Lando Norris told his family he had a girlfriend. The only problem? He didn’t. With his brother’s wedding coming up, he asked you, his neighbor, to pretend for the week—but fake dating got complicated the moment it started feeling real.
pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.
warnings. romance, humor, fake dating, forced proximity, implied smut, 11,9k words. profanity, light jealousy, the norris family <3, alcohol use, pet names (babe, darling), title from/based on private by the neighbourhood.
LANDO NORRIS HAD A REPUTATION FOR TWO THINGS: making reckless decisions and coming up with truly terrible ideas. Well—three things, if you were being generous. His driving talent was undeniable, but if you asked anyone who actually spent time with him, they’d say the first two showed up far more often than the third.
He also had another unfortunate skill, one that tended to appear exactly when it shouldn’t: he panicked, and then he lied. Instinctively. Effortlessly. Like his brain hit a big red button labeled make it worse.
And this time, he’d really done it.
Because Lando had told his entire family that he had a girlfriend.
The only issue?
He absolutely did not.
With Oliver’s wedding only four days away, the lie had grown teeth. The whole Norris family would be there—parents, siblings, cousins, and probably a handful of distant relatives who still pinched his cheeks and called him “Lando-bear.”
Every single one of them would be bringing a plus one.
Everyone except Lando.
It had been a running joke in the Norris family for as long as he could remember. His parents loved bragging about their children’s accomplishments, his siblings took every opportunity to tease him about his chaotic (and scandalous) dating life, and somehow every family gathering—birthdays, holidays, even Sunday lunches—ended with the same question: why Lando never seemed to have a serious girlfriend.
Usually he brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, some half‑hearted joke about being too busy or too picky. It never bothered him enough to do anything about it.
But this time, when the question came up again—“So, Lando, are you bringing anyone to the wedding?”—something in his brain simply… snapped. Short‑circuited. Went offline.
And before he could stop himself, he heard his own voice answering.
Yes.
Yes, he was bringing someone.
Not just anyone, either. He’d doubled down, told them he had a normal, stable girlfriend. Someone grounded. Someone real. Someone who absolutely did not exist.
Now there were less than four days until Oliver’s wedding.
And Lando Norris still didn’t have a girlfriend.
Lando sat at the table in his apartment, staring at the wall like it might suddenly offer him a miracle. His brain was running laps, trying to find a way out of the mess he’d created, but every possible solution felt dumber than the one before it.
There had to be something.
Some kind of brilliant, last‑minute, save‑your-own-ass idea.
Except… nothing he came up with even came close.
For a brief, unhinged moment, he wondered if he could convince Oscar to throw on a wig and pretend to be his date.
Yeah. No. Absolutely not. Oscar’s girlfriend would murder him before they even reached the venue.
He let out a long, miserable groan and dragged both hands down his face.
Okay. New idea.
Maybe he could just tell his family that his girlfriend—his very real, very fictional girlfriend—had suddenly fallen ill and couldn’t make it. That sounded believable enough… in theory.
But in practice? His mum would immediately start asking for her address so she could send homemade soup. His sisters would demand details. His dad would suggest rescheduling the introduction for the next family gathering.
Which meant he’d still be trapped in the same problem, just with more lies stacked on top of the original one.
And the truth was painfully simple: girlfriends were not something you could conjure out of thin air, no matter how desperately you needed one. Not even when you were the Lando Norris.
He slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling now, wishing the universe would hand him a solution.
Or a person.
Preferably both.
But then—
Yes.
God, yes.
The idea hit him so hard he actually sat up straighter, eyes going wide, lighting up like someone had plugged him directly into a power outlet. It was brilliant. Completely ridiculous. Potentially life‑saving. And, most importantly… actually possible.
Because as he sat there, staring at the blank stretch of wall in front of him, he finally remembered who lived on the other side of it.
You.
You, with your soft smile and your quiet kindness. You, who he wasn’t close to—not really. You weren’t friends, you weren’t even acquaintances. You were neighbors in the most literal sense. Sometimes you shared an elevator. Sometimes you exchanged a polite “hi.” Sometimes you held the door for him when his hands were full.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing meaningful. Nothing that suggested you were about to become the answer to the stupidest problem he’d ever created.
And yet… in the middle of his panic, you suddenly seemed like the perfect solution.
Of course, that led him straight into the next problem—one he faced every time he stumbled onto an actually good idea: how the hell was he supposed to ask you? What if you laughed? What if you slammed the door in his face? What if you said no and he had to return to his table, sit back down, and accept that he was still girlfriend‑less with a wedding in four days?
He groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
What were his other options? Post an Instagram story asking for volunteers? Hold open auditions in his living room? Pray someone magically appeared on his doorstep?
No. Obviously not.
You were the only choice he had.
And now he just had to hope you didn’t think he was completely insane.
Lando paced his apartment for a grand total of three and a half minutes before reaching a very scientific conclusion: pacing solved absolutely nothing. All it did was make him more aware of how sweaty his palms were and how loudly his heart was trying to escape his chest.
So the next step became painfully, horrifyingly clear. He had to go ask you. In person. At your door. With his whole panicked, malfunctioning self on display.
He grabbed his keys like they might give him courage and muttered under his breath, “This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing terrifying happening here.” It sounded unconvincing even to him.
By the time he reached your door, whatever flimsy confidence he’d managed to build had dissolved completely, leaving him standing there like a man about to face a firing squad. He knocked once. Then twice. Then, because he was Lando and panic was his brand, he knocked three more times in a frantic burst.
“Too much. Too much,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and praying the universe would show him mercy.
The door opened.
And there you were—looking perfectly normal, perfectly calm, perfectly unaware that your evening was about to take a dramatic turn.
“Hey,” you said, head tilted, curiosity softening your expression.
“Hi,” Lando managed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to keep his head attached. He looked like a lost puppy who’d wandered too far from home. Mostly because he was one.
“You need something?” you asked, giving him a quick once-over. “You don’t look great. You’re really pale. Come in, sit down.” You stepped aside, warm and worried and gentle in a way that made his stomach twist.
Lando swallowed hard and perched on the very edge of your couch, like sitting normally might somehow make this whole thing worse. His knee bounced, his fingers twisted together, and he looked one deep breath away from passing out. “Right… so… um…”
You raised an eyebrow, watching him fidget like a kid who’d been caught doing something he absolutely shouldn’t have been doing.
“I know this is gonna sound completely insane,” Lando said, voice wobbling in a way you had never heard from him. “I… I need a—big. Huge. Gigantic favor, Y/n.”
Your confusion only grew. This was Lando Norris—confident, charming, annoyingly magnetic Lando—now sitting on your couch like a drenched stray dog someone had forgotten to bring inside. He couldn’t seem to look at you for more than half a second, and his hands were practically tying themselves into knots.
“Lando?” you said softly, nudging his knee with yours. “Just talk. You’re scaring me a little.”
Lando’s hands wouldn’t stay still. They fidgeted in his lap, fingers tapping against each other like he was trying to summon courage through sheer friction. “Okay… so… this is gonna sound completely ridiculous, but just—just hear me out,” he said, his voice pitching upward in panic.
“My… my brother—Oliver—he’s getting married in, uh… four days. Four days, Y/n. And… um… well… I kinda… told my family I had a girlfriend.”
You stared at him, confusion knitting your brows. “And…? What does that have to do with me?”
“Well—I don’t have one!” Lando blurted, the words bursting out like they’d been trapped in his chest.
You blinked. Hard. Because… what? Lando Norris didn’t have a girlfriend? Lando Norris, who always seemed to have someone on his arm, someone texting him, someone laughing at his jokes?
“You don’t have a girlfriend?” you repeated, eyebrows shooting up. “You always have someone around.”
“Ha. Ha. Not helpful,” he muttered, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes darted everywhere—your bookshelf, the floor, the ceiling—anywhere except your face, like looking at you might make this whole thing even more humiliating.
His knee bounced. His throat bobbed. And for the first time since you’d met him, Lando Norris looked genuinely, painfully out of his depth.
Lando threw his hands up, breath coming too fast, like his brain had officially abandoned ship. “I lied! They’re always making fun of me for being the only sibling without a ‘stable love life’!” His gestures got bigger, more frantic. “So I lied! I told them I finally have a normal girlfriend! I told them she’s the right—”
You cut in before he could spiral any further. The amount of information he’d just dumped on you was… a lot. Especially coming from someone you’d only ever exchanged elevator small talk with. “Lando… breathe. You’re kind of having a panic attack.”
He froze mid‑wave, arms suspended awkwardly in the air. His chest rose and fell too quickly, eyes wide and unfocused, like a startled animal trying to decide whether to bolt or faint.
And something in you softened.
Before you could overthink it, the words slipped out. “I can do it. I can pretend to be your girlfriend—if that’s what you need.”
Lando blinked at you, stunned into silence. For a moment he just stared, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.
Then his whole face lit up, relief crashing over him so visibly it was almost endearing. “Really?!” he burst out, voice cracking with disbelief and something dangerously close to joy, like you’d just handed him the winning ticket to his own rescue.
“Yes,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your mouth. “You don’t deserve to be humiliated by your entire family. Not this week, at least.”
“Ha-ha, hilarious,” he muttered, but the grateful smile pulling at his lips gave him away. “But seriously… thank you. Jesus, Y/n, you’re actually saving my life here. What do I owe you?”
You lifted a brow, pretending to think. “Hmm… maybe start by not panicking every two seconds?”
He nodded so fast it was almost comical. “Right. Yeah. I can do that. I’ll try.”
And then—naturally—he let out a loud, shaky exhale, his fingers immediately twisting together again, looking like a man who was absolutely not succeeding at the whole “not panicking” thing.
It made you smile, just a little, because for all his charm and confidence, Lando Norris was clearly a disaster in need of rescuing.
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You and Lando sat at your dining table, both of you silently questioning every decision that had led to this exact moment. Well… you were. Lando looked like he was still trying to remember how to breathe. You had just agreed to pretend to be the girlfriend of a man known across Formula 1 for his charm, his speed, and—most famously—his impressive track record of short-lived romances.
“So,” you said, aiming for calm even though your pulse was doing laps, “if I’m going to fake-date my neighbor—who I barely know—I think we need some rules.”
“Rules?” Lando repeated, brows lifting, confusion flickering across his face. For once, he didn’t look cocky or confident. He looked… unsure. Almost nervous.
“Yes. Rules,” you said, holding up three fingers. “Only three. I promise they’re not complicated.”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and mild panic—like a student bracing for a pop quiz he definitely hadn’t studied for. “Okay. Tell me,” he said quickly, already trying to memorize them before you’d even opened your mouth.
His eagerness made you smile despite yourself.
“Rule number one: no disgusting pet names. Like… honey, light of my life, or whatever. I hate those. Babe, darling, and love are fine,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as you could.
Lando nodded immediately. “Yeah, no, same. Anything too cheesy makes my skin crawl.”
“Rule number two: no hooking up. No sex.” You said it firmly, maybe a little too quickly. It was mostly for your own safety—your heart’s safety. You’d heard the stories. You’d seen the headlines. And you had absolutely no intention of becoming another one of Lando Norris’s charming little footnotes. (Not that you weren’t already halfway there.)
Lando blinked at you, eyes widening in a mix of shock and exaggerated offense. “I would never.”
You gave him a look that said please, I know exactly who you are.
He cleared his throat.
You continued, “and the most important, absolutely non-negotiable rule: no falling in love.”
“Right,” Lando said, nodding like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Simple.”
But the way his knee bounced under the table, the way his eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second, the way your stomach twisted at the thought of just hearing him say love—you both knew it wasn’t going to be simple at all.
Not even close.
Lando looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had been on the verge of a full emotional collapse less than twenty‑four hours ago.
“Do we even have a solid backstory?” you asked, giving him a look that said you already doubted the answer.
“Oh, we do,” he said, leaning back in his chair with the smug confidence of a man who absolutely should not have any.
You narrowed your eyes, waiting.
He lifted his hands in surrender, grinning. “Okay, fine, I just came up with it. But don’t worry—it’s a good one.”
You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “Alright, genius. Let’s hear it.”
“We met in the elevator,” he announced instantly. “Which is technically not a lie.”
You stared at him. “Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got? They’ll never buy that.”
Lando looked genuinely offended, like you’d just criticized a work of art he’d spent years perfecting.
“Hey, it’s realistic,” he insisted, chin lifting. “People meet in elevators all the time.”
“Yes,” you said slowly, giving him a look that could only be described as are you hearing yourself right now? “And then they say hello, maybe smile awkwardly, and go to their own apartments. They don’t magically start dating.”
Lando waved a hand like you were being dramatic. “Details.”
You leaned back in your chair, trying to piece together something that didn’t sound like it had been written by a twelve‑year‑old. “Okay, so maybe I dropped something and didn’t notice when I left the elevator. You picked it up and returned it to me later—”
“We got stuck together in the elevator!” Lando declared, pointing at you with the enthusiasm of a man who believed he had just cracked the Da Vinci code.
You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice.
“Lando.”
“What?!” He threw his hands up like you’d personally offended him. “You’d be surprised how often elevators get stuck in this building!”
“It happened, like, twice,” you said, crossing your arms. “And I live next door, remember? I think I’d know.”
“And it happened to me both times!” Lando shot back, jabbing a finger at his own chest as if that somehow strengthened his argument. “Suspicious, right?!”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed.
Because you remembered. Oh, you remembered exactly how that last incident went. The entire building had known within minutes that Lando Norris was trapped in the elevator. Neighbors had gathered in the hallway. The building manager had been sweating bullets. And Lando—poor, panicking Lando—had been shouting through the metal doors that he was “perfectly calm,” while sounding anything but.
Honestly? The story was ridiculous.
But believable.
Painfully, hilariously believable.
“Right. So… we were stuck, and then what? Fell in love while panicking?” you asked, skeptical.
“We talked,” Lando said with a grin, leaning back casually. “Found out we’re neighbors, started seeing each other more, and realized we’re both charming, funny, and attractive people.”
“Funny?”
“Absolutely.”
You grabbed the nearest napkin from the table and tossed it at him.
Lando laughed, easily dodging it. “See? Perfect. The chemistry is already there.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Your poor family.”
“My family will love you,” he said confidently. “You’re kind, you’re funny, and you already tolerate me—which is honestly the hardest part.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward anyway. Just a little.
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Warm air wrapped around you the moment you and Lando stepped out of the airport in Sicily, the kind of soft heat that made your shoulders drop and your lungs loosen. It felt like the whole island exhaled around you. Thank God it was Sicily—you’d spent the entire flight quietly panicking that he might’ve dragged you to rainy England instead. At least here, if everything went horribly wrong, you’d have sunshine.
“My brother’s gonna pick us up,” Lando said, tugging his suitcase behind him as he wove through the crowd with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
You hurried after him, trying to match his long, impatient strides. Your heart was already beating too fast, and not just from the travel. “Wait—what are your parents’ names? You haven’t even told me!”
Lando barely slowed down. “My mum’s Cisca, my dad’s Adam. My brother is Oliver, and his fiancée is Sav. My sisters are Flo and also Cisca.”
You blinked, your brain scrambling to keep up. The names felt like someone had thrown a handful of puzzle pieces at you and expected you to assemble them mid‑run.
“That’s… a lot of names,” you said, breath catching a little. You were suddenly very aware that you were about to meet all these people—people who believed you were dating their son. People who probably asked a lot of questions.
Lando shrugged like this was all perfectly reasonable, even though your pulse had started doing gymnastics. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is when I’ve met exactly zero of them,” you shot back. “And in, what, ten minutes? I’m supposed to convincingly pretend I’m dating you in front of your entire family.”
“Relax,” he said, dragging his suitcase along like he wasn’t dragging you straight into chaos. “My family is nice. A bit chaotic, but mostly nice.”
“Chaotic?” you repeated, the word landing in your stomach like a stone.
“They’ll probably ask a lot of questions,” he added casually, like he was telling you the weather forecast.
Your heart dropped.
Questions.
Of course they’d ask questions.
You’d known Lando for—what—three days? Four? And that was being generous. Sure, he’d lived next door for years, but elevator small talk and awkward hallway smiles did not prepare you to play his girlfriend in front of people who had known him his entire life.
“Not helping, Lando,” you muttered, shaking your head as you tried to keep up with him through the crowd.
Then another thought hit you so hard you actually stopped walking.
“What if they ask how long we’ve been dating?!”
Lando turned around and stepped closer, the warm Sicilian breeze ruffling his curls as if even the weather was more relaxed than you were.
“Five months, babe.”
Your eyes narrowed so fast he actually flinched.
Too soon. Way too soon for that word.
“Don’t call me that,” you warned. “Yet.”
He lifted both hands in surrender, though the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He was enjoying this way too much for someone who had begged you for help less than four days ago.
“We’ve been dating for five months,” he said, slipping back into that calm, annoyingly confident tone. “Long enough for it to seem serious, but short enough to explain why they’ve never met you.”
You let that settle in your mind. Five months. Not too long, not too short. Enough time to know each other, but not enough time for family introductions. It actually… made sense.
“…Okay,” you admitted slowly. “That’s not terrible.”
But then something clicked. The way he said it. The ease. The certainty. The fact that he hadn’t even hesitated.
You looked at him again, suspicion creeping in. “Wait—you already thought about this?”
Lando’s smirk widened, soft but undeniably smug, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.
“Of course I did.”
And for a moment—just a moment—you saw the truth behind the grin:
he’d been thinking about this way before you ever agreed.
The car behind you honked—sharp, impatient—and you jolted like someone had poked you with a live wire.
“That must be Oliver,” Lando said, already turning toward the parking area with that casual confidence you absolutely did not feel.
You followed his gaze and spotted a dark car rolling up to the curb, sunlight bouncing off the windshield. The driver leaned out just enough for you to see him squinting through the Sicilian glare.
“Lando!” he called out.
“Yep. That’s him,” Lando confirmed, far too calm for someone about to introduce his fake girlfriend to his real brother.
Your stomach tightened.
This was it.
The first test.
The first family member.
The first person who could look at you and immediately think, Nope. She’s not his type.
“Just greet him,” Lando murmured quietly, noticing how stiff you’d gone. His voice dropped, softer than usual. “You don’t have to say much.”
Oliver climbed out of the car with an easy, warm smile—the kind of smile that made you understand instantly why people liked him. He had that same Norris charm, just steadier, more grounded. Older brother energy radiated off him.
“Finally,” Oliver said, pulling Lando into a quick hug. “You’re late.”
“Blame the airport!” Lando shot back, grinning like he hadn’t been panicking for days.
Then Oliver’s gaze shifted to you.
And suddenly you were hyper-aware of everything—your hair, your clothes, your posture, the way your hands were awkwardly gripping your suitcase handle.
“You must be Y/n,” he said warmly.
“Yeah, that’s me,” you replied, smiling even though your heart was thudding against your ribs.
“I’m Oliver,” he said, offering his hand.
“I’m Y/n… but you already know that,” you added with a small laugh. The words came out a little too confident, and you immediately prayed it sounded playful instead of arrogant.
Oliver chuckled, clearly unfazed. “Nice to officially meet you, Y/n.”
And just like that, some of the tension in your chest loosened. He didn’t look suspicious. He didn’t look confused. He didn’t look like he was about to interrogate you.
He just looked… kind.
Which, honestly, was almost worse—because kindness made it harder to lie.
Oliver drove with the kind of calm confidence that made you wish you felt even half as steady. Warm Sicilian sunlight spilled through the windows, turning the dashboard gold. Outside, the world looked soft and bright and easy.
Inside the car, Lando was talking like he’d been plugged into a power source.
He and Oliver were deep in race talk—corner speeds, tire degradation, strategy calls—Lando gesturing wildly, Oliver chiming in with that older‑brother mix of teasing and genuine interest. It was like watching two people speak a language you’d only ever heard in passing.
“You saw that last corner from Russell, right?” Oliver asked, glancing at Lando with a grin. “Absolutely insane overtaking maneuver.”
“Yes!” Lando lit up instantly. “But the tires, the line he took—it was borderline genius. I mean, I would’ve done it slightly differently, obviously.”
You sat in the back, hands folded tightly in your lap, nodding along like you understood even a fraction of what they were saying. You caught words—Monza, grip, strategy—but they floated past you like puzzle pieces from the wrong box.
Then Oliver’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror.
“What about you, Y/n? What did you think of the race?”
Your brain blanked.
Completely.
Utterly.
“It… uh…” You tried to sound thoughtful, like you were recalling something meaningful. “I thought it was… exciting?”
Lando snorted under his breath. “She’s very diplomatic.”
Oliver laughed, warm and easy. “Fair enough. Hard to argue with that.”
You sank back into your seat, cheeks warm, trying not to overthink the fact that you were already improvising. Already lying. Already pretending to be someone who fit into this world.
And Lando—of course—kept glancing back at you with these tiny, amused smiles. Like he could see every thought running through your head. Like he knew exactly how flustered you were and found it… cute.
You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
The car wound through the narrow Sicilian roads, sunlight flickering across your lap, and with every turn your nerves pulled tighter—like someone was slowly winding a string inside your chest. This was only the warm‑up. The easy part. The real performance waited at the end of the driveway, where an entire family believed you were in love with their son.
Oliver parked smoothly and stepped out, probably to gather the rest of the Norris clan. The moment the door shut behind him, the car felt too quiet, too warm, too full of everything you were suddenly terrified of messing up.
“Relax,” Lando said, glancing over at you with a half‑smile. “You look like you’re about to meet the mafia.”
“I kind of am,” you muttered, rubbing your palms against your thighs. “Did I say something bad? About the race? I feel like I said something bad.”
Lando laughed softly, leaning back in his seat like he had all the time in the world. His grin was easy, warm, annoyingly reassuring. “Calm down. You were fine.”
You followed his gaze out the windshield—and your stomach dropped.
The whole family was already gathered at the end of the driveway. Talking. Laughing. Waiting. A cluster of people who knew each other inside out… and were about to meet the stranger pretending to be part of their world.
Your breath caught.
Lando noticed. Of course he did.
He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it barely registered—except it did. It settled something in you. Or maybe it unsettled everything. Hard to tell.
“You’ve got this,” he said, voice low, teasing, but steady in a way that made your pulse slow just a little.
You took a deep breath, trying to believe him. Trying to believe yourself.
Then the car door opened, warm air rushing in, and there was no more time to think.
It was showtime.
Lando’s arm slid around your waist like it had always belonged there—easy, natural, practiced in a way that made your breath catch for half a second. It wasn’t tight, just enough pressure to say mine without actually saying it. Enough to make you look like a couple. Enough to make your heart do something stupid.
“My dearest family! Your best son is back! Even with a girlfriend!” Lando announced, laughing like this was all a big joke he’d been waiting to deliver.
“Move, Lando, I want to see your lovely girl,” his mum, Cisca, said, gently shoving him aside with the confidence of a woman who’d been doing it his whole life.
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Lando pretended to be offended, hand over his heart, but then shot you a mischievous smirk—like he was enjoying this way too much.
Cisca stepped closer, warm and bright, the kind of person who made you feel welcome before you even spoke. “Y/n, I’m Cisca, and this is my husband, Adam. My daughters, Flo and Cisca, my soon‑to‑be daughter‑in‑law, Sav, and my sons, Oliver and… well, you know, Lando.”
She reintroduced everyone as if Lando hadn’t rattled off their names in the car, but you smiled anyway, greeting each of them—twice, just to be safe. Your cheeks were warm, but no one looked suspicious. If anything, they looked excited. Curious. Happy to meet you.
“Lando told me a lot about you,” you said, smiling—and immediately realized how that could sound. “Only the best things, of course.” You let out a nervous laugh, hoping it landed somewhere between charming and believable.
“See?” Lando said, his smirk widening into something almost proud. “Perfect son—and now boyfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was a tiny spark of warmth in your chest at how confidently he said it. Like he’d imagined this moment before. Like he’d rehearsed it. Like he’d been waiting for you to step into this role long before you agreed.
And that thought… well, that was dangerous.
Lando’s arm stayed around your waist as Sav led you down the hallway, her voice bright and cheerful, completely unaware that your heart was doing somersaults. You and Lando exchanged a quick look—yours full of are you kidding me?, his full of that infuriating, smug confidence he wore like a second skin.
“C’mon, lovebirds, I’ll show you your room,” Sav said, swinging open a door with a flourish.
You stepped inside, taking in the soft lighting, the open window, the warm Sicilian breeze drifting through the curtains. It was a beautiful room—cozy, airy, romantic in a way that made your stomach twist.
And then your eyes landed on the bed.
One bed.
A big one, sure. But still one.
Sav didn’t seem to notice your internal meltdown. “Dinner’s at six! Don’t be late,” she chirped before disappearing down the hall.
The door clicked shut.
You turned slowly toward Lando, raising an eyebrow so high it practically left your face. “There’s only one bed.”
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t even pretend to be surprised. He just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“We are a couple, remember?” he said, voice low and annoyingly smooth.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Right. Almost forgot.”
But the truth was, your pulse had picked up. Just a little. Because the room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. And Lando—smirking, relaxed, completely unfazed—looked far too comfortable standing there like he belonged in this space with you.
You still stood there, arms crossed, staring at the bed like it had personally wronged you. It sat in the middle of the room—big, soft, innocent—and yet somehow the most stressful piece of furniture you’d ever encountered.
Meanwhile, Lando looked like he’d just walked into a hotel suite he’d booked himself. He pushed off the doorway, wandered in, and dropped his bag by a chair with the ease of someone who had absolutely no shame.
“You’re overreacting,” he said, tone maddeningly casual.
You turned your head slowly, like a horror movie character realizing the killer was behind them. “Overreacting? Lando, there is one bed.”
He glanced at it, then back at you, completely unfazed. “Yeah. I can see that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And where exactly do you plan on sleeping?”
He shrugged, all innocence. “In the bed?”
The pillow was in your hand before you even thought about it. You launched it at him. He caught it mid‑air, laughing like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.
“Relax, I’m kidding—kind of.”
“‘Kind of’ is not reassuring,” you snapped, brushing past him to your suitcase because you needed to move before you strangled him.
Lando watched you for a beat, then let out a dramatic sigh worthy of an Oscar. “Fine. We’ll figure something out. I’m a gentleman.”
You paused, turned, and raised one eyebrow. “You?”
He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Wow. That hurt.”
“Good.”
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You stepped out of the bathroom for what felt like the third time, maybe the tenth, maybe the hundredth—time had stopped meaning anything somewhere between outfit number four and the moment you realized Lando was absolutely no help at all.
He was sprawled across the bed like a cat in a sunbeam, scrolling through his phone, not a single worry in sight. Meanwhile, you were one bad outfit away from a full emotional collapse.
“What about this?” you asked, voice tight with the kind of stress only family dinners and fake‑dating could create.
Lando looked up.
And for a moment—just a heartbeat—he didn’t move. His eyes dragged over you slowly, like his brain had forgotten how to function. You shifted under his stare, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of fabric on your body.
“What?” you asked, trying to sound annoyed instead of flustered.
He blinked, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Hot.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Lando.”
He sat up a little too fast, rubbing the back of his neck, that small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. It softened him in a way you weren’t prepared for. “I mean—you look nice. Really nice. That’s all.”
The words hung in the air, warm and a little dangerous. And even though you rolled your eyes, you felt your stomach flip, just once, like it was testing the waters.
Lando definitely noticed how stiff you were, how your fingers kept twisting together like you were trying to wring the nerves out of them. He sat up a little, the teasing fading from his face, replaced by something softer.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice low in a way that made it hard to pretend you were fine.
“Just… stressed,” you said with a shrug, trying to make it sound small even though it felt huge in your chest.
“Hey,” Lando said, pushing himself off the bed so quickly it almost startled you. “Stop stressing, Y/n. They already love you.”
You let out a breath, shaking your head. “They don’t even know me.”
“They don’t need to,” he said, stepping closer like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re kind, you’re funny, you didn’t run away the second you met my family—honestly, that’s already impressive.”
A tiny laugh escaped you, but your shoulders stayed tight, your pulse still too fast. And of course he noticed. He always noticed.
“Come here,” he said suddenly.
You frowned. “What?”
“Come here,” he repeated, gentler this time, like he wasn’t asking—just quietly waiting.
You hesitated, then stepped closer.
He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against your hair as he tucked a strand behind your ear. Then he smoothed it down, slow and careful, like he’d done it a hundred times before. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like the loud, chaotic version of him everyone else saw.
“There,” he murmured, eyes lingering on you for a beat too long. “Perfect.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it, a tiny hitch you hoped he didn’t hear.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips before you could hide it.
“At fake dating?” he asked, eyebrow lifting in that way that always made him look like he was two seconds from trouble.
“At not being a completely insufferable asshole,” you shot back—though the laugh that slipped out ruined any attempt at sounding annoyed.
Lando let out a soft huff, shaking his head. “Wow. I’m really raising the bar here, aren’t I?”
“Bare minimum,” you teased.
“Rude.”
“But accurate.”
He stepped closer, just enough that you felt the warmth of him, his voice dropping into something lower, softer—something that felt like it was meant only for you.
“And yet,” he murmured, a hint of a smirk curling at his mouth, “you still agreed to be my girlfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away. If anything, your feet stayed rooted, your pulse doing that stupid fluttery thing again. “Fake girlfriend.”
“Right,” he said, nodding slowly, eyes lingering on yours. “Keep telling yourself that.”
For a second, neither of you moved. The air felt thick, warm, charged with something you weren’t ready to name. His hand was still close to yours. Too close. Close enough that if either of you breathed wrong, your fingers might brush.
Then reality snapped back into place.
You cleared your throat, stepping back just enough to break the moment. “Come on. Your family’s waiting.”
Lando grinned, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened—except his eyes were brighter, and his smile was a little too pleased.
“Let’s go, babe.”
You shot him a look.
“…We said that one was allowed,” he added quickly, hands raised in mock innocence.
You didn’t reply—just shook your head and walked out of the room with him, your hand still resting lightly on his arm. It felt steady there, even though nothing inside you felt steady at all.
The closer you got to the dining area, the louder everything became. Laughter spilling over laughter. Voices overlapping. Cutlery clinking. Chairs scraping. A whole family in full motion.
Chaos.
Warm, loud, overwhelming chaos.
You slowed down without meaning to.
Lando noticed instantly.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear him. “Breathe, remember?”
“I am breathing,” you whispered back.
“Barely.”
You shot him a look—half glare, half panic—but before you could argue, you stepped into the dining room.
And immediately—
Every head turned.
“Oh, there they are!” someone called—Flo, you were pretty sure.
“What took you so long?” Sav added, wearing a smirk that said she absolutely thought she knew the answer.
You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “It takes him forever to get ready,” you said, jerking your thumb toward Lando.
The table erupted with laughter.
And for the first time since you’d arrived, the tension in your chest loosened. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the noise. Maybe it was the way this whole thing was starting to feel… weirdly doable.
“Oh?” Lando turned to you, smirking, clearly not expecting you to fire back so quickly. “That’s interesting, considering you changed your outfit, what—four times, love?”
You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it. Just a spark of something lighter.
“Dinner’s getting cold! Sit, sit,” Cisca urged, waving you both toward the table with the kind of warmth that made it impossible not to smile.
You slid into your seat, Lando taking the chair beside you like he’d been doing it for years. His knee brushed yours under the table—light, accidental, but steady enough to make your pulse jump. You didn’t move it away. Maybe you couldn’t.
Adam reached for the wine bottle. “Wine?”
“Yes, please,” you said a little too fast, and Lando’s quiet laugh beside you didn’t help.
Glasses filled, plates passed around, and for a few minutes everything felt almost… normal. You smiled, nodded, laughed when everyone else did. You were doing it. You were blending in. You were surviving.
Then Sav leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. “So. Tell us everything. How did you two meet?”
There it was. The question. The one you’d been dreading since the airport.
You glanced at Lando for half a second—barely long enough for anyone else to notice, but he caught it instantly.
“We got stuck together in the elevator,” he said smoothly, like he’d been waiting for this moment.
You exhaled quietly, picking up the thread. “For two hours,” you added with a small laugh. “Very, very long two hours of my life.”
“Speak for yourself, darlin’,” Lando cut in, not missing a beat. “Best two hours of mine.”
The table erupted with laughter—Flo snorting, Sav shaking her head, Cisca smiling like this was the cutest thing she’d ever heard.
And you… you felt your face warm, but not from embarrassment. More from the way Lando said it—light, teasing, but with a softness underneath that wasn’t entirely fake.
Cisca leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity. “So what happened after? You got out and just… what? Went on a date?”
You froze for half a second.
Lando didn’t.
“I asked for her number,” he said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Your head snapped toward him.
Oh.
That was new.
And dangerously believable.
“And I said no,” you added quickly, because your brain clearly decided honesty‑but‑not‑really was safer than silence.
Lando looked at you, eyebrows lifting. “You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
“You hesitated,” he corrected, pointing at you with his fork. “And then gave it to me anyway.”
You rolled your eyes, a small laugh slipping out. “I didn’t trust you.”
Adam chuckled, shaking his head. “Smart girl.”
The table laughed, the moment loosening—until Lando spoke again, his voice dipping just slightly, the teasing softening around the edges.
“But,” he said, glancing at you, “she eventually said yes.”
Your eyes met his.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for something warm to settle low in your chest, something you weren’t prepared for.
“…Eventually,” you echoed, quieter than you meant to.
And the strange part?
It didn’t feel like a story anymore.
Not a script.
Not a lie you were both juggling.
It felt like something that could’ve happened.
Something that almost did.
Lando looked away first, but not before you caught the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—soft, knowing, like he’d just read your mind and liked what he found.
You talked for another three hours, and somehow—it was suspiciously easy.
No interrogation. No awkward pauses. No slip‑ups. No one trying to poke holes in your very real, very not‑real relationship. If anything, they just… welcomed you. Laughed with you. Pulled you into conversations like you’d always been there.
And that almost made it worse—because it felt natural. Too natural. Like you weren’t pretending at all.
Eventually, plates were empty, wine glasses half‑full, and the warm Sicilian night hummed softly through the open windows.
“I think we’re gonna head to our room,” Lando said casually, stretching an arm around your shoulders like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. “Y’know, get some rest.”
Damn.
He was good at this. Too good. The kind of good that made your stomach flip, because he didn’t even have to think about it—his voice warm, his touch easy, his smile soft enough to sell the whole thing without trying.
And the worst part?
For a split second, you didn’t feel like you were acting either.
As you stood, his hand slid down your arm, fingers brushing yours in a way that felt almost accidental—except it wasn’t. Not with the way he glanced at you, just briefly, like he was checking if you were still okay… or maybe checking something else entirely.
You stepped into the room and the door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the noise from downstairs like someone had dropped a blanket over the world.
Silence settled—thick, warm, a little too intimate.
Your eyes drifted immediately to the bed.
One bed.
Again.
You turned slowly toward Lando.
He was already staring at it too, hands in his pockets, jaw shifting like he was trying not to laugh.
“…Right,” you said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
A beat.
Another beat.
The kind of beat where you could practically hear both of your brains screaming.
“You’re not seriously telling me this is becoming a pattern,” you muttered, crossing your arms.
You didn’t even bother hiding the disbelief in your voice.
“We are dating, babe.”
“Fake dating, babe.”
“Still counts for logistics.”
“There are two chairs,” you said, pointing at them like you’d just discovered a legal loophole.
Lando didn’t even look. “You want one of us to sleep on a chair?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
“…No.”
“Exactly.”
You dragged a hand down your face. “This is insane.”
Lando flopped back onto the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly, looking far too relaxed for someone who had just detonated your entire nervous system for the day. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s literally one bed.”
“And?” he asked, glancing up at you with that maddeningly calm expression.
You stared at him.
He stared right back.
Then, slowly—dangerously—that familiar smirk crept in. “We behaved perfectly fine tonight, didn’t we?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice infuriatingly casual, “if we can survive interrogation over dinner, we can survive sleeping in the same bed.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It kind of is.”
You stared at the bed like it might magically split in half if you glared hard enough.
“Fine,” you sighed. “But if you’re snoring, I’m kicking you out.”
“I don’t snore,” Lando said instantly—way too instantly.
You turned your head slowly.
He blinked.
“…I don’t,” he repeated, much quieter now.
You raised an eyebrow. “That was way too fast for someone telling the truth.”
He scoffed, kicking off his shoes like he lived here. “I’m an athlete. I’m basically engineered for optimal sleep conditions.”
“Sure,” you nodded, deadpan. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
Lando grinned, grabbing his suitcase. “Well, Your Majesty, feel free to take the left side of the bed.”
“There are sides now?”
“There are always sides.”
You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and sat on the edge of the mattress. It dipped under your weight, soft and warm, and you watched him move around the room—unpacking, stretching, tossing his hoodie onto a chair—like he’d done this a thousand times.
Like he belonged here.
Which was the annoying part.
He made everything feel… normal. Easy. Like sharing a room, sharing a bed, sharing this whole ridiculous lie wasn’t a big deal at all.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” you muttered.
Lando glanced over his shoulder, smirk already forming. “Too late.”
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The washed dishes weren’t even dry yet when the Norris family was already on their feet again, buzzing with the kind of chaotic energy only they could produce. Someone— definitely Sav—clapped her hands together like she was kicking off a national broadcast.
“Okay! We’re playing How Well Do You Know Your Partner!”
Instant groans. Instant cheers. A chorus of excitement and dread rolled across the terrace.
You slowly turned your head toward Lando.
“…We are fucked,” you mouthed.
Lando didn’t even blink.
He gave you a calm, reassuring nod that was so painfully unconvincing it almost made you laugh.
“We’ll be fine,” he mouthed back.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
Liar.
Because even as he said it, his mouth twitched—just a tiny, traitorous twitch—like he was already regretting every life choice that had led him to this exact moment.
Around you, chairs scraped against the floor as everyone moved back toward the table. Pens appeared, paper was handed out, and suddenly it looked way too official for something that was supposed to be “just a game.”
Flo was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing in her seat like she’d been waiting all night for this exact moment.
“First question!” she announced, pausing dramatically like a game‑show host.
Everyone leaned in.
You braced yourself.
“What is your partner’s biggest pet peeve?”
Of course.
Of course that was the first question.
Lando immediately bent over his card, writing like this was the easiest thing he’d done all day. No hesitation, no thinking, no panic—just pure, irritating confidence. He even tapped his pen against the table afterward, relaxed, smug, like he already knew he’d get it right.
You stared down at your blank paper.
Biggest pet peeve.
You barely knew your own biggest pet peeve, let alone his. Your mind went completely empty, like someone had unplugged your brain and walked away with the cable.
You risked a sideways glance.
Lando was done.
Done.
Already leaning back in his chair, looking like he was waiting for the rest of the class to catch up.
Show‑off.
You sighed quietly and wrote the first thing that made sense: people driving too slowly.
It wasn’t a wild guess. More like a logical conclusion. He drove fast cars for a living, lived fast, talked fast—slow drivers probably felt like a personal attack on his soul.
Hopefully.
You set your pen down, trying to look confident.
You absolutely did not feel confident.
And beside you, Lando’s knee brushed yours under the table—light, steady, like he was silently saying we’ve got this.
Flo practically vibrated with excitement. “Ready?”
Everyone flipped their papers.
Lando’s answer: cheesy nicknames.
You blinked.
Right.
That one barely counted—he only knew because you’d ranted about it earlier. Still, Sav burst into laughter.
“You hate nicknames, Y/n?”
“Hate,” you said instantly, no hesitation at all.
“Especially ‘light of my life,’ right, Y/n?” Lando added, laughing like he wasn’t actively trying to get himself murdered.
You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.
“Don’t push it.”
He only grinned wider, the menace.
Then his eyes dropped to your board.
He read it.
And his whole expression shifted—slowly, deliberately—into a smug, satisfied smirk that told you he was about to be insufferable.
“Oh,” he said, dragging the word out like he was unwrapping a present.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
He leaned in just a little, enough to make it feel like he was invading your personal space on purpose. “Not bad.”
You glanced down at your own paper.
people who drive too slowly.
Lando let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head like he was both impressed and personally offended.
“That’s actually kind of good,” he admitted, still smirking. “Like… annoyingly accurate.”
You shrugged, trying to look casual even though your stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip. “At least I didn’t embarrass us.”
He nudged your knee under the table—light, warm, intentional.
“You could never embarrass us, darling.”
That nickname sent shivers down your spine.
And the worst part?
The part you refused to acknowledge?
For a moment, you almost believed him.
Flo clapped her hands again, absolutely delighted with the chaos she was creating. She looked like someone who’d been waiting her whole life to host this exact moment.
“Okay! Next question!”
She paused dramatically, eyes sparkling.
“What is your partner’s most annoying habit?”
You felt Lando shift beside you immediately—pen already in hand, posture straightening like he was preparing for a qualifying lap. He didn’t even hesitate. He just started writing, confident and focused, like he had a whole list ready to go.
Meanwhile, you stared at that damn paper again.
Most annoying habit.
Where were you even supposed to begin?
He had so many.
You risked a glance at him.
He looked calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made you want to throw your pen at him. Of course he was confident. Of course he thought he knew exactly what you’d write. He lived for this.
You exhaled slowly and wrote the first thing that felt right: leaving cabinets open.
It was oddly specific, but it fit him. He had that chaotic energy, the kind that probably left a trail of half‑open cupboards behind him like breadcrumbs.
“Ready!” Sav announced.
Everyone flipped their papers.
There was a half‑second of silence.
Then—
Cisca gasped, pointing at your answer like she’d just discovered buried treasure. “Yes! Y/n! Thank you—finally! That has driven me mad ever since he was a kid!”
The table erupted into laughter.
Lando whipped around to his mum, offended. “Traitor!”
“I’m sorry,” she said through her laughter. “It’s true!”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed too. And as the noise settled, you felt Lando nudge your knee under the table, a tiny, wordless I can’t believe you just exposed me like that.
You didn’t look at him.
But you smiled.
You looked at Lando’s board.
overthinking and stressing over everything.
You blinked.
Oh.
For a moment, the laughter around the table dimmed, like someone had quietly turned the volume down. The terrace was still full of noise and warmth and clinking glasses, but it all felt a little distant—like you’d stepped half a beat out of sync with the room.
Because that answer…
That wasn’t a joke.
That wasn’t a throwaway guess.
That was painfully, uncomfortably accurate.
Your eyes lifted to him.
He wasn’t smirking this time. No teasing, no smugness, no dramatic flourish. Just Lando watching you with this quiet, steady kind of awareness that made your chest tighten. Like he’d seen it. Not just tonight, but before. Like he’d been paying attention in ways you hadn’t realized.
You let out a small breath, something caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Okay… that’s a bit too accurate.”
Lando shrugged lightly, but there was something softer in his expression now—something that didn’t belong to the game or the performance or the lie you were both maintaining. “You make it kind of obvious.”
The words weren’t mocking. They weren’t even teasing. They were gentle, almost careful, like he was trying not to push too hard.
And for a second, you felt it again—that strange, unsettling shift.
The one where the line between fake and real blurred just enough to make your heart stumble.
A few hours later, the noise from inside had finally faded, replaced by the soft hum of the evening—warm air brushing against your skin, distant laughter drifting from somewhere down the hill, the faint rhythm of waves rolling in and out like the night was breathing with you.
You leaned against the balcony railing, letting your shoulders drop for the first time all day. It had been… a lot. Fun, chaotic, terrifying, weirdly comforting—a mess of emotions you hadn’t sorted yet and weren’t sure you wanted to.
“Enjoying your victory?” a familiar voice drawled behind you.
You didn’t even turn. “We did not win.”
“Debatable,” Lando said, stepping out onto the balcony like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting for this quiet moment.
You glanced at him over your shoulder. “We survived. Barely.”
He came to stand beside you, leaning his elbows on the railing, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “You were good.”
You let out a soft snort. “I guessed half of it.”
“And still got it right,” he pointed out, like that settled the matter.
You shook your head, staring out at the dark horizon. The sky was a deep blue, the kind that made everything feel softer, slower. “That’s not the point.”
You looked at him now, really looked, the balcony light catching the edges of his face in that soft, golden way that made everything feel a little too intimate.
“You, on the other hand… what was that?”
Lando blinked, all faux‑innocence. “What was what?”
“That whole ‘overthinking and stressing over everything’ thing?” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Bit personal, don’t you think?”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.
Instead, he gave a small shrug, gaze drifting out toward the dark horizon for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“It’s true.”
You crossed your arms, partly defensive, partly trying to keep your heartbeat from doing something stupid. “You don’t even know me.”
He turned his head then, slow and deliberate, meeting your eyes with a steadiness that made your breath catch.
“I know enough.”
It wasn’t flirtatious.
It wasn’t teasing.
It was quiet, honest, and it hit you harder than you expected.
You looked away quickly, pretending to focus on the waves you couldn’t actually see. “You got lucky.”
“Twice?” he said, the teasing finally slipping back into his voice.
You rolled your eyes, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get cocky.”
He smiled to himself, that small, private kind of smile that told you he was enjoying this far more than he should.
After a moment, he nudged your arm lightly with his elbow. “You were good too, by the way. The cabinet thing? My mum’s never going to let that go now.”
You laughed under your breath, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. “I take pride in that.”
“You should,” he said, turning back toward the view. “You’ve officially turned my family against me.”
“Part of the job,” you replied, but your voice softened without your permission.
And for a moment, the two of you just stood there—side by side, warm air brushing past, the night settling around you—feeling something that didn’t quite fit the definition of fake anymore.
There was a brief pause—one of those rare, quiet moments where everything felt suspended in warm night air. Comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind of comfort that made you forget, for a second, that none of this was real.
Then, almost at the same time, your eyes drifted downward toward the garden.
And froze.
His entire family was there—clustered in little groups, pretending to chat, pretending to admire the flowers, pretending to do anything other than stare directly up at the balcony. Sav was leaning against a tree like she was undercover. Adam had his hands on his hips. Flo was perched on a lounge chair, chin in her hands. Cisca was the only one trying to look subtle, which somehow made it worse.
They were all waiting.
Watching.
Expectant.
“Oh my God,” you muttered under your breath, heat rushing to your face.
Lando followed your gaze, and the moment he saw them, his shoulders dropped in exhausted disbelief.
“…They’re insane,” he said quietly, like he was afraid they’d hear him.
“They’re waiting,” you whispered, because there was no denying it. They were practically vibrating with anticipation.
“I can see that,” he murmured, jaw tightening like he was trying not to laugh or scream.
A beat passed.
Then another.
The kind of beat where your heart started doing something stupid in your chest.
Lando shifted closer—just a small movement, but enough that his shoulder brushed yours, warm and steady. When he spoke, his voice dropped low, soft enough that only you could hear it over the hum of the night.
“Can I kiss you, please?”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and for the first time all night there was no smirk waiting for you, no teasing spark, no playful challenge. Just something softer. Something careful. Something that made your chest feel too tight.
“You’re asking?” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the warm night air.
“Figured I should,” he murmured back, his tone low and steady. “Consent and all that.”
Despite everything—your nerves, the audience below, the fact that this was supposed to be fake—a small smile tugged at your lips. You couldn’t help it.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t want to break the moment. “But can I?”
You hesitated for half a second. Not because you didn’t want to. Not because you were scared of the kiss itself. But because suddenly, terrifyingly, it didn’t feel like part of the act anymore. It felt like something else entirely—something real, something fragile, something you weren’t sure you were ready to name.
Still, you nodded.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t rush. He didn’t joke. He didn’t turn it into a performance for the garden below. He just leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His hand brushed your arm, light and warm, like he was checking—are you sure, are you sure, are you sure?
You didn’t move.
And then—
His lips met yours.
Soft. Careful. Warm.
It was meant to be quick, just enough to convince the family watching from below. Just enough to sell the story.
But neither of you pulled away right away.
Not even close.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the quiet press of his mouth against yours, the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand still resting against your arm. Everything else—the balcony, the night, the family waiting below—faded into a blur.
And all you could think was:
This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
────────────
The pre-wedding party was… a lot. The kind of “a lot” that filled every corner of the villa with noise and warmth and movement. Music spilled across the garden in waves, loud and bright, mixing with the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter that rose and fell like the night had its own heartbeat. Fairy lights stretched overhead, soft and golden, blurring slightly at the edges—or maybe that was just the alcohol. Hard to tell anymore.
Still, even with all the warmth and noise and celebration, something felt a little off.
Everyone here seemed to have their place. Their people. Their easy conversations and inside jokes and familiar rhythms. Sav floated from group to group with the kind of glow only a bride‑to‑be could pull off. Flo was dancing with someone’s aunt. Cisca was deep in conversation with a cluster of relatives you couldn’t keep straight. Everywhere you looked, there was a sense of belonging—woven into the air, into the laughter, into the way people leaned into each other without thinking.
And you… well. You were here. Present, technically. But not quite part of the current.
You took another sip of your drink, leaning against the bar, letting the cool glass steady you. Fourth drink? Fifth? You’d lost track somewhere between the speeches and the second round of music. It didn’t matter. The night was warm, the lights were soft, and the alcohol made everything feel a little easier to float through.
Across the garden, Lando was surrounded by his cousins, animatedly talking about F1, hands moving as he laughed at something one of them said. He looked completely at ease—comfortable in a way that made sense. This was his world. His people. His history.
He looked at home.
And you—
You just stood there, watching him for a moment longer than you meant to, feeling that small, quiet ache of being close to something without quite belonging to it.
You were still leaning against the bar, letting the music and chatter blur into a soft background hum, when someone stepped into your space from the side—close enough that you felt the shift of air before you heard the voice.
“Hey.”
You turned slightly.
One of Lando’s cousins stood there with an easy smile. Will—probably. Or Ben. Honestly, after your fourth drink, all the cousins had started blending into one tall, friendly blur of Norrises.
He offered his hand like you were meeting at a business conference instead of a pre-wedding party. “Will.”
“Y/n,” you replied, shaking it briefly.
He didn’t let go right away.
“Oh, trust me, I know,” he said with a small smirk, finally releasing your hand but not stepping back. “You’re kind of the main topic of conversation.”
Your brows lifted, a mix of amusement and mild alarm. “That’s concerning, considering this is Sav and Oliver’s wedding.”
He laughed softly, shoulders relaxing. “Fair point.”
Only then did he give you a little more space—though not much. Just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Relax,” he added, tone light. “It’s all good things.”
You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. “That’s not very reassuring.”
He grinned, hands sliding into his pockets. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. They like you.”
“That’s better,” you said, though you weren’t sure if the warmth in your chest was the alcohol or the words.
Either way, it was nice to hear.
Will’s smile lingered a little longer than it should have, the kind of smile that tried to look casual but didn’t quite land that way.
“You know,” he said, leaning one elbow against the bar so he was angled toward you, “I’m still trying to figure out how someone like you ended up with him.”
You let out a small laugh, swirling what was left of your drink. The ice clinked softly against the glass. “Wow. Straight to insulting him. Nice.”
“I’m not insulting him,” he said quickly, hands lifting in a harmless gesture. “Just… surprised.”
“Because?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though your tone stayed light.
He shrugged, eyes flicking over you in a way that felt a little too assessing. “He’s Lando. And you seem… normal.”
That actually made you snort. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” he said, and this time his gaze lingered a beat too long. “I just mean—you could do better.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and awkward, settling between you like something you didn’t want to touch. You opened your mouth—ready to defend Lando, or correct him, or shut the whole thing down before it got any weirder—
“Hey, babe. Is everything okay?”
Lando’s voice cut cleanly through the moment.
Before you could even turn, his hand slid around your waist, warm and steady, pulling you gently but unmistakably toward him. The movement was instinctive, protective, and just a little too sure of itself.
You blinked up at him, caught off guard by how close he suddenly was.
But he didn’t look at you first.
His eyes were locked on Will—calm, unreadable, but with an edge underneath that you hadn’t heard in his voice all night. Or ever.
Will straightened immediately, hands dropping from the bar like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yeah, just talking.”
Lando hummed once—a low, controlled sound that wasn’t quite agreement. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. Like he had a sharper response sitting on the tip of his tongue and was choosing, very deliberately, not to use it. His jaw tightened for a second before he smoothed it over, the kind of restraint that said more than any raised voice could.
Then he finally looked down at you.
“You okay?”
There was something in his tone—lighter than the look in his eyes, softer than the tension in his shoulders. It was a question meant for you, not for the audience around you. A check‑in, not a performance.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
A small beat passed.
His hand was still at your waist, warm and steady, fingers resting just firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t letting go until you told him to. And without thinking, your own hand had settled against him too, holding on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Good,” he said simply.
Then his gaze slid back to Will.
“Not sorry, Will,” Lando said, voice calm, almost casual—but with a quiet edge underneath. “I need to talk to my girlfriend.”
The emphasis was subtle, but unmistakable. A line drawn. A boundary set.
Will blinked once, caught between surprise and a laugh he didn’t quite commit to. “Yeah, alright.”
He lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender. “Didn’t mean anything by it, man.”
“Cool,” Lando replied, smooth and final.
No warmth. No invitation to keep talking. Just a clean end to the conversation.
Then, without another word, he guided you away from the bar. His hand stayed firm at your waist, steering you through the garden, past the clusters of people, past the fairy lights and music and noise. You didn’t resist. You didn’t even think about resisting. You just let him lead you, the warmth of his touch grounding you in a way the alcohol never could.
He didn’t loosen his grip once.
Only when you were finally inside the villa—away from the crowd, away from Will, away from the eyes and the noise—did he slow down. His steps eased, his hand softened, and the air between you shifted into something quieter, heavier, waiting.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, the noise of the party vanished like someone had cut the power. No music, no laughter, no clinking glasses—just silence. Thick, heavy, the kind that settled over your skin and made the room feel smaller than it was.
Lando finally let go of your waist, but only so he could turn toward you fully. His movements were sharp, controlled, like he’d been holding something in since the moment he saw you at the bar.
“What was that?” he asked immediately.
You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “What was what?”
“That guy,” he said, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “The way he was talking to you.”
You scoffed, trying to brush it off, trying to keep the moment light. “It’s literally your cousin. He was just talking.”
“He is the biggest idiot of all of them,” Lando shot back, voice low, “and he was not just talking.”
“Oh my God,” you laughed once, shaking your head, trying to defuse the tension. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes,” he said instantly.
And that—more than anything—made you stop.
He wasn’t teasing.
He wasn’t playing the part.
He wasn’t performing for anyone.
He was actually annoyed.
“You’re overreacting,” you said, quieter now, because suddenly the space between you felt charged in a way you didn’t know how to handle.
“I’m not,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no doubt.
A beat passed—quiet, heavy, stretching just long enough to make your pulse stumble.
Then Lando stepped closer again, closing the space you’d tried to keep between you. His voice dropped, low and rough around the edges. “I didn’t like it.”
Your breath caught, sharp and involuntary.
“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered, even though the words didn’t come out nearly as steady as you wanted them to.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s fake,” you reminded him, but your voice wavered, softening at the end like even you didn’t fully believe it anymore.
The word fake landed between you like something sharp. Something that should have pushed him back.
It didn’t.
Lando looked at you for a long second—long enough that you felt it everywhere. Like he wanted to argue, like he had a dozen things he wanted to throw back at you, but none of them made it out fast enough.
“Right, fake.” Lando laughed, but it was dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. “You looked like you didn’t want me there,” he said finally, quieter now, but somehow more honest.
The words hit harder than they should have. Harder than you were prepared for.
“I did,” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I just didn’t need you to—”
“To what?” he cut in, stepping closer again. “To act like I care?”
Silence.
Thick. Electric. Unavoidable.
Your chest tightened, breath catching somewhere high in your throat.
“Lando…” you warned softly, but it didn’t come out like a warning. It came out like something fragile. Something unsure.
And he was already too close again—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, close enough that stepping back didn’t even cross your mind.
This time, you didn’t move at all.
“I care,” he said, and the words were so quiet, so steady, so painfully real that they seemed to settle right under your skin.
That changed everything.
Your breath stuttered, catching somewhere high in your chest. For a moment neither of you moved, like the air between you had turned solid.
Then—
Something in you snapped.
You grabbed the front of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the fabric, and pushed him backward. He didn’t resist. He barely even blinked. He just let you guide him until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he fell onto it with a soft thud, eyes wide, breath unsteady.
You climbed over him before he could say a word.
And kissed him.
Not careful this time. Not soft. Not measured.
This kiss was messy, urgent, horny, full of everything you’d been holding back. No hesitation. No pretending. No audience to perform for. Just heat and frustration and something that had been building for far too long.
Lando’s hands were on you instantly—gripping, grounding, pulling you closer like he needed you right there, right then. His breath was warm against your mouth as he managed a half‑laugh, half‑groan.
“…So that’s how we’re resolving things now?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled against his lips, refusing to pull away.
He did, just barely, just enough to look up at you with that infuriating, familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What happened to rule number two, darling?” he teased, voice low, eyes bright with something that made your pulse jump.
You didn’t even think.
“Fuck rule number two.”
His smile widened—slow, wicked, knowing.
And then he pulled you back down.
────────────
The wedding had been beautiful.
Perfect, actually—the kind of perfect that made your chest ache a little if you thought about it for too long. Everything glowed. The flowers, the lights, the people. Sav looked like she’d stepped out of a dream, and everyone cried at least once. Even you, even though you barely knew half the people in the crowd. Oliver was nervous in a sweet way, stumbling over his vows, and Lando… well. Lando was the prettiest best man anyone had ever seen, all soft smiles and quiet pride, looking like he belonged in every photo taken that day.
But you hadn’t really been thinking about the wedding.
Not the ceremony.
Not the speeches.
Not the dancing.
You’d been thinking about last night.
About the way he’d looked at you.
About the way he’d said I care.
About the way you’d grabbed him, kissed him, lost yourself in something that wasn’t supposed to be real.
Which was exactly why you’d spent the entire day avoiding him.
You kept yourself busy—helping Sav, talking to Flo, pretending to be deeply invested in the seating chart, slipping away whenever you felt his eyes on you. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t graceful. But it was the only thing you could manage, because every time you caught even a glimpse of him, your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the memory of his hands on you, his voice in your ear, his breath against your mouth.
You weren’t ready to face him.
Not yet.
Not when everything inside you still felt unsteady.
So you smiled, you mingled, you clapped during the speeches, you danced when someone pulled you in—but underneath all of it, there was this constant hum in your chest.
A reminder. A question.
And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you could feel him somewhere in the crowd, watching you like he was waiting for you to stop running.
After the ceremony, everyone drifted inside, swept up in dancing and champagne and the kind of joy that filled every corner of the villa. Music echoed off the walls, laughter spilled across the room, and the whole place felt warm and alive in a way that should have pulled you in.
But instead, you found yourself outside, sitting at the edge of the pool with your legs tucked close, staring at the water like it might offer some kind of clarity.
It didn’t.
Obviously.
The surface just rippled gently, reflecting the lights strung above you, turning everything into soft, shifting colors. It was peaceful, almost too peaceful compared to the noise inside. And maybe that was why you stayed out here—because the quiet made it easier to breathe, even if it also made it harder to ignore the thoughts you’d been trying to outrun all day.
You heard footsteps before you saw him.
Of course you did. You always knew when he was close, even when you didn’t want to.
“Here,” Lando’s voice said gently.
You didn’t turn around.
“I brought you water,” he added after a second, like he wasn’t sure if you’d accept it.
A small sigh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Thanks,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder.
He was standing there like he hadn’t been the reason you hadn’t slept properly, eaten properly, or thought about anything else properly since last night. Casual. Too casual. Like he hadn’t been in your head every hour of the day.
He sat down beside you—not too close, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. He placed the bottle next to you instead of handing it over, giving you space you weren’t sure you wanted.
Silence stretched between you.
Comfortable for him.
Unbearable for you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain.
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Have I?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, eyes still on the water. “You have.”
And there it was—the thing you’d been trying so hard not to face.
You kept your eyes on the pool, tracing the slow, gentle movement of light across the surface. The water shimmered in soft blues and golds, shifting every time the breeze touched it. It was easier to look at that than at him. Easier to pretend you were calm. Easier to pretend you weren’t unraveling a little.
“…I’m not avoiding you,” you said finally, though the words felt thin, like they didn’t quite hold their own weight.
Lando let out a quiet breath—one of those soft, almost-sighs that told you he didn’t believe you but wasn’t ready to push too hard. Not yet. He sat there with his hands loosely clasped, shoulders relaxed, but there was something in the way he watched the water that gave him away. He was waiting. He was listening.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Then what are you doing?”
The question landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You swallowed, eyes still fixed on the ripples in front of you.
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous,” he muttered under his breath.
Despite everything—despite the tension, despite the nerves, despite the way your heart had been doing somersaults since last night—your lips twitched. Just a little. Just enough to betray you.
Another pause stretched between you. Not the comfortable kind from earlier. This one felt more honest, more fragile, like the air between you had thinned and you were both trying not to break it.
You hugged your knees closer, pulling them tight to your chest. “I just… didn’t expect it to feel like this.”
That made him turn his head toward you. Slowly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t sure what you were about to say but knew it mattered.
“Like what?”
You hesitated, because there were too many answers. Too many feelings you didn’t have names for yet. Too many moments from last night still echoing in your head.
“Complicated,” you said at last, the word slipping out on a breath.
A beat passed.
Then he nodded, slow and thoughtful, like that made sense to him too. Like he’d been carrying the same word around all day.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Same.”
It was full of everything neither of you were saying out loud—heavy, warm, impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that pressed against your ribs and made your pulse feel too loud in your own ears.
You picked at the hem of your sleeve, eyes still on the water. “We were supposed to be fake dating,” you said quietly, almost like saying it again might rewind everything, might pull you both back to the safe version of this. The version with rules. The version where your heart wasn’t involved.
Lando let out a short laugh—soft, breathless, almost disbelieving. “We were really bad at that.”
The corner of your mouth lifted before you could stop it. A small smile, but a real one.
“…Yeah,” you admitted.
Another pause settled between you, heavier this time, like the night itself was leaning in to listen.
Lando shifted beside you, just enough that you felt the movement through the air. “Do you regret it?” he asked again, but this time his voice was quieter, stripped of all the bravado he usually carried so easily.
You frowned a little, turning your head toward him. “What?”
He hesitated—actually hesitated—and that alone made something tighten low in your stomach. Lando never hesitated. Not with you. Not with anyone.
“You know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for a second. “Last night. Us. Sleeping together.”
Oh.
Right.
Your fingers went still against your sleeve. The world seemed to narrow to the space between you, to the way he was looking at you now—no smirk, no teasing, no easy confidence. Just Lando. Waiting. The real version of him, the one he didn’t show to many people.
You looked at him properly then, really looked, and your breath came out slower than you expected.
“I don’t think I do,” you said quietly.
A beat passed, soft and fragile.
Then, even softer—almost like you were testing the truth of it as you spoke—
“I don’t think I regret it at all.”
The words hung there between you, warm and terrifying and honest.
Lando looked at you for a second longer than usual, like he was trying to read the truth behind your words, trying to see if you meant it the same way he did. Something in his expression softened—barely, but enough.
“Same,” he said quietly.
A beat passed, stretching out between you like a held breath.
You let out a nervous exhale, trying to steady whatever was spinning too fast inside your chest. “Let’s not break rule number three, Lando,” you said, aiming for lightness, but your voice didn’t quite make it there.
His mouth twitched, but it didn’t turn into a smile. Not really. “You’re making it very hard,” he admitted.
That made you glance at him again, your pulse skipping. “Hard how?” you asked, careful, cautious, like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.
Lando exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the water before lifting back to you. “Pretending this is just… nothing,” he said. “Pretending it was just a mistake we can laugh off in the morning.”
Silence settled over you—thick, heavy, honest. The villa noise felt distant now, like it belonged to another world entirely.
You swallowed. “We agreed on no falling in love.”
He let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then he shook his head slightly, like he was frustrated with himself, like he’d been fighting something he’d already lost. “That rule’s kind of pointless now,” he said softly.
Your breath caught.
“Lando—”
But he didn’t let you finish.
He turned toward you fully, closer than before, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him even with the space still between you. His voice was quieter now, but steady in a way that made your heart stutter.
“I think I’m already there,” he said.
Everything in you stopped.
The pool light rippled across his face, catching in his eyes, making them look impossibly open, impossibly vulnerable. He wasn’t hiding behind jokes or smirks or bravado. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t pretending.
He was just telling you the truth.
And then, like it was the simplest thing in the world—even though you could hear the fear tucked beneath it—
“I love you,” he added.
The words hung in the air between you like they had weight.
I love you.
No jokes followed.
No smirk.
No quick escape route disguised as humor.
Just silence.
Your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears, like your body was trying to catch up to what he’d just said. You searched his face, hoping—maybe—that you’d find some hint of exaggeration, some playful twist you could latch onto and turn this into something lighter. Something easier to handle.
But there wasn’t anything like that.
Lando didn’t look away.
He just waited.
And for once, he didn’t look like he was performing anything at all. He looked real. Open. A little scared. A lot sincere.
Your throat tightened.
“I—” you started, but the word broke apart before you could finish it. You let out a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, trying to make sense of the way everything inside you felt like it was shifting at once.
This was supposed to be fake.
This was supposed to be simple.
This was supposed to be safe.
You swallowed hard.
“I didn’t plan for this,” you admitted quietly, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.
A small, almost sad smile flickered across his face. “Neither did I.”
Something in your chest loosened at that—just a little, just enough to breathe again. You looked back at the water, watching the lights ripple across the surface, but it didn’t help. It didn’t make anything clearer.
Because the truth wasn’t complicated.
It was just terrifying.
“…I think I do too,” you said finally, the words soft but steady.
Lando went completely still.
You turned your head toward him again, your voice gentler now, more certain even if your hands weren’t. “I think I’ve been trying not to say it all day,” you added. A breath. “Probably longer than that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore.
It felt different.
Settled.
Like something had finally clicked into place.
Lando exhaled slowly, almost like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until that moment. “Yeah?” he asked quietly.
You gave a small, nervous nod. “Yeah.”
A beat passed.
Then he let out a soft laugh under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe either of you. “We are so bad at rules.”
That pulled a laugh out of you too—quiet, shaky, but real. You wiped at your face quickly, as if that would fix anything, as if that would make you feel less exposed.
babsie radio ! heyy….. how are you….long time no see….sorry if this is bad, i tried to overcome my writers block somehow… also I (re)discovered bella kay’s iloveitiloveitiloveit and sombr’s canal street so im in mood for some angst….
twin posted new work so y’all better read this 🫵🏻 perfect to help get through the finals preparation 🤧
side note: guys, i’d really want to apologize for being in my inactive era :( ive been overwhelmed and overloaded with school and finals, and due to it all of my motivation and time to write are pretty much non-existent :’) i promise that once i get out of this maddness i will come back, and spoil you guys with new fic <3 stay safe and take care. han xx
Lando Norris, brilliant and cocky, pushed you to your limits on court and off, and when your federation paired you for mixed doubles at the Australian Open, rivalry turned into something dangerously close to desire.
pairing. tennis player! Lando Norris x tennis player! fem! reader.
warnings. non-f1 au; tennis au. romance, angst, sports drama 15,5k words; out of 36,9k, part two of two. rivals/enemies to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity. set in Melbourne, Kimi as Toto’s son. tennis/grand slam inaccuracies, medical injury, implied mental struggles, high ambitions, pet names (baby, darling), alcohol use; profanity. part one here.
soundtrack. love all, an official playlist.
THIS IS PART TWO OF ACROSS THE COURT. FIND PART ONE HERE.
THE MATCH CAME FASTER THAN YOU EXPECTED. One moment, you were trading shots with Lando under the floodlights, the court quiet and strange in the middle of the night. The next, you were walking through the tunnels of Rod Laver Arena, the buzz of the crowd humming just beyond the walls, your racket bag heavy on your shoulder. Your body felt ready, but your mind was still somewhere else—still stuck in that moment on the court, in the way Lando had looked at you like he meant every word.
Kimi walked beside you, calm and loose as always, his hoodie half-zipped and his hair still damp from the shower. “So… you’re telling me Lando wasn’t being sarcastic?” he asked, glancing over with a raised brow.
You let out a breath, shaking your head. “Nope. He said, and I quote, ‘I can promise you…’” You mimicked Lando’s voice, just enough to make Kimi snort.
“Oh, so we’re making promises now?” he teased, smirking as he nudged your arm with his elbow.
“Definitely not,” you said, too quickly. “He’s the last person I’d promise anything to.”
It was a lie. Or at least, not the whole truth. Because your heart stuttered for just a second, a quiet flicker of guilt slipping through. You had promised him something. Just a few hours ago. In the middle of that strange, quiet moment on the court. You’d said you’d tell him if it got worse. You’d meant it, too.
But you didn’t say any of that. You just kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, pretending the weight in your chest was just nerves.
You reached the locker room door a few minutes later than planned, your steps slowing as you got closer. You could already feel the tension waiting for you on the other side, thick and familiar, like a coat you didn’t want to put on but knew you had to. Lando, Zak—the duo of your nightmares—and Toto were supposed to already be inside. You could picture them clearly: Zak pacing, checking his watch; Toto with that unreadable expression that somehow made you feel both ten years old and entirely replaceable; and Lando… well, Lando would probably be lounging somewhere, pretending not to care, but watching everything.
You stopped just short of the door, heart thudding a little harder than you wanted to admit. Kimi stood beside you, calm as ever, his presence grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed until now.
“Thanks for walking me,” you said, offering him a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Always,” he replied, pulling you into a quick hug. “I’ll be in the player box. Good luck.”
You stepped back, exhaling. “I’ll need it.”
You were just about to turn the handle when his voice stopped you.
“And Y/n…” he said, voice light but pointed, like he was aiming just beneath the surface. “Try not to kill Lando. You’ll need him sooner or later.”
You froze, hand still on the door. A smirk tugged at your lips, automatic and dismissive. “Need him?” you echoed, scoffing under your breath. “Yeah, that’s… not happening.”
But the words didn’t land the way you wanted them to. They felt hollow, like something you were supposed to say, not something you believed. Because the second they left your mouth, something in your chest shifted. A flicker of doubt. A whisper of something you didn’t want to name.
Or…?
You shook your head, trying to push the thought away, but it clung to you. Quiet and stubborn. The kind of thought that didn’t go away just because you told it to. You didn’t need anyone. You’d built your whole career on that. On being the one who didn’t flinch, didn’t fold, didn’t ask for help. Especially not from Lando Norris.
And yet, something about last night—about the way he looked at you, the way he spoke to you like he actually saw you—had left a mark. Small, but there.
You twisted the handle and stepped inside, the cool air of the locker room wrapping around you like a familiar chill. The tension hit you instantly, settling over your shoulders like armor. You straightened your spine, lifted your chin, and walked in like you belonged there.
But Kimi’s words still echoed in your mind.
You’ll need him sooner or later.
You stepped into the locker room and spotted them right away—Lando, Toto, and Zak—huddled in a tight little circle like they were planning a military operation. The sight made your stomach twist, just a little. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or habit. Probably both. They looked up as you entered, and for a second, the room felt too quiet, too expectant.
“Sorry,” you said, dropping your bag with a soft thud. “You know Kimi’s haircare routine.”
You glanced at Toto as you said it, letting the joke land with just enough bite to make your point. A jab, but a gentle one. A reminder that you still had some fire left in you.
Toto let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. “That boy is definitely my kid.”
“For real,” Lando added, grinning as he leaned back against the bench. “I need to know what shampoo you use, Toto. That shine doesn’t just happen.”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Just a little. The sound surprised even you. You had a match ahead, adrenaline already humming beneath your skin, your thoughts a mess of strategy and pressure and what-ifs. And yet here they were, talking about shampoo like it was the most important thing in the world. It was ridiculous. But somehow, it helped. It made the room feel less sharp, less like a battlefield.
Toto raised an eyebrow at Lando, his voice dry. “Win this match, and I’ll tell you.”
Lando’s grin widened, cocky and boyish all at once. “Deal.”
And just like that, the tension in the room shifted. Not gone, but softened. You took a breath, steadier now, and started to lace up your shoes.
“Right,” you muttered under your breath, not really expecting anyone to hear. “Shampoo secrets on the line. No pressure or anything.”
Lando caught it anyway. Of course he did. He glanced over, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Hey, motivation comes in many forms.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. It was ridiculous. All of it. But somehow, the banter helped. It made the room feel a little less sharp, a little less like it was closing in around you.
Zak clapped his hands once, loud enough to pull everyone back to the moment. “Alright, jokes aside. Focus up. This is still a match.”
The shift in energy was instant. You straightened a little, finishing the last loop of tape around your wrist. Toto stepped closer, his voice dropping into that calm, steady tone you’d known your whole career. The one that always made you feel like you were ten seconds away from either a lecture or a pep talk.
“Remember what we worked on,” he said. “Short points. Clear calls. And—” his eyes moved between you and Lando, steady and pointed—“trust.”
You nodded, but your throat felt tight. That word. Trust. It landed harder than you expected. You’d spent so long building walls, keeping people at arm’s length, doing everything on your own. Trust wasn’t something you gave easily. Not anymore. And definitely not to someone like Lando. But here you were, about to step onto the court with him, your name tied to his, your game tangled with his choices.
You swallowed, pushing the thought down. You didn’t have time to overthink it. Not now. You just had to play.
“Five minutes,” Zak said, his voice sharp but not unkind, the kind of tone that snapped you to attention without needing to raise the volume. Then he and Toto turned and left, the door clicking shut behind them with a finality that made your stomach twist. And just like that, it was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that settled heavy in the room, thick like fog, pressing in around the edges. You could hear the faint hum of the lights overhead, the soft creak of your shoes as you shifted your weight, but nothing else. Just you and Lando. Alone.
You didn’t look at him. Not at first. You were too busy trying to keep your breathing steady, too busy pretending that your heart wasn’t already racing. You’d been in locker rooms like this a hundred times before, but this felt different. This wasn’t just another match. This was your match. And he was your partner. Whether you liked it or not.
“Trust me, yeah?” Lando said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. You looked up, startled, and found his eyes already on you—steady, serious, not teasing for once. “You can trust me, Y/n.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice, by the way he said your name like it meant something. Trust him? After everything? After the years of rivalry, the arguments, the sarcastic jabs that always hit just a little too close to home? It felt impossible. Or maybe just… unfamiliar.
“I… I don’t know,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice was low, almost too quiet, but it still gave you away. The flutter in your chest. The doubt. The fear of letting someone in, even for a moment.
Lando stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His voice dropped, softer now. “Look, I know we’re… complicated. But today, on that court? You and me? We’re a team. Just for the match.”
You looked at him then, really looked. And for a second, you saw something in his face that made your chest ache. Not arrogance. Not amusement. Just honesty. Maybe even hope.
Your fingers tightened around your racket. You told yourself it was just nerves. Just adrenaline. Just the weight of the moment pressing down. You nodded slowly, the motion small but certain. “Okay,” you said. “Just for the match.”
A flicker of a smile crossed his lips—quick, quiet, but real. “That’s all I’m asking.”
You wanted to say something—anything. Maybe argue, maybe agree. You weren’t even sure which one scared you more. The idea of pushing him away, or the possibility of letting him in. Both felt dangerous in their own way.
Your mouth parted slightly, a breath catching in your throat, stuck somewhere between thought and feeling. But before you could find the words—
“Y/n Y/l/n and Lando Norris versus Carmen Mundt and George Russell.”
The announcement rang out through the locker room speakers, loud and final, slicing through the silence like a bell toll. That was it. No more time. No more space to think or hesitate. The moment had arrived.
Lando moved first. The shift in him was instant—like someone had flipped a switch. His posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and the easy grin he’d worn just moments ago was gone. He reached for his racket, fingers curling around the grip with practiced ease, then paused. His eyes found yours.
“That’s us,” he said, voice quiet but steady.
Your heart kicked hard in your chest, a sharp, sudden rhythm that made your breath catch again. This was it. The first mixed doubles match. The one everyone had been whispering about, dissecting, judging before you’d even stepped onto the court. You could already hear the headlines forming, the commentary waiting to pounce on every glance, every mistake.
You nodded once, trying to steady yourself. “Let’s go.”
Side by side, you walked toward the tunnel, the sound of the crowd growing louder with every step. What started as a low hum quickly swelled into a roar, the kind that vibrated through your bones and made your skin prickle. Your knee gave a small, familiar twinge, and your stomach twisted in on itself, nerves tangling with adrenaline. Your thoughts spun fast—too fast—but beneath the chaos, something else began to rise.
Focus.
At the edge of the court, just before the light spilled over you, Lando leaned in. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that his voice was only for you.
“Remember,” he said, quiet and firm. “Mine. Yours. We talk.”
You turned to him, meeting his eyes. There was no sarcasm there. No teasing. Just determination. Just a kind of quiet promise.
You nodded, the noise of the crowd fading for a moment. “Yeah,” you said. “We talk.”
And then you stepped into the light.
You and Lando stepped onto the court side by side, the world opening up around you in a rush of light and sound. Rod Laver Arena stretched wide and bright, the stands packed, the crowd already roaring, banners fluttering high above like restless birds. It felt surreal—too big, too loud, too much. Like you were walking into a dream you hadn’t quite agreed to have.
You bounced on your toes, trying to shake the nerves loose, rolling your shoulders to ease the tightness that had settled there hours ago. Your knee ached, a dull, familiar pull that reminded you of everything you were carrying. The pressure pressed into your spine, heavy and invisible, but impossible to ignore.
Across the net, Carmen and George stood close, already talking, already nodding in sync. Calm. Collected. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. Of course they had. Of course they looked like they belonged here.
The warm-up passed in a blur. You hit the ball, moved your feet, went through the motions, but nothing felt quite right. Your timing was off by a breath. Lando’s footwork was a half-step behind. You were close enough to function, but not close enough to feel safe. Not yet.
“Ready?” Lando murmured beside you, voice low and steady.
You nodded, though your stomach was twisting. “Let’s just… survive the first game.”
He snorted, a soft huff of amusement. “Comforting.”
And then it began.
George stepped up to the line, calm as ever, and served. Clean. Fast. Right down the T. You barely got your racket on it, the ball skimming off the frame. Carmen was already at the net, sharp and precise, putting the point away before you could even react.
15–0.
You exhaled, jaw tight.
“Shake it off,” Lando said, just loud enough for you to hear. His voice wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was clipped. Focused. Like he was already moving on.
You nodded again, trying to do the same. But your heart was pounding, your thoughts racing, and the court suddenly felt a lot bigger than it had just seconds ago.
The next rally dragged on, long and brutal, the kind that made your lungs burn and your legs feel like they were moving through water. You chased everything—wide balls, low slices, impossible angles—gritting your teeth as Carmen sent shot after shot cross-court, each one sharper than the last. George hovered at the net like a shadow, ready to pounce on anything loose. You were holding your own, barely, until you called “Mine” a second too late. Lando hesitated. The ball dropped between you, untouched.
30–0.
The crowd let out a low hum, the kind that wasn’t quite disappointment, but wasn’t impressed either. Curious. Watching. Waiting to see if this was the beginning of the end.
You fought your way back to deuce, but it didn’t feel like a win. Your pulse was racing, not from adrenaline, but from frustration. From the way your body wasn’t moving the way you needed it to. From the way every point felt like a battle you weren’t sure you could keep winning.
“Yours!” Lando shouted as the next return came flying in.
You lunged, slicing the ball just over the net. It was too soft. You knew it the second it left your strings. Carmen didn’t hesitate—she stepped in and crushed it.
Break point.
You swore under your breath, chest heaving.
The next point was chaos. You dropped back to cover the baseline, Lando darted forward to the net, and for a few frantic seconds, it was just movement and noise—feet skidding, voices overlapping, the ball a blur. You nearly collided with Lando once, both of you reaching for the same shot, both pulling back at the last second. And then, somehow, you found the angle. You ripped a forehand down the line, clean and fast, and it landed just inside the corner.
Deuce.
Lando turned, breathless, sweat clinging to his hairline. He looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Okay,” he said, voice rough. “That was hot.”
“Focus,” you snapped, but your lips betrayed you, twitching at the edges.
You held serve. Barely. Every point felt like a cliff edge, but you didn’t fall. Not yet.
The set dragged on, game for game, point for point. No rhythm. No comfort. Just survival. You weren’t playing to win—you were playing not to lose. And somehow, that was worse.
At 4–4, everything nearly unraveled.
Mid-rally, your knee gave a sharp, sudden twinge. Just a flash of pain, but enough to throw you off. Your breath caught. Your step faltered. You were late to the ball, and George saw it instantly. He didn’t hesitate—angled his return wide, out of your reach before you could even recover.
“Sorry,” you gasped, still bent over, trying to breathe through the sting.
Lando shook his head, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to your leg. “Don’t apologize,” he said, voice low but firm. “Call it if you need.”
You nodded, swallowing hard. You didn’t want to call it. Not yet. But the pain was there now, humming beneath your skin like a warning.
At 5–5, something shifted. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was different. The rhythm between you and Lando, once jagged and uncertain, started to settle into something steadier. Not easy, but clearer. You called “Mine” early, your voice strong. Lando answered without missing a beat—“Switch”—and you moved like you’d done this a hundred times before, not just for a few days. You covered for each other. You trusted each other. Not completely. Not yet. But enough.
At 6–5, you stepped up to serve.
Set point.
Your hands trembled as you bounced the ball. Once. Twice. Three times. The noise of the crowd faded into a low hum, your heartbeat louder than anything else. You took a breath, tossed the ball, and served down the middle.
Lando moved fast, closing the net in a blur. George got a racket on it, sending the ball high, floating just enough to make the world slow down.
“Mine!” Lando shouted.
He leapt, body twisting midair, and smashed the ball with everything he had.
It hit the line.
In.
The umpire called it. The crowd erupted, a wall of sound crashing over you.
First set: 7–5.
You stood there, frozen for a moment, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your spine. The adrenaline was still rushing through you, but underneath it was something else—disbelief. You’d won. Somehow. Barely. Messily. On the edge of collapse. But it counted. It was real.
You turned toward Lando, still trying to catch your breath.
He was already looking at you. Grinning, flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline and something else—something dangerously close to pride. Not the smug kind. The real kind. The kind that made your chest ache a little.
“Told you,” he said softly. “Trust me.”
You swallowed, throat tight. The word still scared you. Still felt too big. Too risky.
But maybe—just maybe—you could.
The second set didn’t give you a moment to breathe. It came at you fast, relentless, like the match had decided it was done waiting for you to catch up. Carmen adjusted almost instantly—cutting off angles, stepping in early, poaching like she could see your shots before you hit them. George found his rhythm on serve, each ace landing with brutal precision, stacking up like some kind of cruel joke. And just like that, the balance tipped. You were no longer playing to win—you were trying not to fall behind.
Your knee twinged again. Sharp. Unforgiving. A warning you didn’t have time to listen to.
So you didn’t.
You did what you always did. You hid it. You pushed through. You told yourself it wasn’t that bad. That you could handle it. That it would pass.
But the cracks started to show. A missed return. A late step. One ball you should’ve reached but didn’t. You felt it all slipping, just a little, just enough.
“Sorry,” you muttered, barely loud enough for Lando to hear.
“It’s fine,” he said, but his voice was tighter now. Less patient. Less sure.
The unforced errors crept in like shadows—quiet, but impossible to ignore. The crowd shifted, the energy changing, the hum of anticipation turning into something more uncertain. They could feel it too. The momentum swinging. The match tilting.
At 3–4, you stepped up to serve and double-faulted. The second ball sailed long, and the frustration hit you like a wave. Hot. Immediate. You clenched your jaw, blinking hard, trying to keep it together.
“Shake it off,” Lando said quickly, his voice sharp with urgency.
You nodded, even though your hands were shaking. You tried. God, you tried. You told yourself to reset, to breathe, to fight. But your body wasn’t listening the way it had in the first set. Your mind was loud, scattered, full of doubt.
Carmen ended the set with a clean volley winner, her timing perfect, her swing effortless. George’s fist pump was sharp and certain, and it said everything you didn’t want to hear.
Second set: 4–6.
You stood there, staring at the court, sweat dripping from your chin, your heart pounding in your ears. The match was even now. One set all.
You walked to the baseline with your racket in hand and your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. The crowd was still loud—cheering, clapping, calling your name—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater. The only thing you could really hear was the pounding in your head, each thud echoing behind your eyes. You bent forward slightly, hands braced on your knees, trying to breathe through it. In. Out. Slow. Steady. You told yourself it was just adrenaline. Just the moment. Just the weight of everything pressing down at once.
Lando’s voice cut through the fog, quiet but close. “You good?”
You looked up. He was watching you, his expression softer than you expected. Not teasing. Not annoyed. Just… concerned. And that, somehow, made it worse.
You straightened immediately, forcing your spine tall, your chin high. You didn’t want him to see it. The crack in your focus. The ache in your knee. The fear curling low in your stomach.
“Yeah,” you said, the word sharp and automatic. “I’m fine.”
It came out too fast. Too easy. A reflex you’d learned a long time ago.
The lie sat on your tongue like something bitter. Familiar. And dangerous.
But you didn’t take it back.
The bench felt harder this time. Less like a place to rest and more like a spotlight. You dropped down beside Lando, chest rising and falling too fast, sweat dripping down your temples and soaking into your collar. The scoreboard loomed ahead—one set all—and the numbers felt like a judgment. The crowd was still buzzing, but the sound had blurred into a dull roar, like your ears had stopped letting it all in. You were too aware of your body. The ache in your legs. The tightness in your chest. The sharp, pulsing throb in your knee that you were trying so hard to ignore.
Zak stepped forward, arms crossed tight, his expression unreadable but his tone anything but.
“That second set was messy,” he said, eyes locked on you. “Too many missed returns. You hesitated at the net, and it cost you games.”
Your jaw clenched. Of course. Of course it was you. You felt the heat rise in your face, not from the match, but from the sting of being called out like that. In front of Lando. In front of Toto. In front of yourself.
“I didn’t hesitate,” you snapped, the words out before you could soften them. “Russell kept targeting the middle, and—”
“And you let him,” Zak cut in, voice sharper now. “Mixed doubles doesn’t forgive indecision.”
You opened your mouth to argue, to defend yourself, to say something—anything—but Lando beat you to it. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but firm.
“That’s not fair,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “They were reading me, not her. I was late on two switches. That’s on us, not just Y/n.”
Zak’s eyebrows lifted, surprised. “You’re really going to pretend her forehand didn’t drop off that set?”
Before you could even react, Toto stepped in. His voice was calm, but there was steel underneath it. “Keep my kid’s name out of your fucking mouth, Brown. She carried the first set on her serve games. You don’t erase that because the second slipped.”
You stared down at your shoes, throat tight, heart pounding. The words hit you like a wave—Toto’s defense, Lando’s too—and you didn’t know what to do with them. Anger still burned in your chest, but now it was tangled with something else. Embarrassment. Doubt. A flicker of something that felt dangerously close to shame. Your knee throbbed again, a sharp reminder of everything you were trying to push through. You didn’t want to be the weak link. You didn’t want to be the reason things fell apart.
But for the first time in a long time, someone had stepped in before you had to defend yourself.
And that… that was new.
The third set didn’t ease you in. It came at you like a storm—fast, loud, and unforgiving. Every point felt like a war, the ball flying back and forth with brutal speed, no room for error, no space to breathe. Your muscles screamed with every sprint, every lunge. Your lungs burned. The crowd roared around you, but it all faded into a distant hum. None of it mattered. Not the noise, not the cameras, not the stakes. It was just you and Lando now, locked into something sharp and desperate and strangely in sync.
“Back!” you shouted as Carmen sent a blistering cross-court shot toward Lando.
“I’ve got it!” he yelled, diving low, barely getting his racket under the ball. “Mine!”
“Too late, Norris!” you snapped, breathless, but he just rolled his eyes, grinning despite the sweat dripping down his face.
“You called it first!” he shot back, voice light even as his chest heaved.
You groaned, but there was no time to argue. The next rally started before you could blink, each shot more frantic than the last. You chased a wild drop shot, lunging forward and barely managing to flick it over the net. Lando was already moving, already there, slamming the return with perfect timing.
The scoreboard blinked—5–5.
You bent over slightly, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. Lando glanced at you, his face flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“This is it,” he panted. “We either break them now or we’re in trouble.”
You nodded, jaw tight. “Let’s do it.”
The next few games stretched you thin. Every serve was a test of nerve. Every return felt like a gamble. You played with your whole body, your whole heart, every instinct screaming to hold on just a little longer. Your knee throbbed, your hands ached, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not now.
And then—match point.
Carmen stepped up to serve, her expression unreadable. The ball flew fast. George moved in, ready to finish it. But you saw it coming. You moved before you could think, sprinting across the baseline, your shoes skidding against the court.
“Mine!” you shouted, throwing yourself into a backhand, slicing it low and fast across the net.
Lando read it perfectly. He cut in, sharp and sure, and smashed the volley across the court with everything he had.
The ball hit the line.
Silence.
Then the umpire’s call.
In.
The crowd exploded, a wave of sound crashing over you, wild and electric.
You stood frozen for a second, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your spine. You couldn’t quite believe it. You’d won. Somehow. Against the odds. Against the pain. Against the fear.
You turned toward Lando.
He was already looking at you—grinning, breathless, eyes shining with something fierce and proud and real.
And in that moment, it didn’t feel like just a win.
It felt like something had shifted.
“WE FUCKING DID IT!” Lando shouted, his voice cutting through the noise as he sprinted toward you, eyes wide, grin stretched across his face. You had just dropped onto the bench, legs shaking, chest still rising and falling too fast. Your whole body felt like it had been wrung out—sore, soaked in sweat, buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You couldn’t even think straight. The match was over. You’d won. Somehow. And now Lando was in front of you, practically vibrating with joy, like he couldn’t hold it all in.
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Barely, Norris. Barely…”
He dropped down beside you, still grinning like a maniac. “Barely my ass! You were perfect!”
The words hit you harder than you expected. Not because they were loud or dramatic, but because they were so sure. So easy for him to say. Like he meant it. Like he’d seen something in you that you hadn’t let yourself believe in for most of the match. You looked at him, really looked—his hair damp, his shirt clinging to his back, his eyes still bright with the rush of it all—and something in you shifted.
Not a big shift. Not a crash or a fall. Just a quiet click, like a door unlocking somewhere deep inside.
“So were you,” you said, the words soft but steady.
And for once, you didn’t feel like you were lying.
────────────
Lily and Oscar had insisted you come out, and honestly, you hadn’t had the energy to argue. So here you were, tucked into a booth at some lively bar in the center of Melbourne, the kind of place that buzzed with music and laughter and the low hum of people trying to forget the day. The lights were soft and golden, casting everything in a warm blur, and the air smelled like citrus and sweat and something sweet you couldn’t quite place. You weren’t sure if you were actually in the mood to celebrate, but you were here, drink in hand, trying to let the noise fill the spaces your thoughts kept slipping into.
“First round’s on Oscar,” Lily said with a grin, nudging her boyfriend and raising her glass. “You two deserve it after today.”
Oscar laughed, easy and warm, and looked between you and Lando. “Seriously, you two were insane out there.”
You gave a small, flat laugh, swirling your drink in slow circles. The ice clinked against the glass, and you watched it spin, not quite ready to meet anyone’s eyes. “It went worse than I expected,” you said, voice low.
Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Everyone else saw the win. The score. The final point. But you saw the cracks. The missed returns. The moments you hesitated. The pain in your knee you hadn’t mentioned. You always saw the mistakes first, the places where you could’ve done better. It was how you’d survived this long—by never letting yourself get too comfortable. By always looking for what needed fixing.
Lando leaned in a little, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him beside you, his voice cutting through the noise. “C’mon, Y/n,” he said, teasing but steady. “We won. That’s what matters.”
You looked at him then, and for a second, you let yourself believe it. That maybe, just for tonight, it was okay to stop picking everything apart. To sit in the win. To let yourself feel proud.
Even if it still felt a little too big. A little too good.
“Gonna be right back,” you said with a small smile, already sliding out of the booth before anyone could stop you. Lily gave you a quick nod, Oscar didn’t even look up from his drink, and Lando—well, you didn’t check. You just needed air. A moment. A break from the noise and the lights and the way everyone kept looking at you like you were supposed to be glowing with joy.
You loved them, truly. Lily’s warmth, Oscar’s quiet steadiness. But lately, it felt like there was never any room to just… be. It was always something. Training with Lando. Strategy meetings with Toto. Checking in on Kimi. Smiling when you were tired. Nodding when you wanted to scream. Always on. Always expected to be fine.
The bathroom was quiet, thank God. The music from the bar was muffled by the walls, the bass just a dull thump beneath the silence. You moved slowly, letting your hands rest under the cool water longer than necessary, watching the droplets slide down your fingers like they might carry some of the weight away. When you finally looked up, your reflection startled you. Not because it was unfamiliar, but because it was too familiar. The tired eyes. The tight jaw. The way your shoulders curved inward like you were bracing for something. You’d won today. You were supposed to feel proud. But all you felt was worn out. Like the victory had taken more than it gave.
And then—
“Didn’t think you were the celebrating type.”
You froze.
That voice. That tone. That timing.
Of course.
You turned slowly, already knowing what you’d see. Max, leaning against the wall near the sinks like he belonged there. Arms crossed, posture relaxed, that same infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like he’d been waiting. Like he always knew exactly where to find you, even when you didn’t want to be found.
You let out a short, dry laugh, shaking your head as you turned back to the mirror. “Oh God…” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
Because of course he was here. Of course he’d show up now, when your guard was down and your chest still ached from the match. Because that was the thing about Max—he always left first, always walked away before you could, and yet somehow, he still managed to be everywhere you were. Like a shadow you couldn’t quite outrun.
And now he was here. Watching you. Smiling like he knew something you didn’t.
“I’m not God, I’m Max,” he said, smirking like it was the cleverest thing anyone had ever said. His voice was too loud for the quiet of the bathroom, too casual for the way your chest had just tightened. He probably had five shots in him already—his words loose, his posture easy, like none of this mattered.
You didn’t even try to hide the eye roll. “Well, you do have an insane God complex, so—”
He held up a hand, cutting you off before you could finish. “Relax,” he said, the smirk softening just enough to make you want to hit something. “I’m not here to ruin your night.”
You let out a breath of laughter, sharp and humorless. “Funny,” you said, your voice low and flat. “That seems to be your specialty lately.”
He flinched—barely—but you saw it. Just a flicker. And then it was gone, buried under that same old mask of charm and deflection.
“Look,” he started, his tone shifting, trying for something gentler. “You’ve got every right to be mad at me, but—”
But.
That word stopped you cold. You didn’t want to hear what came after it. You didn’t want the excuses, the explanations, the half-hearted apologies wrapped in justifications. You didn’t want him to make it make sense. Because it didn’t. Not to you.
“Please,” you said, stepping closer, your voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. The irony in your tone was impossible to miss. “Just… be quiet.”
“Just wanted to say congratulations,” he called after you, voice echoing slightly in the tiled quiet.
You didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. You didn’t want his congratulations—not when they came too late, not when they came wrapped in everything he hadn’t said before.
“Mhm.” It slipped out, flat and cold, the only thing you could manage. Not an answer. Not forgiveness. Just a sound to fill the space between you.
You kept walking, your steps steady, your jaw tight. No glance back. No softening. Just the door swinging open and the sharp, final sound of it closing behind you.
You slid back into the booth, trying to make your body look relaxed even though your chest still felt tight. Lily’s eyes found yours the second you sat down—sharp, knowing, like she could read the shift in your energy before you’d even opened your mouth. How did she always know? Even when you didn’t?
“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice low, careful.
“Yeah,” you said too fast, the word brittle on your tongue. You forced a smile, hoping it would be enough to make her drop it. You didn’t want to talk about it. Not here. Not now.
You tried to tune back into the conversation—something about fast cars, maybe a story from Oscar about a near miss in practice—but the words blurred together, your mind still stuck in the quiet of the bathroom, the echo of Max’s voice, the way it always managed to find you.
And then, like clockwork, it did again.
“…and Y/l/n? She’s completely overrated. Norris carried her today,” Max said, loud enough to cut through the hum of the bar, his voice thick with drink and ego. He laughed, like it was a joke, like it didn’t matter.
Of course. Of course he couldn’t help himself. Always had a mouth full of shit, always knew exactly where to aim it.
You felt Oscar shift beside you. “Y/n, ignore him—” he started, but you were already moving.
You turned your head, slow and deliberate, your voice slicing through the table’s chatter like a blade. “Excuse me, Max?” you said, sharp and clear. “Can you please repeat what you just said?”
The table went quiet. Even the music seemed to dull for a second.
“I said what everyone thinks,” Max shot back, his voice steady, eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to flinch. “You’d be screwed if Norris wasn’t covering your ass.”
The words hit like a slap, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you leaned back slightly, letting the sarcasm drip from your lips like something sharp and sweet. “Brave words from someone who brags about being undefeated and only wins by a single point.”
You didn’t have to say his name. Everyone at the table knew you were talking about Leclerc. You hadn’t even watched the match—Kimi had mentioned it in passing, a quiet comment over breakfast—but it was enough. Enough to know Max had barely scraped by. Enough to know he hated being reminded of it.
“Oh, please,” Max scoffed, already gearing up. “You wanna talk about winning only b—”
“Shut the fuck up, Max.” Lando’s voice cut through the table like a blade—sharp, controlled, and louder than anyone expected. “Nobody wants to hear this nonsense all day.”
You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected him to step in. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so clean.
Max turned to him, sneering. “Oh, suddenly you’re defending her?”
Lando didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and even. “I’m just calling out a cocky asshole when I see one,” he said. “And that’s definitely you.”
“I need air.” The words left your mouth before you’d fully registered them, your body already in motion, pushing back from the table, weaving through the crowd. You didn’t wait for anyone to follow. You didn’t want them to. The noise of the bar pressed in from all sides—music too loud, lights too bright, laughter too sharp. It was all too much.
Jesus Christ. One night. That’s all you’d wanted. One night to breathe, to feel normal, to celebrate something that had actually gone right. But no. Max always found a way to be there, to twist the knife with that smug little smile and his voice full of poison. You were starting to believe that even if you flew to Perth, found the most obscure bar in the city, he’d still be there—leaning against the wall, drink in hand, ready to ruin your peace.
You were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the noise behind you.
“Why are you defending her, Norris? I thought you hated her. You told me that.”
You stopped, just for a second. Not because you cared what Max thought, but because you wanted to hear what Lando would say.
He didn’t even pause. “Pff, c’mon,” he said, voice casual, almost bored. “That was three years ago.”
You rolled your eyes, a bitter laugh catching in your throat as you pushed the door open. The cool night air hit your face like a slap, sharp and grounding.
Some things never changed.
And some things—maybe—did.
The cool Melbourne night hit you like a wall of relief the second you stepped outside. The air was crisp, quiet, and for a moment, it felt like you could finally breathe again. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because you were cold, but because everything inside you felt too loud. The bar, the voices, Max’s smugness, the way your chest still hadn’t unclenched—it was all too much. You just needed a second. Just one second without someone needing something from you.
But the door swung open behind you, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Lando’s footsteps were quick, his cap pulled low, his eyes already locked on you as he jogged to catch up.
“You’re really gonna walk away after that?” he called, his voice carrying easily in the stillness of the street.
You didn’t slow down. “I can’t deal with this right now,” you snapped, your pace quick and uneven. “With him, with you, with all of it. I need space!”
Lando didn’t back off. If anything, he moved closer, his voice firmer now. “You’re not gonna get anywhere running from me. You think I’m defending you for fun?”
You stopped so suddenly he nearly ran into you. Spinning around, you planted your hands on your hips, your breath coming fast. “Then why?” you demanded. “Why do you care what he says? You never cared before!”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For a second, he looked like he might actually walk away. But then he let out a breath, shrugged slightly, and said, “Because I…” His voice was quieter now, less sure. “I just can’t let him talk like that about you.”
You stared at him, your chest rising and falling with the weight of everything you weren’t saying. Part of you wanted to laugh—because of course he was being impossibly stubborn, showing up like this, saying things that didn’t make sense. But another part of you wanted to punch him. Or maybe just grab him by the collar and shake the truth out of him. Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t simple. It hadn’t been for a long time.
And now here he was, standing in the middle of a quiet street, looking at you like maybe he finally saw you clearly.
“I don’t need you to defend me,” you snapped, the words coming out sharper than you meant. Too sharp. But you didn’t take them back. You couldn’t. Not when your chest was already tight and your hands were curled into fists at your sides. “I can handle myself. I always have.”
Lando’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he took a step closer. “Yeah?” he said, voice low. “Then why are you letting him get to you?”
“I’m not!” The word came out louder than you intended, your voice rising with the heat of it. “I’m just—” You broke off, breath catching, frustration bubbling over. “I’m tired, okay? Tired of all of this. Tired of people telling me what I can’t do. Tired of watching people like him twist everything, make it about themselves.”
Lando didn’t flinch. He just kept looking at you, steady and unblinking, like he was trying to see past the words to whatever was underneath. Then he stepped in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the tension radiating off his skin like static.
“Then stop fighting it alone,” he said, voice softer now, but no less intense. “Stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not. You think I’m here because it’s convenient? You think I give a shit what Max says? You think his opinion matters more than yours?”
You swallowed hard, throat tight. He was right. You knew he was right. But pride was a stubborn thing, and it rose up like a wall between you. You turned away, needing space, needing air, needing anything but the way he was looking at you.
“I don’t need anyone, Norris,” you said, the words brittle, breaking as they left your mouth. “Especially not you.”
He didn’t shout. He didn’t chase. But his voice followed you anyway, low and sharp and impossible to ignore.
“Fine,” he said. “Walk away then. Walk away from all your problems like you always do.”
You spun on your heel, heart pounding, and walked into the darkened street, the night pressing in around you. The city lights blurred at the edges of your vision, and the tension between you and Lando hung in the air like smoke—hot, heavy, and impossible to breathe through.
And still, you didn’t look back.
────────────
Late afternoon sun poured down like punishment, the Australian heat clinging to your skin, thick and unrelenting. The clay beneath your feet radiated warmth back up through your shoes as you finished tying the laces, fingers moving slower than usual. Everything felt heavier today—your limbs, your breath, the silence stretching between you and Lando like a taut wire no one wanted to touch.
You’d played your singles match that morning—won it, technically. Straight sets. Clean stats. On paper, it was everything you were supposed to want. But when the final point landed and the crowd rose to their feet, you’d felt… nothing. No rush of adrenaline. No spark of joy. You’d raised your hand in a half-hearted wave, offered a tight smile, and walked off the court like you were heading into a meeting, not walking away from a win.
It had felt wrong. Like winning without being seen didn’t count.
Now, as you stood on the edge of the court, the silence between you and Lando felt louder than the cicadas buzzing in the trees. He stepped onto the clay, racket in hand, cap pulled low, shoulders set. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t nod. Didn’t say a word.
You swallowed, throat dry. “Hey,” you said, cautious, your voice cutting through the stillness.
Nothing.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just kept walking to his side of the court like you weren’t even there.
Damn.
The ache in your chest settled deeper, quiet and familiar.
So this was how it was going to be.
You picked up your racket and rolled the ball between your fingers, trying to focus on the rhythm of it, the familiar weight in your palm. The heat shimmered off the clay, and the silence between you and Lando stretched long and taut, like a string pulled too tight. You cleared your throat, trying for something light, something that might crack the tension.
“Ready?” you asked, tossing the ball once, catching it again. You aimed for casual, but your voice came out thin, brittle around the edges.
Lando didn’t answer. He just bent down, scooped up a ball, bounced it once, and served. No warning. No glance. Just motion. You returned it on instinct, a little harder than necessary, the ball slicing low across the net. He chased it down, sent it back. And so it went—rally after rally, the two of you locked in a rhythm that felt more like a standoff than a warm-up. The only sounds were the thwack of strings, the scrape of shoes, the occasional grunt of effort. No words. No laughter. Just the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air between you.
After a particularly long exchange, you let the ball drop at your feet, chest rising and falling with the effort. You didn’t want to ask. You really didn’t. But the silence was starting to feel like a wall you couldn’t breathe behind.
“Hey…” you said, voice quieter now. “What’s going on with you?”
Lando didn’t look up. He just shrugged, fiddling with the grip on his racket. “It’s fine.”
You frowned. “Fine?” you repeated, arching a brow. “You don’t sound fine.”
He finally glanced at you, just for a second, and there was something in his eyes—tired, maybe. Guarded. “I said it’s fine,” he repeated, voice flat. “That’s all you need to know.”
You stared at him, frustration rising like a tide. His avoidance was like a locked door you didn’t have the key for, and it made something in your chest twist. But you didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, you turned back to the baseline, picked up the ball, and served.
The rally that followed was faster. Sharper. Less like practice, more like a fight neither of you wanted to name.
The ball came at you faster than you were ready for. You moved on instinct, lunging to your left, twisting your body to reach it—but the second your foot planted, your knee gave out. A sharp, burning pain shot up your leg, so sudden and fierce it stole your breath. You stumbled, barely catching yourself before you hit the ground, your racket the only thing keeping you upright.
“Y/n?!” Lando’s voice cut through the air, louder than it had been all day. The usual calm in his tone was gone, replaced by something tight and worried. You heard the thud of his shoes as he rushed toward you, hand already reaching out.
You bit down on the groan rising in your throat, gripping your racket like it might hold you together. “I’m fine,” you muttered, even though the words felt like a lie the second they left your mouth. They tasted bitter, like something you didn’t believe but needed to say anyway.
Lando crouched a little, eyes locked on your knee. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now but still tense. “That didn’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, sharper this time. You forced yourself to take a step, needing to prove it, needing to show him—and yourself—that you could still move. But the pain came again, sharp and hot, and you swore under your breath, your body flinching before you could stop it. You hated that he saw it. Hated that he was watching you struggle. It made everything feel worse.
Lando didn’t argue. He didn’t push. But he didn’t back off either. He stayed close, eyes narrowed, tracking every movement like he was waiting for you to fall again. “Okay,” he said finally, careful and quiet. “Fine. But we stop if it gets worse. No excuses.”
You nodded, swallowing hard. Your throat felt tight, your chest even tighter. You bounced the ball in your hand, trying to steady your breathing, trying to pretend this was normal. But it wasn’t. Not the pain. Not the way he was looking at you. Not the way your pride was fighting your body, desperate to keep going even when everything inside you was screaming to stop.
Because somehow, the idea of showing weakness in front of him—of needing help, of not being okay—felt more terrifying than the pain itself.
You tried to shake it off. Just a twinge, you told yourself. Just a flare. You could push through it. You had to. So you forced your body to move, to keep the rally going, to pretend everything was fine. But the moment you pivoted to chase Lando’s next shot, your knee buckled beneath you.
The pain was instant—sharp, hot, and unforgiving. It tore through your leg like fire, stealing the breath from your lungs. You collapsed onto the clay with a gasp, your racket slipping from your hand and skidding across the court. “Fuck—” The word came out broken, more breath than sound.
“Y/n?!” Lando’s voice cracked, panic slicing through the air as he sprinted toward you.
You tried to sit up, to wave him off, to pretend it wasn’t as bad as it felt. “I’m fine—” you gasped, but your arms trembled under your weight, your body refusing to cooperate.
“No. You are not fine,” he said, cutting you off before you could lie again. His voice was firm, but his eyes—his eyes were full of something else. Fear. Frustration. Something deeper.
“I obviously am!” you snapped, trying to push yourself upright again. “We need to—”
But before you could finish, his hands were already on you—one under your knees, the other behind your back. “What the—put me down, Norris!” you yelled, startled, your voice rising with the panic you hadn’t let yourself feel until now.
He didn’t listen. He didn’t even flinch. He just lifted you like it was nothing, like you didn’t weigh a thing, like carrying you was the most natural thing in the world. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on yours, and whatever you were about to say died in your throat.
Because in that moment, all you could see was the worry in his face. The way his grip was steady, but his breathing wasn’t. The way he looked at you like he didn’t know how to fix this—but he was damn well going to try.
“You need to see a doctor,” Lando said, his voice steady and firm, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t going to let this slide. There was no softness in his tone, no room for argument—just quiet insistence that made your chest tighten.
“No,” you snapped, the word coming out too fast, too sharp. “I need to train.” You tried to straighten up, to push past the pain like you always did, but your voice betrayed you—tight, strained, laced with something that sounded too close to fear.
Lando didn’t move, but his presence felt closer somehow, heavier. “You promised me,” he said, quieter now, but the edge in his voice was unmistakable. “You said you’d tell me when it got bad. And you didn’t.”
You looked away, jaw clenched, throat thick. The words hit harder than you expected. Not because they were loud, but because they were true. You had promised. And you’d broken it. Not out of malice, but out of habit. Out of pride. Out of that old, familiar fear that if you admitted something was wrong, it would make it real.
The waiting room was still, the kind of quiet that made every sound feel louder—the soft shuffle of shoes, the low hum of the air conditioning, the occasional cough from across the room. A few faces you recognized sat scattered among strangers, but they all blurred together, washed out by the ache in your knee and the heavier ache in your chest.
Lando lowered you gently to the floor, letting your back rest against the cool wall. His hands lingered for a second longer than they needed to, steady and warm, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Then he stood, moving toward the clipboard by the physio room door, scribbling something down—your name, probably. Details.
You stood there, trying to breathe through the pain, but it wasn’t just your knee. It was everything. The weight of your own stubbornness pressing down on you. The guilt curling in your stomach. You’d done this. You’d pushed too hard, ignored the signs, told yourself you could handle it. And now you were here, hurting, and dragging him into it with you. Again.
You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt the heat of it—tears slipping down your cheeks, hot and salty, carving quiet paths across your skin. You didn’t make a sound. Just sat there, blinking hard, hoping no one would notice.
But of course, he did.
Lando stepped closer to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he always carried. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice low and careful, but there was something firm beneath it—something that said he wasn’t going to let you lie.
You kept your eyes on the floor, blinking faster now, trying to will the tears away. You didn’t want him to see you like this. Not like this.
“Y/n…” he said again, softer this time, but no less certain. “Look at me.”
The words cut through the fog in your head, quiet but impossible to ignore. Slowly, reluctantly, you lifted your gaze.
“I hate you,” you said, the words ripping out of you before you could stop them. They came out raw, cracked open by everything you’d been holding in. “I hate how you care and don’t at the same time. I hate how right you always are.” Your voice broke halfway through, and suddenly you couldn’t hold anything back anymore.
The tears came fast, hot and angry, sliding down your cheeks in messy streaks. Your whole body trembled—not just from the pain in your knee, but from the frustration, the fear, the way everything had been building for days, maybe weeks. You didn’t even know what you were crying about anymore. The injury. The pressure. The silence. Him. You. All of it.
Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, something soft and unreadable in his eyes. Then, gently, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you before you could pull away. “I know,” he said quietly, like he wasn’t trying to argue or fix it. Just be there.
You didn’t fight him. You couldn’t. Your face pressed into his chest, and your tears soaked through his shirt, but he didn’t flinch. He just held you tighter, one hand moving slowly through your hair, brushing it back from your damp face like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“It’s not your fault, darling,” he whispered, and the word—darling—hit you like a wave. It was soft, unexpected, and it cracked something open inside you. You could feel it in your chest, the way it made your breath catch. He meant it. Somehow, you could tell. Lando Norris—the cocky, infuriating, impossibly talented idiot you’d sworn to hate since you were seventeen—was holding you like you mattered. Like you weren’t a burden. Like he saw you, even now, even like this.
And you let him.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into his shirt, your voice small and broken, barely more than a breath.
“Don’t be,” he said, his arms tightening around you just a little more. “You don’t have to be.”
By the time you made it to the physio room, your body felt like it had been through a war. You slumped onto the edge of the treatment table, shoulders sagging, legs heavy, every muscle aching like it had given more than it had to give. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving only the dull throb in your knee and the quiet, gnawing fear that the doctor might say the one thing you didn’t want to hear.
That you couldn’t play.
Lando stood near the door, his hand still on the handle like he hadn’t quite decided to leave yet. “Y/n, I have to go—meeting with Zak,” he said, voice clipped, like he was trying to keep it professional. But he didn’t move. Not really. His eyes lingered on you, and there was something in his posture—tight, reluctant—that made it clear he didn’t want to go.
“If you need anything,” he added, softer now, “call me.”
You nodded, barely. You didn’t trust your voice to hold steady, not with the way your chest still felt cracked open. Not with the warmth of his hug still clinging to your skin like a memory you didn’t know what to do with.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, it flew open again—this time with a burst of energy and panic.
“Kid!” Toto’s voice boomed as he rushed in, eyes wide, his whole face drawn tight with worry. “You okay?”
You blinked up at him, still dazed, still trying to catch up to everything that had happened. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though the words felt thin, like paper trying to hold back a flood. You could still feel the echo of Lando’s arms around you, the way he’d said your name like it meant something. You didn’t know why that helped. But it had.
Toto crouched beside you, scanning your face, your knee, your posture—like he was trying to assess the damage with just his eyes. “God, you scared me,” he said, breathless. “What happened?”
You looked away, jaw tightening. “Just me being stupid,” you muttered, voice low.
But Toto didn’t buy it. You could feel it in the way he stayed close, in the way his hand hovered near your shoulder like he wanted to steady you but didn’t want to push. He knew you too well. He always had.
“Don’t do that,” he said gently. “Don’t pretend it’s nothing.”
You kept your eyes on your hands, watching the way they trembled in your lap. You hated that he noticed. Hated that you couldn’t stop it. “I’ve played through worse,” you muttered, the words barely more than a breath.
Toto’s expression didn’t change, but his voice grew firmer. “That’s not something to be proud of,” he said. “That’s how people lose everything. That’s how careers end.”
You looked up then, your jaw clenched, eyes burning. “If I stop every time something hurts,” you said, voice tight, “I won’t play at all.”
He let out a long, tired breath and ran a hand over his face, like he’d had this conversation too many times before. “You sound exactly like you did two years ago,” he said. “And last year. And every time you scare the hell out of me.”
You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because he was right. You’d been here before—same pain, same stubbornness, same fear of what it would mean to stop. And still, you kept pushing. Because stopping felt like giving up. And giving up wasn’t something you knew how to do.
But maybe it was time to learn.
You noticed the physio’s eyes lingering on the papers a little too long, her lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. That look—the one that meant she was trying to find the right words—made your stomach twist. You sat up straighter on the edge of the treatment table, heart thudding a little faster.
“So?” you asked, your voice tight, too quick. “Can I still play?”
She looked up slowly, her expression calm but serious, the kind of calm that made you nervous. “Y/n,” she said gently, “let’s slow down for a second.”
You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling around the edge of the table like it might anchor you. Beside you, Toto shifted his weight, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension radiating off him.
“It’s the same knee,” the physio said, her voice steady. “The one you injured last year. There’s no tear, which is good. But it’s strained again. And it’s very inflamed.”
You nodded quickly, too quickly. “So that’s a yes,” you said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I can play.”
She didn’t smile back. “It’s a conditional yes,” she said carefully. “If this were just singles, I’d recommend rest. But with the mixed doubles schedule…” She paused, choosing her words like each one mattered. “You can play, but only if we manage it properly. That means taping, treatment before and after every match, no extra sessions, and you have to listen to your body. No pushing through pain. No pretending it’s fine when it’s not.”
Funny, it was like you heard these words before.
Toto let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face. “And if she doesn’t?”
The physio didn’t hesitate. “Then she risks making it worse. A lot worse. We’re talking long-term damage.”
The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that settles in your bones.
You swallowed hard, throat dry. “I’ll be careful,” you said, the words small but certain.
Toto turned to you slowly, his eyes steady, full of something between frustration and fear. “You said that last time,” he said, voice low.
“I know,” you whispered, looking down at your hands. “But I mean it this time.”
And for once, you did.
────────────
It was late—past eleven—and you were still wide awake, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. The room was quiet, dim, and too still. Your knee throbbed in a dull, steady rhythm, and the pain meds had taken the edge off, but not enough to let you sleep. Your thoughts kept spinning, looping back to the match, the fall, the look on Lando’s face, the way everything had unraveled so fast.
When the knock came at the door, you sat up so quickly it made your head spin. For a second, you honestly thought you were imagining it. You’d taken enough medication today that a hallucination wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing. But the knock came again—soft, but real.
You pulled yourself out of bed, limping slightly as you crossed the room, and opened the door.
Lando stood there.
He was in a hoodie, the sleeves pushed up, his hair still damp like he’d just stepped out of the shower. And his arms—God, his arms were full. Bags of snacks, bottles, wrappers peeking out from under his elbow. It was a mess of things, but not random. It was your things. The chocolate you always stole from Kimi’s stash. The crisps Lily always made fun of you for liking. Even that ridiculous electrolyte drink you always pretended to hate but somehow always finished. He’d brought all of it.
You blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and something warmer. “Norris?” you said, raising an eyebrow. You half expected him to disappear, like your brain had conjured him out of exhaustion and wishful thinking. You wanted to roll your eyes, maybe tell him off, maybe ask what the hell he was doing here—but something about tonight made it hard to be sharp. You were too tired.
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Thought I’d check on my stubborn, injured partner,” he said, voice light, but his eyes didn’t quite match. They were softer. Watching you carefully.
You couldn’t help it—you smiled. Just a little. “Yeah, sure,” you said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
After kicking off his shoes, he moved past you, careful not to bump your knee, and started unloading the snacks onto your kitchen counter like he’d done it a hundred times before.
You leaned against the doorframe, watching him, curiosity tugging at you. “How do you even know all this?” you asked, voice quieter now.
He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “I interrogated Kimi.”
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. Of course he had.
“By the way,” Lando said, glancing over at you as he dropped onto the couch, “Kimi asks way too many questions.”
You snorted, the sound catching you off guard. “As always. He’s curious as a shit. Just like Toto.” The words came out with a laugh, light and familiar, and for the first time all day, something in your chest loosened.
Lando smiled, but his eyes didn’t quite follow. They lingered instead—on your knee, wrapped tight in tape, propped up on a pillow. His gaze softened, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. “So… what did the doctor say?”
You shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “It’s not torn. Which, honestly, I’m kind of shocked about.” You gave a small chuckle, but it didn’t quite land. “But! I can play.”
Lando’s lips curved into a small smile, the kind that didn’t show teeth but still felt warm. “Good,” he said, nodding. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Just good?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not relieved? Not worried? Not even a little dramatic?”
He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. “I was freaking out like a maniac, baby.”
You blinked. “You were that worried?” you teased, trying to keep your tone light, but your heart had already started to beat a little faster.
“Mhm,” he said, not looking away.
And then it hit you.
Baby.
He’d said it so easily, like it was nothing. Like it was normal. But it wasn’t. Not for you. Not from him. The word landed in your chest like a stone dropped into still water—small, but heavy, sending ripples through everything you thought you understood about this moment.
You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, your throat suddenly dry, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch.
Because maybe he didn’t mean anything by it.
Or maybe he did.
“Uh—I… I should probably go,” Lando said, his voice low as he rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t looking at you, not really. Just somewhere near your shoulder, like if he didn’t meet your eyes, it wouldn’t feel so hard to leave.
But something in you twisted at the thought of him walking out that door. You didn’t know why, not exactly. Maybe it was the quiet that would follow. Maybe it was the way his presence made the room feel a little less heavy. Whatever it was, you didn’t want him to go.
“No,” you said, the word barely more than a whisper. “Stay.”
He stilled, his hand dropping to his side. His eyes finally met yours, and for a second, he just looked at you—like he was trying to figure out if he’d heard you right.
“I don’t want to be alone,” you added, your voice soft, a little shaky. “Not with all this mess in my head.”
Lando didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, caught in the doorway, like he was balancing on the edge of something. Then he took a slow step back into the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
“What?” he asked, voice quieter now, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.
You looked down at your hands, then back up at him. “Let’s… watch a movie or something,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the words came out more like a plea. “Just… stay.”
“Don’t ask twice,” Lando said with a grin, already sliding onto the bed like it was his, like he belonged there. He sprawled out without hesitation, arms behind his head, completely at ease.
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you moved to follow him—but the second you shifted your weight, your knee gave a sharp protest. You winced, the pain catching you off guard, and slowed your steps, careful not to let it show too much.
Lando’s eyes flicked to the way you moved, the slight limp you couldn’t quite hide. His smile faded just a little. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I forgot.”
You opened your mouth to brush it off, to tell him it was fine, but before you could get a word out, he was already on his feet again. That same cocky smirk tugged at his lips, but there was something softer behind it now—something that made your heart stutter.
Without warning, he stepped toward you and scooped you up into his arms, smooth and easy, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Lando—what the hell—” you started, but your voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan as your arms instinctively looped around his neck.
“You are ridiculous,” you muttered, half annoyed, half amused, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie as he carried you back to the bed.
“Yeah,” he said, settling you down gently, his hands lingering for a second longer than they needed to. “But you love it.”
And maybe, just maybe, you did.
You let yourself sink into the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you as Lando gently eased you down. The ache in your knee flared, but the softness of the pillows helped, and for the first time all day, you felt like you could maybe breathe.
Lando grabbed the remote and flopped down beside you, legs stretched out, scrolling through the hotel’s movie library with the kind of focus he usually reserved for match replays or Mario Kart. Then he suddenly sat up straighter, eyes wide.
“No way… they have The Godfather?!” he said, like he’d just found buried treasure.
You blinked at the screen, then at him. “Uh… what’s that?”
He turned to you so fast it made you laugh. “You’re kidding,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You’ve never seen it?”
You shrugged, trying not to smile. “I’ve been a little busy winning Grand Slams, remember? And isn’t it, like, fifty years old?”
Lando threw his head back with a dramatic groan, laughing. “Unbelievable. It’s a classic! Me and Oscar watch it on every flight. You’re seriously missing out.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. His excitement was contagious, and for a moment, the pain, the pressure, the fear—they all faded into the background.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Fine,” you said, pretending to sound reluctant. “We’ll watch it. But if it’s boring, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal,” Lando said with a grin, already settling in beside you like he’d been waiting for this all night. He handed you a bag of your favorite chocolate without a word, and you took it without hesitation, fingers brushing his for a second too long. It felt like comfort. Like something familiar and safe.
The movie started, the opening notes filling the quiet room, but your attention kept slipping. You tried to focus on the screen, really tried—but your eyes kept drifting sideways. To him. To the way his curls fell messily over his forehead. To the way the soft glow from the TV danced across his face, catching in his lashes, lighting up the curve of his cheek. He looked calm. Focused. Like he wasn’t thinking about anything except the film.
You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking.
The warmth of him beside you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The way your knee didn’t hurt quite as much with him here, like his presence dulled the edges of everything sharp.
Your eyelids started to grow heavy, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. You blinked slowly, head tilting without you meaning it to, until it hovered just near his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, barely above the sound of the movie.
“Mhm,” you murmured, and let your head rest gently against him.
He tensed for the briefest moment, like he hadn’t expected you to lean in, but then he softened, his body adjusting to yours without hesitation. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t crack a joke or make some smug comment. He just let you rest there, your head on his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sleepy already?” he murmured, his voice low and warm, careful not to break the quiet hum of the movie playing in the background.
“Maybe…” you whispered, your eyes already half-closed, the weight of the day finally catching up to you. The pain, the adrenaline, the fear—it all felt distant now, dulled by the steady warmth of him beside you.
He shifted slightly, just enough to drape an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. His touch was gentle, protective without being overbearing. You could feel the slow, even rhythm of his breathing, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. It was steadying. Soothing. Like your body had finally found something safe enough to let go.
The movie kept playing, scenes flickering across the screen, but neither of you seemed to care. The story faded into the background, just noise and light, while the silence between you settled into something soft and easy.
You let your eyes close fully, your body sinking into his, the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his hoodie wrapping around you like a blanket. And in that quiet, you let yourself drift—finally, completely—into sleep
────────────
The match was supposed to start at noon, but the whole morning felt… off. Like something was out of place, but you couldn’t quite name it. The air felt heavier than usual, your thoughts slower, your body buzzing with something that wasn’t quite nerves but wasn’t calm either. You kept checking the time, pacing the edges of your mind, trying to shake the feeling that something was wrong. Nothing big, just a quiet unease that clung to you like a second skin.
You’d woken up next to Lando, which should’ve been strange. But after the way last night unfolded—the movie, the quiet, the way he let you fall asleep on his shoulder without saying a word—it didn’t even feel surprising. Just… warm. Familiar. Like maybe the lines between you had blurred a little, and neither of you had the energy to draw them back.
Breakfast was a blur of strategy talk and half-eaten toast. You and Lando sat across from Toto and Zak, going over plays, rotations, what to expect from He and Albon. It was a big match—quarterfinals. Everything was on the line. And of course, because the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your knee had to give out a day ago. You were still sore, still stiff, but you’d convinced yourself you could push through. You had to. For you, there wasn’t another option.
Now, you were in the locker room, pulling on your gear, wrapping your knee with slow, practiced hands. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the distant thud of tennis balls echoing from the courts. You were trying to stay focused, to breathe through the tightness in your chest, but your mind kept drifting—back to the pain, the pressure, the way Lando had looked at you last night like he saw something you weren’t ready to admit.
And then his voice cut through the silence, soft but clear.
“Did you take your meds, darling?”
You froze.
Fuck.
That was it. That was what had been gnawing at you all morning. You hadn’t taken them. You’d either forgotten completely or told yourself you didn’t need them—again. It was always the same. You hated how they made you feel slow, heavy. Like you weren’t fully in control. So you skipped them. Told yourself you’d be fine. That you could handle it.
But now, with Lando standing there, calling you “darling” like it was the most natural thing in the world, you felt the weight of it. The mistake. The risk. The way your body was already starting to hum with the ache you’d tried to ignore.
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your taped knee, heart thudding a little too fast, guilt curling in your stomach like smoke.
“Um, yeah,” you said, eyes fixed on your knee, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your wrap. You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Because deep down, you knew he’d see right through it. He always did. Somehow, he just knew when you were bluffing—even when you barely realized it yourself.
“Really?” His voice cut through the quiet, sharper than before. Not teasing. Not light. There was something in it that made your stomach twist, something that sounded a lot like disappointment.
You bristled, the tension in your chest snapping into something sharper. “Yeah?” you shot back, your tone turning defensive, sarcastic. A shield.
Lando stepped closer, his eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in that way he got when he was trying to read you—like you were a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”
You finally looked up, meeting his gaze with a frown. “And?” you said, voice low, tight. “What if I’m not?”
But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the crack in them. The way they didn’t quite hold. Because you both knew the truth.
Lando let out a short, dry laugh—one that held no real humor. “Right. And what, your knee just magically healed overnight?”
You stiffened, the words hitting harder than you expected. “Don’t start,” you said, voice low, warning.
“I’m already started,” he snapped, stepping closer, hands planted firmly on his hips. “You didn’t answer me. Did you take them or not?”
You looked away, jaw tight. That pause, that silence—it was all the answer he needed.
He let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m fine,” you shot back, the words coming out sharper than you meant. “Stop acting like I’m made of glass.”
His eyes flashed, not with anger, but something deeper—hurt, maybe. Fear. “That’s not what this is about,” he said, his voice rising despite the effort to stay calm. “This is about you lying. Again. To my face. Like it doesn’t matter.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because what could you say? That you were scared? That you didn’t want to feel weak? That you hated needing help, even from him?
You pushed yourself up from the bench too fast, your knee wobbling beneath you before you caught your balance. The pain flared, but you ignored it, too full of heat to care. “Why do you even care so much?” you snapped, your voice sharp and rising. “It’s my body, my knee, my career. Not yours.”
Lando’s expression hardened in an instant. “Because I have to be on court with you!” he shot back, his voice loud in the quiet room. “Because if something happens to you out there, it’s not just your problem anymore—it’s mine too. We’re a team, remember?”
You scoffed, arms crossing over your chest like armor. “Oh, so now I’m a liability?”
His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to yell, to shake the words out of you, but instead he just stood there, jaw tight, eyes burning. “That’s not what I said,” he bit out. “But you—fuck. You always do this. You twist everything like I’m the bad guy. Until I’m the asshole for giving a damn.”
You crossed your arms tightly, chin lifting in defiance even as your knee pulsed with pain. “Maybe because you are acting like one,” you snapped, voice sharp. “You think I don’t know my own limits?”
Lando let out a bitter laugh, the sound short and cutting. “Your limits?” he repeated, shaking his head. “You don’t have limits. That’s the problem. You ignore them until your body gives out—until you’re literally on the ground and still trying to convince everyone you’re fine.”
“That’s what champions do,” you fired back, heat rising in your chest. “They push through. They don’t stop just because it hurts.”
“No,” he said, stepping in closer now, his voice low but intense, every word deliberate. “That’s what people do when they’re terrified to stop. When they think if they slow down for even a second, everything they’ve worked for will disappear.”
Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how close he was to the truth. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Norris,” you said, trying to sound cold, but your voice wavered.
“I wouldn’t have to,” he said, softer now, but no less firm, “if you didn’t make it so damn obvious.”
The silence that followed was thick, charged. You could hear the muffled roar of the crowd outside, the echo of announcements, the world still spinning while you stood here, stuck in this moment with him.
“You think I don’t get it?” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “You think I don’t see how hard you are on yourself? How you carry everything like it’s some kind of punishment? Like if you just suffer enough, it’ll make you worthy of all this?”
You shook your head, but it wasn’t as firm as you wanted it to be. “You don’t know anything about me,” you said, but the words felt hollow. Defensive. Like a door slammed too late.
“Jesus Christ, Y/n!” Lando snapped, the words bursting out of him before he could stop them. “I know everything about you!”
The sound echoed off the locker room walls, too loud, too raw. It hung in the air like a slap, and you froze where you stood, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because something in his voice had cracked, and it cracked something in you too.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing like he couldn’t bear to stay still with all of it building inside him. Once. Twice. Then he stopped, right in front of you, eyes burning.
“I know you pretend you’re fine even when you’re not,” he said, voice shaking with frustration he was barely holding back. “I know you push yourself until your body gives out, and then you laugh it off like it’s some kind of joke. Like it doesn’t matter.”
Your chest tightened, breath shallow.
“I know you hate being taken care of,” he went on, quieter now, but every word still sharp. “Because in your head, needing help means you’re weak. And I know—” he paused, swallowing hard, “I know you’re terrified that if you stop, even for a second, people will forget why they ever believed in you. That everything you’ve worked for will just… vanish.”
“Stop,” you whispered, eyes burning, voice barely holding steady.
But he didn’t. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve known you since we were seventeen. That’s nine years, Y/n. Nine. I know how you lie. I know how you tap your fingers when you’re nervous. I know how you pretend not to care when you care more than anyone.”
He let out a breathless laugh, almost disbelieving. “I even know your favorite fruit. Because you wouldn’t shut up about it that one summer.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“It’s papaya,” he said, softer now, something almost tender in his voice.
Your heart stuttered.
Because yeah. It was papaya.
“And why do you even care, Lando?” you snapped, voice cracking under the weight of everything. “No one asked you to remember all this shit!”
His eyes flashed, and before you could take the words back, he fired right back—louder, sharper, like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for too long.
“Because I love you!”
The words hit the air like a punch. Sudden. Loud. Real.
You froze.
“What?” you breathed, barely able to get the word out.
He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening like he was bracing for impact. For a second, you thought he might retreat—make a joke, roll his eyes, pretend it slipped out by accident. That would’ve been easier. Safer.
But he didn’t.
He looked right at you, eyes steady, voice rough around the edges. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That.”
You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck, your pulse thudding loud and uneven in your ears. “I—”
The word caught, stuck in your throat. You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through your hair, more frustrated with yourself than with him. “What am I even supposed to say to that?”
Because you knew. God, you knew. You were a fucking idiot for pretending otherwise. The truth had been there for a while now—quiet, inconvenient, growing somewhere between the chaos and the late nights and the way he looked at you when you thought no one was watching. You just didn’t know when it happened. When hate blurred into trust, when trust turned into something that scared the hell out of you.
Lando didn’t push. He didn’t fill the silence with a joke or a deflection or some cocky one-liner. He just stood there, still and steady, hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back. His eyes were wide, open, softer than you’d ever seen them.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly, honestly. “There’s no script for this.”
He let out a shaky laugh, the kind that sounded like it surprised even him. “But I do love you. Somehow.”
He tilted his head, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It probably happened somewhere between you screaming at me on court… and falling asleep on my shoulder last night.”
Your chest tightened, aching in that strange, unbearable way that only comes when something real is staring you in the face. Something you’ve wanted. Something you’ve feared.
Your lips parted, a shaky breath slipping out before you could stop it.
“Yesterday,” Lando said, his voice softer now, like he was afraid too much volume might break whatever this was between you, “you looked completely ridiculous. Half-asleep on me during The Godfather.”
You let out a weak scoff, trying to cling to something light. “I did not.”
“You did,” he said, and there was a flicker of a smile on his face—fond, teasing. But then it faded, melting into something quieter, something that made your heart ache. “And that’s when it hit me. I want that. All of it. Every night like that. Before matches. After the hard days. The good ones too. I want you there.”
He stepped closer, slow and sure, until there was barely any space left between you. His eyes didn’t waver. “I want you. Here. With me.”
Your chest tightened, breath catching as a thousand thoughts crashed into each other. “Lando…” you started, voice trembling. “I’m always angry. I’m tired. I’m injured. I’m—”
“I don’t care,” he said, cutting in gently but without hesitation. “I don’t care about any of that.”
His voice was steady now, low and certain. “I love you. Not the version of you that’s easy or perfect or unbreakable. I love you. Exactly as you are.”
So there it was. The truth you’d been running from, laid bare in the space between you. Proof that someone could love you—not in spite of the mess, but because of it. The sharp edges, the stubbornness, the bruises you tried to hide, the softness you only let out in the quiet. He saw all of it. And he stayed.
“God,” you breathed, voice trembling, heart thudding so loud it drowned out everything else. “I love you too.”
For a moment, Lando didn’t move. He just stared at you, like he was trying to make sure he hadn’t imagined it. That you’d really said it. That it was real. Then, slowly, his hands came up to cradle your face, warm and steady, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes—wiping away tears you hadn’t even noticed falling.
And then you kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was everything you’d held back crashing forward at once. All the late nights, the fights, the stolen glances, the ache of wanting and not knowing how to say it. You kissed him like you were finally letting yourself breathe. Like you’d been waiting for this moment without even realizing it. And he kissed you back like he’d known all along.
When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, hearts still racing. His smile was different now—gentle, open, stripped of all the usual bravado. Just him.
Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket and held something out.
“Now take these, baby,” he said softly.
You blinked, staring down at the familiar bottle in his hand. The exact meds you were sure you’d left on the kitchen counter that morning.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, wide with disbelief. “You absolute idiot,” you muttered, voice thick with something that wasn’t anger at all.
“We need to go,” Lando said, glancing at the clock before turning back to you, eyes bright with something that looked a lot like pride. “Time to show He and Albon who the real champions are.”
Then, with a crooked smile, he added, “Good luck… kiss?”
You rolled your eyes, but the grin broke through before you could stop it. “You’re such a menace,” you muttered, the words laced with laughter as you stepped in, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
And then you kissed him—quick, warm, a little breathless.
When you pulled back, he was still grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.
“Now let’s go win a goddamn match,” you said, grabbing your racket and heading for the tunnel, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.
babsie radio ! If you’re reading this, congratulations!!! You officially reached the end of this story. To be honest, I don’t really know what to say, because all I wanted to say was said already in first part!!! I just hope you liked it, it was a wild ride :)
Lando Norris, brilliant and cocky, pushed you to your limits on court and off, and when your federation paired you for mixed doubles at the Australian Open, rivalry turned into something dangerously close to desire.
pairing. tennis player! Lando Norris x tennis player! fem! reader.
warnings. non-f1 au; tennis au. romance, angst, sports drama 21,3k words; out of 36,9k, part one of two. rivals/enemies to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity. set in Melbourne, Kimi as Toto’s son. tennis/grand slam inaccuracies, medical injury, implied mental struggles, high ambitions, pet names (baby, darling), alcohol use; profanity. part two here.
soundtrack. love all, an official playlist.
THIS IS PART ONE OF ACROSS THE COURT. FIND PART TWO HERE.
ONE DAY, IT WOULD GET BETTER. That’s what you kept telling yourself, over and over, like a quiet promise whispered into the dark. You said it in the mornings, when your knee throbbed before your feet even touched the floor. You said it after long matches, when the ache in your body made it hard to breathe.
Maybe one day the pain would ease. Maybe your body would stop reminding you of every match you’d played through when you should’ve rested, every time you’d ignored what it was trying to tell you. Maybe one day you’d wake up and feel like yourself again.
You were ranked sixth in the world now. People smiled when they said it, like it was something to be proud of—and it was, you knew that. But your eyes always drifted to the names above yours, to the top five, to the players who seemed just out of reach. It was right there, close enough to taste, and yet every time you stretched for it, it slipped through your fingers like a damn mist.
You’d made it to the Australian Open. That should’ve felt like a win. But as you stood there, sweat drying on your skin, your muscles tight and your thoughts heavier than they should be, all you could think about was how much it had taken to get here. How much it still cost. And how long you could keep pretending that none of it mattered.
There wasn’t supposed to be space for doubt here. Not with Max. Not when you were training with your mixed doubles partner—the one person who was supposed to match your pace, your drive, your hunger to win. On paper, it made sense. Two top-ranked players, both sharp, both relentless. It should have been easy. It should have worked.
But lately, training with him felt less like a partnership and more like something you had to survive. He kept hitting balls at you with that same ruthless precision, never easing up, never checking in. Normally, you could keep up without thinking. Today, though, your timing was off. Your legs felt heavy. Your body wasn’t listening the way it used to.
“You’re late on it,” Max said, his voice flat, eyes already on the next shot.
Like you didn’t already know.
You exhaled slowly, biting back the sting in your chest. “Thanks for the reminder,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you bent to pick up another ball. The words came out sharper than you meant them to, but you didn’t take them back. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t bother you.
He looked at you then—just for a second. His expression was tight, unreadable, the kind of glance that didn’t ask questions or offer anything close to concern. Just a flicker of irritation, like your mistake had thrown off his rhythm. Like you were a problem to work around, not a person trying to hold it together.
“Again,” he said, already tossing the next ball into the air.
You didn’t argue. You adjusted your grip, shifted your stance, and forced your body to move faster. Your knee screamed in protest the moment you pushed off, a sharp, familiar pain that you’d learned to ignore. You chased the shot anyway, stretched too far, and barely managed to flick the ball back over the net.
Max sighed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough. Just enough to land like a slap, quiet and cutting.
“Keep up,” he muttered, already turning his back, like the drill was more important than you were. Like you weren’t standing there, trying not to fall apart.
You swallowed hard, the words burning at the back of your throat. But you didn’t say them. You just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking. Even though it didn’t matter. Quitting wasn’t an option. Slowing down wasn’t either. You told yourself you could handle it. That you’d get through this. That you always did.
Even if it was getting harder to believe.
After a few more shots, Max stopped. No warning, no signal—just stopped. The balls rolled to a quiet halt at your feet, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the drill ever had. It wasn’t just the end of a session. It felt like something else. Like he’d made a decision. Like he’d given up—not just on the practice, but maybe on the partnership. Maybe on you.
He finally turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Look, Y/n,” he said, voice clipped. “The Open starts tomorrow. You need to get your shit together.”
Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice steady, even though it cost you. “Yeah. I’m trying, Max.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t soften. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stood there for a beat too long. Then he said, “Good,” like it was final. Like that was all there was left to say.
And then he walked off the court, leaving you standing there alone, staring at the baseline, your racket hanging loosely at your side. The ache in your knee pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but it was the quiet that hurt more. You’d been trying. You were always trying. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being enough—and you didn’t know when that happened. Or how to fix it.
“Y/n!”
You turned at the sound of your name, and there she was—Lily. Your doubles partner, your best friend, the one person who could still make you smile without trying. Just seeing her standing there, sun in her hair and concern in her eyes, made something in your chest loosen. That was the thing about Lily. She didn’t need to ask if something was wrong. She already knew.
She walked over and handed you a water bottle, shaking her head with a small, crooked grin. “You look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I feel like that too,” you said, taking the bottle and pressing it to your forehead before unscrewing the cap.
Lily didn’t say anything right away. She just watched you, her expression softening as she took in the slump of your shoulders, the way you were holding your weight off your left leg. “What happened?” she asked gently. “Is it about Max?”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t matter. “Just him being grumpy, as usual. Nothing serious.”
“You can’t take him seriously. You know that,” Lily said, shaking her head like it was obvious, like Max’s mood didn’t still cling to your skin.
You didn’t answer. Just stared down at the court, jaw tight, the silence between you stretching a little too long.
Lily didn’t push. She never did. Instead, she shifted gears, her voice lighter. “Come on. Oscar’s on Court Four,” she said, her eyes brightening as she mentioned him—her boyfriend, her mixed doubles partner, the one person who always seemed to make her laugh, even on the worst days. At least someone had figured out how to make it work.
You glanced up. “With… Norris?”
The name came out sharp, bitter on your tongue. Lando Norris. Just saying it made your shoulders tense.
That man was everything you couldn’t stand. Ranked fourth in the world. Always smirking. Always talking. Loud, cocky, flirty—and somehow, impossibly, good. The kind of good that made it hard to ignore him, no matter how much you wanted to.
You grimaced, the thought of sharing a court with him making your chest tighten. But Lily didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She reached for your arm and tugged gently, already pulling you toward the other courts.
“Come on,” she said again, smiling like she knew something you didn’t. “It’ll be fun.”
You weren’t so sure.
You followed her anyway, even though every step felt heavier than the last. Training had wrung you out, left your limbs sluggish and your knee aching with that familiar, stubborn throb. It wasn’t sharp enough to stop you—never was—but it lingered, a quiet reminder of everything you’d pushed through to get here. Walking toward Court Four felt like walking straight into something you weren’t ready for. Something you didn’t want to face, but couldn’t avoid either.
You sank onto the edge of the stands, letting your bag drop beside you with a dull thud. Your eyes drifted to the court before you could stop them. Oscar and Lando were already mid-rally, moving like they shared a brain. Their rhythm was easy, practiced. The kind of chemistry that didn’t need words. Every shot was clean, every return precise. It looked effortless. Like they’d been doing this forever.
Your gaze caught on Lando for a moment too long. His curls were damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, his movements sharp and sure. He looked like he belonged out there—confident, focused, completely in control. You clicked your tongue softly and looked away, annoyed at yourself. Idiot.
They noticed you then. Both of them paused, rackets dropping slightly as they turned. Lando’s eyes found yours instantly, like they always did. Like he’d been waiting. You rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate, making sure he saw it.
“Hey, baby!” Lily called out, her voice bright as she waved at Oscar, completely unfazed by the tension simmering beside you.
Oscar lit up the moment he spotted Lily, lifting a hand in greeting before jogging over to the stands. He looked so at ease—sweat-slicked and flushed from the rally, but smiling like the world hadn’t asked anything of him today. Like he hadn’t just spent an hour under the sun, chasing points. That kind of ease made something twist in your chest, sharp and quiet. You didn’t want to name it.
Lando followed behind him, slower, spinning his racket in one hand like it was second nature. He stopped a few steps from the bench, his eyes flicking over you in quick, practiced glances—your stiff posture, the way you leaned ever so slightly off your left leg, the tension in your jaw. He didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of his attention, and it made your skin prickle.
“Didn’t think you’d come watch,” he said, voice light, almost teasing.
You didn’t bother softening your tone. “Trust me, I didn’t plan to.”
Oscar chuckled under his breath, clearly unfazed. “Nice to see you too.”
Lando’s smile tugged wider, just enough to be annoying. “Rough session?”
You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “I’m fine.”
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth either. And from the way Lando’s eyes lingered on yours, you had a feeling he knew that.
Lando leaned against the fence, casually tossing a ball from one hand to the other. The sun caught the edge of his , casting a flicker of light across the court. “So,” he said, voice light, almost lazy, “Open starts tomorrow. Last meeting with the coaches, final schedule, all that fun stuff.”
You tilted your head slightly, keeping your tone as even as you could manage. “Yeah. I know. Don’t need another reminder.”
He didn’t flinch. Just kept that same maddening smirk on his face. “Just making conversation,” he said, like it was nothing. “I’d hate for you to forget.”
Your jaw tightened. The way he said it—like he was amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin—made your pulse tick faster. “I can handle it,” you said, arms folding across your chest. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant coaching tips to function.”
He raised an eyebrow, the ball still spinning lazily in his hand. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were the only one capable of surviving a Grand Slam.”
You opened your mouth, the retort already forming—sharp, fast, something that would land clean and cut deep. He’d done this too many times. Pushed just far enough to make you snap. And maybe that was the point.
But before the words could leave your mouth, Lily’s voice cut through the tension—sharp, bright, and unmistakably hers.
“Enough,” she said, stepping between you with a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. “We’re here to watch, not start a war. Save the drama for the court.”
You and Lando both froze, glancing at her like kids caught misbehaving. Her eyes were wide, but there was steel behind them—serious now, even if her tone still carried that familiar edge of teasing. She looked between you, arms crossed. “Seriously. You two look ridiculous. Stop glaring at each other like you’re about to throw rackets. The tournament hasn’t even started yet.”
You muttered something under your breath—something unkind, probably—but the heat in your chest had already started to cool. Lily had a way of doing that. Of stepping in just before you said something you couldn’t take back. You leaned back on the bench, jaw still tight, but your hands unclenched. For now, at least, you could sit still and watch instead of letting the frustration boil over.
Even if Lando was still standing there, smirking like he’d won something.
────────────
There were only thirty minutes left until the final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers. You stood near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for one familiar face. But Toto wasn’t there. No clipboard in hand, no calm voice cutting through the noise, no steady presence to anchor you. Your stomach tightened. He was never late. And that kind of silence didn’t feel like a good sign.
Without thinking, you turned and made your way down the hallway, pushing open the door to his office with more force than necessary. “Toto?” you called, stepping inside.
But it wasn’t him.
It was Kimi.
You blinked, caught off guard. Kimi—Toto’s son. The boy who used to sit on the sidelines with toy cars while you learned how to serve. The one who used to fall asleep in the stands with his head on your shoulder, juice box still in hand. He was taller now, older, but still Kimi. Still the kid who felt like your little brother.
“Kimi!” you shouted, a grin breaking across your face as you jogged over and pulled him into a tight hug. “What the fuck!”
He laughed, hugging you back without hesitation. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.
“Plans changed,” he said with a grin. “I couldn’t miss my big sister playing at a Grand Slam.”
You laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been all day. You squeezed him once more, holding on for a second longer than you needed to. Somehow, just seeing him—his familiar face, his easy smile—made the pressure in your chest ease. Not all the way. But enough to breathe again.
“I’m so glad you came,” you said, and you meant it—but your mind was already drifting, scanning the room again. “Do you know where Toto is?”
Kimi shrugged, leaning back against the desk. “He said he’d be back in five minutes. That was a while ago, though. Haven’t seen him since.”
You let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down your face, the weight of the day pressing harder against your shoulders. Of course. The final meeting with the coaches and the tournament organizers was about to start, and the one person you needed most—your anchor, your constant—was nowhere to be found. Just your luck.
“Anyway,” Kimi said, nudging your arm with his elbow, trying to pull you back to the present. “How’s Australia treating you so far?”
You snorted. “Horrible,” you muttered. “It’s too hot. Lily and Oscar are being disgustingly cute, and Max is acting weirder than usual.”
Kimi grinned, arms folding across his chest like he’d been expecting that answer. “That’s why I’m here,” he said, eyes warm. “To make it better.”
You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. It wasn’t much, but it was real.
The door creaked open behind you, and you turned just in time to see Toto step inside. His face was unreadable—calm, composed, but set in that way you’d come to recognize over the years. The kind of look he wore when something was wrong and he hadn’t figured out how to say it yet. Your stomach dropped before he even spoke.
“Kimi,” he said, voice low but steady, “can you give us a minute?”
Kimi hesitated, glancing between the two of you. His brow furrowed, like he didn’t want to leave, like he could feel the shift in the air too. But after a beat, he nodded. He gave you one last look—quiet, reassuring, the kind that said I’m still here—before slipping out and closing the door behind him.
Toto crossed the room and sank into the chair across from you as you sat down too. He didn’t waste time. Just leaned forward, eyes fixed on yours.
“We’ve got a problem, kid,” he said.
And just like that, the room felt smaller. Heavier. Like the walls had moved in a little closer, waiting to hear what came next.
“What is it, Toto?” you asked, the words catching in your throat as a knot began to form in your stomach.
Something was off. You could feel it in the way he looked at you—steady, serious, like he was bracing for impact. And suddenly, you were too.
He didn’t waste time. “Max doesn’t want to play with you anymore.”
The words hit harder than you expected. For a second, you just sat there, blinking, like maybe you’d misheard him. Like maybe if you stayed quiet long enough, he’d take it back.
But he didn’t.
What the fuck.
Everything you’d been working toward—the endless drills, the long hours on court, the pressure you’d carried like a second skin—suddenly felt like it had been for nothing. Max, the one person who was supposed to be in this with you, had walked away before the match even started. Just like that.
You sank back in your chair, hands gripping the edge like it might keep you grounded. But your chest was tight, your thoughts spinning too fast to catch. Anger flared first, hot and sharp. Then disbelief. Then something colder, heavier—exhaustion that settled deep in your bones.
“What?” you said again, the word sharper this time, cutting through the silence like glass. As if saying it out loud might change something. As if it might make this feel less real.
But it didn’t.
“He and Horner told the ITF he can’t play with you anymore,” Toto said, his voice low, steady in that way that only made it worse. He let out a slow breath, like he hated saying it out loud. “No explanation beyond that.”
You stared at him, the words echoing in your head, refusing to settle. So that was it. That’s why Max had been so off yesterday—the clipped tone, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the drills that felt more like punishment than practice. It hadn’t just been a bad day. It had been a warning. You just hadn’t seen it.
Your stomach twisted. “What the fuck,” you muttered, dragging a hand through your hair, fingers catching in the tangles. “Is it because of my knee? Or—” your voice sharpened, rising with the heat in your chest, “—because he couldn’t handle playing with someone just as good as him?”
The words hung in the air, bitter and raw. You didn’t know which answer would hurt more.
Toto shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “You know how he is.”
“No,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. “No, I don’t, Toto. Not at all.”
Your voice cracked at the edges, tight with disbelief. “I’ve trained. I’ve pushed through every session, every drill. I’ve done everything he asked—everything—and he just walks away? Just like that?”
Toto didn’t flinch. His voice stayed calm, steady in the way it always was when everything else felt like it was falling apart. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, firm. “This isn’t on you. Sometimes people—”
“Sometimes people?” you cut in, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “He’s my partner. He’s supposed to show up. He’s supposed to work with me, not—” your voice caught, your throat tightening, “—not bail when it gets hard.”
You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your palms against your face like you could hold it all in. The anger, the confusion, the ache in your chest that had nothing to do with your knee. It wasn’t just about the tournament. It was about trust. About being left behind by someone who was supposed to be in this with you.
And now, you were alone.
“Look, kid, we have to go to the meeting,” Toto said, already reaching for his jacket. “The ITF will definitely bring it up.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. The last thing you wanted was to sit in a room full of officials and coaches, all of them dissecting what had just happened—your partner’s betrayal dressed up as a scheduling change, a strategic shift, a footnote in someone else’s press release. You could already feel their eyes on you, waiting to see how you’d react. Waiting to see if you’d crack.
“But Toto—”
“No arguments,” he cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. “We’ll find someone for you. Or you play singles and women’s doubles. That’s still a full load.” He paused, meeting your eyes. “Not everyone has to play all three categories.”
But that wasn’t you.
You weren’t here to do the bare minimum. You weren’t here to coast. You were known for showing up in every bracket, every match, every damn point. You and Lily were ranked number one in women’s doubles. You’d clawed your way to the top of singles. And mixed doubles? That was supposed to be the final piece. The one you’d been grinding for. Giving it up wasn’t just a change in schedule—it was surrender. And surrender had never been part of your game.
If Max didn’t want to be your partner? Fine. You didn’t want him either.
You wouldn’t beg. Not for a spot. Not for a second chance. And definitely not for someone who didn’t even have the decency to say it to your face. He could walk away. You’d find another way forward.
Or you’d win without him.
You followed Toto down the hall, each step heavier than the last. The glass-paneled doors of the meeting room loomed ahead, silhouettes shifting behind them—coaches, officials, players. The hum of low voices filtered through the glass, a quiet storm already in motion. Your stomach twisted.
Inside, the room was a square of tension and strategy. Lando and Oscar sat with their coach, Zak, deep in conversation. Across from them, Max and Horner had already taken their seats, their expressions unreadable. Lily was there too, waiting for you and Toto, her posture relaxed but her eyes tracking everything.
As you slid into your seat beside her, she leaned in just enough for her voice to reach you. “What took you so long?” she murmured, offering a small, knowing smile.
“Business,” you said, keeping your tone even, your face unreadable.
Your gaze swept the table, instinctively searching for the cracks. Lando’s eyes found yours almost immediately—sharp, steady, like he was trying to read something off your skin. You met his stare for a beat, then rolled your eyes, slow and deliberate. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how close you were to unraveling.
Max didn’t even glance your way.
He sat stiffly, arms crossed, gaze fixed on some distant point on the table. Like you weren’t even there. Like none of this mattered. And somehow, that burned more than anything he could’ve said.
The room held its breath.
For a moment, no one spoke. Just the quiet rustle of papers, the creak of a chair shifting, the low hum of tension pressing in from all sides. It was the kind of silence that made your skin prickle, your nerves coil tighter with every second it stretched.
Then, finally, an ITF official cleared his throat. “Let’s begin,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Today’s focus is the upcoming Australian Open. We’ll review schedules, training adjustments, and—” his eyes flicked toward you, just for a beat, “—mixed doubles pairings.”
Your stomach dropped.
There it was. The thing you’d been dreading. The thing everyone in the room knew was coming. You straightened in your seat, spine stiff, jaw set. You kept your face neutral, your hands still, even though every part of you wanted to get up and walk out. Run, maybe. Anything but sit here and let them talk about you like a problem to be solved.
Across the table, Lando shifted in his chair, slow and deliberate. His gaze never left yours. There was something in it—sharp, unreadable. Not quite smug, not quite concerned. Just… watching. Measuring. You felt the familiar flicker of irritation rise in your chest, tangled with something else. Something quieter. Something you didn’t want to name.
Max didn’t look at you. Not once.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. You didn’t need words to feel the wall he’d built between you—cold, final, impenetrable.
The meeting began with the usual rhythm of formality—schedules, regulations, court assignments. The kind of logistical noise that could lull you into a daze if you let it. ITF officials took turns reading from their notes, outlining start times, warm-up slots, dress codes. The words blurred at the edges, a steady drone of structure and protocol.
Beside you, Toto leaned in every so often to murmur reminders—small things, practical things—but your mind kept drifting. To Max, silent and distant across the table. To Lando, still watching you like he was waiting for something. To the quiet truth that tomorrow, every person in this room would be watching your next move.
Then the tone shifted.
“Let’s move on to women’s doubles,” one of the officials said, tapping a finger against the chart projected on the screen.
The room stilled, just slightly. Eyes flicked toward the display.
“Here we have the rankings,” another added, gesturing toward the list.
Your name appeared at the top. And right beside it: Lily Zneimer.
“Y/l/n and Zneimer,” the official announced, voice even but unmistakably clear. “Ranked number one in women’s doubles. The pair has demonstrated exceptional synergy and dominance throughout the past season. They are expected to perform at the highest level.”
You felt the words land in the room like a quiet drumbeat. Not boastful. Not dramatic. Just fact.
You turned your head slightly, catching Lily’s eye. Her smile was small, tight at the corners, but proud. The kind of smile that said we earned this. The kind that made you want to reach under the table and squeeze her hand, just to say I know. I feel it too.
Even here, surrounded by the best of the best, the words carried weight.
You were the best.
And no one could take that from you.
The praise for you and Lily still lingered in the air, a faint echo of something steady and earned. But it didn’t last.
One of the ITF officials cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet. “And now, on to mixed doubles,” he said, his voice noticeably tighter. “There’s an issue we need to address regarding pairings.”
Your stomach dropped like a stone.
Beside you, Toto went still, his posture sharpening in that subtle way that told you he already knew what was coming. Across the table, Max shifted—arms crossed, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the far wall like it held something more interesting than the fallout he’d just detonated.
You didn’t need him to look at you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the cold wall he’d built between you. It was already there yesterday, in the clipped words and the silence between drills. You just hadn’t wanted to believe it.
Lando noticed it too. You could see it in the way his eyes flicked between you and Max, sharp and calculating. Like he was watching a match unfold before the first serve had even been hit.
The official continued, reading from the paper in front of him like it was just another line item on the agenda. “Max Verstappen has informed the ITF that he will not be participating in mixed doubles with Y/n Y/l/n. No further explanation has been provided.”
The words landed like a slap.
Lando’s gaze snapped to you, unreadable. Oscar’s followed, his brow furrowed. And Lily—Lily turned to you with wide eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”
Before you could speak, one of the officials cut in, his voice brisk. “Mr. Wolff, have you started looking for a replacement?”
Toto didn’t flinch. “We’re exploring options, yes,” he said, calm as ever. “But you need to understand—we’re not just filling a slot. We have to find someone worthy to play alongside Y/n.”
Your jaw tightened at the word worthy. It wasn’t meant as a slight, not from Toto. He was defending you, holding the line. But still, the word scraped something raw. Like your value needed to be justified. Like you were a risk now, a question mark.
You stayed quiet, letting Toto’s steadiness anchor you. If he hadn’t been there, you might’ve said something you couldn’t take back.
The official didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr. Wolff,” he said, his tone turning sharp, almost smug. “We’ll find the perfect match for Miss Y/n.”
Your hands curled into fists beneath the table.
Perfect match, you thought, the words sour in your mouth. As if Max had been perfect. As if this wasn’t a mess of his making. As if you were the one who needed fixing.
You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay still. The insult was subtle, but it landed all the same. You weren’t the one who walked away. You weren’t the one who quit.
But now you were the one being discussed like a problem to solve.
The official cleared his throat again, the sound slicing through the room like a blade. “We’ll continue discussing logistics,” he said, tone clipped, “but please remember: we need all players ready and committed by tomorrow’s first practice session.”
He turned his gaze toward you and Toto, eyes steady, voice firm. “Miss Y/n, Mr. Wolff, a replacement for mixed doubles must be confirmed before then.”
The words landed with finality, like a door clicking shut.
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap. The pressure was familiar—this was the sport, after all—but today it felt different. He wasn’t just talking about logistics. He was talking about your future. Your reputation. Your ability to adapt, to survive, to prove that you weren’t the one who broke the partnership.
────────────
The next day, you stepped onto the court with Lily, racket in hand, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something inside you loosened. Just a little. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less like a stone, more like something you could carry.
The sun hung high overhead, warm but not punishing, casting long shadows across the court. The ball moved between you in a steady rhythm—clean, sharp, familiar. Back and forth, like breath. Like memory. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the thud of sneakers on clay, the soft grunt of effort, the satisfying pop of the ball off your strings. No Max. No ITF. No headlines or whispers or meetings. Just this.
“Nice shot!” Lily called, laughing as you sent a cross-court winner skimming past her reach. She jogged after the ball, scooping it up with practiced ease and tossing it back without missing a beat.
“You’re lucky I’m letting you win today,” you said, grinning as you twirled your racket in your hand.
“You wish,” she shot back, eyes gleaming. Then she returned the next ball with a speed that made your legs scramble and your breath catch.
And for a while—an hour, maybe two—you weren’t thinking about the mess waiting outside the court. You weren’t thinking about Max’s silence or the way the ITF official had said perfect match like it was a threat. You were just here. With Lily. Your partner. Your friend. Laughing, sweating, pushing each other to move faster, hit harder, stay present.
You both paused at the baseline, breath catching in your chests, sweat cooling on your skin. Lily tossed you a bottle of water with a flick of her wrist, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she watched you.
“So,” she said, voice light but laced with curiosity, “about mixed doubles… who would you want to play with if Max is out?”
You took a long sip, letting the water cool your throat while your mind spun. The question was simple enough, but the answer wasn’t. Not anymore. Anyone else felt like a gamble—an unknown rhythm, a new language you’d have to learn mid-match. And after everything, you weren’t sure how much more risk you could take.
“I don’t know,” you said finally, leaning on your racket. “It has to be someone I can actually work with. Someone who won’t make everything harder than it already is.”
Lily raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. There’s got to be someone out there who’s good—and maybe even tolerable.”
You let out a dry laugh, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Tolerable? That narrows the list down to zero.”
She grinned. “What about Sainz?”
Carlos Sainz. You blinked. The image of him flashed in your mind—perfect hair, perfect smile, that infuriatingly smooth confidence.
“Definitely not,” you said, shaking your head. “He looks like he spends more time on his hair than his serve.”
Lily burst out laughing, tossing the ball lightly toward you. “Fair. Noted. No Sainz.”
You caught the ball with one hand, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. For a moment, the weight of everything else faded. Just a little.
Before you could answer Lily, a shadow fell across the edge of the court. You turned to see Toto standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“Y/n,” he said, voice low and clipped. “I need to talk to you. Now.”
You frowned, the shift in his tone enough to make your pulse skip. You set your racket down slowly, brushing the sweat from your brow. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. Not right away. Just tilted his head toward the far side of the court, away from Lily, away from the easy rhythm you’d just found again. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s important.”
That word—important—landed like a stone in your gut. When Toto said it like that, it never meant something small. Never meant something you could brush off.
You glanced at Lily, and she gave you a quiet nod, her expression soft with understanding. No questions. Just support.
You followed Toto without a word, each step across the court making your chest feel tighter, your breath a little shallower. The sun felt hotter now, the air heavier.
You followed Toto through the maze of courts and corridors, the noise of bouncing balls and shouted drills fading behind you. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back, just kept walking with that purposeful stride that always meant something was coming. Something big.
He stopped near a shaded corner of the facility, tucked behind a row of benches and a half-empty water cooler. It was quiet here—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle.
His face gave nothing away.
“So?” you asked, trying to sound steady, though your foot tapped against the concrete, betraying you.
“I have news,” he said, voice low and even.
You swallowed, the tension in your chest winding tighter. “Good or bad?”
Toto looked at you for a long beat, unreadable. “Depends,” he said finally.
And just like that, your pulse kicked up, sharp and fast. Because when Toto said depends, it never meant simple.
“So, basically, the ITF found you a partner,” Toto said, his voice even, like this was just another update. Nothing special. Nothing explosive.
For a second, your heart lifted. That sounded like good news. A solution. A way forward. Maybe this whole mess was finally turning around.
“Who?” you asked, eyes flicking up, hope creeping in before you could stop it.
“Lando.”
Your brain stalled.
Your jaw actually dropped, like in a bad movie. “Norris?!” you blurted, too loud, too fast. It felt like the words had been yanked out of you before you could catch them. No. No way. This had to be some kind of fever dream. Any second now, you’d wake up in your hotel bed, drenched in sweat, heart racing, and laugh at how ridiculous it all was.
But Toto didn’t blink. “Lando Norris,” he said again, calm as ever, like he was telling you the weather.
You just stared at him, frozen. Your thoughts were a mess—half-formed, tangled, loud. Of all the people. Him? The cocky, smug, insufferably talented top-four player who never missed a chance to get under your skin? The one who always had something to say, always with that smirk, always acting like he knew better?
You could barely stand him on a good day. And now you were supposed to play with him?
Your mind spun, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find the part where this made any kind of sense. But it didn’t. It just didn’t.
“No. No, no,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Panic rose fast and hot in your chest, tightening everything. “I’d rather die than play with him.”
Toto didn’t flinch. “And the best part?” he said, voice flat. There wasn’t even a hint of amusement in his face.
You let out a single, sharp laugh—dry, disbelieving. “What? It can’t possibly get worse than this.”
He didn’t blink. “Zak and Lando already confirmed it.”
You stared at him, your breath catching.
“They’re waiting for your confirmation,” he added, calm as ever.
Your mind reeled. What the fuck.
This wasn’t just a hypothetical. This wasn’t a joke or a bluff or some cruel twist of fate waiting to be undone. It was real. Lando—Lando—had said yes. Zak too. They’d already agreed. And now it was on you.
You felt the ground shift beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down. You weren’t just being asked to tolerate him. You were being asked to trust him. To share the court. To rebuild something with someone who’d spent the last year getting under your skin every chance he got.
“No, Toto. I won’t confirm.”
The words came out fast, sharp, before you could stop them. Your voice was too loud, too final, but you didn’t take it back. You couldn’t. As soon as you said it, your body seemed to catch up with everything you’d been holding in. Your knee throbbed. Your shoulders ached. Even your head pulsed with a dull, relentless pressure. Like your body had finally decided it was done carrying the weight of all this—of Max, of the meetings, of the expectations pressing in from every side.
“Find me someone else,” you said, quieter now, but no less certain. Even though deep down, you already knew. There wasn’t anyone else. Not really. But saying it out loud would make it real, and you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.
Toto exhaled, and for the first time, the edge of frustration cracked through his calm. “I can’t, kid,” he said, voice low. “There is no one better than him.”
You flinched, the words landing harder than you expected. “Yes, there is,” you snapped. “What about Leclerc? Sainz?” You could still hear Lily’s voice from earlier, teasing, hopeful.
But Toto just shook his head. “Leclerc’s already paired with Mleux. And Sainz doesn’t play mixed doubles. Never has.”
And just like that, the list was gone. The excuses ran out. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, like the air before a storm.
You looked away, jaw clenched, throat tight. Because the truth was settling in now, slow and unwelcome.
It was Lando… or no one.
And you weren’t sure which was worse.
“Toto, this won’t work,” you said, shaking your head, voice low and frayed at the edges. “We hate each other.”
He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that steady, unshakable calm he always carried, like nothing you said could surprise him. “Y/n,” he said, “you don’t need to love each other.”
You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “We can barely stand being in the same room.”
Toto didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He just let the silence stretch for a moment before answering, voice quiet but certain. “You’re both the greatest,” he said. “That’s what the ITF sees. Not your arguments. Not your egos. Your results.”
You swallowed hard, the truth of it landing like a weight in your chest. Because that was the part that stung the most—he was right. On paper, it made perfect sense. Two top players. Two names that carried weight. Two people who knew how to win.
“They don’t care how you feel,” Toto added, softer now. “They care about what you produce on court.”
You closed your eyes, just for a second. Long enough to feel the exhaustion settle in your bones. It wasn’t just about Max or Lando anymore. It was everything. The pressure. The expectations. The constant need to prove yourself, to hold it all together, to pretend like none of it touched you. But it did. And it was catching up.
“What if I say no?” you asked, your voice low but sharp, like you were daring him to give you a way out. “What if I decline the partnership?”
Toto didn’t even blink. “You’ll be disqualified from the Grand Slam.”
The word slammed into you. “WHAT?!” It tore out of you before you could stop it, loud and raw and full of disbelief.
But even as it echoed in the quiet space between you, you already knew. Of course they’d do this. Of course the ITF would back you into a corner, smiling politely while they took away your choices one by one. They didn’t want your comfort. They wanted your compliance. Walk away, and you’d lose everything you’d worked for. Stay, and you’d have to do it with him.
“That’s what the ITF told me,” Toto said, softer now. “That’s why Lando already confirmed. He didn’t have a choice either.”
The fight drained out of you all at once, like someone had pulled the plug. The anger, the panic—it all gave way to something heavier. Something quieter.
So this wasn’t arrogance. This wasn’t Lando going behind your back or trying to one-up you. He hadn’t chosen this any more than you had. He was stuck too. Just like you.
Now you couldn’t even hate him for it.
“Y/n,” Toto said, his voice firm, steady, and final. “Either you put your ego aside and play this Grand Slam with Norris—prove to Max that you can win without him—or you get disqualified completely.”
You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, the words sinking in like slow poison. They didn’t hit all at once. They settled, heavy and cold, curling around your ribs and tightening your chest until it was hard to breathe.
“It’s all or nothing,” he added, softer now, but no less certain.
And just like that, every exit you’d been clinging to vanished. All the ways you’d tried to delay, to deflect, to pretend there might be another option—they were gone. There was no middle ground. No loophole. No one coming to save you from this choice.
You looked down at your hands, still trembling faintly from the morning’s practice. Callused fingers, taped knuckles, wrists that had carried more weight than they should’ve. You’d built your whole life with these hands. Match by match. Win by win. Loss by loss. And now, they were shaking.
You looked up at Toto. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disappointed. He was just… steady. Concern flickered behind his eyes, but it didn’t soften the truth. He was here to help you stand, but he wasn’t going to carry you.
Winning without Max Verstappen. Winning with Lando Norris.
You let out a breath, shaky and uneven, like your body was trying to make space for the decision already forming in your chest. This wasn’t just about tennis anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. This was about pride. About survival. About proving—to Max, to the ITF, to yourself—that you were still standing. That you could still fight.
And somewhere deep down, you realized the choice had already been made.
“Fine,” you said at last, lifting your head. The word came out steady, clear, even though your insides still felt like they were shaking. “Tell the ITF I’ll do it. I confirm.”
For a moment, Toto didn’t speak. He just looked at you, something shifting in his expression—less relief, more recognition. Like he saw the cost of what you’d just agreed to. Like he knew exactly how much it had taken to say it out loud.
His voice was quiet when it came. “That’s my girl.”
────────────
You stayed on the court after Lily left, even though the sun was starting to dip and the shadows were stretching long across the baseline. She and Oscar had plans—dinner, a movie, something that sounded like a life untouched by chaos. You waved her off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes and told her you’d be fine. A lie, but an easy one. One she didn’t press.
You weren’t supposed to be alone for long anyway. Zak, Lando, and Toto were on their way. A meeting, they’d said. A conversation about your “future partnership.” The phrase alone made your jaw clench. You could think of a hundred better ways to spend a Monday afternoon than waiting for the guy you could barely stand.
So you stayed busy.
You picked up a ball and hit it across the court. Then another. And another. No rallies. No rhythm. Just you and the silence and the sting in your arm as each shot landed harder than the last. Your breath came faster. Your muscles burned. But you didn’t stop.
Anger bled into every swing. Not just at Max, or the ITF, or Lando. At the whole damn situation. At how unfair it all felt. You were ranked sixth in the world. Sixth. And still, somehow, you were the one being forced to prove yourself. To adapt.
And now you were supposed to play mixed doubles with someone who lived comfortably in the top five. Someone who made it all look effortless. Someone you’d spent your whole career trying to catch—and never quite reaching.
The thought lodged in your chest like a splinter. No matter how many hours you trained, how many sacrifices you made, it always felt like you were one step behind him. Always chasing. Always just short.
Your knee twinged as you lunged for another shot. You ignored it. Hit harder.
If this was what it took to prove you belonged—next to him, not beneath him—then fine.
You’d burn yourself out trying.
Better that than letting anyone think you weren’t enough.
“You should take a break,” a voice said, low and familiar.
You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice. Kimi.
“I’m fine,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the court, your grip tightening around the racket. You tried to make your voice sound firm, unshakable. But even to your own ears, it rang hollow.
“You say that a lot,” he said, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t sharp, just steady. Observant. His gaze moved over you—your stiff shoulders, the way your weight shifted to protect your knee, the tension you couldn’t quite hide.
You clenched your jaw. “Because I am fine. Don’t read too much into it.”
Kimi didn’t flinch. “That’s what you said last year,” he said gently. “And the year before that.”
You let out a breath, sharp and frustrated. “Things are different this time.”
“Are they?” he asked, voice calm, even. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks the same. You’re not just angry about Max. Or the ITF. You’re still carrying that injury. Still pushing through it like it’s not there. Still trying to outrun something that’s already inside you.”
You looked away, blinking hard. Because he was right. And hearing it out loud made something twist in your chest. You hated how much it stung. Hated how much it felt like truth.
Kimi crouched down a little, bringing himself to your eye level. He didn’t touch you, didn’t crowd you. Just looked at you with that quiet steadiness of his. “You’re good,” he said. “You’re strong. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But even the strongest players need to breathe. You don’t have to prove everything all at once.”
You stared at the ground, your fingers clenched around the racket handle like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You didn’t know if you wanted to yell at him or lean into his words and let them hold you up.
“Just… think about it,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “Before you meet them.”
You watched him walk away, and couldn’t help the thought that slipped in, uninvited and sharp.
He sounded just like Toto.
You stood there for a moment after Kimi left, the court stretching out around you, suddenly too wide, too quiet. The silence pressed in, broken only by the steady thud of your heartbeat and the echo of his words in your head. Take a break. As if it was that simple. As if stopping didn’t feel like surrender. Like letting go of the only thing holding you together.
You bent down, picked up a ball, and served it hard. Too hard. It clipped the net and rolled back toward you, slow and mocking. You stared at it, chest rising and falling faster than it should have. Your knee pulsed with pain—a sharp, familiar warning you’d been ignoring all afternoon.
You dropped onto the bench, elbows on your knees, racket dangling from your fingers. For a moment, you let your head fall forward, eyes closed. Just a breath. Just a pause. The anger that had carried you through the day began to slip away, leaving something heavier in its place. Not rage. Not even frustration.
Fear.
Fear that Max had been right to walk away. Fear that this new pairing—this forced partnership with Lando—wasn’t a second chance, but a spotlight. One that would show everyone just how far you’d fallen. How much you were still hurting. How much you were still trying to pretend you weren’t.
You glanced at your phone. 6:56 p.m.
Time to go.
You wiped the sweat from your face with a towel, grabbed your bag, and started walking. Out of the facility, down the quiet path toward the café where Toto, Zak, and Lando would be waiting.
The café wasn’t far—just a short walk from the courts, tucked behind a row of hedges like a secret only the players knew. It was the kind of place where people pretended, for an hour or two, that their lives weren’t ruled by rankings and press conferences and the weight of expectation. Just coffee, quiet, and the illusion of normal.
You pushed the door open and stepped into the cool hush of the room. The air smelled like espresso and something sweet, and the low hum of conversation wrapped around you. Relief and dread twisted together in your chest, tight and tangled.
They were already there.
Toto saw you first. He lifted a hand in a small, steady wave—reassuring, grounding. Zak sat beside him, posture easy but eyes sharp, already reading you like a stat sheet. And then there was Lando.
Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, cap turned backwards like always. He looked relaxed. Effortless. Like this wasn’t a meeting about a forced partnership or a career-defining gamble. Like he hadn’t been dragged into the same mess you had.
Of course he looked fine.
You hesitated for half a second, then crossed the room and dropped your bag beside the empty chair across from him. You didn’t sit. Didn’t look at him. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch a little too long.
“Sorry,” you said finally, voice flat. “Training ran late.”
Lando’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Yeah. I can tell.”
You turned then, sharp and fast, eyes narrowing. The look you gave him was a warning—don’t.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his gaze didn’t waver. Still watching you. Still too calm. Still too curious.
“I’m glad you came,” Zak said, turning toward you with that smooth, practiced tone of his.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Zak Brown. The most infuriating man on the planet—second only to the player sitting across from you. There had always been something about him that rubbed you the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he smiled like he already knew the outcome. Or maybe it was the fact that, years ago, he’d told Toto you were too “unruly” to manage. You’d been seventeen. Fiery. Determined. And apparently, too much.
You kept your expression neutral, fingers tightening around the strap of your racket bag like it might anchor you to the floor. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much this still grated.
“Thanks,” you said, voice even, polite. Controlled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Zak smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that said he was already five steps ahead, already moving the pieces into place. “Good,” he said. “Let’s talk about this partnership, shall we?”
You nodded once, slowly, and finally took your seat. The chair felt too stiff. The air too still. Across from you, Lando hadn’t said a word.
Toto leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice low and steady. “Let’s be clear,” he said, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “This partnership isn’t about liking each other. It’s about results. The ITF made the call. Now it’s our job to make it work.”
You didn’t look up. Just stared at your hands, fingers curled tight around the strap of your racket bag like it might hold you together. “I get it,” you said quietly. The words came out flat, thin. Even you could hear how hollow they sounded.
Across from you, Lando shifted in his seat. You didn’t have to look to know he was watching you. You could feel it—like a weight pressing against your skin.
“Funny,” he said, voice light, almost amused. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I highly doubt that.”
He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, that faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. Like this was all a game to him. Like none of it mattered.
Zak raised a hand before either of you could say more, his voice cutting clean through the tension. “Enough,” he said, sharp but calm. “We’re not here to rehash old drama. We’re here to make a plan—practice schedules, match strategy, communication on court. Every detail matters if you two want to win.”
You leaned back in your chair, jaw tight, heart still pounding. You weren’t sure what was worse—Lando’s smirk, or the fact that Zak was right.
Toto leaned back slightly, his voice calm but clipped. “We don’t have much time. You play singles tomorrow. There won’t be much time. You need to train together in the meantime.”
You let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound sharp in your throat. “Oh, yes. Waited for that my whole life.”
Across the table, Lando’s smirk bloomed before he even opened his mouth. “Excuse me?” he said, voice light and needling. “That sounded suspiciously like complaining.”
You snapped your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “Well, it is complaining,” you said, the words landing hard. “I didn’t spend years clawing my way up the rankings just to be forced into a partnership with someone I can’t even stand.”
Lando leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his expression shifting from amused to something sharper. “Oh, come on. You act like I begged for this. The ITF picked me. I didn’t pick you.”
“That makes it worse!” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t ask for Max to walk away either, but here we are!”
He raised an eyebrow, tone cooling. “So what?” he said. “You’re mad at me for being good at my job?”
You shot him a look that could’ve burned through concrete. “I’m mad?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re cocky, infuriating, and you walk around like the world owes you something.”
Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, like he was enjoying this far more than he should. “That’s rich coming from you,” he said, eyebrow arching. “Don’t act like you’re some saint, Y/n. You’ve got an ego the size of Australia.”
Your hand slammed down on the table before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp and sudden. Zak flinched. “Better an ego than being a pain in everyone’s ass every time you show up,” you snapped, heat rising in your chest.
Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “Pain in the ass, huh?” he said, grin widening. “You’ve clearly spent a lot of time thinking about me.”
You leaned forward, eyes blazing. “I’ve spent way too much time thinking about you already,” you shot back, the words landing harder than you meant them to.
The silence that followed was thick and electric, both of you breathing hard, neither willing to back down.
Toto cleared his throat, voice low but firm. “Enough,” he said, cutting through the tension like a blade. “If you two can’t start with some professionalism, this partnership won’t survive a single training session.”
“Training starts in fifteen minutes,” Toto said, standing up. Zak followed him out without a word, leaving you and Lando alone.
You didn’t move. Neither did Lando. You just stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff, the air between you charged and unyielding.
Zak exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is going to be… interesting,” he muttered.
The silence that followed was thick—awkward and bitter, stretching too long to ignore. You shifted in your chair, arms crossing tightly over your chest, gaze fixed on the table. You refused to look at him. Not yet.
Lando leaned back, the edge in his posture softening. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. “Look,” he said, voice lower now, less sharp. “I didn’t want this either. I didn’t ask to be your partner.”
Your arms tightened around yourself, a reflex you couldn’t stop. “Glad we’re being honest,” you said, the words clipped, brittle.
He let out a breath, then shrugged. “But… I did save us both from getting disqualified. So… you’re welcome, I guess.”
You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that,” you said, the sarcasm barely masking the exhaustion underneath.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even peace.
But it was something.
A crack in the wall, maybe.
Fifteen minutes later, the court was already a disaster.
“You call that a forehand?!” Lando shouted across the net, his voice echoing through the empty stands. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips as the ball zipped past you, just out of reach.
You spun around, breathless, glaring. “It’s fine! You just aim like a toddler!”
He laughed—loud, unbothered, infuriating. “Fine? That’s hilarious!” He tossed another ball into the air and hit it with ridiculous ease. “Seriously, Y/n, do you even know which way to swing that thing?”
“Shut up!” you snapped, stepping into the next shot and yanking it back over the net with more force than necessary. The ball cracked against the baseline, but you barely registered it. Your pulse was too loud in your ears.
Toto’s voice boomed from the sidelines. “Enough! Both of you!”
Zak’s voice followed, sharper, clipped. “Focus. This isn’t a playground—it’s training.”
You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring across the net at each other.
And yet, neither of you moved to apologize.
You and Lando barely registered the shouting from the sidelines. Too caught up in your own storm, too busy hurling balls across the net like weapons, swinging with more spite than strategy, arguing over every single point like it mattered more than the match itself.
“Your backhand is worse!” Lando shouted, his voice echoing across the court.
You didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you could even touch mine!”
He scoffed, sending another ball flying your way. “In your dreams!”
You lunged, returned it with a sharp crack. “Only when they’re nightmares!”
Toto’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. “Stop shouting!” he barked, marching toward the net, his patience clearly fraying. “You’ll wear yourselves out before the first match!”
Toto’s whistle cut through the chaos like a blade. The ball skidded to a stop between you and Lando, the silence that followed almost louder than the shouting had been.
“Enough,” Toto said, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the headache away. “We’ll deal with the attitude later.”
You scoffed under your breath, turning away. Lando muttered something low and sharp that you didn’t quite catch—but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat still radiating between you.
Toto pointed between you both, his voice firm. “Tomorrow, you each play singles. Y/n, your match is first. After that—no excuses. You train together again.”
Zak crossed his arms, his tone clipped. “And not just drills.”
Toto nodded. “You’ll train against Oscar and Lily.”
That made you look up.
Lily and Oscar. Calm, in sync, terrifyingly efficient. They moved like they shared a brain, like they’d been playing together since birth. Watching them was like watching choreography—fluid, precise, unshakable.
“They’re one of the best doubles pairs here,” Toto continued. “If you want to survive mixed doubles, you’ll learn from them. Communication. Movement. Trust.”
Lando let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So we get destroyed on purpose.”
“Exactly,” Toto said, not missing a beat. “And you’ll thank me later.”
You didn’t respond. Neither did Lando.
But for the first time all day, neither of you had anything to argue about.
────────────
You sat alone in the locker room, the silence pressing in around you like a second skin. The hum of the stadium was distant, muffled by thick walls and the weight of your own thoughts. Your elbows rested on your thighs, head in your hands, leg bouncing restlessly. You hadn’t moved in minutes. Maybe longer.
The Australian Open. The one that always slipped away. You’d won everything else—Wimbledon, the US Open, Roland Garros. But Melbourne had always found a way to break your rhythm. A bad draw. A rolled ankle. A match point that vanished in the heat. It had become a ghost you couldn’t shake. And now, here you were again. Minutes from walking out. Minutes from trying—again—to rewrite the ending.
You told yourself this time would be different. You were stronger now. Sharper. You’d survived heartbreak, injury, Max leaving, the ITF’s games. You were still standing. That had to count for something.
Still, your chest felt tight. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
A soft knock broke through the quiet.
“Come in,” you said, voice low, not bothering to lift your head.
The door creaked open. “Just checking on you,” came a voice you knew by heart.
Kimi.
Of course it was him.
He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. He just knew. Always had. Like he could feel it in the air when you needed someone to show up.
Kimi stepped closer, his presence calm and steady in the way it always was. “You got this,” he said simply.
And somehow, that meant more than any speech ever could. Because if there was anyone who still believed in you—truly, without conditions—it was Kimi. He didn’t need you to win to believe in you. He just did.
You looked up at him, your voice soft. “Thanks, Kimi. I hope so.”
He gave a small nod, then added, “Lily couldn’t make it. She’s got training. But she told me to tell you she’s wishing you luck.”
You tried to smile. “I’ll see her after the match,” you said, but the words felt thinner than you meant them to. The thought of training with Lando later, of facing Lily and Oscar on the other side of the court—it crept in like a shadow, dulling the edges of your focus.
Kimi opened his mouth to say something else, maybe to ground you again, maybe just to stay a little longer.
But the loudspeaker crackled to life, cutting him off.
“Welcome to the first women’s singles match of this year’s Australian Open! Y/n Y/l/n versus Alexandra Saint Mleux!”
The words echoed through the locker room, sharp and final.
It was time.
You stood slowly, gripping your racket like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You gave it a few light swings, trying to shake the tension from your arms, but your muscles still felt tight, coiled like springs. From somewhere beyond the locker room walls, the roar of the crowd filtered in—louder than you expected. It hit you in the chest, sudden and real, and your stomach twisted.
Kimi stood just off to the side, arms folded, calm as ever. He gave you a small nod, his voice low and steady. “Focus,” he said. “You know what to do.”
You nodded back, not trusting yourself to speak. Then you turned and walked down the long hallway toward the court, each step echoing in the narrow space. You passed Toto near the entrance, his expression unreadable but his voice warm.
“Good luck, kid,” he said. “Remember Mleux’s weaknesses.”
You managed a quiet, “Thanks,” as you stepped past him and into the light.
The sun hit you like a wave—bright and hot, wrapping around your skin. The stadium opened up in front of you, vast and humming with energy. The crowd’s cheers rolled over you in waves, and your heart kicked up, faster than it should’ve been. You blinked against the brightness, against the noise, against the weight of it all.
This is it, you thought. This is finally your Australian Open.
You walked to your baseline, the court beneath your feet familiar and foreign all at once. You took a deep breath, let it fill your lungs, and exhaled slowly. The racket settled into your hands like it belonged there.
You bounced lightly on your toes at the baseline, trying to shake the nerves from your limbs. Your eyes stayed locked on the other side of the net, where Alexandra stood like a statue—calm, composed, her expression unreadable. She looked like she was waiting for a warm-up rally, not the start of a Grand Slam match. Of course she did. That was her thing. Ice in her veins. No cracks in the armor.
The umpire’s voice broke through the hum of the crowd. “Time.”
You inhaled slowly, steadying your breath. The racket felt solid in your hand, familiar. You tossed the ball into the air, eyes tracking it as it rose against the bright sky.
Focus.
The ball met your strings with a clean, satisfying snap. It flew wide and fast, clipping the line. Ace. The crowd erupted, a wave of sound crashing over you, and for a moment, it lit something in your chest. A spark. A reminder. You were here. You were ready.
The next point didn’t come as easy. The rally stretched long—baseline to baseline, shot for shot. You felt your knee twinge, a dull ache that flared with each push off your right foot. You ignored it. There was no space for pain today. You moved sharper, hit deeper, pulling from every drill Toto had hammered into you. Attack her backhand. Drag her wide. Don’t let her settle.
Point by point, the match found its rhythm. Brutal. Demanding. Sweat rolled down your spine, your grip tightening with every swing. The world narrowed to the ball, the lines, the breath in your lungs. Everything else fell away.
The first set had taken everything out of you. Long rallies, sharp angles, your knee screaming every time you pushed off just a little too hard. You’d won it—barely. And now, standing at the baseline in the second set, the heat pressed down heavier than before. The sun clung to your skin, sweat pooling at the base of your neck, soaking into your wristbands. You bounced the ball, trying to find your breath, trying to find your focus.
One point at a time.
You returned serve cleanly, chased the next shot, sent it down the line with just enough spin to pull it out of reach. The crowd responded, a low murmur rising into something louder, warmer. You didn’t let yourself react. Not yet.
But as you walked back toward the baseline, towel draped around your shoulders, your eyes drifted—just for a second. You didn’t mean to look. But you did.
And there he was.
Lando.
Sitting in the stands, elbows on his knees, cap pulled low. No smirk. No lazy grin. Just stillness. Focus. Watching you—not like a teammate, not like a rival. Like someone trying to understand something he hadn’t seen before.
Your grip tightened around the racket handle.
Why is he even here?
You shook the thought off, forced your gaze back to the court. It didn’t matter. He was just another face in the crowd. Just another distraction.
But the next rally dragged long—brutal, punishing. You chased a wide ball, stretched too far, and your knee flared in protest. Sharp. Immediate. You bit down on the pain, forced yourself through the motion, barely masking the wince.
And from the corner of your eye, you saw him move.
Lando straightened in his seat, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.
Like he felt it too.
You’d taken the second set, but your heart was racing for all the wrong reasons. Not from the heat or the effort or the pressure of the match—but from something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.
As the applause rolled over the court, you let your eyes drift—just for a second, just long enough to betray yourself. And there he was.
Lando.
Still in the stands. Still watching. Elbows on his knees, cap pulled low, gaze fixed on you like he hadn’t looked away once.
You turned quickly, heading for the sidelines. The crowd was loud, the sun relentless, sweat dripping down your temple as you moved straight toward Toto. You didn’t wait for him to speak.
“What is he doing here?” you asked, voice low but sharp. “Doesn’t he have his own match?”
Toto handed you a bottle of water, calm as ever. “He already played,” he said. “He won.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
He’d finished his match. And he’d still come to watch yours.
The thought landed in your chest with a strange weight. Not heavy, exactly. Just… tight. Unsettling. Maybe he was here to see you fall apart. Maybe he wanted proof that you weren’t as good as everyone said.
Or maybe—worse—he wanted to see for himself just how good you really were.
“Focus, kid,” Toto said, his voice low and even, cutting through the noise like a metronome. He gave you a steady look, the kind that didn’t waver, didn’t rush. “You’ve already taken two sets out of three. You’ve got this in the bag.”
You nodded, but it didn’t quite reach your chest. Your heart was still racing, your body humming with adrenaline and heat and something else—something harder to name. Pressure, maybe. Or fear. Or the weight of knowing how close you were to finally breaking the curse of this tournament.
You looked down at your hands, fingers wrapped tight around the water bottle, knuckles pale. You’d done the hard part. You were ahead. But the finish line always felt the farthest when it was right in front of you.
Still, Toto’s voice stayed with you. Calm. Certain. Like he believed in you even when you weren’t sure you could believe in yourself.
You took a breath. Then another.
And when you stood, racket in hand, the world narrowed again—to the court, the ball, the next point.
Just one more set.
The whistle blew, sharp and final, slicing through the heat-soaked air.
You stepped to the baseline, and something inside you shifted. Not snapped, exactly—more like something uncoiled. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Or maybe it was the image of Lando, still watching, still there, etched into the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.
Whatever it was, it lit a fuse.
You served with more bite, more speed. The ball cracked off your strings and kissed the line. Your returns came cleaner, heavier, each one landing with purpose. Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, your body slipping into that rare, elusive rhythm where everything just worked.
The crowd roared, but it barely registered. Their cheers blurred into a distant hum, like waves crashing somewhere far away. All you could hear was the thud of the ball, the scrape of your shoes, the steady beat of your breath.
Focus. Timing. Instinct.
It all clicked.
Each point you won fed the next—momentum building, confidence blooming in your chest like something wild and overdue. The anger, the nerves, the noise—they all faded, burned away by the fire in your blood and the clarity in your mind.
And then, between points, as you turned to towel off, your eyes flicked to the stands.
Lando was still there.
Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you. No smirk. No smugness. Just focus. Just… attention.
The rally stretched on, longer than you thought your body could handle. Sweat dripped into your eyes, your muscles screamed with every lunge, every pivot, every desperate reach. Your breath came in ragged bursts, the court blurring at the edges as you chased one more shot, then another, refusing to let go.
Alexandra lunged for your return, her body fully extended, racket slicing through the air. The ball clipped the edge of her strings—then spun wide.
Out.
The stadium erupted.
For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sound hit you like a wave, crashing over your shoulders, and then your knees gave out. You dropped, the racket slipping from your hand, your fists clenched and raised as you let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.
You’d done it.
The Australian Open. The one that had always slipped through your fingers. The one that haunted your off-seasons and whispered in your dreams. You’d won the first round. And this time, it was real.
Toto was there in an instant, dropping to your level, gripping your shoulder with both hands. His eyes were bright, voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like pride. “You did it,” he said, shaking you gently. “You did it, kid!”
You laughed, still catching your breath, the weight of the last few months crashing down all at once. The pressure. The burnout. The doubt. The noise. It all spilled out in one long, shaking exhale. “We did it,” you said, voice cracking. “We actually did it.”
Toto pulled you into a quick, fierce hug. “No,” he said, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You did it. That’s all you.”
And in the middle of the chaos—the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the blur of movement—you let yourself feel it.
Not relief. Not survival.
Triumph.
Real, unfiltered, earned.
You had won the first round of the Australian Open.
You and Toto stepped into the hallway, the buzz of the crowd still echoing faintly behind you. You didn’t have to look to know he was smiling—that quiet, proud smile he only wore when words weren’t enough. The kind that said I knew you could without needing to say it at all.
And then you saw them.
Lily, Oscar, Kimi… and Lando.
Lily was the first to reach you, arms already outstretched. “You did it, Y/n!” she beamed, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
You laughed, still catching your breath, still riding the high. “Thanks, Lil. It’s—God, it’s unbelievable.”
Oscar clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and easy. “That was insane. You dominated out there.”
Kimi didn’t say much— he never did—but his smile was warm, steady. “Told you,” he said simply. “You’ve got this. Always.”
And then your eyes found Lando’s.
He stood a little apart from the others, hands in his pockets, cap still low over his brow. His expression was unreadable—no smirk, no teasing glint. Just something quieter. Something still.
“Congrats,” he said.
Just that. One word. No fanfare. No sarcasm.
And honestly, you hadn’t expected more.
But somehow, it lingered. The way he said it. The way he looked at you when he did. Like it meant something. Like he’d seen something out there—something real—and couldn’t quite put it into words.
You’d won today. That much was clear.
But maybe, just maybe, you’d also proved something.
To yourself. And to him.
“Training in one hour,” you said, glancing at Lando, Lily, and Oscar as you reached for your bag.
Toto’s voice followed, calm but edged with quiet disapproval. “You should take a break.”
You didn’t look at him. “Don’t wanna,” you muttered, brushing past, fingers already curling around your racket.
Lando raised an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Seriously? You just crushed your singles match and now you’re jumping straight into doubles?”
You turned, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Yeah. Seriously.”
He didn’t push, but the look he gave you lingered—half impressed, half questioning.
“No rest for the best,” you added, tugging your shoes on with quick, practiced movements.
Lily let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t know how to relax, do you?”
You paused for half a second, then shrugged. “Relaxing’s for people who aren’t chasing Grand Slams,” you said, tightening the laces. “I don’t have that luxury.”
No one argued with that.
────────────
An hour later, you were back on court.
The adrenaline from your win still pulsed through your veins, sharp and heady, like a second heartbeat. Your limbs buzzed with leftover energy, your mind still half caught in the echo of the crowd. Only your knee whispered its quiet protest, a dull throb you refused to acknowledge. Not now. Not in front of them.
Across the net, Oscar and Lily were already in motion—laughing, tossing balls back and forth, their movements fluid and in sync. They looked like they belonged together on and off a court—in which, they did. Like they didn’t even have to speak to know what the other was thinking.
It was annoying, honestly. How easy they made it look.
Meanwhile, you stood near the baseline with Lando, Zak, and Toto, the four of you in a loose circle that felt more like a standoff than a strategy session.
“You two need to communicate,” Toto said, his voice clipped, no room for argument.
Zak chuckled, hands on his hips. “And not argue, by the way. Just to be clear.”
He was the only one who found that funny.
Toto didn’t even blink. “Communication doesn’t mean yelling,” he added, eyes flicking between you and Lando. “Call your shots. Trust each other.”
You scoffed before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp in the quiet. Your gaze snapped to Lando, heat rising in your chest. “You think I can trust someone like him?”
Lando let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. “Wow. Starting strong, aren’t we?”
Toto pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “This,” he said, “is exactly what I mean.”
“Take example from Oscar and Lily,” Toto said, nodding toward the other side of the court.
You followed his gaze. There they were—laughing, bumping shoulders, moving like they shared the same rhythm. They looked relaxed, completely at ease, like this was just another afternoon. Like they weren’t about to run drills in the heat. Like they weren’t being watched. It was effortless. Disgustingly effortless. And, of course, they were in love. That probably helped.
“Toto, please,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “They’re dating.”
“And?” Toto shot back without missing a beat. “They communicate. They know each other’s next move before it even happens.”
You opened your mouth, but Lando beat you to it, his voice dry. “That’s because they’ve been playing together for, like, four years.”
Toto sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this entire setup. “Exactly my point. They didn’t start like this. They learned. They worked at it.”
Lando let out a quiet scoff, not even trying to hide it. “Yeah. Over four years. We’ve had—what—twenty-four hours?”
You turned toward him, heat rising in your chest. “And half of that,” you snapped, “you spent mocking my forehand.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because it was late.”
You glared at him, jaw tight. “It won the match.”
“Barely,” he said, and though his voice was even, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
Toto clapped his hands once, the sound loud and sharp. “Enough,” he said, stepping back. “On court. Both of you. Now.”
You didn’t argue. Neither did Lando.
But as you walked to your side of the net, you could feel the tension still crackling between you—sharp, stubborn, and not going anywhere anytime soon.
The first rally hadn’t even properly begun before it all fell apart.
Oscar’s serve came fast and clean, skimming just over the net. You moved to cover your side, expecting Lando to shift with you—but he didn’t. The ball flew past him, bounced once behind you, and rolled to a stop near the fence.
Lando groaned, spinning around with his arms outstretched. “Seriously?!”
You turned too, already bristling. “What was that?” he snapped, glaring.
“What was that?” you shot back. “You weren’t ready!”
He didn’t answer—just lunged for the next ball that Oscar had casually returned to keep the rally going. You stepped forward to help, swung too late, and clipped the net. The ball dropped dead at your feet.
“You’re late again!” Lando barked, breath short. “Move your ass!”
You whipped around, eyes blazing. “Excuse me? You’re the one standing there like a statue!”
He didn’t respond. Just dove for another shot, barely keeping it in play. You tried to recover, swiped at the return, and missed entirely.
From the sidelines, Toto and Zak were shouting—something about spacing, about communication—but their voices barely registered. The court had shrunk to just the two of you, locked in a rhythm of blame and frustration, every word sharper than the last.
“You’re impossible!” you shouted, voice sharp and raw as another ball zipped past you, missing your shoulder by inches.
Lando didn’t miss a beat. “You think you’re perfect?” he snapped, slamming the next ball toward your side with a little too much force, like he wanted to make a point with the sound of it hitting your half of the court.
You lunged, off balance, barely getting your racket to it. “Fuck!” you hissed as the ball clipped the strings and dropped straight into the net, limp and useless.
“Shit!” Lando barked, scrambling after the next shot, his foot catching awkwardly as he stumbled, barely staying upright.
The rally kept going, but it was a mess. Every shot felt like a fight. Every movement turned into a complaint. You weren’t playing together—you were playing around each other, like two magnets repelling on contact.
“Move your feet!” he yelled, frustration bleeding into every word.
“You’re blocking me!” you snapped, trying to sidestep him and nearly colliding instead.
“Watch the net!”
“How the hell did you miss that?!”
The ball skidded out of bounds, and you both stood there, breathing hard, glaring across the court like enemies instead of teammates. Somewhere on the sidelines, you could hear Zak groaning and Toto muttering under his breath, but it all felt distant.
The shouting had reached a boiling point—sharp, fast, and full of heat. Every word felt like it was meant to hurt. You missed two more volleys in a row, your timing completely off, your head spinning with frustration. And then you heard Lando’s voice, panicked and too late.
“I—shit—watch out!”
But you were already moving. Both of you lunged for the same ball, and the collision was loud and jarring. A solid thunk of shoulder against ribs, racket against thigh.
“Ow!” you gasped, stumbling back, clutching your shoulder as the sting bloomed deep and fast.
“Fucking hell,” Lando muttered, bent over slightly, rubbing his side with a grimace. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and angry. “What the hell was that?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away. Your chest was tight, your breath shallow, your body aching in more ways than one. And then you looked across the court.
Lily and Oscar were still playing—still laughing, still moving like they shared the same heartbeat. They bumped shoulders, exchanged a high-five, and didn’t even glance your way. The contrast was brutal. It made your stomach twist.
You threw your racket down, the sound loud and final against the court. “I can’t,” you said, voice cracking. “This is impossible.”
Lando’s head snapped up. “Impossible?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re the one yelling at everything!”
You took a step forward, anger flaring. “You think I’m the problem? You’re a—”
“—a cocky idiot?” he cut in, eyes blazing. “Yeah. I know. You’ve said it enough times.”
The words kept coming, fast and sharp, like neither of you could stop. Insults, blame, frustration—spilling out until your throat burned and your chest ached from the effort of it all. You weren’t even sure what you were fighting about anymore. The match? The pressure? Each other?
All you knew was that it hurt.
Toto stormed onto the court, arms raised like he was trying to physically push the tension back into place. “Enough!” he barked, voice cutting through the heat and noise. “Both of you!”
You and Lando froze, still breathing hard, still glaring at each other like you were seconds away from swinging your rackets at something other than tennis balls. And then, slowly, you both looked down—realizing at the same time that your grips were too tight, your stances too sharp. You weren’t holding rackets. You were holding weapons.
Toto’s voice dropped, low and firm, the kind of tone that didn’t invite argument. “Take a break. Sit down. Drink some water. And calm the hell down. Because whatever this is—it’s not doubles. It’s a screaming contest.”
You didn’t argue. Just turned and walked to the bench, legs heavy, lungs still burning. You dropped onto the seat like your body had finally remembered it was tired, water bottle clutched in your hand like it might keep you from unraveling. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts still tangled in the last ten minutes of chaos.
Across the court, Lando didn’t sit. He leaned against the fence instead, arms crossed, head tipped back like he was trying to breathe through whatever storm was still brewing inside him. He didn’t say a word. But the tension coming off him was thick enough to feel from where you sat, like heat rising off the pavement.
You and Lando had finally cooled down enough to approach Oscar and Lily, rackets in hand, the silence between you still heavy but no longer sharp. The earlier shouting had drained something from both of you, leaving behind a kind of raw quiet. Not peace, exactly—but maybe the start of it.
Lily glanced up as you approached, bouncing the ball gently on her racket. Her tone was light, but kind. “So,” she said, “watching you two out there… maybe try calling your shots before swinging. It really helps.”
Oscar nodded beside her, his expression easy but sincere. “Yeah. And trust each other. You don’t have to chase every ball alone. Let the other person take their shot.”
You nodded slowly, the words settling somewhere in your chest. It still felt tight, like your ribs hadn’t quite relaxed since the last argument. But you were listening. “Call our shots,” you repeated under your breath. “Right. And… trust. Sure.”
Lando let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “Sounds easy when you two say it.”
You glanced at him, your voice quieter now. “It’s not. Trust doesn’t just show up.”
“No,” he agreed, and for once, there was no edge in his voice. “It doesn’t.”
Lily smiled gently, stepping closer. “Exactly. It takes time. You’ll get there. Just… breathe. And listen to each other.”
While Lando nodded along to Lily and Oscar’s advice, you shifted slightly to the side, adjusting your grip on your racket. That’s when you heard it—Zak’s voice, low and curious, just behind Toto.
“Was she always like this?” he asked. “I mean… with Max?”
The words hit like a sudden gust of wind. You froze mid-step, heart thudding once, hard and loud. You didn’t turn around, didn’t move. Just listened.
Toto’s voice came a moment later, calm and even, but softer than usual. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s always been like this. Fiery. Stubborn. Unrelenting.”
There was a pause, and you could almost hear the memory in his voice when he added, “Max knew it. And honestly, that’s why he respected her. She drove everyone else crazy, but he never flinched. He always saw the good in her—even when she couldn’t see it herself.”
You swallowed, the air suddenly thicker in your lungs.
“She pushed him,” Toto went on, his gaze distant now. “Hard. He had to adapt, trust her instincts, keep up. And he did. Because he knew what she was capable of. He never doubted it. Not once.”
You shifted your weight, fingers tightening around the handle of your racket. The words settled deep, stirring something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a while. Pride, yes. A flicker of irritation, maybe. But mostly… something quieter. Something that ached.
Longing, maybe.
Or the echo of something you hadn’t quite let go of.
“Why did he bail on her though?” Zak asked, his voice low, curious in that way people get when they think you’re not listening.
But you were.
God, you were.
No. No. No. You didn’t want to hear this. You weren’t ready. But your feet stayed planted, your breath caught somewhere in your chest, and your ears strained for every word.
Toto let out a slow breath, the kind that carried weight. “She had a knee injury a few months ago,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “Max probably thought she wouldn’t be the same after that.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your stomach twisted, breath catching. You stared straight ahead, but your vision blurred at the edges.
He thought you wouldn’t be the same.
Like you were broken. Like you were less.
Toto kept talking, his tone dipping into something darker. “But I don’t know for sure,” he added, jaw tight. “You know Horner. That piece of shit probably twisted something, planted doubts in Max’s head. God knows what he told him.”
You clenched your jaw, teeth grinding together as the heat rose in your chest. Anger flared, sharp and sudden, curling around the old ache in your knee and the deeper one in your chest. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. It all tangled together, heavy and bitter and impossible to swallow.
Zak’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough resting. Back to work.”
You didn’t need to look to know he’d caught you listening. The way he said it—clipped, pointed—made it clear. But you didn’t flinch. You just exhaled, slow and steady, letting the anger and anxiety settle somewhere low in your chest.
Something shifted then. Maybe it was the leftover fire from the earlier chaos. Maybe it was the sting of hearing Max’s name spoken like a closed chapter. Or maybe it was just the simple, stubborn truth: if you didn’t figure this out—if you and Lando couldn’t find some kind of rhythm—this whole doubles thing was going to crash and burn.
“Let’s do this,” you muttered, stepping back onto the court beside him.
Lando didn’t say anything, but he followed.
The first serve came fast, skimming low over the net. You didn’t hesitate.
“Mine!” you called, loud and clear, lunging forward with purpose. Your racket met the ball with a clean, satisfying thwack, sending it deep into the corner.
“Got it!” Lando barked, shifting behind you, his stance sharp, alert. He moved like he was actually paying attention this time—like he trusted you to hold your ground.
The second volley came quicker, a blur of motion. “Backhand, yours!” you called, already pivoting to cover the other side.
“On it!” he replied, and this time, he was. He stepped in, met the ball with a clean return, and for once, you didn’t have to roll your eyes or bite back a curse.
You adjusted without thinking, sliding low to intercept a drop shot that barely cleared the net. “Switch!” you called, already pivoting.
“Yeah, yeah, I see it!” Lando shouted, his voice tight with focus as he sprinted to cover the other side.
And somehow, it worked.
The next rally came, and then another. Each one steadier than the last. The rhythm wasn’t perfect, but it was there—hidden in the chaos, waiting to be found. You started calling your shots more clearly, your voice cutting through the air with short, sharp commands.
“Net, mine!”
“Middle, yours!”
“Don’t rush, hold it!”
“Got it, don’t worry!” Lando called back, his tone clipped but not biting. Focused. Present.
Then came a tricky volley—fast, low, aimed right between you. For a split second, you both moved. But this time, there was no hesitation.
“Mine!” you shouted, stepping in.
“Good!” Lando called, grinning as he followed up, slamming the ball over the net with just the right amount of force.
You caught the return cleanly, your body moving before your brain could catch up. “Yours!” you called, already shifting to cover the next angle.
And he was there.
The small victories started to stack up. Clean hits. Fewer mistakes. A kind of coordination that hadn’t been there before. The bickering still hummed beneath the surface—old habits didn’t vanish in an hour—but it didn’t get in the way. Not this time.
Across the court, Zak had stopped pacing. He stood still, arms folded, one eyebrow raised as he muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the words, but the tone was unmistakable: surprise, maybe even a little relief.
Toto stood beside him, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You and Lando paused at the baseline, both bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath. Sweat clung to your skin, your chest rising and falling in heavy bursts, but the air between you felt different now. Less sharp. Less combative. There was still tension, sure—but it had shifted. Smoothed into something closer to rhythm. A kind of truce, maybe. Or the beginning of one.
Across the court, Lily grinned, bouncing the ball lazily on her racket. “Well, would you look at that,” she called, her voice light with amusement. “They’re actually talking to each other. Miracles really do happen.”
Oscar leaned on his racket beside her, smirking. “Yeah, I can’t decide if I’m impressed or mildly horrified.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.
For the first time all day, it didn’t feel like the court was a battlefield.
It just felt like tennis.
────────────
You hated media day. Always had, always would.
The questions never changed. Same dull rhythm, same tired faces. Who do you think will win? Who’s the better player? How much sleep did you get? You could practically mouth the answers before the reporters even opened their mouths. It was all noise—predictable, exhausting noise.
“Gosh… I really don’t wanna do this,” you muttered under your breath, dragging your feet behind Toto as he led the way down the corridor toward the press room.
“You tell me,” Toto said, not even turning around, though there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.
Up ahead, Zak and Lando were already waiting by the entrance. Zak stood with his arms crossed, scanning something on his phone. Lando leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, curls a mess, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth like he actually enjoyed this circus.
Zak looked up as you approached, his expression shifting into something sharper. “Alright,” he said, gesturing between the two of you, “don’t argue. Don’t yell. If someone asks how you’re doing, just say ‘fine.’ Got it?”
He paused, letting the silence stretch for a beat.
“They’ll be annoying,” he added, voice flat. “Be ready for that.”
You exchanged a glance with Lando. He raised an eyebrow, still smirking.
You stepped into the room behind Lando, moving quietly, like slipping into a space you didn’t really want to enter. The setup was exactly as you remembered—two long rows of tables, each seat marked with a neat little name card, everything lined up in perfect, press-friendly order.
Your eyes scanned the row, already bracing for the worst.
And then you saw it.
Two empty seats.
Side by side.
Your name on one. Lando’s name was on your left.
And on your right?
Max.
Your chest tightened, breath catching for just a second. Of course. Of course they’d put you next to him. Like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like you were still a team.
Right. Of course you were stuck in the middle.
You and Lando made your way toward the table, walking side by side, both a little too quiet, a little too stiff. Your nerves buzzed just beneath your skin, making your steps feel heavier than they should’ve.
You kept your eyes down, focused on the floor, the chairs, anything but him. God forbid you looked at Max. You didn’t want eye contact. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But somehow… it happened anyway.
A flicker of movement. A shift in your peripheral vision. And then—his eyes met yours.
“Hey,” he said, soft and casual, like it was nothing. Like the last few months hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t left.
You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. “Hey,” you said, sharp and flat, sliding into your seat without another glance.
The space between you felt like a live wire.
And the press hadn’t even started yet.
The first question came fast, before you’d even fully settled into your seat.
“Y/n, congratulations on your singles win yesterday. How are you feeling heading into the rest of the tournament?”
You straightened, smoothing your expression into something calm, composed. The cameras were already clicking. “Good,” you said, offering a polite smile. “Focused. It’s a long tournament, so I’m just taking it one match at a time.”
Another hand shot up. “You’ve won every Grand Slam except the Australian Open. Does that add extra pressure?”
You let out a slow breath, measured and even. “Pressure’s part of the job,” you said. “If I couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
A few reporters nodded. Someone murmured approval. The cameras clicked again.
Then came the question you’d been waiting for.
“And how’s the knee?”
The tone was too casual, like they were asking about the weather. You didn’t blink.
“It’s fine,” you said, voice steady. Firm.
Beside you, Lando shifted in his seat. You felt his glance, quick and quiet, but you didn’t look his way. You kept your eyes forward, your posture still.
Another voice chimed in. “Do you see yourself as the favorite this year?”
You didn’t hesitate. “I see myself as prepared,” you said. “That’s all that matters.”
The room quieted for a beat, the weight of your words settling in.
The camera shifted slightly, its lens angling just enough to frame you and Lando side by side. You didn’t need to look up to know what was coming. You could feel it in the way the room shifted, in the way the air seemed to pause for a beat.
“Lando,” a reporter began, voice smooth and practiced, like he’d been waiting for this one, “how do you feel about your partnership with Y/n? Especially considering the history you two have.”
Your shoulders tensed. You kept your eyes on the table in front of you, jaw tight. Of course they’d go there. Not the matches. Not the training. Not the actual tennis. Just the story. The drama. The past.
Beside you, Lando let out a quiet breath. You could hear the way he shifted in his seat, leaning slightly toward the mic. “I mean,” he said, with a shrug that sounded more tired than casual, “we’ve definitely had our moments.”
You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. But you held still, biting back the urge to scoff. Moments was one way to put it.
“But we’re both competitive,” he went on, and this time his voice was steadier, more grounded. “We both want to win. And at the end of the day, that matters more than whatever history people think we have.”
You didn’t look at him. But something in his tone—calm, honest, maybe even a little tired—made the knot in your chest loosen just a little.
The reporter didn’t waste a second.
“Y/n, do you agree?”
You lifted your head slowly, schooling your features into something neutral. Not cold, not warm—just steady. “We’re professionals,” you said, voice even. “We don’t have to like each other to play well together.”
The room stilled for a beat, that kind of pause reporters lived for. The kind that made every word after feel heavier.
Another voice jumped in. “And do you think this partnership can actually work?”
You felt the smallest shift beside you—Max, adjusting in his seat. You didn’t look, but you felt it. Lando, on your other side, glanced at you, just for a second. You caught it in your peripheral vision, but kept your gaze forward.
“Yes,” you said, clear and firm. “I do.”
There was no hesitation. No room for doubt.
Lando leaned forward slightly, his voice low but certain. “Same.”
You blinked.
That was… unexpected.
No smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet agreement, like he meant it.
The questions had started off simple. Predictable. You almost let yourself believe it wouldn’t be so bad.
But of course, that didn’t last.
“Max,” a reporter said, leaning forward just enough to make it feel personal. The camera clicked, the flash catching the edge of your vision. “There’s been some controversy around your sudden withdrawal from mixed doubles. Care to explain?”
Your mouth twitched. A flicker of something—disgust, maybe. Annoyance. You swallowed it down, kept your eyes forward, your hands folded neatly in your lap. But your heart had already picked up speed.
Max didn’t miss a beat.
“Singles are my priority,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. Sharp in that way he always was when he didn’t want to be questioned. “I decided to focus on myself this Grand Slam. Simple as that.”
You stared at the table in front of you, jaw tight. The words landed like a slap, even though you’d heard them before. Even though you’d lived them.
Focus on myself. Simple as that.
You clenched your fists just enough to feel your nails press into your palms. Not enough to show. Just enough to stay grounded.
Beside you, Lando shifted. You didn’t look, but you felt it—the way his body turned slightly, the way the air changed. Then came the glare. You could feel it radiating off him, sharp and unfiltered, aimed straight at Max.
Another journalist leaned forward, voice calm but loaded. “Do you regret your decision?”
Max didn’t even blink. “No. I don’t,” he said, smooth as ever. “Mixed doubles can be limiting if you’re not perfectly aligned…”
You blinked. What does that even mean?
Your stomach twisted, a slow, sour knot forming deep in your gut. The words echoed in your head, looping in that same clipped, careless tone. Limiting. Like you were a weight. Like you’d held him back. Like the months of training, the hours of work, the trust you’d built—meant nothing now. Just a footnote in his story.
Before you could even process that, another reporter jumped in, voice sharper now. “And what do you think of this new pairing? Y/l/n–Norris? Do you think they’ll do better than you and Y/n? You two were top three before—no one reaches that level easily.”
Your breath caught.
What the fuck.
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails digging into your palm. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Didn’t trust yourself to move. The heat in your chest was rising fast, too fast, and you could feel it pressing against your ribs like a warning.
Beside you, Lando’s jaw clenched. You saw it in your peripheral vision—the way his whole body tensed, the way his eyes snapped toward Max, sharp and furious.
Max just shrugged, like none of this mattered. “I think they’ll do fine,” he said, voice light, almost bored. “It’s not my problem anymore.”
And just like that, he tossed the words out like they were nothing. Like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at your feet.
Fucking idiot.
You didn’t say it out loud. But the words burned in your throat, bitter and hot.
Suddenly Lando’s head snapped to Max, sharp and unflinching. “You know what’s funny, mate?” he said, voice tight. “You didn’t just walk away. You dumped everything on me. All the pressure, all the expectations—like it was nothing. That’s for that. Really.”
Max didn’t flinch. He raised an eyebrow, his tone smooth, almost amused. “And? That’s your problem now, isn’t it?”
The words landed like a slap.
Lando’s hand hit the table with a dull thud, loud enough to make a few heads turn. He leaned forward, the smirk gone, replaced by something sharper. “No,” he said, voice low and steady. “No, that’s our problem, and you walked out like it meant nothing. You think it’s easy being stuck cleaning up your mess?”
You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to say stop. Not here. Not now. But he didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on Max, jaw tight, breathing hard.
Max didn’t blink. “I don’t see it as my mess,” he said, calm as ever. “I made the decision that was best for me. Don’t blame me for that.”
Lando let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m not blaming you, mate,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “I’m just saying… it’d be nice if you owned up to it instead of pretending it’s nothing. You shot everything at me, and now you act like you’re better off alone. Well, congrats. You’re not.”
You cleared your throat, the sound small but sharp in the heavy silence. “Hey…” you said, voice steady, even if your chest was tight. “He made his choice, alright? I get why he did it. It sucks, yeah. But it’s not the end of the world.”
You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe because someone had to. Maybe because, deep down, it still stung to hear Lando tear into Max like that—even if you had every reason to be angry too. Even if you weren’t sure you’d ever forgive him.
Lando turned to you, eyes wide with disbelief, frustration flickering just beneath the surface. “Seriously?” he said, voice low but sharp. “You’re defen—”
“Enough,” Zak snapped, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Out. Both of you.”
The word landed hard.
You didn’t argue. Just stood, slow and stiff, your chair scraping quietly against the floor. Lando rose beside you, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at his sides. The cameras clicked in a frenzy, flashes popping like fireworks as you made your way toward the door.
You could feel the weight of every stare, every whispered comment. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. You didn’t need to check your phone to know what tomorrow’s headlines would say.
Almost at the door, Lando stopped.
You turned just in time to see him spin on his heel, eyes locked on Max, voice rising above the hum of the room.
“You’re a selfish piece of shit, Max!”
The words rang out, sharp and clear, echoing off the walls and straight into every microphone in the room.
Zak and Toto exchanged a look as the door shut behind you, the noise of the press room fading into a dull hum. Both men let out quiet scoffs, the kind that said this again?
“You two are impossible,” Zak muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you even realize how that looked? Cameras everywhere. Journalists hanging on every word. Do you care what kind of mess you just made?”
“Impossible? Me?!” Lando snapped, his voice sharp as he turned toward you, finger jabbing through the air. “I just called him out! Someone had to say it!”
You crossed your arms, stepping in closer, heat rising in your chest. “Oh, please. You think yelling in front of every camera makes you some kind of hero? You’re just as ridiculous as he is.”
Lando’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “Ridiculous? Maybe. But at least I’m not sitting there pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. At least I say what I mean.”
You shook your head, the words coming out before you could stop them. “Spare me. You’re not some moral crusader, Norris. You’re just loud idiot.”
“Oh, and you’re what? Enlightened?” he shot back, voice rising. “Defending the guy who bailed on you like it was nothing? Are you stup—”
“Enough!” Zak barked, cutting him off before the sentence could land. “My head hurts just listening to you two. You’re like children.”
Toto stepped in then, his voice quieter but firmer. “Go to the hotel. Take a shower. Sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.”
No one argued.
You just turned and walked, the silence between you and Lando louder than anything either of you had said.
────────────
Sleep wouldn’t come.
You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was the press conference, still playing on a loop in your head. Maybe it was the match tomorrow, the weight of it pressing against your chest like a stone. Or maybe it was just your body—too wired, too used to adrenaline and noise and movement to understand that it was finally allowed to rest.
You lay flat on your back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like they might spell something out. The hum of the air conditioning filled the room, soft and steady, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made the silence feel louder.
Then your phone lit up on the nightstand.
The buzz was sharp in the quiet, startling in its suddenness.
You groaned, already bracing yourself. Probably Lily, checking in. Or Kimi, sending some half-asleep meme. Maybe Toto, reminding you to hydrate.
You reached for it lazily, thumb swiping across the screen.
One message.
norris u asleep?
Your eyebrows lifted.
What the hell?
You glanced at the time. 11:07 p.m.
Your thumb hovered over the screen.
For a moment, you thought about ignoring it. Pretending you hadn’t seen the message. Just going back to staring at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch on.
But instead—before you could talk yourself out of it—you typed a reply.
yn no. why?
Short. Dry. On purpose.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared. Then came back.
You watched it, heart ticking a little faster for reasons you didn’t want to name.
norris me neither was thinking maybe we should train? court one’s free
You blinked at the screen.
Of all the things he could’ve said—that wasn’t what you expected.
Not an apology. Not a joke. Not some half-hearted attempt to explain the press conference.
Just… train? At 11 p.m.
You stared at the message, thumb hovering again.
yn it’s late.
And it was. The kind of late that made your limbs feel heavy, your thoughts a little slower, your body unsure if it wanted rest or movement.
norris that’s the point. no zak. no toto. no cameras. just tennis.
You stared at the message, thumb hovering. He wasn’t wrong. You did need the practice. There was still so much to figure out—timing, rhythm, trust. The match tomorrow wasn’t going to wait for you to feel ready.
Still, something about this felt… off. Or maybe just unexpected. Lando reaching out like this. Not to argue. Not to gloat. Just to play.
You hesitated for a second longer. Then typed before you could overthink it.
yn fine. see you there in 15.
You set the phone down, heart ticking a little faster now.
What could possibly go wrong?
Plenty, if history was anything to go by.
But you were already pulling on your hoodie.
The court was washed in the harsh white of the floodlights, every corner lit too brightly, every shadow stretched long and strange across the surface. The city murmured in the distance—cars, wind, the occasional far-off siren—but here, it was mostly quiet. Just the soft thud of tennis balls echoing in the stillness.
Lando was already there, leaning on his racket like he had all the time in the world. His silhouette cut a sharp line against the light, curls messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked over as you stepped onto the court, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Wow,” he said, voice light. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
You rolled your eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Don’t be so surprised,” you said, walking toward your bag. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Right,” he said, flipping a ball into the air and catching it again, his gaze following its lazy arc. “Can’t exactly win a Grand Slam sitting on our asses, can we?”
You didn’t answer. Just bent to lace your shoes, the weight of the day still clinging to your shoulders.
Lando flicked a few switches on the ball machine, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Alright,” he said, stepping back with a grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The first ball shot out like a bullet.
You swung—and missed.
The second came even faster. Another miss.
“Oi! Watch it!” Lando shouted, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Your forehand’s still a disaster!”
You glared at him, breath already short. “Maybe if you didn’t hog the settings like a control freak, I’d have a chance!”
You swung at the next one—missed again. The frustration boiled over, and you slammed your racket down against the court with a sharp crack that echoed under the floodlights.
The machine didn’t care. It kept firing, relentless and mechanical, balls flying at you both like it had something to prove. You and Lando kept shouting over the noise, blaming each other, tossing insults mid-rally like they were part of the drill.
“You’re late on it!” he snapped, ducking a ball that whizzed past his shoulder.
“No, you’re late on your—”
CRASH.
You collided mid-swing, shoulders slamming together, rackets clattering to the ground. You stumbled back, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding from the impact and the sheer absurdity of it all.
The machine kept going, balls bouncing wildly across the court.
You both froze, glaring at each other, chests heaving, sweat dripping down your temples. The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife.
If Toto or Zak had been watching, they’d be having a full-blown meltdown.
Lando finally threw up his hands. “Alright! Break! Now!”
He sounded so much like Zak that you almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, you nodded, dragging your sleeve across your forehead as you walked off court, muttering under your breath.
The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, but not entirely uncomfortable. You sipped your water slowly, the coolness of it grounding you as your eyes traced the white lines on the court. They looked sharper under the floodlights, like they’d been drawn just for you to stare at while you questioned every decision that had led you here. The press conference. The match tomorrow. The fact that you were out here, in the middle of the night, training with someone who drove you absolutely insane.
Then Lando’s voice cut through the quiet. “Can I ask you something?”
You didn’t look at him. “No.”
It came out flat, automatic. You weren’t in the mood. Not for more questions. Not for whatever was brewing behind that tone of his.
But of course, he ignored you. That was just who he was—always pushing, always poking, always talking even when you told him not to. You rolled your eyes, already regretting showing up. And yet, despite yourself, a small laugh slipped out. Just a breath of amusement, soft and tired.
“Why do you keep defending him?” he asked.
You didn’t answer right away. You kept your eyes on the court, pretending you didn’t know exactly who he meant. “Who?”
Lando didn’t take the bait. “You know who,” he said, voice dipping lower, almost teasing. “Max. At the press conference. You jumped in like you were his lawyer.”
You sighed, the weight of it catching in your chest. Jesus. Why does he care? Why now, after all the yelling, after all the tension, after everything that had gone unsaid for weeks?
“Because he didn’t deserve what you said,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Yeah, he messed up. He made a shitty call. But that doesn’t mean you get to tear him apart in front of the world. It was unnecessary.”
Lando turned toward you, eyebrows raised like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Since when does Y/n Y/l/n empathize with anyone?”
You shot him a look, sharp and tired, but there was a flicker of something else behind it. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, despite everything. “Maybe I’m full of surprises, Norris.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, that familiar smirk creeping back onto his face. “Oh, you definitely are.”
The quiet settled again, heavier this time. Not the kind that felt peaceful, but the kind that pressed down on your chest, made the air feel thicker. You could hear the soft hum of the lights above, the distant buzz of the city beyond the fences, but between the two of you, there was nothing. Just the weight of everything unsaid.
Then Lando spoke, and his voice was different now. No teasing. No edge. Just quiet confusion. “No, seriously,” he said. “I don’t get it. Why would you defend someone who bailed on you?”
You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes—judgment, pity, curiosity. You weren’t sure which would be worse. “You’re reading into it too much, Norris,” you said, trying to keep your voice flat, dismissive. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
But something in you shifted. The way he was looking at you—soft, searching, not smug or sarcastic—made something twist in your chest. It caught you off guard. You almost felt bad for brushing him off. Almost.
What the fuck is happening to you?
You exhaled slowly, your eyes dropping to the court, to the lines you’d been staring at all night. You didn’t mean to say it. Not really. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and raw.
“It’s because I got injured.”
And there it was.
The truth, sitting between you like a stone dropped in still water. No excuses. No spin. Just the thing you hadn’t said out loud until now.
You didn’t look up to see his reaction. You weren’t sure you could.
Lando didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, racket hanging loosely at his side, the ball resting by his shoe like it had been forgotten. His face was hard to read—no smirk, no sharp comeback, just stillness. And that somehow made it worse. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting, trying to make sense of what you’d just said.
“Injured?” he asked finally, and his voice was quieter now. Not accusing. Just… unsure.
You felt your stomach twist. Of course. Even him. Even Lando Norris, who never shut up, who always had something to say—now he was looking at you like he didn’t know what to believe. Like maybe you were making it up. Like maybe you were just another excuse.
But something in your chest shifted. You didn’t want to lie. Not this time. Not about this. You didn’t want to brush it off or change the subject or pretend it didn’t matter. Because it did. It mattered more than anything.
“It happened last year,” you said, your voice soft, almost like you were telling the story to yourself. “Wimbledon. One wrong step. That’s all it took.”
You paused, swallowing hard. The memory was still sharp, still vivid—the way your foot slid, the way your knee twisted, the way everything changed in a second. You hadn’t even screamed. Just laid there, stunned, knowing something had gone very, very wrong.
“I didn’t tell anyone at first,” you went on, eyes fixed on the court. “Not the doctors. Not the federation. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. I thought I could push through it. But it didn’t get better. It got worse. And by the time I finally told Toto, it was already too late.”
You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Max knew, though. He could tell something was off. He always could.”
Lando didn’t say anything. He just stood there, still and quiet, his expression unreadable. But you could feel him listening. Really listening. And somehow, that made it harder to keep talking.
Still, the words kept coming.
“So when he left,” you said, your voice steady but worn thin at the edges, “I understood why. I didn’t like it. I hated it, actually. But I got it.”
You stared down at the court, the white lines blurring slightly under the harsh lights. The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It didn’t feel like a fight waiting to happen. It just felt… full. Like everything you hadn’t said until now was finally catching up to you.
“So yeah,” you said, softer now, “that’s why I defended him.”
You paused, the words sitting heavy in your chest.
“Because in the end…” You swallowed. “It’s kind of my fault.”
There it was. The truth, bare and quiet and a little bit ugly. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, not like that. But once it was out, you didn’t take it back. You just sat there, heart thudding, waiting to see what he’d do with it.
“That’s bullshit. It’s not your fault,” Lando said at last, his voice low but firm, like he’d been holding it in and couldn’t anymore.
You let out a soft scoff, but there was no humor in it. Just bitterness. “Sure it is,” you muttered, eyes still on the ground. “I hid it. I kept playing like nothing was wrong. If I’d just been honest—”
“Shut up, Y/n.”
The words hit you like a slap, not because they were harsh, but because of how suddenly they came. You blinked, startled, and looked up.
Lando had stepped closer, his expression tight, serious in a way you rarely saw. No smirk. No teasing glint in his eyes. Just something raw and real.
“If you’d been honest,” he said again, slower this time, “you would’ve been benched. You wouldn’t have played singles. You wouldn’t have won. You would’ve been sidelined, and you know it.”
You stared at him, heart thudding a little harder now. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because he wasn’t saying it to hurt you—he was saying it like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed you to stop blaming yourself for something that was never really yours to carry alone.
To be honest, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind was still catching up, still trying to make sense of the version of Lando standing in front of you now—calm, steady, almost gentle. It didn’t fit the version of him you’d been arguing with just hours ago. It didn’t fit the version who yelled across press rooms or snapped at you mid-rally. And yet, here he was. Saying things that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.
“Just so you know,” he said, voice low, words careful, “I won’t bail on you because of an injury. I can promise that.”
You stared at him, heart ticking a little faster. Lando Norris, making promises. Since when did he do that? Since when did he say things that made your throat tighten?
You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “What does that mean for me?”
He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you could feel the shift in the air. His eyes met yours, steady and clear. “It means I want you to promise me something,” he said. “That if it gets worse—if anything feels off—you tell me. No more pretending it’s fine. Got it?”
You blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Something warmer. You weren’t used to this version of him. You weren’t sure what to do with it. But you knew one thing—you believed him.
“Got it,” you whispered, nodding slowly.
And just like that, something shifted between you. The weight of the night, the tension, the rivalry—it didn’t disappear. But it softened. Just a little.
“Now…” Lando said, his voice lighter again, like he was trying to shift the mood, to pull you both back into something that felt more familiar. “Let’s train again, shall we?”
He held out his hand.
You were still sitting on the bench, water bottle resting loosely in your grip, legs stretched out in front of you, muscles cooling too fast in the night air. You looked at his hand for a moment, unsure. Not because you didn’t want to take it—but because something about the gesture felt different. Not performative. Not sarcastic. Just… simple. Steady. Like he meant it.
Against your better judgment, you smiled. A small one, barely there. Then a quiet laugh slipped out, soft and surprised, like it had caught you off guard. Like it had been waiting for a reason to surface.
And then—without really thinking—you reached out and placed your hand in his.
His palm was warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. Like muscle memory. Like something you hadn’t realized you missed until it was there again. His fingers curled around yours, not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to hold you steady.
Something flickered in your chest. A strange little flutter that didn’t belong here. Comfort, maybe. Or reassurance. Or something else entirely—something you didn’t have a name for. You weren’t supposed to feel it. Not with him. Not like this.
This was supposed to be a late-night training session. That’s all. Just two players trying to find their rhythm again. Just you and the guy who’d driven you insane for years, who knew exactly how to get under your skin.
babsie radio ! so here it is, my dearest child </33 this was so much fun to write!! also sorry for the possible inaccuracies, but I played tennis, like, twice in my life, and one time my friend nearly broke my nose! So if you spot any mistakes, just pretend you don’t see them! thank you! Hope y’all like it anyway and see you in part two, which will be available in few seconds <3 big thanks belongs to @lvrclerc for allowing me to take inspo from her graphic and layout in general. Without A Dent In The Ice this fic wouldn’t exist!!!
You set out to write “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” by driving someone crazy—except he was Lando Norris, F1 superstar and chaos in human form, completely immune to your schemes. Over ten days of bets, sabotage, and ridiculous antics, neither of you expected to fall in love… but Monaco had other plans.
pairing. Lando Norris x journalist! fem! reader.
warnings. rom-com, humor, 15,9k words; part one of two. fake dating, slow burn -ish, bet trope. chaotic & cringe hijinks, mentions of alcohol use, pet names (cutie, love, baby, darlin), pov switch, profanity. inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days.
soundtrack. he stayed through all that??, an official playlist
YOU’D NEVER BEEN GREAT AT SAYING THINGS OUT LOUD. Feelings, fears, awkward truths—you tended to keep those locked up tight, buried under sarcasm and a half-decent skincare routine. It was kind of your thing. Everyone had their flaws. Yours just happened to be pretending everything was fine while the ship was very much on fire.
The one thing you’d never admit—not to your friends, not to your therapist (if you had one), and definitely not to yourself—was that your journalism career was quietly, painfully, undeniably dying. You weren’t exactly winning awards or breaking stories anymore. You were mostly just refreshing your inbox and pretending that unpaid “exposure” gigs were part of some grand plan. Spoiler: they weren’t.
And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.
“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.
“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”
“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.
Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.
“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”
Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.
“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.
Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”
You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.
You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.
Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”
You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”
“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”
You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.
And also, probably, a terrible idea.
But then again, what did you have to lose?
“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.
“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”
Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”
You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.
You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.
And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.
“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.
“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”
You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.
Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”
You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.
No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.
“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”
You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.
Totally ethical. Totally fine.
Probably.
────────────
What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?
Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.
They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.
Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.
He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.
“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.
Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”
Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”
Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”
Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.
“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”
Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.
“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”
He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.
“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”
“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”
Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”
He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.
“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”
Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.
“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”
“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.
Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”
Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.
Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”
Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”
Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”
Lando choked on his drink.
Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.
He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.
Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.
But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.
Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”
He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.
Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”
Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”
Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.
He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”
Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”
Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”
“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.
There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.
Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”
Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”
He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”
He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.
“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.
Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.
You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.
Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.
And that? That was rare.
His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.
“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
And just like that, the game was on.
────────────
With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.
Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.
Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.
You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.
And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.
You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Hey.”
You looked up.
And nearly died on the spot.
Lando Norris.
Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.
Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.
The universe had officially outdone itself.
Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:
1. Famous.
2. Attractive.
3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.
Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.
“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.
Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.
No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.
“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.
You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?
Interesting.
He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”
And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.
Oh yeah. He was the one.
So it had begun.
Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.
You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.
“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.
Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?
“Lando,” he said.
Wow.
So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.
“That’s nice, Larry.”
He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”
You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”
He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.
“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.
“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.
“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.
“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.
But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?
You could work with this.
You could definitely work with this.
As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.
“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.
But then—
“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.
You froze.
Oh.
This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.
“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”
You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.
“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.
You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.
You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.
“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.
Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.
“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.
You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”
Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”
Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.
You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”
Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”
You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”
Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.
This was it. The mission had officially begun.
────────────
DAY ONE
Dinner was at six.
You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.
Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”
You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.
Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”
“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.
Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.
The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.
And then came your moment.
The first crack. The first twist.
You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.
Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.
“So… what do you do? For work?”
You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.
“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.
You blinked. Mechanic? Really?
You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”
He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”
He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.
You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?
Something didn’t add up.
But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.
Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.
“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”
Uh-oh.
You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.
So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.
“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.
You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.
You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”
His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”
You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”
You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.
But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”
You blinked.
Cute?
You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.
This was going to be harder than you thought.
“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.
Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”
You blinked.
Pottery.
Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.
“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”
He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”
You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”
His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.
But mostly? It was hilarious.
You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.
“Are you, by any chance, L—”
But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.
“Are you into F1, perhaps?”
You blinked.
Excuse you?
Where had that come from?
Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?
Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.
“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”
He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”
You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”
He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.
Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.
And you were better at it.
“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.
Miracle.
Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.
“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”
You stared at him.
He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.
“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.
“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.
You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”
Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.
And somehow… he was still into it.
You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.
“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”
Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.
You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.
“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”
You blinked.
Wait. What?
No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.
“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”
He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.
And you kind of loved it.
You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”
You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—
You felt a hand close gently around your arm.
“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”
You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.
Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.
“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”
You blinked.
Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.
Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.
But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.
“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”
He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.
“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”
You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.
────────────
DAY TWO
The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.
Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.
“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”
Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”
It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.
“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.
Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”
Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.
Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”
And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.
But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?
Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”
Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”
“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.
Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.
Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”
Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”
He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.
Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”
Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”
“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”
Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.
“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.
Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”
“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”
Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.
Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”
Lando frowned. “What face?”
“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.
Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”
Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”
Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?
Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.
You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.
Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Uh, guys? Incoming.”
Lando turned.
And there you were.
Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.
“Shit.”
Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.
“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”
“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.
Too late. You were already there.
You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.
Holy. Shit.
He brought them with him?
You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.
And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.
This was it.
The article was writing itself.
You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.
“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.
For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.
And then—somehow—Lando played along.
He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.
“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”
You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.
You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”
You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.
And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.
“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”
You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.
You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.
“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”
All three of them froze.
Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.
“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”
You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.
“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”
The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.
Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”
“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.
Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.
You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”
You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.
But instead—he laughed.
A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.
“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”
You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.
And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.
You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.
You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.
Then you glanced over your shoulder.
And froze.
A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.
And right next to them?
The Powerpuff Girls.
Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.
Of course.
Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.
You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.
You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.
“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”
He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.
“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”
You stared at him.
Right. And you were the Queen of England.
He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”
You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.
Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.
You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.
“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”
Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.
You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”
That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”
You froze.
Adorable?
Seriously?
You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.
“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”
He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”
You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.
Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.
Perfect.
Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.
────────────
DAY THREE
“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.
On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.
“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”
“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.
“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”
Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”
Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”
You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”
But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.
“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”
Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”
You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.
That was not the point.
That was exactly the opposite of the point.
“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”
Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”
“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”
Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”
You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”
Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”
You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”
Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”
You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—
“Y/n.”
You froze mid-breath.
Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.
Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.
The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.
“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.
“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.
Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:
“Y/N! COME DOWN!”
Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.
And there he was.
Lando Norris.
Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.
You stared.
He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.
You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.
“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.
“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.
Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”
You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”
She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”
You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.
“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”
And then you froze.
Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.
But no. Of course not.
Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.
“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”
You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”
He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”
You stared at him.
Well, of course you agreed.
This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.
The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.
Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.
You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.
Marriage.
Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.
You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.
“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”
You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.
He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.
But then—he grinned.
“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”
You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.
Perfect?
This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.
You stared at him, completely thrown.
This man was not playing fair.
You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.
“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”
Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”
“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”
Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”
You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”
He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—
He snorted.
The man snorted.
Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”
You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.
Two pairs?
Oh my god.
Was he… enjoying this?
This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.
You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.
You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.
“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.
He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”
Mrs. Norris.
You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.
“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”
Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.
But no.
He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”
You choked. “Warm lighting?!”
He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.
You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.
This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.
────────────
DAY FOUR
Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.
It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.
You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.
And that? That was dangerously hot.
You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.
Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”
You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.
But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.
You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”
“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.
You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.
“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”
Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”
He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”
You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.
“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”
You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.
“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.
He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”
Oh.
Oh, perfect.
A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.
The ultimate ick delivery system.
Your plan?
Back on track.
And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.
“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”
Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”
You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.
Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.
Exactly what you needed.
“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”
Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”
You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.
The old ladies gasped in unison.
A child nearby giggled, delighted.
And Lando?
Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.
“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.
Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”
Darlin’.
Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.
“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”
“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.
You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”
Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”
“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”
There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.
But Lando?
He didn’t even blink.
He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”
You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”
“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.
“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.
But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.
“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”
Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?
Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?
Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.
Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.
And your plan?
Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.
────────────
DAY FIVE
The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”
You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.
“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”
Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”
You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.
The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”
You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”
Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”
“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”
You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.
You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.
And the therapist?
She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.
Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”
You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.
“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”
The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”
You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”
Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”
You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”
“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”
Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”
“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”
Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”
“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”
The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”
Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”
“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”
The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.
Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”
The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”
You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”
Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”
“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.
The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”
You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—
But Lando beat you to it.
“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”
You froze.
Just for a second.
Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.
And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.
You didn’t know what to say.
The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.
Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.
“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”
Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”
You nearly slipped off the damn chair.
The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”
He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.
“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”
You stared at him.
Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.
The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.
“And… how long have you two been dating?”
You opened your mouth.
Lando opened his at the exact same time.
“Five days—” you said.
“Three months—” he said.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.
You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”
Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”
You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.
The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”
Beautiful?
Beautiful?!
What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?
Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.
babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol. But some short wdc drabble could be coming to your way anytime soon 💟
taglist. @haniette @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @chuusussss @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @basicchelsea @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @llama-07 @piastri-pages @l4ndo-norizz @chala-mala-bing-bong @majdoline @procrastination-queenie @clovermoters @alliesreblogs xx (if u wanna be added or removed, comment or let me know into my inbox)
happy birthday to the person for who this blog is majorly dedicated for aka lando norris <3 thank you for teaching me that it’s okay to stumble sometimes, for motivating me to grow every single day, and for reminding me that passion and kindness can go hand in hand. stay healthy, stay silly, and never stop chasing your dreams. you make the world brighter just by being you. i’m so glad to have you as my favorite driver :’) <3 proud of you always. happy 26th birthday, lan !!
You and Max had grown distant, so you agreed to a risky experiment to see if your love still was still there. But no matter the distance or the time apart, every encounter reminded you of each other. In the end, jealousy and stolen moments proved one thing: you always found your way back.
pairing. Max Verstappen x fem! reader (bonus: Charles Leclerc x fem! reader)
warnings. angst (again, ik sorry), 15,6k words, complicated relationship dynamics, unresolved feelings, love triangle elements, max being kind of idiot, profanity, pet names (cherié, schat) yearning, arguing & screaming, vulnerability, crying, second chance -ish, alcohol use, alex s.m. <3, rebecca cameo, charles is too good for reader:(.
CONSUMING.
That’s what your love with Max had become over the past few months—something that drained you more than it filled you. It was heavy in a way that made your chest ache, exhausting in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. You fought over things that didn’t matter. You sat in silence that felt colder than any argument. And even when you were together, it felt like you were both somewhere else—holding on to something that used to be beautiful, but now only reminded you of what you’d lost. You didn’t know why you were still trying. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of hope. Maybe because letting go felt harder than staying.
But it hadn’t always been like this.
When you met Max three years ago, everything felt different. He surprised you. You never thought someone like him—so sharp, so sure of himself, so closed off to the world—could be soft. But he was, with you. Not in the way people usually are. He didn’t say much. He didn’t write you long messages or plan big romantic gestures. But he showed you, in the quiet ways. In the way his hand would find yours when he was driving, thumb brushing over your knuckles like a secret. In the way he’d pull you closer in the middle of the night, even in his sleep, like he was afraid you might slip away. He didn’t say “I love you” often, but when he looked at you, you felt it. You felt it in your bones.
Back then, loving him had been easy. It had felt like breathing—something you didn’t have to think about, something that just happened, something that kept you alive.
Now, it felt like trying to remember how to breathe at all.
It started with something stupid. It always did.
You were sitting on the couch, phone in your hand, scrolling without really seeing anything. The kind of scrolling you did when your mind was tired but too restless to stop. You heard Max come in, but he didn’t say hello. Didn’t drop his keys on the counter like usual. Didn’t take off his shoes. He just walked in with this heavy energy around him—tight, sharp, the kind that made your stomach twist before he even said a word.
“You said you’d wash it,” he said, voice flat. But there was something underneath it—something clipped and cold—that made you look up right away.
You blinked, confused. “What?”
He held up a Red Bull shirt, the one that had been sitting on the chair for days. He hadn’t put it in the laundry basket. Hadn’t even mentioned it until now. But he held it like it meant something. Like it proved a point.
“You said you’d wash it,” he repeated. “It’s still dirty.”
You sighed, leaning back into the cushions, trying to stay calm. You didn’t want to fight. Not again. Not over something like this.
“I forgot, Max. It’s one shirt. You have a dozen more just like it. Why are you making this into a thing?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just tossed the shirt into the basket with more force than necessary, jaw tight, eyes hard.
“You forget a lot lately,” he said quietly. But the way he said it made it feel like more than just laundry. Like he wasn’t talking about shirts at all.
That one hit harder than you expected.
“Sorry? You could’ve just washed it yourself.” You scoffed, trying to keep your voice steady, but you weren’t about to let him win this one. Not over something so small.
Max shrugged, that careless little movement that always made your blood boil. It wasn’t just the gesture—it was what it meant. Like he didn’t care. Like none of this mattered.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, already turning away. “But you’re the one sitting around all day while I’m out there racing, making money, trying to make you happy.”
You froze. The words didn’t make sense at first. They just hung there, sharp and ugly, until they started to sting.
“Excuse me?” you said, voice low, eyes locked on him.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept staring at the floor like he hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the middle of the room.
“I’m just saying,” he mumbled. “You could at least handle one simple thing.”
You laughed, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too bitter. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even close.
“One simple thing?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Max, are you serious right now?”
His jaw clenched, but he still wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was the worst part. He knew what he’d said. He knew it hurt. But he didn’t take it back.
“You don’t get it,” he said, quieter now, but still cold. “I’m working my ass off every single day, and you can’t even—”
“Do laundry?” you cut in, your voice shaking with anger. “You’re really gonna stand there and act like I don’t do anything for you?”
He finally looked up, and for a second, you wished he hadn’t. His face wasn’t just angry—it was tired. Cold. Like he’d already given up on the conversation before it even started. And when he said, “Sometimes it feels like you don’t,” it didn’t sound like a fight. It sounded like a quiet truth he’d been carrying for too long. That hurt. More than you wanted it to. More than you were ready for.
You felt your chest tighten, your fingers curling around the edge of the cushion just to keep yourself steady. You took a slow breath, trying to calm the shaking in your hands, trying not to let the sting in your eyes turn into tears. You didn’t want to cry. Not over this. Not again.
“You think because you drive a car for a living, you’re the only one who’s exhausted?” you said, voice low but trembling. “You come home, you drop your stuff everywhere, you barely talk to me, and somehow I’m the one who doesn’t care?”
He let out a short laugh, but there was no warmth in it. Just bitterness. Just that familiar edge that made everything worse.
“You always turn things around,” he muttered, still avoiding your eyes.
That was it. That was the moment something cracked inside you. You didn’t mean to shout, but the words came fast, too full of everything you’d been holding in for weeks.
“I’m not turning anything around, Max!” you snapped, voice rising. “You’re the one who’s been distant. You barely look at me anymore. I can’t remember the last time you asked me how I was.“
“Maybe I’m tired,” he said, voice flat and distant.
You looked at him, searching his face for something—anything—that might soften the blow. “Tired of me?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence between you stretched too long, too loud. It said everything. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat louder than the last, and still he said nothing. Just rubbed a hand over his face, eyes closed, like he wanted the whole conversation to disappear. Like you were the problem he didn’t want to solve.
You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked anyway. “You know what? I don’t even know why we bother talking anymore. You don’t listen. You never do.”
He sighed, deep and tired, and the sound made your stomach twist. His frustration was written all over his face—tight jaw, furrowed brow, eyes that wouldn’t meet yours. “Because all we do is fight.”
You felt the heat rise in your chest, the sting behind your eyes. “Yeah, because you don’t even try,” you said, louder now, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You shut down the second something doesn’t go your way. You walk away, you shut me out, and then you act like I’m the one making everything hard.”
He finally looked at you, but there was no softness in his eyes. Just exhaustion. Just distance. “Maybe because I’m done being blamed for everything.”
And that was the moment you realized how far apart you’d drifted. Not just in the room, but in everything. The love, the trust, the quiet understanding you used to share—it felt like it had been replaced by walls neither of you knew how to break down.
“Oh my god, Max, this isn’t about blame—”
But he cut you off before you could finish, voice sharp and tired. “It’s always about blame with you. You want me to be the bad guy so you don’t have to feel guilty about anything.”
You stared at him, stunned. The words didn’t make sense at first. They just hung in the air, heavy and cruel, until they started to sting. You opened your mouth, trying to find something to say, something to make him see how wrong he was. But all that came out was a quiet, broken question.
“You really think that’s what I’m doing?”
He didn’t answer. Just grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the floor like he couldn’t bear to look at you. Like looking would make it harder to leave. His movements were quick, almost careless, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.
“I’m done talking,” he said, voice low and final.
You felt the tears before they fell—hot and sharp, burning behind your eyes. You tried to swallow them down, tried to stay strong, but your voice cracked anyway.
“Of course you are,” you whispered. “Because it’s easier to walk away than actually fix anything.”
He didn’t respond. Just stood there for a moment, still and silent, like he was waiting for something—maybe for you to stop him, maybe for himself to change his mind. But then he turned toward the door, and the sound of it slamming shut echoed through the apartment like a final goodbye.
And then there was nothing. Just silence. Just the ache of everything you didn’t say.
────────────
You woke up to one side of the bed cold.
It didn’t surprise you. That space had been empty more often than not lately, and you’d stopped expecting it to be warm. Max hadn’t come to bed, or if he had, it was long after you’d fallen asleep and gone again before you woke. Maybe he’d stayed out late with friends. Maybe he’d spent the night at the simulator, chasing something he couldn’t explain, something that kept pulling him further away. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter anymore. You were used to it. Used to waking up alone. Used to pretending it didn’t hurt.
You got out of bed slowly, tying your hair up with tired fingers as you walked toward the kitchen. The apartment felt quiet in a way that made your chest ache. Not peaceful—just empty. Like something important had been missing for a long time, and you’d only just started noticing how loud that silence had become.
And then you saw him.
He was already there, sitting at the table like he’d been up for hours. His hair was messy, sticking up in places like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes looked tired, dark around the edges, like sleep hadn’t found him either. He was holding a mug of coffee with both hands, fingers wrapped tight around it like he needed something to hold onto. He didn’t look up when you walked in. Didn’t say anything. Just sat there, quiet and still.
“Morning,” you said, trying to sound casual, trying not to let the desperation slip into your voice.
“Morning.” His reply was low, rough, like it hurt to speak.
You moved around the kitchen slowly, letting the sound of the kettle fill the space between you. You could feel him watching you—or maybe you just wanted him to. Maybe you were imagining it. Either way, the air felt thick. Heavy with everything you hadn’t said last night. With all the words you’d swallowed, all the things you were too tired to fight about anymore. You didn’t know how to fix it. You weren’t even sure if he wanted to.
When your coffee was ready, you sat down across from him, the mug warm between your hands. The two of you didn’t speak. You just sat there, facing each other across the table like strangers who used to know everything. The only sound in the room was the low hum of the fridge, steady and quiet, like it was trying to fill the space where your voices used to be. You stared at the steam rising from your cup, watching it curl and fade, and for a moment, you wished your thoughts could do the same—just disappear into the air.
“Are you happy?” you asked, your voice soft, almost too quiet to hear.
He blinked, like the question had caught him off guard. Like it didn’t belong in the middle of a quiet morning. “What?” he said, his brow pulling together.
You looked up at him then. Really looked. At the tired lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped, the way he held his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “Are you happy, Max?” you asked again, slower this time. “With us. With me.”
His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but nothing came out. He looked down at his mug, thumb tracing the rim over and over, like he was trying to find the right words in the shape of it. The silence stretched between you, and your heart beat louder with every second he didn’t speak.
“Why are you asking me that?” he said finally, his voice low and tired.
You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “Because I can’t tell anymore,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if we’re okay, or if we’re just pretending to be.“
He let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair, eyes tired, shoulders heavy. “I don’t know,” he said, and the way he said it made your chest tighten. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t defensive. It was quiet. Honest. Like he’d been carrying that answer for a while and didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
You frowned, unsure if you’d heard him right. “You don’t know?” you asked, even though part of you already understood. You just needed him to say it again. Needed to hear it out loud.
“I don’t know,” he repeated, voice low but steady. “Some days I am. Some days I’m not.” He gestured between you, the movement small and tired. “I don’t even know how we got here.”
You felt something twist inside you. Not anger. Not even sadness. Just that deep, aching kind of confusion that comes when something you love starts slipping away and you don’t know how to hold onto it. You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your heart beating too fast.
“We used to be good,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “I don’t know what happened to us.”
He looked at you then, and for the first time in a long time, there was something real in his eyes. Not frustration. Not distance. Just sadness. Just the quiet kind of pain that comes when you realize you’ve lost something you didn’t mean to let go of.
“I know,” he said, and his voice cracked just a little. “But it doesn’t feel good anymore, does it?”
You shook your head slowly, eyes stinging. “No.”
And that was the truth. As simple and as painful as it was. You weren’t okay. Not really. And maybe you hadn’t been for a while. But saying it out loud made it feel more real. Like maybe now, something had to change.
He stared at the table for a long time, like the words were stuck somewhere deep and he wasn’t sure if he should say them. When he finally looked up, his voice was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that didn’t feel comforting. The kind that felt like distance.
“Maybe we just need some time apart,” he said. “Space. To figure out if we even want the same thing anymore.”
Your stomach twisted. That was his answer? After everything? You searched his face, hoping to find something—doubt, guilt, hesitation. Anything that would tell you he didn’t really mean it. But he looked steady. Like he’d already made up his mind.
“Like a breakup?” you asked quietly, your voice barely holding together.
He shook his head fast, like he wanted to stop that thought before it could take root. “No. Not a breakup. Just… a break,” he said, rushing the words out like he needed you to believe them. “Six months. You do what you want. I do what I want. We both… see other people. If we get jealous, and if we still feel it after that—” he paused, his voice softening, “then we’ll know.”
You stared at him, your mind spinning. The room felt like it was tilting, like the ground beneath you wasn’t solid anymore. See other people? Was he serious? Was this his idea of fixing things—by breaking them first? You couldn’t wrap your head around it. You’d been hoping for a conversation, for honesty, for something that felt like trying. But this didn’t feel like trying. It felt like giving up.
You tried to laugh, but it came out wrong—shaky and bitter. “So, what, we’re supposed to cheat on each other? On purpose?” you said, the words tasting like something you didn’t want to say out loud.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to soften it. “Not cheat,” he said quietly, like the word itself didn’t belong between you. “Just… be honest about what we want. If it’s still each other, then we’ll come back.”
You kept staring at him, trying to find something familiar in his face. The man who used to pull you close without thinking. The man who used to laugh with you in the middle of the night, who used to reach for your hand just because. But all you saw now was someone who’d already started to let go. Someone who had one foot out the door and was trying to make it sound like a choice. Like it was fair.
“And if we don’t?” you whispered, the words catching in your throat.
He hesitated. His eyes dropped to the coffee mug between his hands, fingers tightening around it like he needed something to hold onto. For a moment, you thought he might take it back. That he’d look up and say he didn’t mean it. That he’d fight for you. But when he finally spoke, his voice was rough, barely there.
“Then maybe it wasn’t supposed to last.”
And just like that, something inside you cracked. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a quiet shift, like the moment you realize the person you love doesn’t see the same future anymore.
You sat with the idea for a moment, letting it sink in. It felt strange. Wrong. Like something that should’ve made you angry, should’ve made you walk away. But instead, it just made you tired. Tired in that deep, aching way that comes when you’ve been holding on too tightly for too long. It sounded like the beginning of the end, and maybe that’s exactly what it was. But still—you couldn’t stop yourself.
Because even now, even after all the fights and silences and nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering what went wrong, you still wanted to fix it. To fix him. To fix you. To fix the version of love you used to believe in. You loved Max. God, you still did. Even if that love had started to feel more like a bruise than a comfort. Even if it hurt more than it healed.
You looked at him across the table, your chest tight, your heart too loud in your ears. And suddenly, all the memories came rushing in—his laugh echoing through the apartment, the way his hands used to settle on your waist like they belonged there, the nights you couldn’t sleep unless he was beside you, breathing slow and steady. It all felt so close you could almost touch it. And so far it made your throat ache.
You swallowed hard, the words catching for a second before you let them go. “I’m in,” you said quietly, and you tried to sound sure. Tried to sound like you believed this was the right thing.
But deep down, you already knew. You weren’t agreeing to fix anything. You were agreeing to lose him slowly. To watch the space between you stretch wider, day by day, until it was too far to cross.
Six months.
You told yourself you could do six months. You said it like it was a promise, like it was something you could carry without breaking. Six months of space. Six months of pretending it didn’t hurt. Six months of hoping that time apart would somehow bring you back together.
You tried to believe it. You really did.
But as the seconds passed, and the silence stretched between you, a quiet thought crept in. One that made your chest ache, made your breath catch, made your heart feel too heavy to hold.
What if he doesn’t come back?
────────────
The first week barely felt real.
You’d moved back in with Alex—your best friend, your old roommate, the person who’d seen you through every version of yourself before Max. Her apartment hadn’t changed much. Same chipped mugs in the cabinet, same crooked photo frames on the wall. It should’ve felt comforting. Safe. But it didn’t. It just reminded you of everything that had changed. Of how far you’d drifted from the person you used to be.
Most of the week passed in a blur. You stayed curled up in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling or your phone screen, scrolling through nothing. You didn’t eat much. Coffee went cold on the nightstand. The world kept spinning outside the window, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move with it. You felt stuck in place, like time had paused just for you, like the break had frozen something inside you.
You thought about Max constantly. Not just the fight, not just the words—but the way he looked that morning at the kitchen table. How tired his voice had sounded. How far away he’d felt, even sitting right across from you. You wondered if he was thinking about you too. If he missed you. If he regretted anything. But you didn’t reach out. You couldn’t.
The door creaked open.
Alex walked in, barefoot and determined, her messy bun bouncing as she crossed the room. She didn’t say anything at first. Just yanked the curtains open, letting sunlight pour in like it belonged there. You squinted against it, blinking hard, the light too sharp after so many days in the dark.
“Rise and shine,” she said, her voice light but her eyes serious. “You can’t just rot here and wait for your ex to realize what he’s lost.”
You groaned, rolling onto your side and pulling the blanket over your head like it could shield you from the truth. “He’s not my ex,” you mumbled, even though the words didn’t feel solid anymore.
Alex raised a brow, arms crossed, her tone sharp but familiar. “Right. Because ‘let’s take a break for six months and maybe fall in love with someone else’ sounds like the healthiest version of commitment I’ve ever heard.”
You gave her a weak glare, too tired to argue properly. “You’re not helping,” you muttered, voice rough from days of silence.
“Good,” she said, without missing a beat. “Because helping would mean letting you stay in this bed until your hair starts sticking to the pillowcase and you forget what daylight looks like.” She marched over and yanked the blanket off you in one swift motion, letting the cold air hit your skin like a slap. “Up. Shower. We’re going out.”
You blinked, squinting against the sudden light, your body stiff from not moving much. “Out?” you echoed, the word foreign in your mouth.
“Yes, out,” she said firmly, standing her ground. “Sunlight. People. Maybe even alcohol if that’s what it takes. You’re not going to fix your heart by hiding from it. And you’re definitely not going to get answers by staring at your ceiling and hoping Max magically figures it all out.”
You didn’t respond right away. You just sat there, blanket gone, heart heavy, trying to decide if you had the energy to pretend you were okay. But Alex didn’t wait for you to decide. She was already pulling open drawers, tossing clothes onto the bed like she’d made up her mind for both of you.
And maybe that was what you needed. Someone who refused to let you disappear.
You sighed, staring at her — at the fire in her eyes, the concern tucked behind every sharp word. Alex had always been like this. Fierce. Unyielding. The kind of person who didn’t let you drown quietly. Her stubbornness had been her superpower for as long as you’d known her, and right now, it was aimed directly at you.
“Fine,” you muttered, the word heavy in your mouth. Not because you wanted to go, but because you knew she wouldn’t stop until you did.
Her smirk was instant, triumphant. She tossed a hoodie onto the bed like it was a lifeline. “Good girl,” she said, voice light but eyes still watching you closely. “You’ve got ten minutes before I drag you out in your pajamas and make you talk to strangers.”
The air outside felt strange—too bright, too sharp after days spent in the quiet dim of Alex’s apartment. The sunlight pressed against your skin like it was trying to wake something up inside you, something you weren’t sure was ready. But Monaco was beautiful, impossibly so. The kind of place that made you feel guilty for staying in bed while the world kept blooming around you.
You wore a yellow sundress, the fabric light against your skin as you walked beside Alex. She did most of the talking, her voice a steady hum that filled the silence you couldn’t quite break. You let her words wash over you, nodding when it felt right, trying to remember how to be a person again. How to exist outside of heartbreak.
“We’re meeting a few people for lunch,” she said, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “Just a small group. Don’t give me that look.”
You frowned, the expression automatic. “Alex…”
“It’s not a setup,” she said quickly, which only made you more suspicious. Her tone was too fast, too practiced. “Just some friends. You’ll like them. Promise.”
You sighed, kicking at a loose stone on the sidewalk, watching it bounce ahead of you. “I don’t really feel like talking to people.”
Alex didn’t push. She just slipped her arm through yours, her grip gentle but firm, like she was holding you together without saying it out loud.
“I know,” she said softly. “But you can’t hide forever. You’ll sit next to me, you’ll order something, and if you hate it, I’ll take you home right after dessert. Deal?”
You didn’t answer. You just nodded, because arguing with Alex took more energy than you had. The sun was warm on your shoulders, the air smelled faintly of salt and citrus, and for the first time in days, you were outside. That had to count for something.
A few blocks later, the restaurant came into view—one of those tucked-away places by the shore that Alex always gravitated toward. Cozy, sunlit, full of mismatched chairs and laughter spilling out every time someone opened the door. You could already hear the clinking of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the kind of atmosphere that made you feel like maybe the world wasn’t so heavy after all.
“Also…” Alex said, dragging the word out in a tone far too casual to be innocent. “There’s someone there I think you’ll like.”
You stopped walking, turning to look at her. Her face was all mischief, eyes bright, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile too hard.
“Alex,” you warned, your voice low. “If this is about setting me up—”
“It’s not,” she cut in quickly, hands raised in mock surrender, though the grin was already creeping in. “He’s already your friend. Kind of. You know him.”
You frowned, trying to piece it together. “What do you mean I know—”
“Charles,” she said simply, watching your reaction like she was waiting for fireworks.
You blinked. Once. Twice. The name hit harder than you expected.
“Leclerc?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
That Charles Leclerc? Max’s best friend? The one who used to crash on your couch after race weekends, who always brought wine and made you laugh when Max was too tired to talk? The one who knew your favorite coffee order and once helped you build a bookshelf when Max forgot?
Alex nodded, a small, hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah. He’s joining us. And before you start—no, this isn’t some weird trap. I invited him before you even said yes. But he asked if you’d be there, and… I didn’t think it would hurt. I told him you and Max are broken up.”
You exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the restaurant door. The laughter spilling out from inside felt distant, like it belonged to another world. “Great,” you muttered. “So now I get to have lunch with my ex’s best friend. Totally normal.”
Alex slipped her arm through yours again, her grip gentle, grounding. “He’s not taking sides,” she said softly. “Charles isn’t like that.”
“But he is Max’s best friend,” you whisper-shouted, the words sharp with disbelief.
Alex shrugged, her tone calm but firm. “Yeah, and the whole point of this break is to meet new people. Max didn’t exactly say his best friend was off-limits.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because she was right, even if it felt wrong. Charles wasn’t off-limits. He wasn’t the enemy. He’d always been… kind. Softer than Max in ways you used to tease him for. Thoughtful in ways that lingered. He listened when others didn’t. He noticed small things—like when you were cold and needed a blanket, or when you were quiet and needed space. He never pushed, never demanded. Just showed up.
When you stepped inside, you saw him right away.
Charles was already at the table, mid-laugh, his hands moving in that familiar way they always did when he got carried away. His smile was wide, eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, he looked lighter than you remembered. Happier. Like the weight you’d been carrying hadn’t touched him in the same way. And maybe that stung a little. Or maybe it was just envy—watching someone exist so easily while you were still trying to remember how.
Then his eyes lifted and met yours.
There was a flicker of surprise, quick and soft, before it melted into something warmer. That smile you knew so well. The one that had always felt safe. Something twisted in your chest, sharp and sudden, like your heart didn’t know what to do with the sight of him.
“Hey,” he said, standing to greet you, voice low and warm. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“Alex dragged me out,” you replied, forcing a small smile, trying to sound casual even though your pulse was anything but.
He chuckled, that low, easy sound that had always been his. The kind that used to fill your apartment on quiet nights, the kind that made everything feel a little less heavy.
“Good,” he said gently. “You needed it.”
You froze for half a second, caught off guard by how soft that sounded. Like he knew. Like he’d seen the cracks even from a distance and didn’t want to make you name them. It was kindness without pity, and somehow that made it harder to hold yourself together.
You slid into the seat across from him, Alex settling beside you with a grin that said she knew exactly what she was doing. The conversation flowed around you—familiar voices, laughter, stories you half remembered. You didn’t say much. Just listened. Let the noise fill the space inside you that had felt so hollow.
And every now and then, you caught Charles watching you.
Not in a way that made you shrink. Not like he was waiting for you to fall apart. But like he was checking in. Like he was making sure you were still breathing. Still here.
And maybe—for the first time in a long while—you almost felt like you were.
────────────
A few days later, Alex burst into your room like a whirlwind, holding two padel paddles above her head like she’d just won a prize. Her grin was wide, triumphant, and far too pleased with herself.
“You’re coming,” she declared, no room for argument.
You turned slowly in your chair, already exhausted by the energy she brought in with her. “Coming where?” you asked, voice flat.
“Padel,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Charles booked a court. Rebecca’s coming too, and we need a fourth.”
You blinked at her, heart skipping once at the mention of his name. “Why me?”
Alex tossed one of the paddles onto your bed with dramatic flair. “Because you owe me for dragging you out of bed the other day,” she said, already rifling through your closet. “And because you’re terrible at saying no.” She paused, her voice softening just enough to make you wary. “Also… Charles will be there.”
Yeah. Charles.
You didn’t answer right away. You just stared at the paddle lying on your bed, the weight of it suddenly heavier than it should’ve been. You thought about his smile at lunch, the way he’d looked at you like he was trying to read between the lines. You thought about how easy it had felt, sitting across from him, even with everything unraveling inside you.
You sighed, long and slow, already knowing you’d go. And sure enough, an hour later you were standing on a sun-drenched court, wearing borrowed sneakers and trying not to look completely lost. The sun was warm on your skin, the air smelled faintly of salt and sweat, and laughter echoed from the court next to yours. You squinted against the brightness, heart thudding in your chest like it hadn’t decided whether to be nervous or hopeful.
Charles was already there, tying his shoes, chatting with Rebecca, his voice low and familiar. He looked up when you arrived, and for a moment, his face lit up—not in surprise, but in something softer. Something that felt like relief.
And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind being there.
“You two are together on a team,” Alex announced, her voice laced with faux innocence as she claimed the opposite side of the court with Rebecca. You didn’t even bother responding. Of course you were paired with Charles. It couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d drawn hearts around your names.
The first few minutes were pure chaos. Balls flew in every direction, Alex missed half of them while laughing at her own mistakes, and Rebecca kept shouting that she hadn’t stretched and was “too old for this.” Charles was laughing so hard he could barely serve, his shoulders shaking, his grin wide and unguarded. His joy was effortless, the kind that filled the space around him and made it easier to breathe. And somehow, in the middle of all that noise and movement, you laughed too. The sound startled you—bright and real, like it had been buried under weeks of silence and finally found its way out.
It felt strange, letting yourself have fun. After so many days of feeling hollow, of waking up with a weight in your chest and going to sleep with the same ache, this moment felt like sunlight cracking through a window you hadn’t opened in a long time. Every time Charles smirked at your clumsy returns or teased you for missing a shot, something inside you loosened. The knot in your chest, the one that had been holding everything together just tightly enough to keep you from falling apart, began to unravel in the gentlest way.
“You call that a shot?” Charles teased after you barely managed to return the ball, his voice light, playful.
“I call it a warm-up,” you shot back, trying not to grin, but failing.
He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
Alex and Rebecca were shrieking on the other side of the net, tangled in laughter and missed swings, but for a moment, all you could hear was Charles’ laugh. Warm. Easy. Familiar in a way that made your heart ache just a little. Not because it reminded you of Max, but because it reminded you of something simpler—being seen, being safe, being allowed to exist without having to explain yourself.
By the end of the game, everyone was sweaty, breathless, and still laughing like they hadn’t in years. You flopped onto the bench beside Charles, your legs aching, your cheeks flushed, your heart strangely light. He handed you a water bottle without a word, and when your fingers brushed, you didn’t pull away.
“I carried us,” Charles said smugly, tossing his paddle into the bag with theatrical flair. His grin was wide, boyish, the kind that made it hard to stay annoyed even when he was clearly exaggerating.
You scoffed, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward despite your best effort. “You mean the smoothie Alex already promised me for keeping you from missing every shot?”
Rebecca groaned dramatically, still wiping her face with a towel. “You two sound like a married couple,” she teased, her voice light, but the words hung in the air longer than they should have.
Charles didn’t miss a beat. “If that means I win arguments, I’ll take it,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
You rolled your eyes and tossed a ball at him. It barely grazed his shoulder, but he laughed anyway—full and unguarded, the sound echoing off the court like sunlight. And something in your chest twisted, not painfully, but in that quiet, aching way that comes when you realize you’ve missed something without knowing it. Not Max’s laughter—his had always been sharp, edged with something that made you flinch. But this. This was different. Easy. Warm. Like it could hold you without asking for anything in return.
Alex slung her bag over her shoulder, already plotting something, you could tell. She glanced at Rebecca, then back at you with a look that made your stomach tighten.
“Speaking of smoothies,” she said casually, “why don’t we go grab them? There’s a stand around the corner.”
You frowned, suspicious. “All of us?”
Alex gave you a smile that was far too innocent to be real. It didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll go order first. You two catch your breath.” Then she winked—quick, sharp, unmistakable—and tugged Rebecca along before you could protest.
You watched them walk away, heart thudding a little too loud in your chest. Charles was still beside you, quiet now, stretching his legs out in front of him.
After a moment, Charles spoke, his voice low and careful, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it at all.
“You seem better.”
You blinked, caught off guard. The word felt strange, like it didn’t belong to you. “Better?” you echoed, unsure whether to believe it.
He shrugged, glancing at you sideways, his expression unreadable but gentle. “Than last week,” he said. “You laughed today. That’s something.”
Your chest tightened. The kind of tight that came with too many feelings tangled together—relief, guilt, confusion. You wanted to feel grateful for the lightness, for the way the laughter had surprised you. But part of you still clung to the idea that healing too soon meant forgetting. That enjoying this—him—meant betraying something you hadn’t finished grieving.
You shook your head slightly, trying to clear the noise. “I guess it is,” you murmured, voice barely there.
Charles leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes steady on yours. He didn’t push, didn’t crowd you. Just waited, like he always did. Like he knew silence could be its own kind of comfort.
“When Alex told me what happened…” he began, slow and hesitant, “I didn’t want to say anything. It’s not my place. But… I hope you’re not just waiting for him to come back.”
The words hit harder than you expected. A quiet pang, sharp and sudden, blooming in your chest. You looked down at your hands, twisting them in your lap like they might offer answers. Am I? you wondered. You didn’t know anymore. Everything felt blurred—your heart split between the version of love you’d lost and the warmth sitting beside you now. Max had been fire, all-consuming. Charles was something else. Something quieter.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. The words tasted bitter, like admitting them made everything more real. Like saying it out loud meant you had to feel it.
Charles didn’t flinch. He just nodded slowly, like he understood without needing you to explain. “That’s okay,” he said, voice low and steady. “You don’t have to know. Just… don’t forget there’s a world outside of him.”
You exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, soft and shaky. For the first time in weeks, something in your chest loosened. Not completely. Not enough to feel whole. But enough to breathe. “That’s hard,” you murmured. “When every part of my world used to include him.”
There was a pause, quiet and full. You looked down at your hands, then back at Charles, trying to find something light in the heaviness. “And anyway,” you added, voice tentative, “aren’t you supposed to take his side?”
Charles leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful, gentle. “He is my best friend,” he said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean I have to pretend he was right. Especially when he treated someone he loved like a piece of shit.”
The words hit harder than you expected. They settled deep, sharp and soft all at once. You swallowed, unsure what to say, unsure how to hold the weight of being seen so clearly.
Charles leaned in, elbows resting on his knees, eyes steady on yours. His voice dropped, quiet and sincere.
“Y/n… if you ever need anything, I’m here. Really. No games. No expectations. Just… me.”
You stared at him for a long moment, trying to read between the lines. Trying to figure out if he meant it, or if he was just saying what anyone would say to someone who looked like they were still learning how to breathe again. “You make it sound so easy,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could soften them. Half annoyed. Half grateful. All tangled.
Charles tilted his head, that familiar glint flickering in his eyes—teasing, but not unkind. “Easy?” he echoed, like the word itself was a joke. “Who said anything about easy? I just think… you deserve better than being made to feel like you were never enough.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. It was small, reluctant, but real. “And what, you’re the hero now?”
“Maybe,” he said, leaning back with a shrug that was all practiced nonchalance. But his eyes didn’t move. They stayed on you—steady, open, like he wasn’t afraid of what he might find there. “Or maybe I just like seeing you smile. Feels like a win either way.”
And just like that, something in your chest shifted. Not all at once. Not enough to forget. But enough to wonder what it might feel like to be looked at like that again—not as someone broken, or waiting, or lost. Just… someone worth smiling at.
────────────
You didn’t mean to see it.
You were just scrolling — half awake, half numb — the kind of mindless scrolling you did when you were trying not to feel too much. The apartment was quiet, the movie playing in the background barely registering. You and Alex sat curled on the couch, sharing a blanket, picking at lukewarm pizza, letting the silence stretch in that familiar, companionable way.
Then, between blurry memes and photos of someone’s breakfast, it appeared.
A paparazzi shot. Grainy, but clear enough.
Max.
He was smiling — really smiling — that small, crooked grin that used to be yours. The one he’d flash across the kitchen table, or into your neck when he was half-asleep and still holding on. His arm was draped around a girl you didn’t recognize. She was pretty in that effortless way that made your chest tighten. Hair tousled, eyes bright, body angled toward him like she belonged there.
They looked comfortable. Close.
Your stomach dropped before your brain could catch up. The air felt thinner. Your thumb froze on the screen.
“What the fuck,” you said, the words slipping out sharp and stunned. You weren’t sure what you felt — surprise, disgust, sadness. Maybe all of it. Maybe something worse.
Alex turned toward you, her attention snapping into focus. “What’s up?” she asked, already bracing herself.
You didn’t answer right away. You just turned your phone toward Alex, your throat tight, fingers trembling slightly around the edges of the screen.
She leaned in, squinting at the photo, and her expression shifted instantly—eyes narrowing, mouth pressing into a line. “Oh…” she said, voice careful, cautious, like she was stepping over glass. “That’s… well. That’s definitely him.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound brittle. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Alex hesitated, her gaze flicking between you and the image, unsure where to land. She had that look again—the one she wore when she didn’t know how to fix something, when words felt too small for the weight in the room. “She looks like she could be his mom,” she said finally, and it was so unexpected, so absurd, that it pulled a small, reluctant smile from you.
But it didn’t last.
You shook your head quickly, needing to cut her off before the pity could settle in. Before it could wrap around you and make everything feel heavier. “No, it’s fine,” you said, too fast, too practiced. “It’s actually—good. He said he’d do what he wanted, right? That was the deal. Six months. No rules. No questions. He’s just… doing what he wants.”
You stared at the photo again, trying to feel nothing. Trying to convince yourself that this was part of the plan. That this was what you’d agreed to. But your chest ached anyway, and the girl’s smile felt like a knife pressed gently against something tender.
Alex sat beside you, close enough that her presence felt like a buffer against the unraveling. She didn’t say anything at first—just watched you, like she could see the moment you were about to break but were still trying not to. Her voice, when it came, was gentle. Steady.
“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”
You stared at the photo one last time, letting the image blur slightly as your eyes stung. Then you locked your phone and set it face down on the couch, as if that could erase the way it had made your chest cave in.
“It’s not about being hurt,” you said finally, your voice low, frayed at the edges. “It’s about not being surprised. That’s the worst part. I knew this would happen. I just didn’t think it’d feel like this. Or happen this fast.”
Alex didn’t argue. She didn’t try to spin it into something hopeful. She just reached over, her fingers brushing yours in quiet solidarity. A touch that said I’m here, without demanding anything more.
“You’re allowed to miss him,” she said softly. “Even if he’s being an idiot.”
You nodded, swallowing hard. The lump in your throat was sharp, stubborn. You didn’t speak again—not because you didn’t have words, but because you knew they’d come out broken. And right now, silence felt safer.
Alex leaned back on the couch, her eyes glinting with mischief, the kind that always meant trouble. “Post something with Charles,” she said, casual as anything, like she was suggesting a new pizza topping.
You froze, blinking at her. “What?”
She tilted her head, grinning like she’d just cracked some secret code. “So he knows how it feels. Trust me. He’ll lose his shit.”
You laughed, though it came out uneven—half disbelief, half something else. Something sharper. “Alex… that’s cruel.”
“Not cruel,” she countered, sliding closer, her voice low and coaxing. “Strategic. Just think about it. You’ve been stuck missing him, replaying everything, while he’s out there acting like none of it mattered. Maybe he needs a little reminder.”
You stared at the floor, chewing on your lip. The idea twisted in your chest, tight and complicated. Part of you thrilled at the thought—at the possibility of Max seeing you with someone else, of him feeling even a fraction of what you’d been carrying. But another part of you recoiled, guilty for even considering it. This wasn’t who you were. And yet… he was Max. He’d notice. He always noticed.
Alex nudged your shoulder, her tone softening. “Come on. Don’t overthink it. You’re allowed to show him what he’s missing. And hey… Charles is sweet, right? Just a photo. Just smiling. Nothing dramatic. Just… proof that you’re still here.”
You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders loosening just enough to feel the difference. Alex was right. Maybe a little post wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it wasn’t about revenge or cruelty—maybe it was about reclaiming something. A flicker of control. A reminder that you were still here, still worth looking at, even if Max had stopped.
You nodded, more to yourself than to her. Alex caught it, her grin blooming with quiet satisfaction, but she didn’t say another word. She leaned back, letting you sit with the thought, letting you decide.
And then, as if the universe had been listening, your phone buzzed.
charles hey, I need a plus one for f1 event. Thought maybe you’d want to come?
You stared at the message, heart thudding against your ribs. The timing was too perfect. Too sharp. You knew exactly why you’d say yes. Max would be there—of course he would. And part of you, the part still aching and raw, wanted him to see. Wanted him to look across the room and realize you hadn’t disappeared. That you were still moving, still laughing, still not entirely his anymore.
You hesitated for only a moment. Then you typed your reply, fingers steady.
yn sure, why not?
────────────
The parking lot in front of Monaco’s casino was chaos wrapped in glitter — sleek cars weaving past each other like they were choreographed, valets darting between them with practiced urgency, and flashes from cameras lighting up the dusk like fireworks. It was always busy, but tonight felt different. Louder. Sharper. Like the whole city had dressed up just to watch itself sparkle.
You squeezed Charles’ hand a little tighter as the car rolled to a stop, your fingers curling into his like you needed something solid. “This is… intense,” you murmured, eyes scanning the crowd. F1 drivers in tailored suits, their partners in shimmering gowns, laughter and champagne and the kind of glamour that made you feel like you’d wandered into someone else’s life.
Charles chuckled beside you, that low, easy sound that always managed to settle your nerves just a little. He glanced over, his smile soft and grounding. “Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “You get used to the chaos… eventually. You and Max never came to things like this?”
You swallowed, the question catching you off guard. “Maybe when we first started dating,” you said, laughing quietly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze drifted back to the crowd, scanning faces, searching for one you weren’t sure you wanted to see.
Max would be here.
Of course he would. And the thought twisted in your stomach, sharp and complicated. Part of you wanted to see him — wanted him to see you, standing beside Charles, dressed in something that made you feel like you mattered again. But another part of you wanted to disappear into the shadows, to slip past unnoticed and pretend you didn’t care. That you hadn’t spent the last few weeks unraveling every time his name came up.
The lights of the casino shimmered against the polished stone, casting golden reflections that danced across the pavement. Music drifted from inside, low and elegant, weaving through the laughter and camera flashes that lit up the entrance like a stage. The scent of expensive perfume clung to the air, mingling with cologne and champagne and the quiet hum of anticipation. Everyone looked like they belonged — polished, poised, perfectly placed in the glittering chaos.
Charles leaned in slightly, his shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him steady and grounding. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low and calm. “Let’s just enjoy tonight.”
You nodded, but the motion felt mechanical. Your stomach flipped, nerves tightening like a coil. The thought of Max was a quiet roar in the back of your mind — constant, insistent. You didn’t know what you were bracing for. Anger? Longing? Indifference? Maybe something worse. Maybe nothing at all.
You’d spent weeks building walls, stitching together control from the scraps of your own unraveling. But tonight felt like a test. One glance, one word, one look from him could undo everything. Could remind you of what you’d lost, or worse — what he’d already let go of.
And somewhere, deep down, that terrified you.
The doors of the casino parted with a hush, spilling warm, golden light across the red carpet like a welcome too grand to feel real. Inside, the hum of chatter and laughter wrapped around you, champagne glasses clinking, heels tapping against marble, the scent of perfume and polished wealth hanging thick in the air. You followed Charles in, letting the crowd pull you forward, your steps steady but your heart anything but.
And then you saw him.
Max.
He stood across the room, surrounded by familiar faces, laughing in that easy, arrogant way that used to make you feel like the center of his universe. That laugh had once been yours—shared across pillows, echoed in kitchens, whispered into your neck when the world felt too heavy. Now it belonged to the room. To them. To someone else.
He hadn’t seen you yet. And for a moment, you froze, caught in the quiet violence of recognition. You didn’t know whether to look away or keep watching. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, his suit sharp and perfectly tailored, every movement effortless, like he hadn’t missed a step since you last saw him. Like nothing had shifted.
A flicker of something twisted in your stomach—jealousy, longing, anger, maybe all of it tangled together. You’d told yourself you were here for you. For Charles. To move forward. But seeing Max like that, untouched and radiant, reminded you just how much of your world he had once held in his hands. And how easily he’d let it go.
Charles’ hand brushed yours, a quiet tether pulling you back to the present. His touch was steady, grounding, the kind that didn’t ask for anything but offered everything.
“You okay?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours.
You nodded, though your throat felt tight. “Yeah… just… surprised.”
Charles gave you a small, understanding smile, the kind that didn’t push, didn’t pry. “I get it. But remember—you’re here with me. Don’t worry.”
For a few steps, you walked beside Charles, trying to anchor yourself in the rhythm of his presence—the quiet steadiness of him, the way his hand fit so easily in yours. But your eyes kept drifting. Drawn back, again and again, to the figure across the room.
And then Max looked up.
The moment his gaze met yours, something shifted. His smile faltered—just for a second—but it was enough. A flicker of recognition passed between you, sharp and immediate. And beneath it, something else. Something quieter. A flash of jealousy, maybe. Or regret. Whatever it was, it landed in your chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything you’d tried to keep calm.
You held his gaze longer than you meant to, trying to keep your expression neutral, unreadable. But your heart was pounding, and you hated how easily this one glance could undo you. How much power he still held, even now.
Charles’ hand tightened gently around yours, a silent tether pulling you back to the present. To him. To now. His warmth was steady, real, and kind in a way that didn’t ask for anything but offered everything.
“You okay, chérie?” he asked, his voice low, careful.
You nodded, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah… I just—need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
You slipped your hand from his, already turning away before he could ask more. You needed a moment. Just one. To breathe.
You ducked into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you like a sigh. The party had been too much—too loud, too bright, too full of faces you didn’t want to read. Seeing Max again had thrown your chest into chaos, the kind that made it hard to breathe without feeling like you were unraveling. You leaned against the sink, trying to steady yourself, trying to remember why you’d come.
But before you could exhale, the door burst open.
You spun around, startled, your hand flying to push it closed again. “What—Max!?” you gasped, stumbling back a step.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. He stepped inside like he belonged there, like the rules didn’t apply to him, and leaned against the wall with that same quiet arrogance you used to find magnetic. His arms crossed, his eyes locked on yours, intense and unreadable.
“We need to talk,” he said, voice low, firm, like he hadn’t just shattered the boundary you were trying to build.
You blinked at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the air thick between you. “We… we don’t need to talk,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You straightened your spine, trying to hold onto the version of yourself that didn’t bend just because he walked into the room.
“You’re with him,” Max said, his voice edged and tight, but beneath the sharpness was something else—something quieter, more familiar. Concern. The kind that always made your chest tighten, even when you didn’t want it to.
You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Guess I am,” you said, letting the words land with just enough bite. “And you’re with her.” You didn’t say her name. You didn’t need to. The image from the photo was still burned into your mind—her hand on his chest, his smile easy and unbothered. You were almost surprised she wasn’t here tonight, draped on his arm like a trophy.
Max blinked, and for a split second, something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe. Or guilt. It passed too quickly to catch. “Right,” he said, too casually, like he was trying to play it off. Like he didn’t know exactly what you meant.
You raised an eyebrow, your stomach twisting. “Right?” you echoed, the word sharp, laced with everything you hadn’t said. “You don’t even remember her? Or are you just pretending not to?”
He hesitated, jaw clenched, and you caught the faintest twitch in his eye—barely there, but enough to betray him. “I remember,” he said finally, voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself. “I just… didn’t think it mattered.”
The words landed like a blow, sharp and disorienting. You felt something twist in your chest—part relief that he hadn’t forgotten, part fury that he thought forgetting might’ve been better. That he’d weighed the memory and decided it was disposable.
Of course it mattered.
It mattered more than he would ever understand. More than he’d ever let himself admit.
Max’s eyes darkened, his voice sharp but trembling beneath the surface. “Y/n… we’re still basically together. This deal—it doesn’t change that. I didn’t make it easy, but it was supposed to give us space. Not erase us completely.”
You let out a dry, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “Erase us?” you repeated, shaking your head slowly. “Max, this was your idea. You said six months. You said we should see other people, figure ourselves out. And now you’re standing here, looking at me like I’ve done something wrong?”
He flinched, jaw tightening, eyes flicking away for a second before snapping back. “That’s not what I said—”
“No?” you cut in, stepping closer, your voice low but edged with heat. “Because that’s exactly what it sounds like. You told me to move on. You told me to try it with someone else. And now that I might be doing it, you can’t stand it. What the fuck?!”
The silence between you was thick, pulsing with everything unsaid. You could see it in his eyes—the conflict, the regret, the possessiveness he hadn’t earned the right to feel. And still, it lingered. Still, it hurt.
You crossed your arms, trying to steady the tremble in your breath. “There are still five months left, Max. Five.” Your voice was quiet, but the words carried weight. “What if I actually go through with this? What if, when those months are over, I tell you I don’t love you anymore?”
His expression faltered—just for a heartbeat. A flicker of something cracked through the surface: fear, maybe, or regret. But then he looked down, jaw tight, and when he spoke, his voice was flat. Controlled.
“Then I guess that’s what you’ll tell me.”
The words hit harder than you expected. You hated how calm he sounded. How easily he said it, like he hadn’t once held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Like he hadn’t whispered promises into your skin, or looked at you like you were his future.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to match his detachment. “Right. Guess we’ll see.”
The silence that followed stretched long and heavy. Outside, the muffled sounds of the party bled through the walls—laughter, music, life moving on. But in here, everything felt suspended. Like the air had thickened. Like the space between you had shrunk and expanded all at once.
You stepped past him, your shoulder brushing his as you reached for the door. You didn’t look back.
“Five months,” you murmured, voice steady now. “Don’t forget—this was your idea.”
You didn’t see the way his eyes followed you, or the way his hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you. Like he wanted to say something that might matter. But he didn’t. And you didn’t wait.
────────────
The sun was sinking low, spilling gold across the horizon like it was trying to hold on just a little longer. The last of the light caught the waves as they curled against the shore, soft and rhythmic, like the world was exhaling. You and Charles had spent the day surrounded by friends—laughter echoing across the sand, teasing traded like currency, photos snapped in golden light that made everything look easier than it felt.
When the group began to drift apart, one by one, Charles had turned to you with a quiet offer—dinner, just the two of you. And you couldn’t say no. The sea air was too gentle, the evening too still to go home and lie awake, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about everything you hadn’t said.
The restaurant he chose was small, tucked into the curve of the coastline like it had always been there. It smelled like salt and lemon and something warm simmering in garlic. You sat outside, the ocean stretching behind him in endless blue, the breeze lifting strands of your hair as the sky deepened into dusk.
“This place is beautiful,” you said, your voice soft, eyes scanning the view like you were trying to memorize it.
Charles looked up from his menu, smiling over the edge. “It’s one of my favorites,” he said. “I come here when I need to think.”
“Think about what?” you asked, your chin resting in your hand, the question more curious than prying.
He shrugged, the motion easy, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Races. Life. Things I should’ve said. Things I shouldn’t have.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You know how it is.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you—shared weight, shared ache. You nodded, a small sound in your throat.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I know.”
The waiter appeared with practiced ease, and before you could open your mouth, Charles was already ordering for both of you. He glanced at you with a grin, eyes dancing.
“Trust me,” he said, confident and light. “I know what you want better than you do.”
You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching, but didn’t argue. There was something about the way he said it—so sure, so effortless—that made it easy to let go. To lean into the moment. He had that kind of presence, the kind that made you forget, just for a little while, the storm Max could stir in you with a single glance.
When the food arrived, the scent wrapped around you like a promise—garlic, lemon, something rich and slow-cooked. Charles leaned back in his chair, the sea breeze tousling his hair, a playful glint in his eye.
“Okay, seriously,” he said, gesturing toward your plate. “You have to try this. I swear it’ll change your life. Or at least your evening.”
You laughed, picking up your fork, the sound lighter than it had been in days. “You always say that,” you teased, “and I always end up judging you for it later.”
“Only because you secretly love it,” he shot back, smug and sweet.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Maybe,” you said, voice softening. “Maybe I do.”
The conversation drifted like the tide—easy, unhurried, full of warmth. From favorite travel spots to absurd childhood stories, from inside jokes about mutual friends to playful debates over who could survive the strongest espresso. Charles was present in that rare way that made you feel seen without being studied. He made you laugh, genuinely, and even when he teased you—like when he insisted you were overthinking the simplest things—it felt soft. Safe. Like he knew exactly how far to go without ever crossing the line.
And yet, beneath the laughter, beneath the glow of the evening and the salt-laced breeze, something in your chest still tightened. Max lingered in the corners of your mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore. His intensity, the way he could unravel you with a glance, a word, a silence—it hovered like a shadow, quiet but persistent. You pushed it down, tried to stay here, in this moment, with Charles. In the calm.
Charles reached across the table, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your breath catch. His eyes held yours, steady and sincere.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “It’s nice to see you… happy.”
You looked down at your hands, blinking against the sudden sting behind your eyes. You didn’t want to name what you felt—it was too layered, too fragile. But you nodded, voice barely above a whisper.
“I am,” you said.
And even as the words left your mouth, you felt the tug of something deeper. A storm you’d spent months trying to tame. A love that hadn’t unraveled cleanly. But tonight, you let yourself stay in the quiet. In the warmth. In the flicker of peace that made everything else blur at the edges—just for a little while.
The waiter placed the check gently on the table, and before you could reach for it, Charles slid it away with a shake of his head.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said, smiling. “I’ve got this.”
You hesitated, fingers curling slightly against the edge of your napkin. A flicker of disbelief passed through you—soft, familiar. “You always do this,” you said quietly, the words laced with something you couldn’t quite name.
Charles shrugged, easy and unbothered. “Always?” he teased, eyes warm. “I insist. It’s part of being… polite.”
You laughed, a quiet sound that barely rose above the hush of the waves nearby. But beneath it, something sharper twisted in your chest. A thought you couldn’t shake. What would Max do?
You could see it clearly—Max scanning the receipt, making a show of insisting, maybe tossing out a smug comment about how you always ordered the most expensive thing. It would be playful, but edged. A challenge. That was Max. He didn’t just pay the bill—he made it a moment. A performance. A way to remind you that he was always one step ahead, always holding the reins.
Charles, by contrast, simply leaned back, content. No games. No pressure. Just the quiet act of care, offered without expectation. And as much as it soothed you, it also made your chest tighten. Because Max didn’t do comfort. Not anymore. He did storms. And Charles… Charles made you feel safe.
You took a slow breath, trying to push the thought aside, trying to stay here, in the softness of the evening. “Thank you,” you murmured, brushing your fingers over the table’s edge.
Charles gave you that small, steady smile again. “Don’t thank me. Just enjoy tonight. That’s all I want.”
You nodded, letting yourself sink into the moment—the breeze lifting your hair, the lights flickering along the water, the sound of waves folding into the shore. But somewhere deep down, Max lingered. A whisper in the back of your mind.
───────── FIVE MONTHS LATER
You swore you’d seen Alex no more than five minutes ago. Her laugh had echoed somewhere near the bar, her hand tugging yours toward another round, another distraction. And now… somehow, here you were—slumped on the curb outside the club, heels crooked, head heavy, the night spinning around you like a carousel you couldn’t step off. You barely remembered how you’d gotten here. Just flashes: the music too loud, the drinks too sweet, the ache in your chest too familiar.
You’d told yourself it was just a night out. Just a little release after five long months of trying to be okay. Things with Charles had been good—steady, kind, uncomplicated. But no matter how perfect he was, you still found yourself measuring every quiet moment against the storm Max used to bring. You still missed him. Not always loudly. Sometimes just in the way your hand reached for your phone without thinking.
You remembered the first drink. Then the second. Then the third. By the fifth, the edges of the world had melted, and you weren’t sure where you ended and the noise began. Your fingers hovered over your screen now, scrolling through your contacts like they were lifelines. And maybe they were.
You knew you’d regret this. Tomorrow, or maybe even in ten minutes. But tonight, the ache was louder than your pride. And in the end… weren’t you still his? Weren’t you still tangled in whatever this was, whatever it had refused to stop being?
Your thumb pressed call before your brain could catch up. The alcohol made the decision feel brave. Or reckless. Maybe both.
“Y/n?” His voice came through sharp, alert—then softened, like he’d heard the tremble in your breath before you even spoke.
“I… I can’t… I just…” The words spilled out, messy and slurred, half-laughing, half-crying. “I can’t do this. I need… I need you.”
There was a pause. Not long. Just enough for the shift to happen. His tone dropped, calm but commanding—the voice that used to steady you when everything else spun out.
“Where are you?”
You hiccuped, pressing your palm to your face, trying to hold yourself together. “Jimmy’z… Jimmy’z club. Can you… maybe come? Please?”
You didn’t hear the way he exhaled, didn’t see the way he was already moving. But you knew. You always knew.
The slam of his car door cut through the haze like a lifeline. You didn’t even have time to stand before Max was there—his long strides closing the distance in seconds, eyes sharp and scanning, taking in your disheveled state with a precision that made your chest tighten. And then, just as quickly, something in him softened. Not pity. Not judgment. Just that quiet, familiar concern that used to make you feel like the world could stop spinning if he was near.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice low, more observation than reprimand. He crouched beside you, one hand brushing your elbow, steadying you with a touch so light it made your breath catch. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this mess.”
You nodded, barely. The words stuck in your throat, tangled somewhere between shame and relief. Before you could protest, before you could remind him about Charles, about the deal, about everything you weren’t supposed to want anymore—he lifted you. Arms around your back, legs cradled in his, the kind of gesture that used to mean home. And despite every instinct screaming that this was a mistake, part of you melted into the certainty of him. The way he didn’t hesitate. The way he still came when you called.
Inside his—your—apartment, the air felt too quiet. Familiar in a way that made your heart ache. He guided you to the bed, careful with your limbs, like you were something fragile. Something still his.
“Water,” he said, pressing a glass into your hands. “Drink it slowly.”
You did, fingers trembling slightly around the rim. Your head lolled back against the cushions, the room spinning just enough to make you close your eyes. And then he was there again, crouched in front of you, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache—and ache to stop.
“You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep this up,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, the gesture so careful it felt like a memory. His touch was hesitant, almost reverent—like he was afraid you might dissolve if he pressed too hard. Like he wasn’t sure if he still had the right.
You let out a weak laugh, more breath than sound. It slipped out before you could catch it, brittle and tired. “You say that like you still care,” you mumbled, the words tumbling from your lips without permission.
His gaze flickered, a crack splitting through the calm he wore like armor. “You think I don’t?” he asked, voice low, barely there, like the truth might shatter if spoken too loudly.
You stared at him, searching his face for something solid. Something real. Something that told you you hadn’t imagined it all—the way he used to look at you like you were gravity, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. The silence between you stretched, delicate and dangerous, like a thread pulled too tight.
“Do you…” your voice trembled, barely holding together, “do you ever miss me?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, eyes dropping to the space between you, as if the question had cracked something open. When he looked back up, his expression was raw—stripped of everything he usually hid behind.
“Every day,” he said finally, and the words came out like they hurt. “Even when I try not to.”
And there it was. The truth. Quiet and devastating. The kind that didn’t fix anything, but still made your heart ache in a way that felt like remembering.
Your throat tightened, the words pressing against it like they were trying to claw their way out. You wanted to tell him. That you missed him too. Every version of him—the quiet mornings tangled in sheets, the late-night arguments that always ended with his hand reaching for yours, the way he used to look at you like you were the only thing that made sense. But you didn’t. You just nodded, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes, swallowing everything you couldn’t say.
“I shouldn’t have called,” you whispered, voice barely holding together.
Max shook his head slowly, his gaze steady, unwavering. “No,” he said, quiet but firm. “You should’ve.” His voice softened, that familiar edge of tenderness curling around the words like a memory. “You needed someone.” He paused, eyes never leaving yours. “And I’ll always come when it’s you.”
Max leaned in, slow and careful, his hand hovering near yours like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you anymore. His eyes searched yours, quiet and intense, like he was trying to read every thought you hadn’t said aloud. “Do you… miss me?” he asked, softer this time, like the answer might undo him.
You swallowed, your chest tightening around the truth. “Yeah… I do.”
He exhaled, the sound barely audible, but you saw the way his shoulders eased, the faint smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I thought you might,” he said, teasing just enough to soften the moment, but not enough to hide the relief.
And then, almost without thinking, you added, “But… I probably shouldn’t.” Your voice was quiet, hesitant. “Charles is the exact opposite. Calm, easy… maybe that’s why.”
Max paused, his gaze dropping for a moment before finding yours again. “The exact opposite?” he echoed, like he was trying to understand what that meant. What it meant about him.
You looked away, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, the silence stretching between you. “It’s not that I don’t care about him,” you said slowly. “It’s just… he’s steady. Predictable. You… you’re complicated. Hard to handle sometimes.”
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head, but there was no bitterness in it. Just something tired. Something honest. “Yeah… I know. I’ve always been… too much, I guess.” His voice dropped, quieter now. “But I’m trying, Y/n. I’m trying to be better. To be someone who’s worth it. Worth you.”
────────────
You woke with a headache that felt like punishment—sharp, pulsing, unforgiving. The light bleeding through the curtains was too bright, the sheets too warm, too familiar. You blinked once. Twice. The room came into focus slowly, like a cruel trick.
And then you saw it.
The bedroom. His bedroom.
Once yours, too.
Fuck.
Your gaze slid to the other side of the bed, heart thudding. There he was—Max. Still half-asleep, hair tousled, one arm sprawled across the pillow where you’d just been lying. His breathing was slow, steady, like nothing had changed. Like this was still normal.
Fuck.
Your stomach twisted violently. Did you—? No. No, you couldn’t have. You were still dressed. You remembered the water, the blanket, the way he’d crouched beside you like he didn’t know how to stop caring. But guilt surged anyway, cold and suffocating.
Charles.
You needed to see Charles. You needed to leave.
You scrambled out of bed too fast, the floor tilting beneath you. In your rush, your toe slammed into the corner of the nightstand.
“Fuck!” you hissed, grabbing your foot, pain shooting up your leg like punishment layered on punishment.
From the bed, Max stirred, his voice rough with sleep. “What the hell are you doing, schat?” he mumbled, accent thick, words lazy. He cracked one eye open, watching you fumble for your clothes with a kind of quiet amusement. “Come back to bed.”
His tone was soft, almost teasing—but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter. Something that made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t want to name. Like he already knew you wouldn’t. Like he was asking anyway.
You rubbed your hands over your face, the panic rising fast and sharp. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing, Max. I shouldn’t have called you. I shouldn’t even be here.” The words came out tangled, half-guilt, half-confession, and all of it too late.
His voice stayed quiet, but there was an edge beneath it—something brittle, something bruised. “Yeah, well… you did.” He paused, eyes flicking toward you. “Guess that means something.”
You looked up, catching the tiredness in his eyes, the faint bitterness threading through his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He let out a dry laugh, short and sharp. “It means it’s been, what—five and a half months? And you still call me when everything falls apart.” His gaze held yours, steady, unflinching. “The deal’s almost over, Y/n. Maybe that’s the problem. It never really was a break for us. You never really left.”
Your heart thudded painfully, the truth landing harder than you expected. “Max…”
He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless, like the words were too heavy to hold still. “You want honesty?” he said, voice low. “I tried. I really did. I went out, met people, smiled when I didn’t mean it. But every time, I looked for you in them. The way you talk. The way you laugh. The way you make everything feel like it matters.” He stopped, jaw tightening, eyes dropping to the floor. “It’s pathetic, I know.”
But it wasn’t. Not to you. Not when your chest ached with the same kind of longing. Not when you still hadn’t figured out how to stop calling him when the world felt too heavy.
The panic clawed up your throat, sharp and familiar, the kind that always came when things got too close to breaking open. “Don’t do this,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Max stood from the bed slowly, his eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in something quieter. Something wounded. “Harder for who?” he asked, voice low but edged. “You? Because you’re the one pretending you don’t care when you clearly do. You’re the one who runs the second it starts to feel real.”
You flinched, the words landing too close to the truth. “That’s not fair,” you snapped, standing now, the distance between you shrinking. “You’re the one who wanted the deal, Max. You told me to find someone else. To see someone else. So don’t stand there and act like I’m the one who broke something that was already falling apart.”
He stared at you, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep something inside. The silence stretched, heavy and raw, until he finally spoke.
“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet, bitter around the edges. “Guess that’s what I get for thinking six months apart would fix what I broke.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The silence between you felt thick, like fog pressing in from all sides—dense with everything you hadn’t said, everything you should’ve said months ago but never found the words for. It hung in the air, fragile and suffocating, like one wrong breath might shatter it all.
You thought about Charles. His steadiness. The way he looked at you like love was simple, like you were easy to choose. You thought about how different it felt now—this room, this ache, this pull toward Max that refused to loosen its grip. No matter how far you’d tried to run, it always found you.
So you did the only thing you could. You reached for your jacket, fingers trembling as you slipped it on, the motion slow and clumsy. You didn’t look at him—not at his messy hair, not at the way his chest rose and fell like he was holding something back. You couldn’t. Not without unraveling.
“Y/n,” Max said quietly, voice rough around the edges. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. Like he’d run out of ways to ask you to stay.
You froze, just for a moment. Then turned slightly, your gaze fixed on the floor, your voice barely more than a breath.
“I don’t know what I want, Max,” you said, the words cracking as they left you. “I’m sorry.”
────────────
Two weeks passed—slow, heavy, uneven.
You tried to pretend life was moving forward. You went to dinners with friends, let Alex talk circles around you about how good Charles was for you—how steady, how kind, how easy he made everything seem. You nodded, smiled when you were supposed to. You spent quiet mornings in his apartment, coffee warming your hands, sunlight spilling across the floor like something out of a dream you weren’t sure you belonged in. It was calm. Maybe too calm. Charles never asked about Max. He never pushed. He gave you space like it was a gift, and it should’ve made you feel safe. It should’ve made you feel grateful.
But some nights, when the world went still and the silence pressed in, you found yourself drifting. Back to Max. Back to the sound of his laugh echoing in your chest, the weight of his hand on your thigh while he drove, the way his voice softened when he called you schat like it meant something only the two of you understood. You told yourself it was just habit. That it would fade. That it had to.
But it didn’t.
The ache stayed. Quiet, constant. Like a bruise you kept pressing just to see if it still hurt.
You tried to love Charles the way he deserved. You tried to give him the pieces of yourself that Max had left behind—fractured, worn, still sharp around the edges. But it was like trying to fill an ocean with a teaspoon. He could make you laugh, yes. He could hold your hand and make the world feel still. But he couldn’t quiet the storm inside you. He couldn’t reach the part of you that still turned toward the door, half-expecting Max to walk through it.
And maybe that was the worst part. Knowing that even in peace, you still missed the chaos.
The apartment smelled like roasted garlic and fresh bread—the kind of scent that wrapped around you like a blanket, that made a place feel lived-in, warm, safe. Charles moved through the kitchen with that familiar ease, humming under his breath as he plated the pasta he’d made, the soft clink of cutlery and the low hum of music filling the space like a lullaby. It was the kind of evening that should’ve felt perfect.
You sat at the table, wine glass in hand, swirling the deep red liquid without ever bringing it to your lips. Your fingers tapped absently against the rim, your gaze drifting—not really seeing the flicker of candlelight or the way the shadows danced across the walls.
“Y/n, you’re quiet,” Charles said gently, glancing up from the plates. His smile was small, curious, open. “Something on your mind?”
You took a breath, deep and shaky, your chest tightening like it was bracing for impact. Every instinct told you to lie. To let the night stay soft and simple. To keep pretending. But you couldn’t. Not anymore. Not when the weight of it had started to bleed into everything—every silence, every kiss, every morning you woke up wondering why the ache hadn’t gone away.
“Charles…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need to tell you something.” You paused, eyes fixed on the table, on the way your fingers trembled slightly around the stem of your glass. “I’ve been thinking. A lot. About us. About me.”
His fork stilled mid-air. He looked at you then—really looked. And there was no anger in his eyes. No fear. Just patience. Just kindness. Just the quiet knowing of someone who had seen this coming and loved you anyway.
“Okay,” he said softly, steady as ever. “I’m listening.”
You pressed your lips together, the lump in your throat rising fast, thick with everything you didn’t want to say but couldn’t keep inside. “I… I can’t do this. Not with you,” you said, the words spilling out before you could second-guess them. “You’re incredible. Kind. Patient. Everything someone else would be lucky to have. But… I still love Max.”
Charles blinked once, slowly, then set his fork down with deliberate care. His gaze didn’t harden. It didn’t flinch. It just softened, like he’d already known, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up to the truth he’d quietly carried for weeks. He leaned back slightly, his shoulders easing, the silence between you stretching wide but not cruel.
He exhaled, long and slow, the kind of breath that sounded like surrender. When he looked at you, there was no anger. No bitterness. Just quiet understanding, the kind that made your chest ache even more.
“I know,” he said gently. “I could tell. I just hoped… maybe time would change it.” He offered a small, bittersweet smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I think you already know where you belong.”
You blinked hard, tears threatening to spill, guilt burning hot in your chest. “You don’t deserve this,” you whispered, voice cracking. “You don’t deserve me choosing someone else.”
He reached out, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles—a touch so gentle it felt like goodbye. Then he pulled his hand back, slow, deliberate, like he knew holding on would only make it harder.
“You’re not choosing someone else,” Charles said quietly, his voice steady, kind. “You’re just choosing what your heart already did.”
And that broke you.
You stood too fast, the chair scraping against the floor with a sharp sound that made you flinch. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely able to hold your voice together, the words trembling as they left you.
He nodded once, eyes never leaving yours. “Go,” he said, soft but certain. “Before it’s too late.”
You didn’t wait.
You ran—through the winding streets of Monaco, past shuttered cafés and glowing storefronts, your breath coming in sharp bursts, your chest aching with every step. Max. His name echoed in your head like a drumbeat, relentless. Every corner you turned, you half expected to see him there, leaning against a lamppost, waiting. The city blurred around you, lights smearing into gold and silver, your lungs burning, but you didn’t stop.
By the time you reached his building, your legs felt like water, your heart like thunder. You barely remembered how you got there—just the pull, the need, the certainty that you had to. Your hands trembled as you reached for the door, fingers fumbling with the handle, breath caught somewhere between panic and hope.
And there he was—slouched on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, eyes fixed on the muted flicker of a race replay playing on the TV. The apartment was dim, shadows stretching long across the floor, and he looked exhausted. Hollow. Like sleep hadn’t found him in days. But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, his head snapped up.
His eyes widened—first with disbelief, then something quieter. Something fragile. Hope. “Y/n?” he said, voice barely more than a breath, like saying your name might break the spell. Like he wasn’t sure you were real.
You swallowed hard, breath catching in your chest. “Max— I… I’m here.” The words trembled out of you, raw and unsteady, full of everything you hadn’t said for months. “So maybe… if you still feel it—like I do—we can try again.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The air felt suspended, like the world itself had paused to listen.
Then he stood, slow and uncertain, like one wrong step might send you running again. “You mean that?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he didn’t dare believe it.
You nodded, chest rising and falling too fast, too hard. “I never stopped feeling it. Not for a second. I tried—” your voice cracked, “—God, I tried to forget, but I couldn’t. You’re still in everything, Max. In every place, in every song, in every breath. I’m tired of pretending you’re not.”
He crossed the room in two strides, then paused—his hands hovering near your waist, unsure, reverent. And then, finally, he touched you. Lightly. Grounding. Like he needed to feel you to believe you were really there.
“I tried too,” he whispered, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I tried to be better. To be okay without you. But it’s like—” he stopped, voice breaking, “—it’s like my world doesn’t make sense when you’re not in it.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask again. Just looked at you like he was memorizing the shape of this moment—your flushed cheeks, your trembling breath, the way your eyes held his like they’d never stopped searching.
And then, slowly, he leaned in.
His hands stayed gentle on your waist, grounding you, steadying you. His forehead brushed yours, and for a second, you just breathed together—two people trying to find the courage to stop pretending. Then his lips found yours, tentative at first, like he was asking permission.
You kissed him back.
Soft. Certain. Like coming home after too long in the cold. His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he deepened the kiss, and everything else fell away—the months apart, the guilt, the ache. All of it dissolved in the quiet press of mouths and the way your body leaned into his like it had never forgotten how.
babs radio ! happy halloween !! my monthly appearance has come 😇 again with angst and love triangle… I promise next time it’ll be something HAPPY. also i kinda hate this cuz i think i’m going through mild writers block + it’s badly proof read so please forgive me.. ALSO I STARTED USING CANVA FOR GRAPHICS (what do we think?)
taglist. @haniette @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @chuusussss @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @basicchelsea @keepyoureyesonmeboy @filmleclerc @taetae-armyyyyy xx (if u wanna be added or removed, comment or let me know into my inbox)
Your life had always been random. One moment you were working at Starbucks, the next you were PR-managing Kimi Antonelli. Not that you were complaining—the real trouble came in the form of two papaya boys in opposite garage. Oscar Piastri, your teen-year ex, and Lando Norris, your failed talking stage. One word: chaos.
pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader x Oscar Piastri.
warnings. love triangle, comedy, 13,7k words, dual pov (landoscar & reader) slight angst, profanity, pet names (sweetheart), alcohol use, awkward moments, reader’s job and kimi are sidelines tbh, george russell being diva, all three are kind of idios, jealousy, arguing, title from tate mcrae’s exes.
IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A PRETTY AVERAGE MEDIA DAY—endless interviews, the same recycled questions asked in slightly different ways, over and over again. The kind of day that made drivers zone out halfway through their own answers. Which was exactly why Oscar had slipped behind the McLaren garage, letting Lando take his turn in front of the cameras while he sought a moment of quiet.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely, eyes drifting across the paddock without much focus. The usual chaos unfolded around him—team personnel rushing past, journalists setting up tripods, the hum of engines in the distance. It was all familiar. All routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until you.
You walked past like you belonged there. Confident. Effortless. Laughing at something Kimi said, your hand brushing his arm like it was second nature. You didn’t even glance in Oscar’s direction, didn’t hesitate or falter. Just kept walking, like nothing had ever happened. Like you hadn’t once been the girl he kissed behind a garage when he was seventeen.
For a moment, he genuinely wondered if he was hallucinating. Maybe the heat was getting to him. Maybe he hadn’t slept enough. Because there was no way you were real—not like this. Not after all that time. And definitely not with another driver by your side.
Oscar spun on his heel, desperate to vanish into the garage before his brain could catch up with what his eyes had just seen. But fate, as always, had a twisted sense of humor. Instead of escape, he collided straight into Lando—shoulder first, sharp and jarring.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate,” Lando said, laughing without a clue, his voice light and teasing.
Oscar’s chest tightened. Ghost wasn’t far off. Because how else was he supposed to explain the sight of you—walking through the paddock beside Kimi Antonelli like you’d always belonged there? You, the girl he hadn’t thought about in years. Except he had. More than he cared to admit. In flashes. In fragments. In moments he’d shoved aside and buried deep, hoping they’d stay gone.
“Worse,” he muttered, arching a brow as his gaze flicked back toward you, unable to help himself.
Lando followed the look, still clueless. “What, a vampire?” he joked, grinning like this was just another throwaway moment.
Oscar’s jaw clenched, lips twitching with something bitter and reluctant. “Closer to a witch,” he said, the word catching in his throat like it didn’t want to be spoken. Because that was what you did best—appeared out of nowhere, turned the world on its head, and left him spellbound before he even realized he’d fallen under again.
Lando squinted at Oscar, clearly confused. “What’s going on? Like, literally? Are you high?” he asked, half-laughing, half-concerned, like he couldn’t decide whether to tease or intervene.
Oscar groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit, but he tried anyway—tilting his head toward the crowd, eyes locked on a very specific pair walking through the paddock. “You see that girl over there? With Antonelli?” he muttered, voice low, like saying it too loud might make it more real.
Lando followed his gaze, casual at first—until his eyes landed on you. Then he froze.
“Y/n?!” he blurted, loud and unfiltered, the name slicing through the noise around them like a mic drop. A few heads turned. Oscar’s stomach dropped.
Oscar whipped around, eyes wide. “You know her?!” he hissed, voice sharp with disbelief, like Lando had just confessed to knowing a ghost. Because that’s what you felt like—something from a past life, suddenly walking through the present like you owned it.
Lando’s outburst earned a few curious glances from passing journalists, their heads turning just enough to make Oscar panic. Without thinking, he grabbed Lando’s arm and yanked him a step deeper into the shadow of the garage, away from prying eyes and open ears.
“Keep your voice down, idiot,” Oscar hissed, his tone sharp and low. His pulse was still hammering in his chest, the image of you—so calm, so composed, so present—still burning behind his eyes. You hadn’t even looked his way. Hadn’t flinched. And somehow, that made it worse.
Lando shook him off, brows furrowed, still staring in your direction like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” he asked, voice quieter now but no less stunned.
Oscar scoffed, the disbelief bubbling up in his throat. “Because I didn’t know she was here,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes. “How do you even know her?!”
Lando blinked, and for the first time all day, his trademark smirk faltered. His posture shifted—just slightly—but enough for Oscar to notice. “Uh… let’s just say we had a… thing,” he said, voice lighter than it should’ve been, like he was trying to toss the words away before they could land.
Oscar’s head snapped toward him, disbelief flaring in his chest. “A thing?!” he echoed, sharp and incredulous, like the word itself offended him.
Lando shrugged, aiming for casual, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “We talked for a while. It didn’t, y’know… work out.” He said it like it was nothing, but Oscar could hear the hesitation tucked between the syllables. It hadn’t been nothing. Not to Lando. And definitely not to Oscar.
Oscar stared at him, deadpan. His mind was already spiraling—images of you and Lando, laughing, texting, maybe even kissing—flashing through his head like static. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, voice low and tight.
Lando tilted his head, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion, but there was something sharper behind it now. “Wait. Why do you care so much?” he asked, tone shifting. “Don’t tell me—”
Oscar didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, and the silence between them stretched just long enough to say everything he wouldn’t.
And that was all it took.
Lando’s grin returned, slow and smug, curling at the edges like smoke. “Oh my god,” he said, practically glowing with mischief. “You dated her, didn’t you?”
Oscar didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Because yeah. He had.
Oscar groaned, dragging both hands through his hair like he could physically shake the memory loose. “Yeah, but I was like seventeen,” he snapped, voice sharp with defensiveness. “It was forever ago.”
Lando burst out laughing, loud and unfiltered, earning a few glances from the crew nearby. “That’s even worse!” he cackled. “You’ve been pining since high school?”
“I’m not pining,” Oscar shot back, but the heat rising in his cheeks betrayed him. He hated how easily Lando could read him—how quickly he’d zeroed in on the one thing Oscar hadn’t even admitted to himself.
“Sure, mate,” Lando said, still grinning as he clapped Oscar on the back like they were sharing a joke. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.”
Oscar turned, eyes narrowing, the humor draining from his face. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said, voice low and cold. The look he gave Lando wasn’t playful—it was a warning.
────────────
It was the most cliché thing they could’ve done—two drivers, hiding from media chaos, sipping coffee like teenage girls dissecting drama. But honestly, it was the most interesting part of an otherwise mind-numbing media day.
Lando dropped into the seat across from Oscar in McLaren’s hospitality, still grinning like he’d just uncovered a secret worth framing. Oscar didn’t look up. His head was in his hands, elbows on the table, eyes locked on the swirl of his untouched coffee like it held answers he didn’t want.
“So remind me again,” Lando said, voice light, teasing, and far too amused for Oscar’s liking. “How do you know her?”
Oscar let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like the question physically pained him. “You’re really asking me this?”
“Obviously,” Lando replied, sing-song and smug. “Enlighten me, mate. Because clearly I wasn’t the only one with a… thing.”
Oscar finally looked up, eyes tired and sharp all at once. He didn’t say anything right away, but the silence was loud enough. Lando leaned back, satisfied. He was enjoying this far more than he should.
“We were seventeen,” Oscar said, shrugging like it was nothing more than a footnote in his life. “Drama, hormones… you know how it is.” He waved a hand dismissively, trying to make it sound stupid, like it hadn’t mattered. “It was decades ago.”
Lando raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You sound like you’re ancient. You’re twenty-four, Osc. You’re not that old.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Come on—I wanna know everything.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but the way he exhaled said he was already giving in. He sat up straighter, like he was preparing a speech he hadn’t rehearsed in years. “Okay, so—” he began, voice reluctant but steady. “We met at summer camp. One of those classic annoyances-to-lovers things. She hated me at first. Thought I was arrogant. I probably was.” He paused, lips twitching at the memory. “But I thought she was out of my league. Still do, honestly. Somehow, though… I pulled her.”
Lando didn’t interrupt, just watched him with that smug little smile that said he was enjoying this way too much.
Oscar kept going, the words coming easier now. “We dated for a year. It was good. Really good. But then I turned eighteen, and everything with racing started to get serious. I was traveling constantly, barely had time to sleep, let alone be a decent boyfriend.” He looked down at his coffee, fingers curling around the cup. “So we broke up. No big fight. No drama. Just… timing.”
He leaned back, forcing a shrug. “That’s it. That’s the story.”
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the whole truth. Because if it had really been that simple, you wouldn’t still be the first person who came to mind when someone said what if.
Lando’s smile faltered, the mischief draining from his face as Oscar spoke. He hadn’t expected it to be that deep—hadn’t expected the story to carry weight. But as he listened, something clicked. The details, the rhythm, the way Oscar’s voice dipped at certain parts… it was all too familiar. Uncomfortably familiar.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, eyes still sharp despite the vulnerability he’d just laid bare. “And what about you?” he asked, voice low but pointed.
Lando leaned back in his chair, suddenly unsure of himself. He scratched the back of his neck, the bravado slipping. “Well… I met her at a Starbucks she worked at,” he said slowly, like he was piecing it together in real time. “Late 2022, I think? I was grabbing coffee before a flight, and she was behind the counter. Somehow we ended up swapping Instagrams and…” He trailed off, flustered, the memory catching him off guard.
“It was fun,” he continued after a beat, voice warming with nostalgia. “We went on a few dates, travelled a bit, hooked up…We never made it official, though.” He glanced at Oscar, who was now staring at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “Sorry, mate,” Lando added quickly, the awkwardness creeping in.
“But then… things started to fade,” he said, quieter now. “We talked less and less. Sometimes I ignored her, sometimes she ignored me. I like to tell myself it was timing—she was studying, I was racing. Life got in the way.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, but it didn’t quite land.
Oscar froze mid-sip, the coffee forgotten in his hands. His eyes locked onto Lando, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy. Charged.
It was so fucking similar.
Too similar.
“We drifted away,” Lando finished, shrugging like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb between them.
Oscar leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on his coffee like it had suddenly become the most complicated thing in the world. His fingers curled around the cup, unmoving, as the weight of Lando’s words settled over him like fog. “Wait. Wait…” he said slowly, voice thick with disbelief. “You’re telling me… you two—” He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of it. “You broke up for the same reason?”
Lando blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in Oscar’s voice. “Well… yeah? Kind of?” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Timing, life, studies, racing… same thing, right?” He gave a nervous laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and ran a hand through his hair like he could shake off the awkwardness.
Oscar’s jaw dropped, his mind racing to catch up. “You’re kidding me,” he muttered, eyes wide. “That’s… unreal.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, staring at Lando like he was seeing him for the first time. “We’re literally mirror images of each other, mate. Same girl, same story, same dumb reason.”
It was absurd. Cosmic, almost. Two teammates, bonded by a shared past they hadn’t even known existed. Both of them had held you once. Both of them had let you go. And now, here you were—back in the paddock, walking beside someone else, while they sat across from each other trying to piece together the ghost of you.
What in the whole universe.
This wasn’t just coincidence.
It was something else entirely.
────────────
You were already running late, the kind of late that made your chest tight and your thoughts scatter. You’d barely had time to brush your hair, let alone double-check your bag, and now you were half-convinced you’d forgotten something important—your phone, your badge, your sanity. Kimi was probably already waiting outside the hotel, arms crossed, foot tapping, silently judging your lack of punctuality.
You sped down the hallway, rummaging through your bag with one hand, trying to fish out your phone while mentally rehearsing excuses. Your steps were quick, uneven, distracted—until you slammed straight into someone. Hard.
A shoulder. A chest. A voice.
“Damn, be careful,” the voice said, familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
You froze mid-step, heart dropping.
No.
No fucking way.
You looked up, and there he was. Lando. Motherfucking Norris. Standing there like he hadn’t just derailed your morning with a single syllable. His expression was half amused, half smug, like he’d been waiting for this moment and couldn’t believe his luck.
“Not you again,” you muttered, adjusting your bag and rolling your eyes. “Complicating my life already?” You raised an eyebrow, daring him to argue, daring him to pretend this wasn’t exactly what he did best.
And of course, he smirked.
Because of course he did.
Because Lando Norris never missed a chance to stir the pot—especially when you were the one holding the spoon.
“Not you again,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you adjusted the strap of your bag. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, too loud, too Lando. “Seriously? Complicating my life again?” You raised an eyebrow, voice sharp enough to cut through the awkwardness, daring him to deny it.
Lando smirked, the kind of grin that had gotten him out of trouble more times than it should have. “Me?” he echoed, placing a hand over his heart in mock innocence. “Complicating lives? Never, sweetheart.” His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something behind it—something that lingered in the way he looked at you.
He leaned back slightly, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes scanning you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he’d forgotten the pieces to. “So… where are you off to?” he asked, casual on the surface, but the curiosity in his voice was unmistakable. Like he wasn’t just asking about your destination—he was asking about your life.
You tilted your head, unimpressed. “To work,” you said, deadpan. No embellishment. No explanation. Just the truth, delivered with the kind of tone that made it clear you weren’t here to entertain small talk.
Lando’s smirk widened, the kind that made you want to roll your eyes and shove him into a wall—maybe both. “Work, huh?” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “That’s your excuse for sprinting through hotel hallways like a maniac?”
You crossed your arms, planting your feet like you weren’t about to let him derail your morning. “I am busy,” you said, sharp and unapologetic. “Not that you’d understand, Norris.” You raised an eyebrow, letting the challenge hang in the air between you.
He laughed, shaking his head, curls bouncing slightly with the movement. “Oh, I understand perfectly,” he said, eyes glinting with something far too smug. “You’re impossible. And somehow… ridiculously distracting.”
You rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. You hated how easily he got under your skin—how quickly he turned irritation into something warmer. “Distracting?” you echoed, voice dry. “You? Please. That title’s taken.”
He leaned in just a little, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of his cologne—something expensive and annoyingly good. His voice dropped, low and teasing. “By me? Or… someone else?”
You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “Maybe both,” you said finally, lips curling into a smirk. “Keep guessing.”
He laughed, clearly enjoying himself, eyes never leaving yours. “I like a challenge,” he said, voice warm and playful. “Makes things more… interesting.”
And you hated that he was right.
Because with Lando, things were always interesting.
You shifted your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was standing and how the hallway felt too narrow, too warm, too complicated. The moment had stretched just a little too long, and you could feel the unease crawling up your spine.
“Anyway,” you said, clearing your throat and forcing a casual tone, “I need to go. Work’s waiting.” You threw him an ironic smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and adjusted your bag like it was armor.
Lando tilted his head, watching you with that familiar glint of mischief. “We should talk later,” he called after you, voice soft but insistent. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”
You didn’t slow down. Didn’t turn around. Just rolled your eyes and tossed the words over your shoulder like they were nothing. “Yeah, yeah. Keep dreaming.”
And with that, you disappeared around the corner—leaving him standing there, still smiling, still wondering if maybe you didn’t mean no as much as you wanted to.
Outside the hotel, Kimi was already waiting, leaning casually against the car with his hands tucked into his pockets. The early morning light caught the edge of his sunglasses, and he looked up as you approached, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“What took you so long?” he asked, voice light, no trace of irritation. Just Kimi being Kimi—unbothered, patient, and somehow always five steps ahead.
You exhaled, adjusting your bag and brushing a stray hair from your face. “Lando Norris’ annoying ass,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Ran into him in the hallway. Of course.”
Kimi chuckled, opening the car door for you like it was second nature. “Figures,” he said, amused. “You always attract chaos.”
────────────
After all the chaos Kimi had stirred up during media sessions—none of which you could really blame him for, considering how good he was at throwing subtle grenades—you were just grateful to have something, anything, to keep your mind occupied. Distraction was your best defense. Because the last thing you needed was Lando Norris occupying even a millimeter of mental real estate.
So naturally, the universe decided to be cruel.
You walked into Mercedes hospitality, hoping for food, peace, and maybe five minutes of silence. Instead, you got him. Lando bloody Norris. Sitting at a table with George Russell like he owned the place. A McLaren driver in Mercedes territory. What the actual fuck.
You blinked, half-convinced this was some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Maybe you hadn’t slept enough. Maybe you were finally losing it.
“Y/n!” George’s voice cut through your spiral, cheerful and oblivious. He grinned as he stood, eyebrows raised. “You look like you’re about to murder someone.”
You plastered on a smile so sweet it could rot teeth. “Well,” you said, voice syrupy and sharp, “you never know.”
Your eyes flicked to Lando, who was already watching you with that insufferable smirk—like he’d been waiting for you to walk in, like he knew you’d react exactly like this. You turned back to George with a sigh, refusing to give Lando the satisfaction of direct attention. “Why are you wasting your time talking to this dumbass?” you asked, gesturing vaguely in Lando’s direction as if he were background noise.
Lando gasped, hand to his chest in mock offense. “Dumbass? That’s rude. Even for you.”
You didn’t miss a beat. “And yet,” you said, eyes narrowing, “accurate.”
George leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking between you and Lando like he’d just stumbled into the most chaotic soap opera of his life. His grin widened with every second, clearly enjoying the show unraveling in front of him. “Wow,” he said slowly, dragging out the word like it was dessert. “This is… interesting. Should I grab popcorn, or just sit here and let the drama unfold?”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. Your eyes locked onto Lando, narrowing with precision. He had that look again—smug, infuriating, like he was perfectly aware of the effect he had on you and was choosing to weaponize it. You hated that look. Mostly because it worked.
“You act like I was the one who ghosted you,” he said, voice lazy and smooth, leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t a conversation that had been waiting to happen for months.
Your jaw dropped, disbelief flashing across your face. “Excuse me?” you snapped, leaning forward slightly. “You were the one who suddenly decided racing was more important than replying to texts. I was left on read for days.”
He scoffed, arms crossing as he tilted his head. “You stopped replying first,” he said, like it was a fact carved in stone.
You blinked, stunned. “No,” you said, voice sharp. “You stopped replying first.”
George raised his hands in surrender, laughter bubbling out of him as he leaned back in his chair. “Oh my god,” he said, grinning like he’d just been handed front-row seats to the best drama in the paddock. “You two sound like year nine kids fighting over who left the group chat first.”
You shot him a glare, sharp enough to make him raise his eyebrows, but you didn’t waste words on him. Your attention snapped back to Lando, the heat rising in your chest now spilling into your voice. “Unbelievable,” you said, each syllable laced with frustration. “You still can’t take responsibility for anything, can you?”
Lando didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, that infuriating glint in his eyes only growing bolder. “And you still love being dramatic,” he said, voice smooth, like he knew exactly how to push every button you had.
That was it.
You exhaled sharply, the kind of breath that felt like it had been held for months. Then, without another word, you spun on your heel and walked away, fast and deliberate, before he could throw another jab or flash another smile that made your pulse skip.
Behind you, George’s voice drifted through the air, amused and unbothered. “Well, that went well.”
And then, softer, smug, almost conspiratorial: “I think she still likes you, mate.”
You didn’t turn around.
But if Lando smiled at that, you didn’t want to know.
You shoved through the doors of Mercedes hospitality, muttering curses under your breath like they might somehow undo the last five minutes of your life. Of course Lando had to get under your skin—like always. It was practically his sport. That smug grin, the way he leaned into every word like it was a game, the way he knew exactly how to twist a conversation until it stuck in your head for hours. You hated it. You hated that it still worked. And you hated even more than he seemed to know it.
“Hey.”
You nearly jumped, heart skipping as Oscar appeared out of nowhere, water bottle in hand, brows furrowed with concern. His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to read a weather report—storm incoming. “What happened?” he asked, voice low but alert. “You look like you’re ready to strangle someone.”
You let out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless. “Take a wild guess.”
Oscar’s jaw tightened instantly, no hesitation. “Lando.”
You rolled your eyes, tossing him a look that said obviously. “Congratulations, Sherlock. You cracked the case.”
He fell into step beside you as you walked down the paddock, his silence heavy with questions. You could feel him glancing at you, waiting for more, not quite willing to let it go. “What did he say?” he asked finally, voice careful.
You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “Not important,” you said, clipped and dismissive. You didn’t want to relive it. Not now. Not with Oscar. Especially not with Oscar.
But then he stopped walking, right there in the middle of the paddock, and you stopped too—without thinking, without meaning to. Instinct, maybe. Or something deeper. Something that hadn’t quite faded, no matter how much time had passed.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said, voice quieter now. There was something in his tone that made your chest tighten. Something that didn’t feel like small talk. Something that felt like a door creaking open.
You crossed your arms, posture stiff, voice clipped. “This better be good, Piastri. I was in the middle of—”
“—of letting Lando flirt with you?” he cut in, the words sharp and sudden, slicing through your sentence like a blade.
You blinked, stunned by the interruption. The tone. The nerve. “Excuse me?” you said, voice rising slightly, eyes narrowing as you tried to process what you’d just heard.
Oscar ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the strands like he was trying to ground himself. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and for once, the calm, collected version of him seemed to be slipping. “Look…” he said, voice lower now, but no less intense. “I just don’t think you should waste your time with him. Again.”
You tilted your head, studying him. The shift in his demeanor wasn’t subtle. “Oh really?” you said, eyebrow raised, voice laced with challenge. “And why’s that?”
There was a beat of silence. Just the hum of the paddock around you, the distant buzz of engines and chatter. But between you and Oscar, everything felt still. Heavy. His eyes didn’t leave yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just this—just you and him and everything neither of you had said.
Oscar hesitated, eyes darting briefly around the paddock like he expected someone to be watching, listening, judging. His usual calm exterior was cracking—his jaw clenched tight, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “Because… he’s—he’s not good for you,” he said, voice low and uneven. “He’s reckless, unreliable… you know that.”
You let a slow smirk tug at your lips, stepping just a little closer, enough to make him shift his weight. “Oh, I know,” you said, tone laced with playful venom. “Sounds familiar. Kind of like someone else I knew… back when I was seventeen.” The words were casual, tossed out like a joke, but the edge behind them was sharp and deliberate.
His jaw tightened further, and for a moment, you saw it—the flicker of guilt, the same one he used to wear like a second skin whenever you called him out. It was still there, buried beneath the years and the silence. “That—look, that was different,” he said quickly, trying to sound firm, trying to hold his ground. But you could hear it. The hesitation. The crack in his voice.
You tilted your head, savoring the moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “Different?” you echoed, voice soft but cutting. “Oh, I remember. You weren’t ready to deal with me. Too busy stressing about school, racing… everything except actually, you know, dating me.” You let the memory settle between you like smoke—visible, lingering, impossible to ignore.
Oscar groaned, rubbing the back of his neck like the motion alone could erase the heat crawling up his skin. His gaze dropped for a moment, and you could see the flicker of embarrassment in the way his shoulders tensed. “Okay, fine,” he muttered, voice rough around the edges. “That was seventeen. I was… stupid. Naïve. Immature. Take your pick.”
You didn’t let him off the hook. Not even close. You stepped in, just a little closer, enough to make the air between you shift. Your smirk curled at the edges, daring him to keep going, to say what you both knew was sitting just beneath the surface. “And now?” you asked, voice low, teasing, but edged with something sharper. “What’s your excuse now?”
He swallowed hard, eyes flicking away like the truth was too heavy to hold your gaze. “I’m… older,” he said slowly, the words dragging out like they cost him something. “Wiser. And I still don’t want him near you.” His voice was quiet, but it carried—weighted with emotion he wasn’t used to showing. Not to you. Not anymore.
You laughed softly, the sound light but laced with something bitter. You shook your head, letting the moment stretch, letting him feel the sting of your amusement. “Classic Oscar,” you said, the smirk never leaving your lips. “Jealous, broody… some things never change.”
────────────
You felt bad—unbelievably bad, which was saying something. The way you’d snapped at Oscar kept replaying in your head like a scene you couldn’t edit, each word sharper than it had felt in the moment. Sure, he’d been awkwardly jealous, fumbling through emotions he clearly didn’t know how to express, but your sarcasm had landed like a punch. And guilt wasn’t something you liked carrying. Especially not when it came to him.
Because Oscar… Oscar had been the one who loved you. Not loudly, not dramatically, but in that quiet, steady way that had once made you feel safe. He’d been your calm in the storm, the one who never tried to tame you but always knew how to anchor you. You weren’t supposed to be on bad terms with him. Not like this. Lando was chaos, but Oscar used to be home.
So you did what any girl would do when the guilt got too loud and the silence between you felt too heavy.
You pulled out your phone, stared at the screen for a moment, then typed:
yn Hey, sorry about earlier. Dinner? My treat.
Short. Simple. No overthinking.
But enough.
You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.
And then you waited—heart annoyingly loud in your chest.
The reply came almost instantly, your screen lighting up before you even had the chance to lock it.
Oscar See you at the restaurant in front of the hotel in 10.
You stared at the message, lips twitching into a smile you didn’t mean to have. Of course. Typical Oscar. No hesitation, no dramatics, no endless back-and-forth. Just a decision made and a plan set in motion. Straightforward. Steady. The way he’d always been.
Ten minutes. That wasn’t much time. Not enough to talk yourself out of it. Not enough to rehearse excuses or remind yourself why this was probably a terrible idea. Why reopening old doors never ended well. Why dinner with someone who still made your heart twist in inconvenient ways was asking for trouble.
And maybe that was exactly why you found yourself slipping on your shoes, grabbing your bag, and heading out the door anyway.
Because some part of you—buried beneath the sarcasm and the bruised pride—wanted to see him.
Wanted to know if anything had really changed.
The restaurant wasn’t anything extravagant—just the cozy little spot across from the hotel, tucked between a florist and a bakery, where half the paddock seemed to escape when they’d had enough of hospitality buffets and sponsor obligations. It smelled faintly of garlic and warm bread, and the lighting was soft enough to make everything feel a little less exposed. Still, when you stepped inside and spotted Oscar already seated at a table near the window, your stomach flipped like you’d walked into something far more complicated than dinner.
He was sitting with his phone in hand, posture stiff, shoulders squared like he’d been rehearsing lines in his head. There was a tension in the way he held himself—like he wasn’t sure if this was a conversation or a confrontation. But the moment his eyes met yours, something shifted. His expression softened, the tightness around his mouth easing just enough to remind you of the boy you used to know.
“You’re early,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite him, trying to sound casual even as your pulse betrayed you.
“You’re late,” he replied without missing a beat, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t cocky—it was familiar. Like muscle memory.
You rolled your eyes, unzipping your jacket and letting it fall over the back of your chair. “By two minutes.”
“Still counts,” he said, setting his phone down and leaning back slightly. His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, the silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was something else. Something quieter. Something that felt like slipping into an old rhythm neither of you had quite forgotten.
You cleared your throat, fingers absently tugging at the edge of your napkin like it might anchor you. The words felt heavier than they should’ve, but you pushed them out anyway. “Listen… I wasn’t fair to you earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
Oscar looked up from his untouched glass of water, eyes steady but unreadable. He was always hard to read—too practiced at keeping things tucked away. Then he sighed, the sound quiet but weighted, and shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said, voice low. “I shouldn’t have said what I said about Lando. It’s none of my business.”
The way he said Lando’s name—sharp, clipped, like it left a bad taste in his mouth—almost made you laugh. Almost. But you held it back, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him shift in his seat.
“Yeah, well,” you said finally, tilting your head, letting your voice soften but not quite lose its edge, “it kind of becomes your business when you start throwing around words like ‘waste of time.’”
Oscar winced, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Okay, fair,” he admitted, lips twitching into something sheepish. “Maybe I was… jealous.”
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair, arms crossed. “Maybe?”
His ears went red instantly, and he looked away for a beat before meeting your gaze again. “Fine,” he muttered. “Definitely.”
This time, you couldn’t help it. The laugh slipped out—light, genuine, and just loud enough to turn a few heads nearby. And somehow, that sound seemed to melt the last bit of stiffness between you. The tension didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less brittle, more familiar.
Like maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all.
“Unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Oscar Piastri—calm, rational, ice-man himself—jealous.”
He lifted his water glass like it was a shield, the rim hiding the faint flush creeping up his neck. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, voice low, eyes flicking away for just a second.
“Oh, I’m definitely getting used to it,” you teased, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. Your smirk was playful, but your voice softened around the edges. “Kind of refreshing, actually. A nice reminder you still care.”
Oscar set his glass down with deliberate calm, but the look he gave you was anything but casual. It was the kind of look that held history—half-annoyed, half-amused, and entirely familiar. “You act like I didn’t date you for a whole year,” he said, voice steady. “You know exactly how human I am.”
That one hit harder than you expected. You blinked, caught off guard by the weight of it. The truth in it. Your heart stuttered, just slightly, like it had remembered something it wasn’t supposed to.
“Touché,” you said quietly, the smirk fading into something softer.
The waiter appeared just in time, menus in hand, offering a brief reprieve from the weight of the conversation. You ordered something simple—more out of habit than hunger—just to fill the space, to keep things moving. When he walked away, Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his expression shifting into something more serious.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, voice low.
You raised a brow, trying to keep things light. “That’s usually how conversations work, yes.”
He didn’t take the bait. “I’m serious,” he said, brushing past your sarcasm like he’d grown used to it. “Why did you text me? After all the long years, after all this time… why tonight?”
You hesitated, biting your lip as you searched for the right words. Not the easy ones. Not the ones that deflected. “Because… you didn’t deserve how I treated you earlier,” you said finally, voice softer than before. “You never really did. I thought about it, and it just felt wrong leaving it like that.”
Oscar’s eyes softened, and for a moment, you wished he wouldn’t look at you like that—like you were still seventeen, still the girl he used to know, still someone he hadn’t quite let go of. It made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t want to admit.
“Fair enough,” he said quietly, nodding. Then, like he couldn’t help himself, the smirk returned—cutting through the tension with practiced ease. “Though if you’re secretly trying to make Lando jealous, this is a pretty solid move.”
You nearly choked on your drink, coughing as you set the glass down with a thud. “Oh my god. You’re unbelievable.”
He grinned, clearly pleased with himself.
And yeah… maybe you had hoped Lando would see you.
Maybe you wanted him to wonder.
Maybe you wanted him to feel it.
Dinner stretched longer than you’d expected. Somewhere between the last forkful of the main course and the slow arrival of dessert, the conversation began to drift—softly, naturally—into old memories. The kind that didn’t need prompting. The kind that lived in your bones, tucked away until moments like this pulled them to the surface. It was strange how easily they came back, how familiar they felt, even after all the time and distance.
Oscar leaned back in his chair, the candlelight catching the edge of a rare grin that spread across his face. “Do you remember that family trip?” he asked, voice lighter now. “The one where my mum thought we were lost in the middle of nowhere?”
You nearly snorted into your drink, the memory hitting you like a warm breeze. “Lost?” you echoed, incredulous. “Oscar, we were stranded on the side of the road with zero cell service because your dad thought that ridiculous shortcut would save us ten minutes.”
He shook his head, laughing under his breath, the sound low and familiar. “We were out there for two hours. In the middle of nowhere. I swear I saw a goat judging us from a hill.”
“And you,” you said, pointing at him with mock accusation, laughter bubbling up, “kept insisting you could fix the car. You were seventeen, Oscar. What exactly were you planning to do?!”
He grinned, cheeks flushed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I had a wrench and a YouTube video. I was basically a mechanic.”
You rolled your eyes, still laughing. “You were basically a disaster.”
And just like that, the years between you felt thinner.
Like maybe some things hadn’t changed at all.
Your stomach ached—not from the food, but from laughter, from the kind of joy that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. You stopped just outside the door, hovering beneath the soft yellow glow of the streetlights, unsure if you were ready for the night to end.
“So…” you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, voice light but hesitant. “Thanks for dinner.”
Oscar frowned, a playful crease forming between his brows. “I thought it was your treat.”
You smirked, nudging his arm gently. “Yeah, well—thanks for not storming off halfway through, then.”
His smile softened, the teasing fading into something quieter. For a moment, it felt like time had folded in on itself—like the years hadn’t stretched between you, like you were still two kids sneaking out for late-night walks and laughing until your cheeks hurt. That same quiet ease settled between you, familiar and fragile.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, before the weight of everything unsaid could pull you back, you leaned in. A quick, feather-light kiss to his cheek—barely there, but enough to make the moment shift.
“Goodnight, Oscar,” you whispered.
When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, lips parted, like you’d just tilted the world off its axis. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. And you didn’t wait for him to.
────────────
The McLaren garage was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that felt unnatural—especially with Lando around. Normally, he could fill any lull with a stream of nonsense, jokes, or half-baked theories about tire degradation. But today, even he noticed the shift.
“What’s going on, man?” Lando asked, side-eyeing Oscar from across the table. “You’ve been quiet all day. And yeah, I know you’re always quiet, but this is, like… existential crisis quiet.”
Oscar didn’t look up. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense, fingers wrapped too tightly around his coffee cup. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do—especially with Lando. Not when the girl he used to love, the one who still haunted the corners of his mind, had kissed him goodnight less than twelve hours ago.
“Yeah, um… just thinking,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the swirling liquid in his cup. It was easier to stare at that than at Lando’s face. Easier to pretend nothing had shifted.
Because what was he supposed to say?
Hey, your almost-girlfriend kissed me last night and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Yeah. No. Definitely not.
Lando narrowed his eyes, setting his headset down with a deliberate clunk that echoed louder than it should’ve in the quiet garage. “Thinking about what?” he asked, voice casual but laced with curiosity. “Don’t tell me you’re doing that whole ‘race strategy at breakfast’ thing again. That’s boring as hell.”
Oscar didn’t respond right away. He stared into his coffee like it might offer him an escape route, lips twitching with something unsaid. The words hovered on the edge of his mouth, but he swallowed them down, forcing his expression into something neutral. “Not strategy,” he said finally, voice clipped and low.
That answer only made Lando lean in, sensing something off. His smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, playful but persistent. “Then what?” he pressed, eyes narrowing. “Come on, mate. Spill. You’re acting like someone died.”
Oscar gave him a flat look, the kind that usually shut people up. But Lando wasn’t most people. “Nobody died,” he said, tone dry, but his grip on the coffee cup tightened.
“Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Lando asked, clearly enjoying how cagey Oscar was being. His grin widened, feeding off the tension like it was fuel.
Oscar wasn’t a liar. He never had been. Not really. He could dodge, deflect, stay silent—but lying? That wasn’t in his nature. So when Lando pressed, when the silence stretched too long and the weight of the truth became unbearable, Oscar finally sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tension there like he could physically push the guilt away.
“Fine,” he muttered, voice low. “We talked. Last night.”
Lando’s brows knit together, confusion flickering across his face. “We?” he echoed, tone sharp with curiosity.
Oscar hesitated, the word catching in his throat before he forced it out. “Y/n,” he said, quieter now. Like saying her name aloud made it more real.
That single syllable was enough to wipe the grin clean off Lando’s face. His posture shifted, shoulders stiffening, eyes narrowing. “Wait—wait,” he said, voice climbing with each word. “You talked to her? When? Where?”
Oscar didn’t answer right away. He just stared down, the steam long gone, the warmth fading—much like the clarity he’d felt the night before.
Because how was he supposed to explain that a single kiss on the cheek had unraveled him?
That it had felt like a door reopening he wasn’t sure he was ready to walk through?
Oscar, infuriatingly composed, picked up his coffee again, swirling it once before taking a slow, deliberate sip. “Dinner,” he said, like it was the most mundane thing in the world. His tone was maddeningly casual—like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade into the middle of their conversation and was now watching the smoke rise with detached amusement.
Lando blinked, the word hitting him a beat too late. “Dinner?!” he blurted, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he winced, hating how transparent he sounded. “As in—just the two of you?”
Oscar didn’t flinch. He met Lando’s eyes with that steady, unreadable gaze—the one that always made it impossible to tell what was going on behind it. “Yeah,” he said evenly. “Just the two of us. We cleared some things up.”
Lando stared at him, mouth half open, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for Oscar to laugh and say just kidding, or it was nothing, or don’t worry about it. But none of that came. Oscar just sat there, sipping his coffee like he had all the time in the world, like he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell and walked away from the wreckage without a scratch.
“Cleared things up?” Lando repeated, his voice rising, the edge creeping in. “What the hell does that even mean?”
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing, searching Oscar’s face for something—anything—that would make this make sense. But Oscar just shrugged, maddeningly vague, maddeningly calm.
“It means what it sounds like,” he said.
And that was the worst part.
Because it sounded like everything Lando didn’t want to hear.
“I thought you were over her. That it was decades ago,” Lando snapped, the words tumbling out faster than his brain could filter them. He tried to lace it with sarcasm, tried to make it sound like a casual jab, but the edge in his voice betrayed him. Jealousy clung to every syllable, raw and unpolished.
Oscar didn’t flinch. He didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t give Lando the satisfaction of a reaction. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely across his chest, expression maddeningly calm. “I am,” he said, voice smooth and measured.
A lie. So maybe Oscar did lie.
Or maybe not.
He wasn’t sure anymore.
Because no, he wasn’t in love with you. Not like before. Not with the same reckless intensity that used to keep him up at night. But that didn’t mean the memory of it didn’t sting—especially when Lando’s name was tangled up in yours. Especially when he saw the way you looked at him now, like Oscar had been a chapter and Lando was the sequel.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends,” Oscar added after a beat, his tone deliberate, his gaze steady. He held Lando’s eyes like a challenge, like he was daring him to argue with logic that felt too clean to be honest.
Lando scoffed, the sound bitter and humorless. He shook his head, trying to laugh it off, but it came out wrong—tight and sharp. “Friends,” he repeated, the word tasting like rust. “Right. That’s what dinner was? Just a friendly little catch-up?”
Oscar tilted his head, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly.”
And it was that—the calmness, the control, the way Oscar could sit there like none of this mattered—that drove Lando absolutely mad.
Because it did matter.
And they both knew it.
“Look, mate, no reason to be jealous. I don’t care about her that much, you can try shoot your shot—”
Oscar hadn’t even finished the sentence when—
“Hey boys!”
Both their heads snapped up like they’d been caught mid-crime. George stood on the pitlane wall, arms crossed, grinning like he’d just stumbled into the juiciest subplot of the season. His timing was impeccable. His expression? Even worse—bright-eyed, smug, and far too entertained.
Lando reacted first, instinctively slapping on a smile that felt brittle around the edges. “George!” he called out, voice pitched just a little too high, like he was trying to drown out whatever Oscar had just said.
Oscar, meanwhile, felt his stomach drop. The words he’d let slip were still hanging in the air like smoke—visible, lingering, impossible to ignore. And George? George was the last person you wanted overhearing anything remotely personal. George was the worst person when it came to gossips—subtle as a hammer, relentless as a reporter.
George’s eyes flicked between them, sharp and calculating. “Interesting timing,” he said smoothly, like he was making casual conversation. But the glint in his eyes and the curl of his smirk betrayed him—he’d heard something. And worse, he understood exactly what it was about.
Oscar cleared his throat, forcing a cough that sounded more like a cover-up than anything medical. “We were just… talking about, uh, strategy.”
George tilted his head, gaze drifting—far too deliberately—toward the Mercedes garage. The one you’d been in earlier. The one George had definitely noticed.
“Sure you were,” he said, voice light, but laced with implication.
For one agonizing second, Oscar was certain George was about to call him out—drop some snide remark, raise an eyebrow, blow the whole thing wide open in that effortless way he had. The air felt thick, suspended, like the moment was teetering on the edge of something irreversible.
But instead, George just clapped him on the shoulder with a deceptively friendly smile. The kind that looked warm on the surface but carried a sting underneath. His hand lingered a beat too long, like he wanted Oscar to feel the weight of it.
“Anyway,” George said breezily, voice light, eyes far too knowing, “don’t let me interrupt. See you out there.”
And with that, he turned and strolled off, hands tucked casually into his pockets, whistling under his breath. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The smug satisfaction in his stride said it all—he’d heard enough, and he was already filing it away for later. George Russell, the unofficial gossip columnist of the paddock, had just struck gold.
Oscar stared after him, stomach sinking. The words he’d let slip were still echoing in his head, neon-bright and impossible to take back. He wasn’t sure how much George had caught, but knowing George? Probably everything. And worse—he’d understood it.
Beside him, Lando let out a low chuckle, dry and bitter. “He knows,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Oscar didn’t respond.
Because yeah—he knew too.
And now, so did George.
────────────
You and Kimi sat tucked into the corner of the hospitality suite, a plate of fries between you and a half-finished worksheet spread across the table. Kimi was hunched over his homework, pencil tapping rhythmically against the paper, while you tried to decipher the assignment like it was written in code. Fries, math, and mild chaos—truly the essence of work experience.
Just as you were about to explain long division for the third time, George slid into the chair across from you with the kind of smug grin that should’ve come with a warning label. He looked far too pleased with himself for someone who’d just come from pitlane.
You blinked at him, mid-chew. “Hi?” you said, wary. “You look like you’ve got something to say.”
Kimi didn’t even glance up. He raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “He always looks like that.”
George ignored the jab, leaning forward like he was about to share classified intel. His voice dropped a notch, conspiratorial. “So, funny thing… I just walked past the McLaren garage.”
You narrowed your eyes, already bracing. “And?”
George’s grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. “And your name might’ve come up.”
You froze, fry halfway to your mouth.
Because when George said might’ve, he meant definitely.
Kimi perked up instantly, abandoning his half-finished worksheet like it had never existed. His eyes lit up with the kind of curiosity reserved for reality TV scandals and paddock drama. “I need to know everything,” he declared, already leaning forward like he was front row at a show.
You groaned, dragging a fry through ketchup with more force than necessary. “George, I don’t think I want to—”
But George was already in motion, holding up a hand like a lawyer presenting his closing argument. His grin widened, smug and unrelenting. “No, no, hear me out,” he said, voice dropping into something far too gleeful. “Oscar may or may not have told Lando that he doesn’t care about you that much anymore. And that Lando was free to… how shall I put it… shoot his shot.”
Your jaw dropped. Literally. The fry slipped from your fingers, forgotten. “He what?” you said, the words barely making it past the knot forming in your throat.
You blinked, trying to process it.
Oscar said that.
Oscar, who you thought was still your friend.
And now he was telling Lando you were fair game?
Like you were a prize to be passed around?
Wow.
Maybe you should’ve expected it.
Maybe you should’ve known better.
But it still stung.
Kimi glanced between you and George, clearly thrilled. “This is better than Netflix.”
George just shrugged, smug as ever, that signature glint in his eye making it painfully clear he was enjoying this far too much. “Don’t be mad at me,” he said, voice light, hands raised in mock innocence. “I’m just saying—if you suddenly find two papaya-colored idiots hovering around like confused puppies, now you know why.”
You didn’t even get a chance to respond before Kimi, ever the chaos enthusiast, perked up with wide-eyed curiosity. “Who would you pick, Y/n?” he asked, tone so casual it bordered on absurd. The question hung in the air like a balloon about to pop.
You turned to him slowly, incredulous. “Kimi,” you said, voice flat with warning.
“What?” he blinked, unfazed. “It’s a valid question.”
George leaned back in his chair, arms crossed like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing. “I mean, really—two guys fighting over you? Both of them your exes, technically? That’s Netflix-level drama. I’d binge it in one sitting.”
You groaned, sinking deeper into your chair, dragging a fry through ketchup with more force than necessary. The idea of Oscar and Lando circling you like rival planets made your stomach twist. It wasn’t flattering—it was exhausting. “Please stop,” you muttered, voice muffled by your hand.
“Stop?” George echoed, feigning offense. “No, no, we’re helping,” he said, nodding solemnly, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him completely. “We just need to figure out which one you’re going to pick.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “You’re insufferable.”
“I mean—if you want a steady, quiet life, pick Oscar. If you need a constant headache and chaos, Lando it is,” Kimi said, completely deadpan, like he was diagnosing a gearbox issue instead of your love life.
You paused mid-bite, staring at him. The worst part? He wasn’t wrong. Not even a little. Oscar was calm, composed, the kind of person who made silence feel safe. Lando, on the other hand, was a whirlwind—loud, unpredictable, and somehow always dragging you into his orbit. And the problem was… you kind of liked both. In completely different, equally dangerous ways.
Before you could respond, George lit up like a kid who’d just been handed the keys to a candy store. “You know what?” he said, eyes gleaming. “I’ll make a presentation. Charts, graphs, the whole package—who’s better for you.”
You shot him the deadliest look you could muster, the kind that should’ve melted his grin off his face. “Don’t you dare.”
But George only leaned back, smug and unbothered. “Too late,” he said, tapping his temple. “I’ve already got the title slide in my head: Oscar vs. Lando: The Battle for Y/n.”
Kimi snorted, clearly entertained. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking like he was watching a soap opera unfold in real time. “I’d actually watch that.”
“Great,” George said, pointing at him. “You’ll be in the audience. Front row.“
You groaned, sinking deeper into your seat, dragging a fry through ketchup like it had personally wronged you. This was your life now—fries, math homework, and unsolicited relationship analysis from two of the most chaotic men in motorsport.
And somewhere out there, Oscar was pretending he didn’t care, and Lando was probably planning his next move.
You weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or run.
────────────
You didn’t even feel the tears at first. They crept down your cheeks quietly, like they’d been waiting for the moment to fall. It wasn’t just Oscar’s words—it was the way they made you feel. Like something inside you had cracked. You hadn’t caught every sentence, but the meaning was clear enough. He didn’t care anymore. Or maybe he never did. And that thought hurt more than you expected.
You’d kissed him goodnight like it meant something. Like it was a promise. A quiet way of saying, I still choose you. You thought he understood that. You thought he felt the same. But now, after everything, you weren’t sure. And that uncertainty made your chest ache.
Before you could think, your feet were already moving. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you needed to get away. Needed someone—anyone—to hold onto. You walked down the hallway, heart pounding, until you stopped outside Lando’s door.
You knocked softly, not even checking if he was inside. You just hoped he was.
The door opened right away.
“Y/n?” Lando’s voice was gentle, full of concern. His eyes scanned your face, and whatever he saw there made his expression soften. “Are you okay?”
You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Your throat felt tight, your thoughts too messy to explain. So instead, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Held on tight. Like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.
Lando didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in, arms strong and steady around you. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t push. He just let you be there—safe, warm, and quiet.
And in that moment, the storm inside you didn’t disappear.
But it slowed down.
Just enough to breathe.
Lando’s arms tightened around you, steady and warm, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed until now. His chest rose and fell against yours, calm and sure, while your own heart raced like it was trying to outrun the ache inside. You buried your face in his shoulder, letting the silence wrap around you, trying to quiet the storm that had been building since Oscar’s words hit you like a punch.
And then, something shifted.
Lando’s hand moved gently to your cheek, and before you could think, his lips brushed against yours. Soft at first—hesitant, careful—like he was asking a question without words. But the moment didn’t stay quiet for long. The kiss deepened, messy and full of emotion, like both of you were trying to escape everything else. You clung to him, letting yourself fall into it, even as guilt tugged at the edges of your mind.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not like this.
Not when your heart still felt tangled in someone else’s name.
And then—knock, knock.
The sound was sharp, sudden, and it cut through the moment like a blade. Both of you froze, breath caught, eyes wide. Lando pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing as he glanced toward the door.
“Lando? Are you in there?”
Oscar’s voice came through, casual on the surface, but with a hint of concern underneath. Like he knew something was off. Like he felt the shift in the air.
“Go hide in the bathroom,” Lando whispered, his voice low and urgent, barely above a breath. His hands gently untangled yours from his, and only then did you realize how tightly you’d been holding onto him. Like letting go might make everything fall apart again.
You nodded, silent and shaky, your heart pounding so loudly it felt like it echoed in your ears. Without a word, you turned toward the door, your steps light but rushed. Lando stepped aside to let you pass, flashing a small, mischievous grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Quickly,” he murmured. “And don’t make a sound.”
You gave the smallest nod and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind you just as a voice echoed down the hallway.
“Mate, have you seen Y/n?” Oscar called out, his tone casual but laced with something else—concern, maybe. Or suspicion.
You could feel Lando tense on the other side of the door. The air seemed to shift, heavier now, like the moment was holding its breath.
“Nah,” Lando said, smooth and steady, though you could hear the effort in it. “Haven’t seen her all day. Something happen?”
Oscar’s voice came through the door, low and frustrated. “I swear… if George told her what I said last night, I’m going to lose it. She can’t think I—ugh.” His words were rushed, tangled with regret, like he was trying to outrun the truth.
Outside the bathroom, Lando stiffened. You could hear the shift in his posture, the way his breath caught for a second. His eyebrow twitched, and then his voice came—quiet, calm, just loud enough for you to hear. “Relax, mate,” he murmured. “She hasn’t heard a thing. Trust me.”
You pressed your back harder against the wall, heart thudding in your chest. The lie sat heavy in the air. You had heard. Every word. And now you were hiding behind a door, listening to the boy you’d kissed last night cover for you while the boy you’d once promised your heart to paced outside, completely unaware.
Oscar groaned, footsteps shifting as he moved. “I don’t know… George always seems to know everything. And what if she thinks I’m—”
Lando cut in, voice lighter, trying to ease the tension. “If she thinks you’re anything, she’s way too smart to take it seriously. Chill.”
You let out a slow breath, trying to quiet the storm inside. Lando’s confidence was comforting, like a blanket wrapped around you. But every word Oscar said made your chest tighten. Because underneath the frustration, there was something else—fear. Regret. Maybe even care.
Then Oscar’s voice dropped, softer now. “Mate, I just… I hope she doesn’t hate me.”
He wasn’t talking to Lando anymore.
He was talking to himself.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Lando let out a quiet laugh, the kind that barely reached his eyes but tried to lighten the mood anyway. “She won’t,” he said, voice soft but sure. “You’re still the brooding one she secretly loves.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but a small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t full of confidence—it was the kind of smile that came from doubt, from hoping something might still be true even if it didn’t feel like it anymore. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, shaking his head.
There was a pause, just long enough to feel the weight of everything unsaid between them.
“Anyway… thanks, mate,” Oscar added, voice quieter now. He gave Lando a brief nod, one that carried more than just gratitude—it held exhaustion, regret, maybe even a little fear.
Then he turned and walked off, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, growing softer with each step until they disappeared completely.
The hallway finally fell quiet. The sound of Oscar’s footsteps had faded, leaving behind a heavy silence that wrapped around the room. Lando let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the wall. His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been holding tension he didn’t even realize. “Well… that was intense,” he muttered, casting a glance toward the bathroom door.
You peeked out, heart still pounding in your chest, unsure if it was from the kiss or the fear of being caught—or maybe both. Lando caught your eye and smirked, that familiar spark lighting up his face. “See?” he said softly. “Nothing to worry about. Oscar’s gone… for now.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. The blush was impossible to hide, and you hated how easily he noticed it. “You’re unbelievable,” you whispered, stepping closer, your voice barely above a breath.
Lando’s grin widened, playful and teasing. “Unbelievable? Me?” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Never. I’m charming. And,” he added, voice dipping lower, “you were crying before. Let me make it up to you.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words never came. He was already moving, closing the space between you with quiet confidence. His hand reached up, brushing your hair gently behind your ear, fingers lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.
Then his lips were on yours again.
Soft at first—careful, like he was asking permission. But the moment didn’t stay gentle. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more intense, like he was trying to prove something. Maybe to you. Maybe to himself. Maybe to the part of him that had waited too long to say how he felt.
You melted into him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, letting the moment take over. The world outside faded. No Oscar. No George. No whispers or rumors or messy feelings. Just warmth. Just closeness. Just him.
And for once, the chaos didn’t matter.
Because right now, it was quiet.
And you were exactly where you wanted to be.
────────────
You hadn’t meant to drink that much. Really. It started with one—just to loosen up, just to feel a little lighter. Then came the second, and the third, and somewhere along the way, you stopped counting. Now your head felt floaty, your vision soft around the edges, and your laughter came too easily, too loud. The music pulsed through the room like a heartbeat, the crowd pressing in from all sides, and you could feel yourself wobbling slightly on your heels. You clutched your glass tighter, trying to steady yourself, but everything felt just a little off-balance.
A warm hand slid gently onto your lower back.
“You shouldn’t be drinking that much,” Lando murmured, leaning in close so you could hear him over the music. His voice was calm, steady—like an anchor in the chaos. You leaned into his touch without meaning to, grateful for the way he guided you through the crowd with quiet care. His concern made your chest tighten, a flicker of guilt rising in your stomach. You hadn’t wanted him to worry.
“I’m fine,” you said, though the words came out slower than you expected, slurred at the edges. You tried to wave him off, but your arm dipped awkwardly, and Lando caught it without missing a beat, steadying you like he’d done it a hundred times before.
And then—of course—another voice cut through the noise.
“No, you’re not. Let me help you.”
Oscar.
You blinked, trying to focus, but the sound of his voice hit you harder than the alcohol. Of all people. Of all moments. He stood just behind Lando, eyes scanning you with concern, jaw tight. His presence made everything feel heavier.
“I’ve got it,” Lando said sharply, not even turning around. His voice was clipped, annoyed, like Oscar’s arrival was just another problem to deal with. “Relax, mate. I’ve got this.”
You stood between them, swaying slightly, caught in the middle of something that had nothing to do with drinks and everything to do with feelings neither of them had said out loud. One of them was steady, protective, already holding you up. The other was worried, insistent, trying to reach you even now.
Your thoughts were messy, blurred by the alcohol and the tension. But even through the haze, you could feel it—the way they both hovered, the way they both wanted to be the one you leaned on.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because you weren’t sure who you wanted to reach for.
Or if you even had the strength to choose.
Lando’s hand stayed steady on your back as he guided you through the crowd, his grip firm but gentle, like he was trying to protect you without making a scene. The music still thumped around you, but the corner he led you to was quieter, dimmer—just enough space to breathe. Behind you, Oscar followed closely, his frown deepening with every step. You could hear him muttering under his breath, something about how reckless you were being, how this wasn’t like you.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” Lando said quietly, his voice low and tight, just loud enough for you to hear over the music.
You blinked at him, your head still spinning, your balance shaky. “What?” you slurred, confused by the sudden shift in his tone.
He didn’t look at you right away. His eyes were fixed on the floor, jaw clenched. “God, you’re lucky someone actually puts up with you,” he said, voice sharp and clipped. “Seriously… I don’t know why anyone would.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
They cut through the haze of alcohol like cold water.
You froze, staring at him, your heart thudding for a different reason now.
“Excuse me?” you said, your voice quieter, but steadier.
Lando finally looked at you, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You heard me,” he said, softer now, but still firm. “I’m just… worried. And you’re not making it easy.”
You didn’t know what to say.
Part of you wanted to yell.
Part of you wanted to cry.
And part of you just wanted to disappear.
Because in that moment, it wasn’t the drinks making you dizzy.
It was him.
Before you could even think, the words burst out of you, hot and sharp. A mix of anger, embarrassment, and something deeper—something raw. “You’re unbelievable! Both of you—thinking you can just handle me, tell me what to do, act like you own me!”
Lando flinched, his jaw tightening as he turned toward you, eyes flashing. “Hey! Don’t yell at me!” he snapped, voice louder than before, frustration boiling over.
Oscar stepped in quickly, his tone rising as he looked straight at Lando. “Hey! Calm down, Lando!” he said, firm and tense, trying to cut through the heat between you both.
“I’m not the problem here!” Lando snapped, throwing his hands up, eyes locked on Oscar. His voice was loud, defensive, full of frustration. “I’m the one actually trying to take care of her!”
“I don’t need either of you to take care of me!” you shouted, voice cracking under the weight of everything—anger, alcohol, exhaustion. “I’m so tired of you two fighting over me like I’m some prize! Like I don’t get a say!”
Lando’s face shifted, guilt flickering across his features before irritation took over. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “You think this is easy for me?” he said, voice lower now but no less intense. “Watching you stumble around, worrying I might lose you to… to anything else?”
Oscar stepped forward, eyes blazing. “Anything else?!” he barked, his voice sharp. “She’s not yours, Lando! You don’t get to act like she is. Fuck off!”
“Well, she’s not yours either, Osc,” Lando shot back, voice cutting through the air like glass.
You spun around, heart pounding, fury rising fast. “You know what?” you said, breath shaky, hands trembling. “I don’t even care right now. I’m done with this—done with both of you acting like I’m something to fight over.”
You reached for your phone, fingers fumbling slightly. “I’m calling Kimi. Or George. Or literally anyone who isn’t going to turn my life into a nightmare.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Neither of them moved.
And for the first time tonight, you felt like you were finally choosing yourself.
You stormed out, the door slamming behind you—or maybe it was just the wind catching it, adding drama to your exit. Either way, you were gone. The hallway fell into a strange silence, the kind that made everything feel heavier.
Inside, Lando ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tight. He turned toward Oscar, eyes sharp, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Congratulations,” he said slowly. “You really nailed it. She’s gone.”
Oscar didn’t flinch. He crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips—just enough to be irritating. “Oh, don’t even start with me, mate. You were the one who set her off first. Way to lead by example.”
Lando’s outh pressed into a thin line. “Yeah? Well, she didn’t walk out because I was yelling at her,” he snapped. “Unlike someone else.”
Oscar shrugged, playing it cool, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. “Don’t pin this on me. I didn’t call her a disaster in front of half the party.”
Lando’s eyes narrowed, voice dropping to something darker. “Disaster?” he repeated, slow and sharp. “You act like you’re some saint. You’re just as bad, Osc.”
Oscar’s smirk faded. His voice came quiet, but every word landed hard. “Yeah, well, at least I don’t insult her to her face.”
They stood there, locked in a silent standoff. No more shouting. Just tension—thick, toxic, and unspoken. The kind that didn’t need volume to hurt. The kind that lingered long after the fight was over.
────────────
“Y/n! You have to come with me!” Kimi burst into your office like a storm, eyes wide with urgency and mischief. Before you could ask what was going on, he was already tugging you out of your chair, practically dragging you down the hallway.
You stumbled after him, confused, your heart still heavy from everything that had happened. The tension with Lando and Oscar had left you drained, and you weren’t sure you had the energy for whatever chaos Kimi was pulling you into.
But then you stepped into the meeting room—and everything stopped.
Your jaw dropped.
George stood proudly in front of the TV, pointer in hand, a full-blown PowerPoint glowing behind him. The title?
Lando vs. Oscar: Who Actually Deserves the Heart of Y/n?
You blinked.
Then you laughed.
Loud, uncontrollable, belly-deep laughter that spilled out before you could stop it. It wasn’t just funny—it was relief. It was the kind of laughter that cracked open the pressure in your chest and let something softer in. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from sadness this time, but from the absurdity, the ridiculousness, the kindness of it all.
You scanned the room, still giggling, and spotted Alex Albon sitting casually in the corner, sipping a drink like this was just another team briefing.
“Alex is also here?!” you managed to squeak out between gasps, collapsing into a chair, shaking your head in disbelief.
It was insane.
It was over-the-top.
It was exactly what you needed.
George cleared his throat with theatrical flair, straightening his posture like he was about to deliver a keynote speech at a global summit. His expression was mock-serious, eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a dramatic line that barely hid the mischief underneath. The moment you saw it, you couldn’t help but grin—because of course George would turn your love life into a full-blown presentation.
“Alright, lady and gentlemen,” he began, voice booming with exaggerated importance as he gestured toward the glowing TV screen, “we are gathered here today to solve one of the greatest mysteries of our time: who actually deserves the heart of Y/n?”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips refused to fade. Despite the ridiculousness of it all, you leaned forward slightly, curiosity bubbling up. After everything—after the shouting, the heartbreak, the confusion—this was the first time you felt like you could breathe. The tension that had wrapped around your chest for days loosened, just a little, replaced by something lighter. Something warmer.
Kimi sat beside you, practically vibrating with excitement, clearly proud of whatever chaos he’d helped orchestrate. His grin was wide, eyes sparkling, and you could tell he’d been waiting for this moment. Across the room, Alex lounged in a chair, sipping a drink with the casual ease of someone watching a soap opera unfold. His presence only added to the absurdity, and you couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up.
George clicked to the first slide, revealing a photo of Lando mid-laugh, that signature smirk lighting up his face like he’d just gotten away with something. The caption underneath read: Candidate A: The Chaos King.
“On my left,” George announced, voice full of drama, “we have the master of chaos, the king of spontaneity… the one and only Lando Norris.”
He paused, letting the room absorb the moment, before continuing with a grin that threatened to break his serious façade. “Pros: funny, charming, always unpredictable, makes life exciting, and yes… according to very reliable sources, his kisses are apparently top-tier.”
You snorted, covering your mouth as laughter spilled out again. It wasn’t just funny—it was healing. The kind of laughter that cracked open the pressure in your chest and let something softer in. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from sadness this time, but from the sheer absurdity and the overwhelming feeling of being loved—really loved—by the people around you.
George clicked the remote with the flair of someone revealing a plot twist in a drama series. The next slide popped up, bold letters and bullet points laid out like a roast disguised as analysis.
“Cons,” he announced, voice dipping into mock-gravity. “Reckless. Impossible to predict. Constantly annoying. And has a really bad habit of testing your patience.”
He paused, then leaned toward you with a conspiratorial whisper, eyes twinkling. “Also makes you question your life choices on a semi-regular basis. Minor detail.”
You snorted, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Kimi, sitting beside you, was visibly shaking with laughter, trying—and failing—not to burst out. His shoulders trembled, and his hand flew to his mouth like that would somehow contain the chaos.
George straightened again, turning toward the other side of the screen with a dramatic pivot. A perfectly composed photo of Oscar appeared—calm, collected, like he’d just stepped out of a thoughtful indie film.
“Now, on my right,” George said, waving his hands like he was presenting royalty, “we have the brooding, reliable, secretly-angsty powerhouse… Oscar Piastri.”
You couldn’t help but smile. The contrast between the two slides was ridiculous, but also weirdly accurate. George continued, voice full of exaggerated reverence.
“Pros: loyal, steady, sweet, actually listens to you, makes you feel safe, basically the dream of a boyfriend… if you’re into that sort of thing.”
The room chuckled, and you felt something warm bloom in your chest. It was silly, yes—but it was also kind. Thoughtful. A reminder that your friends saw you, knew you, and wanted to make you laugh when everything else felt heavy.
George clicked again, and the slide changed.
“Cons,” he said, shrugging. “Overthinks everything. Awkwardly jealous sometimes. Too quiet. Perfectionist tendencies. Broods a lot… and he enjoys silently judging you just a little.”
He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, everyone has a few flaws.”
You laughed again, this time softer.
Because beneath the humor, there was truth.
George leaned forward, hands clasped like he was about to announce the winner of a reality show finale. His eyes sparkled with mischief, the kind that made your stomach flip—not from nerves, but from knowing something ridiculous was about to happen.
“And now,” he said, voice rich with drama, “the moment of truth.”
He paused, milking the silence for all it was worth. You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands, already bracing for whatever nonsense was coming. Kimi leaned in beside you, practically vibrating with excitement, while Alex sat across the room, arms folded, eyebrows raised, clearly entertained but trying not to show it too much.
George cleared his throat, glancing at the slides one last time like he was reviewing sacred documents. “After careful consideration,” he began, tone solemn, “endless debate, and a thorough review of all available evidence…”
You peeked through your fingers, heart thudding—not because you believed this was serious, but because somehow, it felt serious. Like this ridiculous presentation had cracked open something real. Something raw. Something you hadn’t let yourself laugh about until now.
George straightened, lifting his chin. “My professional, unbiased, 100% reliable conclusion is…”
The room held its breath.
You held your breath.
And for a split second, you almost believed the answer might matter.
A slow, knowing smile crept across George’s face, the kind that made you brace yourself for whatever nonsense was about to come out of his mouth. His eyes sparkled with mischief, but beneath the humor, there was something else—something thoughtful. Something that felt like he’d been paying attention more than you realized.
“Neither,” he said, voice calm but firm, letting the word hang in the air for a beat too long. “Neither of them wins.”
You blinked, caught off guard. The room went quiet for a moment, the laughter fading into a curious hush. Even Kimi stopped bouncing in his seat, eyebrows raised in surprise.
George leaned forward again, elbows resting on the table, his tone softening just enough to feel real. “Why?” he continued, eyes locking with yours. “Because you, dear Y/n, deserve someone sane.”
The silence broke instantly.
Kimi snorted so loudly he nearly fell off his chair, clutching the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Sane?” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s rich coming from George, but honestly… he’s not wrong.”
Alex chuckled from across the room, shaking his head with a grin. “I mean, this man has a point.”
You laughed too, but it wasn’t just from the joke. It was the kind of laugh that came from somewhere deeper—from relief, from being seen, from knowing that your friends weren’t just watching the chaos unfold, but actually rooting for your peace. For your happiness. For you to choose something better than the mess you’d been tangled in.
babsie radio ! i wrote this likeee…6 months ago? And it has been laying in my drafts ever since; but as i reread it (not perfectly tho) i realized how funny george is in this. this is not my best fic, but george is pure comedy gold here so I decided to share this with youu 🩵
taglist. @haniette @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @chuusussss @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @basicchelsea @keepyoureyesonmeboy @in-need-of-leclerc xx (if u wanna be added or removed, comment or let me know into my inbox)
….. Lando Norris is your perfect match… four times over. From an annoying neighbor to a summer fling, forbidden crush and a nostalgic childhood love that lingers, these four stories show all the ways you could fall for him—and why he’s utterly unforgettable every single time.
VERSION l ; ANNOYING NEIGHBOR
You moved to Monaco for peace and quiet but ended up with Lando Norris — loud, annoying, and ridiculously cute. Between his terrible taste in music and constant chaos, you were pretty sure he was trying to drive you insane. Problem was, you kind of liked it.
read: HOT NEIGHBOR PROBLEMS
VERSION ll ; SUMMER FLING
You went to Ibiza for fun with your friends, not expecting anything serious. Then you met Lando Norris. A summer fling turned into something unforgettable, and suddenly letting go didn’t feel possible.
For years, you and Max Verstappen kept coming back to each other, fighting and making up, wanting each other when the timing was never right, trapped in a cycle that left you more hurt each time.
pairing. Max Verstappen x fem! reader.
warnings. angst; a lot of angst. 11,9k words, toxic/ on&off situationship, attachment issues, yearning, unresolved feelings, vulnerability, crying, profanity, toxic behavior; manipulation, jealousy, cheating (pls don’t), arguing & screaming. alcohol use, implied smut, make out scenes, pet names (schatje).
soundtrack.
─── OCTOBER 2023
THE PARTY WAS NOTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY—just another loud, crowded night in Tokyo filled with music that thumped through your chest and guys yelling over each other, probably celebrating something you hadn’t bothered to ask about.
You weren’t really paying attention to the chaos around you, just nursing your drink and letting the noise blur into the background. It was one of those nights where you showed up because you said you would, not because you actually wanted to be there. The kind of night where you hoped something mildly interesting might happen, but you weren’t holding your breath.
Then, out of nowhere, your best friend came barreling toward you like a human hurricane. She was always clumsy, always dramatic, and tonight was no exception. Her eyes were wide with excitement, her hair slightly disheveled from pushing through the crowd, and before you could even ask what was going on, she grabbed your arm with both hands and practically screamed into your ear, “Y/n! I need you to meet someone! You will shit yourself!” You barely had time to react before she was already dragging you through the sea of bodies, weaving between people with zero regard for personal space, her grip firm and determined. You stumbled after her, confused and slightly annoyed, but also—against your better judgment—a little curious.
Your friend didn’t give you a choice. She grabbed your arm and dragged you through the crowd like her life depended on it. You stumbled behind her, dodging people and trying not to spill your drink. The music was loud, the room packed, and you had no idea what was going on.
Finally, she pulled you into a quieter corner where the bass wasn’t shaking the walls. You looked up, a little breathless—and froze. Standing there was a tall guy with messy hair and sharp features. But it was his eyes that caught you first. Blue. Clear. Focused entirely on you.
“Max, this is Y/n. Y/n, Max,” your friend said, grinning like she’d just introduced you to royalty.
Max smiled, and it was effortless. Confident. The kind of smile that made you feel like he knew exactly who he was—and maybe who you were too. There was something about him that made your chest tighten, even though you didn’t know why.
You reached out to shake his hand, trying to play it cool. “You guys party like you’ve just won something,” you said, glancing around at the crowd.
He chuckled, his gaze never leaving yours. “I did,” he said. “Third world championship. Kind of a big deal not to celebrate, hm?”
Your cheeks burned instantly. Great—five seconds into meeting him and you’d already embarrassed yourself. Idiot. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck as you tried to recover, but Max didn’t seem fazed. He just stood there, watching you with that sharp, unreadable gaze, like he was analyzing every inch of your reaction.
“Yeah, I mean—of course! Congratulations, Maxie!” you blurted out, voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful. That wasn’t you talking anymore. That was the alcohol, and you knew it. You just weren’t sure if it made things better or infinitely worse.
For a moment, his expression didn’t give anything away. Just silence and those eyes, still locked on you. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was the kind of smile that made your stomach flip—lazy, confident, and just a little dangerous.
“Thanks, Y/n,” he said, and the way he said your name—low, deliberate, like he was trying it out—sent a chill down your spine.
Damn. You were in trouble.
It only took three more shots and a handful of stolen glances, suddenly you were outside the club, the cool air doing nothing to sober the heat between you. Max Verstappen—yes, that Max Verstappen—had you pinned against the wall, his body flush against yours, his hands exploring like he already knew every curve by heart.
He hadn’t mentioned his championship once. No bragging, no ego. Just quiet confidence and a gaze that made your knees weak. You barely knew him, but it didn’t matter. In that moment, it felt like knowing him wasn’t the point. Wanting him was.
The kisses were messy, rushed, and far from gentle. His mouth moved over yours like he couldn’t get enough, like he’d been waiting for this longer than either of you realized. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the chaos of it all. His hands didn’t hesitate—tracing your jaw, sliding down your sides, gripping your hips like he needed to memorize the feel of you.
You gasped against his neck, your voice low and breathless. “Feels so good,” you whispered, the words barely audible before his lips found yours again, swallowing every sound you made.
“Fuck, schatje,” he groaned, voice rough and low, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t get close enough. The way he held you—firm, possessive, hungry—made your head spin. You could barely wrap your mind around what was happening, but Max Verstappen, three-time world champion, was groaning into your ear like you were the only thing he wanted. That alone was enough to make your pulse race. More than enough. And yet, you wanted more.
He pulled back just slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that made your breath catch. “Maybe we should go to my hotel,” he said, each word slow and deliberate, heavy with intent. Then, almost unexpectedly, he paused. “I mean—only if you want to.”
You didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Who would? You licked your lips, heart pounding, and leaned in just enough to whisper, “Let’s go.”
His smirk returned instantly—sharp, confident, and laced with something wicked. He slid his hand into yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, and without another word, you followed him into the night. The city lights blurred around you, the cool air brushing against your flushed skin, but none of it mattered. You already knew you were walking straight into trouble. The kind you wouldn’t regret. The kind that promised nothing but pure, reckless fun.
───
The morning after was… a blur. Your body ached in places you didn’t even know could ache, your head was pounding, and your voice felt like it had been dragged through gravel. Yet somehow, despite all that, you’d let Max talk you into lunch. You weren’t sure how he’d convinced you—maybe it was the way he’d looked at you when he asked, or maybe you were just too tired to argue.
You sat slouched at the table, elbows propped up, head cradled in your hands as you squinted at the menu like it was written in another language. The sunlight streaming through the window wasn’t helping your hangover, and the smell of food from nearby tables made your stomach flip.
Across from you, Max looked annoyingly fresh. Relaxed. Smug, even.
“You alive over there?” he asked, amusement dripping from his voice.
You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “Barely. My head hurts, my body hurts—literally everything hurts. I think I died and came back just to suffer.”
He leaned in slightly, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Aww, was I too—”
“Can I take your order?” the waitress interrupted, appearing beside the table with a polite smile and a notepad in hand.
You straightened up quickly, trying to look like a functioning human. “Uh, yeah. I’ll have the pasta, please.”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “Steak for me,” he said smoothly, still wearing that smug little grin like he’d won something. And honestly? Maybe he had.
Max leaned across the table, elbows resting casually, that signature smirk tugging at his lips. “So… what makes you so special?”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the question. Was he serious? You tilted your head, trying to read him, but his expression gave nothing away. That smirk was infuriating—like he already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to catch up.
“You tell me,” you said, arching a brow. “You’re the one who chased me first.”
He laughed, low and amused, and the sound sent a strange flutter through your chest. “Chased?” he repeated, clearly entertained. “Pretty sure it was mutual.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. He wasn’t wrong, and you hated that he knew it. “Pretty sure you kissed me first,” you said, reaching for your water and taking a slow sip, trying to hide the way your pulse picked up just remembering it.
Max tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he was replaying the moment in his mind. “Yeah, but you didn’t exactly push me away, did you?”
You scoffed, setting your glass down with a soft clink. “That’s your line of defense? That I didn’t run?”
But even as you said it, you felt the heat rise in your cheeks. He had a point. You hadn’t run. You hadn’t even hesitated. The truth was, you’d wanted him the moment you saw him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were something rare, or maybe it was the thrill of being wanted by someone like him. Either way, you’d let it happen. You’d wanted it to happen.
Max’s smirk deepened, and you could tell he was enjoying this far too much. “I’m just saying… most people would’ve killed for that spot last night. You didn’t seem to mind having it.”
You leaned back slightly, heart thudding a little harder than you wanted to admit. He wasn’t just cocky—he was observant. And that made him dangerous. Because he saw through you, past the sarcasm and the deflection, straight into the part of you that had craved every second of last night.
And the worst part? You still did.
You shook your head slowly, poking at the bread basket the waitress had left on the table. It was easier to focus on the crusty roll in front of you than the man sitting across from you—especially when he looked at you like that. “You’re very confident in yourself, you know that?”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “Shouldn’t I be?” he said, shrugging one shoulder with that effortless ease that made you want to roll your eyes and lean in at the same time.
“You’ve won… what? Three championships now?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer. Of course you knew. Everyone did.
He gave you that cocky grin again, the one that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to admit. “Three,” he said. “Working on four.”
You smirked, trying to keep your cool. “And yet, you’re here having lunch with me instead of doing interviews or bathing in champagne.”
“Champagne’s overrated,” he replied, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. There was something sharper in his gaze now, something that made your breath catch. “This is better.”
You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. You weren’t sure what you’d expected from him—more teasing, maybe—but not that. Not sincerity. Before you could respond, he reached for his glass, the moment slipping away like it had never happened.
“Besides,” he added, voice lighter now, “people don’t get it. They see trophies, not what it takes to get them.”
There it was. That flicker. A crack in the surface. It was subtle, almost too quick to catch, but you did. You saw it. And you wanted to ask—wanted to push past the smirk and the swagger—but just as fast as it came, it was gone. His expression shifted back into something familiar, something guarded. The smirk returned, like armor. “Anyway, you should feel honored. I don’t do this often.”
You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “Lunch? Or letting people in?”
He chuckled, leaning back in his seat, eyes still on you. “Both.”
You opened your mouth to say something, unsure what exactly, but the waitress appeared beside you, placing your plates down with a practiced smile. The moment broke, and you were left staring at your food, wondering what exactly you’d gotten yourself into.
The rest of lunch was quiet. You didn’t talk much, but both of you kept stealing glances when the other wasn’t looking. You smiled at something Max said, and he gave you a small smile back—just a twitch of his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. It felt like words might ruin the moment, or maybe they were just too risky.
After the plates were cleared and the waiter walked away, Max leaned back in his chair. He tapped his fingers lightly on the table, eyes locked on you. “So… when are we going to see each other again?” he asked. His voice was playful, but the way he looked at you told a different story. He wasn’t joking.
Your stomach flipped. The question felt heavier than it sounded. You weren’t sure if it made you excited or nervous—or maybe both. You wanted to see him again. That much was clear.
“Soon,” you said quietly.
His smirk came back right away, sharp and confident. He looked pleased, like he already knew your answer. And as you sat there watching him, you realized this wasn’t just a one-time thing.
─── DECEMBER 2023
Two months had passed in a haze—late-night texts that made you smile in the dark, stolen glances that lingered too long, and kisses that always spiraled into something deeper, hotter, harder. Whatever this thing was between you and Max, you kept calling it casual. You told yourself it was just fun, just physical. But the truth was, he’d quietly become part of your routine. A message from him could shift your mood. His voice, his touch, his presence—it all started to feel familiar. And maybe that was the problem.
You liked him. More than you meant to. Maybe it was reckless, maybe it was too soon, but there was something about the way he looked at you, the way he listened, the way he made you feel like you mattered—that made it impossible to stay detached.
Tonight, the plan was simple: meet your friend and her boyfriend at a bar downtown. Nothing fancy, just drinks and laughs. But as you and Max walked up to the entrance, you spotted them waiting out front. Max’s arm was slung around your shoulders, his body close, his smile relaxed and easy—like this was normal. Like you belonged there, next to him.
As you and Max approached the bar, you spotted your friend and her boyfriend waiting out front. From a distance, everything looked normal—smiles, casual chatter—but as you got closer, you caught the way her eyes flicked between you and Max. Her smile faltered, just for a second. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to feel it. Something was off.
“Hey,” you greeted, trying to keep things light, but her expression didn’t quite match yours. There was a tightness around her eyes, like she was biting back something she didn’t want to say in front of him.
Inside, you moved to sit beside Max, his hand still resting casually on your back. But before you could even pull out your chair, your friend’s voice cut through the moment—sharp, a little too quick.
“Actually, me and Y/n will grab the drinks,” she said, already turning toward the bar.
You blinked, caught off guard, but followed her anyway. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about drinks.
“What’s going on?” you asked, voice low but firm, trying to keep your cool even as unease crept in. Your friend’s sudden shift in tone had thrown you off. She wasn’t joking around like usual, and the way she looked at you—serious, focused—made your stomach twist. Something was bothering her, and you could feel it in the air between you.
She didn’t waste time. “What’s going on between you and Max?”
The question hit harder than you expected. No warm-up, no soft lead-in. Just straight to the one thing you hadn’t figured out yourself. You blinked, caught off guard, your mind scrambling for an answer that didn’t sound ridiculous. You hadn’t exactly defined it. You hadn’t wanted to. It was easier to keep things vague, to pretend it was all just fun.
“I don’t know… we talk, we hook up. It’s casual, I guess?” you said, forcing a laugh that came out thin and nervous. You hated how unsure you sounded, but what else were you supposed to say? That you were falling for someone you barely understood?
She didn’t react. Her expression stayed flat, unreadable, but her silence said enough. That answer wasn’t cutting it.
“Do you like him?” she asked, her voice steady, eyes locked on yours.
You froze. The words caught in your throat. You hadn’t let yourself think about it too much—hadn’t dared to name it. But now, cornered by the question, everything you’d been avoiding rushed to the surface. The late-night texts that made you smile. The way he looked at you like you were more than just a distraction. The way your heart sped up when his name popped up on your screen.
“No—yes… maybe?” you blurted out, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. It was messy, panicked, honest.
You realized just how deep you were. You hadn’t meant to fall. You’d told yourself it was casual, that you were in control. But now, standing in front of your friend with your heart exposed, you weren’t so sure anymore.
You scoffed, brushing off the tension with a shake of your head. “Why does it even matter?”
Your friend hesitated, her voice softer now, but still firm. “Because I care about you. I love seeing you happy, I do… but Max? He’s not exactly the type to settle down.”
That made you pause. Your brows drew together, confusion creeping in. “What do you mean? He’s literally perfect boyfriend material.”
She gave you a look—one of those quiet, knowing looks that made your stomach tighten. It wasn’t judgmental, but it wasn’t comforting either. “Yeah, maybe on paper. But Max doesn’t really do relationships. Not the real kind.”
You stared at her, unsure whether she was trying to protect you or poke holes in something you hadn’t even dared to define yet. Her words echoed in your mind, stirring up doubts you hadn’t wanted to face. Was she warning you? Or did she just not believe in what you had?
Either way, it stung. Because deep down, you already knew she might be right. And you hated that.
“I mean, he’s kind, sure—but he’s the type of guy whose career will always come first,” she said softly, her voice careful, like she was trying not to hurt you but knew she probably would.
Your chest tightened, a slow burn rising in your throat. You hated how much her words hit home—how they echoed thoughts you’d been trying to silence. Because deep down, you’d already felt it. In the way Max disappeared for days without warning. In the way he talked about racing like it was oxygen. You weren’t his priority. Not really.
Still, you managed a smile, thin and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me.”
The words felt wrong the moment they left your mouth. Like you were agreeing to something you didn’t want to believe. Or worse—like you were finally admitting the truth you’d been avoiding. That maybe, no matter how good it felt when you were with him, you were never going to be enough to compete with the thing he loved most.
───
max Sat 16.12 at 10:22 no good morning text?
max Sun 17.12 at 16:55 are you ignoring me? fr?
max Thu 21.12 at 14:44 still playing untouchable? so this is how it’s gonna be?
max Sun 24.12 at 17:16 if you’re done at least say it :)
max Fri 29.12 at 22:23 can you please talk to me? I don’t even know what I did
───
After weeks of dodging texts, avoiding places he might be, and convincing yourself you were over it, you ended up at another party. New Year’s Eve. Loud music, too many drinks, and the kind of crowd that made it easy to pretend you were fine. You wanted to forget—blur the last three weeks into something distant and meaningless. But even with bass thudding through your chest and laughter echoing around you, the ache lingered. You missed him. Stupidly, quietly, constantly.
You told yourself it was just habit. Just the way he’d slipped into your life and made it feel like something more. But deep down, you knew better. You still wondered where he was, what he was doing. If he ever thought about you the way you thought about him—late at night, when everything else was quiet.
Then, minutes before midnight, something shifted. A strange pull at the back of your neck, like gravity had changed direction. You felt it before you saw it.
Your eyes scanned the room, heart already racing—and then you saw him.
Max.
Leaning against the far wall, half-shadowed by the dim lights, his gaze locked on you. No smile. No teasing grin. Just that intense, unreadable stare that made your stomach knot instantly. He looked like he’d been standing there for a while. Watching. Waiting.
Your breath caught. What was he doing here? Was he looking for someone new to charm, someone else to fall for the same easy smile and quiet intensity that had pulled you in so fast? Or was he here for you?
Suddenly, the room felt too small, too loud, too heavy with everything you were trying to forget. You pushed through the crowd, heart pounding, desperate for fresh air—for distance. For anything that didn’t feel like Max’s eyes trailing you, burning into your back like a brand.
Even as you moved, you felt him behind you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to know. You didn’t have to look. You could feel it.
“Y/n!” His voice sliced through the music, low and firm, cutting through the chaos like it was meant only for you.
You didn’t stop. You shoved open the door and stumbled into the cold, the night air hitting your skin like a slap. Your breath came fast, sharp, clouding in front of you. You spun around, pulse racing, and the words flew out before you could think.
“What do you want, Max?”
It wasn’t just a question—it was everything you’d been holding back. The ache, the confusion, the anger. All of it, packed into five words.
Max stepped closer, hands buried deep in his pockets, his eyes locked onto yours—dark, intense, unreadable. “Three weeks,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “You just disappeared. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest, jaw clenched. The cold air bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat rising inside you. “I didn’t disappear,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I just… realized something.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Realized what?” he asked, low and controlled, but you could hear the tension beneath it—like he was holding back more than he was saying.
You snapped before you could stop yourself. “That you don’t do relationships, Max!” The words came out louder than you intended, sharp and raw. “When were you going to tell me? After I wasted more time pretending this meant something?”
His brows drew together, but instead of firing back, he let out a quiet scoff and stepped closer. “Is that really what you think?” he asked, voice quieter now. “That this—us—was just a waste of time?”
You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. You stood your ground, arms still crossed, even though your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “What else am I supposed to think?” you said, voice tight. “You never said what you wanted.”
His eyes softened, and for the first time, something in him cracked. His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “If I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be chasing you through a crowd, out into the freezing night, just to get you to look at me.”
And you did. You looked at him. Really looked. And for a moment, everything else faded—because maybe, just maybe, he meant it. Or maybe he didn’t.
Your chest tightened, his words slipping past your defenses like they belonged there. You hated how easily they got under your skin—how much truth they carried, even if you didn’t want to hear it.
“Stop twisting this,” you snapped, voice shaking with everything you’d been holding back. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew I’d fall for you, and you didn’t care.”
Max’s expression shifted, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “If I didn’t care,” he said quietly, “you’d have been just one night. Don’t you see it? You’re different. That’s why I don’t know what to do with you. That’s why you scare the hell out of me.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the countdown inside the party cut through the tension—muffled voices shouting, laughter rising.
Ten… nine… eight…
Max stepped closer, his hand lifting to your cheek with a gentleness that contradicted everything swirling between you. His thumb brushed your skin, tilting your face toward his. His breath was warm, his eyes locked onto yours like you were the only thing that mattered.
Three… two… one—
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw and aching and full of everything you’d tried to bury. You hated how much you needed it, how fast you melted into him, how the fireworks exploding overhead felt like nothing compared to the storm inside you. His lips were familiar and foreign all at once, and in that moment, the world narrowed to just him—just this.
And you let it.
───
The sunlight spilling through the curtains was too harsh, too unforgiving. It lit up the room like a spotlight on everything you didn’t want to feel. You sat at the edge of his bed, slipping your dress back over your head, fingers fumbling more than you’d admit. Max lay back against the pillows, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded but focused—watching you like he always did, like he saw more than you wanted him to.
You weren’t supposed to be here. Not again.
“So,” you said finally, voice low, cutting through the silence. “What now?”
He stretched, slow and careless, like the question didn’t carry weight. “We had fun,” he said, too easily. “That’s what matters.”
You stilled. The words hit harder than they should have, slicing through the fragile hope you hadn’t realized you were still holding onto. You turned to face him, heart thudding. “That’s it? Just fun?”
Max sighed, dragging a hand down his face, the first sign of tension cracking through his calm. “Y/n, don’t start—”
“No,” you cut in, voice sharp, throat tightening with everything you’d been holding back. “I need to know. Do you even want me? Or am I just something to pass the time between races?”
You hated how vulnerable it made you feel, hated that you cared this much. But you couldn’t keep pretending. Not when it felt like you were the only one falling.
For a moment, something shifted in his face—panic, maybe, or guilt. It was quick, but you saw it. He swung his legs off the bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and uneven. “You don’t get it. I’m not good at this. Relationships, feelings… I can’t give you what you want.”
You stared at him, heart thudding. He’d said the opposite in front of the club, hadn’t he? That night, under flashing lights and pounding music, he’d looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Had he meant it? Had you imagined it? You couldn’t tell anymore. You didn’t know who was losing grip on reality—him or you.
Your chest tightened, the ache settling deep. You’d braced for this, hadn’t you? Told yourself not to expect too much. And still, it hurt. “And what do I want, Max?” you asked, voice barely steady.
He didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed locked on yours, steady and sad. “More than I can ever be.”
The words landed like a final blow. Not cruel. Just honest. And somehow, that made it worse.
Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. His words echoed in your head, heavy and cruel in their honesty. “More than you can ever be?” you repeated, voice trembling before it broke into a shout. “God, Max, you make everything so fucking hard!”
He flinched, just barely, but didn’t move. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to fix it. His silence was deafening, and it only made the anger burn hotter in your chest.
“I gave you weeks—months—of my time, my trust, and this is what I get? You’re scared?” You laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and broken. “That’s your excuse?”
“Y/n—” he started, but you cut him off, voice raw and shaking.
“No. Don’t. Just don’t.”
You grabbed your bag from the floor, hands fumbling with the strap as your vision blurred with tears you didn’t want to shed. He stayed where he was, frozen on the bed, jaw clenched, eyes locked on you—but still, he didn’t move. Didn’t fight for you.
You paused at the door, one last glance over your shoulder, tears streaking down your cheeks. “Fuck you, Max,” you whispered, voice thick with heartbreak. “Honestly… fuck you!”
─── FEBRUARY 2024
Since you didn’t have a Valentine’s date, you ended up curled on the couch with a few single friends, a bowl of popcorn between you and a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. Twilight played on the TV, and you all took turns mocking the dramatic stares and questionable dialogue, laughter spilling easily into the room. It was the kind of night that felt safe—light, uncomplicated, the kind of comfort that came from being around people who didn’t expect anything from you except your presence.
For a while, it worked. You forgot about the ache in your chest, the unanswered texts, the silence that had stretched too long. You let yourself laugh, let yourself feel normal. But of course, someone had to ruin it.
“So… shouldn’t you be out celebrating with that Verstappen guy?”
The words dropped into the room like a stone, heavy and sharp. You froze for a second, popcorn halfway to your mouth, your smile faltering. Right. Him. The one you weren’t speaking to. Again.
You hesitated, words catching in your throat. “Yeah, well, about that—”
Before you could finish, another friend jumped in, grinning. “He’s so hot, though. Bet he’s romantic, too. You hit the jackpot, girl.”
You blinked at her, trying to summon a smile, but it didn’t quite land. If the jackpot meant constant miscommunication, emotional whiplash, and wondering where you stood every other week—then sure. You’d won big.
“We don’t really talk,” you said finally, voice low, the awkward smile tugging at your lips like it didn’t belong there.
“Again?” she asked, brows lifting. “What happened this time?”
You looked down at your drink, swirling it slowly, wishing the answer were simple. But it wasn’t. It was a mess of mixed signals, late-night confessions, and the kind of silence that said more than words ever could. And you weren’t sure how to explain any of that without sounding like you were still waiting for him to change.
“Uhm… we had a little disagreement on New Year’s,” you said, waving a hand like it was no big deal, even though your chest tightened just saying it out loud. It wasn’t little. It hadn’t felt little at all. But what were you supposed to say? That you’d screamed at each other in the cold, that you’d walked away with tears in your eyes and a heart full of questions?
“I’m sorry,” your friend said gently, her voice soft with sympathy. Then she offered a hopeful smile, the kind that made you feel worse instead of better. “But I’m sure you two will talk again in a few weeks. You always do.”
You nodded, but the words didn’t land. Not really. You wished you could believe that. Wished you hadn’t memorized the pattern of silence and apologies and almosts. Wished you didn’t still check your phone like it mattered.
And then, as if the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your phone buzzed.
Max.
Of course it was him. A Valentine’s text glowing on your screen like a cruel joke, like he knew exactly when to remind you he still existed. You stared at it for a second, heart thudding, then flipped the phone face down on the couch, burying it beneath a throw pillow like that would erase the ache.
max Wed 14.2 at 21:09 happy valentine’s schat. wish you were here with me
You turned back to your friend with a weak smile, forcing yourself to laugh at whatever joke she’d just made. Pretending nothing had happened. Pretending you weren’t unraveling, one message at a time.
─── MARCH 2024
Since you didn’t have a Valentine’s date, you ended up curled on the couch with a few single friends, a bowl of popcorn between you and a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. Twilight played on the TV, and you all took turns mocking the dramatic stares and questionable dialogue, laughter spilling easily into the room. It was the kind of night that felt safe—light, uncomplicated, the kind of comfort that came from being around people who didn’t expect anything from you except your presence.
For a while, it worked. You forgot about the ache in your chest, the unanswered texts, the silence that had stretched too long. You let yourself laugh, let yourself feel normal. But of course, someone had to ruin it.
“So… shouldn’t you be out celebrating with that Verstappen guy?”
The words dropped into the room like a stone, heavy and sharp. You froze for a second, popcorn halfway to your mouth, your smile faltering. Right. Him. The one you weren’t speaking to. Again.
You hesitated, words catching in your throat. “Yeah, well, about that—”
Before you could finish, another friend jumped in, grinning. “He’s so hot, though. Bet he’s romantic, too. You hit the jackpot, girl.”
You blinked at her, trying to summon a smile, but it didn’t quite land. If the jackpot meant constant miscommunication, emotional whiplash, and wondering where you stood every other week—then sure. You’d won big.
“We don’t really talk,” you said finally, voice low, the awkward smile tugging at your lips like it didn’t belong there.
“Again?” she asked, brows lifting. “What happened this time?”
You looked down at your drink, swirling it slowly, wishing the answer were simple. But it wasn’t. It was a mess of mixed signals, late-night confessions, and the kind of silence that said more than words ever could. And you weren’t sure how to explain any of that without sounding like you were still waiting for him to change.
“Uhm… we had a little disagreement on New Year’s,” you said, waving a hand like it was no big deal, even though your chest tightened just saying it out loud. It wasn’t little. It hadn’t felt little at all. But what were you supposed to say? That you’d screamed at each other in the cold, that you’d walked away with tears in your eyes and a heart full of questions?
“I’m sorry,” your friend said gently, her voice soft with sympathy. Then she offered a hopeful smile, the kind that made you feel worse instead of better. “But I’m sure you two will talk again in a few weeks. You always do.”
You nodded, but the words didn’t land. Not really. You wished you could believe that. Wished you hadn’t memorized the pattern of silence and apologies and almosts. Wished you didn’t still check your phone like it mattered.
And then, as if the universe had a twisted sense of humor, your phone buzzed.
Max.
Of course it was him. A Valentine’s text glowing on your screen like a cruel joke, like he knew exactly when to remind you he still existed. You stared at it for a second, heart thudding, then flipped the phone face down on the couch, burying it beneath a throw pillow like that would erase the ache.
You turned back to your friend with a weak smile, forcing yourself to laugh at whatever joke she’d just made. Pretending nothing had happened. Pretending you weren’t unraveling, one message at a time.
───
You were wrapping up the last few emails, the soft glow of sunset spilling across your desk in streaks of gold and rose. The quiet felt earned—like a fragile kind of peace you hadn’t tasted in weeks. Max hadn’t reached out in over a month, and for once, your heart wasn’t constantly bracing for the next emotional ambush. Life felt still. Manageable. Yours.
And then the silence cracked.
“Y/n!”
Your breath caught. That voice. You knew it instantly—deep, familiar, threaded with urgency. It was the kind of voice that lived in your bones, the kind you could never mistake.
But you wanted to. You wanted to believe it was a trick of memory, a cruel echo conjured by your mind. A hallucination born from too many sleepless nights and unresolved feelings.
“Y/n!”
Louder this time. Real.
You stood slowly, legs stiff, heart thudding against your ribs. You moved toward the window, each step heavy with dread and something else—something dangerously close to hope. You leaned forward, eyes scanning the street below, and there he was.
You peeked through the window and froze. There he was—Max, standing in the soft haze of the fading light, a bouquet of lilies clutched in his hands. Your favorite. Of course he remembered.
For a moment, everything stilled. The hum of the city, the quiet rustle of leaves, even the golden sky seemed to pause, like the universe was holding its breath. You wanted to be angry. You should’ve been. After everything, after the silence, after the way he’d left you to pick up the pieces alone. But something in you faltered. That familiar ache, the pull toward him that never fully disappeared, stirred again. The memory of his touch, the way he made the world feel electric and immediate—it all came rushing back, uninvited.
“You shouldn’t be here, Max,” you said, blinking fast, trying to convince yourself he wasn’t real. But he was. Still standing there. Still holding those damn flowers.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, voice low, threaded with urgency. “I want to apologize.”
You stared at him, heart thudding, mind racing. God, he knew exactly how to do this—how to show up just when you were starting to breathe again. You wanted to slam the door. You wanted to scream. You wanted to remind him of every time he’d made you feel small, uncertain, disposable.
But instead, something inside you shifted. Not forgiveness. Not surrender. Just a quiet, exhausted kind of curiosity. A need to hear what he had to say, even if it broke you again.
“Door’s open,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
The knock came a second later—soft, tentative, like he was afraid you’d change your mind and leave him standing in the hallway with nothing but regret and a handful of flowers. You stood there, hand resting on the knob, heart thudding against your ribs as your mind raced through every reason not to open the door. Not again. Not after everything.
But you did.
And there he was, bathed in the last light of day, hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times, a bouquet of lilies held awkwardly in his grip. The scent of his cologne drifted toward you, sharp and familiar, and it hit you like a memory—dangerous in how easily it unraveled everything you’d tried to hold together.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough, like the word had scraped its way out of him. He lifted the flowers slightly, a silent offering, his eyes scanning your face like he was searching for permission to speak, to stay, to be forgiven.
You hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing his as you took the bouquet. The lilies were soft, delicate against your skin—but his touch was fire. Too much. Too little. Just enough to make your chest ache.
“Max,” you began, your voice steadier than you felt. You had rehearsed this moment in your head—had built a fortress of reasons, of truths, of all the ways he’d let you down. You were ready to remind him of the silence, the confusion, the way life had felt simpler without him in it.
But before you could say a word, he stepped inside, closing the space between you like he belonged there.
“I know I fucked up,” he said, the words low and deliberate, like he’d practiced them a hundred times. His eyes didn’t waver. “I should’ve told you the truth. I should’ve been better. But I can’t—” He stopped, jaw clenched, breath shaky. “I can’t stay away from you.”
The confession hung in the air, thick and intoxicating. You hated how it made your pulse race, how it cracked open the part of you that had tried so hard to heal. His words were half apology, half addiction—and all him. The version of him you could never quite quit.
And God help you, you were already softening, already imagining what it would feel like to let him in completely this time, even though you knew exactly how it would end.
“Max, I—” you began, but the words tangled in your throat, caught somewhere between fury and longing. You wanted to scream, to cry, to tell him to leave and never come back. But you also wanted to reach for him, to feel the heat of his skin and the way he made everything else disappear.
He shook his head, stepping closer, his voice low and urgent. “I can’t give you what you want. Not the whole relationship thing. I’m not wired for it. But—” his gaze swept over your face, softening at the edges—“I can give you more than anyone else ever will. The nights. The moments. That fire between us… You feel it too. I know you do.”
Your breath hitched. He was close enough now that you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his mouth curved when he spoke, the familiar tilt of his head that used to make you melt. Every inch of him was dangerous—because every inch of him still felt like home.
“You deserve someone steady,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Someone who shows up. Someone who doesn’t make you question everything. But I’m not that guy. I can’t be. I can only be this—me and you, when it’s good. And when it’s good…” He paused, eyes locked on yours. “It’s fucking everything.”
It was twisted. Raw. Honest. And still, not enough.
Your lips parted, but the words refused to come. You wanted to tell him to leave, to turn around and take his chaos with him. You wanted to protect the fragile quiet you’d spent weeks rebuilding, the walls you’d stacked brick by brick around your heart. But instead, you just stood there—frozen, breath shallow, the lilies trembling in your grip like they knew what was coming.
Because he was right. Damn him, he was right.
When it was good, it was everything. The nights where his touch felt like lightning, where the world narrowed to just the two of you. The mornings where he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. You hated how much you missed it. Missed him. And now, standing inches apart, you realized just how deep that ache still ran.
A shaky laugh escaped your lips, brittle and tired. You shook your head, as if denial could rewrite the truth. “You’re impossible,” you murmured, voice barely holding together.
He smirked, that familiar flicker of relief lighting up his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, stepping closer, “but you like me anyway.”
You should’ve said no. Should’ve slammed the door, locked it, buried the key. Should’ve reminded him that words weren’t enough anymore.
“I’m free this weekend,” he said after a beat, like the tension hadn’t just cracked open everything between you. “Let’s go to Spain. Just…us. No distractions.”
It wasn’t an apology. Not even close. It was another invitation into his world, another promise wrapped in charm and uncertainty. But when his eyes met yours—bright, burning, full of something that felt too much like hope—you felt your resistance falter.
And just like that, the walls you’d built began to crumble. Again.
Your throat tightened, the weight of every past mistake pressing against your ribs. You knew better. You knew how this story unraveled—how it always ended with you picking up the pieces while he disappeared into the noise of his world. But now, with him standing so close, eyes steady, the lilies between you like a fragile promise… how could you turn away?
Your lips lifted into the smallest, most dangerous smile. “I’d love that,” you whispered, the words slipping out like a secret you weren’t ready to admit. They tasted like surrender, like hope dressed in denial.
His face lit up, and it hit you hard—how easily he could still make your chest ache with just a look. Max leaned in, brushing his lips gently over your temple, the gesture tender, familiar, devastating. His hand found the small of your back like it belonged there, like it had never left.
“Good,” he murmured, voice low and warm, laced with that quiet confidence that always made you forget your better judgment. “Then it’s settled.”
───
Here you were—on a golden stretch of beach in Spain, the sun draping itself over your skin like a warm, lazy blanket. The waves lapped gently at the shore, and the air smelled like salt and sunscreen. Max Verstappen, of all people, was a few meters out in the water, splashing around with dramatic flair, arms flailing as he pretended to be a mermaid. A very unconvincing one.
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, soft and amused, as you lifted a hand to shield your eyes from the glare. He was ridiculous. Infuriating. Impossible. And somehow, still the person who made your heart twist in ways you didn’t know how to stop.
God. You really wished you could say no to him.
But here you were—watching him play in the surf like a kid, your towel warm beneath you, your chest aching with something that felt dangerously close to love.
No, no, no. Not love. You couldn’t let yourself go there. Not with him. Not again.
But then Max came striding out of the water, droplets cascading down his skin, sunlight catching on every curve of muscle and mischief. His hair was a wet mess, sticking to his forehead, and he looked utterly unbothered—like he hadn’t just shattered your peace a few weeks ago. He grabbed the towel next to you and dropped onto it with a dramatic sigh, water soaking into the fabric as he sprawled out beside you.
“We should build a sandcastle,” he announced, voice bright and boyish, like this was the most natural suggestion in the world.
You turned your head slowly, raising an eyebrow, lips twitching despite yourself. “Are we six?” you asked, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it.
He shrugged, already scooping up a handful of sand, letting it trickle through his fingers like he was testing its quality. “Six-year-olds have it figured out,” he said, grinning. “No drama. Just castles and sunshine and snacks.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile lingered. He was ridiculous. Absolutely impossible. And somehow, that was exactly what made him so hard to walk away from. Even now, with the sun warming your skin and the sea stretching endlessly before you, he was the only thing pulling your focus. The only thing that made your heart beat just a little faster.
The afternoon sun hung heavy in the sky, casting a golden haze over the beach as waves rolled in with lazy rhythm behind you. You sat cross-legged in the sand, grains clinging to your skin and hair, already half-buried in the mess of your own failed attempts at architecture. Beside you, Max crouched like he was preparing for a qualifying lap—intense, focused, completely absorbed in the task of building a sandcastle like it was some kind of championship.
“This has to be the most serious I’ve ever seen you outside a car,” you teased, shaping a lopsided mound with your hands, watching it crumble slightly at the edges.
Max glanced over, brow furrowed like a man on a mission. “That’s because you’re doing it wrong,” he said, scooping up a handful of damp sand. He packed it tightly between his palms, then released it with precision into a perfect, compact block. It stood firm, smugly defying gravity.
“Show-off,” you muttered, trying to mimic his technique. But the moment you lifted your hand, your tower gave up on life and collapsed into a sad pile. You groaned, flopping back onto your elbows.
His laugh was low and smug, the kind that made your cheeks flush even though you weren’t sure why. “Maybe sand engineering isn’t your calling.”
You rolled your eyes, scanning the area until you spotted a brightly colored plastic bucket abandoned a few feet away. “Fine,” you said, crawling over to grab it. “If we’re doing this, I’m using proper tools.”
You filled it with damp sand, packed it down like your life depended on it, then flipped it upside down with theatrical flair. You lifted it slowly, holding your breath—and when the perfect turret emerged, you grinned like you’d just won a Grand Prix.
“Ha,” you said, triumphant. “Who’s the engineer now?”
Max squinted at your freshly built tower, then leaned in with a mischievous glint in his eye and tapped it—just once—with the tip of his finger. The whole thing crumbled instantly.
“MAX!” you shrieked, lunging at him with both hands and shoving him so hard he nearly toppled backward into the sand. He burst out laughing, shoulders shaking, his hair now a mess of salt and sand as he tried to brush it off with zero success.
“That was sabotage!” you cried, scooping up a handful of sand and launching it toward him with dramatic flair.
He caught your wrist mid-throw, his grip firm but gentle, and suddenly everything stilled. The waves behind you seemed to hush, the gulls overhead paused mid-cry, and all you could feel was the warmth of his sandy fingers wrapped around yours. His eyes met yours—soft, unreadable, and far too close.
“You’re dangerous with that,” he murmured, voice low and quiet, almost tender.
You swallowed hard, pulse skipping, and yanked your hand back before your thoughts could spiral into places you weren’t ready to revisit. “Fine,” you said, brushing sand off your knees. “Truce. Let’s just build this damn castle.”
He chuckled, but didn’t push. Instead, he settled beside you, and the two of you worked in companionable silence. You shaped lopsided towers, carved moats with your fingers, and decorated the edges with scattered shells and bits of seaweed. It was messy, uneven, and completely ridiculous—but when you leaned back and looked at it, you couldn’t help but smile.
“Well, it’s not that bad,” you said, tilting your head as you surveyed the crooked towers and uneven moat. It was messy, sure—but it had character. And somehow, it felt like more than just sand.
Max leaned back beside you, brushing grains off his hands. “We make a good team,” he said, glancing over with that easy smile that always made your chest tighten.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let your gaze linger on the castle, on the shells you’d placed like tiny flags of triumph. And then, like a whisper threading through your thoughts, you remembered what he’d said not long ago—when it’s good, it’s everything.
And maybe, just maybe, this was one of those moments.
───
You sat across from Max in the fancy restaurant he picked for your last night together. The lights were soft, the table looked perfect, and people around you were talking quietly, smiling, holding hands. It should’ve felt romantic. But something didn’t feel right. Just yesterday, you were laughing on the beach, building sandcastles like kids. Now, you were quiet, staring at the menu, pretending to read while your thoughts ran wild.
You looked at the menu again, not because you didn’t know what to order, but because you didn’t know what to say. Then you heard a girl’s voice from the table nearby. She was smiling, holding her boyfriend’s hand. “I love you so much. We should go to Italy next!” she said, full of excitement.
Your chest tightened. You glanced at Max, then pointed toward the couple. “See? That’s what normal couples do,” you said, hoping he’d understand. Hoping he’d see what you wanted. It was right there—so close, yet somehow still out of reach.
Max looked up for a second, then back down at his menu. “We’re not like them,” he said with a shrug.
You frowned. “Why not?”
He paused, then said, “Because we’re… us. We’re different.” He said it too fast, too flat. Like he’d practiced it. Like it was something he told himself to avoid the truth.
Your heart started to race. “Different how?” you asked, your voice rising before you could stop it. “Because you don’t want to hold my hand in public? Or because I’m not your girlfriend?”
Max exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening like he was holding back something sharp. “You know I don’t do labels.”
You let out a bitter laugh, the sound scraping against your throat as you slammed the menu shut. “You don’t do labels, you don’t do commitment, you don’t do anything that feels even remotely real. So tell me, Max—what do you do?”
Your voice was louder than you meant it to be, but you didn’t care. You were tired. Tired of dancing around the truth, tired of pretending this was enough. You looked at him, and all you saw was someone who kept you close enough to feel wanted but far enough to never feel safe.
He met your gaze, eyes flashing with frustration. “I do what I can,” he snapped. “I give you everything I have. And somehow, that’s still not enough for you.”
You blinked, stunned by how quickly he turned it around. Everything? You wanted to laugh again, but this time it felt more like crying. You never asked for fancy dinners or expensive gifts. You didn’t want grand gestures or perfect dates. You just wanted to be loved. Fully. Deeply. Not just in the quiet moments when no one else was watching.
“It’s not!” The words ripped out of you, raw and loud, like they’d been waiting too long to be said. Heads turned. A waiter paused mid-step. But you didn’t care. “God, Max, it’s never enough.”
He stared at you, lips parted like he wanted to argue, but no words came. And that silence—his silence—was the loudest answer of all.
Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. Why are you always the one who feels too much? Why do you keep hoping he’ll change, when deep down you know he won’t?
So you did the only thing you could. You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor, and walked away. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you didn’t stop. You needed space. You needed air. You needed to remember who you were before him.
Behind you, the couple from earlier laughed again, their joy ringing out like a cruel reminder of everything you wanted and everything he refused to be.
─── AUGUST 2024
You felt alone.
Maybe because you were. Again.
It had been five months since Spain. Five months since the laughter on the beach, since the sandcastle that felt like a metaphor for everything fragile between you. Five months since the fight that cracked it all open. Since Max. Neither of you had reached out. No apology. No message. Just silence. Pride? Fear? You weren’t sure anymore what was keeping you apart—only that it had won.
The worst part was how familiar it all felt. The cycle had etched itself into your bones: things were good, until they weren’t. You’d argue, vanish from each other’s lives, then somehow drift back like gravity had a say in it. You knew it wasn’t healthy. You knew you should’ve walked away for good. But maybe… maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe the pain felt safer than the emptiness.
And these past few months? They’d been hell. Family falling apart. Work piling up. The kind of stress that made your hands shake and your chest feel like it was caving in. You kept telling yourself you were strong enough to handle it. But tonight, you weren’t.
So here you were. Standing outside Max Verstappen’s door, eyes swollen, heart aching with something you didn’t dare name. You hadn’t planned to come. You hadn’t even meant to walk this far. But somehow, your feet had brought you here—like they remembered something your mind was trying to forget.
Was it weak? Maybe. Was it foolish? Probably.
You stared down at your hands, then up at the door, then at the bell. You shouldn’t be here. You knew that. But something inside you—tired, aching, and quietly desperate—believed he might be the only person who wouldn’t turn you away. You clung to that hope like a lifeline.
Your finger hovered, trembling, before you pressed the bell.
The door opened faster than you expected, and there Max was. His eyes widened the moment he saw you, his expression flickering from surprise to something softer, something that looked a lot like worry. “Y/n?” he said, voice rough, like it hadn’t been used in hours.
You didn’t mean to speak, but the words spilled out anyway. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
And then everything inside you cracked. The tears came fast, hot and uncontrollable, your body folding under the weight you’d been carrying alone for far too long. Max didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him like he’d been waiting—like he knew you might break and was ready to catch every piece.
You buried your face in his shoulder, sobs shaking through you, soaking into his shirt. The scent of him hit you instantly—familiar, grounding, maddening. It brought back everything you’d tried to forget and everything you still missed. His hand slid gently over the back of your head, thumb brushing softly, and he whispered something low, something you couldn’t quite hear but felt anyway.
“I’m sorry, Max,” you gasped between breaths, the words scraping out of you, raw and jagged and real.
You clung to him like he was the last steady thing in a world that kept slipping through your fingers. For a while, he let you. Max held you close, his arms firm around your shaking frame, letting you cry until the sobs turned into quiet tremors. His hand moved slowly over your back, grounding you, his warmth familiar in a way that made your heart ache. It felt safe. Not entirely—but enough to make you forget, just for a moment, how broken you felt.
“Hey,” he whispered, lowering his head until his cheek brushed against your hair. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”
And for a moment, you let yourself believe him. You wanted to. You wanted to fall into him, to pretend that maybe this time he meant it. That maybe this time he wouldn’t let you down. You wanted to believe that the way he held you meant something more than comfort—that it meant he still cared, that he still saw you.
But then his arms loosened. He pulled back just enough to see your face, and you felt the shift before he even spoke. The warmth started to slip away, replaced by something colder, more careful.
His eyes met yours—gentle, but guarded. “Y/n… I need to be honest with you.”
Your stomach twisted, a slow, sinking feeling spreading through your chest. You knew that voice. That careful tone. The one that always came after comfort, like a warning wrapped in softness. The one that meant something was about to hurt. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to hear.
“You can’t keep coming back like this,” Max said, his voice quieter now, almost worn down. Like he wasn’t the one who had stood at your door a dozen times before, eyes soft, words sweet. Like he hadn’t been the one to pull you back every time you finally found the strength to walk away.
“Coming back?” You let out a bitter laugh through your tears, your chest tightening as the words spilled out. “Max, you’re the one who always shows up. With flowers. With apologies. With promises you never keep. And I—God, I keep believing you. Every single time.”
His eyes flickered, guilt etched deep in the crease between his brows. But he didn’t move toward you. He just stood there, arms crossed, like he had to physically stop himself from reaching out. Like he knew if he touched you now, it would only make things worse.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he said at last, voice low and clipped, each word landing like a final blow. “I won’t. I wish I could.”
Your breath caught. The truth hit harder than you expected. “You could’ve said this ten months ago!” you shouted, the pain rising in your throat. “Do you even realize we’ve spent more time apart than together?”
Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “But no—you always show up when I’m finally okay. When I’m healing. Like you know. Like you feel it somehow and come back just in time to ruin it.”
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything at all.
“God, Max, I can’t. Like seriously. This is so toxic. I’m done.” Your voice cracked, but you pushed the words out anyway, like tearing off something that had clung too long to your skin. It hurt. But not as much as staying.
Max leaned back against the counter, arms folded, and let out that crooked, bitter laugh—the one that always made you feel small. “You say this every time.”
It hit you like a slap. Not because it was new, but because he didn’t even flinch. He wasn’t trying to stop you. He wasn’t trying at all. Just standing there, mocking the pattern like it was some joke you both kept telling. Like your pain was predictable.
“That’s because you keep giving me reasons to leave!” you snapped, voice rising, tears stinging your eyes. “And I keep being stupid enough to come back.”
His smirk faltered. Just for a second. You saw it—the flicker of guilt, of something real. But he buried it fast, lifting a brow like none of it mattered. Like you didn’t matter.
“I can’t do this anymore, Max,” you whispered, the fight draining out of you. “You don’t love me. You don’t even want to try.”
The silence that followed was brutal. Thick. Final. You waited—just for a heartbeat—for him to say something, to reach for you, to prove you wrong.
But he didn’t.
He just shrugged, eyes dull, voice flat. “Maybe you’re right.”
And that? That was the moment everything inside you snapped. Because he didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t say he loved you. He didn’t say anything that mattered.
What did you expect—from someone known as the coldest, most ruthless driver on the grid? It felt foolish now, thinking he’d treat you differently. That behind closed doors, he’d be softer. Kinder. Yours.
“Are you fucking mental, Max?!” you shouted, your voice ricocheting off the walls. Your hands trembled at your sides, adrenaline burning through your veins. “It’s over. Like over—forever.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stood there, jaw locked, eyes sharp and unreadable, like he was watching a race he’d already decided not to finish.
“Okay,” he said. Just that. Flat. Final. Like the word didn’t gut you. Like it wasn’t the cruelest thing he could’ve said.
Your breath hitched. No protest. No apology. No reaching for you. Just… okay.
Something inside you shut down. A door slammed. A light went out. If he wasn’t going to fight for you, then you sure as hell weren’t going to keep bleeding for him.
You grabbed your coat, the silence between you louder than any argument you’d ever had. With one last shattered glance—one he didn’t bother to return—you turned and walked out.
Just like you always did.
─── ONE YEAR LATER , AUGUST 2025
Over the past year, everything had shifted—mostly for the better. You had a new job that didn’t drain you, a routine that felt like stability instead of survival, and a new boyfriend, Theo. He was steady, kind, the kind of person who showed up when he said he would. Nothing like Max. Life had become quieter, simpler, safer.
And yet—Max.
His name still slipped into your thoughts sometimes, uninvited. Like a shadow that passed too quickly to catch, but lingered just long enough to remind you it was still there. The ache wasn’t sharp anymore, not like it used to be. But it hadn’t disappeared. It had just settled deeper, quieter. You still wondered—what he was doing, if he ever thought of you, if he remembered the things only you two had shared.
Every now and then, you and Theo would watch Formula 1. Not because you loved racing, but because it was impossible to avoid. Max’s name would flash across the screen, his face lit up on the podium, and Theo would casually mention he was his favorite driver. You’d nod, smile, pretend it didn’t sting. But inside, something twisted. Because even now, even after everything, watching Max—seeing that fire in his eyes, the way he stood like he owned the world—still made your heart clench.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were happy now. That you’d moved on. And in most ways, you had. But no matter how good things were, no matter how many layers of peace you wrapped around yourself, there was still a small, stubborn part of you that belonged to Max.
And maybe it always would.
“See you tomorrow,” Theo said, halfway through the door, leaning back to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. It was gentle, familiar, the kind of goodbye that came with comfort and certainty.
“See ya,” you replied with a soft smile, closing the door behind him. The apartment fell quiet immediately, the kind of quiet that felt peaceful rather than lonely. You let out a slow breath, already thinking about how you’d spend the evening—maybe a warm shower, maybe a movie, maybe just lying on the couch doing absolutely nothing. It was supposed to be a calm night. You were ready for that.
Then the doorbell rang.
You frowned, confused. Theo must’ve forgotten something. Maybe his phone, maybe his wallet. You chuckled to yourself and walked over, already reaching for the handle with a lighthearted sigh.
But when you opened the door, everything stopped.
It wasn’t Theo.
It was Max.
Max?
Your heart dropped so fast it felt like your whole body locked up. Without thinking, you slammed the door shut again, pressing your back against it like you could block out what you’d just seen. Your mind raced. No. No way. No fucking way. You hadn’t seen him in months. You hadn’t even heard his name out loud in weeks. And now he was here?
The bell rang again. This time louder. Sharper. More urgent.
Your hands shook as you reached for the knob again. Slowly, you opened the door, half expecting him to be gone. Half hoping you’d imagined it.
But he was still there.
Max stood in the hallway, swaying slightly, his eyes glassy and unfocused. His jacket hung off one shoulder like he hadn’t bothered to fix it, and the faint smell of alcohol clung to him like a fog. He looked tired. Messy. Not like the Max you remembered—but still him. And his mouth curled into a crooked smile, one that looked more desperate than confident.
“What. The. Fuck,” you said, the words falling out of your mouth before you could stop them. You stared at him, stunned, trying to make sense of what was happening.
“Y/n,” he said, voice cracked and rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. “I had to see you.”
“Max?” Your voice cracked as you said his name, your mind struggling to catch up with what your eyes were seeing. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him up. His eyes moved slowly over your face, then past you, into the apartment. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice was low and bitter. “So it’s true, huh?”
You blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re with him,” Max said, the words sharp and heavy. “Theo.” He said the name like it tasted wrong, like it physically hurt to say it. “I saw you. Kissing him. Just now.”
You stared at him, stunned. “You were watching me?”
He let out a short, humorless laugh and ran a shaky hand through his messy hair. “Didn’t have to. You opened the door with his kiss still fresh on your lips.”
Your chest tightened, anger rising fast. “So what, Max? You left. We ended. You don’t get to be jealous.”
His eyes flickered, and for a second, you saw something raw underneath the haze—hurt, maybe even regret. But it was buried under the alcohol and the chaos in his voice. “Jealous?” he said, stepping closer, his voice louder now, less steady. “I’m fucking losing my mind, Y/n. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t stand the idea of you with him. Or anyone. It should’ve been me. It’s always been me.”
You stood frozen, heart pounding, unsure whether to scream or cry or slam the door again. Because part of you wanted to believe him. And part of you knew better.
“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice tight and trembling, because this—this—was exactly what he did. He always came back when it was too late, when everything was already broken, when the damage had sunk too deep to fix. “You don’t get to say that now.”
Max’s face crumpled, and for a moment, he didn’t look like the cold, composed man the world saw on podiums and behind the wheel. He looked wrecked. His eyes were glassy, his shoulders slumped, and when he spoke, his voice cracked like something inside him had finally split open. “I love you. Fuck, I love you, and I don’t know how to do this without you.”
The words hit you hard—like a punch to the chest. You wanted to scream at him, to tell him it wasn’t enough, that he should’ve said it months ago, when you were still waiting, still hoping. You wanted to tell him he should’ve said it sober, clearly, without the haze of alcohol and regret. But instead, your throat closed up, and tears stung your eyes. You hated the way your resolve wavered, hated how easily the sight of him unraveling pulled at the part of you that still remembered loving him.
“I always loved you,” he said, voice low and broken. “But I’m just a fucking idiot who couldn’t say it. Not to you. Not even to myself.”
You shook your head slowly, not in denial, but in painful agreement. Because you knew. You’d always known. That was the tragedy of it—he loved you, but never enough to choose you when it mattered.
“Max, I—” you started, but the words caught. You didn’t know what came next. You didn’t know if there was a next.
“I know his touches don’t feel like mine. I know you still think about me—because I still think about you,” Max said, his voice low and uneven, breaking in places he usually kept locked away. It wasn’t the voice of the man the world saw—confident, sharp, untouchable. This was something else. Something raw.
And the worst part? He was right.
Theo wasn’t Max. He never could be. Theo was gentle, dependable, the kind of man who made life feel calm. But Max… Max was fire. He was chaos. He was the storm you kept walking into, even when you knew it would tear you apart. And maybe that was the truth you didn’t want to admit—you weren’t built for quiet. You were built for the burn.
Max stepped closer, his eyes locked on yours, filled with something desperate and pleading. “I swear to you, I’ll fix myself. I’ll do whatever it takes. Because you—” his voice cracked, and he swallowed hard—“you are the only thing that matters.”
You didn’t let him finish.
You couldn’t.
The ache in your chest was too loud, drowning out every logical thought, every warning you’d rehearsed. You reached up, grabbed his face with both hands, and kissed him—hard. Like you’d been holding your breath for months. Like you’d been starving for this exact moment and didn’t care what came after.
His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and for a few seconds, the world disappeared. There was no Theo. No past. No pain. Just Max. Just the fire. Just the part of you that had never stopped wanting him.
His lips met yours in a rush—messy, urgent, like he’d been holding back for far too long. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was raw, full of everything he hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t let yourself feel. You pushed him back against the door, his hands already gripping your waist, pulling you closer like he couldn’t stand even an inch between you.
“God,” he breathed against your mouth, voice shaky and full of need. “I missed you.”
You pulled back just enough to press your forehead to his, your breath mingling with his. “I missed you too,” you whispered, the words barely holding together under the weight of everything they meant.
Then you kissed him again—harder this time. Fiercer. Like the months apart had built a pressure that was finally breaking loose. Your hands tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel him, to remind yourself he was real. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tight, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything you hadn’t said. Every fight. Every regret. Every moment you’d spent pretending you didn’t still want him. Every touch was a silent apology. Every breath was a plea.
And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the past. Not the pain. Just the two of you, colliding again like you always did—reckless, inevitable, and completely undone.
You’d seen him at his worst. You’d felt the sting of every broken promise, every moment he chose silence over truth. But this—this felt different. Not perfect. Not fixed. But maybe… maybe the beginning of something better.
And even though your heart still carried the bruises, even though your mind screamed to be cautious, you couldn’t help but wonder if this time, he meant it. If this time, he’d fight for you the way you always fought for him.
babsie radio ! so here it is!!!! only bara can make the biggest angst as comeback 😇 whatever…. I mean, it’s based on true events cuz I lived through this for past year (I stretched the timeline in fanfic) and if this fic feels repetitive, it’s because it is repetitive… but yeah we are not here to yap about my situationship 😭 hope u enjoy it and forgive me for the ending 👹
taglist. @haniette @plantlover28 @lgl2003 @gripitlikelando @jenxjar @gossenabitur @chuusussss @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane @basicchelsea @sparklepiastri @in-need-of-leclerc xx (if u wanna be added or removed, comment or let me know into my inbox)
warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), pet names (sunshine, love), family tension, miscommunication, academic pressure, themes of separation (long-distance relationship), emotional vulnerability, quarreling, kissing.
music. cigarettes after sex — sweet, the kid laroi — all i want is you
summary: what started as a forbidden crush grew into a love strong enough to outlast family quarrels, distance, and years of waiting. from whispered calls in dorm rooms to reunions that feel like home, they stumble through obstacles—yet always choose each other again and again. because once you’ve tried the taste of forbidden, nothing compares to the sweetest taste of love they shared.
a/n: HOLY MOLY. i didn't expect the previous parts to have such feedback, thank you guys so much! now, finally, the heavily requested, third (and probably last) part of this saga :') if you haven't read the previous parts, you can find them here <3 tbh i LOVED writing this one, so i hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
The silence was deafening.
It had been weeks since the truth slipped out, and Max found out about your secret. Weeks since his name last lit up your phone screen. He had been dead silent ever since. No calls, no replies, no stupid memes at 2 AM that used to make you laugh until your stomach hurt. Every message you sent was left hanging in the void, unread or left on seen. And the longer it went on, the more the silence stopped being just silence and started to feel more like a punishment.
Max had always been a pain in the ass, but he was also your best friend. The person you leaned on for everything, whether you wanted to admit it or not. And now? It was as if he’d vanished. Or even worse—like he’d slammed a door shut and locked it from the other side, leaving you there, whispering for him to let you back in.
The ache of it sat in your chest like a stone. You remembered the moment everything cracked.
The bloody “see you later <3” text you’d sent to Lando that night had finally turned into a knock on his apartment door. You came in smiling, hair still a bit damp from your shower, still warm from the glow of anticipation. Every time you saw him, it was like stepping into the only place in the world that made sense.
But that night was different. He wasn’t waiting for you with open arms or his boyish grin. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. His leg bounced restlessly, a blur of nervous energy, and the second his eyes lifted to meet yours, your stomach dropped.
“Lan?” You said softly, shutting the door behind you. The smile you’d worn faltered when he didn’t move, nor did he say anything. “What’s wrong?”
Lando swallowed, his throat tight, and you saw it—the guilt written plain across his face. “Max knows.” His voice cracked low, quiet but heavy enough to shatter you. “He found out about us and our relationship.”
Your breath left you in one sharp exhale. “What—” You blinked, stepping forward like you hadn’t heard him right. “What do you mean? Did you tell him?”
His hands raked through his curls, tugging at them like he could rip the tension out by the roots. “He cornered me, okay? He asked, and I couldn’t lie to his face anymore. He knew something was up, and he wouldn’t let it go. And I just—” He exhaled harshly, leaning back against the couch cushions. “I couldn’t keep pretending like we’re not a real thing.”
Your pulse was pounding so hard it was all you could hear. “And what did he say?” The silence that followed was answer enough.
“Lando,” You pressed, your voice sharper, your hands trembling where they curled into fists at your sides. “What did Max say?”
He looked up at you then, his eyes raw, haunted. “He lost it. Said I betrayed him, that I manipulated you, and that you were off-limits.” His jaw clenched, voice dropping to something harsher. “He aid I wasn’t allowed to love you.”
The words struck like a slap, making your eyes sting. You stumbled back a step, clutching your arms around yourself as though the walls had suddenly gone cold.
“I’m sorry, Sunshine,” He whispered, standing slowly, carefully, like you might break if he moved too fast. His hand reached for yours, but stopped halfway, hovering. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
You stared at him, lips parted, but the ache swelling in your throat stole the words. All you could manage was a choked, “Lando… Max probably hates me now.”
“No, he doesn’t hate you,” Lando said firmly, finally closing the distance and catching your hands in his. His grip was warm, steady, anchoring. “He’s just— angry and shocked. But he’ll calm down.”
But even as he said it, you saw the doubt flicker in his eyes.
You blinked yourself back into the present with a heavy sigh, staring at the half-open suitcase on your bed. Clothes were shoved in without thought—sweaters balled up, jeans wrinkled, shoes tossed on top in a pile. You were supposed to feel excited about finally going to college, but instead, all you felt was hollow.
Max still hadn’t called.
You picked up a pair of sneakers, turned them over in your hands, then set them down without bothering to pack them. Your chest ached, your throat thick, and all at once the thought of leaving home, of leaving behind even the chance of fixing things with Max, made your stomach twist.
The soft clink of a plate pulled you out of your thoughts. You turned to find Lando in the doorway, balancing a plate stacked with your favorite toasts, the corners just golden, cut exactly the way you liked.
He nudged the door shut with his foot as he came in. His curls were messy, hoodie too big, and his face soft but careful. “Sunshine,” Lando murmured, setting the plate down on your desk. “You’ve gotta eat something. It’s late.”
You tried to force a smile, but it came out crooked. “Not really hungry.”
Lando crouched down on the soft carpet in front of you, his hands sliding gently onto your knees, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your sweatpants. His eyes searched yours, warm and steady. “I know it sucks. And I know you miss him,” His voice was quiet, careful, the kind of tone he only used when you were teetering on the edge. “But he’ll come around. Max loves you too much not to.”
Your throat tightened, and your stomach was all in knots. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
He leaned closer, his forehead brushing against your knee as his hands squeezed softly. “Until he does… you’ve got me. Always.”
And the way he said it, with absolute certainty, was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.
Your eyes burned, your throat thick. You’d been holding it together for so long—smiling when you didn’t feel like it, telling yourself it would all work out, that Max would come around, that you should be happy because at least you had Lando now. But it was too much. New year at college, the packing, the gnawing silence from your brother. The fact that the love you’d dreamed of since you were fourteen was finally real, and yet you couldn’t even enjoy it fully, not with the shadow of Max’s anger pressing down on you.
“I just…” Your voice cracked, and you quickly looked away, biting down hard on your lip. “It feels like everything’s falling apart.” You hadn’t meant to cry. But the moment the first tear slipped free, you couldn’t stop it.
Lando’s hands slid higher on your thighs, steady, grounding, before he pulled himself up onto the bed beside you. Without saying anything, he wrapped his arms around you, tugging you gently into his chest.
The second you felt his warmth, his solid heartbeat under your cheek, the dam broke.
Your body shook against him as you buried your face in his hoodie, the tears soaking into the fabric. You clutched at him desperately, fists twisting into the material as if you let go, you’d come undone completely.
“C’mere, love.” Lando murmured softly.
Without giving you the chance to argue with him, he shifted back against the headboard and tugged you effortlessly into his lap. His arms wrapped firmly around you, holding you tight to his chest, as your legs straddled over his thighs like you belonged there. And God, you did.
Your face pressed into the curve of his neck, his hoodie soft beneath your cheek, his skin warm beneath it. His hands slid up and down your back in steady, grounding strokes, one occasionally brushing through your hair.
“I can’t do this without him, Lan,” You sobbed, voice muffled against his throat. “He’s always been there, and now he hates me, and I—”
“Hey, no,” Lando interrupted gently, squeezing you closer, his chin resting on top of your head. “He doesn’t hate you, Sunshine. He’s pissed, yeah, but he doesn’t hate you. He could never.” His voice was low, certain, even as you trembled in his arms.
You shook your head, the words spilling out broken and raw. “Then why hasn’t he reached out?”
Lando shut his eyes tightly, his jaw clenching as though the answer hurt him too. He sighed, pressing a kiss to your hairline, his hold tightening like he wished he could shield you from all of it.
“Because Max’s stubborn as hell. And you know that better than anyone.” He chuckled as you sniffled softly, “But stubbornness doesn’t last forever. He’ll come back. And when he does, we will figure it out together.”
Your sobs came harder at that—because he said we. Because even when you felt like you were falling apart, he still made it sound like you weren’t alone in any of it.
Lando just held you tighter, rocking you gently, and letting you soak his hoodie with your tears. His hands never left your back, his voice never left your ear.
“You’ve got me, Sunshine,” He whispered again, soft but fierce this time, like a promise he refused to let you forget. “Always.”
And for the first time in weeks, even through the mess of your tears, you let yourself believe it.
────୨ৎ────
The next day dragged, the kind of slow that pressed on your chest like a weight. Sunlight spilled weakly through your curtains, painting pale stripes across the floor where half-packed clothes sat in a messy pile. You were kneeling in front of your open suitcase, but your hands had gone still a long time ago. A shirt hung limply from your fingers, forgotten, your eyes unfocused as you stared at the corner of the room.
Packing should’ve been exciting. Fresh new chapter, new friends, and new experiences. But right now? It only felt like ripping away another layer of stability, another reminder of everything that had already shifted too fast.
You didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall—Lando always moved quietly when he was worried about you—but you felt the weight of his presence before you saw him. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, curls mussed like he’d run his hands through them a hundred times. His eyes didn’t leave you, watching with a mix of softness and tension that made your stomach twist.
He let a few moments pass, like he was debating whether to speak at all, before his voice broke the silence. “Sunshine… we still have some time, why don’t you take a break?”
The sound of his voice tugged you back to the present, your head lifting slowly. His tone was gentle, coaxing, but underneath, there was a quiet urgency, like he needed to fix the heaviness he saw on your face.
Lando stepped into the room, each movement careful, deliberate. He crouched down in front of you until he was on your level, and only then did he continue. “I was thinking maybe… we could go and visit your parents? Together?”
Your brows drew together. “My parents?”
“Yeah,” He nodded once, squeezing your knees when he reached for them, his palms warm and solid against your skin. “I just… I think it might help. Being home for a bit, with them. You’ve been carrying so much, love.”
The words hit too close, cutting through the little walls you’d built to stop yourself from crumbling. He wasn’t wrong. You had been carrying too much—the silence from Max, the uncertainty of a new year at college looming over you, the fragile, still-new relationship with the boy sitting right here in front of you. Still, doubt curled in your stomach.
You bit your lip, shaking your head lightly. “I don’t know, Lan… what if it just makes me miss before? When everything wasn’t so complicated?”
For a second, you swore something flickered in his expression, like he felt the same ache you did for the simplicity of before. But then his thumbs pressed slow circles into your knees, grounding you, pulling you back.
“And what if it reminds you that not everything’s broken?” Lando said softly, his voice low but certain. His gaze didn’t waver, and that steadiness was everything—like he was anchoring you with sheer force of will. “You’ve got me. You’ve still got them. And Max… he’ll come around.”
The conviction in his voice made your throat tighten, eyes stinging despite your best efforts. And then, because he couldn’t stay serious too long, his mouth curved into a faint, teasing smirk. “And if you want, I can stop by and buy your favorite meal from McDonald's.”
That cracked through your heaviness, dragging a small, reluctant laugh out of you. The sound was shaky, but it was yours, and Lando grinned like you’d just given him the world.
“Okay,” You breathed finally, your voice fragile but resolute. “We’ll go.”
His shoulders loosened in relief, and he leaned in just enough to brush a kiss against your cheek. “That’s my girl.”
────୨ৎ────
The drive felt shorter than it really was, mostly because your thoughts filled in every gap of silence between you and Lando. The closer you got, the tighter the knot in your chest grew. By the time he pulled into the familiar driveway, your stomach was a tangled mess of nerves.
The house looked exactly the same. Same pale siding, same neat garden your mom fussed over, trimmed roses standing proud. The same dent in the garage door where Max once clipped it with his bike, swearing your dad would murder him, but instead earning a laugh and a grounding. Even the old treehouse—tilted slightly, weather-worn—still clung to the branches like a stubborn memory. Nothing had changed. And yet, as you sat frozen in the passenger seat, it felt like everything had.
You stood frozen for a moment before Lando nudged your hand, giving it a little squeeze. “Hey, you okay?” He asked softly, his curls a bit messy from the drive, his eyes warm but cautious. He always looked at you like he was trying to read the whole book of your thoughts in just one glance.
You nodded, though your throat felt tight, and followed him to the house. The second the door opened, a rush of familiarity hit you so hard your knees almost buckled. The smell of home—the faint citrus from your mom’s cleaning spray, fresh flowers standing in the vase, and that underlying wooden warmth that clung to the house no matter the season.
And just like that, you were fourteen again. Standing on these same tiles, sneakers scuffed, backpack too heavy, and heart racing because Max’s friends came over once again, and Lando was with them. You remembered how you used to linger in the hallway with some flimsy excuses, pretending you needed water or pretending you needed a snack. Anything to steal another glance at him.
“There’s my girl!”
Before you could even process, your mom swept you into a hug so tight you squeaked, swaying you side to side just like she used to when you were smaller. Her perfume—warm, floral—wrapped around you, grounding you in ways nothing else could. When she finally pulled back, her gaze immediately landed on the boy hovering behind you.
“Lando, my dear!” She beamed, tugging him into her arms before he could react. He laughed nervously, but you saw how his shoulders loosened under her embrace.
“My goodness, the two of you together.” Her eyes softened, flicking between you both. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to see this.”
“Mom…” You groaned, cheeks warming instantly.
“What?” She teased, hands flying up in mock innocence. “You two look perfect with each other.”
Lando glanced at you with a crooked smile, clearly amused, clearly relieved. He gave your hand a small squeeze as if to silently say—see? She’s on our side.
“Your dad’s still at work, but he’ll be home soon,” Your mom added, smile widening. “But you came at the perfect time—I was just about to make the chocolate cake you love! Go drop your bags upstairs, wash your hands, and then you’re both helping.”
Walking deeper into the house felt like stepping into a time capsule. The kitchen table where you used to scatter homework while sneaking looks out the window, watching Max and Lando kicking a football across the lawn. The hallway where you and Max fought over bathroom turns. The guest room door—the place you sometimes collapsed after long days, lying on the bed and imagining Lando stretched out beside you, grinning at you like you were more than just Max’s little sister.
And now, he was here. Not in your imagination, and not in your daydreams. He was here, your hand still linked with his, thumb rubbing little circles over your skin like it was second nature.
Your throat tightened again, but this time with something warmer. No matter how messy things were with Max, no matter how heavy the silence still felt between you and him—you didn’t regret this. Not one bit.
You swallowed hard, blinking the memory of your childhood away, and set your bag down by the stairs.
Lando shouldered your bag. “I’ve got this. Go help your mom.” His smile was soft, almost reverent, like he knew exactly what this house meant to you.
Later, the three of you found yourselves in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, falling into an old rhythm that had been missing for years. The counters were quickly dusted with flour, bowls and spoons clattering in a kind of chaotic harmony. The familiar scent of cocoa and sugar filled the air, wrapping around you like a blanket.
Your mom hummed while measuring flour, handing you the eggs while assigning Lando the dangerous job of whipping the batter without redecorating the kitchen. Of course, within minutes, he splattered some across the counter. Your mom gasped in mock horror, and you nearly doubled over laughing. Lando looked so guilty, cheeks pink, until she teased, “Well, at least you’ll know better next time, future son-in-law.”
You thought you might combust right there.
By the time the cake was in the oven, the kitchen smelled rich and warm, like every childhood birthday, every rainy afternoon, every piece of comfort tied into one. Lando excused himself to the living room, muttering something about needing to take a call, but you knew it was just an excuse to give you and your mom space. He always knew when to step back.
The house quieted around you. Just you, your mom, the hum of the oven, and the soft clink of the mixing bowl sliding into the sink. She leaned against the counter, drying her hands on a towel, her gaze fixed on you. That soft, all-knowing look was visible on her face, the one only moms had.
“You’ve been quiet,” She said gently. “Even quieter than usual.”
You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve, “Just… thinking.”
“About Max.”
The name hit like a stone in your chest. She could really read you like an open book.
You sighed, shoulders slumping. “He hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted, and it’s been weeks, Mom. Max used to annoy me constantly, and now it’s just nothing.” Your voice cracked. “I hate it. I hate feeling like I lost him.”
Your mom came closer, her hand finding yours. Not smothering, not pressing. Just steady. “You haven’t lost him. He’s just figuring out how to handle this. You know, from his view… the two people he trusted most, kept something from him. And that hurts.”
“We didn’t want to keep it from him,” You whispered, guilt bubbling. “We were just… scared.”
“I know.” Her smile was soft, her thumb brushing your cheek. “But you know why he’s acting like this, don’t you?”
You shook your head. “Because he hates us?”
“No,” Her voice was firm, but kind. “Because he loves you. Maybe too much sometimes. When you were still a little kiddo, you kept tumbling over while learning how to walk. Max used to run after you, catching you before you even hit the ground. He wasn’t much bigger than you, but he decided right then it was his job to protect you. That’s who he is.”
A tear slipped free before you could stop it. She brushed it away, her own eyes glistening.
“That’s why this feels so impossible for him. To him, you’re still that little girl he swore to keep safe. Not someone old enough to fall in love—least of all with his best friend.” Gently, she brushed a strand of hair back from your face.
You swallowed, throat thick. “So why put me off-limits to everyone? Why… all his friends?”
Your mom hesitated, then smiled sadly. “When Max was about fifteen, your dad asked him that exact question. Do you know what he said?”
You shook your head, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“He said, ‘Because I know what guys are like at my age. And she deserves better. She deserves someone who won’t treat her like a joke.’” The words hollowed you out, making you press your hand to your chest.
Your mom squeezed your hand gently. “Even back then,” She went on gently, “He wasn’t just being bossy, he wanted you safe and loved properly. Not some fling or funny story. That’s all he’s ever wanted for you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. “And now he thinks… I’m the joke. Being with Lando.”
“No,” She said firmly, shaking her head. “He thinks it’s too close. Too risky. Because Lando isn’t just anybody—he’s his best friend, and that makes it scarier for him. Because if something goes wrong…” She trailed off, letting the implication hang.
You swallowed hard, chest aching as tears blurred your vision “But it’s not going to go wrong, Mom. I love him.”
“I know.” She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I can see it in the way you look at each other. And one day, Max will too. He just needs time to see what I already see—that you’re happy, that you’re safe, and that Lando loves you the way he always hoped someone would.”
The lump in your throat broke. You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes. “God, Mom, I’m going to cry into the cake.”
She chuckled, pulling you close again. “Oh, honey. You’ll be okay. Max will come around. He always does. And until then, you’ve got me and Lando.”
She laughed softly too, pulling you into her arms, hugging you just as tightly as she had at the front door. “Oh, honey, you’ll be okay. Max will come around. He always does. And until then, you’ve got me, Dad, and Lando.”
And for the first time in weeks, you felt like things might actually get better.
────୨ৎ────
After the chocolate cake had been cut into generous slices and passed around the table, the evening stretched in that comfortable, golden way only home could bring. Your dad had come through the door not long after, his booming laugh filling the kitchen the moment he spotted you and Lando side by side, sleeves still dusted with flour. His jokes were terrible as ever, his hugs just as tight, and soon the four of you were gathered together, sharing stories and laughter over cake that was still warm from the oven.
For a little while, it felt like the weight you’d been carrying—college, Max, the secrecy, the ache of his silence—slipped away. You were just you again, sitting at the table you’d grown up at, surrounded by the people who’d always been home.
But as the evening wore on, weariness crept in. Your dad yawned, muttering something about an early morning, and your mom gently nudged you toward the stairs.
“Go get some rest, honey,” She said with a knowing smile, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve had a long day.”
Lando had already excused himself a little earlier, murmuring something about being more tired than he thought. You’d watched him disappear down the hall, curls flopping into his eyes as he rubbed at them, his voice soft with sleep. He’d given you a quick, crooked smile before vanishing into your room, and it had left your chest feeling strangely full.
Now, after hugs and goodnights shared with your parents, you padded quietly up the stairs, the old floorboards creaking beneath your steps in that familiar way. You paused for a moment outside the bathroom, catching your reflection in the mirror—cheeks warm from laughter, eyes rimmed with the faint redness of earlier tears, but lighter somehow.
By the time you switched off the bathroom light, and you tiptoed quietly down the hallway, you knew like the back of your hand, your heart was already thudding, a mixture of nostalgia and something tenderer. The old floorboards creaked under your bare feet, every sound a reminder of the countless nights you’d tiptoed down this same corridor—sometimes sneaking into Max’s room after nightmares, sometimes heading to the kitchen for a glass of water, sometimes just lying awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining what it would feel like to have Lando beside you.
Now, impossibly, it wasn’t a daydream.
Your bedroom door was cracked open, a golden slice of light spilling into the hall from the little lamp your mom had left for you. You paused there for a moment, your fingers grazing the doorframe, your chest squeezing so tight you almost couldn’t breathe.
And then you saw him.
Lando was already tucked under the flower-patterned duvet your mom had dug out of the closet, the one that had kept you warm through winters and thunderstorms. His curls were tousled from the shower, his lashes dusting against his cheeks, his lips parted in that soft, unguarded way he only ever looked when he was on the edge of sleep. The sight knocked the air out of you.
He looked so wrong in this space—your childhood room filled with posters, little trinkets, pieces of a girl who had once loved him from afar—and yet so right it made tears sting at the back of your eyes. Like he’d been meant to be here all along, like the years you’d spent daydreaming about this exact sight hadn’t been foolish but inevitable. Because you had dreamed of this. Of him.
For years, you’d lain in this very bed, staring up at the ceiling, imagining what it would be like if Lando was beside you. If he turned his head, whispered something in the dark, if his hand found yours under the covers. You’d spent too many nights in this room aching for something you thought you could never have. And now, here he was. Real, breathing, and most importantly—yours.
You padded toward the bed, sliding beneath the covers, the mattress dipping with your weight. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t stirred—but then his lashes fluttered, his hazy eyes opening just enough to find you instantly. Even half-asleep, he knew. He always knew. He gave you the faintest smile, the kind that felt private, like it belonged only to you.
“You’re back, Sunshine.” He murmured, voice rough and low, threaded with exhaustion.
The nickname hit you like a punch to the chest. After all these years—after first saying it when you were just Max’s little sister, after whispering it like a tease when you’d glare at him, after murmuring it in the softest moments when he let his guard down—he still called you that. And God, you loved it. You’d always loved it. It wasn’t just a name. It was him, claiming you in the way only he could.
“Yeah,” you whispered, your lips trembling into a smile. “I’m back.”
He didn’t hesitate. He shifted toward you, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist, pulling you into him like it was instinct. Like his body had been waiting for you to slide back into his orbit. His warmth sank into your skin, his scent surrounding you—soap, detergent, something faintly his, like fresh air and comfort. His warmth seeped into your skin, anchoring you, quieting the storm that had been twisting inside you all day.
“You okay?” He asked, his words slurred, his breath tickling your hair.
“Yeah,” You breathed, though your throat still felt tight from your conversation with your mom. “Better. She… helped.”
He hummed in quiet agreement, pressing a lazy kiss into your hairline without even opening his eyes. “Knew she would.”
For a while, you just lay there in the stillness of your old room. The air smelled faintly of detergent and the cake you and your mom had baked downstairs. Lando’s chest rose and fell against your cheek, and you could feel him fighting sleep, trying to stay awake for you even as his breathing stuttered and slowed.
You swallowed, your throat thick. “Thank you,” You whispered, fingers clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt. Lando made a sleepy sound, somewhere between a hum and a question. “For bringing me here,” You clarified, blinking hard as your eyes stung. “I… I really needed this. And you just knew. You always know, Lan.”
No response came this time, just the steady rhythm of his breathing. You tilted your head back and realized his lashes had stilled against his cheeks, his lips parted in sleep.
A soft laugh slipped out of you, watery but tender. Of course he’d fallen asleep mid-conversation. Of course he’d push himself to stay awake just to check on you until he couldn’t anymore. That was so like him.
“Goodnight, Lan.” You whispered, your heart tugging painfully. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek, lingering for a moment against his warm skin. “Love you.”
You curled closer, snuggling into his chest as the steady thump of his heartbeat lulled you, a sound more comforting than anything else in the world.
And as your eyes fluttered shut, you thought about how many nights you’d lain in this bed while still being a teenager, wishing for this exact thing. Now, impossibly, it wasn’t a wish anymore. It was real. He was real, and he was yours. And you were never letting go.
────୨ৎ────
Sunlight spilled through the thin curtains of your childhood room, warm and golden, painting lazy stripes across the duvet. It was the first thing you felt when you stirred awake—the light on your skin, soft and familiar.
The second thing you felt was him. Lando’s arm was still around you, heavy and protective, his hand sprawled across your waist like he’d refused to let go even in his sleep. His body was curved protectively around yours like he’d been holding on all night. His breath ghosted against the back of your neck, warm and steady. The weight of him, the smell of him, the comfort of him—it was everything you hadn’t realized you needed until this moment.
You turned in his hold carefully, and your chest clenched. He was half-buried in your pillow, curls messy, lips parted, lashes brushing his cheeks. He looked younger like this, softer, almost boyish. Not the celebrity girls wished to know, not Max’s best friend, not the man caught in the middle of a fight that threatened to tear everything apart. Just Lando. Your Lando.
And God, you could absolutely get used to this. Waking up to him in your bed, his sleepy smile, his warmth. It was dangerous, the thought blooming in your chest was terrifying in how natural it felt. You didn’t just want him for now—you wanted this for forever.
“Stop staring…” His voice rasped suddenly, muffled into the pillow, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.
You froze, heat rushing to your face. “I wasn’t!”
His lips curved in a crooked, sleepy grin, eyes still closed. “Liar.” He tugged you closer until you were pressed flush against his chest, and then, just like that, he buried his face into your hair again with a groan. “Four more minutes.”
Your laugh cracked in the quiet, because of course, he’d say that. And you let him, because those four minutes with him wrapped around you felt like the safest place in the world.
But eventually, the smell hit you—warm, sweet, familiar. You sat up a little, sniffing the air. “Is that…?”
“Breakfast,” Lando mumbled, not even lifting his head. “Your mom makes the best pancakes, Sunshine.”
Your heart squeezed at the nickname again, but before you could respond, a voice carried up from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready!”
You and Lando shared a look—yours sheepish, his amused—and then he stretched like a cat, groaning dramatically before rolling out of bed. You followed, nerves bubbling in your stomach.
Walking into the kitchen felt like stepping straight back into childhood. The table was already set, plates stacked with your mom’s fluffy scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and her famous chocolate cake sitting temptingly on the counter. She smiled the second she saw you two, a knowing softness in her eyes.
“Finally,” She teased, “I was about to send your dad up to drag you both out of bed. Thought maybe you’d gotten lost.” Lando chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, while your face burned hot.
Your dad, newspaper in hand, didn’t even look up when he said casually, “They weren’t lost. Just… busy.”
You nearly choked on air. “Oh my fu— Dad!”
Lando completely lost it. Full-bodied laughter spilled out of him, head thrown back, the sound filling the whole kitchen. He leaned against the counter for balance, tears in his eyes.
Your mom only rolled her eyes fondly, smacking your dad lightly with a dish towel. “Really?”
“What?” He said, smirking into his coffee mug. “I didn’t say anything!”
“But you implied everything.” You muttered, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you whole.
But then you glanced at Lando—still laughing, so carefree, so utterly himself—and even through your embarrassment, your chest swelled. Because he wasn’t hiding. Not here. Not anymore.
Your mom just shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she set another plate down. “Sit and eat before it gets cold.”
Breakfast was warm in every way. Your mom asking about college, your dad sneaking in more comments that had you sputtering, Lando laughing so hard he nearly spat his juice. For a while, it felt like stepping back in time—like you were just a girl at her parents’ table again, except now you had Lando’s knee brushing yours under the table and his smile softening every time he looked at you.
Your mom’s smile was softer, quieter, as she watched the two of you. Like she could see something in you both that you couldn’t even put into words yet.
For a second, you let yourself believe maybe everything would be okay. But then it was time to go. But eventually, you had to leave.
Standing in the doorway, your mom pulled you into a hug, her voice low in your ear. “Everything will be fine, sweetheart. Give him time. Max loves you, even if he’s stubborn about it.”
Your throat tightened as you nodded, clinging to her for just a moment longer before finally stepping back. Lando carried your bag to the car, tossed it into the trunk with ease, and gave your dad a firm handshake before sliding into the driver’s seat. You waved one last time before pulling away, the house shrinking in the rearview mirror until it was gone.
The ride back home was quieter than the drive there, the weight of reality settling heavier with every mile. Lando gently tapped the steering wheel, humming along to the radio softly, while you stared out the window. Because with every mile, reality settled heavier in your chest. And the second you stepped back into your apartment, it all came rushing back—the silence from Max, the suitcase, still half-packed on your bedroom floor, and the looming truth that college was pulling you away, and you couldn’t take Lando with you.
He helped you unpack groceries from your mom, then sat quietly on your bed while you folded clothes into neat piles for your suitcase. His presence was steady, grounding, but the ache in your chest wouldn’t let go.
Everything felt fragile again. And when you glanced at him—sitting there, watching you with soft eyes, his fingers fiddling idly with the hem of your blanket—you realized just how much it would hurt to leave him behind.
────୨ৎ────
Your things were almost fully-packed by the time your phone buzzed. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open boxes and folded clothes, trying to distract yourself from the ache in your chest with busy hands.
Tomorrow you’d be leaving for college, and every second that ticked by felt like another reminder of how much you were about to lose—Lando, the comfort of home, and most of all, Max.
When you glanced down, your heart nearly stopped. A message from your mom.
Mom:
Meet me at the café at 5. Just us four.
You frowned. Four? Your gaze flicked to Lando, who was carefully wrapping one of your favorite cups in bubble wrap. “It’s from my mom.” You murmured, showing him the text.
His brows knit together, then slowly lifted. “Four?” He repeated, his tone cautious.
You didn’t need to say it aloud. You both knew who the fourth was.
The entire drive there, your nerves gnawed at you. Every streetlight felt like it was mocking how slow the car was moving, how long you had to sit with your own dread. You hadn’t seen Max in weeks. Not since the blow-up. Not since everything shattered. You gripped the hem of your hoodie so tightly your knuckles ached, your mind spinning in circles. Would he even talk to you? Would he yell at you? Would he leave the second he saw you?
By the time Lando parked in front of the café, your stomach was one big knot. You half-expected to see your mom waiting by the door, smiling reassuringly like she always did when you were little. But when you stepped inside, reality hit hard. Your mom wasn’t waiting at the booth, it was just Max.
Your chest tightened instantly. He sat slouched against the corner of the booth, arms crossed, a steaming cup of coffee untouched in front of him. His knee bounced restlessly under the table, the only sign of nerves he would never admit to.
For a second, you froze. You almost turned back. But then Lando’s hand pressed gently against your back, urging you forward.
Max looked up the second your shoes scuffed against the tile. His eyes swept over you first, and then landed on Lando. And just like that, his expression hardened.
“Hey…” You said softly, your voice already trembling.
Max leaned back in his seat, his mouth twisting into something sharp. “Didn’t realize this was gonna be that kind of reunion.” He muttered under his breath.
You swallowed hard and slid into the seat across from him, Lando following quietly beside you. “Max, I didn’t know either. Mom just—”
“Yeah, Mom set me up,” Max cut in bitterly, his jaw tightening. “Gave me some bullshit about wanting to grab coffee, then disappeared the second I walked in. Should’ve known better.”
The sting in your chest deepened, but you pressed on. “Maybe… maybe she just wanted us to talk. We haven’t—”
“Haven’t what?” Max’s voice snapped, loud enough that a barista glanced over. He lowered it to a harsh hiss. “From what I can remember, it was you who lied to me. You, who went behind my back. And you who took the one thing I asked you not to touch and did it anyway.”
You flinched. The words landed like knives. “Max, please. That’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” He laughed bitterly, running a hand down his face. “You’ve got some nerve. You think you can sit there and play the victim after what you two pulled?”
“I’m not—” Your voice cracked. You steadied it quickly, desperate to keep him listening. “I just… I hate this, Max. I hate that you won’t even look at me anymore. You used to text me every day. You used to annoy the hell out of me just for fun. And now it’s like I don’t even exist to you.”
His eyes flicked to yours for a split second, but then he scoffed and looked away, his jaw grinding. “Maybe it’s easier this way.”
The words knocked the breath out of you. “Easier?”
He leaned forward now, his voice low and cutting. “You don’t get it, do you? You ruined it. Everything. You and him.” His glare cut to Lando before snapping back to you. “I can’t even look at you without seeing how you lied to me. And how you made me the idiot in the story.”
Tears stung your eyes, but you forced yourself not to let them fall. “You’re not an idiot, Max,” You whispered fiercely. “You’re my brother. You’re the most important person in my life—”
“Clearly not,” Max interrupted coldly. “Clearly he is.”
Your throat closed, your chest aching so badly you thought it might split. “Max, you’re being a total asshole right now.” You said, voice trembling.
“I’m the asshole? Should I remind you—”
“That’s enough.” For the first time since you sat down, Lando decided to speak. He leaned forward, eyes locked on Max’s, his tone low but steady. “That’s not fair, mate. You’ve let her sit here and beg just to get a word in. She doesn’t deserve that.”
Max’s jaw tightened, his glare flicking to him. “Oh, so now you’re gonna play the hero?”
“No,” Lando said firmly. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “I’m just telling you the truth. We never wanted to hurt you. Hiding it was wrong, and we are sorry for not telling you sooner. But it wasn’t because we didn’t care. It was because we were terrified of losing you.”
“Terrified?” Max repeated, venom lacing the word. “Don’t make me laugh. You were fucking supposed to be my best friend, Lando.”
“And I still am,” Lando said instantly. No hesitation in his voice. “But I love her, and I’m not going to apologize for that.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. You sucked in a sharp breath, your heart slamming in your chest.
The café had grown louder around you—cups clinking, low chatter rising, the espresso machine hissing—but at your table, everything stayed frozen, strung tight like a wire.
Max sat stiffly, glaring down at the coffee he still hadn’t touched. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words he didn’t know how to spit out. You shifted in your seat, wanting so badly to reach across the table, but you were too afraid he’d pull away.
“Max…” You whispered finally, your voice trembling. “Please, just say something. Anything. Just don’t sit there and shut me out.”
His eyes snapped to yours. “You want me to say something?” His tone was sharp, biting, but there was a crack in it now. “Fine. How about this—you’re leaving for college tomorrow. And you didn’t even care enough to fix things with me by yourself before going, and had it not been for mom, you wouldn’t even have reached out.”
Your stomach dropped. “That’s not true!” You protested quickly, desperate. “I’ve been trying, Max. Every day I tried to call, but you wouldn’t pick up, and you wouldn’t answer my texts—”
“Because I didn’t know what to say!” The words burst out of him, raw and jagged.
Max’s voice cracked halfway through, and for the first time, the mask slipped. His eyes were glassy, his knuckles pressed hard against the table like he needed the wood to anchor him.
“I was so fucking angry at both of you. And I didn’t know how to stop being angry, because…” He trailed off, shaking his head. His hand raked through his hair, and when he looked up again, his expression wasn’t hard anymore. It was shattered. “Because I don’t know how to just let you… grow up, and leave me behind.” Your throat closed instantly.
Max’s voice broke completely. “You’re my little sister. And yeah, maybe I’ve been annoying and controlling, but that’s because I’ve spent my whole damn life making sure you were safe. And now I look at you, sitting there with him, and you’re not a kid anymore. You don’t need me the way you used to. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”
A hot tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You reached across the table without thinking this time, your fingers brushing over his hand. For a second, he flinched—like he might pull away—but then he let you hold on.
“Max,” You whispered, voice breaking. “I will always need you. Nothing’s going to change that. You’re not losing me.” His chest rose and fell shakily, like he didn’t believe you, like he couldn’t.
“She’s right,” Lando said quietly. His eyes met Max’s, earnest and unflinching. “You’re not losing her. If anything, you’re gaining someone who’s going to take care of her with you. Because I love her too. And I’ll spend every day proving that to both of you, if I have to.”
Max stared at Lando for a long moment, his lip trembling like he wanted to argue. But the fight had drained out of him. He dragged his hands down his face, groaning softly. “God, you two are the worst…” He muttered again, but this time, it sounded fond.
When Max dropped his hands, his eyes were red, and he let out a shaky laugh. “And tomorrow you’re actually leaving. How the hell am I supposed to deal with that?”
Your breath caught. You squeezed his hand tighter. “One day at a time,” You said softly. “And… maybe tonight? We could have one more old-school night together. Just us. Like when we were kids.”
Max’s brows furrowed, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
You glanced at Lando, who already wore that little mischievous grin, then back at Max. “Movie night. Watching 'Cars' together. Just like we used to.”
Lando leaned in just enough for only you to hear as he whispered playfully, “Kachow.”
You bit back a laugh, your cheeks warming, and when you looked at him, his eyes were sparkling with that shared memory, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
For a moment, Max’s stony expression didn’t budge. Then—slowly, reluctantly—his lips twitched, like he was fighting not to smile. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, but you caught the faintest trace of a smirk.
“Fine. One night.”
────୨ৎ────
The night air was cool, crisp against your cheeks as the three of you walked side by side, the quiet hum of the city filling in the gaps between your laughter. For the first time in weeks, your chest felt lighter. Not completely healed—there was still that sting of everything Max had said earlier—but it wasn’t crushing you anymore.
Lando’s hand brushed against yours, his fingers automatically linking with yours like they were made to. He squeezed gently, a silent check-in. You gave him a small smile in return.
Max walked a little ahead, hands stuffed in his pockets, head ducked as though he didn’t want to be caught smiling—but every so often you caught the corner of his lips twitching upward when he heard you and Lando laugh together.
By the time you reached your apartment, the decision was sealed. Popcorn was in the microwave, blankets piled high on the couch, and the three of you were squabbling over who got to press play.
It felt all… normal.
When the familiar opening scene flickered across the TV, you curled up next to Lando, his arm automatically slipping around your shoulders. Max sprawled out on the other side of the couch, pretending to groan about how “disgusting” you two were, though his smirk gave him away.
By the time the credits rolled, the popcorn bowl was empty, the couch was a mess of blankets and pillows, and the room was filled with the faint hum of the TV screen.
You were curled into Lando’s side, warm and safe, your head on his shoulder. Max stretched out on the other end of the couch, arms crossed, pretending not to watch the two of you—but his eyes lingered just a bit too long.
He cleared his throat suddenly, making both of you glance his way. “So,” Max started, his tone casual, but his jaw tightened as he spoke. “We’re fine. For now.” His gaze flicked between you and Lando, sharp as ever. “And I’m still not saying I’m thrilled about… this.” He gestured vaguely between you and Lando. “But I get it. I get that it’s real.”
You opened your mouth to say something, but Max cut you off with a sharp look. “But, Lando,” His tone hardened, every trace of amusement gone,
Lando straightened instantly, his arm still loosely around you. “Yeah?”
“If you screw this up, if you make her cry, even once… I’ll beat the shit out of you. Best friend or not.”
Your heart lurched. “Max!” You hissed, horrified.
But Lando didn’t flinch. He met Max’s gaze head-on, his voice calm and unwavering. “I won’t. I’d never hurt her.” His hand tightened around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I love her too much.”
Max stared at him, expression unreadable. Finally, he huffed, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, well. You’d better mean that. Because if she ends up crying because of you, Norris, I swear—”
You cut him off with a groan, burying your face in Lando’s shoulder. “Oh my God, Max…”
But Lando only chuckled. He tilted your chin up gently, his eyes soft, before leaning down to press a slow, tender kiss to your lips. It wasn’t for Max’s benefit—it was for you. A promise, a reassurance, and a declaration all in one.
When he pulled back, he murmured against your lips, just for you to hear, “She won’t. Not because of me.”
Max groaned loudly, tossing a pillow at the two of you. “Oh my GOD. You two are nauseating.”
You laughed despite yourself, swatting the pillow away, cheeks burning. Lando grinned, smug and unbothered, before tucking you closer against him. But when you peeked at Max, you caught it—the twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth. He was still protective, still wary, but beneath it, acceptance was starting to settle.
And for the first time in weeks, you finally believed your mom’s words. Max would come around, sooner or later.
────୨ৎ────
The room was a complete chaos. Half-packed boxes were stacked by the door, open suitcases spilling with clothes. Your room at Lando’s apartment was stripped down to something that didn’t quite feel like yours anymore. The posters had been peeled from the walls, the bookshelf stood half-empty, dust outlining the spaces where your favorite books used to sit.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, folding the same hoodie for the third time just to keep your hands busy, your stomach in knots at the thought of leaving.
Lando was stretched across your bed like he owned the place, one arm tucked lazily behind his head. His curls were mussed, his t-shirt rumpled, and still, he somehow managed to look irritatingly good. Every now and then, he’d get up, wander to one of your half-packed bags, and slip something in like he had a secret mission. It was either your favorite snacks, a polaroid of the two of you he’d tucked in the corner of the mirror, or one of his hoodies that still smelled faintly like him.
“Lando,” You groaned, trying to snatch the hoodie back. “I can’t take all of this with me.”
He only smirked, tugging it tighter into the suitcase before zipping it shut with finality. “Consider it as an insurance,” Lando said, leaning in close, curls falling over his forehead. “So you don’t forget me when you’re off there, being a hot college girl.” His grin was boyish, but his eyes flickered with something deeper, something that wasn’t quite a joke.
You rolled your eyes, but your heart squeezed. “Like I could ever forget you, you dumbass.”
And before you could even overthink it, you leaned over and kissed him. It wasn’t long or desperate. It was just a soft press of lips, the kind of kiss that burned slow and gentle, a promise carved in quiet. His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he wanted to memorize the feel of it.
When you pulled back, he was smiling—small, crooked, and just a little bit sad.
By the time everything was packed and loaded into the car, the weight in your chest had grown unbearable. The ride started in silence, the countryside blurring by the windows. Your hand sat uselessly in your lap until Lando’s found it, his fingers lacing with yours. He grounded you in the way he always did, as if he couldn’t stand the distance already creeping in.
“You’re too quiet.” He murmured after a while, glancing at you briefly from the driver’s seat. His voice was low, like he was afraid of breaking the moment.
You bit your lip. “I’m just… scared. Of being so far, and—” Your voice cracked, and you shook your head. “Lan… what if this doesn’t work?”
He squeezed your hand tighter, eyes flicking back to the road. “We’ll make it work, Sunshine. I don’t care if you’re ten minutes away or ten hours. I’m not letting go of you, okay?
Lando always knew what to say. His words hit you so hard you almost broke then and there. Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them back, whispering, “Thank you.”
The closer you got to campus, the more real it became. The sleek buildings rising in the distance, students hauling boxes across sidewalks, the overwhelming hum of a new life starting without you having had time to catch up. When Lando pulled into the drop-off zone, your heart felt too heavy to carry. You got out slowly, pulling your bag over your shoulder, staring at him like maybe if you looked hard enough, you could memorize every detail—every curl, every freckle, every curve of his smile.
When you were finally done putting your necessities in your dorm room, you came back to the car. Lando stepped close, resting his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your lips when he whispered, voice rough and breaking, “Please, come back to me.”
Overwhelmed with all the emotions that buzzed in your body at that moment, you surged forward, kissing him hard and desperately. It was a kiss that tasted like salt and promises, and every fear you couldn’t put into words. He kissed you back just as fiercely, holding you so close it almost hurt, as if he didn’t, you’d slip away forever.
When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, you whispered against his lips. “Always.”
His smile was soft and aching. He brushed his thumb over your cheek one last time. “Go knock ‘em dead, Sunshine.”
And just like that, you turned, walking toward the building with his hoodie heavy in your bag and his kiss still burning on your mouth, feeling like you’d just left half of your heart standing on that curb.
────୨ৎ────
That first night in your dorm felt wrong. Too quiet, too foreign, too far from everything that felt like home. The bare white walls loomed above you, empty and cold, and the stiff mattress creaked every time you shifted, making you miss the softness of your bed back home. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, sharp and sterile, nothing like the mix of vanilla candles and old wood that clung to your room at your parents’ house.
You had unpacked just enough to make the place bearable—your toiletries, a stack of needed books and notebooks, a few clothes. But it wasn’t the textbooks or the clean sheets that made the place feel less lonely. It was the tiny details Lando had smuggled into your luggage like he knew you’d need them—a pack of your favorite candy tucked between sweaters, the polaroid of you two slipped into your pencil case, and, at the very bottom, his hoodie.
You tugged it over your head now, the fabric soft and oversized, the faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to it. It smelled like him—warm, safe, familiar.
You curled up in the middle of the bed, knees drawn to your chest, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. This was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? A fresh start, your own future. But all you could think was that you didn’t want to do this without him.
The vibration of your phone startled you.
Lando ❤️ calling…
Your chest unclenched the second his name lit up your screen. You swiped before the second ring, and his face filled the display—slightly pixelated, but still him. Cap pulled low, the hoodie you bought for his birthday bunched at his shoulders, dark circles beneath his eyes softened by the glow of the lounge lights.
“Hi.” You whispered, relief flooding through you like air after being underwater too long.
“Hey, Sunshine.” His grin was faint but real, his voice soft and steady, wrapping around you like a blanket. The camera jostled as he adjusted it, showing a blur of the airport’s lounge sofas behind him. “Made it through your first day of college without combusting?”
Your laugh came out shaky, almost breaking, but it was still a laugh. “Barely. The orientation lasted almost three hours. I almost walked out.”
He chuckled, low and warm, the sound tugging at something deep inside your chest. “See, that’s exactly why I didn’t bother with college. My attention span would’ve killed me in the first week.”
The sight of him—even tired and pixelated—hit harder than expected. Thousands of miles away, yet somehow still managing to make you smile. “You’d have lasted ten minutes, tops.”
“Generous.” He teased, tipping his cap back just enough that you could see his bright eyes. Then there was muffled background noise, the echo of an overhead announcement.
“Are you… traveling?” You asked, frowning at the bustle behind him.
“Yeah.” He admitted after a beat, leaning closer to his screen like he could be closer to you this way. “I’m in the airport lounge. Flying out to Singapore today.”
Even despite seeing a small part of him, you could picture it so clearly—Lando slouched on the sofa, restless fingers tapping against his thigh, headphones looped casually around his neck, backpack crammed at his feet. His world felt so big, and yours suddenly so small.
“And you still called me?” Your voice softened, almost breaking.
“Of course I did.” His brows pinched, like he was offended you’d even question it. Then his voice dropped lower, steadier, like it was meant only for you. “Like hell I was going to let you spend your first night alone without me.”
Your throat tightened, lips trembling. “Lando…”
“Don’t start crying,” He teased gently, though the way his eyes softened betrayed him. “C’mon. Show me the place.”
You huffed, but obeyed, flipping your camera around to show him the dorm. The cracked desk shoved against the wall, the stiff industrial bedspread, the overhead light that made everything sterile. You lingered on the vending machine at the end of the hall, grumbling about it only taking quarters.
He hummed like you were reciting poetry, chuckling at your sarcasm. “Perfect. It’s very… you.”
You flipped the camera back, and he was smiling faintly at you, like you’d just made his whole week despite sitting in an airport on the other side of the world.
Minutes blurred into an hour. You talked about everything and nothing—wondering who your roommate might be, his schedule crammed with races, your cafeteria’s mysterious “meatloaf.” And somewhere between his rant about not finding his favorite chicken wraps and your jokes about dorm food, your eyelids grew heavy.
“Still with me?” He asked softly when your replies had dwindled to hums.
“Mhm.” Your voice was drowsy, thick with sleep. You hugged your knees, his hoodie draped over you like armor. “Still here.”
On his end, the camera shifted slightly, settling lower like he’d leaned back in his chair. His voice dropped, a murmur threaded with tenderness.
“Goodnight, Sunshine. Sleep tight. I love you.”
Your lashes fluttered closed before you could answer. Breaths steadied, lips parted, lost to the comfort of his voice and the smell of him still lingering in the fabric around you. But Lando didn’t hang up. He stayed there, screen still glowing in his lap, watching your sleeping face pixelated but perfect, until his own exhaustion finally pulled him under—miles apart, yet closer than ever.
────୨ৎ────
Snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the street as you stepped out of the taxi, suitcase wheels crunching against the salt-streaked pavement. The air smelled sharp and cold, your breath curling out in little white clouds. The house was glowing from the inside, every window spilling golden light into the winter dusk, wreath crooked on the door where your mom had rehung it for the hundredth time. It looked the same. Exactly the same.
Your chest tightened. For the first time in weeks, the weight of exams, papers, packing, and long-distance ache seemed to melt into something simpler. Home.
You pulled your suitcase toward the front steps, heart thumping. Before you could even knock, the door flung open. “Finally!”
Your mom practically swallowed you whole, wrapping you in a hug that lifted you onto your toes. She smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, warm and familiar, and she swayed you side to side the way she had when you were small.
“Mom—” You laughed, muffled into her shoulder.
“I hope you’ve been eating well, you look a bit pale. I’ll make you something right now.” She kissed your cheek noisily before pulling back.
“Mom, I’ve been here for thirty seconds.”
Behind her, your dad appeared, grin mischievous as ever. He stuck out his hand as if to shake yours, only to yank you into one of his rib-cracking hugs instead.
“There’s my girl,” He said, voice rumbling in your ear. “College hasn’t turned you into a snob yet, huh?”
Rolling your eyes, you hugged him tighter. “Not yet.”
And then your gaze drifted to the banister. Max leaned there, arms folded, a small wrapped box dangling from one hand. His expression was unreadable at first—tired maybe, guarded—but when your eyes caught his, something softened.
“Hey, stinky.” He muttered.
“Hey, asshole.”
The old routine slipped too easily into place, and before you knew it, you were walking across the hall. He held still a beat longer than you wanted, then finally shifted, opening one arm in that reluctant way only Max could. You ducked into it quickly, hugging him just as you always had. It was brief, awkward, but it was something.
He shoved the box into your hands like it burned. “Merry Christmas.”
You raised your brows, holding it up. “No way. You got me something?”
“Don’t make it weird,” He grumbled, looking away. But the corners of his mouth twitched when you laughed.
The night spun out into a blur of warmth and chaos. Your mom fussed over food, your dad sneaked bites of ham before she could swat him away, and Max pretended he wasn’t invested in stringing lights but adjusted every crooked bulb you left behind. For the first time in months, it felt like some of the cracks in your chest were healing.
And then, just as you were sinking into the couch, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot cocoa, you heard the faint sound of tires crunching in the driveway. Your heart skipped.
You knew the sound of that engine very well.
Your mom shot you a look—cheeky, knowing, the kind only she could pull off. “I might’ve invited one more guest.”
The door creaked open, and there he was—Lando. Snow dusted his coat and the curls poking out from under his beanie, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His smile was sheepish, like he wasn’t sure he should be there, but the way his eyes lit up when they found you—like he’d been waiting all night just for that moment—made your throat tighten.
“Sorry I’m late,” He said, voice warm and breathless. His eyes found yours instantly, lighting up like they always did. “The flight got in later than I thought.”
You didn’t think twice, you just moved. Quickly tossing off the blanket, you launched yourself at him. He caught you instantly, arms wrapping tight around your waist, laughter rumbling in his chest. You buried your face in his shoulder, inhaling snow and soap and Lando, squeezing so hard your feet nearly left the ground.
“I missed you so much.” You whispered, voice breaking.
His lips brushed your hairline, voice low and warm. “Missed you more, Sunshine.”
Later, after dinner and presents, after Max grudgingly joined charades and your dad had one too many glasses of wine, the house finally quieted. Your parents disappeared upstairs, Max retreated to his room, and you felt a hand slip into yours.
“Come on,” Lando murmured, tugging gently. “I’ve got somewhere to show you.”
He drove through streets you knew by heart, snowflakes darting through the beams of his headlights, the heater humming faintly in the background. Neither of you spoke much—you didn’t need to. His thumb traced circles over your knuckles, steady and grounding.
When he pulled into the cul-de-sac, your breath caught. The lamppost still leaned crooked at the corner, light buzzing faintly against the winter dark. You remembered walking home here after school, backpack too heavy, sneakers scuffing the pavement, heart skipping when Lando walked beside you.
“Here?” You asked softly.
“Here,” He said, leaning against the car with that crooked grin. His eyes found yours, sparking with nostalgia. “Remember? This was the first place when I realized that you were staring at me more than the road.”
Your cheeks flamed. “Shut up, I did not.”
“Yeah, you did.” His eyes sparkled, teasing but tender. “And I never forgot.”
The cold nipped at your skin, but standing there with him—snow falling quiet, lamplight turning his curls gold—it didn’t matter. He leaned in, slow enough for your breath to catch, and kissed you. Soft and certain. Not rushed, not desperate. Just steady and right, like the years between then and now had all been leading back to this very moment.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours. “Like I could ever forget you.” His smile curved against your lips before he kissed you again.
His smile curved against your lips before he kissed you again, the mistletoe hanging above you as if a quiet statement of your destiny.
────୨ৎ────
The weeks after Christmas blurred into routine again—lectures, deadlines, endless textbooks sprawled across your desk. Sometimes it felt manageable, other nights it felt impossible. But every night ended with your phone buzzing, his name lighting up your screen, his voice steadying the chaos. Those calls were your anchor. Until one day, they weren’t.
It started small. You had an exam scheduled on the same day as the season-starting race. Lando had reminded you a dozen times, excitement buzzing through his texts, voice lighting up on the calls leading to it. You’d promised him. Sworn you’d watch it, promised to send him good luck messages, promised you’d be there—even if “there” was just a dorm room bed, laptop propped up on your knees.
But the exam went badly. No, disastrously. It had chewed you up and spat you out. Your professor’s red pen tore through your essay like it was fragile paper, every mistake circled in glaring ink you couldn’t unsee. By the time you trudged back to your dorm—bag digging into your shoulder, eyes heavy, and brain fried—all you could do was collapse into bed.
You’d meant to just close your eyes for a second. But it turned out that the race passed without you.
When you woke, sunlight was already bleeding through your blinds. Your laptop sat unopened on your desk, and your phone—your stomach dropped as you snatched it—was lit with notifications. Social media was buzzing with highlights, your friends chattering in group chats, and right at the top were four missed calls from Lando.
The podium photo stared at you from Instagram, his smile beaming, champagne spraying, and the caption full of triumph. All you felt was sick. You promised him.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Your fingers shook as you dialed him. He picked up on the second ring. “You alive?” His voice was flat, but not angry. Worse—disappointed.
“I’m so sorry,” You blurted immediately. “Lando, I wanted to, I swear I wanted to watch. I just— my exam went horribly, I came back home, and then I—”
“You fell asleep.” The words landed with a dull thud.
“Yeah,” You whispered, guilt clawing up your throat. “I didn’t mean to. I just couldn’t keep them open. Please, I—”
There was silence on the other end, only the faint hum of static. You pictured him in some hotel room, champagne bottle shoved somewhere in the corner, phone in hand, and jaw tight.
“You promised,” He said finally. Quiet, not accusing, but heavy. “You promised you’d watch it.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “I know. And I hate myself for not sticking to my promise. I just— Lando, I’m trying. I swear I’m trying to balance everything, but it feels like I’m always failing one thing or the other.”
His sigh crackled through the speaker. “Hey… it’s okay. I get it. But… it’s kinda hard, you know? Being out there, giving everything, and the one person you want to share it with—” His voice broke slightly, then steadied. “Isn’t there.”
You bit your lip until it hurt. “I wanted to be. More than anything.”
“I know, Sunshine.” Lando said, softer now. But still, distance lived between the words. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. Just… I wish you could’ve seen it.”
The silence stretched. You could almost hear both your hearts beating against the miles.
And then, a few weeks later, it flipped the other way around.
You’d been waiting all day, practically vibrating with news—your dream internship. The kind of thing you’d worked toward since you’d first set foot on campus. You held your phone all night, rehearsing how you’d tell him, imagining his proud grin lighting up the screen.
Qualifying had ended hours ago. You knew his schedule—press conferences, media duties, endless commitments. But still. You stayed up. Because your little win felt bigger if you could share it with him.
The call never came. Not that night.
You’d been waiting all day to tell him about a small win—getting your dream internship. You clutched your phone all night, waiting for his call. His qualifying had finished hours ago; he was probably tangled in media duties, and endless press. But still—you stayed up, buzzing with the need to tell him, your little win feeling bigger because you wanted him to be proud of you.
But the call never came. Not that night, not the next morning. When you woke the next morning, bleary-eyed, you were greeted with only four texts.
Lando:
im sorry
got caught up with press and media stuff
crashed as soon as i hit the bed
proud of you tho xx
Something inside you snapped.
When you finally got him on the phone, your voice shook with more than exhaustion. “You fell asleep?” You echoed bitterly.
His pause was sharp. “Yeah. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lando, I waited. All night sat with the phone in my hand, waiting for your call. But apparently, I wasn’t important enough.”
“Hey, that’s not fair.” His voice hardened. “You know how demanding this is—”
“And you know how much it means to me when you listen.” You cut him off, your jaw starting to tremble from the nerves. “But I guess my little wins don’t stack up next to trophies and podiums.”
The silence that followed was jagged, cutting between you.
Finally, his voice cracked, frustration leaking into vulnerability. “Do you think I don’t want to hear about your day? Do you think I don’t replay your stories when I’m alone in hotel rooms? Christ, you think this is easy for me?”
Your throat closed, but the words ripped out anyway. “No. I know it’s not easy. But I don’t want to feel like I come second to everything else.”
His reply was quiet but sharp. “And what about me, huh? You think it didn’t hurt when I stood on that podium, knowing you didn’t even stay to wish me good luck? And then waited for a call, even just a damn message, and there was nothing?” Lando paused for a little, sighing heavily. “You fell asleep too, remember? You broke the promise you made, and still I forgave you because I know how much you’re carrying on your shoulders. So I don't understand why you're so mad at me.”
Your breath hitched. He was right. How could you forget that situation? You also let him down, and now you were mad at him for accidentally doing the same. The truth of it hit harder than his frustration.
The tears that gathered in your eyes finally slipped free. “Because it hurt, Lando. Because I felt overlooked by you.” You choked on your words.
“And that’s exactly how I felt, too,” He said, softer now. His voice cracked on the edges. “It’s not about who fails who more. It’s just… we’re both trying. And sometimes just trying still isn’t enough.”
Your heart clenched. “I don’t want to feel unimportant to you.” You whispered.
“You’re not.” His answer came fast, desperate. “You are the most important thing to me, Sunshine. Not the races, not the championship. Only you. And sometimes I’m shit at showing it, but it’s the truth.”
You sniffled, clutching the phone tighter. “I’m sorry for letting you down, Lan.”
Silence stretched—until his breath caught audibly on the other end. No jokes, just honesty.
Lando sighed softly before finally answering, “Me too, Sunshine. I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. I promise I will try to manage my time better. Now tell me everything about the internship.”
“Only when you tell me how it felt to start the season on the top step of the podium.” You answered, and the sound of his chuckle instantly made your mouth curve into a smile.
For the first time that night, the distance between you felt smaller. Not gone, not easy—but smaller.
────୨ৎ────
The internship was your chance.
Weeks of sleepless nights, early mornings with coffee strong enough to make your hands shake, and pages upon pages of notes had all led to this. You’d told yourself this was where you’d finally prove it—to yourself, and to everyone—that you belonged. You weren’t just Max’s little sister, not just Lando’s girlfriend. This was your thing. Your path, and your future.
You’d practiced your presentation a hundred times in your dorm mirror, even whispered lines to yourself while brushing your teeth or waiting for the kettle to boil. You’d imagined it so many different ways—your supervisor impressed, colleagues exchanging nods. You’d even pictured yourself calling Lando after, breathless with excitement, telling him I did it. I actually did it.
Instead, you were met with a brutal reality.
By the time you stood in front of the screen, the room felt too warm, your palms damp against the little clicker. The first slide appeared, crisp and polished, but your voice snagged on the opening words. A dozen eyes stared back at you, blank, expectant, impossible to read. You pressed on, flipping through slides, but the harder you tried, the worse it felt.
You stumbled twice—numbers blurred, and phrases tangled. Your throat tightened until every word felt thin, fragile, like it would snap in half before reaching the back of the room. You pushed through to the end, clinging to your carefully rehearsed conclusion, praying it would land, praying that someone would look impressed.
Silence.
Your supervisor leaned back in their chair, expression unreadable, fingers steepled under her chin. “That’s it?”
The words knocked the air straight out of your chest. You blinked rapidly. “I… yes. I thought the model would—”
She cut you off with a sigh, heavy and disappointed. “You’ve clearly put time into this, but it’s… too messy. Simplistic. You’re not seeing the bigger picture.” Her tone sharpened, final, and leaving no room for argument. “If this is the level you’re aiming for, you’re going to have a hard time in the fashion industry.”
The words sliced straight through you, so precise and cold that they almost didn’t hurt at first. Not until they echoed again, louder inside your head. Around the table, a few people avoided looking at you. One of them scribbled something down, probably notes about your mistakes. Nobody came to your defense, nobody smiled. The silence was worse than outright laughter.
Messy. Simplistic. Hard time in the fashion industry.
Your throat burned from embarrassment. You nodded stiffly, pretending you understood, pretending you weren’t unraveling inch by inch. Your fingers fumbled with your laptop cord, stuffing it into your bag with jerky, clumsy movements. A plastic smile tugged at your lips, brittle and false, as if you could hold yourself together by sheer will.
The second the meeting ended, you bolted out of the meeting room. By the time you reached your dorm, your hands were trembling so badly you could barely twist the key in the door. You slipped inside, brushing past your roommate’s casual “hey,” straight into the bathroom, locking the door. Only then did you slide down the cool wood, curling into yourself on the tiled floor, fists pressed into your eyes until little sparks danced behind your lids.
You’d worked so hard. Tried so hard, and for what? To be told you weren’t good enough, that maybe you never would be?
The spiral was fast, merciless. Maybe you weren’t cut out for this? Maybe you’d been stupid to think you were? Maybe your supervisor was right—maybe you’d always be the girl who tried her best and still fell short.
When you finally crawled into bed, the sheets felt too heavy, your chest too tight. The lump in your throat wouldn’t budge. Your phone glowed in your palm as you opened Lando’s chat, and stared at his name. Typed out a long paragraph, deleting it before your finger could betray you. Tried again, and deleted again. Each time, the words felt too much—too dramatic, too pathetic. But you needed him. God, you needed him.
In the end, all you could manage was four small words.
You:
wish you were here.
You hit send before you could change your mind, the words glaring back at you from the blue bubble, far too bare, far too vulnerable. And then you buried your face in your pillow and let yourself cry.
────୨ৎ────
Lando’s phone buzzed against the nightstand.
It was late—later than he should’ve been awake, considering media and sponsor duties loomed in the morning—but he’d been scrolling absently, trying to keep his mind busy with something else than the championship battle. He had a two weeks off for now, and yet the thoughts couldn’t escape him.
Suddenly, the message preview lit up the screen.
Sunshine:
wish you were here.
Lando froze. For a second, he thought maybe he’d imagined it. That your name blinking on his phone at this hour was just his overtired brain pulling tricks. But no, there it was. Four words, raw and unpolished, so unlike the way you usually texted him. No emojis, no sarcasm, no jokes to soften the edges. Just need. His chest tightened. You never texted like that unless something was really wrong.
Lando didn’t hesitate. He was already pressing call, already holding the phone to his ear before he’d even fully processed it. The line rang once, twice, and then your voice came through, small, wrecked, like it had been dragged across gravel.
“Lan?”
It broke him. His whole body tensed. “Sunshine…” He whispered instantly, the nickname falling out before he could stop it. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
There was a sharp inhale on your end, shaky, uneven. And then, finally, it cracked open.
“I can’t—” Your voice wavered, shattering mid-word. “I can’t do this. I tried so hard and it was just— god, it was awful, Lando. They hated it. My supervisor basically said I’ll never make it, that I’m not good enough. And I—” Your breath hitched violently. “I just… I can’t do this anymore.”
Lando was already moving. Grabbing his hoodie off the chair, keys from the table, and wallet shoved it into his pocket. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” His voice was steady, even though his pulse hammered. “Listen to me, Sunshine. You are brilliant. You’ve worked harder than anyone I know. One shitty presentation doesn’t erase that.”
But Lando could hear that you weren’t listening to him. You were too deep in the spiral, words tumbling between sharp gasps, each one laced with despair.
He shut the door of his apartment behind him, jogging down the corridor, phone pressed tight to his ear. “Where are you right now? Your dorm?”
“Yeah.” You mumbled, and that was all he needed.
“Good. Stay there. I’m coming.”
There was a pause on your end, stunned. “Lando, you can’t… what about—”
“I don’t give a fuck,” He cut you off, with no room for argument. “I’ll be there, Sunshine. Just hold on.” He added before getting into the car and driving off with the tires screeching behind him.
────୨ৎ────
It was past midnight when he finally pulled up outside your dorm. The drive had blurred—city lights streaking against the windshield, the low roar of the engine a steady heartbeat beneath his panic. His mind had raced the whole way, replaying your voice, those words. Each time, the knot in his chest grew tighter.
After he parked under the dim glow of a streetlight, he leaned against his car while sending you a text that he arrived, hoodie pulled up. He was fighting the urge to storm inside and find you himself. But he wanted you to come to him, and needed you to know he was here.
When the dorm doors finally creaked open, you appeared. Hair messy, eyes red and puffy, drowning in one of your oversized sweatshirts, you looked so heartbreakingly small it made his throat close. For a moment, you froze on the steps, as if you couldn’t quite believe he was real.
And then you were moving.
You half-ran, half-stumbled across the pavement, colliding into him so hard he nearly lost his footing. Your arms locked around his neck, desperate, clutching, as if you let go, he might disappear. But he didn’t. Lando wrapped you up, arms banding tight around your waist, chin tucked against your hair. He pressed his face into the crown of your head, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo beneath the salt of your tears.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come…” You whispered into his hoodie, voice trembling.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his thumb brushing over the wetness on your cheek. His gaze was fierce, unwavering. “Sunshine, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And before you could fall apart again, he kissed you. Not rushed, not desperate, just steady. A grounding kiss. The kind that said—I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re not alone.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “You’re not giving up. I won’t let you. Not on this, not on yourself. Not while I’m here.”
The walk back inside was quiet. Your arm was looped through his like you were scared he’d vanish if you let go, and he held you just as tightly, guiding you through the dim hallways of your dorm building. A few students passed, giving curious glances at the sight of the famous Lando Norris trailing beside you, but he didn’t care. His whole focus was on you.
When you reached your door and unlocked it, your roommate was perched on her bed with her laptop still open. Her eyes flicked between the two of you, and though she tried to mask her expression, there was clear worry etched across her face.
“Hey,” She said softly, closing the lid of her laptop. “I’ll sleep at Emma’s tonight. Gonna give you two some space.” Then, almost hesitantly, she added, “But if you need anything… I’m only four doors away, okay?”
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening with gratitude. “Thank you.” You whispered, your voice rough.
She gave you a small, reassuring smile before grabbing her overnight bag and slipping out the door, leaving you and Lando in the quiet of your small, messy room.
Lando looked around, taking everything in—the half-open textbooks scattered across your desk, the empty coffee cup on the nightstand, half-eaten muesli bars open on the desk, and the unmade bed. Signs of your exhaustion were everywhere. Without a word, he set his keys on the desk and guided you toward the bed.
You sat down, still clutching the sleeve of his hoodie, your eyes heavy from tears. He crouched in front of you, his hands gently resting on your knees.
“Sunshine,” he said softly, like the word itself was a balm. “Look at me.” You did, reluctantly, and his heart broke all over again at how wrecked you looked. “You’re not alone in this. Okay? Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. You’ve got me. Always.”
Your throat tightened, another wave of tears threatening, but he didn’t let you spiral again. He kicked off his shoes, tugged his hoodie over his head, and crawled into the bed, patting the space beside him. “Come here, baby.”
You didn’t hesitate. The second you slipped under the covers, he pulled you against his chest, tucking you right under his chin. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you as if his body alone could shield you from everything outside this little room. His other hand rubbed slow, steady circles along your back.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It was safe. Comforting.
“I’m sorry you watched me fall apart.” You whispered after a long pause, your voice muffled against his shirt.
He pressed a kiss into your hair. “Don’t you dare apologize for feeling things. You’re allowed to have bad days, and you’re allowed to be upset. That doesn’t make you weak.” His grip tightened just slightly. “If anything, it makes me love you more.”
Your breath hitched at that, warmth blooming in your chest even through the ache. He pulled back just enough to tilt your chin so you had to look at him. His curls were a little messy from the drive, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, but there was nothing but sincerity in them. “You’re stronger than you know, Sunshine. And I’ll remind you of it every day if I have to.”
For a while, you just stared at him, your heart swelling with so many things you couldn’t put into words. Instead, you pressed your lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss.
When you finally settled back against him, the rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear began to lull you. His hand never stopped its soothing circles on your back, even as his voice grew drowsy. “Get some sleep,” Lando murmured, words slurring slightly with fatigue. “I’ve got you.”
────୨ৎ────
By the time morning light crept through the blinds, you were still curled in his arms, his breath warm against your temple, his hold on you unwavering—like even in sleep, he refused to let you go.
The next few days were lighter somehow. Not easy, not suddenly perfect—but lighter. You carried the weight differently, like some of it had shifted to his shoulders and he was gladly holding it there, steady as ever.
Lando stayed through the weekend as he still had a couple of days until the race week. He was stubbornly refusing to leave until he saw you smile again without forcing it.
He walked you to class, waited for you after, he stole sticky notes from your desk and scribbled dumb encouragements on them—Don’t trip today! You’re smarter than all of them, Sunshine. You found them tucked into your textbooks for days after he left.
Most of all, he sat with you while you practiced. Again, and again, and again. Cross-legged on the carpet of your dorm, his curls falling into his eyes as he spun a pen between his fingers. He’d let you stumble, let you falter, but always cut in with a grin before you could spiral. He knew the stress of speaking in public, especially when everyone out there was just pointing out your mistakes. He understood you like no one else.
“Okay, baby,” He teased you, leaning back on his palms. “Try it again. But this time pretend as if you’re explaining it to me. If I can get it, literally anyone can.”
You’d groaned, smacked his shoulder with your notebook, but the truth was—it worked. When you looked at him, your voice steadied. He didn’t see a girl on the verge of failing, he saw you. Capable, clever, and worthy.
And then the day of another presentation came. The one you’d been dreading ever since the disaster. Lando had to leave early in the morning, as he already had to go back to his routines. But you got ready, and for the last time, you repeated things you needed to say while doing your makeup.
The firm’s glass doors loomed tall and pristine, reflecting the city skyline like a mirror. You could see yourself in it—a perfectly fitting black suit, a small bag hanging on your arm, and a portfolio clutched so tightly your fingers hurt, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.
Your stomach churned, your skin prickling with the memory of last time—the manager’s unimpressed stare, the cutting words that had followed. Not good enough. But another voice cut through, softer but stronger, almost like it was stitched into your bones. I've got you.
You inhaled and exhaled, and then you pushed the door open.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink, sterile but oddly grounding. You sat in front of the panel, your notes trembling faintly in your hand, and you began.
The first two minutes felt shaky—your throat caught, and your eyes darted to the floor once or twice. But you caught yourself. You remembered the countless times you’d said these lines to Lando, how he’d tipped his head and squinted like he was trying to keep up. You imagined him there, sitting cross-legged on this sleek corporate carpet, smirking with that infuriating but comforting confidence. And you kept going.
Your voice found its rhythm. You gestured, you explained, you showed your slides with a steadiness you didn’t know you had. For the first time, you weren’t talking at them, but you were talking to them.
When you finished, the silence stretched so long it made your lungs ache. The panel exchanged looks, scribbled notes. You braced yourself for the sting.
But then one of the supervisors leaned back in her chair, lips curving just slightly. “That,” She said, calm but firm, “Was excellent. The revisions you made show that you actually listened. It shows growth. Well done.”
The words rang in your ears, completely surreal. For a dizzy second, you swore your knees would give out. And then, against all odds, your mouth stretched into a smile.
The second you stepped outside, sunlight hit your face, and you grabbed your phone out of your bag with trembling hands. The number dialed before you even thought about it.
He picked up on the first ring. “What’s up, Sunshine?” His voice was rough, like he’d been dozing, but instantly awake when it was you.
“I—” Your breath caught, breaking into a laugh that was half-sob. “Lando, I did it.”
There was a pause, then an explosion of sound so loud you had to hold the phone away. A cheer, followed by laughter—pure, unfiltered joy. “I knew it!” His voice came back, warm and thick with pride. “God, I wish I were there to see their faces. You showed them, didn’t you?”
Tears blurred your vision, but this time they weren’t born of humiliation. “I think I did,” You whispered, laughing again, dizzy with relief. “Lando, I can’t believe I actually did it. She praised me.”
And in the background, you could hear him pacing, restless energy crackling through the line. “You don’t even know how proud I am right now. That’s my girl.”
You closed your eyes, clutching the phone tighter, letting his voice wash over you. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the knot in your chest loosened.
────୨ৎ────
25 & 29
The years blurred together in fragments—flashes of faces, late-night calls, and too many tear-stained pillows.
There were nights when your desk lamp burned until dawn, textbooks piled high, your head aching with equations or essays, and your phone pressed to your ear. Lando’s voice, low and soothing, kept you grounded from thousands of miles away. Sometimes he was calling between meetings, his voice scratchy with exhaustion, sometimes from hotel beds in cities you could barely pronounce, but always with the same tone—the one that made you feel like no matter how far apart you were, he was right there beside you.
There were holidays when coming home felt both warm and tense. Mom wrapping you up in hugs, fussing about how thin you’d gotten. Dad sneaking a glass of wine under the table, smirking like you were still his little girl, and Max sliding a wrapped gift across the table. It wasn’t much, but it was everything. Proof that he’d softened, that your bond was still there, fragile but real.
There were ugly moments too. Times when your calls went unanswered because Lando was trapped in media obligations. Nights when he raced across the globe, and you missed watching live because you were buried under exams. Fights that were sharp and raw, the kind that left your chest heavy for days. But the makeup calls were softer than honey, apologies whispered until your eyelids fluttered shut.
But through it all, Lando was there. Maybe not in person every day, but in the ways that mattered—the late-night calls, the way his texts always came right when you were about to crumble, the way he looked at you during every holiday reunion as if the distance never existed. He’d always been your constant.
And then one morning, it was over.
College was done, and a degree earned. You packed your car with the last of your things, diploma shoved safely in the glovebox, hugged all the friends you made at college—especially hugging tight your roommate, who was a literal angel—and pointed yourself home.
The drive back was quieter than you imagined. Radio low, the hum of the engine steady, your thoughts louder than everything else. Each mile brought flashes of the past—the first time you’d driven this road at eighteen, palms sweaty, heart torn between childhood and whatever came next. Now you were twenty-five, older and different. And yet… still heading home, to the place where it all began. Closer to the people you loved most. Closer to him.
By the time you pulled into the familiar driveway, your stomach was tight with nerves you hadn’t felt in years. The house looked unchanged—same pale siding, same garden, same familiar dent in the garage. But you knew better. Everything inside had changed, because you had changed.
The door opened before you could even climb out of the car. Your mom was the first to reach you, tears already welling as she pulled you into a hug so tight it stole your breath.
“My big girl,” She whispered, rocking you side to side like she had when you were little. “You’re finally home.” Her perfume hit you instantly, grounding you in a way no city, no dorm, and no diploma ever could. You melted into her, and for a moment, you weren’t twenty-five. You were just her little daughter again.
Dad followed, grinning ear to ear as he clapped his hand against your shoulder with just enough force to make you stumble. “Four years older, and not a day wiser, huh?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were glassy, pride shining through.
And then Max. He leaned against the porch railing like he had no intention of moving, arms crossed tight across his chest, his expression unreadable. For a moment, your heart sank, wondering if he’d retreated back into silence. But then he pushed off the railing and crossed the yard in a few long strides. His arms wrapped around you without warning, pulling you into the kind of hug that stole the air from your lungs. The kind that said what his words never quite could.
“About time, college girl.” He muttered into your hair, but his voice was thick. Softer than it should have been. “I missed you.”
And then your eyes finally landed on him.
Lando hung back just a little, hands shoved into his pockets. His hair was longer now, forming a mullet (which you asked him to grow out). His shoulders were broader, and his presence steadier. Older and different. Yet when his eyes met yours and that boyish grin spread across his face, your heart clenched so hard it felt like being seventeen all over again.
You didn’t walk, you ran. Jumping straight into his arms, into the embrace that had always felt like home, no matter how far away you were. You collided hard enough that he let out a soft grunt before wrapping you up in a hold that felt like everything you’d been missing. Lando buried his face in your hair, laughing softly as he spun you just a little, just enough to make you dizzy.
“Sunshine...” He murmured against your temple.
The nickname hit you like an arrow to the chest. After all these years, he still called you that. And you loved it. You loved him. For the first time in years, you felt like you were exactly where you belonged.
Lando didn’t let go right away. His arms stayed snug around you, as though he wasn’t ready to share you with anyone else just yet. He leaned back only slightly, just enough to see your face, his curls falling into his eyes in that familiar, boyish way.
“You’re really here…” He said softly, like he still couldn’t believe it. His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, featherlight, as though memorizing the shape of your face all over again.
You smiled up at him, watery and a little shaky, trying not to cry in front of your whole family. “Like I could ever stay away from you.”
For a moment, it felt like the two of you were the only people in the world. Your mom sniffled somewhere behind you, your dad cleared his throat, and Max muttered something under his breath about getting a room—but all you could see was Lando. The warmth of his chest pressed against yours, the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, like you were still the same girl he’d once teased in your childhood bedroom, except now he knew better than to let you go.
He dipped his head closer, his voice just for you. “God, I missed you.”
Your breath caught, your hands tightening in the fabric of his hoodie. “I missed you more, Lan.”
Before you could think twice, your lips brushed his. Just a soft kiss, fleeting but loaded with all the years of waiting for this moment, longing, and surviving the time of being apart. When you pulled back, you swore you could see every ounce of those years reflected in his smile—pride, relief, and love.
“You two,” Your mom sighed, her voice warm despite the teasing edge. “Come inside before I start crying again. There’s food waiting.”
Lando chuckled, still not letting go of your hand as he turned toward the house with you. He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze, sending a silent promise through the touch—later, when it’s just us.
Max rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, walking ahead with your dad. And just like that, the five of you filed into the house, laughter already rising in the air, the weight of four years away slowly beginning to lift.
────୨ৎ────
The house still buzzed faintly with the echoes of the evening. Your dad’s booming laugh, your mom’s delighted claps as Max retold a story with too much exaggeration, and the clinking of forks on plates. All of it was stitched into the walls, into the very air you breathed. The table still smelled of chocolate and coffee, of home.
But eventually the night softened. Dishes stacked in the sink. Max sprawled out on the couch, a blanket haphazardly thrown over him as he pretended to keep watching the late-night show flickering across the TV. Your mom busied herself with wiping down the counters even though they already gleamed, and your dad leaned back with his hands over his stomach, murmuring something about being “too full for dessert, but maybe later.”
You caught Lando’s eye across the room. The curve of his smile was knowing and quiet, like he’d been waiting for this moment. Without a word, you tugged at his hand, and he let you pull him toward the back door.
The hinges creaked familiarly as you pushed it open, and the night welcomed you in. The air was cooler than you remembered, brushing goosebumps across your arms. The faint scent of cut grass lingered, mingling with the smoky tang of a neighbor’s fireplace. Crickets trilled in the distance, their song steady, and threaded with the soft rustle of leaves swaying in the dark.
The porch boards groaned under your weight as you leaned against the railing, the wood cool beneath your palms. The warm yellow light from the kitchen spilled out behind you, casting a soft glow across the porch before fading into the shadows of the yard.
Lando stepped out beside you, the screen door shutting with a quiet thud. His curls were touched gold by the porch light, his shadow stretching long across the boards. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on you with that same intent look that always made your heart stumble.
“I almost forgot how quiet it gets here at night.” You murmured, letting your gaze drift across the yard—the swing set still standing, the treehouse still faintly visible, the ghosts of your childhood layered in every corner.
Lando tilted his head while looking at you. “Different from the loud city, huh?” He asked, voice soft, teasing the edge of a smile.
You nodded. “Completely. But, you know…” You glanced at him, the words knotting in your chest before you forced them out. “It’s not the quiet, or the house, or even this town.” You paused, swallowing hard. “It’s you, Lan. You’re what makes it feel like home. Wherever you are, that’s home.”
For a heartbeat, silence wrapped around you, heavy and fragile at once. Lando’s expression shifted, his grin fading into something deeper, something that made your throat ache. He stepped closer, his shoes scuffing against the boards, until he was right in front of you. His hand came up, warm and steady, cupping your cheek. His thumb traced lightly over your jawline, a touch so gentle it made your breath hitch.
“You have no idea,” Lando whispered, his voice rough with emotion, “How long I’ve waited to hear that.”
Then his lips were once again on yours. The kiss was unhurried, grounding and infinite all at once. His mouth moved against yours with the kind of certainty that only came from years of holding back, of finally being able to give in without fear. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize everything—the curve of your lips, the way you leaned into him, the soft sound that escaped your throat.
The night seemed to hold its breath. The world narrowed to the warmth of his chest under your hands, the faint taste of the chocolate cake still lingering between you, the steady rhythm of his heart against yours. When you finally parted, his forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling in the cool night.
“I’m so glad I didn't listen to Max, and went over the limits for you.” Lando whispered.
You didn’t say anything more—you didn’t have to. Because even as his hand stayed at your cheek, and yours curled into the fabric of his shirt.
Lando’s heart was already racing with the thought of what he carried secretly in his pocket. The small velvet box pressed against his palm when he slid his hand back into his jeans, the hidden weight both grounding and electrifying with the plans he prepared for your shared future.
Buying that engagement ring was the easiest decision he had ever made. The best one.
Once Lando had known your love—once he had been wrapped in your laughter, your stubborn fire, and your soft edges—he realized he could never resist it again. Never want anything else.
It was, and always would be, the sweetest taste of his life. And he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with you by his side.
warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, soft sex, p i v, oral (m, f), hair pulling, edging, dirty talk, praise kink, virginity loss, slight voyeurism, aftercare), forced proximity, makeout scenes, pet names (sunshine, baby), secret relationship, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.
music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy
summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.
a/n: read part one here <3 hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
The next morning, the villa seemed to hold its breath. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, heavy with the scent of saltwater and jasmine, and already the weight of the morning was thick with unspoken things. The kind of silence where you could almost hear the thoughts racing, the weight of the air pressing in as though something was about to break.
You sat at the end of the dining table, one leg tucked beneath you, a loose hoodie slipping off your shoulder. You stared down at your cereal, which already started to become mushy, your spoon abandoned in the bowl. You weren’t really eating—you were just there, staring down at the swirls of milk and flakes while your thoughts looped back to last night.
Your thighs still tingled. Your skin still remembered the brush of his fingers, the way he whispered praise into your ear with a voice so low it made your lungs forget how to breathe.
And then he just left.
You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. You just stared at the ceiling until the sun started spilling across your sheets, your lips curving without your permission, heat blooming across your cheeks.
Footsteps padded across the tile—not rushed, not hesitant. Just calm, and easy. You knew it was him before he even came into view, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t move, yet your breath still caught anyway. You hid the smile quickly, biting the inside of your cheek as though that could erase the evidence.
He walked into the kitchen without pause. Hair tousled, his curls messy and falling over his forehead. A simple black t-shirt stretched across his torso, sleeves tight against his arms. Navy shorts hung low on his hips. He didn’t look like someone haunted by the night before. He looked… effortless. Like this was just another morning.
Your heartbeat was a slow, steady thud in your ears. He hadn’t said anything after last night. Not when he left with your name still clinging to his lips. And now, he was here, barefoot and relaxed, as if the memory of his fingers deep inside you wasn’t still thick in the air between you.
He reached for the orange juice in the fridge, the sound of the cap twisting echoing in the silence. You wondered if it was too loud, but to you everything felt too loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant swoosh of the waves from the ocean, and the shuffle of his feet on the floor. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He poured himself a glass, the golden liquid cascading smoothly into the cup, the way his fingers curled around the glass—so strong, yet effortlessly delicate.
He never once acknowledged you, but somehow you could feel his awareness. He knew you were there.
Lando leaned against the counter, still not looking at you. But you looked, you couldn’t stop yourself. The curve of his throat, the faint red mark on his collarbone—had you done that? Or was it a different girl? Your eyes dropped lower, to the veins in his forearm, to the way his fingers flexed around the glass with tension he probably didn’t realize he was holding.
The seconds ticked by like hours, stretching the air between you until it vibrated with unspoken words. And then, as if finally deciding to break the stillness, he looked at you. But it wasn’t just a look or a small glance. Lando watched you, his eyes locked on yours, sharp and knowing, and then that damn smirk tugged at his mouth. Slow. Crooked. As if he was letting you know—without words—that he remembered everything.
Your stomach flipped. You should have looked away, pretended to be too busy with your cereal. But instead, you smirked right back. A tiny one, more playful than defiant, like you’d just agreed to play along in this silent game. You remembered the way he looked at you last night—right before he slid his fingers between your thighs—with reverence, like he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it.
The tension wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was charged. Like teenagers daring each other not to break first. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to your mouth, before flicking back up. He took a slow sip of juice, as though he wasn’t caught, but his eyes never left yours.
You leaned your chin on your palm, tilting your head at him. “Morning, Lan.” You said, casual, but your voice carried more than that—like you were testing how much he’d give away.
His smirk deepened, one eyebrow ticking up. “Morning, Sunshine.” He echoed, smooth, easy, but his eyes sparkled with something far less innocent.
The air between you thrummed, like the universe had reduced itself to nothing but glances and smirks across a breakfast table.
Suddenly, Max’s voice broke through the air like a slap, loud and oblivious as he stomped in, “Where the fuck is my charger?” He muttered while ruffling his hair, already half-complaining.
You jumped slightly at the sudden interruption, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He was still a bit drunk from the night before, his words slurring together as he dug through the drawers, looking for his charger.
Lando shifted immediately, the tension vanishing like it had never existed. You, on the other hand, were still frozen, while your heart was beating too fast. Your palms suddenly went cold as you clenched the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, that wasn’t the pull of his gaze.
“Hey, are you seriously still looking at your cereal?” Max’s laugh was grating, but it was easy to let it wash over you, pushing away the tension that was still hanging in the air like fog.
Lando, however, didn’t break. He didn’t let the interruption completely pull him away from whatever had been between you. He just bit his bottom lip, eyes darting from Max to you in the span of a heartbeat. The smirk remained, like a secret only the two of you shared.
The moment stretched long as Max rambled something uncomprehendable under his breath, as Lando’s attention remained fixed. His eyes flicked from Max to you, and back again. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that held you captive in place, even as the noise from Max’s antics continued in the background.
You tried to breathe, but it felt like you were suffocating. The space between you and Lando seemed infinite and too close all at once. Every time your eyes met his, there was an undeniable, magnetic pull. And yet, he didn’t break the silence. He didn’t rush forward to fill it. He just watched—eyes gleaming, smirk softer now, but just as dangerous.
Max continued his tirade about his charger, finally locating it under the couch, and tossing it carelessly onto the table. Then finally, Lando placed his glass in the sink and moved toward the hall. But as he passed behind your chair, something happened. His hand brushed your shoulder. Barely. Like the memory of the touch from the night before. But your body flinched anyway—every nerve sparking to life, your skin burning beneath where his fingers had grazed. He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t stop his tracks. But you felt it.
Max was wandering across the room, completely unaware of the situation between Lando and you. But you knew better.
Everything between you two had changed, and though the world seemed to spin on, indifferent to the storm brewing inside, you both knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
────୨ৎ────
Laughter was bouncing off the walls in the villa, and music was thumping through the thick summer air as the glasses clinked in careless celebration. Only a few days have left in Ibiza.
It was too loud, and too hot. Too crowded with people who had no idea what had passed between you two just a few nights ago. No one knew that Lando had had his fingers buried deep inside you while your breath hitched, gasping his name like it was the only thing tethering you to life.
Now, here you were, both pretending that night had never happened. Well, sort of.
Lando lounged across the pool, sunk into one of those overstuffed chairs with a glass of something cold in his hand. His curls were messier than usual, dark and wild, shadows playing over his jawline that was clenched tighter than anyone pretending to be relaxed should be. He wasn’t looking at you—at least, not openly—but you could feel him. Like a pulse beneath your skin, drawing your eyes back to him, again and again.
Finally, your gaze caught his. It was slow, deliberate. Neither of you willing to look away first. Your eyes locked like some silent challenge, electric and heavy. You didn’t smile, and neither did he. But the tension between you snapped into place like a taut wire, humming with everything you weren’t saying, everything simmering just beneath the surface.
Then, without a word, Lando stood up. He wasn’t in a rush, no sudden moves. Just smooth, deliberate steps, passing close enough that his fingers brushed your hip—light as a feather, but you knew better. It was never accidental.
He disappeared inside the villa, footsteps fading down the hallway until a door clicked open, but it didn’t close. You knew exactly what that meant. You waited, heart pounding loud in your ears, counting the seconds-ten, fifteen-before you followed, steady and sure.
The bathroom was dim, bathed in the soft golden glow leaking from the hallway lights. The bass of the party thudded muffled beyond the door, but here, time slowed.
Lando was already there, leaning against the sink like he had all the time in the world-like he hadn't been eyeing you from across the room all night, like he hadn't traced your every step in that little sundress that barely brushed your thighs.
He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at you-dark, unreadable, jaw tight, a slow smirk pulling at the corner of his lips like he was already winning. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his shorts like he didn't trust himself to touch you again.
“Took you long enough.” He finally murmured, voice low and smug.
“You didn’t exactly rush me, Norris.”
“Didn’t need to, Fewtrell.” His eyes roamed over you with a dark heat, each slow sweep like a silent claim.
You moved first—one step, then two, until you were close enough to feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath against your face.
“Sunshine…” He said finally, almost like a warning.
Your nickname—tender and teasing—the one he always used when he wanted to sound playful. But now it was tight in his throat. It made your stomach twist because he never said it like that. Not with his mouth this dry, and his eyes already glued to your lips.
“This is a bad fucking idea.”
You tilted your head. “You think I don’t know that?”
He sighed, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek as he looked you over again—really looked at you. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your bare legs, and the shine of want in your eyes that matched the one in his.
And he cracked. Again.
“Fucking hell…” He muttered, hand dragging over his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You stepped closer, one slow, deliberate movement at a time, until you were standing between his legs. You didn’t touch him yet—just looked up at him through your lashes, voice soft.
“You didn’t stop me that night,” He leaned forward slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “But I should have. You’re—”
“Max’s little sister?” You cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m also the one you’ve been thinking about every time someone walks into the room.”
The look on his face—God. It was like you’d cracked something open.
His expression faltered for a second, just a flicker, but enough to see it all pour through. First came surprise—barely there, just a flick of his brows. Then irritation, not at you, but at himself—for being so obvious. For letting you see how tightly you’d wrapped yourself around his every thought.
His jaw tightened. His lips parted slightly like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knew you were right.
Then came the worst part, the one he tried to bury beneath a half-lidded stare—the longing, plain and aching. It flickered behind his eyes, heavy and unspoken, curling in the corners of his mouth that wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite get there. Like he hated how much he wanted you. Like he was two seconds away from either kissing you stupid or walking away before he could ruin everything. But he didn’t walk away, and that silence, thick and electric, was answer enough.
You didn’t give him time to argue again. You dropped to your knees in front of him— slow, controlled—watching the way his eyes went wide, then half-lidded with lust all over again.
“Fuck, wait—” His voice caught in his throat as your hands slid up his thighs, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of his shorts.
He reached down like he might stop you, but his touch faltered the second your fingers looped into his waistband. “I’m serious,” He said, though there was no heat in it. “We can still walk away from this, and forget it all.”
You looked up at him with a smirk, easing his shorts down. “Then go.”
Lando didn’t move. He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek, torn between guilt and desire. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained somewhere on the ceiling, like if he didn’t see you, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. That you weren’t happening.
Because fuck, you were Max’s little sister. You were off-limits for him, and he had no business in being this close to you, especially not like this—seconds away from crumbling for you, with your hands on his thighs while kneeling in front of him like this. So damn tempting, and so utterly unfair.
It was wrong. It was reckless. But it was inevitable.
His fingers flexed against the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going white. He was using every last bit of restraint he had left—every warning, every memory of Max’s voice in his head—to stop himself from losing control. But you were there, looking up at him with those fucking eyes, and a mouth he had no right to want on him as badly as he did. All he could think about was how you’d felt the other night—how warm, how wet, how desperate you’d been beneath his fingers. How badly he wanted more.
A slow smirk curled on your lips, while observing his silent struggle. “That’s what I thought, Lan.”
And then you began—your secret, sweet mission, practiced in the quiet dark for months, now brought to life with every touch, every breath, every pulse between you.
You didn’t rush, not yet. You let your lips skim along the edge of his waistband, hot breath ghosting over the fabric as your hands tugged his shorts down slowly. Your fingers grazed along the hard line of him through his boxers, and the way he was already so hard it made your mouth water.
His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking, and you gave it a single, deliberate stroke, letting your thumb swirl over the head and smear the precum. He groaned, biting down on his knuckle to muffle it.
“Don’t fucking tease me, sunshine.” Lando warned, but his voice was strained, betraying him. He liked it. Liked the way you looked on your knees, like sin wrapped in summer heat and lipstick, ready to make him break.
“You didn’t mind teasing me the other night,” You murmured, voice silk. “Thought it’s only fair this way.”
That earned you a quiet, desperate laugh through his nose, but it was cut off the moment you fully wrapped your fingers around him—finally. Warm skin, heavy in your hand, already aching for you. You stroked him slow, deliberate, thumb swiping over the slick at his tip.
He hissed, eyes fluttering shut, jaw flexing like he was biting back a groan.
“Keep quiet, Lan,” You teased, tongue flicking out just enough to briefly taste him. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?”
Lando didn’t answer, though. He just stared down at you like you were unreal, his hand tightening in your hair as you moaned softly—needy, and breathless.
“Holy shit,” He groaned, his hand tangling tight in your hair. “You’re unbelievable— fuck, Sunshine…”
You looked up through your lashes, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. “Just for you, Lan.”
When your lips finally closed around him, the tension cracked. His hips jerked forward, breath hitching as you took him slowly and deliberately, desperate to feel every inch of his cock. His fingers tangled in your hair as he tried to steady himself, but every moan caught in his throat betrayed him.
“F-fuck—” His free hand flew over to his mouth, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “Don’t do that— d-don’t fucking look at me like that.”
Like what?
Like you were proud of this.
Like you wanted to ruin him.
Like you could anything to him in that moment.
You sucked him deeper, letting your lips glide down until the head bumped the back of your throat, and he made a broken sound that sounded too close to a moan for comfort. He gripped the counter hard as the hand from his mouth travelled down, trying to keep still—trying not to fuck your pretty little mouth with his dick, even though every part of him wanted to.
Oh, but you weren’t done, not yet.
You set a rhythm, letting him slide deeper and deeper each time, your spit slicking down his length. You hollowed your cheeks, and slid up just to swirl your tongue around the tip, making Lando choke out your name.
When you finally pulled back just to stroke him, spit trailing between your lips and his tip, he looked down at you like he was going to fall apart.
“Where the hell—” He groaned, hips twitching involuntarily. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” You just smiled around him, refusing to answer.
And fuck, if only he knew. If only he knew that you had spent months sneaking quiet moments at night while trying to keep quiet from your parents’ and Max. Earphones in, watching soft porn and imagining it was him, and not the actors, not the fantasy.
You’d watched girls do this a hundred, even thousand times—perfect mouths, heavy eyes, desperate to please. Every single time you imagined it was him. Imagined you, on your knees, giving him what he deserved. Imagined his hands in your hair, voice ruined and strained whispering your name like a fucking prayer.
And now? Now it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. He was moaning for real, for you, trying so hard to keep quiet but failing more with every swirl of your tongue, every slow suck that made his knees threaten to give out.
“Sunshine— fuck, you know I can’t be loud,” He whispered, biting down on the back of his hand as your mouth moved expertly on him—tight, messy, and hungry. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not now.
Lando whimpered your name like a prayer, “Yes, fucking amazing. What did I do to deserve you?” You moaned around him, sucking harder as he twitched on your tongue.
He was holding on by a thread—hips barely jerking, knees wobbling, knuckles white where he gripped the counter behind him.
“Shit, baby—” He whimpered again, wrecked and desperate. “I’m gonna— fuck, if you don’t stop, I’m not gonna last long.”
You moaned in response, sending vibrations down his length that made him stutter and curse again.
His hand tightened in your hair. “Fuck— you’re gonna make me—” Lando breathed, eyes glassy now, chest rising fast. “You keep going like that and I’ll come in two seconds, I swear to god...”
You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him with your hand, spit shining down his length. “That bad, huh?”
“That good,” He corrected through clenched teeth. “That fucking good.”
And then you ducked back down, this time even more eager, letting him sink into your mouth again—deeper, messier, your fingers sliding to cup his balls, teasing lightly while your tongue worked him in every way you knew he liked. His thighs flexed under your touch. His hips rolled forward just enough to chase it—desperate now, so close it made your own thighs clench in sympathy.
The tension in his whole body wound tighter and tighter, until finally he groaned, raw and broken, “Shit, I’m gonna come, baby— I can’t hold it—”
And then you felt it—the twitch of him in your mouth, the sudden shaky breath he sucked in, the grip of his hand in your hair going rigid as his orgasm hit him hard. He spilled down your throat with a muffled groan, head dropping forward, eyes half-lidded and stunned, like you’d just taken every last bit of control he had left.
He bit back all the sounds, biting his knuckle, the other hand gripping your shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring him. His body was trembling from the pleasure you just gave him, head falling backwards, both of you lost in the moment.
You swallowed every single drop of his release, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him—eyes dazed, smug, and soft.
When you stood up, fixing your hair, Lando’s eyes were still hazy—dazed with pleasure, lips parted in disbelief. He stared at you like you’d just ruined him, only sending you a smirk.
“If your brother knew about this, he would literally kill us, Sunshine.”
────୨ৎ────
The last day in Ibiza had arrived far too quickly, though the memories of the week already felt heavy and golden, threaded into your skin like sunlight.
The trip hadn’t only been about hazy nights and crowded clubs pulsing with music—you had filled the in-betweens with memories that felt softer, and golden.
Afternoons spent on being stretched out beneath the sun, skin sticky with salt, laughter echoing between you as you shared fruit and drinks that tasted like summer. Hours wandering through local markets, fingers grazing over handmade jewelry, colorful scarves, jars of honey that glowed amber in the light. A boat trip that left your hair wild with sea air, the water glittering endlessly around you as you couldn’t help but smile and laugh.
Countless evenings were spent by the shoreline, your toes buried in cool sand while the whole group was trading funny stories, jokes and secrets, the waves softly rolling in and out in the background, as if the ocean itself was keeping you company. The sky turned from bruised purple to inky black, the stars pinpricking the quiet above you.
Every day had been eventful, and every night was brimming with restless energy. But this specific morning, you wanted something different. Something quieter, and something that belonged to just the two of you. You felt bold and you knew this idea was the best way of spending your last, normal morning on Ibiza during this trip.
The villa was hushed when you slipped out of your room, the air cooler in the early hour, scented faintly of salt drifting through open windows. The tiled floor was cool against your bare feet as you padded down the hallway, the silence broken only by the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant whoosh of waves hitting the shore. Outside, the world was only just beginning to wake, the sky brushed with the soft blues with the moon still proudly shining on top of the sky.
Behind the closed doors you passed, everyone was still wrapped in their sleep, their breathing heavy and unbothered after another long night. Everyone, except you.
Your heart beat faster the closer you got, until it was pounding in your chest as you stopped outside his door. You hesitated, just for a moment, fingers grazing the wood. He was in there, sleeping soundly, completely unaware. And you—dressed in your two-piece swimsuit, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders, nerves buzzing in every vein—were about to wake him up.The thought alone sent heat blooming low in your chest.
You pressed your lips together, swallowing the flutter of anticipation rising in your chest, and finally pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked faintly, though the sound was swallowed in the hush of the room.
It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, but not enough to block the soft seep of the early morning light. The air smelled faintly of him—clean, and warm, the trace of his perfume and suncream that clung to his skin all week.
Your gaze found him instantly. Lando lay diagonally sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted loosely around his waist. One arm was thrown lazily across his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His dark curls were mussed and flat on one side, his lips parted slightly as he slept.
In the dim light, he looked impossibly young and yet unfairly beautiful, softened and peaceful in a way you rarely saw when he was awake and grinning or teasing.
You crept closer, each step careful, until you were crouched by the side of the bed. For a moment, you just looked at him, letting yourself take him in. His lashes curled against his cheeks, longer than they had any right to be. His skin was bronzed from the week spent beneath the Ibiza sun, golden and warm, dotted here and there with soft freckles.
He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache, unfairly so, and something inside you whispered that you shouldn’t be staring at him like this—but you didn’t stop.
Tentatively, you lifted a hand. Your fingers hovered in the air for a beat—heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears—before you finally let them brush against his cheek. His skin was warm, smooth, and under your fingertips you felt the faintest twitch of muscle as he stirred.
“Lan…” You whispered, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt to say his name like that, soft and tender.
Lando stirred in his sleep, a small crease forming between his brows. His lips twitched, his breathing hitched just slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes opened. At first his gaze was unfocused, glazed with sleep. But the moment they found yours, recognition bloomed across his face, and with it came a slow, lazy smile that curled across his mouth, soft and genuine. It made something in your chest twist.
“Morning, Sunshine.” He muttered, voice low and rough, thick with sleep. It was the kind of sound that slid down your spine and made your stomach flip.
Before you could even think, his hand lifted from where it rested against the sheets. He covered yours, still cupping his cheek, with his own. His palm was broad and hot, enveloping you in his warmth as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed faintly against your knuckles, a fleeting unconscious gesture that made your stomach twist with happiness.
Your lips curved as you leaned in slightly, your voice soft, hopeful. “Everyone’s still asleep,” You whispered, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “Are you up for a morning swim with me?”
His lashes blinked heavy, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he pushed himself up onto an elbow. His curls fell over his forehead, messy and boyish, and he squinted as if trying to process your words.
“Wait, what time is it?” He rasped, but there was a spark of curiosity there.
“Four fifty-five.” You admitted, unable to keep the grin from tugging at your mouth.
He groaned again, this time louder, more dramatic, and flopped back onto the pillow like the world around him had just ended. “Woman, you’re fucking insane.” He muttered, voice muffled from the pillow.
You couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of you, shaking your head. “Maybe,” You teased, eyes glinting. “But you’re coming with me. Besides, the sunrise is in a couple of minutes. Are you really going to miss that… with me?”
You let the words hang between you, teasing, daring. And when he peeked out at you from beneath his arm—eyes sleepy but glinting—you already knew.
He was coming. Because Lando Norris could never say no to you.
The villa was still asleep, every room sunk deep in silence, but the two of you moved through it like teenagers sneaking out past curfew. You held your phone in one hand, flashlight glowing faintly to guide the way over the uneven tiles. Behind you, Lando trailed like a reluctant shadow, his hair a wild mess of curls flattened on one side, hoodie thrown lazily over his shoulders, swim shorts hanging low on his hips. He was barely awake, dragging his feet dramatically, muttering under his breath.
“This should be illegal to wake up at such an hour,” He whispered, voice rough and still thick with sleep. “Five in the fucking morning. The moon is literally still out!”
“Shh!” You hissed over your shoulder, though your lips already twitched with a smile.
“You’re fucking insane. Go and seek help.” He groaned, louder this time.
You spun on your heel, nearly crashing into him. “Shut up, Lando. You’ll wake them up!”
That made him grin, teeth flashing in the dim glow of your flashlight. “You’re acting like we’re robbing the place.”
“We kind of are,” You whispered, pushing at his chest with your free hand. “Now move!”
He stumbled backward dramatically, accidentally bumping into a small table. A glass vase with fresh flowers in it wobbled on its edges, making both of you freeze in your movements, eyes wide, until it settled with a soft clink. For a moment, neither of you dared to breathe. Then you slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to mute your laugh in your palm. Lando was doubling over, muffling his chuckle into the sleeve of his hoodie.
“See?” You wheezed between your own quiet giggles. “This is exactly why I told you to be quiet.”
“The fuck? But you’re worse than me, Sunshine!” He shot back, grinning. “You look like a cartoon villain with that flashlight.” You rolled your eyes, swatting at him, but your laughter betrayed you.
The two of you stumbled down the hallway, shoulders bumping, your combined giggles echoing faintly. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a gunshot, but instead of worrying, you only laughed harder, hearts pounding with the reckless thrill of sneaking around. It felt like being a teenager again, sneaking out, except this time the stakes weren’t your parents catching you.
Finally, you slipped out the back door. The air hit you instantly, cool and crisp, smelling faintly of salt and jasmine from the villa’s garden.
The world was suspended between night and morning. The sky was lika a shifting canvas—inky indigo at its highest point, softening into deep navy streaked with pale blue closer to the horizon. The moon still hung above the water, pale and luminous, while a faint wash of silvery light spread across the sand. The stars, dimmer now, still blinked stubbornly against the glow of dawn.
You hugged yourself against the early morning chill before glancing at him. Lando was watching you with that crooked, sleepy grin, shaking his head.
“We’re actually insane for doing this.” He repeated, but his voice was lighter now, filled with amusement instead of complaint.
“Maybe,” You said softly, catching his hand and tugging him toward the beach. “But trust me. In the end, you’ll thank me.”
The beach was completely empty, untouched, just the two of you, the ocean, and the endless stretch of sky preparing for the sunrise.
You dropped your hoodie—which Lando insisted on you wearing—and the towel in the sand, shooting him a daring grin. “Race you!”
Before he could react, you bolted away. Your laughter split the quiet, the sand flying behind you as you sprinted toward the water.
“What the— hey, that’s cheating!” Lando shouted, his voice cracking with amusement as he tore right after you.
You squealed, pumping your legs harder, but the sand dragged at your ankles and the water’s edge loomed. You hit the shallows first, the icy shock biting into your calves and thighs, and you gasped, stumbling forward with a squeak. The next second, he barreled in behind you, sending water splashing high into the air.
“Fucking hell, it’s freezing!” He yelled, laughing through his shiver.
“Nah, you’re just dramatic!” You shot back, splashing him with both hands.
He retaliated instantly, water slapping against your face, your hair plastering against your cheeks. You shrieked, diving sideways to escape, only for him to lunge, grabbing at your ankle. You kicked free, giggling so hard you could barely breathe, then shot a wave of water straight at his chest.
“Alright, that’s it.” He grinned wickedly, charging at you with both arms open.
You screamed, laughing, trying to swim backward, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly out of the water before dunking you under with a triumphant cheer.
You surfaced, coughing, hair plastered everywhere. “Are you insane?!” You spluttered, wiping the salty water out of your eyes.
He coughed, laughing so hard he could barely stand. “Absolutely.”
And just like that, it devolved. You chased each other in circles, splashing, squealing, darting beneath the waves only to pop up on the other side. At one point, you tried to sneak up and launch yourself onto his back, and he staggered, carrying you a few steps before flipping you both under the surface. The ocean became your playground, each wave rocking you into new fits of laughter.
When you surfaced, gasping and dripping, he was already there—hands finding your waist without even thinking, grounding you as the water tugged at your bodies. You looped your arms lazily around his shoulders, both of you breathless, grinning like idiots.
The chill of the water barely registered anymore. He was warm against you, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The playfulness between you softened, and the world around you seemed to exhale.
The horizon was shifting—the blues started to bleed into pastel pinks and soft oranges. The moon still glowed faintly in the sky above, but already the light of day was spilling over it, chasing the shadows away.
Lando tilted his head back, watching the light spill across the waves. His curls dripped, droplets sliding down his temples, his skin glowing with the first trace of sunlight. Then his eyes dropped to yours, instantly softening, as if the sunrise had nothing on you. And for him, it clearly hadn’t.
“Okay, I have to admit it,” Lando murmured, voice low, reverent, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “It was totally worth it.”
Your chest tightened. Maybe it was the sunrise. Maybe it was the way his arms held you steady, as if he wasn’t letting go of you. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time all week, it felt like the world only revolved around the two of you.
And as the sun climbed higher, painting the ocean in colors you couldn’t name, you stayed there in his arms—warm against the chill, held steady against the tide. Time slowed, stretched, until it felt like the sunrise belonged only to the two of you.
By the time you both finally trudged out of the sea, your bodies were heavy with the weight of saltwater and laughter. The horizon had shifted completely—what had been a watercolor wash of pinks and silvers earlier was now painted in golds and pale blues, the sun climbing steadily higher, its reflection glittering across the ocean’s surface like a trail of fire. Droplets rolled down your skin, catching the morning light, making you shimmer as you padded barefoot over the sand.
The chill of the water still clung to your body, but the warmth of the sun kissed your shoulders, drying you slowly. You each grabbed a towel from the spot you’d left them, wrapping yourselves up, though your hair clung stubbornly in damp strands, salt-stiff and wild. You laughed at the sight of Lando trying to shake his curls into submission, and he rolled his eyes, shooting a playful glare before flopping dramatically onto the sand.
You followed, spreading your towel beside his, lying back so the sunlight could soak into you. The sand was warm beneath the thin fabric, grounding you, while the air smelled like salt and wildflowers carried from somewhere inland.
Around you, the beach was still deserted—just the hush of the waves, the occasional cry of a distant gull, and the gentle rhythm of his breathing beside you.
You started talking then, softly at first. Nothing important—just observations, half-formed thoughts, silly jokes about how insane you both were for being up at this hour. He teased you for dragging him out of bed, and you teased him for pretending he hadn’t enjoyed it. But slowly, the conversation meandered, stretching out like the sunlight itself.
His voice was lower in the morning, still rough with sleep, and it blended with the rhythm of the waves until you weren’t sure where his words ended and the ocean began.
You talked about places you wanted to see, about old memories from home, about things that didn’t matter and yet felt like everything in that moment. At some point, you caught yourself watching his mouth as he spoke, the curve of his lips when he smiled, the way he bit down on the edge of his towel to wipe at his face.
And there, wrapped in warmth and salt air, you realized this was true happiness. Not the wild nights, not the crowds or flashing lights, but this. Slow, golden, stretched out like time had stopped just for the two of you.
The air was thick with salt and warmth, carrying the cries of seabirds and the slow hush of waves rolling in and out. For a while, you both just lay there, listening, breathing, existing.
It was you who broke the silence, your voice hushed as though you might disturb the spell. “Do you realize that we might be the only people in the world who saw that sunrise from the water today?”
Lando cracked one eye open, turning his head lazily toward you. “Deep thoughts this early?” His lips curled into a teasing smile, but his voice was soft, as though he didn’t really want to ruin the quiet.
“I’m serious,” You protested, rolling onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “It felt like… like it was just for us.”
He gave a small hum, closing his eyes again. “Mhm. Don’t get used to it though. I’m never letting you wake me up before five again.”
You laughed, tossing a bit of sand at his arm. He flinched dramatically, brushing it off like it had been an attack, then retaliated by flicking his damp towel at your legs. That started a brief, ridiculous back-and-forth, both of you muffling your laughter, trying not to disturb the tranquility of the empty beach.
When you both settled again, breathless from laughter, he turned his head toward you once more. This time, his expression was softer, more open. “Still… it was worth it.”
The way he said it—quiet, almost shy—made your chest tighten. You wanted to bottle this moment, keep it safe forever.
It was nearly eight when you finally gathered yourselves, towels draped loosely over your shoulders as you made your way back to the villa. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the beach had begun to change—the distant figures of early walkers appearing further down the shore, the hum of a boat engine carrying faintly over the water.
Inside, the house was stirring. Doors slowly started to creak open, sleepy voices filled the hallways, footsteps padded toward the kitchen. People emerged, hair mussed, eyes heavy, yawns stretching their faces as they shuffled toward coffee and food.
No one asked where you’d been. No one looked at you too closely, or noticed the way your hair was still damp at the ends, or how faint grains of sand clung stubbornly to your legs. The secret of the morning swim was yours to keep—tucked quietly between you, something fragile and precious that belonged to no one else.
As you moved through the room, you caught Lando’s gaze across the table. His curls were still a bit damp, darker where they clung to his forehead, his cheeks faintly flushed from the sun and sea. His lips curved just slightly, subtle, private—as if he were remembering it too.
And in that moment, with everyone around and yet no one noticing, you knew you were both carrying the sunrise with you.
────୨ৎ────
The last evening in Ibiza had a softness to it, the kind that clung to the air when you knew something was ending.
The villa was buzzing with chatter and laughter, the group still gathered around the long dining table, the remains of dinner scattered between half-drunk bottles of wine, cocktail glasses, and plates smudged with sauce. Someone was telling a story, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing off the stone walls, but you slipped out quietly, your glass of wine in hand.
The terrace greeted you with the cool kiss of evening air. The heat of the day had softened, and a light breeze carried the faint tang of the ocean. You lowered yourself into one of the chairs, tucking your legs up beneath you, the glass cradled loosely between your fingers.
The view before you stole your breath. The sky was painted in layers—gold bleeding into pink, pink fading into lavender, and all of it slowly surrendering to the deepening blue of night. The sun hovered at the horizon, its last light shimmering across the water like molten copper. Already, the moon was visible, pale and patient, waiting for its turn to rule the sky. The waves rolled gently against the shore in the distance, the sound a low, steady rhythm beneath the hum of voices inside.
You sighed, the sound soft and almost wistful.
Last night in Ibiza.
It had been more than just a holiday. More than just chaos and late nights. It had been a chapter, one you weren’t quite ready to close.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
The voice made you glance over your shoulder. Lando stepped out onto the terrace, curls backlit by the glow of the villa, a drink in his hand. His white shirt hung loosely over him, the sleeves rolled up, and there was an ease about him that almost made your chest ache.
He leaned against the doorframe first, looking at you with a small, crooked smile. “Hiding?”
You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward. “I’m not hiding, just watching the sunset.” You tilted your chin toward the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was melting away. “Can’t believe it’s our last night here.”
He let out a hum, his gaze following yours toward the view. Then he pushed himself away from the doorframe and dropped into the chair beside you. His knee bumped yours as he sat, and neither of you moved away.
“Yeah,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “Feels like it went by in a blink.”
You laughed quietly, swirling the wine in your glass. “Probably because you all made me drink so much tequila I lost track of time.”
That earned you his laugh—the real one, unrestrained, warm enough to seep straight into your bones. He shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who tried to keep up with Max.”
At your brother’s name, you groaned dramatically, hiding your face in one hand. Lando’s laugh grew louder, and soon enough, you were laughing with him, the two of you caught in a bubble of your own amusement while the voices inside blurred into background noise.
The laughter ebbed into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, and easy. The kind of silence you wanted to linger in. Your gaze drifted to him again. The last of the sunset light traced across his features, softening the sharp lines, making him look almost boyish while painting his skin in gold and rose. His lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was curved in that faint, unreadable smile.
He caught you staring. His eyes met yours, steady, curious, holding you in place. And suddenly, it felt like the air between you shifted, heavier, charged.
Your heart thudded—brave, and reckless. That spark inside you flared to life. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in. Just a little at first, testing, your breath mingling with his. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and that was all the courage you needed.
Your lips gently brushed his. It was soft, barely a touch, the kind of kiss that could almost be passed off as nothing if you wanted it to be. But it was enough to send a jolt through your chest, enough to make the world tilt for just a heartbeat.
When you pulled back, Lando was frozen, wide-eyed, his lips parted as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
A grin tugged at your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t let Max know about this.”
For a beat, he just stared at you. Then a laugh broke out of him—quiet at first, then fuller and warmer, filling the night air. He shook his head, curls bouncing, his hand coming up to rub across his mouth as if he could hide the smile tugging at it.
“You’re insane, Sunshine.” He muttered, though his voice was laced with amusement. And something else. Something that made your stomach flip.
You laughed too, your cheeks flushed, giddy with the thrill of what you’d just done. “Maybe,” you teased, raising your brows. “But you didn’t exactly stop me.”
His eyes softened, his grin tilting crooked. “Didn’t want to.” He said, quiet but certain.
Your laughter tangled together again, mingling with the distant murmur of waves and the soft hum of cicadas in the garden. The villa’s noise carried faintly through the open doors, but out here, it felt like you were in your own little world.
Side by side, shoulders brushing, hearts a little too fast, you sat beneath the indigo sky as the first stars bloomed above. A secret smile pulled at your lips, mirrored by his.
Without saying it, you both knew—this trip wasn’t something either of you would forget.
────୨ৎ────
Later that night, when everyone finally decided to call it a day and went to their room, the villa had finally gone quiet. Somewhere down the hall a door creaked as someone went for painkillers and a glass of water, but otherwise the only sound was the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant, lazy crash of waves on the shore.
You sat propped up in bed, hair damp from your shower, skin still warm and sweet-smelling from the lotion you’d rubbed in. Lando’s oversized t-shirt slipped down one shoulder, brushing your bare thigh where your pajama shorts ended.
Your phone screen glowed faint blue in the dimmed room, but you weren’t really scrolling anymore—just staring, looking at the same posts without taking them in. Your chest felt tight, restless, like there was something waiting, pressing against your ribs.
The sudden knocks on the door came so soft you almost thought you’d imagined it. Four gentle taps, hesitant but still deliberate. Your brows furrowed, having in mind that everyone should already be asleep. You slid out of bed, heart already beating faster, and padded across the room on bare feet.
When you cracked the door open, the sight on the other side knocked the air from your lungs. Lando. He leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t thought this through. His curls were mussed, eyes burning with something raw and urgent. A plain black tee clung to his shoulders, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, like he’d pulled them on in a rush.
You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, he spoke—his voice low, rough, like he’d been chewing on it all night. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” He whispered, jaw flexing as his fingers drummed against the doorframe. “I know I tried to stay away, but I can’t do this anymore.”
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. His chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—permission, rejection, maybe salvation.
You gripped the edge of the door tighter, your pulse loud in your ears. “Lando…” You breathed, but he cut you off, stepping inside the room, the door slipping shut behind him with a soft click.
He raked a hand through his curls, pacing a step before turning back to you, desperation in every line of him. “Every time you laugh, every time you look at me— it’s fucking torture,” He said, his voice breaking around the words. “I’ve been trying, I swear I’ve been trying to be good, to respect all the boundaries Max had set, and to not cross a line I can’t uncross. But fuck…” His eyes found yours again, blazing. “I can’t. Not anymore.”
For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at each other. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing and the muffled crash of waves outside. His confession still vibrated in the air, still in your chest.
Lando looked at you like he’d just confessed to a crime—like he was waiting for you to push him back out the door, to slam it shut and lock it forever. His fists were clenched now at his sides, his jaw tight, but his eyes were full of yearn.
And maybe you should have thought about it. Maybe you should have told him to leave. But instead, a slow smile curled at the edge of your lips.
“You know…” Your voice was soft, teasing, cutting through the tension like a spark in dry grass. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this forever.”
Before Lando could process your words, and before he could speak again, you stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled him down to you.
Your lips crashed together, desperate and hot, the kiss messy in the way it only could be when both of you had been holding back for far too long. His breath hitched against your lips, like you’d stolen it straight out of him, and for a split second Lando didn’t move. His body went rigid, every muscle taut, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away.
It was wrong—so fucking wrong. He wasn’t supposed to want you nor need you. But then your fingers tightened in his shirt, keeping him close, and he felt the way you trembled against his mouth. That hesitation, that thin thread of resistance he’d been clinging to—it snapped.
Lando groaned into the kiss, low and guttural, like he’d been starved for this and suddenly couldn’t breathe without it. His body melted against yours in an instant, the hand that had been frozen now instinctively sliding to your waist, gripping hard, and pulling you into him as if he was afraid you’d disappear any second.
When you finally broke away, gasping for air, his pupils were blown wide, his lips wet and parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a race. He looked utterly wrecked already, the last of his restraint gone.
“Fuck,” Lando whispered, his voice ragged, forehead leaning against yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
And you couldn’t help it—you grinned, wicked and playful. “Can you finally fuck me now, Lan?” You whispered, throwing his own restraint back at him like gasoline on a flame.
He groaned at your words, low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through you. Your laugh came out breathless, shaky, because you weren’t sure how much longer your knees could hold you up. His touch was fire, his words molten, and you knew with every nerve in your body, that this was only the beginning.
Lando’s lips found yours again, harder this time, hungrier. His hands were everywhere at once—sliding under his your shirt, skimming along the curve of your waist, and up your ribs. His touch was greedy, rough like he was making up for every single time he’d held himself back.
You gasped against his lips when he lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as he carried you the few stumbling steps toward your bed.
“You think it’s funny?” He growled against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He pressed you down into the mattress, caging you with his body, curls falling into his eyes. “Smiling at me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me?”
His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were already aching for him. You arched into his touch, your laugh breaking into a shaky breath. “What if I did know?” You whispered, eyes locked on him.
Lando smirked, dangerous and devastating. And he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just kissed you again, slower and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you writhed beneath him. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, then lower, sliding past the waistband of your shorts, fingers teasing along your heat without giving in just yet.
“Lan—” Your voice cracked on his name, half-plea, and half-warning.
“God, you sound just like I remembered,” He murmured, lips dragging along your throat, nipping lightly at your skin. “Drove me fucking insane every night, replaying it over and over.” His fingers finally slipped where you needed him most, drawing a startled moan from your lips. “But this time, you’re not just in my head. You’re finally mine.”
Your hips bucked up into his hand instinctively, chasing more, but Lando only chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck. “This desperate already, Sunshine? Haven’t even touched you properly yet.” His voice was rough, the restraint barely hanging on by a thread.
Lando slid one finger through your slickness, teasing, spreading it over you before pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “Fucking hell… you’re soaked. And all of that for me?”
Your answer came out in a gasp. “Always for you.”
That completely shattered him. His mouth crashed into yours again, desperate and messy, his teeth clashing against your lips like he couldn’t get close enough. His fingers pressed harder, stroking you until your thighs trembled. Then suddenly he pulled back, leaving you panting and wide-eyed on the bed. You nearly whined at the loss, but the sight of him tugging his shirt over his head shut you up fast. His sun-kissed skin glowed in the dim lamplight, golden and flushed, the lines of muscle shifting as he leaned over you again.
“That one night in the bar, when you leaned across the counter in that little dress, and asked me that ridiculous question… fuck, I almost lost it. Almost took you right there in front of everyone.” Lando said, voice husky, catching your chin between his fingers so you had to look up at him.
Your laugh came out breathless, nervous, but playful all the same. “Maybe you should’ve.”
The look in his eyes darkened. “Don’t test me.”
Your body lit up under his touch as he stripped you out of your pajama shorts and underwear in one smooth tug, tossing them carelessly aside. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and for a heartbeat, Lando just looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
Your breath caught as he leaned towards you, his mouth ghosting down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly against your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
His voice was rough, low, vibrating right into you. “You have no fucking idea how much I wanted to do this after I caught you, moaning my name.” He murmured, his eyes flicking up to yours, pupils blown wide with hunger. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, right where your pulse hammered. “I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing it. For just walking away.”
Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, your mouth opening but no sound coming out. You could only watch him—how he looked at you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could fix him.
“But I’m not going to keep myself away from it now.” His lips brushed your hipbone, soft, hot, and teasing.
The words struck through you, your whole body tightening in anticipation. You barely had a chance to inhale before his mouth was finally on you, his tongue sliding hot and eager against your slick folds, and every thought shattered. A broken gasp tore out of you, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you could stop yourself. His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his grip firming on your thighs as if to say, don’t run from this.
“Fuck, Lando—” Your voice cracked, desperate, still trying not to be too loud.
He lifted his head just enough to smirk at you, lips glistening with your wetness. “That’s right, baby. Say only my name.” Then his mouth was back on you, his tongue circling, teasing, dipping inside until your thighs trembled uncontrollably.
Every flick, every groan from him felt like it was unraveling you one string at a time. And you could feel it in the way he moved—this wasn’t just about making you fall apart. This was about making up for every second he’d denied himself, every second he’d forced the distance between you. But there was no denying that he wanted it just as much as you did. Maybe even more.
His grip on your thighs tightened as if he feared you’d slip away, holding you open for him like he’d been dreaming of it for weeks—maybe months. His mouth was merciless, tongue working you with a hunger that made your whole body quake. You tangled your fingers in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, the vibration rolling through your core until your back arched off the bed.
“Holy shit—” The words came out high, almost a sob.
He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening as he dragged his tongue slowly up your folds before circling your clit with deliberate, devastating precision.
“Fuck, you taste just as sweet as I remember, Sunshine.” He rasped, the words muffled against your skin.
Your hips bucked at his confession, and he pinned you down harder, his thumb sliding in to press right where his tongue wasn’t, overwhelming you with sensation. Every movement of his mouth was calculated—slow enough to tease, fast enough to destroy. He pulled back just slightly, his breath hot against your swollen, aching clit.
“You gonna come for me now?” He murmured, his voice low, hoarse with need. He nipped lightly at your inner thigh before flattening his tongue against you again, harder this time. “Right on my tongue? Let me have it, baby.”
Your whole body convulsed at his words, heat spreading so quickly you barely had time to gasp his name before it tore through you. The orgasm hit hard, sharp, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as you cried out, tugging his hair, desperate and raw.
But he didn’t stop. Even as your body writhed and your hips jerked, he lapped at you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was desperate to drink down every sound, every shudder. His moan vibrated through your core, drawing out the high until you collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin.
“Shit— Lando, I can’t—” You whimpered, your whole body still quivering, every nerve raw.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, slick with your cum, his curls mussed from your fingers tugging at them. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, then leaned forward to press his tongue flat against your clit one last time.
The shock of it made you jolt, your thighs trembling against his grip. “Lando— please…” You gasped, but he only smiled against you.
“You think one orgasm’s enough for me?” Lando said, his voice wrecked, low. His index finger slid through your folds, circling slowly, dragging your sensitivity to the edge of unbearable. “Not when I’ve waited this fucking long.” He pressed two fingers inside you again, curling them just right, making your back arch off the bed. “I told you, Sunshine,” He muttered, eyes fixed on your face, “I’m not keeping myself from this anymore. Not from you.”
You squirmed under him, your hands clutching at the sheets, your breath breaking apart into desperate whimpers. Every time you were close, every time the heat coiled too tight, he slowed down, pulled away, forcing you to the edge but never letting you fall.
“Lan— fuck, please… I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, Sunshine.” He cut you off, his tone sharp but dark with desire. His lips brushed your inner thigh before he bit it lightly, sucking just enough to leave a mark.
You tried to grind against his fingers, desperate, but his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, holding you down. His smirk grew when you let out a frustrated whine.
“Look at you,” He whispered, watching the way you squirmed. “So needy… you want my cock that bad?” He flicked his tongue over your clit, quick and precise, just enough to make your body convulse. “Beg me for it, Sunshine. Let me hear you.”
Your pride tried to resist, but the ache inside you was unbearable, your body trembling with denied release. Your nails dug into the sheets, your voice breaking as you finally gave in. “Please, Lan… fuck me already, I need you—”
He whimpered like the words alone had undone him, his lips parting as if the sound was too good, too addictive. Lando dragged his fingers out of you slowly, sucking them into his mouth with a moan before leaning over you.
His lips brushed yours, teasing, so close but not giving you the kiss you craved. “Say it again.” He demanded softly, his breath hot against your mouth.
Your eyes fluttered shut, desperation spilling out of you. “Just fuck me, Lando. I’m begging you.”
That was all it took. He crashed his mouth back onto yours, hungry and rough, his body sliding against yours with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. His hands roamed around your waist, your thighs, and your breasts—touching you like he was making up for lost time.
You could barely breathe when you felt him grind against you, the hard line of his cock straining through his sweatpants brushing your slick folds through the thin barrier of his pants. The friction sent a desperate whimper tumbling out of you, and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.
“F-fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, his voice jagged with restraint. His hips rolled once, slow, making your body jolt beneath him. His forehead pressed against yours, curls damp against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me, Sunshine. I can’t—”
His words broke off into a groan as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest rising hard against yours. Then, with hands trembling more from need than hesitation, he gripped the hem of your top and peeled it upward. The cool air kissed your heated skin, and his gaze followed every new inch revealed. His jaw clenched, his breath catching.
“Holy shit…” He whispered, like the sight of you had gutted him. His palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling slowly over your nipples until your back arched. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your fingers tugged impatiently at the waistband of his pants, and he gave a broken laugh, shaking his head as if you were undoing him with every tiny move. “Yeah, fuck— don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
In a rush of clumsy urgency, he yanked his pants down, tossing it blindly across the room. His cock sprung free, heavy and flushed, and your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and hard, precum glistening at the tip.
He noticed your stare and smirked, leaning down to kiss your neck, his voice husky against your skin. “Like you see something you like, huh?” He teased, his voice husky and wrecked, the cockiness in his tone making your cheeks burn.
Your laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere between breathless and needy, and the sound only made his grin widen against your skin. He didn’t give you a chance to answer—his touch lingered over your hip, firm yet reverent, before he leaned over to fumble in the drawer, cursing low under his breath until he finally pulled out a condom and tore it open with his teeth.
He sat back on his knees, chest rising and falling fast, the muscles in his arms flexing as he rolled the condom down over himself. The sight alone made your thighs press together, your body begging for him.
When Lando’s eyes met yours again, they were full of hunger, but also something softer. He bent down, his lips brushing yours in a whisper of a kiss. “You ready, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice low, wrecked with both restraint and need, searching your eyes for any hesitation or restraint.
And then—just as he slid the tip of himself against your entrance, your breath caught, panic flickering in your chest. “Lando— wait.”
Immediately, he froze. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. His hands stayed steady on your hips, not forcing, not moving. “What’s wrong, Sunshine? Talk to me.”
Your throat felt tight, your lips trembling, but you forced the words out. “I…” Your voice broke. You shut your eyes, cheeks burning before finally admitting, “Fuck, I’ve never done this before.”
Silence.
When you dared to look, his expression was stunned, caught between disbelief and something achingly soft. His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle, grounding. “You mean…?” He swallowed, searching your eyes. “You’re still a virgin?”
You nodded, barely breathing, every nerve in your body screaming with fear that this would change everything.
For a long moment, Lando just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then he shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just trusted him with. “Fucking hell, I didn’t know… I thought you—” His voice was wrecked, almost breaking. “And you— you’d give that to me?”
You lifted a hand to his face, brushing your thumb over his lip, steady despite your trembling. “There’s no one else I’d ever want to. Just you. Only you.”
His breath left him in a rough exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and head hanging low as if the words undid him more than anything else ever could. When he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen, raw and burning just for you.
“Are you sure?” He whispered, his forehead pressing to yours again. “Tell me right now if you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop.”
“I’m sure,” You whispered, your voice trembling but true. “Please, Lan. I want you.”
He kissed you then—not rough, not hungry, but slow and reverent, as if he was sealing a promise. His hand gently cupped your cheek, the other tracing slow, grounding circles on your thigh.
When he finally slid down, lining himself up with you, he did it with infinite patience. He pressed the tip against you, watching your face the whole time.
“This might hurt a bit, Sunshine,” He murmured against your lips, voice thick with restraint. “But I’ll go slow. So fucking slow. Just hold onto me, and tell me if you need a break.”
You nodded in response, and that was a green light for him. Lando pushed in, inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight as he held himself back, his breath ragged against your cheek. You gasped at the stretch, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he immediately froze, cupping your face.
“Hey— look at me. You okay?”
You nodded quickly, even though your eyes watered, your chest heaving. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Just… don’t stop.”
His face crumpled with something between agony and devotion. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth, whispering against your skin. “Good girl. You’re so perfect. Taking me so well…”
And when he finally sank fully into you, he held still, buried deep, his whole body shaking with the effort not to move too fast. “F-fuck,” He groaned into your neck, voice breaking. “You feel like heaven, sunshine. Absolute fucking heaven.”
He stayed like that, kissing away your nerves, whispering sweet nothing until the pain dulled, until you shifted beneath him and whispered the words that tipped him over the edge of restraint. “Move, Lando. Please.”
He groaned like the sound alone shattered him, burying his face in your neck as his hips finally shifted. The first drag of him moving inside you was slow, his cock filling you in a way that made your chest tighten and your thighs tremble.
“Holy shit,” He breathed, his voice guttural, shaky with restraint. “You’re so tight—”
Each movement was careful, his hand gripping your thigh, the other stroking your cheek as if to remind you he was there, that you weren’t alone in this. He pressed kisses across your jaw, down your neck, his words tumbling out against your skin. It still hurt a little, but beneath it there was heat—sweet, dizzying sparks that curled low in your stomach.
“Lando…” You gasped, nails digging into his back. “Don’t hold back— please.”
He pulled back then, just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide, but the softness was still there—woven deep into the hunger. “You sure?”
“Yes,” You breathed. “I want all of you.”
The groan that tore from him was broken, and desperate. His forehead dropped to yours, curls damp from sweat against your skin, before his hips snapped forward in a deeper thrust. You cried out, clinging to him, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound. His rhythm built, still controlled but heavier now, deeper, until every roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth. His hands gripped your body like he never wanted to let go—one on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as if he needed you closer, always closer.
The heat inside you coiled tighter with every movement, your body matching his rhythm instinctively. You dragged your nails down his back, gasping his name like it was the only word you knew. “Lan— I think—”
“I know, baby, I know,” He panted, his lips crashing into yours again, hot and desperate. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
And when it hit you—when your body clenched around him, your cry muffled against his mouth—he lost himself too. His thrusts stuttered, his hips pressing deep as he groaned your name, spilling into the condom with a shudder that rattled through his whole body.
The world had gone quiet again, save for the sound of the air conditioning and both of your uneven breaths slowly settling into rhythm. Lando was still inside you, his body heavy and warm on top of yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips pressed absent, feather-light kisses along your collarbone like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
Finally, after a long moment, he shifted with a soft groan, careful as he pulled himself out, and took the used condom off, throwing it away to the bin next to your bed.
Then, he came back to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “You okay?” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion, but so gentle it made your chest ache.
You nodded, brushing his messy curls from his forehead with shaky fingers. “I’m more than okay, Lan.”
His mouth curved into a tired, crooked grin before he leaned down to kiss you—slower this time, sweet and lingering. He pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders, then gathered you against his chest like you were something fragile.
“You’re amazing, Sunshine,” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “Didn’t hurt too much, did it?”
You shook your head against him, smiling softly. “Only at first. But then it was perfect.”
He tightened his arms around you, his chin resting in your hair. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, your leg hooked over his, his thumb tracing mindless patterns across your arm. The room smelled faintly of your shower gel and his cologne, mixed with the salt from the sea still clinging to his skin.
When you finally broke the silence, your voice was hushed, almost shy. “I meant it, you know. About not wanting anyone else. I’d only ever want you.”
Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his aquamarine eyes glassy with something that wasn’t just exhaustion. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he kissed you again, slow and deep, as if words couldn’t come close to what he felt.
He whispered your name softly when he finally pulled away. “You’ll ruin me, you know that?” You giggled softly, snuggling closer, hiding your face in his chest. He chuckled quietly too, his hand smoothing down your back, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
After a long silence, you exhaled shakily. “Can I tell you something?”
He hummed, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Always.”
“I was… scared to tell you it was my first time.” Your voice was so small it almost vanished into the space between you. “Scared you’d think I was… I don’t know. Less attractive or boring. Or—”
“Hey.” Lando’s hand stilled against your back. He tipped your chin up gently, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze was sharp, almost offended, but softened with warmth. “Sunshine, you’re insane for thinking that.” Your breath caught as his thumb brushed your cheek.
“None of it made you less attractive. Do you have any idea how much it meant to me that you wanted it to be me? That you trusted me like that?” His voice dropped lower, softer.
Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes, but you smiled anyway, trying to shake the heaviness. “Still… I probably sucked at this, and looked clueless.”
Lando’s lips curved into a slow grin, his tone slipping into a teasing drawl. “Clueless? You? Oh, please.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “You didn’t look like someone inexperienced in that bathroom, kneeling in front of me on the floor the other night…”
Your face burned instantly, and you swatted his chest, giggling despite yourself. “Lando!”
He laughed with you, the sound low and husky, wrapping you up in it as much as his arms. “I’m just saying,” He teased, his grin smug. “Pretty sure virgins aren’t supposed to look that sexy while also begging for me to fuck them.”
“Shut up.” You muttered, burying your face against him, but your laughter betrayed you.
He chuckled, kissing the top of your head, still holding you tight. “Never shut up about it. Not when it’s you.”
The night blurred into warmth, into shared kisses, and into the slow weight of Lando’s breathing evening out beside you. You had never felt so safe, so full, and so undone yet held together all at once.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and you drifted to sleep in his arms. His chin was gently tucked against your hair, his thumb still brushing your skin like he couldn’t bear to let you go, even unconscious.
When the faintest pale light crept through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and lavender, you stirred. Lando was still there, one arm heavy around your waist, his curls messy, his lips parted in the softest, almost boyish way. For a moment, you just watched him, memorizing him like this—unguarded, and all yours.
But then he shifted, blinking awake slowly. His gaze found yours, sleepy but softened by a small smile. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Morning, Sunshine.” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
You wanted to keep him there forever. But you both knew you couldn’t.
With a reluctant sigh, he pulled away, sitting up. “I think I should…” He glanced toward the door. “Before anyone notices.”
Your chest squeezed, but you only nodded, fingers catching his wrist before he could pull away. He looked back at you, and leaned back down. But this time, the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, like he wanted it branded into both of you.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, breath warm, “Love you.”
When he whispered those two words, something inside you cracked open, soft and trembling, like you’d been waiting years just to hear those two words in his voice.
For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe. Because how could this be real? How could it be that the same boy you’d been hopelessly in love with since you were fourteen—the boy you used to watch from across crowded rooms, the boy who smiled at you like you were just Max’s little sister—was now in your bed, skin still warm against yours, telling you he loved you?
It felt impossible. Unreal. Like a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.
You smiled through the sting in your eyes, tugging him close for one more kiss. “Love you too, Lan.” The words slipped out with ease, though your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs.
When he pulled away, forehead resting gently against yours like neither of you wanted to let go, you closed your eyes just to memorize the moment. His breath mixed with yours, his fingers brushed your cheek, and his love wrapped around you like it had always been meant to.
Then he finally pulled back, quiet as he dressed, careful with every movement. Before going, he mouthed one last goodbye paired with a soft grin that made your heart ache. “I’ll see you in a bit, Sunshine.”
And finally, the door clicked softly behind him.
Moments later, the sheets were still cooling from his absence as you lay there, staring at the ceiling with your heart aching in the sweetest, sharpest way. Because you were still that fourteen-year-old girl somewhere deep inside—still the girl who doodled his name in margins, who blushed when he looked your way, who whispered your feelings into the dark where no one would ever hear them.
And now… now he had finally said them back.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue of dawn slipping through the villa windows. Lando padded barefoot toward his room, every step quiet and careful—until he froze.
Max was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and hair wild, clearly just woken up. His eyes narrowed immediately, flicking from Lando’s disheveled curls to the wrinkled tshirt, then back to the door he’d just slipped out of.
Lando’s chest tightened, his heart dropping. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—but Max just tilted his head, expression unreadable. His gaze lingered one second longer, sharp, suspicious, then without a word, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the kitchen. Lando exhaled silently, forcing his legs to move again. He ducked quickly into his own room, shutting the door with a quiet thud.
The storm hadn’t come yet, but the air in the villa was already heavy, humming with the weight of what Max had seen, and chosen not to say.
────୨ৎ────
21 & 25
The football match had ended hours ago, but neither Max nor Lando seemed ready to call it a night. They were sprawled across the couch in Lando’s apartment, an empty pizza box on the coffee table between them, cans of beer lined up like trophies from a war well fought. The city glowed faintly beyond the tall windows, muted in the haze of late evening.
Max leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied sigh. “You know what’s still the wildest thing to me?”
Lando arched a brow, sipping his drink. “What?”
“That you—” Max jabbed a finger at him, grinning like he’d caught him in some grand hypocrisy. “‘Mr. I’m not interested in dating’ actually managed to get yourself a girlfriend. Like, a real one. Not just a fling as you used to.”
The words made Lando’s heart skip, but he schooled his expression into something casual, even amused. He chuckled lowly, swirling the can in his hand. “Yeah, well… stranger things have happened, mate.”
Max laughed, shaking his head. “No, seriously. Never thought I’d see the day.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So… who’s the unlucky girl dating you, huh?”
For a split second, Lando froze. His mind flashed with the truth—the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the way you whispered his name in the dark when you both lay in his bed late at night.
“Well— about that...” Lando started hesitantly, scratching his neck.
It’s your little sister—he wanted to say.
But his composure held. He smirked faintly, masking the way his pulse had spiked. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you nosy bastard.”
Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that. You finally settle down with someone and you won’t even tell me who she is? What’s her name, at least?”
Lando only shrugged, leaning back lazily into the couch, as if the subject bored him. “She’s shy, and we’re taking things slowly. So some things aren’t for public knowledge yet.”
Max rolled his eyes, grabbing another can of beer from the table. “You’re fucking impossible. But fine, keep your little secret.” He smirked, lifting the can toward Lando in mock salute, “However. I can’t wait to finally meet her. Hopefully, you’ll introduce me soon.”
Oh, but he didn’t have to introduce you two to each other.
Lando’s lips quirked, a laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah… maybe one day.”
Before Max could press further, Lando pushed himself off the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. “Speaking of introductions, I’m introducing myself to whatever snacks are left in the kitchen. You want anything?”
“Sure.” Max muttered, distracted by the match highlights flickering on the TV.
Lando padded into the kitchen, his heart still racing from the conversation. His apartment was dim, the only light coming from Monaco's skyline outside, bathing the living room in a muted orange glow. The hum of the fridge and the regular tick of the kitchen clock were the only sounds, except for Lando’s muffled cursing as he dug through the kitchen cupboards.
“I swear to God, I need to fire whoever stocks my pantry,” Lando called, his voice light, oblivious. “Where the fuck are my tortilla chips and Kinder chocolates?”
Max chuckled dryly from his spot on the couch, lounging lazily, one ankle perched on his knee. “Maybe you should stock your bloody kitchen by yourself, mate.”
“Not when I’ve got friends like you bringing me beer and all the goodies.” Lando shot back with a grin, still hidden from view.
Max shook his head, grabbing his own beer from the table. His fingers tapped absent-mindely against the can, eyes drifting over the clutter in front of him—controllers, half-empty takeout boxes, and Lando’s phone buzzing lazily against a coaster. He didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But the screen flashed again, bright and insistent in the dim light.
And as he leaned to see who texted him, the name on the notification twisted his stomach into a knot.
Sunshine:
see you later, Lan <3
His blood turned cold. For a second, Max thought maybe it was the beer messing with him, maybe his mind was playing tricks. But the way his chest clenched, sharp and suffocating, told him otherwise. He furrowed his brows, blinking once, twice. His brain stuttered over the words. The casual familiarity of the message—the nickname—clung to his mind like a hook.
Lan.
His stomach twisted. He swiped his tongue across his teeth, blinking as if to reset his thoughts. He let out a slow, measured exhale through his nose, the weight of that message sinking deeper than it should have. His fingers tightened slightly around the can as the pieces began to stir, forming a puzzle he had been too blind—or too unwilling—to solve.
The first day you met him. You always being somewhere around them. Ice skating. The whole Ibiza trip. You in Lando’s shirt as a pajama. That one morning when Lando walked out of your room, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. The way you always laughed a little too loud at his jokes. The way Lando’s gaze had started to linger on you—longer and softer, like you were the only person in the room. The gentle touches. The way you had always hovered near him, always watching, always… there.
He had been a fucking idiot. He had been blind. Or worse—he had ignored it.
But this? This message? This felt like a punch to the gut. His little sister, and his best mate. Holy fucking shit. Max felt the sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins, ready to kill both of you.
How could you do this to him?
The sound of footsteps on tile jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Lando returned, snack bag in hand, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, no tortilla chips but I found pretzels and those spicy peanuts you—”
“Lando.” Max’s voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp, lethal in its stillness.
Lando froze mid-step, bags of snacks dangling from his hand. He glanced up, casual smile still lingering—but faltering the moment his eyes met Max’s. “What?”
Max’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. His gaze was sharp, dripping in a cold fury that had Lando’s throat tightening instantly. He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, beer can hanging loose from his fingers, but his body was coiled, electric with tension.
“We need to talk.”
A moment of silence stretched, the weight of those words suffocating.
“About what, man?” Lando asked, his tone light, attempting casual, but his body betrayed him—shoulders stiffening, grip tightening on the snack bag as if it could shield him.
Max smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t fuck with me, Lando.”
Lando’s mouth opened, ready to toss a joke, deflect, anything—but the weight of Max’s stare pinned him in place.
“Was it nice to play behind my back?” Max continued, tone low, dangerous. “You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”
Lando’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Max, it’s—”
“It’s what?” Max snapped, cutting him off. “It’s nothing? You gonna tell me that text was nothing too?”
Lando’s stomach dropped. So, that’s what this was about. He cursed internally as his pulse was racing. His first instinct was to joke, to deflect, but the weight of Max’s glare pinned him to the floor. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice was quieter now, threaded with truth. “It just… happened.”
Max’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as his fists curled at his sides. “You think that makes it better? You sneaking behind my back? You sneaking into her fucking bed, Lando?”
Lando stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture. “Max, look at me. I didn’t sneak, and I didn’t manipulate her. I didn’t— she’s not a kid anymore, mate!”
Max scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I know.” His voice dropped, a deadly whisper now. “You were supposed to be her friend.”
“I am!” Lando said firmly, standing his ground now, eyes burning. “I am her friend. But I’m also in love with her.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer. The truth, raw and unavoidable, hung in the charged silence that followed. It made Max’s chest ache in a way that wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, confusion, and protectiveness, all tangled in a knot he couldn’t untangle fast enough.
Max scoffed, dark and bitter. “You fell for her? Christ, Lando. What the fuck!”
Lando didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I fucking did. And if you’d open your eyes, you’d see this a long time ago, and not only now.” Max’s breath hitched. Because deep down, some part of him knew. He had always known that despite how much he had tried, it was inevitable.
But knowing and facing it—those were two very different things.
Max didn’t even realize how hard his fists had clenched until his nails dug into his palms, a sharp sting that barely registered. His breathing was shallow. Every time he tried to speak, the words just burned his throat. “You—” He started, but it fizzled into nothing.
His thoughts were a mess, tangled between anger and something deeper. Betrayal? Guilt? Loss? He didn’t know.
The words hung heavy in the air, the room suddenly too small to contain it. “You don’t get it,” Max’s voice was low, dangerous. “She’s not just someone you can fall for. She’s my little sister.” He growled, his voice dropping. “You know she’s always been off-limits for you.”
Across from him, Lando wasn’t fidgeting anymore. He stood still, but his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking. His eyes weren’t apologetic, they were certain.
“Max…” Lando’s voice was quieter now, not as defensive, not cocky. Just real. “I’ve loved her for a long time. You just never wanted to see it.”
And that—that hit.
“You think this is about me not seeing it?!” Max snapped, his voice louder now, shattering through the apartment. “You think this is about me pretending? You’re my fucking best friend, Lando. And she’s my little sister. You’re both all I’ve got.”
The air was thick, suffocating. The room felt too small for the both of them, as if the walls themselves were bracing for impact. Max’s fists trembled at his sides, and for a second, Lando wondered if this was it—if the fistfight was about to happen, if years of their deeply-rooted friendship were about to shatter right here, right now. But Max didn’t move. He just stood there, shaking his head slightly, lips pressed into a razor-thin line.
Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and ragged. “I can’t deal with this shit right now.”
The words dropped heavy between them. Max turned abruptly, his footsteps sharp against the floor as he stalked toward the door. Lando flinched at the slam of the front door rattling the frame. And then—silence.
Lando’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want it to be like this. Not with Max. Not with you. You both had wanted to tell Max, together, carefully. Not… like this.
Outside, the city lights flickered against the night sky, but inside the apartment, the air crackled with unspoken truths and the weight of inevitable consequences.
And Lando knew—he was fucked. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
But now, the secret was finally out. The lines were blurred, and rules were broken. She was off-limits from the very beginning, and he knew it. She knew it. Yet what’s forbidden always tempts the most, and they had been tasting it for far too long.
After all, the forbidden taste is always the sweetest, and it’s just impossible to resist it.
warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, fingering, dirty talk), forced proximity, pet names (sunshine, love), emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.
music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy
summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.
a/n: ohmygod. i finally posted :') at the very beginning, this is the first part! i def recommend reading part two <3 but omg this idea had been sitting in my head for far too long, and ngl i'm glad that it's finally finished. hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
14 & 18
You weren’t supposed to be listening.
Your older brother, Max, had told you sternly, and for what felt like the thousandth time, not to come downstairs. “Stay upstairs, preferably in your room. Don’t be annoying, and don’t even think about coming down here.”
He’d given you that older-brother look, the one that made it clear he thought you were the most embarrassing person alive. But as a nosy kid you’ve been, you of course had to do otherwise, and it was simply impossible not to do it. You’d wanted to stay out of sight, out of earshot, but the thing was, you couldn’t stop your mind from racing with curiosity.
You weren’t even sure why you cared so much. Max was always bringing friends over—loud, annoying teenage boys who smelled like sweat mixed with their deodorant, always calling you stupid names like “brat” or “shrimp”.
Usually, you avoided them, staying alone in your room. But this time it was different. This wasn’t just anyone—this was Lando.
You didn’t even know what he looked like yet, and what he was like, but you’d been hearing about him for weeks. You hadn’t even realized how much you wanted to see him—not until the second you heard his name.
Lando. It sounded like something straight out of a movie. It felt cool and electric on your tongue, like a name a girl would write in her diary a thousand times, testing how it looked with hearts around it. You’d never met someone with a name like that before, it was definitely special in a good way.
But the way Max talked about him? God, it was obsessive. He would casually drop little mentions of him during dinner: “Lando’s so fast, Mom.”, “Lando’s insanely talented.”, Lando’s this, Lando’s that.
You’d pretended to roll your eyes, acting like it didn’t matter. But deep down, every mention of his name made your stomach twist with a strange, unexplainable curiosity. If Max—the most impossible-to-impress person you knew—thought Lando was that amazing, then he really had to be someone special.
And today, you’d finally get to see what all the fuss was about. So yeah, you were listening. Of course you were.
You sat on the staircase, tucked behind the wooden banister, head tilted just enough to peek between the rails. Your knees were tucked to your chest, one arm wrapped around your legs, the other gripped tight around the wooden post like it might keep your body from floating off.
Then after some time, the front door finally opened.
You felt it before you even heard it—your pulse skipping, your stomach twisting in the most unfamiliar, ridiculous way. A breeze swept through the hall, and for a moment you felt suspended in time, perched at the top of the stairs in some kind of ridiculous, girlish trance.
Why was your body reacting like this? Your fourteen-year-old self hadn’t known the answer to those questions.
Max’s voice came first, loud and careless as usual. “Don’t touch anything, yeah? Mum will murder me if you break something.”
Then another voice answered, one you didn’t recognize. “Relax, mate. You act like I destroy everything I touch.”
You froze. That was him.
You didn’t expect his voice to feel like that. It was softer than you imagined, yet still smooth with that kind of amused confidence. Like a ribbon curling its way through your stomach and looping around your lungs, and like sunlight breaking through blinds and landing warm on your cheek.
Your heart thudded once, then again, faster than before, and you told yourself to breathe, to stop being stupid, but the idea of turning away was impossible now. You leaned forward just a little more, carefully and silently. And then you finally saw him.
He walked in behind Max, shoulders relaxed, hands buried in the pocket of a navy hoodie that looked two sizes too big—but on him, it didn’t look sloppy, it looked effortlessly cool. He wasn’t overly tall, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made him seem bigger than he was. His dark hair was a mess, falling into his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His skin was tanned and warm, and as he looked around, his lips were twitching into a faint smile.
There was something about the way he moved around, like the world just opened up for him. Like he never had to force a thing.
It was stupid how just looking at him made your chest feel tight. He wasn’t even doing anything, and yet he was doing everything to you. He had this air about him, this effortless confidence that made it impossible to look away from him.
Lando turned to Max, grinning at something your brother just said, and that’s when he laughed out loud. It was the kind of laugh that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, warm and easy, as if the world itself bent to his mood.
Your cheeks flushed, and you clutched the banister tighter, trying to figure out what was happening to you. Why did your heart feel like it was trying to escape your chest? Why did the sight of him make your stomach flip like you’d just gone over the top of a rollercoaster?
Then suddenly, his eyes flicked upward, towards you. You jerked back instinctively, hoping he didn’t notice you. But it was too late. The floorboard creaked beneath you, giving you away.
Max noticed immediately, sighing while letting out a soft sound of frustration. “Oh my God, seriously? Can you not?”
You tried to play it off, running off the stairs and grabbing a random book from the side table. “I was just… getting this.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you winced at the sound.
Lando turned to you fully now, and you felt like the oxygen had just disappeared from the room. His eyes were bright and curious, and when they landed on you, it was like the rest of the world faded away. You felt seen in a way you hadn’t before, like his gaze wasn’t just looking at you—it was taking you in. It was stupid, but you felt your cheeks burn under his attention.
“And who’s this?” He asked looking at Max, his voice playful but kind. He tilted his head slightly, a small, easy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Max groaned beside him, scratching the back of his head. “My annoying, little sister. Unfortunately.” And just like that, the bubble popped.
Your chest dropped, and your fingers clenched around the book. You wanted to scream at Max, tell him to shut up, that you weren’t annoying, that you were a normal person, that—
“I’m fourteen.” You blurted out, defensively but it was too fast, and too desperate. You immediately regretted it.
Fucking fourteen, when they were eighteen.
You wanted to disappear into the floorboards. Your face burned hotter, your lungs constricting around the words like they’d betrayed you. But Lando didn’t laugh, didn’t try to mock you like Max’s other friends. He just blinked at you once, and then that soft and warm smile spread across his face like sunlight through a half-open window. Like you hadn’t just embarrassed yourself in front of him.
“Watch out, Max,” Lando said, his eyes still on you. “She’s fourteen, almost as old as us.”
You couldn’t help it—your lips twitched, the corners of your mouth curling before you could stop them. A tiny, traitorous smile. His tone was light, like he was inviting you to laugh along with him. But you couldn’t. Your brain was too busy trying to process the fact that someone like him was even talking to you.
Max groaned loudly and grabbed Lando’s sleeve. “Just ignore her, mate. She’ll try to follow us around because she’s obsessed with attention.”
But Lando didn’t move. He turned back one more time, right before Max dragged him away, and when he looked at you again, there was something different in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Affection, but definitely not romantic, it wasn’t like that. Yet, still, it was kind, gentle, and real.
“See you later, Sunshine.” He uttered before joining your older brother in the living room.
And that? That ruined you.
Sunshine.
Your chest tightened at the new nickname. It was like the gentle teasing of it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, only it was suffocating in the way that made you ache.
You hated it. You loved it.
You stood frozen long after they vanished into the living room, your fingers pressed white against the book, your heart thudding so hard it made your chest ache. It should’ve made you mad, it should’ve made you feel small. But the way he said it? It felt like a nickname no one else in the world could get away with.
You sat in your room for a long time after that, knees curled up to your chest, eyes blurry, and head spinning. You were just fourteen. You didn’t even know what love was. You didn’t know anything about it or why he made you feel like that. You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice felt so smooth, nor why the sound of his laughter made your heart race.
But when Lando Norris smiled at you, and called you Sunshine—you knew. You knew that something had begun that day.
────୨ৎ────
16 & 20
The house was louder than usual. Voices echoed through the hallway, laughter spilled out from the living room, and it smelled faintly of some perfume and the greasy comfort of takeaway leftovers.
Max had invited over a whole crew of friends this time—boys you recognized in passing, most of them racing guys, some you’d seen before, and others that just blurred into a crowd.
But it didn’t matter, not really. Because he was here, Lando.
You had caught a glimpse of him when they all stormed through the front door. Max was yelling at them to take off their shoes, while someone nearly knocked over the lamp by the stairs. Lando trailed in at the back of the group, eyes lit up with laughter at something one of the guys said. Now he looked a bit older and more mature than before, as he was now twenty years old. A little broader in the shoulders, his jaw a little sharper, with that same easy smile. His hair was still messy, but now they were starting to curl. And still, when he laughed, it sounded like sunlight—effortless, unbothered, and warm in a way that wrapped around your ribs and stayed there.
The familiar smell of your mom’s baking filled the house. Fresh pastries, warm bread, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon drifting through the hallways made your stomach rumble. It was a Sunday tradition, one that had never changed since you were a little kid.
But today? Today, everything felt different. Maybe it was because you were getting older, or maybe it was because of the way your heart raced when you thought about Lando.
And of course, you had to be the one tasked with carrying the trays to Max and his friends. You had tried to get out of it, pretending that you were too busy with homework or anything else that could serve as an excuse to avoid the living room full of Max’s friends. But it was futile. Your mom had already started setting everything up in the kitchen, and you knew better than to argue with her when she had her mind set on something.
“Be a love and take this for Max and the boys, okay?” She asked, and you nodded, already reaching for the first tray.
So here you were, hands full with two trays of snacks, balancing them precariously as you made your way into the living room.
You were older now—sixteen, to be exact. Still a kid to Max, but old enough to know things. Old enough to realize the way your heart beat faster when Lando was in the same room. Old enough to hate the way your voice shook around him.
The trays were heavier than they looked. You tried not to wobble as you stepped carefully over the threshold of the living room, your fingers curled tight around the edge of the silver platter, a nervous flutter dancing in your stomach. The scent of your mom’s fresh-baked focaccia and chocolate cake clung to your skin, warm and comforting like home. But nothing about this moment felt comforting. Your heart was a mess of beats in your chest.
They were all there—Max, surrounded by a ring of his friends scattered across the couches and floor like it was their house and not yours. The energy in the room buzzed with loud laughter, the kind only a group of twenty-year-olds could conjure. Bottles of beer clinked, some video game commentary echoed faintly from the muted TV, and the windows were open to the sound of late-summer birdsong.
And then there was Lando. As usual, he was leaning against the wall, looking completely at ease in the chaotic mix of people.
You had to force your eyes to stay neutral, keep your face blank, because if Max caught so much as a single flicker of what you were feeling, he’d drag you out of the room by your hoodie and lock you in your room.
Stepping inside quietly, you tried to be invisible, even though you felt like a spotlight was burning into the back of your neck. Your heart fluttered a little, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.
“Uh— I brought snacks.” You managed to mumble, your voice quiet and awkward, the tray wobbling a little in your grip.
Max barely looked up. “Great. Put them down and go.” His tone was dismissive, not even bothering to hide his irritation.
You knew the drill by now—he didn’t want you in his space, didn’t want you interrupting his time with his friends. But as you approached the table, trying to find a spot to set the trays down, you caught Lando’s eye. He was watching you, that trademark smile of his playing at the corners of his lips.
“Hey, Sunshine.” He said, his lips curving into a smile.
That nickname. It had been a while since he started to call you that, but it still made your skin flush with warmth. His voice was calm, soft, familiar in a way that made your chest flutter like it had forgotten how to settle.
“Need help with those?” He asked, his voice smooth as ever, not a hint of judgment in his tone, like he wasn’t about to brush you off like everyone else.
You blinked, caught off guard by his attentiveness. For a moment, it felt like the whole room disappeared, and it was just you and him. God, you hated how that made you feel.
You gave a small nod, trying not to drop the tray in your flustered state. “Uh… yeah, sure. Thanks.” You muttered, struggling to steady the trays in your hands.
Your heart started pounding as you realized he was actually going to help you. He moved closer, his presence filling the space, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he towered over you, his broad shoulders almost making you feel smaller than you already were.
Lando took one of the trays effortlessly, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief second, and you felt a shiver run through you at the contact. His grip was warm, steady, and confident. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, of how good he looked standing there, holding that tray like it was nothing.
There were little things about him that made your brain short-circuit: the way his collarbone peeked through the neckline of his shirt, the way his eyelashes curled up at the edges, the tiny scar near on the bridge of his nose you always found yourself staring at for too long.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he did to you. Or maybe he did. Maybe he did, and just didn’t care.
As Lando placed the tray, he gave you a playful look, that glint of amusement in his eyes. “You know, you didn’t have to bring this all by yourself. Max is a pain in the ass, he should have prepared it by himself.”
You could feel your cheeks go warm by the way he was looking at you. “He’s always a pain.” You replied, not entirely able to contain the sarcastic edge in your voice.
Max always acted like you were an inconvenience, like everything you did was somehow too much.
Lando chuckled, “That’s an understatement.” His words made you laugh, and the sound of his chuckle made your stomach flutter.
Max, of course, chose this exact moment to finally look up from whatever he was doing. His eyes narrowed immediately, his lips pulling into a scowl.
“Seriously?” He snapped, glaring at you. “What did I say, huh? Leave the food and go.” You flinched, the sting of his words hitting you harder than you’d expected.
Your smile dropped immediately, feeling the heat creep up your neck, and the embarrassment blooming bright and painful in your chest. You weren’t even trying to bother them. You were just helping and trying to be near him.
“Max. I was just…” You stammered, but Max was already waving you off, like you were nothing but a buzzing fly in the room.
“Out. Go.” He grumbled, nodding his head towards the door.
And just as you turned, cheeks burning, heart sinking, Lando’s voice cut in, cool and calm but sharper than before. “Jesus, Max. Chill out, mate.” Lando was looking at Max now, his brows raised, that amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “She’s just bringing snacks. It's not the end of the world.”
It took you by surprise. You’d never seen Lando take a stance like this before, especially not against Max. But there it was. The way he stood up for you, even just in this small moment, made your stomach do a flip. You wanted to say something back to Max, something witty or biting, but Lando had already set the tone.
Max’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression flickering with something close to annoyance, but also a hint of surprise. He opened his mouth to retort, but Lando gave him a pointed look that shut him up instantly. Max grumbled, clearly frustrated, but he didn’t say anything else. He turned back to his friends, dismissing you like he always did.
But Lando? He didn’t turn away. Instead, he flashed you that same soft, genuine smile—the kind that made your heart race every time. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just him, Lando, acknowledging you in the way you had always wished for.
“Thanks for bringing the snacks,” He said softly, his eyes never leavinf yours. “You’re a good sister.”
His words hit you like a wave, knocking you off balance. A good sister. That was all you were to him. Max’s little sister.
But somehow, in the way he said it, you could almost convince yourself it wasn’t as simple as that. His voice was low, rich with something you couldn’t place, and the weight of his gaze made you feel like you were more than just a background character in the story Max and his friends were writing.
You smiled back, though you felt a pang of disappointment you couldn’t quite shake. “I know, I’m trying.”
Lando’s smile deepened, and there was something in it—something that made you want to hold onto that moment forever, even if you knew it couldn’t last.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Max doesn’t make it worse for you.” He said, the light humor still lacing his voice. But there was something else, something protective in the way he said it, as if he truly cared about how Max treated you.
“Thanks.” You whispered, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn that the way he looked at you made it feel like the whole world was suddenly different. You weren’t just Max’s little sister. With Lando, for just a heartbeat, you were someone who mattered.
You turned to leave, but before you could fully escape the room, Lando called out to you again, his voice warm, almost as if he didn’t want you to go.
“Sunshine,” He said, making you pause and look back at him. “You’re welcome here anytime, by the way.”
And as you walked back to the kitchen, you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the small but meaningful things, like him standing up for you in front of Max, or the way his presence filled the room in a way that made you feel seen, for once. But whatever it was, it made your heart beat just a little faster.
And you couldn’t deny the truth, no matter how hard you tried. You were falling for him. Hard.
────୨ৎ────
18 & 22
The crisp winter air bit gently at your cheeks as you stood awkwardly by the entrance to the ice rink, the sharp scrape of skates against ice echoing all around. The air was biting, the kind of cold that turned your breath into mist and made your fingers ache even through gloves.
Your hands were buried deep inside your jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up against the cold as your breath curled into the air in pale clouds. You tugged at the cuffs of your oversized jacket, glancing around nervously. The outdoor rink was strung with fairy lights, soft yellow bulbs glowing like stars against the fading winter sky. Laughter rang through the crisp evening air, and blades scraped and whispered over the ice, carving lines that criss-crossed like heartbeats. But all you could feel was the absence of him.
Max’s friends were already there, loud and full of energy, their voices bouncing off the rink walls. You lingered by the benches, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, eyes flicking toward the parking lot every few seconds. Your skates were already laced tight, and your scarf pulled up high but you stood there like a misplaced piece of the puzzle, off to the side, just barely tolerated.
“He’s late,” Max muttered beside you, his tone flat and annoyed. Then, without looking at you, he sighed. “And you are still here. Don’t you have your own friends or something?”
You looked away, blinking hard at the sudden sting in your eyes. “I do,” You muttered under your breath. “But they’re just busy today.”
“You’re already fucking eighteen,” Max had muttered when you asked to come. “Why do you need to tag along everywhere we go?”
He hadn’t even tried to hide the irritation in his voice. That sting had stayed with you, gnawing at your insides while you silently followed him and the others to the rink. You tried to brush it off, act like it didn’t matter. But it did, of course it did.
You wouldn’t have wanted to come if it weren’t for Lando. But Lando was running late, and without him, it all felt wrong.
The wind stung your cheeks, and your gloves didn’t do much to keep your fingers from going numb. Max’s friends were loud, obnoxious, their easy camaraderie only highlighting how out of place you felt. They threw teasing comments at you, half-joking but sharp-edged enough to boil your blood. You tried to laugh it off, but the knot in your stomach tightened every time.
When you finally slipped onto the ice, the chill bit deeper. Max and his friends swarmed together, skating effortlessly side by side, chatting and laughing, leaving you alone to wobble on shaky legs. They skated around you like you were invisible.
You pushed off slowly, awkwardly, trying to find your own rhythm. It wasn’t that you couldn’t skate, you could, but it was different when you were alone, and when every mistake echoed louder.
You made it halfway across the rink when a sudden slip caught you off guard. You fell hard—knees first, then palms—and the air punched out of your lungs. The shock of it made your eyes sting with tears instantly. The cold rushed through your clothes, biting into your skin. A hush rang in your ears, though the world around you kept moving. Skates zipped past in a blur. Laughter echoed just a few feet away.
You sat up slowly, pain throbbing in your joints. Your breath trembled as you looked around, hoping and praying that someone could help you stand up. Max skated by just a few feet ahead. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. Not once. He didn’t stop. He didn’t see you. And that hurt more than the fall.
“Max, wait!” You shouted, trying to get his attention while rubbing your knees. But just as you expected, he didn’t hear or rather pretended not to hear you yell his name.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Binking fast, you were trying to clear the sting from your eyes. It wasn’t just the embarrassment of falling but it was the raw, sharp edge of being overlooked, and completely ignored. You weren’t some little kid anymore, begging to be included. You were fucking eighteen, and still, somehow, you were still invisible and always in the way.
You sniffed hard and wiped your gloves against your eyes, scolding yourself under your breath. Don’t cry. Not here, and not now. But the loneliness crushed down on you like a weight, and the sting was both physical and something deeper. You were hurt, but mostly just felt humiliated.
You stayed there for a moment, knees burning, pride aching even more. And just when you thought you’d be left alone untilsomeone finally notice your absence, a familiar voice broke through the noise, soft but unmistakable.
“Sorry, I’m late, Sunshine.”
Your breath caught in your lungs. You turned your head slowly, and there he was. Lando glided towards you on his skates, his curls damp with mist, and cheeks pink from the cold. He had that damn smile on his face—soft, crooked, and warm in a way the cold couldn’t touch. A white hoodie peeked out from under his jacket, and he looked flushed from running.
His eyes scanned your face, instantly catching the mix of pain and embarrassment. The way the fading sunlight hit his loose hair, the genuine concern in his tone—it was like the world softened around you.
“You look like you could use a hand.”
Your lower lip trembled as you sank back onto the ice, feeling raw and exposed while Lando stood in front of you, steady and calm. You blinked fast, trying to stop the tears before they could fall. But something about his voice, his presence, the way he looked straight at you like you were the only person that mattered, made your throat tighten. You stared at him for a beat longer, a shiver crawling up your spine. He looked warm, like safety. Like everything you needed in that exact moment.
“I’m fine.” You muttered, but your voice cracked just slightly, betraying you.
Lando crouched in front of you, not caring at all about getting his jeans wet. His aquamarine eyes searched yours. “Well, you don’t look fine to me.”
You looked away, embarrassed, a dry laugh escaping from your mouth. “Funny that my own brother can’t even notice that.”
He furrowed his eyebrows, looking at you questioningly, “What do you mean?”
“Ugh, Max didn’t want me to come. He said I should just hang out with my friends, and now they’re all just…” You gestured vaguely toward the blur of figures skating across the rink. “They just left me here. I’m sorry, this is so stupid, and I’m acting like a child. I should have stayed at home.”
Lando’s expression shifted—a crease between his brows, his jaw tightening just slightly.
“No, it’s not stupid, Sunshine. And you’re not invisible, you know?”
Your eyes met his, and something in your chest clenched. “Well, I feel like I am.” You chuckled awkwardly.
But that was all it took. Something cracked wide open inside you. A sharp breath escaped your chest, and tears finally spilled over before you could stop them. You ducked your head, shame curling in your stomach like fire. But he didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. He just watched you, gently and patiently.
You sniffled, wiping your glove across your cheek. “I just feel like I’m this annoying, unwanted shadow which Max wishes he could shake off. But believe me or now, I’m just trying not to be alone, and I hate this,” You muttered, voice shaky. “I hate always being treated like I’m unwanted. Like I don’t matter. And I know I shouldn’t care, but fuck, it still hurts.”
You looked down at your feet, ashamed of the crack in your voice. But Lando gently tipped your chin up with one finger. His eyes were kind and warm. “You matter, Sunshine. And Max can be oblivious sometimes, but I see you, okay?”
You bit your lip to hold back the sob building in your throat. He saw you. God, you needed that more than anything.
Lando didn’t speak for a moment. The quiet between you was soft, heavy, but not suffocating. “And I’m sorry.” He added, and you could tell he meant it not just for being late, but for all of it—for Max, and for the way this entire day had unfolded.
He glanced out at the rink, then back at you. “Let’s get you warm. You deserve better than freezing out here alone.”
You blinked, looking at him with concern visible in your eyes. “But… you just got here, Lan. You didn’t even get to skate with them.”
He reached forward and took your hand, slowly helping you up from the ice. His grip was firm and warm, steadying your shaky knees. You realized just how cold you were only when his touch made your skin ache in contrast.
Lando gave a little half-shrug, his smile soft again. “Nah. I think you and I need hot chocolate more than we need bruised asses.”
You laughed, the sound small but real. “You sure?”
Lando smiled down at you, his grin shining brightly. “I’m sure. Come on, Sunshine. My treat.”
He took your hand, not even thinking about it, and you let him. He helped guide you off the rink like it was the most natural thing in the world. And as he walked with you toward the little café by the rink, your hand still tucked inside his glove-warmed one, you felt that flutter in your chest again. Not because of the fall but because when everything felt cold and hollow, he showed up.
The café was a warm wooden hut, lit by soft lamps and smelling like cinnamon and melted marshmallows. Inside, you both ordered drinks and found a booth near the window. Your hands wrapped around the paper cup, fingers thawing slowly as the heat soaked into your bones. Outside, you could still see Max and the boys skating in the cold, totally oblivious.
Inside, however, everything had slowed. You sat across from him by the table, a soft haze of steam curling from the mugs in front of you, the warm scent of cocoa mixing with the faint sugary smell of whipped cream. The windows fogged slightly from the contrast of cold air and warmth inside, blurring the snow-dusted world beyond.
Lando sat with his gloves off, hands wrapped around the ceramic mug like he needed the heat too. His hoodie was slightly crooked, cheeks flushed pink, curls a little damp from snow. He looked so effortlessly good, like warmth incarnate. Like something you’d dream up on a night when everything felt a little too heavy.
You didn’t speak right away, and neither did he. He just looked at you, softly and patiently, like you were someone worth waiting on. And maybe that’s when it started to really hit you. That the little flutter in your chest that had existed for a while now wasn’t just a silly crush anymore. It wasn’t a passing thing or some half-formed idea of romance. No, this—he—was different. Because no one else saw you like he did. No one else noticed the cracks you tried so hard to keep hidden. No one else crouched down beside you when you were hurting, let you fall apart without rushing to fix it. No one else ever made you feel like you mattered, like you could be more than just Max’s little sister. And it made your heart ache in an almost unbearable way.
You watched him bring the mug to his lips, his fingers long and slender around the rim. There was a faint smear of whipped cream on his upper lip that he didn’t notice—and you couldn’t look away from it.
God, he was beautiful.
And the way he looked at you tonight? Like the second he saw you on the ice, everything else just faded. It made your skin prickle with awareness. Like your body suddenly remembered it was his presence that made you feel alive—always had. You curled your fingers tighter around your mug, trying to ground yourself.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you. He never had. And that only made it harder. That kind of softness? That kind of instinctive care? It was lethal.
You’d fall for him a hundred times over if he kept looking at you like that. And yet you knew, deep down, it still didn’t mean anything could happen. There were lines, unwritten rules and set limits. Max would kill him if he knew. Everyone would call it wrong.
But if it was wrong, why did it feel so right?
You lowered your gaze to your hot chocolate, suddenly overwhelmed with it all—the longing towards him, frustration about Max, and ache in your body.
Lando, still quiet across from you, must’ve sensed the shift in your energy, because he leaned forward slightly, his voice gentler than before. “You okay?” He asked, voice low and genuine.
You hesitated. “I don’t know. It just… sucks. He used to care more, and we used to be much closer. Or maybe I just imagined it.”
“He does care,” He replied carefully. “But he’s also an idiot.”
You let out a small, unexpected laugh. “Yeah. A loud, arrogant idiot.”
Lando smiled at that. “He’s lucky to have you, though.”
Your cheeks flushed, and your eyes dropped to your cup. “He doesn’t act like it.”
“Well, I think you’re great,” He said, tone lighter, but something in his eyes stayed serious. “And honestly, I’m kind of glad I was late.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Because if I wasn’t, I might’ve missed that perfect moment to be your hero.” You rolled your eyes at him as he bursted out laughing, but still, you smiled and this time it stayed.
Outside, the snow had started falling in slow, heavy flakes. But in the warmth of that tiny café, it didn’t matter that Max acted like a complete asshole or that you fell. Or that you’d spent the first half of the evening trying not to cry. Because Lando had seen you, and that was enough.
You were still holding the half-empty mug, the rim cooling against your palms. The silence between you and Lando was soft, companionable. That comfortable sort of quiet you didn’t often get. He was leaning back in his chair now, legs stretched under the table, watching you with an unreadable expression—like he was trying to figure something out but wasn’t sure how to ask.
“I really didn’t mean to ruin your night.” You mumbled after a beat, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t,” He replied instantly, a little too fast. “If anything… I think I needed this.”
You blinked, surprised. “Needed…?”
He didn’t answer you. Lando just gave you a soft, lopsided smile that made your heart do a dangerous flip and leaned forward to take your hands into his warmer ones. But before you could fall deeper into that moment, the bell above the café door chimed.
“Are you serious right now?” Max’s voice cut sharply through the quiet, and your stomach dropped.
His tone was unmistakable—sharp, defensive, the kind of tone he usually reserved for pissed-off arguments and stupid racing banter. But this wasn’t stupid. This was you, and Lando. Together, alone.
You turned your head to see him standing by the door, his arms crossed, brows drawn together. He looked between the two of you—your hands brought together at the untouched skates beside Lando’s chair, at your flushed cheeks, and at how close your mugs were sitting on the table.
“Lando,” Max barked, stepping closer, “Hands off my sister.”
The silence shattered like glass, and your face went hot instantly. You could barely look at Max, his voice slicing into you like you’d done something wrong just by being here. But Lando didn’t move away from you. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something hard to name.
And then he said it—voice calm but cutting. “At least I noticed she fell.”
Max’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying…” Lando’s jaw clenched as he looked back at Max. “She fell, Max. Hard. Everyone was off doing their own thing, laughing, skating around like she didn’t even exist. You didn’t even look back, and I shall remind you that you are her older brother, not me.”
Max looked at you again, and it hit him. The way your eyes wouldn’t meet his. The way you leaned just slightly closer to Lando when he stepped forward. The tightness in your shoulders. The way you hadn’t said a word to him all evening. He knew that look. You were angry and hurt.
“She’s eighteen, Lando,” Max muttered, more to himself. “She doesn’t need babysitting every fucking second.”
“She doesn’t need babysitting! She’s perfectly fine on her own,” Lando replied, his voice cooler now. “She just needed someone to care and help her get up. That’s the difference.”
That struck something inside Max. You could see it behind his eyes—the way his brows drew together, the flicker of guilt that passed quickly across his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening. And then, slowly, his eyes dragged back to Lando, studying him, and processing everything. Something about the way Lando looked at you, about the way you looked back. The way your body language shifted when he was near.
Max’s lips parted for a moment, a breath caught in his throat, as if some subconscious part of him was beginning to do the math. But instead of solving the equation, he backed away from it.
“Yeah, whatever,” He muttered, shaking his head. “We’re leaving in ten. Don’t be late.” He turned on his heel and walked off, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. But not without a final glance over his shoulder. A long, narrowed look that didn’t say much aloud but said enough.
You watched him disappear into the crowd of other boys, your heart hammering in your chest, everything suddenly feeling more fragile than it had just moments ago. You looked up at Lando again, who was already glancing in the direction Max had gone, his jaw still set.
“I’m sorry.” You said softly, not sure what you were even apologizing for.
Lando shook his head, looking back at you. “Don’t be. You deserve better than being left alone like that.”
He held out his hand again—gentler this time, more careful, and you took it, neither of you saying anything more. But deep down, you both knew something had just shifted.
And Max? He definitely knew something was off. Like maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as innocent as he’d always believed.
────୨ৎ────
You had been waiting for this summer. Not just any summer—the summer where everything was supposed to finally shift.
Ibiza.
The annual summer trip. The one that had always been off-limits for you when you were younger. A trip only for them—Max and his friends. Every year, it was a highlight for them, full of beach days, late nights, and photos you weren’t allowed to see because 'you’re too young'.
But this year, you had hope as you were finally eighteen. Not a kid anymore, not just Max’s sister. And most importantly, you were certain that something between you and Lando had changed.
Slowly, subtly, like the tide pulling out. It wasn’t just a crush anymore. Not some schoolgirl fantasy you’d outgrow. You felt it in the way he laughed when you teased him, in the way his gaze lingered longer than it used to, in the way he told Max to chill out when you usually joined them in the living room. You knew he still saw you as the younger one, maybe even a little untouchable, but there were cracks forming in that wall. You could feel them.
So when you decided to visit Max after he moved to his new apartment, he decided to casually drop the announcement over breakfast, saying, “We have flights for Ibiza this night.”
You blinked, assuming that of course he meant you too. “Should I go back home and pack?” You asked, while trying to hide the smile already tugging at your lips.
Max didn’t even look up from his cereal. “What? No, not you. Just our group. You can stay here for the night, and then come back home.”
The words hit like a slap. “What? Why not?” You countered immediately, frowning at your older brother.
Max sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not a family holiday. It’s just our group. And you’re not coming.”
Your heart clenched. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Max. And after all, you always repeated that when I’ll be eighteen, you will take me.”
Max finally looked up at you, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Still my little sister, though. And it’s Ibiza. So no, not happening.”
You felt your jaw tighten, the flush creeping into your cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from anger. “But Mom would let me—”
“Oh, she won’t. I already talked to her, and she agrees. End of the story.”
End of the story, my ass—you thought.
“Max, I’m not fucking stupid,” You snapped before you could stop yourself. The words came out like venom, sharper than you intended. “I know exactly what Ibiza is. I’m not asking to go clubbing and drinking. I just want to go with you there.”
“What can’t you understand, huh? You’re not going. I don’t want to be responsible for you there,” He answered firmly, “And you’d still be the youngest.”
The youngest. There it was again. Always the afterthought. Always the one no one trusted, no one took seriously, no one really saw. And yet, your parents let Max do whatever he wanted when he was your age. No questions, no concern. But you? You were a whole different story.
You pushed back from the table so hard the chair legs scraped against the floor. “Of course,” You snorted, heart hammering in your chest. “Because why would anyone want me there anyway, right?”
You whipped around before you could stop yourself, and your eyes locked immediately with his. Lando. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing that soft hoodie again, the one that hung off his shoulders and made him look like a goddamn movie scene. His hair was a little messy, his skin tanned from early summer karting days, and his smile—ugh. It made your anger feel even more childish, which somehow made it worse.
He looked at you and grinned. “Hey, Sunshine.” You didn’t smile back, you couldn’t. Lando frowned slightly, eyes flicking to Max and then back to you. “Everything’s alright?”
No. Nothing was alright.
“Never been better.” You hissed, gritting your teeth in anger.
Max decided to answer Lando for you. “She’s mad because she’s not coming to Ibiza.”
Lando raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t known. “Wait, you wanted to come with us?”
Of course you did. You’d imagined it a thousand times—walking on the sun-warmed streets, swimming in that infinity pool, sipping drinks you weren’t supposed to have, brushing his hand “accidentally” under the stars. You had even planned outfits already. You had dreamed of this.
“I thought maybe I could,” You muttered, trying not to let the hurt show. “But apparently I can’t because I’m Max’s sister.”
Something shifted in his expression, but only for a second. You couldn’t read it. Sympathy? Or maybe it was regret?
Max snorted at your response. “It’s not for a debate. End of the story.”
Lando didn’t add anything to Max’s words, and that was even worse. He just gave you a soft, unreadable smile—not cold, but distant—and approached the kitchen counter to grab a glass of orange juice as if nothing had changed. Like you weren’t standing there with your heart breaking quietly in your chest.
You locked yourself in the bathroom, the tears burning your eyes before you could blink them away. But you didn’t want to cry. You refused to cry over this, and over Max because what really hurt—what cracked something open inside your chest—was the thought of Lando.
You had spent the last couple of years memorizing him. Every smirk, every time he ruffled his hair or leaned back in a chair like he owned the universe. Every warm, gentle “Hey, Sunshine.” that made you feel like the earth tilted just a little on its axis. He made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you were something more than Max’s kid sister. Something worth noticing. And now he’d be gone for a week with music, beaches, tanned girls in bikinis who didn’t stumble over their words or blush when he got too close. Girls who were his age, and who weren’t you.
It hurt so much that you could be there if not for Max’s selfishness and stupidity.
Your jealousy was ugly, and you knew that. It coiled inside you, black and bitter, twisting around your ribs until it hurt to breathe. You could picture it too clearly: Lando lounging poolside, a drink in hand, throwing his head back in laughter as some girl ran her fingers down his arm. The thought made your stomach twist.
He’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t he? You were just the sweet, harmless Sunshine he teased and smiled at like a big brother. He probably didn’t even think of you once when they booked the flights.
And the worst part? You knew he’d be kind about it. You knew if he realized how much it bothered you, he’d flash that boyish smile and say something like “Next time, yeah?” as if it meant anything. Like you weren’t already drowning in the idea of him being too far away.
You hated everyone at that moment. Max, for shutting you out. Lando, for not saying anything. And mostly yourself, for thinking this year would be different.
You stayed in the guest room for most of the day, the sound of them finishing packing and laughing made your heart ache with every passing hour.
Later during night, you cracked your door open to get yourself a glass of water, and that’s when you saw Lando with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Your breath caught. He looked so… effortless. Tanned already, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, his cap put backwards on his head, and his smile easy as he hummed something under his breath.
He noticed you, smiling at you instantly. “Hey,” He said with that familiar warmth. “What’s up? You hiding from us?”
You offered a tight smile, trying to seem unaffected. “M’just tired.”
“You okay?” He asked, slowing down. There was genuine concern in his eyes, and for a second, it almost undid you.
“I’m fine,” You answered, looking away from his gaze. “Have fun in Ibiza, Lan.”
He tilted his head, stepping closer. “Wish you could come, though. It’d be fun with you there.”
You blinked at him, a hundred unsaid things gathering like a storm behind your lips.
“Yeah,” You uttered, pausing for a second. “It would.”
His eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have. You felt it—the question that hovered in the air, the moment that could’ve been something else if only he let it. But then he smiled, and gave you a playful little wink while turning away. And just like that, he was gone.
They said they said their goodbyes, Max left you the spare keys to the apartment and then the front door finally shut close. The laughter faded, and you were left alone in a house that suddenly felt way too quiet.
For the first time, you realized that you weren’t just crushing on Lando. And you hated how much you wanted him to miss you when you weren’t there.
────୨ৎ────
The first few days felt like a blur. You tried to busy yourself, throwing yourself into hobbies, hanging out with friends, but it was impossible to ignore the space they’d all left behind.
The house was too quiet without the sound of Max laughing, without Lando’s easy banter that always seemed to make you feel lighter. It was as though the entire world had shifted, and you were stuck in place, waiting.
You spent the first days trying not to check Instagram but your fingers betrayed you every time. Lando had posted a photo on his story—shots clinking together at a rooftop bar, the glow of sunset turning the entire sky gold behind him. Max was in the background, grinning from ear to ear. Someone else had tagged Lando in a blurry club video—strobe lights, sweaty dancing, the camera panning just fast enough to catch him whispering into some girl’s ear.
Your stomach turned. You threw your phone onto your bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to let your imagination run wild. But it was no use. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. Lando, sunkissed and effortless, head tilted back in laughter, eyes lit up with the wildness of freedom.
And worse—you saw him with someone else. Someone older, someone who could walk into a club next to him like she belonged there, and someone who wouldn’t blush when he touched her arm or stammer over words when he smiled. And each time, it stung. He wasn’t yours, and he was never going to be yours.
You tried to ignore it. You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. He was Max’s friend. He had never looked at you the way you’d wanted him to. You were just the little sister who was supposed to stay out of their way, who wasn’t supposed to get caught up in the whirlwind of their world. But every time you saw those photos, every time you heard Lando’s laugh in the background of Max’s voice message, your stomach twisted. You were jealous—and you hated it. You hated how much you cared. You felt pathetic. Eighteen and lovesick, aching for someone who probably hadn’t thought about you once since the plane took off.
Still, you found yourself walking into the guest’s room at your house, where Lando usually stayed when he visited your family. It smelled faintly like his cologne—clean, expensive, a little warm. You sat on the edge of his bed, fingers grazing the stitching of his pillowcase, and let yourself imagine what it would be like to be beside him. Not just as Max’s little sister but as you, a girl he could potentially want.
You laid back, curled into the scent of him, eyes fluttering shut as you remembered his laugh, the sound of him calling you Sunshine, the way his eyes sometimes found you and lingered there just long enough to make your breath catch. You imagined him whispering your name instead—slowly, like he meant it.
After a few days of not being able to do anything else than stay at home, you decided to somehow try to distract yourself. You finally joined your friends for a day at the lake, but even the sun felt colder than usual. You turned down a summer party because you couldn’t bear the thought of pretending you were fine in a room full of noise that didn’t sound like his voice.
At night, when everything slowed and the world dimmed, your thoughts always went back to him. You’d scroll through his photos, pausing on the ones where he looked especially carefree—shirtless on the beach, hair a mess from saltwater, sunglasses pushed up onto his head. He looked like someone who belonged in a different world than you. And still—you wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you’d ever wanted anything.
It was a quiet kind of torture. Wanting someone who was both so close and completely out of reach.
By the end of the week, you almost forgot about this all. Then, one night, your phone buzzed. It was him.
Lando:
helloooo
how are things going back at home? :)
hope you’re not too mad at us for going without you
you’d probably be running circles around all of us here anyway
max’s been insufferable btw
You stared at the message, your heart doing that stupid somersault it always did when it came to him. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t a confession but it was something. Proof that he had thought about you, even if only for a second.
You typed out a response, deleted it, and typed again.
You:
it’s going alright
and i’m not mad
just saving all my energy for when i finally get to go next year
And a second later, without thinking twice, you decided to send a risky text.
You:
bet you miss me already :p
You waited thirty seconds. A minute. Two. You started biting your lower lip, overthinking if it was a good idea to text him that. Then finally, he read it and started typing.
Lando:
course I do, sunshine ;)
And just like that, you were smiling again through the ache in your chest. Because even though he was far away—probably drunk and laughing somewhere on an island with a sky full of stars and sand between his toes—he had still chosen to think of you.
And that one message was enough to keep the fire alive. At least for now.
────୨ৎ────
20 & 24
After months of surviving college, stupid assignments, and even more insufferable professors, the most anticipated moment of your life had finally arrived— the trip to Ibiza.
A year ago, when Max told you that the group wasn’t going to Ibiza—because no one could seem to agree on a date or commit to the planning or figure out whose villa to use—you were livid.
After all those years of being left behind, being told you were ‘too young’ or ‘it wasn’t the right vibe’, last year was supposed to finally be your year. You were old enough, you had planned everything, daydreamed about those humid Ibiza nights, imagined the smell of salt on your skin, the sound of Lando’s laughter by the pool. You’d waited for it, and then they all just… didn’t go? Not because of you this time, not because Max slammed the brakes, but because the group simply couldn’t get their act together. It was infuriating, and you felt robbed all over again.
But this year, thank God, they got it together.
You got your parents’ permission (despite Max’s protests), and soon the flights were booked, the villa chosen, and playlists made. This time, you were going. And you had no intention of blending into the background.
The island that had only ever been a dream, a place of reckless abandon that you’d spent countless nights imagining yourself in. And now, you were finally here, standing at the front of the villa with your suitcase in hand, staring up at the imposing stone walls and the vast stretch of sparkling ocean in the distance. The place was exactly as you had imagined—vibrant, chaotic, and utterly alive.
But what really made your heart race wasn’t just the fact that you were on the island you’d always dreamed about. No, it was the thought of him. Lando was here. With Max, with the group, and they had no idea what you were about to bring to the table.
There was a subtle excitement in the air that you couldn’t shake off, a charged anticipation that hummed through your veins. Every summer, you watched from the sidelines, only allowed to catch glimpses of Lando and the others as they had fun without you. But now, at twenty, everything was different. You weren’t a little girl anymore. You were ready to prove to him that you weren’t just Max’s little sister. It wasn’t even about impressing him, not really. It was about finally being seen and being noticed.
As you stepped inside the villa, the cool air hit you, mixing with the salty scent of the sea that had already started to crawl onto your skin. Max, George, and the rest of the crew were lounging in the common area, chatting and laughing.
You took a deep breath, adjusting your sunglasses as you walked toward them. Max caught sight of you first and smiled, but it was Lando who made your stomach do a flip. He looked… different.
He had always looked confident, sure, but now there was a touch of something more—something she wasn’t used to seeing. The way he leaned back on the sofa, his arm stretched across it, his gaze lazily drifting around the room before landing on you. That moment, that slow sweep of his eyes, made your pulse quicken.
“Sunshine,” He called out, his lips curving into that playful grin you knew so well. But there was something about the way he said it now—something warmer, more knowing. “Finally made it to the famous Ibiza trip, huh?”
You smiled, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you stepped closer. “Had to wait a little longer but I think it was worth it.” You answered, your voice a little lighter than you intended.
Lando chuckled. “Well, we’ve been waiting for you. Ibiza’s not the same without you.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them made you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to the statement. Like he actually meant it.
Max shot you a playful glare as you took a seat, clearly not happy to see you join the group. “You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?” He teased. “This is supposed to be our time.”
You just smiled, sitting back on the couch, trying not to look too eager. Lando, though—he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed happy to see you. And that little twist in your stomach? It was definitely not from nerves.
You couldn’t help yourself. The longer you sat there, watching them all joke and laugh, the more you realized just how much he had always been the missing piece. The way he moved, the way he laughed—God, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
Your fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the chair, your mind spinning with the possibilities. Could you finally make your move? Now that you were here, now that you were no longer just Max’s little sister?
Lando caught you looking at him. His lips twitched, a small, amused smile playing on his face. There it was again—that subtle warmth. That pull, that thing that made you feel like you could reach out and touch him, even though he wasn’t exactly within your reach.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Lando asked, his voice smooth but teasing, the corner of his lips curving just enough to make your heart skip a beat.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking down to your lips before he looked back up, meeting your gaze. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you two were. Of how dangerous the moment felt.
The moment lingered for a beat too long before Max cleared his throat loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Can you fucking move a bit?” He asked, clearly annoyed. “You’re taking up the whole couch. Maybe go to your room or something.”
Lando chuckled, a deep sound that made your pulse flutter. “Max,” He said, his tone light but firm, “Don’t be a buzzkill. She’s allowed to hang out. Plus, we could use her company.”
The way Lando defended you, made your stomach flip again. But Max wasn’t having it. “Ehh, whatever.” He muttered, rolling his eyes as he went to grab another drink.
He didn’t understand, he didn’t see. But Lando? Lando seemed different. There was something else there now, something unspoken.
As the evening progressed, the group gathered around the large table on the patio, everyone sharing drinks and laughing as the sun dipped below the horizon. Music pulsed in the background, and Lando kept glancing over at you, his eyes following your every move. You caught him once, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary, before he quickly averted his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line.
But it was when they were all standing by the pool, the moonlight reflecting off the water, that everything changed. Lando was standing a little too close. His hand brushed yours by accident when he reached for his drink, and that simple touch was enough to send a jolt through your body.
Your breath caught. God, he was so close. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle weight of his gaze on you as he turned slightly, eyes darkened under the dim lights.
“Having fun?” Lando asked, his voice low, his lips curling slightly.
“Yup,” You replied, your heart pounding in your chest. “And you?”
His grin widened, but there was something else there now. Something you hadn’t seen before. “Even more now as you’re here.” He said softly, his gaze trailing over you again.
And then it hit you. This wasn’t just some random flirtation, and he wasn’t just being nice. He wanted you. But something held him back. Maybe it was Max, maybe it was your history. But you could feel the tension between you two, the unspoken words, the crackling electricity that only intensified the closer you stood.
Your mind raced, heart pounding as you slowly let yourself get lost in the moment. This was your time, and your chance. And you weren’t going to let it slip away.
────୨ৎ────
The night had settled in, the air warm with the sounds of laughter and the low hum of music from the speakers by the pool. The villa had transformed into a lively, almost chaotic place as everyone mingled, drinks in hand, the weight of the sun finally fading as the stars took over the sky.
You stood with the group of girls, but your attention was fully on Lando—how could it not be? The way he moved, the way he interacted with everyone else so effortlessly—it was impossible to ignore. He was so comfortable here. So at ease, like the place belonged to him.
But tonight, you weren’t just the little sister, the girl lingering on the outskirts. You were here to make your presence finally known to everyone. You had been biding your time, testing the waters with every conversation, every touch, every glance. But tonight, you felt bolder.
You casually walked over to the edge of the pool, the cool water reflecting the soft glow of the lights. Lando was standing nearby, chatting with some of the others, but when you stepped closer, he seemed to feel your presence.
His eyes flicked to you, that same little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the kind of smile that made your heart race. “Everything’s okay, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.
You nodded, but your gaze didn’t leave his. “Yeah, just enjoying the view.” You said, your voice teasing.
You stepped a little closer, just enough that the distance between you two was almost nonexistent. Lando glanced at you sideways, an eyebrow raising, his lips curling into that familiar grin that always made your stomach twist. But this time, you weren’t backing down. You weren’t just the girl who stood at the edge of the group, hoping for a chance to be noticed.
You took a deep breath, leaning in slightly. “And you?” You asked, your tone light, but your eyes holding a challenge. “Enjoying the view too?”
The way his eyes flickered down to your lips made your heart skip. And just like that, the playful tone in his voice shifted, becoming a little more serious, a little more heated.
“Always, it’s Ibiza, after all,” He replied, voice low and almost too smooth. “And I must say I like the view better when it’s you in it.”
It was the first time he’d said something like that, and you felt the rush of excitement surge through your veins. This was it. The moment you had been waiting for. The line between teasing and truth had blurred, and you weren’t going to let it slip away.
You smiled, your lips curving with a newfound confidence. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I think I’m starting to like the view here, too. It’s Ibiza, after all.” You added, mocking his words with a small smirk wandering on your lips.
He watched you, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. It was just you and him, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off each other, the air between you charged with something undeniable.
But then, just as quickly as it started, the tension broke. Max walked over, clapping his hand down on Lando’s shoulder, pulling him back into the conversation. “Lando, stop flirting with my sister and come help me with the music.”
You felt the air leave your lungs as the moment shattered. Max had ruined it, again. He always did. But Lando, at that moment, did something unexpected. He gave you one last lingering look, his gaze flicking to Max, then back to you, as if weighing something in his mind.
With a grin, Lando answered, “I’m not flirting, mate. Just having a good chat with your sister.”
Max shot him an incredulous look but shrugged, unaware of the tension that was still hanging in the air between you and Lando. It felt like a victory, even if only for a moment. You had gotten his attention. And now, you knew for sure—he was also paying attention to you.
The night wore on, and as the group started to get louder, more rowdy, you couldn’t help but feel the electric charge between you and Lando grow. He didn’t leave your side for long. Every time you turned around, he was there, standing just a little too close, his gaze holding a bit more than the usual friendly banter.
At one point, you found yourself near the bar, chatting with the others when Lando casually leaned against the counter beside you. He was so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, hear the rhythm of his breathing as he watched you. You could sense the shift in the air.
“Do you always get this close to everyone?” You asked, trying to keep your voice light, but there was a trace of something else underneath.
Lando chuckled, his eyes narrowing playfully as he shifted closer. “Only to people I actually want to talk to.” Your heart raced at his words, and before you could respond, he added, “And sometimes, it’s nice to be close to someone you can trust.”
You paused, the weight of his words sinking in. Was he talking about you? Or was it just him being Lando—flirty and charming without even realizing the effect he had?
But before you could overthink it, he stood up straighter, his attention momentarily diverted by something else happening around the villa. The air seemed to shift again, and for the briefest of moments, you felt something crackle between you both—an unspoken understanding.
The night continued, full of music, dancing, and laughter, but you couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he seemed to seek you out, how every time he looked at you, there was that spark, that quiet intensity. It wasn’t just a game anymore, and you knew it. He knew it.
But there was something in the way he always pulled away, something that kept him from crossing that final line. Max—the friendship. His own internal battle between his desire and his loyalty. And yet, even as he tried to distance himself, every glance, every word told you the truth. Lando was fighting it too.
As the night wore on, you found yourself alone, sitting by the edge of the pool again while the moonlight casted long shadows over the water. It was quieter out here, the only sound being the soft lap of the water against the tiles and the occasional murmur of voices drifting from the house. For a moment, it felt like time had paused. Like the world was holding its breath. The group had already moved inside the villa except him, and you.
Lando was watching you from the doorway, leaning against it. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were what gave him away.
You turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. “You know,” You started, your voice bold, “I’ve been sitting here long enough, wondering when you’d stop staring and come over. I think it’s your turn to make the move, Lan.”
Lando’s head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes didn’t meet yours right away—instead, they flicked toward the pool, where moonlight danced across the water like it was in on the secret too.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, casual as ever, but his tone was just a little too careful, too practiced.
His jaw tightened as he fought the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at you, and there it was—that familiar, maddening smile. The one that made your stomach twist and your thoughts scatter.
“But I think,” Lando murmured, low and smooth, “I’ll keep you waiting a little longer, Sunshine.”
But there was something in his eyes—something that said it wouldn’t be much longer before that waiting was over. And that made the anticipation all the sweeter.
With that, he disappeared into the house, leaving you sitting there, heart pounding, every nerve on edge. You stayed by the pool, your mind racing with everything that had just happened. The way his eyes had said more than his lips ever could. You knew. He felt it too.
But there was something else there. Something you hadn’t quite figured out. What was he so afraid of?
The night continued, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Lando’s presence, even though he was no longer nearby. Every glance you caught from him, every moment where his eyes met yours across the room—it was like a game, a dangerous, thrilling dance you both seemed to be playing. But Lando was trying so hard to hold himself back, and then you realized, for the first time, that it wasn’t just about Max anymore.
Lando was afraid of what could happen if he let go—afraid of the consequences.
And that only made you want him more.
────୨ৎ────
The villa was heavy with sleep. The kind of quiet that sinks deep into the walls after a long day—after too much sun, too much wine, and just enough laughter to leave the air still buzzing, even if the house itself had gone still.
When you stepped out of the bathroom, the echo of laughter and music from earlier was replaced with the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of old floorboards. The party had gone late, but you’d peeled off early, skin sticky from the saltwater pool, and the Ibiza heat.
You were freshly showered—towel wrapped tightly around your body, hair damp against your shoulders—and you realized, with a tiny internal scream, that in the emotional packaging you’d forgotten to pack your pajamas. It was a rookie mistake, but you couldn’t face crawling into bed with just a towel wrapped around you.
You stepped quietly out of the bathroom, your skin still damp and goosebumps prickling along your arms from the cool night air inside the villa. The halls were dark, except for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the large windows. The house was silent, everyone else either asleep or lost in their own worlds.
With careful steps and the towel clutched tighter around you, you tiptoed down the hallway, soft-footed on the tiles. Max’s room was just a few doors away. You told yourself it was harmless. Just one oversized shirt—he’d never even notice.
You opened the door softly and slipped inside, closing it behind you without a sound. The room was dark, moonlight spilling in through the open window and casting soft silver patterns across the bed, the walls. It smelled faintly of Max—a mix of soap, cologne, and the salty air from the beach.
You moved over to his dresser and pulled open a drawer. There was no need to be picky, just a shirt big enough to cover you for the night.
Your fingers rifled through shirts until you found one soft and loose, smelling faintly of detergent and someone else. Familiar. You didn’t question it, just pulled it over your head, feeling the fabric drape over your damp skin.. It hung low on you, grazing mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The hem brushed your bare legs, and for some reason, it felt more intimate than it should.
You exhaled, almost a laugh. Whatever. It was just a shirt. You didn’t care.
Quiet as a shadow, you slipped out of Max’s room and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. The villa was dead silent, moonlight pooling through the windows, casting silver paths across the tile floor. Your bare feet made almost no sound, but your heart thundered too loud in your ears.
The fridge door creaked softly as you opened it, cool air brushing your face. You grabbed a bottle of water, taking a slow sip. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and herbs left from the day’s cooking And then you felt it—that subtle shift in the air. Before you could turn around, you heard him behind you.
“Is that my shirt?”
You froze, heart catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned. And sure enough, there he was. Lando. Standing at the edge of the kitchen, barefoot, his hair still damp from the pool, curls a little messy and his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His voice was quiet but not sleepy. Not surprised, either.
You blinked, looking down at yourself instinctively. “Is it?” You feigned surprise.
“You didn’t know?” His eyes didn’t leave you, a smirk already spreading on his lips.
“I grabbed it from Max’s room,” You answered, shrugging. “I didn’t know it was yours.”
Lando nodded once but he didn’t take his eyes off you. “I must have left it in his room the last time we stayed here,” He said. “Figured he’d steal it, not you.”
You felt your skin prickle under the fabric, heat crawling up your neck. You bit your lip, trying to keep your voice even. “Well, I’m sorry but I forgot my pajamas, and it was the first thing I found. Didn’t stop to sniff it and guess which boy it belonged to.” You sipped the water, trying not to let your hand shake.
“Sure,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You’ve got good taste, at least.” You rolled your eyes at him, but your heart was a mess.
You raised a brow, looking at him questioningly. “Excuse me?”
He smiled. That slow, teasing smile that made your breath catch and your legs feel less than stable. “You could’ve taken anything. But you picked mine.” His voice dropped slightly, velvet smooth. “You sure that was just an accident?”
“I didn’t look that hard,” You mumbled. “It was the first thing I saw. I wasn’t exactly thinking—”
“No?” He asked, stepping a little closer. He looked at you differently now—like he could see through you. Like he knew.
His eyes dragged down your body, slow and deliberate. “You’ve got nothing underneath, haven’t you.”
Your heart kicked up a notch. “You don’t know that.” You crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the fabric clung to your thighs. “Why are you even here, huh?”
“I was heading to bed but saw the light in the kitchen.” He paused, tilting his head as his eyes narrowed just a little. “And then I saw you, Sunshine.”
Your breath came slower now. Your hand still rested on the edge of the counter, knuckles white. He took one more step, close enough that you could smell the faint hint of his cologne, the same clean citrus and sea air scent from the shirt.
The silence between you stretched—thick, electric, and hot enough to burn. You glanced up at him, tilting your head. “Oh my god, if it bothers you so much I can take it off.”
His mouth twitched like he was about to laugh, but it died before it could come out. His eyes darkened instead. “Careful.”
“Or what?” You challenged, heart pounding. “You’ll tell Max I stole your shirt?”
Lando took one step closer—just one. But it was enough to fill the space between you with something. “Nah. I’m more worried about what I’d do about it. You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” He went on, his voice dropping, low and teasing. “Walking around the villa in nothing but my shirt.”
You smiled despite yourself, but it trembled. “I wasn’t planning to run into anyone.”
“Lucky me.” He snickered.
The way he said it—playful, and hungry. Yet still, he didn’t move any closer. Like he was daring you to do it instead.
Your breath hitched. “Should I take it off, then?”
His gaze flickered to your lips, your collarbone, the hem of the shirt swaying around your thighs. “Don’t.”
The air pulsed between you. Every breath, every look—it felt like you were already touching. “Why not?” You whispered, suddenly reckless.
He closed his eyes like you’d just cursed him. “Sunshine…” He whispered, like it hurt. His soft side suddenly returned as if reminding him that he was going way off the limits set by his best friend, crossing the invisible lines between you.
And then a shuffle came from the house—footsteps. Fast and clumsy down the hall.
Your stomach dropped. You both turned your heads sharply just in time to see Max emerge, yawning, scratching the back of his neck, eyes still hazy with sleep.
“What are you two doing up?” He asked, blinking slowly.
You backed away from Lando as if your skin had caught fire. “Couldn’t sleep.” You said quickly, the lie almost too easy.
“Yeah,” Lando added, voice calmer now, like a switch had flipped. “Just grabbing water.”
Max grunted, barely registering you as he passed. He pulled open the fridge, cracked open a bottle, and drank in silence. You didn’t move.
Lando’s eyes met yours for one fleeting moment—just long enough to remind you that your pulse was still out of control.
And as Max turned to head back down the hall, Lando leaned in ever so slightly, voice a whisper only you could hear. “Keep the shirt. It looks better on you anyway.”
Then he was gone, retreating down the hallway, his steps light but urgent, like if he didn’t walk away right now, he wouldn’t walk away at all.
You stood in the kitchen, the cool air licking at your bare legs. Your pulse was still thundering, and the shirt suddenly felt too thin to contain everything you were feeling. You clutched the fabric tighter. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh, cry, or run after him.
But one thing was certain—you were past the point of pretending this was nothing.
────୨ৎ────
The night was alive with music, the kind that vibrated through your bones and made every inch of your body feel electric. The club you decided to go to was packed with people, their bodies moving in sync to the pulse of the beat. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and alcohol—a heady mix that made your mind spin with anticipation.
You stood with the group outside, the warm night air brushing against your skin, feeling the heat of the moment on the horizon. Tonight was different. The black dress you wore clung to your body in all the right ways, cut just low enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving too much away. The heels were higher than you were used to, but they made you feel powerful, confident—a version of yourself that wasn’t the quiet little sister anymore.
Lando, of course, looked like he belonged on a runway. His sharp jawline was highlighted by the dim glow of the neon lights, and his dark shirt was tight enough to accentuate his muscles, the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. His eyes caught yours when he turned toward you, and for a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade away. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, his lips curling into a subtle smirk.
You caught it. The way his eyes tracked your every move. You weren’t sure if it was because the alcohol—which you decided to drink back in the house for some courage—was starting to buzz through your veins or if it was the fact that tonight felt different, more intense. The air around you was charged, and every step you took toward the club made your heart race faster.
Inside, the music blasted so loud it rattled your bones, the lights flashing in time with the beat, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that swirled around you. You let the music take over, moving in time with it, surrounded by the chaos of the crowd. But through it all, you could feel Lando’s eyes on you, watching you as you danced, his body close, but never quite close enough.
The drinks kept coming. You weren’t one to shy away from a little fun, and tonight, you were feeling particularly bold. One shot, then another. A cocktail to wash it down. The alcohol was starting to warm your body from the inside out, the edges of your thoughts becoming a little hazy, but the clarity of one thing—the one thing you couldn’t shake—remained. Him.
It was like everything around you had blurred into a haze, and he was the only clear thing left. The way his eyes followed you across the room, the way his body leaned closer when he spoke to you. He wasn’t exactly avoiding you, but he wasn’t exactly encouraging anything either. And that only made you want him more.
The group had dispersed, everyone off to their own little corners of the club, but you didn’t care. You were focused on him. You needed to know.
You took another shot and felt the heat spread through you, making your skin tingle. The alcohol started to make you feel bold, fearless even. And it was then that you decided—tonight, you weren’t going to let anything stand in your way.
You spotted him at the bar, broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned in to say something to one of the guys. The neon lights painted his profile in shifting colors, his chain glinting against the open collar of his shirt. Your pulse thrummed harder the closer you got, each click of your heels echoing in your chest like a countdown.
As you walked up to him, your heels clicked against the floor, your heart pounding in your chest. By the time you slid up beside him, you were already trembling with anticipation. Your bare arm brushed against the fabric of his sleeve, deliberate but subtle, just enough to make him turn.
His head whipped around, brows lifting in mild surprise, but then his gaze caught yours. That spark you knew too well flickered instantly in his eyes, like a flame reigniting. His eyes lingered a second too long, dropping from your mouth to the curve of your throat before snapping back up to your eyes.
You swallowed hard, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of him so close it made your skin prickle. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until the words tumbled out, slurred slightly from the alcohol but crystal clear in intent.
“Lando…” You mumbled, his name leaving your lips like a secret, low and ragged.
He stilled, every trace of amusement draining from his face. His eyes sharpened, scanning you with something caught between warning and curiosity.
You stepped closer, your body grazing his—just the whisper of contact, but enough to set you alight. Tilting your head back, you let him see the desire shining in your eyes, and the way your lips parted, trembling with words that tasted dangerous.
“I want you to fuck me.”
The words hung in the air between you two, raw and unapologetic. It was as if everything stopped at that moment. The music faded, and conversations dulled into white noise. For a heartbeat, it was just him and you. The air between you crackled, charged, like the universe itself was holding its breath.
Lando’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face before it quickly shifted into something unreadable. His lips parted, his throat bobbing as he exhaled a sharp breath. A soft, nervous laugh, his voice thick with disbelief.
“What did you just say?” His voice was tight, husky, as though he already knew but needed to hear it again, needed to give you a chance to take it back.
But you didn’t back down. You were beyond caring whether he was surprised or not. You had made up your mind, and you were tired of playing games.
You leaned in, letting your lips nearly brush his ear as you repeated, firmer this time, dripping with reckless desire. “I said, I want you to fuck me, Lando.”
For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move. He just stared at you as you moved away from him a bit, eyes dark and unreadable. His body locked like every muscle inside him was bracing against what you’d just said. The seconds stretched unbearably, each one dragging like molasses, and your pulse pounded louder with every flicker of hesitation on his face.
His jaw tightened, lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. You could see the battle in his eyes—the struggle between the attraction he clearly felt, and the boundaries and limits he had set for himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, almost like it hurt him to say the words. “Sunshine…” The pet name slipped out instinctively, tender and broken. “You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
The dismissal cut sharper than you expected, making your chest ache. But you weren’t about to back down. Not when his voice cracked like that, not when his hand gripped the edge of the bar so tightly the tendons strained.
You stepped closer, lifting your chin to lock your eyes with his. “I know exactly what I’m saying, Lando. I’m not drunk, and I know what I want.”
For the briefest second, something in his expression faltered. His shoulders sagged, and his gaze darted down your face to linger on your lips before tearing away like it burned him. Lando turned his head, jaw clenched, dragging a shaky breath through his teeth as though he needed air before he drowned. His hand gripped the edge of the bar, his knuckles white. The tension between you two was so thick that you could practically feel it suffocating you both.
Lando let out a breath, trying to regain his composure. “Fuck… you’re Max’s little sister. I can’t do this, and I won’t.” He muttered, sharper this time, but even that sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
The words were final, his voice laced with restraint, but you could hear the hint of something else underneath it. The attraction was still there, raw and desperate, but so was his guilt. His loyalty to Max—the barrier he’d been trying to maintain between you—was slipping. You could see it in the way his body reacted to you, in the way his gaze flickered over you like he was fighting an inner war. And you weren’t going to let him win this time.
“I don’t care, Lando,” You whispered, closing the space, your voice steady despite the racing in your chest. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m asking you to fuck me. And I’m not going to stop until you actually do it.”
The words made him flinch like you’d struck him—not out of disgust but out of want. Out of restraint snapping, just a little, around the edges.
His gaze dropped to your mouth again, and for a fraction of a second, you thought he’d finally break. That he’d grab you, kiss you mindlessly, do something reckless and irreversible. But then Lando shook his head, almost violently, his hands coming up as though he physically needed to hold himself back.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” He repeated, his voice shaking a little more than before, though there was something else in his eyes now. Something darker, filled with regret and desire. “You’re not thinking straight.”
You smirked faintly at his response, because you knew him. You knew he was lying.
You pressed your palm to his chest, heat radiating beneath your fingertips, his heartbeat hammering fast and frantic against your touch. His body betrayed everything his words denied.
“But I’m thinking perfectly straight, Lan,” You murmured, softer now, more intimate. “I’ve been thinking about this for years.”
He flinched slightly at your words, his lips parting, but no words came out. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and wrecked. The struggle was written all over his face. He wanted this—he wanted you. But he was holding back, clinging to whatever moral line he had drawn between you. And it was clear that you were getting under his skin.
You leaned back just slightly, letting your fingers trail down his shirt, your voice dipping into something teasing, dangerous.
“Maybe I’ll ask you again tomorrow,” You said, your voice softening, the teasing returning to your tone. “When I’m sober, and you can’t hide behind the excuse that I’m just a drunk, little girl. But don’t think I’ll forget this, Lando. And don’t pretend you will either.”
And with that, you swiftly turned around. The click of your heels echoed through the haze of music and chatter as you walked away from him, spine straight, every step deliberate. You didn’t look back—you didn’t have to. You felt his eyes follow you, heavy and searing, as if memorizing the sway of your hips and the tilt of your head.
The air between you two had shifted—charged with something dangerous, inevitable, and forbidden.
And deep down, you knew. Next time, he wouldn’t let you walk away.
────୨ৎ────
The sun filtering through the curtains was casting soft light over everything in your room. The group was still recovering from the night before, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you as you tried to slip into the background.
You had hoped that the discomfort would fade away by morning, that the weight of yesterday’s night would lift as easily as the hangover, but it didn't. It was like the moment you’d said those words to Lando had somehow become a part of the air in this house, invisible yet so undeniably present.
You had asked him—no, you demanded from him—something you weren’t sure you even had the right to. As bold as you may have acted yesterday, now you were just overpowered by the feeling of embarrassment. But the desire and the need still smoldered within you, making everything feel ten times more complicated.
It felt like you were walking through a dream, as if everything was happening in slow motion. You could still feel the heavy beat of the club music in your chest, hear the sound of your own voice breaking through the haze of alcohol, and see the way Lando had looked at you. The shock, the disbelief, and then that careful laughter as he’d deflected your words, made them feel small, as if it hadn’t been important at all. But to you, it was crucial.
Max had dragged everyone out of beds to spend some time by the pool. With your head still hurting slightly, you settled on sitting at the edge, your feet skimming the water as your thoughts were miles away. You hadn’t meant to retreat into yourself, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to face Lando, to face what had happened the night before.
That’s when you felt it—a shadow falling over you, stopping the scorching hot sensation from Ibiza's sun. And when you looked up, there he was. Lando’s figure blocked out the sun, and your heart skipped a beat, your stomach doing that anxious somersault it always did when he was near.
“Hi Sunshine,” He said softly, his voice calm but something unreadable in his tone. “Do you mind helping me prepare some lemonade for the group?”
Your stomach dropped. The last thing you wanted now was to be alone with him, but at the same time, you couldn’t say no to him. You nodded quickly in response, pushing yourself up from the poolside and following him away from the group, your heartbeat louder in your ears than the sound of the others.
Lando led you inside the villa, his movements slower than usual, like he didn’t want to crowd you or rush anything. The two of you walked quietly through the living room, passing the others without a word, until you found yourself in the kitchen—just far enough from the others to be alone. He took the big, glass jug from the counter, and started pouring cold water inside it. You reached for the lemons that were in the fruit basket, and went to wash them in the sink before slicing them.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you both, thick with unspoken words and thoughts that neither of you could find the courage to voice. It felt like you were both caught in the aftermath of something fragile, something that had the potential to either shatter or grow stronger, depending on how you navigated this.
While you were busy cutting the lemons, Lando finished pouring the water. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before it softened. There was a hint of something behind his eyes. Guilt? Concern? Or maybe a little bit of both.
Finally, Lando was the first to break the silence, his voice quiet but steady. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”
There was a hesitation in his tone, a carefulness, like he didn’t want to overstep, but also like he was waiting for you to do or say something.
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak at first. When you did finally speak, your voice was a little too quiet, your words too shaky to hide the vulnerability behind them.
“I’m fine.” You answered shortly, focused on slicing the lemons. But even as you said it, you could hear the lie in your own words. You weren’t fine, not at all.
The moment you had asked him for something so raw, so real, had felt like it shattered something inside you, and now you weren’t sure how to piece it all back together.
You didn’t look at him even for a second, unable to meet his gaze. The air between you felt so thick, and your nerves were on edge.
You put the already cut lemons inside the jug. “Really. I just… I don’t even know what I was thinking last night.”
There it was—the admission. The guilt that had been eating at you all day. You couldn’t even look at him without feeling heat creeping up your neck.
“You were right, I was drunk,” You muttered, almost too quietly. “And I didn’t mean it.”
You did.
Lando didn’t speak right away. He just watched you as you squeezed the lemon juice into the jug, his gaze soft but intense, like he was trying to read you, and your every word. It was like he was searching for something in you, something that he didn’t quite know how to find.
“I just… don’t want you to think that what happened last night was nothing,” He finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you were drunk, Sunshine. But you don’t need to say things like that to get my attention.” His lips twisted in something close to a half-smile, but it was strained. “You’ve always had it.”
Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment you wondered if he just confirmed what you’d been secretly hoping—that he felt it too. But then the doubt crept in. Maybe you were reading too much into it?
You didn’t respond right away, afraid of saying something wrong again. So you just let the silence stretch on between you, as the moment hung in the air, thick with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Lando said eventually, his voice low. “I know you, and I know that now the regret is probably eating you alive, but… I just want you to know that it’s okay. I mean it.”
You swallowed hard, halting your movements. His words should have comforted you, but they didn’t. They only made the whole situation more complicated for you, and more confusing. The things you said, and the things you wanted—it was all too much now, too close, and too real.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” You uttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “That I said it, or that you brushed it off like it was nothing.” You added, before going back again to squeezing the lemon juice.
Lando flinched at your words, his face flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. It was almost like a mixture of surprise, guilt, and something else.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Sunshine,” He countered quickly, his voice thick with sincerity. “I just— fuck, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed or pressured to anything.”
You wanted to argue, to tell him that you didn’t feel pressured, but the words caught in your throat. You couldn’t explain it, not in a way that made sense. You felt something for him, something that was impossible to ignore, and even now, with the space between you, the tension still hung there—sharp, and palpable.
Lando shifted closer, his movements slow, almost like he was testing the waters, making sure you were okay with his proximity.
“Look,” He started, and you finally moved your eyes on him, immediately noticing the hesitation in them. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me now. But also, I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you away.”
His words struck something deep inside you. It was like he was tiptoeing around the truth, just as you had been. You knew he was holding something back, but you didn’t want to push it. Not yet.
“I’m not… mad, Lando.” You said, your voice a little more steady now, but there was still a vulnerability in it that you couldn’t mask.
Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking with yours. “I get it. I’m not going to bring it up again. But just so you know…” He paused, his voice thick with something unspoken. “I’ll forget about it if you want me to.”
You looked up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. “Lan,” You murmured, your voice barely audible, but thick with meaning. “You don’t have to forget about it.”
Your words hung in the air, neither of you saying anything. After a heartbeat, you finally felt the weight of them, heavier than you had expected.
The distance between you two—both emotional and physical—felt too wide, and yet at the same time, you could sense the quiet longing between you. It wasn’t something that would just go away.
Looking away from his overwhelming gaze, you came back to making the lemonade. You started mixing the water in the jug with the juice, adding some sugar to it.
You weren’t ready to dive into the complexity of what this whole conversation meant. Not yet. But somewhere deep inside, you knew this wasn’t over. You hadn’t even begun to figure out what it all meant for you both.
“The lemonade is done,” You announced, the words barely above a whisper. “Let’s get back to the others.”
Lando gave you a soft smile, but it was filled with so much more than just reassurance. It was an unspoken promise.
And even if neither of you acknowledged it outright, you both knew the truth—neither of you could forget about what happened.
────୨ৎ────
The villa was silent in the aftermath of laughter and thudding footsteps, the echo of the group’s excitement still lingering in the warm night air as the cars pulled away. Ibiza nights were never quiet—unless you chose for them to be. And tonight, you did.
The others had left twenty minutes ago, off to the club downtown, heat and music waiting to swallow them whole. You were supposed to be with them. You even got dressed for it, makeup on, heels clicked against the tile as you floated through the rooms. But the moment you saw Lando in that loose white shirt, the top few buttons undone, the chain around his neck catching the golden light… something in you snapped.
You couldn’t go.
“Guys… uh,” You started, your voice purposely casual, like you weren’t about to combust, “I think I’ll actually stay in tonight. My head hurts, and I don’t think too good.” You added a small laugh, waving your hand as if that would make it less suspicious. It didn’t.
“What?” One of the girls spun around, looking at you with a dramatic pout. “Nooo, babe, you can’t stay in! We already got all dressed up and ready to go, don’t be lame!”
“Yeah, come on, just take a painkiller and you’ll be just fine.” Another chimed in, already half-drunk and swaying to the music.
Max, who was digging through his jacket for his car keys, didn’t even look up. “Do as you want.” He said over his shoulder, tone dismissive, too focused on corralling the group into the cars. You knew him—he was in his herding cats mode. As long as you weren’t actively causing trouble, he didn’t have the bandwidth to care.
But there was one person who cared. One person who wasn’t fooled by you.
Lando stood frozen. He was mid-buckle with his watch, but his fingers had stilled. His head lifted, eyes finding you across the room, narrowing slightly—not in judgment, but something softer, something curious. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.
“You sure?” His voice was low, barely audible over the chatter, but it sliced through everything else like a blade. His gaze held yours, heavy, lingering, like he could see every thought swirling behind your fake smile. The concern in his tone made your stomach flutter. You’d forced a small smile, waving him off like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just consumed your entire body with one look.
The last time you’d been to a club with him… oh god. You still felt the scorch of humiliation creep up your neck when you thought about it. The moment that spilled out of you, reckless and desperate—the way you grabbed his arm, leaned into his ear amidst the chaos and blurted out words you hadn’t even planned to say.
But that was in the past. And now, tonight, he was standing there again—looking devastatingly perfect while doing absolutely nothing, and you knew if you stepped out of this house and into that club, you’d do something you couldn’t undo. So you didn’t.
You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah,” You answered quickly, forcing your lips into a curve. “I’ll be fine. You guys go.”
But Lando didn’t move. He stood there for another beat, eyes flickering over you—your flushed cheeks, your fidgeting fingers, the way you avoided looking directly at him for too long. You could tell he was working it out in his head.
“Alright then,” He answered, voice tighter than before, finally tearing his gaze away. But there was something in his eyes, a flicker of tension, like he knew damn well you were lying.
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving you alone in the villa. You stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, pulse racing as the silence wrapped around you like a velvet blanket. You exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.
You couldn’t take it anymore. You had spent years holding back. Watching him, trailing behind conversations like a ghost. You’d perfected the art of stealing glances, of laughing too loudly at his jokes, of brushing against him like it meant nothing. But it had always meant everything. Every little thing he did sunk into your skin, settled into your bloodstream.
You knew his habits, his moods. Even the way his eyes changed when he was tired, when he was buzzed from two drinks or when he was focused. And this year he had been looking at you like he finally saw you. Not as Max’s little sister, and not as the awkward teenager who once blushed whenever he sat too close. He finally saw you as a woman, and you felt it. And yet… nothing. Always nothing.
You couldn’t blame him, though. Max was his best friend, and you understood the unspoken rule. But God, how long could you be expected to live in this tension? How long could you take being this desperate?
You pressed your fingers against your temples, trying to will the ache in your chest away. The tight, burning throb that had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with want.
Slowly, you walked back to your bedroom, immediately taking your dress off and leaving it on the floor behind you. Left only in a thin cotton thong and a bralette, you climbed onto your bed. The sheets were cool at first, sending a shiver across your thighs, but your body warmed them quickly. Or maybe it was the heat beneath your skin, your pulse pounding in places you couldn’t ignore anymore.
Your skin was warm, almost feverish, and you could still smell his cologne in your clothes. Fuck. You felt him like a presence, even when he was gone.
The air conditioner hummed faintly in the background, and some cicadas chirped outside. Everything else was quiet.
You laid on your back, arm slung over your eyes. But the moment you let yourself relax, his image returned. Lando in that white shirt, buttons open, collar falling lazily across his collarbone. That chain glinting against his warm skin. The veins on his forearms, his smooth hands and long fingers, and that damn smirk.
The sound of your name on his tongue, the way he looked at you during dinner. The moment your fingers brushed when you passed him a drink. The way he laughed, head tilted back, mouth open, throat exposed.
Your hand drifted lower, grazing over your stomach. Your skin was already tingling, goosebumps spreading beneath your touch. You closed your eyes and let out a breath, imagining his hand instead of yours. Bigger, rougher, warmer and stronger. The way his hands would explore you, slap you, and fuck you mindlessly.
You slid your fingers down to the heat between your legs, shoving aside your underwear, hissing softly at how wet you already were. The moment your fingers finally found your pussy, you gasped quietly. You spread your legs wider, your thighs brushing against the sheets, heat pooling between them.
Your fingers started to move slowly at first, tracing gentle circles around your clit, your breath growing unsteady as you gasped softly, already embarrassingly wet. It didn’t take much, to be fair. It never did, not when you were thinking of him. Your other hand moved to your chest, slipping under the bralette, squeezing your breast as you imagined him doing it. The way his hands would be so much larger than yours, more sure.
Your back arched slightly, the tension in your belly winding tighter. “Fuck— Lando…” You breathed, the name falling from your lips before you could stop it. And you kept saying it softly, but desperately.
However, while being lost in the sensation, you didn’t hear the click of the front door opening, and you didn’t hear the soft creak of floorboards. You were too far gone. What you didn’t know, was that about a minute after leaving, Lando realized he’d forgotten his wallet. That he came back, keys still hanging in his hand.
When he came inside the villa again, Lando didn’t expect to hear it—his name, trembling and breathless, coming from behind your door. He froze immediately. He should’ve walked away, left it alone, as it was none of his business.
But the door to your room wasn’t fully closed, it was cracked open just enough to peek inside. And curiosity? It got the better of him.
He moved slowly, each step quieter than the last, every nerve ending screaming at him to stop, to turn around and leave before he saw something he couldn’t unsee. But when he reached the doorway and looked through the small sliver, the breath caught inside his throat. There you were—spread out on the bed like a goddess, one hand between your legs, the other gripping your breast. Your back was arched just slightly, eyes shut, and mouth parted.
He could see everything.
Lando stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth opened. The wallet in his hand dropped noiselessly onto the floor as he stared at you. He should have left, he knew that. Every fiber in him screamed that this wasn’t right, that this was a boundary he couldn’t cross, that this was his friend’s younger sister. But there you were, bathed in the warm golden light of your bedside lamp, glistening with sweat and need while whispering his name over and over again. Your hips kept rocking into your hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.
As he gripped the doorframe, Lando’s knuckles went white. His heart was thundering in his chest, louder than the sound of your moans. It was wrong. So fucking wrong. But he couldn’t look away from your breath-taking figure. You were beautiful—stunning, undone, and raw.
Lando felt like he was dreaming.
He had no idea how long he stood there. Minutes, maybe. Long enough to feel like he was going to lose his mind. But then, he finally snapped, not being able to stop himself anymore.
His voice was low when it came—rough and broken. “Fucking hell, Sunshine.”
You froze. Every muscle in your body tensed as you gasped, eyes flying open. You scrambled for the blanket, your heart hammering in your chest. “What the fuck! Lando, what are you—”
His eyes were dark, and unreadable as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I forgot my wallet,” He explained, a smile wandering over your lips, and voice barely above a whisper. “But then I heard you.”
Your face burned from the embarrassment. “Oh my God…” You hid your face in your hands.
“You moaned my name, Sunshine,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You were thinking of me.”
Lando’s words hung in the air like a challenge, a command, and your breath caught in your throat. You looked up to face him, his eyes never left your face. The heat between your legs was unbearable now, your entire body on fire from the tension, from the way your pulse hammered in your chest.
You didn’t need to hear him say anything more, but when he knelt beside your bed, his hand pressed against the mattress, his weight sinking just a fraction, everything in you screamed for more.
“Tell me to leave, love,” He murmured, the words strained, but his body was still drawn toward you, close but not yet touching. “And I will.”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry with both nerves and desire, but the ache inside you was more powerful than any shame.
“Stay.” You whispered, your voice trembling as you gave in. You wanted this, you needed this.
A sharp intake of breath followed as he exhaled shakily, eyes dragging slowly down your body. His gaze was almost possessive now, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, soaking in the vulnerability you offered, and the hunger he saw reflected in your eyes.
His hand reached up then, lifting your chin gently with his fingers, his thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip as if he was tasting you without touching.
“Good girl.” He whispered, the words thick with a mix of approval and something darker.
The moment those words left his mouth, a tremor ran through you, like a live wire snapping into place. It wasn’t just the compliment—it was the fact that he said it, that he saw you, truly saw you for what you were—his, in that moment. And that thought sent a shock of heat straight to your core.
Without another word, he let his hand fall from your face, trailing slowly down your neck, brushing over your collarbone, your chest. His fingers, long and soft, brushed over your breast, just teasing the sensitive skin of your nipple before moving lower, across your stomach, and finally to where you needed him most.
You gasped at the first touch of his fingers against your wetness, a sound you couldn’t hold back if you tried. The simple touch sent a ripple of pleasure straight through you. Instinctively, you arched into his hand, your back pressing further into the bed as you exhaled in a shuddering breath.
He wasn’t gentle, but neither was he rough. His touch was slow, deliberate—almost like he was testing you, pushing you to the edge without fully breaking you. His fingers worked skillfully, tracing the outline of your folds, sending shocks of pleasure with every calculated movement.
You were trembling, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your belly, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of the fire that built each time he brushed against your most sensitive spots. His fingers never rushed, each stroke sending waves of heat through your body as your chest heaved with every breath.
You were a whimpering mess beneath him, your body wanting more, desperate for him to push you further. “P-please, Lan—” You gasped, your words strangled, unable to hide the need in your voice.
You didn’t know how much longer you could hold back from completely breaking apart. His gaze stayed unwavering, never leaving you as he worked his fingers against you, each stroke coaxing a moan from your throat.
“Please, what?” He teased, his voice low and rough with the tension that clung to him.
He could feel your pulse under his fingertips, could sense the way your body responded to his touch, but he wasn’t done yet. Not yet.
You couldn’t stop the whimper that left your lips. “Fuck… don’t stop,” You breathed, the words escaping in a rush. “I need you.”
A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips, and he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You’ve been so patient, sunshine,” He murmured, his voice a velvet promise of something more, something even deeper. “You deserve this, don’t you?”
You nodded right away, your head spinning, not even aware of how your hips were grinding into his hand now.
“Y-yes, Lan! Fuck, please…” You begged, the desperation in your voice a mixture of need and want, the ache inside you unbearable as he continued to move his fingers inside you, slow but steady.
And then, without warning, he slipped deeper, his slim fingers curving just right as he found that one, sweet spot that made your whole body jerk against him.
“Oh,” He chuckled mischievously, “There is it.”
The breath left your lungs in a strangled gasp as he worked you closer and closer to the edge, the tension so tight now it felt like you might snap at any second. You clung to the bed, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you, as your body fought against the pleasure he was pulling from you.
“Look at me.” He ordered, and you did, your eyes locking with his, but there was nothing playful in his gaze now.
His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed with barely controlled hunger, and for the first time, you saw the restraint he was holding back, the way he was keeping himself on the edge—just like you.
You moaned again, a broken sound this time, your body unable to hide how much you craved him. You gasped his name like a lifeline, a desperate plea for something you didn’t even fully understand.
The way his fingers worked inside you sent shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire body, and your hips pushed into his hand, needing more, needing to feel him in a way you couldn’t put into words.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” He rasped, his voice so low you barely heard him over the sounds of your own desperate moans. “In the club that night? You were fucking insane for saying those words, right next to your brother.”
His words were dark, edged with a raw hunger that sent another wave of heat through you. The admission made you tremble harder, the thought of him wanting you that badly sending your mind into overdrive.
The pressure built and built until you couldn’t hold back anymore, your whole body tensing as the release you had been so desperate for finally came crashing over you in waves.
“That’s it,” He whispered, his voice rough with desire, his thumb brushing against your clit in teasing circles as he continued to thrust his fingers inside you. “Cum for me, baby. Let me see your pretty face.”
You cried out, your back arching off the bed as your body quivered with the intensity of it, a blissful shudder taking over every part of you. Lando’s name tumbled from your lips in a broken cry, and he only watched, his gaze dark, almost possessive as he continued to finger you through your orgasm, making sure to stretch it out, to draw every ounce of pleasure from you.
When the final wave of pleasure ebbed, you were left breathless, trembling beneath him, your body feeling like it was on fire.
You have never come so hard in your entire life.
Lando didn’t move away immediately. Instead, he stayed close, his breath coming as heavily as yours, his fingers slowly pulling out of you, leaving a lingering ache behind. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, but it wasn’t awkward. It was charged, thick with the tension that had been building for so long.
Finally, Lando kissed your forehead gently, his lips lingering there for a moment as if trying to anchor both of you in this fragile moment. You were still too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed by everything that had just happened.
And then, without another word, Lando stood up, pulling away, his fingers still glistening from your juices.
“See you later, Sunshine.” He whispered, his voice soft. And then he put his fingers into his mouth, licking every bit of your release off his finger.
That view, alone, could make you come again.
He didn’t look back as he turned and left you lying there, the weight of what had just happened still pulsing through your veins, and your body still humming with pleasure.
Lando left the house with the wallet in his pocket. The weight of your sweet moans still echoing in his head as a smirk wandered on his lips.
warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, soft sex, p i v, oral (m, f), hair pulling, edging, dirty talk, praise kink, virginity loss, slight voyeurism, aftercare), forced proximity, makeout scenes, pet names (sunshine, baby), secret relationship, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.
music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy
summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.
a/n: read part one here <3 hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
The next morning, the villa seemed to hold its breath. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, heavy with the scent of saltwater and jasmine, and already the weight of the morning was thick with unspoken things. The kind of silence where you could almost hear the thoughts racing, the weight of the air pressing in as though something was about to break.
You sat at the end of the dining table, one leg tucked beneath you, a loose hoodie slipping off your shoulder. You stared down at your cereal, which already started to become mushy, your spoon abandoned in the bowl. You weren’t really eating—you were just there, staring down at the swirls of milk and flakes while your thoughts looped back to last night.
Your thighs still tingled. Your skin still remembered the brush of his fingers, the way he whispered praise into your ear with a voice so low it made your lungs forget how to breathe.
And then he just left.
You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. You just stared at the ceiling until the sun started spilling across your sheets, your lips curving without your permission, heat blooming across your cheeks.
Footsteps padded across the tile—not rushed, not hesitant. Just calm, and easy. You knew it was him before he even came into view, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t move, yet your breath still caught anyway. You hid the smile quickly, biting the inside of your cheek as though that could erase the evidence.
He walked into the kitchen without pause. Hair tousled, his curls messy and falling over his forehead. A simple black t-shirt stretched across his torso, sleeves tight against his arms. Navy shorts hung low on his hips. He didn’t look like someone haunted by the night before. He looked… effortless. Like this was just another morning.
Your heartbeat was a slow, steady thud in your ears. He hadn’t said anything after last night. Not when he left with your name still clinging to his lips. And now, he was here, barefoot and relaxed, as if the memory of his fingers deep inside you wasn’t still thick in the air between you.
He reached for the orange juice in the fridge, the sound of the cap twisting echoing in the silence. You wondered if it was too loud, but to you everything felt too loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant swoosh of the waves from the ocean, and the shuffle of his feet on the floor. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He poured himself a glass, the golden liquid cascading smoothly into the cup, the way his fingers curled around the glass—so strong, yet effortlessly delicate.
He never once acknowledged you, but somehow you could feel his awareness. He knew you were there.
Lando leaned against the counter, still not looking at you. But you looked, you couldn’t stop yourself. The curve of his throat, the faint red mark on his collarbone—had you done that? Or was it a different girl? Your eyes dropped lower, to the veins in his forearm, to the way his fingers flexed around the glass with tension he probably didn’t realize he was holding.
The seconds ticked by like hours, stretching the air between you until it vibrated with unspoken words. And then, as if finally deciding to break the stillness, he looked at you. But it wasn’t just a look or a small glance. Lando watched you, his eyes locked on yours, sharp and knowing, and then that damn smirk tugged at his mouth. Slow. Crooked. As if he was letting you know—without words—that he remembered everything.
Your stomach flipped. You should have looked away, pretended to be too busy with your cereal. But instead, you smirked right back. A tiny one, more playful than defiant, like you’d just agreed to play along in this silent game. You remembered the way he looked at you last night—right before he slid his fingers between your thighs—with reverence, like he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it.
The tension wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was charged. Like teenagers daring each other not to break first. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to your mouth, before flicking back up. He took a slow sip of juice, as though he wasn’t caught, but his eyes never left yours.
You leaned your chin on your palm, tilting your head at him. “Morning, Lan.” You said, casual, but your voice carried more than that—like you were testing how much he’d give away.
His smirk deepened, one eyebrow ticking up. “Morning, Sunshine.” He echoed, smooth, easy, but his eyes sparkled with something far less innocent.
The air between you thrummed, like the universe had reduced itself to nothing but glances and smirks across a breakfast table.
Suddenly, Max’s voice broke through the air like a slap, loud and oblivious as he stomped in, “Where the fuck is my charger?” He muttered while ruffling his hair, already half-complaining.
You jumped slightly at the sudden interruption, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He was still a bit drunk from the night before, his words slurring together as he dug through the drawers, looking for his charger.
Lando shifted immediately, the tension vanishing like it had never existed. You, on the other hand, were still frozen, while your heart was beating too fast. Your palms suddenly went cold as you clenched the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, that wasn’t the pull of his gaze.
“Hey, are you seriously still looking at your cereal?” Max’s laugh was grating, but it was easy to let it wash over you, pushing away the tension that was still hanging in the air like fog.
Lando, however, didn’t break. He didn’t let the interruption completely pull him away from whatever had been between you. He just bit his bottom lip, eyes darting from Max to you in the span of a heartbeat. The smirk remained, like a secret only the two of you shared.
The moment stretched long as Max rambled something uncomprehendable under his breath, as Lando’s attention remained fixed. His eyes flicked from Max to you, and back again. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that held you captive in place, even as the noise from Max’s antics continued in the background.
You tried to breathe, but it felt like you were suffocating. The space between you and Lando seemed infinite and too close all at once. Every time your eyes met his, there was an undeniable, magnetic pull. And yet, he didn’t break the silence. He didn’t rush forward to fill it. He just watched—eyes gleaming, smirk softer now, but just as dangerous.
Max continued his tirade about his charger, finally locating it under the couch, and tossing it carelessly onto the table. Then finally, Lando placed his glass in the sink and moved toward the hall. But as he passed behind your chair, something happened. His hand brushed your shoulder. Barely. Like the memory of the touch from the night before. But your body flinched anyway—every nerve sparking to life, your skin burning beneath where his fingers had grazed. He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t stop his tracks. But you felt it.
Max was wandering across the room, completely unaware of the situation between Lando and you. But you knew better.
Everything between you two had changed, and though the world seemed to spin on, indifferent to the storm brewing inside, you both knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
────୨ৎ────
Laughter was bouncing off the walls in the villa, and music was thumping through the thick summer air as the glasses clinked in careless celebration. Only a few days have left in Ibiza.
It was too loud, and too hot. Too crowded with people who had no idea what had passed between you two just a few nights ago. No one knew that Lando had had his fingers buried deep inside you while your breath hitched, gasping his name like it was the only thing tethering you to life.
Now, here you were, both pretending that night had never happened. Well, sort of.
Lando lounged across the pool, sunk into one of those overstuffed chairs with a glass of something cold in his hand. His curls were messier than usual, dark and wild, shadows playing over his jawline that was clenched tighter than anyone pretending to be relaxed should be. He wasn’t looking at you—at least, not openly—but you could feel him. Like a pulse beneath your skin, drawing your eyes back to him, again and again.
Finally, your gaze caught his. It was slow, deliberate. Neither of you willing to look away first. Your eyes locked like some silent challenge, electric and heavy. You didn’t smile, and neither did he. But the tension between you snapped into place like a taut wire, humming with everything you weren’t saying, everything simmering just beneath the surface.
Then, without a word, Lando stood up. He wasn’t in a rush, no sudden moves. Just smooth, deliberate steps, passing close enough that his fingers brushed your hip—light as a feather, but you knew better. It was never accidental.
He disappeared inside the villa, footsteps fading down the hallway until a door clicked open, but it didn’t close. You knew exactly what that meant. You waited, heart pounding loud in your ears, counting the seconds-ten, fifteen-before you followed, steady and sure.
The bathroom was dim, bathed in the soft golden glow leaking from the hallway lights. The bass of the party thudded muffled beyond the door, but here, time slowed.
Lando was already there, leaning against the sink like he had all the time in the world-like he hadn't been eyeing you from across the room all night, like he hadn't traced your every step in that little sundress that barely brushed your thighs.
He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at you-dark, unreadable, jaw tight, a slow smirk pulling at the corner of his lips like he was already winning. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his shorts like he didn't trust himself to touch you again.
“Took you long enough.” He finally murmured, voice low and smug.
“You didn’t exactly rush me, Norris.”
“Didn’t need to, Fewtrell.” His eyes roamed over you with a dark heat, each slow sweep like a silent claim.
You moved first—one step, then two, until you were close enough to feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath against your face.
“Sunshine…” He said finally, almost like a warning.
Your nickname—tender and teasing—the one he always used when he wanted to sound playful. But now it was tight in his throat. It made your stomach twist because he never said it like that. Not with his mouth this dry, and his eyes already glued to your lips.
“This is a bad fucking idea.”
You tilted your head. “You think I don’t know that?”
He sighed, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek as he looked you over again—really looked at you. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your bare legs, and the shine of want in your eyes that matched the one in his.
And he cracked. Again.
“Fucking hell…” He muttered, hand dragging over his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You stepped closer, one slow, deliberate movement at a time, until you were standing between his legs. You didn’t touch him yet—just looked up at him through your lashes, voice soft.
“You didn’t stop me that night,” He leaned forward slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “But I should have. You’re—”
“Max’s little sister?” You cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m also the one you’ve been thinking about every time someone walks into the room.”
The look on his face—God. It was like you’d cracked something open.
His expression faltered for a second, just a flicker, but enough to see it all pour through. First came surprise—barely there, just a flick of his brows. Then irritation, not at you, but at himself—for being so obvious. For letting you see how tightly you’d wrapped yourself around his every thought.
His jaw tightened. His lips parted slightly like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knew you were right.
Then came the worst part, the one he tried to bury beneath a half-lidded stare—the longing, plain and aching. It flickered behind his eyes, heavy and unspoken, curling in the corners of his mouth that wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite get there. Like he hated how much he wanted you. Like he was two seconds away from either kissing you stupid or walking away before he could ruin everything. But he didn’t walk away, and that silence, thick and electric, was answer enough.
You didn’t give him time to argue again. You dropped to your knees in front of him— slow, controlled—watching the way his eyes went wide, then half-lidded with lust all over again.
“Fuck, wait—” His voice caught in his throat as your hands slid up his thighs, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of his shorts.
He reached down like he might stop you, but his touch faltered the second your fingers looped into his waistband. “I’m serious,” He said, though there was no heat in it. “We can still walk away from this, and forget it all.”
You looked up at him with a smirk, easing his shorts down. “Then go.”
Lando didn’t move. He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek, torn between guilt and desire. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained somewhere on the ceiling, like if he didn’t see you, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. That you weren’t happening.
Because fuck, you were Max’s little sister. You were off-limits for him, and he had no business in being this close to you, especially not like this—seconds away from crumbling for you, with your hands on his thighs while kneeling in front of him like this. So damn tempting, and so utterly unfair.
It was wrong. It was reckless. But it was inevitable.
His fingers flexed against the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going white. He was using every last bit of restraint he had left—every warning, every memory of Max’s voice in his head—to stop himself from losing control. But you were there, looking up at him with those fucking eyes, and a mouth he had no right to want on him as badly as he did. All he could think about was how you’d felt the other night—how warm, how wet, how desperate you’d been beneath his fingers. How badly he wanted more.
A slow smirk curled on your lips, while observing his silent struggle. “That’s what I thought, Lan.”
And then you began—your secret, sweet mission, practiced in the quiet dark for months, now brought to life with every touch, every breath, every pulse between you.
You didn’t rush, not yet. You let your lips skim along the edge of his waistband, hot breath ghosting over the fabric as your hands tugged his shorts down slowly. Your fingers grazed along the hard line of him through his boxers, and the way he was already so hard it made your mouth water.
His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking, and you gave it a single, deliberate stroke, letting your thumb swirl over the head and smear the precum. He groaned, biting down on his knuckle to muffle it.
“Don’t fucking tease me, sunshine.” Lando warned, but his voice was strained, betraying him. He liked it. Liked the way you looked on your knees, like sin wrapped in summer heat and lipstick, ready to make him break.
“You didn’t mind teasing me the other night,” You murmured, voice silk. “Thought it’s only fair this way.”
That earned you a quiet, desperate laugh through his nose, but it was cut off the moment you fully wrapped your fingers around him—finally. Warm skin, heavy in your hand, already aching for you. You stroked him slow, deliberate, thumb swiping over the slick at his tip.
He hissed, eyes fluttering shut, jaw flexing like he was biting back a groan.
“Keep quiet, Lan,” You teased, tongue flicking out just enough to briefly taste him. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?”
Lando didn’t answer, though. He just stared down at you like you were unreal, his hand tightening in your hair as you moaned softly—needy, and breathless.
“Holy shit,” He groaned, his hand tangling tight in your hair. “You’re unbelievable— fuck, Sunshine…”
You looked up through your lashes, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. “Just for you, Lan.”
When your lips finally closed around him, the tension cracked. His hips jerked forward, breath hitching as you took him slowly and deliberately, desperate to feel every inch of his cock. His fingers tangled in your hair as he tried to steady himself, but every moan caught in his throat betrayed him.
“F-fuck—” His free hand flew over to his mouth, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “Don’t do that— d-don’t fucking look at me like that.”
Like what?
Like you were proud of this.
Like you wanted to ruin him.
Like you could anything to him in that moment.
You sucked him deeper, letting your lips glide down until the head bumped the back of your throat, and he made a broken sound that sounded too close to a moan for comfort. He gripped the counter hard as the hand from his mouth travelled down, trying to keep still—trying not to fuck your pretty little mouth with his dick, even though every part of him wanted to.
Oh, but you weren’t done, not yet.
You set a rhythm, letting him slide deeper and deeper each time, your spit slicking down his length. You hollowed your cheeks, and slid up just to swirl your tongue around the tip, making Lando choke out your name.
When you finally pulled back just to stroke him, spit trailing between your lips and his tip, he looked down at you like he was going to fall apart.
“Where the hell—” He groaned, hips twitching involuntarily. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” You just smiled around him, refusing to answer.
And fuck, if only he knew. If only he knew that you had spent months sneaking quiet moments at night while trying to keep quiet from your parents’ and Max. Earphones in, watching soft porn and imagining it was him, and not the actors, not the fantasy.
You’d watched girls do this a hundred, even thousand times—perfect mouths, heavy eyes, desperate to please. Every single time you imagined it was him. Imagined you, on your knees, giving him what he deserved. Imagined his hands in your hair, voice ruined and strained whispering your name like a fucking prayer.
And now? Now it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. He was moaning for real, for you, trying so hard to keep quiet but failing more with every swirl of your tongue, every slow suck that made his knees threaten to give out.
“Sunshine— fuck, you know I can’t be loud,” He whispered, biting down on the back of his hand as your mouth moved expertly on him—tight, messy, and hungry. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not now.
Lando whimpered your name like a prayer, “Yes, fucking amazing. What did I do to deserve you?” You moaned around him, sucking harder as he twitched on your tongue.
He was holding on by a thread—hips barely jerking, knees wobbling, knuckles white where he gripped the counter behind him.
“Shit, baby—” He whimpered again, wrecked and desperate. “I’m gonna— fuck, if you don’t stop, I’m not gonna last long.”
You moaned in response, sending vibrations down his length that made him stutter and curse again.
His hand tightened in your hair. “Fuck— you’re gonna make me—” Lando breathed, eyes glassy now, chest rising fast. “You keep going like that and I’ll come in two seconds, I swear to god...”
You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him with your hand, spit shining down his length. “That bad, huh?”
“That good,” He corrected through clenched teeth. “That fucking good.”
And then you ducked back down, this time even more eager, letting him sink into your mouth again—deeper, messier, your fingers sliding to cup his balls, teasing lightly while your tongue worked him in every way you knew he liked. His thighs flexed under your touch. His hips rolled forward just enough to chase it—desperate now, so close it made your own thighs clench in sympathy.
The tension in his whole body wound tighter and tighter, until finally he groaned, raw and broken, “Shit, I’m gonna come, baby— I can’t hold it—”
And then you felt it—the twitch of him in your mouth, the sudden shaky breath he sucked in, the grip of his hand in your hair going rigid as his orgasm hit him hard. He spilled down your throat with a muffled groan, head dropping forward, eyes half-lidded and stunned, like you’d just taken every last bit of control he had left.
He bit back all the sounds, biting his knuckle, the other hand gripping your shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring him. His body was trembling from the pleasure you just gave him, head falling backwards, both of you lost in the moment.
You swallowed every single drop of his release, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him—eyes dazed, smug, and soft.
When you stood up, fixing your hair, Lando’s eyes were still hazy—dazed with pleasure, lips parted in disbelief. He stared at you like you’d just ruined him, only sending you a smirk.
“If your brother knew about this, he would literally kill us, Sunshine.”
────୨ৎ────
The last day in Ibiza had arrived far too quickly, though the memories of the week already felt heavy and golden, threaded into your skin like sunlight.
The trip hadn’t only been about hazy nights and crowded clubs pulsing with music—you had filled the in-betweens with memories that felt softer, and golden.
Afternoons spent on being stretched out beneath the sun, skin sticky with salt, laughter echoing between you as you shared fruit and drinks that tasted like summer. Hours wandering through local markets, fingers grazing over handmade jewelry, colorful scarves, jars of honey that glowed amber in the light. A boat trip that left your hair wild with sea air, the water glittering endlessly around you as you couldn’t help but smile and laugh.
Countless evenings were spent by the shoreline, your toes buried in cool sand while the whole group was trading funny stories, jokes and secrets, the waves softly rolling in and out in the background, as if the ocean itself was keeping you company. The sky turned from bruised purple to inky black, the stars pinpricking the quiet above you.
Every day had been eventful, and every night was brimming with restless energy. But this specific morning, you wanted something different. Something quieter, and something that belonged to just the two of you. You felt bold and you knew this idea was the best way of spending your last, normal morning on Ibiza during this trip.
The villa was hushed when you slipped out of your room, the air cooler in the early hour, scented faintly of salt drifting through open windows. The tiled floor was cool against your bare feet as you padded down the hallway, the silence broken only by the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant whoosh of waves hitting the shore. Outside, the world was only just beginning to wake, the sky brushed with the soft blues with the moon still proudly shining on top of the sky.
Behind the closed doors you passed, everyone was still wrapped in their sleep, their breathing heavy and unbothered after another long night. Everyone, except you.
Your heart beat faster the closer you got, until it was pounding in your chest as you stopped outside his door. You hesitated, just for a moment, fingers grazing the wood. He was in there, sleeping soundly, completely unaware. And you—dressed in your two-piece swimsuit, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders, nerves buzzing in every vein—were about to wake him up.The thought alone sent heat blooming low in your chest.
You pressed your lips together, swallowing the flutter of anticipation rising in your chest, and finally pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked faintly, though the sound was swallowed in the hush of the room.
It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, but not enough to block the soft seep of the early morning light. The air smelled faintly of him—clean, and warm, the trace of his perfume and suncream that clung to his skin all week.
Your gaze found him instantly. Lando lay diagonally sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted loosely around his waist. One arm was thrown lazily across his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His dark curls were mussed and flat on one side, his lips parted slightly as he slept.
In the dim light, he looked impossibly young and yet unfairly beautiful, softened and peaceful in a way you rarely saw when he was awake and grinning or teasing.
You crept closer, each step careful, until you were crouched by the side of the bed. For a moment, you just looked at him, letting yourself take him in. His lashes curled against his cheeks, longer than they had any right to be. His skin was bronzed from the week spent beneath the Ibiza sun, golden and warm, dotted here and there with soft freckles.
He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache, unfairly so, and something inside you whispered that you shouldn’t be staring at him like this—but you didn’t stop.
Tentatively, you lifted a hand. Your fingers hovered in the air for a beat—heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears—before you finally let them brush against his cheek. His skin was warm, smooth, and under your fingertips you felt the faintest twitch of muscle as he stirred.
“Lan…” You whispered, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt to say his name like that, soft and tender.
Lando stirred in his sleep, a small crease forming between his brows. His lips twitched, his breathing hitched just slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes opened. At first his gaze was unfocused, glazed with sleep. But the moment they found yours, recognition bloomed across his face, and with it came a slow, lazy smile that curled across his mouth, soft and genuine. It made something in your chest twist.
“Morning, Sunshine.” He muttered, voice low and rough, thick with sleep. It was the kind of sound that slid down your spine and made your stomach flip.
Before you could even think, his hand lifted from where it rested against the sheets. He covered yours, still cupping his cheek, with his own. His palm was broad and hot, enveloping you in his warmth as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed faintly against your knuckles, a fleeting unconscious gesture that made your stomach twist with happiness.
Your lips curved as you leaned in slightly, your voice soft, hopeful. “Everyone’s still asleep,” You whispered, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “Are you up for a morning swim with me?”
His lashes blinked heavy, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he pushed himself up onto an elbow. His curls fell over his forehead, messy and boyish, and he squinted as if trying to process your words.
“Wait, what time is it?” He rasped, but there was a spark of curiosity there.
“Four fifty-five.” You admitted, unable to keep the grin from tugging at your mouth.
He groaned again, this time louder, more dramatic, and flopped back onto the pillow like the world around him had just ended. “Woman, you’re fucking insane.” He muttered, voice muffled from the pillow.
You couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of you, shaking your head. “Maybe,” You teased, eyes glinting. “But you’re coming with me. Besides, the sunrise is in a couple of minutes. Are you really going to miss that… with me?”
You let the words hang between you, teasing, daring. And when he peeked out at you from beneath his arm—eyes sleepy but glinting—you already knew.
He was coming. Because Lando Norris could never say no to you.
The villa was still asleep, every room sunk deep in silence, but the two of you moved through it like teenagers sneaking out past curfew. You held your phone in one hand, flashlight glowing faintly to guide the way over the uneven tiles. Behind you, Lando trailed like a reluctant shadow, his hair a wild mess of curls flattened on one side, hoodie thrown lazily over his shoulders, swim shorts hanging low on his hips. He was barely awake, dragging his feet dramatically, muttering under his breath.
“This should be illegal to wake up at such an hour,” He whispered, voice rough and still thick with sleep. “Five in the fucking morning. The moon is literally still out!”
“Shh!” You hissed over your shoulder, though your lips already twitched with a smile.
“You’re fucking insane. Go and seek help.” He groaned, louder this time.
You spun on your heel, nearly crashing into him. “Shut up, Lando. You’ll wake them up!”
That made him grin, teeth flashing in the dim glow of your flashlight. “You’re acting like we’re robbing the place.”
“We kind of are,” You whispered, pushing at his chest with your free hand. “Now move!”
He stumbled backward dramatically, accidentally bumping into a small table. A glass vase with fresh flowers in it wobbled on its edges, making both of you freeze in your movements, eyes wide, until it settled with a soft clink. For a moment, neither of you dared to breathe. Then you slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to mute your laugh in your palm. Lando was doubling over, muffling his chuckle into the sleeve of his hoodie.
“See?” You wheezed between your own quiet giggles. “This is exactly why I told you to be quiet.”
“The fuck? But you’re worse than me, Sunshine!” He shot back, grinning. “You look like a cartoon villain with that flashlight.” You rolled your eyes, swatting at him, but your laughter betrayed you.
The two of you stumbled down the hallway, shoulders bumping, your combined giggles echoing faintly. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a gunshot, but instead of worrying, you only laughed harder, hearts pounding with the reckless thrill of sneaking around. It felt like being a teenager again, sneaking out, except this time the stakes weren’t your parents catching you.
Finally, you slipped out the back door. The air hit you instantly, cool and crisp, smelling faintly of salt and jasmine from the villa’s garden.
The world was suspended between night and morning. The sky was lika a shifting canvas—inky indigo at its highest point, softening into deep navy streaked with pale blue closer to the horizon. The moon still hung above the water, pale and luminous, while a faint wash of silvery light spread across the sand. The stars, dimmer now, still blinked stubbornly against the glow of dawn.
You hugged yourself against the early morning chill before glancing at him. Lando was watching you with that crooked, sleepy grin, shaking his head.
“We’re actually insane for doing this.” He repeated, but his voice was lighter now, filled with amusement instead of complaint.
“Maybe,” You said softly, catching his hand and tugging him toward the beach. “But trust me. In the end, you’ll thank me.”
The beach was completely empty, untouched, just the two of you, the ocean, and the endless stretch of sky preparing for the sunrise.
You dropped your hoodie—which Lando insisted on you wearing—and the towel in the sand, shooting him a daring grin. “Race you!”
Before he could react, you bolted away. Your laughter split the quiet, the sand flying behind you as you sprinted toward the water.
“What the— hey, that’s cheating!” Lando shouted, his voice cracking with amusement as he tore right after you.
You squealed, pumping your legs harder, but the sand dragged at your ankles and the water’s edge loomed. You hit the shallows first, the icy shock biting into your calves and thighs, and you gasped, stumbling forward with a squeak. The next second, he barreled in behind you, sending water splashing high into the air.
“Fucking hell, it’s freezing!” He yelled, laughing through his shiver.
“Nah, you’re just dramatic!” You shot back, splashing him with both hands.
He retaliated instantly, water slapping against your face, your hair plastering against your cheeks. You shrieked, diving sideways to escape, only for him to lunge, grabbing at your ankle. You kicked free, giggling so hard you could barely breathe, then shot a wave of water straight at his chest.
“Alright, that’s it.” He grinned wickedly, charging at you with both arms open.
You screamed, laughing, trying to swim backward, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly out of the water before dunking you under with a triumphant cheer.
You surfaced, coughing, hair plastered everywhere. “Are you insane?!” You spluttered, wiping the salty water out of your eyes.
He coughed, laughing so hard he could barely stand. “Absolutely.”
And just like that, it devolved. You chased each other in circles, splashing, squealing, darting beneath the waves only to pop up on the other side. At one point, you tried to sneak up and launch yourself onto his back, and he staggered, carrying you a few steps before flipping you both under the surface. The ocean became your playground, each wave rocking you into new fits of laughter.
When you surfaced, gasping and dripping, he was already there—hands finding your waist without even thinking, grounding you as the water tugged at your bodies. You looped your arms lazily around his shoulders, both of you breathless, grinning like idiots.
The chill of the water barely registered anymore. He was warm against you, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The playfulness between you softened, and the world around you seemed to exhale.
The horizon was shifting—the blues started to bleed into pastel pinks and soft oranges. The moon still glowed faintly in the sky above, but already the light of day was spilling over it, chasing the shadows away.
Lando tilted his head back, watching the light spill across the waves. His curls dripped, droplets sliding down his temples, his skin glowing with the first trace of sunlight. Then his eyes dropped to yours, instantly softening, as if the sunrise had nothing on you. And for him, it clearly hadn’t.
“Okay, I have to admit it,” Lando murmured, voice low, reverent, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “It was totally worth it.”
Your chest tightened. Maybe it was the sunrise. Maybe it was the way his arms held you steady, as if he wasn’t letting go of you. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time all week, it felt like the world only revolved around the two of you.
And as the sun climbed higher, painting the ocean in colors you couldn’t name, you stayed there in his arms—warm against the chill, held steady against the tide. Time slowed, stretched, until it felt like the sunrise belonged only to the two of you.
By the time you both finally trudged out of the sea, your bodies were heavy with the weight of saltwater and laughter. The horizon had shifted completely—what had been a watercolor wash of pinks and silvers earlier was now painted in golds and pale blues, the sun climbing steadily higher, its reflection glittering across the ocean’s surface like a trail of fire. Droplets rolled down your skin, catching the morning light, making you shimmer as you padded barefoot over the sand.
The chill of the water still clung to your body, but the warmth of the sun kissed your shoulders, drying you slowly. You each grabbed a towel from the spot you’d left them, wrapping yourselves up, though your hair clung stubbornly in damp strands, salt-stiff and wild. You laughed at the sight of Lando trying to shake his curls into submission, and he rolled his eyes, shooting a playful glare before flopping dramatically onto the sand.
You followed, spreading your towel beside his, lying back so the sunlight could soak into you. The sand was warm beneath the thin fabric, grounding you, while the air smelled like salt and wildflowers carried from somewhere inland.
Around you, the beach was still deserted—just the hush of the waves, the occasional cry of a distant gull, and the gentle rhythm of his breathing beside you.
You started talking then, softly at first. Nothing important—just observations, half-formed thoughts, silly jokes about how insane you both were for being up at this hour. He teased you for dragging him out of bed, and you teased him for pretending he hadn’t enjoyed it. But slowly, the conversation meandered, stretching out like the sunlight itself.
His voice was lower in the morning, still rough with sleep, and it blended with the rhythm of the waves until you weren’t sure where his words ended and the ocean began.
You talked about places you wanted to see, about old memories from home, about things that didn’t matter and yet felt like everything in that moment. At some point, you caught yourself watching his mouth as he spoke, the curve of his lips when he smiled, the way he bit down on the edge of his towel to wipe at his face.
And there, wrapped in warmth and salt air, you realized this was true happiness. Not the wild nights, not the crowds or flashing lights, but this. Slow, golden, stretched out like time had stopped just for the two of you.
The air was thick with salt and warmth, carrying the cries of seabirds and the slow hush of waves rolling in and out. For a while, you both just lay there, listening, breathing, existing.
It was you who broke the silence, your voice hushed as though you might disturb the spell. “Do you realize that we might be the only people in the world who saw that sunrise from the water today?”
Lando cracked one eye open, turning his head lazily toward you. “Deep thoughts this early?” His lips curled into a teasing smile, but his voice was soft, as though he didn’t really want to ruin the quiet.
“I’m serious,” You protested, rolling onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “It felt like… like it was just for us.”
He gave a small hum, closing his eyes again. “Mhm. Don’t get used to it though. I’m never letting you wake me up before five again.”
You laughed, tossing a bit of sand at his arm. He flinched dramatically, brushing it off like it had been an attack, then retaliated by flicking his damp towel at your legs. That started a brief, ridiculous back-and-forth, both of you muffling your laughter, trying not to disturb the tranquility of the empty beach.
When you both settled again, breathless from laughter, he turned his head toward you once more. This time, his expression was softer, more open. “Still… it was worth it.”
The way he said it—quiet, almost shy—made your chest tighten. You wanted to bottle this moment, keep it safe forever.
It was nearly eight when you finally gathered yourselves, towels draped loosely over your shoulders as you made your way back to the villa. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the beach had begun to change—the distant figures of early walkers appearing further down the shore, the hum of a boat engine carrying faintly over the water.
Inside, the house was stirring. Doors slowly started to creak open, sleepy voices filled the hallways, footsteps padded toward the kitchen. People emerged, hair mussed, eyes heavy, yawns stretching their faces as they shuffled toward coffee and food.
No one asked where you’d been. No one looked at you too closely, or noticed the way your hair was still damp at the ends, or how faint grains of sand clung stubbornly to your legs. The secret of the morning swim was yours to keep—tucked quietly between you, something fragile and precious that belonged to no one else.
As you moved through the room, you caught Lando’s gaze across the table. His curls were still a bit damp, darker where they clung to his forehead, his cheeks faintly flushed from the sun and sea. His lips curved just slightly, subtle, private—as if he were remembering it too.
And in that moment, with everyone around and yet no one noticing, you knew you were both carrying the sunrise with you.
────୨ৎ────
The last evening in Ibiza had a softness to it, the kind that clung to the air when you knew something was ending.
The villa was buzzing with chatter and laughter, the group still gathered around the long dining table, the remains of dinner scattered between half-drunk bottles of wine, cocktail glasses, and plates smudged with sauce. Someone was telling a story, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing off the stone walls, but you slipped out quietly, your glass of wine in hand.
The terrace greeted you with the cool kiss of evening air. The heat of the day had softened, and a light breeze carried the faint tang of the ocean. You lowered yourself into one of the chairs, tucking your legs up beneath you, the glass cradled loosely between your fingers.
The view before you stole your breath. The sky was painted in layers—gold bleeding into pink, pink fading into lavender, and all of it slowly surrendering to the deepening blue of night. The sun hovered at the horizon, its last light shimmering across the water like molten copper. Already, the moon was visible, pale and patient, waiting for its turn to rule the sky. The waves rolled gently against the shore in the distance, the sound a low, steady rhythm beneath the hum of voices inside.
You sighed, the sound soft and almost wistful.
Last night in Ibiza.
It had been more than just a holiday. More than just chaos and late nights. It had been a chapter, one you weren’t quite ready to close.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
The voice made you glance over your shoulder. Lando stepped out onto the terrace, curls backlit by the glow of the villa, a drink in his hand. His white shirt hung loosely over him, the sleeves rolled up, and there was an ease about him that almost made your chest ache.
He leaned against the doorframe first, looking at you with a small, crooked smile. “Hiding?”
You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward. “I’m not hiding, just watching the sunset.” You tilted your chin toward the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was melting away. “Can’t believe it’s our last night here.”
He let out a hum, his gaze following yours toward the view. Then he pushed himself away from the doorframe and dropped into the chair beside you. His knee bumped yours as he sat, and neither of you moved away.
“Yeah,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “Feels like it went by in a blink.”
You laughed quietly, swirling the wine in your glass. “Probably because you all made me drink so much tequila I lost track of time.”
That earned you his laugh—the real one, unrestrained, warm enough to seep straight into your bones. He shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who tried to keep up with Max.”
At your brother’s name, you groaned dramatically, hiding your face in one hand. Lando’s laugh grew louder, and soon enough, you were laughing with him, the two of you caught in a bubble of your own amusement while the voices inside blurred into background noise.
The laughter ebbed into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, and easy. The kind of silence you wanted to linger in. Your gaze drifted to him again. The last of the sunset light traced across his features, softening the sharp lines, making him look almost boyish while painting his skin in gold and rose. His lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was curved in that faint, unreadable smile.
He caught you staring. His eyes met yours, steady, curious, holding you in place. And suddenly, it felt like the air between you shifted, heavier, charged.
Your heart thudded—brave, and reckless. That spark inside you flared to life. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in. Just a little at first, testing, your breath mingling with his. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and that was all the courage you needed.
Your lips gently brushed his. It was soft, barely a touch, the kind of kiss that could almost be passed off as nothing if you wanted it to be. But it was enough to send a jolt through your chest, enough to make the world tilt for just a heartbeat.
When you pulled back, Lando was frozen, wide-eyed, his lips parted as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
A grin tugged at your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t let Max know about this.”
For a beat, he just stared at you. Then a laugh broke out of him—quiet at first, then fuller and warmer, filling the night air. He shook his head, curls bouncing, his hand coming up to rub across his mouth as if he could hide the smile tugging at it.
“You’re insane, Sunshine.” He muttered, though his voice was laced with amusement. And something else. Something that made your stomach flip.
You laughed too, your cheeks flushed, giddy with the thrill of what you’d just done. “Maybe,” you teased, raising your brows. “But you didn’t exactly stop me.”
His eyes softened, his grin tilting crooked. “Didn’t want to.” He said, quiet but certain.
Your laughter tangled together again, mingling with the distant murmur of waves and the soft hum of cicadas in the garden. The villa’s noise carried faintly through the open doors, but out here, it felt like you were in your own little world.
Side by side, shoulders brushing, hearts a little too fast, you sat beneath the indigo sky as the first stars bloomed above. A secret smile pulled at your lips, mirrored by his.
Without saying it, you both knew—this trip wasn’t something either of you would forget.
────୨ৎ────
Later that night, when everyone finally decided to call it a day and went to their room, the villa had finally gone quiet. Somewhere down the hall a door creaked as someone went for painkillers and a glass of water, but otherwise the only sound was the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant, lazy crash of waves on the shore.
You sat propped up in bed, hair damp from your shower, skin still warm and sweet-smelling from the lotion you’d rubbed in. Lando’s oversized t-shirt slipped down one shoulder, brushing your bare thigh where your pajama shorts ended.
Your phone screen glowed faint blue in the dimmed room, but you weren’t really scrolling anymore—just staring, looking at the same posts without taking them in. Your chest felt tight, restless, like there was something waiting, pressing against your ribs.
The sudden knocks on the door came so soft you almost thought you’d imagined it. Four gentle taps, hesitant but still deliberate. Your brows furrowed, having in mind that everyone should already be asleep. You slid out of bed, heart already beating faster, and padded across the room on bare feet.
When you cracked the door open, the sight on the other side knocked the air from your lungs. Lando. He leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t thought this through. His curls were mussed, eyes burning with something raw and urgent. A plain black tee clung to his shoulders, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, like he’d pulled them on in a rush.
You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, he spoke—his voice low, rough, like he’d been chewing on it all night. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” He whispered, jaw flexing as his fingers drummed against the doorframe. “I know I tried to stay away, but I can’t do this anymore.”
The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. His chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—permission, rejection, maybe salvation.
You gripped the edge of the door tighter, your pulse loud in your ears. “Lando…” You breathed, but he cut you off, stepping inside the room, the door slipping shut behind him with a soft click.
He raked a hand through his curls, pacing a step before turning back to you, desperation in every line of him. “Every time you laugh, every time you look at me— it’s fucking torture,” He said, his voice breaking around the words. “I’ve been trying, I swear I’ve been trying to be good, to respect all the boundaries Max had set, and to not cross a line I can’t uncross. But fuck…” His eyes found yours again, blazing. “I can’t. Not anymore.”
For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at each other. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing and the muffled crash of waves outside. His confession still vibrated in the air, still in your chest.
Lando looked at you like he’d just confessed to a crime—like he was waiting for you to push him back out the door, to slam it shut and lock it forever. His fists were clenched now at his sides, his jaw tight, but his eyes were full of yearn.
And maybe you should have thought about it. Maybe you should have told him to leave. But instead, a slow smile curled at the edge of your lips.
“You know…” Your voice was soft, teasing, cutting through the tension like a spark in dry grass. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this forever.”
Before Lando could process your words, and before he could speak again, you stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled him down to you.
Your lips crashed together, desperate and hot, the kiss messy in the way it only could be when both of you had been holding back for far too long. His breath hitched against your lips, like you’d stolen it straight out of him, and for a split second Lando didn’t move. His body went rigid, every muscle taut, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away.
It was wrong—so fucking wrong. He wasn’t supposed to want you nor need you. But then your fingers tightened in his shirt, keeping him close, and he felt the way you trembled against his mouth. That hesitation, that thin thread of resistance he’d been clinging to—it snapped.
Lando groaned into the kiss, low and guttural, like he’d been starved for this and suddenly couldn’t breathe without it. His body melted against yours in an instant, the hand that had been frozen now instinctively sliding to your waist, gripping hard, and pulling you into him as if he was afraid you’d disappear any second.
When you finally broke away, gasping for air, his pupils were blown wide, his lips wet and parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a race. He looked utterly wrecked already, the last of his restraint gone.
“Fuck,” Lando whispered, his voice ragged, forehead leaning against yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
And you couldn’t help it—you grinned, wicked and playful. “Can you finally fuck me now, Lan?” You whispered, throwing his own restraint back at him like gasoline on a flame.
He groaned at your words, low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through you. Your laugh came out breathless, shaky, because you weren’t sure how much longer your knees could hold you up. His touch was fire, his words molten, and you knew with every nerve in your body, that this was only the beginning.
Lando’s lips found yours again, harder this time, hungrier. His hands were everywhere at once—sliding under his your shirt, skimming along the curve of your waist, and up your ribs. His touch was greedy, rough like he was making up for every single time he’d held himself back.
You gasped against his lips when he lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as he carried you the few stumbling steps toward your bed.
“You think it’s funny?” He growled against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He pressed you down into the mattress, caging you with his body, curls falling into his eyes. “Smiling at me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me?”
His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were already aching for him. You arched into his touch, your laugh breaking into a shaky breath. “What if I did know?” You whispered, eyes locked on him.
Lando smirked, dangerous and devastating. And he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just kissed you again, slower and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you writhed beneath him. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, then lower, sliding past the waistband of your shorts, fingers teasing along your heat without giving in just yet.
“Lan—” Your voice cracked on his name, half-plea, and half-warning.
“God, you sound just like I remembered,” He murmured, lips dragging along your throat, nipping lightly at your skin. “Drove me fucking insane every night, replaying it over and over.” His fingers finally slipped where you needed him most, drawing a startled moan from your lips. “But this time, you’re not just in my head. You’re finally mine.”
Your hips bucked up into his hand instinctively, chasing more, but Lando only chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck. “This desperate already, Sunshine? Haven’t even touched you properly yet.” His voice was rough, the restraint barely hanging on by a thread.
Lando slid one finger through your slickness, teasing, spreading it over you before pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “Fucking hell… you’re soaked. And all of that for me?”
Your answer came out in a gasp. “Always for you.”
That completely shattered him. His mouth crashed into yours again, desperate and messy, his teeth clashing against your lips like he couldn’t get close enough. His fingers pressed harder, stroking you until your thighs trembled. Then suddenly he pulled back, leaving you panting and wide-eyed on the bed. You nearly whined at the loss, but the sight of him tugging his shirt over his head shut you up fast. His sun-kissed skin glowed in the dim lamplight, golden and flushed, the lines of muscle shifting as he leaned over you again.
“That one night in the bar, when you leaned across the counter in that little dress, and asked me that ridiculous question… fuck, I almost lost it. Almost took you right there in front of everyone.” Lando said, voice husky, catching your chin between his fingers so you had to look up at him.
Your laugh came out breathless, nervous, but playful all the same. “Maybe you should’ve.”
The look in his eyes darkened. “Don’t test me.”
Your body lit up under his touch as he stripped you out of your pajama shorts and underwear in one smooth tug, tossing them carelessly aside. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and for a heartbeat, Lando just looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
Your breath caught as he leaned towards you, his mouth ghosting down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly against your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
His voice was rough, low, vibrating right into you. “You have no fucking idea how much I wanted to do this after I caught you, moaning my name.” He murmured, his eyes flicking up to yours, pupils blown wide with hunger. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, right where your pulse hammered. “I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing it. For just walking away.”
Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, your mouth opening but no sound coming out. You could only watch him—how he looked at you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could fix him.
“But I’m not going to keep myself away from it now.” His lips brushed your hipbone, soft, hot, and teasing.
The words struck through you, your whole body tightening in anticipation. You barely had a chance to inhale before his mouth was finally on you, his tongue sliding hot and eager against your slick folds, and every thought shattered. A broken gasp tore out of you, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you could stop yourself. His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his grip firming on your thighs as if to say, don’t run from this.
“Fuck, Lando—” Your voice cracked, desperate, still trying not to be too loud.
He lifted his head just enough to smirk at you, lips glistening with your wetness. “That’s right, baby. Say only my name.” Then his mouth was back on you, his tongue circling, teasing, dipping inside until your thighs trembled uncontrollably.
Every flick, every groan from him felt like it was unraveling you one string at a time. And you could feel it in the way he moved—this wasn’t just about making you fall apart. This was about making up for every second he’d denied himself, every second he’d forced the distance between you. But there was no denying that he wanted it just as much as you did. Maybe even more.
His grip on your thighs tightened as if he feared you’d slip away, holding you open for him like he’d been dreaming of it for weeks—maybe months. His mouth was merciless, tongue working you with a hunger that made your whole body quake. You tangled your fingers in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, the vibration rolling through your core until your back arched off the bed.
“Holy shit—” The words came out high, almost a sob.
He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening as he dragged his tongue slowly up your folds before circling your clit with deliberate, devastating precision.
“Fuck, you taste just as sweet as I remember, Sunshine.” He rasped, the words muffled against your skin.
Your hips bucked at his confession, and he pinned you down harder, his thumb sliding in to press right where his tongue wasn’t, overwhelming you with sensation. Every movement of his mouth was calculated—slow enough to tease, fast enough to destroy. He pulled back just slightly, his breath hot against your swollen, aching clit.
“You gonna come for me now?” He murmured, his voice low, hoarse with need. He nipped lightly at your inner thigh before flattening his tongue against you again, harder this time. “Right on my tongue? Let me have it, baby.”
Your whole body convulsed at his words, heat spreading so quickly you barely had time to gasp his name before it tore through you. The orgasm hit hard, sharp, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as you cried out, tugging his hair, desperate and raw.
But he didn’t stop. Even as your body writhed and your hips jerked, he lapped at you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was desperate to drink down every sound, every shudder. His moan vibrated through your core, drawing out the high until you collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin.
“Shit— Lando, I can’t—” You whimpered, your whole body still quivering, every nerve raw.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, slick with your cum, his curls mussed from your fingers tugging at them. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, then leaned forward to press his tongue flat against your clit one last time.
The shock of it made you jolt, your thighs trembling against his grip. “Lando— please…” You gasped, but he only smiled against you.
“You think one orgasm’s enough for me?” Lando said, his voice wrecked, low. His index finger slid through your folds, circling slowly, dragging your sensitivity to the edge of unbearable. “Not when I’ve waited this fucking long.” He pressed two fingers inside you again, curling them just right, making your back arch off the bed. “I told you, Sunshine,” He muttered, eyes fixed on your face, “I’m not keeping myself from this anymore. Not from you.”
You squirmed under him, your hands clutching at the sheets, your breath breaking apart into desperate whimpers. Every time you were close, every time the heat coiled too tight, he slowed down, pulled away, forcing you to the edge but never letting you fall.
“Lan— fuck, please… I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, Sunshine.” He cut you off, his tone sharp but dark with desire. His lips brushed your inner thigh before he bit it lightly, sucking just enough to leave a mark.
You tried to grind against his fingers, desperate, but his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, holding you down. His smirk grew when you let out a frustrated whine.
“Look at you,” He whispered, watching the way you squirmed. “So needy… you want my cock that bad?” He flicked his tongue over your clit, quick and precise, just enough to make your body convulse. “Beg me for it, Sunshine. Let me hear you.”
Your pride tried to resist, but the ache inside you was unbearable, your body trembling with denied release. Your nails dug into the sheets, your voice breaking as you finally gave in. “Please, Lan… fuck me already, I need you—”
He whimpered like the words alone had undone him, his lips parting as if the sound was too good, too addictive. Lando dragged his fingers out of you slowly, sucking them into his mouth with a moan before leaning over you.
His lips brushed yours, teasing, so close but not giving you the kiss you craved. “Say it again.” He demanded softly, his breath hot against your mouth.
Your eyes fluttered shut, desperation spilling out of you. “Just fuck me, Lando. I’m begging you.”
That was all it took. He crashed his mouth back onto yours, hungry and rough, his body sliding against yours with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. His hands roamed around your waist, your thighs, and your breasts—touching you like he was making up for lost time.
You could barely breathe when you felt him grind against you, the hard line of his cock straining through his sweatpants brushing your slick folds through the thin barrier of his pants. The friction sent a desperate whimper tumbling out of you, and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.
“F-fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, his voice jagged with restraint. His hips rolled once, slow, making your body jolt beneath him. His forehead pressed against yours, curls damp against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me, Sunshine. I can’t—”
His words broke off into a groan as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest rising hard against yours. Then, with hands trembling more from need than hesitation, he gripped the hem of your top and peeled it upward. The cool air kissed your heated skin, and his gaze followed every new inch revealed. His jaw clenched, his breath catching.
“Holy shit…” He whispered, like the sight of you had gutted him. His palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling slowly over your nipples until your back arched. “You’re so beautiful.”
Your fingers tugged impatiently at the waistband of his pants, and he gave a broken laugh, shaking his head as if you were undoing him with every tiny move. “Yeah, fuck— don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
In a rush of clumsy urgency, he yanked his pants down, tossing it blindly across the room. His cock sprung free, heavy and flushed, and your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and hard, precum glistening at the tip.
He noticed your stare and smirked, leaning down to kiss your neck, his voice husky against your skin. “Like you see something you like, huh?” He teased, his voice husky and wrecked, the cockiness in his tone making your cheeks burn.
Your laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere between breathless and needy, and the sound only made his grin widen against your skin. He didn’t give you a chance to answer—his touch lingered over your hip, firm yet reverent, before he leaned over to fumble in the drawer, cursing low under his breath until he finally pulled out a condom and tore it open with his teeth.
He sat back on his knees, chest rising and falling fast, the muscles in his arms flexing as he rolled the condom down over himself. The sight alone made your thighs press together, your body begging for him.
When Lando’s eyes met yours again, they were full of hunger, but also something softer. He bent down, his lips brushing yours in a whisper of a kiss. “You ready, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice low, wrecked with both restraint and need, searching your eyes for any hesitation or restraint.
And then—just as he slid the tip of himself against your entrance, your breath caught, panic flickering in your chest. “Lando— wait.”
Immediately, he froze. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. His hands stayed steady on your hips, not forcing, not moving. “What’s wrong, Sunshine? Talk to me.”
Your throat felt tight, your lips trembling, but you forced the words out. “I…” Your voice broke. You shut your eyes, cheeks burning before finally admitting, “Fuck, I’ve never done this before.”
Silence.
When you dared to look, his expression was stunned, caught between disbelief and something achingly soft. His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle, grounding. “You mean…?” He swallowed, searching your eyes. “You’re still a virgin?”
You nodded, barely breathing, every nerve in your body screaming with fear that this would change everything.
For a long moment, Lando just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then he shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just trusted him with. “Fucking hell, I didn’t know… I thought you—” His voice was wrecked, almost breaking. “And you— you’d give that to me?”
You lifted a hand to his face, brushing your thumb over his lip, steady despite your trembling. “There’s no one else I’d ever want to. Just you. Only you.”
His breath left him in a rough exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and head hanging low as if the words undid him more than anything else ever could. When he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen, raw and burning just for you.
“Are you sure?” He whispered, his forehead pressing to yours again. “Tell me right now if you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop.”
“I’m sure,” You whispered, your voice trembling but true. “Please, Lan. I want you.”
He kissed you then—not rough, not hungry, but slow and reverent, as if he was sealing a promise. His hand gently cupped your cheek, the other tracing slow, grounding circles on your thigh.
When he finally slid down, lining himself up with you, he did it with infinite patience. He pressed the tip against you, watching your face the whole time.
“This might hurt a bit, Sunshine,” He murmured against your lips, voice thick with restraint. “But I’ll go slow. So fucking slow. Just hold onto me, and tell me if you need a break.”
You nodded in response, and that was a green light for him. Lando pushed in, inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight as he held himself back, his breath ragged against your cheek. You gasped at the stretch, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he immediately froze, cupping your face.
“Hey— look at me. You okay?”
You nodded quickly, even though your eyes watered, your chest heaving. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Just… don’t stop.”
His face crumpled with something between agony and devotion. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth, whispering against your skin. “Good girl. You’re so perfect. Taking me so well…”
And when he finally sank fully into you, he held still, buried deep, his whole body shaking with the effort not to move too fast. “F-fuck,” He groaned into your neck, voice breaking. “You feel like heaven, sunshine. Absolute fucking heaven.”
He stayed like that, kissing away your nerves, whispering sweet nothing until the pain dulled, until you shifted beneath him and whispered the words that tipped him over the edge of restraint. “Move, Lando. Please.”
He groaned like the sound alone shattered him, burying his face in your neck as his hips finally shifted. The first drag of him moving inside you was slow, his cock filling you in a way that made your chest tighten and your thighs tremble.
“Holy shit,” He breathed, his voice guttural, shaky with restraint. “You’re so tight—”
Each movement was careful, his hand gripping your thigh, the other stroking your cheek as if to remind you he was there, that you weren’t alone in this. He pressed kisses across your jaw, down your neck, his words tumbling out against your skin. It still hurt a little, but beneath it there was heat—sweet, dizzying sparks that curled low in your stomach.
“Lando…” You gasped, nails digging into his back. “Don’t hold back— please.”
He pulled back then, just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide, but the softness was still there—woven deep into the hunger. “You sure?”
“Yes,” You breathed. “I want all of you.”
The groan that tore from him was broken, and desperate. His forehead dropped to yours, curls damp from sweat against your skin, before his hips snapped forward in a deeper thrust. You cried out, clinging to him, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound. His rhythm built, still controlled but heavier now, deeper, until every roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth. His hands gripped your body like he never wanted to let go—one on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as if he needed you closer, always closer.
The heat inside you coiled tighter with every movement, your body matching his rhythm instinctively. You dragged your nails down his back, gasping his name like it was the only word you knew. “Lan— I think—”
“I know, baby, I know,” He panted, his lips crashing into yours again, hot and desperate. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
And when it hit you—when your body clenched around him, your cry muffled against his mouth—he lost himself too. His thrusts stuttered, his hips pressing deep as he groaned your name, spilling into the condom with a shudder that rattled through his whole body.
The world had gone quiet again, save for the sound of the air conditioning and both of your uneven breaths slowly settling into rhythm. Lando was still inside you, his body heavy and warm on top of yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips pressed absent, feather-light kisses along your collarbone like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
Finally, after a long moment, he shifted with a soft groan, careful as he pulled himself out, and took the used condom off, throwing it away to the bin next to your bed.
Then, he came back to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “You okay?” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion, but so gentle it made your chest ache.
You nodded, brushing his messy curls from his forehead with shaky fingers. “I’m more than okay, Lan.”
His mouth curved into a tired, crooked grin before he leaned down to kiss you—slower this time, sweet and lingering. He pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders, then gathered you against his chest like you were something fragile.
“You’re amazing, Sunshine,” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “Didn’t hurt too much, did it?”
You shook your head against him, smiling softly. “Only at first. But then it was perfect.”
He tightened his arms around you, his chin resting in your hair. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, your leg hooked over his, his thumb tracing mindless patterns across your arm. The room smelled faintly of your shower gel and his cologne, mixed with the salt from the sea still clinging to his skin.
When you finally broke the silence, your voice was hushed, almost shy. “I meant it, you know. About not wanting anyone else. I’d only ever want you.”
Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his aquamarine eyes glassy with something that wasn’t just exhaustion. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he kissed you again, slow and deep, as if words couldn’t come close to what he felt.
He whispered your name softly when he finally pulled away. “You’ll ruin me, you know that?” You giggled softly, snuggling closer, hiding your face in his chest. He chuckled quietly too, his hand smoothing down your back, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
After a long silence, you exhaled shakily. “Can I tell you something?”
He hummed, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Always.”
“I was… scared to tell you it was my first time.” Your voice was so small it almost vanished into the space between you. “Scared you’d think I was… I don’t know. Less attractive or boring. Or—”
“Hey.” Lando’s hand stilled against your back. He tipped your chin up gently, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze was sharp, almost offended, but softened with warmth. “Sunshine, you’re insane for thinking that.” Your breath caught as his thumb brushed your cheek.
“None of it made you less attractive. Do you have any idea how much it meant to me that you wanted it to be me? That you trusted me like that?” His voice dropped lower, softer.
Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes, but you smiled anyway, trying to shake the heaviness. “Still… I probably sucked at this, and looked clueless.”
Lando’s lips curved into a slow grin, his tone slipping into a teasing drawl. “Clueless? You? Oh, please.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “You didn’t look like someone inexperienced in that bathroom, kneeling in front of me on the floor the other night…”
Your face burned instantly, and you swatted his chest, giggling despite yourself. “Lando!”
He laughed with you, the sound low and husky, wrapping you up in it as much as his arms. “I’m just saying,” He teased, his grin smug. “Pretty sure virgins aren’t supposed to look that sexy while also begging for me to fuck them.”
“Shut up.” You muttered, burying your face against him, but your laughter betrayed you.
He chuckled, kissing the top of your head, still holding you tight. “Never shut up about it. Not when it’s you.”
The night blurred into warmth, into shared kisses, and into the slow weight of Lando’s breathing evening out beside you. You had never felt so safe, so full, and so undone yet held together all at once.
Eventually, exhaustion won, and you drifted to sleep in his arms. His chin was gently tucked against your hair, his thumb still brushing your skin like he couldn’t bear to let you go, even unconscious.
When the faintest pale light crept through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and lavender, you stirred. Lando was still there, one arm heavy around your waist, his curls messy, his lips parted in the softest, almost boyish way. For a moment, you just watched him, memorizing him like this—unguarded, and all yours.
But then he shifted, blinking awake slowly. His gaze found yours, sleepy but softened by a small smile. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Morning, Sunshine.” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
You wanted to keep him there forever. But you both knew you couldn’t.
With a reluctant sigh, he pulled away, sitting up. “I think I should…” He glanced toward the door. “Before anyone notices.”
Your chest squeezed, but you only nodded, fingers catching his wrist before he could pull away. He looked back at you, and leaned back down. But this time, the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, like he wanted it branded into both of you.
He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, breath warm, “Love you.”
When he whispered those two words, something inside you cracked open, soft and trembling, like you’d been waiting years just to hear those two words in his voice.
For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe. Because how could this be real? How could it be that the same boy you’d been hopelessly in love with since you were fourteen—the boy you used to watch from across crowded rooms, the boy who smiled at you like you were just Max’s little sister—was now in your bed, skin still warm against yours, telling you he loved you?
It felt impossible. Unreal. Like a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.
You smiled through the sting in your eyes, tugging him close for one more kiss. “Love you too, Lan.” The words slipped out with ease, though your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs.
When he pulled away, forehead resting gently against yours like neither of you wanted to let go, you closed your eyes just to memorize the moment. His breath mixed with yours, his fingers brushed your cheek, and his love wrapped around you like it had always been meant to.
Then he finally pulled back, quiet as he dressed, careful with every movement. Before going, he mouthed one last goodbye paired with a soft grin that made your heart ache. “I’ll see you in a bit, Sunshine.”
And finally, the door clicked softly behind him.
Moments later, the sheets were still cooling from his absence as you lay there, staring at the ceiling with your heart aching in the sweetest, sharpest way. Because you were still that fourteen-year-old girl somewhere deep inside—still the girl who doodled his name in margins, who blushed when he looked your way, who whispered your feelings into the dark where no one would ever hear them.
And now… now he had finally said them back.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue of dawn slipping through the villa windows. Lando padded barefoot toward his room, every step quiet and careful—until he froze.
Max was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and hair wild, clearly just woken up. His eyes narrowed immediately, flicking from Lando’s disheveled curls to the wrinkled tshirt, then back to the door he’d just slipped out of.
Lando’s chest tightened, his heart dropping. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—but Max just tilted his head, expression unreadable. His gaze lingered one second longer, sharp, suspicious, then without a word, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the kitchen. Lando exhaled silently, forcing his legs to move again. He ducked quickly into his own room, shutting the door with a quiet thud.
The storm hadn’t come yet, but the air in the villa was already heavy, humming with the weight of what Max had seen, and chosen not to say.
────୨ৎ────
21 & 25
The football match had ended hours ago, but neither Max nor Lando seemed ready to call it a night. They were sprawled across the couch in Lando’s apartment, an empty pizza box on the coffee table between them, cans of beer lined up like trophies from a war well fought. The city glowed faintly beyond the tall windows, muted in the haze of late evening.
Max leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied sigh. “You know what’s still the wildest thing to me?”
Lando arched a brow, sipping his drink. “What?”
“That you—” Max jabbed a finger at him, grinning like he’d caught him in some grand hypocrisy. “‘Mr. I’m not interested in dating’ actually managed to get yourself a girlfriend. Like, a real one. Not just a fling as you used to.”
The words made Lando’s heart skip, but he schooled his expression into something casual, even amused. He chuckled lowly, swirling the can in his hand. “Yeah, well… stranger things have happened, mate.”
Max laughed, shaking his head. “No, seriously. Never thought I’d see the day.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So… who’s the unlucky girl dating you, huh?”
For a split second, Lando froze. His mind flashed with the truth—the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the way you whispered his name in the dark when you both lay in his bed late at night.
“Well— about that...” Lando started hesitantly, scratching his neck.
It’s your little sister—he wanted to say.
But his composure held. He smirked faintly, masking the way his pulse had spiked. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you nosy bastard.”
Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that. You finally settle down with someone and you won’t even tell me who she is? What’s her name, at least?”
Lando only shrugged, leaning back lazily into the couch, as if the subject bored him. “She’s shy, and we’re taking things slowly. So some things aren’t for public knowledge yet.”
Max rolled his eyes, grabbing another can of beer from the table. “You’re fucking impossible. But fine, keep your little secret.” He smirked, lifting the can toward Lando in mock salute, “However. I can’t wait to finally meet her. Hopefully, you’ll introduce me soon.”
Oh, but he didn’t have to introduce you two to each other.
Lando’s lips quirked, a laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah… maybe one day.”
Before Max could press further, Lando pushed himself off the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. “Speaking of introductions, I’m introducing myself to whatever snacks are left in the kitchen. You want anything?”
“Sure.” Max muttered, distracted by the match highlights flickering on the TV.
Lando padded into the kitchen, his heart still racing from the conversation. His apartment was dim, the only light coming from Monaco's skyline outside, bathing the living room in a muted orange glow. The hum of the fridge and the regular tick of the kitchen clock were the only sounds, except for Lando’s muffled cursing as he dug through the kitchen cupboards.
“I swear to God, I need to fire whoever stocks my pantry,” Lando called, his voice light, oblivious. “Where the fuck are my tortilla chips and Kinder chocolates?”
Max chuckled dryly from his spot on the couch, lounging lazily, one ankle perched on his knee. “Maybe you should stock your bloody kitchen by yourself, mate.”
“Not when I’ve got friends like you bringing me beer and all the goodies.” Lando shot back with a grin, still hidden from view.
Max shook his head, grabbing his own beer from the table. His fingers tapped absent-mindely against the can, eyes drifting over the clutter in front of him—controllers, half-empty takeout boxes, and Lando’s phone buzzing lazily against a coaster. He didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But the screen flashed again, bright and insistent in the dim light.
And as he leaned to see who texted him, the name on the notification twisted his stomach into a knot.
Sunshine:
see you later, Lan <3
His blood turned cold. For a second, Max thought maybe it was the beer messing with him, maybe his mind was playing tricks. But the way his chest clenched, sharp and suffocating, told him otherwise. He furrowed his brows, blinking once, twice. His brain stuttered over the words. The casual familiarity of the message—the nickname—clung to his mind like a hook.
Lan.
His stomach twisted. He swiped his tongue across his teeth, blinking as if to reset his thoughts. He let out a slow, measured exhale through his nose, the weight of that message sinking deeper than it should have. His fingers tightened slightly around the can as the pieces began to stir, forming a puzzle he had been too blind—or too unwilling—to solve.
The first day you met him. You always being somewhere around them. Ice skating. The whole Ibiza trip. You in Lando’s shirt as a pajama. That one morning when Lando walked out of your room, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. The way you always laughed a little too loud at his jokes. The way Lando’s gaze had started to linger on you—longer and softer, like you were the only person in the room. The gentle touches. The way you had always hovered near him, always watching, always… there.
He had been a fucking idiot. He had been blind. Or worse—he had ignored it.
But this? This message? This felt like a punch to the gut. His little sister, and his best mate. Holy fucking shit. Max felt the sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins, ready to kill both of you.
How could you do this to him?
The sound of footsteps on tile jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Lando returned, snack bag in hand, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, no tortilla chips but I found pretzels and those spicy peanuts you—”
“Lando.” Max’s voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp, lethal in its stillness.
Lando froze mid-step, bags of snacks dangling from his hand. He glanced up, casual smile still lingering—but faltering the moment his eyes met Max’s. “What?”
Max’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. His gaze was sharp, dripping in a cold fury that had Lando’s throat tightening instantly. He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, beer can hanging loose from his fingers, but his body was coiled, electric with tension.
“We need to talk.”
A moment of silence stretched, the weight of those words suffocating.
“About what, man?” Lando asked, his tone light, attempting casual, but his body betrayed him—shoulders stiffening, grip tightening on the snack bag as if it could shield him.
Max smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t fuck with me, Lando.”
Lando’s mouth opened, ready to toss a joke, deflect, anything—but the weight of Max’s stare pinned him in place.
“Was it nice to play behind my back?” Max continued, tone low, dangerous. “You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”
Lando’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Max, it’s—”
“It’s what?” Max snapped, cutting him off. “It’s nothing? You gonna tell me that text was nothing too?”
Lando’s stomach dropped. So, that’s what this was about. He cursed internally as his pulse was racing. His first instinct was to joke, to deflect, but the weight of Max’s glare pinned him to the floor. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice was quieter now, threaded with truth. “It just… happened.”
Max’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as his fists curled at his sides. “You think that makes it better? You sneaking behind my back? You sneaking into her fucking bed, Lando?”
Lando stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture. “Max, look at me. I didn’t sneak, and I didn’t manipulate her. I didn’t— she’s not a kid anymore, mate!”
Max scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I know.” His voice dropped, a deadly whisper now. “You were supposed to be her friend.”
“I am!” Lando said firmly, standing his ground now, eyes burning. “I am her friend. But I’m also in love with her.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer. The truth, raw and unavoidable, hung in the charged silence that followed. It made Max’s chest ache in a way that wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, confusion, and protectiveness, all tangled in a knot he couldn’t untangle fast enough.
Max scoffed, dark and bitter. “You fell for her? Christ, Lando. What the fuck!”
Lando didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I fucking did. And if you’d open your eyes, you’d see this a long time ago, and not only now.” Max’s breath hitched. Because deep down, some part of him knew. He had always known that despite how much he had tried, it was inevitable.
But knowing and facing it—those were two very different things.
Max didn’t even realize how hard his fists had clenched until his nails dug into his palms, a sharp sting that barely registered. His breathing was shallow. Every time he tried to speak, the words just burned his throat. “You—” He started, but it fizzled into nothing.
His thoughts were a mess, tangled between anger and something deeper. Betrayal? Guilt? Loss? He didn’t know.
The words hung heavy in the air, the room suddenly too small to contain it. “You don’t get it,” Max’s voice was low, dangerous. “She’s not just someone you can fall for. She’s my little sister.” He growled, his voice dropping. “You know she’s always been off-limits for you.”
Across from him, Lando wasn’t fidgeting anymore. He stood still, but his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking. His eyes weren’t apologetic, they were certain.
“Max…” Lando’s voice was quieter now, not as defensive, not cocky. Just real. “I’ve loved her for a long time. You just never wanted to see it.”
And that—that hit.
“You think this is about me not seeing it?!” Max snapped, his voice louder now, shattering through the apartment. “You think this is about me pretending? You’re my fucking best friend, Lando. And she’s my little sister. You’re both all I’ve got.”
The air was thick, suffocating. The room felt too small for the both of them, as if the walls themselves were bracing for impact. Max’s fists trembled at his sides, and for a second, Lando wondered if this was it—if the fistfight was about to happen, if years of their deeply-rooted friendship were about to shatter right here, right now. But Max didn’t move. He just stood there, shaking his head slightly, lips pressed into a razor-thin line.
Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and ragged. “I can’t deal with this shit right now.”
The words dropped heavy between them. Max turned abruptly, his footsteps sharp against the floor as he stalked toward the door. Lando flinched at the slam of the front door rattling the frame. And then—silence.
Lando’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want it to be like this. Not with Max. Not with you. You both had wanted to tell Max, together, carefully. Not… like this.
Outside, the city lights flickered against the night sky, but inside the apartment, the air crackled with unspoken truths and the weight of inevitable consequences.
And Lando knew—he was fucked. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
But now, the secret was finally out. The lines were blurred, and rules were broken. She was off-limits from the very beginning, and he knew it. She knew it. Yet what’s forbidden always tempts the most, and they had been tasting it for far too long.
After all, the forbidden taste is always the sweetest, and it’s just impossible to resist it.
warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, fingering, dirty talk), forced proximity, pet names (sunshine, love), emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.
music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy
summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.
a/n: ohmygod. i finally posted :') at the very beginning, this is the first part! i def recommend reading part two <3 but omg this idea had been sitting in my head for far too long, and ngl i'm glad that it's finally finished. hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡
14 & 18
You weren’t supposed to be listening.
Your older brother, Max, had told you sternly, and for what felt like the thousandth time, not to come downstairs. “Stay upstairs, preferably in your room. Don’t be annoying, and don’t even think about coming down here.”
He’d given you that older-brother look, the one that made it clear he thought you were the most embarrassing person alive. But as a nosy kid you’ve been, you of course had to do otherwise, and it was simply impossible not to do it. You’d wanted to stay out of sight, out of earshot, but the thing was, you couldn’t stop your mind from racing with curiosity.
You weren’t even sure why you cared so much. Max was always bringing friends over—loud, annoying teenage boys who smelled like sweat mixed with their deodorant, always calling you stupid names like “brat” or “shrimp”.
Usually, you avoided them, staying alone in your room. But this time it was different. This wasn’t just anyone—this was Lando.
You didn’t even know what he looked like yet, and what he was like, but you’d been hearing about him for weeks. You hadn’t even realized how much you wanted to see him—not until the second you heard his name.
Lando. It sounded like something straight out of a movie. It felt cool and electric on your tongue, like a name a girl would write in her diary a thousand times, testing how it looked with hearts around it. You’d never met someone with a name like that before, it was definitely special in a good way.
But the way Max talked about him? God, it was obsessive. He would casually drop little mentions of him during dinner: “Lando’s so fast, Mom.”, “Lando’s insanely talented.”, Lando’s this, Lando’s that.
You’d pretended to roll your eyes, acting like it didn’t matter. But deep down, every mention of his name made your stomach twist with a strange, unexplainable curiosity. If Max—the most impossible-to-impress person you knew—thought Lando was that amazing, then he really had to be someone special.
And today, you’d finally get to see what all the fuss was about. So yeah, you were listening. Of course you were.
You sat on the staircase, tucked behind the wooden banister, head tilted just enough to peek between the rails. Your knees were tucked to your chest, one arm wrapped around your legs, the other gripped tight around the wooden post like it might keep your body from floating off.
Then after some time, the front door finally opened.
You felt it before you even heard it—your pulse skipping, your stomach twisting in the most unfamiliar, ridiculous way. A breeze swept through the hall, and for a moment you felt suspended in time, perched at the top of the stairs in some kind of ridiculous, girlish trance.
Why was your body reacting like this? Your fourteen-year-old self hadn’t known the answer to those questions.
Max’s voice came first, loud and careless as usual. “Don’t touch anything, yeah? Mum will murder me if you break something.”
Then another voice answered, one you didn’t recognize. “Relax, mate. You act like I destroy everything I touch.”
You froze. That was him.
You didn’t expect his voice to feel like that. It was softer than you imagined, yet still smooth with that kind of amused confidence. Like a ribbon curling its way through your stomach and looping around your lungs, and like sunlight breaking through blinds and landing warm on your cheek.
Your heart thudded once, then again, faster than before, and you told yourself to breathe, to stop being stupid, but the idea of turning away was impossible now. You leaned forward just a little more, carefully and silently. And then you finally saw him.
He walked in behind Max, shoulders relaxed, hands buried in the pocket of a navy hoodie that looked two sizes too big—but on him, it didn’t look sloppy, it looked effortlessly cool. He wasn’t overly tall, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made him seem bigger than he was. His dark hair was a mess, falling into his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His skin was tanned and warm, and as he looked around, his lips were twitching into a faint smile.
There was something about the way he moved around, like the world just opened up for him. Like he never had to force a thing.
It was stupid how just looking at him made your chest feel tight. He wasn’t even doing anything, and yet he was doing everything to you. He had this air about him, this effortless confidence that made it impossible to look away from him.
Lando turned to Max, grinning at something your brother just said, and that’s when he laughed out loud. It was the kind of laugh that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, warm and easy, as if the world itself bent to his mood.
Your cheeks flushed, and you clutched the banister tighter, trying to figure out what was happening to you. Why did your heart feel like it was trying to escape your chest? Why did the sight of him make your stomach flip like you’d just gone over the top of a rollercoaster?
Then suddenly, his eyes flicked upward, towards you. You jerked back instinctively, hoping he didn’t notice you. But it was too late. The floorboard creaked beneath you, giving you away.
Max noticed immediately, sighing while letting out a soft sound of frustration. “Oh my God, seriously? Can you not?”
You tried to play it off, running off the stairs and grabbing a random book from the side table. “I was just… getting this.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you winced at the sound.
Lando turned to you fully now, and you felt like the oxygen had just disappeared from the room. His eyes were bright and curious, and when they landed on you, it was like the rest of the world faded away. You felt seen in a way you hadn’t before, like his gaze wasn’t just looking at you—it was taking you in. It was stupid, but you felt your cheeks burn under his attention.
“And who’s this?” He asked looking at Max, his voice playful but kind. He tilted his head slightly, a small, easy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Max groaned beside him, scratching the back of his head. “My annoying, little sister. Unfortunately.” And just like that, the bubble popped.
Your chest dropped, and your fingers clenched around the book. You wanted to scream at Max, tell him to shut up, that you weren’t annoying, that you were a normal person, that—
“I’m fourteen.” You blurted out, defensively but it was too fast, and too desperate. You immediately regretted it.
Fucking fourteen, when they were eighteen.
You wanted to disappear into the floorboards. Your face burned hotter, your lungs constricting around the words like they’d betrayed you. But Lando didn’t laugh, didn’t try to mock you like Max’s other friends. He just blinked at you once, and then that soft and warm smile spread across his face like sunlight through a half-open window. Like you hadn’t just embarrassed yourself in front of him.
“Watch out, Max,” Lando said, his eyes still on you. “She’s fourteen, almost as old as us.”
You couldn’t help it—your lips twitched, the corners of your mouth curling before you could stop them. A tiny, traitorous smile. His tone was light, like he was inviting you to laugh along with him. But you couldn’t. Your brain was too busy trying to process the fact that someone like him was even talking to you.
Max groaned loudly and grabbed Lando’s sleeve. “Just ignore her, mate. She’ll try to follow us around because she’s obsessed with attention.”
But Lando didn’t move. He turned back one more time, right before Max dragged him away, and when he looked at you again, there was something different in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Affection, but definitely not romantic, it wasn’t like that. Yet, still, it was kind, gentle, and real.
“See you later, Sunshine.” He uttered before joining your older brother in the living room.
And that? That ruined you.
Sunshine.
Your chest tightened at the new nickname. It was like the gentle teasing of it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, only it was suffocating in the way that made you ache.
You hated it. You loved it.
You stood frozen long after they vanished into the living room, your fingers pressed white against the book, your heart thudding so hard it made your chest ache. It should’ve made you mad, it should’ve made you feel small. But the way he said it? It felt like a nickname no one else in the world could get away with.
You sat in your room for a long time after that, knees curled up to your chest, eyes blurry, and head spinning. You were just fourteen. You didn’t even know what love was. You didn’t know anything about it or why he made you feel like that. You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice felt so smooth, nor why the sound of his laughter made your heart race.
But when Lando Norris smiled at you, and called you Sunshine—you knew. You knew that something had begun that day.
────୨ৎ────
16 & 20
The house was louder than usual. Voices echoed through the hallway, laughter spilled out from the living room, and it smelled faintly of some perfume and the greasy comfort of takeaway leftovers.
Max had invited over a whole crew of friends this time—boys you recognized in passing, most of them racing guys, some you’d seen before, and others that just blurred into a crowd.
But it didn’t matter, not really. Because he was here, Lando.
You had caught a glimpse of him when they all stormed through the front door. Max was yelling at them to take off their shoes, while someone nearly knocked over the lamp by the stairs. Lando trailed in at the back of the group, eyes lit up with laughter at something one of the guys said. Now he looked a bit older and more mature than before, as he was now twenty years old. A little broader in the shoulders, his jaw a little sharper, with that same easy smile. His hair was still messy, but now they were starting to curl. And still, when he laughed, it sounded like sunlight—effortless, unbothered, and warm in a way that wrapped around your ribs and stayed there.
The familiar smell of your mom’s baking filled the house. Fresh pastries, warm bread, and the unmistakable scent of cinnamon drifting through the hallways made your stomach rumble. It was a Sunday tradition, one that had never changed since you were a little kid.
But today? Today, everything felt different. Maybe it was because you were getting older, or maybe it was because of the way your heart raced when you thought about Lando.
And of course, you had to be the one tasked with carrying the trays to Max and his friends. You had tried to get out of it, pretending that you were too busy with homework or anything else that could serve as an excuse to avoid the living room full of Max’s friends. But it was futile. Your mom had already started setting everything up in the kitchen, and you knew better than to argue with her when she had her mind set on something.
“Be a love and take this for Max and the boys, okay?” She asked, and you nodded, already reaching for the first tray.
So here you were, hands full with two trays of snacks, balancing them precariously as you made your way into the living room.
You were older now—sixteen, to be exact. Still a kid to Max, but old enough to know things. Old enough to realize the way your heart beat faster when Lando was in the same room. Old enough to hate the way your voice shook around him.
The trays were heavier than they looked. You tried not to wobble as you stepped carefully over the threshold of the living room, your fingers curled tight around the edge of the silver platter, a nervous flutter dancing in your stomach. The scent of your mom’s fresh-baked focaccia and chocolate cake clung to your skin, warm and comforting like home. But nothing about this moment felt comforting. Your heart was a mess of beats in your chest.
They were all there—Max, surrounded by a ring of his friends scattered across the couches and floor like it was their house and not yours. The energy in the room buzzed with loud laughter, the kind only a group of twenty-year-olds could conjure. Bottles of beer clinked, some video game commentary echoed faintly from the muted TV, and the windows were open to the sound of late-summer birdsong.
And then there was Lando. As usual, he was leaning against the wall, looking completely at ease in the chaotic mix of people.
You had to force your eyes to stay neutral, keep your face blank, because if Max caught so much as a single flicker of what you were feeling, he’d drag you out of the room by your hoodie and lock you in your room.
Stepping inside quietly, you tried to be invisible, even though you felt like a spotlight was burning into the back of your neck. Your heart fluttered a little, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.
“Uh— I brought snacks.” You managed to mumble, your voice quiet and awkward, the tray wobbling a little in your grip.
Max barely looked up. “Great. Put them down and go.” His tone was dismissive, not even bothering to hide his irritation.
You knew the drill by now—he didn’t want you in his space, didn’t want you interrupting his time with his friends. But as you approached the table, trying to find a spot to set the trays down, you caught Lando’s eye. He was watching you, that trademark smile of his playing at the corners of his lips.
“Hey, Sunshine.” He said, his lips curving into a smile.
That nickname. It had been a while since he started to call you that, but it still made your skin flush with warmth. His voice was calm, soft, familiar in a way that made your chest flutter like it had forgotten how to settle.
“Need help with those?” He asked, his voice smooth as ever, not a hint of judgment in his tone, like he wasn’t about to brush you off like everyone else.
You blinked, caught off guard by his attentiveness. For a moment, it felt like the whole room disappeared, and it was just you and him. God, you hated how that made you feel.
You gave a small nod, trying not to drop the tray in your flustered state. “Uh… yeah, sure. Thanks.” You muttered, struggling to steady the trays in your hands.
Your heart started pounding as you realized he was actually going to help you. He moved closer, his presence filling the space, and you couldn’t help but notice the way he towered over you, his broad shoulders almost making you feel smaller than you already were.
Lando took one of the trays effortlessly, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief second, and you felt a shiver run through you at the contact. His grip was warm, steady, and confident. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, of how good he looked standing there, holding that tray like it was nothing.
There were little things about him that made your brain short-circuit: the way his collarbone peeked through the neckline of his shirt, the way his eyelashes curled up at the edges, the tiny scar near on the bridge of his nose you always found yourself staring at for too long.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he did to you. Or maybe he did. Maybe he did, and just didn’t care.
As Lando placed the tray, he gave you a playful look, that glint of amusement in his eyes. “You know, you didn’t have to bring this all by yourself. Max is a pain in the ass, he should have prepared it by himself.”
You could feel your cheeks go warm by the way he was looking at you. “He’s always a pain.” You replied, not entirely able to contain the sarcastic edge in your voice.
Max always acted like you were an inconvenience, like everything you did was somehow too much.
Lando chuckled, “That’s an understatement.” His words made you laugh, and the sound of his chuckle made your stomach flutter.
Max, of course, chose this exact moment to finally look up from whatever he was doing. His eyes narrowed immediately, his lips pulling into a scowl.
“Seriously?” He snapped, glaring at you. “What did I say, huh? Leave the food and go.” You flinched, the sting of his words hitting you harder than you’d expected.
Your smile dropped immediately, feeling the heat creep up your neck, and the embarrassment blooming bright and painful in your chest. You weren’t even trying to bother them. You were just helping and trying to be near him.
“Max. I was just…” You stammered, but Max was already waving you off, like you were nothing but a buzzing fly in the room.
“Out. Go.” He grumbled, nodding his head towards the door.
And just as you turned, cheeks burning, heart sinking, Lando’s voice cut in, cool and calm but sharper than before. “Jesus, Max. Chill out, mate.” Lando was looking at Max now, his brows raised, that amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “She’s just bringing snacks. It's not the end of the world.”
It took you by surprise. You’d never seen Lando take a stance like this before, especially not against Max. But there it was. The way he stood up for you, even just in this small moment, made your stomach do a flip. You wanted to say something back to Max, something witty or biting, but Lando had already set the tone.
Max’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression flickering with something close to annoyance, but also a hint of surprise. He opened his mouth to retort, but Lando gave him a pointed look that shut him up instantly. Max grumbled, clearly frustrated, but he didn’t say anything else. He turned back to his friends, dismissing you like he always did.
But Lando? He didn’t turn away. Instead, he flashed you that same soft, genuine smile—the kind that made your heart race every time. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t teasing. It was just him, Lando, acknowledging you in the way you had always wished for.
“Thanks for bringing the snacks,” He said softly, his eyes never leavinf yours. “You’re a good sister.”
His words hit you like a wave, knocking you off balance. A good sister. That was all you were to him. Max’s little sister.
But somehow, in the way he said it, you could almost convince yourself it wasn’t as simple as that. His voice was low, rich with something you couldn’t place, and the weight of his gaze made you feel like you were more than just a background character in the story Max and his friends were writing.
You smiled back, though you felt a pang of disappointment you couldn’t quite shake. “I know, I’m trying.”
Lando’s smile deepened, and there was something in it—something that made you want to hold onto that moment forever, even if you knew it couldn’t last.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Max doesn’t make it worse for you.” He said, the light humor still lacing his voice. But there was something else, something protective in the way he said it, as if he truly cared about how Max treated you.
“Thanks.” You whispered, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn that the way he looked at you made it feel like the whole world was suddenly different. You weren’t just Max’s little sister. With Lando, for just a heartbeat, you were someone who mattered.
You turned to leave, but before you could fully escape the room, Lando called out to you again, his voice warm, almost as if he didn’t want you to go.
“Sunshine,” He said, making you pause and look back at him. “You’re welcome here anytime, by the way.”
And as you walked back to the kitchen, you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the small but meaningful things, like him standing up for you in front of Max, or the way his presence filled the room in a way that made you feel seen, for once. But whatever it was, it made your heart beat just a little faster.
And you couldn’t deny the truth, no matter how hard you tried. You were falling for him. Hard.
────୨ৎ────
18 & 22
The crisp winter air bit gently at your cheeks as you stood awkwardly by the entrance to the ice rink, the sharp scrape of skates against ice echoing all around. The air was biting, the kind of cold that turned your breath into mist and made your fingers ache even through gloves.
Your hands were buried deep inside your jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up against the cold as your breath curled into the air in pale clouds. You tugged at the cuffs of your oversized jacket, glancing around nervously. The outdoor rink was strung with fairy lights, soft yellow bulbs glowing like stars against the fading winter sky. Laughter rang through the crisp evening air, and blades scraped and whispered over the ice, carving lines that criss-crossed like heartbeats. But all you could feel was the absence of him.
Max’s friends were already there, loud and full of energy, their voices bouncing off the rink walls. You lingered by the benches, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, eyes flicking toward the parking lot every few seconds. Your skates were already laced tight, and your scarf pulled up high but you stood there like a misplaced piece of the puzzle, off to the side, just barely tolerated.
“He’s late,” Max muttered beside you, his tone flat and annoyed. Then, without looking at you, he sighed. “And you are still here. Don’t you have your own friends or something?”
You looked away, blinking hard at the sudden sting in your eyes. “I do,” You muttered under your breath. “But they’re just busy today.”
“You’re already fucking eighteen,” Max had muttered when you asked to come. “Why do you need to tag along everywhere we go?”
He hadn’t even tried to hide the irritation in his voice. That sting had stayed with you, gnawing at your insides while you silently followed him and the others to the rink. You tried to brush it off, act like it didn’t matter. But it did, of course it did.
You wouldn’t have wanted to come if it weren’t for Lando. But Lando was running late, and without him, it all felt wrong.
The wind stung your cheeks, and your gloves didn’t do much to keep your fingers from going numb. Max’s friends were loud, obnoxious, their easy camaraderie only highlighting how out of place you felt. They threw teasing comments at you, half-joking but sharp-edged enough to boil your blood. You tried to laugh it off, but the knot in your stomach tightened every time.
When you finally slipped onto the ice, the chill bit deeper. Max and his friends swarmed together, skating effortlessly side by side, chatting and laughing, leaving you alone to wobble on shaky legs. They skated around you like you were invisible.
You pushed off slowly, awkwardly, trying to find your own rhythm. It wasn’t that you couldn’t skate, you could, but it was different when you were alone, and when every mistake echoed louder.
You made it halfway across the rink when a sudden slip caught you off guard. You fell hard—knees first, then palms—and the air punched out of your lungs. The shock of it made your eyes sting with tears instantly. The cold rushed through your clothes, biting into your skin. A hush rang in your ears, though the world around you kept moving. Skates zipped past in a blur. Laughter echoed just a few feet away.
You sat up slowly, pain throbbing in your joints. Your breath trembled as you looked around, hoping and praying that someone could help you stand up. Max skated by just a few feet ahead. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. Not once. He didn’t stop. He didn’t see you. And that hurt more than the fall.
“Max, wait!” You shouted, trying to get his attention while rubbing your knees. But just as you expected, he didn’t hear or rather pretended not to hear you yell his name.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Binking fast, you were trying to clear the sting from your eyes. It wasn’t just the embarrassment of falling but it was the raw, sharp edge of being overlooked, and completely ignored. You weren’t some little kid anymore, begging to be included. You were fucking eighteen, and still, somehow, you were still invisible and always in the way.
You sniffed hard and wiped your gloves against your eyes, scolding yourself under your breath. Don’t cry. Not here, and not now. But the loneliness crushed down on you like a weight, and the sting was both physical and something deeper. You were hurt, but mostly just felt humiliated.
You stayed there for a moment, knees burning, pride aching even more. And just when you thought you’d be left alone untilsomeone finally notice your absence, a familiar voice broke through the noise, soft but unmistakable.
“Sorry, I’m late, Sunshine.”
Your breath caught in your lungs. You turned your head slowly, and there he was. Lando glided towards you on his skates, his curls damp with mist, and cheeks pink from the cold. He had that damn smile on his face—soft, crooked, and warm in a way the cold couldn’t touch. A white hoodie peeked out from under his jacket, and he looked flushed from running.
His eyes scanned your face, instantly catching the mix of pain and embarrassment. The way the fading sunlight hit his loose hair, the genuine concern in his tone—it was like the world softened around you.
“You look like you could use a hand.”
Your lower lip trembled as you sank back onto the ice, feeling raw and exposed while Lando stood in front of you, steady and calm. You blinked fast, trying to stop the tears before they could fall. But something about his voice, his presence, the way he looked straight at you like you were the only person that mattered, made your throat tighten. You stared at him for a beat longer, a shiver crawling up your spine. He looked warm, like safety. Like everything you needed in that exact moment.
“I’m fine.” You muttered, but your voice cracked just slightly, betraying you.
Lando crouched in front of you, not caring at all about getting his jeans wet. His aquamarine eyes searched yours. “Well, you don’t look fine to me.”
You looked away, embarrassed, a dry laugh escaping from your mouth. “Funny that my own brother can’t even notice that.”
He furrowed his eyebrows, looking at you questioningly, “What do you mean?”
“Ugh, Max didn’t want me to come. He said I should just hang out with my friends, and now they’re all just…” You gestured vaguely toward the blur of figures skating across the rink. “They just left me here. I’m sorry, this is so stupid, and I’m acting like a child. I should have stayed at home.”
Lando’s expression shifted—a crease between his brows, his jaw tightening just slightly.
“No, it’s not stupid, Sunshine. And you’re not invisible, you know?”
Your eyes met his, and something in your chest clenched. “Well, I feel like I am.” You chuckled awkwardly.
But that was all it took. Something cracked wide open inside you. A sharp breath escaped your chest, and tears finally spilled over before you could stop them. You ducked your head, shame curling in your stomach like fire. But he didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. He just watched you, gently and patiently.
You sniffled, wiping your glove across your cheek. “I just feel like I’m this annoying, unwanted shadow which Max wishes he could shake off. But believe me or now, I’m just trying not to be alone, and I hate this,” You muttered, voice shaky. “I hate always being treated like I’m unwanted. Like I don’t matter. And I know I shouldn’t care, but fuck, it still hurts.”
You looked down at your feet, ashamed of the crack in your voice. But Lando gently tipped your chin up with one finger. His eyes were kind and warm. “You matter, Sunshine. And Max can be oblivious sometimes, but I see you, okay?”
You bit your lip to hold back the sob building in your throat. He saw you. God, you needed that more than anything.
Lando didn’t speak for a moment. The quiet between you was soft, heavy, but not suffocating. “And I’m sorry.” He added, and you could tell he meant it not just for being late, but for all of it—for Max, and for the way this entire day had unfolded.
He glanced out at the rink, then back at you. “Let’s get you warm. You deserve better than freezing out here alone.”
You blinked, looking at him with concern visible in your eyes. “But… you just got here, Lan. You didn’t even get to skate with them.”
He reached forward and took your hand, slowly helping you up from the ice. His grip was firm and warm, steadying your shaky knees. You realized just how cold you were only when his touch made your skin ache in contrast.
Lando gave a little half-shrug, his smile soft again. “Nah. I think you and I need hot chocolate more than we need bruised asses.”
You laughed, the sound small but real. “You sure?”
Lando smiled down at you, his grin shining brightly. “I’m sure. Come on, Sunshine. My treat.”
He took your hand, not even thinking about it, and you let him. He helped guide you off the rink like it was the most natural thing in the world. And as he walked with you toward the little café by the rink, your hand still tucked inside his glove-warmed one, you felt that flutter in your chest again. Not because of the fall but because when everything felt cold and hollow, he showed up.
The café was a warm wooden hut, lit by soft lamps and smelling like cinnamon and melted marshmallows. Inside, you both ordered drinks and found a booth near the window. Your hands wrapped around the paper cup, fingers thawing slowly as the heat soaked into your bones. Outside, you could still see Max and the boys skating in the cold, totally oblivious.
Inside, however, everything had slowed. You sat across from him by the table, a soft haze of steam curling from the mugs in front of you, the warm scent of cocoa mixing with the faint sugary smell of whipped cream. The windows fogged slightly from the contrast of cold air and warmth inside, blurring the snow-dusted world beyond.
Lando sat with his gloves off, hands wrapped around the ceramic mug like he needed the heat too. His hoodie was slightly crooked, cheeks flushed pink, curls a little damp from snow. He looked so effortlessly good, like warmth incarnate. Like something you’d dream up on a night when everything felt a little too heavy.
You didn’t speak right away, and neither did he. He just looked at you, softly and patiently, like you were someone worth waiting on. And maybe that’s when it started to really hit you. That the little flutter in your chest that had existed for a while now wasn’t just a silly crush anymore. It wasn’t a passing thing or some half-formed idea of romance. No, this—he—was different. Because no one else saw you like he did. No one else noticed the cracks you tried so hard to keep hidden. No one else crouched down beside you when you were hurting, let you fall apart without rushing to fix it. No one else ever made you feel like you mattered, like you could be more than just Max’s little sister. And it made your heart ache in an almost unbearable way.
You watched him bring the mug to his lips, his fingers long and slender around the rim. There was a faint smear of whipped cream on his upper lip that he didn’t notice—and you couldn’t look away from it.
God, he was beautiful.
And the way he looked at you tonight? Like the second he saw you on the ice, everything else just faded. It made your skin prickle with awareness. Like your body suddenly remembered it was his presence that made you feel alive—always had. You curled your fingers tighter around your mug, trying to ground yourself.
And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you. He never had. And that only made it harder. That kind of softness? That kind of instinctive care? It was lethal.
You’d fall for him a hundred times over if he kept looking at you like that. And yet you knew, deep down, it still didn’t mean anything could happen. There were lines, unwritten rules and set limits. Max would kill him if he knew. Everyone would call it wrong.
But if it was wrong, why did it feel so right?
You lowered your gaze to your hot chocolate, suddenly overwhelmed with it all—the longing towards him, frustration about Max, and ache in your body.
Lando, still quiet across from you, must’ve sensed the shift in your energy, because he leaned forward slightly, his voice gentler than before. “You okay?” He asked, voice low and genuine.
You hesitated. “I don’t know. It just… sucks. He used to care more, and we used to be much closer. Or maybe I just imagined it.”
“He does care,” He replied carefully. “But he’s also an idiot.”
You let out a small, unexpected laugh. “Yeah. A loud, arrogant idiot.”
Lando smiled at that. “He’s lucky to have you, though.”
Your cheeks flushed, and your eyes dropped to your cup. “He doesn’t act like it.”
“Well, I think you’re great,” He said, tone lighter, but something in his eyes stayed serious. “And honestly, I’m kind of glad I was late.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Because if I wasn’t, I might’ve missed that perfect moment to be your hero.” You rolled your eyes at him as he bursted out laughing, but still, you smiled and this time it stayed.
Outside, the snow had started falling in slow, heavy flakes. But in the warmth of that tiny café, it didn’t matter that Max acted like a complete asshole or that you fell. Or that you’d spent the first half of the evening trying not to cry. Because Lando had seen you, and that was enough.
You were still holding the half-empty mug, the rim cooling against your palms. The silence between you and Lando was soft, companionable. That comfortable sort of quiet you didn’t often get. He was leaning back in his chair now, legs stretched under the table, watching you with an unreadable expression—like he was trying to figure something out but wasn’t sure how to ask.
“I really didn’t mean to ruin your night.” You mumbled after a beat, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t,” He replied instantly, a little too fast. “If anything… I think I needed this.”
You blinked, surprised. “Needed…?”
He didn’t answer you. Lando just gave you a soft, lopsided smile that made your heart do a dangerous flip and leaned forward to take your hands into his warmer ones. But before you could fall deeper into that moment, the bell above the café door chimed.
“Are you serious right now?” Max’s voice cut sharply through the quiet, and your stomach dropped.
His tone was unmistakable—sharp, defensive, the kind of tone he usually reserved for pissed-off arguments and stupid racing banter. But this wasn’t stupid. This was you, and Lando. Together, alone.
You turned your head to see him standing by the door, his arms crossed, brows drawn together. He looked between the two of you—your hands brought together at the untouched skates beside Lando’s chair, at your flushed cheeks, and at how close your mugs were sitting on the table.
“Lando,” Max barked, stepping closer, “Hands off my sister.”
The silence shattered like glass, and your face went hot instantly. You could barely look at Max, his voice slicing into you like you’d done something wrong just by being here. But Lando didn’t move away from you. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something hard to name.
And then he said it—voice calm but cutting. “At least I noticed she fell.”
Max’s head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying…” Lando’s jaw clenched as he looked back at Max. “She fell, Max. Hard. Everyone was off doing their own thing, laughing, skating around like she didn’t even exist. You didn’t even look back, and I shall remind you that you are her older brother, not me.”
Max looked at you again, and it hit him. The way your eyes wouldn’t meet his. The way you leaned just slightly closer to Lando when he stepped forward. The tightness in your shoulders. The way you hadn’t said a word to him all evening. He knew that look. You were angry and hurt.
“She’s eighteen, Lando,” Max muttered, more to himself. “She doesn’t need babysitting every fucking second.”
“She doesn’t need babysitting! She’s perfectly fine on her own,” Lando replied, his voice cooler now. “She just needed someone to care and help her get up. That’s the difference.”
That struck something inside Max. You could see it behind his eyes—the way his brows drew together, the flicker of guilt that passed quickly across his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening. And then, slowly, his eyes dragged back to Lando, studying him, and processing everything. Something about the way Lando looked at you, about the way you looked back. The way your body language shifted when he was near.
Max’s lips parted for a moment, a breath caught in his throat, as if some subconscious part of him was beginning to do the math. But instead of solving the equation, he backed away from it.
“Yeah, whatever,” He muttered, shaking his head. “We’re leaving in ten. Don’t be late.” He turned on his heel and walked off, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. But not without a final glance over his shoulder. A long, narrowed look that didn’t say much aloud but said enough.
You watched him disappear into the crowd of other boys, your heart hammering in your chest, everything suddenly feeling more fragile than it had just moments ago. You looked up at Lando again, who was already glancing in the direction Max had gone, his jaw still set.
“I’m sorry.” You said softly, not sure what you were even apologizing for.
Lando shook his head, looking back at you. “Don’t be. You deserve better than being left alone like that.”
He held out his hand again—gentler this time, more careful, and you took it, neither of you saying anything more. But deep down, you both knew something had just shifted.
And Max? He definitely knew something was off. Like maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as innocent as he’d always believed.
────୨ৎ────
You had been waiting for this summer. Not just any summer—the summer where everything was supposed to finally shift.
Ibiza.
The annual summer trip. The one that had always been off-limits for you when you were younger. A trip only for them—Max and his friends. Every year, it was a highlight for them, full of beach days, late nights, and photos you weren’t allowed to see because 'you’re too young'.
But this year, you had hope as you were finally eighteen. Not a kid anymore, not just Max’s sister. And most importantly, you were certain that something between you and Lando had changed.
Slowly, subtly, like the tide pulling out. It wasn’t just a crush anymore. Not some schoolgirl fantasy you’d outgrow. You felt it in the way he laughed when you teased him, in the way his gaze lingered longer than it used to, in the way he told Max to chill out when you usually joined them in the living room. You knew he still saw you as the younger one, maybe even a little untouchable, but there were cracks forming in that wall. You could feel them.
So when you decided to visit Max after he moved to his new apartment, he decided to casually drop the announcement over breakfast, saying, “We have flights for Ibiza this night.”
You blinked, assuming that of course he meant you too. “Should I go back home and pack?” You asked, while trying to hide the smile already tugging at your lips.
Max didn’t even look up from his cereal. “What? No, not you. Just our group. You can stay here for the night, and then come back home.”
The words hit like a slap. “What? Why not?” You countered immediately, frowning at your older brother.
Max sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not a family holiday. It’s just our group. And you’re not coming.”
Your heart clenched. “I’m not a little kid anymore, Max. And after all, you always repeated that when I’ll be eighteen, you will take me.”
Max finally looked up at you, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Still my little sister, though. And it’s Ibiza. So no, not happening.”
You felt your jaw tighten, the flush creeping into your cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from anger. “But Mom would let me—”
“Oh, she won’t. I already talked to her, and she agrees. End of the story.”
End of the story, my ass—you thought.
“Max, I’m not fucking stupid,” You snapped before you could stop yourself. The words came out like venom, sharper than you intended. “I know exactly what Ibiza is. I’m not asking to go clubbing and drinking. I just want to go with you there.”
“What can’t you understand, huh? You’re not going. I don’t want to be responsible for you there,” He answered firmly, “And you’d still be the youngest.”
The youngest. There it was again. Always the afterthought. Always the one no one trusted, no one took seriously, no one really saw. And yet, your parents let Max do whatever he wanted when he was your age. No questions, no concern. But you? You were a whole different story.
You pushed back from the table so hard the chair legs scraped against the floor. “Of course,” You snorted, heart hammering in your chest. “Because why would anyone want me there anyway, right?”
You whipped around before you could stop yourself, and your eyes locked immediately with his. Lando. He was leaning against the doorway, wearing that soft hoodie again, the one that hung off his shoulders and made him look like a goddamn movie scene. His hair was a little messy, his skin tanned from early summer karting days, and his smile—ugh. It made your anger feel even more childish, which somehow made it worse.
He looked at you and grinned. “Hey, Sunshine.” You didn’t smile back, you couldn’t. Lando frowned slightly, eyes flicking to Max and then back to you. “Everything’s alright?”
No. Nothing was alright.
“Never been better.” You hissed, gritting your teeth in anger.
Max decided to answer Lando for you. “She’s mad because she’s not coming to Ibiza.”
Lando raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t known. “Wait, you wanted to come with us?”
Of course you did. You’d imagined it a thousand times—walking on the sun-warmed streets, swimming in that infinity pool, sipping drinks you weren’t supposed to have, brushing his hand “accidentally” under the stars. You had even planned outfits already. You had dreamed of this.
“I thought maybe I could,” You muttered, trying not to let the hurt show. “But apparently I can’t because I’m Max’s sister.”
Something shifted in his expression, but only for a second. You couldn’t read it. Sympathy? Or maybe it was regret?
Max snorted at your response. “It’s not for a debate. End of the story.”
Lando didn’t add anything to Max’s words, and that was even worse. He just gave you a soft, unreadable smile—not cold, but distant—and approached the kitchen counter to grab a glass of orange juice as if nothing had changed. Like you weren’t standing there with your heart breaking quietly in your chest.
You locked yourself in the bathroom, the tears burning your eyes before you could blink them away. But you didn’t want to cry. You refused to cry over this, and over Max because what really hurt—what cracked something open inside your chest—was the thought of Lando.
You had spent the last couple of years memorizing him. Every smirk, every time he ruffled his hair or leaned back in a chair like he owned the universe. Every warm, gentle “Hey, Sunshine.” that made you feel like the earth tilted just a little on its axis. He made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you were something more than Max’s kid sister. Something worth noticing. And now he’d be gone for a week with music, beaches, tanned girls in bikinis who didn’t stumble over their words or blush when he got too close. Girls who were his age, and who weren’t you.
It hurt so much that you could be there if not for Max’s selfishness and stupidity.
Your jealousy was ugly, and you knew that. It coiled inside you, black and bitter, twisting around your ribs until it hurt to breathe. You could picture it too clearly: Lando lounging poolside, a drink in hand, throwing his head back in laughter as some girl ran her fingers down his arm. The thought made your stomach twist.
He’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t he? You were just the sweet, harmless Sunshine he teased and smiled at like a big brother. He probably didn’t even think of you once when they booked the flights.
And the worst part? You knew he’d be kind about it. You knew if he realized how much it bothered you, he’d flash that boyish smile and say something like “Next time, yeah?” as if it meant anything. Like you weren’t already drowning in the idea of him being too far away.
You hated everyone at that moment. Max, for shutting you out. Lando, for not saying anything. And mostly yourself, for thinking this year would be different.
You stayed in the guest room for most of the day, the sound of them finishing packing and laughing made your heart ache with every passing hour.
Later during night, you cracked your door open to get yourself a glass of water, and that’s when you saw Lando with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Your breath caught. He looked so… effortless. Tanned already, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, his cap put backwards on his head, and his smile easy as he hummed something under his breath.
He noticed you, smiling at you instantly. “Hey,” He said with that familiar warmth. “What’s up? You hiding from us?”
You offered a tight smile, trying to seem unaffected. “M’just tired.”
“You okay?” He asked, slowing down. There was genuine concern in his eyes, and for a second, it almost undid you.
“I’m fine,” You answered, looking away from his gaze. “Have fun in Ibiza, Lan.”
He tilted his head, stepping closer. “Wish you could come, though. It’d be fun with you there.”
You blinked at him, a hundred unsaid things gathering like a storm behind your lips.
“Yeah,” You uttered, pausing for a second. “It would.”
His eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have. You felt it—the question that hovered in the air, the moment that could’ve been something else if only he let it. But then he smiled, and gave you a playful little wink while turning away. And just like that, he was gone.
They said they said their goodbyes, Max left you the spare keys to the apartment and then the front door finally shut close. The laughter faded, and you were left alone in a house that suddenly felt way too quiet.
For the first time, you realized that you weren’t just crushing on Lando. And you hated how much you wanted him to miss you when you weren’t there.
────୨ৎ────
The first few days felt like a blur. You tried to busy yourself, throwing yourself into hobbies, hanging out with friends, but it was impossible to ignore the space they’d all left behind.
The house was too quiet without the sound of Max laughing, without Lando’s easy banter that always seemed to make you feel lighter. It was as though the entire world had shifted, and you were stuck in place, waiting.
You spent the first days trying not to check Instagram but your fingers betrayed you every time. Lando had posted a photo on his story—shots clinking together at a rooftop bar, the glow of sunset turning the entire sky gold behind him. Max was in the background, grinning from ear to ear. Someone else had tagged Lando in a blurry club video—strobe lights, sweaty dancing, the camera panning just fast enough to catch him whispering into some girl’s ear.
Your stomach turned. You threw your phone onto your bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to let your imagination run wild. But it was no use. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. Lando, sunkissed and effortless, head tilted back in laughter, eyes lit up with the wildness of freedom.
And worse—you saw him with someone else. Someone older, someone who could walk into a club next to him like she belonged there, and someone who wouldn’t blush when he touched her arm or stammer over words when he smiled. And each time, it stung. He wasn’t yours, and he was never going to be yours.
You tried to ignore it. You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. He was Max’s friend. He had never looked at you the way you’d wanted him to. You were just the little sister who was supposed to stay out of their way, who wasn’t supposed to get caught up in the whirlwind of their world. But every time you saw those photos, every time you heard Lando’s laugh in the background of Max’s voice message, your stomach twisted. You were jealous—and you hated it. You hated how much you cared. You felt pathetic. Eighteen and lovesick, aching for someone who probably hadn’t thought about you once since the plane took off.
Still, you found yourself walking into the guest’s room at your house, where Lando usually stayed when he visited your family. It smelled faintly like his cologne—clean, expensive, a little warm. You sat on the edge of his bed, fingers grazing the stitching of his pillowcase, and let yourself imagine what it would be like to be beside him. Not just as Max’s little sister but as you, a girl he could potentially want.
You laid back, curled into the scent of him, eyes fluttering shut as you remembered his laugh, the sound of him calling you Sunshine, the way his eyes sometimes found you and lingered there just long enough to make your breath catch. You imagined him whispering your name instead—slowly, like he meant it.
After a few days of not being able to do anything else than stay at home, you decided to somehow try to distract yourself. You finally joined your friends for a day at the lake, but even the sun felt colder than usual. You turned down a summer party because you couldn’t bear the thought of pretending you were fine in a room full of noise that didn’t sound like his voice.
At night, when everything slowed and the world dimmed, your thoughts always went back to him. You’d scroll through his photos, pausing on the ones where he looked especially carefree—shirtless on the beach, hair a mess from saltwater, sunglasses pushed up onto his head. He looked like someone who belonged in a different world than you. And still—you wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you’d ever wanted anything.
It was a quiet kind of torture. Wanting someone who was both so close and completely out of reach.
By the end of the week, you almost forgot about this all. Then, one night, your phone buzzed. It was him.
Lando:
helloooo
how are things going back at home? :)
hope you’re not too mad at us for going without you
you’d probably be running circles around all of us here anyway
max’s been insufferable btw
You stared at the message, your heart doing that stupid somersault it always did when it came to him. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t a confession but it was something. Proof that he had thought about you, even if only for a second.
You typed out a response, deleted it, and typed again.
You:
it’s going alright
and i’m not mad
just saving all my energy for when i finally get to go next year
And a second later, without thinking twice, you decided to send a risky text.
You:
bet you miss me already :p
You waited thirty seconds. A minute. Two. You started biting your lower lip, overthinking if it was a good idea to text him that. Then finally, he read it and started typing.
Lando:
course I do, sunshine ;)
And just like that, you were smiling again through the ache in your chest. Because even though he was far away—probably drunk and laughing somewhere on an island with a sky full of stars and sand between his toes—he had still chosen to think of you.
And that one message was enough to keep the fire alive. At least for now.
────୨ৎ────
20 & 24
After months of surviving college, stupid assignments, and even more insufferable professors, the most anticipated moment of your life had finally arrived— the trip to Ibiza.
A year ago, when Max told you that the group wasn’t going to Ibiza—because no one could seem to agree on a date or commit to the planning or figure out whose villa to use—you were livid.
After all those years of being left behind, being told you were ‘too young’ or ‘it wasn’t the right vibe’, last year was supposed to finally be your year. You were old enough, you had planned everything, daydreamed about those humid Ibiza nights, imagined the smell of salt on your skin, the sound of Lando’s laughter by the pool. You’d waited for it, and then they all just… didn’t go? Not because of you this time, not because Max slammed the brakes, but because the group simply couldn’t get their act together. It was infuriating, and you felt robbed all over again.
But this year, thank God, they got it together.
You got your parents’ permission (despite Max’s protests), and soon the flights were booked, the villa chosen, and playlists made. This time, you were going. And you had no intention of blending into the background.
The island that had only ever been a dream, a place of reckless abandon that you’d spent countless nights imagining yourself in. And now, you were finally here, standing at the front of the villa with your suitcase in hand, staring up at the imposing stone walls and the vast stretch of sparkling ocean in the distance. The place was exactly as you had imagined—vibrant, chaotic, and utterly alive.
But what really made your heart race wasn’t just the fact that you were on the island you’d always dreamed about. No, it was the thought of him. Lando was here. With Max, with the group, and they had no idea what you were about to bring to the table.
There was a subtle excitement in the air that you couldn’t shake off, a charged anticipation that hummed through your veins. Every summer, you watched from the sidelines, only allowed to catch glimpses of Lando and the others as they had fun without you. But now, at twenty, everything was different. You weren’t a little girl anymore. You were ready to prove to him that you weren’t just Max’s little sister. It wasn’t even about impressing him, not really. It was about finally being seen and being noticed.
As you stepped inside the villa, the cool air hit you, mixing with the salty scent of the sea that had already started to crawl onto your skin. Max, George, and the rest of the crew were lounging in the common area, chatting and laughing.
You took a deep breath, adjusting your sunglasses as you walked toward them. Max caught sight of you first and smiled, but it was Lando who made your stomach do a flip. He looked… different.
He had always looked confident, sure, but now there was a touch of something more—something she wasn’t used to seeing. The way he leaned back on the sofa, his arm stretched across it, his gaze lazily drifting around the room before landing on you. That moment, that slow sweep of his eyes, made your pulse quicken.
“Sunshine,” He called out, his lips curving into that playful grin you knew so well. But there was something about the way he said it now—something warmer, more knowing. “Finally made it to the famous Ibiza trip, huh?”
You smiled, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you stepped closer. “Had to wait a little longer but I think it was worth it.” You answered, your voice a little lighter than you intended.
Lando chuckled. “Well, we’ve been waiting for you. Ibiza’s not the same without you.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them made you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to the statement. Like he actually meant it.
Max shot you a playful glare as you took a seat, clearly not happy to see you join the group. “You’re really pushing your luck, you know that?” He teased. “This is supposed to be our time.”
You just smiled, sitting back on the couch, trying not to look too eager. Lando, though—he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed happy to see you. And that little twist in your stomach? It was definitely not from nerves.
You couldn’t help yourself. The longer you sat there, watching them all joke and laugh, the more you realized just how much he had always been the missing piece. The way he moved, the way he laughed—God, you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
Your fingers drummed lightly against the arm of the chair, your mind spinning with the possibilities. Could you finally make your move? Now that you were here, now that you were no longer just Max’s little sister?
Lando caught you looking at him. His lips twitched, a small, amused smile playing on his face. There it was again—that subtle warmth. That pull, that thing that made you feel like you could reach out and touch him, even though he wasn’t exactly within your reach.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Lando asked, his voice smooth but teasing, the corner of his lips curving just enough to make your heart skip a beat.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking down to your lips before he looked back up, meeting your gaze. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close you two were. Of how dangerous the moment felt.
The moment lingered for a beat too long before Max cleared his throat loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Can you fucking move a bit?” He asked, clearly annoyed. “You’re taking up the whole couch. Maybe go to your room or something.”
Lando chuckled, a deep sound that made your pulse flutter. “Max,” He said, his tone light but firm, “Don’t be a buzzkill. She’s allowed to hang out. Plus, we could use her company.”
The way Lando defended you, made your stomach flip again. But Max wasn’t having it. “Ehh, whatever.” He muttered, rolling his eyes as he went to grab another drink.
He didn’t understand, he didn’t see. But Lando? Lando seemed different. There was something else there now, something unspoken.
As the evening progressed, the group gathered around the large table on the patio, everyone sharing drinks and laughing as the sun dipped below the horizon. Music pulsed in the background, and Lando kept glancing over at you, his eyes following your every move. You caught him once, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary, before he quickly averted his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line.
But it was when they were all standing by the pool, the moonlight reflecting off the water, that everything changed. Lando was standing a little too close. His hand brushed yours by accident when he reached for his drink, and that simple touch was enough to send a jolt through your body.
Your breath caught. God, he was so close. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle weight of his gaze on you as he turned slightly, eyes darkened under the dim lights.
“Having fun?” Lando asked, his voice low, his lips curling slightly.
“Yup,” You replied, your heart pounding in your chest. “And you?”
His grin widened, but there was something else there now. Something you hadn’t seen before. “Even more now as you’re here.” He said softly, his gaze trailing over you again.
And then it hit you. This wasn’t just some random flirtation, and he wasn’t just being nice. He wanted you. But something held him back. Maybe it was Max, maybe it was your history. But you could feel the tension between you two, the unspoken words, the crackling electricity that only intensified the closer you stood.
Your mind raced, heart pounding as you slowly let yourself get lost in the moment. This was your time, and your chance. And you weren’t going to let it slip away.
────୨ৎ────
The night had settled in, the air warm with the sounds of laughter and the low hum of music from the speakers by the pool. The villa had transformed into a lively, almost chaotic place as everyone mingled, drinks in hand, the weight of the sun finally fading as the stars took over the sky.
You stood with the group of girls, but your attention was fully on Lando—how could it not be? The way he moved, the way he interacted with everyone else so effortlessly—it was impossible to ignore. He was so comfortable here. So at ease, like the place belonged to him.
But tonight, you weren’t just the little sister, the girl lingering on the outskirts. You were here to make your presence finally known to everyone. You had been biding your time, testing the waters with every conversation, every touch, every glance. But tonight, you felt bolder.
You casually walked over to the edge of the pool, the cool water reflecting the soft glow of the lights. Lando was standing nearby, chatting with some of the others, but when you stepped closer, he seemed to feel your presence.
His eyes flicked to you, that same little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was the kind of smile that made your heart race. “Everything’s okay, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.
You nodded, but your gaze didn’t leave his. “Yeah, just enjoying the view.” You said, your voice teasing.
You stepped a little closer, just enough that the distance between you two was almost nonexistent. Lando glanced at you sideways, an eyebrow raising, his lips curling into that familiar grin that always made your stomach twist. But this time, you weren’t backing down. You weren’t just the girl who stood at the edge of the group, hoping for a chance to be noticed.
You took a deep breath, leaning in slightly. “And you?” You asked, your tone light, but your eyes holding a challenge. “Enjoying the view too?”
The way his eyes flickered down to your lips made your heart skip. And just like that, the playful tone in his voice shifted, becoming a little more serious, a little more heated.
“Always, it’s Ibiza, after all,” He replied, voice low and almost too smooth. “And I must say I like the view better when it’s you in it.”
It was the first time he’d said something like that, and you felt the rush of excitement surge through your veins. This was it. The moment you had been waiting for. The line between teasing and truth had blurred, and you weren’t going to let it slip away.
You smiled, your lips curving with a newfound confidence. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I think I’m starting to like the view here, too. It’s Ibiza, after all.” You added, mocking his words with a small smirk wandering on your lips.
He watched you, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. It was just you and him, standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off each other, the air between you charged with something undeniable.
But then, just as quickly as it started, the tension broke. Max walked over, clapping his hand down on Lando’s shoulder, pulling him back into the conversation. “Lando, stop flirting with my sister and come help me with the music.”
You felt the air leave your lungs as the moment shattered. Max had ruined it, again. He always did. But Lando, at that moment, did something unexpected. He gave you one last lingering look, his gaze flicking to Max, then back to you, as if weighing something in his mind.
With a grin, Lando answered, “I’m not flirting, mate. Just having a good chat with your sister.”
Max shot him an incredulous look but shrugged, unaware of the tension that was still hanging in the air between you and Lando. It felt like a victory, even if only for a moment. You had gotten his attention. And now, you knew for sure—he was also paying attention to you.
The night wore on, and as the group started to get louder, more rowdy, you couldn’t help but feel the electric charge between you and Lando grow. He didn’t leave your side for long. Every time you turned around, he was there, standing just a little too close, his gaze holding a bit more than the usual friendly banter.
At one point, you found yourself near the bar, chatting with the others when Lando casually leaned against the counter beside you. He was so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, hear the rhythm of his breathing as he watched you. You could sense the shift in the air.
“Do you always get this close to everyone?” You asked, trying to keep your voice light, but there was a trace of something else underneath.
Lando chuckled, his eyes narrowing playfully as he shifted closer. “Only to people I actually want to talk to.” Your heart raced at his words, and before you could respond, he added, “And sometimes, it’s nice to be close to someone you can trust.”
You paused, the weight of his words sinking in. Was he talking about you? Or was it just him being Lando—flirty and charming without even realizing the effect he had?
But before you could overthink it, he stood up straighter, his attention momentarily diverted by something else happening around the villa. The air seemed to shift again, and for the briefest of moments, you felt something crackle between you both—an unspoken understanding.
The night continued, full of music, dancing, and laughter, but you couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he seemed to seek you out, how every time he looked at you, there was that spark, that quiet intensity. It wasn’t just a game anymore, and you knew it. He knew it.
But there was something in the way he always pulled away, something that kept him from crossing that final line. Max—the friendship. His own internal battle between his desire and his loyalty. And yet, even as he tried to distance himself, every glance, every word told you the truth. Lando was fighting it too.
As the night wore on, you found yourself alone, sitting by the edge of the pool again while the moonlight casted long shadows over the water. It was quieter out here, the only sound being the soft lap of the water against the tiles and the occasional murmur of voices drifting from the house. For a moment, it felt like time had paused. Like the world was holding its breath. The group had already moved inside the villa except him, and you.
Lando was watching you from the doorway, leaning against it. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were what gave him away.
You turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. “You know,” You started, your voice bold, “I’ve been sitting here long enough, wondering when you’d stop staring and come over. I think it’s your turn to make the move, Lan.”
Lando’s head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes didn’t meet yours right away—instead, they flicked toward the pool, where moonlight danced across the water like it was in on the secret too.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, casual as ever, but his tone was just a little too careful, too practiced.
His jaw tightened as he fought the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at you, and there it was—that familiar, maddening smile. The one that made your stomach twist and your thoughts scatter.
“But I think,” Lando murmured, low and smooth, “I’ll keep you waiting a little longer, Sunshine.”
But there was something in his eyes—something that said it wouldn’t be much longer before that waiting was over. And that made the anticipation all the sweeter.
With that, he disappeared into the house, leaving you sitting there, heart pounding, every nerve on edge. You stayed by the pool, your mind racing with everything that had just happened. The way his eyes had said more than his lips ever could. You knew. He felt it too.
But there was something else there. Something you hadn’t quite figured out. What was he so afraid of?
The night continued, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Lando’s presence, even though he was no longer nearby. Every glance you caught from him, every moment where his eyes met yours across the room—it was like a game, a dangerous, thrilling dance you both seemed to be playing. But Lando was trying so hard to hold himself back, and then you realized, for the first time, that it wasn’t just about Max anymore.
Lando was afraid of what could happen if he let go—afraid of the consequences.
And that only made you want him more.
────୨ৎ────
The villa was heavy with sleep. The kind of quiet that sinks deep into the walls after a long day—after too much sun, too much wine, and just enough laughter to leave the air still buzzing, even if the house itself had gone still.
When you stepped out of the bathroom, the echo of laughter and music from earlier was replaced with the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of old floorboards. The party had gone late, but you’d peeled off early, skin sticky from the saltwater pool, and the Ibiza heat.
You were freshly showered—towel wrapped tightly around your body, hair damp against your shoulders—and you realized, with a tiny internal scream, that in the emotional packaging you’d forgotten to pack your pajamas. It was a rookie mistake, but you couldn’t face crawling into bed with just a towel wrapped around you.
You stepped quietly out of the bathroom, your skin still damp and goosebumps prickling along your arms from the cool night air inside the villa. The halls were dark, except for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the large windows. The house was silent, everyone else either asleep or lost in their own worlds.
With careful steps and the towel clutched tighter around you, you tiptoed down the hallway, soft-footed on the tiles. Max’s room was just a few doors away. You told yourself it was harmless. Just one oversized shirt—he’d never even notice.
You opened the door softly and slipped inside, closing it behind you without a sound. The room was dark, moonlight spilling in through the open window and casting soft silver patterns across the bed, the walls. It smelled faintly of Max—a mix of soap, cologne, and the salty air from the beach.
You moved over to his dresser and pulled open a drawer. There was no need to be picky, just a shirt big enough to cover you for the night.
Your fingers rifled through shirts until you found one soft and loose, smelling faintly of detergent and someone else. Familiar. You didn’t question it, just pulled it over your head, feeling the fabric drape over your damp skin.. It hung low on you, grazing mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The hem brushed your bare legs, and for some reason, it felt more intimate than it should.
You exhaled, almost a laugh. Whatever. It was just a shirt. You didn’t care.
Quiet as a shadow, you slipped out of Max’s room and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. The villa was dead silent, moonlight pooling through the windows, casting silver paths across the tile floor. Your bare feet made almost no sound, but your heart thundered too loud in your ears.
The fridge door creaked softly as you opened it, cool air brushing your face. You grabbed a bottle of water, taking a slow sip. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and herbs left from the day’s cooking And then you felt it—that subtle shift in the air. Before you could turn around, you heard him behind you.
“Is that my shirt?”
You froze, heart catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned. And sure enough, there he was. Lando. Standing at the edge of the kitchen, barefoot, his hair still damp from the pool, curls a little messy and his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His voice was quiet but not sleepy. Not surprised, either.
You blinked, looking down at yourself instinctively. “Is it?” You feigned surprise.
“You didn’t know?” His eyes didn’t leave you, a smirk already spreading on his lips.
“I grabbed it from Max’s room,” You answered, shrugging. “I didn’t know it was yours.”
Lando nodded once but he didn’t take his eyes off you. “I must have left it in his room the last time we stayed here,” He said. “Figured he’d steal it, not you.”
You felt your skin prickle under the fabric, heat crawling up your neck. You bit your lip, trying to keep your voice even. “Well, I’m sorry but I forgot my pajamas, and it was the first thing I found. Didn’t stop to sniff it and guess which boy it belonged to.” You sipped the water, trying not to let your hand shake.
“Sure,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You’ve got good taste, at least.” You rolled your eyes at him, but your heart was a mess.
You raised a brow, looking at him questioningly. “Excuse me?”
He smiled. That slow, teasing smile that made your breath catch and your legs feel less than stable. “You could’ve taken anything. But you picked mine.” His voice dropped slightly, velvet smooth. “You sure that was just an accident?”
“I didn’t look that hard,” You mumbled. “It was the first thing I saw. I wasn’t exactly thinking—”
“No?” He asked, stepping a little closer. He looked at you differently now—like he could see through you. Like he knew.
His eyes dragged down your body, slow and deliberate. “You’ve got nothing underneath, haven’t you.”
Your heart kicked up a notch. “You don’t know that.” You crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the fabric clung to your thighs. “Why are you even here, huh?”
“I was heading to bed but saw the light in the kitchen.” He paused, tilting his head as his eyes narrowed just a little. “And then I saw you, Sunshine.”
Your breath came slower now. Your hand still rested on the edge of the counter, knuckles white. He took one more step, close enough that you could smell the faint hint of his cologne, the same clean citrus and sea air scent from the shirt.
The silence between you stretched—thick, electric, and hot enough to burn. You glanced up at him, tilting your head. “Oh my god, if it bothers you so much I can take it off.”
His mouth twitched like he was about to laugh, but it died before it could come out. His eyes darkened instead. “Careful.”
“Or what?” You challenged, heart pounding. “You’ll tell Max I stole your shirt?”
Lando took one step closer—just one. But it was enough to fill the space between you with something. “Nah. I’m more worried about what I’d do about it. You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” He went on, his voice dropping, low and teasing. “Walking around the villa in nothing but my shirt.”
You smiled despite yourself, but it trembled. “I wasn’t planning to run into anyone.”
“Lucky me.” He snickered.
The way he said it—playful, and hungry. Yet still, he didn’t move any closer. Like he was daring you to do it instead.
Your breath hitched. “Should I take it off, then?”
His gaze flickered to your lips, your collarbone, the hem of the shirt swaying around your thighs. “Don’t.”
The air pulsed between you. Every breath, every look—it felt like you were already touching. “Why not?” You whispered, suddenly reckless.
He closed his eyes like you’d just cursed him. “Sunshine…” He whispered, like it hurt. His soft side suddenly returned as if reminding him that he was going way off the limits set by his best friend, crossing the invisible lines between you.
And then a shuffle came from the house—footsteps. Fast and clumsy down the hall.
Your stomach dropped. You both turned your heads sharply just in time to see Max emerge, yawning, scratching the back of his neck, eyes still hazy with sleep.
“What are you two doing up?” He asked, blinking slowly.
You backed away from Lando as if your skin had caught fire. “Couldn’t sleep.” You said quickly, the lie almost too easy.
“Yeah,” Lando added, voice calmer now, like a switch had flipped. “Just grabbing water.”
Max grunted, barely registering you as he passed. He pulled open the fridge, cracked open a bottle, and drank in silence. You didn’t move.
Lando’s eyes met yours for one fleeting moment—just long enough to remind you that your pulse was still out of control.
And as Max turned to head back down the hall, Lando leaned in ever so slightly, voice a whisper only you could hear. “Keep the shirt. It looks better on you anyway.”
Then he was gone, retreating down the hallway, his steps light but urgent, like if he didn’t walk away right now, he wouldn’t walk away at all.
You stood in the kitchen, the cool air licking at your bare legs. Your pulse was still thundering, and the shirt suddenly felt too thin to contain everything you were feeling. You clutched the fabric tighter. You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh, cry, or run after him.
But one thing was certain—you were past the point of pretending this was nothing.
────୨ৎ────
The night was alive with music, the kind that vibrated through your bones and made every inch of your body feel electric. The club you decided to go to was packed with people, their bodies moving in sync to the pulse of the beat. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and alcohol—a heady mix that made your mind spin with anticipation.
You stood with the group outside, the warm night air brushing against your skin, feeling the heat of the moment on the horizon. Tonight was different. The black dress you wore clung to your body in all the right ways, cut just low enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving too much away. The heels were higher than you were used to, but they made you feel powerful, confident—a version of yourself that wasn’t the quiet little sister anymore.
Lando, of course, looked like he belonged on a runway. His sharp jawline was highlighted by the dim glow of the neon lights, and his dark shirt was tight enough to accentuate his muscles, the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. His eyes caught yours when he turned toward you, and for a brief moment, everything else seemed to fade away. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, his lips curling into a subtle smirk.
You caught it. The way his eyes tracked your every move. You weren’t sure if it was because the alcohol—which you decided to drink back in the house for some courage—was starting to buzz through your veins or if it was the fact that tonight felt different, more intense. The air around you was charged, and every step you took toward the club made your heart race faster.
Inside, the music blasted so loud it rattled your bones, the lights flashing in time with the beat, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that swirled around you. You let the music take over, moving in time with it, surrounded by the chaos of the crowd. But through it all, you could feel Lando’s eyes on you, watching you as you danced, his body close, but never quite close enough.
The drinks kept coming. You weren’t one to shy away from a little fun, and tonight, you were feeling particularly bold. One shot, then another. A cocktail to wash it down. The alcohol was starting to warm your body from the inside out, the edges of your thoughts becoming a little hazy, but the clarity of one thing—the one thing you couldn’t shake—remained. Him.
It was like everything around you had blurred into a haze, and he was the only clear thing left. The way his eyes followed you across the room, the way his body leaned closer when he spoke to you. He wasn’t exactly avoiding you, but he wasn’t exactly encouraging anything either. And that only made you want him more.
The group had dispersed, everyone off to their own little corners of the club, but you didn’t care. You were focused on him. You needed to know.
You took another shot and felt the heat spread through you, making your skin tingle. The alcohol started to make you feel bold, fearless even. And it was then that you decided—tonight, you weren’t going to let anything stand in your way.
You spotted him at the bar, broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned in to say something to one of the guys. The neon lights painted his profile in shifting colors, his chain glinting against the open collar of his shirt. Your pulse thrummed harder the closer you got, each click of your heels echoing in your chest like a countdown.
As you walked up to him, your heels clicked against the floor, your heart pounding in your chest. By the time you slid up beside him, you were already trembling with anticipation. Your bare arm brushed against the fabric of his sleeve, deliberate but subtle, just enough to make him turn.
His head whipped around, brows lifting in mild surprise, but then his gaze caught yours. That spark you knew too well flickered instantly in his eyes, like a flame reigniting. His eyes lingered a second too long, dropping from your mouth to the curve of your throat before snapping back up to your eyes.
You swallowed hard, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of him so close it made your skin prickle. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until the words tumbled out, slurred slightly from the alcohol but crystal clear in intent.
“Lando…” You mumbled, his name leaving your lips like a secret, low and ragged.
He stilled, every trace of amusement draining from his face. His eyes sharpened, scanning you with something caught between warning and curiosity.
You stepped closer, your body grazing his—just the whisper of contact, but enough to set you alight. Tilting your head back, you let him see the desire shining in your eyes, and the way your lips parted, trembling with words that tasted dangerous.
“I want you to fuck me.”
The words hung in the air between you two, raw and unapologetic. It was as if everything stopped at that moment. The music faded, and conversations dulled into white noise. For a heartbeat, it was just him and you. The air between you crackled, charged, like the universe itself was holding its breath.
Lando’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face before it quickly shifted into something unreadable. His lips parted, his throat bobbing as he exhaled a sharp breath. A soft, nervous laugh, his voice thick with disbelief.
“What did you just say?” His voice was tight, husky, as though he already knew but needed to hear it again, needed to give you a chance to take it back.
But you didn’t back down. You were beyond caring whether he was surprised or not. You had made up your mind, and you were tired of playing games.
You leaned in, letting your lips nearly brush his ear as you repeated, firmer this time, dripping with reckless desire. “I said, I want you to fuck me, Lando.”
For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move. He just stared at you as you moved away from him a bit, eyes dark and unreadable. His body locked like every muscle inside him was bracing against what you’d just said. The seconds stretched unbearably, each one dragging like molasses, and your pulse pounded louder with every flicker of hesitation on his face.
His jaw tightened, lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t. You could see the battle in his eyes—the struggle between the attraction he clearly felt, and the boundaries and limits he had set for himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, almost like it hurt him to say the words. “Sunshine…” The pet name slipped out instinctively, tender and broken. “You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
The dismissal cut sharper than you expected, making your chest ache. But you weren’t about to back down. Not when his voice cracked like that, not when his hand gripped the edge of the bar so tightly the tendons strained.
You stepped closer, lifting your chin to lock your eyes with his. “I know exactly what I’m saying, Lando. I’m not drunk, and I know what I want.”
For the briefest second, something in his expression faltered. His shoulders sagged, and his gaze darted down your face to linger on your lips before tearing away like it burned him. Lando turned his head, jaw clenched, dragging a shaky breath through his teeth as though he needed air before he drowned. His hand gripped the edge of the bar, his knuckles white. The tension between you two was so thick that you could practically feel it suffocating you both.
Lando let out a breath, trying to regain his composure. “Fuck… you’re Max’s little sister. I can’t do this, and I won’t.” He muttered, sharper this time, but even that sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
The words were final, his voice laced with restraint, but you could hear the hint of something else underneath it. The attraction was still there, raw and desperate, but so was his guilt. His loyalty to Max—the barrier he’d been trying to maintain between you—was slipping. You could see it in the way his body reacted to you, in the way his gaze flickered over you like he was fighting an inner war. And you weren’t going to let him win this time.
“I don’t care, Lando,” You whispered, closing the space, your voice steady despite the racing in your chest. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m asking you to fuck me. And I’m not going to stop until you actually do it.”
The words made him flinch like you’d struck him—not out of disgust but out of want. Out of restraint snapping, just a little, around the edges.
His gaze dropped to your mouth again, and for a fraction of a second, you thought he’d finally break. That he’d grab you, kiss you mindlessly, do something reckless and irreversible. But then Lando shook his head, almost violently, his hands coming up as though he physically needed to hold himself back.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” He repeated, his voice shaking a little more than before, though there was something else in his eyes now. Something darker, filled with regret and desire. “You’re not thinking straight.”
You smirked faintly at his response, because you knew him. You knew he was lying.
You pressed your palm to his chest, heat radiating beneath your fingertips, his heartbeat hammering fast and frantic against your touch. His body betrayed everything his words denied.
“But I’m thinking perfectly straight, Lan,” You murmured, softer now, more intimate. “I’ve been thinking about this for years.”
He flinched slightly at your words, his lips parting, but no words came out. His eyes snapped to yours, wide and wrecked. The struggle was written all over his face. He wanted this—he wanted you. But he was holding back, clinging to whatever moral line he had drawn between you. And it was clear that you were getting under his skin.
You leaned back just slightly, letting your fingers trail down his shirt, your voice dipping into something teasing, dangerous.
“Maybe I’ll ask you again tomorrow,” You said, your voice softening, the teasing returning to your tone. “When I’m sober, and you can’t hide behind the excuse that I’m just a drunk, little girl. But don’t think I’ll forget this, Lando. And don’t pretend you will either.”
And with that, you swiftly turned around. The click of your heels echoed through the haze of music and chatter as you walked away from him, spine straight, every step deliberate. You didn’t look back—you didn’t have to. You felt his eyes follow you, heavy and searing, as if memorizing the sway of your hips and the tilt of your head.
The air between you two had shifted—charged with something dangerous, inevitable, and forbidden.
And deep down, you knew. Next time, he wouldn’t let you walk away.
────୨ৎ────
The sun filtering through the curtains was casting soft light over everything in your room. The group was still recovering from the night before, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you as you tried to slip into the background.
You had hoped that the discomfort would fade away by morning, that the weight of yesterday’s night would lift as easily as the hangover, but it didn't. It was like the moment you’d said those words to Lando had somehow become a part of the air in this house, invisible yet so undeniably present.
You had asked him—no, you demanded from him—something you weren’t sure you even had the right to. As bold as you may have acted yesterday, now you were just overpowered by the feeling of embarrassment. But the desire and the need still smoldered within you, making everything feel ten times more complicated.
It felt like you were walking through a dream, as if everything was happening in slow motion. You could still feel the heavy beat of the club music in your chest, hear the sound of your own voice breaking through the haze of alcohol, and see the way Lando had looked at you. The shock, the disbelief, and then that careful laughter as he’d deflected your words, made them feel small, as if it hadn’t been important at all. But to you, it was crucial.
Max had dragged everyone out of beds to spend some time by the pool. With your head still hurting slightly, you settled on sitting at the edge, your feet skimming the water as your thoughts were miles away. You hadn’t meant to retreat into yourself, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to face Lando, to face what had happened the night before.
That’s when you felt it—a shadow falling over you, stopping the scorching hot sensation from Ibiza's sun. And when you looked up, there he was. Lando’s figure blocked out the sun, and your heart skipped a beat, your stomach doing that anxious somersault it always did when he was near.
“Hi Sunshine,” He said softly, his voice calm but something unreadable in his tone. “Do you mind helping me prepare some lemonade for the group?”
Your stomach dropped. The last thing you wanted now was to be alone with him, but at the same time, you couldn’t say no to him. You nodded quickly in response, pushing yourself up from the poolside and following him away from the group, your heartbeat louder in your ears than the sound of the others.
Lando led you inside the villa, his movements slower than usual, like he didn’t want to crowd you or rush anything. The two of you walked quietly through the living room, passing the others without a word, until you found yourself in the kitchen—just far enough from the others to be alone. He took the big, glass jug from the counter, and started pouring cold water inside it. You reached for the lemons that were in the fruit basket, and went to wash them in the sink before slicing them.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you both, thick with unspoken words and thoughts that neither of you could find the courage to voice. It felt like you were both caught in the aftermath of something fragile, something that had the potential to either shatter or grow stronger, depending on how you navigated this.
While you were busy cutting the lemons, Lando finished pouring the water. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat before it softened. There was a hint of something behind his eyes. Guilt? Concern? Or maybe a little bit of both.
Finally, Lando was the first to break the silence, his voice quiet but steady. “I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”
There was a hesitation in his tone, a carefulness, like he didn’t want to overstep, but also like he was waiting for you to do or say something.
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak at first. When you did finally speak, your voice was a little too quiet, your words too shaky to hide the vulnerability behind them.
“I’m fine.” You answered shortly, focused on slicing the lemons. But even as you said it, you could hear the lie in your own words. You weren’t fine, not at all.
The moment you had asked him for something so raw, so real, had felt like it shattered something inside you, and now you weren’t sure how to piece it all back together.
You didn’t look at him even for a second, unable to meet his gaze. The air between you felt so thick, and your nerves were on edge.
You put the already cut lemons inside the jug. “Really. I just… I don’t even know what I was thinking last night.”
There it was—the admission. The guilt that had been eating at you all day. You couldn’t even look at him without feeling heat creeping up your neck.
“You were right, I was drunk,” You muttered, almost too quietly. “And I didn’t mean it.”
You did.
Lando didn’t speak right away. He just watched you as you squeezed the lemon juice into the jug, his gaze soft but intense, like he was trying to read you, and your every word. It was like he was searching for something in you, something that he didn’t quite know how to find.
“I just… don’t want you to think that what happened last night was nothing,” He finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you were drunk, Sunshine. But you don’t need to say things like that to get my attention.” His lips twisted in something close to a half-smile, but it was strained. “You’ve always had it.”
Your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment you wondered if he just confirmed what you’d been secretly hoping—that he felt it too. But then the doubt crept in. Maybe you were reading too much into it?
You didn’t respond right away, afraid of saying something wrong again. So you just let the silence stretch on between you, as the moment hung in the air, thick with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Lando said eventually, his voice low. “I know you, and I know that now the regret is probably eating you alive, but… I just want you to know that it’s okay. I mean it.”
You swallowed hard, halting your movements. His words should have comforted you, but they didn’t. They only made the whole situation more complicated for you, and more confusing. The things you said, and the things you wanted—it was all too much now, too close, and too real.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” You uttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “That I said it, or that you brushed it off like it was nothing.” You added, before going back again to squeezing the lemon juice.
Lando flinched at your words, his face flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. It was almost like a mixture of surprise, guilt, and something else.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Sunshine,” He countered quickly, his voice thick with sincerity. “I just— fuck, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed or pressured to anything.”
You wanted to argue, to tell him that you didn’t feel pressured, but the words caught in your throat. You couldn’t explain it, not in a way that made sense. You felt something for him, something that was impossible to ignore, and even now, with the space between you, the tension still hung there—sharp, and palpable.
Lando shifted closer, his movements slow, almost like he was testing the waters, making sure you were okay with his proximity.
“Look,” He started, and you finally moved your eyes on him, immediately noticing the hesitation in them. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me now. But also, I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you away.”
His words struck something deep inside you. It was like he was tiptoeing around the truth, just as you had been. You knew he was holding something back, but you didn’t want to push it. Not yet.
“I’m not… mad, Lando.” You said, your voice a little more steady now, but there was still a vulnerability in it that you couldn’t mask.
Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking with yours. “I get it. I’m not going to bring it up again. But just so you know…” He paused, his voice thick with something unspoken. “I’ll forget about it if you want me to.”
You looked up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. “Lan,” You murmured, your voice barely audible, but thick with meaning. “You don’t have to forget about it.”
Your words hung in the air, neither of you saying anything. After a heartbeat, you finally felt the weight of them, heavier than you had expected.
The distance between you two—both emotional and physical—felt too wide, and yet at the same time, you could sense the quiet longing between you. It wasn’t something that would just go away.
Looking away from his overwhelming gaze, you came back to making the lemonade. You started mixing the water in the jug with the juice, adding some sugar to it.
You weren’t ready to dive into the complexity of what this whole conversation meant. Not yet. But somewhere deep inside, you knew this wasn’t over. You hadn’t even begun to figure out what it all meant for you both.
“The lemonade is done,” You announced, the words barely above a whisper. “Let’s get back to the others.”
Lando gave you a soft smile, but it was filled with so much more than just reassurance. It was an unspoken promise.
And even if neither of you acknowledged it outright, you both knew the truth—neither of you could forget about what happened.
────୨ৎ────
The villa was silent in the aftermath of laughter and thudding footsteps, the echo of the group’s excitement still lingering in the warm night air as the cars pulled away. Ibiza nights were never quiet—unless you chose for them to be. And tonight, you did.
The others had left twenty minutes ago, off to the club downtown, heat and music waiting to swallow them whole. You were supposed to be with them. You even got dressed for it, makeup on, heels clicked against the tile as you floated through the rooms. But the moment you saw Lando in that loose white shirt, the top few buttons undone, the chain around his neck catching the golden light… something in you snapped.
You couldn’t go.
“Guys… uh,” You started, your voice purposely casual, like you weren’t about to combust, “I think I’ll actually stay in tonight. My head hurts, and I don’t think too good.” You added a small laugh, waving your hand as if that would make it less suspicious. It didn’t.
“What?” One of the girls spun around, looking at you with a dramatic pout. “Nooo, babe, you can’t stay in! We already got all dressed up and ready to go, don’t be lame!”
“Yeah, come on, just take a painkiller and you’ll be just fine.” Another chimed in, already half-drunk and swaying to the music.
Max, who was digging through his jacket for his car keys, didn’t even look up. “Do as you want.” He said over his shoulder, tone dismissive, too focused on corralling the group into the cars. You knew him—he was in his herding cats mode. As long as you weren’t actively causing trouble, he didn’t have the bandwidth to care.
But there was one person who cared. One person who wasn’t fooled by you.
Lando stood frozen. He was mid-buckle with his watch, but his fingers had stilled. His head lifted, eyes finding you across the room, narrowing slightly—not in judgment, but something softer, something curious. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.
“You sure?” His voice was low, barely audible over the chatter, but it sliced through everything else like a blade. His gaze held yours, heavy, lingering, like he could see every thought swirling behind your fake smile. The concern in his tone made your stomach flutter. You’d forced a small smile, waving him off like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just consumed your entire body with one look.
The last time you’d been to a club with him… oh god. You still felt the scorch of humiliation creep up your neck when you thought about it. The moment that spilled out of you, reckless and desperate—the way you grabbed his arm, leaned into his ear amidst the chaos and blurted out words you hadn’t even planned to say.
But that was in the past. And now, tonight, he was standing there again—looking devastatingly perfect while doing absolutely nothing, and you knew if you stepped out of this house and into that club, you’d do something you couldn’t undo. So you didn’t.
You could feel your heart hammering against your ribs, heat crawling up your neck. “Yeah,” You answered quickly, forcing your lips into a curve. “I’ll be fine. You guys go.”
But Lando didn’t move. He stood there for another beat, eyes flickering over you—your flushed cheeks, your fidgeting fingers, the way you avoided looking directly at him for too long. You could tell he was working it out in his head.
“Alright then,” He answered, voice tighter than before, finally tearing his gaze away. But there was something in his eyes, a flicker of tension, like he knew damn well you were lying.
The door slammed shut behind them, leaving you alone in the villa. You stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, pulse racing as the silence wrapped around you like a velvet blanket. You exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.
You couldn’t take it anymore. You had spent years holding back. Watching him, trailing behind conversations like a ghost. You’d perfected the art of stealing glances, of laughing too loudly at his jokes, of brushing against him like it meant nothing. But it had always meant everything. Every little thing he did sunk into your skin, settled into your bloodstream.
You knew his habits, his moods. Even the way his eyes changed when he was tired, when he was buzzed from two drinks or when he was focused. And this year he had been looking at you like he finally saw you. Not as Max’s little sister, and not as the awkward teenager who once blushed whenever he sat too close. He finally saw you as a woman, and you felt it. And yet… nothing. Always nothing.
You couldn’t blame him, though. Max was his best friend, and you understood the unspoken rule. But God, how long could you be expected to live in this tension? How long could you take being this desperate?
You pressed your fingers against your temples, trying to will the ache in your chest away. The tight, burning throb that had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with want.
Slowly, you walked back to your bedroom, immediately taking your dress off and leaving it on the floor behind you. Left only in a thin cotton thong and a bralette, you climbed onto your bed. The sheets were cool at first, sending a shiver across your thighs, but your body warmed them quickly. Or maybe it was the heat beneath your skin, your pulse pounding in places you couldn’t ignore anymore.
Your skin was warm, almost feverish, and you could still smell his cologne in your clothes. Fuck. You felt him like a presence, even when he was gone.
The air conditioner hummed faintly in the background, and some cicadas chirped outside. Everything else was quiet.
You laid on your back, arm slung over your eyes. But the moment you let yourself relax, his image returned. Lando in that white shirt, buttons open, collar falling lazily across his collarbone. That chain glinting against his warm skin. The veins on his forearms, his smooth hands and long fingers, and that damn smirk.
The sound of your name on his tongue, the way he looked at you during dinner. The moment your fingers brushed when you passed him a drink. The way he laughed, head tilted back, mouth open, throat exposed.
Your hand drifted lower, grazing over your stomach. Your skin was already tingling, goosebumps spreading beneath your touch. You closed your eyes and let out a breath, imagining his hand instead of yours. Bigger, rougher, warmer and stronger. The way his hands would explore you, slap you, and fuck you mindlessly.
You slid your fingers down to the heat between your legs, shoving aside your underwear, hissing softly at how wet you already were. The moment your fingers finally found your pussy, you gasped quietly. You spread your legs wider, your thighs brushing against the sheets, heat pooling between them.
Your fingers started to move slowly at first, tracing gentle circles around your clit, your breath growing unsteady as you gasped softly, already embarrassingly wet. It didn’t take much, to be fair. It never did, not when you were thinking of him. Your other hand moved to your chest, slipping under the bralette, squeezing your breast as you imagined him doing it. The way his hands would be so much larger than yours, more sure.
Your back arched slightly, the tension in your belly winding tighter. “Fuck— Lando…” You breathed, the name falling from your lips before you could stop it. And you kept saying it softly, but desperately.
However, while being lost in the sensation, you didn’t hear the click of the front door opening, and you didn’t hear the soft creak of floorboards. You were too far gone. What you didn’t know, was that about a minute after leaving, Lando realized he’d forgotten his wallet. That he came back, keys still hanging in his hand.
When he came inside the villa again, Lando didn’t expect to hear it—his name, trembling and breathless, coming from behind your door. He froze immediately. He should’ve walked away, left it alone, as it was none of his business.
But the door to your room wasn’t fully closed, it was cracked open just enough to peek inside. And curiosity? It got the better of him.
He moved slowly, each step quieter than the last, every nerve ending screaming at him to stop, to turn around and leave before he saw something he couldn’t unsee. But when he reached the doorway and looked through the small sliver, the breath caught inside his throat. There you were—spread out on the bed like a goddess, one hand between your legs, the other gripping your breast. Your back was arched just slightly, eyes shut, and mouth parted.
He could see everything.
Lando stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth opened. The wallet in his hand dropped noiselessly onto the floor as he stared at you. He should have left, he knew that. Every fiber in him screamed that this wasn’t right, that this was a boundary he couldn’t cross, that this was his friend’s younger sister. But there you were, bathed in the warm golden light of your bedside lamp, glistening with sweat and need while whispering his name over and over again. Your hips kept rocking into your hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.
As he gripped the doorframe, Lando’s knuckles went white. His heart was thundering in his chest, louder than the sound of your moans. It was wrong. So fucking wrong. But he couldn’t look away from your breath-taking figure. You were beautiful—stunning, undone, and raw.
Lando felt like he was dreaming.
He had no idea how long he stood there. Minutes, maybe. Long enough to feel like he was going to lose his mind. But then, he finally snapped, not being able to stop himself anymore.
His voice was low when it came—rough and broken. “Fucking hell, Sunshine.”
You froze. Every muscle in your body tensed as you gasped, eyes flying open. You scrambled for the blanket, your heart hammering in your chest. “What the fuck! Lando, what are you—”
His eyes were dark, and unreadable as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I forgot my wallet,” He explained, a smile wandering over your lips, and voice barely above a whisper. “But then I heard you.”
Your face burned from the embarrassment. “Oh my God…” You hid your face in your hands.
“You moaned my name, Sunshine,” He murmured, stepping closer. “You were thinking of me.”
Lando’s words hung in the air like a challenge, a command, and your breath caught in your throat. You looked up to face him, his eyes never left your face. The heat between your legs was unbearable now, your entire body on fire from the tension, from the way your pulse hammered in your chest.
You didn’t need to hear him say anything more, but when he knelt beside your bed, his hand pressed against the mattress, his weight sinking just a fraction, everything in you screamed for more.
“Tell me to leave, love,” He murmured, the words strained, but his body was still drawn toward you, close but not yet touching. “And I will.”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry with both nerves and desire, but the ache inside you was more powerful than any shame.
“Stay.” You whispered, your voice trembling as you gave in. You wanted this, you needed this.
A sharp intake of breath followed as he exhaled shakily, eyes dragging slowly down your body. His gaze was almost possessive now, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, soaking in the vulnerability you offered, and the hunger he saw reflected in your eyes.
His hand reached up then, lifting your chin gently with his fingers, his thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip as if he was tasting you without touching.
“Good girl.” He whispered, the words thick with a mix of approval and something darker.
The moment those words left his mouth, a tremor ran through you, like a live wire snapping into place. It wasn’t just the compliment—it was the fact that he said it, that he saw you, truly saw you for what you were—his, in that moment. And that thought sent a shock of heat straight to your core.
Without another word, he let his hand fall from your face, trailing slowly down your neck, brushing over your collarbone, your chest. His fingers, long and soft, brushed over your breast, just teasing the sensitive skin of your nipple before moving lower, across your stomach, and finally to where you needed him most.
You gasped at the first touch of his fingers against your wetness, a sound you couldn’t hold back if you tried. The simple touch sent a ripple of pleasure straight through you. Instinctively, you arched into his hand, your back pressing further into the bed as you exhaled in a shuddering breath.
He wasn’t gentle, but neither was he rough. His touch was slow, deliberate—almost like he was testing you, pushing you to the edge without fully breaking you. His fingers worked skillfully, tracing the outline of your folds, sending shocks of pleasure with every calculated movement.
You were trembling, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your belly, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of the fire that built each time he brushed against your most sensitive spots. His fingers never rushed, each stroke sending waves of heat through your body as your chest heaved with every breath.
You were a whimpering mess beneath him, your body wanting more, desperate for him to push you further. “P-please, Lan—” You gasped, your words strangled, unable to hide the need in your voice.
You didn’t know how much longer you could hold back from completely breaking apart. His gaze stayed unwavering, never leaving you as he worked his fingers against you, each stroke coaxing a moan from your throat.
“Please, what?” He teased, his voice low and rough with the tension that clung to him.
He could feel your pulse under his fingertips, could sense the way your body responded to his touch, but he wasn’t done yet. Not yet.
You couldn’t stop the whimper that left your lips. “Fuck… don’t stop,” You breathed, the words escaping in a rush. “I need you.”
A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips, and he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You’ve been so patient, sunshine,” He murmured, his voice a velvet promise of something more, something even deeper. “You deserve this, don’t you?”
You nodded right away, your head spinning, not even aware of how your hips were grinding into his hand now.
“Y-yes, Lan! Fuck, please…” You begged, the desperation in your voice a mixture of need and want, the ache inside you unbearable as he continued to move his fingers inside you, slow but steady.
And then, without warning, he slipped deeper, his slim fingers curving just right as he found that one, sweet spot that made your whole body jerk against him.
“Oh,” He chuckled mischievously, “There is it.”
The breath left your lungs in a strangled gasp as he worked you closer and closer to the edge, the tension so tight now it felt like you might snap at any second. You clung to the bed, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you, as your body fought against the pleasure he was pulling from you.
“Look at me.” He ordered, and you did, your eyes locking with his, but there was nothing playful in his gaze now.
His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed with barely controlled hunger, and for the first time, you saw the restraint he was holding back, the way he was keeping himself on the edge—just like you.
You moaned again, a broken sound this time, your body unable to hide how much you craved him. You gasped his name like a lifeline, a desperate plea for something you didn’t even fully understand.
The way his fingers worked inside you sent shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire body, and your hips pushed into his hand, needing more, needing to feel him in a way you couldn’t put into words.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” He rasped, his voice so low you barely heard him over the sounds of your own desperate moans. “In the club that night? You were fucking insane for saying those words, right next to your brother.”
His words were dark, edged with a raw hunger that sent another wave of heat through you. The admission made you tremble harder, the thought of him wanting you that badly sending your mind into overdrive.
The pressure built and built until you couldn’t hold back anymore, your whole body tensing as the release you had been so desperate for finally came crashing over you in waves.
“That’s it,” He whispered, his voice rough with desire, his thumb brushing against your clit in teasing circles as he continued to thrust his fingers inside you. “Cum for me, baby. Let me see your pretty face.”
You cried out, your back arching off the bed as your body quivered with the intensity of it, a blissful shudder taking over every part of you. Lando’s name tumbled from your lips in a broken cry, and he only watched, his gaze dark, almost possessive as he continued to finger you through your orgasm, making sure to stretch it out, to draw every ounce of pleasure from you.
When the final wave of pleasure ebbed, you were left breathless, trembling beneath him, your body feeling like it was on fire.
You have never come so hard in your entire life.
Lando didn’t move away immediately. Instead, he stayed close, his breath coming as heavily as yours, his fingers slowly pulling out of you, leaving a lingering ache behind. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, but it wasn’t awkward. It was charged, thick with the tension that had been building for so long.
Finally, Lando kissed your forehead gently, his lips lingering there for a moment as if trying to anchor both of you in this fragile moment. You were still too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed by everything that had just happened.
And then, without another word, Lando stood up, pulling away, his fingers still glistening from your juices.
“See you later, Sunshine.” He whispered, his voice soft. And then he put his fingers into his mouth, licking every bit of your release off his finger.
That view, alone, could make you come again.
He didn’t look back as he turned and left you lying there, the weight of what had just happened still pulsing through your veins, and your body still humming with pleasure.
Lando left the house with the wallet in his pocket. The weight of your sweet moans still echoing in his head as a smirk wandered on his lips.
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