in front of you, hands shoved in his pockets. His cheeks were a little flushed, eyes bright. Not drunk exactly, but definitely not sober.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Being here and not here.”
You forced a smile. “Deep, Norris. You been reading self-help books?”
He didn’t smile back. “I’m serious.”
You sighed, looking away. The street was busy with people, laughter, cars honking in the distance. Somewhere down the block, someone yelled the name of a driver—not his—for a photo.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you muttered.
“The truth would be a nice change,” he said, sharper than you were used to from him.
Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
He stepped closer, frustration radiating off him in waves. “You’ve been weird for weeks. Months, maybe. One minute you’re… you. The next you’re pulling away. Saying you’re busy when you’re not. Laughing at things that aren’t funny just so you don’t have to engage. I’m not stupid.”
“Never said you were.”
“Then what is it?” His voice dropped, raw. “You don’t wanna be around me anymore? Did I do something? Just—say it. Don’t… drift.”
You felt suddenly, overwhelmingly sober.
“It’s not you,” you said automatically.
He let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, okay. Cool. Love that line.”
Anger flared, mostly at yourself, but he was standing in front of you, so it hit him first. “What do you want from me, Lando? I’m here, aren’t I? I flew halfway across the world to be here. I’m at your races, your stupid streams, your… your taco crusades—”
“This isn’t about tacos!”
“Everything about you is about tacos at some point.”
“Don’t do that.” His jaw clenched. “Don’t joke your way out of this.”
“Maybe I don’t want to have this conversation in the middle of a fucking sidewalk,” you snapped.
“Then come back to the hotel,” he shot back. “Talk there. Unless you’re gonna magically remember some very important thing you need to do instead.”
You stared at him. The space between you hummed, strung tight with years of jokes and late-night calls and almosts you’d smoothed over with sarcasm.
Your throat felt dry. “Fine,” you said. “Hotel.”
The ride back was quiet. Max and the others took another car, leaving you and Lando in the backseat of a ride-share, the city slipping by outside. He stared out the window; you stared at your hands.
Back at the hotel, you followed him up to his room, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the distant sounds of the hallway. The room smelled like his body wash and something faintly chemical from the hotel cleaning products.
He turned to face you, back to the door. “Okay,” he said. “We’re not on a sidewalk anymore. Talk.”
You wanted to sit. You wanted to pace. You did neither.
“You’re my friend,” you said, because it seemed like the safest place to start.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I’m aware.”
“And I… I don’t want to mess that up.”
He frowned. “You’re doing a shit job of that lately.”
“I know.” You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, then opened them again. “Look, I’m not… good at this.”
“This what?”
“Feelings,” you said, the word tasting like a foreign language. “Talking about them. Having them. It’s easier to just… not.”
“Too late,” he said quietly.
You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and expectant. He watched you like you were a puzzle he was finally sick of pretending he didn’t care about solving.
“Do you want me to say it for you?” he asked suddenly.
Your heartbeat stuttered. “Say what?”
He stepped closer, eyes locked on yours. “That you like me. More than you should. That suddenly every stupid little thing is complicated because now you can’t tell if you’re laughing because it’s funny or because it’s him saying it. That you hate how much you like it when I text you first. That you don’t know what to do with the fact that I’m in your life more than anyone else now.”
Your breath caught. “You’re very cocky for someone who might be projecting.”
He huffed out a laugh, but it was frayed at the edges. “I’m not projecting.”
“Oh, so you just routinely rehearse dramatic monologues about hypothetical girls who hypothetically like you?”
“Yes,” he said, and there was a wild, reckless honesty in his eyes now. “Yes, actually. Because I’ve been going insane trying to figure out what the hell is going on with you, and then tonight you look at me like that on the dance floor and I—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t keep doing the ‘just friends’ thing if you’re gonna look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the only fucking thing in the room.”
The confession hung there, fragile and huge.
You swallowed hard. “Maybe you should’ve said something sooner,” you muttered.
“Yeah, well. Maybe you shouldn’t have spent months pretending nothing was wrong.”
“Sorry I didn’t schedule my emotional crisis around your race calendar.”
He laughed, disbelieving and a little desperate. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“Yeah?” He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of green in his eyes. “And you’re still not denying it.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Every sarcastic deflection you’d relied on for years suddenly felt brittle.
“Fine,” you said quietly. “You want the truth? There. You have it. You’re my friend, and somewhere along the way my brain decided that you are hot and that our friendship wasn’t enough anymore and now everything is fucking ruined because I can’t be normal about you.”
His expression shifted—something like relief, something like terror.
“Ruined?” he repeated.
You flailed a hand between you. “Yeah. This. Us. Whatever this is. Because now I can’t just hang out and watch you be charming with everyone else without wanting to punch something. And I get stupidly jealous over people who have an actual right to be jealous, and I hate it. I hate being that person.”
He stared at you, and then did the last thing you expected.
He laughed. Softly at first, then harder when you glared. It wasn’t mocking—it sounded like something inside him finally snapping into place.
“Why are you laughing?” you demanded.
“Because,” he said, stepping close enough that you had to tilt your head back to see him properly, “you’re an idiot. And so am I.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“I’ve been losing my mind over you for months,” he said simply. “Trying to decide if I was imagining it. If I was the only one who… whatever this is. Trying not to fuck it up. You think I invite just anyone into this?” He gestured vaguely around the room, but you understood he meant more than the hotel, more than the paddock. “Into my whole life? You think I send voice notes at 3AM to every friend I have?”
“I mean, you’re pretty chaotic.”
“Shut up,” he said, but there was no heat in it.
Your heart was hammering so hard you felt it in your throat. “So what, you like me too and now everything’s magically fine?”
“No,” he said. “Now everything’s scary as shit. But it’s not ruined. Not unless we let it be.”
You stared at him. The room felt very small, like the air had thickened.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” you said, because your brain still clung to sarcasm like a life raft.
He rolled his eyes, then cupped your jaw in his hand, fingers warm against your skin. He paused, giving you a beat to pull away.
You didn’t.
“Specific enough?” he murmured.
“Getting there,” you said, breathless.
He kissed you.
It wasn’t perfect — your teeth bumped, your noses nearly collided, and you almost laughed into his mouth from sheer nerves and adrenaline that made your fingers tremble. But then his other hand slid with slow certainty to your hip, warm and grounding, pulling you closer until there was no air or thought left between you. Your hands fisted in the front of his t‑shirt like you were afraid he’d slip away if you didn’t hold on, the cotton soft and wrinkled beneath your fingers. The kiss deepened, steadied — hesitant turning hungry, awkward turning real — and everything else dropped away like the world had flickered to black, leaving only the press of his mouth and the sound of your unsteady breaths tangled together in the dim hotel room.
You’d imagined kissing him. Of course you had. Your brain had done a whole series of humiliating what-if scenarios while you tried to fall asleep. None of them had felt like this. Like relief and panic and something bright going off behind your ribs all at once.
When you finally broke apart, foreheads touching, both of you breathing harder, he laughed softly.
“Fuck,” he said.
“Yeah,” you agreed.
“This is… probably a bad idea,” he said, voice roughened.
“Probably,” you echoed.
He searched your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, as if he wasn’t sure you were real. “Do you want to stop?”
You thought about everything you were risking. The friendship. The easy comfort. The streams and the jokes and the way your life had slotted itself partially into his. You thought about going back to pretending. About hearing his voice through your phone speaker, knowing what his mouth felt like now and not being able to say anything.
“No,” you said.
“Good,” he breathed, kissing you again.
What happened after that didn’t blur this time — it unfolded slowly, sharply, like every second wanted to be remembered. The gentle thud of your back meeting the mattress sent a breathless laugh out of you, cut off when his mouth found the line of your jaw, warm and a little clumsy in the best way. Fingers traced your waist, unsure for half a heartbeat before confidence slid into place, palms traveling beneath fabric with deliberate, dizzying purpose. Your name left his lips in a low, reverent murmur against your skin, like he was testing how it felt shaped in heat and breath instead of casual conversation.
He teased you for still wearing socks — awful, mismatched ones — and you shoved at his shoulder, laughing even as his hands curled at your hips, thumbs dragging slow enough to make your pulse stutter. You warned him you’d rank his performance if he wasn’t careful, give him a podium or put him dead last depending on how smug he got. He answered by nipping lightly at your collarbone, not enough to hurt, just enough to pull a gasp out of you before he soothed the spot with a kiss that left your thoughts unraveling.
There was nothing rushed, nothing hidden in shadow or blur — just two people figuring each other out with touch and sound and breath, messy and sweet and impossibly real.
You didn’t keep score. You just let go.
You woke to pale sunlight leaking through the gaps in the curtains, your head fuzzy, body pleasantly sore in ways that made heat crawl up your cheeks even in the empty room. The sheets smelled like him and hotel detergent. You rolled over, stretching, and that’s when you saw it.
A constellation of dark marks bloomed across your neck and collarbone, some already fading purple, others angry red. You blinked, propped yourself up on one elbow, and stared at your reflection in the mirror opposite the bed.
You looked like you’d lost a fight with a particularly territorial vacuum.
For a second, all you could do was gape at yourself. Then indignation crashed over you, slicing clean through the fog of sleep.
“Oh, he’s dead,” you muttered.
Lando was asleep, sprawled on his stomach beside you, face smashed into his pillow, one arm flung out like he’d passed out mid-dive. His hair stuck up in ridiculous angles, and the sheet had slipped low enough on his hips that you had to look away before your brain fried.
“Unbelievable,” you whispered, poking his shoulder.
He made a noise that could generously be described as human.
“Lando.” You poked harder.
“Mmmph.”
“Wake up, you absolute menace.”
He groaned, burying his face deeper. “Five minutes.”
“I’ll give you five minutes to say goodbye to your life.”
That got one eye to crack open, hazel and bleary. “Why are you threatening me at—” He squinted at the clock. “—nine-forty in the morning?”
“Because I’ve seen a crime scene,” you said.
He blinked. “What?”
You huffed, yanked the sheet up just enough to wrap it around yourself, and stalked over to the mirror. You turned, tilting your head to expose the full, horrifying extent of the damage.
Lando’s reflection appeared behind you in the mirror, still sitting on the bed, hair a disaster, sheet slung low on his hips. His eyes traveled up from your bare shoulders to your neck.
You watched the exact moment realization hit. His mouth dropped open.
“Oh,” he said.
“Oh?” you repeated, incredulous. “*Oh?* That’s what you’re going with?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish and half‑grinning like he knew he was guilty as charged. “I mean — it’s an accurate reaction?”
You stared. “Lando. I look like an orchard of plums.”
He crawled to the edge of the bed, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, voice still rough with sleep. “They look kinda cute…”
“They look like a crime,” you corrected, pointing aggressively at your reflection. “Multiple crimes. Felonies.”
He snorted — actually snorted — then leaned back on his elbows, giving you that lazy half‑smirk that always made your stomach flip. “What can I say? I got carried away.”
“You got possessed.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay — I went overboard. But you didn’t complain last night.”
Heat shot straight to your face. “That’s not relevant to this discussion.”
“It’s extremely relevant.”
You threw a second pillow at his head. He caught it this time, laughing, but the sound softened as his gaze drifted back to your neck — not amused, but thoughtful.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I just… I wanted you close. I think I needed to prove to myself you weren’t going to change your mind in the morning.”
The humor stilled in your chest.
You turned back to the mirror, voice gentler when it came. “I’m not going anywhere, Lan.”
You felt him move before you saw him — warm hands sliding around your waist, chin dipping to rest near your shoulder. You watched the two of you reflected back: messy hair, rumpled sheets, bruised skin, tangled hearts.
It felt terrifying. It felt good.
You lifted your phone and snapped a photo — half to show him the evidence later, half because some stupid part of you wanted to remember the chaos of right now.
He groaned. “Don’t send that to Max.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely sending this to Max.”
“Please don’t give him ammunition.”
You grinned. “Too late.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder — slow, careful, like he was learning restraint. “You said you’re not going anywhere.”
“And you’re not getting rid of me,” you confirmed.
He turned you gently to face him, hands still at your hips. “Good. Because I meant everything I said last night. If we’re doing this… I want to do it. Not halfway. Not friends‑with‑benefits‑if‑the-mood-is-right.”
“You want the full thing,” you murmured.
He nodded. “Yeah. Even if I suck at communication sometimes. Even if we fight. Even if Max makes it unbearable.”
You laughed, chest tight and stupidly warm. “I think we can handle it.”
He kissed you again — slow, deliberate, nothing like last night’s frantic collision — and you let yourself melt into it.
Because this was real. And it was happening.
Getting ready for the paddock should’ve taken twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if you wanted eyeliner sharp enough to kill. Instead, you spent a full hour in front of the bathroom mirror, armed with concealer, foundation, color corrector, and the simmering rage of a girlfriend who woke up looking like an abandoned fruit stand.
Lando, of course, was no help whatsoever.
He leaned in the doorway wearing nothing but sweatpants and the kind of smug expression only men with zero skin‑related consequences possessed. "You’re being dramatic."
You pointed your makeup sponge at him like a weapon. "I’m being visible. I can’t walk into the paddock looking like I got mauled by a Dyson."
He choked on a laugh — actually choked — hand over his mouth like he was trying to be supportive and failing spectacularly. "I think you look gorgeous. Fresh. Vibrantly purple."
"Say purple again and I’m using your face as a foundation palette."
He held up his hands. "Okay — you look… majestic. Like royalty. Regal. Grapelike."
You threw a makeup brush. He dodged, laughing. "See! Violence won’t solve this!"
"Neither will your existence," you muttered, aggressively tapping concealer into your neck.
You tried three different products. You tried blending. Powder. Setting spray. Prayer.
Every layer helped — and yet somehow didn’t. The biggest one still peeked out just above your collarbone like it was waving to the world. A bright purple hi yes hello we had sex stamp.
Lando walked in behind you again, resting his chin on your shoulder, voice low and infuriatingly smug. "It’s kinda hot."
"It’s a hate crime, Norris."
He smiled in the mirror. "Okay but — looks like someone had a good night though?"
You glared. "I am minutes away from writing ‘Property of Y/N L/N’ on your forehead in Sharpie just to even the score."
He blinked. "You wouldn’t."
You smiled sweetly at your reflection. "Watch me."
He stepped back, laughing — that warm, real laugh that cracked your annoyance clean in half. He watched you finish your makeup, occasionally handing you things even though you didn’t ask and always the wrong product.
At one point he passed you bronzer instead of setting spray. "Here."
"That is not even in the same solar system of helpful."
You eventually got it — the hickeys faded under a heroic amount of product. Not gone, but passable. If nobody looked too long. Or breathed near you. Or existed.
You pulled on one of Lando’s hoodies, tugging the collar high. "If anyone asks, I got attacked by a rogue octopus."
He leaned in, pressing one last kiss to your cheek — painfully gentle, like he was afraid to mark you again. "You look perfect. And you’re still mine."
You shoved him lightly in the chest. "You’re lucky you’re cute."
"I know," he said, shameless.
You swore you were going to be chill.
You promised him you could do subtle.
And then, three hours later, you walked into the paddock — hair brushed, hoodie borrowed from him, neck mostly‑but‑not‑really concealed — and immediately ran into a swarm of McLaren media staff.
One girl, Lucy, took one look at you and froze.
Her eyes flicked from your face to the collar of your hoodie to the smudge of lavender concealer half‑failing to hide the hickey creeping above the edge.
You could see the pixels forming above her head.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh.”
You plastered on your most innocent smile — which, given your neck, was about as convincing as Lando claiming he definitely didn’t touch the brake mid‑corner. “Morning! Great weather, right?”
Lucy’s eyebrows rose like a safety car had just been deployed. “Sweetheart… did you sleep? Or… did you not sleep?”
You opened your mouth. No words came out. Your brain rolled over and died.
Lando, the traitor, chose that exact moment to stroll up beside you sipping an iced latte like the embodiment of smug post‑race interviews.
He took one look at Lucy’s expression. Another at your still slightly violet neck. Then he grinned.
Grinned.
Lucy’s gasp was practically audible in three different languages.
“OH.” This time it was capitalised.
You elbowed Lando in the ribs with zero mercy. He barely reacted — just sipped his coffee, eyes sparkling like the menace he was.
“Morning,” he said casually, voice warm enough to melt carbon fibre. “Nice day, huh?”
Lucy looked between you two like she was watching a live‑action fanfiction. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know what I know. For professional reasons. But just so we’re clear — I know.”
You groaned. Lando laughed. You fought the urge to bite him.
The deeper you walked into the paddock, the worse it got. People didn’t say anything — but oh, did they look.
Mechanics gave lingering glances, PR staff raised brows, and some Ferrari engineer winked.
And then, like destiny hated peace, Max Fewtrell appeared. Like a summoned demon.
He spotted you and froze. Then his eyes dropped to your neckline. Then to Lando. Then back to you.
Slowly. Grinning. Like the bastard he is.
“Ohhhh my GOD,” he said, voice already too loud. “You two finally stopped being idiots? About time!”
You buried your face in your hands. “Max, lower your voice or I will put you in a tire blanket.”
He beamed. “Worth it. Absolutely worth it.”
Lando whacked him lightly with the back of his hand, muttering something about privacy and boundaries, but Max was already typing at light‑speed.
You lunged. Too late.
Max sent a message. A group chat message. The worst possible group chat.
BREAKING NEWS: NORRIS IS NO LONGER CELIBATE
You shrieked. Lando choked. Your phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.
Carlos: holy shit took you long enough
George: congrats mate — hope the aero was stableAlex: can we get a debrief slide deck?Daniel: PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN 😎
Lando covered his face. You threatened murder. Max looked proud.
“No one is allowed to speak to me ever again,” you muttered.
Lando leaned closer — conspiratorial, smug, fond. “You started this when you agreed to date me, you know.”
You blinked up at him. “I did, didn’t I?”
His smile softened. He brushed a thumb over your cheek, low and private — a moment just for you, even in the chaos.
“You did,” he murmured. “And you’re stuck with me now.”
You nudged him, teasing to hide the warmth in your chest. “Lucky you. I’m a menace.”
He grinned like it was his favourite thing about you.
You meet him on a day that already feels too loud.
Silverstone is all steel and wind and engines screaming like they’re trying to tear the sky in half. You’re there on a work pass—data, spreadsheets, simulations, numbers that make sense even when people don’t. The paddock is crowded with fast-walking, fast-talking people, and your shoulders are tight, waiting for someone to snap because you’re in the wrong place, standing the wrong way, breathing too loudly.
“Sorry—whoa, sorry, my bad!”
The voice comes with a body that nearly collides with you, the faint scent of cologne and burnt rubber and something sugary, like candy.
You jerk back, whole body tensing before you can stop it. Your hand flies up in front of your face, bracing. His eyes widen, and he freezes like you’ve slapped him instead.
“Shit, I didn’t see you. Are you okay?” he asks, instantly softer.
His cap is backwards, curls trying to escape from underneath. The lanyard around his neck says NORRIS, L. The smile hovering around his mouth is nervous now, dimples half-formed, held back by concern.
“I’m fine,” you say, too quickly. “You’re fine. I mean—I’m fine. Sorry.”
His gaze flicks down, then up again, taking you in with quick, flickering attention that somehow doesn’t feel like assessment. More like curiosity. “I should be the one apologizing. I was basically speed-running through the paddock.”
He shifts his weight as if he’s resisting the urge to fidget. “You, uh, work here?”
“Yeah. Data.”
“No way,” he brightens, already stepping back to give you space. You notice that immediately—he moves away, not closer. “I’m Lando.”
“I know,” you say, then flush. “I mean—you’ve got your name. On your…everything.” You gesture at his suit, his lanyard, the huge picture of his face not twenty meters away.
He laughs, and it’s loud. Big and uncontained and delighted.
Your body reacts before your brain does. Your shoulders jump, your throat tightens, and you feel your muscles coil like they’re waiting for impact.
His laugh cuts off like someone hit mute.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”
You nod. You lie. “It’s just noisy today.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes still searching your face. “Yeah, it really is.”
He doesn’t push. Just tips his head, gives you a small, genuine smile, and says, “Well, maybe I’ll see you around, Data Girl.”
You almost don’t come to the garage that afternoon. But your job requires it, and anyway, you remind yourself, it’s just work. Just numbers. Numbers don’t shout. Numbers don’t slam doors.
From the corner of the garage, you feel him before you see him. The energy, the motion, the easy way he laughs with the crew. When you do glance up, his eyes find you almost instantly.
He grins. Full wattage, all dimples.
He raises a hand. Waves.
It’s such a small thing. But nobody has ever looked that happy to see you from across a room.
You raise your hand back, tentative.
His smile somehow gets brighter.
After that, it’s a collection of small collisions that never quite turn into crashes.
A coffee run where he insists on carrying both cups and almost trips over a cable.
A debrief where he leans over your laptop and says, “You’re the one making me fast,” like it’s an obvious fact, not a compliment you’ll replay for days.
A rainy Thursday where he finds you hiding in a quiet corner of the hospitality unit and puts his hoodie around your shoulders without comment, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He asks for your number like he’s asking if you want fries with your order. Casual, easy, no big deal.
“If you ever want to send me memes,” he says. “Or, y’know, tire data. Whatever you’re into.”
You stare at him. “You want me to text you…tyre temperatures?”
He shrugs, smiling. “I like knowing what makes me spin.”
“You mean what keeps you from spinning,” you correct automatically.
He points at you, delighted. “Exactly. See? We’re already a team.”
You don’t mean to text him that night.
You do it anyway.
He replies in three minutes.
From there, he becomes a constant: popping up in your notifications, your working days, the quiet spaces in your head you didn’t realize were empty until his voice fills them.
You don’t call it dating for a while.
He does.
“I’m picking you up Friday,” he says one afternoon, leaning on your desk. “And before you say it, yes, it’s a date. You can’t stop me.”
Your heart stutters.
You don’t stop him.
The first time he reaches for you, you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the couch.
It’s nothing, really. You’re at his place, Netflix asking if you’re still watching like it’s judging you personally. Lando’s bare feet are propped on the coffee table, and he’s narrating the movie with the kind of enthusiasm that should be annoying but isn’t, because it’s him, and somehow that makes it adorable.
He shifts, reaching across you for the bowl of popcorn.
Your body remembers other hands in your space, other reaches that weren’t about snacks.
You jerk back, breath catching, vision blurring at the edges for one awful, dizzy second.
The bowl nearly tips. Popcorn spills.
“Hey, hey,” he says immediately, pulling his hand back like he’s the one who got burned. His eyes are wide, voice low. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I should’ve—sorry. Are you—can I…?”
He’s stumbling over his words, and that’s what anchors you: Lando, who never shuts up, suddenly tripping over apologies.
You touch your own chest, feel the rapid thud of your heartbeat. In. Out. You’ve practiced this. You know what to do when the past tries to sit on your lungs.
“I’m okay,” you say, voice thin. “You just…moved fast. I didn’t see.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He nods, almost like he’s taking mental notes. “No more ninja popcorn moves. Got it.”
His attempt at humor is clumsy, but he’s trying. You cling to that.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, because that’s the script you know. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
His head snaps up. “Weird? You didn’t make it weird.”
He shifts, deliberately slow now, bringing his hands up where you can see them, fingers spread in surrender. “Look, I…sometimes I forget I move like an overcaffeinated squirrel. That’s on me. Not you.”
You look at him—really look.
He’s still sitting back, giving you space, letting you decide the distance.
“Can I sit closer?” he asks. “Or do you want more room? Either’s okay. Just tell me.”
Your throat tightens. No one has ever phrased it like that: your choice, your terms.
“Closer,” you say. Your voice wobbles, but you say it.
His shoulders loosen. Slowly, carefully, he shifts, closing the gap by inches, not centimeters. Every movement is deliberate, announced.
“Hand,” he says softly, holding his out halfway between you.
You stare.
“If you want it,” he adds. “If not, totally fine. My hand is used to rejection. Look at it, all lonely and single.”
You huff out a startled laugh, the tension cracking just enough for air to get in.
You place your hand in his.
His palm is warm and slightly clammy, like he’s nervous. The thought makes something in your chest ache.
He squeezes once. “Tell me if you ever need me to stop. Anything. I mean it.”
You nod, words stuck behind a dam of old fear.
He doesn’t push.
He just sits there, thumb brushing lazy circles over the back of your hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to hold you like you’re something fragile and precious instead of something that’s been dropped too many times.
The first time you hear him shout, you’re alone in his living room.
He’s down the hall in his streaming room, door cracked open. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, half-reading, half-listening to the muffled rhythm of his voice.
You’ve seen the streams, of course. You know what he’s like on camera: loud and golden and ridiculous, all big reactions and bigger laughter. It’s part of why people love him.
You’re not prepared for how your body reacts when he yells.
It’s just a game moment, you know that logically. He loses some online race, and his voice spikes, sharp and frustrated.
“NOOO—what the—are you serious?!”
The sound is a whipcrack in your chest.
Your vision tunnels. The book drops from your hands. Your heart is suddenly everywhere—throat, ears, temples, hammering loud enough to drown out the stream.
You’re back in a different room with a different voice that got louder and louder until things broke. Until you did.
“Hey, sorry, sorry—”
You don’t realize he’s there until the couch dips. He’s dropped into a crouch in front of you, headset hanging around his neck, eyes blown wide with worry.
“I didn’t think—shit.” He presses his lips together, frustration turned inward. “I got loud. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Your hands are shaking. You tuck them under your thighs so he won’t see.
“It’s fine,” you manage. “I know you’re just streaming. It’s stupid. I’m being—”
“Don’t.” His voice is firm, but not sharp. Never sharp with you. “Don’t call yourself stupid. Not for this. Not for anything, but especially not for this.”
You swallow, the room tilting slightly as your brain tries to reconcile his open, earnest face with the reflexive terror squeezing your ribs.
“It’s just noise,” you say. “I should be used to noise.”
He goes very still. His fingers curl against his knees, like he wants to reach for you and is holding himself back.
“‘Should’ is a nasty word,” he says quietly. “Says who?”
You look away. “Just…people.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Well, those people suck.”
A startled breath escapes you, halfway to a laugh.
“Listen,” he continues, and there’s something gentle but steady in his tone, like he’s bracing for a long race. “My job is…loud. I’m loud. I’m not going to pretend I’ll never shout at a game or yell on track. I can’t promise that. But I can promise I will never yell at you. Not like that. Not in that way.”
You stare at your hands. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, without hesitation. “Because I get to decide the person I’m gonna be. Just like you get to decide what you can and can’t handle. If this,” he gestures toward the hallway, “is too much, we change it.”
“How?” you ask, small and wondering. No one has ever offered to change the world around you. You’ve always been the one expected to bend.
“I’ll close the door. Put on headphones. Lower my mic sensitivity. Tell chat to hold me accountable. We’ll figure it out.” His eyes search yours. “You matter more than content.”
Your throat burns.
He hesitates, then adds, “And…if you ever want to talk about why this stuff hits you like that, I’ll listen. No pressure. No timeline. Just…doors open.”
You want to tell him about slammed cupboards and accusations and how love used to come with conditions you could never quite meet. You want to explain how your body learned to anticipate impact like it was inevitable.
You can’t. Not yet.
You nod instead.
He accepts that like it’s enough.
“Okay,” he says. “For now, I’ll do this.”
He reaches gently behind him, picks up the hoodie you dropped, and sets it back in your lap. “I’m gonna go turn the volume down and the door…up.”
You blink. “The door up?”
“Closed,” he corrects with a small grin. “Shut. Whatever. Words are hard when I’ve emotionally traumatized my girlfriend with Mario Kart.”
You huff out a wet laugh.
“You didn’t,” you say.
His expression softens at the word girlfriend. Like it’s something he’s been wanting to hear.
“I’ll be back in ten,” he promises. “With tea. And a non-traumatizing voice.”
He isn’t perfect. But he tries.
You decide that might be better than perfect, anyway.
Time doesn’t heal everything. But it does give you repetition, and repetition becomes proof.
You start to learn the patterns of him.
Lando knocks before he enters any room you’re in, even his own bedroom.
He warns you when he’s about to raise his voice on stream. “Volume spike incoming!” he calls out, like a weather announcement, and gives you time to grab your headphones, or retreat, or stay. Your choice.
He narrates his movements around you at first, half-joking, half-serious.
“Coming in for a hug,” he’ll say, arms open, waiting for your nod.
“Gonna kiss you now, unless you object.”
“I am about to tickle you, so you have exactly three seconds to prepare your counterattack.”
You roll your eyes, tell him he’s ridiculous.
Your body relaxes anyway.
In return, you learn new phrases too.
“Can you slow down?” you ask on a day when his words start to trip over each other and your heart starts to climb.
“Can we pause?” when a joke lands too close to an old bruise.
“I need a minute,” when the world presses up against old scars and you can’t breathe.
Every time, without fail, he stops. Backs off. Checks in.
“Got you,” he says. “Minute granted.”
And slowly—so slowly you barely notice at first—you start flinching less.
Not never. But less.
It happens in his kitchen at the end of a very long day.
You know the signs when Lando’s exhausted. He slouches more, jokes less. His smile gets thinner, tighter, like it’s having to hold back the weight of everything he carries.
This day has been worse than most. A DNF after a mechanical failure that wasn’t his fault but still sits in his chest like lead. Interviews, media, debriefs. Travel. The neverending churn of eyes and expectations.
By the time you both make it back to his apartment, he looks like someone deflated him. Curls flattened by his cap, shoulders slope-angled.
“Stay over,” he says, dropping his bag by the door. “Please.”
You do. Of course you do.
You try to help. You move through his kitchen, finding ingredients, chopping vegetables. It’s quiet, just the hum of the fridge and clink of knife on wood.
“I can do that,” he says, voice flat.
You glance up. “It’s okay. You’ve had a long—”
“I said I can do it.”
The words hit you like a slap. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it’s sharp. Clipped.
Your chest locks. The knife slips a little, clattering too loud on the cutting board.
The room shrinks.
Here we go, your body whispers. There it is. The turn. The moment the warmth evaporates and you realize it was conditional all along.
You step back, palms going sweaty. “Sorry. I was just trying to help.”
“It’s not—” He drags a hand over his face, jaw tight. “Never mind.”
He reaches for the knife.
Instinct screams, Move.
You stumble back a full two steps, hands lifting defensively before you can stop them. Your heart is beating so hard you feel a little nauseous. The edges of the room go soft.
Lando freezes.
He’s not looking at the vegetables or the knife. He’s looking at you—your raised hands, your wide eyes, the space you’ve put between you like he’s something dangerous.
“Oh,” he whispers.
For a long, suspended second, no one moves.
Then he sets the knife down. Slowly. Carefully. Blade turned away. Hands moving like he’s defusing a bomb.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, the words sounding like they’ve been knocked out of him. “I—I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
Your lungs feel too small. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” His voice cracks. “It’s not.”
He takes a small step back from the counter, putting space between you. His eyes are bright, like something in him is splintering.
“I heard myself,” he says, quiet and horrified. “I heard how I sounded. I’ve been pissed off all day, and I brought it home and—” He swallows hard. “I promised myself I would never do that.”
Your stomach clenches. “You didn’t—”
“I did.” He shakes his head. “I snapped. At you. And you…” His gaze flicks to your hands again, still hanging uncertainly halfway between you. “You looked at me like I was…”
Like I was someone else.
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but you hear it anyway.
You drop your hands, fingers tingling. Shame burns hot under your skin, tangled with fear and something else. Something fragile.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It spills out before you can stop it. “I overreacted. I shouldn’t—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle now, but threaded with something steely. “No. We’re not doing that.”
He takes a slow breath. Another. You can almost see him shifting gears, dialing back from fight-or-flight to something softer.
“I’m going to sit down,” he says. “At the table. Not moving closer. Not touching you. Just…sitting. Okay?”
You nod, throat tight.
He moves—deliberate, careful—as if any sudden gesture might shatter you both. He pulls a chair back and drops into it, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly.
He looks wrecked.
“I had a shit day,” he says, staring at the floor. “I’m angry. Not at you. At everything. At the car, at the universe, I don’t know. And I let it leak out in your direction. That’s on me. Fully.”
You swallow, tears burning behind your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me.”
“You were scared,” he says, voice raw. “That’s enough.”
The silence stretches.
You could lie. Tell him it was nothing, that he’s overreacting, that you’re fine.
Or you could do the thing you’re always telling yourself you’ll do when it’s safe: tell the truth.
Your voice is tiny when it finally comes. “When people got tired before…they didn’t stay nice.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush to contradict you or prove he’s different with words. He just listens, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a thousand apologies.
“They’d come home angry and I always made it worse,” you continue, the words spilling now, shaky but unstoppable. “If I did something wrong, or even if I didn’t, there’d be… consequences. So when you said you could do it and you sounded…” You gesture vaguely. “Cold. My brain just…went there.”
He lifts his head, eyes shiny. “You never made anything worse,” he says fiercely. “They did. That’s not— That’s not on you.”
Your breath stutters.
“And I am so, so sorry,” he adds. “That your brain has that file to pull from. That you’ve got all these…old scripts running. That I said anything that even brushed up against that.” He swallows. “I can’t erase that history. I know that. But I can sure as hell refuse to repeat it.”
You press your lips together, eyes overflowing now despite your best efforts.
“Don’t cry,” you mumble, to yourself more than to him.
“You’re allowed to cry,” he says. “You’re allowed to be mad at me, too.”
“Are you mad at me?” you ask, hating how small you sound.
He looks startled. Like the question is so off-base his brain takes a second to catch up.
“Mad at you?” he repeats. “No. God, no. I’m mad at me.”
He sits back, scrubbing at his face. “I think… I think we might need help with this. Not just us—like, you and someone who actually knows what they’re doing. A therapist. Or…whatever you’re comfortable calling it.”
You tense automatically. Therapy has always felt like an admission of failure. That you’re too broken to function without professional repair.
He sees your reaction and softens his tone. “Not because you’re broken,” he says quietly. “Because you deserve support. Because this shouldn’t be just you white-knuckling it every time I move too fast or talk too loud.”
He pauses, then adds, “And if you want, I can come to some sessions. Learn how to not be a walking trigger. I want to get this right.”
You stare at him. At the boy sitting in front of you, exhausted from a day that would’ve gutted anyone, still finding enough in himself to offer you more care than you’ve ever been given.
“You’re not a walking trigger,” you say.
He gives you a small, sad smile. “Sometimes I am. But I don’t want to be. That’s the point.”
The air between you feels different now. Heavy, but not in the way you’re used to. Not dangerous. Just full.
You take a step closer to the table.
He doesn’t move. Just watches you, carefully hopeful, like any sudden motion might send you bolting.
“I…” You swallow. “I’ll think about it. Therapy.”
He nods, relief loosening his shoulders. “That’s all I’m asking.”
You circle the table, fingers trailing along the edge. When you reach him, you stop.
“Can I…?” you ask, not sure how to finish the sentence.
He tilts his head. “Can you…?”
“Hug you,” you clarify, cheeks burning. “Can I hug you?”
His expression cracks open into something raw and tender.
“Yeah,” he says. “God, yeah. Always.”
You step into the space between his knees, hands hovering before you rest them on his shoulders.
He wraps his arms around your waist, slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His forehead drops against your chest, and you feel his breath shudder out.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, words muffled against your hoodie. “Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m pissed off at everything else. I’m here, and I’m safe. Okay?”
Your fingers curl into his hair. You press your face into the top of his head and breathe him in: shampoo and sweat and something undeniably Lando.
“Okay,” you whisper.
And for the first time, you believe it.
Therapy is not a montage.
It’s slow and uncomfortable and sometimes boring. But it’s also a space where you learn words for things you’ve always carried without names.
Hypervigilance. Trauma response. Nervous system.
Your therapist never says you’re overreacting. She says you’re overprotected. That your body is doing too much to keep you safe, because once, it had to.
Some weeks, you come home and crash face-first onto Lando’s couch. He brings you tea and doesn’t make jokes until you’re ready to laugh again.
Other weeks, you come home bright-eyed, filled with new metaphors that make everything click. You make him sit and listen while you explain neural pathways with spoons and traffic jams.
“Basically,” you tell him, waving your hands, “my brain took the ‘raised voice’ road and paved it straight into the ‘imminent danger’ neighborhood. We’re…repaving.”
He nods solemnly. “So I need to be better traffic control.”
“Exactly,” you say. “Maybe put up some signs.”
He sticks Post-it notes around the apartment as a joke. LITTLE LANDO, BIG VOLUME. CHECK-IN FIRST. KNOCK, DON’T SHOCK.
They make you snort every time you see them.
You work on grounding techniques. He learns them with you.
When you start to spiral, he’ll say, “Okay, give me five things you can see.”
You roll your eyes. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I paid attention, thank you very much. Five things.”
His eyes, his hands, his stupid Post-it notes. The way he looks at you like you’re the bravest person he’s ever met.
You do the work.
So does he.
It’s summer when you realize you’re not waiting for the crash anymore.
You’re at a race—Monza, maybe, or Austria. They blur together in heat and noise and the bright orange of McLaren merch.
He finishes on the podium that day. Third, champagne dripping from his hair, grin so wide you can see it from the garage.
You’re in the team crowd when he spots you. His eyes light up, like the trophy was just a warm-up and this is the real prize.
Later, after interviews and meetings and the endless swirl of obligations, he finds you behind the hospitality unit. It’s quieter there, just the hum of generators and muffled crowd noise.
He doesn’t run to you. He jogs, then slows for the last few steps, as if his feet know what his brain decided months ago—no surprises.
“You were so fast,” you say, heart still pounding from the race.
He snorts. “Tell that to Max.”
“I don’t care about Max,” you say, which is a lie, but a kind one. “You drove your ass off.”
“Language,” he says, mock-scandalized. “The youth are listening.”
You roll your eyes. “You are the youth.”
He grins, then sobers, studying you. “You okay?”
You know what he’s really asking: was it too much? The noise, the crowd, the chaos? Are you here with me, or stuck somewhere else?
“I’m okay,” you say truthfully. “It was loud. But…good loud.”
He beams.
“Come here,” he says, opening his arms.
You step into them without hesitation.
His suit is sweaty and damp, but you don’t care. You tuck yourself under his chin, feel his heart beating fast against your chest.
“I’m proud of you,” you murmur.
“I’m proud of you,” he counters. “Do you know how badass you are? Few years ago, you couldn’t even stand in the garage without shaking, and now you’re out there in the middle of fans and fireworks and everything.”
You hadn’t noticed, not in concrete terms. You’d just…gone.
“You were there,” you shrug.
He pulls back enough to look at you. “Yeah. I was. And I’m gonna keep being there.”
The fireworks start right then, because life has a flair for dramatics.
The first one cracks the sky open—loud, bright, sudden. A sharp sound that once would’ve sent you straight into the ground, hands over your head, heart galloping.
Your body still reacts. There’s a flinch, a spike of adrenaline, muscles tightening for a fight that isn’t coming.
But then there are Lando’s arms around you, firm and steady. His breath warm against your hair. His voice low by your ear.
“Fireworks,” he says, naming it. “Just fireworks. We’re okay.”
You ground yourself.
Three things you can feel: his suit under your fingers, the slight tremor of his laughter when another boom startles him too, the solid, warm weight of his hand splayed across your back.
Three things you can hear: the distant roar of the crowd, the pop of color in the sky, his heartbeat—slower now—against your cheek.
You breathe.
Your body unwinds.
The next explosion still makes you jump, but you don’t mistake it for danger. Not this time.
You lean back to look at him. His hair is a mess, champagne-sticky, face smudged, eyes soft in a way you’re still getting used to.
“What?” he asks, smiling.
“I’m not scared of you,” you say.
It’s not the first time you’ve felt that. But it’s the first time you say it out loud, and you feel something inside you shift as the words land between you.
Something unclenches in his expression. His throat bobs.
“Good,” he says, voice rough. “That’s good. ‘Cause I’d rather die than be someone you’re scared of.”
“Don’t say things like that,” you scold automatically, but your eyes sting.
He brushes his thumb under your eye, catching the tear before it falls. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Braver than any driver on that grid.”
“I’m literally just standing here,” you sniff.
“Exactly,” he says. “And that’s the bravest part.”
Another firework blooms overhead, painting the world in gold.
You stand there wrapped in his arms, and for the first time, the loudest thing you hear isn’t your fear.
It’s your heart, steady and sure.
The years that follow aren’t a straight line.
There are setbacks. A slammed door in a hotel hallway that makes you drop your bag. A commentator’s shout on TV that sends you into the bathroom to steady your breathing. An argument with Lando where he gets frustrated and then immediately walks it back, talking through it with the dogged intensity he usually reserves for tough corners.
You still flinch sometimes.
He still forgets himself sometimes.
But there’s a baseline now. A foundation built on conversations that would’ve once felt impossible.
He makes you a Spotify playlist titled “Calm Down, My Love,” full of soft songs and stupid audio clips of him saying things like, “Hey, you’re okay,” and “Drink water, you gremlin,” and “Proud of you, always.”
You, in a fit of chaotic romance, put a Post-it note on his sim rig: REMEMBER: SHE LOVES YOU EVEN WHEN YOU PUNT IT INTO TURN 1.
It’s a Tuesday when you realize the loudest thing in your world is laughter.
You’re in his living room, curled up on the big couch he insisted on buying because “We need space to dramatically sprawl.” The dog—because of course there is a dog now, a rescue with nervous eyes who loves you both with desperate intensity—is snoring at your feet.
Lando is at his gaming setup in the corner, monitors glowing in the dim light. He’s live, headset on, voice carrying easily across the room.
“Chat, be nice,” he’s saying. “My girlfriend’s in earshot, and I’m trying to convince her I’m mature and mysterious.”
You snort. Loudly.
He spins his chair halfway around, eyes crinkling. “See? She doesn’t believe me either.”
You roll your eyes and toss a cushion at him. He catches it one-handed, delight flashing across his face.
“Violence!” he declares into his mic. “Unprovoked violence!”
You raise a brow. “Do you need me to leave? I can—”
He sobers instantly, smile softening. “Nah,” he says. “You’re good. No screaming today. Just chill races. Promise.”
It’s automatic, the way he checks in now. Not careful like he’s walking on eggshells, but considerate. Woven into him.
You consider, checking in with yourself. The lights are low. The volume’s manageable. The dog is a comforting weight.
“I’ll stay,” you decide.
His grin could light the whole building. “You heard that, chat? She likes us.”
“Don’t push it,” you warn.
He laughs, turning back to his game.
You watch him for a while. The concentration furrowing his brows, the way his hands move over the wheel, smooth and precise. The way his mouth curves when he’s about to say something stupid but funny.
“Okay, big move coming up,” he tells chat. “If I nail this, you all have to spam hearts for my girlfriend, ‘cause she deals with this chaos in person daily.”
He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes shining with mischief and something much deeper.
“Ready, love?” he asks.
You nod, smiling. “Ready.”
He counts down—“Three, two, one”—before making the overtake and yelling triumphantly. It’s loud, but you’ve had warning, and excitement crackles through his shout more than anything else.
Your body tenses, then relaxes.
Your brain doesn’t go to old places anymore when he gets loud. It goes here: to this living room, this moment, this boy who learned to announce his thunder so you’d never mistake it for a storm.
He spins his chair fully around this time, shoving the headphones down around his neck.
“Did you see that?” he demands, eyes bright.
“I did.” You nod. “Very impressive. Have you thought about doing this professionally?”
He gasps. “Chat, did you hear that disrespect?”
You smirk. “You love it.”
He crosses the room in a few quick strides—still fast, but you’ve had time to see it coming. Time to feel the anticipation instead of fear.
“Coming in for a kiss,” he says, the old familiar phrase now more habit than necessity.
You tilt your chin up. “Permission granted.”
His mouth is soft and sure against yours, just this side of giddy. You kiss him back, feeling the smile he can’t contain.
Someone on stream yells his name through your speakers. You both break into laughter.
“You’re live,” you remind him, breathless.
He groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “They’ve seen worse.”
“Have they?”
He pulls back, eyes dancing. “I did cry on stream once when you told me you booked your own therapy appointment.”
You flush. “You did not.”
“Did so,” he insists. “Big baby tears. Full chat meltdown. They love you almost as much as I do.”
You roll your eyes, but warmth pools in your chest.
He brushes a thumb over your cheek. “You know that, right?”
“That chat loves me?” you tease.
“That I do,” he says quietly.
You swallow, all joking dissolving under the weight of his gaze.
“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”
The thing is: you believe it. Not because he says it often (he does), but because of the thousand small ways he’s proven it over the years.
In the lowered volume and the counted-down movements. In the unlearning he’s done right alongside you. In the way he never tries to fix you, just holds your hand while you do the work.
You lean your forehead against his. “I love you too,” you say.
He hums, satisfied, then straightens.
“Okay, I have to go tell a bunch of strangers on the internet that I’m cracked at sim racing,” he announces. “You staying?”
You glance at the dog, at the cozy living room, at him.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m staying.”
He squeezes your hand once, then returns to his rig, sliding the headset back on.
“Chat,” he says, settling in. “Good news: my girlfriend thinks I’m cool.”
From the couch, you call, “I said no such thing!”
He laughs, that big, bright sound that once made your body brace for impact.
Now, it just makes you smile.
You pull a blanket over your legs, the dog shifting to press closer. On the screen, his avatar hurtles down virtual straights. In the room, his voice fills the space—loud and soft and everything in between.
And your heart, once trained to flinch at every sharp noise, beats steady in your chest.
Not because the world got quieter.
Because you did the work.
Because he met you there.
Because somewhere between flinches and fireworks, loud laughter became home.
The storm doesn’t announce itself.
It builds slowly—little shifts in your breathing, small stutters in your sleep, the subtle way your shoulders inch higher each morning, like they’re bracing for old echoes.
It isn’t triggered by anything dramatic. Not a slammed door. Not a raised voice. Just life.
A stressful week at work. A miscommunication with your therapist. A night alone when Lando’s away for a race, and silence presses against you like a weight.
By the time the next morning comes, your body’s dial has quietly twisted itself back toward Survival Mode.
You don’t notice it at first. But he does.
You’re in the kitchen, making tea. The kettle clicks off. Steam rises. Your hands tremble.
Lando wanders in, bleary-eyed, hair a mess, wearing a t-shirt that has somehow slid off one shoulder in a way he’d deny was intentional.
“Morning, love,” he says, voice honey-sweet.
You flinch. A small one—barely a twitch. But he sees it.
“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” You busy yourself with mugs, pretending not to know.
He steps closer—slowly, always slowly—until he’s at your side. A warm presence. A safe one.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs.
Your throat tightens. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t make your shoulders reach your ears.” He brushes a curl from your cheek. “Or make you jump when I say good morning.”
You close your eyes.
“It’s just…back,” you whisper. “That tight feeling. The…waiting-for-something feeling.”
He nods. He doesn’t rush in with reassurance or solutions. He just leans against the counter, next to you, letting the morning light spill across both your hands.
“Okay,” he says. “We deal with it together.”
Nothing catastrophic happens.
Just a series of small things:
Your therapist cancels.
Your work emails pile up.
Your mother sends a text you don’t open but see anyway.
A neighbor slams their door and your heart trips like it missed a step.
By the afternoon, you’re coiled so tightly you swear your bones are humming.
Lando tries. He really does. He brings you lunch. He puts on your comfort playlist. He even sits cross-legged on the living room floor and tries one of your grounding exercises with you.
“Five things I can see,” he recites, pointing dramatically. “Sofa. Lamp. You. Dog. My rapidly deteriorating sanity.”
You huff a laugh despite the knot in your chest.
But the knot doesn’t go away.
Near sunset, you’re pacing the living room, breathing shallow, hands cold.
“This is stupid,” you say. “I’m safe. I know I’m safe. So why—why can’t I just—?”
Your voice cracks, frustration spilling out hot and fast.
Lando stands from the couch. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“Well, it is stupid!” Your hands shake. “I’m acting like someone’s about to barge in and start yelling and there’s no reason for it—”
“There is,” he says firmly. “There’s history. And your body remembers even when your brain doesn’t want to.”
You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, breathing too fast.
He approaches but stops two feet away—your designated pause distance.
“Can I touch you?” he asks quietly.
You nod.
He steps closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. Your breath stutters. His warmth helps. A little. But the panic still claws.
“I can’t calm down,” you whisper.
“That’s okay.” He rubs your arms. “You don’t have to. I’ll sit with you through it.”
It comes all at once.
A trembling breath. Your knees buckling. A choked sob you tried to swallow.
He catches you before you hit the ground. Not dramatically—just gently, like guiding a falling leaf.
He sits with you on the carpet, back against the sofa, your body curled against him.
Tears come hot and humiliating. Every inhale feels like a fight.
“I’m sorry,” you manage between sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
He shakes his head immediately, pulling you tighter to his chest.
“No. Don’t apologize. Not for this. Not ever for this.”
The endearment breaks you open further. You hide your face in his shirt. He just holds you.
Minutes pass—or hours. Time blurs.
Eventually, when your breathing slows, he speaks into your hair.
“You’re not going backwards,” he says. “This isn’t a failure. It’s a bad day, not a bad pattern.”
You sniff. “Feels like one.”
“Feelings,” he reminds you, kissing your temple, “aren’t facts.”
When the tears finally ebb, he coaxes you onto the couch. He wraps you in a blanket like he’s tucking in fragile precious cargo. He puts on a movie you’ve seen a hundred times. He orders your favorite comfort food.
He doesn’t leave your side. Not for the rest of the night.
At one point, you murmur, “You don’t have to babysit me.”
He scoffs softly. “First of all, rude. I’m a very sexy emotional-support boyfriend.”
Despite everything, you let out a tiny laugh.
He nudges your shoulder. “Second, I’m not babysitting. I’m staying. Big difference.”
You rest your head on his chest. His fingers card through your hair. Steady. Slow. Safe.
“Bad days happen,” he says quietly. “But so do good ones. And you’ve survived every worst day you’ve ever had.”
You close your eyes.
“You’re not tired of this?” you whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Never,” he says. “Not in a million lifetimes.”
And the thing is: you believe him.
You wake before him. The dog snoring at your feet, the soft light creeping through the curtains. Lando is sprawled beside you, hand tangled gently with yours.
You study him. Messy hair. Soft breaths. A faint crease between his brows that makes him look like he’s dreaming about arguing with his engineer.
You expect the shame to come. It doesn’t.
Instead, there’s a quiet understanding: You broke down. He stayed. You’re still here. So is he.
Progress isn’t linear. But love—the kind that’s safe, steady, earned—holds steady through the backslides.
You squeeze his hand. He stirs. Eyes half-open, voice gravel-sweet.
“Hey, love.” He yawns. “How’s your heart?”
You think about it. About the fear that didn’t win. About the boy who didn’t run.
“Better,” you say.
He smiles against the pillow. “Good. Then we keep going.”
And you do. Together.
Healing isn’t only built in storms. It’s built in breakfasts, inside jokes, lazy mornings, and the tiny rituals you don’t realize you’re weaving into a life.
This act—your favorite—is about everything good. Everything soft. Everything earned.
It’s not dramatic. No moving truck. No choreographed montage. Just this:
One day, there are two toothbrushes in the bathroom. Then your hoodie is hanging next to his. Then the dog starts sleeping on your side of the bed when you’re away.
And one night, while you’re brushing your teeth, he leans against the doorway and says, totally casual:
“So, um…are we basically living together?”
You pause mid-brush. “I…think so?”
He grins, dimples deep. “Cool. Wanna do it on purpose?”
Your stomach swoops. “Yeah,” you say, cheeks warm. “Yeah, I do.”
He pumps his fist like he just won a race.
“You won’t regret it,” he promises. “I come with free hugs and semi-professional-level cuddles.”
“But terrible laundry skills,” you remind him.
“Hey,” he protests, “I’m improving.”
“You shrunk a towel last week.”
“It was ONE TIME.”
You laugh into his shirt, letting yourself picture a future that no longer scares you.
Living with Lando is:
His socks never being where socks should be.
Him stealing your phone charger daily.
You stealing his hoodies in revenge.
Grocery runs that devolve into him pushing the cart like a race car.
Cooking together, even though he’s terrible at chopping onions.
You’re stirring pasta sauce one night when he wanders up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.
“Careful,” you warn, “I’m dealing with hot liquids.”
“So am I,” he mumbles into your neck.
You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But you love me anyway.”
And it hits you how true that is. How natural it feels. How safe.
It happens without fanfare. Without realization. Without the weight of the past dragging behind it.
You’re in the living room, reading. Lando’s gaming with a few friends—loud, chaotic, laughing so hard he snorts.
Someone body-slams his character in the game and he yells:
“NOOO—BRO, COME ON!”
And your body… does nothing.
No spike of adrenaline. No tightening of your lungs. Just a tiny smile.
Later, when he wanders in for a drink, you say casually:
“You were really loud just now.”
He winces. “Oh—sorry, love. Should I turn—?”
“No,” you interrupt, realizing in real-time. “I’m fine.”
He freezes. Smiles. Slow and wide. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I didn’t even notice.”
He steps closer, cupping your cheeks gently. “Baby,” he whispers, eyes warm and proud. “That’s huge.”
You lean into his touch. For once, without fear.
Lando declares a "your day only" once a month.
Breakfast in bed. Your playlist in the car. Your pick for the movie. Your choice for dinner.
When you ask why, he shrugs.
“Because you make every one of my days better,” he says simply. “So I return the favor.”
On one of these days, he takes you to the coastline. Wind in your hair. Waves crashing. His hoodie around your shoulders.
You walk hand-in-hand along the cliffs. Not talking much—just existing. Breathing.
At one point, he pauses, pulling you close.
“You look happy,” he says softly.
“I am,” you admit.
He presses his forehead to yours. “Good,” he whispers. “You deserve days like this every day.”
Weeks pass. Months. A life forms slowly, like sunlight creeping in under a door.
You still have hard days. But now you have good ones too. So many good ones.
Nights spent laughing. Lazy mornings. Shared showers that turn into water fights. Dinners where he tries a new recipe and nearly sets the oven on fire.
Healing doesn’t erase the past. But it stops defining the present.
And with Lando— with his gentle patience, his loud laugh, his quiet understanding— your future feels wide open.
If you’ve read more than one of my fanfics, you’ve probably noticed that even when I’m writing the softest fluff, I somehow manage to slide straight into angst like it’s my native language.
The truth is: I’ve spent most of my life wrestling with a whole mess of post-traumatic mental shit. It’s been years of unlearning, relearning, surviving, and trying to make sense of a brain that sometimes feels like it’s working against me.
Writing has always been my therapy — the place I bleed quietly, the place I stitch myself back together, the only method that has ever actually helped me crawl out of my own head.
So if you’re here, reading my stuff, being part of this weird, chaotic little F1 corner of the internet… thank you.
You might not realise it, but every read, every heart, every comment, every reblog — it matters. A lot. More than any of us ever admit out loud. Sometimes one tiny bit of support is the thing that stops an author from quitting altogether.
And listen — if you are dealing with mental health battles, or you know someone who is, or you’ve noticed changes in your own behaviour that scare you a little… please, for the love of everything, seek help.
There are good people out there. There is support. There is softness left in the world — it just gets overshadowed by the assholes who scream louder.
So fuck the bad ones.
Love the good ones.
And take care of yourself, because you deserve better than whatever tried to break you.
Tits down for book boyfriends, fictionally written F1 drivers and chaotic corners of the internet,
You meet him on a day that already feels too loud.
Silverstone is all steel and wind and engines screaming like they’re trying to tear the sky in half. You’re there on a work pass—data, spreadsheets, simulations, numbers that make sense even when people don’t. The paddock is crowded with fast-walking, fast-talking people, and your shoulders are tight, waiting for someone to snap because you’re in the wrong place, standing the wrong way, breathing too loudly.
“Sorry—whoa, sorry, my bad!”
The voice comes with a body that nearly collides with you, the faint scent of cologne and burnt rubber and something sugary, like candy.
You jerk back, whole body tensing before you can stop it. Your hand flies up in front of your face, bracing. His eyes widen, and he freezes like you’ve slapped him instead.
“Shit, I didn’t see you. Are you okay?” he asks, instantly softer.
His cap is backwards, curls trying to escape from underneath. The lanyard around his neck says NORRIS, L. The smile hovering around his mouth is nervous now, dimples half-formed, held back by concern.
“I’m fine,” you say, too quickly. “You’re fine. I mean—I’m fine. Sorry.”
His gaze flicks down, then up again, taking you in with quick, flickering attention that somehow doesn’t feel like assessment. More like curiosity. “I should be the one apologizing. I was basically speed-running through the paddock.”
He shifts his weight as if he’s resisting the urge to fidget. “You, uh, work here?”
“Yeah. Data.”
“No way,” he brightens, already stepping back to give you space. You notice that immediately—he moves away, not closer. “I’m Lando.”
“I know,” you say, then flush. “I mean—you’ve got your name. On your…everything.” You gesture at his suit, his lanyard, the huge picture of his face not twenty meters away.
He laughs, and it’s loud. Big and uncontained and delighted.
Your body reacts before your brain does. Your shoulders jump, your throat tightens, and you feel your muscles coil like they’re waiting for impact.
His laugh cuts off like someone hit mute.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”
You nod. You lie. “It’s just noisy today.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes still searching your face. “Yeah, it really is.”
He doesn’t push. Just tips his head, gives you a small, genuine smile, and says, “Well, maybe I’ll see you around, Data Girl.”
You almost don’t come to the garage that afternoon. But your job requires it, and anyway, you remind yourself, it’s just work. Just numbers. Numbers don’t shout. Numbers don’t slam doors.
From the corner of the garage, you feel him before you see him. The energy, the motion, the easy way he laughs with the crew. When you do glance up, his eyes find you almost instantly.
He grins. Full wattage, all dimples.
He raises a hand. Waves.
It’s such a small thing. But nobody has ever looked that happy to see you from across a room.
You raise your hand back, tentative.
His smile somehow gets brighter.
After that, it’s a collection of small collisions that never quite turn into crashes.
A coffee run where he insists on carrying both cups and almost trips over a cable.
A debrief where he leans over your laptop and says, “You’re the one making me fast,” like it’s an obvious fact, not a compliment you’ll replay for days.
A rainy Thursday where he finds you hiding in a quiet corner of the hospitality unit and puts his hoodie around your shoulders without comment, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He asks for your number like he’s asking if you want fries with your order. Casual, easy, no big deal.
“If you ever want to send me memes,” he says. “Or, y’know, tire data. Whatever you’re into.”
You stare at him. “You want me to text you…tyre temperatures?”
He shrugs, smiling. “I like knowing what makes me spin.”
“You mean what keeps you from spinning,” you correct automatically.
He points at you, delighted. “Exactly. See? We’re already a team.”
You don’t mean to text him that night.
You do it anyway.
He replies in three minutes.
From there, he becomes a constant: popping up in your notifications, your working days, the quiet spaces in your head you didn’t realize were empty until his voice fills them.
You don’t call it dating for a while.
He does.
“I’m picking you up Friday,” he says one afternoon, leaning on your desk. “And before you say it, yes, it’s a date. You can’t stop me.”
Your heart stutters.
You don’t stop him.
The first time he reaches for you, you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the couch.
It’s nothing, really. You’re at his place, Netflix asking if you’re still watching like it’s judging you personally. Lando’s bare feet are propped on the coffee table, and he’s narrating the movie with the kind of enthusiasm that should be annoying but isn’t, because it’s him, and somehow that makes it adorable.
He shifts, reaching across you for the bowl of popcorn.
Your body remembers other hands in your space, other reaches that weren’t about snacks.
You jerk back, breath catching, vision blurring at the edges for one awful, dizzy second.
The bowl nearly tips. Popcorn spills.
“Hey, hey,” he says immediately, pulling his hand back like he’s the one who got burned. His eyes are wide, voice low. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I should’ve—sorry. Are you—can I…?”
He’s stumbling over his words, and that’s what anchors you: Lando, who never shuts up, suddenly tripping over apologies.
You touch your own chest, feel the rapid thud of your heartbeat. In. Out. You’ve practiced this. You know what to do when the past tries to sit on your lungs.
“I’m okay,” you say, voice thin. “You just…moved fast. I didn’t see.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He nods, almost like he’s taking mental notes. “No more ninja popcorn moves. Got it.”
His attempt at humor is clumsy, but he’s trying. You cling to that.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, because that’s the script you know. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
His head snaps up. “Weird? You didn’t make it weird.”
He shifts, deliberately slow now, bringing his hands up where you can see them, fingers spread in surrender. “Look, I…sometimes I forget I move like an overcaffeinated squirrel. That’s on me. Not you.”
You look at him—really look.
He’s still sitting back, giving you space, letting you decide the distance.
“Can I sit closer?” he asks. “Or do you want more room? Either’s okay. Just tell me.”
Your throat tightens. No one has ever phrased it like that: your choice, your terms.
“Closer,” you say. Your voice wobbles, but you say it.
His shoulders loosen. Slowly, carefully, he shifts, closing the gap by inches, not centimeters. Every movement is deliberate, announced.
“Hand,” he says softly, holding his out halfway between you.
You stare.
“If you want it,” he adds. “If not, totally fine. My hand is used to rejection. Look at it, all lonely and single.”
You huff out a startled laugh, the tension cracking just enough for air to get in.
You place your hand in his.
His palm is warm and slightly clammy, like he’s nervous. The thought makes something in your chest ache.
He squeezes once. “Tell me if you ever need me to stop. Anything. I mean it.”
You nod, words stuck behind a dam of old fear.
He doesn’t push.
He just sits there, thumb brushing lazy circles over the back of your hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to hold you like you’re something fragile and precious instead of something that’s been dropped too many times.
The first time you hear him shout, you’re alone in his living room.
He’s down the hall in his streaming room, door cracked open. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, half-reading, half-listening to the muffled rhythm of his voice.
You’ve seen the streams, of course. You know what he’s like on camera: loud and golden and ridiculous, all big reactions and bigger laughter. It’s part of why people love him.
You’re not prepared for how your body reacts when he yells.
It’s just a game moment, you know that logically. He loses some online race, and his voice spikes, sharp and frustrated.
“NOOO—what the—are you serious?!”
The sound is a whipcrack in your chest.
Your vision tunnels. The book drops from your hands. Your heart is suddenly everywhere—throat, ears, temples, hammering loud enough to drown out the stream.
You’re back in a different room with a different voice that got louder and louder until things broke. Until you did.
“Hey, sorry, sorry—”
You don’t realize he’s there until the couch dips. He’s dropped into a crouch in front of you, headset hanging around his neck, eyes blown wide with worry.
“I didn’t think—shit.” He presses his lips together, frustration turned inward. “I got loud. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Your hands are shaking. You tuck them under your thighs so he won’t see.
“It’s fine,” you manage. “I know you’re just streaming. It’s stupid. I’m being—”
“Don’t.” His voice is firm, but not sharp. Never sharp with you. “Don’t call yourself stupid. Not for this. Not for anything, but especially not for this.”
You swallow, the room tilting slightly as your brain tries to reconcile his open, earnest face with the reflexive terror squeezing your ribs.
“It’s just noise,” you say. “I should be used to noise.”
He goes very still. His fingers curl against his knees, like he wants to reach for you and is holding himself back.
“‘Should’ is a nasty word,” he says quietly. “Says who?”
You look away. “Just…people.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Well, those people suck.”
A startled breath escapes you, halfway to a laugh.
“Listen,” he continues, and there’s something gentle but steady in his tone, like he’s bracing for a long race. “My job is…loud. I’m loud. I’m not going to pretend I’ll never shout at a game or yell on track. I can’t promise that. But I can promise I will never yell at you. Not like that. Not in that way.”
You stare at your hands. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says, without hesitation. “Because I get to decide the person I’m gonna be. Just like you get to decide what you can and can’t handle. If this,” he gestures toward the hallway, “is too much, we change it.”
“How?” you ask, small and wondering. No one has ever offered to change the world around you. You’ve always been the one expected to bend.
“I’ll close the door. Put on headphones. Lower my mic sensitivity. Tell chat to hold me accountable. We’ll figure it out.” His eyes search yours. “You matter more than content.”
Your throat burns.
He hesitates, then adds, “And…if you ever want to talk about why this stuff hits you like that, I’ll listen. No pressure. No timeline. Just…doors open.”
You want to tell him about slammed cupboards and accusations and how love used to come with conditions you could never quite meet. You want to explain how your body learned to anticipate impact like it was inevitable.
You can’t. Not yet.
You nod instead.
He accepts that like it’s enough.
“Okay,” he says. “For now, I’ll do this.”
He reaches gently behind him, picks up the hoodie you dropped, and sets it back in your lap. “I’m gonna go turn the volume down and the door…up.”
You blink. “The door up?”
“Closed,” he corrects with a small grin. “Shut. Whatever. Words are hard when I’ve emotionally traumatized my girlfriend with Mario Kart.”
You huff out a wet laugh.
“You didn’t,” you say.
His expression softens at the word girlfriend. Like it’s something he’s been wanting to hear.
“I’ll be back in ten,” he promises. “With tea. And a non-traumatizing voice.”
He isn’t perfect. But he tries.
You decide that might be better than perfect, anyway.
Time doesn’t heal everything. But it does give you repetition, and repetition becomes proof.
You start to learn the patterns of him.
Lando knocks before he enters any room you’re in, even his own bedroom.
He warns you when he’s about to raise his voice on stream. “Volume spike incoming!” he calls out, like a weather announcement, and gives you time to grab your headphones, or retreat, or stay. Your choice.
He narrates his movements around you at first, half-joking, half-serious.
“Coming in for a hug,” he’ll say, arms open, waiting for your nod.
“Gonna kiss you now, unless you object.”
“I am about to tickle you, so you have exactly three seconds to prepare your counterattack.”
You roll your eyes, tell him he’s ridiculous.
Your body relaxes anyway.
In return, you learn new phrases too.
“Can you slow down?” you ask on a day when his words start to trip over each other and your heart starts to climb.
“Can we pause?” when a joke lands too close to an old bruise.
“I need a minute,” when the world presses up against old scars and you can’t breathe.
Every time, without fail, he stops. Backs off. Checks in.
“Got you,” he says. “Minute granted.”
And slowly—so slowly you barely notice at first—you start flinching less.
Not never. But less.
It happens in his kitchen at the end of a very long day.
You know the signs when Lando’s exhausted. He slouches more, jokes less. His smile gets thinner, tighter, like it’s having to hold back the weight of everything he carries.
This day has been worse than most. A DNF after a mechanical failure that wasn’t his fault but still sits in his chest like lead. Interviews, media, debriefs. Travel. The neverending churn of eyes and expectations.
By the time you both make it back to his apartment, he looks like someone deflated him. Curls flattened by his cap, shoulders slope-angled.
“Stay over,” he says, dropping his bag by the door. “Please.”
You do. Of course you do.
You try to help. You move through his kitchen, finding ingredients, chopping vegetables. It’s quiet, just the hum of the fridge and clink of knife on wood.
“I can do that,” he says, voice flat.
You glance up. “It’s okay. You’ve had a long—”
“I said I can do it.”
The words hit you like a slap. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it’s sharp. Clipped.
Your chest locks. The knife slips a little, clattering too loud on the cutting board.
The room shrinks.
Here we go, your body whispers. There it is. The turn. The moment the warmth evaporates and you realize it was conditional all along.
You step back, palms going sweaty. “Sorry. I was just trying to help.”
“It’s not—” He drags a hand over his face, jaw tight. “Never mind.”
He reaches for the knife.
Instinct screams, Move.
You stumble back a full two steps, hands lifting defensively before you can stop them. Your heart is beating so hard you feel a little nauseous. The edges of the room go soft.
Lando freezes.
He’s not looking at the vegetables or the knife. He’s looking at you—your raised hands, your wide eyes, the space you’ve put between you like he’s something dangerous.
“Oh,” he whispers.
For a long, suspended second, no one moves.
Then he sets the knife down. Slowly. Carefully. Blade turned away. Hands moving like he’s defusing a bomb.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, the words sounding like they’ve been knocked out of him. “I—I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
Your lungs feel too small. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” His voice cracks. “It’s not.”
He takes a small step back from the counter, putting space between you. His eyes are bright, like something in him is splintering.
“I heard myself,” he says, quiet and horrified. “I heard how I sounded. I’ve been pissed off all day, and I brought it home and—” He swallows hard. “I promised myself I would never do that.”
Your stomach clenches. “You didn’t—”
“I did.” He shakes his head. “I snapped. At you. And you…” His gaze flicks to your hands again, still hanging uncertainly halfway between you. “You looked at me like I was…”
Like I was someone else.
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but you hear it anyway.
You drop your hands, fingers tingling. Shame burns hot under your skin, tangled with fear and something else. Something fragile.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. It spills out before you can stop it. “I overreacted. I shouldn’t—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle now, but threaded with something steely. “No. We’re not doing that.”
He takes a slow breath. Another. You can almost see him shifting gears, dialing back from fight-or-flight to something softer.
“I’m going to sit down,” he says. “At the table. Not moving closer. Not touching you. Just…sitting. Okay?”
You nod, throat tight.
He moves—deliberate, careful—as if any sudden gesture might shatter you both. He pulls a chair back and drops into it, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly.
He looks wrecked.
“I had a shit day,” he says, staring at the floor. “I’m angry. Not at you. At everything. At the car, at the universe, I don’t know. And I let it leak out in your direction. That’s on me. Fully.”
You swallow, tears burning behind your eyes. “You didn’t hurt me.”
“You were scared,” he says, voice raw. “That’s enough.”
The silence stretches.
You could lie. Tell him it was nothing, that he’s overreacting, that you’re fine.
Or you could do the thing you’re always telling yourself you’ll do when it’s safe: tell the truth.
Your voice is tiny when it finally comes. “When people got tired before…they didn’t stay nice.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush to contradict you or prove he’s different with words. He just listens, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a thousand apologies.
“They’d come home angry and I always made it worse,” you continue, the words spilling now, shaky but unstoppable. “If I did something wrong, or even if I didn’t, there’d be… consequences. So when you said you could do it and you sounded…” You gesture vaguely. “Cold. My brain just…went there.”
He lifts his head, eyes shiny. “You never made anything worse,” he says fiercely. “They did. That’s not— That’s not on you.”
Your breath stutters.
“And I am so, so sorry,” he adds. “That your brain has that file to pull from. That you’ve got all these…old scripts running. That I said anything that even brushed up against that.” He swallows. “I can’t erase that history. I know that. But I can sure as hell refuse to repeat it.”
You press your lips together, eyes overflowing now despite your best efforts.
“Don’t cry,” you mumble, to yourself more than to him.
“You’re allowed to cry,” he says. “You’re allowed to be mad at me, too.”
“Are you mad at me?” you ask, hating how small you sound.
He looks startled. Like the question is so off-base his brain takes a second to catch up.
“Mad at you?” he repeats. “No. God, no. I’m mad at me.”
He sits back, scrubbing at his face. “I think… I think we might need help with this. Not just us—like, you and someone who actually knows what they’re doing. A therapist. Or…whatever you’re comfortable calling it.”
You tense automatically. Therapy has always felt like an admission of failure. That you’re too broken to function without professional repair.
He sees your reaction and softens his tone. “Not because you’re broken,” he says quietly. “Because you deserve support. Because this shouldn’t be just you white-knuckling it every time I move too fast or talk too loud.”
He pauses, then adds, “And if you want, I can come to some sessions. Learn how to not be a walking trigger. I want to get this right.”
You stare at him. At the boy sitting in front of you, exhausted from a day that would’ve gutted anyone, still finding enough in himself to offer you more care than you’ve ever been given.
“You’re not a walking trigger,” you say.
He gives you a small, sad smile. “Sometimes I am. But I don’t want to be. That’s the point.”
The air between you feels different now. Heavy, but not in the way you’re used to. Not dangerous. Just full.
You take a step closer to the table.
He doesn’t move. Just watches you, carefully hopeful, like any sudden motion might send you bolting.
“I…” You swallow. “I’ll think about it. Therapy.”
He nods, relief loosening his shoulders. “That’s all I’m asking.”
You circle the table, fingers trailing along the edge. When you reach him, you stop.
“Can I…?” you ask, not sure how to finish the sentence.
He tilts his head. “Can you…?”
“Hug you,” you clarify, cheeks burning. “Can I hug you?”
His expression cracks open into something raw and tender.
“Yeah,” he says. “God, yeah. Always.”
You step into the space between his knees, hands hovering before you rest them on his shoulders.
He wraps his arms around your waist, slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His forehead drops against your chest, and you feel his breath shudder out.
“I’m here,” he murmurs, words muffled against your hoodie. “Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m pissed off at everything else. I’m here, and I’m safe. Okay?”
Your fingers curl into his hair. You press your face into the top of his head and breathe him in: shampoo and sweat and something undeniably Lando.
“Okay,” you whisper.
And for the first time, you believe it.
Therapy is not a montage.
It’s slow and uncomfortable and sometimes boring. But it’s also a space where you learn words for things you’ve always carried without names.
Hypervigilance. Trauma response. Nervous system.
Your therapist never says you’re overreacting. She says you’re overprotected. That your body is doing too much to keep you safe, because once, it had to.
Some weeks, you come home and crash face-first onto Lando’s couch. He brings you tea and doesn’t make jokes until you’re ready to laugh again.
Other weeks, you come home bright-eyed, filled with new metaphors that make everything click. You make him sit and listen while you explain neural pathways with spoons and traffic jams.
“Basically,” you tell him, waving your hands, “my brain took the ‘raised voice’ road and paved it straight into the ‘imminent danger’ neighborhood. We’re…repaving.”
He nods solemnly. “So I need to be better traffic control.”
“Exactly,” you say. “Maybe put up some signs.”
He sticks Post-it notes around the apartment as a joke. LITTLE LANDO, BIG VOLUME. CHECK-IN FIRST. KNOCK, DON’T SHOCK.
They make you snort every time you see them.
You work on grounding techniques. He learns them with you.
When you start to spiral, he’ll say, “Okay, give me five things you can see.”
You roll your eyes. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I paid attention, thank you very much. Five things.”
His eyes, his hands, his stupid Post-it notes. The way he looks at you like you’re the bravest person he’s ever met.
You do the work.
So does he.
It’s summer when you realize you’re not waiting for the crash anymore.
You’re at a race—Monza, maybe, or Austria. They blur together in heat and noise and the bright orange of McLaren merch.
He finishes on the podium that day. Third, champagne dripping from his hair, grin so wide you can see it from the garage.
You’re in the team crowd when he spots you. His eyes light up, like the trophy was just a warm-up and this is the real prize.
Later, after interviews and meetings and the endless swirl of obligations, he finds you behind the hospitality unit. It’s quieter there, just the hum of generators and muffled crowd noise.
He doesn’t run to you. He jogs, then slows for the last few steps, as if his feet know what his brain decided months ago—no surprises.
“You were so fast,” you say, heart still pounding from the race.
He snorts. “Tell that to Max.”
“I don’t care about Max,” you say, which is a lie, but a kind one. “You drove your ass off.”
“Language,” he says, mock-scandalized. “The youth are listening.”
You roll your eyes. “You are the youth.”
He grins, then sobers, studying you. “You okay?”
You know what he’s really asking: was it too much? The noise, the crowd, the chaos? Are you here with me, or stuck somewhere else?
“I’m okay,” you say truthfully. “It was loud. But…good loud.”
He beams.
“Come here,” he says, opening his arms.
You step into them without hesitation.
His suit is sweaty and damp, but you don’t care. You tuck yourself under his chin, feel his heart beating fast against your chest.
“I’m proud of you,” you murmur.
“I’m proud of you,” he counters. “Do you know how badass you are? Few years ago, you couldn’t even stand in the garage without shaking, and now you’re out there in the middle of fans and fireworks and everything.”
You hadn’t noticed, not in concrete terms. You’d just…gone.
“You were there,” you shrug.
He pulls back enough to look at you. “Yeah. I was. And I’m gonna keep being there.”
The fireworks start right then, because life has a flair for dramatics.
The first one cracks the sky open—loud, bright, sudden. A sharp sound that once would’ve sent you straight into the ground, hands over your head, heart galloping.
Your body still reacts. There’s a flinch, a spike of adrenaline, muscles tightening for a fight that isn’t coming.
But then there are Lando’s arms around you, firm and steady. His breath warm against your hair. His voice low by your ear.
“Fireworks,” he says, naming it. “Just fireworks. We’re okay.”
You ground yourself.
Three things you can feel: his suit under your fingers, the slight tremor of his laughter when another boom startles him too, the solid, warm weight of his hand splayed across your back.
Three things you can hear: the distant roar of the crowd, the pop of color in the sky, his heartbeat—slower now—against your cheek.
You breathe.
Your body unwinds.
The next explosion still makes you jump, but you don’t mistake it for danger. Not this time.
You lean back to look at him. His hair is a mess, champagne-sticky, face smudged, eyes soft in a way you’re still getting used to.
“What?” he asks, smiling.
“I’m not scared of you,” you say.
It’s not the first time you’ve felt that. But it’s the first time you say it out loud, and you feel something inside you shift as the words land between you.
Something unclenches in his expression. His throat bobs.
“Good,” he says, voice rough. “That’s good. ‘Cause I’d rather die than be someone you’re scared of.”
“Don’t say things like that,” you scold automatically, but your eyes sting.
He brushes his thumb under your eye, catching the tear before it falls. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Braver than any driver on that grid.”
“I’m literally just standing here,” you sniff.
“Exactly,” he says. “And that’s the bravest part.”
Another firework blooms overhead, painting the world in gold.
You stand there wrapped in his arms, and for the first time, the loudest thing you hear isn’t your fear.
It’s your heart, steady and sure.
The years that follow aren’t a straight line.
There are setbacks. A slammed door in a hotel hallway that makes you drop your bag. A commentator’s shout on TV that sends you into the bathroom to steady your breathing. An argument with Lando where he gets frustrated and then immediately walks it back, talking through it with the dogged intensity he usually reserves for tough corners.
You still flinch sometimes.
He still forgets himself sometimes.
But there’s a baseline now. A foundation built on conversations that would’ve once felt impossible.
He makes you a Spotify playlist titled “Calm Down, My Love,” full of soft songs and stupid audio clips of him saying things like, “Hey, you’re okay,” and “Drink water, you gremlin,” and “Proud of you, always.”
You, in a fit of chaotic romance, put a Post-it note on his sim rig: REMEMBER: SHE LOVES YOU EVEN WHEN YOU PUNT IT INTO TURN 1.
It’s a Tuesday when you realize the loudest thing in your world is laughter.
You’re in his living room, curled up on the big couch he insisted on buying because “We need space to dramatically sprawl.” The dog—because of course there is a dog now, a rescue with nervous eyes who loves you both with desperate intensity—is snoring at your feet.
Lando is at his gaming setup in the corner, monitors glowing in the dim light. He’s live, headset on, voice carrying easily across the room.
“Chat, be nice,” he’s saying. “My girlfriend’s in earshot, and I’m trying to convince her I’m mature and mysterious.”
You snort. Loudly.
He spins his chair halfway around, eyes crinkling. “See? She doesn’t believe me either.”
You roll your eyes and toss a cushion at him. He catches it one-handed, delight flashing across his face.
“Violence!” he declares into his mic. “Unprovoked violence!”
You raise a brow. “Do you need me to leave? I can—”
He sobers instantly, smile softening. “Nah,” he says. “You’re good. No screaming today. Just chill races. Promise.”
It’s automatic, the way he checks in now. Not careful like he’s walking on eggshells, but considerate. Woven into him.
You consider, checking in with yourself. The lights are low. The volume’s manageable. The dog is a comforting weight.
“I’ll stay,” you decide.
His grin could light the whole building. “You heard that, chat? She likes us.”
“Don’t push it,” you warn.
He laughs, turning back to his game.
You watch him for a while. The concentration furrowing his brows, the way his hands move over the wheel, smooth and precise. The way his mouth curves when he’s about to say something stupid but funny.
“Okay, big move coming up,” he tells chat. “If I nail this, you all have to spam hearts for my girlfriend, ‘cause she deals with this chaos in person daily.”
He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes shining with mischief and something much deeper.
“Ready, love?” he asks.
You nod, smiling. “Ready.”
He counts down—“Three, two, one”—before making the overtake and yelling triumphantly. It’s loud, but you’ve had warning, and excitement crackles through his shout more than anything else.
Your body tenses, then relaxes.
Your brain doesn’t go to old places anymore when he gets loud. It goes here: to this living room, this moment, this boy who learned to announce his thunder so you’d never mistake it for a storm.
He spins his chair fully around this time, shoving the headphones down around his neck.
“Did you see that?” he demands, eyes bright.
“I did.” You nod. “Very impressive. Have you thought about doing this professionally?”
He gasps. “Chat, did you hear that disrespect?”
You smirk. “You love it.”
He crosses the room in a few quick strides—still fast, but you’ve had time to see it coming. Time to feel the anticipation instead of fear.
“Coming in for a kiss,” he says, the old familiar phrase now more habit than necessity.
You tilt your chin up. “Permission granted.”
His mouth is soft and sure against yours, just this side of giddy. You kiss him back, feeling the smile he can’t contain.
Someone on stream yells his name through your speakers. You both break into laughter.
“You’re live,” you remind him, breathless.
He groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “They’ve seen worse.”
“Have they?”
He pulls back, eyes dancing. “I did cry on stream once when you told me you booked your own therapy appointment.”
You flush. “You did not.”
“Did so,” he insists. “Big baby tears. Full chat meltdown. They love you almost as much as I do.”
You roll your eyes, but warmth pools in your chest.
He brushes a thumb over your cheek. “You know that, right?”
“That chat loves me?” you tease.
“That I do,” he says quietly.
You swallow, all joking dissolving under the weight of his gaze.
“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”
The thing is: you believe it. Not because he says it often (he does), but because of the thousand small ways he’s proven it over the years.
In the lowered volume and the counted-down movements. In the unlearning he’s done right alongside you. In the way he never tries to fix you, just holds your hand while you do the work.
You lean your forehead against his. “I love you too,” you say.
He hums, satisfied, then straightens.
“Okay, I have to go tell a bunch of strangers on the internet that I’m cracked at sim racing,” he announces. “You staying?”
You glance at the dog, at the cozy living room, at him.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m staying.”
He squeezes your hand once, then returns to his rig, sliding the headset back on.
“Chat,” he says, settling in. “Good news: my girlfriend thinks I’m cool.”
From the couch, you call, “I said no such thing!”
He laughs, that big, bright sound that once made your body brace for impact.
Now, it just makes you smile.
You pull a blanket over your legs, the dog shifting to press closer. On the screen, his avatar hurtles down virtual straights. In the room, his voice fills the space—loud and soft and everything in between.
And your heart, once trained to flinch at every sharp noise, beats steady in your chest.
Not because the world got quieter.
Because you did the work.
Because he met you there.
Because somewhere between flinches and fireworks, loud laughter became home.
The storm doesn’t announce itself.
It builds slowly—little shifts in your breathing, small stutters in your sleep, the subtle way your shoulders inch higher each morning, like they’re bracing for old echoes.
It isn’t triggered by anything dramatic. Not a slammed door. Not a raised voice. Just life.
A stressful week at work. A miscommunication with your therapist. A night alone when Lando’s away for a race, and silence presses against you like a weight.
By the time the next morning comes, your body’s dial has quietly twisted itself back toward Survival Mode.
You don’t notice it at first. But he does.
You’re in the kitchen, making tea. The kettle clicks off. Steam rises. Your hands tremble.
Lando wanders in, bleary-eyed, hair a mess, wearing a t-shirt that has somehow slid off one shoulder in a way he’d deny was intentional.
“Morning, love,” he says, voice honey-sweet.
You flinch. A small one—barely a twitch. But he sees it.
“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” You busy yourself with mugs, pretending not to know.
He steps closer—slowly, always slowly—until he’s at your side. A warm presence. A safe one.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs.
Your throat tightens. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t make your shoulders reach your ears.” He brushes a curl from your cheek. “Or make you jump when I say good morning.”
You close your eyes.
“It’s just…back,” you whisper. “That tight feeling. The…waiting-for-something feeling.”
He nods. He doesn’t rush in with reassurance or solutions. He just leans against the counter, next to you, letting the morning light spill across both your hands.
“Okay,” he says. “We deal with it together.”
Nothing catastrophic happens.
Just a series of small things:
Your therapist cancels.
Your work emails pile up.
Your mother sends a text you don’t open but see anyway.
A neighbor slams their door and your heart trips like it missed a step.
By the afternoon, you’re coiled so tightly you swear your bones are humming.
Lando tries. He really does. He brings you lunch. He puts on your comfort playlist. He even sits cross-legged on the living room floor and tries one of your grounding exercises with you.
“Five things I can see,” he recites, pointing dramatically. “Sofa. Lamp. You. Dog. My rapidly deteriorating sanity.”
You huff a laugh despite the knot in your chest.
But the knot doesn’t go away.
Near sunset, you’re pacing the living room, breathing shallow, hands cold.
“This is stupid,” you say. “I’m safe. I know I’m safe. So why—why can’t I just—?”
Your voice cracks, frustration spilling out hot and fast.
Lando stands from the couch. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“Well, it is stupid!” Your hands shake. “I’m acting like someone’s about to barge in and start yelling and there’s no reason for it—”
“There is,” he says firmly. “There’s history. And your body remembers even when your brain doesn’t want to.”
You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, breathing too fast.
He approaches but stops two feet away—your designated pause distance.
“Can I touch you?” he asks quietly.
You nod.
He steps closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. Your breath stutters. His warmth helps. A little. But the panic still claws.
“I can’t calm down,” you whisper.
“That’s okay.” He rubs your arms. “You don’t have to. I’ll sit with you through it.”
It comes all at once.
A trembling breath. Your knees buckling. A choked sob you tried to swallow.
He catches you before you hit the ground. Not dramatically—just gently, like guiding a falling leaf.
He sits with you on the carpet, back against the sofa, your body curled against him.
Tears come hot and humiliating. Every inhale feels like a fight.
“I’m sorry,” you manage between sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
He shakes his head immediately, pulling you tighter to his chest.
“No. Don’t apologize. Not for this. Not ever for this.”
The endearment breaks you open further. You hide your face in his shirt. He just holds you.
Minutes pass—or hours. Time blurs.
Eventually, when your breathing slows, he speaks into your hair.
“You’re not going backwards,” he says. “This isn’t a failure. It’s a bad day, not a bad pattern.”
You sniff. “Feels like one.”
“Feelings,” he reminds you, kissing your temple, “aren’t facts.”
When the tears finally ebb, he coaxes you onto the couch. He wraps you in a blanket like he’s tucking in fragile precious cargo. He puts on a movie you’ve seen a hundred times. He orders your favorite comfort food.
He doesn’t leave your side. Not for the rest of the night.
At one point, you murmur, “You don’t have to babysit me.”
He scoffs softly. “First of all, rude. I’m a very sexy emotional-support boyfriend.”
Despite everything, you let out a tiny laugh.
He nudges your shoulder. “Second, I’m not babysitting. I’m staying. Big difference.”
You rest your head on his chest. His fingers card through your hair. Steady. Slow. Safe.
“Bad days happen,” he says quietly. “But so do good ones. And you’ve survived every worst day you’ve ever had.”
You close your eyes.
“You’re not tired of this?” you whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Never,” he says. “Not in a million lifetimes.”
And the thing is: you believe him.
You wake before him. The dog snoring at your feet, the soft light creeping through the curtains. Lando is sprawled beside you, hand tangled gently with yours.
You study him. Messy hair. Soft breaths. A faint crease between his brows that makes him look like he’s dreaming about arguing with his engineer.
You expect the shame to come. It doesn’t.
Instead, there’s a quiet understanding: You broke down. He stayed. You’re still here. So is he.
Progress isn’t linear. But love—the kind that’s safe, steady, earned—holds steady through the backslides.
You squeeze his hand. He stirs. Eyes half-open, voice gravel-sweet.
“Hey, love.” He yawns. “How’s your heart?”
You think about it. About the fear that didn’t win. About the boy who didn’t run.
“Better,” you say.
He smiles against the pillow. “Good. Then we keep going.”
And you do. Together.
Healing isn’t only built in storms. It’s built in breakfasts, inside jokes, lazy mornings, and the tiny rituals you don’t realize you’re weaving into a life.
This act—your favorite—is about everything good. Everything soft. Everything earned.
It’s not dramatic. No moving truck. No choreographed montage. Just this:
One day, there are two toothbrushes in the bathroom. Then your hoodie is hanging next to his. Then the dog starts sleeping on your side of the bed when you’re away.
And one night, while you’re brushing your teeth, he leans against the doorway and says, totally casual:
“So, um…are we basically living together?”
You pause mid-brush. “I…think so?”
He grins, dimples deep. “Cool. Wanna do it on purpose?”
Your stomach swoops. “Yeah,” you say, cheeks warm. “Yeah, I do.”
He pumps his fist like he just won a race.
“You won’t regret it,” he promises. “I come with free hugs and semi-professional-level cuddles.”
“But terrible laundry skills,” you remind him.
“Hey,” he protests, “I’m improving.”
“You shrunk a towel last week.”
“It was ONE TIME.”
You laugh into his shirt, letting yourself picture a future that no longer scares you.
Living with Lando is:
His socks never being where socks should be.
Him stealing your phone charger daily.
You stealing his hoodies in revenge.
Grocery runs that devolve into him pushing the cart like a race car.
Cooking together, even though he’s terrible at chopping onions.
You’re stirring pasta sauce one night when he wanders up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.
“Careful,” you warn, “I’m dealing with hot liquids.”
“So am I,” he mumbles into your neck.
You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But you love me anyway.”
And it hits you how true that is. How natural it feels. How safe.
It happens without fanfare. Without realization. Without the weight of the past dragging behind it.
You’re in the living room, reading. Lando’s gaming with a few friends—loud, chaotic, laughing so hard he snorts.
Someone body-slams his character in the game and he yells:
“NOOO—BRO, COME ON!”
And your body… does nothing.
No spike of adrenaline. No tightening of your lungs. Just a tiny smile.
Later, when he wanders in for a drink, you say casually:
“You were really loud just now.”
He winces. “Oh—sorry, love. Should I turn—?”
“No,” you interrupt, realizing in real-time. “I’m fine.”
He freezes. Smiles. Slow and wide. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I didn’t even notice.”
He steps closer, cupping your cheeks gently. “Baby,” he whispers, eyes warm and proud. “That’s huge.”
You lean into his touch. For once, without fear.
Lando declares a "your day only" once a month.
Breakfast in bed. Your playlist in the car. Your pick for the movie. Your choice for dinner.
When you ask why, he shrugs.
“Because you make every one of my days better,” he says simply. “So I return the favor.”
On one of these days, he takes you to the coastline. Wind in your hair. Waves crashing. His hoodie around your shoulders.
You walk hand-in-hand along the cliffs. Not talking much—just existing. Breathing.
At one point, he pauses, pulling you close.
“You look happy,” he says softly.
“I am,” you admit.
He presses his forehead to yours. “Good,” he whispers. “You deserve days like this every day.”
Weeks pass. Months. A life forms slowly, like sunlight creeping in under a door.
You still have hard days. But now you have good ones too. So many good ones.
Nights spent laughing. Lazy mornings. Shared showers that turn into water fights. Dinners where he tries a new recipe and nearly sets the oven on fire.
Healing doesn’t erase the past. But it stops defining the present.
And with Lando— with his gentle patience, his loud laugh, his quiet understanding— your future feels wide open.
Summary: after a fiery breakup and months of stubborn silence, Red Bull engineer Y/N finds herself face-to-face with her ex, Lando Norris, during a chaotic São Paulo Grand Prix weekend—where victory, jealousy, and unresolved tension collide in a heat-soaked, emotionally charged reunion neither of them can ignore
The São Paulo Grand Prix weekend was chaos wrapped in sunburn and samba drums.
You’d landed on Thursday with a Red Bull lanyard around your neck, a tablet under your arm, and a chip on your shoulder. The paddock was thick with humidity and tension, the air vibrating with the sounds of engines revving in the distance and journalists scurrying for quotes. It should have been just another weekend—another chance to make the car sing, to dig into data with the confidence that came from being one of Red Bull's most respected engineers. But everything in you went taut the second you saw him.
Lando.
McLaren's golden boy. Your ex.
It had been three months since the end. Two since you last spoke. And yet, somehow, he still looked at you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved. The kind of problem he didn’t want to stop trying to crack.
You remembered the breakup with the kind of vivid sharpness that clung to stupid fights and heartbreak. One too many arguments over travel schedules, over team politics, over pride. The final straw? A stupid comment about loyalty during a rain delay in Suzuka. He accused you of celebrating Max's win too enthusiastically. You accused him of being insecure. The rain poured, the tempers flared, and when the paddock cleared, you had walked in opposite directions.
Neither of you apologized.
Both of you regretted it.
And now here you were. Watching him dominate Friday practice with surgical precision, the papaya blur of his McLaren slicing through Sector 2 like a damn dream.
You pretended not to care. You buried yourself in the data, focusing on tire wear and wind direction. But when he took pole on Saturday, outpacing Max by nearly half a second, your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with aerodynamics.
You avoided him the entire day, ducking around corners of the paddock, dodging his gaze in media pens. But you still felt him. Like static electricity. Like thunder on the horizon.
Sunday was worse.
Max started from the pit lane after a last-minute power unit change. Your headset buzzed with tension. The engineers were barking numbers, strategies, tire temps. The air was thick with urgency, radio chatter a constant hum in your ear. But no matter how much Max clawed his way through the grid, Lando was untouchable. He drove like a man possessed—sharp, clean, devastatingly fast.
He took P1. Max made it to P3.
The McLaren garage exploded with joy. You could hear it even from across the paddock, through your headset. Lando’s team lifting him like a champion, his name echoing in Portuguese-accented cheers. But Red Bull celebrated like kings anyway. Max had done the impossible, and the narrative practically wrote itself. Everyone was drunk on adrenaline and relief.
Which led you here.
To a club pulsing with music, alcohol, and the kind of high you only got from cheating gravity all weekend.
You weren’t sure why you’d agreed to go. Maybe it was Alexandra’s hand in yours. Maybe it was Kika pressing a drink into your palm. Maybe it was the heat, the beat, the flash of lights.
Maybe it was the desire to forget the way Lando’s eyes had found yours on the podium.
Your third caipirinha hit like a freight train. Sweet, limey, and sharp.
"He’s looking over again," Kika said, voice mischievous.
You didn’t have to ask who.
Lando was across the club, leaning against a table, nursing a whiskey. He was dressed like a man who hadn’t tried but still managed to ruin everyone’s night with how good he looked. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the tanned skin of his collarbone. His curls were damp, his gaze molten, locked on you with laser focus.
He was watching you.
"Show him what he lost," Alexandra dared.
"Bet he can't handle it," Kika smirked.
The music shifted—a sexy, rolling Brazilian rhythm that made your spine loosen. The heat, the drinks, the beat, the eyes on you... it all surged at once.
So you climbed onto the bar.
And danced.
Like you didn’t care. Like he didn’t matter. Like your body didn’t still remember the feel of his hands, the way his voice sounded in the dark.
Your body moved to the rhythm, slow and unapologetic. Your hips swayed, hands in the air, hair cascading over your shoulders. You dipped, spun, laughed. You were alive. People cheered. You met his eyes again.
He wasn’t smiling.
Lando stalked toward you like a storm about to break.
He reached the bar, placed his drink down with too much control, and said your full name.
Your real name. Not the nickname. Not the soft, stupid, sweet version he used to murmur against your skin.
"Y/N M/N L/N."
His voice was taut. Controlled. Barely.
You blinked down at him, breath coming fast. "What do you think you’re doing?"
"You want attention? You’ve got mine."
He hoisted you over his shoulder like it was nothing.
"Lando! Put me—"
Smack.
Your gasp turned to a shocked laugh.
Another smack when you wriggled. Your cheeks flamed.
"You’re being a brat," he said, loud enough for your friends to hear. They hollered and whistled as he marched out the club with you flung over his shoulder.
"You're insane!"
"You started it."
His hotel was two blocks away. Close enough to carry you there like some victorious Roman general. The pavement blurred under your upside-down view, the warm air thick around you.
The elevator ride was a silence charged with tension. His hand still gripped your thigh possessively. You could feel his heart racing through his shirt.
You refused to meet his eyes. He refused to put you down.
When he finally kicked open his suite door, he tossed you onto the bed like you were weightless.
You scrambled upright, hair tousled, lip caught between your teeth. "You can’t just drag me off like I’m some... some trophy!"
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"Then stop acting like you want to be won."
Your jaw dropped. "You arrogant—"
"Talented? Devastatingly charming? The man who made you scream my name in a Monaco hotel room?"
Your face flamed. "That was a long time ago."
He took a step forward. "Not long enough to forget how you taste."
Another step. "Or how you sound when you moan."
You narrowed your eyes, trying to control the way your pulse thundered. "Don’t act like I didn’t leave you shaking."
His smile turned feral. "Still do."
You tried to hold your ground, but your body betrayed you. Heart racing. Knees weak.
"You left," you whispered. "You let me walk away."
His expression cracked. The smugness faltered. "Because I didn’t know how to fight for you without hurting both of us. I was stupid. I thought... if I stayed angry, I wouldn’t miss you so much."
You stared at him. Saw the weariness behind his eyes. The regret.
"How’s that working out for you?"
He reached you then. Touched your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek.
"Terribly."
You didn’t mean to kiss him.
It just happened.
It was desperate and messy and tasted like regret and lime and three months of things unsaid. He pressed you down into the mattress with a groan, hands everywhere, mouth devouring.
"Still a brat," he muttered against your neck, biting gently.
"Still a control freak," you bit back, tugging at his belt.
"You're going to pay for that."
You smirked, dragging him closer. "Promise?"
And he did.
His hands were hungry, but not rushed. Fingers tracing the outlines of your hips like he was mapping them from memory. Mouth hot and open against your throat, trailing lower, across your collarbone. He peeled your clothes off slowly, savoring the way your breath hitched each time skin was revealed.
"Look at you," he murmured. "Still mine."
"In your dreams," you gasped, back arching as his hands explored more, lower, deeper.
He chuckled, a sound dark and full of satisfaction. "Then I’ll make them real."
The bedsheets twisted under you as his mouth replaced his hands, his tongue wicked and slow. You gripped the fabric, then his hair, moaning as he learned you all over again. He teased and worshipped, every touch a claim, every kiss a reminder of what he’d lost—and what he was reclaiming.
When you finally tugged him up, panting, flushed, you didn’t have to say anything. He read it in your eyes, your touch, your parted lips.
He slid into you like he belonged there, and maybe he did. Your nails scraped his back, his hands fisted in the sheets beside your head. He moved like he drove—controlled, precise, relentless. Each movement was a push and pull of challenge and surrender, like a dance only the two of you knew.
"Still want to be a brat?" he growled, teeth grazing your ear.
You bit his shoulder. "Try me."
And he did.
You lost time. It blurred into sensation—into heat and whispered names, into gasps that echoed off the hotel walls. Your legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him closer, deeper, as if the last three months apart could be erased with pressure, with friction, with closeness. As if you could make up for every missed moment in a single night.
He kissed your cheek, your temple, your collarbone, murmuring half-sentences between each one. Inside jokes. Old pet names. Apologies he didn’t know how to say any other way.
"Still terrible at taking your hands off me," you whispered, breathless, threading your fingers through his curls.
He nipped your jaw. "Still impossible not to touch."
You laughed—light, breathy, dazed. "You're so annoyingly charming."
"You love it."
"I hate that I do."
He smiled into your neck, teeth grazing the skin. "You hate that you missed me."
You didn’t respond.
You didn’t need to.
Later, tangled in each other under the thin hotel sheets, your legs still draped lazily over his, you let out a long sigh. Lando's fingers were playing absently with the edge of your hip, like he couldn’t stop touching you, even when exhaustion started to weigh him down.
"Do you remember that night in Budapest?" he murmured.
"Which one? The one where you spilled champagne all over the sheets or the one where we almost got caught in the simulator room?"
His grin was boyish and wicked. "Both. But mostly the simulator one."
You snorted. "I thought you were going to crash us both into a wall just trying to get your pants off."
"You distracted me!"
"You started it!"
"You said, 'prove it,' and I took that as a green flag."
You shook your head, grinning into his chest. "Still so full of yourself."
"Full of you right now, technically."
You hit his shoulder with a half-laugh, half-gasp. "Lando!"
"What? I’m just saying."
You buried your face in the pillow to muffle your laughter, your hand sliding down his arm to find his fingers again.
"We were so stupid," you said, quieter now.
"We still are. But maybe we can be less stupid this time."
You turned your head to look at him. The teasing was gone from his eyes, but the warmth remained. Honest. Open. Yours.
He leaned down to kiss your forehead. Soft. Lasting.
"Don’t run," he whispered.
You didn’t answer right away. You just tightened your grip on his hand.
And in that silence, something tentative and fragile settled between you. A beginning. A breath.
A maybe.
And this time, it felt like neither of you would let go.
The first time you met Lando, he knocked over your iced latte with his elbow and didn’t apologise.
"Oi! Watch it!" you snapped, leaping back from the table, the milky puddle spreading across your jeans and onto the pavement. It was a warm spring afternoon in Monaco, and the café terrace buzzed with life—tourists with sun hats, tanned locals enjoying espressos, the distant hum of scooters echoing off stone walls.
Lando didn’t even look properly apologetic. Just flicked his sunglasses down his nose and raised a brow. "Shouldn't have put it there, love."
You stared at him, dumbfounded. "Did you just call me love after destroying my drink?"
Max, your best mate’s boyfriend and Lando’s longtime friend, chuckled nervously. "Er, maybe we grab a table inside, yeah?"
Pietra, your best friend since sixth form, leaned in with a sigh. "He does that to everyone. Just ignore him."
You didn’t. That was three months ago.
Since then, group hangs had been peppered with jabs and snide comments. He mocked your playlist—"What is this, a 2010 Tumblr flashback?"—you roasted his TikToks—"You dance like a man possessed by Wi-Fi buffering."
He called you "princess." You called him a "Tesco Value Verstappen."
But beneath the verbal sparring was something else. A friction that crackled just under the surface.
It started to shift during a lazy Sunday hangout at Max and Pietra’s flat, a cozy second-floor walk-up in a quiet part of London. The living room was a lived-in mess of potted plants, framed Polaroids, and the faint aroma of leftover takeaway. Rain drizzled softly against the windows, the kind of grey-skied weather perfect for doing absolutely nothing.
Max was buzzing with excitement. "Come on, it’s mint. They’ve updated the physics, the tyre wear’s realistic now, and the AI actually fights back. Career mode’s unreal. You’ll love it," he said, already dragging out the sim rig from the corner.
You were curled up on the couch under a throw blanket, nursing a mug of tea and a mild headache from the night before’s cocktails. You weren’t in the mood for games, especially not anything involving Lando Norris.
Speak of the devil.
He strolled in from the kitchen, dressed in joggers and a hoodie, hair damp from the rain, eating crisps straight from the bag.
"Hang on," he said, eyes narrowing as Max handed you the controller. "Why’s she on the rig? She can barely drive in real life."
You rolled your eyes, dragging yourself up. "And yet I’m still more competent than you at a four-way junction."
"Harsh. Untrue. And that was one time in Barcelona."
"You mounted a roundabout."
"It was an aggressive apex!"
Max laughed while Pietra raised a brow at both of you. "Oh my god, just let her play."
You flopped down onto the rig seat with dramatic flair. "Fine. Let’s see what all the fuss is about."
Then, with a wicked grin, you scrolled through the driver selection.
"Oh no," Lando said, narrowing his eyes.
You clicked on his name. "I want to see how it feels to carry the weight of delusion."
"Oi!"
"Oi!" you mimicked, wiggling your fingers and settling in.
And then the track loaded: Silverstone.
Your focus snapped into place. The headset muffled background noise. The engine roared to life and you were off, weaving through corners, keeping tight lines, balancing throttle and brake with finesse that surprised even you. As your lap time crossed the finish line, the numbers flashed.
Clean lap. No assists. You'd just beaten Lando's best.
A beat of silence.
Lando hovered behind you, crisps forgotten. His mouth opened, then shut again. He looked vaguely betrayed. "No way. That was a fluke."
You leaned back with a lazy smirk. "Cry harder, Norris."
Pietra burst out laughing, nearly spitting out her tea. Max just gaped, clearly impressed.
Lando, for once, had no witty comeback. Just a twitch in his jaw and a glint in his eye that said: this wasn’t over.
Later that night, he called you.
"Alright, no way you beat me legit. You used assists, didn’t you? Come round and prove it."
His voice was low and a bit too smug, but something in the way he said it—like a dare, a challenge—sent a jolt of heat through you.
So you went. Out of pride, of course. Definitely not because you were curious what Lando's place looked like. Or what he looked like outside of group dinners and sarcastic jabs.
He opened the door barefoot, dressed in a soft McLaren hoodie and grey sweatpants, hair tousled and eyes alert. You hated how effortlessly good he looked.
"You brought your own controller?" he asked, amused.
"I don’t trust your sweaty palms."
He smirked and stepped aside, letting you in. His flat was just what you'd imagined—minimalist but expensive, full of sleek furniture, motor racing posters, old karting helmets, and an absurdly large LEGO Porsche on a shelf.
"This place screams 'bachelor with a credit limit,'" you muttered.
"Yeah? Well, your driving screams 'license revoked,'" he shot back, guiding you toward the corner where the sim rig sat like a throne.
The racing setup was no joke. Triple screens, custom pedals, a wheel that probably cost more than your rent.
You sat down, cracked your knuckles, and got to work. It took one lap. Then another. Then a third. And in all three, you were faster.
Lando watched from behind, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as if he could mentally will you to crash. You didn’t.
When your final lap time popped up, half a second faster than his best, you leaned back with a victorious hum.
"Don’t say it," he warned.
You grinned. "Say what? That you just got outpaced by someone who listens to Taylor Swift while racing?"
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "Bloody hell."
You stood up, stretching your arms overhead with a satisfied sigh. "Face it, Norris. I’m quicker."
He turned to you slowly, his eyes tracking your movement. Something in the air shifted—more charged than it had been. The banter had slowed, giving way to a pause that felt intimate.
"Maybe," he said, voice quieter now, lacking its usual bravado. "Or maybe I just needed a reason to keep seeing you."
Your breath caught, but you didn't flinch. You tilted your head.
"And all this time I thought you just liked losing."
He smirked again, this time softer. "Only to you."
Lando’s flat became your battleground. Nights turned into a ritual—him texting you "Rematch?" at the most ridiculous hours, and you, unable to resist the challenge, showing up in joggers and a hoodie, hair thrown into a messy bun, controller tucked under your arm like a weapon.
The sim rig was your battlefield. The couch, your neutral ground where legs tangled and jabs flew. His kitchen? A half-functioning truce zone where he made you terrible tea.
"You call this tea?" you said, holding the mug up like it was contaminated. "My nan would be spinning in her grave."
He leaned on the counter, watching you with a smirk. "Give it a rest, woman. It's Yorkshire bloody Gold. It’s elite."
"Elite bin water."
He chuckled, shaking his head as he took a sip of his own. "You’re lucky you’re decent behind a wheel."
"Decent? Darling, I lap you with style."
The teasing was constant, but it had changed—no longer sharp and defensive, but playful, fond. The nights stretched longer, his glances lingered, and your laughter filled more corners of his flat.
One night, after an intense battle at Spa—where you overtook him in the final chicane and he literally gasped out loud—you slammed the brakes, pulled off the headset, and whooped.
"Yesss! Eat my dust, Norris!"
"Unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head with mock devastation. "You’re the bane of my existence."
You smirked. "And yet you keep inviting me back."
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward from the armrest of the couch, his hand reaching out to brush your knee. A quiet moment settled between you, the buzz of the last race still humming in your chest.
"You look fit when you drive," he said, voice quiet but sure.
You tilted your head, lips tugging upward. "That your idea of a compliment?"
His fingers curled slightly, thumb grazing the inside of your knee. "That’s my way of saying I want to kiss you."
There was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt or laugh it off.
You didn’t.
You leaned in slowly, testing the air, your breath mingling with his. His lips met yours in a kiss that was soft at first, like a question, before deepening with certainty. He kissed like he drove—focused, knowing exactly when to speed up, when to ease off.
When you pulled back, your fingers were laced in the hem of his hoodie, and his hand rested just above your hip.
"Not bad," you murmured.
He grinned. "Like my lap times. Surprisingly solid."
You rolled your eyes. "You had to ruin it."
He laughed and pulled you closer again. "You wouldn’t have it any other way."
The shift wasn’t immediate. You still bickered. Still challenged each other on track and off. But now there were sleepy morning texts, cheeky selfies mid-travel, and your toothbrush nestled next to his in the bathroom. His hoodies began vanishing mysteriously, only to reappear on your frame during coffee runs.
Max clocked it first when Lando turned down a late pub invite just to FaceTime you from his hotel room.
"You two been snogging behind the pit wall or something?" Max teased, slinging an arm around Pietra.
Pietra just smirked knowingly, sipping her wine. "Told you they’d combust. It was only a matter of time."
You and Lando played it cool, brushing off the attention with practiced sarcasm.
"She only likes me for my rig," Lando said, deadpan.
You didn’t miss a beat. "And he only likes me because I let him win sometimes."
But beneath the quips, there was a quiet shift. The touches became more familiar—a hand on your lower back when guiding you through crowds, your fingers toying with his bracelet while he reviewed practice footage. There were moments when the world faded and it was just the two of you, wrapped in the kind of silence that only came with comfort.
One night, after back-to-back races in Austria and Silverstone, you found yourselves curled up on his sofa, the telly playing quietly in the background. Rain tapped against the windows, the flat lit only by the soft glow of the city outside.
Your legs were tangled with his, your head resting on his chest, his fingers drawing lazy patterns across your spine. The scent of his shampoo—fresh, clean, familiar—filled your lungs with every inhale. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, grounding.
"You ever think this could be serious?" you whispered, not daring to move, afraid the moment might shatter.
His hand stilled for a beat.
Then, gently, he tilted his head to look down at you. "You mean us?"
You nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.
He smiled, soft and real. "It already is."
Then came the inevitable. A blowout.
It was stupid. A night out. A blurry photo plastered across Twitter: Lando exiting a club past midnight, a blonde girl’s arm slung too familiarly around his shoulder. You saw it before he could explain. The headlines screamed scandal, but the hurt in your chest didn’t need context.
You’d been in bed, scrolling aimlessly, and then—bam. There it was. Your breath had caught in your throat.
The next day, you didn’t answer his messages.
When he showed up at your flat, knocking like he knew you were on the other side, you opened the door but barely looked at him.
"So this is what it is, yeah?" you said, arms crossed tight. "A bit of fun until you get bored?"
His jaw clenched. His voice was low, defensive. "You know it’s not like that. She grabbed me. I didn’t even notice. I left ten seconds after."
You scoffed. "Right. Because you’re so bloody oblivious. Must be nice, being that naïve."
"I didn’t even talk to her!" he protested, frustration edging into his tone.
"Doesn’t matter," you muttered. "The picture said enough."
You closed the door. And he let you.
The silence afterward was worse than the shouting. Days passed. Neither of you reached out again. You checked his stories more times than you’d admit, heart sinking each time you saw race prep instead of something—anything—meant for you.
Until the Dutch Grand Prix.
Pietra insisted you come. Dragged you into the paddock with a borrowed pass and a forceful arm looped around yours.
"He misses you," she said, eyes soft with sympathy. "He won’t admit it, but I see it. He’s off. Lost focus. You were his bloody good luck charm."
You told yourself it was closure. One last look. Nothing more.
The paddock buzzed with orange-clad fans, and the smell of fuel and sea breeze filled the air. You stood just behind the barricades, arms crossed, trying not to scan the garage like a lovesick idiot.
Then he appeared. Helmet under one arm, suit half-unzipped, hair damp with sweat. He looked radiant and wrecked all at once.
His eyes skimmed the crowd. Then stopped. Locked on you.
For a second, neither of you moved.
"Not bad," you said, louder than you expected. Your voice cracked halfway through.
He strode over without hesitation, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his hair. Up close, you could see the exhaustion in his eyes—and something else. Something raw.
"Did it for you," he said simply.
You stared at him, defences wilting. And when he wrapped his arms around you, you didn’t resist. Your face pressed into the fabric of his suit, still warm from the run.
You inhaled. Exhaled. Let yourself feel it.
"I was scared," you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "So was I."
His voice cracked a little. "But you’re the only thing that makes sense outside the car."
From then on, you were inseparable. Media picked up on it—the sim racing queen and the F1 star. Fans shipped it with hashtags and edits. Your Instagram comments filled with memes and heart emojis. The world couldn’t get enough of your unlikely love story.
But none of that mattered when it was just you two, behind closed doors.
Your rivalry didn’t end—it simply evolved. You still raced. Still challenged him. Still called him names when he missed braking points or ran wide in time trial mode. But now, it was laced with affection. He called you "trouble," and you responded with a smug grin and a new lap record.
"You brake like my nan," you teased during one heated session.
"Your nan would probably take Eau Rouge better than you," he shot back, eyes never leaving the screen.
But he smiled after every insult. Touched your leg when he passed you the controller. Kissed your forehead when you beat his ghost lap.
After a race win in Singapore, with the heat still clinging to his skin and his hair damp beneath the cap, he found you in the McLaren garage. You didn’t even get a word out before he scooped you up by the waist, spinning you slightly.
"You're my lucky charm, you know that?" he murmured against your ear, voice thick with adrenaline and joy.
You kissed him, arms winding around his neck. "Just keep winning, Norris."
Later that night, after the celebrations and press duties, you found yourselves wrapped in the white sheets of his hotel room. The air was thick with exhaustion, laughter, and the scent of champagne still lingering on his collarbone.
He nudged your foot under the covers.
"When the season's over... maybe you move in?"
You blinked, eyes flicking to his. "Serious?"
He shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool, but his fingers were tracing slow circles over your wrist. "You already know all my secrets. Might as well know what I’m like first thing in the morning."
You grinned, rolling closer so your noses touched. "Spoiler alert: you snore."
He groaned. "Oi, that was one time! And I had a cold!"
You laughed, kissed him again, slow and sleepy. He pulled you into his chest, tucking you under his chin.
And in that moment, tangled together with the hum of city lights outside and his heart beating steady beneath your palm, you knew.
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.
"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.
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.
