NO BABYSITTER NEEDED | LN4
an: i have this delusion that i could 100% change his bad habits because i work as a personal assistant and have experience in childcare. so enjoy this. also if you struggle with mental health, always know im here to talk <3
summary: lando norris, f1 golden boy who hasn’t slept properly in months and lives off protein bars gets assigned a carer by max who reminds him to eat, sleep, and maybe feel something other than anger or guilt. she brings flowers into his sterile flat and hides his gym clothes so he’ll actually rest and he lets her. and somewhere between her gummy vitamins and his races, he realises he doesn’t just need her, he wants her too.
wc: 10k
“ABSOLUTLEY NOT.”
Lando stood in the middle of his sparsely furnished flat, arms folded, jaw tight. The overhead light flickered once, as if in protest too. Max, seated on the battered grey sofa with a cup of tea he’d made himself, simply raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve not eaten today, have you?”
“I had a protein bar.”
“That doesn’t count, mate.”
Lando’s eyes flicked to the side. He knew Max was right. The protein bar had been from the stash he kept in his gym bag, a dry, tasteless thing that barely passed as food. Still, admitting that would mean giving ground, and he wasn’t in the mood.
“I don’t need a bloody babysitter,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I’m not eighty-five.”
Max sighed, setting down his tea with the sort of calm that only long-suffering best mates could master. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s… a carer. Technically.”
“Oh, brilliant. Even worse.”
The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable. Outside, the steady hum of Monaco traffic drifted through the slightly ajar window. Somewhere below, someone shouted about bin day. Lando raked a hand through his curly brown hair and paced towards the kitchen. Max didn’t need to follow him to know what he’d find.
The fridge opened with a creak. Lando grimaced. A carton of milk two weeks out of date. Half a wilted bag of spinach. One lonely caprisun.
“See?” Max called from the living room. “You need someone to help.”
Lando shut the fridge, harder than he needed to. “I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you’re not exactly in one piece either.”
That one landed. He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. His eyes were tired, darker than usual, with the tell-tale puffiness that came from pushing through sleepless nights. After a bad race, it was always the same: the silence, the self-punishment, the long hours in the gym until his arms shook, or the empty buzz of late-night gaming until sunrise blurred into morning.
Lando wasn’t cruel, not to others. But he was brutal to himself.
Max stepped into the kitchen, soft-footed. He opened the cupboard, plucked a cereal bar, and tossed it to Lando. “Just give her a week. One week. If it’s hell, I’ll back off. You can go back to forgetting to eat and dying slowly. Deal?”
Lando caught the bar, didn’t unwrap it. He stared at it like it might explode. After a long moment, he gave a non-committal grunt.
“Fine,” he said at last, eyes flicking up. “But just a week.”
The doorbell rang at exactly ten o'clock.
Lando was on the sofa, one leg slung over the other, arms crossed, face unreadable. He hadn't shaved that morning. Or the one before, probably. Max, already halfway to the door, shot him a look.
“Try to smile, yeah?” he muttered.
Lando didn't answer. Max opened the door.
“Hiya,” came a warm, bright voice. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure which buzzer it was. I guessed.”
“You guessed right.” Max smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”
She stepped over the threshold with a kind of lightness Lando noticed but didn’t comment on. Trainers, jeans, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a carer, whatever that meant. But then again, what did he expect? A clipboard and scrubs?
Her eyes flicked to him on the sofa and lit up with a friendly smile.
“You must be Lando.”
“I must be,” he said, dryly.
Max shot him a warning look. She didn’t seem fazed, though. Just walked in like it wasn’t a battlefield.
“I’m here for the trial week,” she said cheerfully, pulling out a small notebook. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take over your life. Just nudge it in a slightly healthier direction.”
Lando snorted. “Great. Can’t wait to be nudged.”
Max coughed to hide a laugh.
She sat on the armchair across from him, perching rather than settling, like she didn’t want to assume too much. Lando appreciated that. A bit.
“So,” she said, flipping open the notebook. “What’s your usual routine, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Train. Race. Gym. Repeat.”
“And food?”
He shrugged. “When I remember.”
“Sleep?”
Another shrug. “When I can.”
She smiled, scribbling something down. “Right. Noted.”
Lando tilted his head. “You’re very… upbeat.”
“Would you rather I was miserable?”
“No, just…” He waved a vague hand. “You’re in a flat with a stranger who clearly doesn’t want you here. I’d be a bit put off.”
“Well,” she said, closing the notebook, “I’m not easily put off. And you don’t scare me.”
That surprised a breath of laughter out of him, more exhale than anything, but it was the closest he’d come to smiling in days. Max looked between them, pleased.
“She’s good,” he said to Lando. “Give her a day. You’ll be grateful by tonight.”
Lando leaned his head back on the sofa, eyes half-closing. “We’ll see.”
She stood up. “I’ll pop to the shop, then. I’m sure the fridge is crying for help.”
Max dug into his pocket, handed her twenty euros. “Get whatever you think he won’t argue about eating.”
“Right,” she grinned. “Crisps and biscuits, got it.”
She left with a wink. Lando opened one eye, watching her go. Max gave him a look that was both smug and fond.
“You like her.”
Lando didn’t reply.
But he didn’t protest, either.
He didn’t last long after Max left.
He didn’t announce it, didn’t say goodbye, just grabbed his keys, mumbled something about “needing air” and left her alone in the flat. It wasn’t meant to be rude, not really. He just didn’t know what to do with her being there, so full of smiles and softness and trying. It made his skin itch in a way he couldn’t explain.
So, he went to the gym. Again. Even though his arms still ached from last night. Even though he’d barely slept. He didn’t care. Pushing himself until the edges blurred was easier than sitting in silence with a stranger who was supposed to fix what he wouldn’t admit was broken.
He stayed out longer than he planned. Took the long way home. Wandered a bit, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He even stopped off at the corner shop and bought a bottle of water he didn’t want, just to delay the inevitable.
But eventually, the sun started dipping below the Monegasque skyline, and he had no more excuses.
When he opened the door, he paused.
The flat looked different.
Not massively, not like she’d moved furniture or painted walls, but nicer. The blinds had been tugged all the way open, letting the warm orange light of evening spill in. The windows had been cracked open too, letting out the stuffy, lived-in gym-sweat air he’d become nose-blind to. On the kitchen counter sat a small bunch of flowers in an old pint glass, cheap daffodils, probably from the shop down the road, bright yellow and unapologetically cheerful.
And she was cooking.
He blinked.
She hadn’t heard him come in. She had music playing quietly from her phone and she was humming under her breath as she stirred something on the hob. She’d tied her hair up, sleeves rolled, apron on that definitely wasn’t his.
He hovered at the doorway like a ghost.
“I won’t eat fish,” he said, voice flat.
She jumped slightly, then turned to him with a grin, unbothered. “Good thing I’m not making fish then.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“I know,” she added, casually flipping something in the pan. “And you don’t like raw tomatoes. Or coconut. Or mushrooms unless they’re chopped so small you can’t see them. I did my homework.”
He folded his arms, suspicious despite himself. “Homework?”
“Max told me what he could, and the rest I found in old interviews. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
He had no idea what to do with that. “Right.”
She nodded towards the side counter. “There are some vitamins over there if you fancy. They’re the gummy ones, so they’re fun to eat.”
Lando turned his head slightly. Sure enough, there was a bottle of multivitamin gummies sitting next to a clean glass of water. He squinted at it like it might bite.
“You think that’s going to fix me?”
“Nope,” she said, flipping off the hob and plating something. “But you’ll taste strawberry and get a vitamin boost, and that’s two good things. Two’s better than none.”
He watched her carry the plate to the table, proper food, he realised. Real stuff. A bit of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, some sort of green that didn’t look like it came from a packet. She’d even set out cutlery.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, but his voice had less edge than before.
“No, but your fridge did. Loudly.” She smiled. “Sit down, Lando.”
It was the first time she’d said his name. It startled him, how easily it came out of her mouth, no weight, no judgement, just lightness.
He didn’t move right away. But the flat smelled warm for the first time in… he didn’t know how long. It smelled like food, and flowers, and something gentle he couldn’t place.
Eventually, he sat.
And he took the bloody vitamin.
He started eating without saying much, though to be fair, the food shut him up quickly. It was annoyingly good. Not fancy, not trying too hard, just cooked well. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the first bite, and now his fork barely paused between mouthfuls.
While he ate, she moved around the kitchen, wiping down surfaces that were already pretty clean, rinsing the chopping board, putting away the little packet of daffodils that had come with the flowers. She was humming again, soft and almost tuneless, like it was more for her than anything else.
He watched her from the corner of his eye.
After a few minutes, he frowned.
“What about you?” he said, voice low. “Are you not going to eat?”
She looked up from where she was drying a mug. “I eat after work.”
He stopped chewing. “That’s weird.”
She laughed, not offended. “Not really. I’m used to it. I don’t like eating in other people’s homes unless I’m invited to.”
“Well… I’m inviting you now.”
Her eyes softened a little. “Thanks. But I’m alright, honestly.”
He stabbed a bit of potato. “Can you at least sit? You’re making me feel like I’m in a restaurant.”
That seemed to surprise her. She blinked, then nodded, pulling out the chair opposite him.
“You’re on edge,” she said gently, not like she was accusing him, just stating it.
He didn’t deny it.
She leaned back in the chair, folding her hands on the table, not trying to fill the silence with too much. Just being there. He hated how much of a relief that was.
After a beat, she tilted her head. “So… do you actually enjoy racing? Or is it just something you’re brilliant at?”
He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.
“No one’s ever asked it like that before.”
She smiled. “Well, everyone knows you’re brilliant at it. But enjoying it that’s something else.”
He chewed, swallowed, shrugged. “I used to. When I was a kid. I’d sit in front of the telly with my dad and pretend I could hear the engines. I used to think the drivers were invincible.”
Her smile didn’t fade, but it did soften into something more thoughtful. “And now?”
“Now I know they’re not,” he said simply. “Now I know I’m not.”
She didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t rush to fix it or tell him he was, in fact, invincible. Just let it sit there.
He liked that more than he expected.
“You know,” she said after a quiet moment, “I watched last year's Brazil race before I came. The one where it rained.”
Lando rolled his eyes. “That bloody race.”
He didn't think of it fondly, until she spoke again.
“You made that turn like it was nothing. Everyone else looked like they were wrestling their cars, and you just… glided.”
He looked at her properly for the first time that evening. “You watched it for research?”
She nodded. “Had to see what I was dealing with.”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re very strange.”
“Thank you,” she grinned. “I take that as a compliment.”
He picked up the glass of water next to his empty plate, holding it in both hands. He didn’t know how to name the feeling in his chest, tight and loose at once. Like something had shifted half a centimetre to the right.
He didn’t say thank you.
But he didn’t ask her to leave, either.
The flat had gone quiet again and before he knew it, he’d finished his food and she’d taken the plate.
Lando sat there a while after she’d gone to tidy up again, not quite ready to move. His limbs were warm and heavy with food, his stomach full for the first time in, God, he couldn’t remember. The corner of his eye still caught the flash of yellow from the daffodils. Even the clutter on the coffee table had been gently rearranged, like someone had lived here instead of just existed in it.
He stood eventually, dragging a hand through his hair.
He didn’t say goodnight. But as he passed her, kneeling to organise something ridiculous like the cereal cupboard, he gave her a small nod.
“Night,” she said softly, like she knew he wouldn’t say it first.
By the time he got to his room, he felt it creeping in, the kind of sleep that didn’t come with punishment. Not exhaustion, not collapse. Just rest.
He changed half-heartedly, dropped into bed without bothering to pull the duvet straight.
And for the first time in what felt like months, he didn’t lie there for hours staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t toss or turn or drag himself back up to check his phone, or throw on joggers and go for another run he didn’t need.
He just closed his eyes.
And slept.
Deep. Still. Undisturbed.
He was that comfortable with his sleep he hadn’t even heard her leave.
The trial week came and went, and with that came his little scheduled meeting with Max.
“So,” Max said, leaning back in the café chair, hands wrapped around his coffee. “How’s life with Mary Poppins?”
Lando rolled his eyes, sipping slowly from a mug of hot chocolate that was somehow still hot.
“She doesn’t float in with a brolly, if that’s what you mean.”
“But she’s working, isn’t she?”
Lando didn’t answer straight away. He watched a dog trot past outside the window, nose down, tail wagging. The streets of Monte Carlo were busy with the usual Sunday bustle, people with tote bags full of veg, couples bickering gently over directions, someone playing guitar near the kerb.
He shrugged. “It’s less shit.”
Max smirked. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard you give anyone.”
Lando looked down into his tea. “She’s just easy to be around. Doesn’t treat me like I’m a problem. Or fragile. She just makes dinner and talks about stupid things and leaves vitamins on the counter like it’s no big deal.”
“And you like that?”
“I don’t not like it.”
Max grinned. “So you’re keeping her?”
Lando huffed. “She’s not a goldfish.”
“You know what I mean.”
He didn’t answer at first, and Max let him have the space. There was something behind Lando’s eyes, quieter than before, but still guarded. Except now, the edges weren’t quite so sharp. He looked a little less hollowed out. A little more present.
Lando stirred the drink absently, then said, “I think she’s staying another week.”
Max didn’t say I told you so, but he smiled like he’d already said it a hundred times.
Over the next week, a rhythm began to form.
It wasn’t a schedule, exactly, Lando hated those, but there were now patterns. Gentle ones. He’d wake up to the faint clatter of pans and the smell of food. She never made him breakfast outright, but there was always a plate of something on the side, covered with a tea towel, like it had just happened to be left there.
He’d find his gym gear washed and folded in the same place on the sofa each morning. Not spoken about, just done. Vitamins still by the sink. Her music always low. The flowers in the pint glass had been swapped out for fresh tulips.
He didn’t say thank you. But he noticed.
And he started sleeping better.
Not every night, but more than before. Enough that the dark under his eyes wasn’t as heavy. Enough that the fridge had actual food in it now, and it wasn’t all hers.
By Monday night, she was packing up her bag to go home like usual when he spoke up.
“I leave for Barcelona tomorrow.”
She looked up, bright as ever. “Yup, I know. Made you an airport snack.”
She reached into the fridge and pulled out a tupperware container, sliding it across the counter towards him. The lid was already labelled in biro, ‘Do not open until bored at terminal gate’.
He raised an eyebrow. “You know I fly private, right? They’ve got catering.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “And what are the odds you didn’t reply to the email asking about your dietary preferences?”
He paused.
She grinned.
“Thought so. It’s just a wrap and some fruit. No tomatoes, no weird mayo, no drama.”
He huffed, but he didn’t push it. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm.
“Oh, and,” she added, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “I put a few things on your bed. Clothes you might consider packing. You don’t have to. Just thought I’d save you standing in your pants tomorrow morning wondering what the weather in Barcelona will be, and yes I know you like to dress warm.”
He let out a proper laugh, low and unexpected.
“You’ve done two of my most hated tasks in one night,” he said, eyes warm for a moment. “That’s impressive.”
She shrugged, light as always. “It’s what I’m here for.”
He stood in the doorway, still holding the tupperware, gaze lingering on her longer than he meant to. She didn’t make anything of it, just smiled and went back to packing her bag.
Race weekends were always a blur.
Even after years of doing it, Lando never really adjusted. The heat, the noise, the cameras, the pressure. Spain in May was dry and heavy, the kind of heat that sat on your shoulders and made your helmet feel three sizes too small. Qualifying had been a disaster, traffic, a lock-up, something just off with the rear grip. He was starting further back than he liked. Further back than the car deserved.
He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the cool-down lap.
His engineer had been cautious over the radio, Max had texted a brief ‘rough one. you’ll fix it.’ and that was about it. Lando stayed in his suit too long, helmet off but gloves still on, sitting at the back of the garage with his jaw clenched and a bottle of water sweating in his hand.
Later, after media duties and a cold shower and a half-hearted poke at some pasta, he was lying on the hotel bed, one leg still on the floor, staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it out of habit.
It was a photo.
She was in a little French bar somewhere, low lights, strings of flags, telly mounted high on the wall with the F1 coverage paused mid-graphic. He recognised his own face in the corner, frozen mid-interview. She was holding up a pint of something cloudy, face half in frame, smiling like she’d just bumped into an old mate. A bowl of crisps sat in front of her.
The caption followed a second later:
That quali looked tough. Make sure to have enough electrolytes or a banana.
Lando stared at it for longer than he meant to. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She hadn’t asked how he was.
Hadn’t said you’ll get them tomorrow or you’re still the best or any of the usual platitudes.
Just, looked tough, take care of yourself.
Simple. Uncomplicated.
He let out a small breath of something that might have been a laugh. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then tapped out a reply.
They only gave us oranges.
A few seconds passed.
That’s alright. Oranges are just citrusy bananas in disguise.
He shook his head, grinning now, properly.
There was still noise in his chest, frustration, the echo of tyres locking up, but it didn’t feel quite so loud anymore.
And for the first time after a bad Saturday, Lando didn’t feel like running from it.
The flight back to Monaco was uneventful. He slept for half of it, sprawled inelegantly in the reclined seat, his cap pulled low and earphones in with no music playing. His body was tired in that hollow, post-race way, blood still buzzing faintly, muscles tight, but his brain was quieter than usual.
P2 wasn’t bad. Not a win, but solid points. Still, it ate at him.
He arrived home just after midnight. The flat was dark, blinds drawn, the sea outside nothing but soft black noise.
Lando dumped his bag by the door and kicked off his shoes. It should have felt like relief, home, bed, no media duties, but it didn’t. It felt still.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen, expecting nothing.
Instead, there it was on the counter.
A piece of white printer paper, creased slightly down the middle, folded like a school certificate. Hand-drawn, with glitter gel pen of all things.
P2 – WELL DONE, CHAMPION
Underneath, in all-caps block letters, it read:
REDEEM THIS FOR 1 (ONE) FAVOURITE CHOCOLATE BAR, TO BE EATEN IMMEDIATELY.
And there it was. His favourite. Not the obvious one either, the one he used to buy from the corner shop when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford imported Swiss stuff with his pocket money. He hadn’t had one in years.
He picked it up, staring at it like it might disappear.
Beside the certificate was a folded note, written in her loopy handwriting:
I figured you’d want some space after the weekend, so I’m giving you the night off from me.
BUT. Your favourite meal is in the fridge. I expect to see the container empty when I’m back at 7am. I will be checking the bins. I’ve taken the power cable for your PC and hidden your gym clothes, so don’t bother looking. Please sleep. Properly. You’ve earned it x
He read it twice, then once more for good measure.
There was no teasing smile in the room, no hum of music or smell of herbs in the air, but her presence was there, in every corner. Quietly looking after him without needing him to admit he needed it.
He opened the fridge. The meal was there, labelled, still warm enough to be reheated. He didn’t even question how she knew it was his favourite. He just took it out, turned on the oven, and sat at the counter with the chocolate bar already half-eaten.
The flat was silent.
Normally he hated the silence. It stretched and scratched at him until he had to fill it. TV, weights, anything. But tonight it was different.
Tonight, the silence felt... safe. Like something was waiting just out of frame.
And though he’d never say it aloud, not even to himself—
He missed her. Slightly.
Just enough that 7am didn’t feel all that far away.
The first light slipped through the half-open blinds, soft and pale against the dark wood floor.
Lando was already up.
He didn’t mean to be. He’d woken sometime in the small hours, restless, but then the smell of coffee brewing pulled him from the blur of sleep. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, the warmth of the oven still humming softly nearby.
The meal was gone. The container clean.
He smiled a little to himself, small victory, at least.
The kettle clicked off, and she appeared in the doorway, hair tied back loosely, eyes bright but gentle.
“Morning,” she said quietly, like she was trying not to wake the flat.
He met her gaze, caught in the calm.
“Morning.”
She reached for the coffee pot and topped up his mug, then poured one for herself.
They stood there for a beat, just the two of them and the quiet hum of the morning.
“Did you sleep?” she asked.
Lando shrugged, but there was something different in his tone. “More than I usually do.”
“That’s good.”
He nodded, watching her move around the kitchen with that effortless ease, putting the chocolate wrapper in the bin, tidying the dishes.
He felt it again. That small, stubborn flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before: contentment.
She looked over her shoulder, catching his eye.
“Race weekend’s done,” she said softly. “You’re home now.”
He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes just yet, but was close.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
She blew on her coffee, then glanced over at him with a curious tilt of her head.
“So what do you usually do on days like this? After a race?”
Lando paused, mug halfway to his lips.
“Usually?” he said. “Try not to think.”
She gave a small nod, like she understood exactly what he meant.
“Right,” she said lightly. “So why don’t we go to the beach?”
He blinked. “The beach?”
“Yeah. You know, sand, sea, a bit of fresh air. It’s 27 degrees, the water will be decent. You’ve done all the not thinking bit, now you can do the part where you feel like a person again.”
Lando looked at her like she’d just suggested skydiving. In the rain. Naked.
She met his stare head-on, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile.
“I’m not saying we have to go swimming,” she added. “Just sit. Maybe with a drink. Or ice cream. I’ll bring snacks if that helps.”
He huffed a small laugh. “You’re relentless.”
“I prefer the term optimistic.”
He glanced out the window. The sun was already climbing, a shimmer of gold across the buildings. Monaco in May didn’t waste time. It was exactly the kind of day he’d usually spend in a dark gym or glued to his screen with a headset on.
And yet.
“Okay,” he said at last, surprising even himself. “Yeah. Sure. Why not.”
Her smile lit up, bright and immediate. “Brilliant.” He turned to head for his room. “I’ll grab my stuff.”
“I’ll meet you back here in thirty,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Just need to pop home, get a few bits.” He nodded. “Alright.”
And then she was gone, the flat felt quieter without her, but not in the lonely way. More like a held breath, waiting.
Lando glanced around, bemused at himself.
The beach. On a Monday.
He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “What am I doing?”
But he was already reaching for his sunglasses.
When she came back, the sun was even higher in the sky and so was something in Lando’s chest. He’d opened all the windows while she was gone, and the breeze drifting through the flat was warm and salt-tinged.
He heard the door go and turned, halfway through stuffing a towel into a backpack.
She stepped into the kitchen in a light summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head, a bag slung over her shoulder. It was nothing dramatic, just something simple and floral, but it suited her. She looked soft, golden in the sunlight, like she belonged exactly in that moment.
Lando’s brain hiccuped. He didn’t say anything but he looked, really looked, and quietly thought to himself.
God, she’s pretty.
She caught his gaze, raised a brow. “What?”
He blinked. “Nothing.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the door. “We’ve got to go somewhere that’s not Monaco, though.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “People’ll see. Paparazzi, fans, someone’ll clock it. Me. Us”
Her smile curled. “Us?”
“I just mean—” he started, but she was already grinning wider.
“I know what you meant, so where then?” “We’ll have to drive into France,” he said, completely serious.
She laughed.
He looked at her. “What?”
“Nothing, sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Just the way you said it like it was just us popping down to the shops.” He gave her a look, lips twitching. “It sort of is.”
She shrugged, following him down into the garage. “Alright then, France it is.”
The garage was cool and dim after the heat of the morning. Rows of sleek cars sat like sleeping beasts under soft overhead lights. She slowed as they walked, eyes wide.
“Bloody hell,” she murmured. “Is this all you?” He chuckled, unlocking one of the quieter looking models. “Some are mine. Some are team perks. Some are just there.”
She ran a hand along the bonnet, clearly impressed. “Not bad for a day at the beach.” They set off, the coast unfurling beside them like a painting. The drive was easy, winding roads and open skies, her hair dancing in the breeze as music played low from the speakers. She sang along quietly to bits she knew. He didn’t join in, but he listened.
And he smiled.
The beach was quieter than expected, a little cove tucked away from the road, shaded by cliffs and speckled with driftwood. They laid their things on the warm sand, and she kicked off her sandals with a sigh.
Lando was laying out the towles when she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, revealing a bikini underneath.
He didn’t stare, or at least he told himself he didn’t.
But he did definitely notice.
Something in his stomach dipped for a second, caught between admiration and the very sudden awareness of who he was and who she was.
She stretched like she’d been waiting all day to do it, hair tied up now, skin kissed golden by the sun.
Lando barely had time to take off his own shirt before she looked over her shoulder, grinning wickedly.
“Race you!”
And before he could respond, she was already sprinting towards the sea, feet kicking up soft clouds of sand.
He blinked, startled, then swore under his breath, grinning.
“You little—”
He chased after her, heart thudding, not from the sun. Something lighter than adrenaline, freer than pressure. The breeze bit at his skin, the salt stung his eyes, and the sound of her laugh carried over the waves.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt light.
The sea was warmer than he expected, cool at first touch, then refreshing against his sun-warmed skin.
She was already thigh deep when he caught up, turning to glance over her shoulder with a grin that said you’re too slow.
Lando launched at her.
She yelped, laughing as he caught her around the waist and they both stumbled deeper into the water, waves breaking around them.
“Alright! Alright! Truce!” she shouted, breathless.
But he didn’t let go, just held her steady against the current for a second too long. She looked up at him, cheeks pink from the sun and smiling so wide it almost knocked the breath out of him.
Then, without warning, she dunked him.
His head went under with a surprised splash and he surfaced with a splutter, hair slicked to his forehead and eyes narrowed.
“Oh, you’re done for,” he said, grinning through the water dripping from his lashes.
They splashed and shoved and laughed like children, the kind of silly, harmless chaos that left his chest aching, but not in the bad way.
Eventually, soaked and smiling, they drifted into a quiet stretch of the cove, water up to their waists, the sun casting long golden streaks across the surface.
They talked a bit, nothing too heavy. Favourite ice creams. Embarrassing childhood stories. He learnt she hated the sound of polystyrene, and she learnt he once fell asleep in a bin lorry by mistake during a school trip (real story from me lol).
Time stretched in that slow, delicious way that only seemed to happen when he was with her.
The rest of the day passed in sun-drowsy contentment.
They dried off on the towels, eating snacks and reading bits from a tatty magazine she’d brought on how to impress your manager. She dozed for a while with her arm flopped across her eyes. He sat beside her, knees pulled up, watching the tide roll in and out, trying not to overthink how much peace he felt in that exact moment.
Later, on the drive back, they stopped for ice cream from a stand near the harbour. She ordered something fruity. He got mint choc chip, mostly so she’d stop teasing him for being too grown up and choosing something like coffee.
By the time they were halfway home, the sun had dipped below the hills and she was fast asleep in the passenger seat, head turned gently towards him, mouth parted slightly.
Lando glanced at her, then back at the road. His grip on the wheel softened.
When they got back to the flat, he didn’t wake her.
Instead, he slipped out of the driver’s seat, came round, and unbuckled her gently. She stirred slightly as he lifted her into his arms, warm and still faintly smelling of suncream.
Her head dropped to his shoulder. He didn't say a word, he didn't even breathe.
The lift ride up was quiet. His flat even quieter.
He nudged the door open, padded through the hall, and carried her straight into his bedroom. The sheets were still crisp from the morning, untouched.
He laid her down carefully, brushed a bit of hair from her face. She sighed softly, turning into the pillow like she belonged there.
Lando lingered for a moment.
Then he backed out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
He crashed on the sofa, limbs heavy but heart oddly light. His damp curly hair pressed against the cushion, and for once, the silence didn’t bother him.
He could still hear her laugh echoing in the waves.
The following morning she woke with a start.
It took her a second to realise where she was, the unfamiliar softness of the duvet, the crisp linen, the faint scent of him on the pillow. Definitely not her flat. And definitely his bed.
“Shit.”
She sat up quickly, heart thudding, scanning the room for her jacket or bag or anything that proved that she hopefully hasn’t slept with him.
The flat was quiet except for the faint sound of something clattering in the kitchen. Not exactly a disaster, but not quite peace either.
She pulled a random hoodie over her head, ran a hand through her tangled hair, and padded out into the main room, bracing herself.
He was in the kitchen. Barefoot, curls a mess, concentration furrowed into his brow as he flipped a pancake that looked… questionably thick.
The pan hissed. The pancake landed mostly where it should’ve.
She crossed her arms, trying not to laugh. “Are you… cooking?”
Lando turned, startled. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, more from the warmth of the kitchen and the fact he hadn’t expected her to be awake.
“Sort of,” he muttered, glancing down at the half-stack on the plate. “They’re edible. Just about.”
She looked at him, messy-haired, in an old hoodie, trying to figure out if the one in the pan was burnt or just dark golden.
She couldn't help it. She smiled.
“I’m meant to be the one looking after you,” she said, shaking her head.
He rolled his eyes but there was no bite to it. “You fell asleep. I wasn’t going to wake you just to supervise me making average pancakes.”
“Below average.”
“They’re fine,” he defended, lifting one with the spatula. It folded in half on itself. “Okay, they’re character-building.”
She stepped closer, nudging him with her shoulder. “Look at that. First meal you’ve cooked yourself in how long?”
Lando scoffed, but the back of his neck went pink. “Dunno. Ages.”
She tilted her head, eyes soft with something he couldn’t name. “Domesticity looks good on you.”
He froze for a second but he felt the words settle somewhere in his chest.
Domesticity.
Her, here. His hoodie. Pancakes. Morning light.
He looked at her, really looked, and for once didn’t feel the urge to run from the quiet.
Instead, he flipped the final pancake with a slightly smug smirk. “Told you I didn’t need a carer.”
She raised an eyebrow. “One half-decent breakfast doesn’t mean you’re cured, sweetheart.”
He smiled despite himself. Sweetheart.
And just like that, he knew the rest of his day was going to be warm.
She grabbed a plate and scooped a pancake onto it, then passed it over with a cheeky grin.
“Here, try not to burn it.”
Lando took it, biting into the warm, slightly uneven stack. It wasn’t bad. Actually, it was pretty good. The kind of good that made you forget about the mess of your last few days.
He looked up at her, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
“Not bad for a carer’s breakfast, huh?”
She laughed, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “I might have to upgrade you to sous chef.”
He shook his head, but the smile stayed. “You sure you want to get stuck with a bloke who can barely boil water without a minor disaster?”
She reached across the table, nudging his hand lightly.
“I think I can manage.”
There was a pause, comfortable and easy. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them shine in a way that made Lando’s chest tighten just a little.
“So…” she said softly, “how are you, really?”
Lando swallowed, the question catching him off guard. Usually, he brushed it off or changed the subject.
But today, he let it hang in the air.
“I’m… better than I was,” he admitted, voice low. “Being with you, well, it’s different. Less noise upstairs.”
She smiled gently, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the table.
“That’s good,” she said quietly. “You deserve that.”
He met her gaze, a flicker of something like hope stirring beneath the usual mess.
Maybe this was the start of something, not just a routine or a distraction, but something real.
He didn’t know what it was yet.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he wanted to find out.
A few days passed in the way only good days do, quietly, comfortably, and all at once.
They fell back into their routine with ease. She was there every morning, bright and soft and organised, keeping him on track without ever making it feel like a chore. Meals appeared when he forgot he was hungry. She swapped out the expired yoghurt in the fridge without saying a word. She scribbled reminders onto post-it notes and stuck them in ridiculous places. On his phone, the bathroom mirror, his steering wheel.
And somehow, despite everything, he was sleeping again for more than 4 hours.
The flat no longer felt too quiet.
He met Max at their usual café down in the port the morning before he flew out to Austria.
Lando slumped into the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.
Max gave him a look. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You dress like a celebrity in hiding but show up to the same café every time.”
Lando smirked, pulling down his glasses. “Creature of habit.”
Max took a sip of his coffee, eyeing him properly now. “You look better.”
Lando blinked. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean, you’re not half-dead,” Max said bluntly. “You’ve got colour in your face. You’ve shaved. I don’t see a Monster can fused to your hand.”
Lando huffed a laugh. “Thanks, mate. Proper confidence boost, that.”
Max grinned. “So she’s working, then.”
Lando paused. Thought about the pancakes. The post-its. The quiet sound of her humming in the kitchen. The way she made the flat feel like something more than just a place he slept in between breakdowns.
“She is,” he said, nodding. “More than I thought, actually.”
Max raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Told you. She’s got that stubborn kind of sunshine thing going on.”
Lando looked out at the boats bobbing gently on the water. “It’s weird. I don’t feel like she’s fixing me. It’s just… I want to keep up. For once.”
Max leaned back in his chair, smiling like he already knew.
“You’ve got someone in your corner now,” he said. “And you like it.”
Lando didn’t answer straight away.
But he didn’t deny it either.
Austria should’ve felt like business as usual.
The team was buzzing, the garage busy, the hotel sleek and sterile in that forgettable sort of way. He’d done this so many times he could go through the motions with his eyes shut, briefings, media, gym, sleep. Repeat.
But something was different this time.
His room was too quiet. His meals, though catered, tasted like cardboard. He’d forgotten to bring his vitamins, and the note she’d once stuck to the inside of his wash bag, remember to be a person, not just a machine, was no longer there.
He missed her. Not just her reminders and routines, but her. The way she’d talk at him while he made coffee, narrating her morning like it was the most important story on earth. The way she hummed while folding laundry. The way she looked at him, not like he was a driver, or a mess, but just… him.
The ache surprised him.
By Saturday night, he was holed up in his hotel room, lights dimmed, race prep done. But instead of watching footage or scrolling, he stared at his phone.
Then, almost on a whim, he opened their chat.
Would you ever come to a race?
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then came back.
That’s quite a question. Is this your subtle way of inviting me to Austria?
He smiled. Tapped back.
Austria’s a bit mad. But Silverstone’s next. Thought you might like it. Home race and all that.
The typing bubble came and went again. Then,
We can talk about it when you’re home.
And there it was, that word.
Home.
He stared at the screen longer than he meant to.
It did something to him. Knocked something loose. Not because she’d said it. But because she meant it. Like his flat wasn’t just a stopgap anymore. Like him being away wasn’t permanent.
They’d talk when he was home.
He stared at her last message a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I’d like you to be there when I get back Sunday night. If you’re free, I mean.
He regretted sending it immediately. Read it back twice. It looked desperate. Or worse, uncertain.
But a reply came a few minutes later.
I’ll be there.
That was it. Simple. Certain.
He smiled. Couldn’t help it.
And for the first time on a race weekend, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, not for the result, but because it meant he’d get to see her again.
Sunday night came fast.
The flight was smooth, the car from the airport quick, but Lando felt that weird tug of nerves all over again as the lift doors slid open to his flat. His bag thumped against his leg. The hallway smelt faintly of fresh linen and vanilla.
She was there.
He could feel it even before he saw her.
When he stepped inside, the lights were low, and something warm flickered in the corner of the living room, a couple of candles, set along the windowsill. The blinds were open, showing off the Monaco skyline in soft golden hues.
She looked up from the sofa, dressed in cosy joggers and a big jumper, her hair tied up, a bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap.
“There you are,” she said, smiling like he hadn’t just spent three days thinking about her.
Lando stepped in, shrugging off his jacket, suddenly very aware of the domesticity he'd walked into. A blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, one clearly his, already filled with hot chocolate.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of mood you’d be in,” she said, shifting slightly to make room, “so I picked three films. Comfort, distraction, or dramatic sobbing, dealer’s choice.”
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked around at the quiet little world she’d built for him in his absence.
His shoulders dropped.
“This is nice,” he said, finally. “Really nice.”
She grinned. “Well, I figured if I’m going to keep pretending to be your carer, I might as well offer full post-race recovery packages.”
He laughed, genuinely, the kind that shook a bit of the tension from his chest.
She patted the seat next to her. “Come on then. Sit down before your hot chocolate gets cold.”
And he did, just like that. Kicked off his shoes, slouched onto the sofa, and let his body fold into the warmth of it all. Her shoulder brushed his as she pressed play, and he didn’t move away.
He hadn’t realised how much he needed this.
Not just the quiet, but her quiet.
And as the film played and her head gently tipped onto his arm, Lando let himself enjoy it, just for a while.
Home.
It really did feel like that now.
The following morning he woke with a crick in his neck and the faint scent of her still clinging to the blanket draped over his chest.
The telly had switched itself off at some point in the night. His hot chocolate was long cold. And she was gone, left sometime after the credits had rolled, quietly, without waking him.
But the flat didn’t feel empty.
It felt like she’d just stepped out.
He pulled the blanket closer, burying his face in it for a second longer than necessary. Lavender and laundry powder. Familiar. Her.
Later that morning, she came by as usual, letting herself in with a chirpy “Morning!” and two coffees in hand.
He was already up for once, hair still rumpled from sleep, hoodie creased.
“Sleep on the sofa?” she asked, amused.
“Mm.” He took the coffee gratefully. “Didn’t make it very far after you left. Blanket was too warm.”
She gave him a knowing look but didn’t tease.
They settled at the kitchen table, a shared croissant between them, her notebook open to a new page.
“So,” she said, flicking the cap off her pen, “Silverstone. Talk to me.”
Lando took a slow sip of his coffee. “I meant what I said. I want you there.”
She glanced up, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “I know. I just didn’t want to assume.”
“You never do,” he said, honest and quick, before he even realised it.
That earned him a small look, soft, appreciative.
“So,” he continued, shifting slightly in his seat, “you’ve got two options. I can get you a pass for the paddock, proper team kit, blend in, pretend you belong.”
She raised a brow, amused. “Pretend?”
He smirked. “You’re bossy enough, you’d fit right in.”
She grinned. “Flattering.”
“Or,” he went on, “you can watch from the grandstands. Might be a bit calmer, but I’ll know you’re there either way.”
She looked at him properly now, pen stilled in her fingers. “And you want me there even if it’s chaos?”
He shrugged, suddenly a bit shy. “I don’t know. Just when you’re around, it feels like less of a mess.”
That quiet settled in again. Not awkward. Just true.
She nodded, scribbling something in her notebook. “Alright. I’ll come. You’ll have to get me a kit that doesn’t drown me, though. I’m not showing up looking like I borrowed it off a rugby player.”
Lando laughed. “Deal.”
And as she tucked her notebook away and moved to put the kettle on, he watched her like he was seeing the start of something he hadn’t quite had the words for yet.
But he knew this much.
He didn’t just want her there.
He needed her there.
They flew out on the Thursday morning.
Private jet, naturally, something Lando barely registered anymore, part of the machine that came with the job. But watching her take it all in was another story entirely.
“Wait,” she whispered as they pulled up onto the tarmac. “This is yours?”
He shrugged, smirking. “Well, not mine mine. But yeah. Team flight.”
She stared up at the sleek plane like it had dropped out of a film set. “Right. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal. Not freaking out.”
Lando chuckled as he grabbed her bag from the boot. “You’re allowed to be impressed, y’know. You don’t have to be cool all the time.”
“I am cool,” she insisted, following him up the steps with wide eyes. “Just also wildly unprepared for this level of luxury.”
Inside, she settled into one of the leather seats like she was afraid she’d break it, eyes darting around at the polished surfaces and perfectly folded blankets.
He sat opposite her, grinning like a fool.
“You alright there?”
She looked at him over the rim of her paper cup. “Lando, they offered me a mimosa and I said no because I panicked. I’m not alright.”
He burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “You’ll get used to it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
By the time they reached Silverstone, her nerves had settled into excitement.
The team garage was already buzzing, and when she stepped out in the McLaren kit he’d had waiting for her, a proper fit, not some oversized leftover, Lando had to look away for a moment just to get himself together.
She fit in effortlessly.
Wearing the colours, she didn’t look like someone tagging along. She looked like she belonged.
And it was oddly comforting, more than he’d expected.
She was laughing with one of the engineers before he’d even finished debrief. Swapping notes with his physio. Keeping a watchful eye on the water bottle in his hand like it was her full-time job.
And for once, when he walked through the paddock, he didn’t feel like he was floating above it all.
He felt anchored.
Between sessions, she found him sat outside the motorhome, cap pulled low, headphones around his neck.
She passed him a banana and a look. “Don’t roll your eyes. You skipped breakfast.”
Lando took it, peeling it slowly. “You just like bossing me around.”
“Absolutely,” she said brightly. “Now eat it, number four.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You calling me by my driver number now?”
She grinned. “Only if it motivates you.”
And as she sat beside him, cross-legged and chatting like they were just two mates at a park somewhere, Lando realised this didn’t feel like chaos.
It felt… right.
Later that day, the two of them found themselves in the motorhome again, half-drawn blinds, casting warm strips of light across the small lounge space. Lando had pulled off his boots and fireproofs, now in team joggers and a loose t-shirt, legs stretched across the sofa while she sat on the carpet in front of him, back resting against the edge of the seat, her hair still slightly windswept from being trackside.
His hand dangled loosely near her shoulder. Not touching. But close.
She was humming, some random tune from the playlist she’d put on while he cooled down, and carefully peeling the corner of a protein bar wrapper for him.
“Do you know you hum constantly?” he said, watching her with that quiet, lopsided sort of amusement.
She glanced up. “Do I?”
“Yeah. Like, properly. All the time.”
“Well, maybe you’re just always around now.”
He smiled, then laughed softly when she tossed the protein bar at him without looking.
They fell into that easy silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. She reached up to tug a hairband from her wrist, redoing her ponytail absentmindedly. His gaze lingered.
“You alright?” she asked, craning her neck slightly to look at him.
He nodded. “Yeah. You just make all this feel
less mental.”
That earned her softest smile, the kind she didn’t even have to think about. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.
Then the door creaked open and Oscar stepped in with a knock-knock gesture and a raised brow. “Sorry, didn’t realise this was occupied.”
Lando blinked, quickly sitting up, hand retreating behind his head like he hadn’t been close to her at all. She turned slightly, offering Oscar a warm, unapologetic smile.
“Hi,” she said, chipper as ever. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lando’s carer.”
Oscar grinned, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”
Lando shrugged, slumping back into the sofa like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She cares so I don’t have to.”
Oscar snorted. “Nice work if you can get it.”
She laughed, then added, “To be fair, he’s more work than a pensioner with a sugar addiction, so I earn every bit of it.”
Oscar shot Lando a mock-sympathetic look. “She’s got you nailed, mate.”
Lando just shook his head, lips tugging into the smallest of smiles as Oscar backed out of the room with a wink and a wave.
Once the door shut again, she turned and looked up at him from the floor.
“Too much?” she teased.
He leaned forward, still smiling. “Not at all.”
And for the rest of the hour, with her back pressed to his knee and the quiet buzzing of the paddock beyond the walls, everything felt settled.
Like maybe this was becoming the new normal.
Race day came with its usual noise and nerves. The low thrum of engines in the distance, the hiss of tyres on tarmac, the sting of adrenaline thick in the air.
Silverstone buzzed with the kind of energy only a home race could bring.
And Lando had never driven better.
Every lap was clean, calculated, ruthless. No mistakes. No self-doubt. Just grit and instinct and a car that, for once, felt like an extension of himself.
When he crossed the finish line in P1, the roar from the grandstands felt deafening. Team radio crackled with cheers, engineers shouting down his ear, someone nearly in tears.
He barely heard it.
All he could think, where is she?
Pulling into parc fermé, he yanked off his helmet and looked around like a man on a mission.
“Where is she?” he asked one of the mechanics, already half out of the car.
The guy blinked. “Who?”
“Uh” He gestured vaguely. “My uh carer, she’s in the team kit, she was in the garage earlier. Has anyone seen her?”
Shrugs. Shaking heads. No one knew.
His jaw tensed, nerves he hadn’t felt all race prickling in now like static. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. All of this meant less if she wasn’t here to see it.
Still, he went through the motions: hugs with the crew, the sweaty TV pen interviews, the slow walk down the corridor lined with monitors and back-slaps. The moment was his, but it felt a bit empty.
Then he stepped onto the podium.
The crowd was thunderous. British flags everywhere, people chanting his name, flashes going off like strobes.
And there, down below, tucked between a few McLaren pit crew, cap pulled low and grinning up at him like he’d just done the impossible, there she was.
Her face lit up when he spotted her, and the tension in his chest just dropped.
He grinned, grabbed the champagne bottle, and with precision honed from years of celebration, arced the spray right in her direction.
She squealed, laughing, trying to duck behind someone’s shoulder but getting caught in it anyway.
He laughed too, and when the moment calmed, he looked down again and caught her eyes.
She mouthed something at him, something small, like ‘well done’, and he mouthed back.
Go back to the motorhome.
She gave a little salute, still smiling, and disappeared into the crowd.
And suddenly, the day felt complete.
The moment the press duties were done, Lando didn’t waste a second.
Still damp from champagne, hair sticking to his forehead, race suit tied at the waist, he all but jogged back through the paddock. Past cameras, past well-wishers, barely nodding as people tried to offer congratulations.
He needed to see her.
The motorhome was quiet when he pushed open the door, the rest of the team still caught up in the chaos outside. But she was there, sat on the sofa, McLaren cap now off, holding a bottle of water and staring out the window like she was waiting for him too.
“Hey—” she started, but didn’t finish.
Because he was already across the room, already scooping her up into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of both of them. She gave a soft little laugh of surprise, arms winding round his neck as he held her like he’d just won her.
Which, in a way, he had.
“You were incredible,” she said against his shoulder.
“I didn’t care about the win,” he murmured, voice muffled in her hair. “Not until I saw you.”
She pulled back slightly to look at him, eyebrows drawing in. “Lando…”
“No, I mean it,” he said, heart racing now for entirely different reasons. “When I crossed the line, I should’ve felt everything. But I couldn’t think about anything except the fact that you weren’t there. Not at first. It felt, empty.”
Her expression softened, smile faltering at the edges.
“That’s the adrenaline talking,” she said gently, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “You’re on a high, people say all sorts when their heart’s going.”
“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on hers. “I know it’s not.”
She stilled.
Lando took a breath. “My heart’s been on fire before, after wins, crashes, everything in between. But it’s never felt as empty as it does when you’re not near me. I didn’t know it at first, I didn’t have the words for it, but I do now.”
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed.
“I don’t just want you here when I’m falling apart,” he said quietly. “I want you here when I’m winning. When I’m okay. When I’m tired. When I’m not.”
Silence fell like a held breath.
And then she smiled, soft, shaken, and real. The kind that said she’d been waiting to hear those words without even realising it.
“I was always going to stay,” she whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering shut. “Good.”
They stood like that for a moment, bodies close, breath mingling, the silence between them full of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.
She tilted her chin ever so slightly, and his nose brushed against hers. Neither of them moved beyond that, like they were afraid to disturb something fragile.
Then she whispered, “You smell like champagne.”
He gave a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath. “You smell like bananas and home.”
She smiled at that, small and warm and a little bit shy.
And then, like gravity had finally caught up with them, he leant in.
Their lips met softly, tentative at first, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve been thinking about it for far too long and you want to get it right. It wasn’t hurried, or heavy, or anything like what the world outside might’ve expected from a Formula One driver fresh off a win.
It was slow. Careful. His way of saying he didn’t want this to be over too soon.
Her hands curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, and he held her like she might disappear if he let go. When they parted, barely an inch between them, neither moved away.
She blinked up at him, dazed in the gentlest way.
“That wasn’t adrenaline,” she said quietly, as if to confirm it for herself.
“No,” he murmured, thumb brushing her cheek. “That was me. Just me.”
Her nose scrunched in that familiar way, eyes glinting with something fond. “Good.”
He smiled again, this time slower, fuller. And in the soft hush of the motorhome, with the noise of Silverstone still echoing somewhere in the background, Lando finally felt what peace might look like.
It looked a lot like her.
the end.
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